#i always come back to antigone

[virginiaisforhaters]

[greenbloods]

scrolling through online fandom discussion is so frustrating because it’s always like

What if Achilles didn’t sulk in his tent?

Who would win in their prime, Odysseus or Nestor?

If I were Paris of Troy, I would’ve picked Athena instead of Aphrodite to give the golden apple to, so I could outsmart all my enemies and keep Helen. Why didn’t he think of this, was he stupid?

What if the tragedy happened any other way?

Anyone else feel like the whole Briseis-Achilles dynamic was kinda problematic?

Why was Achilles so full of rage?

Why didn’t the Trojans wheel a counter-horse into the Greek camp?

What if the tragedy happened any other way?

Why didn’t Oedipus ask his “bride” if she is his mother? Why doesn’t he outsmart the prophecy that is doomed to come true?

Why does Orpheus look back for Eurydice, knowing that this act of love would doom her to death a second time?

Why did Antigone choose to bury her brother, knowing full well that the love would doom her?

What if the tragedy happened any other way?

[dootznbootz]

Can i be honest. I don't get it when people try to use Antigone as a feminist icon or something, or that "She literally died because she didn't listen to man! That's just like us!" Because it's not and we're not living in the 16th century.

And these people are acting like Creon wouldn't have killed her if he was a man. Or that Creon wouldn't have killed her if he was a woman. Like guys, I'm sorry but "Girlboss" feminism is soo annoying.

I saw a post where it's like "Greek mythology male characters: 'He seems chill... Oh he's being a douche to women. Female Greek mythology characters: 'She seem cool... Oh she's getting revenge on the men that wronged her. She's so cool!!"

And in the tags they were hating on Ody for killing the slave girl and calling Medea an icon. Even though Medea killed her two young children just because she was salty at Jason... double standards at their finest, people

Real.

Also people better be mad at Penelope as well if they're mad at Odysseus for the slave girls. She hated them just as much.

Wise Penelope heard his words and rebuked Melantho, saying: “You can be sure, you bold and brazen bitch, that I have seen your shameless acts. You’ll wipe away the stain with your own head. You clearly know full well, because you heard me say it—I’m planning to ask this stranger in my halls some questions about my husband, since I feel such grief.”

(Book 19, Johnston)

People just literally turn a blind eye when the woman also does violence against other women. (Same with Clytemnestra. like sure, she killed Agamemnon but she also screwed up her kids. (one a girl so a lot of these "girlboss" types ideals are contradictory))

And it's really really tough enjoying Medea only to see people "girlboss" her. I love the play. It made me feel so many things but NONE of them were GOOD feelings.

Old meme from a post I made a while back but it sums up my feelings lol.

I think it weirdly comes from this awful wave of "I hate children. Horrible beings. Hope they suffer. etc.etc." bullshit and the girlboss wave :'(

Also um, yeah, Creon would've killed ANYONE who would have buried Polyneices. I've always seen Antigone more as a story of honoring family and a family's love for one another, not so much of a "feminist story". As Creon is like, the opposite of Antigone in how he does not wish to honor his family no matter what and will even have family killed for honoring family.

I weirdly think there's this phenomenon of people seeing stories/myths that simply have women in them, especially if they are "center stage" and then decide that they're feminist regardless of the context.

Like I guess you could say that these stories simply having complex and driven women is feminist (I mean...moreso than most booktok/modern YA novels ;~; where many female leads are very...bland imo) which is very sad that feminism is just the bare minimum of "Hey a woman is a person who is complex."

But it's also like, these women and their meaningful and HUMAN stories are LOST because they're just painted as "girlboss".

I think Antigone would be more like "I mean...I was just trying to bury my brother because I care about him and didn't want to see him left to rot. I would have done it no matter WHAT told me not to." and less about "YASSSS queen SLAY!" shit.

[velvetvexations]

Ive seen at least two responses to your antigonism post saying that the word would be divisive because “transfems who are normal about transmascs are the norm” and I really truly do believe that’s probably the case but at the same time it personally feels a little dismissive?? I cant speak for all trans people obviously but I know A LOT of trans people, basically everyone in my life is trans- my blood sibling, all of my friends, my 2 girlfriends (im poly) I am regularly in contact with other trans people/trans communities in several cities across my state, and for me it really does not feel like its a “small vocal minority” of transfems who hold anti transmasculine and exorsexist beliefs.

I want to make it clear I absolutely love the transfems in my community, they are my dearest friends, and I deeply treasure our relationships; but absolutely every one of them that I have gotten close to has ended up saying something to me that made me feel really weird. They either mention something about how transmascs have it easier/transfems have it the worst, or they feel the need to gatekeep things from other trans people& borderline accuse other trans people/intersex people of copying transfems, or they joke and complain about “theyfabs” or justify the use of the term (both of my gfs did this- mind you I was afab and exclusively use they/them pronouns), or they invalidate feminine transmasc and afab enby people (again something both of my gfs did despite me being genderfluid and sometimes presenting feminine).

And thats just some of the things Ive experienced IRL in my own home and within my own communities! If I were to start listing my experiences online Id be here all night!! I honestly want to go on about the shit I see online but I dont have the energy for it- but when I see exorsexist or anti trans masculinity coming from transfems (and self proclaimed tmes) online, the comments/notes/whatever is always filled with sometimes hundreds of other trans people agreeing and venting their own frustrations about “tmes” and it just. Again doesnt FEEL like its a minority. You are literally one of the only TWO transfems I know who makes content actively CONSISTENTLY standing up for transmascs and pushing back against anti trans masculinity. Its not that I think its transfems job to dismantle anti trans masculinity but the ratio of transfems who complain about tmes vs ones who actively push back against that rhetoric feels so disproportionate to how often I see transmasc and afab enbies pushback against trans misogyny and the exclusion of transfems in queer spaces.

This turned into a very long winded vent and Im kinda struggling to conclude my point but i guess I wish it felt like more people cared to pushback against TIRFism. It just feels kinda dismissive to hear people say that transmascs who are hesitant to interact w trans communities just need to touch grass or whatever when in my personal experience it feels like I cannot escape anti trasmasculinity or exorsexism in every trans space I am apart of. Kinda blanking on how to end this ask i hope any of this is coherent.

I wanna emphasize again that the person I responded to specifically was really cool and my emotions in this post are not directed at them

Recently someone said it was "easy to forget most trans women are normal about trans men," and I was scolded because me not thinking that was horribly transmisogynistic was apparently a sign I'd lowered my standards as a trans woman because I'm too discourse poisoned, so now I'm even more self-conscious that people will start to see me that way no matter how much I try to insist over and over that TRFs are a vocal minority.

Meanwhile I continue to get asks calling me a pickme and comparing me to Blair White. I continue to have ten people respond to my every reply going "don't listen to Velvet she's crazy and hates trans women!!!!!".

So yeah. It is, actually, easy to forget that sometimes.

Especially since I'm stuck in a tiny southern town without even the option to make use of what meager community exists in the area because there's no one to drive me several hours to the state capital for their annual Pride stuff. I can't just go outside and be gal pals with all the vast numberless hordes of Normal trans women. I would be shocked beyond fucking belief if I saw two gay cis men in my fucking zip code. With my personal situation I can't even be social with cishet people anyway, let alone other queers, let alone all the trans women others perceive as Normal because they've knowingly been in the physical presence of another trans person a single time in their life and have the option of making that happen when they want it to.

Thank you for the support, anon.

[whoiwanttoday]

Hey guys, it is @wildflagsure birthday today and last night she demanded I make a "really good" post for her for her birthday. She can't help it, she's from Greece but lives in the UK and what I have heard is immigrants there are always coming in and demanding things, it's why as a country they decided to set their economy on fire, because if you make your little island completely unlivable then no one will want to move there. Not that tactic I would have taken but then I try not be a hateful bigot, so who am I to talk? Anyway, besides blaming @wildflagsure for all of England's problems (and like… where was she when they lost the Empire? She can't account for her whereabouts) I do want to celebrate her birthday. By talking about myself. I mean, it is my blog, I tagged her twice, I am not sure how much more giving a person can be. I'll drive literally tens of people to her dead blog. Anyway, my favorite thought about Andi, which I will call her from here out because first I am tired of tagging and second I think it looks cooler with the E not on it but also it's short for Antigone and I can change a T to a D for a friend but I'll be dead and buried before I leave off the apostrophe if you insist on shortening Antigone to Anti'e. Anyway, my favorite thought is when she was doing a small radio show live (and doing it wrong, rather than use the service that paid for the songs rights they just played shit off of spotify because literally no one cared) I used to listen every week cause it was fun to support her but also she likes good music. There was a listener request form and I used to submit requests. I did this for a few reasons. One, I learned on tumblr every single person in the world wants more asks. It is exciting and makes them feel special. Also, by sending multiple requests or messages a show it meant they would seem very popular to other listeners and you know, fake it till you make it, that way everyone else would go, "Wow, these guys must be more famous than I realized. I should tell my friends to listen and also send in requests". And then, obviously, I like to control women and tell them what to do, so it was a real rush to send in a song title and then make her do it. Anyway, there was a time when the person she did it with referred to me as, "Our fan". And that got a snap back of, "Actually, is MY friend". It was very defensive and I appreciated that in part it came from the fact that her cohost was trying to diminish me in a way that person liked to do and Andi was willing to stand up and protect me even though honestly, I didn't care. She did, that mattered. I mean, there was a lot going on there because her cohost was one of those lowkey monsters you meet in your late teens and early 20's who you find compelling because you are too young to know better but also because you are insecure and the fact that they have absolutely no moral center is appealing because it sure must be nice to not be insecure and upset and worried about things all the time. Andi eventually moved on, don't worry. Actually, it's really cool to see that she has matured into just a totally cool as fuck lesbian bad ass. I mean, she was always those things but now she has the confidence and a really cool life that she always was going to have but I bet she was unaware of. Like, she has her own place, she has a hot girlfriend, she eats cool meals, and she can get you any drugs you want. It's pretty cool.

Anyway, today I am posting Georgia Ellenwood because in my experience Andi loves Olympic Athletes. She always goes on that she's glad someone is honoring Zeus properly. Now, sadly, Georgia Ellenwood is not going to the Olympics this year because she is still recovering from an injury. That kind of thing is always sad, athletes only have so many chances but I think she has a good future ahead of her even outside of sports because she is charming and friendly and well… looks like she does. It's not hard to imagine her being successful doing other things. And even if she felt like a good pick today because even if she isn't going to the Olympics I am willing to bet @wildflagsure would be willing to burn down a second island nation to sleep with her. Today I want to fuck Georgia Ellenwood.

[hannagoldworthy]

I’ve been on a Greek mythology kick lately, so, as a lark, here’s a quick list of a few Star Wars characters and Greek characters I think they resemble:

Obi-Wan Kenobi: Oedipus. Both men are noble of character and have heroic intentions. They are devoted to their adopted families, remarkably competent in their jobs as generals and leaders, and they always try to do the right thing in any situation they encounter. But, both are doomed by the narrative to take part in the downfall of their families and cultures, and all of their heroic efforts come to naught. Both of them ultimately end up punishing themselves for circumstances beyond their control, and perishing in exile.

Anakin Skywalker: Heracles. The most physically powerful heroes of their respective mythos, they earn reputations of renown for their feats of strength and ingenuity. Both men fall under the influence of powerful beings who want to destroy their souls, and end up murdering their entire families in fits of madness. But, both men also eventually come to their senses, and though they can never erase the horrible things they’ve done, they devote the rest of their lives to attempt to make some recompense for their crimes, and ascend to godhood as a result.

Darth Maul: Sisyphus, natch. Local bastard keeps cheating death, and it’s really starting to piss death off. Sentenced to always be working towards a goal that can never be achieved.

Princess Leia: Antigone. Devoted daughter-figures to Obi-Wan Kenobi and Oedipus, respectively. Doomed to deal with the fallout of their predecessor’s choices, and not happy about it. Stubbornly do the right thing in defiance of the law, knowing full well that it will cost them their lives. Ultimately they die before they can see the benefit of their life’s work, but both go out like complete badasses, and their deaths cause chain reactions that eliminate the families of their enemies.

Luke Skywalker: Perseus. “I’m just the simple adopted son of a farmer/fisherman who wants to fight injustice. Oh, my family is now being harmed by that injustice? Game on, motherfucker, I’m gonna punch you out with the help of this cool new sword my mentor got for me. Oh, there’s a princess in danger of being consumed by a monster? Well of COURSE I have to rescue her! And…wait, what the fuck do you mean, my bio dad’s an asshole god?”

Rey: Psyche. Both abandoned by their families because of a curse, both get sucked into a never-ending cosmic family drama that has caused yet another war. Their character arc involves winning over many of the other players in this family drama to try and reconcile them with each other, to mixed effects. Both are brought back from the dead by their love interests, and go on to rebuild their lives after the war’s end.

[streamdotpng]

Tongues & Teeth - 3

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Chapter 3: Acceptance

Orion stared at the looming school before turning to his father.

“Are you sure we should’ve allowed Antigone out?” he asks. “It's simply been a few months, who knows what these imbeciles could do to her?”

Romulus humms, tapping at the steering wheel. “Son, there is no harm in giving her a taste of what she could get when she listens.” He raises a hand, gesturing to something unable to be seen. “We respect family and such, we will respect her wins.”

