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mppmaraudergirl · 4 years

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bitter/sweet

Oh, look... a wild Jilytober fic appears! || also on AO3

Sixteen-year-old Lily Evans felt bittersweet when she thought about her upcoming year at school, though she leaned more heavily toward the bitter than the sweet. Excited though she was to continue her magical education, her fifth year had ended on a low note.

For the short time between The Incident and boarding the Hogwarts Express last term, it was easy to play it all off. To be flippant, and distracted, and pretend she wasn’t hurting from it.

It was harder over the summer.

Home reminded her of so many things. All of her favorite places in Cokeworth seemed tied to him somehow. She was torn between sadness at this fact and fierce, unbridled anger. Anger that festered over the weeks she spent locked up inside her home and self-restrained to her own garden because he might be at their old hang-outs, or she may go somewhere and be reminded of him.

After a time, this anger faded into resolve, almost as if she completed her stages of grief and finally let go. But she still couldn’t shake the apprehension she felt as she packed her trunk for her sixth year. She had found peace at home, accepted what she could not change when walking down the familiar streets of her neighborhood. She still had a life outside him when home.

But Hogwarts was their mutual escape. So much of her experiences there were tied to him. She didn’t know how she was going to move on, when all she had expected – all she had come to rely on as a sturdy absolute: him being there – was gone. So much had changed forever with one unfettered word.

When she finally saw the crimson steam engine in front of her, she realized that some things hadn’t changed. There was still the raucous laughter of students; joyful hellos and crushing embraces from a long, hot summer’s time apart. Owls still hooted happily as they passed by in wire-framed cages. First years bounced around the platform, a mixture of excited and nervous – they were so small for such big emotions.

She took the whole scene in, deeply inhaling the scent of it all. A familiar face caught her eye along the platform – all she could see was a mop of messy hair but she knew it (unfortunately) well. Potter was another absolute in her life that seemed immovable; but not in the sturdy, dependable way he used to be, rather, as a thorn and a sharp tension headache she could always count on to pop up at the wrong moments…

She steeled herself, resolving to not let either of them shake her or make her return to school more bitter than sweet. But even as she boarded the train, she half considered skiving off her Prefects meeting. Ultimately though, she couldn’t bring herself to miss something so important. She knew most times the houses sat together so she was relatively confident she could wedge her way between a couple of Gryffindors to avoid him if she had to.

Two hours later, having spent the full duration of the meeting sitting next to Remus Lupin, she purposefully left the compartment without a look in his direction. She and Remus made casual small talk as made their way back to their friends.

“See you,” she called to him as she found the compartment she was looking for. It was her first time sitting in this compartment. She had already passed her usual compartment – and the companion who she used to sit there with – pointedly ignoring it as she spoke with Lupin.

She slid open the door tentatively, but was greeted by enthusiastic hellos from her dormmates.

“Saved you a seat!” Mary Macdonald said, patting the seat next to her which was closest to the window. “How was your summer? Your hair is so long – I love it!”

Lily plastered on a smile as she sat herself next to Mary and shared the lackluster highlights of her summer. After some time, the smile became more genuine. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for a sadness to start creeping over her as she listened to the other girls go on about their supremely enjoyable summer holidays. She didn’t want to think about what she was doing at this exact moment a year ago, but her traitorous mind kept pushing these thoughts to the forefront. She forced herself to refocus on the conversation, with nearly immediate regret.

“How is it he’s gotten even better looking?” Mary was saying to the rapt and empathic crowd of Gryffindor sixth years: Marlene McKinnon, Jennifer Clearwater, and Brigette Prewett.

“The summer holidays treated him well,” Marlene said, sagely, before letting out a laugh. “I heard he lives with the Potters now. Something about being burned off the family tapestry.”

Mary laughed. “He certainly didn’t seem to be suffering earlier when I saw him with Potter.”

“Speaking of Potter,” Jennifer said, her curly blonde hair bouncing as she spoke, “have you seen him? He must’ve grown about a foot over the holidays.”

Marlene and Brigette nodded in agreement, and Mary laughed before saying: “I saw him with a Quidditch Captain pin on his robes when I was boarding the train.”

“No surprise there,” said Marlene. But her further comment was stopped as the compartment door shook with the sound of a quick knock, before it slid open. Speak of the devil, Lily thought. Still, she continued staring out the window as Potter spoke pleasantries to the group at large.

“Morning.” His eyes traveled among the small group of girls before landing on Lily. “Er… Evans. I was hoping to have a word? If you don’t mind.”

“She doesn’t,” Mary said, tugging encouragingly at Lily’s elbow.

Lily could think of very few things she wanted less than to go talk to James Potter. But still, she stood and quietly followed him into the corridor. They took a few steps away from the door until they stood in front of an empty compartment.

“What do you want, Potter?” She felt too tired to say more.

James at least had the mind to look sheepishly down at her. Down at her. The girls were right, he had certainly not been that tall the last time she saw him. His hair was also longer, starting to curl around the frames of the glasses resting on his ears. She pretended like she didn’t notice this either. His eyes surveyed her for a moment – she half wondered if he was noticing the differences about her as she had him – before he cleared his throat.

“I wanted to… Er, look, Evans. Last term ended… poorly.” She laughed derisively at this; he grimaced and his hand shot to his hair. “I never properly apologized for it. It was a shit thing to do, and you didn’t deserve to be treated that way.”

Lily blinked. He seemed sincere.

“I can’t say I fully understand your… friendship with Sni-Snape,” he continued, his hand trailing from his dark hair to rub his neck. If he wasn’t James Potter, she might have thought he looked nervous. “But I never thought he would have ever… In any case, I thought… given your normal plans for the trip to Hogwarts, that you may be…upset…” He cleared his throat. She was looking at him like she had never quite seen him before. Suddenly he brandished a wrapped chocolate frog from his pocket and held it out toward her. “I’m sorry I was such an arsehole at the end of last term. I know it had real consequences for you and Snape, and I—look I know this is stupid and by no means meant to make up for it. But I wanted to do something.”

She didn’t know what to say, looking between him and the chocolate frog he was still holding.

“How did you know I like chocolate frogs?” she found herself asking.

He shrugged, still eyeing her apprehensively. “I’ve seen you sorting the cards in the common room a time or two, I suppose. I mean… who doesn’t like chocolate anyway?”

She nodded slowly. After a moment she allowed herself to take the frog from him. “I don’t know what to say,” she told him earnestly.

His mouth twisted into another grimace as he returned her nod. “I understand, and I reckon…that is, you don’t have to say anything, Evans. At all.”

Before she could even process these words, a compartment further down the train opened, drawing her attention. Her eyes narrowed as the compartment began emptying. James twisted around to see what she was looking at, and upon seeing Snape his hand jumped to his robe pockets, undoubtedly to his wand. Reflexively, without really thinking, Lily reached out to touch his arm. He froze at her touch but kept his eyes on Snape, who was flanked by Avery and Mulciber.

“Not worth it,” she muttered, keeping her face blank as she met Snape’s stare. He was glaring between the two intently, his eyes black with a thirst to understand. She made no effort to remove her hand from where it was pressed against James’ forearm. A small, petty part of her hoped it bothered him to see her so close to Potter. Touching Potter.

After a moment, Avery bumped his shoulder into Snape’s, drawing his eyes from the pair, and they began walking down the train corridor out of sight. James waited a few seconds after they disappeared to turn his attention back to Lily, who had removed her hand from his arm. She noticed he had shifted so that he was still able to see if anyone doubled back. She was surprised to see how hard his face was. The animosity between him and Snape was well known, but this glare went beyond school yard rivalries. It was hatred and fury. And when he turned to look at her: concern.

“Can’t say I’m overly fond of Snape’s new group of friends,” he said finally. His voice sounded tight, like he was trying to make a joke out of something he did not find particularly funny. He was acting so oddly.

“Were you planning to duel the lot of them?” she asked, once his attention seemed back on her.

His lips twitched upward, but he kept the smile from fully forming on his face. “Between the two of us, we could have taken them.”

Lily considered this for a moment. “Maybe you’re right, but my wand is in my trunk.” James shrugged, as if this would have only been a minor set-back. “Nevertheless, probably not the best idea to get a detention before term starts. At least wait until the Welcome Feast, yeah?”

James’ lips quirked again, but this time a smile actually broke through. “I think I can manage that. And for what it’s worth, I wasn’t planning to start anything there. But I don’t think it hurts to be ready.”

Lily nodded slowly. “I can handle myself, Potter. And despite what has happened with Sev—Snape… I don’t think he would do anything to purposefully hurt me.”

It felt so automatic coming out of her mouth that she didn’t really think about it. It was a mantra she had been telling herself for over a year she realized. It was tired. And proven false on a warm June day. She pursed her lips at this thought, looking away from James now.

“I know,” he said after a moment, and she wasn’t sure if he was referencing what she was saying or what she was not. “Look, I’m not here to interfere where I’m not wanted… I know you can handle yourself brilliantly. But know… just because you can, doesn’t mean you always have to handle it alone.”

He threw another look down the empty corridor, making it obvious what he was referencing. For some reason, she suddenly felt very warm. This was not the Potter she had expected. He certainly didn’t seem like the Potter she had grown to know. She studied him a moment longer, and it crossed her mind that maybe he wasn’t the only boy she thought she knew but really didn’t.

When he looked back at her, features softening in what she could only again describe as concern, she nodded.

“Well… I should probably get back to the compartment before the girls send out a search party.”

James grinned. “Yeah that wouldn’t be good. I’m sure you have a lot to catch up on.”

Lily found herself rolling her eyes. “The most recent topic of discussion when I was leaving was how fit you and Black are… Come to think of it, I probably should thank you for saving me from such an inane conversation.” James grin had grown impossibly wider as she said this. “Don’t you even start,” she warned, smiling despite herself. His grin was contagious. “I was a silent non-participant in that conversation.”

“Uh-huh. I’ve seen you staring at Sirius in Charms, Evans. You seem the type to be interested in rebellious bad-boys.”

Lily laughed. “Who would possibly consider Black a ‘bad boy’? First off, he’s best mates with you.”

“Me?” he asked, his hand flying to his heart in mock offense.

“Yes. You both have top marks in many of our classes. You spend loads of hours in the library. And you’re always off somewhere in the common room practicing jinxes on each other. If you haven’t noticed, and contrary to what you may think, you are a group of nerds.”

James’ mouth bobbed open and closed, as though he decided better than to say what he first thought. He looked mildly confused about her assessment, then an amused smile appeared. “Nerds we may be, but you never disagreed with what your dormmates were saying.”

“Oh, give over,” she said laughing. “Goodbye, Potter.”

James grinned, raising his hands in defeat. “See you, Evans.”

The chocolate frog still clasped in her hand, she rolled her eyes, failing to hide her own smirk, as she walked away.

She didn’t see, but he lingered close by until she got to her destination. And before he walked away, he heard some commentary escape the compartment:

“Did he ask you out again? Did you say yes?”

“Did you snog him finally?”

“You were gone quite a while, Lil – ooh is that from Potter?”

“Relax. It’s just a chocolate frog, not a love letter.”

“It’s just your absolute favorite sweet, from one of the fittest—”

James couldn’t quite shake the goofy grin that was plastered on his face after hearing the short exchange. His conversation with Lily went better than he – and she, for that matter – could have anticipated.

But he had no way of knowing that a chocolate frog – and maybe a friendly conversation – was just what Lily had needed to shift the scale from bitter to sweet.

#jily #james potter #lily evans #lames #jilytober #look ma i wrote something #there may be some errors here #i will check later #but wanted to get this up before october was over and my next couple days are going to be busy #anyway #sixth year jily #post-swm #I don't think I've ever really written the fall-out from SWM #my babies #i've missed you both #bitter/sweet

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sasorikigai · 3 years

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❝ Beside you, I slept better than I ever have on my own. ❞ ((Scorched Souls; gimme))

things said: assortment. || @swordsxandxshadows || accepting

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || Scorpion may allow himself to be wrapped in the blanket of night, waiting for an ephemeral kiss of darkness that will make him feel alright. His heart sparks in the dark, because he would find himself falling so hard like a falling star, soft as can be and so sweet; sweet like honey but magical like a dream, but more often, the perpetuated sadness and despair pulling, tugging, threatening to snap his heartstrings. Myriads of emotions may become forever entwined in his subconscious, never knowing which one will take the lead. They are choreographed by an act of undying love and devotion or a callous misdeed as monstrous beast of Scorpion’s misguided vengeance and wrath. But now, Scorpion knows better to cradle which of his emotions. The true freedom had long given him the lucid clarity of his mind, as wide, cyanic stygian depth of his eyes glow in the dim light. Dilated, fixed pupils no longer stare back as a black abyss, but with such ancestral resplendence of the proverbial sun burning with magnanimous warmth.

The loss of everything he held dear to his heart suffocated his soul, and made him powerless. The onslaught of despair created irreversible confusion and chaos. Even asking a million questions didn’t help him to come up with the most viable and authentic answer, for he could never fathom to remember all of the questions he asked. Now, he knows better to beg, plead, maybe bargain amidst all of his self-blame and effacement. The pain of the past had steeled to become revivified vigor and strength, as his characteristic unbreakable and unfettered will, obstinate resolve will continue to carry forth his fate. His hellfire may be manifested ouroboros, continually eliciting destruction and renewal of self, so that he could continue to uncover his heart and soul and let the dualistic beauty and flaws of his being be shown.

Scorpion’s full-blown, cyanic iridescent gaze may remained almost dead yesterday, maybe dead tomorrow; but how they scintillate and shine with intensity and conviction. Alive, glorious alive today, simply because Aku’s intimate proximity defies Scorpion’s metaphorical disintegration, coming like an avalanche; coursing and overtaking every cell, every molecule, and every atom of his being. Perhaps this unexpected interstellar bond between souls that has its hand on one another’s heart as their immortality hurtles through space and time and even through displacements of both. Scorpion’s heartstrings unbind and unsheath, uncloak and rend apart, break and maul, burn and wither - until only the bare nakedness is left; the mere thoughtform. How he yearns to be completely and wholly free and be eradicated of any and all past decay, scalded raw flesh that concludes the final phase of his rebirth through repentance and reformation.

“My fervent and unstable mind refuses to come to an ephemeral standstill for me to comfortably and completely rest by your side, but your words of confirmation brings me abundant contentment,” there may be a twinge of envy for Aku, for Scorpion’s mind rarely settled to compliancy to submit to his bone-seeped exhaustion and mental fatigue. He supposes, true love must be the most inconvenient kind; lest he may remain evermore still, fearing the beloved sorcerer’s slumber may be disrupted or hindered because of him.

“When I close my eyes, the proverbial darkness swarms my head, creeping closer to my skin. Its arms wrap around my chest and tighten their grip. My breaths shorten, as my heart palpitates faster. Thoughts swirling around my brain causes me to shuffle even against our entwined embrace. My stomach clenches and flips. Eyes open, light on, I wait for these feelings to fade away, but it leaves my eyes filled with unspilling tears and heart scattered elsewhere, but here.” Scorpion still may be a slave of ideals, a slave to fear; lest he considers himself intrepid with resolute stubbornness. And yet, it is odd but acceptable to think that his enslavement is because of humanity itself, as he still harbors it in his heart, spirit, and soul. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion)#✗ hellfire fibrillating beneath his skin (iv)#✗ the shogun of sorrow (aku || swordsxandxshadows)#(scorched souls)#swordsxandxshadows

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serpentinesarang · 4 years

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Playing Dress Up

pairing: changbin (seo changbin) x fem reader [because he’s my ult, OKAY?]

genre: idol!au, verrrrry little smut if you look under a microscope, the gentlest of fem-dom tones, suggestive, self-insert first-person POV (no y/n), reader has an overly sensitive spine that turns her on (integral to the plot), reader speaks konglish (key below)

word count: 1538

content warnings: one swear but that’s about it

summary: it’s post-covid era, and your newish boyfriend changbin, who doesn’t live with you yet, comes over under the guise of catching up after skz’s long-awaited world tour. he surprises you at first, but he doesn’t know you too have a surprise up your sleeve.

a/n: yet another super old piece i wrote in early 2018

korean key:

⦿ annyeong (안녕) = hi (in the context of the plot); pronounced “on-yawng”

⦿ jalsaenggin (잘생긴) = handsome; pronounced “jahl-seng-geen”

⦿ areumdaoon (아름다운) = beautiful; pronounced “ah-room-dah-oon”

⦿ ne (네) = most common form of yes; pronounced “neh”

⦿ gamsahamnida (감사합니다) = most common form of thank you; pronounced “kahm-sah-hahm-nee-dah”

⦿ cheonmaneyo (천만에요) = formal version of you’re welcome; pronounced “chun-mahn-eh-yo”

⦿ yangbok (양복) = suit; pronounced “yahng-bohk”

♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤

Perched on the couch, I glanced at the clock again: 7:27 PM. I buried my face in my sweater-paws in a burst of adrenaline.

This is it; this is it; this is IT, my inner voice screamed. He’s gonna be here any motherfluffing second now! In my building! In my apartment! With ME!

A sharp knock at the door snapped me out of my anxious thoughts. At long last, the moment I'd played out in my head so many different ways was finally transpiring before my wide eyes and thumping heart. After months of texting, selfie sharing, and videochatting, my boyfriend would finally be on the same side of the world as I.

I shot off the couch in pure, unfettered excitement but forced myself not to skip to the door, employing a calculated casualness as I took a deep breath before gripping the knob and twisting it open.

My poor little heart slammed harder against its cage as I gazed at Changbin, absolutely decked in an all-black suit and holding a bouquet of unusually dark red roses. Leave it to Binnie to go all out with his fondess for all things dark.

I let out a much-restrained giggle as he grinned ear to ear, giving me an expression so much more happier than any of the ones I’d seen when I answered his video calls. His eyes crinkled as he took me in and let the attraction bloom across his glowing face.

