#but you can set the stage and clear the rubbish and lay the fire for lighting

[itspileofgoodthings]

slowly, slowly, slowly learning how to bridge the gap in my teaching between overexplaining and underexplaining so I hit that exact sweet spot of getting the kids to the place where they’re interacting with a text that is absolutely over their heads and out of their leagues but their excitement, generated by me but sustained by them, and the right amount of scaffolding and explanation lifts them up to be able to meet it, enjoy it, learn from it, be affected by it. 

#teaching tag #it is MAGIC when that happens #anyway i've been showing them macbeth this year instead of reading it because we don't have time to read it #and i've been severely in my head about the uselessness of it #and how it's not doing anything #but i had a good talk with another teacher about it and she was like 'no no! keep going!' #and then today we watched the malcolm and macduff scene and i could feel the room listening to the language #not quite understanding it but reaching out towards it #and it was SO. GOOD. #it helps that the guy who plays malcolm is young and cute #tbh i would never underestimate the importance of that #me choosing my shakespeare adaptations carefully so they get to look at someone young and beautiful enough for a period of time #anyway teaching has been just the absolute doldrums for a couple months now and this feels like a nice break and streak of light #like i just can't ever rule out the possibility that their hearts can be caught by something that we're reading #despite my common sense telling me not to put too much stock into their emotional reactions #because doing so would lead to my burnout and bitterness #because you can't force anyone to fall in love #but you can set the stage and clear the rubbish and lay the fire for lighting #and just wait for a spark to catch #anyway this tension between the orderliness and peace and box checking that i WANT to be a part of my room ..... #and the moment of a student just suddenly being illuminated. inspired. in love !!!!!!! #i love it. i love it a lot!

[smolfangirl]

Luna Enchanted

So I rewatched “Ella Enchanted” yesterday and since I apparently have an OTP pattern since my childhood (and needed to take a break from writing on my other projects), I decided to type down a little Lutteo version of two scenes from the movie! I have no idea what time it is rn, because I blacked out the clock on my screen, but it is definitely too late for me which I am only telling you so you’re not surprised or shocked when this turns out to be total rubbish ^^

Word count: 1k

///

The flames danced in front of his eyes. Prince Matteo leaned against the wall right next to the chimney, but the warmth in his chest didn’t come from the crackling fire.

No, that kind of warmth derived from his thoughts, his memories. From remembering a kind smile, lighting up the prettiest set of crystal-clear green eyes he had ever seen, and the knowledge it revealed a heart of gold.

He couldn’t believe he met someone like Luna, never even imagined someone like her would walk this earth, yet alone his kingdom. She embodied the wife by his side he hadn’t understood he needed or wanted. Her courage, her wit, her kindness – everything he had learned about her pulled him closer into her orbit. Their first meeting gave away that she simply wasn’t a person to forget quickly, perhaps gave it away earlier than he figured, and every encounter afterwards only strengthened the bond he felt towards her.

A bond so strong he decided to marry her.

Sure, his uncle held his own opinions about Matteo’s intentions. A common girl, never introduced to the court, and with the distinctive habit of taking some comments a bit too literally - not his first picture of the ideal wife for the future king.

But Matteo found himself uncapable to care. He loved Luna. Loved her truly. She already made him a better king for his people, and clearly his uncle would come to realize that, and then he’d congratulate him on his luck.

Until then, he could live with the disapproving glares he received.

His eyes darted back to the ring in his hand. Diamond, simple but worthy of what he hoped to be his queen. Now, if he only managed to lay out the perfect speech for his proposal… Should he write down a love declaration? Or just go with the words his heart dictated in that moment?

A servant hushing into the room interrupted his thoughts.

The complaint about the lack of respect and courtesy reached the tip of his tongue already when the young boy held out a letter, his hands shaking. Silently, he took it before he nodded towards the door. ‘To Prince Matteo’ it read, in a straight but neat handwriting.

He felt his cheeks heating up.

