#SHAKESPEARE I DESERVE MORE THAN THIS

[m4nym03]

“Villain, I have done thy mother”

Titus Andronicus (Act 4, Scene 2)

Shakespeare? Buddy? You want to tell me what's going on right here, hm? Because that sounds like a medieval "your mom" and not comfortable feeling what I am right now.

Explain???

[blushblushbear]

I feel like if you have a sexy voice, you're gonna be a main fav among the blush blush fandom

Case in point: Haru

Also see: Cole

[charmandabear]

Office Hours - Chapter One

Summary:

Your colleague Dr. Ancunin is a smug condescending bastard and you can't stand him. But you also can't get him out of your head.

Pairing: Astarion/F!Reader Rating: E Word Count: 5.2k Tags/Warnings: unprotected p in v sex, creampie, no breeding kink, masturbation, vaginal fingering, vampire bites, modern au, college/university au, urban fantasy, enemies to lovers, like the briefest mention of suicide while talking about Hamlet

This would not exist without @zipzoomzaria's gorgeous glasses screenshots because PROFESSOR, PLS. Go follow her bc her edits are out of this world. The masturbation scene is also heavily inspired by @astarionfreak's "Are You Satisfied, Darling?" If you haven't read it what are you doing???

Read on AO3 ~ Masterlist

There’s something about him that rubs you the wrong way. It could be his arrogance, or the condescending way he peers over his glasses at you and your other colleagues. It might be the overpriced cashmere turtlenecks that hug his figure perfectly or the stupid silver earrings adorning his stupid elf ears. But every time he opens his pretty little mouth you feel a snarl growing deep in your throat.

This is the first university you’ve worked at where the theatre and English departments shared an office. Theatre and music, sure, even theatre and dance. But theatre and English? It feels insulting, honestly. English PhDs are some of the snobbiest people you’ve ever met, and they always speak to you like a child. Is it because they’re unimpressed by your MFA, like it made you less deserving of your position? Who knows. But Astarion Ancunin is no different.

“Grace, would you mind making twelve copies of pages 219-254 when you get a chance?” You hand the administrative assistant the heavy book. “You can leave them in my mailbox, I’ll pick them up later.” Grace opens the book to the instructed page.

“Oh, Much Ado About Nothing! I love that one!” she squeals with delight. “That Beatrice and Benedick,” she sighs, stroking the Complete Works lovingly. You smile at her cordially.

“They’re great, they’re basically the non-problematic version of Kate and Petruchio,” you respond in agreement.

“How tragic that Taming’s writing is better.”

You whirl around to see Ancunin walking in looking at something on his phone. He doesn’t even look up as he inserts himself into your conversation. You glare at his interruption. He looks up at Grace, bypassing you completely.

“Good morning, Grace darling, how are you today?” He sweeps over to her and takes her hand in his, planting a kiss on her knuckles. Gods he’s fucking insufferable. Not to mention unprofessional. Grace, however, blushes and giggles like a schoolgirl.

“I’m doing well, Dr. Ancunin, and yourself?” The tiefling’s voice jumps up about three pitches and her tail starts swishing excitedly.

“Leagues better now that I’ve been blessed with your presence,” he coos at her, voice positively saccharine. It takes every ounce of your patience to keep from rolling your eyes. He casts his gaze to you, and even you need to turn away from those piercing red eyes.

“Good morning, professor. Starting Much Ado with your students, I take it?” he asks with a light smile that makes you bristle.

“Yes, it’s a great way for them to practice switching between verse and prose,” you respond coolly, more than a little defensive.

“Of course, one of his best.” He glances down at the volume still in Grace’s hands and his eyebrows raise, peering over the top of his round glasses. “Going with the Bevington, hmm? Interesting. I’m more of a Norton man, myself.” He runs a slender finger along the binding as you grit your teeth. Is he really patronizing you over your choice of edition of Shakespeare’s Complete Works? Of course, he’s an English scholar.

“The Norton is a great tool dramaturgically, but the Bevington is a much better resource for actors, so, yes.” Your voice is steady but there’s an undeniable venom in it. Can he tell how much he’s bothering you? Probably, he’s almost certainly getting enjoyment out of riling you up. His little smirk would seem to suggest it, at least.

“Well certainly, and who knows acting resources better than our resident classical acting expert?” he intones, voice still dripping with honey. You narrow your eyes at him, unsure if he’s taking another jab at your degree.

“Well, as much as I enjoy standing around and debating the merit of various editions of the Complete Works, I’m about to be late for a meeting. Grace, thank you so much, I’ll be back later to pick up those copies. Dr. Ancunin,” you turn to his smug face and he looks back at you innocently. “A pleasure, as always.” You grab your papers and leave the office, feeling the heat of his gaze boring into the back of your head as you leave.

***

“Yes, Thaniel, come on in, have a seat,” you call out to the freshman loitering in the hallway outside your office. He comes in and drops his overfull backpack next to the teal club chair across from your desk. You close your laptop and smile at him warmly.

“So, Hamlet, that’s ambitious! I think it’s a good choice for you, but it’ll be a lot of work,” you say, glancing at your own copy of the monologue.

“Yeah, that’s why I’m here,” Thaniel says nervously. “I’m fine with the scansion and stuff, that I get, but I still don’t get the actual words. And I know you said how important that is.”

“For sure, I can guarantee all of the bad Shakespeare you’ve seen has been because the actors had no idea what they were saying. Have you used the Lexicon?” Thaniel looks off to the side, embarrassed.

“No, I don’t really get how that works either,” he says, an air of chagrin creeping into his voice.

“No worries, it takes practice. Here, we’ll do a few lines together. So first off, to be or not to be, that’s fairly obvious, right?”

“Yeah, he’s talking about suicide, right?”

“Sure, but what is he actually saying about it? To take arms against a sea of troubles/And by opposing, end them. What’s ‘them’ referring to?”

“The sea of troubles?”

“Right, the aforementioned slings and arrows. So even though you might know what those words mean individually, look them up in the Lexicon to see if they have a different context here. But you’re right, he’s trying to figure out if it’s better to suffer through the shittiness of existence or to take your fate into your own hands and, well, end them.” You highlight the line and lean over your desk to show Thaniel. A voice pipes up from the doorway.

“That’s not exactly what he’s saying, you know.”

The paper crumples in your hand slightly as your fist instinctively tightens. You plaster a strained smile on your face and look up at him.

“Dr. Ancunin, thank you for gracing us with your presence. Care to elaborate?”

He’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, face in shadows. Your office is unusually dark because of the storm outside, and so the bright fluorescents in the hallway give him an almost ethereal halo effect

“It’s a common misconception that Hamlet is contemplating suicide here. Life and death, sure, but ‘to take arms’ isn’t metaphorical, it’s literal. He’s contemplating dying as a result of killing Claudius, not taking his own life,” he says, almost sounding bored. You stand abruptly, your office chair skidding backwards.

“How can that possibly be true? He says ‘to take arms against a sea of troubles.’ He’s using the active voice, deciding whether or not to continue his life or end it. To be or not to be. It’s the first line in the monologue. He’s not talking about the consequences of killing Claudius.” You try to keep your voice from shaking. You know that you don't sound nearly as eloquent as him, and it’s pissing you off. He shrugs nonchalantly.

“You’re oversimplifying it, it’s exceedingly more complicated than that. The whole soliloquy is filled with war imagery. He’s at war with himself, the part of him that wants to kill Claudius and the part of him that is afraid to die.” He pushes himself off the door frame and steps back into the hallway. “But apologies, please don’t let me interrupt your instruction.” And like that he was off, leaving you to stew in silence. Thaniel looks up at you and looks back at the doorway where he stood.

“Should I…” he starts, but you cut him off with a wave of your hand.

“Dr. Ancunin comes at this from a very different angle as an English academic. He’s more interested in the words on the page, rather than how they translate to the stage. But,” you sigh, loathe to give him any credit, “it’s a valid interpretation. We can go down that route, if you want, or we can look at it through this lens.” Thaniel chews his lip while he considers his options.

“I think what you said makes more sense, the suicide bit,” he finally decides. You nod and pull out your copies of the Shakespeare Lexicon.

“Great, let’s go over how to use the Lexicon again,” you say as you flip through the book, looking for the entry for ‘slings.’

***

You drop off your bag and toss your keys into a bowl on the counter. Fucking exhausting day. You unzip your boots and kick them vaguely in the direction of the shoe rack, stretching and curling your toes for relief. You hang up your wet coat and shake rain from your hair. Your eyes dart between the refrigerator, wherein resides a bottle of white wine, and the bathroom door, contemplating how good a hot bath would feel. Both? Both is good.

You pour yourself a generous glass of Riesling and strip your clothes on your way to the bathroom. One of the perks of living alone. Sitting naked on the edge of the tub, you sip your wine as the bath fills.

Fucking Ancunin.

You’re a little shocked at how much he got under your skin today. Normally you don’t think twice about him, excepting the few times you have the misfortune of passing him in the hallway. But today the fates decided to throw you together and your schedules aligned. Well, in your defense, you didn’t seek him out that second time, he was the one who decided to crash your office hours.

You don’t even like Hamlet that much. You certainly don’t care about alternative interpretations of “To be or not to be.” But you’re mostly annoyed because he had a fair point. His read makes Hamlet a more interesting character rather than a cowardly incel romanticizing suicide.

You slide into the bath, hissing slightly as the hot water flows over your chilled skin. Without prompting, Ancunin worms his way back into your thoughts. Hmmph. You take a gulp of wine to try to wash away the taste of the unpleasant image.

Well… not entirely unpleasant. He’s a good looking man, you’d be a fool to deny it. But gods he’s so smug. And interrupting your meeting with Thaniel was wildly inappropriate. Leaning your head against the edge of the tub, you try to focus your thoughts elsewhere. You’re not about to let him interrupt you again, and when he’s not even present, no less.

But there he is, in your mind, crimson eyes looking over the top of those metal frame glasses that you’re, like, 99% sure he doesn’t actually need to see. You take another swig of wine to drown his stupid face. With his stupid cheekbones. And his dumb fucking earrings that you want to bite.

Nine hells, what is happening? You’ve been drinking your wine quickly and aren’t thinking straight. You grab your phone and open Spotify, letting your daily mix play through the bluetooth speaker on the counter.

Now Playing: Hatefuck by The Bravery.

If I put my hands around your wrists, would you fight them?

If I put my fingers in your mouth, would you bite them?

By Mystra’s fucking grace, seriously? You growl at the growing heat between your legs. Between putting off dinner and chugging your wine, your head is swimming. You might be better off getting it out of your system.

The wine glass hits the tub edge with a clank as you angrily put it down and sink into the water up to your chin. You are satiating a purely physical need, nothing else.

You still shiver as you slip your hand between your legs, lightly running your finger up your slit. You can see his face, looking down on you through those glasses - those infuriating glasses - and your lips flutter. What does he look like under those sweaters? He’s so thin, but his clothes fit incredibly well. It’s not hard to imagine a sculpted body beneath. You spread your legs further and let the warm water tickle your folds.

His silvery curls would look so good between your legs, slender fingers wrapped around your thighs while he laps you up. At least then he’d shut up. A gentle moan escapes your lips as you run your finger along your inner lips, pretending it’s him. You could grab hold of those perfect locks, yanking on them to control where he can go, fucking his face.

You move your other hand up to your breast and start teasing your nipple, feeling his lips around it. You give it a little tug and groan, just like if he nipped at it.

You imagine sitting on his pretty face, pointed ears flushed and hair a mess. Your hips buck into your hand as they might on top of him and your toes curl. You make gentle circles around your clit, thinking of all the other uses for his silver tongue. You whine and squirm at the sensations of heat radiating through your body. You slip a finger inside and hiss as you can see his pale digits entering you in your mind’s eye. You curl it upwards and gasp, his imaginary eyes looking up at you through those long lashes and a smirk playing across his imaginary lips.

“Are you ready for more of me, darling?” You can hear him murmur into your ear.

“Yes, gods yes,” you reply breathlessly into the cold bathroom air. You slide another finger in and feel that delicious stretch. The ghost of him moans, coming undone at the sight of you. You could leave him speechless, for once.

You reach over the edge of the tub and grab the box of waterproof toys. You frantically sift through your collection of dildos, trying to find the right one. Here. It’s long and svelte like the rest of him, but bright shimmery purple. You suction it to the bottom of the tub and hover above it on your knees. It sways lightly in the water, tip of it teasing your pussy just like you’d love to do to him.

Gods, to see him beg for your cunt. To see him reduced to a babbling mess, pleading to let him inside you. Your breath quickens at the mental image of him pulling on his own hair waiting for you to satisfy him. You sink down onto the dildo and your groan of pleasure mirrors what you’d like to hear from him.

You start sliding yourself on the purple dick, feeling its ridges glide against the walls of your cunt as you continue to finger your clit. You imagine your hand splayed across his chest, your black nails standing in contrast against his pale skin. You claw at the bottom of the tub as you increase your pace, desperate to see the pink raised skin that your nails leave behind. The fingers on your clit speed up as well, and you can feel yourself getting close.

“Oh gods, Astarion, don’t stop,” the words tumble from your mouth unbidden. You will absolutely hate yourself for that later, but right now all that matters is your ecstasy. You bounce atop the dildo, disregarding the water that splashes over the side of the tub as you chase your finish. Your moans increase in pitch and fervor as the various images of him in all sorts of positions flash through your mind. Between your thighs, sitting on his face, riding his dick, even fucking pegging him from behind because why the hell not?

“Astarion!” You cry out his name as you crash over the edge, legs shaking and pussy pulsing. Your orgasm reverberates throughout your whole body as you ride it out. Eventually, your movement slows and the water gently sways around you. You look down at your hand, milky juices swirling in the now tepid tub water.

Shit.

***

The next day at work, you avoid him like the plague. You keep your office door closed, usually an unthinkable act but entirely necessary right now. You double check the hallway before leaving to go teach, and then after class you immediately duck back into your office and close the door again. You even avoid the main office for fear of running into him there.

You can’t look at his face right now. You can’t possibly look him in the eye.

When 5:00 rolls around, you glance out into the hallway. Most of the other professors are leaving. To play it safe, you decide to work until 6 so that you can be sure that he’s gone when you leave. You absentmindedly grade performance responses. After you’ve read one paragraph about Miss Julie maybe a half dozen times, you realize that it’s probably time to go.

You slowly open the door and glance out into the hallway. You can’t tell from this angle if his door is open or not. You grab your bag and coat, take a deep breath, and make a beeline for the stairs. As you approach his office you realize it’s open.

Fuck.

It’s fine. You’ll just walk past it and get to the parking lot and then you won’t need to worry about it. He might not even be in there. Or if he is, he probably has his head down and won’t notice you walk by. It’s fine. You’ve got this.

“Oh, professor, a word?” His voice floats into the hallway right as you’re passing his door. Are you fucking kidding? You turn to see him sitting at his desk, head down, writing something. He doesn’t even look up at you. Prick.

“Yes?” you ask, not budging from your spot in the hall. He glances up at you over his glasses. Those fucking glasses. You want to rip them off his face and throw them out the window.

“Do you have a moment? I think we need to talk.” His voice is low and cool. Does he fucking know? There’s no way he can know.

Right?

You tentatively take a step into his office. It’s surprisingly cluttered for a man who always looks so put together, but it’s still warm and inviting. You can barely see the walls for being covered corner to corner in bookshelves full to bursting. He’s got a big mahogany desk in the middle of the room - significantly nicer than the university-issued one. It’s covered in stacks of papers, books, weird little knick knacks; it’s amazing how he’s able to get anything done on it. There are two chairs facing his desk, much like yours, but a rich plush velvet instead of a scratchy cotton weave. He’s got a scent diffuser somewhere, giving the room an aroma like an earthy spiced tea.

“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the cushy red chairs across from him. You stand there, clutching your bag, staring at him like a deer in the headlights. When he realizes you’re not going to sit, he gets up and crosses over to the door.

“Do you mind if I close this? It’s… a bit embarrassing,” he asks with a crooked smile. You can feel the heat in your cheeks rising. Your mouth goes dry and you try to swallow the lump forming in your throat.

There’s no way he knows.

Right?

But something compels you to nod, so he closes the door and walks back to his desk, but rather than sitting behind it, he leans back casually on the front of it. He’s taken off the blazer he usually wears and is down to just the turtleneck, sleeves pushed up just below his elbows. He crosses his arms in front of his chest as you stare, waiting.

“I wanted to… apologize. For yesterday.”

You blink at him, the conversation not going in the direction you expected. You had been so focused on yourself, that it took you a moment to realize what he was referring to.

“It was inappropriate to barge in on your meeting with your student. You were mid-instruction, and I needn’t have inserted myself into your conversation.” He leaned back on his hands, stretching out his lean figure to impossible proportions. The grip on your bag slackened and you couldn’t help but drag your gaze over the length of his body. He looks at you quizzically.

“I get the sense that you don’t very much like me,” he muses.

Now it’s his turn to give you the once-over, and you feel practically naked before him the way he looks at you. “Then again,” he adds, and pushes himself off his desk. He slowly advances toward you, though whether like someone approaching a vicious beast or a predator stalking its prey, it’s unclear. You retreat while holding his gaze until your back is flush against the door.

No escape now.

He gets precariously close to you and takes an unsettling whiff. When he speaks again, his voice is a husky growl.

“I think it’s entirely possible you like me… quite a bit.” He’s got at least a half foot on you, and he looks down on you with heavy-lidded eyes. The heat in your face has fully reached the tips of your ears now, and your breath comes out ragged.

