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hoggle-is-hoggles-friend · 2 years

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June 2022 reading summary

I’m open to making new friends on Goodreads!

https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/136256483-cailyn-l

Number of books read: 9 (6 novels, 1 anthology, 2 short works)

On Stranger Tides by Tim Powers

June 1st-8th

Format: Ebook

Rating: 2.75/5

Interesting plot with some fun pieces of history (not always accurate) wound into it. The worldbuilding and lore was fascinating and well-done (if possibly racially insensitive). Definitely not the best book, but an easy and exciting read.

Sea Witch by Sarah Henning

June 8th-10th

Format: Ebook via Libby

Rating: 5/5

An exciting and beautifully written re-imagining of “The Little Mermaid”, drawing elements smartly from both the original tale and the familiar film. Incredibly readable and full of exciting twists that, although I did not guess them, fit perfectly into the story.

Crush by Richard Siken

June 10th-12th

Format: Ebook

Rating: ???

I think I may just be too dense and unfamiliar with poetry to understand most of the poems in the first part. I greatly enjoyed the second part. The poems were all very raw and visceral. I’m still not sure how I feel about it.

A Modest Proposal by Jonathan Swift

June 15th

Format: Ebook via Project Gutenberg

Rating: N/A

A strange piece of writing that certainly lived up to its description of satire.

Sea Witch Rising by Sarah Henning

June 12th-17th

Format: Ebook via Libby

Rating: 2.25/5

I didn’t enjoy this book as much as the first in the series. The plot drastically shifts direction about halfway through. As a whole, it wasn’t as interesting or enjoyable to read as “Sea Witch”. “Sea Witch Rising” was not a bad book: I can see some of the things I enjoyed so much about the first book in glimpses, but I would probably recommend reading the first book as a standalone.

The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid

May 28th-June 18th

Format: Paperback, purchased new

Rating: 3/5

Definitely over-hyped. Certainly not the great, serious work of literature that I was led to believe it was, but not a bad book. Definitely an easy, low-consequences beach read. It is a little slow to pick up at first, so I would recommend reading it in longer sittings. It does get exciting as the book continues (about halfway through). Some more specific complaints: Often, the thoughts that would take a person years to develop and put into words were thrown onto the page too simply, making the characters seem one-dimensional (e.g., Monique’s admiration of Frankie, which is the introduction to her character; Monique’s interaction with David). There was pretty regular objectification of women (by the woman narrators), and I had trouble determining whether any of it was self-aware or not. I was disappointed by the lack of any clear character arc experienced by Evelyn. There was very little historical research put into this book (no mention of the Hays Code, slang in the tabloid entries, popular filming locations, LGBT community dynamics/theories/experience is inaccurately represented, feminist theory of the time largely ignored for a more “girl-boss” spin), which is frustrating as a history nerd and especially as a classic film fan.

Tex by S. E. Hinton

June 19th-20th

Format: Paperback, borrowed

Rating: 3/5

Pretty unfocused, but a compelling read. This would probably only appeal to those that are already fans of Hinton’s work.

The Collector by John Fowles

June 20th-28th

Format: Ebook via Libby

Rating: 2/5

Although generally well-written and exploring an interesting concept, the book dragged terribly (especially around the middle). I found none of the characters to be relatable (and mostly found them unbearable and irritating). I can’t help but feel that “thriller” is an improper label for this book. Some interesting ideas begin to take shape, but none of them ever seem to make a conclusion. The ending is extremely well-written and fascinating.

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving

June 29th

Format: Ebook via Libby

Rating: 5/5

Beautiful and engaging prose. I was interested by the depiction of the superstitions of Sleepy Hollow as a quality of the land itself. Contains period-typical racism and misogyny.

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mirai-studies-languages · 3 years

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How to get a 9 in GCSE English literature!

Disclaimer: These tips are specific to AQA GCSE English literature and myself. They might not work for everyone.

Hi! I wanted to provide some advice for Year 11 English literature students on how to revise. I’ve always been quite good at English in general without trying too hard, but it took an extra push at the beginning of the year to bring my grades to a solid grade 9. Here are some tips and ideas on how to revise!

Listen to your teachers! The majority of my analysis came from my teachers. Seriously, they are really helpful. I remember listening to my teacher talking to us about Macbeth quotes and analysis almost a year before we started writing essays, and I could still remember a lot from them much later on.

Reread the books/plays/poetry! You do not have to do this a lot, only about 3-4 times to keep it fresh in your head. When you read it, also read the analysis already annotated there, and try providing your own annotations.

Watch YouTube videos! This probably saved my mocks, since I can’t for the life of me come up with analysis for a christmas carol (I just really hate it and found it too boring to remember later on from classes despite the fact that we worked on it for so long) on my own. It is a good way of finding deeper analysis and new perspectives. My personal favourites are Mr Salles, Mr Bruff and Stacy Reay. You can probably find YouTube videos or lectures online if you look hard enough.

Write practice essays! This post goes into a lot of detail on essay writing, so check that out to figure out how to write a good essay! Start off writing essays for however long you want, and then start writing essays in timed conditions.

Blurt quotes, characters and themes! Write a quote in the middle of a page and write analysis for individual words (here is a quick way of doing that) and how they interact with each other. Scribble down any themes, scenes or other quotes that you can associate with the quote, and remember to ask why and how this links with the wider context of the text.

Talk about the text with people! My friends and I sometimes liked to talk (read: argue) about some of the texts. It can be a really good way of enhancing your understanding of a text and gaining different viewpoints. You don’t have to do this, it is just nice sometimes (though maybe I’m just saying that because I’m a literature nerd).

Make essay plans! Find some past papers online (or just ask your teacher for some essay questions) and create plans. Do this more at the beginning of the study, because at that point, you will probably want to improve your general thought process and analysis before you focus on writing full essays.

Learn your terminology! You can use flashcards for this (like Quizlet or Anki) and try to identify literary techniques (iambic pentameter, modal verbs etc.) in whatever you are reading.

Read and annotate poetry! If you are stuck on how to do that, then just break the task down into smaller bits. Read the poem once and underline any words and phrases that you feel something about, and jot down the connotations of the word. Try to identify the general mood being portrayed and the story being told. Also, think of the connotations of certain motifs (e.g. a train can symbolise the start of a new journey, a path can symbolise a choice etc.). Keep practicing, and eventually it will become easier. You can even try analysing song lyrics if you want (I love analysing Taylor Swift’s lyrics).

Just generally try to read more! It does not have to be anything too fancy (most of what I read was fanfiction), so find something you like and give it a go. You could also listen to podcasts like the magnus archives, that have a very lovely writing style, or an audiobook you found on youtube. It’ll help, trust me!

Thank you for reading this post! I hope it was somewhat helpful.

#gcse English literature #gcses #study motivation #study tips #gcse advice

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amjustagirl · 3 years

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Chapters: one. ~ two. ~ three. ~ four. ~ five. ~ six. ~ seven.

Wordcount: 3k

Summary:

Akaashi Keiji catches glimpses of another life in his dreams. He dreams of fields of endless gold, of constellation of stars that light up the night sky. He hears the echo of birdsong in her laughter, her song to the gods in the wind.

(Loosely inspired by Kimi No Nawa)

Masterlist link here

AO3 link here

Author’s note: This fic is a little different from my usual work, so I’m a little nervous about publishing it. If you do like it, would love if you leave a comment / reblog / anything!

If you’d like to be included in the taglist, do drop me a msg/ask!

The first time it happens, Akaashi is in his third year of university.

The upside of staying in Tokyo for university (his mother cried when he got into Waseda, her alma mater) is that he sees his family almost every weekend for cosy family dinners. The downside of staying in Tokyo for university is that he really has no excuse when his parents insist on carrying on Hatsumode, the first prayer of the new year, at the crack of dawn at the shrine close to their home. It’s not that he minds the tradition per se, but he did just spend all night rushing his projects just so he could adhere to the unspoken rule that no work should be done during the New Year holidays and spend some time flying kites with his little cousins.

Still, there is something magical about starting the New Year watching dawn break and the world awaken from its slumber just as he reaches the summit of all twenty six steps to the top of the shrine, shrouded in the bare branches of the wisteria trees. He tosses coins into the box, drops into a deep bow twice, chin at waist level, clapping twice before bowing a final time. His mother buys far too many omamori, presses at least half of them into his unwilling hands when the omikuji he draws has a great curse scribbled on it. He’s not superstitious, so it doesn’t bother him, but he knows his mother is, so he does accept the omamori with some grace, though he draws the line at the love charm she tries to sneak into the pile.

‘Mum, I’m too busy at school for a partner’, he tells her firmly. ‘Why don’t you pass it to Yuji-kun, he’s already started work, but hasn’t found a girlfriend from what Oba-chan tells me’. His elder cousin shoots him a particularly malevolent glare that he meets with a placid smile as his mother diverts her attention to him instead.

The faintest shiver runs up his fingers when he deposits the old charm he found in the corner of his closet, grey and faded with time, in the koshinsatsu osamedokoro, the omamori drop off open only during the first day of the New Year. The shiver turns into a ripple of cool water racing up his wrists and roars into an tsunami of dread when the attendant tells him all deposited charms will be burnt in the ritual fire in a fortnight’s time, but he writes it off as a symptom of his lack of sleep and starts to turn away.

There’s a sudden echo of a nightmare of raging flames that prompts him to swivel around to snatch the omamori and stuff it back in his pocket, muttering apologies to the shocked attendant. Later, when he has time to process his impulse, he’d find it strange. In the meantime however, the festivities wait for no one, so he distracts himself by eating far too much dango and mochi in between rounds of tossing kites up to catch the wind. His uncles slip him full cups of sake and sweetened rice wine to his mother’s disapproval, which in hindsight he should have heeded, as he stumbles to bed that night, head heavy with alcohol.

That night he dreams of a girl with curly hair, lying in a field of endless gold - daffodils to mark the dawn of spring.

‘Also known as narcissus’, he hears himself say, hears himself narrate the myth of a man so entranced by his own reflection in the water that he lost his will when he realizes he cannot have his object of desire. A girlish voice lilts teasingly – ‘the flowers are too pretty to be ruined by your obsession of stories written by grumpy old men’. He wakes up with the ghost of laughter on his lips, but there’s a lingering sense of loss budding in barren soil of his heart.

It does prompt him to pop by the florist near his parents’ house to order a bouquet of daffodils for his mom to be delivered on the first day of spring. He’s accustomed to the old couple running the shop, so he pauses just for a second when he walks into the store to find a new girl at the counter. She must not be used to customers yet, dropping the bouquet she’s working on when she notices him.

‘Hi’, she stammers, cheeks pink. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’d like to make an advance order for daffodils please.’

‘For spring?’ she asks, and he nods, writing down his parents’ address when prompted. ‘That’s a good choice!’

She waves him off with a cheerful – ‘please come back again’, and he does not notice that there are stars in her eyes.

His mother drags him back to the shrine on the third day of the holidays, and he obliges her, ever the dutiful only son, even though the frigid temperature makes his breath puff up into clouds and the tip of his nose turns numb. The old omamori is still snug in his jacket pocket, and as his fingers brush against it, he can feel the threads of the charm unravelling, the fabric almost fragile in its worn, threadbare state but he does not attempt to dispose of it again.

‘What are you going to do once you’re done with your degree, Keiji?’ His mother asks, when they stop by an old teahouse for a cup of steaming genmaicha, the aroma of roasted rice tea warm against his cold nose.

‘I intend to apply for a job at a publishing company after I graduate’, he tells her seriously, and she nods, encouraging him to continue. ‘I’m hoping it’s something to do with my major, preferably Japanese literature, better yet if it's poetry, but in this market, I’ll take what I can get’.

His mother nods, smiling at him fondly. ‘I remember you used to be obsessed with Shakespeare and Greek myths when you were younger, all the way through high school, and your father and I thought that you’d end up majoring in that in university. You really surprised us when you chose to major in Japanese literature instead.’

‘I don’t know why, to be honest. Maybe I had a good Japanese literature tutor?’ He laughs, fiddling with his teacup.

‘Mm I don’t think so though. I remember you complaining that Raku-sensei was so dull he caused everyone to fall asleep.’ He shrugs, and though she stares at him curiously, she does not pursue the line of conversation any further.

That night he dreams of waking up in an old wooden house, shivering in a thick futon, the smoldering embers from the irori, mere inches from his face. It’s so very different from his childhood bedroom filled with modern appliances and walls of books neatly shelved in alphabetical order, but he doesn’t notice that in the dark. Instead, he reaches for his phone to check the time, bolting awake because that can’t be, he never misses his alarm, mentally calculating that he must leave the house in exactly fifteen minutes to make it in time for practice when a little boy bursts through the door.