He emitted a contented hmm before I finally broke the smile-off and said softly, “Annyeong, jalsaenggin.”

“A-annyeong, areumdaoon,” Changbin replied, adorably nervous.

I beckoned him inside the apartment, closed the door, and turned to face him. Eyeing the flowers in his hand, I said, “You've been planning to give me flowers even though I told you they’re not necessary, haven’t you?”

He glanced down at the floor with a sinister chuckle. “Ne.”

I shook my head with a smirk. “You didn't have to, but gamsahamnida.” I bowed my head at him, genuinely thankful for this sweet surprise.

“Cheonmaneyo,” he replied after bowing at me as well, still smiling with those tantalizing, full lips.

Segueing from the bouquet, I eyed his sleek outfit and touched a hand to his shoulder. “And you put on a suit for me?”

Changbin bit his lower lip—something I’d stupidly admitted turns me on when I was tipsy one night—and took a small step closer. “When we were in New York, when you and I talked about award shows, you said I look good in yangbok.”

This boy and his memory...

Dramatically planting my hands on my hips, I raised my voice a little: “Well I lied, Binnie. You look sexy in yangbok.”

His eyes had instinctually widened when I said “lied,” but then he scrunched his face into a disgustingly cute (≧◡≦) expression of childlike joy.

After we shared some shy chuckles, I sighed, still alive with energy. “Well,” I began, reaching for the bouquet, “let me put these in water.” I started toward the kitchen before he grabbed my wrist, gently yanking me back.

Unmoved, he stood in the entryway with raised arms and expectant eyes, and I realized he had been patiently waiting the whole time to embrace me.

I cackled in my mind for a second before saying, “Two minutes; I promise. Put your shoes there.” I pointed to a small, makeshift closet area wedged between my bedroom and bathroom, then I slipped into the kitchen, our eyes glued to each other the entire time.

Once I'd dropped the roses into a long-forgotten vase I dug out of a seldom opened cabinet, I pivoted on the smooth tile and boosted myself up onto the counter, near the sink, in one fluid motion. Changbin had been patiently leaning, hands in pockets, against a pillar directly across the kitchen with seductive, hooded eyes.

Time to make that a shit-eating grin.

I locked eyes with him and opened my bent legs outward, heels against the cabinets. I raised my arms and fought the urge to espouse a flirtatious expression while he wasted no time marching across the kitchen and wrapping his firm arms around me as I wrapped my legs around his torso. He nuzzled his head into the crook of my neck, and I rested my head atop his.

I tenderly stroked his abundant black hair with one hand and gripped a toned shoulder blade with the other. My heart had slowed down a bit, but it was still abnormal enough for him to feel my jugular throbbing against his cheek. He held me so tightly—not uncomfortably... but passionately. Making up for all the lost time and lost touch.

I felt Changbin starting to trail a finger up my spine, and just as he was hoping, I involuntarily lurched against him. So he’s gonna play that game with me... I thought. I exhaled loudly and whispered into his ear, “You can either save that for later or much sooner than later. Your choice.”

He laughed against my neck, finally pulling away just enough to see my face. He paused, taking his sweet time mining my bright eyes for clues. In this moment, I realized despite my nervous fervor that he’d done his whole skincare routine before coming here, and the scent of his favorite cologne was emanating from his visibly pulsing jugular.

“Sooner, please,” Changbin answered quietly, gazing at me with begging eyes.

“Sooner,” I nodded, leaning in to delicately kiss him, not pressing my lips too hard against his. I wanted to savor the feeling of his unfairly beautiful lips on mine. But, mashing his lips deeper, he slid his hands beneath my ass to whisk me off the counter, still tightly wrapped around his back like the precious cargo I am.

He carried me to my bedroom as I placed random kisses on his smooth skin. At the foot of the bed, he let my body, almost unwillingly, cascade to the floor, keeping his hands on my waist.

“‘Just hang out and talk,’ huh,” I remarked sarcastically with a chuckle. I weaved my arms underneath his and hugged him closer, holding my face just a few inches from his.

Biting his lip again, Changbin paused to compose the perfect reply as he tucked my hair behind an ear. “We didn’t mention what we would do while we talked...” he trailed off, his eyelids drooping suggestively.

I smirked and maneuvered my hands to undo his jacket button. Pausing, I looked up at him and said in a solemn voice, “I think I'll undress you, unlike that one night I chickened out before you left.”

“I knew you had it in you,” he murmured in a playfully patronizing tone.

“Oh, it's gonna be in me,” I lobbied back, narrowing my eyes and smirking again. I snaked my hands up his chest and over his shoulders to slide off his jacket. “I'll hang it all up so nothing wrinkles.”

Changbin followed me to the closet as I hung the jacket.

“Tell me, baby: what are you thinking about?” I asked, working on his shirt buttons.

While he paused to think up a good answer, I unbelted him and tugged out the edges of his shirt.

“Just you,” he said, confidently.

We worked his pants off together, and I hung them too. “Great minds think alike.”

Then I removed his dress shirt as he stood there, just smiling like an idiot in love. After what seemed like forever, he was down to his last undergarments, which I left for the fun to come.

“They’re gone,” I noted in a soft voice while caressing his stomach, devoid of the abs he’d talked about so often during their tour.

Changbin groaned quietly, putting on a comical frown. “Don’t talk about it...”

I laughed, bent down to plant a kiss on the curve of his supple stomach, and led him back to the foot of the bed. I sat him down and backed up a few steps, preparing for something I rarely had the courage to do for boyfriends. He watched me intently, and I realized that his lips had seldom turned downward since he'd arrived.

“So,” I began, hands in my sweatshirt pocket and my excitement painfully, embarrassingly obvious, “you must feel like the best dressed person here.”

He nodded innocently as I weaseled out of the baggy sweatshirt and tossed it aside to reveal a scarlet open-cup bra with strategically placed, intricately lacy flowers adorning the cups. I watched his eyebrows rise as he assessed me feverishly.

“Well, I dressed up too,” I continued in my best velvety tone of flirtation.

Slowly and purposefully, I shimmied out of my equally baggy sweats and kicked those aside too. Now my full outfit was on display, and I felt a chill come over me. This time, I revealed a scarlet, gartered thong that featured more strategically placed lace and several strappy pieces holding the lace bits together—a barely-there kind of piece that emphasized the curves of my figure.

Finishing off the look was a pair of scarlet thigh-high stockings with matching lace at the top... his only clue if Changbin had noticed my toes enrobed in sheer red hosiery.

I stood straighter, sucked in my stomach, shifted my weight on either foot to demonstrate a few cheesy poses before giving him the full turnaround. He was dumbstruck, speechless, and empty-eyed, his face alight with intrigue as I inched forward and straddled him. Cupping his jaws below the ears and leaning in, I whispered, "Now undress me and touch my back again."

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mhdiaries · 4 years

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13 Wishes Gigi Grant Diary

⟡ ⟡ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

Stars and sands, I detest being bottled up. Patience is a chief virtue among genies - after all, we don’t know when we’ll next be found and released - but it can be a difficult one to maintain. One tries to pass the time in any way one can, but as the centuries fall away, it can be quite taxing on the mind... especially since the lantern can get very claustrophobic at times. Keeping myself occupied is one of the reasons I decided upon keeping a diary. I would like to keep track of my wonderful times in the outside world, and all the lovely monsters I’ve met. It will be something pleasant to turn to when I am sad and lonely... which seems to be more and more often.

⟡ ⟡ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

There are many wonderful things about being a genie - the power you command is immense, and the places you find yourself can be amazing. And making wishes come true! What could be better than that? But there is always a very sad part, too... returning to the lantern when your tasks are done. Even though I am able to grant 13 wishes to each finder I meet - more than most of my kind! - the time always seems to pass too quickly. I just returned from assisting my newest finder, a sweet banshee girl who wanted nothing more than to be able to sing beautifully instead of wailing mournfully. The look on her face when she first heard her new voice was so surprised and joyful that it made us both burst out laughing! Since that was her one heart’s desire, it was difficult for her to think of other ways to spend her wishes, but together we found ways to grant good fortune on her friends and family as well. She even postponed using her last wish so that I could spend more time in the outside world with her. But as always, we had to say goodbye... Still, it’s marvelous when one’s finder is someone who’s truly kind. My father once warned me that my finders may not always be so pure of heart, and that I may find their wishes difficult to grant - but also that it’s not the genie’s place to judge a finder’s wishes. The finder must choose his or her own way. Thus far I’ve been lucky, as all my finders’ desires have been good natured (or, at the very least, harmless), but I dread the day I will hear an ill-meant wish.

⟡ ⧗ ⧗ ⟡

In the lantern there is an endless expanse of sand, and the palace that I call home. Well, I say endless, but it doesn’t really end or begin anywhere. Once when I was very, very bored, I set out from my home, intending to find the end of the world inside the lantern - but after an hour’s walk, I came back upon the place I’d started from the other side, as if I had gone around in a circle. It was very disorienting. I’ve tried it again a handful of times, but it’s no use. The lantern is entirely self-contained, and I am contained within. It has its perks, of course - my palace is beautiful, and of course, I can rearrange it however I choose. If I want a swimming pool, or a room filled with ice cream, or a closet full of jeweled gowns, I need only nod my head. But without someone to share it with, it all seems very empty. In my world in the lantern, I can make nearly anything I want... nearly anything, that is, except a friend.

⟡ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⟡

I will never understand the desire for finders to wish for more wishes.

A) It never works and

B) it really annoys your genie.

Besides, I grant 13 wishes per finder, which I think is quite a lot by genie standards! Some finders have told me of legends that genies grant three wishes only, but I’ve heard of genies who can only grant one - and some who can grant even more than me! Of course, genies are quite rare, and we don’t often meet. Perhaps it depends on the magic of the lantern we’re bound to, or perhaps our own inborn magic... Hmmm. I suppose in many ways, I am still learning about my powers myself. Maybe I’m capable of things even I’m not aware of. Still, though, I wish that monsters would stop wishing for exponential wishes. It will simply never happen. Myself, I only have one wish... and, oh, you can probably guess what it would be.

⃞ ⃞ ⧗

How did the stranger know my heart’s desire? Why did the finder decide to listen to him? How could I have been so lucky? I do not know - what I do know is that now I have a friend, and my long solitude within the lantern is at last at an end, thanks to that kind finder’s wish. Her name is Whisp, and she is my own shadow - brought to life during the Shadow Eclipse, and with a mind and will of her own. It’s strange, you would think my shadow would be exactly the same as me, but Whisp is most definitely one of a kind - she is clever, mischievous and funny, and bursting with new ideas. I’ve hardly had time to write, we’ve been having so much fun together. Yesterday we raced camels across the sands, and today she wants to repaint the main hall of the palace puce, just to see how it would look. And anything she can think of, I’m happy to do - she seems to have some magic of her own, but it’s not as strong as mine. Still, I think with time, she can learn...and we have all the time in the world.

⃞ ⃞ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

Whisp is angry with me. It’s the first time she has even been angry with me...at least, I think so. The finders are the problem...or rather, the way I come and go with their desires is the real problem. Whisp’s power has been growing, but as of yet, she hasn’t been able to emerge from the lantern with me. She’s angry that I don’t take her with me when I go - but because I have no warning when I’m summoned and can’t return to the lamp until I have completed my tasks, I am unable to. I understand her sadness... after all, I know how it feels to be left alone. But in this matter, I am powerless, and I think she cannot imagine that I am powerless in anything. After all, she sees me working great magic in the lantern all the time. Her anger upsets me, but I can’t imagine we won’t be able to work it out. She’s my best friend... I don’t want to lose her.

⧗⟡ ⃞ ⧗

I thought having Whisp was a dream come true... but she’s become a nightmare. Whisp has been concealing her strength from me - she had grown more powerful than I realized. On my most recent summons to the outside world, she followed me - and to my horror, began to corrupt the finder, whispering dark thoughts and changing her desires, making her wish for evil things. As a genie I cannot influence a finder so... but Whisp is strong and has no such limitations on her powers. If it weren’t for the magic mirror, I shudder to think what could have become of the world outside, plunged into eternal shadow... Thank goodness the finder came to her senses, and wished us both returned inside. For now, Whisp is hiding from me - she has her side of the palace, and I have mine, but I fear that she may soon control the world inside the lantern. I know she cannot, would not harm me - or at least, I hope not - but I am afraid of what may happen should she grow even stronger. I must try protect the finders from her influence, no matter the cost... but I do not know how difficult that will be, especially as I am unable to warn them directly. Stars and sand, what can I do?

The Very First Day of November

How strange it is to finally date an entry... to finally exist as part of the world, rather than apart from it! So much has happened... today will be my first day of school, with my new friends, and with hope for a new start. It is strange being a genie without a lantern... my powers are unfettered, but I’ve had to promise Headmistress Bloodgood that I will keep any magic to a minimum on campus, which is probably for the best. She says they’ve never had a genie as a student before, and that it will be an interesting learning experience for everyone. For me, especially, I think. Clawdeen tried to warn me that I will find school “like, so deadly boring” after granting wishes for so long, but I told her that after being locked in a lantern for centuries is much duller than any Bite-ology class could ever hope to be! (Frankie said I probably shouldn’t mention that to the teachers, though... they might take it as a challenge). For now, I am closing the book on this diary, and starting a new one - filled with excitement and new friends, and new ways of making my own wishes come true.

#monster high #monster high diary #gigi grant #13 wishes

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alphaternal · 4 years

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@valhela: ❝ there’s always something left to lose. ❞

THE MOON IS FULL. A bright, pearlescent disc in the dark; it spills between the dense line of birch trees shielding them, framing their faces in shadows and the soft blush of moonlight haloing their silhouettes. They are in Colorado, where the mountains rise ahead of them and, behind them, infected corpses thrash violently through the snowsquall. It is so quiet, he can hear the crunch of ice under his boots, dragging through snow that reaches his ankles. Angela hangs across the curve of his back, arms loosely hooked around his shoulders. Owen moves low, quick, quiet, with his body bent forward to accommodate her. Muscle memory recognizes the harsh sting of cold air in his lungs, the tendons straining around his bones. It remembers Hell Week, jogging the length of Coronado's shoreline until his calves bled; wrapped duct tape (twice) around his forelegs and kept running.

The world moves slowly through a tunnel-vision rush of adrenaline; he hears the harsh, garbled roar of the wind, his own blaring pulse, Angela begging him to forgive her, leave her, save himself. Half-coherent pleas that he does not even consider. There is no time to pick these moments apart and wonder where it all went so, so wrong. Owen knows that fear, raw and unfettered, will not save them. He keeps running.

It began with a conversation in an old cemetery, finding shelter in the remains of an abandoned church-cabin; they travelled to the Cheyenne Mountain to share research data with an allied community sheltered in the old military defensive bunkers. Angela’s tired, rose-nipped face was warmed by the dry, termite-eaten floorboards and birch bark Owen threw into a deep pit of fire. Thickets of red twig dogwood grew around the property; they look like blood splatter frozen in the cold autumn air.

Colorado’s mountains are supposed to be too cold for the pathogen to survive, freezing the biosynthetic bacterium in a cryogenic state of suspended animation. It was cold, and soothingly quiet. Angela cupped her hands and blew warm air into them, a self-soothing gesture as she asked him the question through her fingers, “What do you miss about the old days?”

Owen tosses another strip of birch wood onto the campfire, poking the muzzle of a hunting rifle into the embers to kindle the charred, smoldering wood. He turns toward her, not expecting the pop quiz.

“...s’been a long time since I’ve thought about that,” he answered earnestly; smiles wryly, “Pineapple pizza.”

Angela scoffed, “I suppose it is better than deer jerky and MREs.”

“Your turn. What about you?”

“...cigarettes.”

Despite himself, Owen felt the huff of laughter in his chest. “Really, you?”

Rheumy-eyed, she grinned, ducked her head sheepishly between her shoulders; the edge of her mouth trembled, the ghost of her grief hiding in that corner. “It really was terrible, wasn’t it?”

“Society can finally heal from pineapple pizza and cigarettes,” Owen quipped, sounding almost-serious. He changed the subject, “...what do you like about now?”

Angela did not answer promptly, muted shock pulling her brows up over her forehead; and then she was quiet, thoughtful. “The coffee beans in the community garden. Grown right by the tangerines, so they taste like citrus.”

"Mmm. Can I steal your answer?"

"Nope," Angela smiles, really smiles; "Your turn."

Owen was not able to answer her. The campfire had thawed the shallow graves, riddled with massospora-mimicking nanoparticles feeding off of light-energy; as the frozen corpses warmed, the spores were reignited by the fire's heat. A fungus-infested hand clawed out of the ground and reached Angela's ankle, squeezing it until the flesh bruised.

There was no screaming or panic from either of them, only the conditioned response of self-preservation. Angela kicked and thrashed until she was free, as more and more bodies crawled out of the snowcapped dirt. Owen bashed the butt of his rifle into rotting teeth, pushing himself up from the ground with his legs.

They fled the cemetery, Angela initially leading the way, until she finally began to feel the pain jolting through her ankle after two miles. It was bleeding, bruised with the blistering imprint of a post-human hand.

Now, carrying her, Owen is slowing down. Every gasp of air feels like dry ice pressed into the pink flesh of his lungs. He keeps running.

They cover five miles without stopping, and then Owen collapses. He can not move, prone on his side. The infected continue to drag through the snow, steadily closing in. Angela screams, angry, frustrated. She throws herself over him like a sacrifice spread over an altar, a handgun gripped expertly in her hands.

The gunshots sound like thunder. She empties its magazine into several of the attackers, but it is not enough. Blood pounds inside her ears, louder than the gunshots. Angela sees everything happening with a terrifying, exhilarating clarity.

Owen forces himself to roll onto his back. He sees the black, starlit sky. The moon is full.

Suddenly, he hears the rattle of bullets whizzing above their heads. He can see them, bright and bronze-colored in the pale moonlight.