“I’m sure I-” you start, but it comes out thick and raspy. You clear your throat and try again. “I’m sure I don't know what you mean,” you finally manage with all of the composure you can muster. He cocks an eyebrow at you, then slowly takes off those infuriating glasses.

“No? Then perhaps I’m mistaken, and your heart rate hasn’t increased by approximately 20 beats per second in the past few minutes.” His eyes continue boring into you. “And maybe that smell between your legs is completely unrelated.”

An undignified splutter comes out of you as you press your thighs closer together. He takes a half step back to let you respond.

“If I am indeed mistaken, then I’ve said my peace and you’re free to go.” The seductive honey is gone from his voice, and in its place is a politely professional tone. You fully feel that he’s giving you an out, that you can both laugh on this as an embarrassing moment and neither will bring it up ever again.

But on the other hand…

“You’re not mistaken,” you choke out in a whisper. The lazy smile is back and he lifts your chin with his index finger.

“What was that? Speak up.” His command weakens your knees and you wither under his gaze.

“You’re not wrong,” you say more boldly, trying to meet his energy. His smile broadens, and for the first time you notice two pointy fangs slip out beneath his upper lip.

Fucking

vampire??

That explains how he could track your heartbeat, and even more his ridiculously keen sense of smell. Doesn’t make it any less humiliating.

“No, I don’t suppose I am,” he snarls and suddenly he’s kissing you roughly, hands twisting in your hair and one knee sliding up between your legs. He pushes you against the door and lifts you off your feet slightly. You’re desperate just to keep up as he devours you, hands weakly grasping at his hips, shoulders, neck. But he’s fully in control of the kiss, and after a moment you let him take you.

He breaks the kiss but doesn’t pull away, and you’re both breathing heavily, air cycling between your lungs. Your head feels full of a thick fog and you can’t fully see straight. His hands are still in your hair, tight but not pulling - yet. You get the sense that might not last long.

He drops to his knees and you nearly double over from the sudden lack of support. He runs his nose and lips across the hem of your black denim skirt, inhaling again. Your fingers lace into his hair, but not even remotely in the dominant way from your fantasy. At this point you’re just trying not to collapse.

He looks up at you, flashing another fang-bearing grin. His hand slips up your skirt and his thumb runs across your pussy, barricaded by your sheer tights and panties.

“Darling, you’re positively soaked,” he hums contentedly. “You’d have a hard time hiding this from anyone.” You bite your lower lip, trying to keep the needy whines at bay. But when he fiercely rips the crotch of your tights and presses the flat of his tongue against the drenched gusset, you can’t stop the cry from escaping your throat. He sucks lasciviously, the debauched slurping noise ringing in your ears. Your knees buckle and he grabs hold of your hips, hiking your skirt up to your waist to get better access to your dripping cunt.

He stands and kisses you again, the taste of you lingering on

his lips. He grabs your ass and digs his fingers into your flesh, spreading them until you gasp into his kiss. In one fluid motion he sweeps up your legs and wraps them around his waist, carrying you over to that incredible mahogany desk.

He plops you down on the hardwood and you hear books and papers tumbling onto the floor behind you. He presses his bulge into your mound, this time the sound of both of your moans mingling pleasingly. He tears at your chiffon button down, trailing hungry kisses down your chest as you throw your head back in pleasure. He makes quick work of fully removing your top, though you’re certain he sacrificed some buttons in the process. You hardly care as you paw wantonly at the back of his neck, desperate for him to get his lips onto every single inch of you. He pulls the lace cup of your bra down with his teeth and starts sucking on your nipple, pressing his hand into the small of your back. You arch into him, his hands working you like a soft clay.

So much for the pleading mess that you pictured last night. Instead, you’re the one who's been reduced to shambles, begging for satisfaction.

“Puh-please,” you stutter, and those devilish eyes lock onto yours again. He snakes his way back up your chest and bites your lower lip.

“Puh-please what?” he mocks your stammering, but makes up for it when he rolls his hips forward, dragging that delicious hardness against you. You squirm, trying to pull him closer but he’s got your arms locked in his grip. His lips leave yours and ghost over the flesh of your neck. He very gently scrapes his fangs across your jugular, eliciting a ghoulish moan from you in return. By all the gods, you hadn’t even considered that as a part of it. His movement made it clear that he won’t bite unless you want him to.

But holy hells do you want him to.

“Gods Astarion,” you gasp, and you swear you can feel his cock twitch at the sound of his own name. “Fuck me then bite me, or the other way around I don’t care, but please get in me!” The string of words almost sounds foreign to your own ears, but you’re well beyond the point of trying to sound clever. In an instant, he’s undone his belt buckle and his erection springs forth, bouncing and already dripping precum. He roughly shoves your panties to the side and sinks his cock and teeth into you simultaneously, drawing out your cry of both pain and pleasure. You wrap your legs and arms around him, trying to pull him in deeper. You can feel his mouth filling up with your hot blood just as your cunt fills up with his dick.

You’re panting as you grow more lightheaded, clinging to his neck. Unthinkingly, your fingers stroke his ears, playing with those tiny silver hoops. He lurches and pulls away from your neck, looking absolutely feral with your blood dripping down his chin, which only sets you off more. You angle your hips toward him, trying to get him to start thrusting into you. He pushes your back down onto the desk and hooks his elbows beneath your knee high boots. Then he starts pounding into you properly, and you feel like you’re close to losing it. You grab onto the edge of the desk as he revs up his pace, his cock stretching you out as he keeps your legs close to your ears. You can feel the heat mounting in your core and you know it won’t be long before you come. But at this point you’re just trying to hold on for dear life.

“Fuck, gods, Astarion, I’m-” You finish before your sentence does. He doesn’t relent as the orgasm wracks your body, if anything, he fucks you harder. Just as you’ve barely come down off your climax, he pulls out and yanks you off the desk, spins you around and pushes your face down into the smooth mahogany, warmed from where you had just been. He enters you again, this time from behind, and already you’re working your way up to a second one. Your bare tits squish against the polished surface and he grabs your hair, pulling your head up and arching your back into him.

For the first time you notice the mirror on the opposite wall across from his desk. But rather than both of you, you only see yourself, disheveled and well-fucked, lips swollen from his abuse. Your hair is pulled up by an invisible force behind you. Another unexpected aspect of vampire fucking.

You desperately wish you could see his face because you can feel his thrusts getting more uneven and erratic. You try to turn to get a glimpse of him, but his grip on your hair remains tight. But even if you can’t see him, you can hear him, his grunts and the low string of incoherent swears pouring out of his mouth. The sound of him getting lost in you is enough, and your own moans start building and mixing with his, an utter symphony of epicurism.

His hips give a few more broken thrusts and you can feel his climax, setting off yours. The throbs of his cock match those wracking your cunt, and you hold onto the edge of the desk as the waves wash over you. Once they’ve come to an end he pulls out, and you can feel his semen dripping out of the sudden emptiness and running down your leg. You quietly say a thankful prayer for your IUD.

You’re both panting as he collapses onto your back, planting a half-hearted kiss on your spine. You weakly push yourself up off the desk and see the devastation of papers, smears and fluids. You turn yourself around and relish in his appearance. Your blood is splattered on his fine cream sweater, his usually perfectly coiffed curls damp and sticking to his forehead. You reach up and wipe the remainder of your blood off his chin. He smirks and kisses you, significantly more gently this time.

“That was good,” you murmur through steadying breaths, “but next time, keep the fucking glasses on.”

[comicgeekscomicgeek]

This makes me incredibly angry.

[ID: Screenshots of a Facebook post from user Advocatus Peregrini, which reads:

I was conversing with a fully-grown adult a few days ago, born and educated in the USA, who let this little gem drop:

"Well, it's like Shakespeare said, "Love conquers all!""

I pointed out that Shakespeare never said that, Virgil did, (Eclogues X) and Chaucer after him (Canterbury Tales.)

She said, "Oh I'm sure Shakespeare said that. In Romeo and Juliet!"

I sighed. I've been in that play several times, in different roles, and even directed it. That text does not occur in it.

But the real grind-my-teeth moment here was that if Romeo and Juliet can be said to have a message, it is most certainly not "Love conquers all," seeing as the lovers die by their own hands with a trail of their friends and relations' corpses in their wake.

Neither this fact, nor the fact that I knew the play, nor my explanation that Virgil and Chaucer used the phrase long before Shakespeare's birth dented her determination that "Love conquers all" came from Shakespeare.

"You don't know ALL the versions!" she protested.

All the versions?

Alternative Bard?

With every instinct screaming at me to let the matter drop, warning me that some horror that will not soon be absent from my nightmares waited around the next corner of this conversation. I pressed on.

It was a decision I was soon to regret.

I asked when she had first read "Romeo and Juliet." She said she had only read it once, when she was in Junior High. In the version she was taught, Romeo and Juliet survive, are reconciled with their parents, and are married in the church with their friends Mercutio and Tybalt arm in arm in the wedding party.

"Help me into some house, Benvolio, or I shall faint."

It turned out that her school had their own "version" of Romeo and Juliet, with an "uplifting" ending. This was printed and distributed by a religious education publisher. And it was the only version of the story that she had ever read. Of course she had HEARD other people say that the story was a tragedy, but she just assumed they were wrong.

And she did not see why MY version of Shakespeare should be considered better than HER Shakespeare, which, after all, had a much more wholesome ending.

I explained, in vain, that "my" version is definitive because Shakespeare actually wrote it (quiet, you Oxfordians. Don't make me stop this car) and the message of the play - that when adult stubbornness meets youthful impulsiveness tragedy ensues - is lost in the ersatz, happy-clappy ending.

She said the ending that had been Frankensteined onto Shakespeare's play by the "Christian Education" publisher was better than the original ending, "if the ending is as sad as you say it is."

At this point, I concluded that this was a person who deserved to go through the rest of her life "...safest in shame! being fool'd, by foolery thrive!" I bid her adieu.

After the conversation, I wondered, darkly, if that was to be the fate of Shakespeare, and all other literature if the happy-clappy people get their way - as harmless and "uplifiting" as a cheerleader's chant.

I wondered what these bowdlerizers would do with "Hamlet?" or worse, "Titus Andronicus" or "MacB-" Nothing wholesome, I'm sure. Oh, that's right, what they can't appropriate, they ban. Or burn.

In trying to protect children, we leave them undefended from "...the slings and arrows" that life will no doubt throw their way. Shakespeare raises the issues of tragedy - the fatal flaw, the last turning, the role of fate, as well or better than any author before or since. He is a gentle tutor, much to be preferred over that stern and dangerous teacher, Experientia Inopinatum.

But, as ever, it really isn't about the children. It's about the adults, and their desire to avoid answering difficult questions from agile young minds, who know no fear and swarm like eager flies around questions that have been boggling our best minds for millenia. To answer the questions that literature raises, you have to have thought deeply about them yourself. And that is something that few dare to do.]  end id

[nouvxllev]

"When I saw you

I fell in love, and

you smiled

because you knew

-William Shakespeare"

LOVE.LOVE.LOVE.

I wanted to make a request! I had a similar interaction like this, and when I had read this, I fell inloveeeeee with this qoute sm. Can you do a Wednesday x Reader? In which it's Wednesday who actually falls inlove 😭

amore, amore, amore.

Pairing: Author!Wednesday Addams x Gn!Reader

Summary: request!! ^^

Words: 6.0k (oh what the fuck)

Warnings: told in WEDNESDAYS POV AND ALTERNATE TIMELINES!, the gomezification of wednesday addams prevails, yes they meet at a museum, also kinda 7 husbands of evelyn hugo coded, slight plottwist at the end!

a/n: aaaa ofc ofc!! also i absolutely love the idea where wednesday fell first and harder

masterlist

I believe they cursed me the moment their lips became something worth fighting for.

"If they intend to halt my publishing, then so be it. I have no interest in entertaining that brain-dead company over countless of reasons as to why I shouldn't spare a few weeks for myself who believe I will fall under their will."

"Wednesday, they're the ones who publish your books, you just can't ignore their calls."

"Barclay, has your brain deteriorated to a degree in such a way that you are forgetting it's my presence that upholds that fucking company? Without me, they are nothing. Have you forgotten with how much power I withhold over them, or have your scales reached that hollow of a brain?"

"You can't ignore the leverage they have over you, sure you have the amount of money, if not more, to sue them, but they could literally tip you off and brand you as some selfish author."

"Please do comprehensively explain to me as to why I would be a selfish author?"

"Wednesday Friday fucking Addams, it's because you're half-way across the fucking world at some fucking museum in Italy while you have a manuscript due a fucking week ago!"

"I fail to see my fault."

"Addams, if you don't get your shit together, I swear—"

I had solved countless of murders in my time of Nevermore. I had one thing to do when I finally left, and I was going to succeed.

If you had told me after I willingly left that horrid place you call an educating institution that I would experience the same fate as an author, I would've traced the outer skin of your face with a pocket knife and display it on your family's doorstep.

Barclay, amongst others, remained someone I held close. She could be infuriating, but no one would ever be much deserving of a terrible, terrible position than be under my control as my manager when I pursued writing.

But no one tells you how people could easily forget you in a matter of seconds if you don't make a name for yourself when you've put yourself out there, even if it's something far, far from your own.

I was only fortunate enough people enjoyed what I publish.

I couldn't care less if they didn't, that's why I found it hard to give two shits about what that damned company thought of my revised schedule. But I needed to make a living. To make something out of myself.

If I had continued my actions— in which I have full control over with—I could lose everything.

I could've build it up from scratch if it happened, but Lucifer knows how long would a simple idea for a plot that could get into the lack of attention span of the population could take.

I could lose the name I print on paper.

I could lose my name.

And then I realized I haven't.

There was something that I was destined to fall under. It was there with my eyes taped to a painting, not knowing I became one for another.

I hung up. The mere thought of having a multistep plan to eventually murder my manager was between God and me. That woman had me teetering on the edge of becoming a one-hit serial killer overnight.

My head tilted over a large painting towering amidst the others down the line. My hands remained tucked deep within the pockets of a trench coat far too oversized for me.

I couldn't take much time of squinting, staring as if it had garnered my interest not after a dreaded phone call that I convinced myself truly took my energy and managed to inject anesthesia inside my veins.

A light sway became evident in my steps, as if I was sulking in my own woe of what I should and could've done to prevent myself fucking it up on a company that I could soon own if not me being under the age of what is required to own a firm without having to ring up my own godforsaken of a family.

I could almost take another step if I wasn't met with another person.

Countless of papers flew across the hard-tiled floor. It was over before I knew what had happened. I found myself standing there, eyes glued to the person I collided with, my eyebrows crossed and my mouth hung open like a fool.

"I'm—I'm so sorry, fuck." They grit under their breath, like they were berating themselves while they picked up the rest of what had fell.

I stood there, not knowing what to do or what not to do but stare at them and wait for them to pull themselves up.

And so that's what I did.

I wish I hadn't.

Because now it was the time I was unable to speak. Unable to use the words I've been writing my novels with, the words that I should've spoken in the seconds they had landed in front of me. For the first time, my words had failed me.

A question rang in my head, Why do I now feel as if I do not belong inside of my own body? Why does my life feel complete now that they were here?

When Y/n fixed herself, she looked at me and smiled. I knew I looked like an idiot staring at them, yet I never went out of my way to barely fix myself.

Why were they smiling?

"Why are you smiling?" I asked under my breath, like I was taken breathless. I hadn't mean to say it out loud, but my cold and otherwise damned heart seemed to be alive, like I was suffocating in my own rate. A fool in front of them I must've been.

They looked at their paper, then they looked at me.

They smiled yet again. Another question flicked across my head, what had happened to me to act as if I would go through hell and back for this person?

They smiled at me as if my presence gave them a reason to. And they loved me in every one of it.  

"Sorry—" they apologized, noticing how their thumb kept grazing the surface of their sketch, almost as if they were nervous. "You look prettier than... whatever I drew."

They stole one more look of me.

"Terrifyingly bewitching."

It's horrifying knowing I couldn't explain what I felt that day. What I know is—I felt everything.

I've endured endless remarks on my appearance ranging from a number of ratings from those nonsensical people on the internet to every synonym people have thrown my way only to fail to evoke even a flicker of emotion.

Though it seems egotistical, I knew they held one intention: they wanted to impress me. They wanted me to know they were different amongst others who have approached me. They wanted to entice me, as if I could be owned.

Were it not for the arsenal and threats I carried, there would be much more.

Y/n was different. They never had any intentions of being with me, no desire to impress or claim me as theirs. They simply wanted me to know I was. That it was true. I just had never heard it from someone who could mutter two words that felt perfect.

And it's much more terrifying knowing I unexpectedly fell first, even if I deny myself.

I could tell you about the way y/n smiled, how it seemed to threaten the sun, warning it not to shine lest it risk embarrassment in contrast of hers. I could tell you the way their eyes followed their smile, how their life was encapsulated in their drawings, mirroring what they felt.

Yet, when it comes to explaining how I fell for them, words escape me. Even I, a tortured author, struggle to describe.

How must I convey the sensation of my heart pounding in my ears as if it was trying to break me? The ache in my stomach, churning every chance it got, every fiber of my being dreadfully surrendering to them.

But one is for certain: meeting them was like coming home.

My home.

But I couldn't bring myself to realize that—It was antagonizing for me. Humiliating and mortifying knowing one person could make me become a total fool, become someone I've never thought I'd be.

I've spent my whole life after hiding what I felt for them, lest I risk experiencing what I truly loathe: love.

