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moonlight-tmd · 8 months

Note

Prowlbee. How would the episode 'Where is Thy Sting' play out while they are dating?

Thought about it after finding this

https://www.deviantart.com/eru-kun/art/WASP-NO-WAIT-117379127

For future reference; please explain what you mean and don't just drop episode names, i have not watched the show at all, only saw a few clips and shitton of fan works on it.

So the time where Wasp replaced Bee. I think Wasp used some sort of swap-frames-device so my take is that the only thing that changed was their conciousness. Physical features such as eye color stayed the same, unlike in the show. C'mon it would be so obvious if your eyes suddently changed from blue to pink. Also speech pattern- Bee talks normally so Wasp also talks normal while in Bee's frame. Wasp normally talks in 3rd person from what i've seen so Bee while being stuck in Wasp's frame also talks in 3rd person.

I imagine Wasp somehow secretly kidnapped Bee while he was on patrol and trapped him in some cave after they switched frames. Wasp left to impersonate Bee and Bee was left stuck in wherever Wasp put him to rust.

It took a long while, maybe 2 days for him to get out and get in the city area again. But still, he had to keep hiding cuz Elite Guard was patrolling around since Wasp was a convicted escapee, Bee knew if he tried to explain things Sentinel would just put a muffler on his faceplate and throw him to the stockades. Meanwhile Wasp was doing a decent job trying to act like Bee. Sari was out of town for a family vacation, she borrowed the key to Optimus in case there was an accident. Nobody suspected anything, only that Bee was acting a little differently. Nobody knew anything, except Prowl.

Prowl noticed the strange change in Bee's behavior since he came back from that oddly long patrol few days ago. Bee was less social, he wasn't as silly as usual, he was interested in the "serious stuff" he usually avoided. And what concerned him the most, he seemed to straight up avoid Prowl and his affection. Whenever he kissed him or hugged he always seemed uncomfortable and wanting to get away. Whenever Prowl would try to invite him to recharge together or go somewhere on a date he's come up with an excuse or say he just needed time for himself. This not only made Prowl suspicious but also worried, did Bee not want to be with him anymore?

It was nearing a week since Bee got replaced and things got complicated for the ProwlBee relationship- Prowl was sad, yet another night without his beloved by his side. He decided to take a night walk near the forest.

Something wss wrong, something must have been wrong- Prowl knew it, but he didn't know what. Something must have happened on that patrol but what? Lost in thought he almost didn't notice the umatching green in the forest approaching. A loud snap of a stick got him alert and he noticed Wasp, Bee's tormentor in boot camp days, standing there looking at him. Wasp couldn't even finish a word before Prowl whipped out his hubcap-shurikers and charged at him. His negatve emotions took charge, sadness mixed with anger and he chased down the green mini. Wasp tried to talk but he was too busy dodging the incoming throws from the ninjabot. At one point he tripped and Prowl caught up to him.

"Owly- NO!"

Prowl stopped dead in his tracks. Owly- Bee gave him this nickname, it was special, only they knew about it and Bee only used it when they were all alone.

"Owly..?" Wasp repeated, he put down his servos he put up to protect himself in case Prowl struck. The look Wasp had was the one he was so familiar with. Suddenly it dawned on him- it was Bee. The real one.

Before Bee knew Prowl lurched at him and hugged him tightly. "It's you."

Bee explained what happened- Prowl was so pissed. Prowl took Bee back to base, the route was a little tricky cuz Elite Guard was hanging around the city. When they got back the others were quick to jump into battle stance when they saw Wasp right behind Prowl, they were confused when Prowl didn't move and in fact protected him from them. Prowl and Wasp!Bee explained things and they were so pissed. They were also ashamed that they got fooled so easily. Then in the middle of planning what to do the Bee!Wasp came back from the patrol he oddly volunteered for and saw his own frame with the beloathed host among the others.

