#drawing water is one of my many achilles heels | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hexalianrebel-blackfeathers · 4 years ago

Text

Hot Foot

Panda’s Notes: I wrote this for the exclusive and express purpose of making @eldritchtickles suffer. So I hope he likes hates it. >w<

Find it on Ao3!

Zagreus was feeling… well, something; he wasn’t sure what to call it. He swirled his fingers slowly in his scrying pool as he narrowed his eyes.

It might have started with Hypnos… Zagreus flinched a bit as the water shimmered to remind him of his own memories.

--------

“Wake up!” Zagreus had said sharply upon approaching the sleeping attendant, quickly moving his hands to scribble on Hypnos’ bare soles.

Hypnos jolted with a squeak, kicking Zagreus’ shoulder and knocking him to the floor. “Oops.” He murmured, not apologetic in the slightest as he chuckled. He let his clipboard and quill hover as he leaned to offer the godling a hand. “You’re back early, Tickles.” He smirked, heaving his brother to his feet as he glanced at his parchment. “Ah, the Wretched Sneak got you this time, huh? You never were good at dodging pokes, you know.” He taunted, quickly lifting Zagreus’ arm to prod his ribs.

“As if you’re any better!” Zagreus argued with a slight smile, covering his side and pulling his arm back. “Those lash marks on your ankles are cute.”

“Huh?!” Hypnos flinched, a gold blush lighting his cheeks as he glanced at his feet. There wasn’t anything there, except for Zagreus’ nails zipping up his soles again before catching both of his ankles. He traced lines around Hypnos’ ankles, seeming to follow a path that had been covered over.

“Heh, I’ll be sure to ask Meg if she knows how much you like feathers on your toes.” Zagreus taunted, about to walk away when Hypnos casually slipped an arm around him.

“Don’t think that just because your feet aren’t ticklish, I can’t get you back.” Hypnos smirked, wiggling his fingers under Zagreus’ chin.

-------

Zagreus jumped slightly, having practically felt the brush of Hypnos’ fingers on his neck as he remembered that conversation. He huffed as he splashed the water to silence it. He didn’t feel any closer to labelling the thoughts running through his head though. He peered hesitantly into the pool again, and the water rippled oddly.

-------

Orpheus plucked quiet little notes, a rare smile gracing his face as he seemed to look for a rhythm of some kind.

“Tell me, mate,” Zagreus said gently, leaning on the arm of the musician’s chair. “How often do you tune a lyre anyway?”

“As often as you must, my friend.” He shrugged, smiling a bit more as the prince rolled his eyes. “Or as often as you use it. I believe I tuned mine…perhaps every other day when we were performing the most. These days, I’ve come to notice that this lyre your father gave me doesn’t need much tuning; although, I admit I can’t help the urge to adjust the strings in occasion—" Orpheus had glanced up and around, finding Zagreus seated at his feet. “Am I rambling?”

Zagreus chuckled, resting his chin on his hand as his elbow balanced on his knee. “Yes. It’s nice.” He smirked. “You seem so relaxed when you speak freely.”

Orpheus shook his head, crossing one leg onto his opposite knee as he continued to play. “You’re always so kind, my prince. Although now that I’ve given it some thought, why do you ask about tuning? Have you acquired a lyre of your own?”

“Ah, I admit I’ve certainly considered it, but I asked about instrument tuning because a certain someone needs some tuning up.” Zagreus grinned a bit deviously when Orpheus didn’t seem to get it, reaching to pull the musician’s foot into his lap.

“I’m not sure that I—Ah!” Orpheus’ fingers tripped on a foul note as the prince’s knuckles dragged up his sole.

“Was I too subtle for you this time, Orpheus?” He taunted, drawing swirling shapes with his nails. “Or have you not learned to keep your wits about you yet?”

Orpheus cringed, covering his mouth as snickers rattled his frame and as his free hand attempted to find its place on the lyre.

Zagreus chuckled, shaking his head and scribbling his fingers. “See, you’re trying to play while I’m doing this; how am I to take that except as a challenge?” He sneered, watching Orpheus crumble into giggles as he kept a tight grip on his ankle. The prince hummed to himself, feigning an innocent grin as he reached up over his head. Orpheus had barely gotten his bearings when Zagreus presented the Harpy Feather Duster. He yelped softly with a chuckle as the blue plumes were shoved under his chin.

“As promised, mate.” Zagreus joked, his smirk returning. “But if you kick me, you die.”

Orpheus had been pretty unconvinced by his bluff, his leg flailing a bit when the feathers flicked along his sole.

“I’d call it a pity that you’ve yet to sing for us, Orpheus; but at the moment, I admit this is my favorite song of yours.”

-------

Zagreus found himself chuckling. It was still his favorite song, and Orpheus performed it well.

This feeling… What was it? Zagreus stared into the scrying pool, his eyes widening before he stepped back and covered his face.

Actually, maybe it was better he didn’t think about this anymore at all for the rest of time.

The water rippled. His memories called to him. Zagreus sealed his fate with a glance.

-------

Hades was “mad” at Zagreus, which was different from how he was when he was just normal mad. Zagreus had approached his father’s desk with a pair of leather sandals dangling from their broken strings between his fingers; and when Hades looked down at him, the look in his eyes almost seemed like…relief? The boy was puzzled for a moment until his father scooped him up and announced that court was adjourned for now.

“I’m sorry, Father.” The prince murmured as he was carried to his bedroom, earning a soft grunt that he couldn’t decipher. He was set down on his blue bedsheets, and his father seemed careful to let his legs dangle over the side.

Hades simply held out his hand, and Zagreus handed over the sandals to be inspected. At a glance, the soles seemed fine, but the insides were burned black; and the strings that Zagreus always struggled to tie around his ankles had several points where they’d been burned through and hastily tied back together. It was a wonder he’d been able to attempt tying them, let alone struggle with it.

“How many is that now?” Hades asked with a sigh, kneeling beside his son’s bed. “Do you remember?”

Zagreus nodded quickly, and Hades watched him count on his fingers. “Five…?” He said with all the confidence of a pair of burned sandals.

Hades chuckled, but he nodded. “Indeed. Five in half as many months. I won’t be requesting any more pairs if you’re just going to burn them all.”

Zagreus pouted, kicking his feet softly. “I don’t do it on purpose, Father…”

“I’m aware.” Hades hummed, moving his hands to lift Zagreus’ feet by their heels. “You get this from me, I’m afraid, but controlling it requires managing your emotions.”

Zagreus tipped his head, seeming to process that statement.

“You have to be calm, Zagreus.”

“I’m calm!” The child insisted, smiling brightly and bouncing a bit. His soles glowed a bit brighter, and Hades quirked an eyebrow as he felt the heat grow more intense. “…R-Right?”

Hades shook his head, tapping his son’s soles with his fingertips. “I don’t think so. What are you thinking about?”

“Um… I’m thinking about when I was playing with Than and Hypnos, and then Meg came to play even though she hasn’t in a long time, and we were running on the balcony, and that’s when the strings…” He blinked as he looked down; his feet were blazing orange, and red heat radiated up his ankles. “Oh… I see!”

“Do you?” Hades couldn’t seem to resist a smile. “I don’t think you’ve got it yet. What else were you thinking about?”

Zagreus tapped his chin, but he took a breath to steady himself. “I was thinking about Mother and you.” His feet cooled just slightly, and his toes flexed a bit as he watched them curiously. “Mother Nyx was away crafting the night and you…” He seemed to hesitate, almost looking for another thought.

Hades watched him, letting his thumbs rest on the tops of his feet as he found himself understanding. The heat was indeed fading. “You thought of me…” He sighed, moving his fingers slowly. “Because I was busy?”

“Um…maybe.” Zagreus murmured even though he was nodding, and he squirmed a little as he put a hand over his face to hide it. A giggle slipped out of his mouth, and a bit of heat reignited.

“Calm, Zagreus.” Hades tried not to smile, his fingers flexing purposefully. “Control.”

“I’m calm.” The boy insisted again, hardly any more convincing with the giggles falling out of him. “I’m ca—Stop tickling me!” He laughed, hiding his face again, but his reactions grew measured whenever the heat increased.

“I’m not doing anything, boy.”

“Liar…”

Hades paused, glancing up slowly; and Zagreus’s soles blazed brightly again as he covered his mouth. “You would accuse me of lying, boy?”

Zagreus squealed and tried to scramble backwards, only to get caught by one of his ankles and lifted upside down over his father’s shoulder. His hands flailed as Hades’ fingers dug softly into his ribcage, and he laughed brightly and tried to kick.

Hades returned to work with Zagreus zipping past to find his friends again. Small sparks followed after his small footsteps as he laughed excitedly. The burns on Hades’ fingertips were minor, and they were healed within the first hour after court reconvened.

--------

Zagreus groaned heavily into his pillow, crossing his legs under himself as he sat on the bed.

He was jealous. A little bit at least. Maybe he was nostalgic. He was definitely wishing he could think about something else.

“Prince?”

Zagreus nearly jumped out of his skin when someone’s hand rested on his head. Achilles flinched away from him with a chuckle, setting his spear against the wall.

“Achilles?”

“Are you alright, lad? You seem troubled. We can postpone the exercises you wanted if you need to talk.”

“Ah, no.” Zagreus insisted, standing up suddenly and dropping the pillow on the bed. “I, uh… Sorry, sir. Please, let’s get started; I’ll even give you the first shot this time.”

Achilles watched the prince run out to the balcony, chuckling softly as he followed a moment later.

“You seem awfully unbalanced today, lad…” Achilles called as Zagreus was looking over his weapons. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I assure you I’m quite certain, sir.” The prince said firmly, taking hold of Varatha and spinning it between his hands. “A knock or two in the head would do me good, so…” He paused as he heard an unfamiliar clatter, spinning around to see Achilles apparently wincing as he flexed Malphon’s fingers over his own. “Sir, what are you—?”

“Ah, well, I figured it’s about time I employ other strategies, prince.” The shade grinned, turning his wrists and getting a feel for the weight of the gauntlets. “You’ve grown so skilled since you were young; I fear you’ve seen all that I’m capable of with my spear.”

“I highly doubt that sir; although, I admit I wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested in Malphon.”

“Perhaps I’ll surprise you yet then; hand-to-hand combat and wrestling were quite popular in Greece when I was your age. Or, when I was young, I should say. Now then, I believe you offered to allow me the first strike.”

Zagreus chuckled and shook his head, holding Varatha defensively as Achilles lunged toward him. A sharp punch in the chest stung quite a bit more than he’d expected, stunning him enough that Achilles got ahold of his spear to start a grapple.

Zagreus adjusted his hold, standing his ground and pushing back hard. “Alright, I may have miscalculated. You still have quite a bit of fight for someone who claims to have lost his taste for war.”

Achilles laughed a bit, adjusting his stance to pull Zagreus’ spear. He twisted at the waist, pulling Zagreus across his front leg and wrenching Varatha out of his hands as he fell. “You mustn’t taunt me if you can’t even keep your stance, lad. I hardly regret embarrassing you after a performance like that.”

Zagreus cringed as he lifted himself up. “Embarrassed? I’ve been knocked over befo—Ack!” He had extended a hand, attempting to call Varatha from where Achilles had thrown it, but before the weapon could respond, Zagreus was flinching away from a jab at his waist. “What are you doing?”

“Ah, heh, apologies lad. Consider this… For old times’ sake, perhaps. I like to think I owe you for that arrow you shot at my back a few weeks ago. And more accurately…” Achilles grinned, stepping closer to him again and grabbing at his wrists to attempt to shove him down. “You read like an open book.”

“I-I—You… Sir, wait!” Zagreus cried out, unable to keep from smiling until Achilles swept his legs out from under him.

Malphon’s claws dug deep into his sides as Achilles perched himself on his legs, and he quickly found himself regretting the minutes he spent tormenting Orpheus with them. Okay, that wasn’t true, but his conscience was certainly making an argument for it. The Fates had curious ways indeed.

Zagreus clutched at Achilles’ arm, laughing helplessly and writhing as those fingers crawled up and down his stomach.

The shade chuckled, pressing his palms against his student’s sides. “Honestly, lad, you could at least pretend to put up a better fight. Are you sure there’s nothing you need to talk about?”

“It isn’t important!” Zagreus insisted through giggles, resting an arm over his face.

That didn’t mean it was nothing though. Achilles rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Well, if you’re sure. While I have you though…” He hummed, pressing one hand to the stone under them as he turned. He glanced curiously over the prince’s feet, the heat radiating off of them seeming to fluctuate as he settled himself. “You mentioned once that you couldn’t feel the new rug you bought for your room, didn’t you?”

Zagreus blushed a bit at the memory and chuckled. “Yes, hardly a change at all. I could tell the difference by pressure, but I was at least hoping the texture w—Hey!” His voice had escaped as a squeak when one of Malphon’s metal digits pressed firmly into his sole and zipped up toward his toes.

“You felt that, I take it?” Achilles laughed a bit, hooking his fingers into both of his feet and raking them up and down. Zagreus broke immediately, laughing loudly and trying to reach his back with one hand.

“I’m afraid you’re a bit too tall for that one these days, lad.” Achilles taunted when the prince just barely hooked his robes, dragging his fingers up through the prince’s toes until he was squealing.

“I yield; I yield, sir, please!” Zagreus cried out, trying to squirm with a bit more earnest.

Achilles chuckled softly and paused, pushing himself up to stand over him. “I will admit that was quite a bit of fun. It would seem these are more effective as weapons than I originally thought.”

He offered a hand, and Zagreus rolled his eyes and reached to take it, only to scald his hand on the heated metal gauntlets. “Ouch…” He hissed, yanking his hand back and looking it over.

Achilles couldn’t help laughing, removing one gauntlet to offer his bare hand and patting his shoulder before going to place Malphon in its spot. “Apologies, prince. Now, then… Perhaps you’d be interested in more traditional training?”

Zagreus rested his hands on his hips. “Well, sir, that depends.” He reached out, calling Varatha into his hand. “How quickly can you arm yourself?”

The shade smirked, taking a stance and leading his opponent in a short circle. “Energetic as always…”

“As always, indeed. …And thank you, sir.”

#Tickling #a panda writes a thing #hades game #hypnos hades #zagreus #hades #achilles #orpheus

53 notes · View notes

iamjhosel · 4 years ago

Text

BAGONG YUGTO. New Chapter. This is Hope SG Filipino's 24th Anniversary theme. And while I just marked my 7th year with Hope this January, and now I am on my journey to 8 years, which is also the number for "new beginnings", I have been asking myself, what does this mean to me personally? What is my Bagong Yugto? "Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert." ~Isaiah 43:19 BAGONG YUGTO: A NEW FIRE Early this year, my core team member lost her job and had to go back to the Philippines. And so all the more I had to stretch myself, empower the life group and lean more on His leading - not mine but by His Spirit. This is still a work in progress but I claim new wineskin, new core team members, who would be on fire for God, and then eventually as we enlarge ourselves, fruitfulness will follow.

I pray that God continue to work in us, individually and as a life group, so that all the more we can experience how good, how loving and how faithful our God is! In the same way, the Lord has been stretching us in the ministry for the past year amidst this pandemic. He has done great things in the ministry and in how He is using social media as His platform. Day by day, we are learning and exploring new things on how we can make Him known all over the globe with this ministry He has blessed us with. I am just blessed and humbled to serve Him with all my heart, mind and soul, both in the ministry and in the life group. He is my fire! And all these is by Him and for Him! BAGONG YUGTO: A NEW PERSPECTIVE The past few weeks before the conference, I've been thinking a lot. I've been asking God what's His plan for my life. What's next for me? Should I move to the States too, when one by one my ward friends are leaving for US and a family friend's actually offering to help me should I decide to move. Besides, US was the original plan. Singapore was supposed to be just a detour. Almost 10 years after, I am still here. Plus that infamous question: Will I ever have my own family too? So, I was really praying that in the conference, I will receive a word from God or a clear direction where He wants me to go. The answer came fast. On the first day during worship, I heard it loud and clear:

And all throughout the conference, I was just reminded over and over again. God is faithful, so be faithful. Keep sowing. Keep planting. Keep reaching out. Keep loving. And He will take care of the rest. Besides, He never told me to move. It was just me. You see, comparison triggers jealousy and so never compare your life to others because God has His own story for you and me. Look unto Jesus. Fix your gaze and thoughts upon Him. “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life? “And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." ~Matthew 6:25-34 BAGONG YUGTO: A NEW HEART The first half of the year has been very painful for our family. I praise God that He has blessed me with a very loving and closely knitted family, and so the sudden loss of two of my Uncles in Papa's side, both I am close with, has left us bewildered, broken and very hurt. Early in April, Tito Erick, Papa's youngest brother, was hospitalized for COVID. In just a few days, he was transferred to the ICU because his oxygen level wasn't picking up and his biomarkers were all deranged. His wife, Tita Mitch, was then quarantined on another facility. Everyday we would all do video calls to check on Tita Mitch and get updates on Tito Erick. We would always encourage everyone in the family to keep on pressing on in prayer and keep believing that these too shall pass. That we've been through so much in the family before and we would be able to withstand all of these. I knew that God is a good God and He will never forsake us. I was anticipating that this will be our family's testimony of healing. But then one night, as if in a movie, there was a plot twist. Uncle Ahwee, Tita Shei's husband had a heart attack. He was pronounced dead on arrival. We were dumbfounded. I couldn't understand why all of these is happening, all together, at the same time. It felt like a dejavu. It felt like we were in 2014 all over again when Papa had an accident and he needed to go for a surgery and the next day Lolo Ama, Papa's father, passed away because of cancer. I questioned God why do our family had to experience all these pain again. Did I not pray enough for Him to hear my prayers? There were so many thoughts running on my head but we had to press on for Tito Erick. To still believe and keep praying that he will be healed. We kept Uncle Awhee's passing from Tito Erick. We even blocked him on Facebook so he won't see any post on Uncle Awhee's sudden death. During Uncle Awhee's wake, we were just amazed on how God poured out His love and provision through the help of the many people who loved Uncle Ahwee. Tito Erick's condition then was getting better. He regained some strength, enough to reply to us in our family's group chat. Every morning he would send some selfies to us to let us know that he is getting better. He found out about Uncle Awhee's passing when he saw a post from his high school batch mate but thank God during that time he was already able to take all the news in.

He then had a reswab and we were hoping that if it turned out to be negative, he will be transferred to a regular room. But the next day before dawn, on Lolo Ama's birthday, Tito Erick's oxygen levels dropped which then required him to be intubated. After two hours of being in critical condition, his heart stopped beating. The doctors tried to revive him but to no avail. It was so painful seeing his body lifeless through a video call. The whole day we were on iyak-tulala-iyak-tulala mode. We were so devastated. It felt like the enemy knew exactly where to attack me, that it found my Achilles heel, and it is succeeding. I already had thoughts of giving up and turning away from serving Him. He must have been punishing me for not being bold enough to do more for Him. But then I never heard my family questioned God. Yes, they couldn't understand why all these are happening, but they never once turned away from God. I thought I have the strongest faith, but theirs were stronger. God is still good, because despite of all what happened, He has made everyone in the family stronger in faith. He has reminded us how He has blessed us with a family that is so full of love, and that we are loved not just by Him but by the people that He has surrounded us with. I praise God for my spiritual family, ministry and friends who have helped me to stand when I couldn't, reminded me that I am not alone, and that God sees our pain and He is the only one who can turn it to joy. This wasn't the testimony I was hoping to share but God's thoughts are higher than mine. He has a different healing testimony He wanted me to share, not just for me, but for the whole family. Healing does not come in an instant. And until now, we are all still healing, slowly, taking it day by day. There are days that I still find myself dazed as if everything was just a dream. And same goes for them in the Philippines, in and out of loneliness and what ifs. But praise God we have each other to constantly remind ourselves that God is a good God and in Him, our broken hearts can be made whole again. As God promised in Revelations 21:5, "Behold, I make all things new," He is giving us a new heart. He is renewing our spirits day by day. He is making us lean more on Him, trust Him that all these are for our good, and draw closer and closer unto Him. He is our refuge and strength. At the end of day, He is a sovereign God. I may not have control on everything but He has. And He has me and my family on the palm of His hands. Here's a spontaneous song when I was pouring and crying myself out to God. It is only in His presence that we can find healing.

THERE IS MORE. Every year, I would always have a bible verse declaration for myself and just before 2021 entered, instead of a verse, He gave me a whole chapter, Ezekiel 47. And it dawned on me, how it is unfolding before my eyes, that all these things that has happened on the first half of the year is teaching me and molding me to lean more and more on Him so I could go deeper and deeper into my relationship with Him. I look forward that after everything, I will receive my inheritance! That all these is for my good and a preparation for what is ahead. This is a beginning of a new chapter of my life and my walk with Him! What a great and loving God He is and I will forever praise Him with my life! Oh praise and glory be upon Him, the King of kings, Lord of lords, Lover of my Soul, my Lord and Saviour, Jesus! "As the man went eastward with a measuring line in his hand, he measured off a thousand cubits and then led me through water that was ankle-deep. He measured off another thousand cubits and led me through water that was knee-deep. He measured off another thousand and led me through water that was up to the waist. He measured off another thousand, but now it was a river that I could not cross, because the water had risen and was deep enough to swim in—a river that no one could cross. He asked me, “Son of man, do you see this?” "Then He led me back to the bank of the river. When I arrived there, I saw a great number of trees on each side of the river. He said to me, “This water flows toward the eastern region and goes down into the Arabah, where it enters the Dead Sea. When it empties into the sea, the salty water there becomes fresh. Swarms of living creatures will live wherever the river flows. There will be large numbers of fish, because this water flows there and makes the salt water fresh; so where the river flows everything will live. Fishermen will stand along the shore; from En Gedi to En Eglaim there will be places for spreading nets. The fish will be of many kinds—like the fish of the Mediterranean Sea. But the swamps and marshes will not become fresh; they will be left for salt. Fruit trees of all kinds will grow on both banks of the river. Their leaves will not wither, nor will their fruit fail. Every month they will bear fruit, because the water from the sanctuary flows to them. Their fruit will serve for food and their leaves for healing.” ~Ezekiel 47:3-12

#bagongyugto #newbeginnings #healing #newheart #newfire #new perspective

2 notes · View notes

phynali · 4 years ago

Note

I don't know if you're apart of the Supernatural fandom, but if you are, could you do a speech analysis for Dean Winchester? Thank you.