I despised them ever since I met them, loathed them, hated them. But for what for? I ask myself countless of times, I have never gotten an answer.

When they left, I left. Thinking it would be fate that had accidentally brought two people together who held no meaning for eachothers life, that it was a mistake, and I could've been wrong with how I'm feeling.

And when I came back, they were there.

And when I approached them, it felt right.

It was a week after the incident, but no matter how I tried, I still remember how their smile felt around me. Suffering, irritating, lovely. Like I wanted to relieve it, no matter how much time had passed.

Never once did I get their name in the span of meeting them, it was useless to know anyway.

Yet, I find myself returning to the museum every chance I get for God knows what, acting as if I had unfinished business staring at paintings while the staff rambled beside me. They were better off tattooing their explanation in my skull.

I had other places to attend to, other tasks I should've been doing rather than constantly visiting museum in the afternoon as if I have duties and low-paid labor for employment.

I should've been at my apartment days ago, exhausting myself on a half-assed manuscript I would have recurring thoughts of annihilating along with severing Bianca's hands through the phone.

What terrified me is why I was back.

Standing in front of them. My hands tucked deep inside the pockets of another trench coat, looking down on them sitting on one of the blocks of granite surrounding a oddly placed tree in the middle of the hall, drawing whatever there is to draw.

"Hello." I greeted them. They almost looked startled, surprised that I was even talking to them, like I was some vengeful ghost who returned to seek revenge. Though they weren't far off.

They looked up, immediately flipping over their clipboard as they locked eyes with me.

"Oh—" They cleared their throat, "Hi. Hey, hello." They smiled, albeit awkward. But that feeling of dread, or whatever, came back. Stronger than ever, I feared. I almost had half the mind of punching them in the gut and questioning them why they had this effect on me.

"Didn't know you come here often." A chuckle followed their question, or maybe it was a statement, placing their elbows on their lap while they gazed right at me.

I scoffed, murmuring against gritted teeth why did I even approach them in the first place. "And I didn't know you draw me that often."

I look down on the piece of paper, their deliberate and aggressive brush strokes having an effect on the paper, leaving marks upon marks. It was clear that I've been their subject for days on end. Even if I were to absent, I'd still be able to be the pinnacle of their sketches.

It was funny back then, humorous in my mind on how quick they snatched the piece of paper and tried to explain with little to no comprehension that went across their mind.

"Oh, God, no, no! I just—Okay, well, maybe I've been drawing you ever since I saw you, it's creepy now that I mention it... but it's just—it's dumb of me to not draw you, you know?" They were flustered, their mouth opening and closing only for me to receive words that were out of the dictionary.

They sighed, my lips twitched.

"I'd like to ask," My voice trailed off, grimacing even at the thought of having to initiate a conversation with more or less than five words, "What's... your name?"

"Y/N," They nodded, "L/N. Y/N/L/N." They reached out for a handshake only to immediately retract after a brief awkward seconds of staring. Their name sounded familiar.

"Why are you here?"

"Do I need to reason to?"

"I suppose so, no. But I am curious." Even I don't know why I'm still back here.

Y/n sighed, like I was the one getting on their nerves while it was me who battling against whatever fucked-up demon spawned in my stomach that caused me to feel, things.

"Nothing."

I frowned. "You came here because of.... Nothing?"

"Mhm."

"You are drawing strangers you know nothing about because of nothing?"

"Thought I made myself clear on that first word."

"You've made yourself look foolish than any average person."

"Well, you never told me your name. I think that's foolish enough over my case."

It was my turn to sigh.

"Addams." I reluctantly said to them, "Wednesday, Addams."

Then Y/n looked up at me as if I was some sort of otherworldly deity going back down to earth to finish whatever I started. "Wednesday Addams. I think I've heard that name before."

"No. No, you haven't."

If it wasn't horribly obvious, the sole purpose of my visit to Italy was to neglect everything I left behind in New York—especially deadlines— and hoped my eyes would finally work some sense that would let me start anew.

It was shameful of me, passion that dwindled into something less. If I had the chance, I would've tortured myself for even considering abandoning all of my life's work.

Though, I had my reasons. Even if I had threatened my target population and my audience, it still wouldn't be enough.

In short, I had lost motivation to pursue another book.

I felt as if there was something missing, that I couldn't even dare to even blow the collecting dust in the rims of my typewriter.

I begged for my brain to work, to even produce the slightest idea or word that could have some meaning to it. I was ready to write anything that came to mind, even if it was mediocre.

But, instead, my heart responded.

When I met Y/n, I started writing, and we started talking.

Words flowed through, and my time was wasted on Y/n.

My time was wasted, and they were wasted with their significant other.

I always thought I would suffer the thought of having to live an eternal life with none other than myself, that it was inevitable I was going to perish alone in my own woe.

It remained the same. Now, it's just having to live with the fact that my only greatest love had another.

I felt as if I ate a forbidden fruit once I heard they had someone that loved them as much as I denied myself of the same kind, like I plagued myself with hundreds of years of worry and attachment to someone who had eyes on another, a special muse they had.

Only that I would crumble immediately, tempted to take the fruit in my hands, forever stain my lips of something immoral so that I could forever crawl and weep over them.

In my time in Italy, I thought i'd be avoiding acquaintances that would be much more of a burden to me rather than someone useful. Yet there I was, watching Y/n saunter into my life like the revelation they were.

It's safe to say that Y/n turned out to be anything but a burden. They became someone I looked forward to seeing every day, though I hadn't realized they were motivation until then.

"Wends!"

Their awfully cheerful voice pierced through the air of the restaurant, almost granting the attention from other people as if they shared the same horrendous and dreadful nickname as me.

As much as I fantasized about walking out of the restaurant with y/n's half-broken jaw, I couldn't deny whatever was swirling in my head.

Ever since they knew of that wretched nickname unfortunately given to me by none other by that infectious and the ever infuriating ball of sunshine, Enid Sinclair, they've been calling me it as if I don't have a birth name.

It was a month ever since I've known Y/n, and it was a month of them being a constant presence in my life. They shared breakfast with me, lunches, and sometimes dinners that I somehow always and reluctantly accepted.

They became my routine, and it was a fact I'd sooner die with than confess to anyone.

Y/n slowly approached my table that was filled to the brim with countless of books and my oddly placed typewriter, putting their own stuff down on the seat beside them. "You're here early. You ordered something yet?"

It was 12PM. We agreed on 1, and I came at 10.

I scoffed, keeping my eyes on the typewriter. "You, of all people, should know by now that I would much rather sooner paint myself neon than touch anything on this menu."

I hear y/n setting their elbows on the table, resting their face between their hands. "Aw, c'mon Wends, it wouldn't kill you.

"Cyanide won't, but this will." I stopped writing to take one look at them, obviously and oddly, my gaze never and will never work on them. "Take my advice if you're eager to leave this restaurant with a mouth able to eat and speak."

"Ever the happiest person, Wends." They chuckled, sliding a somehow too bright and colorful menu towards them, "I'll order for you."

I stopped writing all together, "Y/n."

"Wednesday." They raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at her lips. It was over before I was even playing the game. Resistance over their lips felt futile anyway.

"Fine." I sighed, shutting my eyes closed just so that for once I can't have my stomach doing fucking acrobatics at the sight of them. "I will... allow it."

The ever-growing smile that crept up to their face was priceless, I couldn't bring myself to pry my eyes away. Murmuring something along the lines that I was too easy to lure in.

Once a waiter passed our table, Y/n ordered something along the lines of whatever the fuck 'Due Cream Soda Alla Vaniglia e Lampone con Glitter Commestibili' was. I was certain I was going to leave the restaurant with a non-working heart and a stomach turning inside and out.

It took no longer than a minute for Y/n to get a hold one of the numerous books piled infront of me. "Are you studying for something?" They asked, opening it only to close it once they noticed how outdated some of the languages are.

I let a small chuckle pass my lips. "What drives you to such a hypothesis."

They gestured to the books and my typewriter, "By how you're literally surrounded by books and you're on a fucking typewriter instead of a laptop." They pointed out, murmuring another, "Also, who the hell says hypothesis."

"People with functioning frontal lobes." I quipped, letting my fingers write on instinct across the typewriter keys as I listened to Y/n's ramblings. "I'm... writing."

"You're an author?"

"No."

"Then why—"

"Are you a painter? An artist?"

"Well... I—no?"

"Then we both don't know what we're doing."

Y/n fell silent moments after, I couldn't help but miss the sound of their voice. Admitting the mere thought aloud seemed absurd, let alone thinking it in the first place. I would've bashed my head on top of my typewriter if not for my resistance.

"How long will you be staying in Italy?" they eventually asked.

"Two more weeks," I replied. "My flight is already scheduled, I'll be leaving then on."

"Oh."

I wasn't expecting an answer anything other than a hint of happiness that I was eventually leaving their life.

"You are?" They repeated, as if they couldn't believe such a statement even escaped my lips, clear disappointment flickering across their face. "That's not... long."

"I am certainly not saying here indefinitely now that I have something to continue when I've arrived at my destination." I cleared out, doing my very best to escape the impending guilt washing over me.

"I'll miss you, Wednesday."

Their words were sincere. Lovely. It had stopped me from writing all together.

Guilt wasn't a feeling I was familiar with at the time. I rarely come across such a feeble emotion. Now it felt like I've committed something immoral. There were times that I lie for my own convenience, and nothing more than my own reason.

Now it felt like I should've lied for them.

I will forever miss you.

I wrote. I never showed them.

One week had passed and I rarely ever got to see Y/n after. Our encounters became increasingly scarce, and their voice plagued me from days on end.

I clung to the faithless hope I had that they would text me, to reach out, to even show me they're alive and well.

I returned to the museum for every day they were absent in my life, searching for any sign of their presence, but each day ended in disappointment.

Of course, fate is indifferent to my yearning, refusing to grant someone I so desperately sought.

Regret gnawed at me as the days turned into a week, and the week turned into the day before my flight.

"Addams. I've heard from others that you've been writing."

"Who others?"

"I'll spare a name to spare New York a corpse found in their sewage pipes by the time you've, hopefully I assume, returned and not jump off the plane."

"Even if I went off the grid, your nagging would've been in spirit."

"Don't flatter me."

"Don't kill yourself without showing me a video tape in full resolution for me to get through rough weeks. Or maybe take a shotgun and shoot yourself in your garage and let me have the keys to your house."

"Addams."

I sigh. "Yes, the rumors—though I would want that vampires head on a stake—are true. I've been writing."

"What happened to you there? You met someone?"

"How'd you know—No. No, I—I haven't. What makes you come to such a foolish conclusion?"

"Oh my God, someone actually managed Wednesday—I'd rather kill myself before loving anyone—Addams to fall terribly in love with them. Who's the unfortunate soul?"

"I would not be naming them because they do not exist."

"You just stuttered, Wednesday. The only thing making you stumble your words is when you're overdosing on whatever poison you're having for breakfast."

"They're no one."

"How are you such a bad liar when you have countless of bodies hidden across the globe?"

I sigh again, this time, it was out of annoyance. "I'll be hanging up. Goodbye, Barclay. If ever you are considering to kill yourself, call me. I'll be at my most happiest to watch."

"Wait, no, Wednesday! I need progress on your—"

I hung up. It was pointless to answer her calls when I was a mere few step away from boarding a plane. She always had a way of getting under my skin, even from across the damn globe.

But there was one name that would always surface in my thoughts: Y/n.

The mere thought of their name will forever remind me of how my heart wasn't programmed to love.

I reached for my phone, fingers tracing over the cold screen. My mind was tired, blank. The only thing I could ever do is stare at their contact and wish I could've done something better.

I typed out a hesitant message, my thumb hovering over the send button as if it was something that could end my world. Only two thoughts ran to my mind: Would they reply, or would my message be nothing to them?

I almost hit send before I heard footsteps approaching me.

"Y/n?"

I whispered their name, the love I carried for them being surrendered like I'd crawl for them once I reached purgatory.

"What are you doing here?" My eyebrows furrowed. How could they leave me, only to return as I was about to depart? "Why are you here, you disappeared, avoided me, why—"

"He proposed to me."

Oh.

I always thought a near-death experience with a loved one would be the deepest I could feel.

I realized I was wrong.

Now my eyes ached to the sting. Like I was weeping for someone that perished in my heart, I grieve for a living soul that was me. It was pathetic.

I expected them to be overjoyed, over the moon as they would express themselves from time to time.

But when I met their eyes, all I saw were tears streaming down their face.

Oh, how I wished to wipe their worries away.

"Then why are you crying?"

"I don't know if I love him."

"Nonsense... You told me you loved him—"

"Well, maybe I haven't been saying anything true to you!"

"Look, I don't know what I'm doing—I don't know what the hell are we doing. I'm living in some apartment with some guy I don't even know I even love, I'm currently standing here like an idiot to a girl who's just about to leave my life, and you're—"

"You're everything."

It was that moment I realized I was lost in a haze of admiration and love for Y/n.

That I was far too deep in their life that they became mine. I never knew I needed them as much when I told them to leave with me and break up with their significant other.

I never knew I needed their lips onto mine until the moment I pulled them close to me.

Now I ache of them.

"Do you regret it, mother? Being such a fool for someone, you became what you hated most. But you endured it all for them."

Wednesday Addams, seating across the bed from her daughter, Blair Addams. She looked just like you, she'd always wonder.

Wednesday sighed, her hand reaching out to gently touch Blair's. "Do you know the phrase, 'Come ti vidi M’innamorai, E tu sorridi Perchè lo sai?'" she asked softly.

"You know I've never indulged myself in whatever you're reading." She shook her head with a smile. She looked even more like you.

She let her fingers trace patterns on her hand, her gaze wandering else where. "Well, it translates to 'When I first met you I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew," she explained.

"And do you believe in that, mother?"

Wednesday could almost smile. Her daughter was always the curious one, yet she always managed to be privy of her life from them. "I always believed Y/N knew the moment we first laid eyes on each other, I fell in love with them."

"So, yes, my raven." She nodded, "I do."

"I never knew Y/n would make me their title, their theme, their muse," Wednesday pondered, "I always wondered why i fell for them."

"Falling is an accident, gullible, like with people who fail to do basic things. But I am one of those people if not more if I fell for their on accident and continued to do so."

She sat beside Blair, her legs crossed beside her. "I've never told you at the time, but Y/n was a painter. And they wanted nothing more but than to forget about their past. They have never told me as to why, but I believe them.""

"I worried that my love was violence. It was pain, it was suffering. But y/n took care of themselves, they took care of me. There is no one in the world who had loved me more than them, I fear that it would break them, that I am deemed no longer someone who is a part of their story."

"Yet here we are."

Wednesday couldn't see the smile creeping from her daughters lips. But she knew it was there, just like how you looked like before. She will always and forever take pride in it.

She always thought her greatest love could be something of a passion, a talent, a hobby perhaps.

But no one told her it could be a person.

Blair stretched and turned on a light beside her bed, opening a drawer and taking out two of Wednesday's books. "Must they be the reason your books has been off to your prior ones, mother? You've written all your life of gore and mystery. Now it's romance."

"Well, I—"

"Oh, I'm definitely the reason why your mother has been subtly—not-so-subtly, switching to the romance genre."

You peered through the door, your body wrapped up in a cozy boritto style and everything with a train draping it's way to your back like some met-gala dress.

"Oh, mon chéri," Wednesday's face lit up at the sight of you, immediately standing up and pulled you close, her arms enveloping you in a warm embrace.

Her lips met yours in soft kisses, leaving the taste of faint vanilla chapstick lingering on your lips. "Why are you up so late?"

"Well," You grinned against her lips, "I felt our bed getting cold and to my surprise my wife isn't nowhere near me. You know how I can't sleep without you." She pulled away, you whined at the lost of contact, but you couldn't smile more brightly as she led you towards your daughter. "G'evening, Blair."

"Evening, Y/n." She greeted you before you kissed her on the forehead.

You leaned against Wednesday's shoulder, whispering softly, "You're telling her our story again?"

Wednesday would've thought her small chuckle went unnoticed, but you definitely heard it. The stupid smile on your face told everything.

Her hand found yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. "She loves it."

"You love it, mother. Probably more than me." Blair retorted back, evident that she was holding back a laugh.

"I do not! When did I ever—"

"Oh, honey, you know love turns your mother into a girl version of your abuelo.

"Do not ever refer to me as my love drunk father or I will subject you to sleeping on the couch." Wednesday rolled her eyes, pinching the back of your palm. "And please do not shame my work of referring to it as such. I've worked hard day and night yet you proceed call it by such an exasperate—"

You turned your head and pressed a kiss on her cheek, the same spot where her freckles resided, causing her to pause mid-sentence. After atleast ten years of being with her, it always made you so giddy.

"Not even in marriage am I spared by your passive aggressive comments," you teased, your lips curling into a smile as you leaned in closer to her.

You hear your daughter sigh after a brief second, "Addams."

Wednesday almost looked shocked, "My Raven, do not call us by our last—"

"Please exit my room. I'll be going to sleep."

And then, the both of them were shoved off before they could even hug their daughter and kiss her goodnight like they always did.

"I... We were rejected, Y/n." Wednesday exclaimed, like she just got struck with the most heartbreaking news. "She used to love our stories together when she was an infant."

You'd think Wednesday was the non-chalant mom who's strict on her child. But, to your surprise, she was the opposite.

She loved Blair just as much she loved you. Hell, you even considered just maybe, maybe not, disowning your daughter because she gets Wednesday's attention more than you do.