‘Nee-chan’, the little boy whines. ‘I’m hungry. Time for breakfast’.

Did he just say Nee-chan? Scratch that - since when did he have a little brother?

He scrambles out of bed, groping his way in the dark to the washroom. The cold water should wake him up, but when he looks up at the mirror above the sink, the face he’s staring at does not belong to him. No - it belongs to a dark eyed girl with curly hair - but it doesn’t make sense, shouldn’t make sense, because when he reaches a trembling finger to poke at the mirror, he is she or she is him -

The ensuing panic and confusion makes him jerk out of his dream, but when he rushes to the washroom to check that he’s still himself, he is relieved to see that it’s still him - Akaashi Keiji, with dark circles around his eyes, staring back in disbelief.

He chalks his strange dream up to the stress he carries around from trying to clear all his course work so he can audit additional classes over the next term.

Except the dreams don’t stop, not even when he moves back to the university dorms. He keeps waking up drenched in cold sweat, clutching at his arms even though they’re clear of the scratches he sees in his dreams, red and raw and stretching all the way up his elbows.

‘Be kinder to Hana-chan, Keiji-kun’, he hears the call of the same girl in his mind and he shudders, unsure whether the disembodied voice floating through his mind is a memory from his dream. ‘She’s going through an awfully tough time’.

‘It doesn’t give her the right to hurt you like that’, he can hear his faint disapproval.

‘Never mind that, it’s not a big deal. What are we reading today – don’t tell me it’s anything like Hamlet. That was horrendously depressing.’

‘Midsummer’s Night Dream? It’s a romantic comedy at least.’

‘Only a nerd like you would read Shakespeare in high school – and it’s not even in Japanese!’

‘Hush – you don’t get to complain when I’m reading it out to you.’

‘What on earth is going on’, he mutters to himself. The copious amounts of frigid water he splashes onto his face is no antidote to this madness.

‘Sato-san, are you feeling alright?’ he asks his grimacing classmate in concern, lines of pain etched onto her face.

‘I’m fine, Akaashi-kun’, she manages to spit out, clutching her stomach with white-knuckled hands. ‘It’ll pass in a bit, I hope’.

‘Are you sure you’re fine? I could help you to the nurse’s office if that helps’.

His classmate shakes her head, a blush staining her cheeks. ‘It’s just that time of the month. I apologise if that’s too much information to be polite’.

Ah. But somehow even though he has no sisters, and his female classmates in high school were oddly reticent about their periods (strange, considering it is part and parcel of being a mammal for far more than a millenium) the steps to deal with this particular conundrum come to him so naturally it’s almost as if the answers were presented to him previously in a dream.

‘Here’, he passes Sato-san painkillers, chocolate and a hot water bottle he’d managed to talk the university nurse into loaning him, and Sato practically whimpers in gratitude.

‘You’re a lifesaver, Akaashi-kun’, she tells him and he nods, content that he’s solved the problem so efficiently.

That night he wakes up in her body again. The room is dark, save for the sliver of white light between the blinds that allows him to discern the growing crimson stain between her legs.

‘Don’t you know all women have to deal with this nonsense every month? But I’ll tell you a trick - painkillers, chocolate and a hot water bottle will make you feel as right as rain’, he hears her voice declare in his mind, and he startles awake to find himself back in his own bed, blessedly clear of any bloodstains.

It must be a dream borne out of what happened today, he tells himself firmly and shrugs it off. The rest of his slumber is thankfully shorn of dreams.

But then these dreams start to crash into his sleep like a series of never ending waves, and he’s a short hop, skip, jump away from falling off the cliff into a distracted madness, the rate his sleep keeps getting disrupted. He keeps waking up in her body, it makes him feel like a creep, wearing her skin like an ill-fitting glove, and he decided does not think about how strange it feels to have twin lumps of flesh in front of his chest (his mother raised him to be a gentleman, after all).

The contents of these dreams are relatively cyclical. He wakes up at dawn, puts on her school uniform, makes breakfast for the little boy - Toya-chan over the primitive hearth before rushing to school through dirt paths lined with trees. His - or rather her classmates stare at her with a mix of condescension and apathy, and her hours in school are spent in a lonely silence, save when Hana-chan gets up in her face and screams absolute nonsense about staying the fuck away from her, which seems a little dramatic considering she’s the one doing the confronting, but it’s just a dream, so he keeps telling himself. It’s not like he can change anything about it.

‘Does it bother you? That you’re alone?’ he asks her one day.

‘Not really. I have you and Toya-chan, don’t I?’ she responds.

‘I suppose’, he says, voice trailing off.

He catches glimpses of sun drenched afternoons spent in fields of flowers, glances of dusky evenings spent in the forest basking in the light of the setting sun. He agonizes over stacks of homework, digs for mushrooms in the damp earth, climbs through wire fences to scavenge for eggs in neighbouring farms.

‘Aren’t your parents worried about you and Toya-chan?’ he can hear himself question her one night.

‘My mom is dead and my dad can’t be home often, he works on construction projects around Sapporo. He sends cash to me and Toya-chan, and it isn’t always enough, but he tries his best ’, she answers, her voice feather light.

‘I’m sorry’, he tells her a little awkwardly, thinking about his happy family and wondering how it’d feel like to have them torn away from him so early on in life.

‘Don’t be’, she replies, ‘Sometimes I wonder if it’s better to have good parents who’re dead or absent rather than horrible parents who’re still alive’.

He jolts awake again, relieved to find himself back in his bed. It’s barely four in the morning, but he’s not going to be able to sleep after that, so he resigns himself to using the time to get cracking on his college assignments anyway. But he makes sure to call his mother once day breaks and he’s sure she’s returned from the market with groceries in tow, telling her awkwardly that he’s just calling to catch up and hopes she’s been well and ok bye mum I love you very much, heart pounding when he hangs up abruptly.

He has a standing appointment on the first Thursday every month to meet Kenma for coffee at a café a stone’s throw away from Waseda. They both order black coffee, which is strange for Kenma considering his legendary sweet tooth, but he knows Kenma too well to know that the ridiculously successful game streamer is only drinking coffee to stay awake, the shadows under his eyes deeper and darker than those under Akaashi’s own eyes.

‘Doesn’t Kuroo-san nag you go to bed at a decent time?’

Kenma doesn’t even bother to flick his eyes up, busy gulping mouthfuls of the bitter liquid. ‘Speak for yourself. Not sleeping well either?’

Akaashi shrugs his shoulders helplessly, stirring his coffee. ‘Mm. ‘I’ve been having strange recurring dreams and it’s been affecting my sleep’.

Kenma merely hums in reply, and Akaashi finds himself spilling out the entire weird series of events – though to be absolutely accurate, his dreams aren’t real so they can’t be termed as events, but they’ve been haunting him for the past month so they might as well be at this rate. He explains about finding himself in the body of a high school girl with curly hair and a dimple on one cheek, how he’s lived her life enough in the past month that he can map out her days with startling certainty, how he knows it’s not real – it can’t be real, but his dreams glimmer with such vibrancy that they feel real.

‘Am I going crazy?’ he asks.

‘I highly doubt it’, Kenma says, tapping his chin in thought. ‘Maybe it’s like one of those exploration video games where you have to take your time to discover its world to figure out the narrative the game is feeding you.’

Trust Kenma to relate everything to video games.

‘That was singularly unhelpful’, Akaashi says dryly as Kenma chuckles quietly in response.

He is almost afraid to fall asleep again but his eyelids are weighed down by weeks’ worth of sleep deprivation and soon he finds himself again in her body.

It’s a clear winter’s night. He’s huddled under a thick blanket to shield himself from the bitter cold, watching the embers in the hearth glow yellow and gold.

‘It’s late. Can’t sleep?’

‘Mm’ he replies. ‘Wondering what tomorrow will bring.’

‘You’re overthinking again, Keiji’, she chuckles. ‘Tomorrow’s going to be just another day. You’ll wake up back in your warm bed at the crack of dawn for volleyball practice, attend classes in your fancy private school, and play even more volleyball with your beloved Bokuto-san’.

He rolls his eyes heavenwards at her words and her laugh this time is loud, bright.

‘You know I only speak the truth. Now, since you need to wake up ridiculously early tomorrow, why don’t I tell you a bedtime story so you can fall asleep.’

‘I’m not a child’, he replies dryly, but does not object when she starts to narrate the tale of a princess exiled from the moon, who is raised by a humble woodcutter and his wife to become a renowned beauty, with five suitors seeking her hand. ‘That’s mean of her’, he mumbles as she describes how the princess rebuffs her suitors by setting them impossible tasks, drifts to sleep as her voice softens as she describes how the princess falls in love with the Emperor, but breaks both their hearts because she knows she must return to the moon someday. He’s fast asleep when she reaches the ending where the princess leaves all her memories on earth with tears in her eyes, gifting the emperor with an elixir of immortality which he burns, because he declares life isn’t worth living without her.

‘Goodnight Keiji’, she says, her voice shimmering in the still night air.

For the first time in a long while, Akaashi wakes up at peace.

Taglist:

@1tooru @animeflower26 @kageyamakock

#hq #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #hq imagines #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu writing #hq writing #haikyuu angst #haikyuu romance #akaashi keiji #akaashi keji x reader #akaashi x reader #akaashi keiji x y/n #haikyuucreations #akaashi headcanons #akaashi angst #haikyuu fic rec #haikyuu scenarios

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dazai-ism · 3 years

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bsd college au headcanons

i have so many thoughts on this that it's unbelievable. also, i'm an american, so i'm going to base this on u.s. colleges and universities (i'm so sorry). anyways, here we go

firstly, on dazai and fyodor:

for me, in all bsd modern aus, dazai and fyodor are rivals and begrudging acquaintances-maybe-friends. dazai is a psychology major, and fyodor is a criminology major. they share so many fucking classes together that they can't help but acknowledge each other's existence

that being said: they constantly battle for the valedictorian spot of their class (year). i would like to think that in the first semester of their freshman year, dazai won, but in the second semester, fyodor did. that earned him a whole quarter's worth of rebuking insults and pettiness

and they're both arrogant as hell, so they can't not brag about their scores

i imagine that if they were ever in the same literature class, one of them would purposely be the 'devil's advocate' in every single seminar just to annoy the other

on that note, can you imagine them debating the moral rationality of crime and punishment??? if you've read the book, you would understand. it would start world war fucking iii

they do work well together on group assignments and stuff, though. they prefer partnering up with each other because, in their words, "everyone else is too damn stupid"

next, dazai and kunikida:

kunikida and dazai are roommates. they met in college, not high school (probably came from opposite sides of the fucking country)

i imagine that their first interaction went like this:

dazai: oh!!! my roommate!!! welcome!!!! do you think this curtain bar is tall enough for me to hang myself on???? kunikida: what the fuck?? no????? dazai: oh, that's terribly unfortunate. also, did you request our dorm to be on the first floor? kunikida: yes, of course??? why would you want to unnecessarily climb extra flights of stairs? dazai: oh, no reason. i just wanted to try jumping out of the window, but i guess that's a foregone conclusion now [sighs wistfully] kunikida: what the actual fuck

(more under the cut!!!)

yeah. anyways

kunikida is ever-annoyed by dazai, but he also is a little bit concerned, not that he'd ever admit it

he's also a political science major on the pre-law track, so he's slightly stuck-up. at first, dazai can't believe he has this righteous, lofty dude as his roommate, but he gets used to it. i also think he would play tricks on kunikida like he does in canon—his notebook mysteriously disappears and then reappears twice a month without fail, like clockwork

kunikida is the suffering listener to most of dazai's daily ramblings (most of which are answers to 'philosophical' questions), his most recent one being: is "X food" a soup or a salad??

moving on. stem vs. humanities

there is a long-running war between the stem and humanities departments in the university, and people hold a lot of grudges. for example

tanizaki (a chemistry major) dumped a whole bottle of 1879 wine inside chuuya's (a literature major specializing in poetry) backpack once. dazai cackled at it (despite also being a humanities major), but he still took chuuya's side

kouyou (a gender studies major) started dating yosano (a biology major on the pre-med track) in their sophomore year, and it caused a huge ruckus. kouyou still has stains on her favorite dress

mori (a biology professor) is definitely not above joining in on the scheme. i imagine that he occasionally helps his students plan some quite elaborate pranks on fukuzawa (a comparative lit. professor) and his classes

atsushi is an anthropology major, while akutagawa studies astrophysics. with their peers involved, they've reluctantly participated in a few (read: a whole fucking lot) of prank wars, one of which involved a pack of gummy worms and the communal showers. dazai eggs them on every chance he gets

on the hunting dogs:

jouno is an electrical engineering major who absolutely delights in bothering his rather apathetic roommate, tecchou (a government major)

fukuchi is definitely the applied mathematics professor that everybody hates (fuck canon fukuchi)

teruko is a film and visual studies major, but she wants to minor in contemporary art. honestly, though, teruko is more of a wild card in my hcs because i like to think that she wants to dabble a little bit in everything but simply doesn't have enough spare time to invest

tachihara is a classics major. i love the idea of tachihara being a total nerd about greco-roman history. he probably sculpts as a hobby or something. i don't know

i have way too many ideas about this. i might update this more in the future >:D reply with your own hcs if you have any!!! i'd love to hear them

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs #au #alternate universe #college au #headcanons #bsd headcanons

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redhoodieone · 4 years

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Wrong Number Part 2

A/N: Here’s Part 2! Uh…I don’t really know what to say other than…enjoy it! Hopefully, I can post Part 3 sometime next week.