I am! I’ve fallen into (back) into SPN hell recently and gotten a ton of feels I did not expect, thank you very damn much. But anyway, yes I am happy to oblige.

Dean’s voice is very distinct, but I can see why it’s hard to grapple with for many writers because very seldom does he say what he means and very often when he does it’s wrapped up in humour or pain. It’s often quippy as a means of deflecting emotion or maintaining a status quo or emotional handle over a situation. He uses commands and charm and pop culture references but he’s a very complex character so sometimes that all disappears and he’s open and vulnerable and raw, and those lines can be hard to draw.

Notes

To understand Dean’s focal speech patterns, we first to recognize that we’ve known Dean for 15 years, and that people’s modes of speaking can and will change over time. We’re gonna focus on things that have stayed more or less consistent over time, and his ‘base’ speech patterns that make his dialogue him. I’ll mostly shy away from different eras but may highlight a few things, and the same goes for who he’s talking to because he’s pretty similar with his only major differences being a function of closeness. He’s not much of a conversational mimic so we don’t have to worry about that.

We’re also gonna state the obvious and contrast the type of conversation he might be having - whether he’s tied up or in danger vs. expressing emotions vs. focused on the job. That’s probably where the meat of this is for people who are interested in these kinds of analyses anyway :)

Also - this is 4200 words so I’m sure there are typos so just acknowledging that up front.

Sentence Style

Let’s start with overall style.

Dean’s speech is generally straightforward (when he’s not being referential) with a low proportion of adjectives and a decent amount of degree modifiers (more on that below). He uses simple sentences with clear statements, though will add clauses to clarify, reference, or add degree fairly frequently.

For example:

”Like you said” is acting here as a way to refer back to a previous conversation. Dean does this more when he’s stating something not about himself/his subjective experience, but stating an absolute (or at least something to be taken as absolute).

Also something to point out about this example: like I said he uses shorter, simpler sentences. While that isn’t always true of course, it definitely it is the case that he doesn’t tend toward long, breathless sentences. Even here he could have said this in one sentence and instead split it into two concrete points. A person could transcribe it differently (”Like you said, we’re family, and we don’t leave family behind.”) but he tends to speak in this manner that implies full stops between these separate statements.

(Later I’m gonna completely contradict myself by talking about his longer statements btw. He tends to use longer sentences in more serious conversations, and includes clauses that qualify the statement).

Declarative I-Statements

Dean uses a ton of declarative sentences starting with I. Like - a lot of people do. But Dean’s iconic quotes are often “I”, and a large proportion of his sentences are declarative sentences in the active voice centring around him, his opinion, or his experience of the world. From “I think he wants us to pick up where he left off - saving people, hunting things, the family business.” to “I think I’m adorable”, Dean likes to tell us what he thinks and what he is.

You can also extend this pattern to other sentences that might start with different words but carry the same thesis “Demons I get - people are crazy.” It could be reworded just as simply as “I get demons - people are crazy.” But if Sam were the one saying it? “People are crazy” seems just as likely (although I’d put my money on “what is wrong with people?” as Sam’s most likely statement if he were trying to get the same sentiment across). Sam would express it as an absolute about the world or a rhetorical question, rather than one focused around his view of the world. Which doesn’t make Sam less self-focused or idiocentric than Dean, but their speech patterns express different modes of seeing the world, and in some ways Dean’s vocal patterns do more to acknowledge that his view of the world is subjective (but also that his subjective view is all he really cares about anyway).

(see all the other gifs here. Think “I’m proud of us” and so many other lines. So many I-statements).

Imperative and Commands

Dean speaks in a lot of commands. Idk what else to tell you. He’s a natural leader and he takes charge of situations, so it’s just kind of a natural facet of his speech.

He does this with humour:

And without (”He asks, you answer! Then you shut your hole” for example).

Telling people what to do isn’t always met kindly, of course:

And although not an imperative sentence, he also is comfortable using speech to demand compliance:

Word Choices

One thing I like to always examine is word choice, contractions, and negation, so let’s dive in to that.

Diction

While Dean doesn’t flower up his language much in terms of verb and noun choice, that isn’t because he has a small vocabulary. I’d wager it’s a choice to being unpretentious because of the world he lives in. He never has any issue pulling out technical or clinical language:

(Also seen here: he tends to be very pithy and flippant, especially when he’s unimpressed with someone or with a situation, or wants to express annoyance and frustration. It’s his first-stop for “I dislike this”.)

We’ve seen him use words like Achilles’ Heel and describe how he made an EMF using technical language, so there’s no hesitancy to drop these terms, but for him it’s a matter of expressing what he wants to in a manner that will be easily understood by the person with whom he’s speaking.

Negation

For how he uses negation - Dean doesn’t say “ain’t” and he seldom said “[x]’s not”. His typical negation is “isn’t”.

(Not “this ain’t the Scooby Gang” and not “it’s not / we’re not the Scooby Gang”. Isn’t. And yes, the line “there ain’t no me if there ain’t no you” bugs the hell out of me for this specific reason. When else have we ever heard him say ain’t? “There is no me if there is no you” is way more in keeping with his usual negation style.)

He also negates using the word Never. “I’ve never had anything this nice.”

Like this. And like this:

This is interesting because it fits into Dean’s pattern (discussed below) of using words (adverbs and swears alike) as ways to modify the intensity of his sentences. A lot of people use qualifiers to create this sense of degree (words like “really” and “very”). While Dean sometimes uses or combines those words with others (”really freakin’ hate this”), he does something that very few people do, which is use the qualifying word ‘never’ to express an absolute quality. Most of us can’t say we’ve never done something. We might say we “didn’t” do something, but we don’t express it as absolute as “never”. Dean does. Dean makes it clear what things simply do not get to be attributed to him or are not to be counted within his sphere of existence.

(He says it under less extreme circumstances too though...)

Contractions

Dean is liberal with his use of contractions and word shortenings. I’d recommend writing his use of words like “freaking” as “freakin’” “nothin’” and so forth. Can’t, not cannot.

Gonna, wanna. You are going to want to = You’re gonna wanna. (Also “you’re gonna have to trust me”. He tells people what they’re gonna have to do a lot).

He uses other shortenings like “y’know” and “’cause” as well, when he’s relaxed at least. Like all of us, if he’s emphasizing those words he’ll enunciate fully, so try to match the contraction use to what you want to emphasize and to the tone you want to convey.

Addressing Others

I wasn’t sure what else to call these (linguists might have some idea), but I’m talking about the use of words like “man” “dude” and “y’know” (and even his “Listen Velma” above). He uses these words like we all do - to ensure the person we’re talking to is clear that we’re addressing them directly, calling them into the conversation. Dean uses ‘dude’ a frequent amount for Sam (and others) but also “Man” at times (especially when annoyed). He uses “brother” for Benny as well in S8 in the same manner.

Conversely, “y’know” tends to come up when he’s being sly or pithy. He doesn’t really use ‘Buddy’ except for strangers (but not like Sam who essentially uses it as a threat) and I can’t recall him saying ‘pal’.

Positive and Negative Words

Some generic positives: awesome, super (often sarcastic)

Some recurrent negatives: ugly, bad, douch-y

“It ends bloody. It ends bad.”

Expressing Emphasis

Look - Dean doesn’t use a lot of adjectives, but he does use a lot of degree modifiers/adverbs. One of those is “just”. “Just do [x].” “Just so you know.” Just.

(Even here, “I just”).

He also does a very neat thing with the word “Uh.” It’s used not to hesitate or equivocate, like most people might use it, but instead to increase attention to what he’s saying. A false-hesitancy which tends to both emphasize and diffuse what he’s saying a bit.

(It’s so neat!)

Swearing

There is absolutely no doubt that Dean is an avid curser. There’s an excellent 4th-wall-bending implication from 3x13 (Ghostfacers) where we see Dean (and Sam) dropping f-bombs and other swears that get bleeped out in the Ghostfacers documentary. Which allows us as the audience to realize they’re swearing all the time, but that the network doesn’t allow that kind of swearing, so we see a watered down version of their dialogue on screen.

Dean says “freaking” a lot, and I feel like we can assume that 9 times out of 10, he’s dropping an f bomb. His favourite exclamation is “son of a bitch”, but when he’s really pissed off, we get a “motherf*cker”. Seasons 4-8 his favourite thing to call people is a douche or douchebag if he looks down on them. In general my advice to authors would be not to hesitate to have Dean swear, but make sure you’re using them right.

While many swears are just exclamations or word replacement (”kicked my ass” instead of “kicked my butt”), a lot of the swearing that Dean does is specifically to increase emphasis to something in his speech. Adding in freaking/f*cking as an intensifier is probably its most common use for him.

For the record, he uses “hell” in a similar fashion. What the hell, how the hell, where the hell - etc. Expressing intense emotions via swears that increase the degree/magnitude/intensity of the statement.

(Oddly enough, although Dean will insult people casually calling them douche, etc, when he’s pressed and angry and aggressive, his insults toward people don’t become vitriolic diatribes. Threats are more common, typically without an upscale in cursing, and so is being pithy to get them mad and distracted.)

Questions, Answers, and Emotions

Okay so one thing I have to address: I kind of setup a strawman in the opening about sentence length. Because sure, Dean uses a lot of shorter and more declarative sentences. But he’s a person, which means that the bulk of his speech is just speech. While all else being equal, he uses more shorter, i-statements, and more commanding language than others, he also has conversations. He’s got a great sense of humour and a bit of an acid tongue, even under pressure, so if you’re not writing him with some some glibness or humour (even when it comes out biting, frustrated or falls completely flat) you’re probably missing something.

And often, he expresses himself in questions. This humour and glibness can come out like: "What are you, the Dog Whisperer now?" in a less strained situation, or it can come out to try to keep his feels under wraps while seeking insight:

Of course it’s not all questions. Sometimes his glibness, including for his own life, comes out in the form of answers:

He’s being serious but totally glib about life and death, having accepted his fate. (Dean accepting his own mortality is kind of also a must, especially post S1 finale).

And sometimes he expresses pain and feeling as questions without any glibness at all:

So to be clear, don’t write him as only ever using short i-declarations. Pepper those in, but remember that if he’s expressing an emotion or a vulnerability (even if he’s covering it with glibness), he’ll be using this roundabout way with questions or with indirect answers that don’t directly state his feelings but still manage to convey what he’s thinking.

Pleading

One more thing I want to touch on in this section: there are (probably surprising to some who aren’t looking) a lot of notes of supplication when he’s talking to others and feeling vulnerable. It’s very easy to think of Dean as someone who’ll never ask, never beg or plead. Because that’s what he wants you to think, because he’s the cool, in charge Han Solo type.

But Dean does ask. He pleads. He pleads to God/Chuck, he pleads to his father, to Sam, to Cass. A major difference between he and Sam is actually the situations in which they’re likely to say “please”. Sam’s likely to use it as a first response (and therefore says it waaaay more) but absolutely refuse to under duress. Dean will never ever use it as a first response, but will fall back and resort to it in the end. We could unpack what that means about their psyche, but we’re here for language.

Not too surprisingly, I’m having a hard time getting the gif search to grant me specific gifs of Dean saying ‘please’, but I can recall some instances. S1 finale, when Azazel is possessing John. First he starts with quips and pissing Azazel off, and then it’s “Don’t you let him hurt me!” and then when that fails, he begs his father to help him.

He pleads in S1 for Sam not to leave, because Sam is all he has left. He pleads with an angelic APB at the opening of S9 for an angel to save Sam. He tells Cass he needs him when Cass his pulverizing his face. “Please, he’s my brother”. Is that what he says to Lilith? Or was the ‘please’ implied there?

Here, instead of single gifs, you should get the full experience of the duress under which Dean will say please:

To God

To his dad

To his dad again

To Bobby

To Sam in an alternate timeline

And when he wants to be left alone the same thing occurs:

To his mother

To Sam

You get the idea. He doesn’t always say please. Sometimes it’s notes of supplication in his voice and sometimes it’s a somewhat desperate “c’mon man” when he doesn’t want to have to ask but he’s at the end of his rope.

(Okay final characterization note for this section - I also think Dean is probably useless against someone who looks up at him with wide sad eyes and says ‘please’ to him. I suspect part of why it’s his final defense is because he himself would be defenseless to that kind of plea from others, because he was hardwired from a young age to look after his infant little brother, and that involves a certain amount of responding to pleading and helplessness).

Pop Culture References

Dean uses a lot of highly referential language. He refers to bands and musicians, films, pop culture, current events and modern history, etc. Despite him not being overly tapped into social media (e.g., not knowing what myspace is in early seasons, among other things), it’s equally clear that he’s tapped into film, TV, music - any means through which he can consume content. This makes sense given how much driving time and downtime his life must have, with time in motels and between jobs to watch and rewatch the same media. Try to pepper in these sorts of references in as ways for Dean to describe what’s going on and relate new experiences to what makes sense to him.

If you’re a non-American writing him, or a very young American, it doesn’t hurt to brush up on music and media that were popular from the 80s and 90s, which will make up the core of Dean’s formative years and therefore references. There’s also evidence he knows a lot of pop culture history though so don’t hesitate to make references to films etc from any decade of the 20th century. He’s also a bit of a sci-fi nerd and we know he reads (including Vonnegut) so literary references are perfectly in order. I would shy away from references to historical fiction, Shakespeare, and instead keep it to genres we know he consumes (including cartoons!).

"You were wasted by a Teenage Mutant Ninja Angel?"

(ps - seriously just look at this post - we’ve got scooby doo and blues brothers and batman and I wasn’t even trying to find pop culture references when I gif searched).

Deeper Emotional Conversations

While I mentioned above that he uses questions and answers to roundabout discuss his feelings, not all chick flick moments can be handled in that manner, and many can’t be handled with glibness at all.

For Dean, directly addressing his deeper negative emotions is difficult, and thus becomes a pained pronouncement. The nuance tends to come through in his face and nonverbal cues so focus on those, but linguistic choices are pretty important here. And this is where directly naming his emotions comes in. Unlike that question/answer section above where his thoughts and feelings are conveyed without directly naming his sentiment, sometimes he is called upon to express his feelings more specifically.

Because let’s be honest, he’s got his A Single Man Tear(TM) and he’s got deep, painful feelings, but he sucks at talking about them.

Let’s create an example that isn’t something that specifically happened in canon, but easily could. So - let’s say that Dean might need to say he’s scared of losing Sam. That would come after some pained discussion and Dean will act like he’s having his teeth pulled, but he will say it. And when he does, it’s either an angry proclamation (”you want me to say it? fine! i’m scared, sam - i’m scared as hell that one day i’ll wake up and you’ll be gone.”) or he cracks himself open completely exposed and vulnerable, and all the air rushes from the room when you see it because his eyes are shining and it’s visceral and real and been sitting right below the surface, suffocated until this moment (”i’m scared, sam,” a crack in his voice, an inhale of breath, and he looks a second from losing it. but it’s dean so he won’t, he’ll hold on by the skin of his teeth with his heart spilling out of his mouth, red with the blood of his own truths. “i’m terrified of losing you.”).

There’s very little in between. There’s almost never any emotionally removed or more clinical discussion of his feelings like you might get with Sam. (”you want me to say i’m scared? of course i’m scared. i’m terrified, dean, but that’s not the point here. the point is -”). Because Dean struggles to accept and avow his painful internal emotional landscape, he struggles to discuss it in a way that’s removed, so it becomes very intense when he does.

What this also means for writing emotional dialogue is that although Dean does not lack insight into his emotions, where they come from, and why he’s feeling the way he is, he’ll very seldom provide you an in depth explanation. This may make him seem less emotionally mature, but really what’s happening is a struggle to put those feelings into words. Discussion of anxiety, insecurity, and trauma are put into boxes he can more easily communicate - fear, anger, violence. Less “I overreacted because I was scared of losing you” and more “I’m fucking terrified of losing you. And yeah, it pisses me off.” Dean doesn’t tend to use explanatory statements (”because”), he tends to present emotions and even concepts outside of emotional discussions as separate statements, and it becomes your job to then connect those statements (as the one he’s talking to, and as the audience).

Like I said near the start, Dean also uses longer sentences when having serious conversations. “As long as I’m around, nothing bad’s gonna happen to you.” Note the first half of that sentence acting as a qualifier (implying something bad could happen, but not when Dean is around, creating the condition upon which the whole sentence and sentiment hangs).

Less Declarative Expression

Dean expresses negative emotions like disappointment and frustration as well, but unlike his more intense/extreme negative emotions (terror, fear of abandonment, deep anger) he very seldom will declare those emotions. While he might use question and answer format, he might also control the conversation with a straightforward expression that saves him from having to say what he’s feeling while still getting it across.

For example, "Well that's great, because without your power, you're basically just a baby in a trench coat." Instead of saying he’s frustrated, he says something that gets to the point of what he’s mad about without saying he’s mad. (This is especially true when what he’s mad about is the situation. Because while these statements are about people, on the balance of things, they’re not really directed at them. Because often he’s frustrated because of something they can’t solve and he knows that).

He’s also liable to not-declare-but-express pent up feelings he’s not ready to unpack in the same manner:

He’s obviously stressed and angry, but he doesn’t want to have to avow that anger and unpack all of where it’s coming from. It’s not the feeling of the emotion he dislikes so much as it is the examination of the underpinning reasons for it, because the dredge it up and unpack it is more painful than to let himself to continue to feel it at this low consistent level while he processes.

Outliers and End Notes

No post can fully capture and analyze 15 years of dialogue. There’s probably a million important elements to Dean’s speech that I missed. I think I want to emphasize a few things before we part.

First - if you really want to write Dean, make sure you write him as charismatic. He uses humor, charm, deflection, questions, commands, and confidence all to control conversations and he does it seamlessly. Despite his rakish nature, he seldom if ever seems to offend people (unless he’s deliberately trying to piss them off) and you should take that into consideration when writing him.

Keeping him fully in character will therefore involve a sort of fluidity about his speech, and those references. He is personable and exceptionally confident. He does not tend to hesitate or apologize (except in a flippant, superficial way, or in very strained emotional conversations and then only to those he loves deeply). His volume and tone are probably as or more important than his words, so consider when he’s saying something with a purr vs. with a snarl vs. shouting vs. having his voice crack into a whisper. He’s incredibly expressive with his face, but not overly gesticular with his hands (though he does gesture, just not in a way that stands out a great deal).

If you want or need him to give some type of confession in what you’re writing, you pretty much have two options. Either expressing his emotions in ways I’ve described here, or giving it the good ol’ S12 monologue where he bares his soul (when he’s inside Mary’s head). That should be reserved only for very extreme circumstances though - circumstances like saving his mother from brainwashing, discussing his hell trauma, or declaring that there’s nothing on heaven or earth he’d put before his little brother. Because in general long speeches aren’t his style.

And if you can, give some thought to what season you’re writing in. Is he still calling everyone and everything douch-y? Is he in the later seasons and more capable of unpacking his emotions directly? Is he in the early seasons where he’s trying to be Han Solo and too damn cool and smooth about everything, even his impending death?

At the end of the day - Dean is a wonderful, complex character and I hope this analysis helps some writers understanding his speech and character better!

#dean winchester #dean meta #spn meta #supernatural meta #supernatural #speech patterns #speech analysis #long post #long post for ts #i don't wanna put it under a cut because no one ever looks at these when i do #also for those who don't know i used to do these for flash characters on my side blog #but have requests now for branching out #i am not a linguist #i just like studying characters and trying to write their dialogue #this post is 4200 words and my goal was under 5k so i win #not-entirely-crazy-just-a-little

22 notes · View notes

afewmarvelousthoughts · 5 years ago

Text

Fated Ch. 3

Master List: @afewmarvelousthoughtsadmin

Pairing: Hades!Bucky x Persephone!Reader

Summary: Humanity has broken the world. How they did it doesn’t matter. What does is that in doing so they quickened the old gods once more. A century later things are settling into a new order but all is not as it seems. As Fate draws two gods together the cracks begin to show in this new age. Will their bond tip the delicate balance or restore order to a broken world?

Warnings: Mild violence, uh... I think that’s all.

A/N: Hi. AU’s are hard. Harder when you’re strapped for time and creative energy. Easier when you have amazing patient readers who express their love but don’t pressure. Seriously, y’all are great.

I hope this was worth the wait. Please tell me all your thoughts.

Also, if your name is Karen, I swear it isn’t anything personal. 😘

Tags are open!

[If you should be tagged and you’re not let me know. My tags are a mess as per usual but I’m trying lol.]

The 21st day dawns with a clamor that reverberates in the marrow of your bones.

Half. Gone.

It seems impossible. Three weeks gone like sand between your fingers, so fast, so fleeting. But you have loved every grain, cherished each second. Never could you have fathomed how wonderful this would feel, this freedom.

Everything was sweeter here somehow. From the wine in your glass to the person in your bed. Everything.

And in 19 days you will return to nothing but dull grey sameness… You push the thought away, unwilling to allow your looming departure to taint any of the precious time you had remaining.

“Good morning!” Wanda calls from her spot at the long kitchen table. Five other smiling faces turn to greet you.

Wanda only took in humans with at least a drop of god’s blood in them. This allowed them to learn the spells and harness the powers necessary to be of service to the goddess. It also meant Tria House had a smaller gathering than Eleusis House by a quarter. With almost half gone out in the field to do as Wanda bid, the residence--a tall four-story brick house--only ever held a handful at a time.

At first, the difference had been jarring. It was often so quiet and one never felt crowded at the dinner table but you’d known nothing but the densely packed halls of Eleusis House for as long as you could remember. After a few days though, you’d come to appreciate the peace that fewer acolytes and no sheltered women afforded you. Here you didn’t have to seek solitude like some forbidden prize. You could effortlessly find space for yourself to think, to work, to just breathe.