Wasp tried to argue, acting all hostlie and telling them to "get the traitor" but it was no use. "Wasp's tricks won't work anymore! Give Bee his frame back!" Instead of replying, Wasp bolted out of the base and the chase began. It was cut short when Wasp made a wrong turn and drove stright into the closed off building site- and bumped into the Constructicons. There was a fight, these 'cons escaped as always to lurk at some other bulding site, Wasp was sure he managed to lose them in the havoc but nope, Bulkhead grabbed him and held him so tight one could hear the metal creak. "Hey, don't damage Bee's frame!" As much as Bulkhead wanted to squish that awful menace like a squish toy he didn't.

Wasp's frame still had the switch-frame-device in the subspace, they used it jsut in time before the Elite Guard arrived at the scene; the jets spotted a fight and Wasp in there so of course they jumped right in. They took the real Wasp back to stockades and the real Bee was so glad he was back in his own frame.

Prowl was so happy to finally cuddle with Bee in his berth. They were relieved all this mess was over, they talked a little and Prowl confessed he was almost worried Bee wanted to break up with him. "You got me once, now you will never get rid of me, no matter what. I can promise you that, Owly." Bee reassured jokingly.

They exchanged kisses before finally going to recharge. Sari was so confused when she finally came back from the vacation and heard what the heck has happened- she leaves for few days and her best friend is body-swapped with the villain and nearly gets thrown to jail forever. If her father proposes to go on another few day trips she refuses, she will not be tolerating any more shit like that happening to Bee.

And i think that's it. Stuff most likely isn't show accurate at all but who cares. Thank you for the ask.

#maccadam #tfa #ask box #prowlbee

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predalien · 3 years

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hello!! 🌱 could I get a ship request?

I’m about 5’6, pale with ginger + black (dyed) hair, i’m more inclined to the arts, however I also enjoy things like psychology, etc. I work out frequently, and i used to do fencing + wrestling :-)

• Ship Request •

Shipping you with: The Elder

I think you an Elder (AVPR) would get along like no other! I could imagine Elder having a strong affinity for arts and knowledge, which is something you as well share. And as obvious as it is, the ability to fight and defend one’s self it an extremely attractive trait to have when you’re dealing with the yautja.

I’d imagine Elder would enjoy simply being around you. Very rarely does he find himself free of time, despite not actively engaging in hunting trips. He is still a clan leader and elder, so he still holds many duties, such as guiding and judging the younger members of the clan. And with your enjoyment and knowledge in psychology, I think Elder might even ask for you aid in decision making on social and clan issues.

No matter the kind of art(s) you specialize in, he will always enjoy your pieces and keep them for sentimental value. Jewelry making? He might as well ask you to design him something a little nice, like a necklace or dreadlock beads. Painting or sketching? Better your get your supplies together, you’re gonna find yourself creating extravagant pieces on the items in his possession, his armor, and his own personal quarters will be filled with many of your pieces. Sewing or fabric crafts? Please, I beg of you, to sew in new designs or full on design him a new cloak.

Elder’s days of actively hunting have long since passed him, but nonetheless he still chooses to be active to ensure he never rusts up on his battle prowess. Elder might as well appreciate doing a bit of wrestling with you, you may never be as strong as him, but humans are very crafty and may as well be a challenge for even an old and experienced yautja like himself. Even if wrestling and fencing is something you no longer do, I think he’d still appreciate you combating with him. (Totally for training purposes and not for him to find an excuse for you to sit on him.)

Please let him braid or run his claws through your hair. He has seen human hair, but for as old and educated as he is, he doesn’t quite understand how human hair works. It doesn’t bleed? Or doesn’t hurt when you cut it? Is there any purpose for human hair? But it hurts when you tug on it? Oh! Do you… like it, ooman?…

Some of the younger members might not exactly appreciate your presence at first. Although, overtime, they’ll find themselves running to you in fear after pissing off your beloved Elder. They may not find themselves at Elder’s mercy, but they sure as hell know that he would never lay a claw on you.

#february 2022

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octalove · 4 years

Text

VII: By Invitation Only

(Batgirl/Red Hood)

Description: Reader and Jason go undercover in a Mafia den. Part one, two, three, four, five, and six.