Dear Matteo,

Please believe that this is the hardest thing I ever had to do, and I can only hope you will understand. I am deeply thankful for everything you have done for me, and I feel honored to got to know you. But I cannot be with you, not ever. For reasons that have to remain a secret, I cannot give you an explanation, but please trust me, it is the best for both of us. I am in great faith that you will be a great king and bring peace over the kingdom, and I wish you nothing but the best.

Goodbye forever,

Luna

Once.

Twice.

He read it again. His gaze hurried over the lines, back and forth, over and over, like the words would change if only he stared long enough. But they didn’t, they didn’t change their meaning, didn’t unbreak his heart. She couldn’t be with him, she didn’t want him, and he’d been planning to propose like an idiot without seeing she had no intentions of saying Yes.

But she kissed him.

It didn’t matter. The kiss didn’t matter, or it didn’t matter enough. Whatever. He shook his head. Maybe he should focus on his coronation, on the ball celebrating his coming of age. On the ball where he would have offered her every dance, no matter the etiquette, where he would have taken her hand to lead her to the hidden garden, where he would have kneeled and…

He already knew she’d be stuck in his mind for much longer than she thought about him.

///

Luna had tried to kill him.

He proposed to her, thinking it’d be the happiest moment of his life, and she tried to kill him. He couldn’t believe it, didn’t want to, but the proof in form of a dagger laid on the ground in front of him. The blade glistened between fallen pedals and scattered leaves, mocked him and his foolish belief that she did love him, and he still struggled to get a hold on reality.

Luna fell to his feet. Her breaths came hard and quick, she gasped for air, muttered, though he failed to understand a single word. Failed to understand anything.

She tried to kill him.

Thinking it didn’t help to make it feel any more real. What about the kiss? Her encouragements, her almost-compliment? What about dancing with her, feeling her hands in his? And the letter? It made no sense, no, there had to be an explanation, something that didn’t involve any heart-crushing letter or murder weapon.

(But honestly, he’d rather receive a hundred more of these letters than to see her in his embrace, holding a dagger to his back.)

“Guards!” His uncle, behind him. Next to him. “Take her away!”

Luna begged. Promised, swore she could explain, pleading him to listen to her. But the guards dragged her away, and he let them, because words failed him, and he wanted to believe she was innocent but the sight of her about to stab him burned itself into his mind. The hope he had found thanks to her melted in his hands now, the world he had imagined building with her crumbled into ashes. The letter he had forgiven her the moment he spotted her at the ball, but a dagger?

A dagger couldn’t be forgiven even with the most confiding of hearts.

///

When Matteo rested his head on the pillow, he felt not any better than when he saw Luna being locked away. He wondered how she felt, sitting in a dungeon cell, if just an ounce of guilt flew through her veins. His uncle denied her any compassion, insisting she belonged to a group of commoners revolting against the crown, and that their encounters had been staged. Every single one.

But really every single one? Matteo struggled to believe that. That kiss back at the wedding had been magical, had lend him wings and had taken him to heights he never dared to dream of. And she’d been so sweet and honest – could someone as rotten as a murderer keep up such a mask?

Matteo didn’t know.

As sleep reached out its hand to him, he only knew that he still wanted her to love him.

#soy luna #lutteo #my sl fanfiction #I feel so far from reality rn but this had to be written #and ofc my stubborn dumb ass insisted on writing 1k words #this might haunt me in my dreams tonight

[fundeadasylum]

He is Beauty, He is Grace, He’s Got Two Holes in His Face

Here, take this. Just take it. I barely tried. Now please stop bothering me about it. I’m not writing any more of this.

Based on @lone-sock‘s demon AU.

-----

Murdoc Niccals kicks the door closed, hesitates, and shifts his armful of essentials so he can flip the locks closed. Then he dumps everything onto the floor and stretches, arching his back until it pops. His gnarled teeth gnaw on his lower lip as he frowns at his work space, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed and squinting.

Windows blocked out with rubbish bags? Check. Particle board laid down? Check. Candles? Check. Chalk? Check. Book? Check. Confidence? Eh…half check. Though if anyone were to ask, he’d tell them to fuck off because he knows exactly what he’s doing, thank you very much.

