#Shakespeare writes the outsiders

[b4kuch1n]

gonna start subjecting u lot to my rambling abt classic viet authors

[onconstellationstreetmp3]

i dont like kenneth branagh’s whole thing & i dont like the apparent mcu-ification of hercule poirot but i will not lie & say i dont love agatha christie style whodunnit murder mysteries making a bit of a comeback now

[polaraffect]

planning classes has me going "hehehe *kicking my feet*" but i know as soon as i actually have to attend those classes my brain is going to be like "😐😐😐"

[juleworm]

this novel my grandma has me reading is so immeasurably difficult to read and comprehend i’m dying

[shitpostingkats]

I propose we add “writing fanfiction” to the list of fundamental human behaviors.

Hearing stories, loving stories, then turning around and telling them all over again but with a slight twist is how we got some of the most celebrated works in history; Arthurian legend, the Trojan cycle, Shakespeare. For the entirety of history, people having been building on eachother in collaborative narrative tradition and supplementing existing works with genre changes, character additions, reframings, zoomed in perspectives, zoomed out perspectives, and good ol’ fashioned random additions.

When you explore those spaces between words and fill them with art of your own creation, you’re participating in one of the oldest practices in human culture.

[stormsthatrage]

It bugs me that so many people's default example of published fanfic is 50 Shades of Grey.

What about West Side Story, a famous modern AU of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet?

What about Dante's Inferno, a self-insert RPF if I've ever seen one?

What about Wicked, a pre-canon AU of The Wizard of Oz?

Hell, what about Percy Jackson? There's definitely an argument to be made that that's a modern AU of various Greek myths.

Humans have been writing fanfic as long as they have been telling stories. In about the year 20 BC, our dear Roman poet Ovid wrote the Heroides, a series of aggrieved "letters" from the female characters of famous myths to their respective male heroes. Are you telling me that Ovid, writing a letter from the perspective of Queen Dido to Aeneas -- Aeneas, whose fantastical adventures were put into poem by Virgil -- wasn't writing an outsider-POV fic? A fic that is, in fact, translated in Latin classes world-wide today!

There is so much famous fanfic out there, but people tend to forget that it is fanfic once it becomes mainstream enough. And as a consequence of that, people who aren't into fandom don't see how beautiful fanfic is, and some members of fandom feel shame associated with writing and reading fic. But fanfic is beautiful, and it is something humans have always done, and it is nothing to be ashamed about.

So if you ever find yourself in a situation to give an example of published fic, think outside the box. Remember that published fanfics hide in plain sight; once they're famous enough, we no longer think of them as fanfic. And never forget that fanfic is a very, very old human tradition, and your ancestors who partook in it would not have wanted you to feel ashamed of it.

[lactoseintolerentswag]

Rise Characterizations Pt. 3!!!

Now that Leo and Raph are done, it's Donnie's turn for character analysis as a writing reference. So without further ado,

Donnie Character Notes

Language Habits:

Straight up talks like a redditor who hasn't touched enough grass (affectionate)

Oscillates between very scientific paper polished, sometimes adding a dazzle of shakespearean for dramatics, or abbreviations/a shorter version of a word with a more fun connotation (i.e. "brekkie" instead of breakfast)

Uses food as surprised exclamations or curses, "oh my peaches and cream", "banana pancakes!"

Emphasizes each syllable of a long word when he's excited or trying to make a point. Conquered becomes con-qu-ered

Either exaggerates his speech or speaks in deadpan

The science terms he uses as battle cries aren't chosen at random, but rather are related to the action/subject at hand, i.e. yelling "fibonacci" when throwing his spinning tech-bo

Will overly describe an item or a situation, and often gets caught up in these observations before processing what just happened

Will repeatedly yell "help!" when he's distressed and/or outnumbered

Refers to Mikey as "Michael"

Refers to his brothers as "brethren" or "gentlemen"

Refers to splinter as either "father", "papa", or "dad" depending on the weight of the situation

Refers to his tech as his "babies"

Answers the phone with, "You're conversing with Donatello"

Uses "gesundheit" instead of bless you

Personality:

The fixer, he supplies the family with tech and resources. He always has a trinket made for the situation at hand and/or offers his knowledge/data collected. He's always prepared to help. Even with outside resources, he likes to feel useful in solving their problems (i.e., building Todd that dog park)

The theater kid, in a similar vein to leo, Donnie has his own style of dramatics. He often uses shakespeare-like language, is mentioned to regularly recite the jupiter jim musical soundtrack, and has a music mode for his battle shell. He belongs on a stage, or at least thinks he does

Not good at lying, despite the glamour he can put on in the spotlight. This may be due to the side of himself that over explains his thoughts

An over-thinker, who really tends to over-complicate things. His first theory or idea will always be the most extreme buck-wild concept. After some filtering, he still word vomits

A dreamer/big idea guy. He does have big ideas and goals. A lot of these he's able to put into place, although some go a little haywire (see Albearto). He doesn't do things in halves, and puts everything into a project

Meticulous, someone who's very detail oriented. As mentioned before he tends to over-complicates things. This may be impacted by his love for data and collecting information (he does record Everything for a reason)

Always on the edge of violence, which is surprising. Donnie's not known as being the angry archetype of tmnt, but he can get a little violent in his fighting style and does often cite his desire to use lethal force

Low empathy, which is mainly due to his issues processing and recognizing emotions. He's been pegged as unemotional, but in canon he's rather emotional and expressionate, just lacking the skills to process such emotion (he's just like me fr)

Praise motivated, as seen with his interactions with Splinter. Also desires the praise of his brothers, who he doesn't feel understand him with all the teasing that's sent towards his direction. This also pushes him to seek validation and acceptance in other groups (i.e. the purple dragons), to feel a sense of security or belonging

Ignores his own mistakes, and will often pretend like they didn't exist or ever happen. This most likely has to do with his desire for praise, so he feels bad when he fails. If he never made a mistake, he never has to feel bad

Miscellaneous:

Fourth to unlock mystic powers

Uses "Bootyyyshaker9000" as most of his usernames and passwords, with his alt. username being "Alpha-Bootyyyshaker9000"

Has a fear of bees, spiders, and of course beach balls

Breaks the fourth wall the most

Loves the smell of pineapple, hates the texture

Has a hobby of rooting around in the junkyard and dumpster diving

Uses cheat codes in video games

Mikey's next of course :)

[coco-loco-nut]

Book Club - Part 3

Pairing: Grid X Reader, Lance X Reader

Summary: lewis get a new song inspired by one of the book they read that week, a little lance relationship focused as well

a/n: even as an avid reader, i struggle so much choosing books for this 🥲, sorry if this one sucks

requests open 🫶✨ masterlist

—————————

“Alright boys, get ready to swoon!” You pull out copies of your chosen book, The Dead Romantics. After reading classics and adventure, and thrillers, you chose chick-lit. It had been recommended on other book club chatboards, so you deemed it safe for the guys.

“Same time, same place next week,” Daniel grabs a book and walks out. The rest file out of the motor home, books in hand. You follow Fernando to Aston Martin.

“Lance, your girlfriend is here for you,” Fernando calls for him before you can. “Good choice, I enjoyed this one the last time I read it,” Fernando says before walking to his room, leaving you stunned.

“Hello, mon cœur,” Lance kisses you before grabbing your hand and taking you to his room.

“What is the book this week,” He asks once you cuddle up on the couch. Since he found out about the club, he’s been reading the books with you.

“The Dead Romantics, first one to finish gets to choose the next date,” you hand him his copy before starting your own. Lance’s assistant brings in coffees and breakfast for you both while you read.

“When we get married, would you change your last name, combine ours, let me take yours, or leave our names as is,” Lance asks after a few minutes of comfortable silence.

“Hmm, I like the sound of Y/n Stroll, but maybe I’ll still race under my name,” you decide, paying attention to the books, thinking about the predetermined discussion questions.

“Fuck,” Lance groans after his phone went off, quickly bookmarking his page.

“What’s wrong baby?” you ask, bookmarking yours as well.

“I have a meeting with Dad in a few minutes,”

“Oh, want me to come along? I love your dad,” you run your fingers through his fluffy hair.

“It’s okay, it’ll take a while. You are more than welcome to stay here or go and get ready for the drivers parade. Either way, I will see you after,” he kisses you before gathering a couple things and heading out. You finish another chapter and head to your motorhome, dressing yourself in team gear and redoing your hair. Lance waits for you outside your team garage.

By next week, you both have finished the book and have been raving about it to people, you even sent a copy to George. You won the challenge, although you were sure Lance let you win.

“Have fun at your meeting, you are literally bouncing in excitement,” Lance laughs, kissing the side of your head and leaving you in front of Haas’ hospitality. You quickly find the club, who are equally happy with your pick.

“That was the best romance book I’ve read in a while,” Daniel starts off.

“It was my second time reading it. Much better than the first time,” Fernando agrees.

“And the plot twist!” Nico gasps, all of you nodding along.

“I wrote a song about it,” Lewis says nonchalantly, causing you all to pause.

“Lew… what?” You can’t imagine how one would write a song about it. The book was good, but it wasn’t Shakespeare.

“Yeah, the broken hearts, the forbidden nature of their love, separated by the paranormal, the spiciness of the ending. It inspired me, almost like all those songs for Fifty Shades of Grey,” Lewis explains.

“I don’t know how that would work, but I am sure that you made it work,” Kevin says as Lewis pulls out his phone.

You heard some of his music before, and you knew he could sing and his writing was pretty good. Unfortunately, this was not the case. The singing was great, but the lyrics were a little too… sappy for his style. It wasn’t even sensual, he was just singing about falling in love with someone you shouldn’t.

“That was great, Lewis,” Daniel encourages Lewis,

“If racing doesn’t work out, maybe you will have a career in music,” Valtteri offers, maybe you were the only one who wasn’t a fan.

“He already does, he was featured on a song,” Fernando rushes to pull it up on his phone. You swear he is the proud father of everyone in the room.

“Oh! We should do karaoke!” you gasp, excited at the thought.

“I like the way you think,” Daniel grins at you. It is usually never a good thing when you both get excited about an idea, it tends to end up with alcohol and regret, but never fails to be fun.

“My liver can take that right now, I would participate,” Checo says, leading the group in agreeing.

You and the other drivers rent out a bar the next night and make sure karaoke is set up, Lando DJs in the meantime.

“I’m going to sing my song!” Lewis tells you over your jolly rancher shots.

“Slay!” you cheers the shots, tap the glass to the bar, and take the shot. “I think I’m gonna sing Post Malone,” you reply, and Lewis drags you to sign up. Lance appears beside you, slipping an arm around your waist as he looks at the paper.

“Babe, what song is ‘Why Don’t You Love Me’, I have never seen it on an album,” Lance asks and you tell him its origin. “Oh, that’s funny, I’ll film it,” he writes both of your names down for Total Eclipse of the Heart.

A few shots later and Lewis kicks it off with his song, it is actually a lot better drunk. You follow him up with the meme song, getting everyone laughing, before Lance joins you. The two of you surprisingly sounded very good when you rewatched the video the next day, then posted it to your Instagram story.

“Never. Again.” Kevin groans the next morning as Valtteri walks in, excited to talk with the group.

“That was fun! When are we doing that again?”

[longing-for-the-past-times]

Their reaction to seeing you reading

Task Force 141 x Reader headcanons

notes: I don't know if this was done before, but once I got the idea, I couldn't get it out of my head before writing it down. This is my first time writing headcanons, I hope I did the characters justice :). Let me know what you think about it!

find it on a03 masterlist

Captain 'John' Price

He is headed towards the lounging area after staying overtime because of due paperwork. It is already dark outside and, when he sees the lights on, he thinks someone just forgot them that way.

You may understand his surprised reaction when he sees you sitting cross-legged on the couch, a book in your hands.

“Nearly gave me a heart attack, kid!”

You give him a sheepish smile and hide your face behind the book, staying true to the principle: out of mind, out of sight. You didn’t mean to stay long - you just wanted to finish the chapter. But it ended in a cliffhanger so you had to at least begin the next chapter and the vicious cycle went on.

It doesn’t take him long to realise that you are, in fact, holding a book. And he can’t hide his grin when he figures you must have lost track of time because of it.

“Didn’t take you for a reader, kid!”, he raises an eyebrow as he joins you on the couch, his eyes drifting to the cover. “And certainly did not know you read classics!”

“Always full of surprises, Captain!”, you smile at him as you look around, searching for something. A triumphant smile graces your lips when you find the piece of crumpled paper, and you proceed to put it on the page you remained at, before closing the book.

Definitely asks you about the book you’re reading and what else you’ve read, proceeding to compare your literary preferences

He may not read as much as he did when he was younger, but he can and will boast with the filled bookshelves he has at home

Encourages your reading habits when you are at the base and brings you reading snacks when you decide to spend your evenings in the base’s lounging room, curled up with whatever book you’re reading at the moment

Might sometimes join you with a book of his own. Nobody dares to say anything about the two operators who occasionally spend their lunch break with their noses stuck in a book.

Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley

Never been much of a reader as he simply did not have the time, or the available resources

So at first, he does not understand why you are sobbing by yourself in the kitchen, frantically highlighting something with a neon marker

Who did that to you? Did he need to hunt down someone?

It was when he got closer that he realised you were actually reading something and the content must have made you upset

No problem, he’ll track the writer down and-

"Oh, Ghost, didn’t see you there!", you looked up at him, a shy smile on your face.

He is at a loss for words and ends up nodding towards the open book: “Is it any good?”

“Well, I think it would be an insult to say Shakespeare is ‘just good’, don’t you think?”

All he’s thinking of are those literature classes he should have paid more attention to.

He quickly steers the conversation in another direction, asking you about training and whatnot. Something blooms in his chest when he sees you setting the book away in an instant, a warm smile gracing your features as you turn your attention towards him.

He spends the following evening researching Shakespeare’s works as much as he can. He’d caught a glimpse of the book you’d been reading, Hamlet, and he ends up ordering an annotated copy.

It takes him an entire week to get through it, but the look on your face when he asks you about the book is priceless.

You spend the entire afternoon talking about it (you talk, he mostly listens), and he was surprised he didn’t notice your reading habits earlier. When you talked about books, you could light up the room with your enthusiasm and passion.

Is the kind of man who would build you a bookshelf from scratch

“Your books wouldn’t fit in a standard bookshelf anyway. And I can paint the wood to match the tone of your walls.”

Sergeant John "Soap" MacTavish

The type of man that says he’ll wait for the movie to come out

And if there is a book adaptation, he'll definitely make you watch it with him to prove his point

You spend the next hours pointing out why the book was better than the movie, while he tries to convince you otherwise

Constantly teases you about your reading habits, but secretly, he loves to watch you read. The array of emotional states you seem to go through when reading fascinates him.

"Maybe we should start calling you Belle from now on, bonnie. You know, the Belle from Beauty and the Beast - the one who's always with her nose stuck in a book?"

One day a recruit decides to prank you and hides your current read in the men's showers.

Soap takes note of your distracted state, but doesn't push it. He knows you'll come to him when it feels right.

Until he stumbles upon what was left of your book when preparing to take a shower. He recognizes it only by the vibrant colour of the cover as the pages are wrinkled and illegible, due to the water exposure.

It does not take him long to find the culprit. He was too busy boasting about his "achievement" to his team-mates, in the locker room.

Soap makes sure he regrets his actions by assigning him to latrine duty for the following month.

He also makes it his personal mission to buy you another copy of the book. The only problem is that he does not remember the title. Or the author. Or the plot.

"It has this orange cover, with two people on it! And there's white text on it too!"

Safe to say, the librarian is unimpressed by his comprehensive description.

So he has to spend an entire night scrolling through an online library page to find it.

But it's all worth it in the end. He'll never forget the shocked expression on your face when he handed you the hastily wrapped book. Or the wide smile that spreads across your face, followed by a tight and warm hug.

He might buy you more books in the future, just to have you grin at him like that.

Sergeant Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Like Ghost, he didn't particularly care for reading. It was not that he didn't like it, he just had other priorities

He wasn't even aware of your reading habits until you were both stuck in a safe house, waiting to be evacuated.

You were leaning against the wall, next to him, when you pulled a book out of your pocket.

He had to do a double take- why did you have a leatherbound book in your pocket? Were you carrying it throughout the entire mission? What if you got shot - was the leather thick enough to stop the bullet if it got past your tac vest?

"Gaz, you're staring."

"Just took me by surprise, love."

You playfully rolled your eyes at the endearment, your hand leafing through the pages.

He knew you could feel him watching you, but he couldn't help himself. He felt like he just unlocked a new part of your personality.

"Is it any good?"

"Do you want to read it?"

"I wouldn't mind you reading to me..."

Once again, you rolled your eyes in fake annoyance but complied with his request and went back to the beginning of the chapter.

The story was quite gripping, something about a rich bachelor who must be in search of a wife. Kyle tried to focus on the story, but he was more intent on enjoying your calm and soothing voice.

He unintentionally fell asleep and you did not realise until you felt the weight of his body leaning against your shoulder.

As retaliation, you forced him to join you on a trip to the library. He did not bother to hide the fact that he did not see it as a punishment, not when he knew it would make you happy.

He let you drag across the entire fiction section and patiently listened to you describing all the books you've read. He also took a lot of mental notes on the books you intended to read in the future- if only the covers did not look so similar!

Eventually discovers he's more of an audiobook person.

So he would listen to the novel you were currently reading, excited to meet with you at the end of the day and discuss it with you.

[tismrot]

HOW FATAL IS YOUR GOOD OMENS BRAINROT ? a checklist

Give yourself a point for everything that applies to you.

LEVEL 1 [ ] I have seen both seasons.

[ ] I can name at least one character that isn’t Aziraphale or Crowley.

[ ] I know that Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman wrote the book. Points: [ ] of 3

---

LEVEL 2 [ ] I have seen both seasons more than once.

[ ] I know I can write “Aziraphale” without spelling it wrong. Bonus point if you have actually written the name anywhere, for any reason.

[ ] I have had a conversation about Good Omens with a person outside of the internet in the last 3 months. Points: [ ] of 3 + [ ] bonus points --- LEVEL 3 [ ] I experienced any negative feeling beyond "ouch, that sucks for them!" after the ending of season 2.

[ ] I have looked up anything related to Good Omens, Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett, Michael Sheen or David Tennant in the last 3 months.

[ ] I know what #payyourwriters refers to.

[ ] I have had at least one (1) thought about Crowley or Aziraphale (or both). Bonus point if you told anyone (Tumblr counts).

[ ] I read the book before the show came out. Points: [ ] of 5 + [ ] bonus points ---

LEVEL 4 [ ] I have seen both seasons more than three times and some scenes more than that.

[ ] Somebody watched Good Omens because of me. One extra point for each additional person!

[ ] I catch myself thinking about Good Omens when I should be thinking about other things.

[ ] I have listened to Queen more than I usually do during the last 3 months.

[ ] I have read or listened to the book (don’t have to have read/heard all of it for 1 point) after season 1. Points: [ ] of 5 + [ ] bonus points ---

LEVEL 5 [ ] I have analyzed the lyrics of most of the songs and experienced moving emotions.

[ ] I have either made a new account or revived an unused account somewhere ONLY to browse Good Omens related media. One bonus point for each additional new/renewed account. (Renewed = you haven't touched it in at least 2 years)

[ ] I have watched at least 5 videos on YouTube about Good Omens.

[ ] I no longer blush while reading fics.

[ ] I have a stash of saved images on my phone/IG account/Pinterest/other I would very much not like anyone to see.

[ ] I have made any game character look like characters from the show. Three bonus points if you googled 'south downs cottages' while playing The Sims. Points: [ ] of 6 + [ ] bonus points ---

LEVEL 6 [ ] I have genuine, tangible heartbreak due to Good Omens, and I have experienced heartbreak before - so I know what it feels like. (Friend/platonic/aro heartbreaks count, ofc.)

[ ] I have shared my support for the strikers multiple times.

[ ] I know more than I’d like to know about the anatomy of male snakes.

[ ] I have published Good Omens related media - fics, artwork, big metas (spent more than three hours researching/writing it), music, videos. Bonus point if this happened on a recently created or renewed account.

[ ] I have had dreams about something Good Omens-related. If this was a spicy dream, collect 3 extra points.

[ ] Things that shouldn’t remind me of the show, reminds me of the show. (Flies, clocks, ducks, classical music, drinking coffee, anything related to England, biblical references, etc.)

[ ] I have a set of beliefs and theories that I stick to - example: coffee theory, body swap theory, Crowley is Raphael, etc. Bonus point if any of these are genuinely from your own head.

[ ] I have a favorite Crowley (Bildaddy?).

[ ] I have listened to other people’s Good Omens themed playlists/music on YouTube or Spotify. Points: [ ] of 9 points + [ ] bonus points ---

LEVEL 7 [ ] I have experienced a spike in learning/skill after watching the show. (Read Shakespeare, history, philosophy, books mentioned, shown or referenced l, learned or improved a craft and any other neuron connection boosting activity).

[ ] I have experienced an increase in my preferred destructive coping mechanism after watching the show, but I’d rather have it this way than not having watched it.

[ ] I have been sad that I am not an immortal, celestial being fighting for the opportunity to finally be with my soulmate and lover, another immortal, celestial being forced to work for a rival oppressive government, after 6000 years of queer yearning and forbidden desire. I have been sad that I - due to human life expectancy, at the very least - can NOT experience such love. Ever.

[ ] Good Omens has affected my sexuality (kinks, roleplay, thoughts, type of desired partner, etc.)

[ ] I know what the archangel Michael’s ring looks like, and what it’s modeled after.

[ ] I have made my own playlist with music reminding me of Good Omens.

[ ] I have had trouble sleeping because I thought about my fic narrative (even if I haven’t started writing it yet), unfinished drawing, video idea or similar.

[ ] I can, with worrying accuracy, correctly guess the episode when watching a scene from the show.

[ ] I read an insane amount of layered theories and possible references and so on, into every word said by Aziraphale and Crowley, to the point where watching is difficult because I get so many fan theories in my head I have to write down.

[ ] I want to travel to London. Bonus point if you already have been to London pre-brainrot and hated it. If you live in London, you get a point if Good Omens made you visit Soho even though you know it wasn’t filmed there. If you live in Soho, you get a point if you've been to the South Downs because of Good Omens.

[ ] I have thought of or prepared a Good Omens costume for Halloween. Bonus point if you have already found a reason to wear it. Bonus point if you wear it casually. Bonus point if the costume is inconspicuous enough that you can go to work/school without it being too weird. Bonus point if, when wearing your costume, you sat on a bench on purpose. Points: [ ] of 11 + [ ] bonus points --- INSANE LEVEL [ ] I have been a fan of the book since 1990. [ ] I read queerness into the book independently (be honest). [ ] I have made money creating Good Omens-anything. [ ] I have met and/or talked to Neil Gaiman/Terry Pratchett(RIP)/the actors outside of social media (mail and cons count, Tumblr does not) specifically about the book or later, the show. [ ] I have hosted a Good Omens themed event (wedding, birthday party, con, baby shower, etc). One point for each event.

[ ] The amount of text I’ve written (fics, metas, song lyrics, poems, whatever) is equal to or greater than the amount of text in the book. Points: [ ] of 6 + [ ] bonus points --- GOD'S FAVORITE-LEVEL [ ] Michael Sheen retweeted you or referenced something of yours in any way. This one is worth 25 lazerii, which is more than all the other points combined. You only need this one checked to have 100% fatal Good Omens brainrot. --- Total points: [ ] of 48 + [ ] bonus points = [ ] points SCORE 1 - 3 points: Why did you take this test? Go do something better with your life, you don't belong here. Enjoy your freedom, the lightness in your heart and the fresh breeze upon your unbothered, youthful face. 3 - 6 points: I bet you still know how to feel happiness. It's still time, you can turn this around. I suggest you just leave this now, and come back whenever you see an ad for season 3. Let yourself be happy in the meantime. 6 - 16 points: You've ventured into dangerous territory, but none of your loved ones have realized you have a problem yet. And you might not... The lines are blurred here. You can still come off as an adjusted person when you talk about the show or anything related to it. 16 - 23 points: A scan of your brain reveals that almost 20% of your prefrontal cortex has rotted away. Friends and family have a negative kneejerk reaction to any mention of Good Omens related subjects. You spend most of your free time on your phone, browsing Good Omens media. The only possible cure at this point, would be a new hyperfixation. 23 - 36 points: 33 % of your total brain volume has been affected. The rot has infected almost every area, and trying to introduce any unrelated hyperfixation causes anxiety, confusion and depression. Doctors are baffled to discover that there is a fungi growing from the rot - it seems to connect with your brain, allowing for an extreme learning curve should you hyperfixate on any subject in any way related to Good Omens. If you ever wanted to read up on Shakespeare, this would be the time to do that. 36 - 48 points: 89% of your brain is affected by rot and mostly replaced by fungi - the only uninfected areas are the reptilian brain (the words 'reptilian brain' reminded you of Crowley) and the medulla, which means it hasn't affected your breathing and your instinctive reactions. You still flinch when cars almost hit you, as you wander aimlessly roadside - lost in thoughts about Good Omens. 48 - ?? points: I'm here if you need to talk. No therapist will understand this without labeling it as a severe breach with reality. (I mean, excuse me - the show is right there on Amazon Prime, it’s real.) The medical field is far behind, years and years will go by before they recognize your diagnosis; 100% fatal Good Omens brainrot. It controls your breathing, your heart rate - everything. This condition is fatal because it lasts until you die, and then you'll have a Good Omens themed funeral. 25 lazerii: How does it feel to be loved by God?