The only thing you couldn’t adjust to was the quiet at night. You slept too hard and the dreams came on bright, vivid, jarring even. When you awoke each morning after them--tangled in sweat-stained sheets, a few times even sprawled on the hardwood floor--you’re left with a sense that you’d failed to hold onto something precious as the images fade rapidly from your memory.

All you could recall with any clarity was a sense of dark water pulling you under, pain unlike anything you’d ever felt, and a man. You never truly saw the figure, they were always draped in impenetrable shadow--be that how they appeared in your dream or the uncertain memory of dreams, you couldn’t know--but something in you said they were a man. The dreams with him were the ones you dreaded most. They left you with a sense of loss so great you awoke gasping, the salt of tears on your lips. You preferred the drowning and the pain to that.

Last night hadn’t been such a night.

“Good morning,” you respond smiling, settling down beside Alex.

“So, will your friend be joining us?” His full pink lips curl into a playful smirk, golden eyes glinting with more than a hint of mischief. You glare at him with false anger.

Wanda laughs, “Another friend? Busy week.” She winks at you as she takes a sip of her coffee.

You blush despite yourself. It was true you had taken many lovers in your time here. There was something alluring about lips that had never whispered your name in need, hands you’d never feel again. Plus, you didn’t dream with a warm body in the bed beside you.

“Did you at least get this one’s name?” Marisol asked, tossing her long back hair behind her shoulder.

A laugh bubbles from your lips, “That only happened once. And her name was Hannah.”

“And who were you to her?” Wanda asks popping a strawberry into her mouth.

“Aurelia.”

The charm Wanda helped you construct which hid you, preventing your mother from knowing you were out in the city, required you to speak a false name into your reflection before leaving. To remove it, as you did every time you reentered the house, you had but to look at your reflection, speak your true name, and the charm would fall away.

“You never can go with something simple like Karen can you?” Alex scoffs playfully.

“If you could choose any name in the world would you chose Karen?” You ask raising a brow at him. He laughs deep, the energy lighting the ichor in his blood making his golden irises sparkle.

“Point. Perhaps I’d chose something dramatic and tragic like Achilles.” He stands, downing the last of his coffee. “Will the Lady Aurelia be joining us for my going away party tonight?” The reminder that he’d be leaving to head into the field made you flinch a bit in sadness.

“Some lady will be joining you tonight, you’ll find out who she is then,” you only used a name once after all and you suspect you’d be needing the reprieve as well, after what your day holds.

“Excellent-” he pushed away from the table, slipping into a denim jacket- “well some of us have work to do.” With a grin, he turned on his heel and strutted from the room.

“He’s nervous,” Omari sighs, looking down into their mug.

“Yes,” Wanda says matter of factly. “He’s never left this city. But I think he will do just fine in the border regions for a time. It will do him good to see other parts of the world.” You could feel Wanda’s eyes land on you as you bit into an apple.

“But our dear Alex isn’t the only one with work to do,” Wanda sighs, standing. “We should ready ourselves to go, Kore. Is Hannah still here?” She didn’t have to ask, Wanda could simply reach out and feel every living thing that inhabited her house at any moment, she didn’t do so out of sheer courtesy. It was one of the many things you respected about her.

“No,” you answer, “I saw her out before I came to breakfast.”

Wanda nods, “Well, let’s get this over with.”

Neither of you was of any mind to think your mother’s invitation was anything other than an opportunity to snoop. Demeter did not leave her compound but she had no qualms about calling in other gods when she saw fit.

This particular summons was supposedly a request for charms to help protect acolytes of Eleusis House when they were in the field. You told Wanda you were fairly certain that there was no need for additional protection charms--the Daughters of Eleusis House were some of the most well-guarded acolytes as it was.

It didn’t matter. When one of the high gods called, others were compelled to answer, that was the way of things.

“Are you alright?” Wanda asks after a few blocks. You’d been fiddling mindlessly with the leather cord you’d tied around your waist to cinch in your breezy white cotton dress.

You almost lie but think better of it. “No,” you say on a sigh. But don’t voice your true concern, that Mother will keep you there, that once you enter the compound you’ll be unable to ever leave again… Wanda hears it anyway.

“Demeter entered into an agreement, Kore. She will not dishonor herself by breaking it now.” Wanda was right, it would be bad business for Mother to try and keep you when there was so little time left.

“It’s just proof of life,” Wanda says jokingly. “She wants to see that you’ve been doing more within my walls than tasting the city’s pleasures.” She winks and elbows you a bit.

With all you are, you want to believe her, want to think that your mother would never sully herself by breaking an agreement. But something in you simply won’t allow it. A voice, buried deep within you, whispers that Demeter doesn’t care about honor, only about her own will, and that she will do anything to see it enacted.

You feel almost ashamed for thinking this of your mother. She did good works for humanity, cared for those in her charge, helped heal this ailing world. Of course, you had your disagreements and arguments in the past, but what mother and daughter didn’t argue? What right had you to think so poorly of her now?

“You’re right,” you say forcing a tense laugh. Wanda grabs your hand, bringing you to stop.

“I won’t allow it, Kore.” For an instant you see her true form, pulsing beyond the confines of her human visage. “You will be leaving with me today, as long as that is what you desire. I swear.” The conviction of her words chases away all shadows of doubt haunting you.

“Thank you, Wanda. For everything.”

“Don’t mention it,” she smiles wide, looping her arm with yours.

At the gates of Eleusis House Wanda gives your hand a reassuring squeeze before releasing you. The iron bars swing open to reveal your mother, smiling gently, so different from her expression when you left.

“Kore,” she coos, holding her arms wide. Tentatively you step into her embrace.

She holds you tight against her, “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, Mother,” you say sweetly, hoping the lie will go unchecked. It seems to and you feel a bit of relief.

Mother releases you, greeting Wanda warmly. As she does so you allow your eyes to skim over the courtyard.

While you were nervous to return here you did expect to feel a certain sense of happiness at being back home, it disturbs you that you feel nothing of the sort. There is only the low churning in your gut, a reminder of your desperation to leave this place.

What would happen to you when you had to return for good?

“Kore?” Mother asks from behind you. You hadn’t noticed that you’d wandered a few steps away.

She laughs, “Always daydreaming.” You force a tight smile as you take her offered hand and go into the main hall.

“Where’s Abigail?” You ask as you enter, having expected to see her here.

“She took an assignment in the northern border region,” Mother says without looking at you.

“She just recently returned. She wasn’t due for another deployment for-”

“It was her choice,” Mother cuts you off, the lie coming far too easily to her lips. You say nothing more but you do withdraw your hand from hers.

Mother had always resented the acolytes who you grew closest to. Though she never actually said as much, her actions spoke volumes. Those who you befriended were always sent out on more missions than most, always kept busiest. Even in your absence, she persisted in this. It made you bristle.

She opens the door to one of the side chambers, leading you both in. You notice a table has been laid out for a late morning meal.

“Oh, Deme,” Wanda begins, “you shouldn’t have.”

“Of course I should,” your mother’s smile holding more than an ounce of tension. “You both came all the way here--last minute even. The least I could do is feed you.” The scent of the food makes your stomach churn.

“You’re too kind as always,” Wanda says without the slightest hint of irony. She sighs, as if disappointed, “But we did eat before leaving and sadly have a full day before us.” Wanda sits, lounging a bit as if hard-pressed to leave quickly, and pops a grape in her mouth.

You force your feet to move into the room, perching on one of the chairs. Mother’s eyes scan you, probing for the lie.

“Ah, well then,” Mother sits. “I suppose we must get to it as you are so busy you have no time for pleasantries.” Her eyes flair with a bit of anger in her final words. You swallow hard, trying to remind yourself of Wanda’s promise.

Wanda nods before removing the small mahogany box from her bag containing the charms. She begins to open it preparing to explain the uses and requirements when Mother stops her.

“I was hoping Kore may have crafted some herself, I would so love to see what she’s accomplished under your tutelage.” So she wasn’t even going to try and pretend this wasn’t a test. That facade dropped faster than you expected.

“Of course,” Wanda turns her bright smile on you before removing another small box and setting it on the table. This one is burnished silver glinting softly in the gentle light of the room. She passes it to you.

Before you can say anything Wanda speaks. “I should note that Kore has shown a particular aptitude at more, shall we say, defensive charms.” “What might that mean?” You can’t quite place the emotion coloring your mother’s face. Something almost like… fear? It’s there for only an instant before it’s replaced with cold disapproval. The way her eyes narrow at you fills your mouth with bitterness.

“Curses,” you say before Wanda has a chance. Satisfaction chases away the bitterness as you see Mother’s back straighten a bit at the word. “One longer acting but the rest hold quick to near-instant results. I thought they would be far more useful than additional offensive measures seeing as our acolytes have almost more than they need.”

By the expression on Mother’s face, your shot hit its mark. You wanted her to know you saw through this charade.

“I see,” Mother says a slight rumble shaking her words. “So this is what you teach my daughter?” Mother’s hard stare falls on Wanda. “To make weapons?”

Wanda looks almost bored, “Your daughter taught herself.”

Unflinchingly you meet Mother’s incredulous gaze as your fingers move to open the box. In the blink of an eye, Mother shoots to her feet her hand slamming on top of yours, painful in its pressure. Still, you show no glimmer of emotion, refusing her the satisfaction.

“I send you to learn how to be a better shepherdess of life and you bring death into my home?” The room shakes with her fury. “You insolent little-”

“Not death,” you cut her off. “They will make someone deeply uncomfortable, incapacitate them at worst, but they do not cause death.” Slowly you rise to your feet, your hand still pinned between hers and the box.

“And I will remind you, Mother,” you spit her title, unable to hide your anger, “I am no little anything. I am not a child!”

“You forget your place, Daughter,” she spits your title just as you had hers. You can feel the bones in your hand begin to bend, the box beneath groaning in protest.

“And where might my place be?” You ask between clenched teeth.

“You’re meant for one thing, to-”

“No,” you shake your head, relishing the shocked look in her face. The words crawl from some dark buried place inside you, almost unbidden, as though they had been waiting patiently for the right moment to bloom.

“You are meant for one thing, have one purpose.” Mother’s nails begin to dig into the top of your upper wrist painfully. You don’t care. “I believe I am meant for more.”

Internally you brace for the storm of her fury, for her to find a way to shackle you and keep you here, for her to use this against you.

But nothing happens. Her hand rises from yours, leaving glittering golden crescents where her nails had been.

“Take your curses,” she says coolly, “we have no need of such things here.” She looks to Wanda, “Take your charms as well.”

“I’d hate to think you’ve wasted my time by calling us here under false pretenses, Demeter,” Wanda says almost casually.

“You may think what you wish, Hecate. I simply have no use for what you’ve provided me at this time.” She turns her back and strides to a door at the other side of the room. “I believe you know the way out, Daughter,” she tosses over her shoulder.

You and Wanda exchange a look. She merely shrugs and rises, both boxes floating up in red clouds and tucking themselves back into her bag.

“Oh and Kore,” Mother turns, her expression searing you in place. “I will see you in 19 days.” The tone of order in her voice was not missed by you.

Silently you and Wanda see yourselves out of Eleusis House and back into the city.

Halfway back to Tria House you pause, looking in the direction of The Park. Wanda patiently waits for you to speak.

“I think,” you sigh, “I think I need a little time alone.” Wanda nods.

“Will you still be coming tonight?”

“I will. I’ll meet you all there.”

“Ok,” Wanda gives you a comforting smile. “Just remember, the theme is gold!” She yells over her shoulder as she heads home.

Turning to the darkened shop window to your right you find your reflection and speak a name to cloak yourself from prying eyes. Not only did the charm manage to keep your mother from finding you it also did well to dull anything that could make humans clock you as a god allowing you to move among them relatively unnoticed.

When you first discovered The Park you assumed it was something that had sprouted after the cataclysm, the earth taking back some large empty swath of land. Alex told you that wasn’t the case at all. He said that The Park had always been here, an intentional enclave for people in the city.

It had been better cared for once, with well-manicured fields and defined pathways through the foliage according to the old tattered images he showed you. Now it was mostly a wild thing, an unchecked forest filled with wild beasts and wilder folk.

Despite those things you could still find people enjoying themselves in its open spaces--maintained by some organization of humans, the details of which you didn’t know. You had seen couples lounging on blankets sharing tender moments in the sun, children playing gleefully, groups of friends just enjoying one another’s company. It was your favorite place to be.

Dreamily you watch the people, the clouds rolling across the blue sky, listen to the birds. You lose yourself for hours like this, letting the life all around you roll over you in gentle waves, washing away the anxiety and anger being with your mother had left you with.

The sun had begun to dip below the horizon, the humans generally cleared away once twilight began to settle in. A few were still around and you can hear the raucous sound of children playing somewhere in the distance. You begin to rise and head toward Tria to get ready for the evening’s festivities when the cry of a small child hits your ears.

Your hair stands up, this wasn’t a cry of joy or too hard play, this was a cry of distinct pain. Before you realize it your feet are flying in the direction of the sound.

In the fading light, you can see a young boy hovering over a small girl, trying to comfort her as she wails.

The boy startles when he catches your approach, placing himself between you and the girl. After taking you in he seems to relax though he doesn’t move away from her.

“We’re fine, we don’t need nothin’,” he says, trying to sound tough. The little girl continues to sob.

“She doesn’t sound fine,” you say softly, lowering yourself to meet his eyes.

He bites his lip glancing back, “She just fell ‘s all. I can take care of her.” You observe his dirty clothes, the tightness in his cheeks where a child’s fullness should be.

You smile softly, “I’m sure you can. But would it be ok if I looked at where she’s hurt?” The little girl moves a bit but immediately screams in pain. The boy flinches before falling to the ground beside her.

“Told you not to move, SJ!” He looks back at you, eyes wide and nods. “This lady ‘s gonna look at it ok?” She shakes her head frantically, trying to scoot back causing herself more pain.

“She’s nice, ‘s ok,” his expression begs you not to make a liar out of him. Your heart aches to wonder how many adults had done so in the past.

“Hi, SJ,” you say as you crouch next to her trembling form. “Can you tell me where it hurts?” You could see the place where her leg bends at a wrong angle between her knee and ankle but scared children needed to feel in control. Her small hand points to the break.

“Ah, ok, I see.” You make a show of observing her wound without touching it. “Can you tell me what your favorite flower is, SJ?” The little girl stares blankly at you, but her sobs still a bit.

“She don’t talk much, miss,” says the boy.

“That’s ok,” you smile at her reassuringly.

“But she really likes purple things. Got her this shirt and it’s her favorite,” he says, sounding proud pointing to the dirty purple tee SJ had on.

“I like purple too. I can help make it stop hurting, SJ but can you do something for me?” She nods a bit, choking a little cry.

“I knew you could. Will you look right here and only here?” You point to her left, the opposite of her broken leg. “If you look only here,” your finger touches the ground, a small pinprick of golden light shining, “something magic will happen and your leg will be all better ok?”

She doesn’t acknowledge you but both children stare at the growing glowing point in the earth as something begins to push against the soil. With them distracted you focus your attention on the girl’s leg.

There were often children at Eleusis House, accompanying pregnant mothers or just mothers desperately seeking sanctuary. You knew they were resilient little things but that injuries like this left untreated could lead to lifetime complications or even death if infection set in. Were you there you’d set her leg properly and allow it to heal naturally. Given the state these children were in though, you knew this needed to be remedied with more drastic measures.

You hover your palms over the break. Tapping into the power in your blood you pull golden light around her leg. It pulses bright as you imagine the bones fusing, the torn muscles stitching themselves back together, even taking care that many of the little blood vessels were intact.

In but a moment the light fades and SJ’s leg is perfectly healed save for some slight bruising. She continues to watch the big purple anemones grow on their long green stems but the boy stares at you in wonder.

“Goddess,” he whispers reverently. You can feel the jolt of his belief temper some of the exhaustion beginning to flood you.

“SJ,” the little girl looks to you, “does it hurt anymore?” She shakes her head no, eyes wandering back to the flowers. “Good. Why don’t you pick your flowers and I’ll see you two out of The Park and get you some food?”

“Goddess, we can’t…” Even children knew that many gods didn’t perform such acts for free. There was a price, sacrifice, penance, something to be paid.

“I want nothing of either of you,” you glance to the girl plucking the beautiful flowers, a smile radiating joy on her face, your blood sings. “Just for you to live. Now let’s go get you something to eat.”

The two were siblings you learned as Eric shoveled eggs into his mouth at the diner. For every few bites he took, he distracted his sister from the flowers just enough to get her to eat too.

They were among the throngs of children no one wanted and no one missed. Parents dead or disappeared, moving from one shelter to another, just doing what they could to survive. And survive they did, it was what humanity did best.

As you only ever carried a small amount of human currency on you, you didn’t have enough to put them up anyplace for the night but he assured you they had somewhere to stay. Before you parted ways Eric’s eyes settled on the ground, shifting uncomfortably.

“What is it?” You ask him, concerned.

“Well, it’s… it’s just that… Can we know your name?” He asks. You smile at him, your mouth almost opening to say it, but somehow the syllables feel wrong on your tongue and you stop. Besides, by not giving them your name they could not call to you, could not offer you their belief, could not repay your kindness.

“No. Be safe,” you set your hand on his head ruffling his hair and send out an ask to whatever would hear you, to protect these children. He nods, seeming in his own childlike way to understand.

“Thank you,” he smiles. “Come on, SJ.” He takes her hand but she doesn’t move, her big brown eyes fixed on you.

“Thank you, P-pe-per-” She echoes her brother in a small voice, stuttering at the end as though trying to pronounce a word she can’t grasp.

“You’re welcome,” you tell her warmly, and she lets go of the word. You watch them head off into the night feeling worried but also as though the burden you left Eleusis House with was lifted.

Sighing you look at the now dark sky. At this point you were late. Very late. You turn toward Tria House at a brisk pace.

The gold glittering dress Alex had helped you pick out slides over the curves of your body perfectly. The thin straps, deep draped back, and high slits on each side leave more of your skin exposed than you were used to but you have to admit, it cuts a stunning image in the mirror.

There wasn’t time for hair and makeup in the human sense, but that was what magic was for. With a thought, the glamour falls over you. Eyelids sparkle in gold, lined in a sharp cat-eye, lashes thick and dark. Your lips are a deep enticing crimson while your hair tumbles over your shoulders in perfect waves. Being a goddess did have its perks.

Smirking you stare at yourself in the mirror and whisper, “Karen.”

Laughing to yourself you head out into the night.

Restlessness stalked James for weeks. Since the first night of that dream, he’d been unable to shake the sense that something had, irrevocably, changed.

Perhaps it was because most nights he found himself in the same position--drowning in that strange dark water, smelling Narcissus and damp earth and rain. He couldn’t say it was fear which haunted him when he awoke, the emotion he was left with was far from that simple. What James felt each time was something like longing so powerful it hurt and loss of something precious which he couldn’t name.

Some deeper sense told him that the cause of his restlessness went beyond this dream. Had he been of a mind to speak to his brothers he may have more insight. It was certainly possible that there was something happening out in the broken world that was causing this. But honestly, he’d rather face another cataclysm at this point than talk to Steven or Anthony.

He’d been wandering aimlessly, eyes mainly set on the forever twilight sky of his realm, paying little attention to where his feet had taken him. Abruptly he stops walking, realizing where he is.

Lethe flowed peacefully in its banks, water dark, deep, and quietly menacing. If he allowed himself, he could see the throngs of souls lingering, unwilling to let go of all they were, forget all they ever knew, in order to cross over--he did not allow this. Even so, he could feel their presence like a cold mist, hear their sorrow in a low hum.

He hated this place. The thrashing horror of Tartarus was more tolerable than the deep melancholy that lived here.

The thought of being unmade… He shuddered. It wasn’t hard to understand why so many souls refused Lethe’s gift of forgetting even if what lay on the other side was, for most, something like peace.

That cursed tingle in the back of his skull picked up once more. An itch he couldn’t scratch. The unyielding notion that something was changed and now… that something was missing, broken, off-balance. He shuddered once more, turning his back on the river and its mournful crowd.

Bristling, he stalks back to his home. The halls were quiet, free of the dead, free of the living.

He’d sequestered himself here for weeks. Usually, he preferred solitude. It was better this way. Humans didn’t often take well to his presence and while he didn’t mind his home in the city, this was where he belonged… Usually.

Flinging open the closet doors he runs his flesh fingers down hangars draped with exquisite fabrics. The softness of velvet halts his search. He plucks the expertly cut black blazer from its place, taking in the details of the piece.

Yes. This was perfect.

James may have belonged here. May have preferred this most times. But right now he knew he needed the distraction that only humanity and liquor hard enough to topple gods could provide him.

Tonight, he would not be Hades, he would not be Lady Death’s servant. Tonight, he would be just a face in the crowd.

A pungent mix of tobacco smoke and the tang of liquor mark the entrance to the speakeasy before the door even opens. You breathe it in, savoring the way it burns your lungs just a bit.

Spaces like this were illegal per the human’s laws, Wanda had told you the first night you went out with her. It didn’t matter much though, there were at least 50 all across the city, and since the gods tended to frequent them well… Those laws were loosely enforced at best.

Patiently you wait for the door to open, unseen eyes assessing you via a camera above the door.

An electric hum rises before the heavy door swings open to reveal a mountain of a man, the buttons of his shirt straining across his chest. He nods approvingly, stepping to the side to let you by.

The smells from outside compound, mixing with intoxicating notes of human joy and desire drawing you into the dim hall until your eyes are accosted with the flashing colored lights that fill the main space.

It takes you a moment to adjust. Beyond the throb of the music and the lighting, the sea of bodies always throws you. Human emotion, scents, the sheer pulsing life of it all is almost too much. You could drown here so easily.

The pressure of a hand on your lower back draws you in from the tide.

“Hey,” a low male voice whispers into your ear, his breath, hot and fetid with the scent of beer, on your neck. “You want someone to show you around?” His body presses uncomfortably close. Your skin crawls.