Orion’s mouth closes immediately, his complaint dying.

“Give a man what they desire and he’ll do anything as long as you provide him so.” There’s a smile on his father’s lips as his eyes turn to meet the dull red of his son. “Enid may act otherwise but she needs us, Orion.”

“To court this Wednesday?”

Romulus laughs, shaking his head. 

“Close,” he chirps. “But rather to be worthy of Wednesday.” He leans back to look over his shoulder. “Why do you think she was so willing to listen once she figured out the opportunities we could give her?”

Orion couldn’t be mad with that logic. “I would’ve called her Odysseus if I knew that.” He sighs, rubbing his brow. “How could I not have seen it? Enid has been doing whatever she could to come to her Penelope - to think that I thought she was like me.” 

The son had his hair ruffled in reply. “She is Orion, she is so much like you. After all, she’s the best of all of us.”

“She’s family, Romulus,” Orion dryly points out. “Of course she is.”

-

“Who was that truly, Enid?" Wednesday interrogated, her eyes narrowed and she turned to the blond the moment Enid shoved Sirius out the door. The door locks shut and with it, leaves wolf and mate. "He claims to be of kin but you hardly mention a man named Sirius during our correspondence." 

correspondence? A part of Enid lightens at that. What a nerd, just say text like us plebeian modern texters. 

For good reason, another thinks. I'd kill them if they ever get close to you. 

The wolf huffs, patting off some imaginary dust from her hands and pulling at her jacket as she meets the eyes of her dear roomie. 

She was going to say something, really but-

Gosh is it hard to think, to truly make a comprehensible sentence when someone so lovely is right in front of her. It didn't help that she could see Wednesday's jaw tense when a second past, the sight has Enid's lips twitching because she knows that her roomie was looking for answers but just like her over the break; she knows better. 

Wednesday as always, is such a beauty to see with those furrowed brows and sparking eyes. She isn't in uniform, instead wearing a simple pair of black pants and shirt. On top is a familiar black baggy jacket with white lining the zipper and hood. It's absolutely normal and yet so Wednesday that it takes her breath away anyways. 

(There's a part of her that stares a bit too long at the hoodie. She swears she can recognize it from somewhere but where?) 

The shorter girl raises a brow when Enid doesn't speak. Her arms are crossed and there's a finger tapping at her bicep. 

What an ever so impatient dear. 

Yet either way she doesn't push. It's contained, like a candle in its cup and Enid cannot wait to see her melt. Seeing the flicker of heat, of interest, concern and wonder in those cold eyes has Enid's heart beating right out of her chest. This must be what Icarus felt when he first saw the sun. 

She wouldn't mind falling to her demise either if the last thing she saw was Wednesday. 

"Enid?" her bestie grits out before her face smooths out to something softer, more concerned. Fuck, it leaves Enid stepping closer, entranced to see it happening in real life. 

It's one thing to see Wednesday be worried through text and another to see such beauty happen right in front of her eyes. 

"should I be worried?" Wednesday's words aren't as harsh now, not quite per say but dare she say nicer. It's soft, like the stem of a rose before your finger catches on a thorn. 

Enid shakes her head, the elders are weird but she can handle them. Wednesday looks unconvinced and a part of her is torn at that, she is delighted because that means Wednesday cares but another bristles at the thought that she may not be seen as capable enough. 

Eugh, how complicated. 

"What happened, Enid?" her bestie stepped closer and her arms dropped. The wolf watches, noting how they twitched mid way like they were going to grab something. Grab what? She wonders. Grab her? She dares to dream

Do it, she wants to urge. Cradle me in your palms and watch how I will do the same with the bodies of your enemies. 

I'll do anything for you. Touch me, hold me- I don't mind whatever you do as long as it's you. 

Enid smiles, all tight lips and bright happy eyes. God does she miss seeing Wednesday. She knows that her not replying is starting to frustrate her sweet bestie but it's on purpose! All they've been doing is texting and Enid has been wanting for so long that she feared that she'd forget her voice.

Let her savour this for a moment, savour the sound of death's embrace. 

"I got better!" is Enid's cherry reply and like that was all she needed, she shuffles a lil bit closer. Close enough to pinpoint that lovely poisonous scent of nightshade and old bound books. “The olden time werewolves are so weird, 'Nes. Like that's the reason why I don't mention them much because have you seen Sirius? Dude's a jerk and you don't need more jerks in your life!" her arms spread towards her roomie, trying to explain the vision in her head.

Wednesday stares back, processing the sudden onslaught of talking. Seems like she too wasn't used to hearing the blond. 

"I see," is her apt reply. Her eyes turn to the floor and she's apologetic. Awh, is it just Enid or did lovely Nessie think she was hiding Sirius and the elders for some other reason?

Enid continues, acknowledging it with a bounce on her feet. "But I learned during the winter and now here I am!" she gives jazz hands, gesturing to herself before flipping her hair. She gives a wink, feeling a little brave to fish for a compliment or two. "The hair is pretty right? I wanted to show the scars to the world so I thought it'd look nice."

Wednesday stares once again and Enid can see the way her jaw tenses. She's contemplating, Enid gasps in her head and she's so tempted to grasp at that chin and ma-

"You're different," Wednesday cuts in, her arms crossing once again as she stares up. They're so close that Enid can see the way her dear's ears seemed to turn a lil darker. "What did they do to you?"  

It's adorable really, the way she's so concerned but it's starting to grate a tad. Like Enid's a big girl, she can handle herself.  But oh, to be coddled by her usually strict bestie. It's so cute that she can't help but indulge. Let her roomie think what she thinks, the outcome is absolutely lovely either way. 

"Is it the way I dress?" Enid teases, pulling at her jacket. "I know that I don't wear alot of dark colours but I thought it'd look nice!" her head tilts, acting like she totally didn't plan this out. "Wanted to match, even for a moment." 

Wednesday freezes, her mouth shutting with a click. It makes Enid giggle, her roomie definitely didn't expect that. 

The wolf shrugs and continues, her lips pulling into a toothy smile as she pulls off the jacket. "But if it's that much of an issue for me to wear your colours, Wednesday." she holds it in one hand and there's a part of her screaming to reach over and rip off the jacket Wednesday was wearing at that moment.  "You can have it," Enid offers, leaning close. 

Unfortunately, as much as the wolf wanted to get rid of her Dear's clothing, she wouldn't dare touch unless given permission. 

"You do not need to placate me Enid," Wednesday says, finally able to speak once more and Enid pouts. Dammit, there went her chance to get rid of that jacket. She still hasn't figured out the problem but it still itches at her skull in a way she doesn't like. 

"But Willa," Enid whines, holding up the jacket by the shoulders and brandishing it towards the girl. "I bought it for you! It's baggy, thick, absolutely good for any sort of conditions-" Wednesday's brows rise with each word and Enid can't help but smile. "- it's pretty darn heavy too!" her voice drops to a whisper as she comes closer. "I know you like the weight, Wednesday." 

Much to Enid's dismay, she can see that Wednesday wasn't fully convinced so she jutted out her lip and furrowed her brow.

"Please? Try it for me?" 

And gotcha. Just the knowledge that she did this nearly has the wolf wanting to twirl her hair like some cliche 90's girl but she has decorum so she'll settle with squealing into her pillow later at night instead. 

Enid can see the way Wednesday's own shoulders fell in defeat. Gods, she looks absolutely lovely like this and maybe she's a little messed up but the blond is so tempted to grasp at the girl's chin and see more of the neck she bares. It makes Enid thank her wolf for giving her a few inches in height. 

Wednesday surely doesn't know what she's doing but it still jumpstarts her heart anyways. 

The smaller girl reaches over, brushing her fingers at the jacket as she squints up at the werewolf. “Bought it for me?” she repeats.

“Bought it for you,” Enid cements before letting out a small sound that has Wednesday’s nose scrunching. She knows her roomie folded but it's still nice to know that Wednesday is willing to go further to make sure she feels better. “But if you don’t want it, I can wear it so we can match! I know that you don’t like all my colours so I thought it’d be a good idea to get.”

"I abhor colour," Wednesday agrees. "but it suits you." a sigh. "Do not alter yourself for me, less of all to match."

Too late, a part of Enid cackles. I’ve done more for less.

Wednesday steps closer, bringing her hand out for the jacket and Enid meets every step. However, instead of passing the coat over, the wolf tugs at the hoodie Wednesday is wearing instead.

“Take this off,” Enid murmurs.

Wednesday’s arm falls and soon after, that detestable jacket follows. Something pleasant curls in her stomach and Enid carefully situated her coat around her Wednesday’s shoulders.

Enid doesn’t step back, instead she stares at the way the jacket floods the girl with its size. For some reason, it makes something akin to delight spark inside her chest. She didn’t need to think too hard to know that lovely smell of aged paper and poison began to mingle with her own.

In the end, the wolf’s hands lay near the hood, fiddling with the fabric as she speaks. 

"You look wonderful, Wednesday." The werewolf's head is ducked and she knows of the symbolisms. Her neck chills at the lack of protection, open for any threat.

It's a sign.

Wednesday doesn't say a thing, she doesn’t step back nor does she deny but Enid can hear the beatbeatbeat of her mortal's heart. 

It makes the wolf smile, all teeth and delighted. 

[dionysism]

hii, if you ever feel like it, i think it would be awesome if you made a list of greek mythology books (the ones you like or recommend, both tragedies and comedies) in order you'd prefer to have read them. as a complete beginner who's very interested in getting into greek mythology books and likes your blog, i think i'd like that very much :)

if you're a beginner i can definitely give you some recommendations!! the order thing is tricky because i mean, the timeline gets kinda wonky with greek mythos. it's a whole variety of mythos from different people, in different parts of ancient greece, at different points in time in ancient greece, so it doesn't all neatly follow one easily understandable timeline like a multi part book series would (like say, asoiaf or the vampire chronicles.. not that tvc isn't also kinda messy but i digress 💀) so it's not like i can be like "oh you should read x euripides play which would come after x sophocles play followed chronologically by this aeschylus play" even with the iliad and the odyssey, you could read the odyssey first if you wanted. i might even recommend that you do. the iliad has a lot of names and will go into multiple pages of lore on a character you will literally never see again and also the cataloguing the ships it just can be a tad overwhelming if you're new to it all 😭 for someone who's never read it before i'd usually recommend the fagles translation (for both)

it also depends on what you want to get into. greek mythology is big i mean i could list like a hundred different things for you to read. so you like both tragedy & comedy, thats a good start! are there any specific characters you're particularly curious about? i could always recommend you stuff i know of that features them

but just going generally, if you wanna hold off on the iliad and the odyssey and maybe start smaller then i really recommend plays. they're usually a fairly short read. i mentioned some plays (and translations) here (lots of euripides lol) but also i'll throw in a few more for you here and like i said, it really doesn't matter what order you read these in. you also don't have to read the translations i recommend, they're just the ones i have read and thus can speak on. honestly i recommend looking at the different options of translators & using that like couple pages of preview they give you online to see who's you think you want to read. 

tragedies:

oedipus rex, oedipus at colonus, antigone (i read antigone solo, and then went back and read the other two, but you can read them in the order listed too) all by sophocles. i've read the fagles translation and i honestly can't remember who's antigone i read originally. i borrowed it from my local library in high school sorry, but fagles' is really good!

trojan women (i read james morwood trans) & hecuba (i read william arrowsmith trans) both by euripides. these do take place post-iliad if that matters to you and you'd like to read the iliad first.

ajax (also takes place post-iliad) and philoctetes (the trojan war is still ongoing here but it is also after the events of the iliad as achilles is already dead) both by sophocles. you could read ajax first since it's mentioned in philoctetes that odysseus has achilles armor already so you would assume this is after the events of ajax. for ajax i read john moore's & philoctetes i read david grene.

comedies:

i'll admit i haven't read as many comedies yet! really i've only read aristophanes. i already recommended lysistrata in the other ask i linked so let me give you a couple different ones.

the frogs. this is about dionysus going to the underworld to get euripides back and save athens. it's a political satire. also everything about what aristophanes and euripides had going on is hilarious. i read david barret's (updated) translation

women at the thesmophoria. this one is a play in which euripides gets accused of misogyny and asks agathon to dress up as a woman and spy on this all women festival but then agathon thinks the will get discovered and so euripides in law goes in his place. i also read david barret's for this one.

that's actually all. lol. i'm hoping to read the birds by him but i haven't yet. i read the clouds too but it was so long ago i don't even remember it i'd have to reread before saying anything

bonus: this isn't a play but if you're curious about the gods and more stories involving them you should check out the homeric hymns! i have the jules cashford translation. there's also the orphic hymns which i read right here

hopefully this is helpful? sorry if it's.. a lot 😭

[katerinaaqu]

Hello, I really enjoy reading your analysis so I hope this is okay to ask. When I read the odyssey, especially in contrast to the Iliad, I thought it put a surprising emphasis on women, stereotypically feminine emotions, and subversions on masculinity. Do you think this is intentional? Do Odysseus and the Odyssey actually subvert any Ancient Greek patriarchal ideals, or is it just that the modern American idea of patriarchy is different?

Also what do you think about the idea that ancient women “wrote” or had any input on the story of the Odyssey? I know Samuel Butler famously suggested it, but he seems to have been largely shut down by modern English/American scholars. Is there any Greek support of this?