The scouts from the Cheyenne Mountain community have semiautomatic rifles and crossbows poised in front of them, their white winter coats blending into the snow as they coordinately approach the infected hosts from the treeline.

The last thing he sees is Angela’s face, stunned, paralyzed, as her hands come up around his face and frames them there.

Eighteen hours later, he is conscious again. He feels warm, comfortable. It is unfamiliar. As the brain-fog disperses, Owen realizes that his body is exhausted, supine, laying across a bed.

The room is concrete, old green paint faded and chipped away. Angela’s head is halfway burred inside her arms, folded gently over his forearm. She is breathing, slow and steady and alert.

Owen blinks tightly, feeling the leonine yawn stretch his mouth open, chest rising with the whole-bodied inhale. Angela withdraws sharply, startled and relieved.

“Owen— !”

“I know my answer,” he says; his voice is hoarse and deepened with fatigue. Owen is stubborn enough to talk anyway. Discomfort is more familiar to him than this room.

His resilience surprises her, too. Angela does not know what he is referring to, at first, but she is desperate to hear him speak, to accept his hand when it reaches to touch hers, the unquestionable proof that Owen is real. He is alive.

“What I like about now... I know my answer. It’s you,” he looks tired, and serious, as if he is revealing an objective truth. It is not sentimental, it is honest. Owen rests his head back down over the thin pillow behind him. “Forgive yourself. You did your best with who your were at the time.”

He closes his eyes, as if to sleep; not elaborating, not needing to.

“Of course,” she laughs, really laughs; tired and tearful and swollen with relief. “There's always something left to lose.”

#valhela #DEAD MAN WALKING.#IC.#long post #owen vc: alrighty gg gonna compartmentalize this

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conversationswithcole · 4 years

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What’s It Feel Like to Be a Flake?

For as long as I can remember I have been the type of person who gets this idea in their head and thinks this is it. Despite all of my past ideas that I have not seen come into fruition, this is the idea I’ve been waiting for.

Spoiler alert: it is never the idea.

The truth is, I’m a flake. I claim to want to do all these different things and then when it’s time to take action to get them done, I bail. The idea will rapidly expand in my mind, filling my body with this surge of adrenaline that makes me feel invincible. I continue to day dream about how it will pan out and watch my future play out like a perfect movie in my mind. I’ll take this energy to start my journey and then as quickly as it began, it all washes away with the tides of the ocean.

I have countless books I’ve started and never finished, television shows left unwatched after two seasons, art projects that are halfway painted and fitness goals I’ve never reached. I repeat a list of things I want to do, habits I want to form, challenges I want to complete, and careers I want to pursue and almost nothing sticks.

I’m full of excuses and the sick part is I’m totally aware of it. I try to convince myself that they’re justifiable but in reality my self-awareness of this unfavorable character trait eats me alive.

I cannot seem to wrap my head around it. If I am so painfully aware of this part of myself that is harmful to my well-being, why does it continue to transpire? It’s a constant loop of emotions from beginning to end. It’s actually very similar to the pattern of emotions I get from a night of intense binge drinking. Unfettered excitement for the night to begin, followed by the feeling of euphoria as the night unfolds, and by the next morning, when it has all come to a close, I am on my near death bed swearing off alcohol for the rest of my life. I build myself up to believe I am the Queen of the whole damn world and nothing can stop me when a new vision pops into my head. I go from that feeling of being invincible to feeling like I will never accomplish anything for the rest of my days. When I don’t see these so called desires to completion, I destroy my self esteem. I belittle my character and decimate my self worth with the harshest words in the book. Things I would never say to another human being for the pure fact that they are so loathsome yet for some reason I find appropriate when looking to describe my own self.

I saw this quote on Instagram one day that read, “if you truly want something, nothing will stop you from getting it. If it does, that means you didn’t truly want it in the first place.” It haunts me. It makes my head spin. Does this mean I never really wanted it in the first place? How can that be possible when I felt it in my bones? This can’t be true, life doesn’t go as planned, you can’t control your future and situations arise all the time to throw your plans off track. You’re allowed to have a sudden change of heart, life is all about living and learning. I’m not a flake, I’m just exploring all of my options, right? There’s still time, I don’t need to rush, I’ll make it happen eventually.

I can sit here and go back and forth tearing myself apart for not fulfilling a plan I set out to complete, and then look to the left and compile reason after reason to justify my unfinished work as a sorry attempt to help alleviate the feelings of being complete and total trash. I am the angel and the devil on my shoulder.

Now I must ask myself, why do I feel this way about my actions? Is it because society has sculpted this idea of what makes a successful person? Am I not confident enough in myself to succeed? Am I so fearful of the possibility to be crushed by failure that I would rather just not try at all? Or is it because it actually is a horrible character trait and I am in fact trash?

I worry so much about what others think of me when I rattle off my ideas and then they disappear. It literally almost happened with this blog. When I wrote my first few posts I was full of that giddiness you get in the beginning of a new relationship. It’s been a few weeks since that first post and I’ve written nothing new. My boyfriend called me out on it and I felt shame. I quickly responded with anything I could think of to make it seem like I had not given up on this dream, yes dream, of mine because I couldn’t bear the embarrassment of yet another unaccomplished goal.

Honestly I am having a difficult time writing a conclusion to all of this because I still can’t fully convince myself I’m not just a piece of trash. I would like to blame my skewed method of evaluating myself and my en devours on the toxic and corrupt media that has created these unrealistic standards for success that can be so debilitating people lose their lives over it, buuuuuuut I know that sometimes it really is my own fault. I am a human who makes mistakes but I am also a human who chooses what she does and does not do. Sometimes things arise that derail your plans, or even destroy them, but sometimes the only thing standing in the way of what you want is your own self. Sometimes I am only human, I can’t be perfect and I need to understand that there are so many different ways to measure success that only I can be the judge of my own triumphs. Things don’t always go as planned and they don’t get finished because The Universe has a different path mapped out for me, but sometimes I really am acting like trash and I give up and there is no other reason that my goals went unreached except for the fact that I got in my own way.

Now I can take all of this information next time I find myself spiraling into this cycle of success versus failure. I can evaluate the situation while being kinder to myself when I fail, but realizing when I caused my own downfall and combat that with the drive to go further than I expect from myself.

Or I can continue to be the same person I have been and follow the same pattern over and over again until I die.

I wonder what it’s gonna be.

Editors note: I was stuck between two titles for this post, both a spin off of the name of a 2000′s punk rock song. It was a hard decision between the current title, which is a play on the Taking Back Sunday song “What’s It Feel Like to Be A Ghost” or “I’m a Flake”, a play on The Used track titled, “I’m A Fake”. Emo kids never die.

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azanavarette · 4 years

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『ARIENNE MANDI ❙ CIS FEMALE』 ⟿ looks like AZADEH NAVARETTE is here for HER FIRST year as a INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS MASTERS student. SHE is 25 years old & known to be INQUISITIVE, THOUGHTFUL, ARGUMENTATIVE & CRITICAL. They’re living OFF CAMPUS, so if you’re there, watch out for them. ⬳ NIX. 23. EST. SHE/HER.

hi everyone! my name is nix and i’ll be playing azadeh navarette, or aza as she’s known by her family and (hopefully soon to be) friends. super excited to get back into writing, as i’ve been away from rp-ing for a little while, so forgive me for being a little rusty!! anyways, here’s a little (lol) info about azadeh:

personality/facts:

aza is incredibly focused, to the point of fixation. when she settles on something, she goes for it - whether it be the top grade, the person she’s interested in, or the family member who needs help.

it can be to the detriment of her health because she can become so tunnel-visioned.

she’s incredible with languages, having grown up surrounded by so many different cultures. she spoke farsi with her mother’s family, spanish with her father’s family, swedish with the general public and learned english and german in school.

this makes her accent incredibly... difficult to parse out where exactly she’s from. she sometimes has difficulty remembering certain words in other languages and will hop her way through languages (silently or otherwise) in order to reach the right meaning she’s looking for.

she will argue to the point of headache when she feels like it - if you’re not up for a debate, don’t get caught in her crosshairs with a strong opinion. argument, for aza, is enlightening; if anything argument endears her more to a person because (to aza) it means the other person is willing to engage with her deeper than a simple ‘hello, the weather’s lovely today.’

is quite musically inclined, but doesn’t speak publicly about it - mostly because she believes if she invests too much time into it she’ll lose the forward movement she’s got with her career path. in the two years she was taking care of her aunt she would write songs and play them to her. she’s never played live for anyone other than her family - someone would have to get very close to her to hear her play her one of her songs.

she writes in farsi and spanish, and more recently has been translating/writing her songs into english.

did not have friends growing up - she never felt a sense of community anywhere. with the swedish, she always felt too much of a foreigner; with her chilean cousins, always too persian, and with her persian family always too chilean.

even in london at university it was hard to find a community; at most times ava feels placeless - and to distract from that buries herself in her work.

identifies as a lesbian, but is very much still in the closet to most people, especially her family. when she moved away to london for university she had the freedom to date as she wanted, but moving back to stockholm pushed her back into hiding.

she hasn’t dated in two years and feels very self-conscious of that, especially at her age.

history:

azadeh was born and raised in stockholm, sweden.

she is the daughter of refugees from worlds apart who happened to land in scandanavia, of all places.

her father’s family is from santiago, chile - her father, his brothers and his mother fled from persecution in 1974 following the coup d’etat.

her mother’s family is from mashad, iran - her mother and mother’s sisters were sent abroad for school to protect them from the 1979 iranian revolution.

her parents met in upper secondary school - they were in the same international swedish classes and helped each other learn the language.

they went on to university together (majoring in material sciences and engineering) and were married after completing their doctorate programs.

having a child was not a part of their plan - they were both incredibly career focused and uninterested in settling down - but when an accident became a reality they accepted the challenge and became parents.

their no-nonsense parenting made for a very strict upbringing for azadeh. she felt pressure to mature quickly at a very young age - her mother and father didn’t have time for a child who acted like a child.

aza’s extended family (the ones living in sweden with her) provided some of the tenderness and understanding her parents weren’t always willing to give to her.

her oldest aunt, faribah, on her mother’s side, would let her stay over for dinner and sleepovers at her house when her parents would be too late to cook or tuck aza into bed.

her grandmother (father’s mother) moved into azadeh’s and her parent’s home when aza was around 10 to more fully take care of her granddaughter while her parents were away.

aza excelled in school, particularly in classes for languages, social sciences, and debate. she enjoyed being outspoken and opinionated, having her voice be heard and listened to rather than silenced and ignored.

she applied for a bachelor’s in the u.k. and studied cultural anthropology at the london school of economics.

graduating from university with honors, aza was preparing to move to the united states for a master’s degree when she received a call from her mother that her aunt had fallen down a flight of stairs and had seriously injured her back and neck.

without hesitation aza moved back to stockholm to help take care of her aunt through her rehabilitation, to the upset of her parents who wanted her to continue her education unfettered.

she got a paid internship working for a department of analytical sociology at a nearby university to appease her parents while taking care of her aunt in the hospital.

after two years spent at home, her aunt (recovered from the fall but never to return to full health) sat aza down and told her she needed to continue on with her own life. aza refused at first, but with some prodding agreed to reapply to master’s programs and was accepted into radcliffe in its international relations masters program.

wanted connections:

new first friends - someone(s) that see through the weird accent, the compulsive need to argue, and the near manic level of focus to the thoughtful and caring woman azadeh is. she is incredibly loyal and contrary to popular belief is not a robot and can have a drink and a laugh just like everyone else! please give this sad woman a friend... she needs to talk to someone other than her family, they’ll drive her crazy.

gay friends - highlighting that this would be super cool and also super important!! aza would love a proverbial ‘gay guru’ to talk to and help her through all the stuff she should have had the space to explore when she was younger...

crushes - just because aza doesn’t have that much experience/hasn’t dated in a long time doesn’t mean she doesn’t have eyes... honestly, if you are a woman/woman leaning and you smile at her she’s most likely to have some sort of a crush on you.

unrequited crushes - as is the burden of a lesbian, when you’re young and inexperienced enough to learn that it is not chill to fall for your straight friend because that only ends awfully.

roommates - azadeh lives off campus but definitely doesn’t have enough money to pay for a nice place all on her own, so she’s bound to have a flat share. maybe one or two people who also go to radcliffe (undergraduate or graduate, it doesn’t matter) so they can take the bus together :3

#radintro #//#super excited to get started!!#i have to run away for perhaps the rest of the night but hit me up in my inbox and i will reply asap!!

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angelofberlin2000 · 5 years

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In his 14 minutes of screentime in Always Be My Maybe, Netflix’s latest rom-com phenomenon, 54-year-old Keanu Reeves — now 30 years into his stardom — skewers and subverts the personas we’ve come to attach to him.

Reeves, playing an outsized version of himself, cuts an imposing figure in his introduction. Time slows to a crawl. All eyes gravitate toward the velvet-jacketed figure with striking beauty and prickly charisma. After his entrance — a show for everyone in the farcical restaurant Maximal — he slides toward Ali Wong’s celebrity chef Sasha, offering spiritual platitudes in the face of her unfettered lust. “I missed your thumbs,” she breathily exhales. “I missed your soul” is his reply.

It’s a maniacally delightful performance that both reminds audiences of Reeves’s place in Asian-American Hollywood history and allows him to flex improvisational skills as he cycles through the various masks we have grafted onto him. There’s the impossibly otherworldly Keanu, who says with utmost sincerity, “The only stars that matter are the ones that you see when you dream.” There’s action-star Keanu, who smashes a vase against his own head in a game of Icebreaker and easily puts the jealous protagonist, Marcus (Randall Park), in a headlock — fully committed, physically graceful, and beautifully dangerous. The Keanu of internet memes and viral threads is here, too, in the very fact that he’s playing himself.

Reeves is having a dynamite year with the success of Always Be My Maybe, the outrageously violent John Wick Chapter 3: Parabellum, and Toy Story 4, in which he plays Canada’s greatest stunt driver, Duke Caboom. (Another sly nod perhaps? While born in Beirut, Reeves — who is of Chinese-Hawaiian and British ancestry — was raised in Toronto.) The actor’s more recent evolution into a meme may flatten his complexities, but it does signal why he has endured all this time, despite the persistent claim that he’s a bad actor, or just a limited one. As I’ve contended in the past, this is a gross misreading of a great actor. In her tremendous 2007 masterwork The Star Machine, film professor and historian Jeanine Basinger praises Reeves amongst his generational contemporaries: “Reeves is a neo-star fighting the concept of stardom itself, working steadily against persona to the point where no one has a clear idea of who Reeves is onscreen anymore. This has hurt him, but it has also allowed him to maintain versatility that means more to him than fame. […] His career would have been limited, and thus short lived. Instead, he has used his freedom to move on and slowly force audiences to accept him as a real actor.”

Just take a look at the arc of his career — as a teenager going through an existential crisis in the blackhearted wonder River’s Edge (1986); the affably dimwitted Theodore “Ted” Logan from Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure (1989) and its sequel; the bodaciously supple and yearning FBI agent and surfer Johnny Utah in Point Break (1991); a bruisingly courteous SWAT officer in Speed (1994); the beatific savior Neo in The Matrix (1999); the violent redneck in The Gift (2000); an occult detective radiating self-loathing and suicidal yearnings in Constantine (2005); and of course, the titular tenderhearted and violently dangerous assassin of the John Wick franchise. In looking at all of his performances, I am reminded of what the great Roger Ebert wrote in his review of the Bill & Ted sequel back in the early ‘90s: “I have seen Keanu Reeves in vastly different roles (the FBI man in the current Point Break, for example), and am a little astonished by the range of these performances.”

Throughout his career, Reeves has eschewed obvious transformation in favor of something trickier and more subtle. What has allowed him to remain a star, 30 years later, is a blend of virility, vulnerability, and an aura of mystery, hearkening to a bygone era of stardom that contradicts the current moment, which requires stars to seem endlessly accessible; his sheer joy for the medium that makes him a cinematic sensualist; his racial dimensions as a star; and his gimlet-eyed understanding of the female gaze. These qualities are unique in the current market of stardom in Hollywood, allowing him to straddle various cinematic contexts with ease — mainstream romantic comedies, somber indie flicks, gloriously decadent action flicks.

They come through in one of his earliest films, My Own Private Idaho, a meditative character study about two young hustlers — Mike Waters (River Phoenix), a shy narcoleptic in search of a sense of home, and the strikingly beautiful Scott Favor (Reeves), a trust-fund kid slumming it until his inheritance kicks in at 21. Reeves and his late co-star imbue their characters with a particular mix of virility, vulnerability, and mystery. I’d argue that all the greatest leading men in the annals of Hollywood stardom have existed at this intersection to varying degrees — something I feel has been lacking from modern male stars, partially because they are being formed in franchises that lack interest in the visceral aspects of humanity. (It helps that Reeves has declined offers to join Marvel, even though they’ve been trying to woo him to their stable for years.) Humphrey Bogart’s cool is consistently undercut by his own anger and self-loathing. William Holden held something dark behind his megawatt smile and gleaming blond locks. Paul Newman always felt a touch remote, like he was hiding bruised aspects of himself from the audience. Marlon Brando, of course, epitomizes these qualities. Reeves is brimming with similar contradictions. He reflects this tradition by being at once beatifically still and emotionally expressive, defined by loneliness and a yearning to be saved from it.