“No,” you shrug him off. “Thanks though.” Without sparing him a backward glance you step away and begin to scan the balconies in the half-dark.

You spot them, guided by Omari’s hair, they’d glamoured golden stars into it, the little points of light winking in and out in the night sky of their immaculate afro. As you move to join them his slick palm wraps around your forearm.

“Don’t be like that,” he says. You glance from the place where your bodies meet to his face, an attempt at a sly grin on his lips looking more snarl than smile.

“I suggest you let go of me.” The last thing you want is to make a scene and ruin Alex’s night but you can feel your anger spark in your veins.

“That so?” He slurs a bit, moving to press you against the wall. When your body doesn’t respond, solid and planted as a marble statue he stares at you incredulously.

“Yeah.” For an instant you let your god’s blood pulse through the glamour. It makes the shadows glow golden. You rip your arm from his grip pushing him back into the opposite wall and stride away.

“Finally!” Alex bellows when he sees you, holding up a glittering flute of champagne spiked with ambrosia for you to take. “And who may I ask is joining us this evening?”

You take a deep drink, feeling the memory of the man already fading. Plopping next to him on the low couch you throw your legs across his lap, your back leaning into the arm of the couch.

“Karen, nice to meet you.” Alex’s head falls back in a laugh lifting his own drink to accept your offered toast.

“Cheers to, Karen!”

There are no talks of goodbyes tonight. Ambrosia flows into your cups until you feel as effervescent as the champagne that accompanied it and your cheeks ache from smiling.

If you��d ever felt this free in your life, this happy, you couldn’t remember it.

On the dancefloor, sweat glitters on the skin of the woman in your arms. The salt of her lingers on your lips, as you trail your mouth down her neck. It mixes with the smoky taste of her kiss. Her wanting makes your blood hum.

A tingle courses through your body, distracting you from her lips. It’s a strange feeling though not unpleasant, as though someone is watching. Your eyes look around and up, searching for the source.

From his perch on a balcony, James watches the human’s and minor gods mingle. He’d been down with them earlier but none had sparked his interest as much as the ambrosia, turning the whiskey in his glass a deeper shade of gold, did.

It was just as well, he was comfortable here, content to soak in the haze of smoke, and delectable human desire. Until a flash of gold catches his eye.

For a moment he thought the glow came from the woman herself, a vision of pulsing light. The illusion faded fast, likely fueled by the intoxicant burning sweetly through him. It was, in fact, just the dress she wore, gold sequins flowing over her curves like water. Still, she was unlike anything he’d seen in an age.

Her body dipped and swayed with the music effortlessly, looking to be easy to her as breathing. As she did so she appeared truly unaware of the effect she had on the people around her. They seemed more vital, happier, more eager even, within her orbit than the others in the space.

From partner to partner she moved--men, women, and others. Each one holding her full attention for a time. He couldn’t blame them for their rapt expressions as her hands held them close, as her lips dipped to taste them; nor could he fault them for their clear sorrow at her parting from them to chose another.

A small group joined her, friends it seemed. They carried bottles of champagne, drinking straight from them. She took one as a passing dancer bumped into her causing the liquid to slosh onto her neck. She laughed, a smile so spectacular his jaw dropped.

One of the group members leaned in, kissing the liquid from her skin. He may have burned alive from jealousy had he not caught the slight glow rising from the drink. Ambrosia, so perhaps she wasn’t just a human.

The thought put his heart in his throat. Humans were too delicate for his taste and as striking as she’d been the impression that she was one was all that had been holding him back.

James finishes what remained of the drink in his glass in one large swallow before making his way to the dance floor. Distraction was his goal tonight and he could imagine nothing more effective than knowing how this golden woman tasted.

There was no way to be certain of her location once he lost his birdseye vantage and yet he was unconcerned. It was likely a trick of the light but he almost thought he could see a thin glittering thread leading through the crowd, tugging him ever so slightly, he hoped, to her.

A spotlight lands on her as she finally comes into his view once more. With her hands raised above her head, body curving with the crescendo of the song, bathed in an amber glow, she is the most radiant creature he’s ever seen.

The determined desire that drove him here vanishes in an instant, leaving him with an emotion so foreign to him it leaves him frozen in place, gawking.

He wants her, wants to bathe in her glow for the rest of time, wants to raise her name to the heavens, write it in the very firmament. This feeling, for a god such as he seemed wrong, unseemly. Yet there it was-

Reverence.

Before he has time to panic the lights go out, sending the space into darkness and breaking the spell. He draws in a quick almost desperate breath, nearly convincing himself to turn and leave. He has no time to do so, however.

Bass, low and heavy vibrates through the air. Slowly the lights begin to rise once more, slashes of red pulsing in the haze of smoke. A hand, warm as summer sun rests on his chest. It becomes a fist, gripping the front of his shirt to draw him closer.

Had he not been so distracted by the feeling of her breath against his ear he may have noticed the smell of narcissus hiding beneath the honey-like tang of ambrosia. All he can register though are her words, warm as whiskey and far more intoxicating flowing into his awareness.

“I saw you watching me up there. Did you like the view?”

He’s certain he knew the art of speech before this moment but now it’s as though his tongue had never formed words. A nod is all he can manage, hoping she will blame the rising volume of the music for his lack of verbal response.

Deep red lips lift into an approving smirk. Her hips begin to sway, hands tugging at his suit jacket urging him to join her.

It seems impossible that he could touch her, nothing this perfect could be real. Yet when his hands grip her sides she’s no mirage, no illusion. Impossibly, she’s real.

Time falls away.

There is only this. The feeling of his heart hammering against his ribs, her warmth sinking into his marrow.

Song after song their bodies move together in perfect harmony.

When her fingers graze his neck they leave a trail of fire. With her back pressed against him, he traces the curve of her collarbones feeling her shudder, a shimmer rising to her skin.

James can feel eyes on them, wonders fleetingly what those eyes see where his darkness her glittering golden light meet. It doesn’t matter, let them stare.

The song is a slow one, pulsing like a steady heartbeat, like some distant memory of drums. She turns in his arms, eyes almost level with his own.

He doesn’t realize that he’s stopped moving, all he knows is that he cannot keep himself from studying her features--perfect but holding a softness which was distinctly human.

“Please, tell me your name,” he almost begs into the shell of her ear. He wants to kiss the tender flesh of her neck, run his tongue across the place where her pulse flutters. Instead, he pulls back, waiting with bated breath for her answer, caught once more in her eyes.

Her lips open, a tiny spark of gold glimmers in the black of her pupils for an instant. No sound comes from her though. For a breath her brows knit and he fears that she will not tell him, doesn’t want him to know. But the concerned look melts, replaced by a distant expression as the name falls from those lips as red and tempting as ripe fruit, as rare as pomegranate.

“Persephone.”

Had syllables ever sung such a song?

“Persephone,” he breathes slowly. It’s the closest he’d ever been to uttering a prayer in his long life, of that he’s certain.

“Persephone,” the word tastes like the most precious ambrosia on his tongue.

“Persephone,” the most sacred invocation, soothing his heart’s long ache, chasing the shadows from his mind. He hadn’t realized that his fingers had tangled in her thick hair, cupping the back of her head to draw her in, until her nose brushes his.

Hunger blooms in his belly unlike any he’d ever known, a deep hollow ache. Something in him knows beyond any doubt that the only thing which can fill this void is her, is the taste of that pomegranate red mouth.

He expected the sensation of bursting fruit, the warm flow of honey, the petal softness of spring flowers, anything but the sudden searing jolt of pain that tears through his skull when their lips meet.

His fingers have her hair in a fist, her hands white-knuckled on his lapels. They both gasp for air, holding onto the other for a moment as if afraid to let go. He knows that her expression of confused terror on her face mirrors his own.

“I… I need to go,” she says, her voice just audible over the music which suddenly sounds foreign and sinister. Reluctantly her hands release their grip, his does the same.

In a flash she’s gone, like a strange dream, leaving behind only the memory of her warmth and… Narcissus. He staggers back, clutching at his forehead.

Fear was a strange emotion, he’d felt a glimmer of it earlier, now it bloomed in his chest threatening to smother him.

Water. He needs water.

Stumbling through the crowd he finds his way to the grimy bathroom. The stink almost makes him gag and he grimaces as the sink sputters brown for a minute before running clear.

Cupping his hands beneath the flow he splashes the cold liquid over his burning face, chasing away her smell, her heat. Unconcerned with the quality he gulps straight from the faucet, the copper taste from the pipes is disgusting but it clears the fog in his mind just enough.

His eyes drag from his trembling hand turning the faucet off to his reflection in the cracked mirror. The bathroom was dim, but the glow emanating from him would have been obvious even in full day. With effort, he tugs his glamour back around him, dimming the sheen just enough.

All he can think of is getting out of here. He wants the quiet safety of his home far away from women with names that taste like hope and kisses that break him open.

Finally free of the speakeasy’s clutches, swallowing lungfuls of cool night air he feels like he understands the tales of humans journeying from his realm to this one. What relief they must have felt as they surfaced.

He begins to walk toward his city home in Brooklyn. It was far enough from the throngs and his brother’s ostentatious tower but still close enough for convenience. And in this moment he’s deeply grateful for the distance, he needed the time to ruminate on what the hell that was.

After a few blocks, the taunting sound of men’s laughter catches his attention. It dripped with the kind of ill intent that made his blood boil. As much as he wants to be done with all other beings for this evening he feels compelled to head toward the sound.

At first, all he sees as he turns down the poorly lit street is a gathering of a handful of men, their backs to him. The voice of one filters toward him.

“Think you’re too good,” the sound of flesh thudding against the concrete, the sharp intake of someone’s breath.

“Please,” the woman’s voice stills his steps. That humming pain begins to rise in his skull once more. “You don’t want-”

“You don’t tell me what I want, bitch!” The man growls. James notices a glimmer of gold fabric clutched in the hand of one of the men, hears the thud of a boot meeting flesh but no cry rises.

“You don’t understand!” Her voice sounds pained, pleading, but not truly afraid.

“Persephone,” her name leaks from his lips as the barest whisper. This seems to free him from the grip of panic, quiet the pain in his skull.

“I don’t want-” she says, cut off by the crack of flesh meeting flesh. Even at this distance, he can see her hit the ground fists thudding into the earth.

He’s about to charge at them, call out to her but the moment her knuckles, glittering already with ichor, meet the ground... it opens.

The men stumble back, crying out in terror, as the earth shudders beneath their feet knocking their footing from them. Humans can be so unaware of many things but the animal in them instinctively can sense death, no matter its form. Desperately they scoot back, jaws hanging open, eyes unable to look away from the darkness rising up like a hungry mouth, cold air gusting free.

James cannot move, cannot breathe, cannot form one cohesive thought. No one can enter his realm in this manner but him. No one can open these doors, they are his and his alone. So how…

The gate is only open for a few fleeting seconds. In the span of a heartbeat, it closes, leaving only a thick crack in the concrete and one fewer being on the street to indicate it ever even was.

It takes much longer for him to regain his sense. But as soon as he does it hits him that she is gone, this golden woman, this Persephone, gone into the depths of the underworld. Alone.

“Shit,” he growls.

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙ ‧͙⁺˚*·༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙ ‧͙⁺˚*·༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙ ‧͙⁺˚*·༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙ ‧͙⁺˚*·༓☾

@mywinterwolf @disagreetoagree @breezy1415 @peachthatdrinkslemonade @wonderlandmind4 @stevehesaidabadlanguageword @buckysstar @cinderellarhea @belleestbelle @nerd-without-a-cause @musical-doll-x @unabashedbookscollector @for-the-love-of-the-fandom @gotham-city-muse @egos-r-life @jewelofwinter @callie-bear15 @-lilacnialler- @libbymouse @siriuslycloudy2 @capkitkat @courtmr @emilysallysmith @brilliantkey @achishisha @ayanemoonlight @wildmoonflower @captain-hammer-of-asgard @a-hardcore-romantic @cutie1365 @babygirls-fav @marvelgirl7 @sparrowgirl03 @this-kitten-is-smitten @ornella0910 @nighttwingg @whiskeywinter89 @books-baritones-bucky @qxeen-of-hearts

#Hades!Bucky #Persephone!Reader #Hades!Bucky x Persephone!Reader #Bucky x reader #greek gods au #Bucky Barnes #Bucky #Hades #Hades x Persephone #Persephone #modern greek gods

138 notes · View notes

theimpossiblescheme · 4 years ago

Text

Things about the Martin Crimp Cyrano de Bergerac I have various emotions about in no particular order:

Christian being Leila Ragueneau’s pupil—bless the boy’s heart, he’s trying so hard to slot as effortlessly into Paris and its intellectual scene as possible, even if he’s still confused about most of it. (Also the implication that he comes from a rather conservative family since he didn’t understand what “genderfluid” meant at first, but cottoned on and even looked kind of impressed pretty quickly… you’re doing amazing, sweetie.)

Ragueneau noting that Cyrano hasn’t gotten any sleep last night like this is something he does regularly. How often do you think he’s come into the shop and just crashed?

Cyrano actually looking he might start crying after his meeting with Roxanne, but stifling it so quickly when the cadets arrive it’s like that emotion was never there. I just… I believe him when he says (in other translations) that he believes he’s too disgusting and ridiculous for something so noble as tears, but there’s a bigger part of him than he wants to admit that doesn’t want to cry simply because it’s Not Something Men Do. Especially not military men. There’s such a focus on gender dynamics in this production and how self-worth issues affect everyone that I one hundred percent believe that was deliberate.

Ragueneau going up to Cyrano and so gently asking him if something happened with Roxanne—not even trying to guess what really happened, just wanting to know if something went wrong… and Cyrano taking her hand without a word and giving her a little “thank you for actually understanding” look.

This Christian is such a spitfire and so genuinely witty, I love him so much. In the middle of his nose insults toward Cyrano, he does a little “come at me, see what happens” gesture, and I lost my mind. This guy has possibly even less chill than Cyrano, and that is saying a lot.

I love this Roxanne, too—she’s so warm and funny and genuinely feels like she could be your best friend in the world. So many Roxanne actresses come off as too… distant and almost intimidating, but this one is so much closer to earth.

Cyrano holding on for a little too long the first time he and Christian hug, even after they’ve pulled apart and he’s still clutching his arm… fellas…

”Imaginary men and women”… just gonna let that line sit there…

Cyrano and Christian sharing a mic within minutes of meeting each other

Cyrano introducing Christian to the cadets again as his best friend and trying to put an end to any future hazing… only for the cadets to turn on him and immediately start insulting him one after the other. And instead of slapping the one who started it and establishing that he’s still not going to take their shit—the way he usually does in other translations—Cyrano just clams up and disappears. They were all praising him and gathering around him in support about ten minutes ago, and now they’ve lined up to publicly shit on him… some friends.

Wow, they made absolutely no bones about de Guiche just wanting Roxanne for sex and nothing else. You can feel the disgust roiling off of her that entire scene.

Christian accidentally mimicking Cyrano’s accent the first time he feeds him a line in the “balcony” scene

The juxtaposition of Roxanne as a vocal feminist and “wouldn’t love be very dreary if it fell victim to the gaze of theory”—she loves the idea of love and how ideologically pure and new she wants it to be while Christian and Cyrano know things aren’t as cut and dry as they are in her textbooks. God, this translation is clever.

Christian is the one to pull Cyrano out to talk to Roxanne directly this time, and you can see the abject fear on his face when he realizes where he is…

The way Cyrano starts out imitating Christian’s accent, but then slowly phases into his own voice

The freaking Steve Martin reference, holy shit

I don’t know what to make of the more… intimate references in Cyrano’s balcony speech in this production since I can’t imagine he would feel comfortable with that, even if he’s not saying it to her face. Especially since he can’t seem to imagine intimacy without violence—“You bite my lip, you draw blood.” It’s like he’s trying to insert himself into what he thinks a “normal” romantic/sexual fantasy, and it immediately goes south once he imagines himself there instead of some other man. Even in a letter she’ll never see, that he’s tearing up so no one else will ever know what it says, those “normal” fantasies don’t come naturally to him, as hard as he tries.

The self-awareness that Cyrano knows he’s putting Roxanne on a pedestal, idealizing her—“making her an object”—and that’s why he tears up all the letters. Because he knows how they would sound to her, even if he doesn’t intend to hurt her. He knows her, and that’s why he could never tell her—he’d be just another man to her who only wants one thing, and he can’t bear for her to see him that way.

Cyrano idealizing the moon as this perfect place without sickness or hatred or societal convention holding anyone back, where he’s not looked down upon for his appearance… it’s a lot that I was not expecting from this scene.

Christian was about ready to murder de Guiche on the spot for calling Roxanne a bitch and a whore, and I refuse to believe Cyrano wasn’t sitting there absolutely seething right along with him. Get his ass, lads.

The only other promise Cyrano makes Roxanne is that Christian will be back all right… yeah, thanks for that, I needed the extra pain.

Cyrano specifically bringing up Achilles and Patroclus when he’s talking about the Iliad… they knew what they were doing. Especially right before he insists that Le Bret give his water ration to Christian.

The cadets trying to pick Cyrano up with their old battle cry, but Cyrano pointedly turning away from them, remembering what happened the last time. Except this time they’re sincere, not planning to turn on him, and he lets himself smile a little bit.

De Guiche nearly passing out from dehydration in front of the cadets. As scummy as he’s been throughout the play so far, this is the part where he usually starts to turn over a new leaf, and I’m starting to believe it at this point.

We really just flat-out had Cyrano confess to Christian that he loves him, too. This production really did say OT3 rights, and I’m here for it.

This is one of the only productions I’ve seen that really plays up the gravity of the situation when Roxanne and Ragueneau appear at Arras. For them it was just an adventure to see their loved ones, but they’re in the middle of highly dangerous territory, and the cadets thought they were enemy combatants. It’s not a game they’re playing.

Roxanne was really gonna tear de Guiche limb from limb before Cyrano caught her, damn…

”Because I could not stop for death”… I love this poem, holy shit, and hearing a re-working of it here, too…

De Guiche’s turnaround is genuinely affecting in this production, especially since he starts out by apologizing to Roxanne.

That first little tiny kiss before Christian goes in for a second one, and the way Cyrano just… bluescreens afterward… and the way he shakes his head like, “Please, this is too much at once, I can’t process this, I can’t believe that you actually feel this way…”

The heavy implication by the way all the cadets, including Christian, take their lavalier mics off that they didn’t survive the battle. Not even Le Bret survived—only Cyrano and de Guiche made it out alive among them. Cyrano’s not only lost one of the loves of his life, but also his best friend.

Roxanne sitting in front of Cyrano’s mirror in the last scene… I could probably write a whole essay about that setpiece.

Cyrano spending the first few years after Arras homeless

Cyrano’s dying this time because he got a knife in the back during a fight to defend Roxanne’s honor… holy shit…

Christian sitting on the stage during Cyrano and Roxanne’s last conversation—his specter looming over their relationship, knowing that Cyrano is still hiding things from her (that little whisper of “yes” when Cyrano asks if he would ever lie to her)

They actually referenced the real-life book that the historical Cyrano wrote!

I don’t know if I believe Roxanne when she says she’d had “plenty of other men since” Christian. Especially coming off the heels of Cyrano bold-faced lying about having been with another woman to “explain” his appearance. And I don’t know which makes it more heartbreaking.

Roxanne’s whole emotional journey after Cyrano tells her about the letters—“Have I loved two men or no man at all?”

“The hero always has… the final…”

#cyrano de bergerac #martin crimp #the schemer speaks #I feel like every time I find a new production it's like 'Achievement Unlocked: New Aspects Of The Show To Cry Over'...#The honor of my favorite productions will always go to the 1950 movie and the 2007 Broadway revival #but this was a freaking *roller coaster* and I'm so so glad I finally saw all of it.#What a fabulous cast too--I'd pay good money to see all of them in one of the classical translations of the play.

6 notes · View notes

ruminativerabbi · 6 years ago

Text

Thanksgiving 2018

For as long as any of us can recall, American Jews have celebrated Thanksgiving out of a deep sense of gratitude to God for any number of different things that define our lives in this place: the great prosperity of this land in which we share; the security provided for us and for all by our matchless and supremely powerful military; the freedoms guaranteed to all by a Bill of Rights that basically defines the American ethos in terms of the autonomy of the individual; the specific kind of participatory democracy that grants each of us a voice to raise and a ballot to cast; the freedom to embrace a minority faith—or any faith—without fear, reticence, or nervousness about what others may or may not think; and the inner satisfaction that comes from being part of a nation that self-defines in terms of its mission to do good in the world and to combat tyranny, oppression, and demagoguery wherever such baleful things manage to take root among the peoples of the world.

None of any of the above strikes me as being anything other than fully true, yet I can’t stop reading op-ed pieces and blog postings that posit that things have somehow changed, that the world now is not as it even just recently was, that it is the past and all its glories that shine bright now rather than the unknown—and unknowable—future, and that every one of the reasons listed above for us American Jews to join our fellow citizens in feeling deeply grateful for our presence in this place could just as reasonably be deemed illusory as fully real. And I hear those sentiments, interestingly enough, coming from people on both ends of the political spectrum as well as from all those self-situated just to the right or left of center. Nor are American Jews alone in their ill ease: if there is one thing vast swaths of our American nation seem able to agree upon, it’s that the age of great leadership belongs to history and that it is thus our destiny for the foreseeable future to be led by people whose sole claim to serve as our nation’s leaders is that they somehow managed to get themselves elected to public office. No one seems to dispute the fact that this is not at all a healthy thing for the republic. But expressing regret is not at all the same thing as formulating a specific plan to address the situation as it has evolved to date.

To keep this creeping malaise from interfering in an untoward manner as we prepare to celebrate our nation’s best holiday, I suggest we take the long view.

Frederic E. Church was a nineteenth century man, born in 1826 when John Quincy Adams was in the White House and dead in the spring of 1900 as a new century dawned. He was also one of America’s greatest landscape painters, a member of the so-called Hudson River School and, in his day, one of the most celebrated artists alive. I mention him today, however, not to recall the larger impact of his oeuvre, but to tell you about one single one of his paintings, the one called “The Icebergs.”