Warnings: Language, Sexual Content, Text Message Nudes, and Mutual Masturbation.

I’m in complete shock. I know I’m frozen because I can’t literally take my eyes off the text message Jason sent to me. It’s clear; it’s in black and white, staring right at me.

Do you ever think we’ll meet each other?

He wants to meet me. Jason wants to meet me in person!

I want to text him back, but my mind is full of many ridiculous questions and the fears of Jason being a serial killer, or rapist, or just an insane Arkham escapee blows up in my head.

Before I knew it, I see the three bubbles on my screen.

I’m sorry. That was selfish of me to ask you that even though we’re still practically strangers to each other. Forget I asked, please?

My heart suddenly hurts like fuck. The pain I’m instantly feeling is very familiar. A broken heart?

It’s pure agony when I notice Jason texting me again.

I’m not going to be able to text tonight, sweetheart. I’m working late with my brothers. I’ll text you tomorrow. Have a good night. Sweet dreams.

I can’t believe I did this. How could I do this to a guy who’s been so funny, so sweet, and such a good friend in only just four days through text messages?

I seriously fucked up. And now I have no one to talk to until I fall asleep.

And as strange as it is, I only sleep well after I talk to him.

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

And true to his word, Jason texts me at five in the morning, only to let me know he made it home safe after working with his brothers.

We only spoke about our jobs once. He told me he works alongside police officers and tracks down criminals and helps brings justice to the city. He seemed almost hesitant to tell me and turned the conversation to me as if he doesn’t like talking about work. He made it clear that he would rather keep his work private, and I didn’t push him to tell me more. I didn’t want to ask a lot of questions, even if I’m sometimes curious about it, because I wouldn’t want to make him uncomfortable about it.

I had told him I’m a waitress at the local diner just a block away from GCPD, and how I’m a late-night writer who dreams of publishing my novel on love and loss. And after I confessed about the book I wrote to Jason, I noticed he was very enthusiastic about that and even told me he wants to read it.

And as the shy and insecure person that I am, I became embarrassed and said no.

That only fueled the fire between us. Jason went on to explain he loves to read. His favorite literature consists of Shakespeare (particularly Hamlet), George Orwell’s 1984 and Animal Farm, and even poetry from Edgar Allen Poe.

He even went into depth of how The Tell-Tale Heart mirrors his own reflection of life and stuck with him during a depressing time in his life.

It wasn’t until after we shared our love for literature that I found myself falling for Jason. As ridiculous and insane as that sounds, I couldn’t help but feel as if he’s the missing piece in my life.

It’s as if he’s the words to my story.

Important, but very valuable to a writer.

I was basically on a high that had me grinning like an idiot, giggling like a moron, and jumping in my seat as my stomach twists and turns like a roller coaster, when Jason refused to take no for an answer after I said he couldn’t read my novel. He even said his dad has connections to businesses in Gotham and could even help me get it published.

As much as I would want that, I couldn’t help but feel that it seems too good to be true. What if his dad took my novel and publish it as his own? What if I get cheated out of a contract and didn’t get paid fairly like I should? What if it’s basically a soul-sucking scam to just fuck my entire life up?

Jason must have sensed my hesitation after that, because he then began to tell me about his brothers.

How his older brother Dick still treats him like a kid, even though Jason is taller and stronger than him.

How his younger brother Tim is a computer nerd and often geeks out over the oddest things.

And how his youngest brother Damian is really a demon spawn, who tries to be tough shit, but is really a soft teddy bear.

He even has a sassy but wise butler, Alfred, who frightens him and sometimes reminds him of Vito Corleone from The Godfather. But the older man loves Jason as much as his dad, Bruce.

The stories about Jason’s family are the best. I always find myself excited to see what he texts me about his family.

How he and his brothers fight over their dad’s car, how they wrestle and spar to see who’s the strongest one, and how whenever one’s in trouble, the other three are already finding ways to save or bail the troubled one out.

It all makes me feel good to know they’re a close family. Especially when my cold, harsh reality reminds me I don’t have a family.

My parents died when I was just fifteen years old. I was in the school library alone during afterhours; reading on a beanbag chair because I didn’t want to go home. At that particular time, my parents were hanging around a different crowd. A crowd that was into drugs and gambling, and possibly other illegal activities I don’t even know about.

So, I chose to stay in the school library that night, sitting in my favorite beanbag chair the librarian allows me to use, reading a favorite horror book, munching away on a hot pocket (a snack also from the librarian), and just enjoy the silence but comfortable environment I would call home.

Then I was told they died in a car accident, but after eavesdropping on Commissioner Gordon and the other cops, I heard there could have been a hit on them.

The car accident happened only a block away from our apartment.

The brakes were cut.

The car was burning too much oil.

The airbags were taken out.

Many noticeable factors couldn’t pinpoint the real crime. Eventually, they just called it a “car accident”, and everything fishy about the case was ignored and never brought up again.

I suffered and struggled a lot in foster homes until I turned 18. I didn’t have any other family members to get into contact with, so I had to make do with the foster care system. After being shipped to three unstable and cruel homes, the last family only dealt with me until I turned 18 and I was soon kicked out. I did get lucky enough to get a job at the diner I’m working at since the new manager needed a pretty young girl to serve the customers.

I even went to Gotham Community College for a year but dropped out when I couldn’t pass any math and science classes.

It was fucking hard.

Science was confusing as hell.

Math was just evil and useless.

I hated those classes so much.

I only passed my English classes because reading and writing only made sense to me.

I even took a creative writing class and poetry class only to discover I want to write.

I want to be a writer.

So, I dropped out of college and decided to work full time at the diner as a waitress. Since no one wants to live and work in Gotham, I’m lucky enough to work morning and night without any issues. As dangerous and scary Gotham can be, I have nowhere else to go, so that’s why I stay here.

Maybe that’s why I’m eager to meet Jason. After everything I’ve been through, maybe I do need a little unpredictability.

Chances.

Risks.

The more I consider meeting Jason, the more I can imagine him being my family.

Or being a part of his.

Maybe.

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

“You’re not going to meet him, right???” Stacey raises her voice at me in sheer annoyance and panic. She crosses her arms and glares at me to answer her. “Right, Y/N???”

I sigh as softly as I can while wiping down the booths and tables for the night. In the midst of a battle, I find myself growling with irritation when I can’t wipe away the sticky maple syrup spills on the hard surface.

“He could be a fat, old man who picks up on teenage girls! He’s probably some 40-year-old loser who still lives on his mom’s basement playing Street Fighter with kids! What if he tricks you into meeting up in a hotel room and has his way with you? Then what, Y/N?! Does that sound like a good idea to you?!” Stacey snaps.

I exhale deeply and stand up straight; after leaning over the table to reach the opposite side for some time. Turning around, I face Stacey Patterson, a tall, petite, pretty blonde, fresh face girl straight out of high school. She’s a waitress like me, and after only working here for a year, we’ve become close friends; always looking after each other in dangerous Gotham City.

“I didn’t say I was going to meet him, Stacey. We’re just talking about it,” I answer timidly.

Despite being five years older than Stacey, she still intimidates the hell out of me. Whether it’s her 5’11 height, loud voice, or natural evil glare, I can never speak up or defend myself. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t take a stand.

Because what if I actually piss her off? What if she stops being my friend?

Because I don’t think I could live in Gotham and not have any friends and not know anyone.

Stacey is like my best friend, and her friends Amber and Holly hang out in our group. Stacey even says they’re my friends, too, even though I clearly know they only put up with me because of her.

And if Amber and Holly aren’t my friends, then I’ll just have Stacey. And if I don’t have Stacey, I’ll only have Jason.

And who knows if Jason is who he says he is, and if he’s even real.

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Y/N! You’re totally thinking about Jason! You’re thinking about meeting up with him because I could see it in your eyes!” Stacey declares. She waves her arms around to emphasize her point. “You like this guy! You have feelings for a guy you’ve never even met!”

“That is not true,” I argue weakly.

“Yes, it is! And we don’t even know if it’s a guy!”

“Jason is a guy, and I can tell!”

“Oh, really? How? Do tell.”

I stare at Stacey with a serious expression, except my cheeks are burning with embarrassment as usual. “He...comes off like a guy. I know he is. I can tell through his text messages,” I say.

“Anybody can sound like anyone through text messages. That’s how people catfish victims online!” Stacey argues.

“I’m a writer, Stacey. I just...have a feeling, okay? I know Jason says who he is, and I believe him,” I say strongly, as I push a lose strand of my hair behind my ear. “I’m doing this the smart way, too. When he and I decide when we should meet up, I’ll let you know. Maybe we can make it a group thing. I bring a friend. He brings a friend.”

Stacey sighs in defeat when she realizes I’m not backing down. She glances up at me with a stern face. “Fine. When you two decide when you’re both going to meet up, I’ll be there. I’ll be there to make sure he’s not on America’s Most Wanted, and to make sure he doesn’t try to lure you to his mom’s basement. BUT...you have to go on a date. A REAL date with a guy we both know, AND who could be good for you,” she states loudly and clearly.

“But Stacey-”

“Hey! Only until this Jason guy comes to Gotham and we meet him! Until then, I want you to give this guy a chance. A fair chance! For me...please???” Stacey pleads. She pouts and gives me her puppy dog eyes, which she knows I always give in to.

I’m too nice. Mom always said I was too nice, and that one day it’ll get me in trouble.

I’m still wondering when that’ll happen.

“Okay, I’ll give this guy a chance. I swear I will,” I promise and salute her. “But who’s the guy?”

Stacey grins in success and hugs me tightly. “Good! Because you’re like my sister, Y/N, and I just want to see you happy. You deserve it,” she says softly. “And it’s Chace. Remember him? He’s the drummer from, WakeHell. He moved in right next door to me, and I know you two will hit it off right!”

Chace????

Oh yeah. I know him.

He’s a total bad boy. A bad boy I don’t even think I could deal with.

I force a smile but then frown, because the only guy in my life who makes me happy is Jason.

Who I only text.

Who I haven’t even met.

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

The next day is a lazy day since it’s my day off. I spent the majority of it sleeping, doing laundry, and just doing minor cleaning around my apartment until it’s 9:00 P.M.

And Cruel Intentions is on TV.

Lying on the couch with my second glass of Vodka Cranberry, I find myself really buzzed and horny. Ryan Phillippe back then was hot, and him making out with Reese Witherspoon is doing things to me.

My phone bings. It’s Jason.

What are you up to tonight, sweetheart?

Just a night in, a cup of glasses of vodka and cranberry, and Cruel Intentions is on TV.

I barely realize I’m buzzed and texting Jason. But my horny side doesn’t care.

I sorry I’m buzzed right now lol.

LOL no worries. I just came back from the bar with my brothers. We had a successful night and decided to get some drinks. We even had Tim and Damian use fake I.D’s.

I laugh and snort. Thank God no one heard me do that.

That’s good...we wouldn’t want Tim and Damian to be left out. They’re your baby brothers, Jay.

Jay? I really like it when you call me that. And I especially like you buzzed. LOL.

I like me buzzed too! I think I’m way more fun and free!

LOL!!! Exactly, princess!

I smile down at my phone. I love it when he calls me princess.

You said you’re watching Cruel Intentions? I just found it on TV. Wow...this movie’s old LOL.

Shut up!!! I find young Ryan Phillppe sexy in this movie!

You seriously find him sexy??? The guy’s a whiny brat! A pussy! Fuck, this movie woulda been sexier if we actually saw the douchebag eat out Cecile and saw him fuck Annette AND Kathryn!

I gasp out loud and giggle.

Then it would have been a porno! Not a movie! Hahaha!!!!

That’s fine with me, princess!

I softly whimper at just the thought of Jason watching porn. Closing my eyes, I imagine how he would sound, touch himself, and look when he’s pleasuring himself.

My eyes shoot open when I hear Sebastian telling Cecile he wants to kiss her…down there. I quickly turn my attention to the TV and watch the movie. Even though he takes advantage of a clueless, drunk girl in the movie, just the thought of him eating her out makes me clench my thighs.