In My Own Private Idaho, Reeves is the object of desire not only for Mike but the camera itself. Deep into the film, Mike timidly reveals his love to Scott while they camp out in the desert, a fire crackling before them. Phoenix plays Mike as wild with energy he has no real outlet for, leading to an awkward physicality. Reeves grants his character a languid brio. He takes up space, laying close to the fire, his head dipped back to study Mike as he timidly expresses his feelings. He’s outstretched, willowy, and aware of Mike’s gaze; he examines the weight of it. The scene reveals one of Reeves’s greatest skills as an actor: being an active listener. As he studies Mike, he invites and toys with his feelings. “I only have sex with a guy for money,” he notes offhandedly as if it were a random truth, not a response to a declaration of love. But just as the prickliness of his character comes into view (foreshadowing later betrayals), Reeves displays a burnishing sincerity. Arms outstretched, he says, “Let’s go to sleep,” and proceeds to cradle Mike.

The full-bodied listening Reeves exhibits in My Own Private Idaho is a hallmark of his work opposite women as well. Reeves is a great example of what Roswell New Mexico writer Alanna Bennett deemed The Look: “The number one thing a man in a romcom needs, TV or movie, is the ability to look at their love interest REALLY WELL. The man barely even needs to speak if he just knows how LOOK at a person.” Reeves has given that look in multiple contexts — his face is bright with awe when he looks at Carrie-Anne Moss’s Trinity in the Matrix films; it has a touch of admiration when he gazes at Sandra Bullock in Speed; and it is filled with unmitigated desire for Diane Keaton’s Erica Barry in Something’s Gotta Give.

Nancy Meyer’s 2003 ode to beachside property and an older woman’s sensual awakening stars Keaton as a successful playwright who finds herself falling for two very different men — Harry Sanborn (Jack Nicholson), who briefly dated her daughter (how this didn’t disqualify him immediately continues to baffle me) and has to go through a damn heart attack before he can see what’s attractive in a woman around his own age; and Julian Mercer (Reeves), a sweet doctor with a penchant for black turtlenecks who is immediately smitten when they meet.

In the film, Reeves is attuned to the female gaze in its most literal incarnation — an understanding of how women see the world, what they want from it, and how they make sense of desire. During a dinner scene with Julian, Erica’s face and neck are flush. She’s skittish and nervous in the face of his undeniable — but never disrespectful — sexual and romantic interest. Reeves’s face shows the depth and breadth of The Look, as he glides from teasing lust to a spark of genuine intellectual attraction. At one point, when their conversations turns to women his own age, he says, “I’ve never met one I’ve reacted to” — stumbling for a moment, as if shocked by the depth of his own feeling — “… quite like this. When something happens to you that hasn’t happened before, don’t you have to at least find out what it is?” He’s a man overcome and humbled by his own desire. Is there anything sexier? Then he leans in, his face going soft, gently kissing the groove where her neck meets her shoulder. “I knew you’d smell good,” he whispers. Only Reeves could pull off a line like that.

Many actors of Reeves’s caliber are too invested in being in the spotlight of a scene to play a romantic lead like this. After the fall of the studio system in the 1960s, Hollywood no longer looked at women as a viable market, and while romantic comedies continued to get made, going forward, there was a notable shift in whose desire was centered — and how little male actors seemed interested in exploring romance and desire. Reeves’s willingness brought another layer of intimacy to his relationship with his audience, offering a more flexible, vulnerable portrait of masculinity that sets him apart from other name stars.

That intimacy is key to Reeves’s longevity. It’s what makes him such a great cinematic sensualist. In 2009, Matt Zoller Seitz argued that directors Michael Mann, Terrence Malick, David Lynch, Wong Kar-wai, and Hou Hsiao-hsien were the “the decade’s best sensualists filmmakers.” He wrote, “They share a defining trait: a lyrical gift for showing life in the moment, for capturing experience as it happens and as we remember it. The sensualists are bored with dramatic housekeeping. They’re interested in sensations and emotions, occurrences and memories of occurrences.” I’d argue that being a cinematic sensualist is a distinction that can apply to acting as well. For actors, it is about bringing texture and complication to a film, existing wholly in the moment, and a keen interest in the human body.

When we watch films, the body keeps score as much as the mind does. Reeves demonstrates an understanding of this. This is apparent in the delicate neck kiss in Something’s Gotta Give; the careful way his hand skitters across broken glass before deciding on which shard to slit his wrists with in Constantine; the calm he engenders with merely the sound of his voice in Thumbsucker. But it’s most impactful in his career as an action star. In many ways, the John Wick franchise is the perfect marriage of director and star. The third film is a tactile feast. Consider a scene early in John Wick 3, in which Reeves methodically takes apart and reassembles a gun for a single shot. This scene is, of course, a testament to the character’s skill as an assassin. But it also acts as a reminder of how out of step John is with the world around him, betraying a desire for the quieter moments in life — despite the brutal milieu he finds himself in — and a strange empathy for the world around him, whether it be object or animal. This allows a humanity to glitter throughout his performances that often feels absent from many action franchises that sacrifice character on the altar of plot.

There’s another part of Reeves’s star image I suspect has played into our abiding fascination with him. Until Always Be My Maybe, the most under-discussed part of Reeves’s persona was his race. Late in his slim but potent book-length essay Mixed-Race Superman: Keanu, Obama, and Multicultural Experience, Will Harris astutely writes about a particular aspect of the 2005 film A Scanner Darkly that, metatextually, speaks to Reeves’s whole career:

“To be mixed-race is to exist in a state of paradox. Race is an illusion that depends on purity and singleness. […] In A Scanner Darkly, set in a paranoid surveillance state in the near-future, Keanu plays a government agent called Bob Arctor, who because he works undercover, has to wear a ‘scramble suit’ in the office. The suit projecting 1.5 million constantly shifting representations of different people — male and female, black, white, Latinx — keeps his identity cloaked. Even the people he works with have no idea who he is.”

Like his persona, Reeves’s face itself is considered unplaceable. Growing up, he never read as white to me, but he has read that way to Hollywood, which allowed his career to be mutable in ways that very few people of color ever experience. But for much of the moviegoing audience, seeing his face has always been a point of connection. It’s the undercurrent of why his turn in Always Be My Maybe felt like such a significant moment in his career. It was as though something had been revealed about him for the first time, even though it had been present all along. That it was such a joyful, brazenly comedic role added yet another twist on his image. There was a sense that, even after 30 years in the spotlight, Reeves can still surprise us.

#keanu reeves #why we can't stop watching keanu reeves #angelica jade bastien #vulture

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obsidianmichi · 5 years

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Can you tell something about your Falon'din? What kind of magic does he prefer? His favourite type of people, or kinks? Do you think he is really Dirthamen's sibling?

Sure, I can talk about my Falon’din. I love that guy.

Devil, Devil by Milck is his theme song. He’s the devil.

Background:

Falon’din/Suledin isn’t his original name or original state of being. He was once someone else long before Elvhenan was established as one country. Like Harel and Harel, he was once the ruler of another elvhen civilization that was incorporated into Elgar’nan and Mythal’s kingdom during the early days when Arlathan was just beginning to stretch outside itself. He is Mythal’s “son” or creation rather than the true son of her body like Andruil. He was considered too valuable to destroy but too dangerous to be left alive. He was torn apart and transformed into two separate beings, Suledin (Falon’din) and Sulevin (Dirthamen). One kept their memories and the other did not. They aren’t truly brothers, but they’re not unrelated either.

Other Elven Gods who are not originally of Elvhenan but raised into that status include Dirthamen, June, and Ghilnan’nan.

Falon’din is considered to be the Father of Demons by the Ancient Elves, Elgar’nan’s right hand and the enforcer of his will. He was one of their generals, along with Dirthamen, who did the vast majority of the conquering to create the Elvhenan Empire.

Solas blames himself for the destruction of Elvhenan, but the instigator of events which led to the fall was, in fact, Falon’din.

During the rising of the Veil, Falon’din partitioned off a portion of himself and escaped from Arlathan in spirit form and within the body of a trusted retainer. However, when the elves became mortal so did he. Like Mythal, he discovered a way to pass his soul forward, usually into a child about to be born and a trusted retainer who maintained their immortality would awaken him when he turned ten years old.

Falon’din’s study of spirits over millennia allowed him to discover a way to restore immortality to the elves, however he discovered this by accident while using reincarnation to restore the soul of his beloved. He probably could’ve brought the Veil down, but Solas’ plan worked to his benefit. Even when able to work with only a fraction of his power, he was free to pursue his true goals unfettered by the watchful eyes of the other Evanuris.

Most of the access the Dalish have in my universe that they hide from the outside world come from him and his work, and there’s even more the average Dalish is unaware of.

Magic: Soul Magic, Fate Magic

Falon’din is an incredibly powerful mage, though he doesn’t normally show his raw power and instead prefers a more subtle approach. He goes in for magic which will allow him to structure a situation, stir up rumors that cause civilizations to fall, and can create riotous mobs with just a word.

Falon’din is the master of magical arts involving the soul or spirit. We can call this a lot of things, soul-magic, soul-forging, soul-manipulation, reincarnation. I’d say “spirit magic” but that gives the wrong impression, and is subtly different from Solas’ magic which involves his study of the Fade. This wasn’t his original specialization when he was one being, but one he learned to master over eons in order to revive the one he loved from annihilation.

On top of everything else, he’s also a capable martial combatant.

Right now, he’s only at a fraction of his full power if the Veil came down and he reunited his soul with his body you’d start to see why Solas hates him so much. He knows the Veil falling is inevitable, which is why he’s moving to get there first.

People He Likes: Eirwen

Falon’din values loyalty above everything, but he is loyal to one single individual and, while he cares for those who put their faith in him, there is nothing he wouldn’t do to correct an ages old mistake. He prefers retainers who are capable of independent thought and allows them to voice their opinions, but they won’t remain in his service long if they have nothing worthwhile to contribute. He favors expediency, practicality, and self-sufficiency when the situation calls for it, but he’s not above offering a helping hand if the situation calls for it. He’s not fond of moralistic whining, people calling him evil, or telling him what he already knows. He doesn’t value stupidity or pointless self-sacrifice. The vast majority of heroic archetypes bore him, and he’d be incompatible with most Dragon Age protagonists, also incompatible with most companions. He considers himself evil, and he sacrificed the self-righteousness Solas clings to a long time ago.

He works with people who are independent, self-sufficient, diligent, practical, clear sighted, have strong personalities, and are ruthless in the pursuit of what they want. He dislikes when people are clingy, when they ask for more than he’s willing to give, when they break their oaths, or force their will or morals on others. He’s impressed (we’ll use that word lightly) by those who seek to the truth beyond their first impression and ignores those who respond with surface level knee jerk reactions. He has no issue axing those who prove to be too much of a problem or get in his way.

Eirwen is the person he cares for. The one he loves and everything he does is to restore her. He’s not doing it so they can be together. He doesn’t expect her to love or forgive him if she gets her memories back. Eirwen is always watched by someone who serves him. He had mixed feelings about letting Solas get close to her, but he also knew the journey from stopping Corypheus would be too beneficial for restoring her soul. In order to save her, he has to let her live, let her experience the world, come into her own beliefs and opinions even if he disagrees. He values her independence.

The organizations he leaves behind aren’t reliant on him and could go on in his absence, which is what he prefers. The great irony of Falon’din is that those who serve him are loyal because they like him and prefer him to serving anyone else. He is exactly the monster Solas insists he is, there’s just more to him than meets the eye.

You can see other characters he likes, though. His current mother Deshanna and Sariel are examples. He won’t raise anyone from the dead or restore their immortality if he doesn’t believe they’ll prove useful to the goals of his people in the current Thedosian climate.

Kinks: Eirwen-sexual

If Falon’din engages in sex with someone who isn’t Eirwen, it’s rarely for pleasure and usually has some other purpose in mind. He’s partners generally leave satisfied, but he’s elusive and usually it feels like something is missing. (His emotions, his emotions are missing.)

With Eirwen, he’s completely different. Eirwen and her reincarnations are what he cares about. When he’s with her, “Love Me Like You Do” by Ellie Goulding starts playing in the background. Being around her is like breathing a sigh of relief and all the walls come down. He gets soft, and warm, and relaxed; which is very different from the careful, calculating, controlled Falon’din we usually see. You could probably consider him touch-starved, so he’s very snuggly and very touchy-feely. He’s content to just lie on a bed holding her, stroking her hair as she falls asleep.

For Falon’din, it is genuinely painful for him to be separated from Eirwen. He feels their separation deep in his soul, grating like sand sown into a wound. He’s never truly happy, never truly content. Unlike Dirthamen, he remembers watching Mythal and Elgar’nan use their combined powers to obliterate her and steal portions of her essence to empower themselves as they tore him apart. (Have I mentioned Falon’din despises Elvhenan?)

He becomes reminiscent to the being he was before Mythal and Elgar’nan, the great general who lived an exemplary life beloved by his people and his queen. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do if she was the one asking. That includes killing all the Magisters in Tevinter and the Black Divine, celebrating victory with sex on the throne. He’d also be perfectly content to leave the universe, seek adventures in the Fade beyond the reach of everyone and everything, and never have contact with Thedas again. However, during past reincarnations, when he didn’t have something necessary to accomplish and they did get married, they usually lived happy, content, comfortable lives.

- Michi

#falon'din #falon'din x lavellan #long post

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foxofthedesert · 5 years

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How to Tame a Siren | A DinahSiren Arrow FF

So, like every other DinahSiren shipper, I loved the scene after Laurel's petition to have Oliver released is denied and Dinah stops her from going after the judge. Dinah has some pretty impressive Siren calming skills, so I wanted to explore that in the setting of an established relationship.

If you’d rather read/comment on AO3, click here.

"Fuck!"

Bursting up from the sofa, Laurel heaves the notepad in her hand clear across the apartment, shouting into the effort with almost enough force to trigger her sonic ability. For what must be the fifteenth time this evening, she had read through an amended opening statement for the trial due to start tomorrow morning only to find it yet again utterly inadequate. Which in turn made her feel inadequate. Which then made her angry.

This trial is by far the most critical of her career. It is make or break stuff, really, of the sort that could catapult her from a zealous state D.A. into the realm of public political stardom. The potential to extend her sphere of influence into the elusive halls of power is too tempting to resist when Mayors, State Reps, and Governors – hell, even a few prominent US Senators – were made from emerging victorious in similarly high profile spectacles. Being District Attorney of a metropolitan area has certainly afforded her a tantalizing sample of what real power tastes like, and she has wantonly indulged herself in the heady flavor, but there is no sense in denying she wants more. The limited prestige of local prominence is not enough. Her desire to join the exclusive ranks of the political elite only intensifies the closer she gets to breaking through the threshold of a ceiling that appears increasingly less impenetrable. Just because she has mostly bottled up her dark side does not mean she has ceded her ambitions. First meta-human President sure does have a nice ring to it, after all.

Since giving up the unrivaled adrenaline rush of hunting down enemies then mercilessly disposing of them, Laurel has needed to focus those chaotic energies into more productive outlets. Joining Oliver's gang of mostly insufferable do-gooders proved an ineffective option, as such selfless service could never satisfy her ferocious, ultra-competitive drive. Oh, she tried suiting up for a while as a means to sate her frequent urges to commit violence, but found it to be at best a stop-gap solution. Fighting did help, and still does, to mollify the malefic creature crawling beneath her skin everyone so lovingly refers to as Black Siren, just not enough.

Sadly prowling the shadowy streets of Star City and pummeling members of the criminal element she once would have casually commiserated with had one glaring flaw: every night when her patrol was done she had to go home and try to stuff Siren back into the little square box labeled: DANGER MONSTER INSIDE, DO NOT OPEN. On a good day of pretending to be someone she isn't, that box barely survives the inexhaustible fury of the prisoner it was specifically constructed to contain.

The only alternative to giving in to the insidious temptation to become Black Siren again was to supplement the lackluster approach of vigilantism by funneling some of that excess energy into her day job. So that's what she has done, having adopted a method of practicing law that mirrors her no-holds-barred approach to fighting. Ruthless, aggressive, largely merciless, occasionally reckless, always a sharpened blade in hand ready to be metaphorically driven home. These were some of the descriptive words and phrases she has heard attributed to her tenure as District Attorney, meant as criticism by her opponents and praise by her supporters. Whether offered as complimentary or disparaging, she embraces them all wholeheartedly. Ultimately she is who she is and forever shall be, only now she focuses on being an edgy, remorseless, vindictive, judgmental, angry person in the courtroom so she can just be Laurel at home.

That said, she would be lying to insist she never wishes to return to the simplicity of Siren's outlook on life. Being a good guy is hella complicated and terribly stressful. There is an undeniable advantage to not giving two shits about anyone other than herself. Doing the right thing is so often thankless and contradictory to her temperament that she suffers from far more anxiety than she ever did causing mayhem whilst arrayed in the signature black leather and fishnets. Some mornings she finds it hard to force herself out the front door of the apartment for the gigantic knot of caustic dread that has taken up residence in her belly. But she has yet to let that irrational angst defeat her, in no small part thanks to the stubbornness that makes her a survivor. That, and there is one very special person for whom she would do almost anything who does not allow her to surrender to her worst characteristics or her very real fears.

On nights like tonight, though, when she is frustrated beyond all reckoning and has been bullied to the bleeding edge of her tolerance with the expectation placed upon her to do things the 'right way,' preventing a full blown Siren-apocalypse tests the limits of her carefully developed self-control. And when she is arguing with herself internally like she is right now? Yeah, that doesn't help at all. Doesn't bode well for her sanity, either.

What the hell are you doing, you deluded moron? The villainous part of Laurel's psyche is being so excessively obnoxious tonight that she is unable to ignore it. You're no Clarence Darrow. Hell, Gomez Addams is more qualified than you are for this shit. You know what that means, don't you? It means you're gonna fuck this up just like you do everything else. It means you're gonna make a fool of yourself in front of some of the most powerful people in the entire country in addition to those sappy morons you've started hanging out with. It also means a killer is gonna walk free. Good thing it would be oh-so-easy to make sure that never happens! Betcha a crisp Nixon or whoever the hell is on a hundred here it wouldn't be hard to intercept prisoner transpo and take care of that problem. Permanently.

