#so they're less complicated than normal mirrors

[prettyboykatsuki]

✮ tags ; fingering, gn + afab!reader, pro-hero katsuki, dirty talk from both parties, semi-public sex (they're in a dressing room), finger-sucking, 18+

✮ wc ; 1.5k

✮ a/n ; it feels like i just got hit over the head with a fucking mallet. i swear im still on hiatus. its seven in the morning. im going to go crazy. the literal spike of adrenaline i got looking at him.

"No way," He snorts, his voice clipped—cocky against the shell of your ear as his hands sneaks against your waist. "This is what gets you?"

A reflexive part of you doesn't want to give Katsuki the satisfaction of a yes. You know how he is. You'd go as far as saying you like it - almost as much as you like him when he's not acting like the center of the universe. But it's undeniable that part of what draws you to Katsuki is the very thing that causing you strife now.

He's complicated. Underlined all that dripping egoism is a real sense of uncertainty - and that part of him is sexy too. The awkward, lovesick gentle man he can be when he wants.

But. But.

Other times, it's his magnetism. Such raw, enigmatic confidence built on experience. Prowess. No amount of complicated can erase or overshadow just how much Katsuki is a pure fire. You normally get boyfriend Katsuki, and he's catty and affectionate with nothing to prove. Soggy and loveable and approachable.

You forget, often, what he can be like when the cameras flash. What the public likes of him. Which is raw sex appeal and sultry eyes and a wicked little grin, wolfish and wanting.

You're not ashamed to admit seeing that turns you on. And it's only worsened to see him bask in it - getting off on the sudden attention

(Your attention, specifically - considering he had been all but indifferent to the awing of studio, only minutes prior.)

"Yeah, it is," You groan, pressing your forehead against his shoulder. Your body shudders responsively to his touch.

There's something rushed about the whole ordeal. Your back is pressed up against the mirror in his dressing room - legs spread with your pants barely unbuttoned. Katsuki is no better, borrowed pants snug on thick, muscular thighs. He laughs a little breathlessly. No less affected than you if the tent in his pants is any measure.

"Aw, what?" He presses, his lips pulled. All canines as he rests his palm over your waistband and doesn't move an inch. "Seeing me in front of all those cameras turn you on?"

You pull away to stare at him and he's grinning. Unusual playfulness steeped and soaked between layers of lust. Your hand reaches for his length, hand cupped around as you grip. He closes his eyes, swears under his breath.

"You look good," You tell him, and you mean it - much more than you've meant anything in the last twenty minutes. He's taken aback by the candor despite asking for it. "You looked so fucking good."

His eyes go lidded as he presses his mouth to yours. He stops teasing, breaching past your pants into your underwear. Your spine curls at the sudden sensation. Brief and unmoving. You can feel how wet you are, feel the way your arousal burns in your core and makes your whole body tight with want.

"You mean that," He says more than asks. His breathing goes shaky and you can feel him pulse in your hands. "Say it. Tell me you want it."

You laugh a little "Want you, Katsuki. Make me feel good, baby."

He groans, once again loosing all composure. You hold onto Katsuki's shoulder as he takes your words like a challenge—the way he takes most things. Everything about the experience is both too much and not enough. You both know it. The energy in the room electric, it's almost harder not to take it all off and fuck him in the middle of his work-day. He has to be back out there in god knows how soon but you can barely keep your legs together without the friction driving you crazy.

He breathes slow trying to maintain his composure- huffs as his fingers press along the folds of your cunt. "You're so wet, fuck," He drops his chin against your shoulder "Never seen you like this"

"You look good when you're all in front of the camera, my love," You huff, an arm around his middle as you draw him close. Your voice is close next to his ear, speaking soft. "A waste you can't fuck me right now,"

There's something like a low growl in his throat when he finally gives you what you. Katsuki knows your body like the back of his hand - every inch of you memorized. Precise, angular movements. He circles your clit a few times before moving down further. You can feel the tight space get tighter, the heel of his hands pressing against your clit as his fingers push past your entrance.

You bite back a moan so broken it's pitiful and he groans with you. He goes slowly at first, tries to ease you into the sensation of his fingers. His are so much thicker and so much longer, noticeable as you feel him stretch your pussy out. He presses the heel of his hand up a little more to give you everything.

"How the hell am I supposed to go out there?" He grits. "Talking to me like that like I'm not about to go back out there."

"I'll let you fuck me as much as you want as a sorry, I promise."

He scoffs at you, makes a point of it as both of his fingers slide into you. He always starts with his middle - feels around for the sweet spot until you're gripping at him harder. After he finds it, he adds his ring finger. He stiffens when you moan, his own arousal starting to show in his face. Red eyes all clouded with desire so deep it could drown.

A honeyed feeling blooms in your core. Burns hot like sugar as you spread your legs to give him more room to you. Your body is so hot, so molten - you give up on everything else. On thinking, on breathing, on keeping quiet. You slump into the mirror behind you as he sets a motion. His fingers curl towards him over and over, rubbing and pushing and grinding against your pulsing core. Against your g-spot, throbbing insides trembling with each gesture.

Your voice breaks out. A deep, needy moan punched from your lungs. He stares at you before ducking into your space. His teeth scrape against the skin near your jaw, kissing and biting and licking. He pays attention to the sweet spot underneath your ear.

"Look at you," He says, like he's gloating. You think he is. If you weren't so aroused you might be able to pay it some mind. "Gonna cum on my fucking fingers, huh?"

"Fuck, Katsuki. Fuck me, fuck."

"I'll make good on that promise, damn tease." He says with a laugh. Biting and cocky and egotistical. Unbearably sexy at the worst of times. It's effecting you more than you care to admit, but you don't have the capacity to pull away from him. "Makin' me do this to you in the middle of my work day like some kinda freak."

"Like it doesn't turn you on,"

He laughs, deep and low. "That's the problem, dumbass."

"Kat," You shudder, your back arching - eyes fluttering closed as you grip his arm. You can feel the way his muscle flexes under your nail, digging into your arm. You groan and whine, cunt clenching around his fingers. It's dripping, noisy as he draws the mess out of you. "Gonna cum."

"Make a mess. Show it to me."

The sound of his voice, gravel coarse and low - is what ends up pushing you over the edge you're sure. Your orgasm crashes into so quickly and with so much force. You barely keep yourself from screaming. Your boyfriend kisses you to swallow whatever other noises you make - seemingly eager to do it. He puts his tongue into your mouth, stifling any other remaining noise.

Your body is pulses, pussy fluttering as shocks of euphoric flit through your whole body and leave you in complete and utter wreckage. Katsuki fucks you through it like the overachiever he tends to be, his fingers highlighting the soft sticky noises of your orgasm as you finish.

