*shyly whispers* do u think u could do another Greek Mythology story~
“Your tapestries are so
fine,” the merchant says in wonder, “that you must be blessed by the goddess
Arachne tosses her
head, braided hair falling over her shoulder like an obsidian waterfall,
“What’s Athena got to do with it? My hands wove these, not hers.”
The merchant blanches
and looks to the sky, as if expecting Zeus himself to smite them for blasphemy.
Personally, she thinks the king of the gods has better thing to do with his
time. “Ah,” he says weakly, “I suppose.”
He pays her for her
wares and she leaves, almost immediately bumping into a hunched old woman with
grey eyes. “Do you not owe Athena thanks for your talent?” she croaks, gnarled
hands curled over a cane.
Arachne is not stupid,
but she is foolish. They will tell tales of it. She looks into those grey eyes
and declares, “Athena should thank me,
since my talents earn her so much praise.”
She pushes past her and
keeps walking, ignoring the goddess in humans skin as she disappears into the
They will tell tales of
her hubris. They will all be true.
The next day she bumps
into the same old woman at the market. Everything goes downhill from there.
“Know your place,
mortal,” Athena says, grey eyes narrowed. There is a crowd around them, and
Arachne could save herself, could walk away unscathed, and all she has to do is
say her weaving is inferior to that of a goddess.
She will not lie.
“I do,” she says
coolly, “and in this matter, it is above you.”
She is not honest as a
virtue, but as a vice.
Athena challengers her
to a weaving contest. She accepts.
Gods are not so hard to
find, if you know where to look.
“It’s a volcano,” the
baker repeats, looking down at her coins, as if he feels guilty for taking
money from someone who’s clearly not all there.
She grabs her bag of
sweet breads and adds it to her pack before swinging it over her shoulders,
“Yes, I know. Half a day’s walk, you said?”
“A volcano,” he insists, as if she did not hear him perfectly well the
first dozen times.
“Thank you for your
help,” she says. He’s shaking his head at her, but she knows what she’s doing.
She walks. She grows
hungry, but does not touch the bread she paid for, and walks some more. The
sun’s begun to set by the time she makes it to the base of the volcano. It’s
tall, impossibly large, and for a moment the promise of defeat threatens to
But Arachne does not
believe in defeat, in loss. They will tell tales of her hubris. Those tales
will be true.
She ties a scarf around
her braids then hikes her skirt up and ties the material so it falls only to
her thighs. She fits work roughened hands into the divots of cooled magma and
begins her slow ascent.
The muscles in her legs
and arms shake, and her hunger pains are almost as distracting. Her once white
dress is dirt smeared and torn and sweat makes her itch as it covers her body
and drips down her back.
“What are you doing?”
Arachne turns her head
and bites back a scream, looking into one giant eye. The cyclops holds easily
to the volcano’s edges, even though her hands are torn and bleeding. She
swallows and says, “I heard you like honeyed bread. Is it true?”
The creature tilts his
head to the side, baring his long fanged teeth at her. She thinks he might be
smiling. “You’ve been climbing for hours. What do you want?”
“Is it true?” she
repeats, refusing to flinch.
“Yes,” he says, looking
at her the same way the baker had, “it’s true.”
“There’s some sweet
bread in my pack, baked this morning,” she says, “it should still be soft.”
His hands are big
enough and strong enough that it could probably squeeze her head like a grape. Instead
he gently undoes her pack and reaches inside. The honey buns look comically
small in his large hands, and he swallows half of them in one bite. He licks
his fingers clean when he’s done, and his smile is just as terrifying the
second time around. “I am Brontes. Why are you climbing my master’s volcano?”
“I’m the weaver
Arachne,” she takes a deep breath, “I need your master’s help.”
They tell tales of
They are not true.
He’s got a broad,
angular face and short brown hair. His eyes are like amber set into his face,
and his arms are huge, and he’s rippling muscle from the waist up. He has legs
only to his knees. From there down his legs are bronze gears and golden wire,
replacements for the legs destroyed when Hera threw him from Mount Olympus.
