#i think this is the first time i've used her tag :')

[jollyhunter]

This feedback of you @lamentationsofalonelypotato, still makes me so happy 🥰😭 And my senile (you'll see once you crack the 30s) brain made me think I had reacted to this weeks ago.

Apparently it was all in my head.

OH LOOK OVER THERE *throws red herring*

Okay, okay, enough with the peep show - eyes on me now - back to business. 🤨

First I just want to say the "It's Ok. Writers Should Be Strange" is the best thing that I've seen this week and it is SO true.

ME TOO. I was looking for fitting quotes for the writer's block but when I stumbled across this one, it just spoke to me on a deeper level and I just had to add it.

Secondly… Thank you so much for tagging me in this, because it is LOVELY! I definitely needed Dean to help talk me through my writer's block and cheer me up 😭🥰 Thank you for your service- for literally writing this for all the writer girlies with imposter syndrome and writer's block who needed this today 🫡

In my head this quote fitted better lmao. I am happy it managed to cheer you up!! 🥰 It sure helped me writing it haha. Guess all those 'write what's on your mind' advices aren't too bad.

This is just a little thing, but whenever someone includes the word "audacity" in a fic I fall in love with them so congratulations 💐

LMAO I love the word as well. Funny thing is, I used to think it has something to do with sound because I only knew the word from the sound program 'Audacity' (like 10 years ago). Also the reason why I'd pronounce it as 'Auda-city' , 'cuz audio, right? 🤣😭

Yep. This is it. The travesty of writer's block- having it all in your head and not being able to actually put any of it to paper. And the writer's block (for me) only worsens when the frustration builds and builds being unable to write anything down. It's just (throws chair through window) just (starts aggressively peeling potatoes) just (eye twitching) just (slams on the keys) so annoying lol 😒

NOW YOU'RE KILLING ME 🤣 love how we're going from 'throwing a chair through the window' to something passive aggressive as 'slamming on the keys' 🤣 SO TRUE THO!

Also the "constipation" jokes are beautiful lol- I'm pretty sure that's the first time anyone has ever said that about constipation in general, but I am without shame 🤣 LMAO

Glad the joke worked, because I was hesitant about using the word in this context. LOL

I'm also not sure if i've told you this before, but I really like the way you write dialogue. In this it was a perfect combination of flirting and banter and it was just chef's kiss. It all seemed really realistic and I absolutely loved it!

No one has ever told me this before 🥺 - you're making cry over here 😭😭😭 Thank you so much!!! Writing dialogue's always been a bit daunting to me, mainly because I'm afraid I won't get the character's speaking style / accents correct, so hearing this means so much to me! 🧡

BUT OH MY WORD! I loved this one! The idea of writer's block being a "curse" was so imaginative and honestly just what I needed to make me feel better about my current writer's block curse 🤣😭 And also made me want Dean to waltz in to relieve some of that frustration 👀

You're very welcome 🧡 and oh yes, Dean would need to take his time in order to rid us of all that frustration 🤭

⋆ ˚｡⋆ PAIRING Dean Winchester x Writer!Reader [Early seasons vibe]

WARNINGS None! No use of Y/N. English isn't my native language.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY You're in your favourite diner; Got your coffee, breakfast, laptop in front of you. It's the perfect time to write. If it wasn't for the writer's block that's holding you in a chokehold. Oh, and the guy who has decided to join you.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~2k

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J/NOTES This silly little thing's dedicated to all my moots who’ve fallen victim to the writer’s curse just like me. I feel you. We can do this!! We can break the curse!!! 🫂

"Doesn’t suit you." A playful voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

"..Huh?" You look up just in time to see a well-worn leather jacket brush past your shoulder.

The booth seat across from you is being filled as a stranger slides in. A plate in one hand and a spoon in the other. Your eyebrows rise, and for a moment you debate whether to tell him the seat is taken.

But the guy doesn’t seem to notice your thoughts. He’s busy ogling his food, humming a curious ‘hm’, and then shoving a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. All the while he continues to mutter, his words now half muffled, "That thing you’re doing to your face."

You blink at him.

He puffs his cheeks, and green eyes travel up to meet yours for the first time, "Makes you look like the Grinch." His lips quirk into a smirk.

What? The audacity.

You stare at him with a deadpan. "Thanks for the compliment." He continues to chew, the flakes crunching. Accompanied by a content hum. Well, at least someone’s enjoying their breakfast.

"Just sayin’." He purses his lips before he eats another spoon, his cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk’s and an eyebrow arched. "What’s up with the face, sweetheart?"

"Uh," - is all you can manage at the moment. Too distracted by the way he's guzzling his yoghurt like a starved caveman. All eyes fluttered closed and nodding to himself like he's thinking ‘Finally, some good fucking food’.

He swallows. Tongue darts out to swipe a white dribble off his upper lip. When his eyes suddenly snap open, you avert yours in record time.

Your gaze's now fixed to the edge of the table, as if it’s the most interesting thing in the room. Left and right of it an elbow each. Of course you had to drop your gaze right between his arms. Well, this is awkward.

"You working on somethin'?" He suddenly asks, and you startle like a deer.

Your lips part - ready to form an answer - when you watch him splotching your notebook in slow-motion.

Your eyebrows twitch in irritation. You dart out a hand, just managing to pull your papers back before another dribble of his slobber taints your notes.

"Dude, please, you’re eating like a barn animal," you comment under your breath, face scrunched up as you wipe the stain off your paperback. Way to lose ones charm.

"But a handsome one," he quickly retorts. And stuffs another spoon into his wide grin, swallows and jerks his chin at your laptop. "So?"

Okay, fine. Maybe he still does have charm.

Your eyes follow his gaze down to the screen facing your way.

"I’m writing," you reply flatly, trying to hold his curious gaze as you tuck your papers safely under your forearms.

His expression flashes into a surprised one. Probably more at your tone than the answer itself.

Granted, the words 'I'm writing' should have come out enthusiastic. They at least used to. But that was before you’d been staring at a white screen for what felt like weeks.

"Uh-huh," he mumbles, the sound muffled as he keeps shovelling the muesli down his hatch. "Can I see?"

"W-what?"

How- how dare he? Only an uncultivated potato would ask that. This is like the biggest No-No. One does not simply ask a writer to look at their unfinished work. You don't stare at a painter when he's still painting. That's like asking someone to strip naked. And then have them bend over.

Let’s ignore the fact that there’s not a single written word to be ashamed of. Because there’s literally not a single written word in your doc.

"No." The answer probably came faster and more obvious of your inner panic than it should have, because to him it clearly translated to; 'Oh? Then I‘ll see it all the more.'

"Aw, c‘mon." His teasing grin spreads, the spoon tipped against his lower lip, "I won‘t judge." Damn it, why does he look kinda adorable?

Before you can react, the guy clamps the spoon between his lips, reaches over the table with his free hand and tilts your laptops screen back down.

"Hey!" you smack his hand away but it‘s too late - his grin just grows and he chuckles.