It’s been too long. WAY TOO LONG!

The last guy I was seeing didn’t like to eat me out; claimed it was disgusting and unnecessary to do before sex.

As if sucking his dick was glamorous AND fun!

My thoughts are interrupted when Jason texts me.

You’re quiet tonight…does this scene turn you on???

The laughing emojis he texts me should hurt my feelings since I can easily be embarrassed over sexual things but…he’s right.

I’m turned on with just the thought of getting eaten out.

I boldly text Jack back. Unashamed and VERY buzzed.

You have no idea. Just imagining him eating me out, writing the alphabet with his tongue, and making me have an explosion is making me wet my panties right now.

I laugh to myself just seeing that Jason read my text message and is responding fast. The texting bubbles have never looked so good.

You’re…you’re wet right now????

Yes. Soooo fucking wet.

A surge of drunken confidence hits me, and I quickly shove off my pajama shorts until they’re on the floor. In just my white tank top and pink panties, I bravely slip my fingers into my damp panties and rub the wetness against my sensitive clit.

And with my other hand, I raise my cell phone and snap a picture of fingers in my wet panties.

And I send the picture to Jason.

I bite my lip in anticipation when I see he read my text message and saw my picture. The texting bubbles do not appear on the screen. He’s not texting me back.

Frowning, I wonder if I freaked Jason out. Maybe I crossed the line. Maybe I made him uncomfortable. Maybe I’m just not sexy.

Suddenly, my phone beeps. Unlocking my cell phone screen, I see two text messages AND a picture.

Oh, fuck sweetheart…that’s fucking sexy. You’re fucking sexy…

Jason sends me a picture of him wearing his boxer briefs, and his hand holding his hard, thick cock, showing me the outline and shape of his boner.

Delicious. I can feel my pussy clench just from imagining Jason fucking me with his cock.

Fuck doll...you’re doing this to me.

I whimper pathetically and can’t help but continue to rub my clit and respond back. I can see my juices staining my panties.

Are you touching yourself too?

Fuck yeah. Just seeing your fingers playing with your wet, pretty pussy got me hard. I’m jacking off to your picture.

Would you want me like I want you?

Fuck yes, sweetheart. I probably want you more than you want me.

I slip a finger inside my pussy and moan. My thumb runs fast hard circles on my clit, and I’m soon pushing in two fingers. I’m fucking myself crazy, but I imagine Jason is finger fucking me because my fingers wouldn’t get me off so fast.

And his fingers are thick. His hands are fucking huge!

I bite my bottom lip. “Fuck...I can’t believe I’m going to do this,” I whisper to myself. I snap another picture of my fingers shoved in my pussy, and how I’ve gotten wetter. I send him the picture with the truth.

I need to cum so bad. I wish it was you touching me.

Yeah? What would you want me to do to you, doll?

Fuck that picture’s so hot.

I’d want you to finger me. Eat me out. Fuck me hard.

Jason sends me another picture of him stroking his cock but with his hand in his underwear. I can see a wet spot where his tip is; stained with his precum. I want a taste of it so badly.

Fuck I would baby. Your pussy looks so good enough to eat. I’d fucking eat you out until you can’t cum anymore. I bet you taste delicious.

Oh fuck…I’m so close. I want your cock so bad, Jay. You’re gonna make me cum…

Rub your clit harder baby. Fuck your pussy fast and hard with your fingers. Imagine they’re my fingers, baby. I’d fuck you so hard and deep.

I want to see your cum, okay? Take a picture of that pretty pussy and show me what I did to you.

I do what Jason says. Behind his words, I can feel his authority. Even though I can’t hear Jason’s voice, just reading his words makes me burst like fireworks. My thumb rubs my clit harder, and I crook my fingers just right until I push against my g-spot until I cum. My orgasm is intense, and I force myself to snap a picture of my soaked underwear and fingers. I sent it to him with a lazy smile.

My phone beeps. Jason sent me a picture of his thick, juicy, cum covering his abdominal muscles. I smile a little with pride.

Fuck that was hot, sweetheart. I needed that.

Me too. Now, I’m sleepy.

LOL, I’m tired too. Get some sleep, okay? We’ll talk in the morning.

Okay…goodnight Jay.

I roll over onto my side and shut off the TV. Pulling my UGG throw blanket over my body, I snuggle up to fall asleep. My phone beeps again. Opening one eye, I reach over to read the text message.

Goodnight doll. Sweet dreams.

#dc comics #batman #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x reader smut #jason todd x y/n smut #jason todd smut

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glitterygayvodka · 4 years

Text

Yellow

Note: Omg hiii everyone!! I know that it’s literally been a billion years since I’ve written anything and I’m so sorry for that. Over quarantine I got inspired though so this piece is going to be the first installment of my color series! For every color red through purple I’ll have a story involving Harry and Y/n’s relationship. Thank y’all for being so kind and patient with me. I love you all and I hope you enjoy! My requests are open as well as my inbox in general if you have any questions/comments/concerns. Thank you!! Kissy - 🧡✨Kylei

Warnings: None!! This is all fluff but there’s a wholeeee lot of softness so gear your heart up :))

Yellow is the color of warmth and harmony. Yellow feels like the soft caress of sunshine on your skin, the taste of fresh mango on your tongue, the pleasant aroma of steaming chamomile fluttering against your nose, and the cheerful song of canaries in the early hours of spring.

For Y/n, yellow is a feeling that is almost incapable of being put into words. She feels yellow most often on nights like these, while tangled up with Harry as the sun begins to retire. Yellow is the gentle whisper of his fingers against her back, almost as if he’s writing poetry against her skin. She feels tranquility wash over her as she gazes up at him through relaxed lids, basking in the peaceful sound of his voice as he narrates the newest book they’ve been reading together.

Y/n grins happily as Harry uses different accents for each character, slowly sliding her arms around him and further entangling their legs under the cool and crisp sheets. Yellow feels like plopping onto your bed after a long time away from home, and not to be cliche, but Harry had started to feel like home for Y/n. She found refuge in his ability to be his authentic self with ease, and with him there’s never any pressure for her to be something that she isn’t. Their relationship is a safe haven; one where they can express themselves freely and openly. Their differences and similarities alike connect them in ways neither of them ever imagined.

Y/n finds herself studying him as he reads, admiring him in the same way an art historian admires a Monet. His lashes flutter gently against his tan skin as he blinks, his eyes the color of fresh sage in the hazy lighting of their shared bedroom. Her eyes follow the curve of his nose, down to the beautiful outline of his plush lips. Y/n has always been entranced by Harry’s lips. Their soft pink color conjures the image of delicate cherry blossoms to mind, and the way they wrap around syllables as he speaks mesmerizes her. She can’t help but to stare as he continues to read in his slow, deep, drawl. Eventually, Harry feels her gaze on him as he breaks his focus to look down at her with a puzzled yet knowing smile, his lips sandwiched between two endearing dimples.

“S’there something on my face Princess?” he inquires with humor in his voice, placing a bookmark between the pages and slowly closing the book. Y/n blinks as she emerges from her trance, her gaze moving reluctantly from his lips to his equally enticing eyes. She holds his gaze, bringing a hand up to brush a stray curl away from his face. “Nooo,” she laughs with a shake of her head, “I’m just admiring you.” Harry can’t help the flutter in his stomach at her words. Her laugh a melody that he was sure he could listen to for the rest of his life. He pulls her up his body with a giggle of his own after gently placing their book on the nightstand, her thighs falling on either side of him with her bum resting comfortably in his lap.

They sit in a peaceful silence for a moment, looking into each other’s eyes. Eye contact has always been something that both of them cherish. It never felt uncomfortable or forced between them, even in the very beginning. The feeling that runs through them while looking into each other’s eyes is hard to label. It’s almost as if their souls are communicating anything that’s ever been left unsaid. The intensity of their connection never fails to send a shiver up Y/n’s spine, or to cause a rosy blush to warm up Harry’s cheeks. She wraps her arms around his neck, her fingers gently intertwining with his soft curls. Harry lets out a peaceful sigh as Y/n runs her fingers through his hair, taking the time to scratch his scalp occasionally. He lets his eyelids droop in pure bliss, relishing in the aura of the beautiful woman in his lap, who chooses to be with him over anyone else. He can’t say that he’s surprised however, because it often feels like the two of them were made for each other. Two pieces of the same puzzle that make a perfect fit. Harry wasn’t someone who usually believed in fate or destiny, but after meeting Y/n, it didn’t seem so unlikely that certain events were just meant to be, or as Y/n would say, written in the stars.

“What’s on your mind lovely?” she inquires softly, her fingers leisurely making their way up and down his arms and shoulders, stopping every once in a while to trace his tattoos, paying extra attention to one of her favorites; the butterfly. A murmur of contentment slips past his lips, his hands caressing the familiar silhouette of her waist, giving her hips a tender squeeze as he languidly opens his eyes once more. Harry stares at her for a moment before speaking, his eyes committing the blueprint of her face to memory. “M’just thinking about how much love you brought into my life,” He sighs with a gentle shrug of his shoulders.

Y/n can almost feel the sincerity of his words within her bones, his loving tone sending shivers throughout her body despite the warmth of the room. She’s quiet for a while, allowing her thoughts to marinate. Her fingers glide over the delicate string of pearls he had yet to take off, before her gaze slowly returns to his. “Hear my soul speak. At the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly to your service.” She quotes with a coy smile, her fingers continuing their path along his body.

Harry’s eyebrows scrunch together in confusion, a perplexed look overtaking his features as he studies her goofy expression. He begins to replay her words in his mind, when suddenly, the realization hits him and he lets out a loud chuckle with a shake of his head. “Did you just quote Shakespeare to me?” He inquires, his tone a mixture of playful annoyance and genuine humor. Y/n lets out a chorus of her own laughter before nodding, a beautiful smile adorning her lips. “Did you expect anything less of me?” She questions, her eyes glinting playfully in the soft lighting. Harry shakes his head yet again, moving his hands from the comfortable position on her waist to intertwine their fingers. “Well, I was actually expecting a kiss,” he grins cheekily, “but the surprise visit from Shakespeare was very enlightening.” He finishes, his thumb caressing the back of her hand lovingly.

Y/n’s body shakes with laughter at his words, and Harry can’t help the huge smile that plasters itself on his face. He could live in this moment, with this beautiful soul, for the rest of his life. He had never felt more genuinely warm, seen, and loved in his entire existence than he did while with Y/n. The love constantly radiates off of the both of them in waves, reaching anyone and everyone who is open to experiencing their magic. As Y/n’s laughter finally begins to subside and he helps her wipe away any happy tears that happened to betray her, Harry’s heart feels beyond full. “Okay I have no idea what came over me!” She breathes, slightly out of breath in the way that only a good laugh can induce. “I guess you’re a comedian and I’m a nerd, so where does that leave us?” Y/n giggles, bringing her gaze back to him with laughter glossed eyes.

“Hmmm,” Harry ponders, slowly intertwining their hands yet again. “I guess that means you’ll always have someone t’quote literature to, and I’ll always have someone t’laugh really hard at my bad jokes.” Yet another smile makes its way to his lips, and Y/n giggles again with a squeeze of his hand. “Well then!” She sings, releasing one of her hands from his to cup his cheek, bringing her face closer to his. “Aren’t we just the perfect pair?” Her question has a playful tone and he can feel the warmth of her breath against him, her eyes moving between his gaze and his lips.

“We sure are...” he murmurs, his hands following her lead, one moving forward cradle her face with the other gently resting against her throat. Harry can feel her pulse quicken with his actions, and it makes him smile to know that she still has this reaction to his touch. Their eyes flutter closed as they move even closer, their lips finally brushing against each other as delicately as if it were the first time. Harry deepens the kiss, the faint taste of mint and honey lingering on her tongue from their nightly bedtime tea, and Y/n relishes in the intoxicating feeling of his soft lips against hers. A long time ago, Y/n realized that soulmates are yellow.

#harry styles imagine #harry styles imagines #harry styles oneshot #harry styles one shot #harry styles blurb #harry styles blurbs #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x reader #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles au #harry styles fanfic #one direction imagines #harry smut

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adarkroomandawallflower · 3 years

Note

hi, hope you’re having a good day!! if it’s not too much & if you’re taking requests, could i get headcanons for science nerd peter maximoff dating a history/literature nerd? stay safe!! <3

Hi, thank you! I hope you're having a good day & staying safe, too!

I don't get very many requests, so I don't really do them, BUT this is such a cute concept that I will gladly do so! Headcanons are below the cut.