“Had your look, girl?”
he asks, voice rough like he’s always a moment away from breaking into a
“Yes,” she says, and
doesn’t turn away, keeps looking.
His lips quirk up at
the corners, so it was the right move. The heat is even more oppressive inside
the volcano, and all around him cyclopses work, forging oddly shaped metal that
she can’t hope to understand. “You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble to find me,
girl. What do you want?”
She slides her pack off
her shoulders and holds it out to the god, “I have a gift for your wife. I have
woven her a cloak.”
He raises an eyebrow
and doesn’t reach for the bag, “You believe something made with mortal hands
could be worthy of the goddess of beauty?”
They will tell tales of
They will all be true.
With a gust of wind the
oppressive heat of the volcano is swept away, leaving her chilled. In its place
stands a woman – more than a woman. Aphrodite has skin like the copper of her
husband’s machines and hair dark and thick and long. Her eyes are deepest,
richest brown, piercing in their intelligence. People don’t tell tales of
Aphrodite’s cleverness. That is because people are stupid.
“Let’s see it then,”
she says, reaching inside the pack and pulling the cloak from its depths.
It unrolls beautifully.
It’s made from the finest silks, and it shimmers in the light from the forges.
The hem of the cloak is sea foam, speaking of Aphrodite’s beginning, and up
along the cloak is intricate patterns it tells of her life, of her marriage and
her worshippers and escapades, all with the detail of the most experienced
artist and the reverence of her most devoted followers.
Her lips part in
surprise and she slides it on, twirling like a child. “Gorgeous,” Hephaestus
says, though Arachne knows he does not speak of the cloak. She doesn’t take
The goddess smiles and
Arachne’s heart pounds in her chest. She does her best to ignore it – Aphrodite
is the goddess of love, after all. It is only expected. “Very well,” the
goddess says, “you have my attention.”
Aphrodite’s attention is a heavy thing. “I have offended Athena,” she says,
“She has challenged me to a weaving contest.”
Their faces somber.
Hephaestus rubs the edge of a sleeve between his fingers and says, “Athena will
lose such a contest, if judged fairly. She does not take loss well.”
“I know,” she says,
“you are friendly with Hades, are you not?”
There are no tales of
their friendship. But she’s staking her life on its existence, because why
wouldn’t it exist – both of them even tempered, both shunned by Olympus, both
Gods hate being made to
feel lesser. It is why they say Persephone was kidnapped, why they say
Aphrodite cheats with Ares. It is why Athena will crush her when Arachne wins
the weaving contest.
“Clever girl,” Hephaestus
Aphrodite stares at her
reflection in a convenient piece of polished silver. Arachne assumes Hephaestus
left if lying there for that express purpose. “Very well!” the goddess says,
not looking at her, “when Athena sends you to the underworld, we will entrench
upon our uncle for your release.” She turns on her heel and points a finger at
her. Arachne blushes for no reason she can think of. “In return, you will weave
me a gown, one equal to my own beauty.”
A gown as exquisite as
the goddess of beauty. An impossible task.
They will tell tales of
They will all be true.
The contest goes as
expected. Athena’s tapestry is lovely, but Arachne’s is lovelier.
The goddess’s face goes
red in rage, and her grey eyes narrow. Arachne stands tall, ready to accept the
death blow coming for her.
The blow comes.
Death does not.
She is an insect. Even if she can make it back to Hephaestus’s
volcano, even if they can help her, they will not know it is her. She has no
hope left, no course of action, she should just give up. But –
She doesn’t believe in
defeat, in loss.
It was a terribly long
journey on foot, that first time. It is even longer this time, although now she
has eight legs instead of two. She makes it to the volcano, and creeps in
between crevices, until she finds out a hollowed room, one with a sliver of
sunlight and plenty of bugs to keep her fed.