"Writing, huh? You mean you’ve been staring at a white wall. Here I thought you were writing some spicy stuff about me. What’s all the fuzz about?"

"I- I'm just... I'm still thinking..." you mutter and avoid his gaze behind a hand, trying to cover up the slight tint of embarrassment that’s crept onto your face. "I've got it all in my head, though." You try to back up your answer. He tilts his head back with a chuckle.

"All in your head, huh? For how long this been going?" he quips, lips twitching amused.

"Well, uh-" you begin, then clear your throat with an awkward rub of your neck, "A few days... or... weeks... maybe..." Your voice lowers more with every word until it's reduced to a sheepish whisper.

"Damn, that sucks." he huffs.

"Yeah," you admit with a heavy sigh, "It does."

For a moment you just share a look. His green eyes watch you closely. Calm and curious. But without ever being obtrusive. More like he's trying to get a read on you, like he's patiently waiting, allowing you to open up and reveal more.

And for some reason you find yourself to do just that.

"It's so frustrating, you know?" You begin and slump back in your seat. But he holds your gaze, the entire time and nods subtly, silently telling you to go on. "Like I've got all the ideas in my mind. I can see the scenes play out, can hear the characters talk. But the same moment I try to write it down, it all just-" you break off with a huff, gesturing a 'poof' with your hand.

After a moment, you add another frustrated sigh. "Honestly? Feels like the damn pipeline between my brain and hand's constipated." His eyebrows shoot up at that description.

"You’re an odd one," he laughs and sets the emptied plate down, "I like it."

"Pfff - look who’s talking. Mister 'handsome barn animal'." You jab and can’t help the chuckle. He smirks satisfied at your reaction, tugs at his leather jacket and winks at you.

You roll your eyes with a wide smile.

"What's your name?" You ask curiously.

"Dean," he answers simply. Then leans forward to rest on his forearms, "And you, sweetheart?" Your ears flush when he comes closer and you suddenly become very much aware of the effect his intense gaze has on you.

"I- uh, I'm -" you introduce yourself with your name and he repeats it with a smile, like he's committing it to his memory.

There's a moment of silence again and you don't quite know what to do or say - luckily he seems to have picked up on your inner distress.

"So," he begins, his face suddenly taking an air of - what was it? Business-like? Professional? You couldn't quite tell. "Back to your constipation."

"Yeah? What about it? You interested in my constipation?" You return the question, trying to imitate his new tone.

"Y-yeah," He tries to stay serious, but you both have to bite back a chuckle. "I am, actually."

"What about it?"

"This may sound stupid, but..." He mutters and rubs his forehead like he knows the question that'll follow isn't formulated very well, "Can’t you just, write? You know, like will it through?"

"No- That’s not how it works... it’s - it’s not that damn easy- it's - you don’t understand… It's not that I don't want to. I - I just - ugh-" You groan, face dropped to your hands.

You take a deep breath. The frustration of the past weeks threatening to break down on you again. Your eyes begin to sting and you screw them up in an effort to keep yourself from having a full on breakdown in front of a stranger. In a full diner no less.

"Hey, it’s okay, I believe you." he says with a lower voice now, the flirty attitude gone. The sudden change in his tone and his last words catches you off guard.

Your eyebrows pull together and you lift your head just enough to meet his gaze over the edge of your screen.

The air gets caught in your throat when you notice how close he is. He’s leaned across the table, emerald glinting pools searching your face for a trace of an escaped tear. His hand twitches but he puts it back down before it brushes yours.

"Don’t beat yourself up over it. It’s not your fault, ‘kay?" He murmurs. Almost like he’s sharing a secret with you.

"What? What are you talking about..?" And your voice drops to an equally low level to match his.

"You’re doing great, sweetheart. Trust me." He reassures you but avoids your question with another cheeky smile.

Although this one seems different. Genuine. And soft at the corners.

Unfortunately you don't even get to fully take it in when he's suddenly up on his feet. His eyes dart around the diner before they return to you, a hand raised to ruffle through his dark blond hair.

"I gotta go," he mutters, his attention suddenly drawn down to his empty plate, "Ah - Could you pay for that? You're a real sweetheart."

"..What?"

He doesn't wait for your answer as he slides out of the booth and rounds the table. When he's next to you, he stops for a moment and leans in.

"Oh and - Don't do anything stupid, okay?" He whispers. Then straightens his back again, throws you a flirty wink and a wave of his hand while he bounces off with a casual, "See ya~"

"Uh-" your gaze follows him, perplexed, before you echo his words under your breath, "Yeah... see ya."

You kinda hoped you would.

Wait- why would you do something stupid?

The diner door jingles when Dean steps outside. After a glance left and right, he walks towards a taller guy. He looks not much younger than him, but longer brown hair frames his face, his focus on the papers in his hands.

When their eyes meet, Dean jerks his chin at him and he follows him round the corner and out of sight of the diner.

"And? You got a lead?" He asks hopefully.

"Yep." - He pops the ‘p’ - "Looks like it's our lucky day, Sammy. I think we've got our patient zero." Dean takes charge and heads over to a black Chevy, his hands fidgeting in his pants pockets for the car key.

His bow legs bounce off the concrete floor while Sam follows him with long strides.

"You think it's a deal gone wrong? Or maybe some sort of black magic that backfired?" Sam thinks out loud as he flips through the journal in his hand.

"I don't know man. She seemed pretty clueless to me. Maybe Bobby was right, and it is a curse." The car lock clicks and the trunk flings open.

He pulls out a shotgun and props it up against the lid before he starts rifling through the various contents. "I don't even know what I'm looking for." He sighs.

Sam rubs his temple with equal frustration, "Great. How the hell do we get rid of a writer’s curse?"

"Beats me." Dean huffs, then tosses a set of wooden stakes aside and leans back to run a hand through his hair, "Maybe we should call Bobby again…" - he turns to flash a boyish grin at his brother - "...and then check her out some more?"

Sam groans, "Dude, can you not think with your dick, for two seconds please?"

"What? She’s cute. Plus, she’s got that whole ‘tormented soul’ vibe."

"Seriously? Chances are, that she’s the cause for all of this crazy crap that’s going on this city."

Dean’s smirk doesn’t falter. Instead he shrugs his shoulders unperturbed, "Let’s pay her a visit tonight. If she turns out to be a witch, we just gank ‘er."

"Dean," Sam scoffs and drags a hand down his face, "I know that look." Dean wiggles his eyebrows.

Sam shakes his head, followed by an incredulous chuckle, "Come on, man, you know you can’t charm your way into her pants. She's clearly not the type for a quick fling. And you’re not exactly Shakespeare."

Dean gets the shotgun out from under the lid and throws it back into the boot. "Oh Sammy, you've still got to learn a lot about women," he says, slamming it shut.

Sam rolls his eyes when his older brother turns to pat him on the shoulder, before he takes off to round the Impala. He pulls the driver's door open while Sam does the same on the opposite side.