"No! I can't. I won't..." Shaking her head frantically, Laurel is as much frustration over her internal dialogue with an imaginary version of her worst self as she is over responding audibly to the obvious goading. Agitated past the point of reason, she begins to pace the area in front of the sofa like a captive tiger whose juicy meal was left just out of reach of her chains. To ward off a total meltdown, she slips into the tried and true method she was taught to master the monster within.

"First," Ollie had told her taking up a very convincing zen pose, "close your eyes and envision a harbor of peace, somewhere you are totally safe. Somewhere you feel secure enough to allow yourself to be vulnerable. A place that you can be your true self, absent of all baggage weighing you down and as in touch with your former innocence as is possible. See it? Good. Now go there. Immerse yourself in your surroundings. Let the familiarity and serenity and warmth seep into your bones and wash away the fear and rage."

That part was always easy enough for Laurel. When she first started training in Oliver's regimen, she used to envision her house on Earth-2 back before her mother miscarried after an accident and her parents started fighting all the time, then divorced a couple years later, and soon after her father crawled head first into the bottle. Back then, she was exactly like every other happy little girl in America. Mommy's angel and Daddy's pride and joy, she was celebrated for her advanced intellect and a gift for language that manifested early alongside a clear affinity for mediation and a prodigious grasp for very vague concepts of justice. She can remember her Mom and Dad playfully arguing about whose footsteps she would follow in. Was she going to become a career academic like her Mom? Or a cop like her Dad? They never could agree. In the end, Laurel landed somewhere between all on her own, not that it mattered when her idyllic life came to a screeching halt not long after her eighth birthday. But the memory of that former happiness was enough to center her in the midst of the storm of unfettered darkness that was Black Siren.

Like Ollie, however, she has since moved on from that initial visualization. Her refuge is no longer a place but a person.

Dinah.

Just the thought of that name creates a puddle of warmth low in Laurel's belly that swirls wonderfully northward. Once reaching her chest, it then spreads into her arms and fingers, which begin to tingle with anticipation that will have to wait til later for fulfillment.

Her eyes slide shut involuntarily as she imagines Dinah in all of her glory – olive skin that is every bit as soft as it looks, thick curly brown hair she envies as much as she loves, entrancing green eyes that reveal the mysteries of the universe to an infinitely curious mind, and sinfully lush lips turned up in a smile only she gets to see. A distinctive smell washes over her as the very human vision of her haven coalesces within the mist of her memory, cherries and the subtle hint of Tom Ford Jasmin Rouge, and it is accompanied by the feel of warm fingers and palms sliding against and caressing the bare flesh of her arms, shoulders, sides, hips, and along the small of her back. Shivering at the ghost of a touch for which she has acquired an insatiable addiction, she also hears a slightly husky yet alluring feminine voice whose dulcet tones are capable of penetrating any resistance constructed by a heart that has been abused so many times there is no reckoning the wounds. That voice – Dinah's unmistakable voice – is telling her to be strong, is encouraging her with reminders of all the good she's done since rejoining the wider world, and comforts her with assurances that she is loved and always will be.

Like the arrival of a gentle morning tide, Laurel feels calm wash over her and her monstrous side recedes a step into the darkness.

"Next," Oliver would say, "concentrate on regulating your breathing and then focus on bringing your heart rate down. Elevated BP and oxygen supply to the brain only fuels the runaway chain chemical reaction going on. Control is what we are after, so strive for it with single-minded tenacity."

Again, easy enough, though primarily thanks to her gorgeous, heroic, compassionate, unshakable anchor – the woman in whom she has learned to trust and for whom she would take on the whole world. Taking slow, deep breaths, Laurel hones in on the sound of her heartbeat and then compares it with the memory of the one steadily beating beneath her ear most nights. That gentle thrumming cadence, so reliable and soothing, is a unique pacifier that has proved a startlingly effective cure to chronic insomnia.

Funny, she never believed books and movies that made romance out into some mythical cure to all the ailments of the human condition. She still doesn't about a lot of it. Not only do her psychological scars preclude her from such vapid sentimentality, experience has taught her that love can often be every bit as destructive as it is some wholesome force with only benevolent intentions and outcomes. There was a time in the not-so-distant past in which love inspired her to commit atrocities she will never atone for or forget, acts of such unfathomable depravity they eat away at her restored conscience to the point she has started wrenching awake from the throes of a vivid nightmare recounting on of them. And in the present, love has yet to cure her infrequent depressive fits any more than it has rid her of the endlessly reoccurring compulsion to murder the terminally moronic legal-lackeys who annoy her on a daily basis. But! She has discovered, to her immense delight, that popular media was right about one thing. It really is so much easier to fall asleep ensconced in the strong arms of the one person she loves more than anything or anyone else while listening to said person's heartbeat.

Unbidden yet beyond her capacity to resist, Laurel's lips quirk up into an amused smile. Felicity was so insufferable when Laurel admitted to Dinah turning her into a cuddle bug because a girl's night ended up with her having too liberally imbibed the delicious spirits served at their favorite 'friend date' haunt. A few other tidbits about herself also slipped free that night. One of them was of a particularly intimate nature and involved a graphic description of her all time favorite taste and smell, which got her into so much fucking trouble less than a week later because Felicity is literally incapable of keeping a secret, especially when in company with one Curtis Holt who has flipped his gossip switch on.

Lord have mercy! But isn't Dinah a splendorous vision when she's royally pissed off.

"Having restored a sense of equilibrium," Oliver would instruct once the first two phases were complete, "carefully corral the monster inside into a place from which it can't escape. There is no other option than compartmentalizing. Believe me, I've tried everything else. Embracing the monster only gives it validation and power over you that you will find nearly impossible to regain. Ignoring it will only feed it's rage. And trying to lock it away forever will only make it all the more vicious and bloodthirsty when it inevitably escapes imprisonment. No, the only way to deal with what people like you and I have to deal with is to control it fanatically. That means intensively training to unleash it with purpose instead of reckless abandon, very much like a weapon, and at all other times strictly segregating it. So put it in a box or toss it in a cage or seal it away in a cell, never lose track of the key, and then keep a close watch on it until the next moment arrives when you need it again.

This is the hardest part. Not because Siren doesn't go into her cage like she's been conditioned to, but because Laurel always feels bad about banishing that part of her into such desolate isolation. Without it, she probably would not have survived the repeated traumas she endured without going batshit insane.

Being Black Siren was not always the study in mustache-twirling villainy as it was when she relocated to this Earth. At first, she was on a crusade to secure righteous retribution for her father and Ollie and all the broken, hapless, vulnerable prey like her who succumbed to one or many of the soulless sharks circling the chummed waters in the wake of a personal tragedy. If only she knew what she does now, that revenge never goes as planned, is never as satisfying as one hopes it will be, and ultimately leads one down a rabbit hole of infinite darkness.

When killing Brett Collins – the drunken bastard responsible for her father's death – didn't quench the hatred that had taken root in her heart, she started hitting the streets on a regular basis. Before long, and with the help of an assassin named Sandra who took an unusual interest in her, she was learning how to fight with more than just her meta ability. Encounters with targets got progressively more out of control until she was not only either putting them in the hospital or the morgue, but she lost her ability to differentiate between just punishment and violence for the sake of personal pleasure. By the time Zoom coerced her into his cohort of meta-terrorists, there wasn't much left of the Laurel who was once the biggest daddies girl to ever live and who would have gladly endured a thousand scourgings or literally ran through fire for her beloved Ollie.

If only she could go back in time and tell her younger self how futile that path was, how empty and deprived of meaning her life became, she could have been spared so much unnecessary pain and so many avoidable stains on her conscience. Sadly, time on goes in one direction unless one is conscripted by an intergalactic agency with honest-to-God H.G. Wells time machines. Sara would not look kindly upon theft of The Waverider, even it was for a very good cause by her sister's doppelganger. Nor is Laurel is inclined to undertake such an endeavor. She has many regrets, far more than she can process at any one time, but the desolate highway of anguish she trod to get to where she is also made her who she is. And while she is not always at peace with the countless sins she has committed and never will be, she is unwilling to give up what she so serendipitously stumbled upon here in the Star City of Earth-1. With Dinah Drake of all people.

Three years ago, she would have laughed until her stomach hurt if someone would have suggested she would refuse to trade the sanctimonious bitch extraordinaire she first met on Lian Yu even if tempted with the opportunity to get either her father or her Ollie back – or both. And yet here she is, confidently acknowledging she would do just that without so much as a twinge of self-recrimination or guilt.

Dinah is, without question, the best thing that has ever happened to her, and there is nothing she won't do to keep from fucking up what they have. She can't say that about anyone else. For Quentin, Laurel had let her true self peek through the curtain of protection over her heart that was Black Siren, was even willing to let that self share the spotlight with her villainous alter ego. But for Dinah, she learned how to put Siren in a gigantic, cold, black box only to ever let her out when she's useful. There are no words to describe how huge a deal taking that leap was for Laurel. No one really would or could understand it except for Dinah and Oliver, both of whom appreciate her sacrifice to varying to degrees.

Oliver has a monster of his own to contend with and, since he agreed to train her how to deal with hers, no longer looks at her with that judgmental loathing and disappointment that once tainted their every interaction. Hell, he has even come to respect her for what she can offer beyond her rival combat skills and vague similarities to the Laurel he lost because he knows her daily struggles better than anyone else. They have developed a tentative friendship that neither are in a rush to experiment with for fear of triggering the other's traumatic memories of lost loved ones that wear their faces. To them, this amiable detente is working wonderfully, therefore it is perfectly sufficient.

Dinah, though...well, Dinah was the first member of the Team Arrow clique to care for the Laurel that is without any ulterior motives underscoring her overtures. It Dinah's unexpected and numerous offerings of support or encouragement that kept Laurel from making some mistakes that might well have re-immersed her in the ocean of hate, bitterness, and rage that was Black Siren. Dinah also had experience with taking out her pain on those who perpetrated it, has spilled blood and killed with her abilities in the pursuit of revenge. One of the people who hurt Dinah the worst was, in fact, Laurel, and that she was able to forgive Laurel for Vinny even a little bit spoke to the absolute strength of her character. A lot of vigilantes squawk about being heroes and set about proving how awesome they are with their fists or guns or knives or bows and arrows. Dinah proved she was a hero by showing compassion to the person for which she had the least reason to do so. To a practiced pessimist like Laurel, that alone made Dinah worth trusting, worth embracing, worth appreciating...worth loving. So when to her shock and inconceivable joy Dinah admitted to returning her seemingly hopeless affections, there was no way in hell she was gonna miss the chance to seize an opportunity she knew instinctively would develop into a once in a lifetime love. And it has been exactly that.

Objectively speaking, Laurel is fully aware she has no right to be as happy as she is. Thing about is she is too happy to care. So what if some of Dinah's friends on Team Arrow still don't trust her. So what if public opinion of their relationship is not always rosy. So what if their problematic history rears its ugly head and they fight like dogs and cats every now and then. So what if the whole fucking world disapproves of what they have. So long as Dinah is healthy and happy, anyone who has a negative opinion about their relationship can take a really short walk off a very tall bridge. Including Siren, who bitches and moans at every opportunity about how soft and pathetic she's become, like she is right now at this very moment. Sometimes Laurel is tempted to consult with Caity Snow about how best to address unwelcome snark from an alter ego. Or a therapist to deal with what might be a serious psychological disorder...

Tough shit, you salty bitch. Time to go back in the hole, Laurel tells Siren as she mentally escorts her darker self, bound hand and foot, to the ebony container she erected in her mind.

Once the beast is safely back in her inescapable box, Laurel returns to the task at hand. This opening statement has to be perfect and by God it will be. She promised a little girl named Susie that the man who took her Mommy and Daddy away would never hurt anyone else ever again. That's a promise she has no intention of breaking. And if successfully prosecuting this case propels her to a notoriety she can advantageously employ to further her career? All the better.

So I'm Meredith Brooks with a functional brain and better hair. Go ahead and sue me. She chuckles under her breath at her own joke.

Determination renewed, Laurel fetches the discarded notepad and deposits herself back on the sofa with renewed purpose. She has an important promise to keep and lofty future prospects to secure. That in mind, she sets about achieving both with a determination that matches the gleam in her eye.

"By the time I'm through, that jury will be eating out of the palm of my hand," she comments to the empty apartment, then begins to read once more

With a sigh of relief, Dinah pushes her key into the lock of her apartment door. God, it's good to be home.

All day long she's been a gigantic ball of stress. Three active, high profile cases have taken up permanent residence on her desk, demanding her attention which is already spread thin. Not only is she having to keep a close eye on the progress being made by six detectives and the entire forensics team, but she is also juggling quarterly performance evaluations on top of the Mayor's request-that-wasn't-a-request to conduct a thorough review of department spending in an effort to streamline the budget. All of that on top of her second job, unpaid by the way, patrolling the streets of Star City as the Black Canary means Dinah is way past due for some down time. Thankfully the end of her current circus act is in sight. An arrest was made today in one of the cases and she signed off on the last of the evaluations. Another two days and the budgetary review will be completed. Once that's done, she intends to take an entire week of vacation and God help anyone who dares to stand in her way.

The only problem with that plan is a certain blonde who has been perhaps the largest drain on Dinah's emotional and psychological reserves. Laurel is under even more pressure than she is, as impossible it seems, and has been working herself stupid since landing the case of the Governor's slain son and daughter-in-law. Dinah can't remember the last time she arrived to what would ordinarily be a relaxing evening at home with her partner of eighteen months.

Normally Laurel would be flitting about the kitchen while doing her best to cook an edible dinner, her golden hair twirled up into a messy bun, dressed in comfy attire like leggings and a loose, off the shoulder sweater or a raggedy old tee. That, or she would be sprawled out on the couch watching MMA or whatever live boxing match might be on, take-out waiting for them both on the dining table. Strangely enough, while Laurel was deadly serious about her job, she is not the type to bring work home with her. This case ended that preferable trend. It has consumed her to a frightening degree. Even when she's at home, her nose is in a law book or she's pouring through case files to find avenues through which to attack the insufferably smug in his wealth and privilege scumbag who – while clearly deranged and guilty as hell – has the best team of defenders dirty money can buy.

To be honest, Dinah is torn between feeling intense pride in Laurel's obsession for justice and a very real concern that said obsession might precipitate a backslide into dangerous habits that don't lead anywhere good. While she has long since forgiven Laurel for what went down with Vince, has even fallen so far beyond head over heels in love with her, a malicious specter lingers upon the horizon. Black Siren, while distant, is forever a threat to the mostly normal and incredibly happy life they have built together. Dinah knows all too well that for people like her and Laurel who have binged upon the sickly sweet delicacies offered by the worst aspects of human nature, succumbing to those old addictions is ever a single taste away.

For the past two weeks she's lain awake in their bed at night until exhaustion finally pulled her under the cresting waves of slumber, unable to fall asleep swiftly as she usually does due to slightly irrational fretting over Laurel's deteriorating mental state. Staring endlessly at Laurel's face, relaxed in repose but still troubled by demons that haunt her dreams, does nothing to quell the creeping panic that seems intent on digging further beneath Dinah's skin with every minute doubt or fear. Never has she been so invested in another person. Not even Vince. And that, more than anything else, is what fuels intense, paranoid fantasies of losing Laurel.

There is no accounting how many times she has conjured up what might happen if a not guilty verdict is returned in this crucial, impending trial. Of how she would be forced to watch Laurel's vibrant olive green eyes turn cold, and of their tense evening at home with all of Dinah's attempts to assuage Laurel's simmering rage failing miserably. Of Laurel eventually tiring of being pawed at and patronized with another you did your best, of her snapping at Dinah and then storming out of their apartment with death emblazoned all over her striking features. Of the morning news reporting the grisly murder of the real estate tycoon recently acquitted of murdering the Governor's son and daughter-in-law. And then the worst part, Laurel sneaking back home the next night, streaks of dried blood staining her blonde mane any ugly rusted shade of red, bags under bloodshot eyes blurry from not having slept on a manic euphoria-induced bender of senseless violence and palpable self-loathing.

Just the thought of anything remotely resembling that scenario coming to pass causes Dinah's stomach to knot with dread like a gnarled tree trunk from some old horror movie. There is little she could conjure up equally as capable of turning her guts into liquid and her heart into a block of burning ice. It is literally the worst possible outcome of this case, one that Dinah does not think she could survive. Losing Vince twice made her say and do and want things she never imagined she could back when she was a young and idealistic Marine. She had thought watching him die as Laurel screamed into his ear was her breaking point. She was wrong. So wrong. Losing Laurel to Black Siren again? That, Dinah thinks, might actually shatter her into so many jagged pieces that a veritable army of puzzle geeks couldn't put her back together.

Imagine then, how quickly panic sets in when she enters their apartment only to find Laurel on the sofa, bent over a notepad on the coffee table, hands tugging at her hair and an ugly sneer marring her pretty lips. After tossing her purse and keys onto the stand next the door, Dinah stalls for a few seconds to gather her courage before risking a breech of the fraught silence.

"Hey..." Dinah winces as much at how tremulous the lame greeting was as at the way Laurel stiffens at hearing it. She berates herself internally, knowing the last thing Laurel needs right now is to hear the doubts regarding her sanity in her girlfriend's voice. After clearing her throat and shaking off the nerves as best she can, Dinah tries again, this time aiming for and successfully achieving a warm concern that any good girlfriend should have upon discovering her partner in such a state. "You okay? You look like you're about ten seconds away from putting Mt. St. Helens to shame."

For a second Laurel just sits there stiff as a board, causing Dinah to hold her breath. She lets it out with a silent prayer of thanks when Laurel heaves a sigh and then runs a shaky hand through her hair.