Athena’s cruel joke of
allowing her to weave will be her downfall. Her silk comes out a golden yellow
color – it will look exquisite against Aphrodite’s copper skin.
It takes seven years
for her to complete it. She hasn’t left this room in the volcano in all that
time, and as soon as it’s done she scurries out back toward the village. She’s
a large insect, but not that large.
She arrives just as the
sun begins to rise, and leaves before the first rays have even touched the
earth, her prize tied to her back with her own silk.
Arachne doesn’t return
to her room. Instead she goes to the more popular parts of the volcano, hurries
and runs around terrifying stomping feet until she finds who she’s looking for
and scurries up his leg and onto his shoulder.
“Huh,” Brontes looks
onto his shoulder and blinks. “What on earth are you?”
She cautiously skitters
down his arm, waiting. He bends closer and lightly touches her back. “Is – is that
a piece of a honey bun?”
She looks up at him,
waiting. It’s her only chance, if he doesn’t remember, if he doesn’t understand
His face slowly fills with
a cautious kind of wonder. “Arachne?” She
jumps in place, being unable to nod, and Brontes cautiously cradles her in his
massive hands, “We must find the Master immediately!”
She jumps down, landing
in front of him and running forward. “Wait!” he calls, and she makes sure he’s running
after her before skittering back to her corner of the cave. It’s almost too
small for him to enter but he squeezes inside and breathes, “Oh.” He stares for
several moments, and Arachne climbs her web and waits. Brontes shakes himself
out of his reverie and uses his powerful wings to bellow, “MISTRESS APHRODITE!”
There’s that same
breeze and she’s in the crevice with them, “What was so important, Brontes,
that you had to yell?”
Arachne sees the exact
moment that the goddess sees the gown, golden yellow and glimmering, made
entirely of spider silk. “Beautiful,” she says, reaching out a hand to brush
down the bodice. Her head then snaps up, “Brontes, where’s Arachne?”
She warms at that, that
Aphrodite knew it was her weaving even though she hasn’t been seen in seven
They’ve told tales of
They are all true.
Brontes points at the
web, and Aphrodite steps over and holds out her hands. Arachne crawls onto the
goddess’s palms. “Athena is more powerful than I am, I cannot undo her work,”
she says, “but I know someone who can.”
Then they are in front
of a river. A handsome young man stands there waiting with a boat. “Goddess
Aphrodite,” he says, “we weren’t expecting you.”
returns, “I need to see Persephone.”
The man’s face stays
cool, and for a moment Arachne fears they will be refused and she will be stuck
in this form forever. Then he smiles and says, “My lady is of course available
for her favored niece.” He holds out a hand to help her onto the boat, “Please
come with me.”
Arachne weaves a dress
for Hades’s wife as a thank you, and returns to her volcano.
“I can take you
somewhere else,” Aphrodite says, “you don’t have to hide here.”
Arachne pauses at her
loom. She has lived in this volcano for seven years. It’s her home. “Would you
like me to leave?” she asks instead.
Aphrodite scoffs, “Of
course not! How could I dress myself without you here?” She’s wearing the
spider silk dress Arachne spun for her, and she’s working on another for the
goddess now. Aphrodite runs a gentle finger down Arachne’s cheek and for a
moment she forgets to breathe. “You are the finest weaver to ever exist.”
She looks up at the
goddess, “Then as the god of crafts and goddess of beautiful things, where else
would I belong besides with you and Hephaestus?”
To declare your company
equal to that of gods is the height of arrogance and blasphemy.
They tell tales of her
“An excellent point,”
Aphrodite murmurs, and tucks a stray braid behind Arachne’s ear.
Some of the best things I’ve heard in Heathers rehearsal so far:
“Oh no! My shirt, where’d it go?” followed by really slow and awkward finger guns
“Free pizza, and we don’t even have to buy it a pussy!”
