hahaha guys the musical version of Romeo and Juliet is just so quality, honestly:
French? Hungarian? You can listen to the soundtrack in English probably, but pick a language and prepare for An Experience
French version is Romeo et Juliette, and it’s the original play/music
the Montagues and Capulets are color-coded. Pretty sure it’s supposed to be red and blue, but honestly, it’s more like magenta and violet. Sharkboy vs Lavagirl, omg
everyone’s hair is so Extra in this version
the d a n c i n g
Les Rois du Monde. Just that song/scene
everyone looks like MCR Killjoys era, and the general visual and musical theme is like, Mad Max if governments still existed
everyone! is so! gorgeous! and amazing!
i just love Juliette a lot in this version, okay?
dialogue updated to more modern language (as far as my subtitle-reading self can tell) and it works really well
nobody cares about Romeo’s lonely soul because everyone is too busy TEARING UP VERONA IN SYNCHRONIZED DANCE STEPS
okay, so I’m a bit biased. I think you should watch both! Definitely, you should watch the French version, because it’s amazing and original! but actually, if you’re going to only watch one of them, you should watch the Hungarian version because:
Benvolio is like 97% more Personality in this version
T H E DANCING
alas, the color-coding is not nearly as obvious, but do not fear, because the hair is cranked up to 300% to make up for it
idk if this was a mistranslation or if this is genuinely the closest English meaning to match the Hungarian, but somewhere in the middle of a really serious song, Romeo says something like “my buddies, my friends” and I can’t stop laughing
Juliet is so pretty and cute and she’s just so excited to fall in love! and meet someone who is cute and nice and wants to kiss her!
if you didn’t already ship R&J you’re freaking going to now they’re so cute i’m literally covering my face with my hands and squealing
pretty much every time Benvolio and Mercutio are sharing the stage, I cannot stop smiling
this Romeo is like Romeo+Hamlet. he’s all introspective and premonitions of doom, so it punches you in the feels that much harder when it turns out he’s RIGHT
the Montagues are a pack of young, feral, hedonistic, heathens and it’s fantastic
the serious parts are actually serious, and they’ll tear you up, let me say. if you didn’t feel feelings about the deaths and the suicides before, you will while watching this musical
(those last 6 are true of the French version, too, I just stuck them in here because I’m biased)
Happy belated birthday @questionartbox / @questionboxjuliet ! I’m sorry I couldn’t get the story up yesterday, but at least I’m not too late! XD I hope you enjoy the story!
Chinese legends tell of the red string of fate, of an
invisible, flimsy thread tying the ankles of those destined together. Other
stories tell of how soulmates have recurring dreams of past lives with their
destined, others say the first words your destined will speak to you are inked
on your body. Of course, legends are merely that: legends. More often than not,
humans put little stock in mythical stories about magic and fate.
Credence Barebone, despite being an artist who
revelled in dreaming and creating, will tell you, very adamantly indeed, that
he doesn’t believe in the idea of soulmates, not one whit. An artist slowly
gaining a reputation in the bustling city of New York, Credence is used to
keeping to himself, save for a few trusted friends like the Goldstein sisters
and their beaus, Newt Scamander and Jacob Kowalski, who by the way, owns the most decadent bakery in town. He
paints when the urge strikes him, sleeps for several hours in between, is
forced out for meals by the Goldsteins, and dreams for the rest of his time. He
dreams of many things, of shapes that slither and twist and drip down like
paint that has not dried, of the piercing voice of one Mary Lou Barebone who
was so very fond of the whip and belt, and most recently, dreams of a man who
looks different and yet the same each time he appears in Credence’s dreams.