"Mark my words, Sammy." He laughs and points a finger gun at him across the roof. "Every girl likes it dirty. Some just don’t show it."

If you reblog, I demand at least one gif of Dean that fits the last line. Cuz I couldn't find the one I was looking for and I want to wake up to many many flirty Dean gifs 😂

Dean Tag List

@aylacavebear @jc-winchester @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @lyarr24

@ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @maddie0101 @champagnepoets @livya99

@salemslostwitch @supernotnatural2005 @lamentationsofalonelypotato (I'm tagging you for this because our talk partially motivated me to write this ♡ and to post it even though I hate it lmao 😂)

[theartofeggs]

@gremmed

tagged u so you'd know when i posted ur request lmao. I love it when Kylar's on the bottom. wish they didn't fight it so much in-game like just let me pamper u bbygirl. anyways it seems my dice yearn for trans men rn

Thanks for participating in my ask event! When a fic contains the PC as a main character, the PC will exclusively be referred to as "you," except from other characters, who will refer to the PC by their gender or some other defining characteristic. :) Brings me back to my "x reader" fic days. ahhh what nostalgia

The event's ended by now, but I'll finish the current requests I've gotten!

Synopsis; Kylar gets railed into oblivion

Prompt: Kylar x PC (Smut) / CW: kidnapping, dubcon (not really), breeding kink, PC = evil-type crazy, babytrapping but they both want to babytrap the other so uh? - Kylar = AFAB & male, PC = AMAB & GN ((mostly) dice rolls) + bonus F! Sydney, M! Whitney, and M! Robin (only mentioned)

Welcomed Payback

The chair you've been strapped to is rather uncomfortable. The least Kylar could've done was make sure it was a chair with padding or something instead of some wooden old rickety one that felt one wrong move away from just snapping under you. Oh well. At least he put you in a different room to whatever's causing all that ruckus upstairs. Though, you almost wish he did, considering that it keeps scaring him away from you. You're a bit fed up with him just coming and going. Him feeding you fruit by hand is just about the most contact you've gotten with him so far. All he's done other than that is draw you some and sing a couple out-of-tune love songs he made himself.

Did you purposefully get him to go crazy and kidnap you? Yes. You weren't ashamed to admit it at this point. You've been a bit enamored with him yourself ever since he introduced himself, probably more than he was with you. You didn't think anything of helping a bully victim out of a beatdown, but when you saw how he looked up at you, like he witnessed the descent of a god, something in your brain was clicked on. Considering he wouldn't talk to you for the first few weeks of your attempts at getting to know him, you ended up going a different route and doing quite a bit of digging to find out more about him—you first befriended Sydney and lulled out any and all stories she could remember about Kylar when he was little, then moved on to breaking into more than just a couple government archives to flip through Kylar's, and his family's, past documents.

You knew where he lived before he ever followed you back to the orphanage, and, honestly? It hurt a little, to see how he wanted to be part of your life so bad but didn't seem to want you to be in his. So, you thought you'd nudge him the right way. You noticed he was prone to getting jealous, seeing how his expression would change whenever you'd chat with someone else during lunch, and you thought it'd be easy to use that against him. You'd flirt with anyone and everyone the moment you felt a familiar tingle on the back of your neck, and then relish in the dark, envious looks he'd give the hickeys on your neck when you saw him next. You weren't a big fan of sharing your body so casually with other people, but it would be well worth it if it meant you'd have Kylar in your hands at the end of your endeavors.

Robin was probably the only one you actually felt bad for. When Kylar had given you a little owl plush that so obviously had one of its glass eyes replaced with a camera lens, you had gotten an idea. Though, you struggled to find the right person to use for it. Sydney came to mind first, initially, since you were already close with her and you could smell her crush on you, but figured it'd be too much effort considering how deep her connections are to the temple. She'd totally try to get you to join. There was also Whitney, but Kylar's already watched you suck him off at least a dozen times, so there wouldn't be a big surprise factor with him. A random stranger wouldn't do either—if it did, the videos and photos of you online would've been plenty. But then, you remembered Robin.

You had successfully wooed him, flirting with and lewdly touching him every chance you had, until he finally visited you in your room at night. All it took was a week of tender words, and it made you pity the poor man, but you found you didn't care too much as you grinned up at the owl plush on your wardrobe, right when Robin was busy staining your innards with his cum. The feeling of him inside you was revolting to some extent, but you had washed out his cum the moment Robin had fallen asleep. To your delight, Kylar was waiting for you outside the very next morning. He looked far from pleased, a distant look in his eyes, as he lifted up a long tube with something metallic shining within. You looked directly at him and bared your neck, eagerly accepting the tranq dart as it sunk into your flesh.

But, now that you were here, you couldn't help but find it a bit boring. The most entertainment you've gotten was Kylar's occasional visits and the nigh-constant rumbling above your head. For the past few hours, you've exclusively been humming the nonsensical tune Kylar had sung to you and fiddling with the rope tying you down. At this point, you would've settled for an awful soap opera on whatever old TV this decrepit manor still had lying around.

When Kylar came into the room next, you were already fully untied and just leisurely sitting in the chair, eyes closed and leg bouncing. "M-My love, d-did you not like the ropes? I-I'm sorry, b-but I put t-them on for a r-r-reason. Y-You'll run away if I d-don't keep you here." Kylar grit out, expression dark, as he stepped closer. He was probably on his way to tie you up again. Good. "Hm, but I didn't, did I?" You purred as he came up beside you, brushing a couple fingers up the length of his forearm, though you weren't too pleased to have his sweater between you and his skin. He paused, looking conflicted, and you took the opportunity to grab him and pull him onto your lap.

His face flushed a pretty red and he began to squirm, his hands grabbing onto yours as you kept his hips glued to yours. The clothes in your way would be off soon enough. You could be patient, just as you've been these past months. "A-Ah, d-did you want to do it that bad? I-I'm sorry, I haven't been a g-good boyfriend..." Kylar groaned as you grinded up against him, and the sound alone made you want to cum already. "What nonsense. You're the best I could ask for. Far too good for me." You murmured sweet platitudes as your hands slipped beneath his clothes. He shivered, and you began to rethink taking them all off. Maybe you'd just rip them where you needed to and let him keep the rest on—the room seems a bit cold for him.

He wriggled in your grasp against and you decided this was going to be a bad position to fuck him in, given he was already moving about like he was uncomfortable. So, naturally, you slid onto the floor below and carefully laid him down beneath you. Honestly, it might've been cleaner to fuck in a random alleyway, given the state of this room, but you weren't going to be picky all of a sudden. Your beloved was beneath you and waiting, legs and lips parted just for you, just like you wanted him to be. He leaned back up to take your lips in his, his tongue eager to explore your mouth as his hands ran across your back. You didn't even flinch when he tried to stick it down your throat, and gave him the same intense treatment.