“Those stupid tree thumpers”
*dramatically pirouettes and leaps in* “BIG SWORDFIGHT IN HER MOUTHHH”
“Aww that seems like a relationship that would last.” “Yeah until one of them blows up” “I guess you could say their love is….. explosive”
*Our choreographer screaming like one of those sheep used in parodies back in vintage youtube days whenever she gets frustrated or needs to get people’s attention.*
“So you’re going to do a Jesus lift” “A WHAT” “Just put your arms out and they’ll lift you like you’re Jesus resurrecting from the cross”
“Welcome to Newsies on steroids.”
“Be the closeted gay we all need.”
“The first step to any good plan is murder.”
“How much bitch is enough bitch though?”
“Imagine having to explain to someone like ““oh how’d you break your tailbone?” ““Oh I booty-popped too hard.””
“When we go off to makeover Veronica, can she still have the monocle, but, hear me out, it’s now bedazzled.”
“I have to check the historical accuracy of bedazzling in the ‘80s.”
“Okay, but what if we made it gay?”
“COSTUME NOTE: SOMEONE MAKE RAM PARTY SLIPPERS!” “What if they’re like bunny slippers, but with tiny party hats?!”
“This is Ram, he’s not very nice, but somehow my best friend still wants to fuck him.”
“Your whole bio better be about how much you love and respect women or else I can’t help you when your ass is being kicked.”
“I paired you guys together because you say he’s your sort of boyfriend later.” *Kurt proceeds to emark in various sexual dance endeavors with multiple other women* “That’s where the sort of comes into play….”
“SHUT UP HEATHER” *bursts out crying*
Our original Chandler dropped out so our original Duke got promoted to her role and just looks at me and says “Oh my god this is the most Heather Duke thing that has ever happened to me”
“That’s a school cheer?!?!”
“Real question: WHO HAS A FUCKING LOCK ON THEIR CLOSET?”
“What if when she makes you spit up the pills, your wig flies off?” “Oh no you’ve discovered the real reason behind my crisis, I AM NOT A NATURAL BLONDE”
“Maybe he should take up knitting or something as a hobby rather than therapedic murder.”
“My character description is just internal screaming.”
“Who needs a dance partner when you have weed?”
“I feel bad having to ask but was that supposed to be a dick joke?”
“Do I get extra points if one of the pills hits someone in the face?”
“I can’t remember the lyrics but I’m pretty sure I’m still gay”
“Why didn’t they just throw the bomb and run or something, like why are they so determined to die?”
*recites Blue Reprise as demonic slam poetry because we didn’t have rehearsal tracks yet*
“Veronica, it’s not a phase. I’m just naturally a slightly psychotic bag of angst with great hair.”
*music director teaching us Blue* ”They’ll curl up on your face. And purr like-” *slowly looks up from music and proceeds to put his head in his hands* “There’s moments that I evaluate my life and this is definitely one of them.”
