#it is good enrichment for him to be tormented )

[clownscasino]

i see jim is in his happy place (being tormented by his friends while live on stream)

[iappearmissing]

" haha, oh, that is hilarious! well, don't leave me hanging, what happened next~? "

giratina strike them down before i have to suffer another minute of small talk.

[godihatethiswebsite]

Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Five - On Trial

Apologies for the delay as there were a few speed bumps that my foggy brain just did not want to hump over. This chapter gave me some grief, but I'm still happy with how it turned out :)

Trigger Warnings: religious imagery, ptsd, angst, brief mentions of rape/incest/assault/drugging/coercion/miscarriage

Flat deadened eyes bore chasms through your own.

They peeled away the impregnable shroud of shame masking the abhorrent malefactions of those you’ve wronged.

In a split second of time, those eyes foisted judgment upon all your heinous sins with an executioner’s toll. Damning you to an endless oblivion amongst the cacophony of wailing souls eternally condemned to the River Styx.

Behold! The face of your adjudicator!

Blackened barbed wire constricts the fat of his gluttonous form. Exposed sickly ashen skin held together by threaded catgut, bursting at the seams with bone-white mold. Hellfire caged in little glass vials illuminates the agonized expression glued to a visage of perpetual torment, standing against a backdrop of towering decayed limbs, basking in the multitude of jewel toned offerings left by those who worship at the base of this miserable creature’s sacrificial altar.

…Of all the cheerful residents from the Hundred Acre Wood, who on god’s green earth decided that Eeyore of all things would be the poster boy for Christmas?

The melancholically predisposed cartoon character was a mess of tangled Christmas lights, having apparently failed in his endeavor to liven up the wilted excuse of a barren evergreen behind him and somehow succeeding in trapping his own pudgy form in the decorations instead – the ‘D’ in December knocked crooked in his fruitless struggles.

A paltry souvenir magnet from someplace sunny holds the calendar aloft, Winnie the Pooh designs posted on the side of your fridge with thick glossy sheets. A gift from your fathers; a new one included in their holiday care package every year. 

You’re sure the overstuffed box currently shoved beneath your kitchen table for lack of anywhere more reasonable to house it has its plastic-wrapped replacement buried amongst the other contents. Previous years involved such colorful settings as early 2000’s internet memes or a compilation of fun facts regarding the world’s different varieties of cheeses. Not for your own enjoyment, of course, but for the chagrined expression your family insisted on basking in come Christmas morn.

Not that you admitted to liking this past year's theme of childhood whimsey…

The curlicue numbers on the wintery grid mark the passage of time – crossed out with dry streaks of red ink. Christmas is naught but five days from now, the emphasized date stamped in the upper righthand corner with a glittery ribbon as if the holiday needed even more call for attention. It means almost nothing to you outside of a familial facetime over a microwaved breakfast of cheap eggo waffles. 

You’ll suffer congenially through the good natured poking and prodding. Chloe will send a text; Alex won’t. And the day will pass by in a whisper of silence – the magic of miracles stored back in their damp corporate box for cheapened rehashing the following year.

Holing away in the confines of your solitary habitat came with the added benefit of only exposing yourself to the overhyped celebration on a reasonable once-weekly basis, driving to and fro your therapist's office; painfully ignoring the garish spectacle of such yuletide enrichment as fuzzy wonky reindeer antlers wedged atop sticker splattered minivans, off-key fourth graders caterwauling carols in the backseat, tinsel and fiberglass grating on your teeth.

At least, your antisocialness normally would save you from such headaches. 

When the pharmacy didn’t bungle communications with your primary care physician and refill your prescription two weeks early. 

The voicemail left on your phone this morning was a little more than a minor annoyance. You’d only just finished chasing the taste of bile with citrusy mouthwash, leaning your leaded weight against the cold marble of the sink, stomach still spasming with painful braxton hicks-like contractions. Shaky hands splashed tepid water on your face, wicking away the evidence of exertion and clearing your chin of digested chicken noodle. 

You’d only half paid attention to the robotic voice droning over speakerphone, wiping off your face with a disgruntled glare at your reflection and muffling a groan into the pilled fabric of your hand towel at the automated message. This was not a day to be playing at adulthood. This was a day for warm chunky socks and Disney movie marathons. 

And now because some overworked new hire chugging Red Bulls probably keyed in the wrong refill date in an over-caffeinated zeal, you were once again paying for someone else's mistake. 

(A running theme for your life.)

You shook off the bitter thought with a weary sigh, hanging the damp towel from the plastic command hook on peeling wallpaper. The buzzing of the keypad rattled the counter as you’d cleared out your phone’s voicemail, scooping up the device and trudging back around the corner to begin what should’ve originally been an easy day. 

Now, a few hours of lounging had garnered you enough gumption to voyage out amongst proper society once more, rinsing your chubby dinosaur mug from earlier in the sink as your eyes flick up unwittingly to the calendar nearby. 

You know what you’re counting even as you abash yourself for it. 

The crumpled bag of mostly full coffee grounds has been sitting in your bin for the past two days, put there in an abstract protest to the blatant disregard of your feelings by a caustic alpha. The taste on your tongue has become as phantom as the scent that once clung to your coat rack, wafted away by a bottle of descenting spray the same way you wish to purge his lingering effervescence from where it's taken root in your spine.

The offending bag collects dust at the top of the pile, placed there in a huff at the start of every morning. When its existence mocks your suffering and the grief of a life you’ll never get to live is at the forefront of every painful heave into grimy porcelain, forced onto your knees like the flaccid servient creature that beast has morphed you into. 

Still, there’s no sign of refuse or food waste on the flimsy outside packaging. It never stays put long enough to accumulate filth or bury itself in neglected disuse. At the end of the night, when the wounds of before are wrapped in a somnolent layer of protective padding, it returns to its spot amongst the clutter of your countertop, a pitiful idol to the foolish part he’s allowed to fester against your better judgment.

God, you’ve tried so hard to ignore it – you really have. With what little there is to occupy your mind in this lackluster environment, the labor of staying detached is proving arduous. John’s memory agitating the stripped-bare axis of simple order your world rotates upon.

Distraction eludes you at every attempt to forget. The warmth of your nest is the comfort of his leather embrace, the Zofran on your tongue the calloused paw at your nape grounding you in tempered reality. Soft boar hair bristles are his fingers, the zest in your meal his vigor. His face is in the deep prussian sweater jailed to the back of your closet for the sole crime of coming too close to the cerulean shade that haunts your waking memory.

You thought you already knew what it meant to belong to another. To be branded with someone else’s signet like a bored kid in history class taking chunks out of his desk until it was too desecrated with graffiti to be regarded as anything other than his unofficial property. No one wanted to touch what the school bully had already sullied.

Until John.

It didn’t matter that the seat was already occupied. He just scratched out the nameplate with safety scissors and staked his claim with a wad of gum beneath the chair.

He was dark matter wedging its way to take up space between condensed molecules, bullying the other elements into submission until his chemical makeup twisted you to something there was no coming back from. Sweeping in with the strength of a category five and the persistence of the big bad wolf.

You despise John for the damage he’s incurred to your house made of straw – all of them really – but you detest yourself even more for the gnawing disappointment flooding your gut that he hasn’t shaken the foundations further.

The hiss of pain between your teeth as you adjust the abrasive scarf around your neck serves as a sobering reminder of the real cancer infecting your cells. Even if the claim was buried under layers, it didn’t mean your flesh didn’t still carry the scars from its etching. 

Slinging your purse over your shoulder, you take to the task of unlocking each of the bolts guarding you from the true terrors of an alpha’s altruistic attention. 

Please just let this be quick.

The sneer from the old crone in aisle two has you ducking the latter half of your face in the itchy fabric that hides the one thing you’re currently being judged for.

You don’t know her name, but you’ve seen her outside the steps of your apartment enough with her hellspawn of a pomeranian to know she lives in your building. The grey curls of her poodle cut perm do nothing to hide the splotches of alopecia that come with age. Tissue paper skin dappled with sun spots begs for the youth of collagen, gaunt around her cheekbones and only highlighting her witchy exterior, a moth eaten shawl hanging loosely over the quasimodo hump keeping her from standing at a height taller than that of a twelve year old child.

The grouchy bat is clever, though, you’ll give her that. There’s a discerning eye behind those tortoiseshell frames that speak of a bygone prime filled with intrigue and gossip that’s followed her well into her twilight years. 

She’s honed her intellect well.

And she knows.

Your skin crawls with maggots under her heated glare, boring subdermal tunnels that reach beyond the capabilities of a simple itch. The writhing anomalies only add to the growing discomfort of waiting in the pharmacy queue for far longer than need be. Ten minutes you’ve been behind the same middle aged man – too diffident to interrupt the conversation going on ahead of you – as what should’ve been a simple snatch and grab of his blood pressure medication turns into three decades of catching up with a bygone acquaintance from primary school.

“–when Janine drank some weird concoction back at Jimmy’s place. Fucking health nut has his own carbonator in his kitchen and she got the bright idea on six shots of cuervo to run a glass of milk through the damn thing. Ended up spewing all over Crystal’s pants.”

To their credit, the pharmacist had at least been working on filling prescriptions as he prattled on with the bald spot beta in front of you, bustling between stocked aisles of jarred substances and counting out little white tablets with every ping from the database. He just didn’t seem to care about the goings on inside the store. “Adam mentioned that when I ran into him at the football match last June. Isn’t that O’Hara’s omega? The one who used to save her gum in a giant ball after she was done chewing it?”

Eww. Seriously?

“Nah, that’s Abigail. Crystal was Billy and Carter’s girl.”

That seemed to catch the other alpha in his tracks, a quizzical brow replacing one of mild interest as he paused his fingers over the keyboard. “Was? What happened to her?”