My mind buzzed with the sights and sounds of Little Italy. Boots scuffing sidewalk, and the persistent hum of the moving parts within the heart of the city. Quiet, serious conversations mumbled low between men of business, and enthused gossip among thick-accented women at every café and park. The ever-present stream of conversation in the townhouses and shops was exciting. I fell in seamlessly to the strange mix of wealth among poverty, the stringent immigrant culture surpassing both.

The mission itself was straightforward- the kind of business I actually didn’t expect the Red Hood to bother with himself. He got some info from one of his contacts, Giuseppe Bianchi, whose job was to, according to Jason, “sing like a fuckin’ canary”. Bianchi informed him a week ago that one Adriano Cliffs was trying to strike a deal between two mafia families under Red Hood’s control. It was in the realm of real estate; ‘property’ investments that were actually investments into the nefarious affairs that would be taking place on said properties. According to Bianchi, moving chemicals. Red Hood didn’t care about chemicals; it was part of drug trade or domestic biowarfare or what have you, but it was the principle of them moving under his nose. Trying to grub up some deals he wasn’t a part of.

“With the mafia,” He said. “You give ‘em an inch, they take the whole fuckin’ county.” Thus, our job was to go to a dinner party, unassuming guests, and try to figure out who else was involved, so Red Hood could later pay them a visit.

I didn’t ask if he’d kill them.

I had the invitations in my clutch; beautiful little parchment cards with gold lettering. Thank you, Bianchi. There was a stark contrast between going on a mission in my Batgirl suit, and going on one in a green silk dress. I had no trouble dressing the part of the socialite- and apparently Jason didn’t either. He wore a red satin dress shirt, unbuttoned to feature a plunging neckline, paired with a black blazer that had an asymmetric stand collar. Frankly, I was impressed. It looked better than the suits Bruce used to put him in.

The location of the party was a quaint little townhouse nestled in upper Luskan Square. The building was all cream paint and red brick, with pretty green vines cascading from window planters. I could hear music from inside; raspy strings and jaunty horns in a dixieland, swinging tempo.

The two mafia families were Pellegrino and D’amici; two bloodlines that were previously in a feud so contentious that 1/4 of Gotham City Morgue was full of its casualties at any given time. All that until around four months ago when Kane Pellegrino married Penelope D’amici like something straight out of Romeo and Juliet, but with more guns, cocaine and happy endings.

Jason leaned over to me as we approached, whispering lowly in my ear, “The matriarch- Olivier D’amici- she’s a touch odd. Paranoid. Just keep her busy durin’ the party, and I’ll do the rest. Cliffs should be here, too.” I nodded, and flashed a blue-ribbon smile at the doorman.

“Invitations?” He asked. I gave him the cards, and after a brief inspection, he nodded. We entered the foyer, welcomed by the smell of warm food and laughter. The living room was lit by an elegant and tasteful chandelier. It had a more antique and eclectic charm than the manor’s modern refine. Able to attract less attention if we split up, Jason vanished into dining room while I stayed in the living area, mumbling the occasional polite “excuse me” as I tried to make it seem as though I were a frequent guest of mafia dens. I looked around for a woman matching Olivier D’amici’s description- old, blonde, haggish. I silently kicked myself for not asking Jason to be more specific, because as it turns out, old, blonde and haggish was the memo for tonight’s event.

“Oof-“ I smacked right into what felt like a brick wall in a Versace suit. At least, I was right about the suit. I looked up to see a man of about forty peering down at me. His hair was a rusted gold, and he sported magnificently manicured facial hair- it made him appear very leonine.

“My apologies, dear.”

“Oh, it was my fault. I should be the one apologizing.” I said, suddenly nervous with the idea of being roped into a conversation. I was a fighter, not a liar. He chuckled, took a drink of his undisturbed wine.

“That’s sweet of you. It’s refreshing to find someone around here that isn’t too stubborn for their own good.” He said. “You aren’t from one of the families, are you? I don’t know that I’ve seen you around before.”

“I’m a friend of Penelope’s.” I quickly supplied the lie. Something like surprise flashed in his blue eyes, before his face steeled back agreeably.

“I see.”