"It's this fucking case," Laurel says, choice of vocabulary not that surprising. The more stressed – or aroused – she gets, the more f-bombs she drops. "And this fucking opening statement." She gestures wildly toward the notepad as if it were a criminal on trial for felonious assault. "It's just...it's complete and utter dogshit. Patrick Star could construct a better, more persuasive argument. This is the biggest trial of my fucking career and I can't even write an opening statement that would convince a fucking six year old that peas are nasty shit and ice cream is delicious angel food. And I'm just so fucking frustrated and..."

Trailing off, Laurel growls, then sighs again before finally shifting so she can look at Dinah. There is a liquid desperation in her eyes that reveals how close to the edge she is currently teetering.

"I'm at my wits end here, Dinah. I cannot afford to fuck this up. My entire fucking future is riding on the outcome of this case. The Governor has been watching my every move, breathing down my neck twenty-four seven, pressuring me to deliver on this with an unspoken or else hanging over my head like a fucking Damoclean Sword of political homicide. Not only that, but I have an opportunity to really put myself out there, you know? Everyone knows me as Laurel Lance, back from the dead, used to be the Black Fucking Canary or Laurel Lance the unerring crusader for justice. But you know what? I have ambitions. I have aspirations. I'm not that meek Laurel that derived genuine satisfaction putting bad guys behind bars. You know that better than anyone.

"I need challenges, I need high stakes to survive. I can't do mundane, Dinah. I just can't. I like the limelight. I thrive in it. It's exciting and addictive and I'm not ready to fade into obscurity. I don't want to just be a D.A. for a couple more terms and then slink into private practice with my tail between my legs. I want more. I wanna shoot for the stars, 'cause otherwise what's the fucking point? And this case? This is my chance to do that. To make a name for myself in influential circles beyond Star City. Beyond California, even! People in D.C. are following this case. Did you know that? And yet as with everything else, I'm fixing prove to them that I'm nothing but a gargantuan fucking failure. Fuck!"

That last exclamation is punctuated by a fist slamming so forcefully into the dense oak coffee table all of the knickknacks on it clatter and shuffle or are knocked off entirely.

For a second, Dinah just stares at Laurel, a bit flabbergasted at that tirade. All of it, not just the abuse of the table. She's always known a quiet life was not in the cards so long as they are together. Laurel was right about that. There is no getting around who Laurel is as a person. She is as she said. An ambitious daredevil who loves the spotlight and craves the trappings of power. Turning over a newish leaf has not changed those aspects of her character, which is perfectly fine with Dinah. She loves Laurel exactly as she is. It's just...well, she never quite connected those traits to a desire for a political career, and that's exactly what the subtext indicated. Maybe she simply never wanted to. Being the partner of a city councilwoman at most was all she really envisioned.

Now that she's been clued in that Laurel is aiming higher, way higher if her ability to read Laurel is a reliable judge, she finds herself surprisingly willing to make some concessions to help facilitate her partner's so-called aspirations. Is it ideal for her to put their private life up for even more public consumption than it already is? No, not really. But if that's what she has to do to accommodate Laurel's professional ambitions, then she is up for giving it a try. That isn't to say it will work. There is every chance putting their relationship under a microscope will signify impending doom. However, there is also a chance that in helping Laurel spread her wings and fly, she'll discover something new about herself as well. And that is an exciting prospect for someone who is also known for pushing boundaries. The leaps from farm girl to Marine to cop to Black Canary have all been pretty spectacular. So what's one more?

First Lady of California does sound kinda nice.

"Are you just gonna stand there and stare at me? Did I finally scare some sense into you?"

Startled out of her thoughts, Dinah returns her focus to Laurel, whose brows are drawn in tightly and whose lips are pursed in that moody way no one else can accurately replicate. She hadn't meant to leave Laurel hanging, and evidently Laurel took it the wrong way.

Recognizing this moment as critical, Dinah springs into action. "No, no," she says, moving as she talks. "I was just a little stunned by that...outburst. I'm actually kinda glad you got all that out in the open instead of dwelling upon it until it ate you alive. Just...look, I know you're upset, but there's really no need to take it out on the furniture. I assure you, Counselor, the coffee table is innocent."

Ignoring Laurel's scoff, Dinah strides over to the sofa where she approaches danger without a second thought. Three years ago she would never have been so bold seeing as this Laurel Lance is a tempestuous woman by any conceivable standard of comparison. At least once every couple of weeks, at minimum on a monthly basis, Laurel summons up potentially catastrophic hurricanes, which if left to their devices would plow through their relationship with all the tact and delicacy of an irate bull in a china shop. Thankfully by now Dinah has plenty of experience dealing with them. Her ability to forecast Laurel's moods is legendary, and as for actually dealing with them? Well, their friends don't call her the Siren Whisperer for nothing…

Once at the arm of the couch, she bends over to reach for Laurel's hand. Expecting resistance, she is pleasantly surprised when her girlfriend responds positively by taking her hand and lacing their fingers together.

"C'mere for a sec," Dinah says, tugging on Laurel's hand. When Laurel does not obey, she tries again with a bit more force, then adds, "Opening statements can wait, Miss Lance. Right now there is an amazing, loving, and extraordinarily patient girlfriend in dire need of a hug that she happens to think will be mutually beneficial. Perhaps we can have a sidebar to address that very critical and time sensitive matter."

A crack in Laurel's foul mood appears in the form of one corner of her lips quirking up. "Going to shamelessly manipulate me with flowery legalese are you?"

Dinah smirks. "Depends. Is it working?"

Shaking her head, Laurel chuckles. A second later, she pushes off the couch to stand. "Always does," she says, and when pulled close, melts into Dinah's waiting embrace.

For the longest time they just stand there in their living room holding each other, gently swaying to the melody of an important song that Dinah hums for both of their enjoyment. Slowly but surely the coil of irritation and rage that was Laurel unfurls until she is pliant and relaxed and fully ensconced in the heady atmosphere of their love. As sense and control return to Laurel, neither are in a hurry to escape the cocoon of warmth surrounding them, so they remain locked together, indulging in the sensation of their bodies in full contact from hips to shoulders, reveling in one another's scent, hands exploring fit frames both over and under items of clothing, all the while exchanging languid kisses or foreheads resting together as they stare at one other with indescribable adoration and devotion on full display.

This is one of Dinah's favorite things to do – just be with the woman she loves in her arms as every last one of her cares fades away into the background. Her buddies in the Marines always used to affectionately tease her about being so touchy-feely with her romantic partners. Said that real Marines stormed the beaches, fought like devils, then extracted with all due diligence. Of course, they were just breaking her balls, as most of them were unarguably whipped, but she never did escape their nickname for her: Huggy Bear. The label didn't bother Dinah. On the contrary, she wore it with pride. In the field, she was all Marine but at home she was all woman. Those that love her understand and accept the dichotomy. Still do.

Laurel took a while to adjust, having never been the cuddly type, but she has since been at least partially converted to Dinah's soft approach to romance. Which is great because now Dinah can throw on some sultry jazz whenever she's in the mood and drag Laurel into the living room to slow dance to Etta James's sultry crooning, Miles Davis' soulful trumpeting, or Charlie Parker's impassioned saxophone until their feet and legs ache. There are also times just like this when both are content to dwell inside the warm bubble of their love without a care for anything or anyone else. Enveloped by Laurel's smell, remnants of hazelnut coffee on her breath and the gentle fragrant spice of her perfume, and blanketed by the love pouring out from Laurel through her eyes and lips and fingertips, the entire world could go up in flames and Dinah couldn't be bothered to give a damn. This is her heaven, and it if were up to her she would never leave it.

But as Solomon so wisely wrote many thousands of years ago, there is a time for everything under heaven to end. As comfy and happy as she is right now, the reason she initiated this embrace remains an elephant in the room that must be addressed. She can't let Laurel go on like this or the next time she might come home to a trashed apartment. Or worse.

Breaking away from Laurel, albeit reluctantly, Dinah maneuvers them both back to the couch. After seating herself, she encourages Laurel to join her.

"Guess there's no getting out of talking it through this time, huh?" Laurel asks, looking embarrassed and at the same time afraid. Not of Dinah, but of herself, how she has been reacting to this case, and at how she has been wriggling her way out of talking out her issues with Dinah at every turn. The time for deflections and avoidance is over. For them both.

"Afraid not, babe," Dinah says, then pats Laurel's hand comfortingly. "This case has been eating you up. You're irritable – well more irritable than usual –" that earns her a glare, "and it isn't just because of your career being on the line. By the way, I just want to say, I didn't know you had your sights set on climbing the ladder so high. But if that's what you want, I'm with you. A hundred percent."

"Really?"

Laurel sounds as surprised as she looks when she shouldn't. Dinah has been nothing but supportive of her career. As a woman in a profession even more male-oriented than practicing public law, she is well versed in navigating the unfair hardships of gender inequality in the workplace as well as the complex social webs that spring up in a mixed gender environment. Granted, being a Marine more than prepared her for the culture shock of being an ambitious woman in primarily male dominated profession, but that isn't to say it was always easy. More than a few hateful pricks and handsy sleazeballs had to learn the hard way that she doesn't take shit from anyone, no matter how large and in charge they may be. While Laurel's venture as D.A. has been far less problematic on that front, the trauma she experienced at the whims of abusive men before assuming Earth-1 Laurel's life made Dinah's pre-cop days seem like a picnic. For both that reason and her own experiences in the workplace, she would never stand in the way of Laurel's dreams. And that wasn't taking into consideration the more simple motive for her support, that she loves Laurel and only wants the best for her.

So, Dinah is a tad bit offended that Laurel might have assumed she would throw a hissy fit or something after learning about her ambitions. That said, she abstains from making a scene over it since she can't deny she has only really been supportive of Laurel's current career track. They have yet to discuss at any length about where they want to be professionally five or ten years down the road. If this conversation is any indication, they should do so before long.

There is only one major reason Dinah can think of off the top of her head as to why they haven't broached the matter, namely Laurel's reticence to discuss where their relationship is headed. God knows Laurel has been let down and betrayed and burned by love too many times to allow herself the luxury of dreaming of a future outside of fighting for her survival. So it isn't a big shock that she doesn't seem to be operating with an end goal in sight as far as their relationship is concerned.

Dinah, on the other hand, has stubbornly clung to her idealistic vision of the future, so she knows where she wants it to be heading. But a relationship is a two-way street that she cannot navigate solo. Before long, she needs to figure out where Laurel stands as far as what she ultimately wants out of this relationship. Otherwise what are they doing? Spinning their wheels. That's what.

"Of course," Dinah finally answers aloud, careful to keep any offense from slipping into her tone. "I love you. I want you to be happy, and not just with our home life. It's just as important to me that you're being fulfilled by your job. Do you believe that?"

For a second Laurel stares at her in disbelief that is quickly banished by awe. "Yeah..." Her response is whispered so low that it is barely audible, so when Dinah arches a brow indicating she requires clarification, Laurel obliges. "Yes, I believe you. Thank you. That...hearing you say that means more to me than I can really explain."

Dinah doesn't agree. She thinks Laurel is perfectly capable of explaining it, but is merely too stubborn and prideful to admit she derives pleasure from receiving Dinah's validation. Why Laurel is so reluctant to confess to such when she has no trouble doing so in the bedroom is a minor inconvenience Dinah has yet to resolve. She is making observable progress, though!

"Oh, I think I have pretty good idea," she says, unwilling to press that particular issue at present when there are other things to address. "But that's not important right now. What's important right now is why you're all twisted up about this case. I've not seen you like this in a long time, and I have to admit it scares me."

Laurel sighs in frustration then pinches the bridge of her nose before responding. "I'm sorry about that. I never want to scare you. You know that, right?"

"Of course I do. That's why it's scary. If you're not trying to do it, it means something is really wrong. So what is it?"

Another sigh, this one more plaintive and hesitant. "It's about Susie."

"The Ingrams' daughter that was hiding under her bed while her parents were being slaughtered in the next room?"

Dinah will never forget walking into the apartment and seeing that trembling child sandwiched between two detectives who were trying to take her statement. As Captain, she had responded personally to the murder of two prominent members of Star City's upper crust, a family with links that stretched the breadth of the country all the way into the D.C. establishment. The last thing she expected was to be forced to attempt extracting vital information about the crime from a terrified, traumatized seven year old. She didn't make much headway at all, nor did anyone else who tried, before ordering everyone to leave the girl alone until Child Services arrived. And then Laurel waltzed in and everything changed.

"That's her," Laurel says, visage regaining a semblance of vitality as she talks about little Susan Ingram. "Remember I had to interview her a couple times right after the incident and she, uh...weirdly took a shine to me? And how she wasn't really talking to anybody else, so guess who got to spend bunches of quality time with her?"

Dinah smiles, remembering how Susie would cling to Laurel's leg or hand and would never stray much more than a couple steps from the woman who apparently reminded her a lot of her mother. It was half adorable and half amusing watching Laurel discreetly flail for balance at being the sole recipient of a traumatized child's trust.

"Sure. You acted all put out about it but secretly you fell in love with that little girl just like everybody else did. Me included." And that much was undeniably true. When Laurel informed Susie that Dinah was her girlfriend, it was as if she was suddenly inducted into the club. After that, she was present – as was Laurel – at every last one of Susie's official interviews about her parents' deaths. It was impossible not to love a child who could melt through Laurel Lance's sturdy defenses with such breathtaking ease and speed.

"Yeah...well," Laurel winces subtly, "I may have told her about losing my dad and then given her my word I would make sure the man that took her mom and dad away would never walk the streets again." She pauses then, her eyes misting up as she searches for something from Dinah that she is apparently having trouble finding. "Did I lie to her, Dinah? Am I gonna break that little girl's heart? Am I gonna be responsible for sending her into a death spiral like what happened to me after my dad's killer went free? Am I going to turn that precious, innocent child into me? A broken, deranged killer with no conscience."

Her own heart breaking for Laurel and Susie, Dinah shifts on the sofa, angling in toward Laurel so that their knees are touching. She adds her other hand to where she's holding on to Laurel's, one clasping the underside of Laurel's wrist while the other palms the top of her hand.

"Baby, no. First of all, you aren't broken or deranged, and you most certainly have a conscience. You wouldn't care what happens to Susie otherwise. Secondly, I don't believe for a single second that you will let her down. You're going to win this case and give her and her parents the justice they deserve. I know it."

Doubt and self-recrimination marring her features, Laurel pulls her hands away to run them fretfully through her hair. "How? How can you be so confident when I'm not?"

Absently, Dinah reaches out to tuck a strand of loose hair behind Laurel's ear. "'Cause I know you. Sometimes I think better than you know yourself. And I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Laurel Lance does not make empty promises."

"Maybe you'll change your mind after you read my opening statement," Laurel replies, then groans miserably. "It's really bad..."

"Doubtful. I've always thought you have a unique way with words. Most juries you've addressed seem to have agreed with me." Smiling, Dinah nudges Laurel's shoulder then gestures toward the offending notepad that seems to be the subject of ninety percent of Laurel's ire. "But I know better than to marginalize your concerns, so let's see it. And before you object due to my blatant conflict of interest, I'll be as unbiased as I can. Sound fair?"

With a drawn out sigh, Laurel returns a hesitant nod. "Yeah. Okay. But only because I trust you won't blow smoke up my ass." She then retrieves the notepad and extends it toward Dinah with a slightly unsteady hand.

Reminded of how critical it is to give an honest opinion without being unduly harsh, something she has become adept at living with a woman whose temper frequently has a hair trigger, Dinah respectfully accepts the notepad. "I won't," she says. "I promise." And then, when Laurel settles back into the cushions, legs crossed and arms folded over her chest, she begins to read.

From the first word, it was clear Laurel's stressing was for nothing. The rest of the opening statement does nothing to contradict that assessment. It is, in her opinion, an incredible speech worthy of being represented upon the silver screen.

"Laurel...this is amazing," she croons after finishing the captivating read. Unsurprisingly, Laurel glares at her dubiously. "Seriously! I'm not trying to spare your feelings because I love you. I actually think it's perfect."

Laurel huffs, stubbornly refusing to accept the praise – which is fairly typical, albeit less so now than when they first started dating. "You said it before. You're biased."

"Obviously. But that doesn't mean I can't recognize a winning argument. I've sat through my fair share of trials, and heard a lot of opening statements. And this?" Dinah brandishes the notepad as if it were the smoking gun in her case to prove Laurel is overreacting. "This is so, so good. But..." tossing the notepad back onto the coffee table, she retakes Laurel's hand, "if you're still not happy with it, tell me what you think is wrong. Maybe articulating your concerns and then tossing ideas back and forth will help work out the kinks."

That perks Laurel up. "You sure? I know we haven't had dinner yet..."

"Not a problem," Dinah says confidently. "I'll call in for Thai and have it delivered. We can work til it gets here. Sound good?"

"No. It sounds...wonderful." Silence stretches out between them as Laurel worships Dinah with her eyes as if seeing her for the first time all over again. The heated gaze of those electric green irises elicits a delicious shiver that corkscrews down Dinah's spine. "Damn," Laurel says after completing her languid study, strangely enough voicing Dinah's own thoughts. "I really am the world's luckiest bitch. 'Cause you are the best girlfriend in history." Full lips quirk up at one corner. "If I was as smart as I say I am, I probably ought to listen to Felicity, stop beating around the bush and wife you up."

The trailing comment, out of left field as it is, does not even phase Dinah. Truth be told, she's been fantasizing about taking their relationship to the next level for a while now. There is little else she wants more in the world than to become Mrs. Laurel Lance.

"Amen, babe. From your lips to God's ears," she replies enthusiastically, catching Laurel completely off guard.

"Are you...actually being serious?" Laurel responds, visibly shaken, waves of insecurity pouring off her. "You'd really…? I mean, you wanna…? You would...to me?"