“Fucking up and left them, that’s what. And right after they supported her through that unfortunate miscarriage too. Came home one day to an empty nest and a note on the table telling them she was done. Poor guys never even saw it coming.”

“Wow. Who would’ve thought she’d turn out to be one of them?”

“Yea,” the beta’s tone turned sour. “Unfaithful bitch.”

The Unfaithful. 

That’s what they call you now. 

Those who have forsaken their oaths and disgraced the name ‘omega’. The sanctity of packdom desecrated by egocentric bond breakers. Scheming harlots abandoning their worshipful protectors– denying them their designated rights and withholding the gift of eternal peace upon those alphas worthy enough to be chosen.

False omegas. Government apostates to how things are supposed to be run.

Doesn’t matter that those who claim to be victims before the courts are the same conniving bastards stripping us of our bodily autonomy. Nothing is impermissible. 

Rape. Incest. Assault. Drugging. Coercion. Words that carry weight become cotton candy deadlifts in the face of a mating bond. It has no undoing – no magic words or medical procedures. There is no running towards the arms of a better pack in hopes of a brighter future; no room for another in the tether of your soul. That anchor has taken root in the rock bed and cannot be claimed outside the mysticism of a scent match. 

Crueler parts of the world would hunt you down like the runaway slave they’re too cowardice to admit they perceive you as, a bounty placed upon your head and welts on your back for disobeying, brittle nails clawing at the dirt in a last attempt at freedom, dragged back to your master in an iron wrought collar displaying the shame of your sins. 

Suppose you should consider yourself lucky that here, amongst the dredges of refined society, your kind are merely shunned.

Bosom friends all turn their backs, work desks empty into a cardboard box under the guise of ‘performance issues’. The deli at the corner claims they’re closed, red blocky letters drawing blood by the gallons as the patrons inside regard you like you’re nothing more than a sopping wet stray begging for scraps in the rain.

There are no laws that protect from discrimination for people like you. The lease in your fathers’ names and the lie from their lips are the only things sheltering you from homelessness. Others are not so fortunate as to have the word of an alpha keeping them off the street. 

The forlorn promise of a better tomorrow is all that greets you now in the wake of devastation. There is no higher contract than the bite marks on your neck. 

The scathing look from the disgruntled woman would be warranted by those around you if they were privy to the same suspicions she carried. The signs were all there if they only knew where to look.

“Miss?”

You hardly notice when they end their interaction, the off-putting customer service smile from the alpha behind the counter making the pit of your stomach rumble with unease as you scurry to the front, quietly offering up your personal information as you place your ID on the counter.

If he only knew he had the power to blacklist you in his hands…

You fork over the cash in far shorter time than the previous customer did, spending less than two minutes to his twenty before you duck away from the substantial line that’s formed in the time since your subsequent arrival. 

It’s your luck the old hag is three guests behind you, averting your gaze to the task of stashing your meds to try and keep from further interaction. Too bad a half century’s worth of smoking comes out in the rasping slur she spits at you from underneath her breath.

“Fucking glitch.”

You’ve heard the words directed at you once before, only far more cutting and uttered from a far different mouth. That didn’t stop the insult from piercing through to bone, a deep ache in your ribs that slows your gait and gives you pause beside the basket drop-off. 

A quick glance around confirms a lack of disdain from your fellow shoppers. You’re surprisingly fortunate that her biting remark hadn’t been made any louder. You frequent this shop often enough to be recognizable to most of the staff – though not on any sort of conversational terms. Being blacklisted here wouldn’t just result in an inconvenient trek farther for medical service, but a mark that would deny usage no matter the location.

Every step out your front door is a chance for your past to catch up to you… in one form or another.

A shock of cold jolts you from your far-away stare, startling a yelp that draws brief attention as you jump back from the unwanted contact, hand retreating away at the abrupt offense. Cradling it to your chest, you’re met with cobalt eyes and sunshine hair, a bright eyed pupper beaming up at you from its spot perched at your feet.

“Sorry about him!” An apologetic voice squawks to the left of you, calling your attention to the hobbling beta woman at the other end of the leash. Her neon green marshmallow puffer greets you before her dark curls and round cheeks, a prosthetic hand keeping grip on her furry friend. “He’s a well behaved boy I promise! Ain’t gonna bite ya or anything.”

“Oh no, he’s fine!” The tremble in your words is more from social awkwardness than anything, having been caught off guard in a place far too crowded for your tastes, rolling your shoulders to halt the impulse to scratch. “Just wasn’t expecting a wet dog nose is all.”

The beta, on the other hand, has no problem running a knitted mitten over the back of her neck. “Yeaaaah, it’s not often he gets away from me like that. You see, he’s my service animal.” She calls attention to the black vest around his body, a litany of bright colored patches and big blocky words adorning the functioning harness that you hadn’t quite discerned upon first glance. “He uh… was just alerting to you.”

It takes you a moment to process the words, blinking down at the panting canine regarding you with eyes more keen than the pea-brained expression would suggest. 

Good to know even a dog can sense you’re nine different levels of fucked up.

“You can pet him if you want,” comes the gentle offer upon spying the embarrassment painting your features, taking her faithful companion’s inattention in stride. The quirk of her mouth gives you a green light even if her words already did. “Far be it for me to disagree with the boss here when he puts his mind to something.”

The words of declination rest limp on your tongue, a moment’s hesitation giving way beneath the understanding gaze of an impartial animal whose sole purpose is to provide the comfort of love. Crouching down to its level – uncaring of the salt trekked state of the tile – it's almost instinctual to wrap your arms around the retriever for an act that seems so much more dangerous coming from any other being. The muzzle that finds home in the junction of your shoulder roots you through the floor, going beyond solid concrete foundation and miles of serpentine pipeways, winding through terraceous cracks unyielding to the progress of man to find purchase in the damp soil unseen for thousands of years, unbowing to the anything but the turn of the earth.

Calm is not the word; the pounding pulse in your ears and the headrush of being out in public still ring through the chittering bustle of checkout lanes to keep you on your toes. Yet the ache in your soul feels less like a boulder and more like a handful of a pebbled shore.

Pulling away from the smell of damp fur, slobber greets your face in the form of affection, features pulling taut against the playful onslaught trying its best to intrude between the cracks of your mouth. 

“Easy does it, bud.” A soft yank on his harness serves as a gentle reminder, turning from loveable pup to esteemed gentleman panting in perfect submission. “No one wants to taste what you had for lunch earlier today.”

You flash her a grateful smile for the interference, fingers moving next to scritch around the bright red collar mostly hidden by dense hairs, a glinting dog bone with cursive scrawl clacking against the knuckles of your hand. “Rocky, huh?”

“Yea,” she chuckles. “Don’t judge, but he was actually my favorite power ranger as a kid.” Her mittened hand joins yours in the thick pelt of his neck, scratching at some secret spot that gets his tail thumping, the appendage a whirling propeller trying in vain to achieve liftoff. How long they must’ve been in each other’s company for such familiarity. “Figured since this little guy was gonna be my hero too, he deserved a name befitting the courage he inspires.”

Her sincerity sparks something in you as you reach back to your own childhood, the sizzling of pancakes on the griddle against a backdrop of Saturday morning shows. Your smile warms at the memory. “Hey, no judgment here. After all, mine was Tommy.”

The moment breaks with shattered glass somewhere off to the right, the both of you reacting with varying degrees of frazzled nerves. You don’t miss the way her hand strikes out with practiced swiftness towards her hip, something nonexistent bumped away from flexing fingers by a patience nudge. Wide eyes glance down at her stalwart companion, already staring back with all the surety of his namesake, pushing her palm further against the smoothness of his head, urging her to stay with him in the safety of the moment. You don’t know the ghosts that haunt her–doing your best to avert your gaze from the glimpse of carbon fiber–but you watch as they retreat with calming breaths back to the place where they were born.

She shoots you a look you know she rather wouldn’t, an unspoken apology wrapped in embarrassment as familiar to you as it is to her, understanding passing between mirrored irises. There’s a shuffling of feet as you both scurry on your respective ways, you towards the outside air while her path takes her further inward. A quick glance over your shoulder finds him pressed against her side, snout turned upwards with a lolling tongue and dopey smile, eyes on the caregiver staring back at him with fond devotion. To have something that loves you that much…

Your gaze softens along with your words. “Good boy, Rocky…”

Fire ants bite into your cheek as the sharp crack that accompanies them leaves an outline of lava, the slap mark on your face glowing red hot and searing with the weight behind their assault. It dulls as the molten rock cools, a beating heart on the surface kept in time with the now racing pulse in your neck. The shock of it is almost as painful as the protruding iron shelves getting knocked against your spine, blowback jostling the festive display contents some poor stocker worked so hard on as cardboard cubes of kleenex clatter like ornaments to the muck-stained floor.

The outcry from your lips is muffled in comparison to groaning metal shifting under your weight, hand instinctively flying up as a wall to protect from further onslaught. Heat blooms again even under your careful touch, hissing in a gasp as wide eyes filled with glistening saline catch up a moment before your nostrils take in a familiar decadence. 

Her omega scent of rich warm brownie, fresh out the oven – but swallowed from the edges by the beginnings of char. Too high a temp getting cooked for too long, potent in its fury as it cracks and concaves. A sickeningly sweet outer shell transmuting under pressure, turning perfect gooey fudge into bubbling tar.

The visage that greets you is tempered by dread; a mixture of refined beauty and smoldering hate.

White fluffy earmuffs contrast against long chocolate waves spilling like molasses over a matching pristine peacoat – as if not even fate itself dared to sully such purity. If the air of refinement somehow doesn’t outclass you than the designer handbag does. No pack could ask for a more exemplary omega.