The first time Credence remembers seeing him, the man
appears as a knight. Silent, sturdy and clad in shining armour, the man in his
dreams gazes straight at Credence, and for some reason, the little sideways
grin the man shoots at him seems so
familiar, that when he wakes up, there’s a gaping ache in his heart that leaves
him gasping for breath, for the man who exists only in his dreams. This happens
again every time Credence goes to sleep; in one dream, the man is a nobleman,
dressed in the finest of garments with his dark hair long and silky and combed
back, and Credence thinks he might
have been dancing with the mysterious man. Not all the dreams are pleasant
however, and some are filled with death and smoke where the man is burning, tied to a post and condemned
for a witch. That dream in particular is vivid, so vivid that Credence feels
the burning of smoke in his lungs, feels the heat of the flames licking at his
skin, threatening to leave blisters and burns as he reaches out for the
nameless man who screams out a name as he writhes in agony. Credence wakes up
with the acrid taste of smoke still lingering in his mouth, and the memory of a
man burning to nothing. He spends the
next hour retching in the bathroom, and his bones are cold from death and loss
that should mean nothing to him, but does.
Credence tells Queenie Goldstein about the dreams over
coffee the next day, and the blonde is sympathetic, and yet ecstatic at the
same time because it means you’re going
to find your soulmate, Credence, but he scoffs and takes a huge gulp of
coffee instead. Not because he actually believes
in soulmates now, but because he’s had this argument with Queenie over and over
again and he’s not changed his mind still. Not even when the dreams haunt his
every sleeping moment and he wakes up wanting
but never knowing what or who. It’s come to the point where he’s
brushing his teeth in the morning and keeps expecting arms to encircle him from
behind, and a raspy whisper telling him goodmorning, or when he suddenly has the
urge to eat food he’s always disliked, or when he’s walking down the streets
and there’s a shadow of a man with dark hair and dark eyes and grace like a
panther, but when he turns to look, there’s never anyone there. He’s being
haunted by ghosts that don’t exist (or so he thinks) and he doesn’t like it.
Despite being an artist who sees the world in colour and abstract and shapes
and ideas that people can’t see, Credence is a logical person and soulmates don’t exist. They don’t.
Everything goes tits up however, when Credence decides
to take a walk in Central Park. Looking back on it, things like fucking
soulmates popping up (and a previous stalker who insists he’s Jack fucking
Sparrow) are why Credence never goes out. He likes stability, likes it when
things go according to plan and there aren’t any unexpected surprises; all of
which his studio, the Kowalski Bakery and his home can offer, hence why he
rarely goes to places where there are far too many unknowns. But it’s not much
to ask for, is it? To have a walk in peace without bumping into the man in his
dreams, with his dark hair and eyes and that fucking trench coat that makes him look like he’s just stepped off
a runway in Paris. He’s just minding his own business, watching where his feet
are going so he doesn’t trip over any cracks, when a low voice stops him dead
in his tracks, with an innocent “excuse me?” Credence swears under his breath
and turns around, and is immediately met with the most handsome man he’s ever
set his sight on.
There’s a brilliant grin on the man’s face when he
takes in Credence’s visage, but there’s a soft shyness in his eyes, and
Credence is captivated by the movement of his bushy brows as the man introduces
himself as Percival Graves. There’s a pregnant pause when Percival’s hand is
outstretched, but Credence finds himself reaching out to grasp his hand in a
firm, but gentle handshake.
You know the clichéd stories about fireworks exploding
and seeing the world in a sudden burst of colour? Credence used to hate those
expressions, but fuck it they were
accurate. As soon as Credence feels Percival’s warm skin on his, his breath
catches and there’s an explosion of feelings and colour and warmth, and he
stumbles backwards from the force of it all. Percival moves to stop him from
falling, and their faces are so close together, Percival thinks he can see
flecks of gold in the brown of Credence’s eyes, and his fingers ache to trace
the sharp lines of his jaw. The younger man blinks and stills, when he feels
warm lips on his jawline, close to his ear and all at once, the touch of
Percival’s lips are gone, but oh he
misses them already. Looking up, he sees a blush spread across Percival’s face,
and notices the five o’ clock shadow the man sports, and he can’t help but run
his fingers across the coarse stubble that frames a sharp jawline. There’s a
tremble of muscle beneath his fingers, and Credence glances coquettishly at
Percival, but the barking of a dog reminds them that they’re in Central Park,
and there are people casting strange glances at them.