Your whole body shakes as a result of your lust. Not entirely gone but at least somewhat tamped down. You let your eyes flutter open as Katsuki pulls his hand away.

Before he can wipe his fingers down, you grab his wrist and pull them up to your mouth. He looks at you startled at first before he realizes, a look of pure lust settling on his features. Carmine red eyes stare down at you hard as you lick your cum off of his hand with a tired smile.

"Take more pictures for me to get off on and come fuck me before we go, okay?"

"Fucking evil little brat." He hisses, kissing you. He moans when he tastes you on him. "Don't think about anything but me while I'm gone."

You shake your head, trying to make sense of anything. "Don't think I could."

He laughs good-naturedly, kissing you again. "Damn right,"

[ghosts-of-love]

only a hundred words i'm afraid x( but i really really love this passage and would love to get your commentary on it :D hope your holiday is off to a good start!

And amongst that, the three of them always meet for lunch every Friday at Kitty’s Café. The Captain makes sure to maintain his façade of careful neutrality when listening to Pat’s stories, not reacting to them with any more or less emotion than a good friend would. It’s a tough line to walk, but he manages it. 

It’s often not just a Pat thing. For example, it is important to him that he doesn’t let any of his friends know how humorous he finds them, except for the eponymous Kitty of Kitty’s Café, and that’s only sometimes, in his moments of weakness. 

Okay so! I know this is a short bit so I'm not going word for word or anything but I've somehow still got a lot of thoughts about it! apologies for what is definitely the most rambling and incoherent response i've ever achieved 😅😅

I think the thing here is that, in the same way that in the Ghosts Archive book the Captain reveals he thinks he has bad posture - this Captain thinks that he must have a very expressive face - it is something he realised as a teenager and tried his best to get rid of going into adulthood. And honestly, yeah he's right, people can tell when he's annoyed or bored quite easily - teachers would call him out on it in class, which is how he realises. It's not a problem as he grows up until he gets closer friends (ghosts gang whoop whoop) and Pat.

I feel like at some point in the past, the early days of their friendship, Pat told a story and the Captain let out an uncharacteristic 'my god, that's outrageous!' and it was so surprising to everyone that he saw them all exchange confused looks - he took it to be a negative thing, whereas they were all just like, 'woah hey, this guy can be expressive??'. I know I didn't mention the other ghosts in this fic but they are there and all friends - I'd hoped mentioning Kitty was enough to show that haha. Anyway later in the bathroom mirror at home and he imagines then studies his own face and thinks 'oh god, i look ridiculously enamoured, everyone must know'. and it's at that point that he knows he's gotta try harder to hide it (at this point Pat is still married and he doesn't want anyone's pity about being in love with a married man, and then Pat is getting divorced and he doesn't want anyone's judgement for being in love with a soon to be divorced man, it's all very complicated, and there's never a good time to admit anything to anyone).

and then whenever he puts on his neutral listening face, he's sitting there nodding and thinking 'i am getting a good grade in friend' etc until it becomes second nature to him after so many years.

it's also like. if he reacts to everyone with the same level of emotion (or lackthereof) then he can never be accused of favouring anyone. but also, they can all definitely see through him. they see the little smiles he does, they see how careful he is around Pat, they might not fully understand why, but they share looks and in the early years they talk about it behind his back (not in a bad way, just in a slightly concerned way) until they forget a bit too and becomes normal for them all.

And along with the being-in-love-with-Pat bit, you've also got that kind, fatherly side to Cap - which we also see when they're hanging out with Joanie's children over Christmas but yeah - that he doesn't want to show to his friends because he thinks it makes him vulnerable. man's not really got a father figure to speak of, so...

Not to be cringe but I actually based this small passage (and all the thoughts and feelings behind it) on specific people in my family and how we all interact - my mum, uncle and granny. they just. idk how to explain it. but the bit about not letting his friends know how funny he finds them is basically what i can only assume is going through my family's heads too. it feels like it's always a competition to be the funniest person in the room, but it can't be loud, outrageous humour. it's like a quiet, dry, clever wit and you've won the family gathering if you get a sensible chuckle out of everyone else who is otherwise pretending they don't find you funny. this makes it sound like i don't like them - they are the better side of the family and i love them so much. but yeah, i often base a lot of the Captain's family dynamics on my own because i think it fits well with his character in a modern au.

I also think in this fic (and all of my fics to be honest) the Captain spends a lot of time trying to make Pat laugh in a similar sort of way (a bit like he does in the show, a bit like my family does) and then quietly (proudly) smiling a little to himself, but only after checking that other people are laughing too so that he can pass it off as laughing at his own joke.

And then, obviously you've got Pat's perspective which is that they're best friends and they're very close and he's met his family and they love him and they have weekly lunches (with Humphrey but still) but the Captain always seems tense in a way he's always had to explain as anxiety or autism or something he can't understand and may never. Ironically the only times he doesn't seem that way are when they're alone together, because the Captain is thinking less about how he's being perceived, and he's able to relax and be more himself.

crikey that was a lot of words and i don't think that any of it actually makes sense haha! i hope that you got something from it though and if you want me to explain anything else more then i can definitely try!!

also my holiday was BRILLIANT thank you for asking!!

[scenetocause]

hello my dearest emptyhalf do you have any horny thoughts about max and his slutty hairy thighs and lando's shirt a lil tight on his chest? if you wanted to share ❤️

this was all very slutty of them wasn't it. their medium phase is very slutty. i think they should do it! max is looking very hot lately and i know he has a complicated relationship(tm) to his body because don't we all but it is very nice, very cute! if i was an even less restrained person there would probably be omegaverse in his fictional self's near future for looking, ahem, breedable.

some ficlet. warning: undernegotiated polyamory/probably just cheating but whatever

"Mate" Max isn't even going to pretend he thinks what Lando's about to say should be on stream, glares at him as though Lando doesn't know perfectly well he's already muted his mic.

"You - those shorts. Did you always have - y'know, legs like... that."

"I have always had legs, yes, Bob." Max sighs. This is going to be - he had a feeling bringing Pietra was going to turn things chaotic but he'd been hoping Lando'd like her more if they spent a bit of time together.

It's not that he thinks Lando likes her any less or that it's been totally unsuccessful getting them to speak to each other. It's just that Lando likes Max so much he can't act normal about it and Max had been promising he wasn't going to - like, he's not under the illusion this is ok, really but also it's Lando and if only they could've coordinated being single better maybe-

Ok, stop that thought. He's not having that thought. But this is a lot more complicated than he was expecting it to be, mostly because of the simple truth that Lando wants to get in his pants and Max wants him to.