You’ve seen those cheekbones on the cover of magazines, that glassy skin splashed clean in luxury skincare ads. Perfect porcelain as artistically rendered as fine chinaware. Every model you’ve ever envied taken shape as your worst nightmare. Dark bambi eyes red-ringed with acidic tears, button nose flaring with each heaving rise of her trembling shoulders. Full pouty lips quiver under the enormous weight of emotions that threaten to claw almond manicured nails through your skin like chainsaws.

There is anger, but there is also pain.

And you caused it.

You do not know which response consumes you more: panic, or shame. 

“You–” her voice breaks like her heart, delicate wind chimes in a spring downpour. “You s-stay away from them…” Her words come in a struggle, fighting for stability whilst she hangs onto her composure with a thread as thin as spider silk. “They’re not yours… so… so just– just leave us alone!”

Gone is the lighthearted vision spun in innocent etherealness from that day in the store. Sparkling doe eyes now filled with scorn don’t suit the unblemished being not a foot in front of you. There’s an ingrained sweetness in her now pitiful form that so easily calls to an alpha’s protectiveness, a creature that deserves to be cherished, adorned; royalty reincarnated to a modern day princess.

There are only traces of that now standing a few feet in front of the automatic sliding doors, a smashed box of tissues keeping the mechanism from closing and sending a chill over the entire conversation. 

You shrink in on yourself, lowering your gaze in a meek show of submission that speaks where your own voice fails. How could you continue to look her in the eye when you are the reason this woman is suffering? When you are the bad guy in every sense of the word?

Filth. Sullied. Poison. Suffocating her with your very presence as if your own tainted pheromones could overcast hers.

You expect more–deserve more–but she turns on her heels, the sensors allowing passage as she hurries back out the way you suspect she only just came.

You’re as stunned as the bystanders around you, blinking at her retreating form into the small parking lot beyond. You can’t help but watch as she races across the asphalt, thoughts of her own task left behind in a trail of her own tears. Badly muffled whispers start in earnest at the display. Chorused words of ‘wicked woman’ following you out onto the pavement. Tongues lashing into open wounds kept bleeding by your own shame. 

That pain is nothing in the wake of the familiar figure of a towering form.

He meets her halfway, hulking mass climbing out from the cab of a blackened range rover at the first sign of her obvious distress. From this far away you can only make out the sounds of heaving sobs, watch as dainty hands clutch the dark material of her protector, the furrow of his brow as he searches for answers to her suffering.

Whatever she responds, you find yourself once more snapped in place by the weight of his stare, looking no less worse for wear than the first time he did. 

Logic says the phantom tartness on your tongue is a hallucination ingrained from previous exposure, but the inner omega whining helplessly to be understood doesn’t comprehend the self inflicted wounds she scores with brittle claws at the first chance to taste. In many ways, designative instincts retain the innocence of youth: purely reactionary in their naive disregard. They’re doe-eyed five year olds holding up the mangled body of a broken baby bird and proclaiming ‘they can fix it’. To them, they don’t realize the damage that comes with wishing for a bite of lemon zest when they know that cupcake is theirs, deaf to the scolding of a parent who knows better. 

After all, what gives you the right to take what hasn’t been offered? For wishing for the comfort of an alpha’s scent that doesn’t belong to you? All it does is make you feel like the shameful thief the people in the shop think you are.

So you keep your distance from the alpha and his mate, once more stuck in a whirlwind of unintentional trouble. He’s too far away to make out the hues of his eyes, but his body language tells you exactly where he stands in all this. Fingers flexed in a possessive grip, the placement of his hand curled around her mid back, the subtle hunch he takes as he tucks her tearstained face beneath his covered chin.

A choice. 

Conceal. Protect. Intruder.

You once wondered at the outcome if you hadn’t run that night; if the call that beckoned you ‘wait’ had kept you rooted to the floor. How would this mammoth have reacted - the one who only watched in pure neutrality as your world crumbled apart? Would he have let his friend make the first move forward? Would there have been an altercation? Spoken words and awkward introductions such as with their Scottish brethren? Did they care about your cowardice? Did the alphas give you chase? Lose your scent in the produce aisle and catch their breaths in the crisp night air? 

At last you have your answer. 

The judgment he passes as he turns his back to you has far more gravitas than the mopey donkey on your fridge. The conjured images of morbidity that entertained you earlier this morning feels like a holiday in comparison to the way your arteries shrivel from necrosis; down another size and a half by Grinch standards.

(Would it ever grow again?)

Closing your eyes against the sight is all you can do to maintain your sanity.

���Lass!”

As if life hasn’t finished causing you torment enough, the rough brogue catching your ears has your eyes peeling back open, the depression gluttoning away at your insides taking note at the promise of further feast, cackling gleefully at the tousled mohawk rounding the the opposite side of the vehicle his companions are approaching. Concern sits heavy on his brow, footsteps sure of their path as the pair sidle up along the drivers side of their SUV, lemon shuffling his omega through the open door he holds and into the relative safety of the back seat. You expect John to join them – to fuss and coo over her the same way he did for you in the cafe. Your masochism soaks up the envy like a yorkshire pudding at Christmas dinner.

But he makes no move to join his mate, blazing a path that leads beyond.

It’s not her he’s calling out for. It’s you.

Something smothers in your chest at the meaty glove that yanks him backwards, the heft of his brawn outmatched by the iron grip stopping him from advancing any further, shoved back against the shiny black of the range rover. The suspension creaks from the sheer force of the impact, giving you a hint as to the momentum which was suddenly reversed and applied to the hull, vehicle tilting a few centimeters off its wheelbase before thudding back down to settle on its chassis.

Charged static fills the air as overwhelmingly as the growl ripped from their chest – from which alpha you aren’t sure. The palpable anger that must be flaring in their scent chokes those unfortunate few nearby into hurrying along, a group of teenagers giving wide berth as the old man a few cars over shoves something fragile into the boot with a telltale crunch, slamming the latch shut before climbing over his center console to the steering wheel from the opposite side. No one wants to get involved in pack business, much less find themselves collateral damage in a showdown between behemoths. 

Where lemon’s mouth is obscured, John’s isn’t, giving you unfiltered access to the snarl he spits up at the man a few inches taller than him. He makes his displeasure clear in a volume still too quiet for you to grasp, but his argument is apparent in the gesturing of his arms, the wildness matched by the heart he so clearly wears on his sleeve. His packmate stands in complete opposition to the outward show of aggression by the former, striking in his marble-like appearance, firm against the blunted chisel of whatever’s being discussed. The only sign that he’s participating comes in the form of the other’s interrupted pauses. 

Your thoughts turn to the omega inside overhearing all of this. The discontent she must feel down the bond from those she loves most has to be just as painful as the ability to hear the quarreling itself. What must she be going through–huddled alone in the shadows by herself–having to listen to what you assume is an argument over another woman… one that a mate is clearly defending?

What consumes her more? Is it rage? Betrayal? Anguish? Abandonment? Jealousy? Your heart goes out to her at this moment in a way you’re not sure her packmates are knowing or even empathetic to. 

You suddenly flinch as if being struck by the accusatory finger pointed in your direction by the up-until-now stoic alpha, nose to nose with a man he’s spent nights pressed even closer against. Whatever point he makes, there’s no rebuttal from the Scot this time – only a strained moment’s silence.

At last John shoves away the arm holding him, straightening his jacket with a look that says this isn’t over as his companion walks away to the driver’s side door. You don’t pay him further mind though as John huffs out his anger like a bull, raking a hand through his hair before meeting your gaze with far more softness. He sees it in your eyes the same way it reflects in his. Two pained apologies spoken without words.

Dark tint keeps you from seeing them as they enter the vehicle and drive off, peeling away with a nod to the discomfort inside but with enough self control to not endanger the ‘precious cargo’ in the back seat.

You knew the other day was too good to be true. It’s clear now the damage you’ve incurred in your foolish desire to forge a connection. The lies John told you to placate his unthinking selfishness. Why the radio silence has been deafening your apartment. 

Nothing is alright. Everything is broken. You’ve ruined god knows how many years of passion and devotion by the sole act of your own pathetic existence. 

You’ve robbed her of that–robbed them. Another reminder that they cannot give it to you. She has taken your place. They cannot claim another.

It’s your fault. Your fault.

Your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault… 

You can’t breathe.

Something’s crawling up your throat. You can’t– 

As customers pass the threshold of the automatic glass doors, no one pays any mind to the sounds of retching in the dumpster.

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[gattnk]

Working with Irene is a dream come true! Now Igor on the other hand... talk about a nightmare...!

This is it folks, the last of the Golden School teachers! We still have some other Eternals left to go, as well as the humans, but I feel like this is a good milestone to start the year with. Now, Irene and Igor are very particular: they only show up in what the fandom refers to as the "Russian saga", a self-contained story based on the show where Raf, Sulfus and friends briefly go to Russia for some lessons under these two. This context informed my design choices a lot, and they go as follows:

I chose Irene and Igor to be in charge of the Oneiric Compositing faculty, that is, dream-crafting. The concept came from Uriè's digi-dream camera: I thought it would be interesting if angels and devils also influenced humans in their sleep by either inspiring goodness or tormenting with fear respectively.

Irene's canon dress threw me off a bit: I could tell it was a Russian noblewoman's dress thanks to all the gold embroidery and red fabric, but I couldn't pinpoint its exact influence other than it was not a common sarafan. I scrapped the nobility aspect in favor of something more homely, inspired by traditional Eastern European clothes and the Matrioska doll (sorry, no detailed embroidery, I have to respect the design philosophy I've kept so far).