Percival is the first to recover, and with Credence’s
hand in his, suggests that they perhaps find someplace else to talk. They end
up at Kowalski’s Bakery, and Queenie watches with a heart brimming with glee as
the two men speak. Credence learns his destined is very nearly the second most
powerful person in the city, answering only to Seraphina Picquery, mayor of New
York. Percival learns that Credence’s next gallery showing is this Sunday, and
the artist tentatively extends an invitation to him, which is enthusiastically
accepted. Credence learns that Percival likes Chinese food, which would explain
why Credence had the sudden urge to indulge in Chinese take-out for several
weeks now. Percival learns that Credence was abused as a child, and he promptly
presses a kiss onto the younger man’s paint-stained knuckles, eliciting a
surprised squeak from the artist. They both learn that they started having the
dreams around the same time, about two months ago, and they spend hours
discussing their past lives. Percival, with a sly smile and a twinkle in his
eyes, tells Credence that he looks much nicer with his current haircut than the
bowl haircut he sported in one of their past lives, to which Credence retorts
that Percival could do without the poufy sleeves he sported as a nobleman.
It’s past closing time when Percival and Credence
finally decide to part ways, but not without agreeing to meet again the next
day. Percival promises to take Credence to the opera, to which he has reserved
box seats all year round, and Credence promises to give Percival a proper tour
of the Metropolitan Museum of Art with detailed explanations. Their hands
linger a touch longer as they hug goodbye, and there’s a dopey grin on Credence’s face as he drifts home in a haze of happiness. That night, the dreams of lives long past
stop, and instead, they both dream of the future and of laughter and hope. What
they don’t notice however, is the glint of a translucent red string tied around
their ankle, and if you listen very carefully, you just might hear the faint
sound of an old man laughing in the distance as he continues his work in the
night, tying silken red threads around the ankles of predestined couples.
Me: Honestly, I love being single, I can learn about myself and-
Libra: Stupid. How can you say that? When you can have someone you can grow with, like, that’s awesome. I love love, I breathe love. I’ve read Romeo and Juliet 10 times. When it was assigned to me in class, I didn’t need to be told to read it. Why? Because I love love. I can’t wait to find my Romeo/Juliet, where is thee, whilst my heart holds thorns of tragedy. Mercutio sounds cute too tho. But that’s because I love love. I’d die for love, but if you die for me that’s not my problem.
Eight Legs & Eight Arms (Poly!Southern DR’s x Reader)
Title: Eight Legs & Eight Arms
Pairing: Poly! Southern DR’s x Reader
Word Count: 2389
Request: “Could I possibly request poly!demo-reps x reader where y/n just moved in next door and they, like, smiled at her or something and she goes to them to ask them to kill the giant spider in her kitchen and makes them dinner as thanks, but then it sort of turns into a dinner date, and lots of fluff plz.”
A/N: It was a little more than a smile, but hey, why not? (Also, unrelated gif bc everyone deserves this in their lives.)
Rosaline snorts a laugh at her sister’s remark, and shakes her head a little. Livia never was one to keep her words to herself, especially not in the comfort of their bedroom. A few moments of peace before tonight’s ball finds them in Juliet’s old room, laughing and gossiping together like they used to as young maids. Still, Rosaline didn’t think her sister capable of bringing up the Montague so casually into the conversation.
“His smile is perfectly normal, dear sister.”
“It is not! He always smiles like…” Livia imitates said smile, forced and pained-looking. Rosaline cannot help but laugh, for it is not Benvolio’s smile her sister is portraying - or, at least, not his most genuine one, but the one curling up his lips when he only pretends to be blissful. Rosaline is not surprised that her sister is unable to tell the difference, but startled at her own knowledge of Benvolio’s smiles.
“Do not be mean, dear sister,” she replied with a gentle slap to Livia’s shoulder. “Not everyone is fortunate enough to be as beautiful as you are.”
Livia snorts. “Are you defending him?”
Rosaline scoffs at the ridiculousness of such a question. “No. Attack his character to your heart’s content. But we know better than to mock one’s physique.”