As you can see, the picture (currently owned by the Dallas Museum of Art) is magnificent. But what made it famous in its day was specifically the way in which it was taken by many to capture the surge of self-confidence that characterized America’s sense of its own destiny at the end of the nineteenth century. One author, Jörn Münkner, characterized the painting’s appeal in this passage composed when the painting was put on exhibition at Georgetown University:

Frederik E. Church's "The Icebergs" pictured the Alpha and Omega of time and tide. It reflected the mid-19th century American world-view that was characterized by the belief in a “Manifest Destiny” according to which the United States…was the New Israel that had been prepared for by the divinity. 1861 saw the U.S. reigning from the Atlantic to the Pacific, from the Gulf of Mexico to the Great Lakes. Nature was regarded as holy and science as sanctified. The belief in the American Garden Eden whose very fortunes were guided by the Creator emanated out of the scientifically correct “The Icebergs.” It was the display of the rare and intoxicating American amalgam of science, religion, and nationalism. The relationship of the actual and the real that was concealed in the painting revealed the idea/fact that scientific thinking in America was shaped by a deep religious faith. Providence guided the scholarly painter's hand.

I find those words somehow inspiring and chilling at the same time, but I see what the author means: even after all this time, the painting hasn’t really lost its ability to suggest the majesty of nature or its timelessness. I get a bit lost on my way from that thought to the notion of manifest destiny inspiring America’s nineteenth-century rise to greatness (and, yes, the whole America as the new Israel is beyond peculiar, as surely also is the fact that the artist was thinking so expansively about American destiny on the eve of what in 1861 would still have been unimaginable carnage), yet I really can see the strength, the power, and the sense of ineluctable kismet mirrored in the majestic icebergs in the picture…and so finding in them a symbol both of America’s uniqueness and of its remarkable destiny is not as big a stretch as I thought at first it would be.

But other nineteenth-century types saw different things in the image of these gigantic icebergs afloat in an endless sea.

Edward Bellamy, once one of America’s most famous authors, has been almost completely forgotten. Yet his 1888 book, Looking Backward, was the third most popular American novel of nineteenth century, exceeded in fiction sales only by Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Ben-Hur. An early utopian novel, the book tells the story of one Julian West, a young man from Boston who goes to bed one night in 1887 and somehow manages only to wake up from his sleep in the year 2000. Some of the author’s predictions are uncannily correct—he depicts West as enjoying the almost instant delivery of goods ordered without having to visit any actual stores—while other things West finds in 2000, like a universal retirement age of 45, have not turned out quite as the author imagined they might. But it is the author’s postscript to his own work I want to cite here, as he imagines America in the future and uses his own version of the iceberg symbol to express his dismay. Almost definitely thinking of Church’s painting and the expansive optimism it inspired, he wrote as follows:

As an iceberg, floating southward from the frozen North, is gradually undermined by warmer seas, and, become at least unstable, churns the sea to yeast for miles around by the mighty rockings that portend its overturn, so the barbaric industrial and social system, which has come down to us from savage antiquity, undermined by the modern humane spirit, riddled by the criticism of economic science, is shaking the world with convulsions that presage its collapse.

This line of thinking I also understand: for all it appears mighty and invincible as it rises from the sea, icebergs are, after all, just so much frozen water. They melt as they float into warmer waters than can sustain them, which may (or may not) dramatically affect the ocean into which they dissolve but cannot affect the iceberg itself once it disappears into the sea and is no more.

So one image and two distinct interpretations. Of course, both are right. An inert, uncomprehending iceberg was powerful enough to sink the most sophisticated ocean liner of its day in 1912. And the semi-famous iceberg rather prosaically named B-15, which broke away from Antarctica’s Ross Ice Shelf in 2000, is about to melt into the South Atlantic Ocean. At 3,200 square nautical miles, B-15 is larger than the island of Jamaica. Yet its doom was sealed not by weapons of mass destruction or acts of God, but by the sea’s slightly too-warm water. (To read more, click here.) From this we learn that strength and weakness are not as unrelated as their antithetical nature makes them at first appear. Indeed, they are each other’s twins…and from that thought I draw the lesson I wish to offer to my readers for Thanksgiving Day in the Age of Anxiety.

Our nation is currently divided down into people who see America’s great and mighty presence in the world pointing to a remarkable destiny framed by our nation’s ongoing commitment to the foundational principles upon which the republic was founded and still rests. Such people look at Church’s painting and are heartened by what they see because solid, powerful, majestic icebergs afloat in the sea remind them of our nation, its strong moral underpinnings, its commitment to (the American version of) tikkun olam, and its invincible military. This group includes members who vote red and who vote blue, but others see our nation coming apart at the seams, a country divided down into warring factions in which personal liberty is increasingly defined in terms of the sensitivities of the majority and in which justice is meted out entirely differently to people of different races and social strata. Such people look at Church’s painting and hear Bellamy’s warning that even giant icebergs that look stable and impregnable can be undermined by the gentle, unarmed presence of a warm current in the sea. Nothing lasts forever. Every Achilles has his heel. No garden thrives because it was once watered.

So who is right? I propose we give the last word to Bellamy himself, whose afterword to his own novel (which I am currently reading for the first time) closes with these words: “All thoughtful men agree,” he writes, “that the present aspect of society is portentous of great changes. The only question is whether they will be for the better or the worse. Those who believe in man’s essential nobleness lean to the former view, those who believe in his essential baseness to the latter. For my part, I hold to the former opinion. Looking Back was written in the belief that our Golden Age lies before us and not behind us, and is not far away. Our children will surely see it, and we too who are already men and women, if we deserve it by our faith and by our works.”

Despite it all, that’s what I think too! And I offer that thought—part prayer, part wish, part hope—to you all on this Thanksgiving Day, a day on which all Americans are united by the desire to recognize the good in ourselves and our nation, and to be grateful for the potential to do good in the world that derives directly from that noble sense of what it means to be an American.

#Frederic Church #Thanksgiving #Edward Bellamy

5 notes · View notes

vizhi0n · 7 years ago

Text

Sawney - Part 32

Chapter Masterlist

If u wanna be tagged or untagged, let me know!

@i-am-negan-trash @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash @crzcorgi @kellyn1604 @fatedwisp @neganswinchesters @jeffreydeanneganstrash @ladylorelitanyfanfiction @mypapawinchester @heartfulloffandoms @my-achilles--heel–heel @jasoncrouse @romeomontvgue @lucifers-trash-stash @kijilinn @genevievedarcygranger @superprincesspea @collette04 @toxic-ink @backseat-negan @rapsity @strangersangel9 @hannibalssweaters @gremlinfuck @negans-network @melodicdolls @mcnegan @nycktmcginn @mcnegan @itstotalyblue @vinylmadwoman @embracetheapocalypsewithme @darkangel66a @curlyhairedblueeyedangel @deviousginga @moonypetyr @imjustmakingsuffupagain @orchiddingme @chiwawha @ironictrickster @negans-shtten-pants @lovingzombiechaos @castielwinchester22 @jessiellong1987

Warnings: just some creepy shit

“Negan.”

Desa’s own words jolted her awake. She sputtered, feeling drool drip from her lips as she gasped, mouth open. She was vaguely aware of the soft fabric of a blanket draped over her, from head to toe, and the hard, curved surface beneath her back. She inhaled, fingers curling as she surveyed her surroundings.

She only saw darkness. The blanket blocked her view, and she could only moan and wriggle around in hopes that someone, anyone, would help her—

The sheet was lifted away, exposing Desa to the open air. She coughed, frantically glancing around. She finally recognized what she was lying in — a bathtub. Her wounds were bandaged, her face still swollen and raw. She was barely clothed, her shirt, pants, and shoes gone. The blanket was the only cover she had.

It was dark out. A few fires flickered here and there, but even then, Desa could barely make out the figures spread out across the open field.

“You’re awake.”

Desa turned her head, wincing at the pain it caused. There was a woman dangerously close, face illuminated by the fire. She was bald, older than Desa and rather strikingly pretty. She was sitting on a log and sharpening her knife without a care in the world that Desa was glaring at her.

“I’m awake,” Desa mumbled. “Who are you? Who the hell are you people?” she attempted to stand, but faltered and slipped back into the tub, snarling.

“I saved your life,” the woman said. “Fed you, kept you from bleeding out. And you repay me with hostility. A shame.”

Desa’s eyes were wide, and she bared her teeth as the woman finally faced her, letting her knife rest against her thigh. In a low voice, she said, “My name is Alpha.”

“Desa,” she narrowed her eyes, but said nothing of the woman’s odd name. “My name is Desa. Why am I in a bathtub?”

“It’s easier to carry you this way. You’re too wounded to walk — you should thank me. Instead of leaving you out to die, I’ve taken you in.”

“Why—”

“I’ve seen what you can do. It would be…wasteful to let your talents die with you.”

“What if I wanted to die?”

“That’s not a choice you get to make. Not anymore. You are strong,” Alpha leaned forward. “Only the weak let themselves die.”

Desa met the woman’s gaze, glancing around at the small patches of campfires. Her eyes were beginning to adjust, and she could see people — some asleep on the grass, some still sitting and talking quietly — surrounding them. It was all one group, she realized.

Desa tried standing again. She wobbled, before rolling out of the bathtub and landing hard against the grass. The entire time, Alpha watched — methodically continuing to sharpen her nice as she watched Desa struggle, making no move to help.

Get up. Get up.

Blades of grass tickled her bare skin. She crawled, unable to properly stand without her legs giving out. But she tried, pulling herself across the ground, only stopping when a pair of muddy boots landed a few inches before her face.

When she looked up, the tallest, bulkiest man she’d ever encountered was staring down at her. He had the face of a biter — no, the skins of a biter, strung across his face like some sort of crude mask. He was immovable — bigger than both Negan and Simon, and just as, if not more, intimidating.

He reached down and grasped Desa by the hair, nails biting into her skull as his long fingers tugged at the roots.

“Gentle with her, Beta.”

Desa was dragged like a rag down and tossed back into the bathtub. She gave up, slouching down, just those few simple actions leaving her winded.

Weak.

“You’re going to stay a while,” Alpha said, montone. There was no remorse in her voice — she knew Desa was hopeless. Wounded. That she had no chance of getting away from the situation. She’d get halfway, and then she’d be a corpse.

Desa knew it, too.

So, in a low voice, she said, “I’ll stay.”

Desa could see her reflection in the lake. Bruises adorned her face, trailing down her neck to where the obvious marks of one extension cord pulled tight marked her skin. The water rippled and she glanced up, peering across the still surface.

The rest of the group was still milling around their fires, just a short distance away. Alpha had given her permission to bathe, and wash away the dirt and grime from her body. Desa needed it.

She’d stripped, folding her clothes in a neat pile before kneeling at the shore, surveying her reflection. The bruises on her neck made it hurt to swallow and even speak. The knife wounds were sealed with makeshift stitches, slowly beginning to heal but still tender to the touch. She was walking — limping, really, but able to hold her own.

Slowly but surely, Desa waded into the cool, crisp and clear water, small stones at the bottom of the lake massaging the soles of her feet. She sank down, leaving everything below her neck submerged.

“These wounds — how did you receive them?”

Desa nearly jumped out of her skin, eyes snapping open. She’d been simply wading, submerged still, relaxing under the warmth of the sun. Had she not been nude, she would have drawn her knife — but in this situation, there was no knife to draw. And when she turned, she found herself facing Alpha. The woman’s clothes were folded next to Desa’s near the shore.

“You scared me.”

“I would hope,” Alpha said. Then, again, “Tell me how you received your wounds.”

“The man you saw me with — he did it.”

“And you killed him.”

“I did,” Desa murmured. Alpha drifted closer, raising a pale hand to touch Desa’s face. Her thumb traced Desa’s lower lip, ever so slightly digging her nail into the skin. “Please…don’t…”

“You’ve proven yourself,” Alpha’s foot brushed against Desa’s. Her fingers drifted from Desa’s face, down to her throat. “And because of this, I’ve provided you with a home. A place where you belong.”

“I have a home to go back too.”

“An animal does not have a home. An animal wanders in search of it’s next meal, and embraces the elements. It’s how they’re strong,” Alpha gripped Desa by the chin, suddenly. “I see that in you. A will—a need to survive. It’s what brought you to me. I see it in you. You’ve let your basic instincts take over—”

“I am not an animal—”

Alpha yanked her closer. Water sloshed and Desa felt the woman’s free hand drift across her thigh. In a low voice, she bared her teeth and snarled, “You are. And you know it. Tell me. Tell me what you’ve done!”

Desa was shaking. Alpha’s dark eyes were captivating. She focused on a drop of water that fell from Alpha’s bald head, sliding down the side of her nose and adorning her full lips, catching the sun like a crystal bead.

What have you done?

“I killed my brother,” Desa said hollowly.

Alpha smiled.

“And?”

“I ate human flesh. I ripped a man’s eye out and ate it, just to make a point. And I love a man who beats people to death with a baseball bat. I’ve killed so many people—”

“And all so you’d live,” Alpha breathed. “That is why you’re here. That is who you are.”

“I have to go back—”

“Your mate — is he like you?”

“No. No, he’s nothing like me. He’s…better. He has a code—”

“Then he’ll die. Eventually,” Alpha’s gaze was empty. “It’s what happens to everyone like him. They have a code, and then the code gets them killed. It’s inevitable.”

#vizhi0nw #negans thirst squad

19 notes · View notes

webmarket01 · 4 years ago

Text

19 Weight-Loss Tips | Diabetic Mediterranean Diet

New Post has been published on https://weightlosshtiw.com/19-weight-loss-tips-diabetic-mediterranean-diet/

19 Weight-Loss Tips | Diabetic Mediterranean Diet

My son Paul made this GIF

These don’t work for everybody, but they work for a lot. Take what works for you and discard the rest. You won’t know until you try.

1. Record-keeping is often the key to success.

2. Accountability is another key to success. Consider documenting your program and progress on a free website such as FitDay, SparkPeople, 3FatChicks, Calorie Count (http://caloriecount.about.com), or others. Consider blogging about your weight-loss adventure on a free platform such as WordPress or Blogger. Such a public commitment may be just what you need to keep you motivated.

3. Do you have a friend or spouse who wants to lose weight? Start the same program at the same time and support each other. That’s built-in accountability.

4. If you tend to over-eat, floss and brush your teeth after you’re full. You’ll be less likely to go back for more anytime soon.

5. Eat at least two or three meals daily. Skipping meals may lead to uncontrollable overeating later on. On the other hand, ignore the diet gurus who say you must eat every two or three hours. That’s codswallop.

6. Eat meals at a leisurely pace, chewing and enjoying each bite thoroughly before swallowing.

7. Plan to give yourself a specific reward for every 10 pounds (4.5 kg) of weight lost. You know what you like. Consider a weekend get-away, a trip to the beauty salon, jewelry, an evening at the theater, a professional massage, home entertainment equip-ment, new clothes, etc.

8. Carefully consider when would be a good time to start your new lifestyle. It should be a period of low or usual stress. Bad times would be Thanksgiving day, Christmas/New Years’ holiday, the first day of a Caribbean cruise, and during a divorce.

Christmas holiday isn’t the best time to start a diet. New Years’ Day is better.

9. If you know you’ve eaten enough at a meal to satisfy your nutritional requirements yet you still feel hungry, drink a large glass of water and wait a while.

10. Limit television to a maximum of a few hours a day.

11. Maintain a consistent eating pattern throughout the week and year.

12. Eat breakfast routinely.

13. Control emotional eating.

14. Weigh frequently: daily during active weight-loss efforts and during the first two months of your maintenance-of-weight-loss phase. After that, cut back to weekly weights if you want. Daily weights will remind you how hard you worked to achieve your goal.

15. Be aware that you might regain five or 10 pounds (2-4 kg) of fat now and then. You probably will. Don’t freak out. It’s human nature. You’re not a failure; you’re human. But draw the line and get back on the old weight-loss program for one or two months. Analyze and learn from the episode. Why did it happen? Slipping back into your old ways? Slacking off on exercise? Too many special occasion feasts or cheat days? Allowing junk food back into the house?

16. Learn which food item is your nemesis—the food that consistently torpedoes your resolve to eat right. For example, mine is anything sweet. Remember an old ad campaign for a potato chip: “Betcha can’t eat just one!”? Well, I can’t eat just one cookie. So I don’t get started. I might eat one if it’s the last one available. Or I satisfy my sweet craving with a diet soda, small piece of dark chocolate, or sugar-free gelatin. Just as a recovering alcoholic can’t drink any alcohol, perhaps you should totally abstain from…? You know your own personal gastronomic Achilles heel. Or heels. Experiment with various strategies for vanquishing your nemesis.

My nemesis

17. If you’re not losing excess weight as expected (about a pound or half a kilogram per week), you may benefit from eating just two meals a day. This will often turn on your cellular weight-loss machinery even when total calorie consumption doesn’t seem much less than usual. The two meals to eat would be breakfast and a mid-afternoon meal (call it what you wish). The key is to not eat within six hours of bedtime. Of course, this trick could cause dangerous hypoglycemia if you’re taking drugs with potential to cause low blood sugars, like insulin and sulfonylureas. Talk to your dietitian or physician before instituting a semi-radical diet change like this.

18. One of the bloggers I followed when I had time is James Fell. He says, “If you want to lose weight you need to cook. Period.” James blogs at http://www.sixpackabs.com, with a focus on exercise and fitness.

19. Regular exercise is much more important for prevention of weight regain rather than for actually losing weight.

Share this:

This content was originally published here.

0 notes

jennbateman23 · 5 years ago

Text

Crocs: What’s the Big Deal?

Unless you’ve been under a fashion rock, you’ve heard of or maybe even own a pair of Crocs. Whether it’s the fuzzy winter clog, fashion-forward platform sandals, or the classic clog, there’s something by Croc that attempts to fit every style. In this product review, I will be discussing the Classic Croc Clog, a shoe loved by many, from the outdoors community to the trend-followers. But – is it worth the hype? Style, versatility, durability, cost, and target audience are all components of determining if a product is worth it, and I’ll be analyzing it all.

STYLE

The Croc does not look like your average pair of sandals, flip flops, or even some weird combination of the two. The Croc, of which its original design was to mimic a clog, has several holes dispersed from the top of the shoe to the toes. These holes not only allow for versatility, which will be explored later on, but also for what Croc has named “gibbets” to be placed inside the holes as decoration. Letters, characters, symbols – Crocs can be completely customized. The idea of “style” is majorly subjective, but, if you are the type of person with a somewhat unique, or at the very least, outgoing style, you may wear Crocs with anything from your everyday outfits to going out glam looks (like myself).

The strap of the Croc displays Croc’s logo, a simple drawing of a Crocodile, on the side. For the people who love branding, this is a good presentation of what company you’re buying from. Though the logo is visible, is it not obnoxiously so, like many shoe brands.

VERSATILITY

The Croc, made of Croslite, a foam and rubber-like material, has holes meticulously designed to allow for airflow, movement of water, and decoration. These holes are particularly beneficial for summer weather – whereas sneakers or even other types of sandals make your feet sweat, Crocs allow for air circulation and easy removal.

The insole of the Crocs is made with tiny bumps that align with the shape of your foot, supposedly made for massaging your feet as you walk. I’ve personally found that the dots are a bit of a nuisance and didn’t feel like a “massage” at all, but rather like stepping on dull Legos. However, other people have enjoyed the bumps, so it’s simply a personal preference.

The strap of the Croc, humorously known as the “adventure strap”, is made for easy flipping between having the strap around your heel to resting on top of the shoe. If you get the right size of Croc (which I’ve found is a size or two smaller than your normal size because they’re a unisex shoe), the strap falls perfectly on your Achilles hill and is not irritating on the skin.

These shoes can be worn in most seasons. Except for heavy snow, Crocs work great for any climate – sweating through the summer heat and walking through the autumn grass. Because of the holes at the base of the toe, you have to be careful if you are near snow (or any liquid that you don’t want on your feet) because it will seep in. I wear one of my pairs in the shower, simply because water does not ware down on the material, and, after all, they are water shoes.

DURABILITY

In comparison to other flip flops and sandals, Crocs are the most durable and reliable shoes. Because of the material that the clogs are made of, they do not erode easily and clean with ease. If you use these shoes for water sports or other water activities, they dry much quicker than your average sandal. My first pair of Crocs, which are 7 months old, has been through a four-day canoe-camping trip, piles of snow (regretfully), countless showers, and the like. Rather than breaking down, the Crocs have formed to fit my foot shape perfectly, and all holes have remained intact.

I purchased a new pair of Crocs just two weeks ago, and the only downside is the process of breaking them in. The small “massage” bumps make it harder to break the shoes in because they have to wear down with use. My solution to deal with the uncomfortable bumps while trying to break them in is to wear socks – not my best fashion moment, but maybe the most comfortable.

COST

The retail price for a pair of classic Crocs is between $40-$50. This type of shoe is made to last several years, which would make for an incredibly low price per wear. Personally, I think I’ve already gotten a $40 value out of my Crocs, and they still have a long way to go before I’d need to replace them.

If you’re buying off of a seller that is not Croc itself, I’d recommend thoroughly reading reviews and information on the seller to make sure you are buying legitimate Crocs. Counterfeit Crocs look incredibly similar but have a much higher rate of wear-and-tear.

AUDIENCE

Last but not least – who are these advertised to? At first, the company’s target objective was to become a water sports shoe, but as time progressed and people began wearing them casually, they came out with other products that are more geared to the general population – “winter Crocs”, which are Crocs lined with fleece, along with your typical sandal aimed towards the older generations. This allows for all people to wear crocs with minimal judgement, simply because of their growing popularity amongst all age groups and types of people.

CONCLUSION

If you’re bold enough to deal with a bit of teasing, the durability, versatility, and undoubtable fashion moment that Crocs give will be well worth it. The only thing that stops these crocs from being one of the best shoes to own is their lack of usefulness in the winter months, only because their holes designed for other, more useful purposes than treading through piles of snow.

