and how he's like ...you do

anonymous asked:

Andrew just grabs and pulls Christian by the ass in Thrill of First Love and I remember reading somewhere that Andrew actually asked Christian if it was okay to just put his head on his chest during Unlikely Lovers. So at some point they had to have had a conversation about it, and it evolved a lot too, in one of the boots I'm pretty sure he grabs him by the waist. Anyway, as someone who has done theatre and has had those conversations, I can't stop thinking about how that went lmao

Yeah, it’s really fascinating to examine the differences between the October boot and the late December one/the proshot!! The cast talks a lot about like trusting each other immediately and forming this tight-knit family of their own, and Christian has discussed them like, both being physically affectionate during the rehearsal process in order to figure out the relationship dynamic, so !! I think it has to do with them gradually becoming more comfortable in their roles as characters and their relationship as friends/actors, because even though a number of the castmates had worked together on previous projects, they only had a month to rehearse the material and study the characters and whatnot?

BUT YEAH I wish we had like, a Nov/early Dec boot, because it would be interesting to see the progression of certain acting choices and stuff.

Makkachin the Extra-Ordinary (and his extra-extraordinary owner)

I am in my own Harry Potter AU hell.

And just because I can:

“Dad…” 

Malfoy looked up from his desk, quill poised over the parchment as his son hovered by the study door. Aware that he was frowning, Draco lifted his expression into something more neutral. He was vaguely aware of his own father always frowning whenever he’d tried to talk to him as a boy, and he didn’t want Scorpius to one day think the same about him.

“Come in, come in. Shut the door, you’ll let the heat out.” 

The Greengrass estate was a crumbling ruin compared to Malfoy Manner, with only half the library and none of the artifacts Draco had spent the last few years archiving and putting safely away behind spelled glass. But for now it was home, chilly stone walls and all.

“Did you want something?”

“Yes.” Scorpius replied, pausing to tug at the hem of his dark shirt. There’s still a bruise under his eye, faded to be sure, but the mere presence of it made Draco’s heart skip a beat. When he’d seen Severus Potter crawling out of the rubble, face covered in blood and no sign of his own son, he’d known terror like no other.

And Draco Malfoy was intimately familiar with the machinations of terror. He’d been hugged by it once.

“Well,” he prompted, setting aside his work entirely and giving his full attention to his son. “What is it?”

“I want my friends to come visit.”

Draco blinked. Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. “Your…friends?”

“Albus Potter and Rosie Granger-Weasley. I would like them to come stay.”

Draco blinked again. Later he’d laugh—somewhat despairingly into a decanter of fire brandy—at the absurdity of the notion that his boy, Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, was best friends with a Potter and the hybrid off-spring of a Granger Weasley, but the threat of impeding hysterics was quelled under the defiant gaze of his son, narrow chin lifting at some unspoken challenge. 

“I see. For how long?”

“A…a week…maybe two…They’re going to France for the Quiditch Cup Primaries…” he glanced down and Draco spied the curled up parchment hidden up his sleeve. “So it wouldn’t be for long.”

Draco glanced at his desk, to the fireplace, then back to his son. “I don’t…”

I want my friends…friendshow often had Astoria lamented his lack of playmates as a child, how often had she fretted that Scorpius’ only interaction had been with adults—or books, or enchanting his own toys for someone to play with. And how quickly had Scorpius’ face crumpled at the utterance of two simple syllables. 

“…know if two weeks would be wise, given your mother’s health. She’s still recovering from the move. But I shall discuss it with her, and see what can be done.”

Scorpius stilled, the beaming smile on his face reigned in to something calmer, even now, not wanting to get his hopes up too much. “Thank you. For what it’s worth, we will be good.”

Draco snorted at that, remembering the last time a Malfoy, a Potter and a Granger and a Weasley had been together at their age. “Somehow I doubt it. Go on off you go, go see what your mother is up to. She’s enjoying having you home.”

“And I am enjoying being here,” Scorpius replied, in that curiously courteous and stiff way of speaking he’d always had, even as an infant learning his words. “I am happy to be here, with you, and mother.”

“I’m…very glad to hear it.” Draco replied, unsure what else he was supposed to say to such an open admission said so politely like one was discussing the weather. “Now go on, off you go, I need to finish this manuscript before I lose the thought.”

“You’ll talk to mother though, wont you?” Scorpius pressed from his space by the door. “You’ll ask…”

“Yes, yes.” Draco waved a hand, “I’ll ask if the Potter spawn can come stay with us. Just for a little bit. To say thank you for…everything.”

Reassured, Scorpius left, closing the door behind himself with a firm click. 

Draco waited several more moments, counting to a hundred before opening up the top desk of his drawer and pulling out his correspondence folder, flipping through them until he found the appropriate manila envelope, writing the address of the Ministry Neatly to the front. 

Clearing his throat politely, he composed himself, then tapped it to life with his wand.

“Hello Potter,” he spat with a vicious familiar glee, unable to keep from laughing, “I’m not sure which one of us is going to be more surprised by this turn of events, but I swear to gods if you break my son’s heart by saying no, I will personally send you a red Howler on the hour every hour till the day one of us dies. Now, about dates, the last week in June works well for us…”

I’m afraid to tell you that I miss you because I know you won’t say it back.
—  💜
2

Cassian had been born for this.
These fields, this chaos and brutality and calculation.
Three soldiers were brave or stupid enough to try to charge him. Cassian had them down and dying with four maneuvers.

“Holy Mother,” I breathed.

That was who had been training me. Why Fae trembled at his name. Why the high-born Illyrian warriors had been jealous enough to want him dead.