I chose the Matrioska doll as my key inspiration to homage the Russian saga, but also because of its ample symbolism. Some believe these dolls grant wishes and bring good omens; others find them to represent the layers of the mind and the self; they can also be seen as a mother figure, a symbol that embraces and protects generations to come. There's so many ways to look at Matrioska dolls and interpret them, just like dreams!

Igor also had to depart from his canon counterpart: I could tell the original design was inspired by Rasputin, and I see how his infamous reputation could enrich a devil character, but that same infamy could be brought into the picture in other ways. I kept the body complexion, the beard and the long coat as key elements so he would still be recognizable, but I fully departed from the real historical figure and instead focused on making him look like a nightmare that instilled fear and terror.

When I think "nightmare", I think boogeyman, bugbear, Krampus. A spindly, crooked old man that uses his walking cane to punish more than he does for walking, who will stuff you in a sack and take you away if you misbehave, his glowing eyes being the last thing you see before everything goes dark... His only mercy comes from his victims shuffling in the bag, thus ringing the bells tied on top, so now the other children know to beware! >:D

Irene's colors are the traditional primary colors: red, yellow and blue; red and yellow are warm colors and are naturally very eye-catching, so for contrast I used more shades of desaturated blue in her design. Her design is very curvy and full of semicircles, which inspired her halo's shape.

Igor instead has the traditional secondary colors: green, purple and orange; since green is very versatile in terms of warmth and coldness, I used it to highlight certain elements while keeping the rest of the palette more muted and dark (thus the orange became brown). His ram horns are very angular like the rest of his design, and they're the biggest devil horns yet, signifying his age.

If math serves me right I'm only missing three more Eternal designs for the central cast of characters (if you guess correctly which ones, you earn a cookie), but then again I was never great with numbers so I might surprise even myself down the line, hehe. We're done with the Golden School staff! Huzzah! :D

I'll Fly With You (rewrite fic) Art Masterpost

[biteofcherry]

Eva!❤️❤️ For your lottery…

I’d like to be taken by Ari Levinson please…

✨✨✨

"You didn't think the process is that easy, peach?" Ari's low laugh rolled over your skin like a lick of his tongue.

You wanted that voice to lead the delicious adventure of pleasure and torment. That was the deal.

Ari was one of the hottest porn voices, so powerful in how he lead his recordings that no visual stimuli was required. Your imagination run wild enough, following his instructions when he got yourself off to his audios.

His proposition to enter the reality of his recordings and add sweet sounds of you and your body was irresistible.

It was dirty, hot, scandalous. But providing so much privacy, since there would be no recording of your face anywhere in the web. Only your moans, cries, the wet sound of your pussy.

You imagined being spread on Ari's bed and experiencing all of him, while he spoke those sinful commands, directions and groaned his pleasure as he took from you.

However, once he had you settled on the bed, everything turned upside down.

Silk scarves tying your hands to the headboard made it impossible to run away, or to even hide your body from the gaze of the other man who entered the bedroom.

As impressive in his build as Ari, though with more tapered waist and angelic face shaved clean. He was already fully naked and his eyes gleamed appreciation and hunger as he took in your body.

"Can't record my voice so well, if I'm buried between your soft thighs, peach." Ari chuckled, caressing your cheek with the back of his hand.

"Steve and I have a cooperation that serves us well." He explained.

"Indeed, it does." Steve knelt on the bed and gently wrapped his fingers around your ankle.

"Shhh," he cooed, "settle down and breathe for me, sweetheart. That's a good girl."

Your body quivered at the smooth, deep timbre of his tone. You knew it.

He was another voice porn performer.

Where Ari tended to lead his audios in a playful, sensual way, making his stories about passionate lovers, needy quickies and lovemaking, Steve's audios were spiced with gentle dominance and praise earned through edging suffering.

"He will rip out all the delicious sounds from your body, which the side microphones record. And I will be recording to my own microphone while admiring how your body submits and breaks for us."

"Then-" Steve lifted your leg and placed your foot on his shoulder- "we'll switch places, so your moans and begging can enrich my audio."

[wufflesvetinari]

ok fine, wyllstarion rec list

the demons bade me write this. i have a lot of Thoughts and Feelings and a fabulous bookmarks list. come with me....and you'll be.......in a world of pure wyllstarion nation

note that this is like. an intermediate/advanced, 201-level list. i am trusting you, and assume you've already read asidian's body of work. you've read nothing is safe. you're reading Nothing Like the Sun &etc. Really anything that appears on the first two pages when sorting by bookmarks/kudos is disqualified due to pre-recognized excellence. (you could, however, go read them again)

are you back? good. now read:

"We Happy Few" - @geometea. listen to me. listen. i am looking deeply into your eyes. read this fucking fic. it's hard to shill without spoiling anything, BUT: wyll is a still-pacted grand duke. he used to have a bunch of unresolved romantic tension with astarion and now hasn't spoken to him for 15 years. now take that premise and add body horror, beautiful ominous surreal images, and SURPRISE BIG EMOTIONS. just trust me on this one, guys

"Crossed Blades" - @rebelontherocks. this is a...i think i have to call this a cozy sex romp. wyll and astarion are married, wyll is a busy duke, astarion needs more enrichment, astarion invents a very silly sex game by roleplaying teenage-wyll's smut books. wyll is So Deeply Into It. i love this fic for its characterization, its banter, and its commitment to paralleling character psychology to what sounds like an absolutely wild in-universe smut series (that is sketched with an impressive amount of detail and care tbh??).

"Comfort" - @acephalouscreature. short and sweet. wyll is injured and everyone expects astarion to take care of him. luckily, astarion has a dastardly plan to fake feelings for wyll by thinking about his feelings for wyll. you sure fooled them, astarion!! also featuring: astarion trying to figure out how to comfort someone by thinking about horses

"False Compare" - @jellyfishline. i'd recommend checking out their work generally, but i fell in love with this one first. wyll writes a sonnet! astarion is mean about it until he isn't! deeply in-character with an emphasis on how each of them communicates affection. gorgeous prose

"how to escape the torment nexus" - @ushauz. this series is incredibly unique, set in a fucked-up bad end where wyll is a lemure, astarion is still on the run from cazador, and almost everyone else is dead. where this really shines imo is wyll's POV: he's been through literal hell, doesn't remember his life, and is wading through his unconscious attachment to astarion like a foreign language. (side note also read Heart of Stone for a great lae'zel character piece)

"An Acorn in the Moonlight" - @anonyhex. this is one of the first wyllstarion fics i ever read and it has a special place in my heart!! it's particularly cathartic to read for Wyll reasons, including him actually getting to Have Emotions about what Ulder put him through. and they are so sweet with each other!!

"temporal displacement" - @purplecatghostposts. ok this came out like. yesterday but listen, i LOVE outsider pov of an astarion who's learned to show affection somewhat, seen from the eyes of someone who doesn't know his history and has no reason to suspect All Of That. and when that "outsider" is a dying 20-year-old wyll who just saw astarion step out of a time portal. well.

"nothing to make a song about" - @grey-wardens. for when you want something meaty and casefic-adjacent, set in a post-canon where wyll is the blade and not the duke (for once). contains bonding on the road, getting romantically snowed in together, and Symbolic Fetch-Quests.

i am also watching closely: "One of Those Prince-Types" by @lesbianralzarek and "sigh no more" by @tomorrowsrain. both are one chapter in and promise to be meaty, with execution that already feels very very promising

SPECIAL MENTION TO "Like Death (or Birth)" by The_Dancing_Walrus, which has some fraught implied background wyllstarion and is just generally completely baller. astarion kind-of sort-of accidentally adopts yenna, who got fucked up by her time as a potential sacrifice to bhaal. it works! i promise it works

EDIT 1/12/25: now with part 2!

[livmadart]

your thoughts of a Trolling poor Takagi au?

Conan only drops his kid act around Takagi-Keiji. Well, some of his kid act. And no one believes poor Takagi

A comedy AU. Takagi tries to get other believe him. Shiratori dating Conan teacher doesn't believe him, Sato has mama instinct doesn't believe him Other police officer thing he is a jealous how Sato spends time with Conan then him. Poor Takagi. Ran is worst, she sees him in a pink glasses, baby boy that can't do anything wrong

I agree takagi should be tormented by this horrible little not-child. It would be good enrichment

[mariacallous]

Was it something to do with blow jobs? Incredulous, I looked again at page 82 of my Latin textbook, then over to the entry in the dictionary; then once more at 82. From the bottom of the page, the word I’d been puzzling over all day seemed to be leering back at me. Until that moment, “Two Centuries of Roman Poetry” had struck me as harmless enough: a collection of excerpts from the major Latin poets, pitched to the reading level of an intermediate college Latin student—which is what I happened to be that evening in the early autumn of 1979, when I learned what the word really meant and it dawned on me that there might be more to Roman verse than philosophical musing, pastoral idylls, and heroic derring-do.

In class that morning, I’d been called on to sight-translate a handful of lines by Gaius Valerius Catullus, the first-century-B.C.E. poet who, the professor had warned us, was among the most erudite and sophisticated, the most doctus, of all Roman writers. In the poem at hand, Catullus ruefully recalls having served on the staff of a provincial governor, bitterly referring to him—because he didn’t let his subordinates enrich themselves at the expense of the locals—as an irrumator. When I stumbled across the unfamiliar noun, I hazarded a guess: “Cheapskate?” Professor Stocker, who’d got his Ph.D. before the Second World War and liked to wear bow ties, pursed his lips, made a face, and declared, a little too loudly, “You may render that word as ‘bastard.’ ”

So I did. But something about his discomfiture had made me curious. That evening, in the library, I took down a Latin dictionary from the shelf and flipped to the “I”s. Within moments, I saw why he’d hurried me past the word. According to “An Elementary Latin Dictionary,” the verb inrumō—the root of irrumator—means “to give suck, abuse obscenely.” I grinned, thinking I had a pretty good idea of what Catullus was calling the governor. What doubts remained were swept away a couple of years later, when, now in my senior year, I happened upon an entire article devoted to irrumator, whose root verb the author crisply defined as “to force to fellate.”