You pulled your pants down and ripped a new hole in his at the same time, swallowing the bashful squeak he let out. You palmed him through his remaining underwear, your cock throbbing when you felt a pair of drenched folds through the thin fabric. You already knew he was trans, so it wasn't a surprise, but you truly had to thank whatever divine being made this man just so perfect. You wouldn't be able to count how many times you came just to the thought of getting to fuck a baby into your Kylar—because he would be yours if you put your kid inside him, right?

Kylar, to his wondrous credit, seemed to have a similar thought process. When he felt your fingers against his slick, he spread his legs even wider and shuddered erotically, only to pull away from your heavenly kiss. "Y-You should put it in. A-And not pull out, e-ever." He all but whispered the command, and you were more than happy to comply. You ripped another hole in the last remaining barrier and dug in with no further warning, relishing in the erotic yelp he gifted you, alongside all the other sounds he made as you began to thrust into him.

His insides were soft and gummy, massaging your cock as you slammed your hips against his. Any time he gripped onto you, you'd move in a particularly rough way, and if he whined, you left a new mark on his hardly exposed neck. He clung to you and didn't bother with keeping quiet, babbling all sorts of lewd things as he grinded up into your crotch at the peak of each thrust. At some point, you had to forcibly hold his hips still to keep him from accidentally shifting too far from you. It had the added bonus of giving you more leverage to ravage his cunt, though, so you were happy with the arrangement, even if Kylar cried about it.

Kylar came suddenly around you, soaking both your crotches with a thick cream, and you slowed for just a moment to give him some time to recuperate. When he began to whine again, you picked up the pace—drilling into him as fast as you could. As your own climax drew near, an unkind idea popped inside your head and made you pause. With a smirk, you slowly began to pull out of his swollen pussy, stopping only when Kylar's legs wrapped around the back of your hips and forced you to stay inside.

His face was still a delicious red, but his expression was dangerous. What a pretty boy. "C-Cum inside. N-Now." You chuckled at his cute attempt at being mean and happily resumed your gyrating, cumming with a drawn-out moan as you pushed your hips as deep into his as you could. "G-Good." Kylar hummed, clearly pleased with himself. You were far more pleased with yourself than he could've been, honestly. Hopefully after this he'd give you a tour around his house, and you could start planning on where the nursery would go.

the end >,o words : 1,742

[monocytogenes]

Illario Dellamorte and the role of First Talon

I've read a lot of speculation on the tags as to why Caterina favors Lucanis over Illario as her successor. While I know Veilguard offers its own implications, given that @nirikeehan and I have been writing a worldstate based solely off of pre-VG sources--such as The Wigmaker Job and Eight Little Talons--I got curious as to what those sources specifically tell us about Illario's talents and Caterina's likely perspective on the role.

Illario's Virtues

What qualities does Illario have going for him?

Illario is incredibly charismatic, in a striking and deliberate way. We learn from Lucanis’ perspective that Illario actively weaponizes his appearance and manner to great effect.

His “pretty-boy mask” seems to be more of a tool than a genuine facet of his personality, a costume he puts on to gain admiration from others and accomplish ends. He does seem to have a real interest in fashion (and, well, cleanliness, given the number of times he’s clearly put out by gore, and the scene where Lucanis expects to find him at the cleanest tavern at the docks), but he’s able to easily paint over the feelings of annoyance, frustration, and brotherly mischief he readily shows his cousin when he’s out to engineer a situation. Lucanis is grudgingly impressed by his skill.

I also love this little scene where Illario takes the lead on bluffing an approaching assassin, giving less socially adept Lucanis an effective opener and adding realistic sound effects. He has enough imagination to craft a convincing scenario on the spot and kick off some naturalistic banter.

We also learn that, though he can improvise, Illario is someone who values plans and active communication. He is clearly annoyed that Lucanis is playing things by ear after they discover Ambrose knows they’re coming, and working tactics out in his own head without informing him of what’s next.

A lot of Illario’s complaints, snarkiness towards Lucanis, and desire to find some joy in the job seems to be a response to this active exclusion (despite Lucanis viewing it as Illario’s unwillingness to work.)

Illario wants to actively discuss things—perhaps to swap ideas and collaborate better—and really prods at Lucanis when he’s unwilling to do that.

Frankly, I think the most interesting narrative dynamic in TWJ is how, given that we’re in Lucanis’ perspective, Illario at first does appear somewhat flippant and unserious, but as the story goes on and Lucanis starts taking extra risks and eventually goes fully off the rails (like, so off the rails that he’s effectively multi-track drifting), it becomes increasingly apparent that Illario is the more professional of the pair.

He gets annoyed that Lucanis is shirking an order, despite his own resentment for Caterina.

He gets upset at Lucanis’ willingness to identify himself to an enslaved person and leave her alive because it’s an operational security issue. He and Lucanis are foreign agents hired to kill a powerful, well-connected Tevinter nobleman. If she can provide a description of Lucanis, that puts Lucanis’ life at risk!

Later, Illario reaches Peak Pissed Off when Lucanis denies him a quick kill, makes the situation substantially more dangerous, and isn’t able to differentiate between his own vengeful thoughts and what Illario’s actually telling him. To Illario, the job is a job, a task to complete; emotions and greater political concerns are beside the point, and only threaten their own survival.

(There is no place for emotion in killing, as Caterina taught them—as Lucanis remembers and immediately ignores.)

Finally, I’ll note that though Lucanis’ physical talents surpass his, we see that apart from a master social engineer and a professional with an appreciation for plans, effective risk management and a sensibly limited scope of work, Illario’s a deadly combatant in his own right, too.

Caterina and the Role of First Talon

The question becomes: how do those assets match up to the job of First Talon?

Lucanis clearly believes Illario’s social skills fit the demands of the role:

In TWJ, we’re not given a solid reason, really, as to why Lucanis is the evident favorite. We are shown that Lucanis is an almost legendarily lethal assassin, kind of a Batman-esque terror hero (maybe more of just a 'protagonist' than a ‘hero’, if I'm honest.) Lucanis is larger than life in the eyes of his peers. In ELT mention of him makes Teia and Viago literally shudder:

And what’s interesting there is that the description of him as terrifying is presented alongside a description of First Talon Caterina as terrifying. She is not fair, she is ruthless. She previously subjected a House to such complete devastation that Teia, a younger colleague, has never heard of it.

Like Illario, Caterina is intentional about her appearance. She deliberately demonstrates her wealth and authority. She actively masks emotions that are at odds with what she’s trying to accomplish socially.

But she’s scary. She is fierce and unyielding and commands respect through not just through the resources of her House, or her capacity for planning, or her overall experience and intelligence, but fear.

In this way, Lucanis seems more like Caterina. If the role of First Talon, preeminent killer of killers, carries a heavy expectation of brutality for the sake of the Crows as an institution, then charming, fashionable, affable Illario may not look like an appropriate choice.

Illario is a capable, pragmatic assassin; his ability to endear himself to strangers is bar none; he appreciates the value of a thought-out plan and would likely take naturally to administrative work if he doesn’t have a hand in it already (perhaps there’s a reason why, per Lucanis, he doesn’t leave Treviso or have much in the way of foreign contacts.) But superficially: he’s pleasant. He’s pretty. He doesn’t like blood. He doesn’t fit the image.