I’m sleeping over at my friend’s flat from university after study group and just got woken up in the middle of the night by their roommate, who is sitting in the kitchen, listening very loudly to the dirty dancing soundtrack and crying. Like wtf, I didn’t even know they had a roommate and normally I would yell at you but damn you are cute. You really need to stop tho dude, its 4am, some people in this house want to sleep AU
I am a barista and you are a customer who comes in every day and orders the same thing and today my friend brought you with them, I didn’t even know we had mutual friends and WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT IS NOT ACTUALLY YOUR NAME HAVE I REALLY BEEN WRITING A NAME THAT IS NOT EVEN CLOSE TO YOURS ON YOUR CUPS FOR OVER HALF A YEAR WHY HAVE YOU NEVER CORRECTED ME AU
The house party me and my friends threw kinda escalated and after throwing out everyone I found this half naked person passed out in my bed but I can’t be bothered to wake them up now so I’m just gonna go to sleep and deal with it in the morning, they are kind of cute anyway AU
(or alternatively) I just woke up in a stranger’s bed and I’m half naked, I cant remember anything about yesterday besides that the party was great and that I got absolutely wasted AND OH MY GOD THERE IS A HOT PERSON NEXT TO ME IN BED AND THEY ARE NOT WEARING MUCH WHAT DID WE DO YESTERDAY AU
You are my new coworker and I’m pretty sure I’ve never met you SO WHY ARE YOU LOOKING SO FAMILIAR FUCK I THINK YOU ARE ONE OF THOSE ANGSTY EMO KIDS I USED TO STALK BACK IN THE MYSPACE DAYS I CANT BELIEVE THIS AU
We work out at the same gym and you are my declared rival because we have the same workout routine and you are always better than me and on my way to the locker room I passed you in the shower where you were singing the opening of hannah montana and I can still hear you and you switched to the lion king now and even though I hate you I think I am kind of in love with you AU
I’m hiding in the bathroom of a restaurant from a spectacularly awful tinder date and you are in a similar situation because a guy at the bar just won’t stop hitting on you and now we are planning an epic escape together even though we only met ten minutes ago AU
How To Avoid Drinking Your Paint Water And Other Art Tips
See the coke up there? it’s in totally the wrong place. KEEP YOUR BEVERAGE AT 4 O’CLOCK. or 5, if you’re a leftie. Keep your paint water on your table in front of you, and your beverage off to the side so that you have to physically turn around to get at it. You will teach your brain that Drink Is Over There, Not On The Desk; your coffee will last longer that way, AND YOU WILL AVOID SPILLING IT ALL OVER YOUR WORK.
if you DO spill your drink, cover the page and call it “Organically Dyed Paper” it ain’t coming out, run with it.
Instead of 7-hour continuous playlist, listen to albums so you’re stopping every 40 minutes or so to change the music THEN STRETCH YOU FOOLS.
Alternate caffeinated beverages with non-caffeinated. your hands WILL start to shake if you keep mainlining coffee like that.
get this freaking pencil sharpener. yes, that’s a lot for a sharpener, but this SOB will work forever, won’t eat pencils, and gets you the finest points possible. this has been stress-tested by scientific illustrators and I promise we are the pissisest possible people when it comes to pencil points. Mine it literally 6 years old now. it’s great. (Yeah, yeah, it’s missing from the pic. Have a backup in case of forgetfulness.)
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO ART IN POOR LIGHT. this means both too little AND too much. You eyes, brain and spine will all thank you. This mean making sure you’ve got direct, full-spectrum light indoors (it’ll make laptops and winter easier too, I promise) and wearing sunglasses outdoors.
FUCK PRISMACOLOR PENCILS. The pigment’s good but the binder is brittle and breaks, and the wood is frequently warped. literally 1 in 5 of the last prismacolor pencils I’ve had were totally unusable. Faber-Castel is comparable in price/sometimes cheaper and had very high quality.
like, not shitting on cheap art supplies, because god knows I use them all the time, but pirsmacolors are EXPENSIVE and having the lead snap for the 7369205790235969th time will give you a goddamn stroke.
Remember to Eat maybe????
about every 2-3 hours, get up, leave the room, and do something else for at least 20 minutes. Do the dishes maybe. Gives your eyes and shoulders a break, lets your brain re-set and you’ll be able to see things that Need Fixing when you get back.
FOR FUCKS SAKE, USE REFERENCES. All the greats did, you’ll stress less, and things will look so much better. Just google image the sucker.
srsly eat something. even some cheetos. pls.
ok kids it’s 3AM i’ll think of more in the morning. take care of yourselves.
This is an expansion of the following idea, written by the lovely @artemis69:
the coffee!AU, where John goes to the same coffee shop every day, and there is this very grumpy, quiet barista that always makes him amazing coffee and keep the best pastries for him. And one day the Sheriff learns that Derek is the one to bake them all, so he decides: this will be my son in law, I need a reason to have this man in my family for at least forty to fifty years. Then he matchmakes with no subtility whatsoever, basically offering his only son on a silver plate, Stiles spluttering all the way (but he takes Derek’s number anyway because the guy is just amazingly cute)
John’s on his regular morning stroll when he stops in his tracks and takes in the brand-new coffee shop, complete with a banner advertising their opening day. The little corner space has been boarded up for over a year, and John had no idea it was opening today.