[ambrozjas]

the gang with a reader that is a soc? (separately)

the gang x soc!reader ꨄ︎

the outsiders x soc!reader (separately)

✧˖*°࿐ notes 🧸ᰔᩚ

this took a while, so sorry for the long wait !! 💘 thank you for the request darlin i really loved writing this !!

✧˖*°࿐ warnings ᰔᩚ

mentions of alcohol in two-bit’s, dally being a pest, reader is described as gorgeous and beautiful and “purdy” but i don’t think a gender is specified?

. ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄

“ya’know, y’didn’t have to do all this.” DARRY said, his eyes still raking across all the store bags filled with new clothes for sodapop, ponyboy, and darry.

“don’t mention it, dare. i’ve got plenty of money to spend for you boys.” you said, walking over to darry and placing a delicate hand on his arm, looking over the presents.

“sure, but—“

“can’t you just wait ‘til you see the look on soda and pony’s faces? they’re gonna be so happy, just think about it.” you try your best attempt at comforting darry, assuring him that you could afford it.

he merely sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose between his eyes. you wrap an arm around his shoulders and lean your head on him, rubbing his left arm soothingly.

“bought us some groceries for dinner t’night, too. don’t worry about it, darry. i got you.” you mumbled in his ear as his icy blue eyes opened and gazed at you, his eyebrows furrowed.

“whatever you say, darlin’.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

SODAPOP’s mouth parted a bit as his eyes widened, watching a sleek white 1966 corvette stingray pull up to the dx.

you came out of the car, sunglasses on top of your head with your hair pushed back a bit. then, your friend came out of the car too. johanna winchester, boy was she a bitch. before soda had dropped out, she was pretty much the hottest piece of gossip there, always cheating on her boyfriend and hosting parties at her dad’s two-story house on the west side.

but, you were an unfamiliar face. he had never seen you before, because if he had, he would’ve remembered someone as beautiful as you.

steve had obviously noticed sodapop ogling at something, and following his gaze he saw you. he whistled, “woo! you see those dames, soda?”

soda looked steve up and down, his face and hands covered in black oil. “‘course i see ‘em, now get outta here ‘fore they see you.”

“don’t hate me ‘cause i’m good-lookin’.” steve shrugged, taking one more glance at you and your friend opening the door before walking back to the garage.

“hey! you think we could get five on pump two, please?” ugh, even your voice made soda swoon. you handed him a few neatly stacked dollar bills and looked behind you at your friend who was side eyeing every corner of this place.

“‘course!” sodapop replied, clicking a few buttons to open up pump two but couldn’t help but overhear johanna whispering to you, “couldn’t we have picked another gas station?” obviously because it was run by “greasers.”

you whispered back to her, although soda couldnt hear you. instead, he handed you your change to which johanna rudely grabbed the coins and yanked you away, pulling you out of the dx. you threw one last glance behind you to soda, before you finally get pulled out of the gas station.

for now, he would just have to dream and hope until he sees you again.

boy, he wished he stayed in school a bit longer just so he could’ve see you more often.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

PONYBOY watched as you rested your chin on your palm, looking out the window as the sunlight illuminated your face with a golden hue.

you were in english class, unbothered by the teacher’s ramblings on shakespeare, anything outside was more interesting than this class.

ponyboy’s eyes were glued to you, watching how you wrote down simple phrases in your notebook whenever you’d tune back into the the teacher’s monologuing.

he had just watched your eyes fall across the rest of the room, the other students either borderline falling asleep or not paying attention at all, before your eyes fell on him, and in that very moment he heard a stern, “mr. curtis!” from the teacher.

ponyboy felt his cheeks heat up as the class’ eyes fell on him, he glanced over to you only to find your eyes still on him as well.

“mr. curtis, what is the answer?” he asked. pony stammered a bit, trying to read the board as quickly as possible until he heard nails clacking on the desk across the room. it was you, hand covering your mouth mouthing the letter ‘b’.

“oh—! uh, ‘b’ sir.” ponyboy said, a wave of what he thought to be sweat washing over him as he sighed in relief when the teacher nodded his head.

he looked back over to you, giving him a thumbs up as your pink lips curled in a small smile.

he smiled to himself, mouthing a quick ‘thanks’ to you before looking away and writing down whatever was on the board.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

“you ain’t like other greasers, huh?” you asked JOHNNY. “what’s your deal?”

johnny stayed quiet, eyes as wide as saucers as you leaned over him, hands planted firmly on his desk.

“you mute?” you asked, a bit coldly as johnny flinched at your tone. you tilted your head as you tried to understand him. he wasn’t like that hood dallas winston, but he wasn’t like any other greaser you’d seen before.

johnny swallowed. “no..” he said. you were utterly beautiful. albeit, a social, you were quite the jaw dropper.

“then could you.. maybe help me with this?” your demeanor changed, probably because you had realize johnny was no threat despite being a greaser. a sheepish smile grew on your face as you flashed the worksheet in front of him.

“thought w’could negotiate. i help you with the readin’, you help me with the math?” you said, tilting your head once again as you pointed at the filled worksheet below johnny, but he wasn’t paying any attention to where your finger pointed, his eyes remained on you.

his eyes flickered across your face, taking in every blemish and ridge of it. he was mesmerized by you. but he was conflicted. he could never have a chance with a soc, so why dream?

but then again, johnny thought, something is better than nothing.

“‘course.” he said.

for now, he can only dream until he could muster up the courage to speak more than one word to you.

one day, johnny thought.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

“what’s the matter wit’you, dollface?”

“don’t call me that, hood.”

DALLY huffed, a tiny bit of smoke seeping through his lips from where a small opening lie where his cigarette was.

he had been following you around all day, bothering you on your way home. you held your books protectively against your chest, thinking for some reason he’d try and pull a move on you. he kept circling around you, like a vulture. “c’mon, jus’ one date.” he told you, hand coming to rest upon your shoulder before you shook him off.

you scoffed, “maybe in your dreams.”

dally tapped his foot impatiently as you stood in front of your house, a pristine exterior with some marble pillars. he knew it was a risk being on this side of town, but then again dallas winston was never much known for being safe.

“whatever, man.” he murmured. you winced as he threw his cigarette on your freshly cut lawn, and made his way back down the street.

your eyebrows furrowed as you watched him give up. you knew dallas winston as a greaser, a criminal, an asshole, and maybe a bit handsome although you’d never admit it. but you never once took him for a quitter.

you watched as he cockily walked down the sidewalk, hands stuffed in his pockets as he was on the lookout for any socs.

for some reason, you thought he’d try harder. did you want him to try harder?

no, you couldn’t’ve. dally wasn’t even worth your time. so why did he give up so easy? why did you wish he would’ve turned around, and kept bothering you?

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

“c’mon pretty thing!” TWO-BIT shouted out at you. he had been throwing pebbles at your bedroom window, ultimately scratching the glass with the heavier ones but the thought was nice.

your bedroom was on the second floor, facing the backyard. so watching two at the ground, yelling for you at night while your parents were asleep? not a good look for you.

you held a finger to your lips as your eyes widened, quietly telling two-bit to shut up.

you don’t think he got the message though, considering his grin never left his face, and the bottle didn’t leave his hand either. he flashed you your favorite candy bar, and waved a hand at you telling you to come down.

you looked back behind you, and back at two, giving him a thumbs up.

you put on a jacket over your nightgown, putting your sneakers on and tip-toeing down the stairs and out the back door.

you saw two-bit, taking chugs of his drink before his eyes fell on you. “hey baby! how you doin’?”

“fine, before you woke me up.” you said to which he gave you a small hug, immediately warming you up with his body heat. he tapped the candy bar against your back, which made you pull away to grab it.

“snagged you a sweet.”

“snagged or stole?”

“same thing, ain’t it? now c’mon darlin’, we got a whole night ahead of us!” two-bit said, pulling you away and helping you jump over your fence, like a gentleman.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

“hey, y’mind passin’ me that wrench over there?” STEVE said, the creeper making a squeak as he rolled out from under the car and pointed you towards the clear drawers containing all the parts.

your face screwed up as you thought about all the dirt and oil that must be on those tools. you made a thinking noise, looking back at the drawers before steve tsk’ed.

“what? too worried about your purdy sleeves getting dirty from some oil?” he scoffed.

“‘m glad you think they’re pretty, at least.”

“just—! get me the wrench?” he said, brown eyes flickering up at you in your seat. “what’s the magic word?” you said, a grin resting on your face.

“i might as well go get it m’self.” steve started to roll the creeper further out so he could just get the tools on his own before you stopped him with a series of ‘no’.

“okay! just—,” you cringed at the plethora of rusty tools steve had im the drawers, and quickly dug through them. steve laughed as you shuffled through all of them, before whistling.

you turned your head towards him, only to find him waving the wrench at you with a shit-eating grin.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ skdeojejwsozskw i hope you guys like this, it took me like a day to concoct 😭😭

kiss kiss ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱

[theragethatisdesire]

quick bright things - eren jaeger x afab!reader, 18+!!

okay hi. after my many-months writing hiatus, i am offering up this humble creation. welcome to the world of quick bright things, caught somewhere between a fairytale and a shakespeare play and a priceless piece of jewelry. this was inspired by....a lot of things, from midsummer night's dream to saltburn to the secret history to romeo & juliet like, you name it and i've probably crammed it in here. eren is a lot different than i normally write him (or read him, for that matter), i hope you all find him as lovely as i do! this will be 2 parts (for now...), i'm not sure what else to say except i'm happy to be back and i hope you all love part 1 ₊˚⊹♡

pairing: eren jaeger x reader

wc: 10.4k

DISCLAIMER: this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. if you are a minor, please do not read below the cut.

cws: alcohol, swearing, smut, fingering, reader has female anatomy, wet dreams, allusions to cannibalism (idk that's a stretch it's more of a metaphor), exhibitionism, cum-eating, creepy stepsiblings, rich assholes, throat-closing amounts of sexual tension, i honestly don't even know what to put here

without further ado...

-

"Last year I abstained / this year I devour / without guilt / which is also an art."

“Now don’t forget: university is for discovery, for adventure.” Your mother tucks the front of your shirt into your skirt, tugs at your collar until it’s sitting prettily against the cliff of your collarbones. It’s not a good fabric, this shirt; it’s cheap and scratches uncomfortably at the summer sunburn still lingering on your chest. “It’s for finding your passions, your life path, yourself…”

“Darling, you’ve been philosophizing since breakfast. You’re going to give the poor girl a conniption.” Your father chuckles lightly, swinging the hammer at the wall of your dormitory and finishing the hanging of one of your many posters over your creaky, lofted bed. The posters are bright and colorful, almost garish in the pristine, ancient light pouring in from the windows. With a slow blink, you realize you’re going to take them down later, that they feel incongruous with the dust particles and the oak furniture.

“It’s alright, really.” You manage a smile of compromise, lips clamped tight to hold the flutter of nerves in your throat at bay. “I think I’ve got it from here.”

There’s an expectedly teary goodbye, a small monologue from your father about how much you’ve grown, and a few reminders from your mother to separate the darks and the lights when you do laundry, to focus on your studies. Just before she slips out behind her husband, she grabs you by the shoulders and presses her lips to the side of your head, kisses a blood-red print into the shell of your ear.

“Don’t forget. Find something.”

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

Whether it started with that conversation or with the buildup that accompanied the thirty-six months of monotonous paper-writing and numb boredom of your first three years at Oxford, you can’t be sure. In truth, maybe your first three years weren’t all that boring, and they only seem so by comparison of everything that came after, but you can’t be entirely sure of that either.

What you can be sure of is that something down the line—between meeting Sasha in that class on Milton and squeezing her hand as the plane landed and the dozens of bottles of champagne you’ve consumed over the last weeks—something led you to this moment, standing in this kitchen somewhere outside Verona with your bare feet against the hot clay tiles, staring at the sharp angle of an unfamiliar, tanned collarbone. 

He’s coated in linen: a half-unbuttoned, burnt-orange drape of a shirt is rolled carefully up around strong forearms, and one large, boyish foot peeks out from his baggy jeans, propped up on its throne upon the opposite knee. A golden cross winks at you from his chest, nestled in the sparsest dusting of chest hair and dripping with the same peach juice that’s sliding down his Adam’s apple, from his strong chin, from the crooked smirk that’s pointed at you like a knife.

You recognize him before he speaks– this must be Eren. Sasha’s mentioned him enough times: the shock of rich, dark hair, the lakewater eyes, the way he leans back in his chair like a king and cocks his head like a trickster. This is Eren, and you tell him so.

“Guilty.” The sun compliments everything about him but his smile, a little too sharp with too much danger behind it. It’s a smile made for moonlight. “And you are?”

A memory surfaces in your mind, a cautionary childhood tale. “You can never let a fairy know your name,” Emma tells you, graver than death, crouched in the bushes beside you, “or they steal you away, and you can never be human again.”

“Well?” Eren says expectantly, head leaning even further to the left. He’s studying you, the baggy linen pants pooling around your toes and ruby-studded ears poking out of a fray of frazzled bedhead. You feel naked, feel a wild urge come over you and wonder how his eyes would glow at you if you were. You shiver, goosebumps raising in the stuffy summer air. When his lips twitch, you realize Eren’s noticed; you feel feverish.