Lastly, if there is no concrete or cultural evidence for the odyssey being a “woman’s text”, is there anything wrong with believing so? I worry that it could potentially be an example of English/american feminism co-opting and rewriting Greek tradition, which I know is an ongoing headache.

I’m sorry for asking so much, I’ve just had these questions burning for a while and I wanted to ask your opinion, thank you :)

Hello and yet another time you drop a very intriguing question!

For your first question I believe that it tells more about us rather than about them. We do read the ancient texts and ancient laws about the inequalities of women and patriarchal societies and imagine some society in which women were always in the dark never be given any sort of attention whatsoever or that they are always crushed and all but quite honest the ancient sources prove us otherwise. How many ancient tragedies feature women in antriguing way? How many times we have heroines like Iphigenia, Antigone, Helen of Troy etc depicted in ancient tragedies being the protagonists and the sets of plot? Even those who are said to be "villains" like Clytemnestra or Medea, how much more complicated is their psyche really in clasical texts?

I think it is wrong to question the emphasis on women and domestic matters in Odyssey because simply women always had emphasis in greek texts. Sure in society they weren't equal and the world was far from perfect but at the same time I believe it is wrong to assume that the ideals of the centuries of modern era are applying to ancient Greece. Women were not equal, that doesn't mean they weren't emphasized or appreciated. Quite honest more than half of divinities in the pantheon are women and all of them are shown to be powerful and often make decisions. Hera, Athena, Artemis etc. I daresay in the Iliad we see the same emphasis on women. In fact we have Atena beating the hell out of Ares quite easily, Hera speaking her mind among gods to the point of being yelled at by Zeus, Athena also disobaying her king and father to pursue what she believes is right etc.

Briseis expresses her views in her lament even if she is a war prize, speaks on her love for Patroclus, how she cares deeply for him and his promise to her. Helen talks directly to Priam, she shows her knowledge on the army, she talks back to a goddess AND her current husband etc. I believe the emphasis in women in Homer in general and in Odyssey in particular shouldn't make us question the writer of the epic necessarily but rather what we have perceived on the function of patriarchal societies in the past and try to see it from the view of the time. Yes, women were unequal, yes by n large they didn't walk around or associate themselves with men etc. yes society had a long way to go and yet we have countless example from mythology or sociey where women are not only present but daresay thriving, just not in the fashion we do nowadays.

And no I am not convinced that the Odyssey is the subversion of Musculinity. If anything Masculinity plays a great role in it. Penelope still waits for her husband to send away the suitors. His role is not subverged. Telemachus still waits to come of age to take over, his role as the man of the house is not subverged. The role of the king and a man is not ignored. It is just transfered to a domestic field rather than as a commander of the army. Even the suitors bring out aspects of musculinity to the negative level; the power they have over a situation and how they abuse it, which is a trope we do see in myths often.

Well it was an opinion that was not frequenly expressed and daresay Butler was much more reasonable than other of his peers. For example Alexander Pope expressed the thought that BOTH the homeric poems were written by a woman but Butler didn't agree to that totality and based his hypothesis that only the Odyssey was written by a woman. I believe though that his notion was by n large rejected because of how oddly specific he wanted to become like some "young, headstrong and unmarried" like...yeah that sounds oddly specific even if someone does seem to point out detail such as domestic matters in the Odyssey the notion to me seems a bit off to say like what makes him think the woman is young just because there is emphasis on young women let's say. Couldn't be recollections of an older woman who nostalgically speaks on the past etc.

Either way as I said makes more sense for someone not to speak on a woman writer for the Iliad not because of thematic but because of the details given on arms and battlefield which indicates to many that Homer was possibly a soldier and a high ranking one in the past for we have great details on warfare that seem logical to assume they are given by a person who served the army or a war, something that doesn't fit much for a woman of that time (unless she writes down someone else's recollections).

He also suggested that the elleged woman-author of Odyssey portrays herself in the poem as princess Nausicaa. So he goes way too much into things that seem more like his personal beliefs than anything but then again it is not totally impossible given how many writers have placed themselves in the poems. And many legends even spoke on how Homer himself was a descendant of Odysseus (hahaha although of course that was more like a legend starting from antiquity than actual theory! XD)

Another reason why Butler is considered an iconoclast is, to my knowledge, that he has a habit to repeatedly pass the paternity of great writings to someone else. For example I read somewhere that he also expressed that he supports Darwin's Evolution theory but he also makes the claim that most of that theory was written by his grandfather. So to me he often seems revolutionary theorist solely for the purpose of being revolutionary! Hahahaha! So that could also be a reason why his peers by n large do not take all his theories that seriously. Or it could be as you said that even if we have the appearance of the first feministic movements at that time, we still do not have THAT many women authors so people were not really supporting such theories in the official levels as often. But still the theory doesn't seem to prevail as much to the official study referendum nowadays so it seems less believable by n large compared to the idea of a school of writers titling themselves "Homer"

Either way haven't heard many Greek professors of mine refer to the matter. I have had one professor in my postgraduate degree that was convinced on the theory that Homer was in fact a team of writers and not one person but haven't heard much on the "woman-writer" theory. I haven't heard many Greeks quote Butler. The most prominient two theories that are bouncing around is whether Homer was a real person or a team of writers. I have made a quick search but yeah not much. There are some references on Butler as "strange dude" in some greek pages so I would take it that this theory is not that popular in Greece mainly because it didn't pass to the public I suppose. Maybe also because the language of Odyssey being Ionian dialect in both texts didn't occur to greeks that the story was written in Sicily given how Sicily was linked to the Chalkidian Greeks more than the Ionians and they have prominient theories either that the Chalkidians were northen greek tribes or Corinthian.

Taking under consideration how little concrete evidence we have on anything at this point regarding Homer I wouldn't say there is anything "wrong" with believing one theory over the other, since everything is on the table. I should say it would be "wrong" only when seen through as you said the "american feministic" view aka "all great work is done by women and stolen by men" then it will be wrong in my opinion. But if you believe that the story written in the Odyssey focusing on domestic matters and taking a gentler approach to life, masculinity and femininity is enough for you to consider it a woman's work that is good enough for you.

I, personally, am not convinced. Change in thematics doesn't necessarily mean deifferent writer or different gender. I mean we have Shakespere that writes stories of love like Romeo and Juliet and then we have stories of betrayal and battle like Macbeth or King Richard. Different thematics do not mean different writers. I side more with Aristotle theory who said that Odyssey was written after Iliad with several years of difference, potentially at the end of Homer's life and his theory is supported by some linguists who also claim that the language used in Odyssey seems to indicate the story was written several years later.

I am also not convinced because I do not find terrible inconsistencies to the character of Odysseus between Iliad and Odyssey. In the Odyssey we get to explore him more since he is the protagonist and we get to explore him after the years of war, after the conquest and after the arduous trip. If anything seems to me like the same writer made an effort to apply the subtle changes to a character's personality to their journey from their 40s till their 50s after a terribly difficult period in their life. Which again doesn't make me feel there are different writers involved.

I am also not convinced because I do not find terrible inconsistencies to the character of Odysseus between Iliad and Odyssey. In the Odyssey we get to explore him more since he is the protagonist and we get to explore him after the years of war, after the conquest and after the arduous trip. If anything seems to me like the same writer made an effort to apply the subtle changes to a character's personality to their journey from their 40s till their 50s after a terribly difficult period in their life. Which again doesn't make me feel there are different writers involved.

So in my opinion if the author of the Odyssey was a woman she was a great fan of Homer for the character written in the Odyssey was seamless with the Iliad in my eyes so I will say what someone said about Mozart Requiem: "if Homer didn't write the Odyssey then the person who wrote it must have been a Homer" lol 😉

However if you are more convinced by Butler who says that Odyssey was written by a woman of course you can theorize it. Any theory is up for the table. I could also cite you some of the works of Butler. I believe one thing he wrote has the title "The Authoress of the Odyssey" if you want to read on his theory on it in his own words.

I am sorry if I cannot be more of help! I will keep digging if you need more info! ^_^ You shouldn't be apologizing! You give me some of the most intriguing questions! Love them!

[marvanne111]

moments I love in "Tempting Fête"

"I can only read what I've got written down, Mr. Funt." "Councilor Funt! -Funn, Councilor Funn."

the fact that it's been 11 years of this Funn/ Funt debate (alternatively, that both the reverend and the mayor have addressed him properly the last three episodes and seemed to have no problem with it)

"Yes, well, I'll see what I'm doing that day" -leading the funeral, one would hope?

underrated bit of the series in general: cell service only being available in the reverend's bathroom

"I think he's quite dishy" (this scratches such an itch in my brain; I quote it once a week)

the mayor and reverend (who will be dating by the end of the episode) agreeing emphatically with the above statement

the reverend wearing eye shadow! (incredible, show stopping, spectacular, never been seen before)

"It was one mouse! and, and I don't know anything about it"

"All opposed?" "... I mean, I'd say opposed is a strong word-" "Done! Carried unanimously!"; "All opposed? "I, uh-" "Overruled! Motion carried!"

"We already have an identity: it's miserable and it works." (i want this on a t-shirt)

"There hasn't been a fête for eleven years." "Astonishing. Who's in charge of local events?" "Rudyard." "Ah."

"Look, it's easy to throw money around and get excited about rustic dancing, but we've got-" "I'LL SAY IT IS!"

"His world had once again become an increasingly scary place. There was only one thing left to do..." "Georgie?" "Yeah?" "We're emigrating."; "It was time for swift and decisive action, and there was only one place to head for: Reverend Wavering's bathroom"; at the funeral I was able to witness Rudyard, bereft of Reverend and with few attendees, deliver a stirring and entirely improvised speech about the circuities of fate, the struggles of discord, and an intractable acceptance of the way the cookie crumbles, a sermon that moved the late Basil Corbett’s niece to say, quite simply:" "We want our money back" (some really fantastic narration moments in this one that make me giggle every time)

Rudyard including Madeleine in the emigration plans is said so sweetly and it honestly makes me a little soft

"One word: Chapman." "I should return his calls-" "Chapman?" "- probably won't, though"

"Rudyard, other people do those things for you!" "Conscription?" "Volunteering!"

"I, I, I do like spreadsheets!"

(No Madeleine, I hate raffles!") (these posts are always so Rudyard-centric lol and it's helped me come to the conclusion that he really is the funniest)

"Do you know how many gallons of fluid I'll have to drain from a man that size? Possibly thousands!" "What a ridiculous lie!" (this is another one that I quote often lol)

"I wish I were Mrs. Carnegie!" "You will be, Mrs, Turner. You will be." (WHAT IS THIS RESPONSE?!)

"Fancy a funeral?" "That a threat?"; "Don't forget your funeral." "Was that a threat?"

"Socializing? That'd take up ten minutes and then what would they do? No. Perpetual scheduled activity, that's the way."

"Put some clothes on!" "IT'S MY HOUSE!"

"Antigone?" "What?!" "Helicopters!" "Go back to your side of the table."

"Now get over there and sabotage something!" "*sigh* Fine." "Do you really think that's going to help?" "Oh maybe not, but it'll cheer me up."

"Called up the family, made up a story about... well, re-organizing a fête, that sort of thing." "How did they react?" "Well, they weren't very happy..." "But?" "No, that's it, they weren't very happy."

"You know, I can actually see your future." "Oh yes?" "Mmm hmm. And it involves this crystal ball getting shoved STRAIGHT up your-"

"Alright sir! Mission accomplissshhhhed." "Hello, Georgie." "Hello..." "Get out, Georgie." "Goodbye..."

The Mayor trying to rustic dance for a couple of hours before giving up

Lady Templar's glass eye. (That's it. That's the post.)

"He'd be spinning in the grave you haven't put him in yet!" (best line of the episode honestly)

"What a dreadful little man!" "Yes... mind you, he looks good in a suit"

"Even in a crowd, they all look lonely" (🤌🤌🤌)

"Can't win 'em all" 'Winning anything at all would be a nice change." (also want this on a t-shirt)

"You like to be the hero, don't ya?" (Georgie's the GOAT)

"Rudyard. Do you know what this chap did?" "Yes, he told me" (my man is already so tired of Eric lol)

[cr0ftisprocrastinating]

Hi croft! I just finished nowhere else to go and I just wanted to say it was unlike anything I have read so beautiful, so heartbreaking, utterly mesmerizing. thank you for writing such a gem of a fic. I saw so much of myself in hermione, and i am so grateful and hopeful to find light as well.

I know I will have a hard time finding something like this again so I wanted to know if you have a list of your favourite dramione fics that enthrall you completely, or ones you keep coming back to again and again?

Thank you so very much. Nowhere Else to Go has such a special place in my heart, because it was SO hard to write, but I'm so proud of it, and I also feel very honoured that it has prompted so many people to say and share really lovely, vulnerable and intimate things when they compliment it, and that's so special to me!

I don't think I've ever read a fic like NETG in terms of style, but the ones I reread all the time are way happier in tone lol. I love the fluff!

I'm always talking about @thebemoon's The Darkwood Wand and The Gloriana Set.

I also adore @scullymurphy's entire catalogue of work, basically, but the most recently completed multi-chapter Teach Me How To Forget is gorgeous.

My most favourite recently-completed work has to be @onebedtorulethemall's Bad Omens. It is truly so remarkable, so enjoyable, and so perfect in every possible way.