I really like the college au, so this is going to be with college student!reader & college student!Peter

If you've read my previous stuff, you'll know I'm a firm believer that Peter loves physics, so he would definitely be a physics major

I'm not too familiar with the literature majors (I was a science major), so I'll just make reader a general literature major & not a specific literature era or anything like that

So of course with the different majors, it's not very likely reader & Peter would meet later in their college years (junior or senior), but they could totally meet in a class they have to take to satisfy general studies credits, which you're more likely to take as a freshman or sophomore, so you would meet around the early years of college

I think it would be most likely for you to meet in a general English course

Peter would probably come sit next to you because he thinks you're really cute

He'd come over & ask you if the seat next to you was taken & when you say no, he eagerly sits down beside you

Unfortunately, even college classes do those ridiculous ice breaker activities, so your professor would probably make everyone go around & say your major, something about you, etc.

So that's how Peter finds out you're a literature major & you find out he's a physics major

Peter would think it's really neat that you love literature & are a literature major & you of course would think it's so impressive that he's a physics major

Although Peter plays up a cocky, flirtatious attitude, when he's really interested in someone, he gets really nervous & unsure of himself

So you would be the one to ask for his phone number

*cue a shocked but very happy Pikachu face from him*

It would start off as a friendship, but would quickly turn into something more

I'm a sucker for the whole "opposites attract" idea (in certain ways), so I think you both having different majors would actually mesh really well

You're both super interested in the other's subject, even if it's not the thing you're passionate about, so lots of your time is spent with you reading a passage or poem to him & excitedly discussing what you both think the author meant by it & Peter showing you a crazy math problem & explaining to you what it means & how it's used

You both also love combining both of your interests together, which makes the other SO SOFT

You'll look up a really neat physics article or some pictures from NASA to excitedly ask him about & he'll ask about a book he has to read for class or asks for help in picking a book to read for class

When he gets really excited about you talking physics, he'll just lean over & SMOOCH you, mid-sentence

He doesn't mean to interrupt you, he just can't help but get so excited about it

Meanwhile you'll smile really hard & hold his hand & squeeze it when you get excited about him talking about literature

You both are definitely ramblers & you both definitely just dreamily stare & listen to each other's rants

Movie date night = documentaries

Peter would absolutely LOVE Nova, especially the space-related episodes, so he would definitely suggest watching those together

You would love watching movies/shows based on books or movies discussing literature periods & authors

You're both fairly chill, so most of your dates would be at your places/dorms, but when you do go out, you're both more energetic

Probably go out bowling & to the arcade the most

Peter CONSTANTLY explaining the physical inaccuracies of science fiction literature, just to tease you because he knows you hate it

You retaliate by specifically recommending him books that ignore the laws of physics

Peter is definitely a hopeless romantic, so once your relationship gets serious, he would write down poems he finds in poetry books or lovey-dovey passages from books on sticky notes in his slightly messy but legible handwriting & stick them anywhere & everywhere he can

You would answer those sticky notes with science puns, much to his delight

All in all, you both would be a super cute, nerdy couple hopelessly in love

#asks #answered #peter maximoff #peter maximof x reader #my work

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pechoraflow · 3 years

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Genre vs. Trope

Hello people! Just saw a post on genre versus tropes, and instead of piling on I thought I would just make a separate post. As a screenwriter, I’ve had to pitch stories relying on genre and tropes as shortcuts for awhile, so I’m very familiar with the differences and benefits of the two. When pitching, you get like, three minutes max to hook your audience, and genre/tropes help to save time, to get past the boring setup and into what makes your story unique. So, let’s get into it, shall we?

GENRE is not something that has existed for very long in human history. In fact, it’s only been comedy or tragedy for a long time - and by that, I mean the old definition: happy endings or sad endings, respectively. (I know, I know, Aristotle thinks that genre is prose, poetry, and performance, but those are mediums in today’s sense of the word. Tragedy/comedy is closer to today’s definition of the word genre.) The genres of today - mystery, sci-fi, crime, horror, historical - have come about in the past century, with the rise of movies.

Genre is something we made up for marketing purposes. As entertainment grew into an industry (late 1800s), people needed a way to pitch and sell, fast. Genre is a collection of conventions and tropes, put under one umbrella so that you can sell your book/script/movie/game. Genre is general, tropes are specific. If you advertise something as a coming-of-age romantic comedy, you know what the story arc is going to generally look like. You know what you’re buying.

But also! Notice how you can’t say something is just one genre! This is because genre is a terrible way of trying to categorize literature (in my personal opinion). In reality, your story is a collection of tropes, and trying to pick a genre is just you trying to figure out how to pitch it quicker without going into the trope details. Like, try to pick a story and place it in one genre. Is Harry Potter just one genre? No. It’s mystery, it’s coming-of-age, it’s fantasy, it’s action, it’s comedy, it’s paranormal. You might shorten it to just coming-of-age fantasy - that’s faster than me trying to describe it by listing out all of the tropes that Harry Potter uses (the orphan protagonist, magic school, elderly wizard mentor, bookish brunette, mischievous twins, metaphorical death of the protagonist, non-biological father figure, the Chosen One prophecy, et cetera).

So, take that coming-of-age romantic comedy for example. You have the high-school nerd archetype, the popular girl, the senior year rituals, graduation at the end of the movie, a rival love interest, the prom-posal, the college decision, the “meet-cute”, the grand gesture... Now that I’ve said the main tropes, you get a better idea of what kind of story I’m describing. You’ve seen it a thousand times. To simply call it “romance” - or, heck, let’s be generous and call it contemporary romance - is to leave out the high school back drop and the self-discovery arc of the main character. To simply call it “coming-of-age” is to leave out the central conflict and main romantic tension. To simply call it “comedy” is to leave out pretty much everything except tone.

There you go! Hope this was interesting! ❤️

#writing #writing help #writing advice #tropes #trope #genre #genres #industry talk #honestly if anybody has any questions about screenwriting #just send me an ask!#I love talking about film screenwriting and theory

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rokutouxei · 3 years

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the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

ikemen vampire: temptation through the dark theo van gogh / mc | T | [ ao3 link in bio ]

The challenge seemed pretty simple: to try to befriend the university bookshop's most sour employee, Theo van Gogh. As a literature major with a boatload of book recommendations on her back, it ought to be a simple task indeed. But as she uncovers what lies between Theo's pages, the more she finds it harder to become closer to him without having to put the feeling directly into words. What can she learn from Theo about what it means to stay—and how can she teach Theo about what it means to let go?

[ masterpost for all chapters ]

CHAPTER 1 OF 22

“Hey Theo, your girlfriend’s here.”

Just as she always is: 2:00pm every Wednesday and Sunday, carrying a maroon Kånken bag slung over one shoulder, dark brown hair up in an (adorably) messy half-bun. Today, she’s wearing a black turtleneck under a plaid coat, because it’s early fall now, and every day is a little colder than the last. Mustard-colored shorts over leggings, high-cut Doc Martens. She’s looking at the books on display through the window, hand pressed lightly on the glass.

Theo looks up just long enough to confirm that it is her, their favorite customer, before he disinterestedly returns his gaze to his book. “She isn’t my girlfriend.”

Working in the most reliable, well-known bookstore in a university town means a lot of university students come and go regularly, whether it’s for books needed for class or idle reading. There are a lot of familiar faces, but hers is arguably the most recognizable, considering she’s there twice every week.

Like on clockwork.

Arthur, Theo’s only other co-worker, has just finished shelving the new stock of books by the register when she finally decides to enter. The little bell hanging by the door rings as she does. Theo doesn’t even bother. Arthur makes up for it with his enthusiasm. “Welcome to Dragon’s Hoard Bookstore—oh, it’s you, little bird!” He walks up to her and they do a little high five.

She smiles; it crinkles the corner of her eyes ever so gently. “Hey, Arthur! Nice to see you.”

“How’s your class with The Professor Everyone Hates?”

“Oh, please, don’t get me started,” she sighs. “Considered shifting to lit yet? I could use the company.”

Arthur smiles conspiratorially. “Only for you, luv.”

Theo flips a page on his book. Ah, of course Arthur’s become friends with her. Arthur hits up anything that vaguely resembles the shape of a woman—a couch, a shelf, name it. He’s not really interested in his co-worker’s woman-hunting pursuits.

Arthur, however, seems to be a little more up to it. Theo doesn’t quite know if it’s because he’s interested in the girl he keeps insisting is Theo’s girlfriend, or just because both of them are friends. That makes her a bigger weirdo. Who wants to be friends with Arthur? “So, how can we help you today?”

“I actually came in to pick up my book! I got the message that it’s in—and I need it for class. I ordered it last week.”

Theo feels the stare directed at him all the way across the store—not that it’s that large to begin with. He doesn’t need to look up to know that Arthur is throwing him that glance he has become so familiar with—but he raises his head anyway just to glare back at him, a silent Please don’t.

But when did Arthur ever listen to him anyway? “If it’s a special order then it should be at the register,” the playboy sing-songs, ignoring the death stare he’d received. “How about go over and ask Theo, hmm?”

A tick of a vein on his forehead. Don’t get him wrong—working retail in a small quiet town isn’t anywhere as bad as, say, being employed in a big fancy spot downtown, but when Arthur is regularly like this to him… it’s rather easy to work up a temper. Calm down, Theo says to himself, as he puts his feet down from the chair to sit a little more appropriately for work. The girl takes a pause—gauging, measuring, making sure?—before answering with a half-hesitant, but still lively “Thanks Arthur!”.

The store is just small enough that in five steps, she is in front of him.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” He steels his face to a practiced, charming customer-service smile that makes Arthur snicker from across the store. One day Theo’s definitely going to get that idiot fired, or mangled, and no one will know it was him. “A special order? I need an ID for that.”

“Yeah, sure!” she pulls out a student ID from her pocket, places it on the counter, and wrings her hands like she’s nervous. Why, though. It’s just a book. Theo takes the ID, looks at her name, gives it back to her, and coolly looks through the stacks of books underneath the desk.

Theo doesn’t know where she gets this curiosity and her fidgety hands, but by the time he’s pulled out her book—a book of literary criticism on 20th century poets (that just makes sense, doesn’t it. a literature major in the bookstore, he thinks to himself)—she’s already flipping through the book he was just reading, chewing on her lower lip. She near-jolts when she realizes her book is already on the counter, lost in between the pages of his book.

Ah, the thought pings in Theo’s mind. Arthur’s a trying-hard literature major. That’s probably where they’ve met.

“Any particular poet you’re interested in?” he asks once he’s gone up, dusting the book off gently with his hands. He doesn’t really like small talk, but it’s bookshop etiquette at this point.

“Cummings, maybe?” she answers, and it makes Arthur stifle a laugh from the other end of the store; it’s audible to everyone no matter how hard he tries.

“A world of made is not a world of born,” Theo recites, to which she beams.

“Yes, pity poor flesh and trees, poor stars and stones,” she finishes. She looks entirely too visibly pleased by their exchange: Theo isn’t too thrilled about it. “I suppose you’ll find it cheesy that I like his love poems.”

“They’re great, hard to not like,” he says, following up with another poem: “kisses are a better fate than wisdom, lady i swear by all flowers.”

“You are whatever a moon has always meant, and whatever a sun will always sing is you,” she offers, as well. Grinning awkwardly as she puts Theo’s book back on the counter—a Camus, not really her jam—she says, “I really didn’t take you to be a poetry kind of guy.”

“Not only literature majors read poetry,” Theo answers.

She flushes and pouts a little, making Theo chuckle under his breath. “Well, I don’t really know what major you’re taking,” she says, recomposing herself. Theo has an inkling why she’s so nervous now, but he’s not really interested in it. “No way to find out.”

Theo shakes his head and pushes the order-claims log and a pen in her direction. “How about give it a guess.”

She presses the cap of the pen to just below her pink lip and thinks. “Hmm… political science?”

“Wrong.” Theo slips her book into a paper bag with the bookstore’s logo stamped on it.

She pouts, but a little less seriously than earlier. She signs the log and pushes it back to him. “Aww, dammit. You looked like a crook, too.”

It takes a few seconds for it to sink in, Theo busy sorting the files into their proper boxes. “What?”

“I’m kidding!” she says with a grin. She doesn’t move to take her book, just rests her elbows on the counter and her chin on her palms. She’s here every week at this hour, she knows when business is slow; she can go and pester the employees, sure. And with Arthur enabling her, there is no escape for Theo. He’s really going to strangle Four-Eyes soon. “History?”

Theo doesn’t want to indulge her, but he’s a good employee. “What stereotypes are you going on, here?”

“Well, literature isn’t really a favored field as it is, and you’re reading Camus, so…” she trails off. “Figured poetry was just your little nerd thing, and you’re some serious dude elsewhere.”

He’s not usually the confrontational type, in fact, he’d rather get this conversation over with, but somehow he can’t stop. He’ll never hear the end of this from Arthur later. “A nerd, says the one who is always at the bookstore, peering over the window looking at books. Can almost see your tail wagging excitedly like a little hondje.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I don’t know what that last word means but it sounds like an insult.”