You mumble your name at him, as if it’s something given unwillingly. Waking the espresso machine seems like the right thing to do with your hands, and you’re grateful for the noisy mechanical sounds it provides to shatter the still morning. You bring an absentminded hand to rub over the tip of your ear, feel if it’s grown to a point yet.

“We haven’t met, have we? I feel like if we had, I’d remember.”

God, you wish he’d stop talking.

“Well, do you go to Oxford?”

“Sometimes.” You roll your eyes, and he laughs, little bells and glass shattering. “I’ve been abroad for the last semester. I flew in from Egypt a couple of weeks ago.”

“Hm,” you hum to yourself, choosing a small red cup for your morning coffee. You aren’t sure what to say; the most exotic place you’ve ever visited was a seaside town three hours from your house.

You can hear his newspaper crinkling; the sound of him putting it down betrays his arrival behind you, but you still don’t expect the puff of warm breath over your shoulder. He comes into your space like he belongs there, like there’s never been a door that wasn’t held open for him to stride through. “Are you still asleep?”

Before you can answer, you hear a shriek from down the hallway, and you breathe a little sigh of relief, thanking whatever ancient gods that belong to the hills you’re in for the interruption. Venus springs to mind, and you swat her and her entourage of Graces away from you with a huff.

“You absolute asshole!” Historia comes barreling into the kitchen, dramatic, fluffy dressing robe spilling out into the unrelenting summer heat behind her. You realize that in the three weeks you’ve spent with her, you haven’t once seen her in the actual kitchen, watching the way the breakfast chef’s eyes widen at the sight of her as he hurries by with an armful of eggs.

“Stori!” Eren elegantly catches her best attempt at a tackle with the good grace you assume he does everything with, breaking out into a warm peal of laughter. “Since when do you not love a surprise?”

“Since always.” Historia’s face is scrunched up where she’s buried it into the crook of his neck, forehead red with the effort of squeezing Eren as hard as she can. “You could have at least called, I mean– ugh, I didn’t even get the chance to get your favorite–”

“Relax.” Eren urges her, rubbing soothing circles into the small of her back. He carries them both over to his seat, plopping down and curling her up in his lap like a child. Eren holds his cup of coffee to her lips temptingly, and Historia shoves it away with another scowl. You hide your giggle at her antics behind your espresso, not wanting to remind them of your presence, but enjoying the show all the same. “Brat.”

“Ow,” Historia hisses when he pinches her thigh, expression lightening when she catches sight of something on the wall. “I always forget how pretty the kitchen is here.”

“Where’s your brother?”

“Still getting dressed.” Historia’s blue eyes turn to the frescoed ceiling with an irritated huff. “You know he can’t stand to be seen in his pajamas.”

“That’s because he doesn’t wear any,” Eren remarks with an eye roll of his own. “You could have called to let me know we’d adopted such a pretty houseguest for the summer.”

Your face burns with acknowledgement, and you can feel your toes curling into the clay bricks of the floor hard enough to scrape the tip of your pinky. Eren seems satisfied at your bewilderment, letting his eyes drag over your hardly-covered chest lazy as a wandering mouth.

“Why would anyone wear pajamas under those heavy duvets? It’s almost thirty-two degrees out.” Armin breezes in in a feigned display of nonchalance, but you can see the way his eyes skim over Eren like a ship narrowly avoiding an iceberg. The Titanic was inevitable, and so is the gravity of Eren sitting golden on the other side of the room.

“You look good, Min.” Eren squints his eyes at Armin’s shirt, nearly identical to his own. “Where’d you get that?”

“You left it last summer,” Historia hums, tucking her head under Eren’s chin and nuzzling into his chest more completely. Armin makes a soft snort of irritation, grabbing for a fig in the bowl of fruit on the counter and beginning to rummage through the cabinet drawers.

“Do you want half a fig?” Armin’s cool gaze slides to you, and you shake your head, feeling a little underwater as two lifelong relationships unfurl in front of you, your mind still fuzzy from last night’s wine. “Historia?”

Historia says no as Eren says yes, and Armin makes his sound of annoyance again before continuing his rummaging, muttering about the inconvenience of finding a knife.

“Do my eyes deceive me?” Sasha, still disheveled with sleep and grinning bright as Christmas morning, pops her head around the doorway. “Shouldn’t you be overseeing the construction of your pyramid?”

“I’m not dead, Sasha,” Eren laughs—it really is distracting when he does that—pulling Sasha onto his other knee, ignoring Historia’s grumbles of discontent. The NYU Men’s Lacrosse t-shirt that Sasha cropped too short rides up, exposing the swell of her breast, but no one acknowledges it. Eren’s hand tucks in snugly around the curve of her hip, easy and natural, and you wonder if his fingers have ever itched to travel up under the hem of her tiny sleep shorts.

“Not dead yet.” Historia glares up at him venomously, reluctantly making room for Sasha to pile onto Eren and smother his face with kisses. Sasha pulls away from him suddenly and frowns.

“Peaches?”

“Where are the knives in this fucking kitchen?” Armin’s growl of frustration is loud enough to make you jump, and Sasha giggles at you.

“Jesus, Armin, you’re going to kill her, and it’s not even noon.” Sasha slips off of Eren’s knee, practically bouncing over to where Armin’s viciously jiggling a locked drawer. She slides open the drawer next to him and draws a long, wide knife from it, passing it to him with the blade extended and her eyes on you. “Did you meet Eren?”

“Careful of his hand!” Historia squeals, shooting an arm out towards Armin as if she can deflect the tip of the blade from across the room.

“It’s fine, Stor.” Armin’s voice floats across his nearly-bare shoulder, mild and careless as it grazes the collar of the too-big button down sliding off of his slim frame.

“That knife’s a little big for a fig, Sasha.” Eren stands, placing Historia on the table and pinching her cheek when she scowls at him.

“There’s no such thing as a too-big knife– listen to me. Did you meet Eren?” Sasha’s fingers are gripping into the flesh of your arm– hard. Your eyes widen in surprise at the urgency in her eyes, like if you haven’t been introduced to Eren, there’s grave danger afoot.

“We met.” It happens quickly and easily, the slide of his heavy arm around your shoulders. You can feel your body tense under the lazy weight of him, big hand wrapped around you like it belongs there. “I don’t think she’s particularly fond of me.”

Eren shoots you a wink that you’re sure is intended to mean something, a reference to an inside joke that you have yet to establish, maybe.

“I didn’t say that,” you say in your own defense, wanting to yank Sasha to the side and demand to know why she hadn’t warned you that Cupid himself was going to greet you in the kitchen this morning. Armin slices the fig neatly in half, a strangely practiced motion performed by small, soft hands. He offers it to you again insistently, and frowns when you shake your head.

“I said I wanted it, ‘Min,” Eren says with a hint of red to his words, snatching the halved fig from Armin’s hand and biting into it voraciously, little pieces of the flesh spattered around the corner of his mouth.

“You’re such a brute,” Armin scoffs, picking the meat of his half out gingerly with an oyster fork that you don’t remember him grabbing from the drawer.

“Why don’t you like Eren?” Sasha pouts at you, grabbing the hand that’s squashed between yours and Eren’s hips. Your palm feels hot against her fingers.

“I said I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t say much of anything, to be fair.” Eren’s got the fig pressed to his mouth, digging his teeth and tongue around in the husk of it obscenely enough to make your cheeks warm. Being so close to him is filthy, that cross around his neck is looking you straight in the eye to make sure you feel it. 

“Eren’s always a pest,” Historia provides from her perch on the kitchen table, picking at her perfectly manicured toenails, “why would she like him?”

“You like him plenty,” Armin says, not looking at her. It’s not the first time that’s been brought up, if Historia’s answering sneer is anything to go by.

“You’ll love him if you give him a chance.” Sasha smiles hopefully at you, nodding.

“Yeah,” Eren grins down at you, teeth colored with fig, “give me a chance.”

“Eren, you’re going to scare her off,” Armin says with a roll of his eyes, peering around Eren’s broad shoulders to look you up and down. The way his eyes drag over you makes you feel like there might be a stab wound somewhere on your person that you don’t know about yet, the adrenaline of the moment keeping you numb.

“Back off her, Eren,” Historia echoes, “she’s fun, I don’t want you to make her leave.”

“She’s not going to leave.” Eren looks directly at you as he says it, something in his smile growing imperceptibly darker. A dare. How much will you let me get away with?

You stare and stare at him, ignoring the continued bickering of Armin and Historia in the background. He’s golden and blood-red, oil smeared on his forehead and a crown of thorns nestled in his dark thatch of hair if you look close enough. If you’re not imagining it, his hand might be tightening around your shoulder, maybe he’ll leave a purple bruise on it.

“Of course not,” Sasha interrupts your thoughts, thumbing at your cheek affectionately, “she belongs here. With us.”

“She’s our little fairy,” Historia giggles dreamily, referencing the long-winded fairy tales you drunkenly make up every night, casting each other as heroines and knights and dragons.

“Right,” Eren agrees, not breaking your gaze, “our little fairy.”

The only thing that comes to mind is your childhood friend, Emma, looking on at you sadly with her muddy toes, watching the wings sprout from your back.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

Days lug themselves by, barefooted and dragging their heels, and most of the time, even the monotonous rise and fall of the sun doesn’t help to differentiate one calendar block from the next. Like a bat, or maybe a slinky, silvery fish in an underwater cave, you rely on your other senses to track the passage of time.

For example, today, you know it’s a Wednesday because Maria, one of the three house chefs, brings fresh peaches up from the co-op down the hill every Wednesday. Sasha’s spent the last thirty minutes hand feeding you peach flesh as you lounge by the pool, insisting that you suck her fingers clean of juice and feeding you little sips of champagne each time you sober up enough to tell her that that’s lewd. Historia swats at you and giggles at the smacking and slurping sounds you make around Sasha’s fingers, oiled-up palm landing on oiled-up hip with a wet slap; Armin admonishes her quietly from his seat beside her, insisting the girlish noises emanating from the three of you are tearing him from his book. You can feel Eren watching, too– that’s all, though. Always just watching.

You wonder how opaque the lenses of Armin’s sunglasses are, perched haphazardly on your nose, wonder if they’re doing a good job of masking the slow lick of your gaze over Eren’s skin, wonder if you care. Maybe the champagne is finally getting to your head.

“We should go in soon,” Historia sighs, a hand tossed across her forehead. She’s a little movie star, built for the golden age. “It’s so hot.”

“It’s always this hot,” Sasha argues, and you can practically hear the furrow in her brow, not willing to take your eyes off of the trickle of sweat running down Eren’s chest to see it for yourself. You’re really getting the hang of it, this opposite-sense thing. Everything’s upside down here in the heat.

“She’s getting hungry,” Armin supplies, wiping the sweat off his palms to reach up and turn the page of his novel. Brideshead Revisited. A little on the nose, isn’t it?

“I am not!” Historia hates when people point out her appetite, but not really. She kicks up a fuss because it’s “ladylike”, and she’s advised you to do the same.

“You are,” you sigh, really feeling the heat sink into you even with the heavy, lazy movement of lolling your head to face her, “you always get hungry around this time.”

“What time is it, then?”

You don’t reply– you don’t know the answer.

“I think we’re all hungry,” Eren, ever the peacemaker when he can find the time to be so, sits up, letting the shirt that’s been shading his face fall into his lap. Your eyes track its descent– even that seems slow. He says something to you, managing a crooked grin while he squints in the heat of the sun, but you don’t hear it.

“Huh?”

“Everyone except you, anyway,” he repeats himself, reaching over Sasha and smearing his thumb through the peach juice collected on your chin. Eren’s thumb disappears between his pink lips, and when he sucks on it with a satisfied hum, your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt.

“I guess it’s getting close to dinner,” Sasha says regretfully, picking her wristwatch, a priceless Braus family heirloom, up from a puddle of orange juice and tanning oil. “We should probably clean off.”

“I might even shower twice,” Armin rubs a hand over his belly with a grimace, “this tanning oil makes my skin greasy.”

“I feel disgusting,” Historia agrees, sliding red toes into her sandals and standing with a dramatic stretch.

“Filthy,” Eren murmurs in agreement. He’s still staring at you.

“I’ll be in soon. I’m so close to the color I wanted for today– I just need, like, ten more minutes.” You peel down the strip of bathing suit stretched over your hip, showing off the distinct mark of yesterday’s color and today’s tan.

“You’re crazy,” Sasha scoffs, throwing some designer sarong her mother lent her over her shoulder, “I’m melting.”

Armin and Historia pause their bickering over who gets to wear Armin’s Cucinelli belt to dinner—Armin wants it for his trousers, Historia for her maxi dress—just long enough to offer a momentary goodbye, breezing along into the house with Sasha. You settle back into your chair and take a deep breath, letting the sun sink into you just long enough to forget that you’re not alone.

“Open up.”