Murdoc spreads out his materials and gets to work. He takes the chalk (blue, one of Noodle’s that she’d been using to draw on the paved floor of the car park) and the ruler and proceeds to carefully construct a circle in the center of the particle boards. The setup is long and arduous and Murdoc checks, double checks, and triple checks his work. One screw up will cost him dearly. Two would kill him. He’s done this once before. He’s no idiot. He’s got one shot.

The circle and its symbols are completed. The candles are set up. His protective barrier is established with his own circle and carefully laid incense. The bassist takes up his place in his own, smaller circle, squares himself up, takes a deep breath, and lifts an old, weathered book up to begin reading. He’s been practicing these words carefully in private and he can say them in his sleep. And now, in the moment, he’s certainly not feeling them catch in his throat as he speaks them into the dimly lit room.

Murdoc Niccals is summoning a demon.

The air thickens, power building with each word, a cresting wave ready to crash and consume. Murdoc’s pulse rate picks up, an unseen wind lifting his bangs, his eyes dancing with excitement. Here it comes…

The candles erupt, shooting pillars of bright flue flames to the ceiling it a roiling cloud of fire. Pale smoke swells in the center of the circle, twisting and throbbing and pushing at the edges as if it is alive, as if it is seeking an escape. Murdoc snaps the book closed and lets it fall to the floor, unable to tear his gaze away from the scene before him. The thud of the falling book is lost in the roaring, the rushing, the howling of something not of this world.

The fire and the smoke condense, tangling, molding, sharpening into something in the middle of the summoning circle. There’s a heavy whoomph of displaced air and power and then the room is quiet.

Murdoc can hear his heart pounding in his ears, his rasping breaths loud in the sudden silence. As the smoke clears, he grins, rocking on the balls of his feet, eager to get a look at the being he’s summoned to do his bidding.

The eagerness drains out of him faster than he can down a can of beer and his smile trickles away with it.

Perched awkwardly in the confines of the circle is a very tall, lanky, pale creature. It has the top half of a man with goat ears and curling horns parting through blue hair. The lower half is covered in thick, brown fur with sharp, cloven hooves scraping at the chalk lines in the circle. The eyes of the beast are black, void of all light, and the top of its head almost brushes the ceiling from where it sits hunched, watching him. It would have been an impressive creature…if not for the dumbfounded look on its face,

“Where’s this then? ’S not home…’s cold ‘in ‘ere…hey, oi, wot’s goin’ on?”

If he were a lesser man, Murdoc might have cried at the butchered voice coming from the demon. As it is, he’s Murdoc fucking Niccals and he will not put up with this shit.

“What the ever-loving fuck are you supposed ta’ be?” The bassist spits out all his displeasure, his frustration, and his disgust with those words. The demon flinches away from him.

“W-well, I’m a demon, aren’t I?” It insists. It—maybe he?—takes a look around, the void of its eyes sweeping over the room in a way that Murdoc can feel more than see, “Ah. You summoned me? Y-you did summon me, right? Only, see, I haven’ been up ‘ere in…ages. Ages! ’S a lot colder than I remember…”

Murdoc stares, processes, shakes himself, and says the demon’s Name. The demon jerks, black eyes widening, and a strangled yelp squeezing from its throat. He says the Name again and is rewarded with another flinch, blue hair bristling down its back as it draws in on itself. Murdoc’s lip curls in a sneer,

“Sing.” He commands.

“W-wot…?”

“I said, sing.” And he throws the Name out for emphasis.

The demon stutters, sucks in a breath, opens its mouth (oh Satan, its missing its two front teeth, what the actual fuck), and sings.

Murdoc expects fingernails on chalkboards. He expects tin cans in a garbage disposal. He expects grinding gears. He expects something as awkward and tangled as the demon’s speaking voice.