He’s not even mentioned by Viago as someone of interest after Teia alludes to him indirectly (and amusingly implies that neither he nor Lucanis are sufficiently affectionate towards Caterina.) Illario's likely not perceived as a contender of importance.

It’s apparent, too, that Lucanis’ absolute freakout in TWJ is not Lucanis’ standard operating procedure, given how shocked and furious Illario is with him—normally Lucanis is committed to his contracts, if kind of flying by the seat of his pants. His potentially compromising expressions of empathy towards servants and lower-class folks are evidently not usual for him since they surprise Illario, who otherwise seems to know him well. And while Lucanis is avoidant of Caterina, he respects her, and seems to have previously only nudged at his boundaries while still getting his work done, rather than actively making a mess of things in a way that might invite her scorn.

Illario, for what it's worth, doesn’t seem to be obnoxious towards her either—he expresses some bitterness to Lucanis, but rather than bothering Caterina about the matter himself, he wants Lucanis to open the conversation on his behalf. He’s tense about the potential for conflict and acknowledges her fear-based influence over both of them.

In all, I don’t think, textually, that Caterina’s disfavor of Illario is due to him being unqualified for the job of First Talon in terms of his actual skills, or due to some sort of interpersonal conflict between them. Maybe she even has a decent sense of his ability and track record, given that she had a hand in training him and is actively overseeing her House's affairs. Rather, I suggest she’d prefer someone who would match her leadership style, someone who would rule more through fear than love, who could adopt the persona other Crows expect in service of their collective survival. And certainly even up to the time that she’s set to summon Lucanis, Lucanis seems like the more suitable choice.

Caterina doesn't know that Lucanis has been growing a conscience, that he’s behaving erratically, that he said “fuck the job” amid Illario’s protestations. War looms on the horizon, the Crow leadership is gutted, and it's logical enough for her to figure that her legacy will need to be one of cold-blooded shows of force, not the persuasions of a silver tongue.

[apollabarnes]

tidbit tuesday

tagged by @setmeatopthepyre and general 'if you see them tag you're it' from @geddyqueer and @leashybebes special guy band au just for for skog and beans since they've dubbed themselves cheerleaders for this

"You're early," Bobby said, looking at Tommy over the rim of his coffee mug.

"It's bad manners to be late, right?" Tommy asked, sinking into the chair beside him. "At least I assume it is. I've never actually interviewed for a job before."

Bobby snorted. "You might as well order some food. Sal and Eddie will be here in about ten minutes."

"Given the traffic around here, we might see them next week," Tommy joked, glancing around. "Hey, did Athena say yes to May traveling with you next month?"

"Of course she asked you before she asked us."

"She said since it was my tour she wanted to make sure she wasn't stepping on any toes before she asked you two. Apparently she wants to interview us for her school newspaper?"

"I think she watched Almost Famous one too many times," Bobby said under his breath. He shrugged, waiting until Tommy had ordered to pick up the conversation again. "Athena said she could have a week because she's got midterms. And we've got five shows during her spring break, so it'll definitely be exciting."

"That's one word for it." Tommy grinned. They'd have to make sure that May didn't try to interview any of them while they were actually asleep.

"You didn't have to say yes," Bobby continued, eyeing Tommy quizzically. "I'm not going to stop doing my job if you do something that I don't like."

"I like May. And we could use the publicity. Sal and I used to do campus tours with Hen when we first started, it's kind of nice to get back to our roots."

"Tommy, you've been singing for twenty years and you have a dozen albums. You don't need publicity."

"We were forced into the deep freeze for five years because I got caught doing something Gerrard didn't like," Tommy reminded him. "I've got to remind people we're still around. We just hired Eddie, and it's not like Sal and I have a good fallback plan."

"Yeah, but Vincent punished you for something that—" Bobby fell silent, waving at Eddie in the doorway. "Try to keep the fatalism to a minimum until after they sign the contract, huh?"

"Game face on," Tommy agreed, seeing Sal appear behind Eddie.

part one // part two // part three // part four

[fairytales-and-folklore]

Birds Of A Feather

The Owl House » Huntlow

Title: Birds Of A Feather

Author: fairytalesandfolklore

Fandom: The Owl House (Masterlist)

Relationship: Hunter | The Golden Guard x Willow Park

AO3 Rating: Teen & Up (a complete collection of author's notes, inspiration credits, content warnings and tags can be found on AO3)

Summary: In which Darius settles into his new role as a parent and Hunter makes a garishly floral Grom suit.

The following Saturday night, Hunter comes waltzing into the living room dressed in a hand-stitched '80's era shoulder pad bedecked orange and yellow floral patterned suit jacket, complete with a comically large bright yellow bowtie, and Darius nearly spits tea all over his gratuitously overpriced purple silk pajamas. "So…what do you think?" Hunter asks, spinning on the heel of his matching red sneakers to give Darius the full effect. Of course, Darius's first instinct (after cringing hard enough to risk permanent injury to his face muscles) is to offer to take Hunter on an emergency shopping trip…but the look on Hunter's face, so excited for his first-ever Grom, so proud of this thing he made with his own two hands, eyes sparkling with anticipation as he eagerly awaits Darius's approval, makes him bite his tongue. Darius relaxes his features, lips curving into a fond smile as he replies, "You look very handsome, Little Prince," and Hunter beams back at him with one of those gap-toothed grins that's been growing less and less rare by the day.

Read On AO3 | Read On Tumblr:

Ever since the little plant witch asked him to Grom, Hunter has done nothing but talk about the subject for weeks. Not that Darius minds. It's nice seeing the little prince so happy (especially after what Camila told him happened at the graveyard when he pulled her aside and asked her about Hunter's new scars — oh how he would have relished getting in that final stomp on the tyrannical old bastard) and Darius, newly minted parental figure, wants to do everything he can to be supportive.

Even after months of apologies and I should've known betters, long after Hunter forgave him and the others for not paying closer attention to the way Belos was treating him, for assuming he was safe and well cared for, even pampered, protected under the guise of being the Emperor's nephew, there's still a part of him that feels guilty, that feels like he needs to make up for it.

Eager to participate, Darius offers to take Hunter out shopping for his big date, pulling up a link to his favorite boutique on his scroll, and swiping through a selection of photos featuring a model similar to Hunter's stature, decked out in an expensive sleek black and gray suit with a golden belt buckle and a little red pocket square.

Hunter's eyes widen in shock at the price.

"Oh wow," he says, still getting used to the idea of people (especially Darius of all people, snarky sarcastic asshole that he is) going out of their way to be so kind to him. He's only just started getting used to calling Darius's place his place. "That's really cool of you, Darius. Like, I really appreciate that…but I've actually already got something in the works."