"They're, hmm." Lando chews his own thumb for a moment. "Very nice."

"Thanks, Bob." He doesn't dare look round, having averted his eyes to the screen while Lando was still gnawing at whatever this is. "Can you help me set this up?"

Giving Lando things to do for Max always seems to focus him, bring him back from whatever alternate universe he was getting close to touching. It's just that it also gives him an excuse to touch Max, which gets very dangerously close to groping Max's tits on camera and they might be muted but this isn't a good idea.

He knew he shouldn't have worn the McLaren shirt. Except that he did, precisely so this would happen and he could blame it on Lando being a gremlin instead of Max wanting.

"Bob," he says it quietly, catching sight of himself in his own camera for a second and nearly squirming. His lips look kiss-swollen even though - he swears - they haven't been and he's got this look he remembers from Pietra's bedroom with the mirror wardrobe.

Lando is grinning, the sharp-teeth one that's particularly unhinged and always makes Max feel like something good's about to happen. Like feeling out a car that you know is going to be good for pole. Like lightning on the horizon. Like they're gonna order Domino's to the Woking house and then get each other off on the big, stupid, grey sofa.

It takes him slightly too long to refocus, has absolutely no idea what track or race or anything he's about to be doing and it's guaranteed to be a mess anyway. He can't think about iRacing when his brain's running away with reasons it'd be fine to just stay up late with Lando tonight, get some them-time to do man things.

Just normal things. Innocent things, as the meme goes.

Lando trails his stupid, long fingers down the back of Max's neck, stroking behind his ears and he shivers involuntarily, has to rearrange in the seat only to settle right back to where Lando can touch him. Like he does with everything.

[auramgold]

i've seen a lot of trans narratives in terms of killing their old self, murdering the self that was constructed for the world, killing the False so that the Truth may live. and i've seen many trans narratives lean back towards the Old once they carved the space to explore, approaching cautiously the gender they once ran from to scavenge the pieces they liked from the shell.

i've also seen many plural systems express this in a different way: you killed the AGAB, and the AGAB came back. turns out they weren't entirely fake, just contextually limiting.

the AGAB self often ends up cast aside, or worse, a corpse, abandoned for a flashier New that leaves what Was in the dust behind. and they're often angry that they had to be killed so that someone else might live, now that they have had the space carved to truly Feel.

to exist pre-transition, to exist in that identity haze, is oppressive to both sides of that coin. neither side has the space to explore, but one side makes it easier to fawn for others into reducing your needs, and that fawning is what holds us back.

but at the same time, it's not their fault, is it? your sense of self was traumatized into a mould more convenient for those Outside instead of being allowed to form and develop naturally. it's not the fault of the one shoved tightly into the mould that the mould restrained you.

i've often described my pre-transition self as being "more mirror than person" by the time i broke out of that. i describe it as breaking the mirror, flowery language that, while symbolic, disguises what it truly was:

i murdered him so that i could grow beyond him.

but it turns out that that doesn't stick, does it? pieces of Self don't die like that, identity has a nasty habit of having a hell of a lot of inertia. and a while ago, i found that part of self, that spirit, beaten down, hidden away, being moulded into shape Out Of The Way.

in other words, he was being moulded into what was useful for me.

it was useful for me to be binary, to be just a "normal" trans girl (because otherwise no one in society would believe me), so the boy inside me had to die, be hidden, cast away.

he's hurt, damaged, and scarred, injured by a life of two different phases that didn't let him out of an ill-fitting mould.

but most of all, he's angry, he's resentful. why is he seen as the "lesser half?" why is he seen as less important than me?

often times, those parts rediscovered are forced into being a cute side character, playing second fiddle to the "real" identity. it's more convenient for everyone to pretend they aren't there, or if they are, they're safe to ignore, a tiny side note on a more important Main Self.

but isn't that just a third mould to be cast into? just another bound on the fact they can only exist if they're shaped to be Useful? that's a terrible way to live, and you'd know that too. their memories are yours too, you know what it was like before transition.

i guess what i'm saying is... those parts, if you find them? they're Real, they're Important, they're Relevant too. talk to them, listen to them. let them live like no one outside you is going to let them.

you don't need to take glee in their murder. you owe them that much.

listen to the self inside you repressed by the world around, let them find how they can exist, how they want to exist.

gender is more complicated than transphobic society lets it be, but you don't need to take it out internally.

they deserve a say, and you need to listen. they're a part of you too.

[padmerrie]

Odds and (Book)ends [ongoing ; AO3 link HERE]

Various unconnected snippets set in the Bookends universe, updated whenever inspiration strikes.

Series summary: Kakashi Hatake and Sasuke Uchiha have big ambitions despite their small town roots. So when Sasuke is accepted into a prestigious private high school, Kakashi will do anything to get him there - including reconnecting with Sasuke’s wealthy, estranged grandparents, Madara and Hashirama, and asking them for a big favor: money to pay for the school’s pricey tuition. Presented with the opportunity to become a part of Sasuke’s life again, they're eager to help… but on one condition: in exchange for Sasuke’s tuition, Kakashi and Sasuke must attend a weekly Friday night dinner at their estate. Forced to face their differences and complicated past, Kakashi and Sasuke learn to navigate a new normal all the while trying not to get tangled in the ties that bind.

ᓚᘏᗢ    ᓚᘏᗢ    ᓚᘏᗢ    

Charity

“It’s going to rain.  I just know it.”

Kakashi didn’t bother looking up at the darkening sky.  Ominous gray clouds appeared on the horizon less than a half ago, rolling steadily towards them, and all Iruka had done since then was track their progress with the same enthusiasm as Channel 7’s meteorologist, Sayaka Mori.  Any minute now he was going to ask Kakashi to film his audition tape for a national news network.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Kakashi mused.  “When we’re raising money to fix the gymnasium’s roof?  At this point it would be easier to convert the gym into a swimming pool.”

His light attempt at humor was, unsurprisingly, lost on Iruka.  “I can’t believe it’s going to rain.”

“Iruka, there are a hundred or so days left in the school year.  I’m sure it won’t be raining on at least one of them.”

Iruka groaned miserably.  “I don’t want to reschedule.”

Now, Kakashi looked up.  “You’re really going to make those kids stand in the pouring rain and beg people to cough up a couple bucks to get their car washed when Mother Nature is already getting the job done for free?"

“But look how excited they are,” Iruka argued, looking over at the student volunteers set up in the school parking lot. 