Just how you can call your boss a skullfucker and still maintain a reputation for refined erudition and literary sophistication was a question that stumped me. As it turned out, I wasn’t the only one. “In Catullus we have, in a sense, not one poet but two,” the editors of “Two Centuries” acknowledged. Most scholars would agree. On the one hand, there is the impetuous, often swaggering young writer whose sometimes brash, sometimes tender personality vividly emerges from the hundred-odd poems that have come down to us. This Catullus will dash off a dinner invitation in verse to his more financially responsible friends (“You’ll dine well . . . as long as you bring a nice big meal”), or obscenely lampoon the high-and-mighty figures of the day, such as Julius Caesar—a family friend—or lay bare his bleeding heart for all to see. That organ is certainly on abundant display in the poems on which Catullus’ reputation rests today, a cycle that traces the course of a tormented affair with a woman he refers to only by a pseudonym, Lesbia. By turns giddy, anxious, and despairing, these poems have endeared him to generations of ordinary readers who find in the tempestuous and ultimately brokenhearted poet a strikingly modern and profoundly accessible figure.

On the other hand, there is the doctus poeta, the refined littérateur celebrated for his delicacy and wit, who peppered even his occasional verse with elaborate word games and abstruse allusions. (Just what was in the “asafoetida-bearing sands of Cyrene”?) This Catullus produced a handful of longer works that include a baroquely structured mini-epic about the marriage of Achilles’ parents and a gender-bending showstopper that the University of Virginia classicist Jenny Strauss Clay has called “the strangest poem in Latin”: a breathless narrative, cast in an extremely rare and agonizingly complex meter, about an Athenian youth named Attis, who, in a frenzy of devotion to the cult of the Eastern goddess Cybele, castrates himself. Much of the poem takes the form of an anguished monologue the young man delivers after he wakes up the next day, short on body parts and long on regrets.

Catullus himself seemed to be aware of his split nature. One of the most famous of the Lesbia poems is a terse couplet that not only sums up an emotional conundrum that is familiar to anyone who’s been in the throes of obsessive love but also encapsulates an essential quality in the poet himself: “I hate and I love. Just why is something you might well ask. / I don’t know. But I feel it happening, and I’m in torment.”

Because of his extraordinary range, the naked intensity of his emotions, and his dazzling variety of tones—all of which constituted what a prominent mid-century classicist referred to as a “Catullan revolution” in Roman literature—Catullus has always been a poet admired and imitated by other poets. Virgil, half a generation younger, quoted him in the Aeneid; the love elegist Propertius remarked, a little wide-eyed, that Catullus had made Lesbia more famous than Helen of Troy. Renaissance Italians mimicked his Lesbia verses, and Byron adapted one of his odes to a beautiful youth named Juventius. (Like many Romans, Catullus was blithely indifferent to the gender of his inamorati.) Swinburne folded elements of the crazed castrato poem into his sadomasochism-themed “Dolores,” from 1866. Tennyson, that great mourner, self-consciously echoed the Roman’s celebrated elegy on the death of his beloved brother—the poem that gave us the phrase ave atque vale, “hail and farewell,” and furnished the inspiration for Anne Carson’s “Nox,” from 2010, a meditation on her own brother’s death. Robert Frost kept an edition of Catullus by his bedside.

Even more, the many registers of Catullus’ verse, from recherché artiness to gutterspeak, have proved an irresistible challenge for translators ever since the first fairly complete English version was produced, in the late eighteenth century, by a physician and scholar named John Nott (who warned “the chaste reader” that he was giving “the whole of Catullus without reserve”). To judge from a spate of recent Catullus-inspired work, including an English rendering of selected poems, by Stephen Mitchell, and “Switch: The Complete Catullus,” a dizzyingly idiosyncratic translation-cum-adaptation by the British poet and illustrator Isobel Williams, the fascination hasn’t waned, nor has the challenge grown less daunting.

Catullus would be little more than a name and a reputation today had a single manuscript containing his poems not survived the Middle Ages. Such a narrow escape from oblivion would have shocked his fellow-Romans. Born most probably in 84 B.C.E., into a wealthy and influential family based in Verona—the historian Suetonius reports that Caesar was a frequent guest when he went north to fight his Gallic campaigns—Catullus was, according to ancient sources, dead by the age of thirty. The late Peter Green, who published a Catullus translation in 2005, tried to argue, from a handful of references in the poems to a lingering cough and chronic malaise, that the poet died of tuberculosis—then, as later, a killer of bright young things.

Despite the brevity of Catullus’ life, he had evidently made his mark. His death, according to one early biography, was greeted by “public mourning,” and in the decades afterward he was never far from the minds of Roman writers, starting with the Golden Age poets who immediately followed him: Virgil, Horace, Propertius, Ovid. A century later, the satirist Martial, renowned for his tart epigrams, declared that his greatest ambition was simply to be counted second to Catullus in that genre. Around 150 C.E., the author Apuleius, who had access to sources long since lost to us, was convinced that he knew the identity of Lesbia. Learned Latin writers were still talking about Catullus as late as the early seventh century.

Then the trail goes cold. Unlike his admirer Virgil, Catullus seems to have been almost entirely unknown throughout the Middle Ages. One poem appears in a ninth-century anthology, and a tenth-century Bishop of Verona mentioned him in a sermon; otherwise, nothing. Then, around 1305, that single manuscript turned up in Verona—a discovery that occasioned a celebratory poem, in Latin couplets, by a local man of letters who noted rather mysteriously that the text had come “from a far frontier.” The poems soon found their way into the hands of the poet and humanist Petrarch. Thus began a process that eventually earned the long-forgotten poet an electrifying new renown. For the collection—the Catulli Veronensis Liber, the Book of Catullus of Verona, as it came to be called—was unlike anything else in the Latin canon known at that point.

The poems fall into three successive groups, possibly representing three papyrus scrolls that may have originally constituted the Liber. The first group alone, known as the “polymetrics”—sixty shortish poems cast in a variety of meters borrowed from the Greeks—ranges over an astonishingly broad array of emotions and subjects, the poems often occasioned by the most casual events. There’s that invitation to the B.Y.O. dinner; a thank-you note to Cicero so obsequious that you have to think it’s tongue in cheek; an ode on the retirement of a favorite yacht. One charming piece celebrates the return of a cherished friend from a journey abroad—“Can’t wait to lay eyes on you and hear you / tell of Spain and its people, places, products”—and, meanwhile, in the poem I had to sight-read that day forty-five years ago, the poet is seething because he’s been caught in a pretentious lie about his year in Asia Minor serving on the staff of the irrumator governor. (The governor, Gaius Memmius, can’t have been all bad: it was to him that Lucretius dedicated his magnum opus, the philosophical epic “On the Nature of Things.”) Sometimes Catullus will be singing delicate praises of the virgin goddess Diana; sometimes he’s off and running about a disgusting acquaintance who uses urine as a tooth whitener. He’s like the love child of T. S. Eliot and Frank O’Hara.

Whatever their subject or inspiration, many of these poems display the wit, pith, and cleverness that were hallmarks of the avant-garde school to which Catullus belonged, the so-called New Poets—or neoteroi, as Cicero, who preferred the old ones, sniffily referred to them. The orator’s use of the Greek word for “new” was pointed: Catullus and his friends were in thrall to the theories of the Hellenistic Greek scholar and poet Callimachus, who flourished in the first half of the third century B.C.E. and worked at the Library of Alexandria, the great literary and cultural center of the Mediterranean world. It was Callimachus who famously proclaimed mega biblion, mega kakon, “a long book is a great evil”; for his Roman acolytes, concision, originality, and vividness, rather than what they saw as the bombast and portentousness of an earlier generation, were the qualities to embrace. Catullus makes no bones about his literary allegiances. One poem, addressed to the grandiloquent work of a dreary historian, begins, “Hey, Volusius’ Annals (yes, I’m talking / to your hundreds of pages smeared with bullshit.)”

A startling freshness and informality are certainly the rule in these shorter poems, most of which are cast in a jauntily syncopated meter known as the “hendecasyllable”: BUM-BUM-BUM-buh-buh-BUM-buh-BUM-buh-BUM-BUM. And yet even the breeziest of Catullus’ occasional poems can suddenly betray flashes of ferocious emotion. Poem 50 begins as a giddy recollection of an afternoon spent dashing off verses to his friend Calvus, another of the neoteroi. The opening lines paint an endearing picture of the two writers “playing now with this meter, now with that one, / improvising on themes set by the other, / laughing hard.” But—typically, as it turns out—the experience becomes overwhelmingly intense for Catullus, who goes on to record how, on returning home,

The nakedness of the feelings exposed—to say nothing of the willingness to expose them—was wholly new in Latin poetry.

The way in which a poem by Catullus can veer from the innocuous to the intense is often mirrored by dramatic swerves in the tone and the register of his language. In certain poems, you can practically hear the gears shift. The first half of Poem 11, for instance, makes you think you’re reading an ode to the constancy of the poet’s friends Furius and Aurelius, who he says he knows will follow him to the ends of the earth, from Persia to the Nile to the Alps and as far as the “horrible Britons.” But the real point becomes clear only at the beginning of the second half, when Catullus, having listed the proofs of his friends’ loyalty, feels emboldened to ask them to do him a favor relating to Lesbia:

Then he puts in the clutch yet again, ending with lines of astonishing delicacy, which compare his rejected love to “a flower / fallen at the edge of a field, the plowshare’s / blade slicing through it.”