"Laurel. Jesus." Ashamed of herself for leaving any room for doubt, Dinah heaves a self-recriminatory sigh as she scrubs a hand over her face. "I guess I have to work on my communication skills as much as you do, because of course I do." Deciding that there is no time like the present to get started on that noble goal, she gently squeezes Laurel's hand, willing her to understand just how much she really does want to get married. "I've been thinking about it for so long I already have a million ideas about bridesmaid dresses and venues and catering options." When Laurel's eyes widen comically, Dinah realizes how that might sound like an actual proposal. Chuckling, she shakes her head lightly, "Don't freak out, babe. I'm not asking right now. I'm afraid with me being a traditional girl I am in the romance department, that particular ball is in your court. That being said, at least now you know what my answer will be."

Another briefer silence descends, during which Laurel stares at Dinah in utter amazement and worries at her bottom lip. "By chance, is it the same answer you'd give if I asked you for a kiss?" she asks after a few seconds of waging an internal battle with a part of herself Dinah can already guess is making a fuss out of this.

No doubt it will not be the last time Laurel's dark side has cause or opportunity to undermine the direction their relationship will hopefully be taking – and very soon if Dinah has any say in the matter.

Dinah's answering smile is as much to tease as it is an invitation. "I don't know, Miss Lance. Why don't you woman up and find out."

"Oooo. A challenge. I likey. Alright. So..." Without prompting, Laurel fluidly slides off the couch and onto her knees. Once situated between Dinah's knees, she offers her hands palm up. And when Dinah slides her hands into Laurel's, those mesmerizing green eyes begin to dance. "Dinah Miriam Drake," Laurel says, all formal and serious yet with the stirrings of an indescribable passion and devotion underscored by a hint of playful affection. "Will you do me the extraordinary privilege of allowing me to kiss you?"

Tears well up in Dinah's eyes at the subtext to a query that was clearly a test run for a much more important one to come. Barely able to contain her urge to jump Laurel's bones on the spot and with her heart soaring through clouds of pure saccharine joy, she smiles. This is the easiest question she has ever been asked. Or at least it will be until she gets asked that other one. Doesn't matter, though. To both, her answer is the same.

"Yes."

#arrow fanfic #dinahsiren #dinah drake #laurel lance #black siren #laurel x dinah #dinah is a certified siren whisperer y'all

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we-are-monk · 6 years

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Literature aesthetic

Bold all the depressing poetic shit that applies to your muse!

Tagged by: @lady-youkai

Tagging: @unfettered-crow

i. JOHN KEATS : the lavender in sunsets , flowers in the rain , sunlight slipping through clouds , lazy summer afternoons , the heavy scent of musk , flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books , fireflies on a cool summer night , being wrapped in fresh bedsheets , the ache of wanting what you can never have , dripping sunlight like gold , loving someone so exquisite , soft lips and soft whispers , fingers through hair , names of lovers carved in trees , broken glass , the insistence of being perpetually dreamy .

ii. F. SCOTT FITZGERALD : mahogany wood , crisp winter skies with cold bright stars , the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog , empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room , pale bruised arms reaching out into the darkness , cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol , a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered , a bad thunderstorm occurring at the end of a beautiful day , the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment , your favorite sweater , parties spilling into four a.m , with the stars above spinning and dancing , the contrast of blood against snow , a purple split lip oozing blood , black eyes fading to blue to pale skin , the butterflies of falling in love for the first time , the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries , the romanticization of self - destruction .

iii. FRANZ KAFKA : the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future , decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there , the way not even light can escape a black hole , the rich smell of old books , delicate veins in the wrist , ghosts filling lungs , shattered bones , raindrops on the tongue , rusting metal , nostalgia that aches , the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head .

v. JACK KEROUAC : the brisk pine air of being on a mountain , travels without a destination , those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory , screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive , coffee shops late at night , car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark , naps spent in the sun , novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins , the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders , ignoring flaws and loving life , wind through hair , depression as fog in the brain , impossible ideals , a quiet sunrise , walks alone , when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe , dazzling people , open lands stretching out into infinity , falling in love with being alive .

vi. EDGAR ALLAN POE : the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog , hollow bones , a preserved heart held in hands , twinkling stars above an old graveyard , the way everything turns to dust , silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom , self - inflicted flames , perfection depicted as a rotting corpse , death as bricks in the heart , lips barely brushing against each other , glassy glazed eyes , biting into a lemon , heart - shaped bruises , rotting flowers on a grave , dried blood and spilled liquor , the hush of dusk when it begins raining , the intimacy of a secret .

#hanako #monk #foxgirl #american lit really isn't my specialty

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screamingforyears · 7 years

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BEST OF 2017: TOP TEN

The TOP TEN, a collection of my 10 favorite albums of the year. These were the albums that demanded the most of me and the ones I found myself repeatedly going back to again & again…

CIVIL LUST

‘CONSTITUTIONS’

SELF-RELEASED

CIVIL LUST combine, then blend, all the aesthetic pleasures that make a great Goth Pop record on their debut LP ‘CONSTITUTIONS.’

The Salt Lake City based duo (Christian Riley and Isaiah Michael) are masters of their craft, who nail the details to a tee. 'Constitutions’is an exercise in classic post-punk tropes, but ones that have been further refined by years of study and more than capable craftsmanship.

The Cure bass lines, the Ian Curtisian vocals, to the Tears for Fears exuberance, Civil Lust create art that is sinewy yet soft (take one listen to “Receive” and tell me I’m wrong).

“Even Further” literally pulls you further into Civil Lust’s majestic ways with an echoed drum machine beat, tingled guitar lines, and Riley’s longing while the slow groove of the sensual “A Man You Will” is the type of sound the group perfect. The devil’s in the detail.

‘Constitutions’ and its able bodied creators construct a seamless 7 track album and further enrich an already fertile modern goth landscape...

DEATH BELLS

‘STANDING AT THE EDGE OF THE WORLD’

BURNING ROSE / FUNERAL PARTY

DEATH BELLS, the Sydney based group of: Maurice Santiago (Bass), William Canning (Vocals), Aron Postolovic (Guitar), Rimas Veselis (Guitar), David Gauci (Synth), and Luca Watson (Percussion) seem to understand the power of gloomy guitar based indie, the kind that held court throughout the genre’s most influential decade and like many of the amazing groups mining these fields, they seem to understand the importance of detail and the need to move beyond mere homage.

DB’s beautifully bleached William Canning is a frontman to be reckoned with, as he parlays the looks, voice, words, and bravado into a force that demands attention, but not at the expense of working as an important cog to his band’s sturdy wheel. A singer is only as good as the foundation that surrounds him, so luckily for us the rest of the Bells are a top-notch unit.

‘STANDING AT THE EDGE OF THE WORLD’ is a pure guitar record through and through, one that borrows equally from paisley jangle, arena reaching grandness, and moody post-punk while being executed with aplomb by Veselis & Postolovic’s dual attack.

“Only You” finds guitars loudly pinging over a steady rhythm section, allowing the coldly effervescent vocals to take center stage. The group hold court and have once again presented a lively, yet somber piece of buttoned up pop with “Only You.”

Death Bells sound hopeful yet weary on their engaging debut album, coming together as a cohesive & bold unit unafraid to reach big while retaining all the detached cool of their forebears...

DRAB MAJESTY

‘THE DEMONSTRATION’

DAIS

DRAB MAJESTY, the project created and fronted by premiere goth alien Deb Demure, returned in 2017 with their second proper LP.

‘THE DEMONSTRATION’ sees Drab Majesty doubling down on what they do so well, finely tuned new wave goth, but better. Demure’s former LA based bedroom experiment (which has morphed into a two-man group with the addition of Mona D) has seen its profile & popularity rise, after successful tours supporting the likes of King Dude and Cold Cave.

Drab Majesty are the torchbearers for a certain strain of Goth, where the dark wave crashes full on into brooding Reagan era new wave pop. Demure captures a specific sound, whereas every production trick is precise and aesthetic rules the land. This attention to detail, along with Deb’s unique and heavily treated guitar style, is what sets Drab apart from the sea of Goth indebted groups.

The guitar tones captured throughout the album are phenomenal, as witnessed on the sci-fi waltz of “Not Just A Name.” Reminiscent of Duran Duran’s more subdued moments, only way fucking spacier.

Drab Majesty are masters of ethereal Goth, steeped in dated production tricks, while literally reaching towards the cold vastness of space. What was once a solo affair has morphed into a full fledged entity, and as the popularity grows, so to does the quality of the Drab output....

FEARING

‘A LIFE OF NONE / BLACK SAND’

FUNERAL PARTY

The kind of dark, brooding, and equally booming rock music that FEARING create on their EPs ‘A LIFE OF NONE’ & ‘BLACK SAND’ has been sorely missing in recent years.

Fearing are exactly what I look for in a great gothic rock band, they capture a mood & essence that rings true while blowing past any attempts at modesty. And while I enjoy when things are minimal & low-key, I can’t help but gush when a band, especially one steeped in gloom, comes along sounding all huge. Which is precisely how fearing Fearing operate, they create big sounding rock songs that take elements from post-punk, 90′s Alt-Rock, and deathrock and combine them into one brutalist take on Goth.

“Beyond Light” sticks to the aggressively dark template of chiming guitars, thick bass, and wallowed out vocals while “Other Life” opens up with big thunderous drums, rolling bass, and moody synths before linking with a pinging guitar and layered vocals. “Other Life” shows a growth in Fearing’s songwriting, with sprinkles of piano notes adding new depth and has easily become one of the finest entry’s in the group’s catalog.

The EP format is surely the way to go in our modern times and the Oaklanders have taken full advantage of our attention-deficits by breaking us off a nice four track stretch, as they satisfy our itch and keep us wanting more…..

GRIZZLY BEAR

‘PAINTED RUINS’

RCA

Grizzly Bear, survivors of: the Brooklyn Sonic Boom, side projects, Indie Rock’s halcyon days, expectations, New York Magazine spreads, NYC itself, personal turmoil, indie labels, adulting, Taylor Swift, and most improbably…..themselves, have triumphantly returned with their first album in 5 years titled ‘Painted Ruins.’

‘Painted Ruins’ shows the no-longer-in-one place based group of Ed Droste, Daniel Rossen, and the two Chris combo of Taylor & Bear expanding on their already impressive sonic palette, while turning the focus inward. Grizzly Bear is the perfect example of “The whole is greater than the sum of its parts,” and for a group consisting of 4 very distinct musicians/personalities it’s really saying something. As corny as it sounds, when these four get together in a room, something special happens.

Album standout “Mourning Sound” is the straight ahead rocker we’ve been waiting for, a no BS thumper filled with gorgeous guitar work per Rossen. Truly one of the best things the group has ever penned as it manages to combine wistful regret (”I made a mistake….”) with a thick groove while deploying a goosebump inducing twinkle of synth.

Like most great albums, ‘Painted Ruins’ is a grower, with each subsequent listen revealing a new hidden nugget. The foursome known as Grizzly Bear have ended their 5 year absence with something meaningful, powerful, and refreshing…

HUMAN LEATHER

‘LAZY KARAOKE’

CERCLE SOCIAL

HUMAN LEATHER, comprised of Adam Klopp (Choir Boy) & Chaz Costello (Sculpture Club), are a self described “shitty version of Tears for Fears mixed with Depeche Mode,” but don’t let the humble self-deprecation fool you, because the duo tap into something so pure and unfettered that you simply have no choice but to succumb.

And I hate to be the bearer of bad news to those who feel the need to cling onto originality, but everything’s been done already, so get the fuck over it and stop missing out on some truly great modern acts.

The Salt Lake City duo aim to break your fucking heart on their debut LP ‘LAZY KARAOKE’ which is chocked full of Reagan era bangers and aesthetically dripping odes that nail every aesthetic detail.

“Ugly Sister” is a pure synth-pop ditty cloaked in the aforementioned Tears for Fears (who at this point are impacting this generation on some Joy Division type levels) influence. The devil is in the detail, something Klopp & Costello clearly understand, as the intricate production alongside the airy & emotive vocal courtesy of Adum (who recalls Wild Beasts’ Hayden Thorpe) is something to behold.

‘Lazy Karaoke’ was easily the most talked about album within the goth/post-punk community and with good reason.

“Everything is fucking scary……”

JOHN MAUS

‘SCREEN MEMORIES’

RIBBON MUSIC

Well……..the wait is officially ended as JOHN fucking MAUS returned in 2017 with the long awaited album ‘SCREEN MEMORIES.’

The Minnesota (by way of the the World) based project never ceases to capture the imagination and does this by creating unfuckable with Goth Pop. Maus is the undisputed master of the deconstructed gem, and will remain so by adding the aesthetically pleasing extra mile in everything he touches.

‘Screen Memories’ is a fluid & fantastic listen proving that Maus hasn’t lost a single step since we last heard from him years ago. Maus, ever the pop-deconstructionist, is so well adept at creating nuanced pop songs, steeped in goth, that you almost take him for granted at this point.

While a melancholic crop of songs litter the album, the taut “Walls of Silence” allows Maus’ reverb drenched chant to roam free atop a bed of driving bass, eerie synths, and compressed snare snap. Limber, yet driving, this slice of gothic minimalism benefits from not only its creators expertise, but gains so much power from its brief 2 minute and 23 second run-time.

If you’ve been sleeping on Maus, well shame on you, it’s time for you to wake the fuck up, press play, and soak up his mile-a-minute brilliance…

NEW TODAY

‘BETTER THAN DEATH’

SELF-RELEASED

Goth comes in many shapes and sizes, from cold wave to guitar driven gloom rock and everything in between. NEW TODAY, the under the radar post-punk duo of Dante Palomba (Casuistry) & Daniel Srungaram (Two One Six), fall into the latter camp with their latest LP ‘BETTER THAN DEATH.’

The group bring the big 80’s post-punk ala the Sound, the Chameleons, and Love & Rockets, while pairing it with minimalist detail. Taking Interpol-like guitar work, which at its best has always been minimal yet evocative, while juxtaposing it with substantial movements and huge vocals that take their place in the front. Dante Palomba’s voice is a viable instrument and the group treat it as such, which is exactly why New Today fall into the Romance/Trad Goth grouping.

All the preceding beauty culminates on “The Years” in the form of an icy synth that reaches for the ether, while being reminiscent of Interpol’s slower moments (which is basically how the XX got paid) but with far greater feeling and veiled optimism. “The Years” is an emotionally moving piece, the kind that builds yet sustains, and revels in its stark beauty.

At an even 10 tracks, New Today seem to know that leaving us wanting more is the key and ‘Better Than Death’ is one of the most fully realized and expertly executed albums I’ve heard in quite awhile.

It’s good to be goth….

PROTOMARTYR

‘RELATIVES IN DESCENT’

DOMINO

PROTOMARTYR triumphantly returned in 2017 with a new Long Player titled ‘RELATIVES IN DESCENT.’

This is a guitar rock record, which I know sounds like an oxy moron, but holy fuck the standard 4-piece is done proud throughout‘Relatives in Descent.’ This is the sound of an already great band furthering their footing and flexing their well defined muscle. Each member is in supreme control of their respected instrument: from the sharp lyrical prowess and spot on vocal take of Joe Casey, to the skeletal guitar riffs that blot entire song stretches via Greg Ahee, down to the powerful rhythm section courtesy of Scott Davidson’s driving bass and the chaotic (beyond time keeping) pace of Alex Leonard’s thunderous drums.

The groggy “My Children” takes its time with a slow build of doomed kinetic energy, before opening up and falling into a rangy Proto groove of guitars, rhythm, and wordsmith diatribes. “My Children” builds and builds into a melee of guitars/drums/bass until the clouds part and the song opens up offering a chill inducing moment while Casey commands the room. The track’s guitar work in the final third is awe inspiring and note worthy.

By doubling down on what’s made them so great, while stepping out of their comfort zone, ‘Relatives In Descent’ finds Protomartyr at their finest, proving once again that the sons of Detroit are in it for the long haul....

SEXTILE

‘ALBEIT LIVING’

FELTE

The Los Angeles based death-squad known as SEXTILE have triumphantly returned with the pristinely raw ‘ALBEIT LIVING.’

Sextile are the teeth, the brute truth, the harsh reality, the gritty glitz, and the creators of the mad mad world party record we need. The harbingers of bleached catharsis, consisting of the ridiculously attractive & stylish group of: Brady Keehn (vox/guitar/synth) Melissa Scaduto (drums), LA Eddie Wuebben (synths), and the newest addition Cameron Michel (guitar/bass), are trending upwards and with great reason.

That primal drive comes from Melissa Scaduto, not only through the floor shaking beats, but through her guidance, visual appeal, and aesthetic vision. Simply put, she’s the beating heart of the group, one that’s rounded out by Brady Keehn’s Cobra Kai-like bad-boy charisma, and Eddie Wuebben’s art damaged cool.

“Sterilized” is sinisterly delightful. A manic & breathy beast, where deathrock and new wave meet late at night to perform unspeakable acts upon one another. I found myself demonstrably head bobbing upon every listen (“can’t shake it”) while looking for the nearest dance floor thanks to the boogie down bass & drums. “Sterilized”allows Keehn to do what he does so well, that uptick coda (think “Can’t Take It.”), the melody of which is so fucking strong that I find myself walking around panting “Come on and sterilize me.”

Sextile have raised the bar for everyone on ‘Albeit Living’ as they establish themselves as Felte’s flagship group through hometown-hero sincerity and a cohesive album that never overstays its welcome...

***BONUS***

DEATH OF LOVERS

‘THE ACROBAT’

DAIS

2017 closed out with a tender aesthetic bang thanks to DEATH OF LOVERS’ ‘THE ACROBAT.’

The New York based group, boasting no less than three members of the emotional-gaze band Nothing and keyboardist CC Loo, create timeless New Wave ran through a gothic dream-pop portal. It’s not a disservice or slight to say that Death of Lovers created the long lost John Hughes soundtrack that we’ve been waiting on, it’s simply that good, that infectious, and that sugary.