Excited wasn’t the word Kakashi would use.  A cluster of students sporting identical, homemade t-shirts advertising the charity car wash stood huddled against the cold.  Sasuke was easy to spot, the only one not courageously sacrificing his comfort for the sake of school spirit.  The hood of his sweatshirt was pulled down low over his head, the front zipped all the way up to his neck.  Even with the added layer, Kakashi could tell that he was shivering.  Next to him, Sakura and Naruto talked animatedly to each other and a couple other classmates Kakashi recognized but didn’t know by name.  The comatose expression on Sasuke’s face gave him the distinct impression that he mentally checked out of the conversation a while ago; the only thing keeping him tethered to this mortal plane was the to-go coffee cup clutched in his hands. 

As if sensing him, Sasuke looked up and their eyes met.  He gave an imperceptible shake of his head, his hollow stare mirroring exactly how Kakashi felt.  

We gave up our Saturday for this?

The most Kakashi could do without offending Iruka was nod somberly in solidarity.  

“Oh, I don’t know,” Iruka groused out loud more to himself than to Kakashi as he squinted up at the dark clouds.

“I’ll do whatever you want to do,” Kakashi simply said, and thought to himself, if it wasn’t going to rain, the least Mother Nature could do was save him from Iruka’s chronic indecisiveness.    

A drop of rain hit his head. 

[sanisse]

You talk about bonds in your writings a lot? What are these exactly? Like sexual, matrimonial, familial? What do they do and how are they formed? At least in your opinion or even maybe textually?

I’m so curious!

aaaa! I love meta and lore questions, thank you!

I do make use of Bonds a lot because I find them to be such a fascinating concept. Tolkien really didn't say much other than the fact that elves form "indissoluble bonds" when they get married and have sex. He also heavily implies that elvish children have similar bonds with their parents. Tolkien writes "therefore... [a child's soul]... draws nourishment from their parents before the birth of the child: directly from the mother...and mediately from the father" (Laws and Customs).

As far as I'm aware of, that's really the only definitive information we have there. Pretty much everything else floating around is fanon. My own headcannons are as follows:

I take "indissoluble bonds" to mean spiritual bonds, linking souls to one another inextricably.

Every soul has a certain color. This is just my personal preference when I'm writing to distinguish them. For instance, Celebrian is silver-colored. Elrond is starlight-colored before he receives Vilya, but post-Vilya, it is gold. Gil-Galad is kind of an indigo color. So, kind of like auras, I guess? It's hard to explain.

For sexy reasons (and because it makes things a lot less complicated), I headcannon that Elves can withhold bond-forming when they're having sex if they just want to have casual sex.

I apply the theory of Quantum Entanglement from physics to Bonds, because I think it's Neat. -- "groups of particles are generated, interact, or share spatial proximity in a way such that the quantum state of each particle of the group cannot be described independently of the state of the others, including when the particles are separated by a large distance"

So, just from a fun fantasy play application, I like to say that Elves who are bonded to each other have access to and basically simultaneously feel (more or less) each other's thoughts, wishes, desires, emotions, and sometimes even physical experiences. Bonds can cause internal (mental, emotional, etc.) pain if strained or stretched, either under emotional duress, conflict, long periods of physical distance, or long periods of emotional distance. This feeling gets worse and worse the more times that passes.

This applies to both married couples and parents and children. So, say your SO or child is in distress or particularly wants/needs/is looking for you, you can feel that, and it'll prompt you to go to them and see what the matter is.

In terms of other sexy applications: couples act as facing mirrors. Pleasure is volleyed and amplified in bonded sex (vs unbonded sex where it's just normal). Partners feel each other's orgasms as well as their own.

Bonds can be formed intentionally for children which are not biological -- so adoptive bonds! You can also just have this be a platonic sort of Bond between adults, too. The process is a little different (romantic bonds are formed during sex, but platonic bonds I kind of headcannon as...like walking through a door, if that makes sense? Like the adoptive parent will step up to the child's psyche & soul and just sort of knock, and the child can choose to let them in or not to form the bond). Both parties must be willing, though.

Bonds are webbed. So, for instance, Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen are all bonded as siblings, and bonded to their parents. Via their parents, they are also bonded to their grandparents (and would be to aunts & uncles if they had them). I headcannon that bonds get weaker the farther along the tree you get, but they all do link together.

In the case of adoptive bonds - in order to fully hook up to the rest of the family group chat, you have to be bonded to both living parents. If you're only bonded to one, then you only receive the bond to that person, rather than the whole family. It just feels very Tolkien to me.

Bonds can't be dissolved, but they can be shut down by either party. This is very painful and stressful, but it does happen -- usually when one partner is in a great deal of physical or emotional pain and wants to shield the other party from it.

I feel like there's definitely more here that I have to say in terms of how I use Bonds when I'm writing but that's all of the top of my head, lol!

[thousandyearbloodwar]

i have a lot of complex thoughts about ulquiorra and grimmjow's capability or desire for romance, respectively (together is a different thing i have less thoughts on lol) and i think for a lot of people this sort of mindset covers all of the espada/arrancars in general, but like, when i say ulquiorra and grimmjow aren't relationship people it's not because they're hollows. in fact there are plenty of hollows who definitely have shown romantic interest in others before, whether hollow or shinigami or whatever. and other forms of desire like whatever szayel would be described as. stark's whole thing is not wanting to be alone. haribel loves her tres bestias. ulquiorra does not care about relationships in a way that is somewhat directly addressed in the story, while grimmjow's is more of a... you assume, sort of thing, piece it together. ulquiorra just does not understand or see a reason to understand love, or heart, or these emotions that drive someone to do something illogical. it doesn't fit his orders, so why should he care? it genuinely just doesn't mean anything to him. it's not like he's in denial, he just hasn't found a reason to care... yet! of course, over time tending to orihime he learns a lot about "heart" and as he dies he experiences what is probably the only emotion he ever did of his own accord, choosing to reach out to orihime to signal that he understands, he's fighting in his last moments in his own way, too. i don't think it's love, what they had, for a good many reasons but it was significant for ulquiorra. he learned something aizen couldn't teach him. Now. grimmjow is a very different kind of man. he's oversaturated with emotion from beginning to end, extremely animated and hungry for power, victory, companionship, success, survival. the act he puts on is closer to his real self than a lot of people realize. a wild panther will not domesticate overnight, and it likely never will. but he doesn't want to, or need to. he fights because that's what he does. you don't need something to love when your claws are for killing. ichigo is... definitely the closest he gets to some sort of "partner". while he had his fracciones, they were always weaker than him and seceded to him in the goal to help him become an espada one day and serve under him. things beneath him so weak that beyond an extension of his claws they had no worth. ichigo was someone who wasn't weaker than him, nor was he so powerful he couldn't even be considered, but they were equal. they could fight all out and come out on shared terms, mirroring each other's physical states. it was something new and exciting for grimmjow, but still familiar enough that he didn't have to hesitate. it's seek and kill like always, but now he's having fun. then it gets complicated, because ichigo is not like him in this way. ichigo lets morals and protection drive him, and he doesn't even consider losing. grimmjow is in his way, and he sees this in the way he looks at him, and this pisses him off. he's not weak, nobody needs to disregard him like that. of course, that's not how it actually is, but this is his perception and so he acts as such. and so they fight fairly, ichigo takes him seriously. grimmjow loses, but through outside input. and ichigo, of all things, saves him. to fight him later. grimmjow feels a lot at this, but i think the impact went both ways. ichigo, like when he fought kenpachi, confronts the idea that he likes to fight, to be strong, to battle. it doesn't always have to be about protecting. they rub off on each other both ways, one skin shedded for a new layer. now, is it love? no, i don't really think so. their relationship isn't the kind you would see existing in normal people. but they aren't normal. grimmjow and ichigo can bond in a way that is uniquely them, and i think it's good. play fighting will let them both relax and let off steam while staying true to themselves. this whole post is mostly nonsense and i trailed off to unrelated thoughts a lot but . looks around.

