#badshakespeareimagines

'All right class! It's time to partner up for group projects!' your teacher, Mr Shakespeare, announces. There's a buzz of chatter before he adds, 'I've already assigned you partners, so don't get any ideas.'

A collective groan goes round the room as Mr Shakespeare starts passing out the list of pairs. When it gets to you, you scan it anxiously, hoping to have been paired with someone you know. You've always been quite shy - bullied by the popular Kylie Jenner wannabe girls - and the prospect of having to partner with someone new is making you feel decidedly queasy. It would just be your luck if you were partnered with one of the jocks of the class - someone like Guildenstern or Laertes.

God - or perhaps Mr Shakespeare - has a different plan in mind for you, though. Because the name listed next to yours is one you know, but barely.

It takes all of your courage to approach Hamlet when the class is over, but you've always been a straight-A student and you're determined not to let that slip now. He's cramming stuff into his black backpack, at his seat at the back of the class. With his My Chemical Romance t-shirt and fingerless gloves, he's the image of rebel cool.

'Umm, Hamlet?'

He looks up, his black side fringe falling into his cerulean eyes. 'Y/N,' he says, in a flat monotone.

You're surprised he knows your name for a second, before realising he got it off the list.

'Yeah. So how are we going to do this? We could meet at my house after school - '

'No,' he says immediately, zipping up his backpack and beginning to move towards the door. You follow him.

'What do you mean, no? We have to do the assignment.'

'Yeah, and you must be kicking yourself. Stuck with Crazy Hamlet. Bet you'd give anything for a trade, huh?'

'I don't think you're crazy,' you say quietly.

Hamlet stops in his tracks. He's got a pierced eyebrow, you realise. 'You're the only person who's ever said that?'

Ignoring that statistical improbability, you take another step towards him. 'Look, why don't we just give it a go? I don't know if you've noticed but I'm not exactly popular either.'

He sighs, a definite indicator of some repressed trauma that he'll spend the first date crying about.

'Okay,' he says, 'but we're not studying at your house. I've got a better place in mind.'

You raise your eyebrows. Much like Emma Watson's Hermione Granger, they convey 80% of your emotions. 'Oh?'

my normal hamlet’s more of a... soft vintage type??? he’s been nicknamed “hanime” and is referred to as the softest of the tunglr hamlets

oh, and a bonus ft. my hamlet reacting to this version of himself:

Imagine...

'And, voila,' Prospero removes his hand from your eyes and steps back proudly.

You blink, taking in the sight before you. It's not like any other part of the island that you've ever seen. A beautiful, white sand beach with cobalt waves breaking in even lines. It's like something out of a magazine feature on Hawaii. There's even a palm tree.

'It's beautiful,' you breathe, still staring in wonder.

'It's our secret, Y/N,' Prospero beams. 'If I ever get off this island, I'm considering magical landscaping as a career. No one but us - and Ariel - knows about it.'

You pout. Prospero already shares so much with his spirit, why can't the two of you have anything for yourselves?

'We need someone to wait on us,' he reminds you, as if reading your thoughts. Then again, he is magic, so maybe he literally is reading your thoughts.

He snaps his fingers and Ariel appears, carrying a tray of cocktails. You gladly take a tequila sunrise and begin slurping it down.

'Leave us, Ariel,' Prospero commands. The spirit obeys, and the two of you are alone once more.

'Y/N, would you do me the honour of walking the beach with me?' he asks, unexpectedly courteous. It's unlike him to submit to anyone - but maybe, you realise suddenly, that's exactly where you come in. It must be hard work, running and island and exploiting everyone around you. Maybe what Prospero needs is to give up control for a bit and become subject to someone else's whims and desires.

Then another thought strikes you.

'Does it bother you,' you say, as you make you way along the perfect beach, 'that I'm the same age as your daughter?'

Prospero laughs. 'Not at all, my dear. Miranda, though lovely, is not half so beautiful as you are. I have other plans for her.'

That sounds ominous, but you're not gonna give that any critical thought. Presumably Prospero knows what he's doing and so long as the cocktails keep coming you're not gonna say a word of complaint.

You're walking back from the party when you run into him. It hadn't been a great party - all the cool kids had laughed at the outfit that you thought was chic and innovative, and then when you finally plucked up the courage to ask Tybalt to dance he looked at you like you were shit scraped off a sidewalk.

A couple of your nameless but convenient friends offered to come home with you, but you waved them off. So you're walking by yourself, oversized jacket barely covering your short-but-cute sundress, your customised black converse barely making a sound on the tarmac.

That's when you he stumbles into your path. Cute in a kind of messy way, like he has no idea where he's going but he'll have a good time getting there.

'Ohmigod! Sorry! Didn't see you there!' and he falls in step with you like it's the most natural thing in the world.

'What are you doing?' you say, faintly amused.

'Me? Just out for a stroll on this beautiful night,' the guy says. On his arm, you catch a glimpse of a tattoo. It's too dark to get a proper look, but it looks concerningly like a fursona. Nobody draws a dog that anthropomorphic unless they have an ulterior motive.