The volatile emotions to which Catullus gives vent are not always so touching. Poem 16 begins with a jokey threat that he’s going to assault two male friends because they’ve teased him: “I’ll fuck you up the ass and”—inrumō again!—“fuck your face.” The offense for which they’re being menaced is that, having read some of the tender poems addressed to Lesbia, they’ve accused him of being male marem—“insufficiently manly.” Although the tone is playful, it’s hard not to feel that the friends had hit a nerve. Not for the first time, the violence of a bullying threat is directly proportional to the vulnerability that’s been exposed in the bully. Sometimes it’s as if this poet can’t hold the warring parts of his own personality together.

In jarring contrast to the polymetrics, with their accessible freshness and ingratiating openness, stand the four long poems that constitute the second section of the Liber: two wedding hymns, the mini-epic about the nuptials of Achilles’ parents, and the castrato tour de force. Contemporary readers tend to have a harder time with these; Stephen Mitchell, whom I’ve been quoting thus far, shares the general prejudice and omits them from his translation, explaining that, “despite their sporadic beauties, [they] leave me cold.” At first glance, it’s easy to see why: their tone and manner, compared with those of the other poems, are so much more self-consciously “literary” that you sometimes wonder how the same poet could have written them all. The two wedding hymns, Poems 61 and 62, bristle with learned mythological allusions (“For Junia, as beautiful / As Idalium’s mistress / Venus coming to the Phrygian / Judge, is wedding Manlius . . .”), and the hyperventilating poem about the self-mutilating Attis is steeped in the arcana of Eastern cultic practice.

As for Poem 64, the mini-epic about Achilles’ parents, for all its size—at more than four hundred lines, it’s Catullus’ longest work and accounts for almost half of the second section—it is a Fabergé egg of a poem, structured with great ingenuity and aglitter with favorite devices of the high Greek style. One of these is known as ekphrasis: an extended depiction, within a literary work, of a work of art. In Catullus’ poem, the account of the meeting and subsequent wedding of the couple, Peleus and Thetis, soon segues to a detailed description of a coverlet spread over their marriage bed, woven with images depicting the myth of the Cretan princess Ariadne, who was abandoned by her faithless lover, Theseus. (With this allusion, the poet artfully foreshadows the fact that the union being celebrated will eventually sour—after producing a child who brings grief and destruction to many.) Catullus pushes ekphrasis to unprecedented limits, allowing the description of the coverlet to metastasize to the point where the Theseus-Ariadne story grows larger than the story of Peleus and Thetis, the ostensible subject of the poem—a bravado move on the poet’s part in a work that he clearly intended to be a masterpiece.

Still, you could argue that, beneath their arch sophistication, these longer works turn out to be animated by the same hot-blooded themes and obsessions that you find in the other poems. Take the startling tenderness of the marriage hymns, with their intense empathy for the emotions of young brides leaving home for the first time (whose lot is compared, rather shockingly, to the fate of women after “a city’s brutal capture”), or Attis’ surrender to a frenzy he cannot control, followed by the morning-after self-recriminations (“Now, ah now, what I’ve done appalls me”): we recognize these feelings. Also familiar is the note of righteous outrage in the poet’s diatribe, at the end of Poem 64, against the corrupted morals of his day. Even when Catullus is being arty, the passions, the tenderness and the indignation, the wounded sense of wrongs unpunished, come through.

But nowhere in the Catulli Veronensis Liber is emotion at a higher pitch than in the Lesbia poems, which are threaded through both the polymetrics and the third section, which is devoted to poems written in the “elegiac” meter: lines of six beats alternating with lines of five beats. (A lot of the really filthy epigrams, which prompted Byron to declare that “Catullus scarcely has a decent poem,” belong to this group.) Most scholars believe that Lesbia was in fact a certain Clodia, a member of one of Rome’s greatest families. Her father was a consul; her brother, Clodius Pulcher, was a powerful demagogue and the archenemy of Cicero. Unfortunately, nearly everything we know about her, apart from what Catullus says, comes from a savage speech of Cicero’s that was intended to discredit Clodia as a witness in a politically explosive trial, and hence can hardly be taken at face value. (At one point, the great orator hints that brother and sister were lovers.) By contrast, what we glean about her from Catullus’ Liber is oddly generic. The focus, as with so much of his work, is on his feelings, his reactions.

It’s likely that Catullus met Clodia around 62 B.C.E., when he was just past twenty and she was around thirty; it was then that her husband, Metellus Celer, became the governor of the northern-Italian province where the poet’s family lived. Given the family’s prominence, it’s not unreasonable to assume that the new governor and his wife could, like Caesar, have been their guests at one point or another.

Whatever the case may be, the Lesbia poems often betray the giddiness of a callow young lover who’s already hopelessly in over his head with an older and far more sophisticated woman—one who, you sense, may well just be toying with him. It’s worth remembering that, for all his suavity, Catullus was, at heart, a boy from the hinterland: the outrage he often expresses at faithlessness, betrayals, and broken promises, whether by lovers or friends, belongs to the ethos of the straightlaced provinces, not the decadent capital. The pseudonym Lesbia, which alludes to the lyric poet Sappho (and, perhaps, to the alleged erotomania of the women who lived on her island), was presumably intended to protect Clodia’s identity—she was, after all, a married woman—although it’s hard to believe that, in gossipy Rome, the affair could have remained a total secret.

Not counting a verse dedication to the biographer Cornelius Nepos, a fellow northern Italian who “used to think that / these light things that I scribbled had some value,” the first poem of the Liber is about Lesbia, and after that she’s rarely out of sight for long. Strikingly, the glimpses we get of this notorious femme fatale are often oblique. Poem 2, for instance, is addressed to her pet sparrow, with which the poet wishes he could play “and bring ease to my heart’s ongoing torment!” Poem 3 is playful: a mock-heroic eulogy for the sparrow, now dead, whom the poet blames for making his sweetheart’s eyes swollen and red—one of a very few references to Lesbia’s physical appearance. In Poems 5 and 7, he’s counting out, apparently on an abacus, how many kisses will satisfy him: a thousand, then a hundred, then another thousand. Isobel Williams, in the introduction to her renderings of the poems, rightly observes that Catullus, who was likely the scion of successful businesspeople, has a “book-keeper’s eye.”

As giddy as Catullus seems to be in these early poems, he never forgets his clever Alexandrian technique. “Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love,” goes the opening of the first kiss-counting poem: a winning enough incipit. But the classicist Michael Fontaine has pointed out that the poet—who, like all educated Romans, knew Greek as well as Latin—is actually indulging in an elaborate and risqué bilingual pun here. If you translate “let us live, Lesbia” into Greek, you get Lesbia, zômen, a phrase that’s virtually identical to the Greek lesbiazômen, which you could translate as “Let’s do fellatio!”

Beneath the fun and games, however, there’s a shadow over the proceedings almost from the start. Here’s Mitchell’s translation of Poem 5 in its entirety:

Why are the old men gossiping? Who is so jealous that they’d cast a spell? Even in these early, seemingly lighthearted verses, you sense that this unlikely couple won’t be able to keep the real world at bay for long.

And, sure enough, in Poem 8 you get the first crisis:

As the cycle proceeds toward the inevitable breakup—triggered, perhaps, by Lesbia’s dalliances during the year that Catullus was away working for Memmius—the poems of recrimination and spite, often eye-poppingly obscene, predominate. But here, in Poem 8, the poet hasn’t yet hardened himself. That pivot from abjection to the overconfident “Goodbye, dear girl,” and then to the pathetic “you’ll be sorry soon,” suggests why the Lesbia poems have so long appealed to readers. The precision with which Catullus evokes the feverish rhetoric of desire and disappointment, the strident self-admonitions, the denunciations, the pronouncements advocating courses of action that, we know, will never be followed are as familiar today as they were during the waning years of the Roman Republic.

“Even Landor turned back from an attempt to translate Catullus,” Ezra Pound wrote, referring to the distinguished British poet and friend of Dickens. “I have failed forty times, so I do know the matter.” It’s not hard to see why Pound was so pessimistic. Precisely what makes much of Catullus’ work so appealing and “relatable” to modern audiences—the offhand charm, the impish vulgarity, the jazzy colloquialisms—makes him that much more difficult to bring into modern English. Ordinary language, after all, has a far shorter shelf life than does the elevated language of high literature; translations of Catullus that are barely twenty years old already feel dated. Peter Green’s “Wretched Catullus, stop this stupid tomfool stuff” sounds positively Victorian next to Mitchell’s “Wretched Catullus, stop this crazy longing.”

Mitchell often succeeds at conveying Catullus’ diction and tone in a way that feels natural. In the accounting poem, “old farts” is perfect for the Latin senum severiorum, literally “rather stern old men.” Elsewhere, though, he inexplicably fumbles the ball. (Well, maybe explicably: his version aims to reproduce Catullus’ jumpy meters, which force him into some tight corners and limit his choices.) At the beginning of that same poem, Catullus suggests to Lesbia that the gossip of the old farts is worth no more than unius assis, “a penny”—an exhortation wholly in keeping with this bookkeeper poet’s use of pecuniary diction. Mitchell’s “let’s . . . / Not bother our heads about the gossip” abandons the metaphor that crucially structures the entire poem. Such lapses add up. Mitchell is a veteran translator—he’s done everything from Gilgamesh and Homer to Rilke—but you sometimes find yourself wondering whether the scope of his ambition hasn’t come at the price of a certain depth of engagement with the original. The scant notes provided at the back of his volume, a number of which simply paraphrase other scholars’ insights, feel similarly sketchy. You don’t ever feel that he owns this material.