Theo shrugs, trying to freeze the smirk out of his face. “Guess you’ll never know.”

At that exact moment, a trio of what looked like exhausted seniors enters the store, the bell at the doorway announcing their entrance. Theo half-heartedly calls out a Welcome to Dragon’s Hoard! because Arthur is in the back room.

“Times up for me,” their—no, Arthur’s—favorite customer finally says in defeat, after what seems like ten years. She picks up her book from the counter. “One day I’ll figure out your major and find an even worse insult to tell you, Theo,” she teases, grinning as she turns away.

“Try,” Theo only drily answers, to which she puts out her tongue, and finally leaves the bookshop with a spring in her step.

Like any regular devil, Arthur’s timing is impeccable, as right at this moment he emerges from where he’s sorting books some shelves away, swinging by the register with a grin. He turns to check that their other customers are far from earshot, but then it’s his turn to torment Theo. Of course. Theo doesn’t get paid enough for this.

“Aww, didn’t want to get caught flirting with an employee. What a sweetheart.”

“What the hell are you talking about,” Theo asks. “If that was flirting then she wasn’t trying at all. Had no effect on me whatsoever.”

Arthur pulls a face of mock disbelief. “Sure, sure. She was making such a cute face, too. But if ever you change your mind, she left her number in the order log, so you might want to—"

“Leave me alone, Arthur,” Theo sighs, and Arthur laughs like he’s won.

Was that worth it? Was that actually worth it? Holy shit.

She walks two blocks away from the bookshop before turning into a random street corner to breathe. She presses the paper bag against her chest, feeling her heart trying to keep up with the demand for blood, mostly to her face. No, it wasn’t, her brain almost answers for her, but did she actually expect anything else? He’s mighty fine—easily one of the more tolerable face in this drab university town, and with a stare like that that could easily throw people off, push admirers away… he couldn’t, in this lifetime, have been someone who would go down without a fight.

And what a fight it was, if she could call that one! She didn’t expect him to answer back, much less tolerate that much conversation from her, and yet! Her head was spinning so fast, trying to process the information.

“What the hell man, relax,” she says to herself, leaning against the brick wall behind her with a thump. Why the hell did you do that? What the hell is wrong with you? Oh my god.

Even with her heart pounding angrily inside her chest, so loudly she can barely hear anything, she doesn’t find the strength, the will, or the desire to get the grin out of her face. Oh, boy, was that worth it. Kind of fun, really.

She wouldn’t call herself a heartbreaker in any way—she’s close to Arthur, being in the same club and such, but she is no way near his level. All she really wants is to be done with this and get out of this goddamn town that’s been keeping her hostage for years. But god, why did she had to have slipped and told Arthur she thinks his co-worker is kind of hot?

Arthur knowing about her crush and Arthur knowing about her little penchant for doing things she’s either been told not to do or told she would not be able to do—really was her undoing. One little you know, Theo’s the last person you want to befriend if you want a hint of romance; he probably won’t even spare you five seconds, and they both know from that very moment that she would go for the kill.

She does.

She does and it is glorious.

She could feel Arthur grinning at her from across the bookstore the entire time.

It’s taken her weeks to gather the courage, but—who knew it would be this thrilling? It wasn’t like she was looking for a relationship, she just “wants to join in on the fun,” as Arthur likes to say. Oh, is this why the man’s so addicted to doing this? It sure is adrenalizing. Kind of fun.

When her breathing is a little more stable and her legs a little steadier, she resumes her walk to her favorite café with a little spring on her step. She hasn’t felt this determined to get on with reading in a long time.

“Welcome!” the familiar baristas call out when she arrives, and she waves at them as she piles her stuff on her typical spot. When she approaches the counter, the barista with sunflower-yellow hair and a smile like summer recognizes her, beaming. “Hey! The usual?”

She smiles back. “Yep, thank you!”

Ah, why does this feel so good?

“Are you opening shop tomorrow, or am I?”

Arthur is sweeping off the dust by the register and Theo is closing down the windows—it’s 5:00 in the afternoon and the shop closes early on weekends. It’s phrased as a question, but Theo’s voice is resolute: Arthur is opening the shop tomorrow.

It’s the least he can do for all the chaos with bringing that girl from the literary club.

Arthur isn’t even a literature major. Yet. This is ridiculous.

“I will, I will,” Arthur pledges, shaking off the dust into the bin. “I really don’t understand though, when you’ll still be here 10 minutes earlier than I will be,”

Theo doesn’t even blink. “It’s called being on time, Arthur.”

“No timecards in this bookstore, are there?” Arthur answers, but he’ll still be here right on time tomorrow anyway. Not early, just on time. Just like most of him, Theo supposes—isn’t that why he’s on a gap year in the middle of his medical degree? Dabbling in electives in the literature department of all things. Arthur seems to catch onto this train of thought and adds—“Pardon good sir, but you, too are only taking one class this semester.”

And that’s true—Theo only has one class, on Saturday mornings, when his day off is scheduled. He could have taken his thesis course already this semester, but… “I have other priorities right now,” he says, just as he always does, and then quips, for good measure, “but you are just loitering. Don’t make comparisons.”

Arthur laughs at that only because he’s so used to Theo already, saying, “Oh, you wound me.” He puts away the broom to its compartment at the back and goes to the door to leave. Not before he looks back at the register where Theo has just finished packing his bag. “If you need the miss’ number—”

“Go home, Arthur.”

—which is answered by boisterous laughter, the chimes at the doorway ringing.

Late that night, hair still damp from the shower, she suddenly remembers to look up the word that’s been stuck in the inside of her head all afternoon, disrupting her thought processes, letting her lose her train of thought. Hell, she doesn’t even know how to spell it—she has to wrangle with letters being added and removed to get the translator to recognize the language.

Hawje.

Hanje.

Howche.

Honje.

Hondje, the app finally offers, pinging with recognition as it shows her the translation.

She takes a moment to stare at the screen, taking it in.

“What?”

She presses the flip button. English turning to Dutch. Same results. Presses it again, Dutch to English. Same results. She looks up, stares at the blank wall, remembers what he told her.

“…Can almost see your tail wagging excitedly like a little hondje.”

Her mouth falls open in offense, eyes darting back to her phone.

“DID HE CALL ME A DOG?”

Ah, the beginnings of a twisted, cruel love.

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp theo

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danielcooperrp · 3 years

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We Two Boys Together Clinging

Halfway through 19th Century American Poetry and Drew has a sensation with which he is all too familiar: eyes boring into the back of head. It doesn't matter how many times he's been gawked at in a restaurant or in the allergy aisle of CVS (hay fever is a bitch), the feeling of the little hairs on the back of his neck standing up never fails to make him want to slink into a hole and die. He tries to ignore it, tries to focus all of his attention on the professor, who is droning on about the difference between various editions of Leaves of Grass, but that only lasts so long. Eventually, he caves, and he turns to look.

He's not shocked when the dark eyes watching him quickly dart away—people are often abashed when they get caught staring—but it is a surprise when, a few moments later, they return to meet his. The face they belong to is handsome, warm, dark skin, a strong jaw, a slightly crooked nose that suggests some kind of trouble, and—oh. Two rows of perfect white teeth that he sees now because the face is grinning at him, an inviting, dangerous grin, and now Drew's the one looking away, his own cheeks glowing red. His eyes burn holes in his notebook—he hasn't written a word in so long, he'll have to research this edition issue on his own later—and the other guy's eyes burn holes in his skull.

Why is he looking at him like that? Drew hasn't said a thing all class, not that any of them would be able to get a word in edgewise. His eyes dart down to check his outfit; a little schnerdy, sure, but nothing that stands out in a Harvard classroom. He risks it again; a quick look back, and that smile is still waiting for him, this time a little softer, like he's happy he keeps getting caught.

By the time class ends, Drew is a sweaty mess. He has no idea what the professor said for the last half of that lecture, but he's not going to stick around to ask. He tosses his notebook and his copy of Whitman into his satchel and slides into the mass exodus from the room. He lets himself be carried toward the building exit by the river of hungry undergrads, hoping that he avoids whatever situation was brewing behind him in class, but the river comes to a screeching halt when everyone notices that it's pouring buckets outside. Those smart enough to plan ahead whip out their umbrellas and leave, and some who don't have any other choice lower their heads and shoulders as though preparing to take a charging bull head on and foray bravely into the downpour.

Drew doesn't have another class for forty-five minutes, and even though he was planning on getting lunch in the interim, he really doesn't want to get this sweater wet, so he decides to duck into an alcove and wait it out. He pulls out his phone, Googles the information he thinks he missed in class, and is halfway through an Encyclopedia Britannica article when someone clears their throat. He looks up and blinks owlishly. It's the teeth.

"Hi," the teeth say. "I'm Xander."

Drew stares. He doesn't know what to do with this information. During the rare instances someone deigns to talk to him, an introduction like "I'm Xander" is almost always followed by a request like "Can I get an picture?" or "Do you know where the bathroom is?", depending on if he's been recognized or not. But this...this is just warm brown eyes and a big shiny smile that he doesn't know what to with.

"Drew Cooper," he eventually blurts out, remembering that he is in fact a human person with a name. "Um. Hi."

Xander leans casually against the wall adjacent to Drew, the fabric of his shirt pulling tight over the bulk of his arms as he crosses them over his very muscular chest. "You know, I really liked what you had to say last week about the em dashes in Emily Dickinson's poems. How they're meant to give you space to breath but really end up making you feel breathless. Professor didn't know what do with that, but...I liked it."

What is happening what is happening what is hap— Drew swallows thickly. "Oh. Thanks. I, uh, visited the house in Amherst a lot growing up. School field trips, family weekends...I'm...familiar with her work."

Xander nods toward the corner of Leaves of Grass sticking out of Drew's satchel. "What about Whitman? He a favorite too?"

Drew shrugs. "Sure. Mostly 'Song of Myself' and 'Drum-Taps,' but generally...yeah, his language is...unparalleled." Drew pauses, unsure, and then continues. "Reading Whitman always reminds me that I need to look around more. That everything is beautiful if I let it be."

The smile grows bigger. "I really like the way you talk about poetry, Drew Cooper." Xander reaches into the JanSport he's got slung over one shoulder and pulls out an umbrella. "Want to talk about it over lunch?"

—————

It’s not until their third post-poetry class lunch that Drew finds out something interesting about his new friend. “Wait...you’re on the football team?”

Xander laughs, a loud, warm sound that makes Drew feel like he’s part of the joke instead of the butt of it. “Yeah, yeah, I’m on the football team.” Drew makes a face. “What?”

“Well...don’t take this the wrong way, but...” Drew swirls his spoon in his cup of clam chowder. “...is Harvard’s team any good?”

This earns a longer, louder laugh from Xander, who takes a bite of his grilled chicken when he’s done. “In the grand scheme of things? No. We go up against Auburn or Clemson and we’re getting our asses kicked, no questions asked. But against the teams we actually play? We’re not half-bad.”

“So what position do you play?”

“Tight end.”

“Oh, I know that one. That’s...an important one.”

Xander suppresses the laugh this time. “It’s okay, Cooper. You don’t have to pretend to like football.”

Drew scrunches his nose. “I’m sorry. I come from a sports family. My dad and my older sister, in particular, they’ll talk for hours about football or baseball or hockey...it all goes over my head.”

With a shrug, Xander says, “Well, you’ve got enough good stuff going on in that head. No need to waste brain space on stuff that doesn’t matter.”

Drew feels himself starting to flush, so he quickly tries to shift the focus. “Well what about you? If football doesn’t matter, why risk CTE for it?”

“Scholarships, Cooper! You think Harvard pays for itself? I got in on test scores, but test scores don’t get you out of loans. Football does.”

And doesn’t that make Drew feel so silly. He knows how unbelievably lucky he is, that he had every semester of higher education he could ever want at whatever university would take him paid for before he was even born. If he had the mind to, he could keep taking classes at Harvard or Yale or Oxford until he died and he’d never have to think about the cost. Xander actually has to work for his education, and Drew feels like a little kid in comparison.

—————

They’ve been in a little back corner of Lamont Library for a few hours now, bent over their respective texts as they work on assignments for different classes. Drew’s nose-deep in an anthology of Helen Hunt Jackson, while Xander’s scribbling away at equations for one of his insanely complicated math classes. They work in comfortable silence, and every once in a while Drew wonder how strange it is, the easy way they spend their days together.

At one point, Xander throws down his pencil in disgust. “That’s it. Cooper, I’m dropping out.”

Drew makes a face. “You’re not dropping out, Xander.”

“I am. No economics degree is worth this.” He gestures vaguely to his chicken-scratch math homework.