Any new businesses are a boon for Beacon Hills, especially family-run ones like this one is rumored to be, so John ducks inside. It’s warm and homey, and there’s a pair of young dark-haired people behind the counter, close enough in features that they’re probably siblings. The quiet bickering points that direction, too.
They stop, though, when they see the Sheriff—the uniform tends to have that effect—and he pastes on his public servant smile. “Hi there. I saw this place was open and wanted to come on in and introduce myself. Sheriff John Stilinski.”
“Oh, it’s so nice to meet you,” the woman says, holding out her hand for a shake. A nice strong grip—John likes this girl already. “I’m Laura Hale, and I own this place with my brother Derek, our resident grumpy barista-slash-baker.”
Derek rolls his eyes at Laura, but his smile to John is genuine, if small. “Hi, Sheriff. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise, son,” he says, perusing the case full of tempting sugary treats. “You made these?”
He nods. “Can I get you anything?”
John hums. “A medium coffee, and…any one of these delicious-looking goodies. You pick. Just don’t tell my son,” he adds, and Derek looks up at him.
“I have slightly elevated cholesterol,” he says, stressing the word. “Nothing to worry about, honestly. But he polices my diet. I don’t think he knows about this place yet, though, so this is great.”
Derek hums. His tongs hover over a muffin—lemon poppyseed, it looks like—before moving to another one. Raspberry-almond, according to the sign, and well, John isn’t picky. Derek drops it into a little bag and hands it over.
“Happy to help,” he says.
John thanks him and opens the bag. Laura’s still pouring his coffee, but it smells so damn good that he can’t resist.
“Wow,” he says, his mouth full. “This is delicious.”
Derek looks quietly proud, and Laura claps him on the shoulder as she reaches over to hand John his coffee. “On the house, today, Sheriff,” she says. “Thanks for stopping by.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he promises.
“Thanks, Nina,” John says dryly, leaning back so she can put his plate in front of him.
“You’re welcome, Sheriff,” she says with a friendly smile, ignoring his stink eye.
Stiles just grins at both of them and digs into his French toast. He insists on having their weekly father-son breakfast at Paulie’s Diner because no matter what John orders, Nina will only bring him an egg-white omelet with a dry English muffin. Stiles must have some serious blackmail or be paying her off somehow, and John is, he has to admit, grudgingly impressed.
“Don’t look so bummed out, Pops,” Stiles says, around a mouthful of what’s surely syrup-drenched deliciousness. “At least I let you have turkey bacon.”
“It’s not the same,” he says grumpily, poking at it. “But at least I’m getting a steady stream of baked goods now.”
Stiles glares at him. “Are you serious? From where? I thought I had paid everyone off.”
He knew it. “I’m not telling you,” he says, a little displeased with how childish he sounds.
“Fine,” Stiles says, sniffing. “I’ll figure it out, you know I will.”
He will, John knows. Goddamn, he loves his kid, even if his life goal seems to be depriving John from any and all delicious food. “And speaking of, I met someone the other day,” he starts, and Stiles gasps theatrically, his hand coming up to cover his mouth.
“Is this you crapping all over my dream of having Melissa as my stepmom?”
John sighs at the reminder. Melissa is…well, she seems happy with that Argent guy. Whatever. He’s not bitter.
“Not for me, Jesus,” he says, shaking his head. “For you.”
“Oh my god,” Stiles says, slumping back in the booth. “Eye roll” is too mild, John thinks. It’s more of a whole head roll. “Seriously, Dad, I’m only 25. You don’t have to marry me off quite yet. You’ll get your grandchildren someday, I promise. Stop trying to set me up with people.”