You’ve been enjoying this game of trading one sense for another, and you keep your eyes shut firmly, letting your jaw fall open and your tongue hang out. A piece of peach, fleshy and dripping with juice, finds its way onto your tongue, pinched too roughly between strong fingers. When you close your lips around the fruit, the fingers stay with it, frozen in their pinched position and forcing you to suck the peach from them, to swallow around them, to run your tongue along them and get as much of the meat as you can. When the fingers withdraw from your lips, you open your eyes and gasp quietly.

Eren’s leaning over you, a solar eclipse that smells like tan skin and sounds like Campari, and in the silhouette of the sunlight, you think he’s smiling.

“You’re still hungry,” he says, a question that’s left its punctuation mark behind. You think of Historia, of the improper shame of revealing your appetite. You dodge.

“I’m never hungry.”

“Never?” Eren crawls over you to kneel between your legs, propping one of your ankles up on his shoulder. The game you started is ripped out of your hands, chess pieces flying into the pool, scattering across the table, knocking over bottles and matchbooks. It’s so silent out here in the sun it hurts, and you almost miss the constant buzzing horseflies of early summer.

“Never.”

“If you’ve never been hungry,” Eren muses, tilting his head so that his cheekbone fits into the sensitive arch of your foot, reaching a hand down to splay it wide on your belly, “you’ve never been full.”

“How do you figure?” Your words come out throaty, waterlogged.

“Can’t have one without the other.” Eren shrugs, turning his head to the side. His lips brush against your heel, your Achilles’, the swirly seashell dangling from your anklet. You dig your teeth into your bottom lip, toes twitching behind his ear. “I don’t believe you, anyway.”

“No?” You try to tilt your head coyly, like your heart’s not clawing and scratching against your throat to get to him. Hungry, indeed.

“You wouldn’t stare like that if you didn’t want to.”

You’re taken aback, but not enough to fall out of the moment– Eren’s lips closing around the knob of your ankle slowly, like the pit of a fruit, make sure of that.

“Didn’t want to what?”

Eren’s hands meet the cushion on either side of your head hard enough to rattle the chair, his long, tanned body stretching over yours. He’s close enough to brush his nose against yours, but you can still see the hazy green of his eyes flicking here and there on your face: from your eyes to your lips to the beauty mark on your cheek. Your poolside lounge feels more like a butcher’s block under your taut spine.

Sasha’s told you about the wolves in these hills, that they howl murder at night, but they’re sleepy and indulgent in the heat of the sun. One of Eren’s canines catches the light and glints at you as he grins.

“Eat yourself sick.” He practically spits it into your mouth, one thigh pressed into where you’re sticky and sinful, and he chuckles under his breath when you shudder under him, feverish in the late-afternoon heat.

Before you can even think of biting back, Eren’s off of you, picking your sandals off of the ground and sliding them gently onto your feet, stopping to run his palm from your ankle to your kneecap with an appraising hum. 

“We should head inside,” he says evenly, offering a hand to pull you to your feet, “I’d hate for us to miss dinner.”

You don’t have anything to say back to him, letting him lace his fingers through yours like lines in a play, interspersing seamlessly with the summer scenery. Eren leads you through the kitchen, waits patiently for you to take your sandals off, and waves you on your way up the stairs, saying he needs a cigarette. As the distance between you grows, your mind grows clearer, and you turn on your heel, calling down to him from the top of the stairs.

“Eren? Eren? Where are you, Eren?”

“Call me something else,” Eren pokes his head around the corner, smoke pouring from the grin on his face, “whatever you want, really. Make your own name for me.”

“You stare at me, too,” you say, tearing through his impishness. Eren cocks his head, unperturbed, smile growing wide as he nods.

“I do.”

“So you’re…” You can’t bring yourself to say it, not where it might echo in the cavernous hallway, where it might take the form of a confession. You scamper down the stairs, nearly sliding on bare feet, almost crashing into Eren when he appears at the foot of the staircase, catching you with two broad palms on either side of your ribcage. You pluck the cigarette from his mouth, stick it between your own teeth, narrow your eyes accusingly, and whisper: “You’re hungry too.”

“For every man hath business and desire, Such it is.” Eren takes the cigarette back, pulling on it and making a clear show of trying to hide a smirk.

“Hamlet?”

“A woman with teeth and a brain,” Eren tilts his head at you, “aren’t you something?”

“Do you always quote Shakespeare when you want to fuck somebody?”

“Only when I want to fuck you.” Eren stubs the cigarette out on the ancient oak of the staircase railing, grins up at you brilliantly, smiles brighter when he notices how obviously flustered you are.

“I need to go take a shower,” you say hurriedly, choking on the remnants of your shame and your confidence as they burn out in your throat, making an attempt to back up the stairs away from him. Eren laughs at your attempted escape, catching you by the wrist and pulling you close to him, close enough to dizzy you on the tendrils of smoke still sticking to him. Your breath stills, your heart slows as Eren wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you together, skin on tacky skin.

“Oh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?” Eren coos to you, mouth moving against your cheekbone. “C’mon, just one bite.”

“He that is proud eats up himself,” you hiss a quote back at him in response, ripping yourself from his grip and scrambling up the stairs, heart pounding and cheeks burning. You can hear a lovesick sigh follow you up to your room, and hope that the slam of the door behind you is enough to keep it from touching you.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

The murky waters of your vision ripple out into clarity, and you’ve found yourself in a forest. You’ve been here before, you recognize the tall, thick trunks and the bed of fallen leaves under your feet. You’ve been coming here since you were a little girl, been wiggling your toes in the greenery since before you could remember. You never come alone.

It appears just as you remembered: a blinding glimmer of light, a flame for a head, and ribbonlike wisps of energy that beckon you like arms, like love. One step towards it, and it disappears, vanishing into nothing with an echo that might be laughter. You think it’s happy to see you.

When it reappears a few feet away, you take your first steps, sighing at the feeling of the wild enveloping you, of the prickling of your skin, kissed by the chill winding through the trees. You wish you could explore this place, so familiar and so strange all at once, but you know you have to keep moving, keep following the lights as they lead you deeper and deeper into the forest. They won’t hurt you; you aren’t sure why that’s true, aren’t sure why you keep moving. You just know better than to stop.

They lead you over a familiar path, winding past a creek, over a bed of flat stones with an ice-cold creek running over them. You never tire here, legs pumping and arms working to push yourself faster. You’ve never caught the lights, and you aren’t sure if you ever will, but again, you know better than to doubt. It feels like hours, feels like minutes, feels like purpose, chasing these lights through the forest, but suddenly, something’s new.

There’s a little chirping sound, almost conversational and too high-pitched for you to understand; you’re not even sure if you recognize the language. It ricochets around the bones in your body, touches something ancient in their marrow. You almost jerk your head to the right to find the source, but you resist, pushing ahead on your path as the lights lead you deeper. You get the feeling that you’ve gone off-script somewhere, that this is a part of the forest you haven’t seen before, but the warmth in your bones shoos your doubts away. You’ve never been this far, but it feels like home.

A growl curls around the shell of your ear, plants fear right in the center of your chest. Your eyes widen at the light before you before it disappears; you frown at the next one, not daring to speak but demanding an answer anyhow. The lights will save you, won’t they?

Shrieks from overhead, guttural, animalistic calls, howls and chatters of excitement; you never presumed to be alone in this forest, but you never presumed to be in danger, either. The lights urge you on, vanishing and regenerating at an alarming rate, your feet drumming against the forest floor faster and faster. A sliver of moonlight begins to glow from the trees a ways off, an indication that there’s a clearing ahead, and you shove the bile in your throat down, swing your arms faster, ignore the frantic fluttering of your pulse in time with the bestial chorus ringing clearer and louder from the trees with each passing second.

You do, against all odds, manage to launch yourself into the clearing, and the moment you feel the soft cushion of moss under your feet, as opposed to the branch-littered, crunchy path of the forest, you nearly stumble to your knees as your eyes adjust to the sudden brightness of the clearing. The grumblings of the woodland entities have quieted, an almost awestruck silence settling in the open space around you.

“There you are.”

Your head snaps up comically fast– “You?”

“Me,” Eren says, that razor-sharp, moonlight smile lighting up his face. He looks…right here, as if the forest is extending a sense of belonging, as if he’s been here longer than the ancient trees themselves. Even the little crown nestled atop his head is fitting: a tangle of brambles and thorns and leaves tucked into his dark locks. Is that a throne under him, that mass of branches and leaves and some silvery metal you can’t place?

His eyes glow in the starlight, illuminated with a certain hunger that you can feel reverberating through your bones. It should be frightening, but it’s enticing. You feel welcome.

“What are you doing here?” Your tongue is slower on the uptake than your mind, and you can feel the suspicious expression folding your facial features, hiding the thrum of anticipation the sight of him brings.

Eren cocks his head pityingly, smiling at you in a way that would seem predatory if it wasn’t so entirely disarming, so entirely inviting. Your feet are bringing you closer before he even speaks— you know why you’re here before he says it.

“I’ve been waiting so long,” Eren beckons you onto his lap, firmly grabbing your shoulder and silently demanding you straddle him when you try to turn away from him, “you’re beautiful, so…alive here.”

He takes a bit of your hair between your fingers and rubs it, satisfaction flickering over his face. It’s then that you realize how little fabric covers you; really, it’s only a thin, wispy excuse of a dress, hanging in tatters around your body and leaving your skin free for the taking. Taking notice of your dress leads you to take notice of another pressing matter: Eren’s naked beneath you.

“Where are we?”

“Does it matter?” Eren reaches up to toy with your hair again, smiling gently. He tilts his head up, asking you for something you can’t identify, but that you already know you’re willing to give. Your soul, maybe.

Your lips meet his in a tentative brush, a motion that feels shy, but practiced. It’s a reflex, an instinct, to kiss him this way. Eren groans gutturally against your mouth, pressing into you deeper, digging his fingertips into your bare skin. The chorus of inhuman chatter erupts around you both again, and you jump, almost pushing away from him before he stops you with a firm hand against the small of your back.

“Sh,” he whispers, nipping at your chin, “don’t pay them any mind. You’re with me, remember?”

It’s difficult at first with the ever-growing hum of life around you, but it grows increasingly easier to melt into him, to lose yourself in the rhythm of him. He’s thick and hard underneath you, pressed right where you’re already slick and ready for him, and he’s got a tight grip on your hips, working you against him to make sure you feel it and oh– do you feel it.

A debauched gasp pours from your mouth to his; Eren sinks sharp teeth into your bottom lip with a grunt of approval, pulls you up to situate you over his twitching cock. You can feel the lecherous eyes of the woodland creatures, spirits, monsters, whatever they may be around you, looking in on the sticky, tangible arousal building between your bodies. The steady glow of Eren’s eyes, the prick of the thorns in his hair under your fingertips, the insistent weight of him pressing against the wet heat of you: all of it keeps you grounded, keeps your hips rolling into Eren like your life depends on it, like it’s what you were born to do.

“Are you ready?” Eren murmurs, quiet as the grave, stilling your hips and lifting you.

“I’m not sure, I–”

“I’ve been waiting so long,” Eren interrupts, “so long for you– you’re ready for me, I know you are.”

And with that, he’s sliding you down onto his cock, splitting you open, dropping your jaw. The cacophony from the forest grows deafening, but the glowing eyes in the brush streak and blur as your eyes flutter closed, a stuttered moan falling from your lips.

“Oh–”

“Knew you were ready,” Eren sinks his teeth into your collarbone, lets you wiggle and roll your hips until he’s situated comfortably inside of you. “You were born for this. For me.”

You can’t even bring yourself to disagree, to refute, to question. It’s godly, the way he fills you, the twinge of pain in the pit of your belly that doesn’t waver, no matter which way you squirm. The longer you sit, perched upon him– you feel something akin to divinity, akin to prophecy ringing through your bones. You were born for this.

“Eren…” It’s more of a sigh than anything, a confession and an admittance of guilt, a repentance. He likes the way it tastes, you can tell by the way his hands grip you harder, roll you along his cock faster with an urgency that betrays his calm, adoring gaze. He’s sinking his claws into you, bit by bit, and you’re better for it. You belong here, with the night on your skin and Eren nestled inside of you.

“Don’t ever leave,” Eren smiles gently, as if it’s a choice, “stay with me forever.”

The pleasure’s beginning to peak in your stomach, the howls swirling in the air around you start to feel more like a blanket, the moonlight like a crown. His hands are so hot they almost burn, his tongue licking up your neck feels like a baptism. Your back is arching, your blood is rushing, the stars are speaking to you– what are they saying?

Your fingernails have left angry indents in your throat where you’ve clutched into the skin in a desperate attempt to regain your breath, shooting up out of your slumber with a vicious jolt. Your head spins with the sudden movement, the antique furnishings of the room bleeding into candlelit blurs as you heave for breath.

“Sleeping?”