Isobel Williams’s “Switch” puts the fizz back into the proceedings, hewing closely to the thought world of the original, albeit by—to say the least—unexpected means. Among other things, she gets at the Roman poet’s penchant for polarities via a prefatory explanation of the Japanese erotic practice of rope bondage, or shibari. For Williams, Catullus’ divided nature suggests something kinky: “Catullus splits into an anxious bitchy dominant with the boys,” she writes, “a howling submissive with his nemesis, the older woman he calls Lesbia.”

However oddly this may strike you at first, that fresh breeze from the East has the effect of blowing away the cobwebs, giving her renderings the immediacy and wit of the original. “Open out to life and love with me, / Clodia, and we’ll set the regulators’ / Hisses at the lowest rate of interest,” goes the opening of her translation of Poem 5; she proceeds to render all those hundreds and thousands of kisses as Roman numerals interspersed with little “x”s. And here’s how she deals with Poem 8, when the poet thinks it’s all over—the one that, in Mitchell’s version, begins, “Wretched Catullus, stop this crazy longing”:

It’s clear that Williams isn’t interested in giving you everything Catullus actually says; I wouldn’t use “Switch” as a primary text in a survey of Roman literature. But I’d certainly recommend it to anyone who wants to know what reading Catullus must have felt like. Every page of “Switch” is electric with that unmistakable personality: the strutting young genius who knows exactly how talented he is and wants you to know it, too, the brash newcomer from the boondocks determined to conquer the big city, the lover who proudly wears his hemorrhaging heart on his sleeve, the twentysomething with, maybe, a shadow on his lung, writing as fast as he can and bringing everyone he’s ever met, everything he’s studied, and everything he feels to the party, from Callimachus to inrumō. Some old farts may complain about the accuracy of Williams’s new version, but who’d give a penny for their thoughts? As far as I’m concerned, she’s right on the money. 

[choidaisy]

 ⊹ ⋆｡˚ . ˚✧ .  ⊹ ⋆｡˚ DAISY SCENARIOS ! #2

where the members tease dk because he was jealous of daisy's romantic partner

The hotel room was permeated with tension that became palpable as the manager entered, announcing firmly, "We're leaving in an hour." Everyone was there to support the female member who was getting ready for a solo commitment.

"You're not ready, Seokmin... Oh, I forgot, today you're not her partner," Jeonghan needled, his tone dripping with venom echoing through the room.

DK couldn't help himself, rolled his eyes, and let out a theatrical sigh. "Very funny," he retorted, his sarcasm cutting.

"You guys are so teasing," commented Daisy, laughing to lighten the mood.

"And you still laugh," DK shot back, shifting his attention from his phone to her.

"Look what you've done," Daisy pointed at DK with a stern expression.

The makeup artist finished her work on Daisy. The singer stood up, twirling to check the overall look in the mirror. Her shiny dress reflected the ambient light, and her face displayed a mix of confidence and determination.

"You can argue later. Now, it's time to shine," the manager intervened, trying to dissipate the tension.

Daisy cast a meaningful look at the group gathered in the room. "You all are amazing. Thank you for the support, even with all this negative energy in the air."

"You look beautiful, Daisy. Your new partner will love accompanying you," Mingyu said, chuckling as he glanced at DK.

Daisy lightly punched Mingyu's arm and walked over to DK, hugging him and speaking in a playful voice, "Will you be watching the award show?" lifting her sparkling gaze to the taller guy.

"And do I have a choice?" he replied without hugging her back.

"Yes, you don't have to watch... But I'd love for you to send me positive vibes," she said even more playfully.

"You're going to win," he said, succumbing to her charm.

"How can you be so sure?"

"You're amazing, this award is already yours," he asserted, eliciting a smile from the girl.

She let go to leave, and then he held her back in a hug. "Good luck, and have minimal interactions with him, please," he requested, with a clear tone of concern.

While Daisy dazzled on the red carpet, the members at the hotel gathered to prepare snacks and drinks, eager to watch the award show.

With each new photo of Daisy posing alongside the actor she worked with, they made a point to show DK. He understood perfectly that she was there for work, and there was nothing more between them. However, something larger than him persisted, an uneasiness hard to ignore.

The event finally began, indicating that DK would be getting closer to the end of his torment.

"Wow, they look so cute together," Seungkwan commented when the nominees for the best couple award were announced.

"You know what else is cute?" DK asked, eliciting laughter from the other members.

The other and most important category in which Daisy competed was announced. The names and faces of the nominees appeared on the screen, and everyone nervously bit their nails, watching with anticipation. Daisy seemed nervous, but she couldn't stop smiling.

"And the New Best Actress award goes to... Choi Daisy!"

"I TOLD YOU!" DK shouted excitedly, the other guys celebrating, recording the screen to capture her speech.

"Quiet," he requested, approaching the TV to listen to her. The atmosphere became tense, and everyone focused on the emotional words Daisy shared with the audience. DK was radiant with pride, a huge smile on his face as he watched the success of the woman he admired.

"Wow, this is incredible. Firstly, I want to thank the drama director, Lee Sun-woo, for believing in me and giving me the opportunity to portray this challenging role. It has been an amazing and enriching journey that has allowed me to grow as an actress and as a person."

Daisy took a deep breath before continuing, her grateful gaze sweeping across the audience. "To the incredible team behind the scenes, you are the true heroes of this production. From the technicians to the producers, each one of you contributed to creating something special. Thank you for all the hard work and dedication."

She directed her gaze to her scene partner, a fond smile on her lips. "To Joon-ho, thank you for being more than just a coworker. Your guidance and support have been invaluable, and I have truly learned a lot by your side."

Daisy's eyes sparkled as she mentioned Seventeen. "To my dear members of Seventeen, you have been my constant source of encouragement and strength. Your words of encouragement propelled me through the most challenging moments. I am immensely grateful to have such an amazing group by my side."

Finally, she addressed the fans, whose unwavering support always moved her. "And, of course, to my dear fans, you are my constant inspiration. Thank you for being by my side, for your loving messages, and for all the unwavering support. Without you, this award wouldn't be possible. I promise to continue working hard to repay all the love I receive."

Daisy lifted the trophy once again, her eyes shining with gratitude. "This award is ours. Thank you all for being part of this incredible journey. Let's keep growing together!"

At the end of the event, Daisy gracefully navigated through the crowd, bathed in camera flashes and applause, carrying not only the glittering award but also a sense of achievement and fulfillment. With a sigh of relief and happiness, she finally had a moment to grab her phone and check messages.

Daisy swiped the screen, her eyes landing on a special message from DK. "I told you the award belongs to you. Congratulations, I'm so proud."

A comforting warmth spread through her chest as she read those words. She knew she could count on his support, but the genuine pride in his messages brought an even broader smile to Daisy's face.

It took about an hour for her to free herself from post-event commitments and finally access her phone. With nimble fingers, she replied to DK, sharing her joy. "Thank you for the support. I'll be heading over soon to celebrate. Can't wait to share this moment with you all."

Every typed word was laden with gratitude and affection, reflecting the emotion of the moment and the deep connection between them. The journey to the award may have been solitary, but she knew her members would be eagerly waiting to welcome her back.

[takaraphoenix]

UNO REVERSE!

"kitten" for the guessing game

And "knot" 😈😈😈

Ahahaha. Thank you, dearest <3

Okay so Saturday's chapter of Little Red and the Black Fox, when Chris and Peter track down all of Stiles' old N'n'T shoots:

“Christopher,” Peter’s voice sounded so distressed that Chris hurried to him as fast as he could. “Christopher, there is a shoot of him looking like a kitten, he is even wearing a collar.”

I am gonna torment these men So So Much with my decision to make Stiles earn his college tuition through modeling ^-^

(I swear they're gonna do superhero shit too. I just need this for personal enrichment, okay?)

Also, Wednesday's Partnered Shoot:

“So good for me, baby,” Chris praised. “Look at you, coming undone just from me teasing your sweet, little hole and you rubbing off on me like a needy kitten in heat, mh? So good for me.”

Also, final chapter of The Clever One:

“Help me to your bedroom,” ordered Stiles in defeat. “My, my, kitten,” Peter chuckled. “Feisty.”

And two WIPs where I haven't written anything for yet but kitten just comes up in the summaries;

Stiles the Stray: shapeshifter!Stiles gets injured during a fight and, in his cat-form, runs away, ending up on Hale territory and being taken in by Petopher, who fret over their precious little kitten until he is all healed up and able to shift back

Kitten Treats: collared kitten!Stiles Steter

Listen, there isn't much plot to that last one. I just needed kitten!Stiles PWP goodness. It's @lunastories fault, actually.

I'm afraid there is no knotting happening in any of my WIPs, the only use of the word is in the already posted first chapter of Little Red and the Black Fox and it is the "Chris gets a massage" kind of knots being worked out, not the knot you were looking for ;P

WIP Ask Game

[sith-shenanigans]

8 and 19 for ahene?

8. Would you trust them to look after: A small child? A houseplant? Your sandwich?

One hundred percent, on all counts. Too young a small child would be a little dicey, but she’d figure it out. She’s good with kids. She’s a little less good with houseplants, but she’d be diligent. I trust her with my sandwich more than I trust myself to come back for it.

19. Many characters are shaped in part by trauma. Name one happy memory that helped shape your character.

This one is hard—not because she doesn’t have happy memories that shaped her, but because they’re mostly kind of inextricable from the trauma, y’know? It’s the joy of being the very best one at surviving in a place that wants you dead, and knowing the person with you is just as good and has your back forever, even if someday the ruin eats you too. It’s the warmth of a chilly night when you’re curled up in a bedroll with the person who’s your whole world. It’s the satisfaction of lying to the Imperials about something you’d be punished for and being believed. The defiance of stealing one of their rations and breaking it into two twenty levels below the surface to share with someone you love more than anything.