[oomisluvr]

insecure sakusa, a drabble

synopsis: insecurity is not something that finds sakusa easily, but god does it hit like a bitch once it does. reverse hurt/comfort (??), sad!sakusa + comforting!reader

warnings: mention of blood, acne, burnout, a drop of existential crisis, pressing questions about what it means to be human

it's rare that sakusa feels like this. he's usually so confident, too confident, almost. some might consider him to be arrogant, but when you're one of the best aces in the nation, that's to be expected.

but relationships are a funny thing; they bring up a complicated mess of emotions he never would've concerned himself over.

all of a sudden, silly things matter. silly things like the way he styles his hair, the brand of socks he wears, do these shoes even go with this outfit?

he knows he shouldn't feel this way, but as someone who's been constantly reassured that they're the best, it's only natural that kiyoomi would chase perfection. sakusa seeks only to be the best; a goal he will continue to chase, his fatal flaw.

"oomi, come to bed already!" you whine into his pillows, the rest of your body hidden by the duvet, "i'm cold."

"i'm coming, jesus, just give me—" sakusa falters when his eyes meet his reflection in the mirror of the bathroom, a sick feeling tearing a hole through his stomach, "—just give me a second."

it's normal, he knows, it's completely normal to have acne.

taking a shaky breath, he reaches through your makeup bag, pulling out a pair of tweezers once he finds them.

with a heaviness in his stomach, he squeezes and pokes and prods at every blemish he can find, leaving bright red spots in it's wake.

"oomi, what are you— hey, stop picking at your face!" sakusa jumps at the sound of your voice.

he hadn't heard you get out the bed, much less enter the bathroom. feeling like a kid caught with his hand in a candy jar, he drops the tweezers, an embarrassed look finding yours in the mirror.

tiny beads of blood bubble up on his flushed skin. he looks like he wants to cry. with a sigh you approach him, the palms of your hands settling in the groove of his jawline.

"what's all this about, hmm?" you sooth, but sakusa still feels like he's about to throw up, "you haven't been yourself lately." he hates this. sakusa hates the he feels so damn vulnerable. he hates that you of all people are seeing him like this.

you know, fuck, you always know. you always know when something is wrong; you always know exactly what he needs. the feeling in his stomach grows deeper. he fights back tears. he can't tell if he's humiliated or grateful.

"i-it's just a lot," his voice shakes, "with volleyball, and classes, and friendships, and relationships, and everything in-between. a-and now i'm breaking out and i don't know what do to and i— it's just a lot. "

"i know, baby," you kiss the tip of his nose, "you do so much and i'm so proud, but it's okay to feel overwhelmed sometimes."

"i feel stupid."

"maybe stupid isn't the right word," you quickly correct, relieved at the sight of a faint smile, "burnt-out might be more accurate."

"i think you might be right. i used to love volleyball, but sometimes it feels more like a burden."

"do you not love it anymore?"

"i do, i do. it's just... i don't know, it's not the release it used to be."

sakusa doesn't know how you do it; how you work information out of him so easily. he feels like he can tell you anything and you'd listen.

"that training camp coming up," you suggest, "i think you should go. it'll be exciting to train with new players."

he frowns, "it's in seoul. i don't want to be that far away," from you, he wants to add. i don't want to be that far from you.

"you'll survive, i promise. it's only a week."

"ten days."

"okay. a little more than a week."

"fuck, but all my assignments—"

"—we can work on them together and finish them before you go." you interrupt. his gaze is uneasy.

"why are you so nice to me?"

"i'm your girlfriend, duh. i kinda have to be nice to you."

you stare at each other for a bit, and the love in your eyes makes sakusa choke up for a second.

"... it's... it's not supposed to be like this." he finally says, ashamed.

"be like what?"

"i'm supposed to comfort you... i'm supposed to be the one to hold you and tell you everything is going to be okay," he closes his eyes to prevent tears from falling, "i don't know what's wrong with me."

"kiyoomi, there's nothing wrong with you. you're a human being before anything else. this is a partnership; your struggles are my struggles and your problems are mine, too. it's okay to have bad days."

suddenly, sakusa throws your arms away from him, instead engulfing you in a sloppy embrace. you feel liquid hit your neck, but chose not to comment on it, "what does that even mean?! what am i outside of volleyball? who am i outside of being an ace? it's all i am; it's all i have to offer; it's all people see! i'm not allowed to have bad days!"

"kiyoomi," his large frame trembles in your hold and you struggle to find the words to comfort him, "i can't answer those questions for you. self-worth is something you have to find for yourself. only you can decide who sakusa kiyoomi is, the kind of man you want to be. i can only promise that i'll stand by you while you figure things out; i'll promise to hold you and not laugh. i'm always on your side— i'm your biggest cheerleader and number one fan."

god, when was the last time someone just accepted him for who he is? you never push, you never pry; you never try to change him. you love him as he is, even if he doesn't fully understand who that is yet.

somehow, by some miracle, you do, though. you saw straight through the cracks of his facade and bypassed all the safeguards he thought were impenetrable.

you're able to touch him in a way that brings him to his knees. you break down his walls to make the man behind them stronger. he doesn't understand how you do it, but kiyoomi trusts you with his life, so he'll let you into his heart and love you in the way you deserve.

because that's who he is.

it's silent in the bathroom, the artificial lights suddenly feel blinding in this quiet moment.

"...do you still... love me? with all this stuff on my face?"