(also, the classics: DMATMOOBIL, Wait and Hope, etc etc)

Some shorter ones that I had lots of fun reading:

Dial G for Granger by @dramioneog

Custom Fit by @thebrightcity

Tentacular by @kayka

Finally, my favourite drop-everything WIPs:

Antinomian by @starsoforionwrites, and Under Their Protection by the lovely @stein048 <3

If you want something that has a similar kind of rhythm to NETG, then I got most of my inspiration for the spacing/sense of breath, pause and movement from playwriting!

Some of my favourites are: The Nether by Jennifer Haley, Antigone (the Dudley Fitts and Robert Fitzgerald trans is the one I used I think, but I also adored Lulu Raczka's interpretation), and anything by Lucy Prebble (she also was on the writing team for Succession!).

For general creeping sense of doom/unease, then Harold Pinter is the master of that. I'd recommend The Birthday Party.

ALSO 'It's True, It's True, It's True', which is about Artemesia Gentileschi is a favourite.

You used to be able to stream It's True - unsure if you still can but if it's available I *highly* recommend watching.

All my love xxx

[chronic-ghost]

Chapter 9 of Recovery Road

chapter rating: E (18+)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 11845

chapter summary: if you thought you knew the full story of natalie lorraine, you were myth-taken

chapter warnings/tags: non-consensual touching, implied sexual assault, emotionally abusive parents, drug/alcohol use, underaged drug/alcohol use, women existing in the male gaze, putting too much of myself into characters as per yooshg

a/n: Header comes from the “Circe Offering the Cup to Ulysses” by John William Waterhouse. Song for this chapter is Gold Dust Woman by Fleetwood Mac – watch me make a fic playlist after the fact lmao. Bear with me while I wax embarrassingly poetic about my favorite oc blorbo. Remember this does end well!!!

▲ Series Masterlist | Previous | Next (last chapter!)

▲ AO3 Link

▲ Taglist Form

There are many different types of myth but, essentially, they can be grouped into three: etiological myths, historical myths, psychological myths. Etiological myths can offer explanations for why the world is the way it is. Historical myths retell an event from the past but elevate it with greater meaning than the actual event (if it even happened). [Lastly] psychological myths present one with a journey from the known to the unknown which, according to both Jung and Campbell, represents a psychological need to balance the external world with one's internal consciousness of it. – Mythology, Joshua Mark

“in front of my mother and my sisters, 

i pretend love is cheap and vulgar.

 i act like it’s a sin– 

i pretend that love is for women on a dark path. 

but at night i dream of a love so heavy 

it makes my spine throb–

i dream up a lover who makes love like he is 

separating salt from water.”

— Salma Deera, “salt” 

Natalie Lorraine is a myth.

And like in all the great myths, birth is a painful, violent emergence. 

Slowly, labored across years and many heartbeats, what remains is the inevitable conclusion of being fucked over, of being lazy and careless, of innocence taken too soon. Careless children grow up to be careless mothers, careless fathers. 

The titans of the world leave to make their mark on history and, in doing so, mark their children in a way more powerful, more regretful than any legend could possibly make them out to be. 

Medea is brutalized in legends and in verse for the most heinous a mother can commit.

Odysseys forgets what being a father means.

Oedipus Rex curses his children with an unforgivable sin by way of their mother, their grandmother, and that staggering failure is felt through to Antigone, a generation removed. Antigone dies. Haemon and Eurydice die too. Pain and grief are family heirlooms passed through pale fingers at the stroke of midnight. 

But despite all that. Before all that. 

Myths begin when the heroes are forced to make a choice, choose a direction in the way their lives end up. It might not always be obvious, and the gods might have things in store for them. But there is a choice and the fallen hero always chooses.

But they were all children once. You have to remember that. You have to believe that.

(Aetiologic)

I hate these socks, you think to yourself, they’re itchy and they hurt my toes. Every time you swing your legs over the edge of that leather couch, your legs too short to touch the ground, the toe of your shoe pinches you. You really, really want to take off your shoes, but Mom said you had to keep them on all day, especially in the office. In his office. You think your dress looks like one of your baby dolls and you don’t like it.

So you stop kicking, even though the sound of your heel against the leather made a funny noise. You can move too, and make the leather squeak, and that is pretty fun too. Grinning, you bounce like you aren’t supposed to on your bed back home, the cushions chirping – it sounds like they’re farting – you giggle, rocking back on your hands from left to right, squealing along with the leather as you made it –

“Enough!”

You freeze, tears immediately welling in your eyes, fear almost painful in your chest. 

But he’s not talking to you. Your father is still in his office, with the door barely shut, and he’s talking to someone on the phone. Yelling, actually. He’s been in there since the little hand was on the fifteen and now it’s on the thirty. He told you to wait there while he called your mom. You tried to sit still, but it was boring and all the toys were back in the other room. 

He never yelled at you, your dad, but he did yell at your mom. 

When you talked to the other kids in your preschool class, their mommies and daddies lived in the same house together, slept in the same bed, talked nicely to each other. Yours didn’t. 

“Well, what am I supposed to do with her, LeAnne? I told you I have a meeting at four today and she could be here for three hours. I told you! I can’t have her here! You need to come pick up your daughter!”

Your foot kicks up and down. You didn’t like it when they talked about you like you weren’t there. 

“Hey there.” A woman with blonde hair and big eyes sits down next to you. She was always around your dad, and always handled his papers and briefcase and sometimes his coffee. She is younger than your mom but way older than you are. You think she’s really, really pretty. None of her dresses look like baby doll dresses. “I’m sorry your dad is taking so long. Do you want something to eat, or drink?”

You shake your head. Your mom said not to talk to strangers, so you didn’t open your mouth. 

“Are you bored? Do you wanna watch some TV?”

TVs were everywhere in your dad’s office building. Down near the elevators, and then more when you got out. It always seemed like people were watching a tv and the actors on the tv. Actors were people whose job it was to be on the tv or in the movies, your dad told you. He told you he knew a lot of famous actors, but when you told the kids in your class about it, they said they didn’t know any of those people. 

“You’re just making things up!”

“You’re a liar!”

You really wanted your dad to introduce you to an actor, just to prove them wrong. You thought it was pretty cool how everyone was always watching them. Like they couldn’t look away. 

You nod at the pretty lady. She smiles and picks up the skinny black tv remote on the table in front of the couch. 

The tv in the corner of the room pops on. The size of it doesn’t take up the wall like some of the tvs in the office do, but it’s still bigger than the one you have at home. 

The nice lady taps the button a few times, the channels changing, until she comes to the kids channel. It’s a little old for you – all of the shows at preschool are cartoons and this one has real people in it – but you want this woman to like you. 

“Do you like this one? Friends in the Family? It’s so funny!” 

She turns and leans back against the couch with you. You hear people laughing on the screen, even though you don’t see anyone. There’s a young girl, older than you but younger than this nice lady, and she has a boy with her on her parents’ couch. The boy leans in and kisses her cheek and the invisible people go ‘oooooh’. 

“Ooooh!” You mimic and the nice woman laughs, grinning at you. Something warm and tight goes up your chest, and you pinch your lip with your teeth, toes curling in your stupid shoes. You liked making her laugh.

On the screen, a little girl – maybe the other girl’s sister – pushes through the kitchen door. You gasp in surprise. She looks like she could be in your preschool class. She’s all mad and she crosses her arms, pouting.

“Someone’s gonna get it!” 

The invisible people laugh and the nice lady giggles so hard she leans forward and you’re giggling too, even though you don’t quite get it. That warm feeling reminds you of when you drink soda too fast, but it’s good. 

You frown too, put your hands on your hips, parroting the little girl on tv, “someone’s gonna get it!”

Her pretty mouth opens in surprise, her eyes sparkling.

“Oh my God, that was so good! You sound just like her!” You giggle, your face hot. “Have you ever asked your dad about acting?”

You shake your head. You, an actor? On tv? No way!

“Well, you should! You could be really good!”

You don’t know what to say, you want to keep making the same faces that little girl is, when your dad’s door opens. The young woman next to you lurches forward and shuts off the tv. He comes out and you can’t tell if he’s angry or upset or if that’s just how he looks. You’re not around him enough to know. But he stands in front of you, thinking something.

“Judy, would you get us two juice boxes from the fridge downstairs?”

“Of course, Mr. Milken.”

The young woman leaves and you’re a little afraid. You don’t want him to yell at you for watching that show for older kids. You twist your little fingers. 

“That was your mom on the phone. She’s going to be a little late.” 

You nod. “Okay.” 

“Did you have fun today at my office? Did you like meeting all my friends?”

You nod, this time quicker. “Yes! I would like to meet an actor one day!”

At that, he smiles and you relax. People who are angry don’t smile. 

“While we wait for your mom, do you wanna play paper football?”

“What’s that?”

“C’mon. I’ll show you.”

So the myth begins. All it takes is a single idea. A single want. A single desire. An innately human desire. We build myths and we tell stories and we fill them with the things we want to hear.

You’re turning fourteen next month. It’s circled on your calendar in your bedroom. It’s not like it’s that big of a deal, but at least now you could start the emancipation process. If you wanted to. You laid awake at night, thinking about what you’d call yourself if you ever changed your name. Something vaguely French-sounding. European for sure. But they were just fantasies to get you through the day. 

It’s early in the morning. You haven’t heard anything from Mom’s room in a while so you figure it’s just the two of you in the house again. You totter out of your room, blinking sleep from your eyes – it was a very late night on set last night and probably would be again, given how the production of this made-for-tv movie was going and especially with the extra homework you’ve been doing to make up for the time off you’ve taken – as you wander across the small, sun-streaked living room, and around the corner to the kitchen. You hear something from the fridge and just as you are about to ask your mom if she’s cooking (which is never a good idea), a man stands up. He’s older than you but younger than your mom and he has the last piece of your sourdough bread in his mouth. He smirks and you unconsciously tug down the hem of your sleep shorts.

This has been happening more and more lately. The way men, older men, look at you, it’s different now. Has been for a while, but now there’s more of them, their gazes sit on your bare skin longer, the light in their eyes changing, the lines around their mouths tightening. You don’t really know what it is they want, but it’s baffling to you that they think looking at you like that will convince you to give anything to them. 

It's the way your mom’s new boyfriend is looking at you. Your cheeks heat up without your consent and you hate it. 

He’s hungry and he’s scrounging around in the fridge and now he’s looking at you. Still hungry.

“Hey, you must be LeAnne’s daughter,” he says, taking the bread slice out of his mouth and propping his hairy arm on the top of the refrigerator door, his gaze sweeping you from head to toe as if deciding whether or not to make a sandwich out of you. Who likes this kind of shit? Oh, that’s right. Your mom. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “Yeah. That’s me. Is she here?”

His eyes follow the backs of your thighs as you walk over to the coffee pot and take out week-old coffee grounds. They’ve turned blue, started to mold, but you dump them out into the trash with three good smacks.

“Uh, she’s still in bed. She said you could get to school on your own.” 

Behind you, the fridge door slams shut and you curl your toes, begging yourself not to flinch. There’s something inside of you demanding you to not show weakness. Steadying your own hand, you dig into the jar holding the coffee grounds. It’s halfway empty, you make a note to pick up some later, the thought pressed up against the swell of panic that’s growing at the edge of your awareness. 

“I’m Alan.” He leans up against the counter out of the corner of your eye. “I know we just met, but I could take you, to school . . . if you want.” 

His thick middle has nothing to do with age, only poor health. Evident further by his off-yellow teeth and bad breath. 

“I’m o-okay. Thank you.” 

There’s three minutes left on the coffee timer. His gaze is like open palms on your skin. You hate it. He sidles up closer and your nails dig half-moon crescents into your skin. The lovely smell of coffee brewing is overwhelmed by his cheap cologne. He’s big. Bigger than you. Bigger than any of the boys in your class, or any of the men on set. You’ve never really noticed the men on set, they’ve never been this close before, but you’re sure he’s bigger than all of them.

You’ve never felt quite so small. 

“You were in that movie, right? ‘Those ain’t your average space-invaders’, that was you right?” You nod, the back of your throat drying out. He chuckles. “You were good. Really good. You were so pretty.” 

“I was ten.” 

He shrugs. “Yeah. Ten outta ten.”

Your stomach clenches and it’s like he can tell. Alan reaches the two inches across the linoleum and gently strokes your forearm. A light, smelly panic sweat breaks out over your forehead, under your armpits. 

You want him away from you, want him gone, to run back to your room, but where would that get you? 

Roll over, play dead, show your under belly. You don’t know what else to do to make him go away.

“Well, if you see my mom,” you ease around him, your forearm sliding from his grasp just as his fingers tighten, making sure you don’t seem offended, “tell her I’ve got a ride to–,”

“Hey, wait, where ya going?” 

You all but run back to your room, the coffee pot beeping behind you. You throw open your bedroom door and leap inside, locking it behind you. You don’t realize you’re panting until you feel light-headed, dizzy – you feel sticky all of a sudden and rush into your bathroom. Steam pours from the scalding hot water, the red handle all the way to the right, as you stand over it, watching it rush down the drain. With your lips pinched between your teeth, you run your hands under it and muffle a scream. It hurts. It burns but it’s like his touch is evaporating off your skin and there’s relief in that. It’s the first time you realize that the pain you give yourself is different from the pain that they give you. 