0 notes

writewithurheart · 8 years ago

Text

The Daughter of Isabel Rochev

So I posted a crazy theory yesterday and I was super excited by the response to it. I also got some feedback from @memcjo and @fallingmeleth saying they would love to read a fic about it, so here you go!

Read on AO3

or below:

The Daughter of Isabel Rochev

This couldn’t be happening.

It was impossible. She had been careful, methodically so. Yes, she’d been young and naive, but she had a good head on her shoulders and she knew the importance of birth control. She wasn’t an idiot. She had fallen in love.

Perhaps that was her downfall looking back, the chip in her armor, her Achilles heel. If she had just kept feelings out of it, handled sex like a business transaction, then she wouldn’t be in this mess.

She stares at the white plastic stick on the counter as the seconds tick down, even though she already knows what it’s going to say. It’s going to match the other two tests hastily purchased on the way home from work.

There were a thousand reasons why she shouldn’t have done it - fallen in love with him, that is. The first of which was the tiny fact that he was married, with children. But that had been inconsequential as soon as they had gotten to know each other. He was charismatic and charming. He had a way of looking at her as though she was the only person in a room who mattered. It was enough to melt a young girl’s heart.

But then there was also his position. He was respected, adored by all, and he had wanted her. Out of the hundreds of people he saw and interacted with daily, he would carve out time just for her, to make her feel special.

She twists to stare out the window of the cramped bathroom, no longer able to stare at the pregnancy test.

Yes, Robert had adored her. He’d said he would do anything, had promised to leave his wife, but then that call came in. They’d been in the goddamned airport, baggage in hand. It was all part of the plan: force Moira’s hand to file for divorce. If she tried to enforce the pre-nup, then they had the ammo they needed to stay her hand. After all, she was the one who had a child out of wedlock. Robert had at least been courteous enough not to do that.

So when he got the call about Thea’s accident, she thought he would stay with her, would tell Moira to call Malcolm instead. She was so foolishly confident in that moment until his blue worried eyes had met hers.

I have to go.

She had thought a hand would be enough to keep him by her side, and that same hand curls into a fist as the words echo in her head as vividly as if they had flown from her mouth. Robert, you can’t do this! If you go back now, you’ll always be looking back.

I don’t have a choice, Isabel. I have to go to her. But as soon as I can, I will come get you, and we can run away.

She’s not even your daughter. Those had been the wrong words to say. She’d known as soon as they had escaped. She might not have been biologically his – and she had listened to him complain about Moira’s infidelity more than once – but Thea Queen still managed to be Daddy’s Little Girl, more important to him than the woman he claimed to love.

Don’t say that. Thea may not be mine by blood, but she’s still my daughter. I will find you when I can.

It was one too many empty promises for her. He was there, on the cusp of changing his whole life, and he was changing his mind. She didn’t want someone who couldn’t give her everything in return.

Somehow, he had convinced her to stay, to wait for him. She’d gone back to her apartment and wallowed, waited for him like the same lovesick girl she was. She’d pined.

She’d waited for him to come, waited all weekend. Then on Monday, without anything better to do, she had returned to her internship at Queen Consolidated, only to be turned away at the door without a single explanation.

Enraged, she’d turned around and driven to Queen Mansion, without a plan, without any purpose other than to force Robert to acknowledge her, to acknowledge her love as more than just some passing fancy.

Moira had put her in her place, as soon as Isabel walked through the front door. Making it to the mansion had been unexpected to say the least. She shouldn’t have been surprised to be confronted by Moira Queen, but she had been.

Robert will never leave his family, least of all for a tramp like you. You’re going to leave this city, leave this state, and never bother my family again.

She hadn’t left immediately, had struggled to find her own job, but Moira had successfully blacklisted her from every decent company in Starling and Robert hadn’t answered her call.

Her heart had shattered a little more with every step she took away, but now here she was making a new name for herself.

Beep. Beep. Beepbeep.

Blindly, she reaches out and cuts off the time, wiping stray tears from her cheeks. She takes one shaky breath. Another. And another until they no longer come out stilted. That was a month and a half ago. A month and a half since she swore she wouldn’t care if he walked away. She vowed to harden her heart, to never let a man break her that way again.

But she hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected a child.

She picks up the last pregnancy test, staring at the pink plus sign. She’ll have to go to the doctor to confirm it, but she already knows it’s the truth. She’s had morning sickness, aches, fatigue.

She could go running back to Robert, could reach out, tell him about his child. But Moira’s kept him close since that night. She’s seen the Starling City news, the two of them with their idyllic family. It made her sick to look at them, to witness the lies perpetuated by just calling them a family unit.

He would be happy, she thinks, if he were here, if he would ever listen to her. But he’s not and she refuses to go back to him.

Isabel Rochev throws the text into the garbage and strides into the kitchen to grab a fresh glass of water. She has a job here, at Stellmor International, a decent one. It won’t be easy, but she thinks she can do this, that she can climb the ranks here, fight her way to the top and then go back to Starling and throw everything back in Moira’s face.

Her hand comes to rest over her abdomen, where a child is growing. Yes, she’ll go back to Starling and reclaim Queen Consolidated for her and her child.

One day.

…

She names her daughter Evelyn, and they survive on their own perfectly fine. She raises her in Russia, using her native language to her advantage while still teaching her daughter English at home. She finds men to help keep them in money, men she can use and dispose as necessary. Her daughter is of paramount importance. She does whatever she needs to do to protect her daughter, and she keeps her eyes on Queen Consolidated and the legacy that should be her

Then in 2007 the sinking of the Queen’s Gambit make international news.

Evelyn is eight years old and Isabel decides the time is right to make her first move.

She leaves Evelyn in the care of her foster sister in Coast City and continues on to Starling, walking right into Queen Consolidated. She’s eight years older and what feels like a century wiser. She’s no longer cowed by the great and terrible Moira Queen. She’s confident and powerful.

But in that boardroom, she still feels small. Moira Queen has too many allies, too many connections. She knows long before the vote that she’s not going to get her foot in the door, even with her Stellmor recommendations and her former status as Robert’s golden girl.

If she brings in Evelyn, she might have a chance of her daughter getting something, through lengthy custody battles and court cases. But it won’t give her control of Queen Consolidated, won’t give her daughter anything more than a tarnished legacy.

So she refuses to do it. She walks out head held high, no position in the company but a solid payout and several concessions on the part of Moira Queen to get her to keep quiet about her affair and about Thea’s true parentage.

It wasn’t ideal, but she had walked in and stood on equal ground as the Ice Queen. That was a win in her books. Only a battle won, but a win all the same.

…

“What do you mean, I have to stay here, Mama?”

Isabel crouched in front of her daughter. Her daughter has her same brown hair, the same brown eyes, there’s very little but the shape of her face that resembles Robert. Her sparkly purple leotard draws attention from her quivering lower lip. “You have to stay here, babushka, so your auntie and uncle can watch over you. The schools are better here. You will be happier.”

“But Mama-“

“Shhhhh, honey.” Isabel wipes away her tears gently. It’s about the only thing she does gently these days. “Remember everything I taught you. Learn as much as you can, as quick as you can. Never dumb yourself down for a man. You are strong, intelligent, and beautiful. I will visit when I can. Know that Mama loves you.”

It hurts to say goodbye. Her daughter is the only one who holds her heart now. She’s leaving her heart behind her as she flies back across the sea to Russia and Stellmor.

She needs to work on her next plan.

…

“Isabel Rochev?”

She’s clicks out of the open window on her screen, shoving down a scowl at the headlines of a recently returned Oliver Queen. The American headlines with that family were always so gauche, predictably terrible. She looks up at her office door, where her assistant is supposed to stop any unwanted visitors. The man in the doorway is a giant. A well-dressed giant, but the rugged man was definitely used to much more sun than they usually got in Russia.

“And who are you?” She doesn’t have time for visitors, not now, not when she still has plans to formulate, plans that are in jeopardy thanks to a newly returned Oliver Queen.

“Ms. Rochev, my name is Slade Wilson, and I believe we can help each other.”

He steps in the room with a confidence Isabel has seen in soldiers, like a CEO who knows he’s in control of the entire room the moment he enters it. It’s an admirable quality, but as a woman in a man’s world, it irks Isabel. A woman rarely gains instantaneous respect like that, especially when a man is in the room.

But she is intrigued.

“What would that be, Mister Wilson?”

He places a hand on a chair. “May I sit?”

She nods. “Get to the point, Mr. Wilson. I’m a busy woman.”

“Then I’ll get right to it. You want Queen Consolidated.”

He has her full attention. She turns in her seat to face him more fully. “I’m listening.”

“You made a play for it 2007, but you couldn’t get the support. I can help you get that.”

She clasps her hands in front of her with a bland smile. They’re pretty words, meant to and she doesn’t trust them. “And what’s in it for you?”

“Revenge.”

Isabel freezes at the word, tilting her head in interest. His voice is dead and cold. It’s definitely not anything close to kind.

“Oliver Queen killed the woman I loved, and in return I swore to destroy him. I don’t care about the company or why you want it. I just need your help to bring him down.”

She scoffs. “I’ve never met the man. I can’t imagine I’d be of much help.”

“Ah, but you knew his father, and based on the payout from Moira Queen, I’m willing to bet you know a whole batch of Queen family secrets, secrets I can use.” He smiles. It might have been charming if not for the cold look in his one functioning eye.

Isabel contemplates him. “I might have one or two.”

“Then do we have an agreement?” He holds out a giant paw of a hand, looking her directly in the eyes. He looks at her with respect, not as a tool. Without her tricks of speaking softly so the other person had to lean forward to listen, of remaining stoic and aloof. She had to do it to get where she was. But this partnership…this could work.

…

“Mama?”

Isabel grins as she turns toward the voice, happy to finally have the chance to visit her in person. “It’s me, Evie.” The words are strained as her daughter walks tentatively forward. Her eyes dart to the shadowy figure behind Isabel, rightfully cautious.

Evelyn pulls her braid over her shoulder, folding her arms across her chest to keep off early morning chill. “I didn’t know you were coming. Aunt Jess says you’re not a fan of the outdoors.”

Isabel’s upper lips curl up as she takes in the brightly colored tents. No, she doesn’t like camping. In fact, she kind of hates it, but it’s a necessary evil in this current situation. “Camping teaches survival skills.”

Evelyn laughs caustically. “Yeah, that’s what Aunt Jess and Uncle Mike say, but I’ve yet to find a time when learning to catch fish in a stream comes in handy.”

From the shadows comes a low rumble, a chuckle. “You’d be surprised, kid.”

“And who are you?”

Part of Isabel admires her daughter’s fearless attitude, the other part is just glad she’s not the one raising her. Her daughter is fierce, tenacious, stubborn. Resilient.

“Evelyn, this is Slade Wilson. Mr. Wilson, my daughter, Evelyn Sharp.”

There’s a silent stare-down of sorts between the two, dark on Evelyn’s side and amused on Slade’s. Isabel steps closer to her daughter to get her attention.

“Babushka, Slade and I are going to do something, something dangerous, and we need to be prepared.” Evelyn frowns at her. “This is going to be dangerous. Not just to us, but to you. So we’re going to spend the next month training.”

She frowns. “Training? Training for what?”

“Listen, kid,” Slade interrupts, stepping into the sunlight. “Your mother and I are going up against a dangerous enemy. We both agreed you should be prepared as well.”

“No offense, buckaroo, but I’m not interested.”

A line has been crossed, an insult delivered, and Slade Wilson is not the forgiving type. She’s almost certain he’ll reach for the sword strapped across his back, but instead he laughs.

“I like you, kid. I think you and I are going to get along just fine.

…

Evelyn keeps one eye on the news as her mother stands on the stage in front of the Queen Consolidated sign. Just months ago the city was half destroyed. Slade and her mother didn’t elaborate their plans, not to her anyway. All her mother said was that she was going this for her. For her legacy, so that she could take over the company her father built.

And hadn’t that come as a shock. Robert Queen, deceased billionaire, was her father, a man she had always wondered about and would now never get to meet. With that came the revelation that she had siblings...well, one half sibling. Apparently her and Thea Queen didn’t actually share any DNA.

“Don’t worry about it, kid. Your mother’s going to be fine.”

Evelyn drops her half-eaten burger on her plate and turns to face Slade. “How can you be so sure?”

He laughs, loud and full. “Because she’s a warrior. She’s not going to let anything stand in her way, not for long. So she didn’t get Queen Consolidated right away. It still fits in our plan. In fact, it might be even better.”

“And what is this plan, exactly?”

Try as she might, she never gets an actual answer, just an evil grin before he turns the topic back to her training, the gruesome, my-body-feels-like-a-walking-bruise workouts that are supposedly teaching her how to fight.

“Well, first we’re going to work with the escrima sticks and then we’ll move on to archery.”

Her mother isn’t much better, but at least her lessons involve significantly less bruising.

“Why do we have to do archery anyway? It’s not like you’re good with a bow.” She’s seen him fight far better with a sword and the sticks. He’s a better teacher with them too.

Slade’s face darkens. “Because she thinks you’d make a good archer.”

Evelyn looks away. She’s used to this now: the faraway looks, the mention of a she from his past. It’s never good to bring her up, but it’s always clear to her that he loved her, whoever she was. It’s equally clear that she’s dead and that this plan is some sort of revenge for that. But then there are times he speaks as if she’s still alive and there with them.

“She was a great archer,” he continues softly, a voice she’s never heard the fearsome Slade Wilson use before, “a warrior.”

Evelyn nods. “Alright then. When do we start?”

…

They’re gone.

Dead.

Murdered by the team of mask-wearing vigilantes.

Not just her mother, but Slade Wilson too.

That would have been bad enough, but then they had to besmirch her mother’s name, make her out to be a crazed woman. It was abominable. They took her mother, her teacher, and left her with nothing. She was both angry and relieved that she had never shared her mother’s last name. Angry because she couldn’t stand up and claim her mother as her own, and relieved that she didn’t have to deal with any hate thrown her way.

But Slade wasn’t dead. She knew he wasn’t. He’d managed to send her a message, to tell her to keep fighting.

So she did.

She made friends with a hacker, created a new electronic background, found teachers to help hone her skills, and studied up on the so-called vigilantes until she was able to find them and work her way into her inner circle.

She used all her mother’s lessons, all of Slade’s: she did what she had to do with only one goal in mind. She made deals with devils and tricked and fought her way through life.

The one bump in the road, the one thing they hadn’t prepared her for was Oliver Queen.

She knew him, as her half-brother, a pseudo-sibling she didn’t want to hurt if she didn’t have to. What she didn’t know was that he spent his nights running around in green leather shooting arrows. It leaves her conflicted. Should she kill the one blood relative she has left? Or was revenge for her mother’s death more important?

It was the fact that he was a good man that made that decision for her. If he had shown himself to be anything less, she would have killed him, Prometheus be damned. But he wasn’t. She might have even started to fall in love on that team with a boy covered in ancient, radioactive rags.

But all of it led to this final moment, to Lian Yu, where, if she played her cards right, she could walk away with Slade Wilson, the man who, as gruff as he was, was the last connection she had to her mother, her teacher, the person who understood her.

So that’s why she’s here, fighting former friends and relatives by the side of a psychopath.

To save Slade Wilson.

She doesn’t give a damn who wins or loses. She just needs Oliver to bring along a former friend to save his team, and then she’ll have someone again. She planned for this, learned her opponents for this.

She can’t lose.

...

Let me know you think!

#arrow spec #arrow fic #evelyn sharp #arrow #isabel rochev

19 notes · View notes

vardasvapors · 8 years ago

Text

On Númenor and the Shire

Regarding analyses that are very keen-eyed about certain connections, but whose conclusions drive me nuts, I wanted to take note of some interpretations of this excellent spiel by Erendis to Ancalimë from the Unfinished Tales’s “Aldarion and Erendis,” in the first millennium of the Second Age, long before the Akallabeth:

“The long life that they [Numenorean men] were granted deceives them, and they dally in the world, children in mind, until age finds them - and then many only forsake play out of doors for play in their houses. They turn their play into great matters and great matters into play. They would be craftsmen and loremasters and heroes all at once; and women to them are but fires on the hearth - for others to tend, until they are tired of play in the evening. All things were made for their service: hills are for quarries, river to furnish water or to turn wheels, trees for boards, women for their body’s need, or if fair to adorn their table and hearth; and children to be teased when nothing else is to do - but they would as soon play with their hounds’ whelps. To all they are gracious and kind, merry as larks in the morning (if the sun shines); for they are never wrathful if they can avoid it. Men should be gay, they hold, generous as the rich, giving away what they do not need. Anger they show only when they become aware, suddenly, that there are other wills in the world beside their own. Then they will be as ruthless as the seawind if anything dare to withstand them.”

Now my gripe is that when people do take notice of this, it just flops with a “haha, this is what Numenor was REALLY like INSTEAD of a good society like the other accounts claim, Erendis has LAID IT BARE because she knows the TRUTH unlike everyone else, this dismantles and erases everything, everyone was solely like this and never like anything else and Numenor was ACTUALLY rotten and this uniform narrow society is what Elros ignorantly built lmao”

Erendis noticing these things so early is a great bit of writing, but the smug and one-dimensional fannish hollowing I’ve seen of it is, as usual, eyerolling. That is not how populations work. Or societies in general, especially those with a nobility and a non-nobility. (Though haha it’s certainly far from the first time this fandom has treated an entire fictional race as a monolith in a way that would be breathtakingly racist in real life, or conflated a description of the nobility with the entire population, because lmao poor people don’t count as people and certainly don’t influence society, don’t be silly guys.) But also, it ignores the actually interesting aspect of this quote. Which is, the negative tendencies which Erendis identifies as those that emerge most visibly among this population, are marvelously apt and well-selected and organic, as they are all the inevitable and inescapable negative backhand, as I like to call it, of a prosperous, peaceful, isolated society like Early Numenor. One that has no need to struggle or fight for anything, and has no first-hand experience, only legends and lore, of the sort of collective trauma, suffering, and loss that can define a people, as it defined the Edain in earlier times.

The positives of such a society, on the other hand, are also the opportunity and ease and plenty and resources, and trust in the stability of their community, and the lack of danger or anxiety about their way of life even for the poorest, which allows the Numenoreans to collectively and culturally, not just individually, embody and prioritize a life of being kind and non-violent and accepting and generous and curious and patient and knowledgeable and educated and creative and full of zest and adventure and progress. The two sides are in no way contradictory or opposed to one another. They are both results of the exact same thing - the cocktail of human nature + environmental circumstances + culture and history. Numenor’s social elements draw a fantastically clear-cut picture - free of confounding variables and subject to the law of conservation of detail, as befits a fictional society - of what happens when human beings with the Numenoreans’ past are placed in the Numenoreans’ present circumstances. Compare other societies with different circumstances and history, where the main social ills are ones unknown to the Numenoreans, and yet are less prone to the privilege-based ills most common to Numenoreans, and which have strengths borne of hardship more difficult for the Numenoreans to retain.

I think a problem with a lot of interpretations of the term “double-edged” is the tendency to interpret it as “actually, bad instead of good like it seems” rather than, you know, double-edged. Where the good edge might be as sharp or sharper than the bad edge. Whether the general central thrust of the society is defined (at any given point in time) as positive or negative depends (in-universe) on how good their society’s mechanisms for self-correcting and limiting the negatives are; and (narratively), what lens or timeframe the society is being viewed from. Erendis’ spiel is powerfully perceptive and insightful foreshadowing, but still incomplete, only one person’s viewpoint, and by no means an objective one – though she nails it in that the privilege issue is the reason why Numenorean noblemen, emphasis on both noble and men, are the ones most susceptible to these pitfalls.

The Achilles Heel of the Numenoreans is the blindness of privilege, which shelters them from consequences and therefore renders their other negative traits (and the seriousness of the danger of these traits festering and growing unchecked) far less visible than they ought to be, which in turn makes them even more difficult to limit and self-correct.

In terms of the Tolkien universe specifically, this is a part of Arda Marred, where societies, being a part of the world, are plagued by bone-deep catch-22s that make the negatives inescapable, impossible to entirely or permanently eradicate, and eternally insidious and and encroaching, seeping like water into the tiniest cracks to corrode and crumble even the best and healthiest societies from the inside out, always in danger of overcoming the societies’ positive elements and structures and consuming them. All people can do is use their intelligence and wisdom and strength to tirelessly self-correct and guard against the pitfalls, repeatedly avoiding corruption and decline for another day, another year, another century, another millennium, to give another generation a good childhood, a good life, a good death, a good legacy. This requires a level of clear-eyed perspective and humility and self-awareness born of experience – but the turnover of mortal life, and the blindness of privilege, and both working in tandem, do a very good job of hampering it.

In a weird way, an occurrence that embodies the same phenomenon as Numenor’s indivisibly bundled positives and negatives is probably, well….the Shire. Yeah, okay sure, lmao I know, but really. The Shire is prosperous, peaceful, joyous, harmonious, stable, and in a perpetual state of renewal, regrowth, and sustainability, populated by a people who are reasonable and practical in their accomplishments and characterized by common sense, resilience, and adaptability. The negative backhand is a tendency to be complacent, narrow-minded, ignorant of and uninterested in the world outside or the fragility of their haven, obsessed with trivial properness, and dismissive of anything or anyone unusual. The society where there has not been a murder in living memory and whose law enforcement is almost unemployed, also falls into frivolous gossiping, finicky disapproval, and calling people crazy for not conforming. This is not dumping two random handfuls of good and bad traits in the same vat. The good and bad spring from the exact same source - the peace and shelter and comfort.