"Oh?" Darius asks curiously, vanishing his scroll with a lazy flick of his fingers and trying his damnedest not to feel jilted. "Well, if there's anything you need, please let me know," he adds.

"Actually…" Hunter perks up, running his hands through his fluffy mess of light blond hair and wincing a little as that signature stubborn forelock of his snaps back and hits him in the eye. "Do you think you could help me with my hair? It's gotten a little long since the last time Willow cut it, and seeing as it's a special occasion, I'd like to go at least one night without Luz calling it my hair noodle," Hunter huffs, rolling his eyes like it vexes him, but the fond smile that accompanies it gives him away.

Darius chuckles, and a memory, visceral and bittersweet, sparks across his mind. That same face, riddled with just as many scars in different places, scowling in the mirror of a club they'd snuck into late one night while they were supposed to be on guard duty, tugging on the end his 'hair noodle' as Hunter had put it, trying in vain to get it to lay flat.

A younger Darius, snorting with laughter as he plucks a jar of hair product out of his bag and tells him to hold still, slicking up his hands and running them through the other man's light blond hair.

"There," he says with a snarky grin. "Now you won't look like such an idiot when you inevitably get drunk and ask her to dance."

The man grins back at him with a gap between his two front teeth, dark red eyes rolling in fond amusement.

Jasper. The previous Golden Guard.

In truth, he wasn't all that surprised when Hunter confided in him about being a grimwalker. Fucked up origins and intentions aside, it was honestly a relief to find out that he wasn't going crazy — he always found it odd that the boy looked so very like his old mentor.

So alike, yet so entirely different. Sometimes, it almost feels like he's raising his best friend's son.

"There's a special pomade I can pick up for you in Latissa," Darius says, lips twisting into a wistful smile.

"Cool," Hunter says brightly. "Thanks, Darius."

"You're very welcome," he replies. "And I'm sure whatever you've got planned for your outfit will look great."

"Here's hoping," Hunter says with a nervous chuckle. 

"Speaking of which, do you mind if I—" he adds, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the staircase.

"Of course. Go, have fun," Darius says, waving him off. "Just remember to take breaks and actually eat something. Dinner'll be ready at 7."

"Thanks!" Hunter calls out, already halfway up the stairs to his bedroom, eager to get back to work.

• • •

The following Saturday night, Hunter comes waltzing into the living room dressed in a hand-stitched 80's era shoulder pad bedecked orange and yellow floral patterned suit jacket, complete with a comically large bright yellow bowtie, and Darius nearly spits tea all over his gratuitously overpriced purple silk pajamas.

"So…what do you think?" Hunter asks, spinning on the heel of his matching red sneakers to give Darius the full effect.

Of course, Darius's first instinct (after cringing hard enough to risk permanent injury to his face muscles) is to offer to take Hunter on an emergency shopping trip, or at the very least, tailor something for him to wear from his own closet…but the look on Hunter's face, so excited for his first-ever Grom, so proud of this thing he made with his own two hands, eyes sparkling with anticipation as he eagerly awaits Darius's approval, makes him bite his tongue.

Darius relaxes his features, lips curving into a fond smile as he replies, "You look very handsome, Little Prince," and Hunter beams back at him with one of those gap-toothed grins that's been growing less and less rare by the day.

"Let me just fix one thing," he adds, because old habits die hard, setting aside his teacup and strolling over to readjust that silly yellow bowtie.

"Oh," Hunter lets out a sheepish laugh. "Yeah, I had a little trouble with that. Funny, I can sew a bowtie no problem, but actually tying one…"

"It remains a great mystery to many of us," Darius chuckles. "Luckily, I've had some practice over the years." (He won't mention that it's because he had a lot of experience loosening them on Grom dates when he was Hunter's age.)

"There you go," he says, securing the final knot, careful not to make it too tight. "That should hold just fine through even the wildest of dance moves," he laughs, remembering how crazy and stupid he and his friends used to get whenever their favorite songs came on. To this day, Darius still maintains he should've beaten Alador in that dance battle. Perhaps they should schedule a rematch…

"Thanks," Hunter huffs out a laugh, catching sight of himself in the mirror above the mantle and admiring Darius's handiwork. He reaches up to card a hand through his hair, desperately trying to smooth back that one stubborn lock.

"It's not too much, is it?" he asks, lips pulling into a pensive frown. Hair product? Yes. Darius watched him dump out half the jar onto his head not ten minutes prior. "D'you think Willow will like it? I picked out the pattern just for her."

Ah. The floral fashion disaster.

Once again, it's a struggle for Darius not to tell him what he really thinks, blunt honesty and snarky remarks second nature to him. (He's still very new to this whole dad thing, but hey, he's trying.)

"I think, for Willow, it's less about what you wear and more about the guy wearing the floral suit," he says, choosing his words carefully. "I think she'll appreciate all the effort you put into making something so meaningful. So, go out there tonight and be confident, let your pride in your work shine through."

Hunter's eyes crinkle around the corners when he smiles, and Darius breathes a sigh of relief that he managed to say the right thing.

"Thanks, dad— uh, Darius," he says, a hint of pink tinging the tips of his ears as he catches himself.

"Any time, Little Prince," Darius replies, affection flooding his chest at that hopeful little almost.

Just then, the doorbell rings, and Hunter is so eager to answer it, he accidentally zooms past the front door in a flash of golden light.

"Whoops," he chuckles from the coat closet. "Over-shot it a little."

He pauses briefly to re-fluff his hair and readjust his shoulder pads in the closet mirror, takes a deep steadying breath, and opens the door.

Standing on the other side, forest green ballet flats clicking against the front porch as she bounces excitedly on the balls of her feet, is none other than the Little Prince's girlfriend, dressed in an elegant high-cut gown the color of a jade gemstone, and holding a bouquet of flowers that's a near-perfect match for the colors of his floral suit.

Oh, they're perfect for each other, Darius muses with a fond smile as he watches their adorable little interaction unfold.

"Hunter, you look…wow," she says, pale green eyes half-lidded behind her gold-framed glasses as she gazes at him with a soft, smitten smile — like he's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen and that suit of his is the height of fashion.

"Now that is a look," she says, not a trace of disingenuity in her appraising smile. "Did you make it yourself?"

Clearly Hunter shares the sentiment, staring dreamily at her with a dopey, besotted smile on his face. 

"Wha—?" he blurts out, eyes sliding back into focus. "Oh, uh. Yeah! I mean—" he pauses, putting on what he probably imagines is a cool, carefree expression, stretching up to lean his arm along the doorframe in an oh-so-casual move to show off a little more of his handmade suit. "This old thing? I whipped it up in like, an hour, tops."

Darius suppresses a snort of laughter. An hour his ass. He remembers hearing that damnable sewing machine rattling the walls at all hours of the night every day for the past week.

"Amazing," Willow coos, reaching up to tuck one of the little yellow flowers from her bouquet into the front pocket of his already loudly floral suit. Hunter sucks in a sharp breath, cheeks flushing pink at the contact.