You nearly jump out of your skin at the gravel of Eren’s voice, having believed yourself to be alone. Some instinctual part of your mind almost remembers falling asleep on the loveseat in the glass-enclosed sunroom earlier, one too many martinis to thank for that, but you can worry about that later– Eren’s your priority now, shirtless and leaned against the doorframe with one eyebrow raised and a very telling flush rising to his cheeks. The chilly wetness between your legs brings your dream to the forefront of your mind. Had he heard, somehow?

“What are you doing down here?” You do your best to narrow your eyes into something convincing enough to pass for annoyance, unsure if you’ve managed to pull it off with the rapid rise and fall of your chest.

“Water,” Eren says simply, raising a glass you hadn’t noticed he was holding, “but it seems like you might need it more than I do.”

“I don’t–” He ignores you, crossing the room to hand you the ornate glass. Your throat is dry, and so you drink, eyeing him suspiciously as you sip.

“Dreaming?” The corner of his mouth twitches almost imperceptibly.

“Nightmare.” You push yourself up to sit, crossing your arms defensively over your chest. “How’d you know?”

A long pause, Eren’s eyes dragging over you slowly, your skin burning. “You were squirming.”

“It was disturbing,” you say truthfully, looking over your shoulder and half-expecting to see some horrible monster leering at you from the doorway, salivating over you and Eren, “but I’ve had this same dream since I was a kid. Part of it, anyway.”

“Need company?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaken by the dream and how low Eren’s pajama pants hang on his hips, “I just need to get to my real bed. I’m sure sleeping outside had something to do with it.”

“That’s not true.” Eren’s scooping you up into his arms before you can open your mouth to argue, as if you even would. This isn’t unusual for him; you’ve grown used to his tendency to touch you, to hold you close to his chest as though you belong there. It echoes in your head, you were born for this. A shudder wracks through your body. “Cold?”

“Mhm,” you hum, not trusting your own voice. Eren nuzzles your head deeper into his shoulder, lets you get a noseful of the scent of him. Dewdrops, mankind, a rotting forest floor. It gives you a disconcerting sense of deja vu.

“Sleeping outside is good for you,” Eren goes on, scaling the stairs with impossible ease, “my mom used to tell me that.”

“Is that so?” It brings a sleepy little smile to your face, despite yourself: the image of a messy-haired, fussy baby Eren, curled up in his mother’s lap and looking up at the night sky.

“Sure.” You can hear the nostalgia in his voice. “The stars can talk to you that way, through your dreams. They show you where you’re supposed to go.”

Your blood runs cold at that– does he know? How could he? He’s a man, not a mind-reader, not a mystic. Right? You let him carry you to your door in silence, the only noise being the padding of his bare feet down the Turkish carpet runner in the hall. When he gets to your door, Eren finally starts to move to let you down, and your mouth moves without your permission, voice small and echoing in the still nighttime air.

“Eren?”

He freezes, muscles locking you in place against his chest. “Yeah?”

“Was I talking in my sleep?”

Eren settles you on your feet before answering, leaving one lingering hand on your hip and bringing the other up to brush at your cheek. Your eye must have been watering– his thumb catches a stray tear. His smile is a little too sharp when he answers.

“No, why?”

“Just wondering.” Relief courses through your body, but your muscles stay taut under his touch.

“Okay,” Eren looks you up and down one more time, as if he’s making sure you’re all there, “goodnight, then. I hope your dreams get better.”

When he turns to go, the broad silhouette of him growing darker as he retreats, you remember something fragile underneath the floorboards.

“Wait, Eren! You forgot your water.”

“My what?” When he turns to face you, he’s still grinning– baring his teeth, more like. You think you’re imagining the glow in his eyes, too fresh from that dream.

“Your water. I think I have a cup in my room if you need it.”

“Oh.” Eren waves a hand nonchalantly through the air, catching a stray stream of moonlight. You can see the dust particles dancing around his hand, enchanted by his movement. “Wasn’t thirsty."

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

It’s a slinky, dazzling dress; Elie Saab, Spring 2005, maybe? 2006? Sasha had lent it to you, insisted upon you taking it, really. It’s got to be worth at least your years’ rent payment, dripping with Swarovski and cut low and square across your chest, and easily the most decadent thing you’ve ever worn but– it’s family dinner night. No expense is spared.

Historia sits across from you, reaching one dainty hand out for Armin’s negroni, nearly dipping the massive drop-pearl charm on her bracelet into the first course: a cold, cucumber soup. Armin nudges her meaningfully, scowling and handing his glass to her, glancing apologetically at the stiff-backed butler across the room, who wasn’t looking anyway. Sasha’s at the head of the table, working on Historia’s serving of the cucumber soup, dunking focaccia bread into it in a voracious manner that you’re sure wasn’t outlined in the etiquette courses she’d endured as a child. And he’s next to you, naturally.

His dinner jacket looks out of place on him, oddly enough: angular and overly formal, as well-fitting as it is. You wish it was a little greener, a little more playful, something to match the Eren you’ve gotten to know under all the glitz and glamour. It’s too human for him, really, but that thought makes you shudder faster than you can shove it to the side.

“Wasn’t that the girl from Luxembourg?” Sasha asks through a giggle, finally leaning back to allow the butler to collect the remnants of her first course. Historia frowns at her, gulps back nearly half of Armin’s cocktail.

“No, the girl from Luxembourg was a slut. He wouldn’t have touched her.”

Armin and Eren exchange a look that implies that, whoever the slut from Luxembourg might have been, she didn’t escape their clutches unscathed. Historia notices the guilty smile dimpling Eren’s cheek and smacks Armin in retaliation.

“Ouch, Stori!” Armin scowls right back at her; if you didn’t know about Armin’s father’s remarriage to Historia’s mother, you’d think they were actually related.

“She was a slut,” Historia sniffs, finishing the rest of Armin’s cocktail in a second swig.

“It was Eren’s idea– you’re always punishing me for what he does.” When the staff place the second course, some sort of ceviche, in front of him, Armin crosses his arms over his chest and looks away like a huffy child. Sasha laughs and swats at his shoulder.

“Don’t pretend you don’t have your own hand in things. You can’t blame everything on Eren.”

“Maybe he can,” you shrug, the champagne going to your head. You’re feeling impish, feeling like one of them. Wildly, you reach a hand up to pinch at Eren’s cheek, smiling to yourself when you feel it turn warm under your fingers. “I mean, just look at him. He’s a devil.”

“Am not,” Eren scoffs, slapping a hand on your leg and shaking it playfully, “you weren’t there anyway. Min’s very convincing when he wants to be.”

“I am.” Armin smiles at you, head tilting intrepidly. “I can get Eren to share anything I want, I bet.”

It feels loaded, like a challenge, and Eren’s fingers tighten where he’s gripping your leg. When you chance a glance to the side at him, his jaw is tense, gaze focused on Armin like a threat, like a predator.

“Not anything,” Eren says, voice low and dangerous, more somber than you’ve ever heard him. Armin’s face falls for a millisecond, scrunching his nose at the murderous glint in Eren’s eyes, before he clenches his jaw and glances between the two of you with a haughty smirk.

“Est-ce vrai? En êtes-vous sûr? Tu l'as dit toi-même - je suis convaincant quand je veux quelque chose.”

“Ne commencez pas avec moi, pas pour ça.” It’s hardly louder than a murmur, but the threat carries all the same. You look to Sasha with widened eyes, hoping for a translation, but she’s chewing slowly on a bite of her ceviche, looking at Armin, Eren, then Armin again with a strange expression you’ve never seen before.

A heavy silence settles over the table, Eren’s fingertips leaving sore spots through your dress where they’re digging into your thigh, and Armin’s eyes dancing over Eren’s face, that same smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Daring.

“You two are so in love,” Historia gripes with a roll of her eyes, smashing the carefully-cubed ceviche on her plate into a mush. You eye the smear of meat on her fork disdainfully and set down the bite you had been about to pop in your mouth, opting for your glass of bubbles instead.

The jokingly grumpy lilt of Historia’s comment seems to cut the thread of tension that had grown taut between the two men, as Armin allows Sasha to pull him away from Eren and back into his corner of the table with her and Historia. Their conversation drones on, the ethics of Eren and Armin’s tendency to tag-team women fading into the background as you wait for Eren’s hand to slip from your thigh. It doesn’t.

His thumb rubs idly over the slit of your dress, brushing it back and forth over your bare skin for just long enough to get you used to the pressure of his palm beaming heat through the thin fabric, get your guard down. And then his fingers slip underneath, grabbing into the hot flesh of your thigh.

You jump ever so slightly, flighty as a fawn, and Eren chuckles under his breath beside you when you choke a bit on your champagne. He’s cool—stoic, even—as he bashfully bats away the scandalous insinuations of Sasha and Historia’s storytelling, the lewd raise of Armin’s eyebrows at the mention of a certain leggy redhead in Prague. His hand stays steady, possessive and permanent on your leg. When Armin and Historia start arguing over yet another of Armin’s alleged missteps with one of her college friends, Eren takes the opening to lean into you, murmuring into your ear.

“What’s got you so jumpy?” His breath puffs out hot and sensual against the shell of your ear, and you can feel your earring lifting with the movement of his lips. He’s so close.

“Not jumpy,” you answer under your breath, trying to keep your composure.

“Hm,” Eren hums, leaning back just enough to study your profile, “wasn’t sure if you’d dozed off, started dreaming again.”

Your head whips towards him in what is surely an uncouth accusation of insinuation, borne of shock, but luckily, Armin’s too busy being hand-fed ceviche by Sasha and scolded by Historia to notice. Other than his eyes, Eren’s stiller than death, watching over the antics with the littlest smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. His eyes, though, flick down to you, glinting like a dare.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means something?” It’s a challenge, and you realize too late that the rope around your ankle has cinched, and you’re caught in his trap.

“No,” you say, hoping for more conviction in your voice, but it comes out as a breathy whisper. The corner of Eren’s mouth twitches, and it pulls an irritated huff from you.

“Tell me about your dream. The one that woke you up the other night.”

“Tell you– w-what? Here?”

“Yes, here,” Eren repeats you, quiet and calm, keeping one eye on your bickering friends to ensure you’re kept all to himself, “unless it’s something you can’t share.”

The blanching of your face tells him everything he needs to know, and that sickening admission almost overshadows the fact that he knows. He undeniably knows, now; maybe not the specifics, but enough to know that you had woken up sticky and gasping after a sinful dream. Maybe he even knows it was about him. 

You’ve given up on trying to understand the otherworldly elements of Eren; the way he seems to appear at inopportune moments and know what you’re thinking at every turn, but this is too much. You quickly realize that while you’re not sober, you’re certainly not drunk enough to deal with him, and you finish your glass of champagne in a single gulp.

“You’re one to talk about sharing,” you hiss at him, trying to will away the goosebumps prickling your arms as his fingers inch higher, skating along soft skin. Eren’s demeanor falters, if only for a moment– he looks frustrated.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Eren leans into you, brows furrowing. “I don’t share just anything, and especially not just because ‘Min wants a taste.”

“Am I yours to share?” That heavy swig of champagne has gone straight to your head it seems, as you turn your face up to him defiantly, finally saying the quiet part out loud. The weight falls off your shoulders like a head, and you can almost feel the itch of the guillotine at your neck as the words leave your mouth. Eren, ever the gentle executioner, only lets the calm fascination return to his face, brings his fingers further up your thigh.

“Tell me about your dream, hm? They’re not listening, it’s just you and me.”

He’s only inches away from where you’re already beginning to grow hot and wet– he hasn’t even done anything, and you want to chastise yourself over the undeniable need beginning to bubble inside you. Eren’s smiling so sweetly, as if he’s lulling you into a sense of complacency, and your tongue hangs heavy in your mouth, eager to spill your secrets.

“I…I’m scared.”

Eren’s eyebrows raise and his smile grows a bit toothier, disbelief written plain on his face. “Of me?”

“Sometimes,” you say, small and honest as the grave, “it’s like you aren’t real.”

“I’m very real,” Eren insists, two fingers pressing against the damp silk of your panties, his eyes lighting up when you stifle a gasp, “doesn’t that feel real?”

“Wait–”

“The dream,” Eren says again, increasing the pressure of his fingers, “were you scared of me there, too?”

“Yes,” you whisper, ashamed and painfully cognizant of the feel of him between your legs, “I was in a forest, running after the little lights, they– I’ve seen them for a long time.”

“Since you were a child,” Eren repeats your confession from the other night. He’s reading you, you realize, not like a book, but like a poem. You couldn’t put the difference into words if you had to, but there’s a certain melody to the flickering of his gaze over your hot face.

“They’ve never led me anywhere before,” your words hitch in your throat, stopped dead when Eren’s fingers start rubbing circles over your swollen clit. The silk is thin and soaked, and his fingers slide over you in a way that feels god-given. Your jaw hangs ever-so-slightly, the butlers coming to change the course. You wait for Eren to slip his hand out from under your dress, fearful of the staff watching as he toys with you, but he only nods encouragingly.

“Keep going.”

“Um,” you stammer, swallowing thickly and glancing at the plate of bleeding, rare filet in front of you, “they took me to a clearing in the forest. There were creatures, ones I’ve never seen before.”