The big differences are, first, the obvious part with Numenor’s military might and political power and expansion, so these two societies’ roles in the world are on opposite ends of the spectrum. But the second difference, looking at Early Numenor, is that the peculiar hubris of the Shire is knocked stone cold dead by Lotho and Saruman, and the scouring and recovery is fastidiously calmed and controlled - by Frodo and Sam and Merry and Pippin, who have grown and seen a lot and can think and act outside the box - and the Shire is reintegrated and cast forward into the future as something that can grow and build on its people’s new experience and understanding of hardship and loss, and to deepen in wisdom, mature in spirit, and guard against the likes of Lotho et al with greater tenacity and resilience. A modest hint, one might say, at Arda Remade, albeit with a very mild and brief - comparatively speaking - process of creative destruction/eucatastrophe. But if not for the luck of having the four hobbits of the Fellowship - most especially Frodo, who forbids to the very last any insidious intrusion of any self-perpetuating corrupting elements like vengeance or cruelty or bitterness - the Shire would not have reintegrated or healed so well, and may well have declined into nastiness, suspicion, rigidity, and fearful hostility, killing off all its positives in its attempt to preserve itself and recover from its domination.

For Numenor, there is no similar stroke of luck to re-rail them and help them reintegrate from their damaged state into something even better and stronger before they - pardon the pun - get in too deep. The emergency of Sauron’s rise twists Numenor’s worst long-term tendencies into their most prized short-term assets. Any potential influence by other peoples (such as dwarves and men less privilege-cushioned than they, or by elves who have Frodo-esque helpful first-hand experience with this brand of stupidity) is first weakened and then later rebuffed. At the very edge, Tar-Palantir’s efforts as a single individual are not enough. Tar-Miriel’s rule is usurped. The momentum of their decline is artificially accelerated to the breaking point by Sauron. For Numenor, the negative backhand overtakes the positive elements of their society, becomes ingrained in their power structures, and consumes them.

#numenor #erendis #akallabeth #lord of the rings #the silmarillion #the shire #second age #long post #meta etc #queuenya

91 notes · View notes

theconservativebrief · 6 years ago

Link

Jared Kushner loved Michael Moore’s health care crisis documentary Sicko. He loved it so much that he threw an after-party for it following the film’s premiere in 2007. The future son-in-law of and senior adviser to the future president effusively praised Moore to a reporter, singling out the filmmaker’s ability to construct a compelling argument and bring important issues in American life to light.

A clip of Kushner’s salute to Moore appears early in the documentarian’s latest feature, Fahrenheit 11/9, which made its debut at the 2018 Toronto International Film Festival to an exuberant crowd on Thursday night. Red bandanas were handed out at the door — late in the film, Moore calls for audiences to readopt the red bandana as a symbol, in the spirit of those worn by miners in support of unions in the 1920s — and someone in the crowd shouted, “Michael for president!”

The thing is, Kushner was right. Moore argues for his left-leaning political views passionately and forcefully, often building his case by mixing damning archival footage and expert interviews with his own goofy antics and sly commentary. The effect is something of a gale force, sweeping you along and compelling you to nod your head, without a lot of time to wonder what’s been left off the screen.

It’s effective, and Moore’s sources as embedded in his narrative are generally reliable. But it can feel loose and free-associative in some ways, and Moore’s injection of his own persona into his films — especially the smug snark of his commentary and the affected cluelessness he uses as an interview technique — can get old very quickly.

So his films are by turns convincing and infuriating, and more recent offerings have inspired tepid reviews even from critics who share his political views. His 2017 one-man Broadway show, The Terms of My Surrender, leaned into the worst of these tendencies and garnered flat-out bad reviews, in a city where his political leanings might be assumed to be shared by most of the audience. With Moore, mileage greatly varies.

In particular, self-mythologizing has always been his Achilles heel, so there was a great deal of eye-rolling among critics in June, when the title of his next project was announced to be Fahrenheit 11/9 — a reference to his 2004 documentary Fahrenheit 9/11, which criticized the George W. Bush administration and the War on Terror. That film won the Palme d’Or at Cannes and became the highest-grossing documentary of all time. Was Moore really about to draw a comparison between the events of 9/11/2001 and 11/9/2016 — the day after Donald Trump was elected America’s next president?

He was. But the film is much better than the baggage that comes with its title might imply. Moore still suffers from bouts of self-aggrandizement and snide generalization. But they feel jarringly out of place, and in a good way. That’s because, for a great deal of the film, Moore cedes the floor to people whose voices are not as easily heard, or who have had to fight to have a voice at all.

Fahrenheit 11/9 is a sweeping broadside against Trump, to be sure — not an original approach in documentary filmmaking these days. But it also does what few political films seem willing to do in the Trump era: It powerfully (if unsystematically) dismantles idealistic notions about how much better things were before Trump took office.

The film’s news peg may be the current administration, but its target is self-satisfied liberals who more or less trust the system. Early on, Moore even implicates himself, offering up a series of mea culpas for people he’s hobnobbed with in the past — Kushner, Steve Bannon, Kellyanne Conway, and Trump himself (on Roseanne Barr’s talk show, no less).

And when Fahrenheit 11/9 does turn to the election itself, it’s less interested in Trump as cause and more as symptom of nationwide disillusionment, money-driven elections, and a resulting apathy about the political process. (Forty percent of eligible Americans didn’t even vote in the 2016 election.)

Moore sprays water from Flint, Michigan, on Gov. Rick Snyder’s mansion in his new documentary Fahrenheit 11/9. Courtesy of TIFF

Moore goes after everyone close to the president, even insinuating early on that there is something very inappropriate about his relationship with his daughter Ivanka. He even winds up not just comparing Trump to Hitler, but layering one of Trump’s speeches atop video of one of Hitler’s. But he reserves his most angry, pointed, and well-constructed criticisms for what he paints as a toothless, crony-driven Democratic establishment and — in a turn that might surprise some viewers — Barack Obama, and particularly Obama’s visit to Flint, Michigan, in 2016.

Moore is from Flint, and the best sequences in Fahrenheit 11/9 are about the city’s ongoing water crisis as well as the political situation that led to it, as more or less engineered by Republican Gov. Rick Snyder, whom Moore repeatedly calls a “criminal.”

At the Fahrenheit 11/9’s Toronto premiere, there were audible gasps in the theater many times, but perhaps the loudest one came when the film detailed how Snyder ordered that the water supply for Flint’s General Motors factory be switched back to clean water because it was corroding auto parts — while leaving the population with a contaminated supply that the government continued to insist was totally fine to drink, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

The Flint section of the film is infuriating but also illuminating; Moore lets whistleblowers, doctors, residents, and local law enforcement vent their anger while also drawing a line between Snyder and Trump that is, at minimum, disturbing.

But he has a larger point. There’s optimism woven throughout Fahrenheit 11/9, borne out of Moore’s conviction that on the whole, the American people (“us,” as he says in the film’s narration, knowing who his audience is) hold progressive views that are more in line with the left-leaning end of the political spectrum than anything Trump represents. (He supports this belief with a raft of polls on health care, taxes, gun control, immigration, abortion, and other matters, mostly from 2018.)

If democracy worked in America, he suggests — if people really felt that their vote meant something — then perhaps the nation could travel down a path that would lead somewhere positive.

Moore dutifully attacks the idiosyncrasies of the system, like the Electoral College and the Democratic Party’s system of superdelegates. But he seems pretty sure that it’s actually activism from the bottom up that will change the country. And so in addition to his own activism in Flint, he spotlights the Parkland, Florida, teens and the March for Our Lives movement and the teachers’ strikes that began in West Virginia and spread to other states.

Is he right? It’s too early to tell. After infusing a solid stretch of Fahrenheit 11/9 with hope, clearly seeking to inspire the audience to actually believe things can change, Moore returns to a more somber tone. He reminds viewers of the apparently enlightened and free-thinking historical context into which Adolf Hitler stepped, less than a century ago, and his thesis is clear: It — meaning the dehumanization of large groups of citizens and devotion to a charismatic strongman leader — can happen here, and it may already have happened.

As a film, Fahrenheit 11/9 is flawed. The movie feels at times more like a crash course in what’s happened since 2016, a kind of “worst hits” album desperate to hit every possible point and draw them all into a unifying theory.

We get Trump, Steve Bannon (“I don’t agree with [Moore’s] politics,” Bannon is shown saying, “but I think he makes a great film”), birtherism, the Central Park Five, Roger Ailes, Bill O’Reilly, Mark Halperin, Matt Lauer, Charlie Rose, Roseanne, “the media” (and especially the New York Times), Trump’s “treasonous” meeting with Putin in Helsinki in July 2018, Bill Clinton, Bernie Sanders, Flint, Parkland, Obama, Nancy Pelosi, Colin Kaepernick, Nazis, and Gwen Stefani, whom Moore insists is the reason Trump ran for president in the first place. (It was, according to Moore, Trump’s discovery that Stefani made more money on The Voice than he did on The Apprentice that made Trump announce his candidacy, to goad NBC into seeing how popular he was. It backfired, but the wheels started turning.)

That’s all crammed into about two hours, and the whiplash is considerable. It’s possible that Moore was trying to mimic the chaos of the news cycle over the past couple of years, but much of the film doesn’t stick so much as leave you with a lot of feelings.

At times, it seems as though some important issues have been wrapped into an argument against Trump because Moore isn’t sure people would have cared otherwise. (Whether or not he’s right, I can’t say.) I especially found myself wishing that, given Moore’s stature among socially conscious audiences as well as his personal connection to Flint, that he had spent less time writing clever zingers about the president and instead made an entire feature film about Flint alone, digging more deeply into its problems and their potential solutions.

Michael Moore speaks with Parkland teenager David Hogg in Fahrenheit 11/9. Courtesy of TIFF

Still, whenever he steps out of the way and hands over the microphone to those without household name recognition, Moore is an effective filmmaker. He knows who to talk to, and he doesn’t focus only on the big names. Voters and public school teachers in West Virginia; an Iraq war vet and various left-wing candidates running for Congress (including Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and Rashida Tlaib); the last living Nuremberg prosecutor; whistleblowers and doctors and parents and residents in Flint; and many more individuals who don’t grab headlines quite as easily as Trump are all part of Fahrenheit 11/9. With their aid, Moore weaves a tapestry not of hope, but optimistic outrage.

Fahrenheit 11/9 is not going to convince any Trump loyalists to reconsider. But it has no interest in doing that. #NeverTrump conservatives aren’t likely to watch the film either, even though it may offer them some surprising common ground, despite the fact that Moore’s critique of the Democratic Party comes from his democratic socialist views.

Instead, the film concentrates on not letting its more natural audience off easy. It criticizes the easy generalizations, ahistoricity, and even tribalism of a liberal audience (the critiques of Obama and of Clinton, in particular, don’t hold anything back). It suggests the country is a wreck not because of those other people out there, but because the people in the theater itself aren’t even committed enough to their own ideals to get uncomfortable and do something — unlike, for instance, the West Virginia teachers who stayed on strike after their union leaders came to a compromise they wouldn’t accept, or the teenagers who organized the March for Our Lives.

Moore with a group of teens who organized the “March for Our Lives” in Parkland, Florida. Courtesy of TIFF

That means there’s something in this film to irritate everyone. And it’s certainly true that a more focused approach may have ultimately been more effective at dismantling his opponents. After all, everything Moore says has been out there, publicly reported by “the media” for years, and it’s the barrage of information that has sent a lot of people into a spiral of apathy, overwhelmed by everything that needs doing and everything that is awful. Do we need more outrage in 2018?

Moore thinks America does need more outrage — but more focused outrage. It’s useless to hate on Trump, he posits. What we need to do is to “get rid of the whole rotten system that gave us Trump,” as he declares toward the end of Fahrenheit 11/9. And that effort, to him, will start with the “real” America, the people to whom he’s increasingly handing the microphone.

Fahrenheit 11/9 premiered at the Toronto International Film Festival in September and opens in theaters on September 21.

Original Source -> In Fahrenheit 11/9, Michael Moore spares no one — especially self-satisfied liberals

via The Conservative Brief

#IFTTT #The Conservative Brief

0 notes

felicezhukov · 8 years ago

Text

:: Dear Nicolas Jaar ::

I needed to walk on Wednesday, it’s impossible to spend the entirety of my waking hours cooped up in my room editing films, I need space and air and the sky, sights and sounds. In fact my desire for flaneurism is flaring up again, in part because my physical self is getting stronger I think and because I have oodles more time, without beer gardens and ashtrays as a mainstay.

It needed to be somewhere open but grand, with tourists and street vendors and overly priced coffee shops. I wanted debatable public art, to feel as if I was standing in another city, not the creative ebb of East London with its winding streets and Turkish corner shops and hipster cafe’s, somewhere with more of an epic taint. So I went on maps and I looked for local lidl’s, as I also needed a kg of greek yoghurt (my achilles heel so to speak) and I’ve been getting sick of going to the Hackney Central one, I, like all of us, need variety. One cropped up in Limehouse and from that point I realised it was on route to Canary Wharf, which in fact fit the bill perfectly.

I set out, through handsome tree lined streets and austere townhouses, flanked by blacked out range rovers, past leafy crammed allotments and cutting through communal green spaces of estates, with tire swings and the smell of curry floating in the air. As I reached the motorway the sky suddenly expanded above me, since working in East Village I’ve come to love this higgledy piggledy side of London, conurbations of lego brick towers and palatial grounds, interspersed with ornamental art that seems somehow at odds with all around it. In these weird dream lands there are also dozens of cranes, the stitch in time which suggests that where you are will evolve and that you’re taking in a moment that will not last, one day the great swathes of space that make these places so unusual in my city, will be filled and I will be that person that regails the young about how different the city used to be.

I curved off the motorway and slunk round the docklands museum onto the spacious concourse that began my journey through Canary Wharf. It splashed up memories of being there with my family and the Moon, on one particularly unhappy birthday where I was on the borders of leaving him and infuriated on so many levels. He uncomfortably trailed around with all my family who were sensitive enough to see the rifts between us but didn’t know what to do. I walked the same route we took, over the bridge and then directly cutting through squares with statues depicting different kinds of couplings, until I arrived at my first point, a circular fountain and a pair of jaggedly designed sculptures sat next to each other, regal in their demeanour, as if they were royal.

There’s a photograph of us on that day at this fountain, it’s bittersweet because I can see the pain and anger in mine and the Moon’s face, from years of torturous love, the wind is blowing and my coat and hair (then long) are swept up in the gust, I’m pouring over the fountain at a distance from him, looking with searching eyes into its churning waters, seemingly so fragile in gait and appearance, the light is crisp and autumnal, its seems as if there’s a deep fascination between me and the fountain.

What particularly struck me on that strange Island, was its inhabitants, of course I know its a centre for banking and all the outlying trades that enshrine money, but I wasn’t prepared for the testosterone I felt swinging about its streets. I’d say, at that point, 16:30 on a Wednesday, 90% of the people there were male and the vast majority of these men were clean shaven, wearing well maintained blue suits and white shirts without ties. They mostly travelled in pairs and manned both the streets and the bars that lined them. I felt out of place but not unwelcome, walking around with my fresh new haircut, silk shorts and my token odd socks, there were many admiring glances shot my way, but it was still uncomfortable, because I felt so far away from these men, that they would never see me as comparable to them, that I was just a unique object travelling through a world I couldn’t comprehend.

Perhaps this is where the muhrmaid samurai need’s to cut her teeth, my friend and fellow mermaid sister was speaking frankly about how someone has come into her life recently: a pragmatic, confident male, and has offered her advice and help to develop her managerial skills. She spoke of the project she’s engaged in, a first for her in terms of coordinating people, and how she’d like to be stronger and more adept at organising people and how she perceived opportunities. Which is something that comes back to money again, something these men in blue suits are familiar with, they share their circadian rhythms with it as an entity, they have access to where and how it is accumulated. These men know the true value of things because they are the human aspect of the dynasties that control the flow of money in the world, they know what venture philanthropy is alongside so many other facets of the world’s most potent catalyst.

I’m not sure exactly how the muhrmaid samurai can infiltrate this world, this island that has opened up a deep wellspring of fascination, perhaps just by visiting it and coming into contact with the gatekeepers would be enough to facilitate new idea’s. All I know at this point really is I will be visiting Canary Wharf a lot this August, drawing it and getting used to my reflection in the monolithic tower windows that brace nearly every street. It’s my new favourite place in London.

I hope you’re not at odd’s with money Nicolas, perhaps not allied to it either but not paralysed by its insipid grasp.

#Nicolas Jaar #nicolasjaar #nicolas_jaar

0 notes

anavoliselenu · 8 years ago

Text

Manwhore chapter 31

“What?” His eyes gleam like glassy volcanic rock.

“Zeus, the most powerful ‘good’ god, was always having affairs on his wife. The ‘bad’ god, Hades, was pretty much obsessed with Persephone, and seemed far more in love with her than Zeus was with his wife. For all his sins, Hades was so much more devoted. I think . . . there’s always something beautiful breeding in the darkness and pain.”

“Is there?” he asks quietly.

I nod soberly. “So no, you’re not Cupid in that story, I guess.” Then I tease, “You’re Zeus and Hades. A Justin here,” I touch his heart, “and a sinner here,” I touch his thickening erection.

He laughs softly and pulls me to his chaise, and we lie there, soaking up the sun in silence.

The lake is mostly calm, save for a few Jet Skis passing by, an occasional boat. I think about his father, how calm and rational Justin has been throughout this.

“You won’t let him goad you into doing anything reckless . . . will you?”

He laughs. “I’m over reckless.” He shifts his shoulders so he can look at me. “But on my word, he won’t be hurting you. Slowly, deliberately, very subtly, I’ll crush him if he comes near you.”

“He won’t come near me. I’ll leave before then.”

He cups my face in a gesture of male gratitude, and asks, “How are you going to introduce me to your mother?”

I smile. “She already knows you’re not Justinly at all,” I tease.

He looks at me quietly, the silence stretching.

“She’s worried,” I admit.

“Is she?”

“She thinks you’re too worldly.”

“That’s a negative against me?”

“And too rich.”

“Really now?” His brows slant thoughtfully.

“She’s worried you’re a player and that you won’t be able to help yourself and play with me.”

His eyebrows furrow even more. “Well, it won’t be the first time I’m underestimated.”

“But she likes you! It’s just that . . . she’s been a victim of what she’s heard. She was rooting for us but it was hard to hide from her that I was so . . . sad.”

He tips my head back; his eyes darken. “You put yourself there. Not me.”

I drop my eyes. “I know. Are you sure you want to? Go?” I ask hesitantly.

“Yeah, I want to.” He moves his hand up to play with a little tendril of hair by my ear, his voice dropping an octave. “I’m not a Justin. But you, Selena . . .” He trails off as though searching for words.

“I’m not a Justin either.” I’m laughing at that. “I’m a sinner,” I assure him; then I smirk a little and playfully push at his shoulder with the heel of my palm. “And you’re my Sin.”

He catches my wrist in his grip, and my laugh fades as he pulls me closer.

The glow of lust in his eyes as he studies me opens up a painful ache in my midsection. I am rabid for him. He’s my Achilles’ heel, the greatest pleasures in my life somehow now tied to his smiles. And right now, I quiver with the knowledge that he wants me.

So many years of being practical, and now I feel my romantic side taking over. I’ve spent every night for almost the past month reliving the ways he’s spoken to me, looked at me. He is unattainable, and yet he’s all my fantasies, all my dreams, put into one single human being, with warm flesh and a thudding heart and a beautiful face with a mouthwateringly muscled body.

His expression is fully relaxed now, his lips wearing just the hint of a smile as he asks, “Are you hungry?”

For you, I think, but I shake my head no.

He gets to his feet, pours us some wine and pops a cherry into his mouth. He knots the stem and shows me his perfect knot. “You ever do that?” His deep voice as he sits near me warms me up.

“It means you’re good with your tongue.”

His gentle laugh ripples through the air, and oh, I feel his smile between my ribs, between my legs.

He heads back to the table. Joining him by the little fruit buffet, I eat a cherry, put aside the seed, and try to knot the stem. He eats another while he watches. After a minute, I give up and shake my head, taking the straight stem out of my mouth and showing him.

“Nope,” I confirm, laughing.

He just smiles down at me, his voice low and husky. “Nobody ever gets it right the first time.”

He grabs another one and knots it again, moving his tongue slowly inside his mouth in a way that causes all kinds of lusty thoughts to run through me. There’s a curious swooping pull to my insides as I watch him do it, and when his lips curl upward as he gazes at me, the swooping is followed by a shock wave that rocks me.

Before I can take another one, he grabs my wrist, his other hand lifting to rest on my face. He brushes my lips with the pad of his thumb. I shiver involuntarily.

I’m entranced by the thoughtfulness on his face as he draws my cheek to his chest and caresses my hair. We stay like that. The very air over the water seems electrified. He runs his hand through my hair and the sensation is so sweet and so intoxicating, I can’t move.

He obviously knows he affects me. But he seems affected too, his body stone-like and buzzing with tension.

As if getting control of himself, he peers down at me. “Do you want me to teach you how to knot one up? Or want a dip in the water?”

I glance at the cherries, and his lips curl. My toes curl in response. Reaching out, he raises a cherry, dangling it from the stem.

I ease down onto the chaise near the buffet table and start to feel warm from his body heat, suddenly so very near.

He leans over, holding the cherry by the stem, and I part my lips and pluck it off. I bite into it with my molars and feel the cool juice slide down my throat. I’ve never been more aware of him watching me eat as I take the little seed out of my mouth and I set it on a small plate on the table.

He sits beside me, his shoulder touching mine, his face looking down at me, and I swear the sun looks better on his face than in the sky.

My lips part when he offers the stem, and I pull it into my mouth and give it a try. He bends his head closer to speak through the noise of the wind. “Curl it around your tongue.” His voice is absolutely low. “Like this.”

He dips his head and before I know it, his lips connect with mine and his tongue is moving, guiding the cherry stem around mine sinuously, expertly knotting it in my mouth.

When we separate, our eyes hold for the longest second as he pulls out the knotted stem from his mouth. Which he just took from mine. His lips curl as he sets it aside, his eyes smiling too when, gently, I feel the brush of his thumbs on my cheeks as he cups my face.

“I know what else you twist around so easily,” I breathe.

He stares deeply into me as he waits for more.

“Me.”