“I mean, you’re not going to hear an argument from me, the guy studying History and Literature.” Drew peeks at the equations. “Would it help if you explained it to me?”

Xander furrows his brows. “What do you mean?”

“I mean...my sisters always head more of a head for the STEM subjects, while I’ve always been better at...” He waves a hand over his poetry book. “...softer stuff. But when I was a kid, my dad, who’s, like, an insane science nerd to the max, would tell me to pretend that I was the science teacher and I had to teach him the homework. It really helped. Explaining out loud, going over each problem piece by piece, helped me understand it better.” He flushes. “It’s just a thought, though. You don’t have to...”

“On one condition.” Xander smirks. “You have to tell me all of your thoughts on Thoreau afterward.”

Drew can’t fight his grin. “Deal.”

—————

Drew’s schedule is light on Tuesdays, so he’s back in the apartment he shares with Aidan, about halfway between Harvard and MIT’s campuses. She’s here, too, ditching a class she claims is “beneath the mathematical sensibilities of a first-grader.” She and some friend Drew is sure he should know the name of are on their little balcony, sipping wine coolers and people-watching while Drew reads for his early Wednesday class. Mostly, really, he’s listening to them gossip.

“See her?”

“Blond ponytail?”

“No, by the crosswalk, with the dog. Don’t tell her you have a fake ID, she’ll narc on you in a heartbeat.”

“Get out!”

“Dead serious. Freshman down the hall got busted because of her.”

“What a bitch. Over there, those two: dating or siblings?”

“They’re practically identical, so I’m hoping siblings....Oh god, please let me be wrong...”

“Who’s that?”

“Where?”

“Coming down the sidewalk here.”

“He’s hot, whoever he is.”

“I’ll say.”

“Wait...why does he look familiar....”

“Wasn’t he at that party two weekends ago? The one on Banks Street?”

“Oh my god, that’s it, he’s on the Harvard football team!”

Drew’s head snaps up.

“Tell you what, he could score a touchdown any day. Look at those arms...Drew?”

Drew scrambles off of the couch and flings himself onto the balcony. Aidan gives him a wild look. “What the hell?”

Peering over the edge, Drew spies Xander just as he gets to the front door of their building. He doesn’t need to use the buzzer, because someone’s coming out. “Oh.”

“Drew?”

Ignoring his sister, Drew rushes back to the couch, where he grabs all of his books and notebooks and tosses them into his backpack. Then he races into his bedroom to grab shoes. “I, uh, have to go! Study thing!”

Aidan looks down to the street and back to her panicked twin. “Drew...are you friends with a football player?”

“No!” Drew squeaks. “Yes! I mean, yes, we are friends. We have a class together. I have to go!”

Aidan squints in suspicion as Drew charges out the door. When it slams shut behind him, her friend says, “Does he know his sweater is on backward?”

Aidan shrugs. “Not my business.”

—————

“Why do you hang out with me?”

It’s a hazy October afternoon, and Drew and Xander are hanging out in Flagstaff Park, studying. People call out to Xander as they walk by, and Xander gives them a friendly wave or a “Hey man!” but makes no move to get up and socialize. Drew knows he’s quiet, not the best conversationalist in the world, so he wonders.

“What do you mean?” Xander looks at him like he always does, like Drew is about to say something absolutely revelatory.

“I mean...shouldn’t you be hanging out with the rest of the football team? Is that what you’re supposed to do?”

Xander seems amused. “Is that what you want me to do?”

“No,” Drew answers too quickly. “I just...I don’t know. I’ve never had someone spend so much time with me who wasn’t a blood relative, that’s all. And it seems like you have a lot of friends so...I don’t know...forget it...” Embarrassed, he turns back to his history textbook.

A wide hand, fingers splayed, plops down over the pages, and Drew looks up to see Xander rolling his eyes. “I hang out with you so much, Cooper, because I like spending time with you, and also, I’m hoping that if I earn enough goodwill you’ll let me take you out to dinner at some point.”

Drew freezes. “I—what?”

“I mean, if you’re not into me, that’s fine. I’m a big boy, I can handle it. But the thing is, I think you are into me, which is great, because I’m into you too, but I don’t mind biding my time until you’re ready.”

Every single neuron in Drew’s brain is misfiring. “You’re—into me?”

“Man got himself into Harvard just to outshine the professors and he still can’t read what’s right in front of him.” Xander sighs. “Yes, Cooper, I am into you, and would like to start seeing you socially in a romantic capacity.”

“But...you’re on the football team!”

“I—what?” Drew just gapes at him. “Cooper...” Xander starts to laugh, slow at first, and then harder.

“Wait, why are you laughing at me?”

“It’s just...really refreshing to talk to someone as woefully out of touch as you are.”

“Hey!”

“Cooper, I dated a guy on the swim team for like two months last year. My being gay is...not news. To anyone.”

“Apparently not my sister,” Drew grumbles.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Drew shakes his head. Nothing is making sense. “Do you know...who I am?”

“...We’ve met, yeah.”

“No, I mean...my family.”

“Oh.” Xander shrugs. “Yeah. Did some light Googling. I mean, c’mon, a white boy as quiet and smart as you? I had to be sure you weren’t secretly a neo-Nazi or some shit.”

“I’m Jewish,” Drew mumbles, “but that’s not the point. You know...who I’m related to.”

“Yeah. Am I supposed to care?” Xander reaches out and takes Drew’s hand, interlaces their fingers together. Drew’s heart is pounding so hard in his ears he can barely hear Xander speak. “Cooper, I am an economics major. I don’t want to date you because your grandpa was a billionaire. I want to date you in spite of the fact that your grandpa was a billionaire.”

Drew chokes out a laugh. “Fair enough.”

“I mean, you’re cute and all, but don’t think I won’t eat you for sustenance when the class war starts.”

His laugh is louder this time. “Stop.”

“So what do you say?” A squeeze of the fingers, and a squeeze to his heart. “Drew Cooper, will you go on a date with me?”

Drew chews on his lip, and then he nods. “Yeah. Yeah I will.”

Then Xander grins his perfect white grin, and Drew knows he’s a goner.

#drabble #v1 #drew #xander #thenamesallison #i................spent hours on this #i did nothing today #where did this even come from wtf

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rewolfaekilerom · 3 years

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why reread books?

//NOTE: This was originally posted to Wordpress on 04.24.2021//

I didn’t write last week. Whoops. I could come up with an excuse, but I don’t need to. I spent 7 years in grad school, and some 17 years before that in regular school; this blog is my way of reconditioning myself to love writing for the sake of writing and not to write out of some obligation or feeling that I’m not doing enough.

I work 40 hours a week, and most of that’s with writing in some way, shape, or form. I’m doing plenty.

So, today’s post.

I started reading P. D. James’s Death Comes to Pemberley today. (I promise I’ll write about the Sookie Stackhouse series. I finished it last week and have so many thoughts, but I’m not quite ready to share them.)

The first few pages of Death Comes to Pemberley (this is about as far as I’ve made it) are a clever retelling of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, because that’s what James’s book is based on. I read Austen’s novel ages ago–probably as a teenage and probably next to a pool. I think I was made to get a PhD because one of the challenges I set myself one summer as a teenager was to read all of Austen’s novels. I think I got through most of them, but I don’t really remember. I was a bit of an oddball and a nerd. My dad and I would go to the public library every weekend, and I went through a phase where I’d take out a stack of poetry books just . . . to read in study hall. Like I said, weird kid. I thank my parents for indulging my love of books, even if it meant that I was an overgrown child in grad school for too many years and filled their lives with sympathy stress.

Anyway. I think I mentioned in my previous post that I like to reread books. What I mean by this is a few different things, actually–or, rather, this rereading can come in a few different forms.

I, of course, mean it in the straightforward sense. I’ve reread Rebecca many times, and I’ve reread Barbara Michaels’s oeuvre many, many more times than I’d ever be willing to admit.

But by “I like to reread books,” I also mean “I like to reread books–sometimes immediately after I’ve finished them.”

I’m definitely not proud of this, but I reread both the After series by Anna Todd–you know, the One Direction fanfic that’s actually a really gross (in every sense of that word) depiction of a tremendously abusive and toxic relationship–and the To All the Boys… series by Jenny Han immediately after I finished them. Ironically, I wouldn’t have ever picked either series up if it weren’t for a podcast I started with two friends that will likely never see the light of day. In any case, Han’s series is genuinely good; I relate to Lara Jean’s character in the sense that she’s quite similar to how I was as a teenager; there’s a comfort there that’s coupled with a forced humility–I like laughing at myself, even when someone else is also laughing at me. And Todd’s series is . . . trash, which is probably what makes it compelling. It’s not a series you read to feel good about yourself or other people; it’s a literary car wreck, something you want to look away from because it’s terrible and you know it’s bad for you, but you also feel some inexplicable compulsion to stare it directly in the eyes and engage.

For all my bravado, I’m usually pretty good at picking my battles and not engaging, but for whatever reason, I couldn’t help but engage (and reengage) with the After series. Maybe I’ll delve into that in another blog post, though I’m thinking that’ll have to be something akin to a therapist visit, and it’ll most certainly be something I’ll have to work through repeatedly.

The most straightforward reason I can give for why someone might immediately reread a book is that they feel like they devoured it too quickly the first time so they need to go back and pay closer attention. I’ve done this with a few mystery books–Tana French’s The Witch Elm, for instance–because I’ve finished the book feeling a bit like I didn’t read closely enough and so missed out on some of the author’s brilliance. I immediately begin rereading in hopes of really appreciating what the author has to say and how they’ve said it.

I might also immediately reread a book because I feel like the ending came too soon–like I maybe didn’t get to spend enough time with the characters or in their world, like maybe I’m not ready to leave that fictional universe or to let go of that story. I think this is fairly relatable. I’ve read heaps of tumblr posts and heard from many friends that sometimes finishing a book is a sad experience because, as with any ending, there’s a certain degree of mourning that has to happen for the thing that has been lost. In the case of finishing a book, you might feel compelled to mourn the loss of a particular experience, world, space, or set of characters. Those things still exist on the pages of the book–hey, we write about literature using the present tense because those things continue to exist even after we’re finished with them–and they also exist in our minds. But the thing about finishing a book is that, though the memory of that reading experience stays with us, the experience of being guided through that fictional world ends. The author is, of course, our guide through their fictional world; when we finish a book, we lose that guide. Depending on how we feel about the author’s voice–or, perhaps more appropriately, the narrator–we may feel a greater or lesser sense of loss.

I don’t really Elizabeth Bowen’s or Alix Harrow’s writing styles (these are honestly the first two authors who came to mind; I know they’re very different–so, see, I’m well read!), so I don’t feel a great sense of loss when I leave their fictional worlds, however compelling they might be. But I do tend to like the types of narrators Emily St. John Mandel, Octavia Butler, or (the Janus-faced–multi-faced?) Carolyn Keene offer readers (again, it’s like I’m trying to pick completely unsuitable pairs, but I swear I’m not), so I feel a sense of loss when I’m forced to separate from those narrators because I’ve finished experiencing their physical manifestations–the bound collection of pages on which they live their finite lives.

Someone might argue that those narrators can live on in the reader’s mind just as the fictional world they inhabit gets taken up and finds new life in the reader’s imagination. I like that argument, but I think it overlooks the simple fact that the narrator’s voice isn’t all that matters here. That narrator is a puppet, and the author is the master puppeteer who directs what the narrator does, says, and conveys–that is, how the narrator guides us, the readers, through the story. So, again, when we finish a book, we lose our guide through–sometimes even our friend in–the fictional world.

To wax poetic for a second, when we finish a book, we get to move forward in time while the narrator is stuck back in time. There’s something so sad about leaving someone behind, and it’s especially sad when we have to leave someone in a not-so-pleasant world–even if it’s fictional. It’s the reason a story like Peter Pan is so sad–Peter is a nasty little tyrant, but we (or maybe just I) can’t help but feel bad for him because he’s left behind while everyone he loves and who loves him grows up, because that’s the natural course of action. As one of my grad school peers once pointed out, Barrie’s narrator begins the book by marking Peter as exceptional–as the exception–because he’s the only child who doesn’t grow up.

So, to get back to my point, when we reread a book, we’re trying to recapture and reunite with that guide, that friend, who we’ve had to leave behind because of the simple fact that we outlived them. After all, our lives continue to go on after theirs have ended. The operative word in that first sentence, though, is “try.” There’s a saying about how you can only experience something for the first time once, and I think that’s very true for reading a book. You can only be fully immersed in a narrator’s present moment and fully subject to the will of a narrator one time, and that’s the first time you go through their story with them. In every subsequent journey, you have the advantage (or disadvantage?) of knowing exactly where the story will take you, and so a bit of the mystery–or helplessness, or naiveté, or whatever–is gone.