“Did they hurt you? Any of them?” A furrow appears between his eyebrows, deep and concerned. Some small part of your brain, muted since Eren’s hand slid beneath your dress, worries itself with why Eren seems so disquieted with your dream– it’s not like you actually could have been hurt, it was only a dream. Wasn’t it?

“No, they stayed away. They just made a lot of noise, but they all got quiet when…”

A knowing smirk. “When?”

“When I saw you.”

Eren pats your thighs gently, urging them apart; he looks relieved, exhilarated, unreal. If you didn’t know better, you’d think his eyes were glowing in the candlelight. Armin, Historia, and Sasha’s clamor across the table grows louder with each passing second, but as soon as you begin to wonder if you should be doing a better job of hiding what’s very clearly happening under the slit of your dress, Eren’s fingers have wiggled their way beneath the fabric of your silk thong. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip, eyes widening.

“I was glad to see you,” Eren says quietly, “in the dream, I mean.”

“You said you’d been waiting for me,” you whisper, keeping your voice low to hide the whine scratching at the back of your throat, “that you’d been waiting a long time.”

“I bet I was,” Eren hums thoughtfully, grinning viciously when he sinks a finger into you, clearly relishing the way your fingernails tighten into his wrist. “I never lie.”

“Even in a dream?” You feel fuzzy and warm, blinking moony, worried eyes up at him. Eren shakes his head in confirmation, curling his finger and making your thighs clench. “You put me in your lap, and–and, you had a crown. It was nighttime, I think, and the moon was really bright. You were inside me.”

Eren slides another finger in to match the first, and you’re hardly able to stifle a moan when it comes fluttering through your teeth, a breeze of a sound compared to what you’re struggling to keep captive in your chest. Eren’s other hand reaches forward to grab a small piece of the carved steak, brings the meat up to your mouth and brushes it over your lips.

“Eat,” Eren instructs, smiling placidly as you mindlessly obey, biting into the red meat, “but keep telling me.”

He waits patiently for you to chew around the bite of steak he’s offered you, eyes searching you for something– what it is, you can’t be sure. Your mind is wobbling around the flashes of memory of your dream, distracted every few steps by an overwhelming rush of pleasure from between your legs, Eren’s fingers curling incessantly against your walls. You swallow, never taking your eyes off of him.

“You fucked me.” The confession is breathless when it leaves you, and even through the haze of what you pray isn’t a rapidly-approaching orgasm, you don’t miss the way Eren’s shoulders stiffen, the way his eyes flash. 

“Did I fuck you, or did you fuck me?” Eren murmurs back to you, mischief in his eyes and a tense gravel to his voice. “You said you were in my lap, after all.”

“I—oh, god—I don’t know,” you’re barely able to keep your voice low, a little whimper interrupting you, “Eren–”

“Keep going, it’s okay,” Eren’s fingers don’t slow– in fact, they begin to move more harshly, “you’re safe with me, you know that. I showed you in the forest, didn’t I?”

“Mhm.” You can’t stop your forehead from falling onto his shoulder, teeth digging into your lip so hard you aren’t sure if that coppery taste is from the steak, or your own blood. The conversation in the room, despite being made by only three people, feels like a deafening rush in your ears. 

The realization hits home that Eren’s going to make you cum all over his fingers in front of your friends, the staff, and your dinner, and he’s going to wrench it out of you in a matter of seconds, if the tightening of your gut is anything to go by.

“What else?” Eren practically growls in your ear, low and hoarse. “Is there anything else?”

“You asked me– fuck, you asked me something.” Your hips are canting forward into his palm, your face tacky and warm thinking about the couture fabric under you, now drenched in your cum and sweat. “Eren, you have to slow down, please–”

He’s merciless, pumping his fingers into you ceaselessly, rendering you a lost cause. “What did I ask you?”

“You asked—oh, my god—asked if I, if I would stay with you forever.”

“What was your answer?”

You can’t respond, not with the way you’ve stopped breathing to swallow down the debauched moan bubbling in your chest. Your entire body tenses, strung tight as a bow around Eren’s fingers as the knot in your stomach unravels, cool, inevitable release finally crashing over you. Eren works you through it, murmuring little hushes into your hairline, and placing a comforting hand over your fingers that are digging into his wrist, smiling against your forehead as you slide your hips back and forth over his hand.

You manage to pull the whole thing off impressively subdued, no more than a tinny whimper leaving your lips, only to be absorbed by the sleeve of Eren’s dinner jacket. When you dare to sit up, to meet Eren’s eyes, he’s still looking at you expectantly, as if that wasn’t enough.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” you whisper, waiting for Historia to chastise you, or Armin to make a lewd comment. The three of them are still arguing, Sasha stealing bites from Armin’s plate each time he turns to snap at Historia, who’s now sitting amongst a crowd of empty crystal glasses.

“What was your answer?” Eren says again, pulling his fingers from you and smirking at the glisten that stretches down into his palm.

“I woke up,” you say with shaky conviction, trying to glare at him.

“Are you still scared of me?” Eren asks innocently, picking up a piece of his steak with his hand and feeding it to you again. Your cum mixes in with the flavor of the steak, gives it a certain tang and salinity that makes your heart beat faster, even though you’ve just floated back down to consciousness.

“I– I don’t think so, but…” you trail off, looking down at the plate. Eren brings another piece to your lips, letting you bite half and giving the rest to himself, not missing the opportunity to suck on the tips of his fingers. Your thighs press together when his eyes flutter shut, knowing what he’s tasting and watching him revel in it.

“But what?”

“I don’t think I understand you,” you confess breathlessly, “I think that’s what scares me. I spend all day looking at you, and I never feel closer to understanding you, to really touching you. It’s like you’re not…” you trail off in search of the right word.

“Real?” Eren cocks an eyebrow at you.

“Human,” you say without entirely meaning to, widening your eyes at him in apology. “I’m sorry, not in a bad way necessarily, but– you feel…like you’re above me. In a sense.”

“Above you?” Eren frowns, forgetting his dinner entirely and looking straight at you with rejection written all over his face, wrinkles you want to smoothe over with your thumb.

“I just…” you sigh, finding it harder to meet his gaze by the second, “I don’t understand what you want with me.”

“Still?” Eren tilts his head. “Even after that?”

“The dream?” You nearly chuckle in exasperation. “It was just a dream, that’s all.”

Eren frowns a little, reaches for your glass of champagne– oh, god, when had that been refilled?– and hands it to you. He watches you take one sip, and then another, that concentrated pull of his eyebrows never ceasing until you reach a shaky hand out for your fork, beginning to feed yourself small bites of steak. His perplexed expression ripples out into one of contentedness, smiling gently as he watches you take care of yourself.

“All days are nights to see till I see thee, and nights bright days when dreams do show me thee,” Eren finally says, looking at you very much like you’re supposed to be parsing something out from his quote.

“On to the sonnets now, are we?” You cock a playful eyebrow at him, despite your tired, slouching posture and your repeated attempts to keep your guard up. Eren grins mischievously, leaning in as if he means to press the tip of his nose to yours.

“I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say–”

“If it be love indeed, tell me how much?” You’re quicker than him on this one, a vicious little smirk cutting across your face when you manage to cut him off. Eren’s eyebrows raise, impressed, but you don’t keep him down for long.

“There’s beggary in love that can be reckoned,” Eren finally says, twirling the ring on your pinky absentmindedly. You don’t even remember when he laid his hand atop yours, but it feels heavy and comforting, and so you let it lie there, just for the time being.

Your post-orgasm exhaustion hits you like a train, the temptation to slump against Eren’s shoulder winning out over your propriety. You’ll sit back up by the fourth course, you tell yourself, nibbling on a large piece of parsley that had come as a garnish on your plate. Eren doesn’t seem to mind the weight of your fuzzy head nodded into the cotton of his shoulder; in fact, he seems to adjust himself so you can nuzzle closer, eyes blinking owlishly as you reach for your glass of bubbles. You’re teetering dangerously close to the edge of unconsciousness, and you almost wouldn’t care, until something catches your eye.

Over the rim of your glass, Historia is staring at you. It’s not a look of admonishment, but more…caution? Concern? Pity? All you can discern for certain is that Historia must have seen everything Eren did to you, everything he’s still doing to you, taking a caviar bump off the back of his hand and laughing at Armin, shoulder shaking under your cheek. Historia’s brows furrow at you, her bottom lip wavering slightly.

You sit up suddenly, ignoring the way the room spins with the speed of your action. Eren turns his head to you, surprised, only to follow your gaze across the table to Historia. You’re trying to keep from looking at him, but you can’t help yourself, watching his expression crumple into something stern and disparaging.

Historia withers for only a moment, before narrowing her eyes at him threateningly. Eren squeezes his hand around yours. Sasha shoves Historia admonishingly for not listening to her joke. Armin’s eyes focus in on where your fingers grip your champagne flute hard enough to turn white.

You think you see a few pairs of familiar, glowing eyes in the bushes outside, peering in on the scene at the table. You think you need to go to bed.

[crumblinggothicarchitecture]

Taylor Swift is Derivative nonsense, not intellectually placed allusions. I'll die on this hill, and I have many more examples beyond just the one listed below.

Let’s talk about the difference between being derivative and utilizing allusion in text. :) 

I’ve seen a lot of defenses for Taylor Swift’s work that hinges on the theoretical concept of intertextuality. People don’t often know that they are arguing over the validity (or emotional impact) of intertextual cessions in Swift’s writing, but they are.

Intertextuality, if you don’t already know, is a set of determinable interwoven texts that all correspond on a particular thematic point. This encompasses, but is not limited to, the literary device of allusion.  

There are many examples of intertextual works, since it is intrinsically post-modern. Yet, I want to talk about how Taylor Swift attempts allusions that only ever fall into flat-facing derivative blandness. I want to talk about how, yes, Swift is in the spirit of the age; yet her work devolves into derivative insincerity simply because she is not an artistic writer.  

Now, for an egregiously bad allusion. (I think it’s worse because Romeo and Juliet is my favorite Shakespeare play). In “The Albatross” Swift writes, “A rose by any other name is a scandal” in which the obvious allusion is to Shakespeare's, “A Rose by any other name would smell as sweet” from the play Romeo and Juliet. The line in the play is often misquoted, so perhaps Swift is just ignorant, however the line means to draw attention to the fact that names are just words the that do not actually dictate the internal nature of someone.  

The full line, from Shakespeare, reads “O be some other name/ What’s in a name? That which we call a rose/ by any other name would smell as sweet;/ So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d” (Romeo and Juliet). Thus, Juliet is lamenting the full divisive way in which her family is at odds with Romeo’s family; upon deeper consideration too, Juliet is modulating how social pressures, often outside our control particularly in youth, can impact and modify the discourse between reality, doing what is proper in accordance with the majority, and intrinsic human desire to fulfill our own needs. So, the line is not only explaining how Romeo and Juliet cannot be together overtly due to familial dispute, but in the same words it explains the full breadth of social dissertation for the pursuit of individual need. Afterall, he would still be Romeo "were he not Romeo call'd." Juliet is admitting that she would still love him with or without the constraint of social obligation due the environment, or family, in which we are born; thus, we can see how individually human desire can be placed at odds with the demands of mainstream society.

This is a nuanced conversation when considering it through moral theory. For instance, we often talk about how people should not go against the mainstream for immoral pursuit of individual desire and that is reasonable; yet herein Shakespeare's work the thematic point is on the morality of love and desire to go against social convention. Shakespeare is saying, "Love is a greater moral good than that of social obligation to follow tradition and to hate who you are trained to hate based on parental teaching." It's a genius fucking line, in a genius fucking play. Now, we all know how the play ends, the lovers run off together, they have a brief day in the sun. However, social pressure and adult obligation catch up to them again and thus they die for it. They die for their courage to love and to go against the mainstream.  

Let’s return to Taylor Swift, the human embodiment of mainstream social pressure, as she writes that "a rose by any name is a scandal." As such, she is saying that all roses everywhere are just a scandal waiting to happen. If everything is a scandal, rather than speaking to any nuance grief to the pervasiveness' of social pressure to adhere to mainstream. Swift is simply throwing petulance to the world, by saying “Rose by any other name is a scandal” she limits what a rose could be, or become in using the verb “is” to fully solidify a rose as a scandal; which is a message that is diametrically opposed to the thematic point Shakespeare is making with his line. For Swift, there is no redemption, no nuance, and there is no subtext in which implicit messaging lay to tell people that going against the mainstream might just be the last thing you ever do but God is it worth it. To live with that brief day in the sun. And die for courage. Swift is just saying the opposite and stating that the mainstream is inevitable- there is no use in fighting it. A name is a name. It remains to tell the rose exactly what it is. Swift lacks imagination.

I would argue that Swift does make obvious attempts at allusion in her work, yet it is so poorly done because she does not actually see or use the thematic point of the source material from which she pulls her allusions. For allusions, to be done in an artistic impactful manner, we must keep to the thematic point of the source material. When the allusion is done correctly there is a “layering” effect in literature that redoubles the overarching themes of human experience in a way that calls us from the past, Shakespeare, to the present. Thus, is the theory of intertextuality in literary works.