“The Absolute” exudes a feeling of warm nostalgia, yet teeters with an anxiety inducing nervousness that’s coyly deployed over an upbeat arrangement of giddiness. The compressed echo beat, airy synths, and razor sharp guitar lines create a solid foundation for Domenic Palermo’s up in the clouds vocal (with a harmonious assist from drummer Kyle Kimball).

Death of Lovers are keen architects of the smooth delight, as “The Absolute” is five minutes of pure stylized bliss and that’s long before the sound of an aesthetically pleasing saxophone buries it’s reedy goodness into your brain which slides in well next to yearning moody bummers like “The Lowly People” and “Divine Song.”

This is what it sounds like when Hardcore vets find their inner New Romantic (take notes Head Automatica).

Seriously, that sax tho….

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writesandramblings · 6 years

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The Captain’s Secret - p.64

“Where the Wild Things Are”

A/N: Takes place after episode 5, "Choose Your Pain."

Also, I was asked a question about the usage of "Rove" a couple chapters back. Hm, yes, that was odd, wasn't it? I wonder what that was about... (Has anyone been noticing any other odd details? It's almost like there are some secrets around here or something. All shall be revealed in due time...)

Full Chapter List Part 1 - Objects in Motion << Part 63 - A Laughing Rain Part 65 - The Stars, Broken >>

Ripper was gone. While Lorca endured a bout of physician-mandated rest (sometimes it was impossible to argue with Starfleet medical, especially when the request was an entirely reasonable "get eight hours of sleep after being tortured" that turned out to be a much-needed ten and then some), Burnham and Tilly released the tardigrade into space under Saru's supervision.

Saru reported this to Lorca in the form of a ready room confession first thing in the morning, admitting he had timed the release so that Lorca could not offer any objections to the action. "The tardigrade had suffered enough," said Saru, "and it was no longer necessary to keep it on board in light of Mr. Stamets ability to compensate for the tardigrade's function."

Lorca registered a distasteful frown. It seemed on the surface to be in response to Saru's little deception, but the truth was more nuanced.

"I will accept any punishment as you see fit," said Saru.

Lorca stood there, silently hemming and hawing, then said, "Dismissed."

Saru did not understand. He was prepared for a lecture from the captain at the very least, or more likely an expression of outright vitriol for his deception. "Sir?"

"Dismissed," Lorca repeated, with more emphasis, but still entirely calm.

Saru wandered out, confused as to why there had been no reprimand.

Lorca turned towards the ready room window. Ripper was out there somewhere, free and unfettered, roaming the mycelial network and dining on mycelium spores. Ripper had murdered Landry and gotten away scot free. Lucky little bastard. Maybe murder was too strong a word, but at the very least, killed in self-defense.

The kicker was that, for all that he had told Burnham to make full use of Ripper, he was fond of the giant tardigrade and would have liked to have been there when they released it, or at least have been afforded the chance to bid it some sort of farewell. He saw a lot of himself in Ripper. Out of all the many living things on the ship, it was the monsters Lorca identified most with. Ripper had been king of the monsters, and if Ripper was king, Lorca was Emperor, because it wouldn't do for the tardigrade to outrank Discovery's captain.

Yes, it was true, they would never be able to plunder the tardigrade's genetic code for new biological materials or technology to exploit, but on some level, Lorca preferred the monster being free. At least one of them was unfettered by any rules or obligations.

He took a cookie from the bowl, shattered it between his hands, and read the fortune. Many receive advice, but only the wise profit by it. Then, with a certain degree of reluctance, he contacted Starfleet Command.

He received Cornwell in response. Waiting in ambush was more like it. She was as good as the Klingons in that regard. Which, come to think of it, the Klingons had found him as surely as if she had tipped them off. Had it not been for her summons to forward command, he would never have been captured in the first place, and the fact colored his reception towards her. To top it off, their last exchange of words had been largely unkind.

Oblivious to the roiling discontent in Lorca's mind, Cornwell looked genuinely happy to see him alive and well. "Gabriel!"

Lorca grimaced faintly. "Admiral," he said, entirely businesslike. "Reporting in I've been cleared for duty by our CMO and Discovery is back—" he almost said in action but the words were entirely inaccurate "—online."

Cornwell's face fell at the lack of reciprocity. She tried again, exuding friendly concern as she asked, "Are you all right?"

He remained impassive. "Never better."

The stubbornness he was displaying in the moment hurt her and it showed. "Gabriel. It's just me asking. When I realized you'd been taken..." She inhaled, shaking her head as he did, and then exhaled heavily. Words could not express the worry, fear, and upset she had felt at the news.

"Were you worried about me? Or the things I know." He'd seen the orders sent in his absence, watched the replay of her instructing Saru to retrieve him before the secrets of the spore drive could fall into Klingon hands.

She registered shock. "You, of course!"

That, at least, he believed, and he felt a little guilty for pressing her on the point and looked away. Then he relaxed, shrugged lightly, and lifted his head up. "I'm fine. Really." He even managed a smirk.

"The Klingons had you for almost forty-eight hours," said Cornwell.

"Pleasure cruise," he suggested.

Though the joke was potentially a positive sign, Lorca's history of avoiding processing things suggested it was more likely to be the usual pattern. "Don't do that. Don't shut me out."

He blinked. "What do you want from me, Katrina? You want me to curl up into a ball and cry?"

"That at least would be some sort of reaction commensurate with what you've been through," pointed out Cornwell.

"Well, sorry to disappoint, but I've been through much worse. They didn't break me. Frankly I'm a little offended you thought they would." This wasn't San Francisco. He had no need to convince her of anything. "And you should see the other guy. Seven months he was in that hellhole. Still didn't break him. What happened to me wasn't even a flash in the pan. Barely a tickle." He smirked, confident, jesting.

Somehow Cornwell doubted Lorca's ability to psychologically assess the recovered lieutenant. She equally doubted his ability to assess himself, but there was no way this was being resolved via commlink.

"If you need to talk," began Cornwell earnestly.

"I know exactly who to call." He smiled again.

Cornwell was not reassured in the slightest.

Lorca checked on Tyler in sickbay and brought him the "traditional welcome aboard gift of Discovery," as he put it, handing Tyler a fortune cookie. Tyler's recovery was going well and he was almost cleared to leave sickbay, which was remarkable given what he had been through. Tyler was a resilient officer. Lorca had already arranged some decent quarters so Tyler could finally sleep in a real bed.

"This ship wasn't even active when I was captured," noted Tyler, still amazed by how much time had gone by during his captivity. It did not feel like seven months so much as one long, unending day. "You have traditions?"

Lorca shrugged. "Might be more my tradition than Discovery's. This was the family business back when business was a thing." Lorca had a cookie of his own and cracked it. "Ah, this is a good one! 'You don't become a failure until you're satisfied with being one.' As someone who's never satisfied..." Lorca smirked in satisfaction, .

Tyler opened his. "Your love life will be happy and harmonious."

Lorca chuckled. "Well, with a face like yours, lieutenant." Tyler's dark, soulful eyes and fine features were probably capable of melting whatever heart he chose to direct them towards.

Tyler smiled faintly and pressed the pieces of cookie to his lips, eating slowly. He was not quite to the point of mustering a real laugh of his own yet, but it was good to hear laughter again after so many months with only screams for company.

"So, you given any thought to what you're going to do next?" asked Lorca.

"Sir?"

Lorca leaned against the side of the biobed. "I don't think anyone would blame you if you used this opportunity to hightail it on out of here. You've certainly been through more than your fair share in this war."

Tyler considered that, his brow furrowing. "I want to stay on, sir. If they'll let me."

"Oh? Is it vengeance you're after, lieutenant? Not that I'd blame you."

Tyler considered that, his brow furrowing. "I don't think so, sir. It's more... if I did leave, then it would be like the Klingons beat me."

Lorca was impressed. It was not just that Tyler had survived so much, but he had come through it with a remarkable resolve and even a degree of introspection where most people might have fallen apart. Whatever he had told himself to get through the long days and nights, it had been enough.

"Someday you'll have to tell me your secret," said Lorca, smiling kindly. Tyler looked confused. "The thing that got you through."

Tyler looked down and away, head shaking faintly. "I don't know, captain, I just... got lucky."

Lorca's smile pulled into an entirely lopsided twist of amusement. Luck alone did not get you through an ordeal like that. Survival on such a level required an innate reserve of strength as rare as a green star. You had to be wily, and determined, and possess the ability to forgive yourself, because otherwise you would go mad.

"We both got lucky," said Lorca. "Wouldn't have made it out of there without you."

"It was good thing you knew how to work that raider," said Tyler. "I didn't learn that in the cell."

"Now that," said Lorca, perking up, "wasn't luck at all. That was preparation."

Tyler looked at Lorca with his big brown eyes, eager to hear more.

Lorca was more than happy to comply. "You have to know your enemy in order to beat them," he said, "and you, Mr. Tyler, know our enemy from the inside. Everything I know is from the out. Between the two of us, we might know everything there is to know about Klingons. Certainly more than any other two people in Starfleet. It'll be a few days yet before there's any chance of you leaving Discovery. I hope, in the interim, you'll do me the favor of letting me pick your brain about our former hosts."

There was the faintest flicker of hesitation. It was true Tyler knew the Klingons more than anyone, but a lot of that knowledge was far too intimate, things he would rather forget. Still, he was Starfleet, and he was determined to make what had happened to him count. "Anything, captain."

Lorca smiled. He had no intention of letting Ash Tyler go anywhere else. He liked Tyler, and the potential he saw there was worthy of cultivation.

Typically, when Lab 26 called late at night, it was Lalana for their almost-daily discussion. This time it was not.

"O'Malley to Captain Lorca."

From the comfort of his quarters, Lorca considered declining the comm, but he answered.

"I seem to have more beers than I know what to do with. Fancy a drink?"

Lorca snorted. "How about something a little stronger?"

"If you're referring to my emergency anti-claustrophobia supply, then, no."

There was no sign of Lalana and Mischkelovitz in the main lab area. "They're watching this movie Melly likes, Caddy-catsy or something. It's just pictures and music. I can't stand it myself. I'm not particularly fond of music," explained O'Malley as he opened the beers.

Lorca took one. "You don't like music," he said with mild incredulity.

"Not really, no. Melly does! Loves it, in fact. She's always got something going in her ears. I'm just glad she spares me the inconvenience." They sat down, O'Malley in Groves' chair and Lorca in Mischkelovitz's. "There is this one song I don't mind. I can't remember what it is, though." With a shrug, O'Malley started on his beer.

"There's no music you enjoy?" said Lorca.

"What about you?" shot back O'Malley.

"Good ol' country boy like me? What do you think."

"How typically American," said O'Malley, rolling his eyes. A moment went by of silent drinking. "How are you, by the way?"

Lorca's eyebrows shot up and he leaned back in the chair. "Cornwell put you up to this?"

"Good god, nothing so formal," said O'Malley, looking genuinely insulted. "It's just, you've been through an ordeal, and if I'd gone through what you had, I'd want a friendly drink or two. Or five, really."

"You wouldn’t have survived what I've been through," said Lorca darkly, but as always, there was a macabre sort of humor in it.

O'Malley scowled. "You know, you always make it out like you're some sort of special survivor so much better at it than the rest of us, but the fact of the matter is, you can't say that. You don't know what I've been through, what I've survived."

"So tell me," said Lorca, sipping at the beer.

"You'd like that, would you? An entire lifetime's worth of blackmail material. Sorry, leverage. Because you're too good for blackmail, aren't you?"

Lorca started to snicker. "Why the hell would you say that?"

"Oh, so you don't have an inflated opinion of yourself?"

Lorca decided to give O'Malley that one. "Doesn't mean I'm above blackmail."

O'Malley laughed and Lorca chuckled. "Tell you what," said O'Malley. "You can ask me three questions about myself and I'll answer one as a sort of welcome home present."

"How magnanimous," drawled Lorca in a total deadpan.

"I have my moments. Now hurry it up before I change my mind."

The first question Lorca asked was what O'Malley and Mischkelovitz's mother had done to them. This was a clear non-starter, but there was no harm in trying. The second question entailed what an alien with no romantic proclivities saw in O'Malley, because clearly it wasn't looks or personality. The third question was, if he hated John Groves so much, why did he bother looking after him?

"To answer the second," said O'Malley, "she said my blood smelled delicious."

Lorca snorted in amusement, then realized it wasn't a joke. "Seriously?"

"Misellians drink blood. Any blood, really, but I've got a rare type, so why not a delicious walking blood bag anytime you want a snack?" O'Malley smiled to himself. "God, I miss her." He resumed drinking his beer.

It was obvious what Aeree was interested in. What the hell O'Malley got out of his marriage, Lorca couldn't tell. "You let her drink your blood?"

"She's always careful about it, metes it out in quantities that don't cause any lasting harm. I don't love it, but it's not so bad. Here, look." O'Malley pulled his collar loose, unzipped the tunic partway, and revealed a box-shaped scar just below his left collarbone about two inches tall and nearly as wide. There was something odd about the texture of it.

Lorca reached towards O'Malley with a glance of sought permission. O'Malley did not recoil from the advance. Touching his finger to the spot, Lorca discovered the skin felt somehow chitinous, like the membrane of an insect's wing. "What in the..."

"Careful now," warned O'Malley, "if you press it too hard, blood'll come right out. It's a graft, you see, slightly porous biosynthetic material. Beats getting sliced, bitten, and stabbed every time Aeree wants a drink."

In other words, a shunt. Lorca was enthralled by the modification. It was delightfully gross. "And what does she do for a drink when you're not around?" he asked, half-hoping to find out O'Malley's wife was drinking other men behind his back.

"I shudder to think. This is why I can't get a cat." It was said in jest, but the next line out of O'Malley's mouth was entirely somber. "And why it's probably a good thing we can't have children."

There was no denying the longing and regret of that admission. O'Malley wanted children and had sacrificed that desire to live with someone who viewed him as convenient snack. It beggared belief. Lorca said, "You could always adopt."

"I'm not sure taking a child into a household where the mother drinks blood is such a good idea. Mind you we could adopt a Misellian, but then the child would drink my blood, and I don't have enough for two." O'Malley sighed. "Anyway, I've got Melly."

It made a sort of sense. In lieu of a child of his own, an emotionally-stunted kid sister would seem to do the trick. It put O'Malley's unnatural attachment to Mischkelovitz into a slightly changed light. The bond wasn't just sibling, it was also vaguely parental.

"And Mr. Groves," pointed out Lorca.

O'Malley groaned. "I wish I didn't, but it's for his own good. Honestly, if you'd kicked him off Discovery, the loneliness would have killed him."

A shadow crossed Lorca's face. "You said it was Emellia needed him, not the other way around."

"I said what I thought would work in the moment," admitted O'Malley. "And Emellia would be heartbroken to lose another sibling. We all would."

"I didn't realize you lost one already," said Lorca, sympathetic.

O'Malley froze. "We... we don't like to talk about that."

"Fair enough," said Lorca, putting a pin in the subject for the moment. It felt like he had stumbled onto something. He wondered if the family secret was that their mother had killed one of her own children. He pondered the possibility as they sat there drinking. Then Lorca asked, "So, Mac, if I get kidnapped and tortured by Klingons again, you'll answer another question?"

O'Malley lifted an eyebrow. "Try it and see." They both laughed, a good laugh, and despite whatever misgivings Cornwell had and everything else going on in the universe, from where the two of them were sitting, life wasn't so bad.

Eventually, Mischkelovitz came out of Lalana's room, which was Lorca's opportunity to enter it. He caught a small exchange between the siblings in the process. When Mischkelovitz told O'Malley she loved him, O'Malley replied, "Just as much."

Lalana was pleased to see him in person for the second night in a row. "Tonight you will not be called away to sickbay," she noted.

"That is certainly true." He sprawled out comfortable on her couch, half a beer still in his hand.

They talked. About Ash Tyler and what Lorca saw in him, about Ripper's unceremonious departure and Saru's deception. "Do you know, I think Saru actually thought I intended Ripper harm. It's not like I told him to go all out and risk Ripper to rescue me." He drank the last of the beer and put the glass bottle down on the table.

"No," said Lalana, "that was me."

Lorca blinked in surprise as he leaned back onto the couch and stretched his arms across the back. "You?"

"I told Saru in no uncertain terms he must use any means necessary to retrieve you. I may have suggested Discovery would fall apart if he did not."

"For the record, Lalana? Tyler and I were doing a pretty good job of rescuing ourselves."

"You might have died in the process."

"I'm a survivor," said Lorca. "I'll die when I'm done with the universe, and not a moment sooner."

Lalana slid up next to him on the couch and pressed against his side. "I do wish I could believe that," she said, "but experience has taught me different." She brought her tail up and stroked his cheek.

Lorca smiled. It was strange to think that, once upon a time, he had looked at her and seen something so unforgivably alien it bordered on the incomprehensible. Looking at her now, he saw a person, strange and blue-grey with green eyes that never blinked and could be poked with a finger if he so chose, whose presence made him happy.

"You are different," she said. "Something happened on that Klingon ship."

"Not you, too," said Lorca, thinking of Cornwell accusations. "I'm fine. It wasn't that bad."

Her tongue clicked. "No, not something bad, something good."

"You think being tortured was good?" he chided her lightly.

"I only know what I can see," said Lalana, "and what I see is good."

Lorca reached over and brushed his fingers across the filaments on her head as if they were Mischkelovitz's hair. "What can I say. A little light torture now and again serves to remind a person what's good in life."

He had realized something on the Klingon ship, in that moment when the lights were burning into his retinas and the Klingon captain had tried to guess at who he was. A cosmos full of agonizing light? Maybe so, but it was a pain he would happily endure for the chance to be right where he was, surrounded by monsters he loved.

Part 65

#Star Trek Discovery #Star Trek #Discovery #fanfic #fanfiction #Captain Lorca #Gabriel Lorca #Saru #Ash Tyler #Commander Saru #Katrina Cornwell #Admiral Cornwell

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