"Not as amazing as you," he says, a little breathless. "Look at you! You're so…well, I mean, you're always beautiful, but I've never seen you like this before." 

His eyes rove her figure, taking in the full effect, adam's apple straining against the column of his throat when he notices how well that pretty green dress hugs her curves. 

His eyes snap back up to her face, blush deepening.

"I like your headband!" he blurts out, gazed fixed resolutely on the matching silk ribbon taming some of the wilder waves of her pixie cut. "It goes really well with your new hair."

"Thanks, Hunter," she whispers, leveling him with a flirtatious wink before leaning up onto her tiptoes to press a kiss against his cheek, sending Hunter's face careening all the way into burgundy territory.

"I'll have him home by midnight," she tells Darius, grabbing an utterly spellbound Hunter by the wrist and gently tugging him out the front door.

"Have a good time, you two!" Darius calls after them, shaking his head in fond amusement as he catches a glimpse of the positively euphoric grin on Hunter's very red face, turning around to give Darius an enthusiastic thumbs up before the door closes in a blur of lurid orange and yellow.

[licorishh]

no way she's alive ?? yea those mental health breaks because social media makes people suck are wild huh

[ladyyomiart]

Here's a funny little scene in which Heisuke and Souji attend a packed performance of the famous maiko Kohana (OC). 🎟️✨ (I'm quite amazed that I've only used this word three times in the ±150K words of my fic's WIP, lol).

"Good evening, distinguished masters!" greeted maiko Kosuzu, who verified the visitors' tickets at the entrance. "May you have a pleasant stay."

"Oh, yeah." Heisuke handed her the tickets. "I'm sure it'll be the best in a long time."

"Come in, come in." Kosuzu bowed and let them enter the place. Her gaze followed the last of the ronin, whom she recognized as one of the dudes who used to tag along with the fearsome Serizawa during his nightly escapades. The last thing they needed were two Shinsengumi members at the Okiya! What would she do if they thwarted what she and Kohana had planned for that night? She tightened her lips, straining to keep smiling; she couldn't arouse suspicion of any kind.

"Damn, it's crowded," said the one being watched without noticing it. "I don't think we'll be able to see anything happening on the stage from here."

"Of course we can, Souji. They wouldn't let so many people in if it wasn't possible to see the act from afar."

"There are too many people..." He frowned and put his hand preemptively on the hilt of his sword. "If things go wrong we won't be able to unsheathe easily in the crowd."

"How could a simple flower-and-colored-paper routine go awry?!" He grimaced as he tried to push his way through the crowd. "You're making me nervous... with all these doubts of yours!"

"Better nervous than dead." He remained unfazed in spite of his growing uncertainty. "We have to move, anyone could stab us in this spot and walk calmly out the front door."

"Damn it, Souji!" Heisuke raised his voice to make himself heard over the noise. "Don't you remember what it was to have fun anymore?! Relax! No one will notice us while Kohana-chan is around!"

"Would you like me to write that on your epitaph?" One of his eyelids trembled when he received another push and he had to hold himself back from pulling his sword out of its sheath. "Stay here if you feel like it, I'll look for a more convenient location."

"Agh, but the view is great here! Come back, Souji! If you go away you won't be able to get back to...!" Heisuke was interrupted as a new surge of customers entered the place and dragged him along with them on their way to the stage. "H, hey! Wait! S, stop pushing! I was here first!"

Okita huffed as he saw him disappear into the central area of the hall, hoping Heisuke wouldn't get into trouble as he looked for a place that would allow him to ensure the event's safety. He moved toward the front door, but found it impossible to leave the Okiya. It felt like all of Kyoto was trying to squeeze inside the cramped foyer. Okita cursed under his breath, wondering why they hadn't held the function outdoors.

"Please...!" Kosuzu shouted through the crowd. "Please take your seats! The show is about to begin!"

Okita backtracked until he came across the wooden stairs leading to the upper floor, which seemed like a gift from heaven. If he climbed up, he could get rid of the flood of people that was about to suffocate him! He hurried to the top of the venue, away from the mass of visitors crushing against the stage's base.

"Well, that's better." He leaned against the balcony railing overhanging the second floor and stifled a low chuckle when he saw Heisuke struggle to push and shove his way out of the unprivileged position to which he'd been dragged into. There was no doubt his short height was working against him.

[Excerpt from Chapter 11 "Fly Out of the Golden Cage!" of my Canon x OC Hakuouki fanfic "A Friend Like You"].

this week's word is...

Find the word in any WIP and share the sentence containing it. Reply, reblog, stick it in the tags, tag us in a new post, or keep it private. All fandoms, all ships, all writers welcome.

[triglycercule]

horror is so BLESSED he's the only one out of the murder time trio that has actual good people trying to influence his story 💔💔 dust and killer were both driven to INSANITY because of the choices of their respective humans but horror??? every time without FAIL the polls for horrortale's plotline have always ended in a good place for aliza (either by bettering her relationships/reputation or for her to just. not DIE)

horrortale's potential alternate timelines my beLOVEd🙏���� they're SO lucky that we're being kind and benevolent hehe (≧ω≦) now where are the aus based off the possible different outcomes that could've happened in horrortale HUH???? (like how aliza couldve killed toriel or chosen horror's puzzle or gone with undyne to the core........)

[ispridestillasin]

So I decided to watch a bit of Bridgerton with my mother, which I'm not really interested in (I don't really like period pieces unless it's a fanfic for a ship I like) but it's a show she enjoys so I sometimes catch her watching it and join her, and literally the only takeaway from the stuff I've seen with her is that Colin, Lord Debling, and Penelope should have all been poly

[transmascutena]

these lines hit different when you read utena as transmasc

[longagoitwastuesday]

So so indebted to u for posting those lovely illustrations from Cyrano <333 & even more so for yr tags!! I'm completely in love w yr analysis, please feel free to ramble as long as u wish! Browsing through yr Cyrano de Bergerac tag has given me glimpses of so many adaptations & translations I'd never heard of before! I'll be watching the Solès version next, which I have only discovered today through u ^_^ As for translations, have u read many/all of them? I've only encountered the Renauld & Burgess translations in the wild, & I was curious to hear yr translation thoughts that they might guide my decision on which one I buy first (not necessarily Renauld or Burgess ofc). Have a splendid day & sorry for the likespam! 💙

Sorry for the delay. Don't mind the likespam, I'm glad you enjoyed my tags about Cyrano, and that they could contribute a bit to a further appreciation of the play. I loved it a lot, I got obsessed with it for months. It's always nice to know other people deeply love too that which is loved haha I hope you enjoy the Solès version, it may well be my favourite one!

About translations, I'm touched you're asking me, but I don't really know whether mine is the best opinion to ask. I have read... four or five English translations iirc, the ones I could find online, and I do (and especially did, back when I was reading them) have a lot of opinions about them. However, nor English nor French are my first languages (they are third and fourth respectively, so not even close). I just read and compare translations because that's one of my favourite things to do.