"skin, babe?"

"that's not what i meant."

"well, that's what i meant," you sigh, "you're human, oomi. you have a body and flesh and bones like everyone else. sometimes our body prioritizes survival over beauty and that's okay; that's what healthy bodies do. acne is okay; acne is normal. it doesn't make you any less of a person and it doesn't make you any less of a man."

the hold he has on you gets tighter, the skin of your neck feeling cold from the coolness that comes with a tear-soaked t-shirt, "thank you, y/n. i'm sorry you had to see that."

"of course, kiyoomi," you rub small circles into his back, "i'm here for you in anyway i can be, and that includes supporting you even on your worst of days."

he hums in response, feeling secure in your hold.

"... but if you ever go through my makeup bag without my permission, i'll kill you."

you feel him smile.

inspired by the last episode of neon genesis evangelion because what the fuck was that holy shit

[pricemarshfield]

falling

A Zoey/MC/Poppy fic for A Very Poppy Weekend. Thank you to @penda-bear for organizing!

Day 3: free day. Rated E, definitely NSFT, minors DNI. Read under the cut or on AO3 here.

Warning for a remote-controlled toy (not used in a public space, and there’s enthusiastic consent from everyone involved).

There's a couple things Bea's getting used to about being rich. Being trashy is seen as a fun pastime and not a personality trait. It's gauche to discuss your money but boring to act too humble. People don't ask you questions if you're putting cash in your pocket.

Specifically, people don't push or stop you when you're very, very obviously about to do some weird sex thing.

Okay, not weird. It's not like Bea's hiding chains or feathers or anything super freaky under her clothes as they wait for a private room in the restaurant. It's just that, well--Zoey's her date, right, and that rules, and she looks absolutely beautiful in this deep pale golden dress that's so unlike her usual jewel-tone color palette and professional look but still uniquely hers, and Bea is so lucky to be here, and also, uh, Poppy's here?

See, that's the weird thing, the thing that they had to get far from Belvoire to try without any questions or second glances, is that this is Bea and Zoey's date, and also, they want a private room for that date, and also, a second table in that private room for Poppy.

No one asks any questions. It's so weird.

Bea shifts a little while they wait to be sat. They're setting up the room to their specifications; the two tables are set up in such a way that one seat at Bea and Zoey's table will have a view of Poppy's, but the other chair won't. Their food will be brought out all at the beginning, rather than in courses, leaving the pitcher of sangria and water there so no waiters have to come in at any point, and the room is lit with candles.

(That one Bea had asked for. Sure, this isn't a normal date, but only the best for her girl Zo.)

Poppy doesn't look awful either, in her trademark pastel pink but less uptight than she normally is, dress looser, pink lace framing her chest, and oh, God, Bea doesn't want to get caught staring at her boobs.

"You really can't help but make hate eyes, huh?" Zoey says, and Bea's face feels so warm, especially when Poppy smirks next to her without glancing back at her once.

Bea grabs Zoey's hand, squeezes it, a quick affirmation that yes, she's good, even if she's embarrassed, and also that while, yeah, she may be getting distracted by Poppy being hot, she also does really want to be here with Zoey, that if she wants just that it's not a dealbreaker, that this is gonna be very fun but Bea doesn't need it.

Zoey squeezes her hand back. Bea has no idea if her relatively complicated message made it through, but she doesn't have any time left to worry about it because they're being led to their room, finally, and Poppy's hand is closed tight around--

If Bea's skin was paler, the blush would be bright red, but as it stands, she only looks a little flustered when she catches herself in the mirror.

The food's already been set up at their table, some fancy steak entree that cost more than what Bea used to pay in a month's rent before her family inherited lots of money, and the door is closed behind them, and no one is going to disturb them.

Bea pulls out Zoey's seat on autopilot, because again, only the best for her girl, and Zoey smiles up at her as if nothing is weird at all. Bea goes to her own seat, Poppy already seated at the other table, and right before she sits, Poppy's thumb flicks a switch, and--

The buzzing isn't really that loud, but Bea jerks anyway, the vibration against her clit sudden and unexpected and--

"Well?" Zoey says, smiling behind her glass of wine. "Aren't you gonna enjoy our date?"

Sitting down adjusts the pressure of the toy inside her in a way that makes the friction more intense, almost to the point of pain, but no matter how much she shifts, there's no normal-looking position that abates it. That's, of course, the point. Bea has to try and stay put together, enjoy her night with Zoey, while Poppy (who looks completely disaffected, though she can almost make out the spots of pink high up her cheeks) tries to rile her up.

Zoey, for her part, took Bea's faltered, nervous, mumbled mention of it as a challenge. After all, Bea loves Zoey. Poppy's, uh. Well, she's something to her, but there's not enough trust for a relationship.

It's weird, that there's enough trust to give her a remote to a toy literally inside of Bea, but not to just go on a date normally. But Bea can worry about that when she doesn't have a beautiful woman across from her to talk to.

"Yeah," Bea says, way too late, and Poppy smirks a little around her first bite of food. "I'm super excited for our date."

They get decently far into a conversation about Zoey's music--something about mixing that Bea doesn't understand, she's studying anthropology and marine biology--when Poppy suddenly switches to a much higher intensity. The buzzing is definitely loud enough that Zoey can hear it, even if Bea's sudden gasp and propping herself up against the table doesn't give it away. When Bea manages to open her eyes to look at her date, Zoey's eyes have gone dark.

"I do always like seeing you worked up," Zoey murmurs, quiet and low enough that it might not carry to Poppy's table. "What do you say I make it worse?"

"Please," Bea says, loud enough that Poppy can definitely hear her too, and the toy goes back to its original slow, almost gentle setting as Zoey's hand slides up Bea's thigh. Bea's legs fall apart on instinct, eager to give Zoey access, but Zoey doesn't go straight for her center, just up and down her legs in these semi-sweet, mostly-teasing touches that just get Bea panting more.

"You're gonna be the death of me," Bea says, and Poppy turns the toy off. Bea can't help but whine--she's on the edge, would take barely a push to get there--and Zoey laughs, warm rather than mean. "Both of you."

"Sort of the point of a scene like this," Zoey says, and Poppy, who's still pretending to ignore them, grins into her food. She doesn't turn the toy back on, and Bea actually manages a couple bites of food before Zoey reaches back under the table, uses her knee to push into Bea's center. It's not the same without Poppy pressing it on, but--Poppy's actually looking over now, and she makes eye contact with Bea and grins. "You still game?"

"What? Yeah, fuck, of course I'm--"

Poppy takes that as her invitation to turn the toy back on, and that plus Zoey's added stimulation is more than enough to get Bea over the edge, not with a scream, but with a little sigh.