(I made that bold because it's the main point of this, and I don't want anyone to miss it).

Taylor Swift’s work here simply does not measure up to anything artistic, thoughtful, or well-done.  It is simply derivative of Shakespeare, but I don't think it qualifies as a true allusion.

[megthemewlingquim]

Morpheus scolding a "yn" close friend or loved one for pulling an academic all-nighter.

time flies.

Summary: You've worked all night, doing a task for The Dreaming. Morpheus finds you at your desk at an ungodly hour.

Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Reader

Warnings: none

A/N: I will not be writing any huge spoilers; I have read the entire Sandman series from start to finish, but I will not give away anything that you don't already know (assuming you've seen Season 1).

It's a dark but peaceful night outside of Dream's castle. The sky is a very dark blue, starless but still lovely. The air about the Dreaming is a gentle breeze, and it's warm outside, as if summer is in full swing.

Morpheus is in a pleasant mood, it seems.

The castle itself, towering over everything else within the Dreaming, is a beautiful structure. The lights inside are a strong gold color, and they cut through the dark.

You've been in the Library of Dreams for a long while, working tirelessly on a task that Lucienne had given you. You're her apprentice — currently studying and remembering some of the titles in the Library.

A large, leather bound book sits open on your table. Next to you stand tall bookshelves, filled with countless books of numerous sizes and colors. You write in this book in front of you, filling out names of mortal authors from long ago and the books they never wrote.

G.K Chesterton.... A.A Milne.... Edgar Allan Poe... William Shakespeare...

"What're yeh doing still here?" asks a gruff voice behind you.

You turn around in your chair and see Merv Pumpkinhead, a sentient jack-o-lantern pumpkin dressed in scarecrow clothes, smoking a cigar. His eyes, for once, are not narrowed — instead, they are open in concern.

"Ah, hi, Merv," you say sleepily. "I'm... writing things down. Lucienne wanted me to study things."

"Yeah, uh, that was a couple hours ago," Merv says. He puffs at his cigar. "Maybe you should get some sleep, huh? Lucienne wouldn't want you to stay up so late. And neither would the Boss Man."

You smile at that. Morpheus.

"What do you think he's doing? Does he need sleep?"

"Who? Boss Man? I dunno, kid. I've never seen him sleep, if that helps your question. But I know you need sleep. That book will be there when you wake up tomorrow." Merv pauses, then continues, awkwardly, "Er, hopefully, it will. Sometimes things are... eaten... by whatever apparitions decide to wander the halls here, late at night..." Quickly, he perks up again. "But! I'm sure it'll be here when you get back here tomorrow morning?"

"It's alright, Merv," you mumble with a smile. "I'll go to bed. I just want to finish a couple more of these, try to rack my brain for any others I might've missed."

Merv sighs. "Alright, kiddo. Suit yourself. I'll leave you be. Just be sure to get some sleep, alright?"

"Alright," you grin. "G'night, Merv."

"Night." Merv takes his leave of you, the only evidence he was ever there is some cigar smoke still lingering in the library.

You turn back around and get back to work. All is silent in the Library, aside from the sound of your pen scratching the paper.

Christopher Marlowe... Jane Austen... J.R.R Tolkien... C.S Lewis...

Your eyes are glued to the paper, your mind racing. You're writing as fast as your mind can think, testing yourself with how many names you can remember.

Suddenly, your mind blanks. Your hand hovers over the paper, the pen in hand. You furrow your brow for a minute, your lips moving soundlessly in an attempt to go over each author you've written down.

You get to St. John the Divine of Patmos when the candle lights flicker all at once, dimming for a time and then coming back up to their full strength. Looking up, you hear another voice speak:

What are you doing here, at this hour?

Morpheus — Dream of the Endless — is standing beside you, looking down at your work, a hand on the chair you're sitting in. His voice is so soft, it doesn't startle you.

"I was... working."

Morpheus blinks. You're exhausted.

"Am I?" you say, trying to shrug off the tiredness that hangs on you. "What time is it?"

It's late, says Dream. Time has no meaning for him. Everyone else is asleep. Mervyn, Matthew, Cain and Abel... even poor Lucienne.

You think on this. If even Lucienne is asleep, it really is an ungodly hour...

What are you working on? Dream asks. What are you writing?

Wordlessly, you show the book to him. He reads over it, and his brow furrows.

You're awake... over this? Dream crouches down to and faces you, his starry eyes filled with worry. You poor thing. This is not needed. Did Lucienne ever check up on you?

"No," you say, truthfully. "But, I know why. She was too busy with the census. That's alright though, I don't mind being here. It's relaxing." You perk up. "But... Merv came to see me, just a few minutes ago."

The tiniest hint of a smile comes up over his face. Indeed? What did he say to you?

"That I should go to bed," you say.

And he was absolutely right. I think this can wait, don't you? Dream gestures with a perfectly manicured hand towards the huge leather book. Then, he lowers his hand and places it on your own.

I miss you, my love, he says gently, his voice now laced with longing. Come to bed.

How could you say no to that?

[jbaileyfansite]

The Wall Street Journal Interview (2024)

The 36-year-old English actor Jonathan Bailey is one of Hollywood’s newest heartthrobs. From Shonda Rhimes's Regency-era courtship dramas of “Bridgerton” to the decades-long romantic-political saga of “Fellow Travelers” to the Met Gala red carpet, he has earned admirers with his goofy charm and deep looks of longing.“

Being acknowledged as a heartthrob is incredibly flattering,” Bailey said. “It’s a big compliment, not just to you as an actor but everything around you.”

It has been a life-changing few years for Bailey, a stage actor turned screen darling. After “Bridgerton” launched him to global fame, he wrote up a document with tips to help prepare his younger castmates for the attention their on-screen romances would earn. “I think it’s about how to approach the work in a way that allows you to feel yourself and grounded,” he said.

Bailey, who’s been acting since he was a child in the Royal Shakespeare Company, reprises the role of Anthony in the third season of “Bridgerton” this month. Later this year, he’ll appear as Fiyero in the film adaptation of “Wicked” with Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo. He lives outside of London. Here, he talks about his favorite tea, doing gymnastics and the advice he got from Sir Ian McKellen.

What time do you get up on Mondays, and what’s the first thing you do after waking up?

I try to get up between 7 and 8. Then I try to not look at my phone, which sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t. If it’s a good day, I drink loads of water, have a bath and then just get out because I need to get outside. I’ll go for a walk, always with my headphones. If I feel a bit excited or my brain’s sort of alive, I’ll listen to a podcast because that keeps me quite calm. If not, I’ll listen to some drums and bass. 

How do you like your coffee? 

I love tea. Earl Grey tea for me. I love coffee as well.

What do you do for exercise?

I’m currently training for a half marathon. Then I do gymnastics at a local gym with loads of lovely, brilliant people. I’m part of that community, which I’m very proud of. I do handstands.

How long can you hold a handstand for?

I’ve gotten up to a minute. 

Do you meditate or journal or otherwise practice mindfulness?

Walking outside is meditation to me. There was a Buddhist center I loved when I was living in London, and I’d go there regularly to learn the practice of meditation. I believe in taking bits and bobs that work for you. I do write stuff down in a book that I carry with me, lessen the load in the brain when I can. 

Do you have any hobbies or habits that might surprise your fans? 

Probably playing loud music and dancing around naked. 

“Fellow Travelers” follows your character, Tim, as he falls for Matt Bomer’s Hawk over the course of several decades, from 1950s McCarthyism to the AIDS crisis in the 1980s. How did you get into character? 

With Tim, I felt like there was so much understanding that was in my bones already just from being me. Understanding the character who you’re playing opposite is also really good. Me and Matt, we didn’t really talk about it but we had that understanding of the experience of what these queer, gay people were experiencing.

Beyond that, I think about my forefathers and what an incredible opportunity it was to an academic, hands-on research of gay life in America. As a Brit, there was so much to learn, so the preparation was kind of nerdy in that respect. In another, it was incredibly emotional and spiritual. 

You’ve become very famous for the looks of longing that you’ve perfected. Do you practice them in the mirror?

No, unfortunately, I probably practiced them in real life all the way through my childhood. It’s funny, isn’t it? I can totally understand why people say that, but I think maybe what fascinates me most about humans is there’s always a distance between what you want and what you have and who you are and who you want to be. I mean, if I’m still longing and 92 years old, then I’m going to be very happy. 

How did you prepare to model swimwear for Orlebar Brown? Was there any part of you that was nervous? 

I had been doing gymnastics, so the swimsuit-model aspect of it required a couple of weeks of doing more handstandy stuff. But no, I was excited. 

There were some cute photos of you and Ariana Grande released from the set of “Wicked.” Do you have any favorite memories from filming? 

I went to CinemaCon and it was the launch of all of us together. I watched the trailer for the first time, I’m so glad I waited to see it in the big cinema. I just watched Cynthia [Erivo] and I was, like, God, Cynthia’s just going to blow everyone’s mind. You care so much about her in it. And Ari redefines Glinda in a really fun way, it just expands. 

There’s so much love for the original material. It was really fun and silly and great. Jon M. Chu [the director] just mines the emotion and is quite sincere about the truth of what’s going on with the characters.

What’s your most prized possession?

My headphones. If I lose them, I feel crazy. But also in 2017—I saved up and it felt incredibly frivolous—I started collecting the Yves Saint Laurent love prints, the original prints of the years that my sisters were born because there are four of us. Annoying actually, one of my sisters was born in 1982, and I don’t think there is a print for that year, so I might have to do a stickman or something. 

What’s one piece of advice you’ve gotten that’s guided you? 

Always do theater. That was actually from Ian McKellen. It’s in my bones anyway.

Source

[vidavalor]

"You love trains": Crowley & Aziraphale inspired 'North by Northwest'

Putting my film studies background to good use here with some film history & historical context under the cut.

The "what does the J stand for?" exchange in The Blitz, Part 1 and the inability for the audience to initially understand what Aziraphale is mouthing in The Blitz, Part 2 are both references to Hitchcock's classic spy thriller, 'North by Northwest'. I didn't link the clip that goes along with The Blitz, Part 2 in case some of you have never seen this film because it would ruin your experience of it. (Definitely watch it if you have not as it's a masterpiece.) Since The Blitz scenes are taking place in 1941 and 'North by Northwest' was released 18 years later in 1959, Crowley and Aziraphale aren't referencing the film in the dialogue but, instead, could be presumed to be the source *of* the dialogue in the film... just like how Shakespeare lifted Crowley's love poetry for 'Antony & Cleopatra'... and the 'North by Northwest'-referencing part of The Blitz, Part 1 *is referencing* the 'Antony and Cleopatra' reference because it's the reveal of Crowley's first name. But... it gets even better...

The writer of 'North by Northwest' was legendary Hollywood screenwriter Ernest Lehman, whom we're now presuming to have been a friend of probably at least Aziraphale's. Lehman wrote a dozen or so classic films and, outside of 'North by Northwest', is most famous for writing adaptations of several famous musicals, including the adapted screenplay for... 'The Sound of Music.' But, no, somehow, we aren't done yet with how amazing this is lol.

The thing that makes this all even funnier is that 'North by Northwest' is responsible for probably the most famous train metaphor in cinema. I'll spoil just this bit as it won't really ruin the overall movie for you if you haven't seen it but don't go any further than here if you don't want to be spoiled at all. If you've already seen it, you totally know what I mean. *laughs*

In 1959, when this film was released, you still couldn't really show sex on screen in a mainstream film. If you showed two people in a bedroom at all, they were cisgender, heterosexual and married and they slept in two separate beds. The level of sex happening in the above clip was *wild* for the era and the fact that it was put into the film the way it is-- that an unmarried woman picks up a hot guy on a train and they sleep together and she's still the heroine of the film and all of that-- was really nothing short of feminist revolution in a film in this era.

The film has a famous "love scene" of sorts that follows not long after the one I linked above, where the two of them are in a cabin on the train and starting to get it on but constraints of cinema coding at the time limited how far it could go. So, to imply that the main characters do, in fact, sleep together, the film famously cuts away to a shot of the train entering a tunnel-- making the train itself symbolic of sex. Because of how famous the film overall--and this scene in particular--became, it became a thing to use trains euphemistically for sex in other cinematic works following it. There is literally no way that Crowley and Aziraphale have not seen this movie so while Aziraphale was happy to make The Bentley into a sexual metaphor while angling for the car keys, Crowley is half-heartedly griping in flirty response by continually referencing trains, another sexual mode of transportation-- the one that that they inspired lol. Hence Aziraphale's bemused little lololol-but-won't-give-him-the-satisfaction-of-seeing-my-amusement face here:

Sunglassed!Cary Grant is Crowley and the old movie chemistry and the semi-coded flirty banter and someone please, please write a fic where Aziraphale says "I don't particularly like the book I've started"-- I will pay you lol.