He does not expect beauty. He does not expect the silk and liquid silver that soars from the demon’s throat in an arc of pure, cold marble. It’s haunting, in a way, almost hollow at times, but there is no denying it’s gorgeous. The demon is singing some old love song and it’s enchanting. The damn thing must be some sort of siren because Murdoc is unhelpfully flooded with a raw feeling of nostalgia for something he’s not sure he ever had.

The demon is the first stars at twilight. It is something familiar and yet something so very new and awe inspiring that it touches the heart.

“Enough.” Murdoc whispers and struggles to claim his voice again, “I said, enough! Stop!” The demon snaps its mouth shut, looking a bit putout that it didn’t get to finish singing. Murdoc works his lower lip in his teeth again, squinting, thinking, assessing. He’s already made up his mind but acting like he’s debating is a good way of keeping everyone on edge,

“Eh, you’ll do.” He says eventually, “Welcome to the band, Face Ache.”

The demon frowns, blinking in confusion, “Band…? Face Ache…?”

“Ay, a band, nimrod,” Murdoc plants his hands on his hips, tilting his chin up and putting on a leering grin, “Got me a bassist—that’s me, ‘case you were wonderin’—and  a guitarist and a drummer. Jus’ needed us a singer with the voice of an—well, a good voice.”

“…me?” The demon says hesitantly, pointing at himself in astonishment. There’s a light pink dusting his cheeks.

“Oi, ‘course it’s you! Yer gonna be our pretty poster boy! Well, not lookin’ like that you’re not. ‘Ere now, what’s your best take on a human form then? Go on, luv, show us whatcha got.” Murdoc gestures impatiently and the demon in the circle shifts around, ears flicking nervously before it takes a deep breath and closes its eyes. There’s a soft puff of blue smoke and in the place of the towering demon, is a man.

He’s rail thin and taller than Murdoc by a good head and a half or so. His hair is the same blue as the demon’s, his skin porcelain pale and almost delicate looking. His long fingers twitch and fidget, dancing across his shape, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt and hiking up his pants that are too short on him anyway. He looks like an imbecile. A tall, beautiful, black-eyed god of an imbecile. Twin voids glance up at Murdoc, almost shy in the way they peek at him from under blue bangs.

“That’ll do.” Murdoc says happily, “Now, how’s abouts you meet the rest of the crew, eh, uh…hm.” Jagged fingernails scrape at the stubble on his jawline, “Shit, can’t be callin’ you by your Name in public, hm. Aw, I’ll just call ya’ Two Dents. 2D. That’s a good one, eh? Two Dents ‘cause of those bleedin’ black ‘oles in yer damn thick skull. Nice stage name too, iffin I do say so myself. Aight, 2D, this is my contract…”

Murdoc lays out his plans, his rules, the contract he’d written and rewritten a dozen times to make sure there were no exploitable loopholes. The demon—2D—listens intently, head cocked to the side, restless fingers still roaming the air. He has no additions to make. The contract is sealed. They shake on it. 2D shudders as the power seeps into his blood and then let’s out a sigh as he’s free to step out of the circle and stretch. Murdoc purposefully kicks over a couple of incense sticks and grinds them out under his boots before slinging an arm around 2D’s shoulders.

“C’mon, kiddo, yer gonna love it here! Everyone’s a star, a right family, we are! ‘Course, Russ might decide to make a tosser of ‘imself and try ‘in ditch you straight out the door. But don’t worry, once he hears you sing, he’ll be captivated.”

He leads the demon turned lead singer out of the room, leaving his mess behind to clean up later, regaling the creature with wondrous tales of fame and fortune. They’re going to make it big and there’s nothing that can stop them.

(Russel, as predicted, is none too pleased with Murdoc’s addition to the band. There are a few hours of venomous bickering and swearing but in the end it makes no difference because the two men come back to find Noodle has thoroughly adopted 2D already and there’s no going back now.

Russel definitely doesn’t find them drawing pictures together later and he definitely doesn’t think it’s one of the most adorable things he’s ever seen.)

#i finished this out of pure spite so it's probably garbage and definitely half assed #pbbbttt make of it what you will i'm done #gorillaz #demon!2D