Not all of them are like that. 

Some of them are actually kind of okay. 

You’re fifteen and dressed as a pumpkin for the Halloween party hosted by the studio, the suit baggy and oversized, and for once, your mom’s friends don’t stare at you. No one really has all night and it’s nice. You feel like you can ease into the wall and no one would notice. There’s a long black couch on the other side of a plant with glowing lights in the shape of ghosts wrapped around its trunk. You stepside around a few directors, one of your other actors, and head straight for the couch. 

You don’t realize Jim, your mom’s current boyfriend is already there until you sit down and groan. He laughs from the opposite end and you jump. 

He’s more her age, thankfully, and doesn’t really seem to notice if you’re at home or not. In fact, you can’t really remember another conversation with him that lasted longer than a few minutes.

“You liking the party?” He asks.

You shrug – never show your actual feelings. “It’s kinda late. I’ve got classes on Monday, so I’m hoping to make it an early night.”

He nods, slowly, distracted. There’s something about his eyes that isn’t right. Not in the way that he looks at you, but at everything, like he’s trying to look through a dense fog.

Your mother is nowhere to be found, which isn’t entirely out of the ordinary for this sort of thing. She’d either show up and be the life of the party or show up so trashed she had to be escorted out of the building. 

But it is odd for her to just leave one of her toys lying around. 

“Do you know where my mom is?” You ask Jim and he shakes his head, as though it takes a considerable amount of effort just to hold himself upright. There’s definitely something wrong with him.

And then you see the smoke coming from his fingers and you finally realize that skunky smell is coming from him. 

He sees your gaze fall. “You want a hit?” He asks, either not remembering your question or not wanting to answer.

You’d never tried it before, not really having time between shooting schedules and school and your mom wanting to take you out to meet new casting directors and writers. You sit there, staring and realize Jim is probably one of the only consistent people you see in your life, everyone else a revolving door of names and faces and elbows to rub. A tiredness breaks over you like the push of a wave and you sway, wanting nothing more than to be at home under the covers. You wish you’d brought your walkman, so you could have hid out on the soundstage until the party was over.

You’d grown skinny over the past year. Rewarded and praised for it by producers and studio execs, you saw that people listened to you more, looked you in the eye when you were beautiful, made more beautiful by the thinness of your cheeks, your narrow thighs. Your mother was convinced you were taking pills, but couldn’t find anything in the house. And yet, the real reason behind it all was sometimes you were just too tired to eat. Too tired to move. Happy to curl up wherever you found yourself and sleep until the next person needed something from you.

But this is what you wanted, after all. You asked for a life of movies and revolving doors and fake people and men staring at your ass. You are reminded of this all the time. 

You nod at Jim, curiosity getting the better of you and wondering if other girls did this sort of thing in basements or with their friends or boyfriends. You portray a teenage girl on television, but sometimes you don’t feel like one at all. 

He reaches out to you and you take it. You’d smoke a cigarette once, with a few of the kids from that one time you guest-starred on that sitcom, so you think this’ll be the same.

“What’s it going to feel like?” You ask, the white paper inches from your lips. Jim looked at you and his eyes sort of crinkled. 

“It’s good. Real good. Like there’s a cloud between you and the rest of the world.”

That did sound nice.

You put your lips and inhale – it burns in a way you weren’t expecting – and you cough. Jim laughs in a way that makes you feel like you’ve done something wrong, that you’re silly.

“You’ll get it,” he says, “you’ll get it.”

You try again and remember that he held his breath before exhaling. You do the same, but the scratch makes your eyes water, your chest tighten, but you hold on, until you feel smoke cauterizing the back of your throat close and you cough again, less this time.

Jim laughs again and takes back the skunky cigarette. “Hey, look at that, your first joint and you handled it like a champ.” 

He smokes more, losing interest in you, so he turns and watches the party. Your heart beats roughly in your chest, but that might be more of the nerves than anything else. You fidget on the couch, waiting for something to happen, but it never does.

“I think I need another h-hit. I don’t feel anything.”

Jim frowns at you, shaking his head. “Hell no. You took two giant puffs on your first go. I’m not babysitting you when you’re puking in the toilet with the spins.”

“The spins?”

“When you drink while you’re high. Can be a real bad mix.” 

You blush, wondering if he saw you take sips from the flask in your purse or he just assumes you’re always drinking because you’re LeAnne’s daughter. 

“Just sit back, relax, you’ll feel it. In a bit.”

So you try his approach, nonchalantly watching people dressed in devil costumes, in white vampire fangs and cloaks, little skimpy bunny outfits, as the party rages on. You watch, and slowly, the whole thing feels distant. Like you’re in the far back of a theater and everything in front of you is some sort of stage.

You find you like it in the back row, in the quiet and the darkness. It’s warm, sort of like you’re dizzy but you sway with the movement and you don’t get sick. You find that you are rolling your head back and forth and you giggle.

Jim smirks at you, that joint almost gone. “Yeah, there it is.”

You’d never been high like this before. Buzzed a little bit from the beer in your flask, but this was new. This was . . .

“It’s nice,” you smile widely to the ceiling. “Does it always feel this way?”

“Like I said, you can mix with alcohol and get really fucked up.” Jim shrugs. “And different strains do different things. This is gonna relax your brain, but there’s others that’ll give you a body high.”

Body, this thing you’re in that doesn’t feel like it belongs to you.

“But a mental high from weed and a mental high from glue are like two totally different things.”

Your bones feel like they weigh a thousand pounds and you could just melt into the leather. But you turn your head, dropping it against the back of the couch.

“You can get high from glue?”

“You can get high from just about anything.”

“Oh.”

The needle-like feeling that pricks your heart every time you come to one of these parties is gone. The sloshy oozy feeling in your stomach when you go into public with your mother is gone. There is nothing left inside of you except weight and heat and air that comes in through your nose and out through your mouth. 

You giggle again. What if this is how a pumpkin feels all the time?

��Will it always feel like this?”

He doesn’t understand your question, doesn’t care enough to think about it, so he answers the only way he can. “Nah, should only last for a few hours. Then you’re good. No hangover, which is a plus.” 

“But I always want it to feel this way.”

He grins again and pulls out a small plastic baggy with some fuzzy brussel-sprout-looking vegetable inside. 

“Got twenty bucks on you?” 

You’re sixteen and you’ve just started in your first major motion picture. Offers are rolling in, you no longer have to seek them out. The brand new telephone for your brand new house is constantly ringing. You have to unplug it to sleep at night. But that usually makes your mother yell at you. 

She wants to answer every call that comes through. As if this house was hers.

You sit cross-legged on your bed, grinding up the weed you bought off a sound-stage guy earlier today in your silver grinder, your headphones in to drown out the noises coming from the other side of the house as well as the ones in your head.

This boyfriend was not so nice and in a drunken stupor grabbed your ass in front of LeAnne. She raged and yelled and blamed you. 

Get out, she told you. Leave. Get out. We don’t want you here. Leave. 

This is my house, you old bitch.

Licking the paper gently, you finish rolling the joint and press pause on your walkman. Stevie Nicks pauses in her crooning, and is it over now, do you know how? pick up the pieces and go home, and you remind yourself to find a purply drape at the next flee market. Reaching to the end of the bed, you plug in your headphones to the hot pink tv and flip to the right station.

Henry had sent in a new tv for your birthday, and you had that promptly thrown out. You bought this with your first check from residuals. 

It’s almost eleven. It’s about to start. 

You light the joint, inhaling smoothly, as the credits for Twenty-Three and Fun start up. 

The joint quivers at the end of your knee, your toes curling. It wasn’t produced by your father’s company, but it was all anyone talked about at school, in the gossip mags. You thought about buying Tiger Beat just for the pictures . . . of one specific cast member.

You bite your nail as the theme song plays and the credits roll through all the gorgeous, young actors smiling as they go about their perfectly average lives in the big city. 

And then his name shows up and you inhale smoke quickly to stifle the thing expanding in your chest.

Dieter Bravo. 

His smooth soft hair, dark sweet eyes. God, he is so cute. 

Your hand clenches the sheets. You’ve never had a boyfriend, only been kissed once while at dance in between shooting schedules that you’d begged your mom to let you attend. It was bad, it tasted bad, his lips were rubbery and wet, and you didn’t feel anything. 

Not like when you imagine what it would be like to be kissed by him.

Twenty-Three and Fun is out of your demographic, but maybe you could convince someone to let you try out for the part of someone’s little sister who comes in for the weekend. You’d just love the chance to meet him. He makes you feel like nothing you’ve ever felt before, nothing you know what to do with, but you tingle all over with it.

You’re at the tail end of sixteen when the spiral starts. 

When you don’t know where to put this loneliness that’s been dragging you down. 

Men stare at you but not in the way you want. Girls your own age won’t look at you, and women glare at you while their husbands stare. And boys, God, boys your own age –

You wipe the tears from your eyes, the wind snarling through your hair, the heat of the summer night sinking into your skin like wet clay. You know you’re driving too fast, but you don’t care.

Every day you go to work and put on someone else’s skin. Their clothes. Their face. For a while, it’s been freeing, to pretend to have normal problems, a normal family, a normal life. Because you knew even if you had never chosen to go into your father’s industry – which was now just as much yours – you knew your life wasn’t ever going to be normal. Not in the way it mattered anyway. 

But there is something there when you step in front of a camera. A feeling that doesn’t come from a dark place, from feelings of abandonment and loneliness – it comes from a place inside of you that still feels like you own, still is yours to hold and keep safe, despite everyone taking things from you without asking. Instead of taking, it gives. It builds. It grows, despite the salted earth of your soul. 

You like becoming someone else for a while, thinking as they do. Dancing, laughing, eating, playing as someone other than yourself. You like to create. You crave it. You create life for someone else that doesn’t exist and you love it. It feels right, imagining something if not for you, for someone else. Someone who looks like you but isn’t you. It feels good to dream. 

But lately. 

Lately, this job is no longer an act of creation. It’s fake smiles and ad campaigns and commercials and it feels rotten. Hollow. Like you’re under the eyes of a thousand leering men instead of just one. It feels cheap. You feel cheap, for wanting it to be something more. This desire for life itself dies in your hands, choked out, aborted before it had the chance to breathe.

Your body, yourself, is being twisted, molded into something you don’t want it to become and the only time, the only time you feel as though you have even some slight control is when you have none at all. When you detach from your corporeal form, so high or drunk you can’t feel your fingers. 

It began with the beer your mom’s boyfriends left in the fridge, then the pills in her medicine cabinet. Then the mini bottles of Crown Royal and Jim Beam in the mini-fridges at your dad’s office. No one ever seemed to care when you swiped the whole row into your backpack. Maybe others had done the exact same thing. 

You didn’t know how or why these things made you feel better but they did. You didn’t care about the tears on your face, the hot flood of anger beating in your chest, and you didn’t care about the speed limit, not even when you saw the flashing red and blue lights.

But you started to care when they put you in lock up and then you definitely did when your father’s lawyer bailed you out. 

You went home and threw up for six hours. No one came to check on you, no one came to find you when you yanked the phone cord out of the wall. You clutched the porcelain basin of the toilet for what felt like days. Years. You aged decades that night.

When you woke up, you showered, ate, and called back your father’s lawyer.

You had decided on a name, a new name to put on the emancipation papers. 

You told the lawyer very clearly and seriously over the phone: “I want my name to be Natalie Lorraine.”

It was the emancipation that finally did it. The final chop from the parental vine. The day she kicked you out, you came home from school, in between shoots for a new film with Gerard Butler and in talks for something with Helen Miram, and you find your mother curled up on the kitchen table. At first, you legitimately thought she was dead; the top half of her body was crumpled against the wood, her feet tangled with the rungs of the chair. She faced away from you, her right hand curled around an empty crystal tumbler and a three-fourths empty bottle of Belvedere inches from her fingertips. 

You stare, dumb-founded, your heart so slow you could hear it pound like a drum in your ears. And then she twitches. 

And then she wails.

“How could you? How could you do this to me? I’m your mother. You owe me. You owe me you owe me you owe me.”

She heaves boneless to the floor, the glass and bottle slipping out of her hand and shattering like droplets of rain. You can’t move, transfixed, as your mother, hands split open, knees carving bloody trails across the tile, drags herself towards your feet, like a freshly dug-up corpse. 

She’s muttering, spitting, snarling – she’s a starved, beaten beast, ready to make its last stand. 

You were a mistake

You ruined me

You ruined your father for me

Her sentences are blurred, notched together, overlapping, and intertwining. The only thing you remember is the vitriol and hatred more palpable than her own breath. 

Someone older, someone more separated from their pink, flushed girlhood would have the callouses to ease the burn, dull the cut. But at sixteen, you didn’t. At sixteen, with a burgeoning substance abuse problem and at the mercy of the first of many instances where adulthood begins to rob you of the small pleasures of life, you watch your mother crumble and it scares you.

In that moment you want nothing more than to be taken care of, in a way that doesn’t feel like it’s asking too much but it clearly is. You want to be safe in a way that is primal, the animal fear of the dark and unknown. You’ve seen your mother drunk before but not this drunk, never heard the sounds she’s making — the wailing, the disappointment, the sorrow and rage. It scares you so badly you want to cry.

