white-sheep-of-blacks:
justateddybear:
white-sheep-of-blacks:
She was watching him doing his cute sad-like faces and had to smile. She wanted to kiss him immediately, drag him to the bed and snuggle him all night long. But she didn’t. She waited for him to sit back on the bed and lean against the head of it again and then laid next to him with her head in his lap. “No, I’ve already done all of them,” she smiled and took his hand. “You?”
Ted grinned when she laid with her head in his lap. He dropped his hand down so that his fingers could glide through her hair and play with it. “I’ve got a bit of reading to do for Muggle Studies. We’re reading Shakespeare this week, but other than that, I don’t have any”, he said with a smile. The thought of doing reading was a bit annoying, but he was glad that he didn’t have more homework than he did and it was lucky that she didn’t have any.
“Oh, Muggle Studies? I suppose that should be easy for you, right? Do you want to read it? I could let you read… Or you could read for me… Is it good?” She liked having his hand in her hair and closed her eyes contentedly.
Ted grinned and nodded. “I love Muggle Studies… it’s one of the only classes I’m good at”, he said, scrunching up his nose a bit. “Yeah, I’ll read you a bit”, he said with a smile, reaching over and grabbing his book off of his nightstand. He supposed she had never heard of Shakespeare, so she had not heard of Hamlet either. Such a great play. He opened up the book and turned to the place he marked and began to read out loud to her, one hand running through her hair the whole time.
“O, that this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d
His canon ‘gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!
How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on’t! ah fie! ‘tis an unweeded garden,
That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely. That it should come to this!
But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two:
So excellent a king; that was, to this,
Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!
Must I remember? why, she would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on: and yet, within a month—
Let me not think on’t—Frailty, thy name is woman!—
A little month, or ere those shoes were old
With which she follow’d my poor father’s body,
Like Niobe, all tears:—why she, even she—
O, God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason,
Would have mourn’d longer—married with my uncle,
My father’s brother, but no more like my father
Than I to Hercules: within a month:
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her galled eyes,
She married. O, most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
It is not nor it cannot come to good:
But break, my heart; for I must hold my tongue…”