“I’m just trying to be helpful!” John protests. “He seems nice.”
And makes really good treats, he adds in his head. That’ll be a good trait for a son-in-law.
“And who exactly is he?”
John pauses. “I met him at the aforementioned undisclosed location.”
Stiles snorts. “Find out if he actually likes dudes, then get back to me.”
so alya told her to start flirting with adrien if she liked him so much, and the magazines give her step-by-step guides with 15 ~Chill~ Ways to Flirt With Your Crush Without Totally Embarrassing Yourself, so there’s no way this can go horribly wrong, right?
okay but marinette has to be realistic, when has anything ever gone right for her?
1. like their instagram and watch their snapchat: okay but marinette already does this, she follows all of adrien’s social media and collects his takes from photoshoots and knows his schedule, and honestly, there’s really nothing he does that she doesn’t know about it? the whole point of watching his snapchat and liking his instagram would be for him to notice her, but it’s not like she can tell him that she does this, because that would be creepy right? but for the most part she thinks she has this part down pat.
2. make eye contact: and this one is damn near impossible. every time she looks at adrien, and he looks back, her heart turns into a puddle and she wants to melt. but okay, the magazine said to make eye contact, so that’s maintain eye contact, right? don’t look away as soon as he catches her looking. okay, she tells herself. i can do this.
adrien and marinette spend the rest of the week in multiple staring contests. alya and nino are extremely confused, but the game catches on, and soon the whole class spends Madame Bustier’s lectures in staring contests with the rest of their classmates. there’s a running scoreboard, and chloe and alya are surprisingly good at the game, which isn’t that surprisingly at all considering how many glare-showdowns they’ve had throughout the year.
adrien just wants to beat marinette once, and how is it fair she’s so good at this??? marinette just wants to know why it’s not working; she hasn’t gone through dry eyes, blurry vision, and headaches for nothing. at this point, she’s read to pour Johnson’s No More Tears shampoo directly in her eyes to get them back to normal.
3. let your emojis do the talking: 🍆😛:eggplant: :yum:
alya sent it from marinette’s phone, and marinette is too busy dying to say anything about it. adrien still buys her eggplants for a month because he thinks they’re her favorite.
4. wave and say “hi” when they walk by: marinette had to quit when her over-aggressive wave nailed nino in the nose and broke it. alya called him “raccoon eyes” for weeks. it didn’t matter though, adrien didn’t even wave back (though it might have been because his best friend was bleeding on the school steps).
5. invite your crush to hang out as a group: seems easy enough, right? she invites alya, nino, and adrien over for a study group at her house, but alya and nino cancel at the last minute to give her “some alone time with adrien”. only it doesn’t work out that way because she’s forced to actually learn physics when adrien notices she had some troubles with it and tutors her for the rest of the night.
6. say something simple, then keep the conversation going: marinette had trouble talking to adrien in the first place, so it was a miracle if she even got something simple out. adrien saves her the trouble anyway when he complicates her cat sweater, but it doesn’t go the way she imagined because it devolves into a heated argument over whether chat noir or ladybug was better, and oh my god, how could she be arguing with her crush over how much she sucked?
7. remember what they tell you, and bring it up later: so adrien refuses to speak to her since she said ladybug sucked, and marinette is panicking internally 24/7. she makes him a hat to apologize because it’s summer and it’s blue, and when he asks her how she knew blue was his favorite color, she just smiles and tells him she read it in a magazine article.
adrien looks touched either way while marinette wishes she could sink through the floor because she’d gone nearly a whole year without adrien knowing she read magazine articles about him.