The gap between girlhood and womanhood is closed when you understand your mother is only human. Nothing less. And nothing more. 

She’s still muttering hateful, horrible things as you take her to her feet and ease her onto the couch. 

She’s silent when you throw a blanket over her. 

She’s pale, shaking, green. 

Go away. I don’t want you here. I don’t want you around me. Leave me alone.

Leave me.

Leave me.

Leave me. 

Go away. 

You leave her, not knowing if it's serious enough to call 911, if you can actually die from drinking too much, but that fear, that vice-grip around your chest, it’s squeezing your lungs so tightly, tears leak out of the corner of your eyes. But then it sinks. Sinks into your bones, your blood, your muscles. Watching your mother folded up like a broken doll, you experience fear like you’ve never felt before. 

Blink and you’re in your room.

Blink and you’re under your bed, curled up, knees to your chin, and you’re crying. You can’t stop crying. It’s the only thing that seems to appease the fear, the sense that nothing is real and everything is going to turn out badly and it makes your stomach twist. You gag on your own spit and you shake and you tremble and you experience your first panic attack without anyone to tell you what’s going on. How to survive something like that. You grow up thinking this is how everyone lives and you’re just too pathetic to take it. You let that shame and embarrassment fester and grow because it has no way of stopping. 

Your father is also served with the papers. 

Two weeks later, the production for your upcoming movie was suddenly put on hold. The role with Helen Miriam went to someone else.

He never helped you get ahead in the industry, but he absolutely blocked you from it. He never called you again.

Someone, someone else, might have been hurt by the fact that your father cut you off without so much as a goodbye. But it’s not like you could miss what you never had.

You take the hint and enroll in UC Santa Barbara under your new name.

The myth of your maidenhood ended in much of the same way it began: at the behest of someone else and exiled as an afterthought.

You tried the whole sleep-around-to-fill-a-need thing for the freshmen year of college. It didn’t take. You liked sex but you liked the chase more. You liked the hunt, the thrill, the unconscious desire to touch, when the desire to do something first emerges in their heads. You like to watch the basic urge emerge in their darkened eyes before the other shoe drops. Drops and splatters coherent and rational thought like a bug on a windshield. 

You liked sex, even if more often you had to get yourself off while your partner had fallen asleep, their needs met. But you liked being wanted more. The drugs helped bridge the gap and given that you had no idea how to make friends because you'd never had one your own age before, the puddles of bodies that dripped onto couches and floors at parties seemed to be as good a social circle as any. They all started to recognize you at parties, in lecture halls, at bars. They nodded, you nodded back, and you sat down. 

No longer alone.

But not entirely wanted either. 

It was enough though. 

By your third year, you were known more for your party provisions (with your old contacts from the industry) than your ex-boyfriends. 

You meet Heidi Morgan through one of your production management professors. 

You’d gone in to speak with your professor, a man notorious for sleeping with his students, and believed you to be next in line (men were so much better at doing what you asked when they thought you’d sleep with them), so you were hoping that you could convince him that it was actually your lab partner who stole the paper from you, not the other way around, when you see him with someone else. 

Blonde, small, feisty. 

Heidi Morgan takes one look at the grotesque ogling in his eyes and promptly introduces herself. 

In her own fire and take-no-shit attitude, you find kindred spirits. 

She later asks you out for drinks, you think it’s been too long since you went down on a girl, and you completely misread the situation. 

She clears things up and then asks you to read for a part. The whiplash makes your head spin, but given that she’s not calling you a giant slut, it’s probably good news.

She knows who you are. Suspected because you looked familiar and because she has friends in some truly weird places, she confirms her suspicions by the end of the day. So she gives you a call, you show up, flirt too much, and maybe end up with a job. 

She gives you the script. It’s good.

Really good.

Why me? You ask her. You graduate in two weeks. You’re turning twenty-two in a few days. There’s nothing you’ve done in recent years to make her have this kind of faith in you. All digital memories of you reflect a knobby-kneed, round-cheeked little girl then that same little girl with tits and a smirk well beyond her years. 

She didn’t think she might find her lead in a dingy auditorium, she says, but crazier things have happened. It’s not a guarantee, or a promise, just an offer. Try out, see what happens. 

Crazier things have happened.

The rest is less myth and more old history.

(Historic)

The day you meet him is not unlike any other. Except in the little things. Your bra strap breaks when you go to put it on. Your belt loop gets caught in a door handle and nearly shucks your pants to the floor. You somehow get lost on the way to the studio even though you have your phone mapping the route. It takes you around and around and around until you get out and ask a very confused gas station attendant where the fuck the sound stage is. 

It’s not momentous. Annoying, perhaps, so annoying that all these little things pester your brain like flies gorging on rotten fruit. You’re distracted, one eye always glancing over your shoulder. Trouble, trouble, trouble, your problems seem to whisper, you’re in trouble.

A PA comes to find you, saying Heidi specifically asked for your presence but she’s gone missing. He thinks he knows where to find her, if you’d come with him. You eye him up from the black leather couch you’re draped across, irritated at the day and at him for his shameless staring. You nod, and immediately he starts running his mouth about his own Hollywood dreams. He’s a writer, you know, maybe you’ve heard of some of his smaller indie work, it’s not very much, but folks who know say it's good so maybe he’ll be able to sell it if –

The door to the back of the lot opens and it’s like god snapped his fingers in your ear. It’s not momentous, or earth-shattering, but holy shit does it fuck you up.

He’s broad. Tall. Forearms, thick and veiny, stocky thumbs and tense fingers. His hair is just on the edge of being long, but combed back in some attempt to tame it, to fold it into submission. His right earlobe is puckered, pierced, but no earring. His beard and mustache are trimmed, clean shaven elsewhere. Despite how he’s built out adult male muscle from his days on Twenty-Three and Fun, he still has those boyish eyes, a dimple that would drive anyone up a wall, and eyelashes you’d pay a thousand dollars for. You knew this was coming but it still feels like a kick in the chest. 

That kick burns when you realize something.

He’s fucking pissed. He’s beautiful, carved from your very dreams of what the most gorgeous man on earth would look like, but he’s fucking pissed.

Surprisingly, at you. 

Well, that’s disappointing. 

He comes at you with his claws drawn and you’ve never, ever been one to back down. You swipe back and hope you draw blood.

You discover other things about Dieter Bravo, the boy who you used to have a heart-stopping crush on when you didn’t know anything better. Fantasy will always be better than reality, and this isn’t exactly how you’d thought your first meeting would go.

And yet, you discover something else, something very, very curious. Something soft and impressionable, bruised purple and green. Something you want to lean on with your entire weight until he chokes. It’s ugly, but it’s amusing. Maybe this is how you hoped your first meeting would go, albeit with some tricky obstacles and a ticking clock. 

You want to press and see what spills out. 

Dieter Bravo cannot and does not look away from you. 

The day you meet Dieter Bravo is also the day you meet The Sixers, the day you meet Marie. She’s small, mousy, but apparently a fucking rock star on the drums. You like the irony; quiet and unassuming until she bangs through your head with percussion. Where the rest of her bandmates are wide-eyed and eager and come with more drugs than a pharmacy, there’s something about Marie that you find so tenderly earnest you kind of wish you didn’t come dressed like you were going out to eat the fleshly hearts of men everywhere. You want to approach her on her level. You don’t want to scare her away. There’s something redemptive about a kind, sweet girl like Marie striking up a friendship with you. 

If you could ever figure out how to start one. 

“Excited for the filming to start?” You ask her after nearly everyone’s picked up their things and left after the reading. She glances at you, then over her shoulder, as if you were talking to someone else. You instantly feel insanely protective of her. 

She blinks a few times before distractedly shaking her head. “No. I’m actually terrified.” 

“About being in a movie?”

She cringes, as if it’s the most shameful thing in the world. 

“Yeah. I love playing in front of crowds, but something about being on camera scares me.” 

You make a note to find out the next time they’re playing live.

“It’s honestly not that bad. It feels a little weird, like some unblinking eye staring at you, but then it just kind of fades away.” 

She bites her lip, tucking that short brown hair over her ear. “Have you done this before?”

You’re not exactly hiding your childhood movie star past, but you don’t really want it broadcasted.

“Here and there.” 

The rest of her bandmates are chatting amongst themselves, perhaps not yet aware you’re trying to befriend one of them. You’re not quite sure how it’s going.

“If you ever want, we could talk and I could give you some pointers.”

Fuck, why did that sound like a line? It shouldn’t. You didn’t want it to. Where was the line between asking someone to be your friend and asking someone for a fuck?

If she notices your embarrassment, she doesn't show it. She grins brightly, unashamed. “Yes! Oh my god, yes, please. I’d love that!”

Normally, when giving someone your number, you’d grab their hand and write it in Sharpie, giving them a good wink. Now you tear off a corner of the call sheet and write down your number in shaking hands. It’s a small piece of paper, easily lost. That’s okay, if she does lose it. No need to freak out.

She’s grinning, smile expanding across that round face of hers as she takes your number when someone calls her name.

Roxie, the one with bright-red flaming hair and gorgeously thick eyebrows, takes a glance at the piece of paper in Marie’s fingers. One eyebrow arches, and she says nothing.

Roxie looks at you like she wants to devour you whole. You think you’ll let her. 

You decide to ignore him.

Whatever his problem with you is, it doesn’t have to be dealt with immediately. Maybe he’ll come around and if not, no skin off your nose. It’s none of your business what happens off camera, what he thinks about you as a person. All that matters is giving a good performance and you know you can do that. 

You just sort of wish you had known more about the role before Heidi offered it. You really sort of wish you had known Dieter was going to be your co-star. That night, after approaching him in the parking lot, you had two glasses of wine to settle your trembling nerves, and you flipped through the script.

He was so calm and collected at the table read today. Cool, relaxed, at ease with himself and the world. Everyone knew him, everyone talked about him, either directly to you or in snatches of conversation.

Dieter Bravo – you could not ask for a better scene partner!

Dieter Bravo – he’s so, so nice. He always stops for fans!

Dieter Bravo – this shoot is going to be so much fun with him!

You’d never been particularly star-struck, but for the first time in your life, the idea of working with your co-star was daunting. When you were up against Gerard Butler, you’d been in the game for a while, knew the industry, showed up in the trades. Now, you felt like any other Santa Barbara graduate stumbling out in front of the camera for the first time. Where was that all-knowing smirk you had perfected at fifteen? God, had you always been so transparent?

You felt like you had to prove yourself at that table read. You know you were going a bit overboard, but they watched you, transfixed, and it empowered you. Mark Bronson, Marie, the rest of The Sixers, they watched you like Taylor had possessed your body and you instantly became a rockstar. 

Only, he didn’t. He watched you and didn’t look away, but he looked so uninterested in your performance, the tears that filled your eyes were partially real.

And then he touched you and in that moment, you knew he was mocking you. Laughing at you, you fucking child. He was the legendary star here, not you, and to think you ever had a chance was laughable. The heat of disgust in his eyes hurt, more than you wanted to admit. 

It was day one and he hated you.

Things escalate. 

He caught you high on set and it felt like you were being scolded by your older brother. He didn’t get it. He never did. All that shit about how he knows what it’s like – bullshit. All fucking bullshit. He was somehow always in the corner of your eye, watching you, begging you to fuck up so he could expose you like the fraud you are. 

And a pathetic fraud you are at that. He touches you and it’s like algae, hot and dense, spreading across your skin. You fight the feeling that strokes your cunt and you grit your teeth. Stop touching me, go away, stay back – please. 

You’re twenty-two and still harboring that fucking crush you had when you were sixteen. It’s embarrassing. It’s pathetic. It’s so, so, so wrong.

You try to ignore him. Try to exorcize him from your every waking thought. It doesn’t take. You get drunk at the pool party and you want his eyes, anyone’s eyes, on you. 

Marie is shy, you try to sober up around her, but you’re too far gone and you don’t want her to see you like this.

So you find Roxie. And Samuel. They give you something that makes your pupils dilate to the size of quarters and you feel like you’re made of cosmic dust. When they touch you, beauty and awe and the atoms of the universe bloom across your skin. You like kissing them, you decide. The water dripping off you from the pool feels like bad lovers and broken kingdoms up for sale.

You end up at his door. You don’t mean to. You genuinely forgot what room you were in. 

Consciously, you know he’s married. Consciously, you know he hates you. But that doesn’t stop you from asking anyway. 

“You could join us, you know.” 

You want so badly to be his theatrical equal that it hurts, it burns hotter for a moment than your desire for him, and he just stares at you. Consciousness somewhere in a nearby galaxy, you can’t read the look on his face. And then it blurs, he closes the door, and the entire hallway grows thick, heavy leaves.

Disappointment is a physical object and it burrows into your chest. You think you can feel your ribs moving to make room.

Sam and Roxie fuck on your bed while you’re curled up on the futon. You don’t even change out of your suit. You kick them out as soon as they are done, not wanting their hungry gazes to turn to you. 

This is always the worst part. When the emotions and memories that you’ve managed to pry off you as you coat yourself in a protective layer of LSD, finally come back. They wrap around you like a vice and you can feel the beginnings of a panic attack start in the tremble of your fingers. You stay there in the armchair, damp and cold and shivering and trying not to choke on your own throat, until the early hours of the morning. You think you could die like this but you don’t. You never actually do.