(The rest of date night is dedicated to playing footsie with Zoey under the table, and Poppy pretending not to get invested in their conversation even as she sends Bea a text at 2am about why her point about the future of music is actually fucking moronic, doesn't she know that--and so on and so forth.)

The next morning, Bea wakes up to Zoey grinning at her. "So. What do you say next time we--"

"God, you're already thinking about next time? I mean, yeah, I'm definitely down."

[musicmedicineminder]

👗 (probably reversed) RyuShu

From here || Accepting|| @behindthestrings

👗  -  a  starter  where  my  muse  helps  yours  get  ready  for  a  fancy  event  [ eg.  fixing  their  tie,  zipping  their  dress}

____________________________________________________________

"We're late"

The panic in those words is palpable. The sense of chaos filling the room as Ryuken heads to the wardrobe, flings it open, and starts to rifle through the hangers. He can't believe they're so unprepared. Especially for something like this. As much as he might loathe it, the annual director's dinner comes around like clockwork. The same tedious routine every single year. He's known the date, the time and the expectations for months now. There's funding dependent on his attendance here, too, although that's nothing new. This isn't unexpected, the opposite in fact, and normally he'd have been ready to go by now. There's an added complication this year, though. Nothing serious, but enough that he's spent today putting off preparations and now faces having to somehow dress and leave the house in less than an hour.

He pulls out a dark silk suit, tossing it haphazardly onto the bed, before adding a tie and shirt to the pile. It's not his usual style, but it's formal enough and isn't likely to raise any eyebrows. He catches sight of Shutara in the mirror, the sight of her doing nothing for his sense of dread for the hours ahead. Neither of them are prepared for what awaits, he thinks, how can they be?

"You have something to wear, yes?" he turns to face Shutara, the question rhetorical, his expression almost apologetic, "I didn't realise they were seriously expecting me to use it when they gave me a plus one."

[arisefairsun]

Hello! I don't know if you've discussed this before, but you mentioned your first language was Spanish, I was wondering how Shakespeare's writings translates into other languages? Like if they're able to keep the rhyme and meter and such? Thank you!

Hello dear! Oh my, I’m majoring in translation studies, you know, so I have a lot of feelings about this—I actually wish to become a Shakespeare translator in the future.

My knowledge is limited to the languages I understand, of course (so Spanish, Portuguese, Galician, French, and Italian), but in my experience, a translation is ultimately a metamorphosis. Each language has a different vibrancy, a sort of uniqueness that defines it; they embody reality in their own peculiar way, and the speaker’s thoughts flow differently through the shape of its words. What distinguishes a language is its own rarity and its personal beauty.

The act of translation must be conceived within these differences; it is about changing a text, furnishing the words with new colors. That is, you have to cheat on Shakespeare in order to do him justice: in your translation, Mercutio and Romeo might not play with the word ‘goose’ in 2.4, but they shall play with another animal or thing which is related to race, folly, and women in your language. Ultimately, what we must do is alter the flesh of the text, its words, and hopefully keep its true essence intact: we must learn to discern that wordless beauty which lies beneath the language of the play and let it flow it in our own text with new words. It’s a constant paraphrase. To quote Juliet, we need to drink from the utterance of the characters’s tongues. To translate a Shakespeare play is to delve into all its complexity—a translator must be a reader, an editor, a critic, a writer all at once. One must bare the play entirely, and then dress it again.

The problem is, of course, that since all languages possess their own distinct beauty, it is simply quite impossible to translate a text word by word. It doesn’t work, the language will not let you do so. This is especially frustrating when it comes to poetry, as in Shakespeare’s plays and poems. The very pulse of the English language is palpable in the Bard’s work: he plays with its rhythms, defies its limits, embraces all the meanings of a single word, completely immersing the reader in the force of his verses. I find English to be a very lyrical language, as if poetry flowed naturally from its bones: indeed, iambic pentameter is meant to echo the normal rhythm of the English language. But it would be a very arduous task to keep the iambic pentameter in Spanish. The soul of the language complicates it. Our words are generally a lot longer, and we need more words than English to express exactly the same thing. (A good Spanish translation should always be longer than the original English text.) Iambic pentameter ultimately impoverishes the language because there are so many words you would be forced to avoid. The energy of both languages is therefore divergent.

So that’s one thing translators usually change. The vitality of the iambic pentameter fades away… and is unfortunately replaced by dull monotony very frequently. Many translators simply translate the plays into unrhymed verse. It’s true that Romeo and Juliet is particularly a difficult play to translate in this regard, given that it’s so rich in rhythms. Each character has their own particular color, the fabric of each voice is unique in the play. Juliet’s succinct speech is different from Friar Lawrence’s repetitive redundancy and Romeo’s boring, stylized Petrarchan verses collide with the new voice he achieves as his love for Juliet develops. The way they express themselves is an incarnation of their emotional extremes, of their own particular mindsets. (It’s fascinating how Shakespeare can reveal so much about a character through the beat of their words.) These are all things which should be mirrored in a translation, otherwise the characters will lose their own musculature—where does their uniqueness go if they all speak in the same way?

My Spanish edition, which happens to be the first version of the play I read back when my English was not good enough to understand Shakespeare, does not cherish the lyrical complexity of the original text at all. There is not a single rhyme in the play. Romeo and Juliet never compose a sonnet together, Capulet’s rhythm does not become erratic when he is mad. There is no sibilance in Romeo’s lines, ‘It is my soul that calls upon my name! / How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night, / Like softest music to attending ears!’. The message he wishes to convey is more or less the same in the translated text, but the translator withered the freshness of his poetry. What’s more important—the content of the verses or their beauty? Both are, since poetry should be delightful to the ears. In this translation, there is also no t alliteration in Juliet’s plea for the night to ’Take him and cut him out in little stars’. Her wish to have Romeo cut out in stars is conveyed anyway, but there is no sound of scissors in her voice.

But translation is an act of seduction. You must woo the text. You are going to deprive the play of part of its complexity, so you should try to compensate, fill in the blanks with the uniqueness of your target language. I’ll give you an example: in Spanish, the word romero means both ‘pilgrim’ and ‘rosemary’ and is of course extremely similar to Romeo’s name. Now, how does Romeo introduce himself to Juliet? As a blushing pilgrim (his very name means ‘pilgrim to Rome’). It can be interesting to have Juliet playfully call him romero, pilgrim, unaware that she is echoing his very name and that one scene later she will be struggling with the word Romeo at her window. What does the Nurse tell Romeo in 2.4? That Juliet has been making puns with his name and rosemary; in Spanish, she has been playing with Romeo and romero. There is a kind of symbolism there linking the three words, Romeo, pilgrim, and rosemary, which is more obscure in English. That’s something gained in translation, in spite of all the other puns which were inevitably lost in the process.