You shrugged, taking her hand and leading her to your upstairs bedroom. "It gets stale once in a whileeeOW!" You winced as Wednesday pinched the back of your palm, again. It was starting to become her love language at this point.

"I'm just kidding!" You reassured her, intertwining your fingers with hers as you walked up the stairs together, pulling the door open for your wife. "She's just in her rebellious teen phase, let it go."

Wednesday rolled her eyes, "Too cliche."

"You used to have one too," you scoffed, settling onto your side of the bed and watching as she laid down on hers.

It was a routine you found yourself often doing, taking in the sight of your beloved as if your life with Wednesday was all a dream. You pinch yourself like almost thrice a day just to really make sure.

"Since when?" Wednesday asked, raising an eyebrow in amusement, quietly shuffling towards you.

You sat up for a moment to undo her braids. You always liked playing with her hair, and that one time she asked of you to undo hers, it became a routine. "Since the beginning of time. And somehow, you never grew out of it."

"You didn't even meet me in my teenage years. I am far from rebellious."

"Yes, baby, but not too far from a death penalty." You chuckled, reaching out to gentle stroke her hair, leaning in to press a soft kiss against her forehead.

"Oh, you flatter me," she replied, a smirk across her lips, but the room was too dim to even notice it.

By now, if you were any ordinary person, Wednesday would've made you disappear entirely. But, the thing is, Wednesday always seemed to look at you as if her life never really started until she found you.

Silence managed to take over the atmosphere, you laid back on the comfortable mattress, feeling Wednesday's head nestled on your arms that were tucked under her hair.

You could almost fall asleep in pure bliss knowing that you've met and loved the girl of your dreams if not for her calling out for you.

"Amore." She whispered.

"Amore?" She whispered again, her voice softer than ever before.

You blinked, momentarily. You swore you just heard an angel. "Yes, amore?"

"Can I... Can you—"

You smiled, almost too knowingly. You knew Wednesday, for someone who's such a romantic soul, she's not too expressive on simple terms like these. "Do you want to be the little spoon?"

She grimaced, you could even hear her grunts of disapproval. "I would highly refrain from calling it that before I jump out of bed and skin you from limb to limb. But... yes, I would like to."

A soft chuckle escaped your lips at her response, suppressing a grin to avoid from literally being murdered as you wrapped your arms around her and pulled her close.

Ten years before, if someone had told you that you're going to be doing this to girl you've met at a museum while trying to escape your past, let alone be happily married to her, you would've told them "How the fuck do you know that and please stay away, I have... a boyfriend. I guess."

But now, it seemed so believable. Wednesday was always so relaxed in your arms, your warmth and hers bringing a sort of comfort for the both of you.

You nuzzled your head against the back of her neck, gently moving strands of her hair aside as you pressed soft kisses against her skin, hoping to kick away her tension from the day.

"Stop pouting, Wends," you murmured softly into her skin as you closed your eyes in pure relief.

You hear her scoff, "I am not doing such a humiliating act."

"Oh but you so are." Your grin widening as you pressed another gentle kiss against her nape, "I can hear it from here."

Wednesday let out a sigh, of annoyance? Maybe. But was it tinged with pure adoration and love? Much so. "You don't hear pouts, Y/n."

"When it comes to you, I do and I can."

Silence washed over. This time, you're worried you've teased her that much, she actually got annoyed with you.

"You're awfully quiet. By this time, you're probably threatening to kill me."

"I'm... Sorry." Wednesday whispered, it has an undying tone of tenderness that you don't often see it being expressed through words from her. Slowly, she shifted her body to face yours.

One thing is for certain: She was still so terrifyingly bewitching if not more. She looked pretty in every way possible, it's hard to even believe, it left you in awe.

You feel her gaze darting on your eyes and then drifting down to your lips, hesitating even. It was ridiculous, in the most adorable way possible there is for an Addams like her.

"May I kiss you?"

"You know you're always welcome. It's pointless to ask."

She was the first to reach out, her hand finding it's way to the curve of your cheek, her touch gentle than ever as she traced the line of your jaw as if she was memorizing every feature of yours.

You cupped her face in reciprocation, leaning in closer to where your lips were just hovering inches away from hers. Then, you closed the space between the both of you.

You pulled away, your eyes meeting hers with a soft smile. It was impossible to think that this woman held your heart in her hands like it was nothing.

"Have I ever told you that you're pretty?" you whispered, letting your hands fall to her waist and pulled her close.

"Ever since you've met me."

“You know, I’m surprised you even remember our first meeting.”

“Oh, how could I ever forget my lover?”

You laughed, a symphony that always gets Wednesday to have a slight tug in her lips. “Stop being so romantic. You are a grown woman with a daughter.”

You continued to stare into her eyes as you drape the rest of the blanket for the both for you. "It's hard to think you're the first one to fall in love and not me."

"It's hard to think of anything when you're here with me, te amo." Wednesday replied, her gaze softening almost immediately.

You sighed. "You know I love you, right?"

Wednesday blinked. "I always will."

You smiled.

And Wednesday smiled back.

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

a/n: this was longer than i thought. i yap too much in stories i fear

[squoxle]

Golden Rule - L.HS ff ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡

🎧 pairing: inexperienced!heeseung x badgirl!reader

🎧 summary: your cute and nerdy classmate lets you have your way with him in exchange for help on an assignment

🎧 cw: corruption and exhibitionism kink, oral (m. receiving), religious themes, mentions of bullying, college au, hee’s a bit subby

🎧 wc: 1.4k

You had been feeling horny for the entire week and knew you had to get your hands on some good dick or else you’d literally combust.

Introducing your person of interest: Lee Heeseung.

He was the type of guy you could guess everything about without even speaking to him. From his glasses, the way he tucked his ironed dress shirts into his belted pants, the way you only saw him either sitting with his legs crossed at a church sermon or studying his heart out at the library.

Heeseung was the epitome of a Christian nerd, but it was his insanely good looks that drew your attention to him in the first place.

You two first met at the beginning of the school semester, but you weren’t sure if you could call it a friendship just yet, especially not with the way you’d fantasize about him with your fingers between your legs every night.

It currently 6:00pm: the same time he’d come to the library to study every week day.

“What’re you working on,” you asked, taking a seat beside him at the table.

“Nothing much. Mr. Sweeney gave me this stupid hand written essay that I have to turn in by tomorrow, so I’ll be pretty busy for the next few hours.”

“What for? I thought Mr. Sweeney taught Bible. There aren’t any writing assignments for that class.”

That’s honestly the only reason why you took Bible class this semester.

“He does, but this isn’t a part of the curriculum. It’s a punishment for the prank I pulled on Jake and his crew yesterday… let’s just say, I didn’t get away with it as easily as planned.”

“Oh, so you do have a naughty side?”

“Hardly,” he sharply defended, “All I did was swap their video game discs out with episodes of The Brady Bunch on dvds. But, Sunghoon snitched, so now I’m here.”

“Tough.”

“I know. It’s not like I don’t deserve it, anyways.”

“Nobody deserves to be bullied, Hee. Those guys were assholes and you stood up for yourself! They’re the ones who should be playing Shakespeare for the night,” you argued passionately.

His eyes widened at your use of a swear word, such language that was forbidden by your university code of conduct.

“I appreciate you taking sides with me, but please don’t call it bullying. Makes me feel all… soft, and… vulnerable,” he cringed at his own words.

“You look pretty soft and vulnerable to me,” you mumbled, hungry eyes falling to his pouty lips.

“Excuse me?”

You cleared your throat, “Uhm, what’s the paper on?”

“The Golden Rule.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “The what?”

“Loving your neighbors as yourself? You should really pay more attention during Mr. Sweeney’s sermons.”

You chuckled at his comment, nudging him on the shoulder, “Hey, maybe I would if he wasn’t so damn boring… How many pages does it have to be?”

He sighed, “10 at least.”

Having to come of with 10 pages worth of “Golden Rule” greatness sounded much more challenging than you knew it actually was.

All he had to do was write in VERY BIG LETTERS.

You peered over his shoulder, examining the paper. He was just getting started on page two.

“Hmm. We have similar handwriting,” you added, making Heeseung look at you with his desperate doe eyes.

“Oh my God, ____! You have to help me!”

“Watch out, church boy. The pastor might make it 11 pages if he hear’s you calling the Lords name in vain.”

“Ughhhh,” his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he groaned, “Can you please just help me out?”

“Uh-huh, and why would I do that?”

“Look, I’ll do anything! You’re a way stronger writer than I am, and my brain is in the verge of kermitting suicide!!”

He was right. Writing was never a strong subject of his, so he really did need your help.

“Fine,” you gave in, looking around the library before whispering in his ear, “If you can be quiet while I suck you off until you finish page two, I’ll do the rest.”

His eyes widened in disbelief, “What?”

“You heard me,” you said cattily, sneaking under the table and between his legs.

“____, get from down there!! This is inappropriate!”

“Says who,” you giggled, unbuckling his leather belt.

“We’re not a married couple, ____. Hell, We’re not even dating!” He whisper-yelled from above the table, fidgeting with the pencil in his hand.

You could feel how tense he was just my touching his thighs, “You’ve never been approached like this before, have you?” You asked yet stated.

He took a deep swallow, already feeling himself throbbing in his pants, “Of course not… I’m trying to save myself here, y’know?”

“Aww, that’s cute,” you pouted, rubbing his bulge through his boxers.

“F-fuhh,” he mumbled, screwing his eyes shut at the feeling, “I don’t know if I can do this, ____.”

“With God, all things are possible, Hee! You should really pay more attention during Mr. Sweeney’s sermons,” you mocked, shimmying his boxers down to his ankles.

You adjusted yourself under the table before grabbing a hold of his impressively large dick, starting with gentle pumps.

“I’m not hearing the pencil penciling, Hee. Be a good boy and keep writing,” you slithered in a sing-song voice, licking a stripe up his shaft. The foreign texture of your tongue sent pleasurable shivers down his spine.

“____,” he cried with a surpressed moan, “how am I supposed to focus when you’re down there doing that?!” He worried, looking around as if waiting for someone to catch you two.

You released your lips from his heat with a pop, “Down here doing what, Hee? Sucking your virgin dick in the library? I always knew you had a naughty side.”

“Mmm,” he moaned again, rutting his hips up into your mouth, “please tell me you’re almost done, ____.”

You grinned at the sound of his begging, feeling yourself grow wetter with each second you spent between his legs, “Depends on if you either finish that last page or cum in my mouth first.”

Taking him past your lips again, you bobbed your head up and down, stroking the remaining inches you couldn’t fit comfortably in your mouth.

He tried his best to keep writing, but with that way you were sucking him off, his hands couldn’t help but drop the pencil before getting lost in your hair.

“Fuck,” he whined, finally letting the word come out.

He started to use your head like a toy as you sucked him in even harder, “just like that, baby. Please don’t stop.”

You were surprised by how his body slowly submitted to you the more you pleasured him.

Meanwhile, he was surprised that this was actually even happening. You moaned with the gag that tried to escape your throat, clinging to his thighs as your tried to hold in your sounds.

Your eyes started to poke with tears as he used your head more aggressively than before, finally shooting his warm load down your mouth, panting as if he’d just ran a marathon.

“Shh, you’re so noisy,” you teased, stroking him to a point of overstimulation.

“Okay, that’s enough,” he whimpered, taking your hands in his to stop your ministrations.

You licked the cum that dripped from your mouth before pulling his pants back up, getting from under the table.

You fixed your hair with your hands after literally just getting your face fucked by your sweet classmate, taking in his hot and bothered frame.

“How was it?” You asked casually, sitting next to him as if nothing happened.

You tried to ignore the sticky moisture that stuck to your thighs from your own arousal, figuring that you’d think about this moment while you pleased yourself later.

“Amazing,” he said with a shaky breath, still feeling his orgasm fresh in his veins.

“I’m taking about the page you just wrote, silly,” you teased, moving the sheet of paper closer to you before examining what he came up with, “Dude!”

“What, dude?” He asked back with flushed and sleepy features.

“This is garbage!” You exclaimed, ripping the piece of paper in half.

“Yeah, I don’t know why you would’ve expected anything different.”

“Gimme that,” you retorted, snatching the pencil from his hand, “I’m gonna need some coffee to write all these pages for ya…”

“Ugh,” he groaned, understanding that you were indirectly asking him to get you something to drink.

“Iced?”

“Always.”

He got up from the seat, searching through his backpack before pulling out his wallet, “Thanks by the way,” he smiled, trailing to the library exit.

“What can I say? It’s the Golden Rule,” you replied, jotting down the first of many sentences you’d write for Lee Heeseung, the guy you just blessed with the best blow job of his life.

❀ Thank you all so much for reading! Make sure to check out other works on my masterlist!

❀ 𝚃𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝:

@chlorinecake @hoyeonheeseung @sussyjake @furious-eagle @cherrriesss @abbyizzy @weyukinluv @addictedtohobi @thatonenoona @wavykook @givemeyourtmihyun @jaeljn @hoonmywk @valennshit @19-yunalyn @hoonbby @frostedblankets @hoonsyo @no-mannerism @perfectxserendipity @chubbibish @ihrtlix @bunniesforsoobin @thereadersparadise @thatbooknerdfr @aiden2001 @belongstoheeseung @jakeybabe @donut-crazs @rizzhee @nikimeows @woonieees @uarmyxtae @rebecca-johnson-28 @they2luv1naia @isa-2007 @silcry @riverscafe @pearlwhitesoul @nikohiroshi @thatbooknerdfr @wonniewonwon

[theragethatisdesire]

much ado about nothing chapter 7 - plug!eren x reader - 18+!!!

DISCLAIMER: this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. minors and ageless blogs, please do not read below the cut.

okay so i guess the responses i got on my "i have writer's block wahhh" post worked because GUESS WHAT I FINISHED THIS MORNING. this chapter!!! i have been aching to share this (even when it was half-done), i literally cannot wait any longer. this is an eren pov chapter so you guys already know it's going to be fun. lots going on, and please don't hate me for the end, i promise there's a master plan in place!!! i hope you guys enjoy :-)

specific cws: smut, rough sex, use of names (both endearing and derogatory so take that as you will), drinking, swearing, i want to give eren a giant hug

-

“Love sought is good; but given unsought, is better.” - Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare (Act III, Scene 1)

Eren has no excuse for any of it. No excuse for stepping in, for throwing Floch against the bar. He knows you, knows you have enough experience with awful men to know how to handle yourself. He just couldn’t help himself.

And now he’s gone and acted out again without thinking. The cold winter air sobers him up, brings Eren back to himself, and when he looks down at you, all cute and furious with him, the heat in Eren’s veins dies. A pregnant pause stretches between you both, you with your arms crossed and glaring up at him, and Eren, surely with hearts in his eyes, looking down at you, something apologetic beginning to write its way into his features.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

Well, so much for that. The venom in your voice reignites Eren’s temper, fans the flames back into a full-blown inferno.

“My problem?” Eren growls, stepping closer to you. “What the fuck is your problem? I was just getting that prick out of your face. I’d think I deserve a thank you more than anything.”

“It wasn’t your place,” you huff.

“My place?” Eren nearly shouts, exasperated. “You’re the one who wanted to be friends so badly, was I supposed to just sit back and watch while he drooled all over you? Give me a fucking break.”

“That’s not– ugh, you’re really fucking frustrating, you know that Eren?”

It’s like watching all the ghosts of his past jump out at him through your teeth; Eren flinches, feels his fury rushing in his ears like a tidal wave.

“I’m–? Fine, fine, yeah, I’m the frustrating one. Definitely not you, throwing a goddamn temper tantrum over the stupidest shit imaginable, makes perfect sense. Really putting that smart little head to use, aren’t you?”

“Oh? ‘My girl’?” As soon as the words hit him, plunging through his chest like daggers, Eren’s blood runs cold. So you had caught his little slip-up. “What the fuck was that, then?”

Eren stutters, words caught in his throat at the worst possible moment. “Y-you know, like my girl, like you’re my friend or whatever.”

“Uh-huh,” you eye him disbelievingly, “you may as well have hiked your leg up and pissed on me in front of him. Am I supposed to be your fucking property or something because we had sex? Is that it?”

“What? No, I–” you’re faster than him, cutting him off.

“Don’t you already have your hands full with your ex?”

That crosses a line, pushes your fight into an entirely new territory. Eren’s eyes narrow. “Are you really bringing up Breeze right now? Like she…Jesus, like she even fucking matters?”

He watches the way you flinch when he says her name, the way your eyes widen, something he hadn’t expected out of you after with your little snide comments today. Interesting.

“She doesn’t matter to me, but I know she matters to you. As your friend, I’m just letting you know it sounds like a bad idea.”

“What’s a bad idea?”

“Getting back together with her,” you say, like it should be obvious.

It hits Eren like a truck; so that’s what’s gotten into you? You think he’s getting back together with Breeze, as if you didn’t text your ex that you were “totally in love with” on that godforsaken night at Paradise? Eren can still hear the slur of your words in that maddeningly confusing voicemail.

“Even if I was getting back with Breeze,” Eren snorts at the very idea, “which I’m not–”

“Oh yeah?” you counter, stepping forward to nearly touch your chin to his chest with how severely your head’s tilted up at him, “never took you for a liar, Eren.”

“A liar? When did I fucking–”

“Sasha saw you two at 104 the other day. You’re not fucking slick, you know.” Eren hates that tone in your voice, smug and wounded all at once. He wants to tear his own hair out.

“Oh, so you just know everything, don’t you?” Eren’s voice is shaking under his efforts to keep it at a low volume, keep you with him outside of your little bar and just make you listen to him. He watches your posture change ever so slightly, a shoulder turning towards him. “I was telling her to leave me the fuck alone.”