He doesn’t bring it up and neither do you. You sort of wish he would, just for a chance to . . . no, that’s fucked up and, if not legally, morally wrong. You can’t wish for anything when it comes to him.

It’s easier to hate him. To pretend like he was some over-involved, self-obsessed diva who stepped on your lines on purpose and flat-out refused to run scenes with you. It was easier as a whole for a while.

Marie started talking to you on her own now and that made you forget Dieter for a bit. The rest of the group was hesitant in their welcome, despite what had almost happened between you, Sam, and Roxie. But they all came around when you gave them the cleanest Molly they’d had in years.

It was like college all over again, but the faces were consistent this time. Five of them. You smoked in their van, fuzzy orange carpet fibers tickling your ear as you looked up at the glow-in-the-dark star stickers on the roof. 

“Why are you called The Sixers if there are five of you?” You ask suddenly. 

There’s a pause and then a collective chuckle. You watch it like lightning spark between them.

Nick finally speaks up: “Because it sounds like the sex-ers.”

“Sixty-nine n’ feeling fine.”

You laugh with them this time and you feel your breath mix with theirs. 

While meeting him wasn’t a particularly momentous occasion, the drive up to his AirBnB was. Maybe it was the lack of air this high up, but around every turn, your chest got a little tighter. The Sixers had shown you The Labyrinth with David Bowie last weekend (“how have you never seen that movie? Did you grow up under a rock?”) and you can’t help but think of the Goblin King coming to whisk you away. At the very least, the amount of rings they wore were the same. 

You try desperately to not look at his white-knuckles around the steering wheel and fail tremendously.

The thing is, you don’t really want to fight with him. You don’t want to have to interact with him through this hazy, distant, drugged out wall, but that seems like the only way he’ll talk to you. He’s always scowling at you, like you’d done something wrong, and you hadn’t. Sure, you thought about it and fucked yourself on the biggest dildo you had about it, but you hadn’t actually done anything. You hadn’t even made a move on him, not even bat an eyelash. But it seems like you just breathe in his direction and that sets him off. 

You still don’t understand why his past drug problem is now your problem too. In your absence from Hollywood, you’d somehow missed his ups-and-downs as he transitioned out of a teenage heartthrob into a fully adult hot mess. You’d certainly missed his marriage announcement until you googled it in the bathroom after lunch one day to see if what you’d heard the two techs talk about was true.

She’s so fucking hot.

Yeah, she was a model, right? Dude fucking scored big.

Fuck, she was a model. Even if she wasn’t, she certainly looked it, from all the red-carpet photos of the two of them. He looked at her with complete and total adoration.

Hollywood party boy settles down with recent marriage to cubist painter’s daughter

The headline was wordy but got the point across. He was off-limits. 

You didn’t know how to make someone like you if you couldn’t offer them sex or drugs. What the fuck were you supposed to do with the sober and married Dieter Bravo?

And yet, there were times. Moments. Fragments. Bursts of light in a mirror, where you thought he looked too long. How his eyes flickered black when you talked about your bra, or your tits, or your ass. But that’s all they were – fleeting instances of your own insanity bleeding into reality. He would never look at you like that. He hated you. 

It scared you, the way he expected you to act when you couldn’t hide behind being high, when you couldn’t flirt your way out of a particularly tense situation. He wanted you raw, exposed, your face revealed to the light you had spent years hiding from.

And then he did the darndest thing.

He was nice about it. In the kitchen, and then on the patio, he asked you questions about your start in the industry, what you’d like to do with your life, how you saw your career going. He cooked for you and made you laugh. He invoked the holy saint Sister Heidi as a bargaining chip and it was all the excuse you needed to drop the boxing gloves. You didn’t want to fight with him. You wanted to be his friend. You wanted him to like you.

Scratch that.

You wanted him to fuck you within an inch of your life and, sure, it was stupid to finger-fuck yourself to him, on the same couch as him, but maybe you wanted to get a little caught. Okay, a lot caught because then he’d tell you to fuck off and he’d draw the line in the goddamn sand and, sure, it’d be embarrassing and, sure, it’d hurt like hell but you’d get over it. You’d nurse your heart but you’d get back on that fucking bike because you really, really wanted this movie to work – but –

He fucking doesn’t. 

He doesn’t kiss you but he wants to. He looks at you like he wants to suck the marrow from your bones, drink the blood from your heart through your cunt.

Dieter Bravo wants to kiss you desperately, but because he is a good man, he doesn’t. And because you’re a shit person, you make it hard on him. You make it hurt because it hurts you and just for once, for a second, you want someone to understand how you feel. How you hurt. How you ache. 

That house in New Mexico changed everything. For you. For him.

Friends didn’t make time with each other because they were trying to plug up the moans in their head. Friends didn’t keep busy to keep their hands off each other. You weren’t friends with him, but you did get along. You learned a lot about him. You’d never had a real friend before but you sure this isn’t how it’s supposed to feel. 

Instead of a myth, your relationship is built in handprints. Red blotches on cave walls, their original meaning lost to time, a dead language no one speaks any more. Sometimes the prints overlap, sometimes they don’t. There are no words spoken, but the feeling is there all the same.

You think, if you could just take your aching heart out of your body, you could actually be Dieter Bravo’s friend. He fills in holes you didn’t realize were empty. Chasms for art, for acting, for food that didn’t come in a can or delivered on your front door. He knows about wine, and whiskey, and needs help dressing himself. He never made you feel like your asks were too much, your need to connect too great. He took your hand and told you what you wanted was normal. He’s funny, patient, and loves Shirley MaClaine movies. He did her entire monologue from The Apartment one night after hours of begging and it brought you to tears. You had a scene partner in Dieter Bravo, you had someone to challenge you, to rethink scenes and pull back deeper and deeper character layers. He’d taken a course online about psychology to have a new perspective on analyzing characters and you thought it was fucking genius. 

Marie filled certain relationship needs – a girl to talk about drama with, a fellow fan of live music, someone to make you look up to – but Dieter fulfilled more, if not all of them. Despite working in an artistic industry for years, you’d never once talked trade with someone and certainly not someone who knew it so well. You were awestruck by him. 

Call it infatuation, call it being horny, but there is a connection, a red through line that connects you both. And for a while, that’s enough. 

Until it isn’t. 

The mark of his blotchy handprints on your heart stop when you fuck some guy you barely know because Dieter hurt you. 

When he won’t look at you while he’s pretending to fuck you, you feel self-conscious again, like he’s going to think you’re some inexperienced little nepo baby. But he does his duty and you do yours and you’ve never felt so empty. 

Your handprint stays, while his blurs away. 

(Psychologic)

After production ends, you exist in the margins. No more mythologizing. No more cave drawings. 

And then Marie shows up.

She takes you to get your nails done like it's the most normal thing in the world. What is wrong with her? Doesn’t she know what you are?

You get smoothies and see some live music and she keeps you from spiraling. There is no possible way she knew about the lines of coke upstairs in your bedroom, but she takes you out into the light all the same. 

You go out to shows with The Sixers. They love having a groupie who’s a Hollywood star. Marie seems embarrassed when they show-case you, but you find you don’t mind waving a bit on stage and introducing the band. You think you see a pair of deep brown eyes in the crowd occasionally but you know it’s not. You have to accept your fate. He might not like you and he doesn’t hate you, but he certainly doesn’t want anything to do with you.

Not friends, not lovers, but something else. Something almost.

You and the Sixers swim in the ocean off the Santa Barbara coast. You go to parties and you play the bongo drums in a treehouse in South Los Angeles. You bring the good drugs and everyone loves you. 

You don’t want to go to the wrap party, but Marie insists. You think she likes being famous just for all the opportunities to get dressed up and do your make up. She told you once that you are the prettiest girl she’d ever seen without any motive behind it. She wasn’t trying to fuck you or fuck with your head. It was just the truth in her eyes and it made you nauseous.

You go to the wrap party because it’s something better to do than get high on shrooms for the fourth time this week and as a reward, Cooper shares his blunt with you in the car. You laugh easily and often and loudly and Cooper keeps you steady with a hand on your waist. You’re nervous, you want to drink more, but you already feel like you’re carrying too many cups and plates and the noise it’s going to make when you drop them all is going to be deafening. 

He’s here. He’s here with his fucking gorgeous wife and you stand behind Cooper so you have something blocking your line of sight.

Just as you are about to order your first vodka soda of the night, Dieter rushes back into the house. The weed and coke in you switch the plugs in your brain and suddenly you are very, very angry. 

But the Dieter you find is fragile, beaten down, vulnerable. He talks to you like he did in New Mexico and it dulls the edges around the hole in your chest. He looks at you like you’re his saving grace, his last hope. 

Myths lie. They blur the truth to make a better story. They build up a man larger than life, they make goddesses out of women, and they sanctify, canonize love. They make you ache with the wanting of the fantasy of it, and that’s on purpose. Myths are the human experience on fire.

Kissing him, you feel on fucking fire.

Meeting him didn’t feel momentous. But fucking him certainly was. 

The settlement of your mythology burns to the ground, flames licking the sky. He has crystalized in your veins and, in an instant, you’re hopelessly addicted.

With Dieter Bravo, you come to like sex. You come to love it actually. It’s an itch, a fluttering, warm feeling that makes you twitch and tense when his hands aren’t on you. There’s some part of you that knows the inherent danger of giving one man, much less this man, that much power over you, but fuck, you can’t help it. 

You’re too young, too inexperienced in the world to know the difference between when a man wants you for sex and when a man loves you. In your mind, the two are the same and cannot be separated. You know what it feels like to be wanted to be fucked, but in your nativity you assume that’s how a man looks at you when he wants to love you — and this time you’d welcome it. 

There isn’t much to say about New Orleans, except for three things:

One, you’ve successfully confused yourself into thinking this is what being in a relationship with him would be like.

Two, you’ve never felt safer and more wanted and more complete than you ever have when you take drugs with Dieter. (that primal animal fear is gone for the first time in what feels like years)

And three, you’re so fucking in love with him you’re sick with it.

In the sickness, you grow weak. You burn with fever. Your bones ache and your mind races. His touch is simultaneously a balm and a contagion. 

You love him. You love him. You love him.

You love him unlike anything or anyone. 

Marie is actually the only one who ventures a guess. Who catches you, wings pinned to the corkboard, and asks you point-blank, “are you fucking Dieter Bravo?” 

Maybe she’s braver because it’s over text, permanent traces of your infidelity, but you stare at her message for hours. You think about it in the hotel shower after the plane lands in Los Angeles. You haven’t seen her in weeks and you’ve stopped returning her phone calls. 

Your high falters at the idea that you might have (and probably did) lose a friend over him. But what did that matter, in the grand scheme of things, your sickness asks you, now that you have him?

Now that he’s the only thing that matters. Now that he is everything. 

He goes back to his wife. 

After everything. After what you did for him. After what you gave up. How you prostrated yourself for his love, for a moment of his time. He can’t see it, it’s eating you up. You think cancer has kinder teeth than his. 

The foundations of the core of your being are rocked. It doesn’t feel real because he’s still in this hotel with you, the same hotel where you fucked in the bathroom, where you flirted with him for the cameras to sell the movie, where he begged you to stay with him, you’re gonna stay, right? you’re gonna be with me, after this? And maybe it isn’t real because he only lasts being apart from you for twelve, maybe fourteen hours. Maybe he’s sick too. Maybe he’s fucked just as much as you are. 

In your dark, deep wretched heart, you hope he is. You hope he’d die without you. But you don’t know. You don’t know because he never says it. 

This time, it’s real, he promises. This time, he’s never going back. This time he’s going to say he loves you, his kisses pledge to you. 

This time he’s not going to leave you.

In the mornings after Chloe leaves and you kiss him E-tablets with your tongue and he fucks you in every way he knows how, he curls up next to you and you tell him. It doesn’t matter he doesn’t seem to hear you.

You tell him you love him, have always loved him. Dieter Bravo turned from an imaginary companion, to a friend you didn’t want, and now to a lover who makes you think you’re special. Something valuable, precious. Something that is worth keeping. 

Until you’re not.

Myths serve to answer questions about our place in the natural order of things. To ease tension. To provide guidance. 

Why does it rain?

Where do the seasons come from?

What is the sun, and why does it leave and return?

What is heartbreak?

What is grief? What is sorrow? How do we carry them with us?

How do we go on when the world is determined to break us?

When you’ve always had nothing, and now you still have nothing and no one – he doesn’t love you and he’s going back to his pregnant wife – you ask, what’s the fucking point?

Not even the myths can answer that one.

Later, when you wake up under the bright lights of a hospital room, your memory is cracked, broken into terracotta pieces on the ground. There are things missing from you.

You don’t remember calling Oliver, only that he was there and he was high out of his mind and he gave you whatever he had in his pockets. You don’t remember what you took, or if Oliver was kind to you when he watched you swallow pill after pill.

You don’t remember the shower, the ambulance ride, or being admitted.

You aren’t sure exactly what you’ve lost. But you feel the missing edges.

Dieter is missing from you.

If you close your eyes, still the movement of your body, block out the noises of the machines and the hospital around you, you think you remember hearing him say it.

You think he might have said it when he kissed your forehead, but it feels older than that. Like his words and his actions stem from two different memories but you’re so fucked up they blur together. You want to hold onto that new memory, as fabricated as it might be, for as long as you can.