Can we talk about Romeo’s speech at the beginning of act V? It is unquestionably my favorite passage of the play. He comes on the stage, still oblivious to the malign fate which is about to ensnare him, and he exudes once more his perennial faith in the power of dreaming, his illusions of love blissfully inhabiting his whole self. ‘If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep,’ he says, ‘My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. / My bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne, / And all this day an unaccustomed spirit / Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.’ Here is his exultant surrender to fantasy, allowing dreams to weave his spirits as they please. I’m particularly fond of the following lines:
I dreamt my lady came and found me dead—
Strange dream that gives a dead man leave to think!—
And breathed such life with kisses in my lips
That I revived and was an emperor.
Ah me! How sweet is love itself possessed,
When but love’s shadows are so rich in joy.
I can never seem to get enough of this passage: his dreams expose his belief that Juliet has the ability to heal him—a conceit which he reiterates a few lines later, when he states that ‘nothing can be ill if she be well’. The savior of his dreams is undeniably an active Juliet, one that comes to him, one whose vitality is capable of rescuing him from the embrace of death (with a love kiss, in true Disney-princess fashion). Heroically, she inspires so much life in his lips that he is reborn as an emperor—because for him true wealth is bestowed by love. In his conversation with the Apothecary he transmits his contempt for the power that gold holds in his society; it is ‘worse poison to men’s souls, / Doing more murder in this loathsome world’ than poison itself. It is Juliet’s self that confers, metaphorically, all the fortune he desires, love being his timeless source of ‘sweet[ness]’ and ‘joy’, bathing his weary heart in ‘cheerful thoughts’.
In the last scene, his actions and his words are governed by the obscure, the tragic, the macabre. It’s marked by the eeriness of his opening the tomb and embracing Juliet’s corpse (at least, as far as he knows, she is now a corpse). He forges a bond between them that goes beyond time, beyond life itself, beyond the limits of language: he no longer proves his love through a vow to the moon, but through a ‘dateless bargain’ sealed ‘with a righteous kiss’, and the promise to protect his wife from lascivious Death, ‘the lean abhorred monster.’
And then there is his defiance of the stars, his ultimate divorce from the weight of the world. ‘Then I defy you, stars!’ His love dreams inexorably slip through his fingers, and yet this only augments his irrevocable longing to be devoured by them, and thus destroy the yoke ‘of inauspicious stars’. No matter what the consequences are, whether it be Paris’ life and his own, he will lie with Juliet eternally, his bereavement filled with the need to unite the physicality and the otherworldliness of his love at once. Although he returns to the domains of sad-heartedness, there is something rapturous about his death, hovering poetically between his adoration of Juliet and his weariness of the world: there is the ecstasy of finding an eternal place by Juliet’s side, but also his ‘sea-sick weary bark’ annihilated by ‘the dashing rocks’. It is a discovery of life in death, a contemplation of the sublimity of chaos, the torches being the only light in the darkness of the crypt (it was Juliet who taught them to burn bright!). It is excellent as well lamentable—two adjectives which Shakespeare included in the title of the play.
“Okay, Juliet and Livia, you’re on freezer section and produce, boys, you’ve got cleaning supplies, I’ll grab the booze and dry goods. Got it?”
Rosaline grinned when she was met with a chorus of sarcastic ‘yes, mom’s, until Mercutio split away from the others to block her path. “Oh no, you are not going to be the only one responsible for choosing the alcohol, Cap. Don’t think I forgot that sugar water crap you picked up last time.”
“It is not sugar water, it’s called moscato and-”
“Okay, forgive me, it’s grape juice. Either way, I’m coming with you to get some real alcohol for the men.” Rosaline opened her mouth to retort, but Mercutio was already off for the liquor aisle, leaving her to glare in his wake. Benvolio chuckled at her, and winked when she turned her gaze to him. Before her wrath could redirect to him as well, he was gone, jogging after Romeo. With a growl, Rosaline stalked after Mercutio.
She couldn’t help the warmth that spread in her chest when she finally caught up to her boyfriend’s best friend. He stood with a basket hanging from his elbow, a bottle of her favorite moscato peeking out over the top, and was comparing two different bottles of whiskey. She sidled up next to him with an inquisitive look at his options, and didn’t miss the smirk fighting to curl his lips.