“Over coffee?” Your voice is still clipped, snarky. “Sure, Eren.”

Eren tries to keep himself in line, but his temper gets the better of him yet again, shooting out sharp and lethal. “Isn’t it a little hypocritical of you to avoid me over that, when it’s really you that’s getting back with your ex?”

Your eyes shoot open, and you spin on your heel to fully face him. “What?”

“You think I didn’t listen to your little voicemail?” Eren seethes, the full-bodied ugliness of his anger warping his face into a scowl. You don’t deserve the brunt of his temper, he knows you don’t, but he’s failing at every turn to reign himself in.

“You can’t throw that in my fucking face, I don’t even remember it,” you cut him off, eyes narrowed into little slits.

Eren freezes in place. The world around him seems to slow; the only thing tethering him to this plane is the way you’re looking up at him, furious and beautiful in the buzzing neons of Scout’s. He knew you’d been drunk, but not that drunk.

Hey, Eren– fuck, Stor, leave me alone! I’m just gonna talk to him really fast! Sorry, Historia’s all over me because I did something bad. I– I texted my ex, Luke. I never told you about him because he’s like, the worst, you’d hate him. But the funny thing is, I don’t even think I care? Maybe I do because I really was like, totally in love with him. Maybe he’ll text me back and we’ll fall in love again. But…I don’t know, Eren. I think about you all the time. I think I…I think I like you. Not like a friend, more than that. Wait, fuck, can I delete this? Just…I don’t know. Call me tomorrow or something. I want to talk about it before I can go down the black hole of Luke all over again. I know it’s not what you expected, and maybe you don’t feel the same, but…maybe we can just– shit, Historia, don’t hang up the–!

“Whatever I said was bullshit, I didn’t mean a word of it. I’m not getting back with my ex, or whatever else I came up with while I was blacked out.”

Your present-tense voice, affirmative and clear, snaps him out of his daze. I didn’t mean it. Every word of that voicemail that Eren knows so well, has basically memorized after listening to it day in and day out, trying to analyze every little drunken intonation of your voice– it was bullshit. Eren steels his jaw, musters up all the willpower he can dredge up in his body.

“You didn’t mean it,” his voice sounds alien as it leaves his mouth, distant.

“Yeah, exactly,” you’re mean, you’re so mean, not even stopping to acknowledge the sinkhole ripping open in Eren’s chest, “so before you rip me a new one, make sure that you’re not thinking about where you’d rather be right now.”

So you’re not just mean, you’re oblivious, it seems. For some reason, even through the shattering, crushing feeling erupting beneath Eren’s hoodie, it infuriates him. You just don’t see it, don’t see him. You didn’t mean a word you’d said to him in that damned voicemail, so he can’t tell you necessarily. It crosses his mind that maybe he can show you; the last dying ember of Eren’s rational line of thought sparks and spits at the idea in protest, but eventually chokes out, slowly dying in the tidal wave of emotion that takes him over.

“Oh, I don’t have anywhere else I’d rather be,” Eren's voice starts low and venomous, but it escalates with each passing word, “trust me, I showed up just aching to get into it with you. Just dying to have you rip me apart for something that I didn’t even fucking do!”

Not even a lie, honestly.

“You’re such an– ugh!” You shriek, digging the heels of your hands into your eyes.

“A what? Say it.”

“An asshole!”

“Is that what I am?” Eren’s backing you up against the bricks, making good use of his height to tower over you. Some sick part of him relishes in the way that, while your eyes remain blazing furiously enough to send a weaker man to his knees, your height difference forces you to cower under him. “An asshole?”

“Yeah,” you counter, glaring up at him defiantly, “you’re a fucking asshole, Eren.”

His proximity to you is making him dizzy and a little unhinged, and through the drinks and his anger and the mere inches between your heaving chests, Eren feels his blood start to run hot in an entirely different way. The leash he holds on his own temper, his own throat-closing desire, is dragging along the floor as he backs you fully against the wall, and Eren’s too wound up to bring himself to care. 

“That’s not what you were calling me when I had my head between your legs, now is it?”

That shakes you, makes your jaw drop a little. Eren’s vaguely aware of your fingers twitching and clenching at your side, inwardly braces himself for a slap to the face. “Well, you weren’t acting like an asshole then.” 

Eren smirks, leans into his own cruelty. “What, you jealous that you haven’t been getting all of my attention? Is that what’s got you acting all mean?”

“Cut it out, Eren.” Your eyes are telling him you’re still mad at him, furious even, but Eren doesn’t miss the way the rise and fall of your chest grows ever so slightly more frantic, the way your tongue darts out anxiously to wet your lips.

“Or what?” Eren leans down, boxing you in with one arm on either side of your head.

“I– we’re not doing this.”

“Doing what?” He widens his eyes innocently. “What am I doing?”

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” you hiss, but if you ask Eren, it sounds an awful lot like a moan is lodged in your throat, like your words are lacking the conviction that you’re trying to muster. He pushes himself in closer to you, noses mere inches apart, a wicked grin splitting his face.

“Is it working?”

Eren’s lips meet yours at the same moment that his hand whips out to catch your arm where you’re swinging it up to slap him. A broken little whimper leaves your mouth, spills into his, as your arm slackens in his grip. Eren feels your free hand fist into the hair at the nape of his neck, lets a groan fly out into nonexistent space between your lips. He’s been driving himself crazy thinking about this moment, the next time he’d get to feel your mouth on his again if it ever even happened, what you taste like, the little noises you make. The moment that’s been keeping him up at night is finally here, inflating his wounded ego like a balloon, and it feels fucking good.

You bite a little too hard into his bottom lip, the tangy, copper taste of Eren’s blood leaking into the kiss, making it clear that this doesn’t mean everything has settled between you both, but for the time being, Eren doesn’t care. All he cares about is the way your plush thighs feel wrapped around his waist, how easily he can scoop you up and pin you against the wall, the little moan that slips from your lips when he presses the length of his body entirely into you.

He doesn’t take his time, doesn’t savor the moment like he’ll surely wish he did tomorrow; Eren devours you, running a hand up your bare leg and under the hem of your skirt, grabbing a handful of your ass, squeezing at your hips.

“Bet you’re wet under this short little skirt, aren’t you?” Eren huffs into your mouth, sucking on your tongue.

“Fuck you,” you spit, squeezing your thighs tighter around his hips.

“Is that what you want?” Eren whispers, dizzy and drunker on you than the three Jameson shots he’d knocked back at the bar.

“I–”

“Been thinking about it?” Eren can’t stop himself, trying desperately to keep his lips on yours through the spill of words from his mouth. “Maybe that’s why you’ve been so mean to me, grinding all up on me in that club, teasing me, then running off. Just wanted a little love, didn’t you?”

“That depends,” you pant, moving your face to kiss up his neck, leave little nips in your wake. Eren groans deep in his chest, pushing against you even more insistently.

“On?”

“How bad you really want it,” you bite into his earlobe, steal another shaky groan from him.

Eren’s not a submissive guy, not by any means, but the thrill your words send running through his veins just about makes him drop you.

“Want me to beg?” Eren growls, shoving into you and biting deep at the junction of your neck and shoulder. “I’d only ever beg for you, baby.”

“Is that what you’re going to do? Beg for me when you’ve got another girl waiting for you?” Your anger has fizzled into a bitter sarcasm that goes straight between Eren’s legs and knocks him right in the ego all at once, tongue tracing the shell of his ear.

“Fuck– you’re my girl, my favorite girl, did you forget?” Eren grabs your face, forces your head back against the brick so you can look at him, eyes blown wide with lust and glossed over, mouth open in a desperate pant. “Told you the first time, you’re the best I’ve ever had. Didn’t think I was just fucking around, did you? It’s just you, only you.”

“Could have fooled me,” you dig your teeth into the thumb Eren’s worked between your lips, making him suck in a sharp ouch between his lips, “sure don’t feel like your favorite girl.”

“Sounds like I need to fix that, then,” Eren lets a hand trail down between the little space he’s leaned back to create between your bodies, finds his way to the damp fabric of your panties, “oh, who’s the liar now?”

“Don’t– fuck,” your eyes roll back in your head when he starts pressing into where he knows your clit is, rubbing insistent circles over the cloth just to elicit that reaction from you, rip the control right out of your pretty little hands. Eren chuckles down at you, dark and dangerous, amused at how quickly you melt for him.

“Thought we weren’t doing this?” He parrots your words from earlier, nosing at your neck. “Thought I was an asshole?”

“You are,” you grit out through a clenched jaw, but Eren notices the little forward push of your hips, notices that you’re trying to hold yourself back from rubbing yourself into his palm.

“And that gets you wet,” Eren counters, grinding the heel of his palm up into your clit and wrenching a little gasp from you, “bet you liked watching me in there, bet you would have loved watching me kick his ass for you.”

Eren pauses, waits to hear if you’ve got anything to say for yourself, but you’re already half-gone, rolling your hips against the steady rocking of his hand and whining in your throat. He smiles– god, you really are his favorite.

“Say it,” Eren growls into your skin, slipping a finger past the fabric of your panties to slide it into you, not the whole thing, but just a knuckle, just enough to make you shudder in his arms, “tell me you need me, want to hear you say what this perfect pussy’s already telling me. C’mon baby.”

Just as your mouth opens, either to answer him or snark at him, Eren can’t be sure, a cat-call from across the street snaps both of you out of your haze, your eyes flying wide. You shove at him, wriggling in his arms until Eren mercifully drops you to your feet, reaches down to right your rumpled little skirt for you. You glower up at him, look him up and down, and just when Eren’s about to bullshit some excuse to run home, fuck into his hand with your name on his lips, you surprise him.

“I mean, after all that, the least you can do is walk me home.”

The necessary steps of Eren closing your tabs, walking into the whipping winter wind, walking through the streets silently with Eren side-eyeing you as you storm along, arms crossed petulantly, commence. They go by in a blur; Eren’s not even sure he should be doing this right now with the lack of blood flow to his head. You don’t make eye contact, and if Eren had any more conscious thought at the moment, he would think you’re already regretting this before it happens, but he can’t bring himself to care, not yet.

He’ll kick himself for this as soon as the sun rises, but for now? The only thing he’s worried about lies wet and pulsing for him under the hem of your skirt.

The moment you’ve gotten the door open, Eren’s got you shoved up against the wall again, letting his hands find their way under your skirt and grabbing at your ass with a quiet groan.

“Historia?” he questions, nipping at your earlobe just because he can.

“Ymir’s,” you pant, pushing him off of you and practically storming to your bedroom. It hits Eren that for all the time you’ve spent together, he’s never actually seen your bedroom. He thinks that maybe he’ll do a little investigating of his own once he’s fucked all the fight out of you.

Safely behind the door of your bedroom, Eren wastes no time in yanking his shirt over his head, reaching for yours only to find that you’ve already rid yourself of the cute little sweater he had been admiring from down the bar back at Scout’s. You’ve got a pretty lace number underneath, one that Eren almost doesn’t want to take from you, but he reaches behind you and unclips it. Eren plans on taking and taking and taking everything you’ll give him, just for tonight, because the sinking feeling in his chest is telling him to do it while he can; a girl like you never sticks around a guy like him for long, and he’s already done himself the favor of ruining most of the potential your relationship had anyway.

“Eren– oh,” the broken whimper that leaves your lips snaps him out of his thoughts, reminds him that he’s got one of your breasts in his palm and the other nipple between his teeth. Eren wraps his free hand around your back, pressing his splayed fingers between your shoulder blades to arch you closer to him until he’s so full of you he can hardly breathe.

He’s going to keep taking from you, take until he drowns in it.

“Feel good? Missed me?” Eren’s words come out a little garbled around the flesh in his mouth, but you get the message all the same, managing a sarcastic eye roll through your arousal. You decline to answer him, but Eren can read your body, so he digs his teeth in harshly to the little swell of fat on the underside of your breast, sucks a bruise in to cut that eye roll of yours right in half. Eren smirks when your eyes flutter closed, a reluctant hand coming up to thread through his hair. “Thought so.”

“Can you just–fuck–get on with it?”

“Uh-uh,” Eren straightens back to his full height, backs you onto the bed until your knees catch and you fall onto your back, glaring up at him defiantly. “Gotta get you ready for me, right? I’m sure you remember.”

He eats up the doubt that flickers across your face, the memory of the first time you’d taken him all over your expression. Eren reaches beneath your skirt, pulls your panties down your legs delicately, rubs his hands along your thigh-high stockings with an appreciative swear under his breath.

“There’s a zipper on the back,” you wiggle a bit to try and reach the fasten of your skirt, but Eren slaps a firm hand onto your hip, pins you back onto the bed.

“Think I’m letting you take this off? After you were teasing me with it all night?” Eren says, stretching his body over yours, taking full advantage of his size to cage you in.

“I wasn’t teasing,” you huff, “these are just my clothes.”

“Anything you wear is teasing,” Eren brings his fingers to your core, swipes through the wetness gathered there, “especially when you look like this.”

You open your mouth to retort, but your jaw goes slack when Eren rolls over your clit softly, rubbing little circles into it at the perfect speed, the perfect pressure. He’s not interested in teasing you too much, he wants to feel you break on him as many times as you’ll grant him the pleasure. Once your little gasps have begun to swell into quiet moans, Eren ventures down, pushes his middle finger into you, all the way to the hitch. Eren answers your widened eyes and your little gasp with a sharp hiss between his teeth, marveling at the way your walls cling to his finger, sucking him in when he slides out and back in again.

“Just like the first time,” Eren murmurs, leaning down to take your collarbone between his teeth, “are you always this tight?”

“I– I don’t– more, please.”

Eren smiles around the mouthful of your skin he has, feeling his heart swell at how cute and airy your words come out, how clear it is to him, even if it’s only for this precious moment, that you’re just as desperate for him as he is for you. He grants your wish, working a second finger in beside the first, curling them cruelly against that spot in your walls that he knows gets your heart racing.

“Eren,” you keen, arching off the bed and tossing your head to the side.

“So tight baby,” Eren says in awe, pulling his head to watch as your cunt leaves little white streaks on his fingers, “so warm, can’t fucking wait to get my cock in you.”

“P-please,” you sputter, hooded eyes sparkling at the mention of it. Eren thinks wildly that he might be falling in love with the little unshed tears that prick your eyes when you start to get close, the little broken pleas you give him.

“You gotta cum for me first.” Eren works his fingers faster, can feel the fluttering of your cunt around his fingers. He realizes how worked up he must have gotten you outside of Scout’s, how you’re so wet it’s dripping down your soft skin onto the sheets, and you haven’t even cum yet.

“I’m– I just want you to fuck me,” you say, whiny and pitiful.

“I will,” Eren coos, “missed this messy little cunt so much, I promise I’ll fuck you, just give me one first. Gotta make it fit, right?”

“Mhm,” you whimper, hips bucking up towards him. Eren watches, drinks the sight of you in: skirt pulled up around your waist, legs spread wide open for him, slick spread all over the inside of your thighs, bottom lip tucked so tightly between your teeth he worries you might draw blood. He commits the sight to memory, his pretty little student all strung out and begging for his cock, begging him to make you cum. If he remembers right, if he curls his fingers just a little more harshly–

“Eren–” your head shoots up suddenly, eyes flying wide open, fists tightening in the sheets.

“Right there?” Eren grins, sharp and half-crazed, raising his eyebrows at the reaction the new angle has brought out of you.

“Right– oh, oh my god, I–”

“Give it to me,” Eren urges, working his fingers even faster, “come on, baby, show me how much you missed me.”

With a cry, you twist and thrash under him, cumming almost violently. Eren drinks it down, leans down to press a kiss against your open mouth, pins your body to the bed so you can’t run from the vicious waves of pleasure wracking your body. 

“There’s my girl,” he mutters, licking against your tongue, “such a good, good girl for me.”

When your orgasm finally starts to ebb, Eren doesn’t let up, not entirely; he keeps his fingers working in a slow drag through your walls, appreciating the way your muscles twitch and the way you feebly shove at his wrist.

“Eren…” you trail off weakly, fingers finally locking harshly around his hand and pulling him from you, “too much.”

“Thought you wanted me to ‘get on with it’?” Eren snorts, finally obliging your earlier request and sliding your skirt over your legs, tracing his fingers up and down your thighs once you’re fully bare and beautiful underneath him, taking mental snapshots of every inch of smooth skin that he’s lucky enough to have under his touch.

“I do,” you say, eyeing him with a glint of annoyance in your eye. It just makes Eren smile bigger; you’re so cute when you’re mad.

“Whatever you want, baby,” Eren says, situating his hands under your arms and practically throwing you up against the pillows at the head of your bed. You widen your legs so he can crawl in between them, kissing his way up your torso in a self-indulgent, tender way.

“Do we, um…” you start to question him, and Eren’s close enough to your face now that he can feel your cheeks warm. He sits up a little, arches a questioning brow down at you.

“What?”

“Do we need to use a condom?”

Eren frowns, confused. “I mean, after last time, I thought you were on birth control.”

“I am,” you confirm, nodding slowly, some odd emotion flickering over your features that could be anger, could be heartbreak, “but I don’t know if, like–”

“I haven’t been with anyone else,” Eren catches your meaning, feeling his heart thud heavy and loud in his chest, “not since…”

“Oh,” you exhale quietly, nodding, “okay.”

“You?”

“Uh, no,” your voice is so low Eren almost doesn’t hear you, but he watches your head slowly lull side to side in confirmation, “no one else.”