In The World

Katsuki Yuuri is a puzzle, one Viktor is always happy to go back to, sliding long fingers over the pieces. Yet every time he thinks he’s worked it out, he realizes there’s no edge to the puzzle, no end, and everything rearranges.

“Yuuri,” he calls, “what’s this?”

The dark mess of hair and pajamas emerges from the bedroom, rubbing his eyes. “Origami.”

“Was there some kind of craft fair near our house yesterday?”

“I made it,” Yuuri mutters. An intricate dragon, out of soft blue tissue paper, and Viktor’s fiance made it. “I needed something to do with my hands while I waited for the dashi to simmer.” For Yuuri, that’s the end of the discussion. No further explanation, just another piece of Yuuri’s history plucked mysteriously from the void. 

Yuuri can juggle. He can play piano. If his hands are steady and he’s given the right pen, he thoughtlessly sketches out calligraphy. When he sings to himself while Viktor soaps his back in the shower, he drifts between styles: Broadway showtunes, operatic Italian, Japanese lullabies. Knitting. Jump-rope. Shadow puppetry, when they’re feeling foolish under the covers of their king bed and waiting until they’re ready to… 

Viktor thinks he wouldn’t be surprised if Yuuri was capable of magic– but then Viktor would be lying to himself, because he was surprised when Yuuri pulled quarters from out of thin air, made Viktor’s ring disappear for a few moments from beneath a cup.

What can he not do?” Yurio hisses, half delighted and half serious, when he bites into homemade cake. Viktor wants to tell him he doesn’t know the half of it– he’s never played darts or cards with Yuuri, unlike poor Viktor Nikiforov. “How. How is it possible.”

“Darling,” Viktor probes, when he finds Yuuri spread over their living room floor one evening, whittling away at wood while sitting in his splits. “How do you… how do you know how to do all these things?”

“What? Oh, this?” Yuuri says, gesturing with his knife and carving that has only started to resemble Makkachin. “It’s silly.” Viktor wants to strangle him, quiet the easy dismissal– preferably with his lips. It’s not silly. You’re brilliant. “We got a lot of different people, coming through the onsen. Sometimes, if the room wasn’t ready yet or they asked for company, I sat with them. I didn’t like…” he pauses, bites at his lip, and scrapes off a shred of wood. “Talking is difficult? I’m not entertaining, that way. But everyone likes teaching, so I picked up a few things.”

A few. Their apartment is a shrine to Yuuri’s many accomplishments, both world-record-holding and minute. Origami and sketches and trophy cases, gleaming. Viktor is the religion’s most ardent follower.

“We’re going to have so much fun when we retire,” he realizes.

“Hmm?” Is Yuuri’s only reply. Makkachin’s tail is emerging beneath his hands. “Also, do you want a massage later, Vitya?” He doesn’t even have to ask. Viktor pads over, sits behind him and wraps arms around his fiance’s steady waist.

“Do you know what I want to be the best at,” he hums into Yuuri’s neck.

“You’re already the best at skating,” Yuuri states bluntly. Nipping at his neck, Viktor wordlessly scolds the current world record holder. Yuuri laughs, the steady strokes of his whittling knife faltering as he twists to catch Viktor’s lips. “What, Vitya?”

“I want to be the best at loving you,” Viktor whispers, and it’s a skill he’ll spend his entire life perfecting.

  • [during sex]
  • Hinata: NARUTO!
  • Naruto: SASUKE!
  • Hinata: ...
  • Naruto: ...
  • Hinata: ...
  • Naruto: I can explain
  • Naruto: It's a habit
  • Hinata: What?
  • Naruto: No, wait. What I mean is- the only person who shouts my name like that is Sasuke and I usually shout his name too, like, when we fight
  • Hinata: Why?
  • Naruto: I don't know. It's kind of our thing. We've been doing it for years.
  • Naruto: Well, not doing IT, you know, not like we just did. But that name thing, 'it.' I'm not in love with him, I swear! At least, not the same way I'm in love with you.
  • Hinata: Naruto
  • Naruto: I mean, we only kissed once, and it was totally an accident.
  • Hinata: Naruto
  • Naruto: Or, twice, unless you count that other time-
  • Hinata: NARUTO!
  • Naruto: SASUK- Hinata, I meant to say Hinata, see? It's like a reflex.
  • Hinata: Go sleep on the couch while I think about this relationship.
  • Naruto: Fine, but can I ask you something?
  • Hinata: *hopeful* Yes?
  • Naruto: By 'this relationship,' did you mean yours and mine or mine and Sasuke's?
  • Hinata: Get out.

this guy realllllly does not like being called short.

4

I thought this post was really cute so here’s datekou

Bruce Wayne is a total Batman fanboy. He has a made to life replica of his favorite Batmobile in his garage and a room set off to the side with all the Batman memorabilia he’s collected over the years. He’s known for spending crazy amounts of money at auctions for Batman stuff and orders his own versions of everything.

No one even bats an eye when he puts in a huge order for batarangs. And he’s so happy about it because when he’d first started out as Batman getting supplies had been the worst part of the job. He’d had a million hoops he had to go through to keep his secret identity a secret. 

He’d thought he’d hated it when people became Batman obsessed, but after he got caught with a Batarang in his pocket at a charity event he decided to go with the fanboy persona. And it worked. 

His children think it’s hilarious and buy him all kinds of weird Batman merchandise. Like the crappily painted Batman figures shipped from China, Batman soap, the plastic masks every store sells, and their personal favorite the pajamas that say “My Batcave is my happy place”