For me, the beauty of translation is that there is not a single way to do it right. The possible strategies are rather infinite. Each translation has its own value, because each translation is written by a different mind. This leads me to another major issue: subjectivity. A translator is, after all, a reader, and a reader is an interpreter (can you read a text and not interpret it?). It therefore follows that a translation is an interpretation: the translator’s own understanding of the play is tangible in the text. Something I find particularly irritating, for instance, is that many of them decide to change the last lines of the play unnecessarily: ‘For never was a story of more woe / Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.’ The European Spanish dubbing of Zeffirelli’s movie says something like: ‘For there is no sadder story than that of Romeo and Juliet’s love.’ Romeo and Juliet. My bilingual edition of the play did only a little better: it reads ‘Juliet and Romeo’. But why not Juliet and her Romeo? It’s something the translator was free to write, but perhaps the subversive nature of those lines made him uncomfortable. Romeo is a man, Juliet is a woman, so Romeo’s name should always go first. Of course, do not even suggest that Romeo might be remembered, in the very last line of the story, as being hers.

Sometimes translators love to stray from the text too much. They are, after all, writers creating their own text, but their creativity may have serious consequences in the characters. In the European Spanish version of Zeffirelli’s movie, when Romeo asks Juliet to express her love and thus ‘sweeten with thy breath this neighbour air’, he says: ‘Make this neighbour air die of jealousy’. Now, I cannot imagine Romeo saying such thing! He always rejoices in Juliet’s ability to regenerate the world. Juliet’s love does not kill, it enlivens Verona. If anything, the only thing she would kill is the envious moon. So translations can sometimes contradict the text unnecessarily. This is something we should always bear in mind—a translation is never completely the same text as the original, as it is subject to hermeneutics. You are reading, after all, someone’s interpretation of a literary work. It is a secondhand possession of the text.

A careless translator may fill the text with small incongruences: in the American Spanish translation of Zeffirelli’s movie, Juliet asks: ‘O Romeo, Romeo, where are you Romeo?’. Literally, I’m not lying. Most translators decide to translate ‘two households’ as ‘two families’, but a household is not just a family. Then there are other things which are simply beyond our control. Sadly, a huge amount of Shakespeare’s puns, his ambiguity, his complexity, slip through our fingers like sand. Languages can be cruel. When Shakespeare uses a word which has more than one meaning, it is sometimes impossible to find an equivalent which covers all of the meanings. Is there a verb like ‘to die’ which may mean both to lose one’s life and to reach sexual fulfillment? Many languages lack such verb, so what do we do with Juliet’s lines, ‘When I shall die, / Take him and cut him out in little stars…’? Here she combines death and love, the Liebestod trope, anticipating what she will see behind her eyelids when she closes her eyes in ecstasy during her lovemaking with Romeo. If there is not an equivalent, a translator will probably be forced to choose just one meaning. She will either talk about death or sex. (My solution is to make her speak of the climax of death, the deathly zenith, or something equally suggestive of sexual fulfillment.)

Shakespeare is of course a master at making puns—his way of bending words is delicious. When translators cannot keep all the possible readings of a word, they weaken the text, making it bland, easy, unshakespearean in many ways. It can be heartbreaking to be a translator then, because you must bury many of Shakespeare’s puns. The battle of wits between Romeo and Mercutio in 2.4, for instance, is removed entirely from many translations because it is so hard to translate. Unfortunately translators are forced to make choices they don’t want to make. They have to minimize the play. ‘Her eye discourses’, says Romeo. That’s her eye and her I. In translation, it is just the eyes. Sometimes it’s the only thing you can do: kill the beauty of the play. 

Lastly, the act of translation not only implies the words of the text. It also encompasses the culture, the life of the language, the people behind it, its quintessence. Shakespeare was writing with an English audience in mind. Who are you writing to? What happens when you translate Henry V into French? How will a French audience react to the treatment of France in the play? How will you solve the problematics posed by the bilingual scenes? The last scene, for instance, relies on Henry and Katherine’s inability to speak each other’s languages fluently. How will you translate that solely into French? Don Adriano de Armado is continually mocked at in Love’s Labour’s Lost because of his flowery speech. How will you keep the different registers of the characters’s speeches in a Spanish translation? How will a Spanish reader feel about Don Armado’s situation? What happens if you translate Macbeth into Scots? Also, Peter sings Heart’s Ease after Juliet’s faked death. It’s a popular song of Shakespeare’s era—but Peter is supposed to be Italian. If you translate the play into Italian, will you keep the English song (which will convey nothing to an Italian audience) or will you replace it with a popular Italian song (which they will be able to identify as part of their culture)? It’s complicated. I recommend that you read Shakespeare and the Language of Translation because it covers these and many other issues.

And while nowadays translators do promise to tell the same story as the original author, it’s not always been like that. The concept of copyright is relatively new. One of my professors was quite obsessed with Shakespeare, and he always told us about translators who used his work to denounce the situation of their countries, i.e. a Polish translation of Hamlet in which Claudius was a German kaiser, a French Claudius who resembled Napoleon, a Spanish Hamlet which criticized the Enlightenment, etc. These translators purposely hid behind Shakespeare’s name to tell their own stories. These may not be faithful translations of Shakespeare’s work per se, but they are extremely valuable nonetheless.

So to answer your question, the blood of the characters, their heartbeat, their powerful da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM doesn’t usually survive in translation. But a good translator must find other patterns, provoke the text and make it burn—or to quote Romeo, to suck the honey of its breath. It can be chaotic or it can be fascinating; either way, it will always be daring, risky, a violent delight which may have a violent end or not. It is important to consider that a translated text belongs not only to the original writer but to the translator as well. The translator is to unstitch the texture of the play, only to weave it in a new fashion. (It can never be entirely loyal to the play—if a translation is a mutation of the text, how could it ever be 100% loyal? The concept of loyalty here is inherently a flawed one.) But it might be worth the risk, because a new kind of beauty may bloom thanks to the translator’s skills.

When I started translating excerpts of Romeo and Juliet for fun I was terrified. I venerate Shakespeare’s work so blindly, I did not even dare remove a comma. But my professors keep telling me that a translator must be brave, a warrior, a strategist. To translate Shakespeare is to possess him. Sometimes you have to destroy his beauty, only to generate a new kind of majesty out of all the broken pieces. That’s when translation becomes valuable: when you dare merge your own voice with that of the Bard—a trespass sweetly urged.