'Sure,' you say, with the acid wit that makes you such an outcast at school. 'It has nothing to do with you having been at a party.'

The guy tilts his head to one side. His fringe falls in his face endearingly. 'I met a girl.'

'Really?' you say. 'Well, you're meeting another one. Hi, I'm Y/N.'

This type of outgoing-ness is unusual for you, but you've had a weird night. It's the least you can do.

'Romeo,' the guy supplies. 'And yeah, I met this girl...' he trails off, gazing at your eyeliner-rimmed eyes. 'Y/N? That's such a pretty name.'

'Thanks,' you say. 'It's, uh, my middle name actually, but my first name was just so normie I couldn't handle it. Like, do my parents hate me?'

'God, I wonder the same thing! Like at this point, they have to have considered that this blood feud is bad for my health.' Romeo sighs. 'Has anyone told you that you're beautiful, Y/N?'

You blush. You're not so self-conscious for it to be a serious plot point, just enough to require regular reassurance. 'Not really. I guess I'm just ordinary.'

'No,' he shakes his head. 'Look, I've known you for all of five minutes, and I can tell you're anything but.'

'That's nice. Um, I really should be getting home.'

'Or...' Romeo trails off again.

'Or what?'

'So there's a diner nearby that serves all night breakfast. We could, um, go, if you want? I've been longing to show someone my poetry and I'm getting the feeling that you'd just, like, get it. Y/N, do you believe in love at first sight? 'Cause I think I'm falling for you.'

You laugh, in an awkward-but-endearing way. 'What about the girl you met?'

You never thought you were anything special. You've always been just an intelligent, conventionally attractive, smart-mouthed serving maid in the king's household. It probably has something to do with the fact that you grew up with older brothers (you just don't get along with girls) who all call you 'little sis' and ruffle your hair.

None of that could have prepared you for what happened next.

King Lear had summoned everyone into the main hall of his castle. You're there, of course, handing out wine and making sure everything is going smoothly. Indeed, everything is until Lear clears his throat and begins talking.

'You all know why I've summoned you here,' he begins, his eyes flitting over his three daughters. They're all impossibly beautiful - Gonerill in the intimidating way, Regan in the alarming way, and Cordelia in the angelic way. Your shoulder length brown hair and green eyes that change shade according to your mood could never compete.

'It's time to divide my kingdom. 'Cos I'm going old and probably a bit nuts,' Lear continues. 'I had thought about making all of you profess your love to me - nothing like a good ego boost, amirite? But then I realised that was insanity.'

The atmosphere in the room is tense. You've been moving between people to serve wine, but now you hold still.

'No, I realised that there was someone far more deserving than my three daughters. Somebody who is loyal, beautiful, and would make an excellent queen.'

Everyone is glancing around now, confused about who he means. If he's not giving it to his daughters, who?

'Your Majesty,' Kent steps forward. 'Who are you talking about.'

'Y/N,' Lear says, looking right at you.

You drop the tray you're holding. Goblets of wine go crashing to the floor, but you hardly notice. You're still in shock.

'Ew, look at her!' Regan complains. 'Daddy, you can't be serious!'

'I am,' Lear says, now advancing towards you. 'None of you noticed her - to you, Y/N was just a serving girl. But I have noticed the woman she has become.'

Still dazed, you take his proffered hand. Does he mean it? Is he really...?

'What do you say, Y/N?' Lear asks, with a tenderness you didn't expect. 'Would you do me the honour of accepting?'

At last, you find your voice. 'Of - of course, my lord.'

'Do you think it's weird that I'm friends with my dealer?' you ask, one sunny Saturday afternoon.

Friar Lawrence looks up from where he's organising his bong collection. 'Nah, I don't think so. These plants are medicinal. I'm a friar, it's my job to help people. Everything's above board, really.'

'I guess so.' It's probably because you're the quirkiest teen in Verona. That one time you hung out with Mercutio, he said your mind was just too wild. It's not your fault, you can't help being random!

Plus, Friar Lawrence does always have the best weed. He doesn't seem to spend very much time actually being a friar, though he's always wearing fancy robes of some kind. From this you've gathered that the Catholic Church is very lax on religious rules. They must be one of the hippie sects of Christianity.

How you don't know is not very clear - after all, you've lived your whole life in Verona, apart from biannual trips to Rome, Paris and London that your family drag you on - but you don't. And that's just how it is.

'You're mature for your years,' he points out, finally deciding that a polka-dotted bong doesn't match the others and needs throwing out. 'I didn't think anyone got me until you came along.'

You can't help the blush that rises in your cheeks. He can't know the other, secret reason that you love his company. How weird would that be? He's like, old. He mustn't know that you've got the mother of all crushes on him.

It all started when he started dealing. At first you thought you liked him because you had to, as he was a means to an end, but the more time you've spend in his company the more you feel drawn to him. There's something undeniably sexy about his commitment to Catholic irresponsibility.

'I am branching out, by the way,' he says.

'Oh, cool. Like what?'