Eren can’t excuse the rush of relief that courses through him, the swell of happiness to learn that no one’s gotten to see you like this since the last time he had. It goes straight to his cock, hard and drooling between his legs. Before he can get too wrapped up in the emotional side of things, Eren leans in hard to the horrible, possessive thoughts that have constricted him, laying himself over you and taking his cock in his hand, swiping it through the mess between your legs.

“Good.” He even surprises himself with that, looking down on you with dark eyes, eyes that promise ruin.

“Please,” you give him one more breathless plea, Eren swears you know too well how to snap his composure clean in half.

He pushes himself in, choking on a moan at how tight you are, vicelike and suffocating around him. A broken groan flies from your lips, your fingers tighten their grip on his biceps until Eren’s sure you’re going to break the skin, but he’s beyond caring. His mind wipes completely blank, save for the hot, wet heat that’s enveloping him, beckoning him to snap his hips forward viciously and be done with it. With what little self-restraint he can muster up, Eren flicks his eyes up to yours.

“So…it’s so–” another whimper cuts you off, and Eren can feel your thighs twitch on either side of his hips.

“Too much?” Eren manages to reign himself in, back out another inch or so.

“No,” you wrap a leg around his waist, shove him further into you and wrench a deep, guttural groan from his chest, “feels good, keep going.”

“Careful what you wish for,” Eren breathes, trying to retain any semblance of control over this situation, give you that dominant dirty talk that he knows gets you off instead of turning into a whimpering, moaning mess at the feel of you clenching around him. He bottoms out, feeling himself fuck all the way up into your tummy, head falling down onto your shoulder.

Eren manages to keep his pace slow and gentle, rolling his hips into yours like he’s making love to you, not saying goodbye. Little satisfied sounds are slipping out of your mouth, but Eren can see a flicker of consciousness in your eyes; you’re not drooling for him, out of your mind with want, not like the first time. He frowns.

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re…I don’t know, you seem like you’re somewhere else,” Eren hates having to admit that he notices, that he even cares, and the unsteady creak of his voice reflects that, just making him hate himself even more. You don’t seem to notice his vulnerability or, if you do, you aren’t affected by it. You simply raise an eyebrow at him.

“I mean…it’s good,” you say, eyes flitting around the room, like you can’t quite admit whatever you’re going to say while looking him straight in the eyes, “but I want you to fuck me.”

“I am fucking you.” Eren’s frown deepens into a scowl of annoyance. What, is he not good enough for you now?

“Well, literally speaking yes, you are fucking me. But,” a nervous giggle slips from your teeth, riling the anger starting to bubble under his skin again, “I’ve heard a lot of rumors about you.”

“Why are we talking about this while I am literally inside of you?”

“Because I want you to fuck me,” you raise your eyebrows meaningfully, canting your hips up towards him. It clicks– as much as Eren wants to show you what he feels because he can’t tell you, fucking you like an animal, as he’s prone to do, is what you want. Eren’s been so wrapped up in trying to relish whatever time he may have left with you before you inevitably cast him off to the side again, he’s not been paying attention.

“You want me to fuck you, huh?” Eren thrusts forward a little harsher, a little more pointedly. Your eyes roll back, a slow, indulgent smile spreading across your face.

“I want you to fuck me like I know you can,” Eren feels your arms wrap around his neck, pulling his ear to your lips, “unless that last time was all luck. Surely all those rumors aren’t false, are they?”

Eren knows you’re trying to get under his skin, to bite at him through the haze of the heavy air weighing down on both of you, to rekindle that anger that you had brought out of him outside of the bar. What is he going to do with you, incorrigible little thing that you are? If Eren Jaeger was a better man, he would stop this all right now, force you both to talk through the sharp, spiky things that hang in the balance between you two.

But Eren Jaeger is not a better man, he’s only a man, broken and needy and tucked into his favorite place on earth, with the girl of his dreams below him urging him to fuck her brains out. Is he really to blame?

Eren rips himself out of your grasp, standing tall and menacing on his knees over you.

“I’ll fuck you,” Eren grits out through a clenched jaw, grabbing you by the back of your thighs and shoving your knees towards your head, “but you better be ready to put your money where your mouth is.”

“Yeah? Well– oh,” a sharp, shrill cry of your own making cuts your voice off when Eren snaps his hips forward, brutal and unforgiving into the wet heat of your cunt. He doesn’t stop there, immediately pulling out and snapping forward again, hitting somewhere deep inside of you that, based on your face, he knows no man has ever been able to reach. He smirks, all cocky and cruel, setting a harsh pace that’s got you clawing at the sheets.

“What? Is it too much?” Eren whines down at you condescendingly, eating up the way you’re already whimpering and moaning. He can see tears glistening at the corners of your eyes, threatening to fall.

“No, no,” your voice is broken, breathless, “it’s– fuck, it’s so good, Eren–”

“Is this what you wanted?” Eren growls down at you, locking one strong hand around your throat. “Wanted me to fuck you like the little slut you are?”

“Yes!” Your admission comes out in a choked, watery cry, the tears in your eyes finally beginning to run down your temples. Even if it wasn’t written all over your face, Eren can feel how much you like it; your pussy is fluttering, pulsing around him, begging him to keep going. He drives his hips forward like a man starved, a man whose life depends on fucking you until you can’t walk straight for a week.

“Who knew?” Eren muses to himself, wiping the tears from your face. “Who knew my pretty girl was so filthy?”

“I, I–Eren,” you moan wantonly, thighs shaking under his firm grip. Eren should hold himself back, knows that you’re going to be so sore in the morning, but a sick part of him is glad for it. Let you walk around campus with the throbbing ache of him inside of you, maybe he’ll fuck you so hard that little twinge in your belly when you sit down never goes away.

“Say it,” Eren urges, squeezing your windpipe, “tell me how much you love it, tell me how bad this pussy missed me.”

“I–” you choke out around his iron grip on your neck, “I m-missed you, I love it w-when you fuck me–”

“Fuck you like a whore?”

“Fuck me like a w-whore,” you wheeze out, face reddening with shame. Eren loves it, wants to kiss the blush off your cheeks and swallow it whole.

“That’s right, baby,” Eren releases your throat, watches the way you heave and gasp as the air flows back into your lungs, only to be punched out by the force of his thrusts, “you love my cock, don’t you?”

“Yes, I– oh my god, Eren, I–”

“What?” Eren sneers, smirking wickedly down at you, “is my smart girl already so fucked out she can’t talk?”

“No, I– I just– fuck!” You’re so loud for him, if he knew that fucking you within an inch of your life would get him this, Eren never would have bothered playing nice in the first place.

“‘ve barely even started,” Eren laughs, mean and sharp, “and you’re already fucked so dumb you can’t even think. Think you can cum for me, just like this?”

He doesn’t even have to ask; he can feel the way your cunt’s starting to tighten around him so harshly that it nearly pushes him out. He’s bullying his way back into you on every thrust, forcing you to open up for him, to take what he has to give. Inwardly, Eren hopes to god you do cum soon; he’s not going to last, not with you spread out beneath him crying and wailing his name. Eren doesn’t think he can hold out much longer without filling you up, watching his cum seep out of you.

“Eren, Eren, Eren–” your nonsensical babbling has started to take the shape of his name, Eren can feel his ego swelling and swelling to the point of bursting. There’s a tone of warning in your moans; the onslaught of an orgasm is threatening to pull you under.

“Don’t you dare hold out on me,” Eren slaps your thigh hard, the tacky, wet sound of it echoing through the room, somehow finds the wherewithal to piston his hips even faster, “want to feel it, feel you cum on me.”

“I’m going to, I’m going– oh Eren–”

Eren practically snarls, leaning over to spit in your open, waiting mouth. “What are you waiting for? Don’t you–fuck–want your pretty cunt stuffed full of me? I’ll give you yours, just gotta cum for me and give me what’s fucking mine. Go on–”

Eren’s rambling is cut short by the loud, raspy sob you let out, clenching down around him so hard it almost hurts, drawing a loud, long hiss from him. He looks down past your quivering thighs, sees the frothy white that’s streaking his cock, and he’s done for. He grants you a few more sloppy thrusts, and then with one final snap of his hips, he stills, holding himself as deep inside as he can manage, pumping you full of him.

Before he can stop himself, Eren’s crashing into you, bringing your lips to his in a messy, frantic kiss, open-mouthed and teeth clacking together. He can feel your body shaking violently underneath him, rocking with wave after wave of post-orgasm bliss, but he can’t seem to break himself from you, collapsed and clutching onto your smaller frame like it’s the only thing tethering him to this earth.

“Eren,” you finally say weakly, voice muffled as you smack at his shoulder, “you’re heavy.”

“Sorry,” he grunts, rolling off of you reluctantly. Your crumpled, naked form is still there, still so tempting and soft and warm. Your eyes are shut, so you don’t see Eren’s tentative hand reach for your hip, just wanting to rub a thumb comfortingly over the bone there, before he pulls back, second-guessing himself. A few pregnant beats pass by, Eren biting his tongue and holding his breath as he waits for you to make the first move, to direct him into how to speak to you after what’s just happened.

“I need to shower,” you finally say, words coming out in a breathless admission.

“Yeah,” Eren answers lamely, sitting up and looking around your room. There’s postcards from almost every country imaginable, tacked above your desk and fluttering in the breeze from your heating system. The desk itself is a wreck, dozens of papers and books scattered around in seemingly no order. Eren notices a little stuffed teddy bear tossed onto the floor and picks it up with a smile, placing it back against your pillows.

“Are you…”

“Am I…?” Eren looks at you, hoping that his pleading gaze isn’t too horribly obvious.

“I think Historia will kill me if she sees you leaving in the morning.” As soon as the words leave your mouth, Eren swears he can see something like regret fly over your face, and you turn your back to him instantly, scrounging around on the ground..

“I don’t know,” Eren wheezes through his shellshock, trying to force out a nonchalant chuckle that only sounds strangled and tense, “she’s pretty short. I don’t know how she could manage it.”

“You’d be surprised,” you slip a bathrobe over your shoulders and grant him a mirthless smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Eren dresses in the heavy silence that’s fallen over the room, pulling his shirt over his head and having to inwardly brace himself to face you. Eren’s comfortable with himself, probably knows a little too well that he’s an attractive guy, but he feels completely naked even fully clothed when he turns around to see you, standing all cozy and fucked out and sleepy in your fuzzy robe.

“So…” Eren trails off, wanting to smack his own face for speaking first.

“Have a good night, I guess,” you look up at him and then quickly away, chewing nervously on your bottom lip. Eren steels himself, lets every bit of courage he can find in his body rise to his mouth, forcing it to move.

“Are we, you know, good?”

“Good?”

“We said a lot of things to each other back there,” Eren can’t meet your gaze, can practically feel his face burning as he scratches anxiously at the back of his head. When he forces himself to look at you, there’s something odd and unreadable in your eyes. Are you sad? No, you’re smiling. Well, sort of smiling– it looks contrived, not real. But you’re not angry, not entirely.

“Yeah, I’m good if you are.” That stupid, insincere smile is still twisting your features. 

Eren doesn’t like the look of dishonesty on you, but he’s fought enough for tonight. He’s sad, spent, and tired, and he figures it’s hopeless anyway.

“Okay, good,” he makes his way to your bedroom door, fingers twitching for the feel of your skin under his, eyes damn near watering, “I’ll talk to you soon.”

“See ya.”

And with that, Eren’s left alone in the cold of your apartment hallway, alone and sickened by the feelings of satisfaction and longing swirling in his chest.

[cobragardens]

Holy Kittens, Y'all: My Favorite Good Omens Moment Has Gotten EVEN MORE ROMANTIC

Okay so I wrote this post about my favorite moment in Good Omens, and the stuff people are pointing out in the reblogs and comments is blowing my freaking mind, and I HAVE to show you how beautifully this all fits together, like I am flailing at my desk about this.

@vidavalor points out this gif from @soft-ange-aziraphale [Source]:

Here it is in sequence (gifs 1-4 from Fuck Yeah Good Omens):

I can't stop laughing over Aziraphale's smile, which shows, as @quoththemaiden says, that he's "utterly delighted with himself" and knows perfectly well that he's minxing Crowley; and this tiny extension of the moment convinces me even more that Crowley is desperately fighting a smile himself here.

Actually there's a lot in @quoththemaiden's comment that's insightful and well-put:

Totes agree with all of this.

And then. AND THEN!

I knew Crowley was trying to communicate something with this Shakespeare line, but I didn't know what until @paperbunny and @musingsofmaisie put it out there: Crowley is complimenting Aziraphale here, telling him he's enjoying being in Aziraphale's company, telling him his humor worked.

Remember how I keep banging on about how much equivocation Crowley does? This is more equivocation. In 1601, Richard Burbage was 34 years old, so age hasn't had the chance to wither his infinite variety yet. The stupidity of demons and the ignorance of angels regarding the human aging process prevent surveillance from noticing the poor applicability of this line to Burbage, but since the first half of the line fits Aziraphale (who does not age at all) more than Burbage (who is merely not yet old) it stands a chance of indicating to Aziraphale that Crowley is speaking about him. And the underlying true meaning of this equivocal statement would be A DIRECT RESPONSE TO MY FAVORITE MOMENT: Even though I have known you so long, you still surprise and delight me.

(Crowley's Antony & Cleopatra line also accomplishes something else important: it gets William Shakespeare to go away so they can speak privately, because Shakespeare doesn't want them to see him writing it down.)

A Dip Into Speculation

I don't think the evidence for it is binding enough to say for sure, because the evidence is really just that it fits together so nicely and lines up so well with A&C's coded romantic messages in 1793; the (pretty overt, actually, I mean damn) romance in 1827; the size and nature of the fight in 1867; the yeah, really overt romance in 1941; and in 1967; and yes okay now that I'm thinking about it the whole series, but I have this View about how the rest of the 1601 scene goes.

And in fact there is Word of Gods that could be interpreted as evidence against this little pet headcanon I have, though it doesn't necessarily have to be:

Here's my assertion: Aziraphale volunteers to go to Edinburgh for Crowley. Crowley cheats the coin toss to accept Aziraphale's offer and to keep up appearances as a demon. Rather than making a deal with (or asking a favor of) an angel, he's 'cheating' him (without the angel's knowledge, but with his consent), which "moves the dials" of evil a bit and would also make Aziraphale appear less at fault if this instance of the Arrangement is ever discovered by Heaven.

This can coexist with Gaiman's statement, above, that it doesn't even occur to Aziraphale that Crowley cheats the toss. THEE ongoing leitmotif of Aziraphale's view of Crowley is that he thinks of Crowley as much more genuinely evil and much less in need of ways to create cover as evil than Crowley actually is.

(Which is interesting, given that he also clearly thinks that Crowley is not as evil as he pretends to be, that he is and wants to do good, and that he deserves to be an angel again. [There is a whoooole nother essay slowly curdling in the churn in my head about how Aziraphale is obliged to practice doublethink and how that stunts his personal development because that's what happens when people aren't free.])

Here's what I mean when I say Aziraphale volunteers.

Does Aziraphale ask in this tone because he is actually feeling suspicious and curt, or because he has to sound suspicious and curt? He could be perfectly willing to do Crowley a favor and would still need to sound the way he does. It's difficult for me to believe this guy--

--or this guy--

--are really all that bothered by the idea that Crowley might want something from him.

Crowley's response sounds like a(n unconvincing) protest of innocence. Maybe it is. But he doesn't disagree with the premise on which Aziraphale based his question, which means Aziraphale now has confirmation: Crowley called the meeting because he wants to ask Aziraphale to do him a favor.

Close your eyes and listen to Sheen's delivery of this line. The way he says it is so soft it's got no judgy angelic sting to it at all. Is this really a prissy answer to Crowley's semi-rhetorical question? Or is Aziraphale using the cover of a prissy answer to ask Crowley, Is what you want related to the no-good you're up to, i.e., demon work?

Either way, Crowley answers:

Is Crowley making a demonic jibe at Aziraphale in return to "You're up to no good," or is he telling Aziraphale, Yes, what I want from you is related to my work, and to your work, esp. what you've got on right now?

Aziraphale volunteers some information about his schedule and what it is he's got on right now.

--he says, and the velvety way Crowley says "Ohhh," tells us--and could tell Aziraphale--that Crowley already knows this. In this coded communication I'm suggesting, Crowley's tone on "Oh" confirms to Aziraphale that the thing he wants help with does indeed have to do with Aziraphale's trip to Edinburgh.

So Aziraphale gives Crowley his travel details: Yeah, I have a couple of blessings and a minor miracle to perform. It's going to suck; I have to ride a horse.

Crowley's like, yeah, riding horses does suck. You have my sympathies. (Phrasing it as an insult to God: "Major design flaw if you ask me.") And then he says, I have to go to Edinburgh too this week. Tempt a clan leader into stealing some cattle.

And here's where I think Aziraphale volunteers to do Crowley's Edinburgh job for him:

If, as I propose, Aziraphale understands already at this point that Crowley is asking him to take Crowley's Edinburgh temptation, then this response tells Crowley he's willing to do so.

And then they have a little bit of kayfabe theater and a little bit of miscommunication between themselves. Crowley suggests Aziraphale take Crowley's Edinburgh job. Aziraphale protests "You cannot actually be suggesting what I infer you're implying," even though, as Crowley immediately points, out, they've now done this dozens of times.