That said, though, I’m not sure I’d go so far as to argue that you can only experience the story “as it’s truly designed to be experienced” one time–that first time. I’m sure this perspective has something to do with some deep-rooted prejudice I have against attributing meaning or intention to an author. I don’t want to probe that prejudice too much at the moment because I suspect it’s coupled with layers of anxieties that are all somehow connected to four years of graduate coursework spent feeling a bit like the dumbest person in the room.

I’ve read a lot of books (#humblebrag), so, naturally, I’ve read books in a lot of different environments, for a lot of different reasons, and in a lot of different states of mind. I like to think of myself as generally a pretty “good” reader–that is, in the sense that I’m able to appreciate stories for what they are and to suspend my disbelief, sometimes while a very distracting “real world” goes on around me. Again, that’s probably partially because of my training. I’ve read in silent libraries, backseats of cars and on crowded buses, at pools, in bed, in fields, at busy airports, in cabs, at bars and coffee shops, at house parties–and those are just physical places. I’ve also read in diverse situations, including while immensely happy, having just had a fight, while crying, because it’s assigned reading, while heartbroken, while trying to also keep a conversation going, during class, because this book reminds me of something else, while anxious, when very tired, during the middle of an argument, out of curiosity, while waiting, and the list goes on. The sheer volume of reading one has to complete (or at least try to complete) to keep up with a grad-level literature course means that one has to be okay with reading whenever and wherever. I’ve literally carried a book with me on a date and to the grocery story “just in case” I had some extra time.

To get closer to my point, this is all a very long way of saying that there are so many circumstances that can affect our reading experience that it’s impractical for an author or a reader to think that there’s only one way to read a story. Take a relatively broad circumstantial reading category like “beach reading.” There are so many different beach scenarios that an author–even one who’s willing to settle for a very broad interpretation of “beach reading” like “reading near a large body of water with some level of distractions but in a generally relaxed mood”–can’t attempt to predict. I’d honestly be surprised to hear that an author aiming to write “beach reading” would even try to get more specific than that. After all, we don’t really have categories like “tropical beach vacation with friends reading” or “rocky Maine beach on a solo vacation reading.” I doubt an author would attempt to get that specific because, after all, writing is a career and those who do it need to create a product that will be marketable to enough people to make it worthwhile and to secure a living. And for an author who isn’t writing professionally, it hardly seems worth it to even attempt to take the time to try to predict the circumstances that might surround their audience’s experiences with the finished story. There are simply too many variables, so the goal must be, to some degree, at least, to write a story that conveys something to someone in whatever circumstance they happen to be in at the moment they’re reading. That’s a monumental task. An author might, then, have an “ideal” reader in an “ideal” scenario or state of mind or whatever, but they can’t ever write to that “ideal” alone–and that’s even if they’re writing for themselves, since they don’t know what frame of mind they’ll be in when they experience the story again (unless, of course, they don’t intend to experience the story again, in which case nothing matters except the present, which is pretty interesting in itself but not what I’m talking about right now).

But something I’d also like to note is the simple fact that sometimes stories are better–more interesting, more effective, more whatever–the second time we read them. I’ve read books with perfect focus–in a quiet library, for instance–and not found them all that compelling; I’ve also gone back to those books later–once I’m in a slightly different place (mentally, physically, emotionally, without the pressure of reading for class, whatever)–and genuinely enjoyed them. I’ll readily admit that sometimes I’m just a better reader, and sometimes I’m a better reader of a particular type of book than I might be otherwise. As humans, we’re perpetually in flux. Books are more or less stationary objects that don’t really change. We’re what changes, so we might be in a better position to appreciate a book at one point in our lives than at another point.

So, I might reread a book to recapture that first reading experience. But I might also reread a book to have a different reading experience, to meet the narrator when I’m a slightly different person. My goal might be to relearn or refresh myself of the lessons I learned through reading that particular story, but it might also be to gauge how I’ve changed. Each time I reread a story, I have a different reading experience: I notice different things; I feel different feelings; I appreciate different characters or appreciate the same characters differently; I take away different ideas about my current world based on not only how my current world compares to the fictional world but also how my current world compares to the current (now past) world I lived in the previous time(s) I experienced the fictional world.

Oy, that was a lot. And I could complicate this all further by delving deeper into why we read at all–why we sign on to read a story, what we how to get out of the reading experience, and what reading actually does for us. But I already wrote a dissertation, so I’m not going to do that again. Also, we all read for different reasons and we each read different types of stories for different reasons, so there are so many variables that it’s hardly worth it to explore that topic in a really broad sense. Maybe a narrower sense would be more productive, but I’ve already written enough for today.

What I want to say is that I’m definitely not alone in rereading stories. There are ample reasons to reread stories, the most straightforward of which being that it can just be enjoyable to do.

And to think that this post grew out of the idle thought that I’d like to reread Pride and Prejudice. And I’m still only three pages into Death Comes to Pemberley! Well, okay, onward.

xoxo, you know.

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locria-writes · 4 years

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What would the ROs be like in a modern highschool/university setting? Like, how well would they do in school, what would their major/favourite subject be, what character trope would they fill (like, who's the school prince, who is the local gang leader, the loner, etc.)

i swear i’ve done this before, but i love this so much that i don’t even care that this isn’t what school is really like

ignazio

he’s an astrophysics nerd sorry i don;t made the rules

is totally the super smart but scary-looking guy who’s actually just shy and sweet

exhausted honour student who probably has like five part-time jobs

would totes leave anonymous love letters for mc then feel mortified when she thinks they’re from a stalker

wolfram

theatre kid no i do not accept constructive criticism or business major

the really annoying and regrettably likable hypebeast bc he’s a pretty good friend once you get past his acerbic personality

not the smartest kid, but also somehow, not the dumbest, probably fights teachers/profs for grades

totally does the thing where he’s like ‘mc be grateful that i’ve chosen you to be part of my group and no i will not take any answers besides yes’

oskar

i think i said he’d be like an exercise science student before, but i change my mind. he’s totes a literature major

That One Guy who gets dragged around by his hypebeast friend; definitely a jock though and liked by most

actually kinda smart, but he has no confidence in himself lol

probably tries to avoid interacting with mc, but it’s blatantly obvious that he’s staring at her and has notebook doodles of her

edmund

the slutty school nurse social psych prof who also pays the school paper to publish his shitty love poetry

super popular with his colleagues and students, makes it a point not to slut it up with his own students though

not sure how much of his success is through his own genuine intelligence, or how charismatic he just is

wouldn’t flirt with mc if she were his student, but otherwise, it’s free real estate baby

valentin

idk really but i’m getting major forensics vibes from him

he’s not necessarily liked by others, but is just respected? mostly bc ppl don’t want him to beat them up lmao

a decent student, he doesn’t do more than necessary, probably juggling a couple jobs too

dunno why he’d interact with mc if he didn’t have a motive, but ngl, he’d hate himself for thinking that she was mad cute

lothar

either neuropsych or international relations

uber popular with everyone, but doesn’t have any friends

definition of overachieving perfectionist, probably volunteers at orphanages too, smarmy bastard

would be that overly-helpful senior who ‘conveniently’ enjoys ‘studying’ at mc’s favourite spots and/or ‘conveniently’ bumps into her often

alternate take -- val and lothar are both law students, the former wanting to become a prosecutor, and the latter a criminal defense lawyer.

einar

the super weird and ethically questionable organic chem prof whom everyone thinks is a random hobo

hates everyone and everything, hugely unpopular with his colleagues for his coldness, unpopular with students for his brutal classes, but popular with the animals on campus

very successful in his field, but the same can’t be said for his poor students

begrudgingly accepts to give mc extra help bc she reminds him of a stray puppy with those eyes

#aab ignazio #aab wolfram #aab oskar #aab edmund #aab valentin #aab lothar #aab einar #aab cast #modern au is so funny tho i love it #we stan modern au aab where our cast isn't so emotionally wrecked #Anonymous

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hale-of-stiles-heart · 4 years

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54 & 70 for the OC ask thingy!!! 🧡🧡🧡

Thanks so much for the ask! Since I've been working on TPS a lot recently, I'm gonna use those characters for this!

54. Does your OC think with his/her head or heart?

Dean

Dean's very practical and down to earth and he's spent a lot of his life kinda doing that he thinks is expected of him and doing his best to help out, so I think primarily he thinks with his head, but for bigger decisions like coming out and really pursuing the plot driven element of the story, he definitely goes with his heart.

Derek

Derek's very much been brought up to only think with his head with very little stock given to how he feels about the decisions he makes. Him making a follow-your-heart decision is part of what kicks off the plot and it's a continuing theme for his character arc.

Marlene

Marlene's the type to analyze every option and choice available, weighing the possibilities and trying to decide the best logical choice. Then she ultimately goes with her heart, especially concerning personal matters like her family.

Rhiannon

She's definitely a bit of both. Initially, she probably comes off as a follow-your-heart person but she's also so observant and analytical that none of her decisions are made as lightly as people would think.

Florence

Florence definitely thinks with her heart. From following her dreams and being a dancer to her whirlwind affairs to spontaneously settling down, she definitely leaps before she looks.

Cordelia

Cordelia's also a bit of both. She's very responsible and sometimes falls into a "wrangle the rest of the family" role but she's also one of the more adventurous members of the family. I think primarily, she thinks with her head, but tends to go with her heart when it feels right.

Lorelai

Like Florence, Lorelai is definitely the follow your heart type. Part of it is her obsession with love itself and just what a romantic person she is, so she's absolutely someone who thinks with their heart just bc she can't really fathom how to think otherwise unless pressed.

Elysia

Elysia moved across the country to follow her passions so I think she's totally prone to thinking with her heart. She's one of the more spontaneous, adventurous, impulse family members so it's fitting.

Sabine

Sabine's 100% the one in the family who only thinks with her head. She's very mature and responsible and is just constantly thinking in general that all of her decisions are very well thought out before any action is taken.

Laila

Laila definitely thinks with her heart. She's very in tune with her emotions and I think that lends itself to her following her intuition and heart more than her head.

Billie

As Sabine and Laila's younger sister, Billie is a mix of thinking with her head and her heart. She's very academic and thoughtful but also incredibly passionate, so depending on the circumstances, she can go either way.

70. What is your OC’s favorite book?

Dean

I can't think of any specific authors or titles Dean would like, but I know he'd be super into stories about ordinary people getting involved with magic and stuff. That, or he likes the most mundane slice of life stories possible. Either way, he's definitely massive into Richard Siken.

Derek

Derek's a bit of a wildcard because he's not very outwardly into reading, he's more of a closet nerd and I can see him reading a bunch of different genres. But I think he's mostly into more introspective stuff.

Marlene

My first thought for Marlene is Tolkien's work. I think she'd really love both the story of the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings, while also appreciating all the worldbuilding and linguistics and research that Tolkien put into his stories. She's a huge history nerd so I think it'd be pretty fitting.

Rhiannon

She loves classic literature, especially Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters. She and Austen's main characters give off the same vibes of delicacy and strength, with soft hands and muddied dress hems. Pride and Prejudice is absolutely her favorite and Fitzwilliam Darcy is the only man she'd ever date. [Insert the Marge Simpson "I just think they're neat!" meme]

Florence

Probably doesn't quite count as a book, but Florence adores Shakespeare, especially his tragedies. Macbeth and Hamlet are her favorites. She's also a Scottish poetry aficionado so any compilation or compendium of Scottish poets would find its way into her collection.

Lorelai

My first thought was Gone Girl to be totally honest, no idea why. I think Lorelai in general leans more towards romance. She's the type to collect cheesy romance novels and collections of love poetry like Byron and Neruda. I can also see her being into Austen's work, especially Pride and Prejudice and Emma. (Cordelia, though? Huge Gone Girl fan)

Cordelia

Speaking of Cordelia, she'd definitely be a Gillian Flynn fan. Anything with badass female leads who get revenge on shitty people would be her jam, like Gone Girl and the Girl With the Dragon Tattoo.

Elysia

I can see her being into classic adventure stories, especially road trip centric stories. As for poetry, I think she'd like Sherwin Bitsui and Sherman Alexie. And I can see her having a special place in her heart for Watership Down.

Sabine

Anything that has to do with space or the stars and Sabine's a sucker for it. She also leans a lot towards science fiction because who doesn't like a little science mixed with magic?

Laila

Like Lorelai, I think Laila's more into poetry than prose but not necessarily love poetry. She's more into poetry about the self and mindfulness.

Billie

Like Cordelia, Billie definitely has a favorite niche of literature that deals with women and revenge. So, she'd also be into Gone Girl and especially the Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. I can also see her being huge into old epics like the Odyssey and Beowulf.

OC ASKS

#Thanks so much for the ask!#answered #oc tag #long post

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