8. give them a sincere compliment:
adrien: “so what do we know about penguins already for this biology presentation?” marinette: “penguins are inefficient walkers…. they’re cute…. but not cuter than you.” adrien: “…thanks, marinette.”
adrien: “thanks, marinette. you’re so helpful.” marinette: “that’s me. i’m always helpful. i’ll always try to help you. you know, like… i’d totally hold a revolving door for you. i know that’s counterproductive, but you’re worth it.”
adrien: “god, they never get all the makeup off after a shoot.” marinette: “you know, i would really be okay with seeing you without makeup. that’s how much i like you.” adrien: “what?” marinette: “what?”
9. casually touch their arm when you’re talking: marinette casually strokes adrien’s arm during their next study session. adrien: “… why are you touching my arm?” marinette: “i’m checking the seam work.” adrien: “….that’s my skin though.” marinette: “shh, don’t disrupt a designer at work.”
10. offer them a fry: okay, but marinette doesn’t particularly like fries, so she figured she’d find another way to work this in. it happens one morning while she’s about to go to town on her croissant when she overhears adrien mentioning to nino that he’d forgot his breakfast, so she shoves the food in front of him and rushes away. alya can’t stop laughing at agreste’s startled expression when marinette shoved a croissant in his face without prompt. regardless, alya shares her own breakfast when marinette admits she didn’t have anything else to eat.
11. give them something thoughtful: marinette buys adrien a ladybug-spotted scarf because she knows he likes the superhero. he protests when she gives it to him, but she just shrugs and said she owed him one anyway after dissing his favorite superhero before.
the next day he gives her a matching chat noir one.
12. tease them: she can barely keep a straight face when she teases adrien in front of nino and alya about always smelling like camembert. she even buys him three cheese wheels one day, but he only flushes darkly as he shoves them in his bag. she wants to apologize in case she hurt his feelings, but later that day, she notices that the cheese is gone.
man, he must really like his cheese, she thinks in awe, and spends the rest of the day trying to figure out why adrien kept glaring at his bag during class.
13. steal their hat and put it on your head: adrien doesn’t wear hats, so she stole nino’s instead. adrien spent the rest of the day trying to set her up with his best friend.
14. ruffle their hair: marinette ruffles adrien’s hair when she walks into the classroom one morning. some strands end up tangled in her bracelet, and the two spend the remainder of class in the nurse’s office as she tries to cut them loose.
15. sit in their lap: marinette is a little hesitant to try this one, but alya ends up taking matters into her own hands and pushes marinette into adrien’s lap one day while the three of them and nino were visiting a cafe for lunch. marinette is flustered and apologizes profusely, and she finally finds the courage to look into his eyes. but instead of angry!agreste, she seems wide, shocked green eyes as adrien begins to laugh uncontrollably. marinette starts to giggle and shakes her head and it’s not until she looks at him again that she realizes… this whole situation seems really familiar…
“…chat noir?” she asks suddenly.
“what?” adrien asks.
“what?” alya asks.
“what?” nino asks.
“oh my god,” marinette says and dies.
Needless to say, flirting was not her forte. But hey, she still got the man in the end, right? …. alright, it’s a work and progress, but still.
summary: tom and y/n are so in love. from the way he looks at her to being the only one he truly adores. love was made for them. this is the ups and downs of being in love with tom holland.
notes: gif not mine based off the song by nat king cole. this was supposed to be something cute and small i wrote in an evening but here we are a week later with the longest fic i’ve ever written. please leave me your thoughts, i worked really hard on this!!
I loved her,” he said,
“I think a part of me always will love her. She made me feel alive and after 19 years on this planet I finally felt like someone understood me, I don’t believe in soul mates much but I do believe that I was meant to meet her. But months passed and she tried so hard to make me a better person because lord knows I didn’t treat her half as good as I should’ve. I loved her but I struggled to show it, I struggled to let anyone in enough for them to know me because I was too damn afraid of letting someone fuck me up even more than I already am. So instead I had to let her go and my god I won’t ever forget the look on her face or how much her eyes glistened from the tears she was trying to hold back when I told her I was leaving.
But I had to let her go because I knew what was best for her, and it wasn’t me.