Now, obviously Aziraphale is pretending innocence here with "You cannot actually be suggesting," etc. But he's not pretending innocence to Crowley. He can't be: Crowley knows about the dozens of other times just like Aziraphale does. So the protest of innocence is for surveillance; it's the spirit, not the letter, of the protest itself that's genuine: I am reluctant about this.

And Crowley misses it.

He reads the surface layer of the equivocation, the Heavenly pearl-clutching; and the surface layer is where he argues. "We've done it before," he points out. "Dozens of times now. The Arrangement--"

But Aziraphale, visibly frightened and looking around, cuts him off. "Don't say that." Getting caught in an Arrangement would be much, much worse than getting caught in a one-off deal.

Why is this suddenly a problem? says Crowley. You know we've been getting away with this; you know they don't check up.

It's not pearl-clutching at all; Aziraphale is worried for Crowley's safety.

When Crowley says--

--is his tone half wheedling and half impatient because that's how he feels, or because it must sound like that? Is it soft only out of courtesy to the other people in the Globe?

There's no difference to the outcome of this scene or the story as a whole whether this romantic interpretation of the Edinburgh bickering is correct, because we've already got a solid base of evidence that the characters have romantic feelings for each other and show each other affection and care in this scene. In my opinion this interpretation fits the tone of the rest of the Globe scene better than only the face-value interpretation. What Gaiman and Mackinnon say about Crowley cheating the coin toss and Aziraphale not being aware of it can still easily apply.

While these three statements together aren't enough evidence to convict, so to speak, if my initial argument about the interpretation of "Buck up!" and Crowley's reaction is correct--and the cool stuff other people have found and pointed out suggests it is AND explains Crowley's Antony & Cleopatra line--this reading of the Edinburgh bickering is, if not ironclad, at least valid.

And holy shit, people, that makes this scene romantic af from beginning to end. I could not have asked for a better little gift from my fellow humans. 🤯I have such a better understanding of the entire 1601 scene because people from anywhere with an Internet connection sat down and spent their time sharing their ideas, and it just makes the lit-nerd lobe of my brain so happy. I love you all, you romantics and nerds and perverts.

[darthstitch]

Professor Mysterious and Professor Wet Cat

This is my take on that Dreamling post making the rounds about Hob and Dream being uni professors and that Hob is surprisingly NOT the prof who overshares and Dream is the one who inadvertently does.

Buckle up, kids, let's have some fun with this. Also, gentle reminder: NOBODY TELL NEIL. SHHHH!

This time around, Hob's using his proper name, Robert Gadling, because it's been a while since he's trotted that one out and he kinda likes the seeming rightness that the once upon a time near-illiterate medieval peasant that he'd been was now teaching at a rather prestigious university. However, he's not prone to sharing much about his personal life to his students. He's still warm and friendly, but he's cautious about letting Certain Things slip.

Hilariously, the things that do slip end up making him everyone's favorite university cryptid. Sometimes Hob slips into Middle English when he's stressed or emotional. Sometimes he might use odd old-fashioned sounding oaths like "God's wounds," "Holy Jesu," and "Mother Mary's teats" (this last one sends everyone into spasms of laughter).

The literature department ADORES him because they can always drag Professor Gadling off to read Chaucer in its original form or even medieval French, his pronunciation perfect and dead on. Shakespeare is the only thing he'll flat out refuse to read because in any universe this Fuzzy Blue Alien's gonna write, his hatred of the Bard is the stuff of legend.

The students universally agree that Professor G is basically British Indiana Jones, because he's also known to have lethal expertise in medieval weapons. There's been more than a few fantasies inspired during the booked-solid outdoor demonstrations where he works in tandem with the other medieval history professors to show everyone how medieval weapons worked. Apparently, his favorite weapons are the longbow, the bastard sword and daggers.

Obviously, this all leads to Professor Gadling being the campus crush and his relationship status is a matter of hot speculation even if he's made it perfectly clear he was not about to violate his ethical standards or position as a teacher. It still doesn't stop the fevered fantasies of more than a few grad students, though. But that's all they're gonna get.

And then, there's the new literature teacher, Professor T. Murphy.

To everyone's disappointment, Professor Murphy is only going to be at the university for a limited series of lectures. Word of mouth spread fast, and his classes were now booked solid and he was going to be asked to return, once his apparently very busy schedule is cleared.

7. Of course, he's an instant campus crush, with the "Goth angel" looks, the Edward Cullen jokes are definitely flying and there's more than a few students melting after they heard him speak. "That Voice" is always referred to in capital letters and it's well deserved.

8. "Campus crush" turns to "Official Precious Blorbo" once the students all discover that behind the whole regal and imperious Goth Prince vibe that he gave off, was an adorkable darling wet cat who was just completely gone on "my beloved." If he's discussing a love sonnet or poem, there's definitely going to be a reference to "my beloved" or "my dearest" or "my love." It's never sickeningly cloying and the sweet tiny little smile that takes over his normally serious face is like sunshine. The kilig feels are real.

9. He's also forever worrying that he's not enough for "my dearest" as he's rather painfully aware "of my lack in human graces" - which everyone translates to "OMG HELP I HAVE THE SOCIAL SKILLS OF A SCRUNKLY WET CAT." He frets that he's somehow failing his beloved, who is infinitely sweet and thoughtful and caring and that Professor Murphy is the selfish one, really, who doesn't deserve the man.

10. The students, of course, immediately ADOPT him. Tesco ice cream runs are done, YouTube videos on cooking and invites to kitchens are extended so Professor Murphy could practice making something that is "not a catastrophic culinary disaster unfit for human consumption." There was a session on the language of flowers, which everyone had enjoyed. For a while, flowers with significant meanings were presented to sweethearts and lovers all over the uni. There's an unforgettable after-class meeting in which the craft-inclined students teach Professor Murphy how to knit and crochet and he was really rather proud of the scarf he had created.

11. Professor Murphy's raven had been rather entertained playing with the yarn scraps. The students learn that the raven's name is Matthew.

12. And then, dashing, mysterious Professor Gadling finally peeks into Professor Murphy's class.

"The things I do for you, myne owne hertis rote. Bloody Shaxberd."

"But you do read him so very well, my love." And there it was, that tiny, soft, sweet smile, now aimed in Professor Gadling's direction.

Professor Gadling sighs and puts a hand over his chest. There's a very familiar scarf draped over his neck. "God's wounds, dove, warn your poor, long-suffering husband before you do these things."

"What 'things,' dearest?"

Professor Gadling waves his arms helplessly. The scarf slips a little, offering a tantalizing view of a purplish mark on his throat. "That thing!" He looks appealingly at the students, who are now all stifling their delighted giggles. "Look at him! My heart can only take so much!"

And that was how everyone found out that Professors Gadling and Murphy were actually happily married.

Incidentally, the Shakespeare reading, in which both professors took part, was a true kilig apocalypse. Instant campus legend.

[gentlebeardsbarngrill]

04/15/2024 Daily OFMD Recap

TLDR; David Jenkins; Taika; Samson Kayo; Kay Buchanan; Nathan Foad; Watch parties; GLAAD LAST DAYS; Fan Spotlight; Love Notes; Daily Darby / Tonight's Taika.

== David Jenkins ==

Okay so I apologize all-- somehow I missed that all the David Jenkins pics going around were NEW. I don't know why but I thought they were from a while back. My taxes brain really has me messed up. So these are from the past 2-4 days. Now it makes a lot of sense too as to why everyone's been honking louder! You can see him there at WB Studios, and yes that is him with OFMD fan-stickers on his laptop.

Source: Kinga Malisz' IG

== Taika Waititi ==

A small glimpse of Taika and his ginormous doe eyes on the set of Klara and The Sun. Src: Vas J Morgan's IG

== Samson Kayo ==

Samson was out in Abu Dhabi U.A.E sporting his Prada Sun Glasses! Chaos Dad and Samba happened to pop into his comments as well! Thanks @ashes-skye for pointing out these great photos! SRC: Samson's Instagram

== Kay Buchanan ==

Our lovely leatherworker Kay Buchanan posted lots of cool things today on her instagram! Stede's Dagger Sheath

Next up was the Gunpowder Pouches for OFMD

== Nathan Foad ==

Some first shots of Nathan in his role in #LovesLabourLost! Src: Royal Shakespeare Company IG

== Watch Party Reminders! ==

== Flight Of the Conchords ==

Season 1 is done! Season 2 starts tomorrow with Episodes 1 and 2! Join Save OFMD Crew, and @/ iamadequate1 this week for Flight of the Conchords watch parties! You can watch each day at 4pm PT, 7 pm ET, 11pm BST! If you don't have access, feel free to join us on the #RhysDarbyFaction Discord server, you can hit me up for an invite.

Hashtags:

#FlagOfTheConchords

#OurFlagMeansDeath

== LAST CHANCE FOR GLAAD ==

Voting closes in two days, get your votes in while you can! Remember: you can vote more than once. 😉🏴‍☠️

IMG Src: @saveofmdcrewmates

== Fan Spotlight ==

One of our crewmates @/RabinaryCode on youtube has put together this cute Queen Parody for Rhys! Give it a listen if you have some time :) Vocals: @ferventrabbitao3

Lyrics: @tanteclem

== Cast Cards ==

To quote @melvisik "Tonight is Ian Alda (yup, related to Alan Alda) playing the clerk... reads notes Clark Clerkwell... person who told Stede he's dead "

== Love Notes ==

Hey lovelies. I hope you all are having a fresh start to your week. I've heard good news and rough news, so I truly hope if you have good news, it stays that way and if you have bad news, it looks up for you!

I really am so glad to see people clowning though. I know no one wants to get their hopes up, but it's nice to see that kind of energy flowing through the fandom again. We deserve a little treat of hope once in a while and it warms my heart how much people are running with it.

Hope is the dream lovelies. All things spring from hope. Don't give up on it. Even when things feel the worst, hope is what keeps us going. I have so much love for you friends. I know we have our bad days, but I hope you know that no matter what happens me and the crew will send you love. We love sharing this space with you. Rest well lovelies. Some quotes about hope tonight:

"The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience." - Emily Dickinson

"The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams." - Eleanor Roosevelt

== Daily Darby / Tonight's Taika ==

Sorry, tonight's theme is just... this interview because every time I see it it makes me smile so horrendously huge. I love them so much and certainly together like this. The goofy bastards. Gif Courtesy of @captain-flint

[ineffably-smote]

Macbeth, David Tennant - A very subjective, spoiler and emotion filled review

Just walking out of seing Macbeth at the Donmar and I have Feelings. Unsurprisingly, I primarily went to see it because David Tennant was in it. I love the play, big fan of Shakespeare but the trip to London was most certainly motivated by a very specific actor. Hence the highly subjective review. Fortunately, I also happen to quite like Macbeth. We studied it at school, and it holds a special place in my heart (back then, Hamlet was my favourite Shakespeare play but honestly, after tonight, I’m not so sure anymore. Anyway, I digress). It was my first time actually seeing an actor I’m a fan of in real life, so obviously the entire time my brain was just going oh my god that’s David Tennant oh my god that’s David Tennant like I actually could not comprehend it. The man I’ve spent hours staring at on a little screen is suddenly real, and right there. So yeah, that took me a hot second.

(Excuse the piss poor image quality, I took this with shaky hands without looking or bothering to focus the cam)

The Staging

Still starstruck and a bit dazed, one thing really really stood out to me: the staging. It was so, so good. I knew it was going to be minimal from the pictures I had seen, and it was, but it was also so insanely real. There were barely any decorations, and half the cast and the musicians were hidden behind a glass screen doing background noises and gestures. From where I was sitting I could not see them much, but could definitely hear them which added to the overall atmosphere. The stage was also really tiny, and the play benefitted incredibly from it. All the action was happening in one tight space that had been put to use incredibly well, particularly the banquet scene but I’ll come back to that because it deserves its own paragraph.

The way they chose to do the soliloquies was so fitting - all the actors start to move in slow motion - everyone else slowing down and just the characters speaking moving was so good, it made sense.

The Headphones

I’m a bit mixed about the headphones. They were amazing for the vibes, we could hear whispers and they really heightened some of the emotional speeches in the play - because when someone is struggling with guilt and trauma it makes sense for them to be mumbling rather than yelling. So that was really great. However, especially in the scenes where the actors where yelling/ loud I preferred to take them off a bit cause it felt more real that way. I’m so used to hearing actors voice on recordings, it does hit different when you can hear them for real. But, as I said, personal preference and that’s what’s nice, you can take them on and off as much as you want.

Famous Speeches

There were three speeches I was quite interested to see how they were going to be adapted - scorpions and dagger for Macbeth, and out damned spot for Lady Macbeth. These are classic, everyone knows the words, the plot but they managed to make it feel real in a new and touching way. I think here the headphones were quite helpful because they allowed the actors to actually whisper parts of those lines. They were so subtle, so embedded in the text they felt so natural which imbued them with all their power. I saw in a review Cush Jumbo’s out damned spot speech be described as “haunting”, and I wholeheartedly agree.

The Macbeths

I didn’t like Macbeth, the character, very much when I first learnt about him. His actions didn’t make sense to me, I couldn’t quite comprehend in my 21st century little brain how he went from I’m super loyal to the King to I will freely murder children for shits and giggles. But now, now I understand. It makes sense, it’s believable. And that’s a mix of the acting choices and teh overall setting. Like the opening scene, instead of presenting Macbeth as a glorious hero, he is presented to us as a traumatised hero. He spends the first few minutes washing the blood of his clothes, haunted by noises from the battlefield. And that sets the themes quite nicely, not ambition, as Tennant specified in an interview, but guilt and trauma. There are so many ways to interpret Shakespeare, that’s the beauty of it, and I think this version of Macbeth just resonated more with me (maybe because ambition I don’t quite understand but guilt I am intimately familiar with? Or maybe because it was David Tennant? I don’t know, probably a bit of both). Tennant delivers a convincing Macbeth. Yes, you can see his ambitions play out, but also his fears, his guilt, and that makes him into a complex three dimensional character that you want to understand.

And I absolutely loved this version of Lady Macbeth. Not just a powerful woman who bullies her husband into become an evil murderer (because again, here we can see traces of that in Macbeth from the start), but an ambition woman in love, with her husband, with power, and not quite healed from the trauma of loosing her child. Again another review said she is more of an enabler than a manipulator and I quite liked that description.

My Favourite Scenes

God the banquet scene. The one with the ghost of Banquo. An absolute masterpiece. I did not expect that scene to hit that hard. It was raw, it was powerful and even if Tennant was facing away from where I was sitting, even without seeing his face I could feel the emotion, the whole audience could. In a video essay on Tennant, @davidtennantgenderenvy highlighted how in almost every role he played, there is it is the classic Tennant breakdown moment, and breakdown moment it was. Not with tears, not as expressive as he sometime is but just enough for a King trying to hold it together but fear and guilt breaking through. I was absolutely overwhelmed and it was beautiful. The set up for the scene was amazing too - there were ceilidh, celebrations, I adored the contrast between these fast pasted scenes and guilt ridden whispers of the couple. And the way everyone sat down around the stage and suddenly it looked like a banquet table ? Just perfect.

Another really cool moment, less on the emotional side but more on the visuals was when Macbeth goes to get the second prophecy from the witches. Almost the whole cast is there, running around, moving, almost dancing and it gives the whole thing a mystical atmosphere. There’s smoke, Macbeth falls, is carried up high Jesus style, cowers, rises, it’s so busy and insane all the while there are whispers and whispers in the headphones - it manages perfectly to feel like a mystical moment.

Descent Into Madness & other cool things

For Macbeth, having the kid running around scene after scene, haunting him, and then scene where he kills him - GOD it’s powerful. Lady Macbeth’s descent into madness was so well characterised, I also loved the glass on the background that locked away some of the cast. Just wild. The actor that played Malcom actor was also really cool, and Macduff and Ross, big fan of all of them.

Overall I am overwhelmed with emotions. Tennant is truly one of my favourite actors - from Good Omens to Staged, Jessica Jones, even Harry Potter but also Mad to be Normal, Nativty, There She Goes, Around the World in 80 days, Doctor Who (god I’ve started a list, never start lists cause you’ll forget people) and so, so many more, I was truly beside myself with excitement and expectations for tonight. And it did not disappoint. I do not want to leave the theatre and I pray they release a recording of this because I want it imprinted on my soul.