And then he’s not smiling anymore. And neither am I. A tremor runs through me as he ducks his head. And then, ohhhh. Ghost kiss. Against my mouth, he speaks, deep and gruff, “Do you want another cherry stem? Or do you want my tongue inside your mouth?”

Immediately, I close my eyes and tip my head back.

Another corner kiss.

He’s breathing slowly but so deeply his chest expands, clearly fighting for control. And I want him to lose it. I want him to snap and kiss me, fuck me, love me.

He caresses my cheek with the knuckle of his forefinger as he ducks his head again and this next kiss is so close to the center of my mouth, I can taste cherries on his lips.

“Come here.” He reaches out and pulls me off the seat. He does it in one fluid move until I’m sitting on his hard lap, my legs draped to the side, and I struggle with a nervous laugh but ultimately fall still. Oh boy. It actually feels better every time. His arms around me. It makes me feel small in the best ways.

I’m adjusting to the sensation of safety—a sensation I’d kill to feel for the rest of my life—when I see Justin look at me as if I’m the juiciest thing he’s ever seen.

“Put your arms around my neck,” he says quietly in my ear.

He rubs a hand up and down my back. I do what he says, my arms trembling. Though we’re in the end of summer, it’s so cool today, the wind, but then he takes hold of both my hands at the back of his neck and moves them up and into his hair.

My fingers bunch warm fistfuls instinctively as he curls a hand around my nape and pulls me finally to his mouth. When our lips connect, they’re already parted, and our tongues meet halfway as they search for each other.

He caresses my back and then settles one strong hand on my hip, his fingers spreading out, toward my butt, while his thumb caresses the jutting hardness of my hipbone. And as his warm tongue keeps knotting me up tighter than the cherry stems, I forget everything else.

That my name is Selena Livingston and my career is in a jumble and I want my world to stand still.

Right now I just want Justin’s tongue and I want the world to spin and spin and spin the way only he makes it do so.

His hand slides down my thigh and grabs behind my knee and he slowly folds my leg, bringing it up and curling it around his hip.

I shift my other leg to straddle him and his hand trails down the small of my back, then his fingers start sliding into my bikini. He cups my ass, pressing me to him as he kisses me. And all the time his tongue is grazing, playing, rubbing, tasting as his mouth moves on mine, devouring, taking—taking.

The heat of our bodies could melt a glacier. His other hand slides into my hair, into my ponytail. He holds it in one big fist and leaves my mouth burning with fire when he edges away from my lips and plants kisses on my shoulders, neck, face.

My hands chart their own journey, massaging down to his shoulders, but his fist keeps me from moving my head, so that he can come back to devour my mouth whenever he wants to. I’m gasping, breathless, as he raises his mouth from my neck and for three long heartbeats, looks heatedly into my eyes. I feel raw, vulnerable, and his eyes are stormy with lust but so clear, I’m afraid he sees me; sees he’s my one true weakness. And so I close my eyes and offer my lips.

When his lips latch on to mine, his mouth is wetter and hotter, slower and firmer. I taste him back, feeling greedy and desperate as I slide my hands under his shirt, aching to feel his bare skin.

He jerks it over his head, and I tremble when his warm flesh presses against my skin.

He reaches between us and slips his fingers under the triangles of my bikini top, moving his fingertips over the peaks of my breasts—which feel so tight and achy, a jolt goes through me as he strokes up and down, around and around.

I press a little closer to his hands, a barrage of sensations fluttering in me as I kiss near his ear. “I like the things you do to me,” I quietly confess.

“I get high on you,” he gruffly whispers before he goes back to kissing my mouth, caressing my lips with also a little bit of teeth.

He slides a line of kisses down my neck, my chest. “Right here. Where it’s pink and pretty for me. I’m going to kiss you right here tonight.” He bumps his nose against the tip of my nipple under the fabric.

An exquisite shiver of wanting runs along my spine as his thumbs stroke my nipples again. I feel the electricity of his touch in my core, my toes, my very being.

“If you want to,” I agree.

“I do want to.”

He cups my breast and suckles through my top. His head lifts a fraction when I gasp, and he brushes my lips with another kiss. Gently, leaving me gasping.

“Justin,” I breathe.

“Justin,” I hear him murmur into my mouth.

“Mmm . . . I get to call you Justin now?”

“You get a lot more.”

He unclips my hair and watches it fall to my shoulders, and the lustful glow in the depths of his green gaze sends a shiver through my being.

“What did I do to deserve this absolute . . . privilege?”

A smile shines bright in his green eyes. “Justin, Selena. Say it,” he coaxes.

I frown a little. “It’s such a respectable name. Why do you make it sound so dirty and naughty? Justin?”

He both laughs, low in his throat, and groans at the same time; then he ghosts a kiss over the corner of my mouth as though to let me know he appreciates it. We hear the noise of an incoming boat and I separate a little, self-conscious of it approaching even though he doesn’t seem to mind.

It’s a speedboat with eight individuals and blaring rock music. I notice they’re taking out their phones to take pictures of Justin’s yacht. No. I hear the shrill women’s voices in the yacht and realize they’re taking pictures of Justin. And . . . me.

I roll my eyes. “Oh great. They’re going to have a field day with this.”

“JUSTIN! OHMIGOD, JUSTIN JUSTIN! Can we come on board?!” someone shouts. “It’s Tasha! TASHA! My friends and I met you once at Decan’s club, the Orion!”

They could be talking to the air.

While I stare at them, I notice Justin surveys my reddened mouth a little bit, and then takes in the rest of my face.

“Come here,” he says, stretching out his hand.

“What—”

“JUSTIN!!!” one yells, then loudly whispers to the friend who’s hovering at the edge of the boat, “Take pictures, bitch . . . are you taking?” Then to us, hands cupped at her mouth, “CAN WE HANG WITH YOU GUYS FOR A WHILE?”

I hear a splash and turn to stare, wide-eyed at the other boat. “Did she just throw herself in the water?”

“My guys will take care of it.” He takes my hand and leads me down to the cabin area, stopping one of the crew and making a hand signal.

“Right on it, Mr. Justin.”

I’m laughing my ass off as we reach the cabin, peering through the window. “Is she for real? Oh no, all three are swimming this way!”

“Come here,” he whispers, tugging me back to him. I close my eyes when I feel his lips.

“Justin . . .”

I squirm a little but he quiets me down, pressing his lips to mine.

“Let’s just see if your crew . . .” I turn in his arms and take a few steps to try to peer out.

“They’re handling it.”

His low voice ripples like a feather between my legs. I feel his gaze on my backside, and I turn, and he’s watching me, his eyes roaming all of me.

“Sin . . .”

He stands there, tall and glorious, as I still hear splashing outside.

He takes a step and runs a finger up my arm, and then over my shoulder, his thumb stroking under my bikini string. I’m panting already.

“Justin.”

He takes a step closer and sets a soft kiss on my mouth. God. The overwhelming experience of just his strong, soft lips.

His tongue flashes out and sweeps inside. The world goes dim. Hazy. He pulls me to his chest while he teases my lips with his.

I clutch his shoulders, hard.

“Why?” I hear a whine out in the lake. “But I know him . . . we partied once . . . ”

And their male friends from the boat. “Come on, man, it’s just hanging for a little while . . .”

“Oh wow, they’re super insistent,” I say, trying to turn. He stops me with his hands on my hips.

“They can insist all they want, they’re not coming on board,” he murmurs in my ear.

Before I can escape to watch the spectacle, he boosts me up and carries me to the bed.

“They were also your friends . . . ?” I tease.

He tosses me onto the bed and kneels on it as he tugs on the drawstring of his swim trunks. “Take it off,” he says, nodding to my bikini.

I do, quickly, and I part my legs so he can settle between them. He curls his hand around the side of my face, and I tuck my cheek into his palm, the way he holds me so exquisitely gentle.

“Hook-ups. Easy. Simple,” he says. And adds, “Nothing like you.”

His attention heads south, to my breasts as he strokes his hands appreciatively over my lean frame. The last of the day’s sunlight streams through the window; he can see every bit of me. I’m flushing but I wouldn’t stop him for the world; instead I let my fingers slip into his thick hair. His breath coasts along the top swell of one breast as he ducks his head. Then he locks around the peak, rocking my world as arrows of pleasure shoot through me.

Oh god.

I hear the speedboat leave. Then a knock.

“Taken care of, Mr. Justin!”

“Thank you,” he says in a lust-roughened voice, taking his lips off me for a second.

He smiles at me. He takes my wrists in his hands, and I shudder as a hot flick of his tongue wetly laps up my neck, to my lips. He draws my arms up, over my head, and then secures them in one hand while he lets the other wander over my body.

I arch helplessly. “Justin.”

“That’s right, Selena.”

“Justin Justin, you’re an absolute devil . . .”

“And you’re embarrassed to be seen with me.”

“Am not.”

“Because I’ve had many women?” Probing green eyes challenge me as he coasts his hand down my side. “Because I like to take what I want?”

“Like . . .” I lick my lips. “What do you want . . .”

He edges back and stands and tugs the rest of the drawstring open until his trunks slide down his powerful legs.

He reaches over to the drawer, pulls out a condom, tears it open, and hands it to me with a challenging spark in his eyes and an adorable curl to his lips. “Put this on me.”

I edge up on my knees and stroke him lovingly even though I chide with a scowl, “You’re kind of a dictator in bed. Which is why you’ll never be my boss—”

He ducks his head and kisses me. I go breathless and let him ease me down on the bed. His hands slide up my arms and he laces his fingers through mine, smiling down at me.

“You like that?” he grins a little as he keeps my hands secured under his.

“No,” I lie.

“Yeah, you do.” Between searing kisses and slow, drugging kisses, he looks down at me. He stares at me as my body moves like a bow as he takes me. I pant. I beg. And I hold his gaze, memorizing him, powerful and smooth as he eases inside me.

Justin.

He wants me to call him Justin again.

He holds my gaze, watching me with violently tender eyes, as if he’s been living for this moment.

Holding my wrists in one hand, he cups my face and starts to move. It’s so hot, this powerlessness, the way he holds me down, and I want him to; the way one hand engulfs my face and his thumb rubs my lips as I open them and gasp. I start coming apart when he drives fully inside me. He slows down his motions as I climax. Twisting in his grip, I tremble and feel broken open even as my hips rock up so he can break and take some more, his hold on my wrists firm and wickedly exciting.

“That’s right,” he heatedly kisses my mouth, wetly tasting me with the same violent tenderness I see in his eyes. “Give me all of it . . . that’s right . . . don’t stop coming for me . . .”

“You . . .” I bite his lip as I circle my hips as seductively as I can. “Come . . . with me . . . Justin, come with me . . .” A helpless groan leaves me as his hips keep pounding into mine.

He drags his hands down my arms and then flips me around unexpectedly, pulls me up on all fours, and drives inside me again. “I’m here,” he husks out, taking me by the hair as he sinks in deeper, groaning my name in my ear.

My orgasm, which had been receding, seems to start up again. He’s reveling in me, his thrusts deep, fast, powerful, and oh so good. His mouth is everywhere at once. Wet. Hot. Out of control. His grip tighter. His body desperate for me. No. He is desperate for me.

He hisses near the back of my ear and stiffens inside me, and I come. I come and twist beneath him, aware of how he’s clutching me closer, his arms vises and his lips hungrily tugging my ear—the ear I know he loves that matches my “other” one.

Minutes later, we’re both limp, I’m draped over his side, and his chest starts rumbling.

I frown a little. Is he . . . chuckling?

I lift my head, confused. His voice is husky as he holds me a little closer to his chest, his lids halfway over his eyes. “You’re a little devil too.” He rubs his thumb over my lip, and then he grins at me like he loves it.

We spend the next day on The Toy again. We eat, sunbathe, drink a little wine, and splash into the water. I can also officially tell the girls that without setting a single finger on it, I can now knot a cherry stem.

CHERRY BLUES

I wake up in my bed Sunday, very late at night—or, rather, too early on Monday.

Confused, I pad out to the living room to find it empty. I head to Gina’s room. “Remind me not to drink on a boat,” I tell Gina, grabbing my head as I lean heavily on the door frame.

She groans in the bed.

“Justin?”

Gina stirs a little. “You were knocked out, he carried you in.”

“Why didn’t he stay?”

“He stayed in your room a bit, and then he left. You looked like the dead would wake up sooner than you.”

“When did he leave?”

“An hour ago.”

“I’m sorry I woke you, I think I’m still a little intoxicated.” I lean on her door a bit and sigh. “Gina, we had such a great time. We talked . . . we swam . . . we ate cherries . . . we had dinner. I had only two glasses of wine. Two! And I can’t remember the rest.”

“It’s the damn wind and the rocking motion, it knocks me out every time.”

I groan and deeply, deeply regret those drinks I had.

“Close the door,” she mumbles as I go out.

Back in the room, I turn on the lamp and get my phone, writing, Thanks for bringing me home.

But instead of sending the text, I try calling to see if he answers. When I hear his voice, my veins start buzzing with something even more powerful than alcohol.

“Thank you for bringing me home. I enjoyed spending time with you very much,” I whisper.

“Me too.”

I glance at the time; it’s past 3 a.m. My voice is awkward with drink and sleep. “I wanted you to spend the night.”

“There’s no way to describe what I’m going to do to you when I do.”

“Please do,” I beg.

Silence.

“I want you so much, Sin . . .”

Silence.

“You can do anything you want with me as long as you promise to do it again.”

“Now that’s a promise I’d like to keep,” he whispers huskily.

“I know you don’t like to make promises but your word is gold, and if you’d stayed over, I would’ve let you devour me. But not all of me, you know. You need to leave enough . . . just so that tomorrow when I’m sober, you can tell me what you did to me.”

“So I get everything but your ears?” His voice sounds close to the speaker again and absolutely amused.

“Yes!” I say happily.

“While I devour every part of you with my mouth?”

Every part! Ohgod, yes.

“I’m not sure I can resist your ears,” he says in a tragic tone.

Desire building and building.

“Okay,” I breathe. “Take my ears too.”

“You’re certain? I’d own all of your senses now.”

I breathe out, “I’m certain.”

“Selena, I want you undone for me—absolutely wrecked.”

“Okay, Justin.”

I am!

“Okay?” he coaxes. Still amused.

“Hmm. I’m game, Justin. Bases loaded.”

“Spend the weekend with me after your mother’s?”

“I’d love to. I’ll be on all five senses. Very attuned to your naughty plans.”

“I’ll hide the wine,” he teases.

“Justin!” I laugh, then, worriedly, “Did I say something?”

“Nothing you haven’t said before.”

“Justin! What did I say, you dick?”

He chuckles. “Nothing I wouldn’t mind hearing again, Selena.”

When we hang up, I stare at my ceiling. Oh god, did I tell him I loved him? Drunk? Why can’t I say it like a normal, courageous person when I’m sober, looking into his eyes?

I try to remember and I can’t, I just can’t remember if I said it.

But if I did . . . he wants to hear it again?

I could’ve just talked dirty, which would be sooo unlike me and something Justin would probably love to hear too.

I sigh, plump my pillow, and turn off my lamp, getting haunted and aroused by the simple thought of a knotted cherry stem.

A JUSTIN IN MY HOME

Tonight is the night Justin meets my mother, and I don’t know who’s more excited, my mother or I.

Before I go to my mom’s, I stop by the pharmacy to stock her up on her medicines, then I buy her three bags of fresh, organic groceries and have neatly stored everything in her medicine cabinet and fridge. Then it’s off to help her with preparations for tonight’s dinner. I’ve made sure that the house is sparkly clean, the table set with our prettiest plates and topped with a pretty white rose centerpiece. Mom, apron and all, buzzes busily through the kitchen, stacking things in the hot drawer.

The excitement in our home is palpable.

Since my early teens, my mother has seen me focused exclusively on my career. I’d never really daydreamed about boys before. She’s as unprepared for me to bring a man home as I am—even though I’m sure she’s been hoping that I’d one day find “someone.”

Well.

I have.

Holy crap, I have! And my mother wants to meet him, and most shocking of all, he wants to meet my mother too.

Exhaling in satisfaction, I give one last look at our home. It looks spotless and homey. Though, a little bit self-consciously, I realize my mother’s house is kind of a shrine to me and the accomplishments I’ve earned so far: framed newspaper articles I wrote for my high school paper. My first piece for Edge. Letters from some readers I’d touched that I had stored away.

“I was reading up on him just this morning . . .” Mom says as she comes out to give one satisfied look at the house. “He looks very powerful. Very beautiful.”

“He is. He’s both. Also smart. Motivated.”

I pat her hand and kiss her cheek, and she asks, “He’s really coming?”

“No, Momma. I just wanted to put us to work for fun.”

She smiles one of her tender mother smiles and this time, she’s the one who pats my hand. “It’s good that he’s coming, Selena,” she assures.

My stomach squeezes at that, and I grin and nod.

I’m both nervous and excited for him to be here. “Remember you promised not to drill him with questions, okay, Mother?”

“Of course!” my mother says as she heads back to the kitchen.

Oh god. Please let them like each other.

Pulling back the gauze curtain, I peer out the window to see his Pagani Huayra slide to a screeching halt before our home.

Oh, Sin. Speeding. Really?

I’m smiling, but I pretend that I’m not as I swing open the door and shake my head in disapproval while I watch him get out of the car. He’s wearing a black cashmere sweater and a pair of dark-wash jeans, a bottle of wine firm in his hand, and he’s making my heart race as he eats up the distance between us.

Sin is absolutely at home in the night, though it feels like every streetlight nearby is fawning on him, casting attractive shadows on his face and body.

He looks irresistible.

Dangerous.

Delicious.

“Hey,” I greet him as I step outside and impulsively press my lips to his rock-like jaw. “You get a kiss for coming.”

He draws me close to his body and speaks in my ear. “I have one for you too but it’s not fit for public.” His eyes shine devilishly as he watches me go red.

He follows me with one step, and then he’s inside. And he looks so very dark in my doorway. Darker than his hair, than the air he emanates. Bigger, somehow, as he takes another step inside, where my mother waits with a beaming smile.

“Justin, this is my mother—”

“Kelly,” she eagerly interrupts. She seems to want to give him a hug but she stops herself; Justin seems too larger-than-life for that.

He reaches out and gently squeezes her shoulder as he hands her the wine. I watch Mother make a desperate attempt to resist that captivating smile. And I notice his deep voice doesn’t help matters. “A pleasure to be in your home, Kelly. With your daughter.”

Gushing with gratitude over the bottle of wine, my mother heads over to set it in ice.

He touches my cheek for only a second, that one second enough to fluster me even more.

Damn him.

“You’re the first man Selena ever brought home,” my mother tells him.

“This is the first time I’ve actually gone.”

He winks at me and my mother and I both kind of smile. We both mooned over him just seconds ago as he opened the wine in a way only a man who’s uncorked dozens of wine bottles can.

Now we’re all enjoying dinner, wine, and conversation.

“I always thought she’d have had more friends if she hadn’t had an imaginary friend. Monica,” my mother says.

“Matilda,” I correct my mother.

My poor mom, she’s so excited and so flustered she can’t even keep her facts straight.

“Matilda. Right. She’d blame everything on Matilda. Selena doesn’t like screwing up in any way, you see,” she says. “She’s a bit of a perfectionist and it makes her mad at herself, so she used to blame Matilda when things didn’t go the way she wanted.”

I groan and roll my eyes. “This would be so so much easier to bear if Matilda were sitting here now.”

Justin leans over. “I wouldn’t have come here for Matilda. Only for you.”

His lips quirk when I redden.

“Selena tells me you paint?” he asks my mother.

“I do. I like color on everything,” she says and proudly signals to her strawberry spinach salad. “Selena used to paint too—that one’s hers.” She points at a small frame with my handprint on it.

“I did not paint that. I just set my hand there. Justin has one of those, Mother. A big one.”

“Oh, he does?” Her eyes widen in awe. “Those are sold, but in this case, it was a gift from End the Violence for her support.”

As we head into the main course, my mother tells Justin all about my involvement with End the Violence—nothing Justin doesn’t really know except perhaps that I’ve been doing it for a decade—while Justin listens attentively as he cleans his plate.

He listens to her tell him about the stories I used to tell as a kid . . .

Me and how End the Violence really made an impact on helping my mother and me cope . . .

Me and my dreams of having a career where I could both love what I do and earn a living at it . . .

Me and how I’ve wished to make her dream come true of working at what she loves . . .

“Her life has been full of other people’s stories,” she adds.

“Even mine,” he whispers with a sharp gleam in his eye aimed in my direction. He is not mad, just calm as he finishes his wine. Calm, and something else. He seems . . . illuminated. As if my mother’s stories have shed light on something that had been eluding him for a while.

I kind of think he looks even more comfortable than he did seconds ago, his attention unwavering as he crosses his utensils over his empty plate, leans back in his chair and cups his hands behind his head, laughing at my mother’s stories about young Selena’s antics.

He looks . . . at home, here with my mother and me.

It does something to me. I suddenly feel very vulnerable.

I wonder about his mother as he talks with mine. As he talks with mine and occasionally ends her anecdotes with, “Did she really?” in amusement.

And my mom won’t shut up about me!

I feel extremely, intimately bared to Justin right now.

Justin already knows so much about me. What I like and fear and want. That I hope to do good things, but I sometimes do bad. He knows how I taste.

And now, having the man of my dreams know me through my mother’s stories, I feel completely exposed. As if I have no more secrets from him, while he, somehow, is a box of them that I might never fully open.

Gina’s right: maybe I do have a few walls up to protect myself. But I feel them all about to topple.

“Now, Selena had very few friends when she was younger,” she says as she brings over my favorite dessert from the kitchen, a chocolate peppermint pie. “She was reserved and of course it was a concern of mine, as you can imagine. The only people Selena allowed to know that she didn’t have a father were those we met through End the Violence. People like her, who’ve known loss. She just didn’t feel comfortable sharing that loss with anyone else, whom she thought wouldn’t understand.”

I try to laugh it off, but my laugh wavers. It’s only after Justin reaches for my hand under the table and squeezes it that I exhale.

Because he’s not judging me.

d he’s stari�23�.

0 notes