It’s winding the shadows around you and vanishing between the borders of the Force and knowing it would have fixed everything if you’d only known you could do it. It’s walking into the Dark Temple, the place that terrifies even the Sith, and realizing it feels like home. It’s knowing you are you and you are yours and not even the Force can turn you into anything you didn’t choose, because you were born for every part of it that needs someone to remember what it’s meant to be, and you are the thing that no one else can comprehend.

It’s meeting a man who should be a reminder of everything that hurt you and realizing that he sincerely genuinely wishes he’d been there to help. It’s meeting a ghost who was on the wrong side of the war he was always right about, who was once happy to torment you, and quite pleasantly bargaining time in the driver’s seat in exchange for information when both of you would be fairly willing to offer it freely, and then suffering with him when he discovers exactly how good at tasting capsaicin humans are. It’s finding love in everything that tried to break you, going into ruins again and again and again because damn it, that’s home.

It’s standing up in front of the whole galaxy, eventually, and being for them the person you wanted to come for you so long ago.

[oc asks for enrichment]

[ashpeth]

The Aetherdrift story ended today and honestly, I really enjoyed it. The race was mostly besides the point - it was really just a vehicle (pun absolutely intended) for the character driven moments in the story, as well as tying the knots of this thoroughly thus far unconnected arc together. The Dragonstorm arc has kind of been very disparate - Bloomburrow was basically just a palate refresh after the omenpath arc and had only dragonhawk and a brief mention of Jace as connective tissue. Duskmourn brought in another appearance of Jace and an illusion of dragons that Kaito witnessed as the connective tissue, but also introduced Winter and ended with Valgavoth capturing Loot to lead into Aetherdrift.

Spoilers for Aetherdrift under the cut

Aetherdrift is a story about connection and family and teamwork. Fitting for the first? premier set based around a sports competition. The story begins with all of the major characters split up - Chandra is racing alone on a different team to maximize her chances of winning rather than race with her mom, Nissa is fully on the sidelines, Pia has Spitfyre/Sita as her headlining racer but wishes it was Chandra wearing the unique suit, Spitfyre feels fully isolated from her family, stuck in her family’s empty home with her very conservative (fascist) father, who has very specific ideas about what his daughter should be doing with her life, Daretti is on the goblin team, and Loot is stuck in a cage.

As the story progresses, our characters are brought together by circumstance - Daretti is captured by raiders on Muraganda after being abandoned by his team, Chandra tries to rescue Loot from Winter, who has been tormented him, and herself gets lost, and Pia goes to save Chandra. They escape on the goblins’ ride through an omenpath that Loot directs them to. They crashland on Amonkhet and find their way back to Avishkar, where Spitfyre/Sita’s father has captured her in his Jace-backed attempt to overthrow the new government and reinstall his beloved fascist regime.

Jace forcibly takes Loot back, which Chandra fights against. Pia is almost killed, but Spitfyre, letting go of her rivalry with Chandra, saves Pia using her last speed boost, to prevent any other daughter losing her mother like Sita had. Together, Team Avishkar beats back the fascists, though Jace & Vraska escape with Loot. The familial connection of Team Avishkar, both the blood of Chandra and Pia, the found family of Spitfyre to Pia and later Chandra, as well as Loot with Chandra (and of course the love of Gruulfriends), is the theme and power of this story, especially when contrasted with the lonely, stifling and rigid family of Sita and her father, and the not-so-happy family of Jace, Vraska and Loot. Connection is what this story and arguably this arc, is all about.

The planes are connected like never before, for better and definitely for worse. Jace is definitely the villain here, but he’s not wrong. There’s plenty of terrible things that could happen with the increased connection between planes, namely the increased power and influence of Valgavoth, as well as any potential interplanar wars that could break out. People from everywhere can meet and enrich each other’s lives but tyrants now have new worlds to conquer. Jace has clearly fallen down the slippery slope in pursuit of his “greater good”.

Elspeth does arrive as a Deus Ex Machina to save the day and to inform us that the third act dragon that attacks Ghirapur is but a symptom of The Dragonstorm that has been roaming the multiverse and bringing dragons everywhere, even places where there hadn’t been any before.

The threads are leading into the return to Tarkir, where Jace and Vraska are planning something to try to reset everything.

The arc has been about bringing people together, and now we’re going to see that payoff.

[unsoundedask]

If you wouldn't condemn a soldier for killing, what do you have against the Adeliers?

My darling, don't be stupid. A soldier is customarily conscripted by his government to murder for its sake. A fortunate bastard is sent to do so in defence of his home, but as often as not, it is to enrich his betters with more wealth, more land, more resources.

These creatures have little choice but to comply. If they don't, they'll be themselves executed or jailed. Aye, some take pleasure in the task, but on the main they are tools, and a clear-headed nail does not blame the hammer.

The Adeliers - Lemuel and his bloviating brother - are not soldiers. They are in the Temple's service by choice, and rejoiced in their roles. The smell of roasting heretics is pleasing to them. A dead Black Tongue is a net benefit to the world, as far as they are concerned. They enforce tiresome ideas by sword and spell, wrapping their tyrannous fists in the coat skirts of society and wrenching them back, back, to be kept stagnant in the mud. They pin our wings, they murder our brightest, they torment those who do not kiss the ring or acquiesce to the ravings of the character in their book.

And worst of all: they think are good and righteous for doing it!

A soldier has no choice because paladins like the Adeliers took the choice from him. Do not confuse the two.

[blindmagdalena]

Hi! I absolutely adore your writing. Aside from your masterful characterisation of Homelander, your prose is just to die for and I gobble up everything you write.

I was wondering, what do you imagine Homelander's ideal partner is like? Do you think he'd need a supe or would he be ok with an ordinary human (as all the readers are in our fanfics)? What character traits would speak to him? I read somewhere that you think he needs a challenge and would love to read more about your thoughts.

I hope this is fine to ask since your requests are closed but this is more meta than fanfic I thought 🙈

aaahhh, my gosh, you're so kind! thank you! especially for the prose compliment, that means a lot to me. i really love expressive language.

tbh i don't think Homelander even knows what his ideal partner would be. he's historically awful at creating connection beyond someone who fulfills his base needs. He absolutely does need a partner who will challenge him, though. and we know he has this preference based on his history of very powerful and combative women.

and that power doesn't need to be literal, aka superhuman. he's drawn to dominant and influential women. he wants someone who's not afraid of him. he's also very drawn to nurturing women.

what i mean by challenge is someone who will call him on his shit, someone who will set boundaries (which he likely will not abide by), someone who will be genuine with him. he despises being lied to.

i kind of already wrote how i feel this would go in my fic Eat Your Ego, which is an OC fic, but it's also something i'm exploring in the reader fic Guilty Pleasures, where Homelander is shot down and has to earn his way back into her good graces.

that said! i think there's a wide variety of personality types that could catch his attention. Homelander needs enrichment in his enclosure, and often finds that in people who intrigue him... or people he enjoys tormenting.

any relationship for him is likely going to start off as a novelty until he inevitably catches Genuine Feelings, at which point it quickly becomes an obsessive infatuation.

[j2zara]

Maybe this is wish fulfillment but tbh I think LJ3 could end up…. Not exactly winning the luxury sex object prison game but maybe coming the closest. The thing is that LSOP starts with j3 enjoying it for like a month before becoming bored and clawing at the walls for enrichment before devolving into impotently chucking things at Porter’s head that do nothing and dissolve upon impact before heavy blunt objects are eventually removed from LSOP entirely. And it starts with Ellie’s rage and anger and impotent thrashing and fighting before evolving into just deep deep depression but. If the two of them banded together they might honestly give it a good earnest shot at trying to convince Porter to give it all up for Ellie or maybe grant her the position of power at Porter’s right hand that Jace was denied. Like. J3’s silvertongue and cleverness and J4’s fierceness and intensity and pull and devotion to things she cares abt? Porter wants that, wants someone powerful and devoted, he loves Bluejay but he doesn’t have Ellie’s edge. J3 knows he could never convince Porter to do that for him bc he’s nothing but for Ellie? Maybe there’s a shot. And Ellie would have to grit her teeth and whisper sweet nothings in porters ear and lady macbeth it up but she would do it. Do the thing she hates. for J3 and for a shot at freedom. I don’t think they could swing it bc nobody wins in the torment nexus but. They could maybe come close

[greenerteacups]

Currently loving your Spotify character playlists, Pansy's and Draco's in particular. The moodyness of D's playlist suddenly being broken up by My Own Worst Enemy - Lit cracked me up.

I'm so pleased with the glimpses of Narcissa's friendship with Snape we see in Lionheart. He's such a tragic figure in the books in general that just giving him the space to make a bawdy joke at that party felt refreshing. Your ability to weave together different aspects of character's personalities through the tale is one of the things that makes this story feel so enriching.

thank you. draco's character arc in my fic (as in canon) toes a constant line between "saddest wettest gloomiest boytragedy ever in history, 24/8 mental torment" and "comic farce." we must never forget this.

and thanks! snape and narcissa's friendship is a helluva lot of fun to write. snape (defending champion of the saddest wettest gloomiest etc title) is such an absolute wart most of the time that it's great to have someone who takes none of it and knows him well enough to call him on his bullshit. and vice versa — narcissa is more than used to getting her own way, and snape is one of like 3 people on earth that she can't push around. (he'll usually do what she wants anyway, but still.) it's good for both of them. in another, better universe, i imagine them getting wine drunk together and bitching about people who annoy them (almost everyone.)