The fact is that no translation is perfect, of course. I barely remember Renauld's, but I think it was quite literal; that's good for understanding the basics of the text, concepts and characters, but form is subject, and there's always something that escapes too literal translations. Thomas and Guillemard's if I recall correctly is similar to Hooker's in cadence. It had some beautiful fragments, some I preferred over Hooker's, but overall I think to recall I liked Hooker's more. If memory serves, Hooker's was the most traditionally poetic and beautiful in my opinion. Burgess' is a whole different thing, with its perks and drawbacks.

Something noticeable in the other translations is that they are too... "epic". They do well the poetic, sorrowful, grief stricken, crushed by regrets aspects of Cyrano and the play in general, but they fall quite short in the funny and even pathetic aspects, and that too is key in Cyrano, both character and play. Given the characteristics of both languages, following the cadence of the French too literally, with those long verses, makes an English version sound far too solemn at times when the French text isn't. Thus Burgess changes the very cadence of the text, adapting it more to the English language. This translation is the one that best sets the different moods in the play, and as I said before form is subject, and that too is key: after all, the poetic aspect of Cyrano is as much true as his angry facet and his goofy one. If Cyrano isn't funny he isn't Cyrano, just as he wouldn't be Cyrano without his devotion to Roxane or his insecurities; Cyrano is who he is precisely because he has all these facets, because one side covers the other, because one trait is born from another, because one facet is used as weapon to protect the others, like a game of mirrors and smoke. We see them at different points through the play, often converging. Burgess' enhances that. He plays with the language itself in form and musicality, with words and absences, with truths masking other truths, with things stated but untold, much like Cyrano does. And the stage directions, poetic and with literary value in their own right in a way that reminded me of Valle Inclán and Oscar Wilde, interact with the text at times in an almost metatextual dimension that enhances that bond Cyrano has with words, giving them a sort of liminal air and strengthening that constant in the play: that words both conceal and unveil Cyrano, that in words he hides and words give him away.

But not all is good, at all. Unlike Hooker, Burgess reads to me as not entirely understanding every facet of the characters, and as if he didn't even like the play all that much, as if he had a bit of a disdainful attitude towards it, and found it too mushy. Which I can understand, but then why do you translate it? In my opinion the Burgess' translation does well bending English to transmit the different moods the French text does, and does pretty well understanding the more solemn, cool, funny, angry, poetic aspects of Cyrano, but less so his devotion, vulnerability, insecurities and his pathetism. It doesn't seem to get Roxane at all, how similar she is to Cyrano, nor why she has so many admirers. It does a very poor job at understanding Christian and his value, and writes him off as stupid imo. While I enjoyed the language aspect of the Burgess translation, I remember being quite angry at certain points reading it because of what it did to the characters and some changes he introduces. I think he did something very questionable with Le Bret and Castel-Jaloux, and I remember being incensed because of Roxane at times (for instance, she doesn't go to Arras in his version, which is a key scene to show just how much fire Roxane has, and that establishes several parallels with Cyrano, in attitude and words, but even in act since she does a bit what Cyrano later does with the nuns in the last act), and being very angry at several choices about Christian too. While not explicitly stated, I think the McAvoy production and the musical both follow this translation, because they too introduce these changes, and they make Christian as a character, and to an extent the entire play, not make sense.

For instance, once such change is that Christian is afraid that Roxane will be cultured (McAvoy's version has that infamous "shit"/"fuck" that I detest), when in the original French it's literally the opposite. He is not afraid she will be cultured, he is afraid she won't, because he does love and appreciate and admires those aspects of her, as he appreciates and admires them in Cyrano. That's key! Just as Cyrano longs to have what Christian has, Christian wants the same! That words escape him doesn't mean he doesn't understand or appreciate them. The dynamics make no sense without this aspect, and Burgess (and the productions that directly or indirectly follow him) constantly erases this core trait of Christian.

Another key moment of Christian Burgess butchers is the scene in Arras in which Christian discovers the truth. Burgess writes their discussion masterfully in form, it's both funny and poignant, but it falls short in concept: when Cyrano tells him the whole discussion about who does Roxane love and what will happen, what they'll do, is academic because they're both going to die, Christian states that dying is his role now. This destroys entirely the thing with Christian wanting Roxane to have the right to know, and the freedom to choose, or to refuse them both. As much as Cyrano proclaims his love for truth and not mincing words even in the face of authority, Cyrano is constantly drunk on lies and mirages, masks and metaphors. It's Christian who wants it all to end, the one who wants real things, the one who wants to risk his own happiness for the chance of his friend's, as well as for the woman he loves to stop living in a lie. That is a very interesting aspect of Christian, and another aspect in which he is written as both paralleling and contrasting Cyrano. It's interesting from a moral perspective and how that works with the characters, but it's also interesting from a conceptual point of view, both in text and metatextually: what they hold most dear, what they most want, what most fulfills them, what they most fear, their different approaches to life, but also metatextually another instance of that tears/blood motif and its ramifications constant through the whole text. Erasing that climatic decision and making him just simply suicidal erases those aspects of Christian and his place in the Christian/Cyrano/Roxane dynamic, all for plain superficial angst, that perhaps hits more in the moment, but holds less meaning.

Being more literal, and more solemn, Hooker's translation (or any of the others, but Hooker's seems to love the characters and understand them) doesn't make these conceptual mistakes. Now, would I not recommend reading Burgess' translation? I can't also say that. I had a lot of fun reading it, despite the occasional anger and indignation haha Would I recommend buying it? I recommend you give an eye to it first, if you're tempted and can initially only buy one.

You can read Burgess' translation entirely in archive.com. You can also find online the complete translations of Renauld, Hooker and Thomas and Guillemard. I also found a fifth one, iirc, but I can't recall it right now (I could give a look). You could read them before choosing, or read your favourite scenes and fragments in the different translations, and choose the one in which you like them better. That's often what I do.

Edit: I've checked to make sure and Roxane does appear in Arras in the translation. It's in the introduction in which it is stated that she doesn't appear in the production for which the translation was made. The conceptualisation of Roxane I criticise and that in my opinion is constant through the text does stay, though.

[creatediana]

"Wow, bitch. Who tf are you?" - a free verse poem written 12/22/2023

[camellcat]

clara oswin oswald I love u I love u foreva !!!!

[frenchy-and-the-sea]

BTW, for those following along at home: the rogue in our Curse of Strahd game has apparently reconsidered his situation wrt the group (by means of our DM YET AGAIN sending some very comprehensive messages about the expected tone and playstyle of the game to the player in question) and we have finally taken our first steps outside of Vallaki since arriving!

Wyn was maybe not TRYING to go to that creepy old wizard tower west of the city, but she wasn't NOT trying to go either, so. hopefully she does not regret letting the party wizard's curiosity get the better of him!

[the-physicality]

Sheryl Swoopes, Tina Thompson, and Cynthia Cooper discuss the fact that there is no houston team any more

[decaf-mother]

I'm sick and my dad's mad at me for not going to the flea market with my mom.