(Side note: I don’t know how to use tumblr very well, for some reason whenever I try to reply to ppl it posts from my other blog? Anyway @raquel-and-sergio is in fact me)

[wonyrs]

౨ৎ rain bird

pairing maknae line x fem reader genre fluff , established relationship warnings cursing , food mentions, english isnt my first language

? school life w/ ur enha bf

kim sunoo

somehow u two manage to make the uniforms a tad cuter than anyone else

never getting ur work done in any class fs (but u still pass? its the dawg in u) u two sit in the back of the room and have a whole station just for cute instagram posts

"aww babe u look so pretty today" "really? i should say that to u, love :3" cue the deadpanning from anyone in a mile radius of u

LITERAL GODS OF PHYSICAL TOUCH AND EVERYONE HATES IT. on the way to lunch? holding hands. dodgeball in pe? holding on to each other like ur lives depend on it. the weather a little chilly? "let me warm u up schnookums :>"

half of ur friendgroup think of u two as an ideal couple while the other half is done w ur shit (dw they love u)

when exams are coming up, u two hang out at each others houses to help each other with whatever u guys are struggling with

he has full faith in u passing the exams but still offers to calm u down by singing a song, giving u a massage, ordering ur favourite takeout, or anything that eases ur nerves :(

"don't be scared, y/n. ure the smartest girl i know, so theres absolutely zero chances of u failing this test, believe me!"

yang jungwon

ur boyfriend being a former class president and u being the current class president is either a blessing or karma for something u did in ur past life

"oh my gosh there's so many papers to send off, wonnie can you help me?" "nope, i stopped doing this type of work 3 years ago" before getting up and carrying all the stacks himself

when u mess up during a speech, be prepared for endless teasing while being reassured that u still deserve a spot in the council (thank u for fake tears and ur bf's soft heart)

if u have to stay after school to work on council duties, jungwon stays behind w u and uses the excuse that he needs help on his hw to be by ur side

he still takes the chance to lovingly bully ur ass

"u know, if u just refused the offer of being class prez we could be in my room rn watching the mlb movie" "babe be quiet before i actually lose it and start crying"

however, the longer he's with u, the more concerned he gets when he realizes that u leave school (alone) around 7 pm when the sky is getting dark and all sorts of creeps are walking around

he knows ure capable of protecting urself but his 'spiderman' bf instincts tell him to walk u home everyday no matter how late it is and tune out the fact that he'll get spanked by his mama for returning so late at night

"u forgot something, love. i need 10 kisses minimum for walking u this late, uberjungwon needs his payment!"

nishimura riki

fully believing in the 'hates almost everyone at school but has a soft spot for u' + the rest of enha trope for u two

yes he acts nonchalant to anyone's attempts at flirting w him but the moment u compliment his skills in soccer bro startings twirling his hair and encourages u to say more

"ki u did so good! ure like blue lock fr" "really? i did so good guarding right? and making that goal? and dribbling? right?" yappa yappa yapping /j

during free period, he drags u to the court and has u play a 1v1 with him

uses the excuse of 'fixing ur form' to get as close to u as possible and hes not ashamed of it

"yeah so u just position ur arm right here and-" "ok but can u loosen ur grip on my hips please, focus on the training babe " "shhhh"

OMFG i imagine him asking u out after winning a really important game with enha cheering him on at the back (big bros)

it'll be when u congratulate the team outside of the locker rooms when he just grabs u by the shoulders and professes a whole shakespeare typa love confession

his fangirls drop down sobbing the next day when u two walk in holding hands and he's carrying ur bag for u with the dopiest smile on his face

@ wonyrs 2023

a/n me when i dissappear for a month after my first post, come back with the trashiest post ever and a new layout LESGOOO anyways i hope u guys enjoy this and REMEMBER my requests are open so feel free to ask anything :> divider creds to v6que !! read before requesting !

[kayadrake123]

Random Jason Todd relationship headcannons

Jason Todd x GN!Reader

Jason adores baking. And if there is one thing he loves more than baking, it’s baking for you (he likes reading to you too but we’ll get to that). During the weeks when he’s busy and isn’t able to spend time with you, and visa versa, he shows up at your door with a bouquet of flowers and your favourite desert.

He loves seeing the look on your face when he surprises you, and even more when you’re enjoying the food he makes for you. It makes him feel warm inside when he does domestic shit

He loves cuddling. Yeah, it took some time for him to allow for close intimacy with you, but when he did, he would find any and every reason to get you to cuddle with him.

“Babe, my back hurts. Come cuddle me.” “How will that help?”

Sometimes his excuses are very extreme. Like the time he got stabbed and came through your window and was practically on the brink of passing out.

“Oh my god!” “It’s okay, a few cuddles will make me feel better.” “…Todd, you’re bleeding out on my carpet, I need to get the first aid kit.” “Yeah yeah, we’ll get to that later…”

He’s pretty dirty minded, so of course he makes offside jokes.

“I’m sorry baby.” You told him after you hit him on the head with the cupboard door.

“That’s not enough.” “Ah babe, I’m so sorry I-“ “Give me head as an apology.” “…what?”

He turns into an absolute mother-hen when you’re injured or sick. He just can’t help it. Seeing you in pain really stresses him out, no matter how many times you tell him not to worry.

He loves reading to you as much as he loves you reading to him. Mans will reenact Shakespeare for you, just say the word. He loves speaking about books and poetry and also having deep conversations in general. He truly cares about your opinion on things, and sometimes it even changes his perspective on certain topics too.

When you guys argue, he usually ends up walking out of the conversation, not wanting to say something he’ll regret to you. Sometimes he’ll come back a few hours after he’s collected himself. Other times he’ll be unreachable for a few days, and it stresses you the fuck out, but when he returns he’ll apologise the moment you open your door and will spend the rest of the day/night telling you how much he loves you.

His love language is words of affirmation, but not for him. He loves hearing you tell him how much you love him as sometimes he forgets and convinces himself you deserve someone better.

his love language for himself is definitely a mixture between acts of service and physical touch. He will do the most random shit for you like doing your laundry while you go out to buy something at the store. Or watering your plants. He always puts your phone on the charger too.

He’s always touching you in some way (not always sexual). He likes when you guys link your pinky fingers together when you’re around friends or family. He gives random hugs all the time.

He loves you. Sometimes he can be a bit distant, but with you around, he’s working on it a bit more. You make him feel comfortable and he loves that he can be honest and raw around you. (That’s not the only thing he does that’s raw ;) )

[riveracheron]

eh. might as well post this now. a few of these are wish fulfillment rather than actual theorizing but explanations under the cut

i have an alchemy hyperfixation and all the alchemy stuff in tmagp makes me very excited so a lot of my theories are related to that

spoilers for the pilot btw

main character gets an eye injury - the image will not leave my head. in the magnus institute ruins statement there was this whole thing about redcanary having some kind of encounter with or experience with eye trauma and that feels like something thats just. gonna come up again

another mechanisms va - self explanatory, we need to complete the set. would love to hear kofi or rachel.

gwen has trauma related to something that happened with elias - this is going on the theory that she’s not elias’ counterpart, but a relative of some kind. something spooky happens to him and that pushes gwen to research the paranormal.

character referencing nicholas flamel - all the main characters have names that reference alchemists, and nicholas flamel is probably the most famous alchemist of all time. i doubt he’ll be given the smirke treatment because that kinda already happened with the transphobic wizard books, but someone could be sharing his name.

mag 114 statement is relevant - thats the. hill top road statement that deals with other realities, and anya (the statement giver) could be from the protocol verse. we could totally hear about the aftermath of her departure

alice/sam/gwen = three primes - the three main alchemical symbols on the OIAR crest, and a good sort of symbolic trio sorter. the three peimes are salt, sulphur and mercury, and are the basis for alchemy. the down to earth, reliable salt, the firey, unpredictable sulfur, and the adaptable, easygoing mercury. i think these could apply i just want to have it called out in universe

lena is a good person - i don’t think they’d pull the evil boss thing twice. i just think lena’s weird mannerisms are from her autistic swag

celia is related to or is agnes - (related to as in. her story involves agnes, not that shes like. a sister.) this comes from a theory by @/pinklotjeart, i think. basically: through the way her death was described (spark returned to the lightless flame) and some timeline discrepancies and general avatarness making it weird, agnes might not be Dead dead. and celia’s counterpart, lynne - well, she saw a fire ghost. also, both her and agnes are the only non one-off characters who have shakespeare names afaik. agnes MONTAGUE, celia from as you like it…

annabelle cane is related somehow - self explanatory, she was at hilltop road when everything went down. might have been pulled in.

a famous alchemist is robert smirke’d - self explaining, give me more canon historical figures jonny

another kitty cat - i want more kitty in podcast is that a crime

augustus is not jonah - we hear jonah’s voice as ben meredith in 193, so im skeptical that tim fearon’s character is jonah for that reason.

oiar group has a messy moment that devolves into actual physical violence - mmm angst i think they deserve to smack eachother around a bit

bonzo cult - yeah.

oiar found family - we got the group of coworkers that hate each other angst last time gimme the “hurting one to get to the others” and self sacrifice angst this time

colin dies early - mmmm i cant say much about this bc its based on one throwaway line at the MCM panel where jonny doesn’t mention colin in the main character group. so . death flags.

oiar is containing the entities scp style - this was a super early theory of mine, either this or theyre using them for power or energy in some way. even more heavy handed capitalism metaphors yay

someone gets ushanka’d - its computer horror: the podcast. that’s all

cookbook statement - a few clues in the ARG had to do with cookbooks, and alex and jonny have already said they’re getting weird with the statement formats (they mentioned an insurance report!) so. cookbook doesn’t seem too far-fetched

tiktoker/influencer character - archives was 2010s and they had a podcaster and youtuber, which were like. the big things. whats the hip trend now??? instagram and tiktok baybee

protocol editors va a small role a la mag 100 or the wtgfs cult - those characters were voiced by other rq team members (ie helen as laverne and martyn as robin) and the team has since expanded!! some editors dis stuff for cry havoc, so im guessing nico, annie, april and others will get a small role!

a villain’s goal is creating the philosopher’s stone or other alchemical thing - tmagp is heavily inspired by alchemy, and the philosopher’s stone was the main goal of alchemy!! it would grant you eternal knowledge snd the ability to turn lead into gold- which seems like a good. evil dude’s ambition

the desolation gets more focus - the institute burned down, the oiar crest has a lot of sulfur symbols (the fire element), alchemy as a whole having to do with fire, celia and her connection- it paints a very. lightless flame picture

trip to germany - a lot of the arg was set in and around berlin, and there was that exchange between sam and colin about german in the pilot! i could see a germany trip happening in the same way jon took a trip to china and america.

[theadorableapprentice]

You Must Be Mad

MC x Solomon Warnings: Fluff Word Count: 894

A/N: Another Solomon story... But my next story will be either Satan, Barbatos, or Belphegor as I have stories planned for all three of them! I hope you enjoy this!

You were pacing in your bedroom, completely lost in your own thoughts. Not even the nasty weather outside could distract you. 

Did he really love you too? Was Asmo right? No, there was no way. Solomon keeps everyone at arms length… But Asmo would know better than anyone… Right? I mean, he seems to know Solomon the best. And Asmo had a point. Solomon does try to spend a lot of time with you. He would drop anything to help you. And there was that one time you thought he was going to kiss you… But surely you misinterpreted what was happening. Surely. 

Lightening strikes outside and you don’t stop thinking about it. Thinking about every interaction.

“MC, I saw this trinket while I was out and it reminded me of you… So here you go!”

“MC, I saw a cat that reminded me of you! Would you like to see?”

“MC, I have to go to the human world to pick something up for Diavolo. Do you want to come with? We can stop by that store you really like.”

Okay, so maybe he did go out of his way to spend time with you… But that doesn’t mean he has feelings for you. Those are totally things friends do too. 

You could almost hear Asmo’s voice in your head refuting that. “Yes, friends can do those things, but not Solomon. Stop denying it.”

Why were you denying it? If he had feelings for you back, that would be great, right? So why hasn’t he said anything? No, you know the answer to that. Fear of rejection and also there’s the whole thing of him losing so many loved ones so confessing to you could bring him more pain in the end… But wait, why should he have to confess anyways? 

No, you’re going to confess to him. You’re going to do something big and dramatic for him because he deserves that. He does big and dramatic things for you, so why shouldn’t you do something for him? But what should you do? Actually, you knew exactly what you were going to do. And hopefully he would find it equally as sweet as he will funny. 

Standing in the pouring rain outside of his window at Purgatory Hall, you wondered why you thought this was a good idea. You cast a small spell that would amplify your voice so Solomon could hear you over the rain and the thunder. 

“But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Solomon is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief, that thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. Be not her maid since she is envious. Her vestal livery is but sick and green, and none but fools do wear it. Cast it off.”

Solomon appeared at the window, opening it and looking really concerned. “MC? What are you doing out there? You must be mad coming here like this!”

You smiled. “It is my gentleman, O, it is my love! O, that he knew he were! He speaks, yet he says nothing. What of that?”

Solomon looked even more confused, but a slight blush dusted his cheeks. “MC, are you quoting Shakespeare at me?”

You tried not to laugh. You skipped ahead a few lines. “He speaks! O, speak again, bright angel, for thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my head.”

Solomon let out a small laugh. “Hold on, MC.” Solomon closed his window and a moment later the front door opened and he met you outside in the pouring rain. “It’s a little wet to be outside, don’t you think?”

“I find it increases the drama.” 

“And, why exactly are you dramatically quoting Shakespeare to me?”

You gently grabbed his hands in yours. “Solomon the Wise, the most wonderful sorcerer and best human being I know, you mean more to me than I can describe with words. When I see you or hear from you, my heart does a little happy dance.”

“MC, I-”

“Solomon, let me finish. You are one of the smartest, funniest, kindest, and most chaotic people I know. Now that you’re in my life, I would feel as if something were missing if you were gone. All of this is to say, I’m quoting Shakespeare at you because I am without a doubt in love with you… And if Asmo tells me to tell you one more time I might have to strangle him.” You chuckled at the end of that, but smiled up at Solomon.

Solomon chuckled too. “Yeah, he can be a bit persistent, can’t he? MC, you didn’t have to do all of this for me. A simple ‘I love you’ text would’ve sufficed.”

You shook your head. “No way. You deserve big dramatic gestures of love. So now that we have that established, can we have the classic kiss in the rain?”

Solomon was about to say yes when lightening struck a tree not too far away from you guys. “Maybe we should skip that and go inside.”

You hurriedly nod and follow him into Purgatory Hall. 

Not so unfortunately, you and Solomon got sick and spent the week together. You could’ve probably used magic to make things better, but where was the fun in that?

[aledethanlast]

Jeremy shows up to practice fifteen minutes early and finds Jean in the team lounge. "This is for you," he says.

Jean expects those words, like all the other times he's heard them, to be accompanied with a bright smile and flowers, or chocolate, or a plate of whipped cream to the face—don't worry, revenge was had—but instead finds himself staring at...a note.

White flash card, folded twice, one corner bent back down halfway for no good reason at all, and the memories hit Jean like a racquetto the head. How many of those noted had he been given? Shoved into hands without stopping to look and passed on just as quickly.

Jean is a man of instincts. Reflexes. Ingrained responses so deep the brain need not bother, for the body already knows.

And this note is a cue his body knows too well. One, take the note before anyone can think to come near it. Two, shove it into his pocket before anyone can see. Three, storm down the hall to tell Kevin that he is NOT waiting for 45 minutes again while he agonizes over a two fucking sentence response, and—

The door opens again, San Diego sunlight blinding him as two more teammates come in, and Jean remembers Kevin isn't here. Which means. Which means.

He unfolds the paper too quickly—it would've torn if it had been thinner, but the thick flash card just gets stuck. Typical. Holy shit, typical.

Thea's handwriting is the same precise script as ever (except the lowercase g's for some reason). The letters are smaller than the guidelines, like she didn't know how much space she needed to write everything she wanted to say.

Hi Jean. Kevin says you're doing well. Or rather, Kevin says that Jeremy says. Not that I think Jeremy would lie, but there's only one messenger I've every really trusted, and that's you. I'll be in SD sometime next week. Give me a call.

A phone number is scrawled beneath. No signature. Overall, it takes just over half the card; either she miscalculated or she had more to say but instead chose self censure. Both options are unlike her.

The myriad pieces of Jean's mind read the note, over and over, all slightly out of synch from one another so rather than comprehension he only gets nose.

"Jean?" Jeremy's had on his shoulder, concerned. Jeans hand jerks upwards, sharply, and then he brings it back down as he turns to face Jeremy, pretending he hadn't been this close to stuffing the note in his mouth. "You good, man?"

Good question. Great, even. Jean has a better one. "Who gave you the note?"

Jeremy frowns even harder. It doesn't suit him, brow furrowed like that when he isn't trying to run through a backliner like they're made of tissue paper. "Coach Rhemann came back from Texas this morning, told me Muldani gave it to him. With very specific instructions not to open it. I met Coach, he gave it to me."

Of course. Thea doesn't ask for things; it's the first piece of advice she ever gave him. If you want, and you can, then do it. Forget who might stand in your way; they can only try, same as you.

"Jean?" Jeremy asks again. "What did the note say?"

Thea wanted to pass a message to Jean without Jeremy in the way. Well, maybe fuck what Thea wants. Jean hands him the note. Jeremy skims it, raises a brow. "What does she mean, that she only trusts you?"

His concern, born of meeting Jean back at Abby Winfield's house and fed by the steady trickle of Jean's stories of the Nest, seems momentarily absurd. "The Ravens weren't allowed to date," Jean says simply, as he had many times before. When Jeremy seems to catch on, he nods at the note. "I was their favorite messenger. Well. I was the only one who wouldn't sell them out."

"Why didn't you?"

Because Kevin was his friend. Because Thea deserved better than anything the Nest could ope to give her, much less dare to deny. Because every breath Jean took in protest to that tar pit came filled his lungs just a little bit deeper.

"Because then I got to read Kevin's love letters."

Jeremy's eyes go wide. "Shakespeare?"

"Poe."

Some teammates turn at the sound of their captain's laughter. More turn when they hear him hit the floor. Jean gives them all a plain look.

He takes the note back from Jeremy's twitching fingers—it's best to let him wear himself out on such occasions—and stares at the phone number.

Thea does not ask, she acts. If Thea wants to come down here and see him, then nothing stands in her way.

Except Jean. If he doesn't call, if he doesn't show, he's sure she won't push. She will never call or text or write a note to him again and all he has to do is nothing.

The thought rumbles through the dark halls of his mind that still belong to the Nest, like a freight train pushing forward too much air, pushing, pushing until the wall ahead falls apart from the pressure and—

Sunlight. The lounge door is open again. More teammates, almost late, confused by their laughing captain.

Jean takes out his cell.