But then sleep over takes you again and it flushes everything out. The next time you wake up, you don’t remember that he ever said, I love you. 

When you wake up, you know he’s gone. You don’t know how you know, or why, but it feels like a piece of you has been torn away in a bloody chunk. Like someone had taken pliers to your fingernails and tore them off until blood splattered onto the floor.

Like someone put a knee to your shoulder and wrenched white teeth out of your mouth. 

Until you are gummy and dripping.

You open your eyes not to Dieter, not Heidi, but Marie. Mousy, intelligent, thoughtful Marie curled up asleep in the chair next to you. 

The sound of your crying wakes her up. Wordless, judgement-less, she crawls into bed with you, takes you into her arms, and lets you sob like the heart-broken mess you’ve become. 

God, can you die from pain like this?

She strokes your forehead and tells you, no, you can’t. You might want to, but you can’t. 

For the first time in your life, you’re not a myth. 

You’re not a story of a little girl whose parents didn’t love her enough. 

You are not the story of an actress whose star burned too bright and hot and the cosmos punished her for her hubris. 

You’re not the story of a woman who fell in love too hard and too fast with drugs and a man much older than her and got shattered on the rocks. 

The book has closed, the final chapter has come. There are no more stories to tell, nothing left to make fantastic. 

You are a broken human body. 

Natalie Lorraine is a myth.

You were a child once. You have to remember that. 

[strange-destinations]

Just finished antigone. Loved it! Do you have any recommends for other free itch.io games?

Thank you!! and unfortunately not a lot, I've only just been looking through itch.io for the last few days after I got back to using it for this project. But here's a few, of varying forms and genres, that immediately came to mind.

What Did Veronica Dream Of? - puzzle game. lovely, weird, and surreal. opened my eyes to the possibility of using RPGmaker with a different aesthetic and style.

One Last Game - short visual novel about playing a game of checkers. hits hard.

We Become What We Behold, Adventures With Anxiety, and Coming Out Simulator 2014, all by Nicky Case.

Butterfly Soup - a really fun visual novel about gay asian girls playing baseball. The characters are great and the vibes are impeccable

game inside a game inside a game inside a game inside a game inside a game - recursive puzzle game with fun mechanics

Growmi - another very cute puzzle game with clever mechanics and fun visuals. essentially Snake but make it cute puzzles

I also really like the demo for Dungeons & Degenerate Gamblers, which is super fun to play - the full game will probably not be free, but the amount that is out right now is super enjoyable. Blackjack but make it roguelike!

If anyone else has any favorite free games on itch.io, please feel free to add onto this, I'm always looking to play more games.

[imissthembutitwasntadisaster]

Antigone and Penelope Have A Conversation As They Wait

"For whom do you weave?"

"My father in law. Whom do you bury?"

"My brother."

Antigone watched Penelope like a wounded fox, ready to spring at any movement. Penelope watched Antigone with her hands dropped to her lap, very, very still.

"I'm sorry," the woman said to the girl, "that you must bury him."

"Sisters always bury brothers."

"Still, some things always happen even when they shouldn't."

"You know this firsthand?"

"My husband left me twenty years ago for a war ended a decade past. Heroes never come home. It's hardly fair, but it's true."

"So the shroud is for him as well?"

"Hardly," Penelope almost laughed. "It's for me."

There was a long silence resting in the air.

"I think I might be doomed," said Antigone quietly. Her hands shook, stained with dirt.

"By the gods?"

"By myself. By the story. By Creon. By my father. I hardly know anymore."

Penelope began unravelling again but she hardly looked at the loom, her hands so used to the movement.  Her expression was kind and sad and very very old.

"Some stories have to end in tragedy, otherwise no one would be able to face their own. But I suppose that's not much comfort."

"No."

"I may be doomed myself, you know. The suitors will catch me at my unravelling. They'll force me to finish it and I'll have to marry one of them. My husband is probably dead, you see."

"Is that such a terrible fate? Couldn't you marry one?"

"Could you leave your brother unburied?" Penelope's voice was steady and calm but there was a note of an edge in it. Antigone held her gaze for a long moment before dropping her head.

"No."

"Why not?" the question seemed didactic, but it was genuine. Antigone screwed up her face for a moment considering, then crossed to the bench before the loom and perched on its end beside Penelope. She watched her fingers twisting in her lap.

"Back before dad...and all that. When Polynices was younger he used to climb the apple trees behind the house. I couldn't ever get up them, I was too small, so he climbed them to get me the best apples. Eventually I got big enough, but he kept doing it anyway." She looked up straight into Penelope's face and her terror stood blatent in her eyes. "I think they're going to remember me for the wrong reasons. They'll remember I was angry and I was doomed. I was, I am, I'm both those things but it's not just that. It's the- It's the apples. I don't think they'll remember the apples."

"Didn't he betray you?"

"Didn't your husband leave you?"

Penelope reached out and smoothed the girl's hair as though she had done it all her life.

"They may not remember the apples. They don't remember the joke we had about the fishwives. Those tend to be the things lost most easily."

"But they're the most important." There was no way to reply to that, no way to face it, so instead the two women sat silently as the moments of the night passed, and the moment when Antigone would need to return to her grave and Penelope to her suitors drew closer.

"You may not be doomed though, your husband may yet come home.  Stories of brothers and sisters and kings, those are tragedies.  Stories of husbands aren’t always so," said Antigone at last, a soft smile hovering around her mouth. She hoped dearly that would.  She was born knowing her own story, her own end, but still she wished softer final chapters on others. 

“Perhaps,” said Penelope, “after all, his old dog isn’t dead yet.  The story only ends when the dog lays down his head.” 

“When the vigil ends.”

“Exactly.  I’m sorry your vigil is so terrible.” 

“I’m sorry yours is so uncertain, I would rather weave my shroud once and for all than always unpick at it.” 

“But you don’t want to die,” said Penelope.  It wasn’t a question. 

“No, that’s why my sister’s there, so the audience understands, so they can feel the conflict.” 

“Will she live after you?”

“Of course she will, she’s hope.  Not hope that it might get better after I am gone, but hope that it might have gone differently.  So they come back to the story next time.” 

“Might it ever go differently?”

“Not for me,” said Antigone and her voice was a sigh and a weariness and a child.  “But there are other sisters and other brothers and other laws.” 

“I have a son,” said Penelope, and now she smiled, fondly and worried all at the same time.  “He’s leaving, to seek news of his father.  I suppose he’s the same, someone has to live on to let us know we can live on.  We come back to ourselves and the lights go up and the pages close and we still have to stumble home in the dark wondering how we can continue to live after seeing that.  Still, hope stays in her jar.” 

The dawn began to reach out over the horizon, and Antigone stood. 

“I have to go now,” she said.  Her voice wobbled and she looked pale.  Penelope stood too, and took the girl’s hands. 

“I’ll remember.  If I get out myself, I’ll remember.” 

“Thank you,” Antigone said, then sucked in a quick breath as though she were going to say something more, ask something more.  Instead, she shook her head. 

“Of course it matters,” she muttered under her breath, “it has to matter.”  She looked up and in the movement there was the sharpness and the swiftness of a hawk, of a fox, of any angry girl.  “Tell them I was angry but not only angry.  Tell them I was other things too.  Weave it in a shroud?” 

“Of course, the very best,” smiled Penelope. 

And the girl walked back to the grave, and the woman back to her loom.  Apples, she thought, a good design.  She sat down, and again began to wait.      

[gloryride]

OC INTERVIEW

Thanks @alphanight-vp for the tag ♥

And as you love him, let's start with Virgile !

-- Name --

Virgile Luca Ilario Sarto. More italian than that, not possible. Or you're my brother !

-- Nickname --

Not really one. Panam calls me Blue sometimes, so Judy too. As my netrunner name is V3rgiLLius VIIct0r, people in the Afterlife thinks my name is Victor ... thanks Nix for the joke, i guess, but i never said no to that.

-- Gender --

Cis Male

-- Star Sign --

Born in January 24, so i'm an Aquarius.

-- Height--

1m83, or 6" if you prefer.

-- Orientation --

Bisexual

-- Nationality/Ethnicity --

Nothing, i guess ? i was born in the Free States, Nevada, and i'm a nomad. but all my family are Italians immigrants.

-- Fave Fruit --

Grapes and Pears. But i don't eat a lot anymore, hard to find good ones.

-- Fave Season --

Winter, but true winter doesn't exist anymore, which is really sad. I would love to see real snow one day

-- Fave Flower --

Viola Tricolor, but we rarely see some.

-- Fave Scent --

Grass after cutting, or after rain, or both. Good coffee smells is really good too. And Panam's ... what ? she smells really good !

-- Coffee, tea or hot chocolate --

Coffee, black. Forever !

-- Average hours of sleep --

Not enough ! Between none and 6 hours. Sometimes i take some naps but my schedule is chaotic, i'm working mostly on nights.

-- Dog or Cat person --

Dog ! I have one, i rescued a wolf in the desert, and he stayed with me. I mean, he stayed with Aldecaldos because he would be sad with me in the appartment. His name is Callahan, and i love this doggo.

-- Dream trip -- Somewhere with snow to jump in, but real snow not fake one ! Or Italy, i'd love to see where my family come from. But it's very far away, don't know if i could ...

-- Favorite fictional character --

I don't have a "favorite" but i have many i love. Like Marcello Rubini, the main character in La Dolce Vita, an old italian movie. Poor Marcello lives many some adventures but end up alone. The Man with No Name, alias Clint Eastwood in cowboy is awesome too. I watched some so many times ! I can say also Dorian Gray in classic litterature i read, or also Antigone in greek tragedies ... and many more for sure.

-- Number of blankets they sleep with --

Two, because Panam always steals the first one, so i have one for myself. Need to learn tricks when you're with a blanket thief !

-- Random fact --

I worked for NetWatch during 6 years, as one undercover in Dogtown, for Kurt Hansen. I simulated my own death to go out and be back to Night City. How i simulated ? I have a Second Heart, the right dose of IEM and i'm almost dead !

------------

Tagging (no pressure as usual) : @imaginarycyberpunk2023 @drunkchasind @pacificaisstillpacifica @miss--river @beckiboos

[reithwinwanderer]

Introducing my tavs!

Out of my 6 completed play-throughs only two of my characters are tavs haha. But I love them both very much!

Antigone - High Elf, Oathbreaker Paladin

Antigone grew up in a humble home in Baldur’s Gate with her older sister, mother and father. When her father disappeared her mother was bedridden from the heartbreak, and her sister, Ismene, ran away with the son of a nobleman.

To keep her mother and herself alive, the young Antigone found employment with a criminal guild in the city. Over her years in their employ she worked her way up the ranks and became notorious for her crimes, but remained anonymous always. From pickpocketing to murder, she gained the fear of citizens and ire of other criminals.

Her mother detested Antigone’s work and, although Antigone was the only one keeping her alive, she didn’t speak to her daughter for years. Regardless of her mother’s animosity towards her, Antigone continued to provide for them both (even though the unsavoury work weighed heavily on her).

One day, a letter arrived at the house. It was from Ismene. She wrote that her husband inherited grand property in the upper city and so they will be returning to Baldur’s Gate to raise their newborn son around his family. She goes on to say, however, that upon her return to the city she has learned of Antigone’s lifestyle and is disgusted. She wants nothing to do with her. The letter ends with Ismene inviting their mother to live with her in the upper city. Antigone was alone.

Distraught, she wandered the streets for days and nights, hoping some low-life would slink out from the shadows and end her life. She wished her family would take her back, so she made a change. Instead of praying on the unlucky, she swore an oath to protect them. Her goal was to prove to her mother and sister that she deserves their love.

Her plan was quickly upended when she found herself on a nautiloid with a parasite in her head.

This unexpected journey taught her that she need not seek the affection of those who disregarded her so quickly, and that her oath was founded on a futile hope. It is neither family nor god that fuels her now, just her own ambition.

Nulliira, or ‘Constantine’ - Lolth-Sworn Drow, Monk/Rogue

Nulliira was born into a fairly influential family in the Underdark, and is the youngest of seven sisters.

Her sister closest in age was incredibly jealous of her and, knowing of their matron mother’s obsession with beauty and perfection, slashed Nulliira’s face with a sharp stone. Permanently scarred and no longer perfect, her mother tied rocks to her ankles and threw her in the Darklake.

Nulliira drowned. The strange plants on the bed of the lake crept over her body, preparing to devour her entirely. This lake was home to many other dead - those who upset the matron mother. As Nulliira’s soul was floating away another latched onto it, forcing them both back into her body. With a lurch, she awoke. A sudden surge of strength charged through her and she ripped herself free from the plants and swam to the surface.

On the shore a voice spoke to her, as though it was her own conscious. The voice introduced itself as an old monk who journeyed to the underdark in a naïve attempt to sow peace between its peoples. When he intertwined his soul with Nulliira’s he granted her his abilities, in the hope that she can finish what he started. He renamed her Constantine - she will be constant and steadfast.

Constantine could not care less about his plans, but she did let him train her so she can become strong enough to get vengeance on her family.

Constantine and the monk bicker constantly; he is continually trying to make her a better person. She would never admit it, but she has come to enjoy his wise quips and sage advice.

Antigone was my first ever bg3 character and Constantine was also my tav for my first honour mode run! So they’re both very special to me :,)