“I was actually just looking for her. You wouldn’t happen to know where...?” I trailed off as he nodded his head, gesturing to the opposite corner, where a beautiful olive-skinned brunette appeared to be object of adoration in a small circle of people. I’d never actually seen her before- anyone who entered to living room would’ve notice her immediately.

“Oh!” I laughed. “I don’t know how I missed her! Please, excuse me.”

I took my time inching through the crowd, stalling. But the man didn’t take his gaze off of me until I reached Penelope D’amici, and her pool of admirers. Damn. He was going to keep watching until I talked to her. It would be utterly obvious it was an introduction and not an anticipated reunion. I took a deep breath and dug in my heels.

If you’re going to lie, I could hear Bruce’s voice in my mind. Dedicate yourself to it.

“Penelope!” I called. She turned, planting her stunning, doey brown eyes on me. I pressed a couple friendly kisses to her cheeks.

“Hello!” She said, clearly inured in the art of greeting. I stole a glance to the man, who had moved along just as Penelope gave me a politely curious look.

“Have we- um,” She looked so apologetic, I almost felt bad.

“Louise Casteñes?” I said encouragingly, giving her my fake name. “We met at the wedding.” Penelope’s face went a shade of pink, and she gave me a bashful laugh.

“Oh- the wedding was quite the evening, I’m really sorry if I forgot. You must think I’m so rude.”

“Oh, it was months ago, no need to feel bad.” I offered.

“I saw you talking to Mr. Cliffs. Are you two familiar?” I blinked. Adriano Cliffs. The man trying to sabotage Red Hood- and now was suspicious of me within fifteen minutes of the party. Good fucking going.

“Not really, I just accidentally ran into him. I’m lucky he didn’t spill his wine.” I replied. Penelope laughed, the sound like wind chimes.

“If you asked my grandmother,“ She said. “She’d say he’d deserve it.”

“Olivier, right? Your grandmother?” Penelope nodded.

“Did you meet her at the wedding as well?”

“I didn’t get the chance, I’m afraid.”

Her face lit up and she looped her arm in mine. Together we waltzed through the bodies and expensive antique furniture into the dining room. Jason was nowhere to be seen; he must have begun his hunt for information.

“Oh, you have to meet her! She’s the host.” Once away from the crowd, she leaned close in cospiracy, and added. “And I need an excuse to get away from those people. Looks like you’re my savior tonight.” She winked, and I laughed as she pulled me into a small, secluded reading room.

Olivier D’amici was- well- old, blonde, and haggish. She had pale skin like worn leather and powdery makeup, but her fashionable ensemble of emerald green silk and sapphire jewelry was stylish and unconventionally attractive. She was like a peacock personified. She was indeed a touch odd, and more than a touch paranoid- though not of me. After thirty minutes cradled in scandalous conversation about everything from the horderves to Kane Pellegrino’s bedroom habits, I learned that Olivier stuck her poignantly upturned nose away from the likes of Adriano Cliffs and his slimy business deals. She made no mention of Red Hood, but complained in great detail that real estate competition between the Pellegrinos and D’amicis was a problem solved by the marriage and that was that. Cliffs had been pestering her for months, but she wouldn’t sign a thing. When thirty minutes turned into an hour, I finally caught Jason’s face amidst the party. I hadn’t expected the following relief that washed over me as I excused myself.

We reconvened, settling on a chaise in the lounge.

“I got everything I need.” He said simply, with no further indulgence as to what he’d been up to for the past two and a half hours. I lowered my voice as I updated him on my end.

“Olivier doesn’t want to work with Cliffs- she thinks he wants to break up the families again. Penelope’s marriage was bad for his business.”

Jason nodded thoughtfully. “Good work, little bird.”

“She’s nice.” I added.

“Hm?”

“Penelope. She’s nice. And innocent.”

A beat passed before Jason sighed lightly, and leaned close, eyes moving across the crowd.

“You see that woman over there?” I followed his gaze to a pudgy, but frail woman in a wheelchair who had to be in her late eighties. Her purple blouse was adorned with a matching silk bow on the neckline, as she smiled as she cupped the face of a young boy. A grandchild, perhaps.

“Pepper de LeShapelle.” Jason’s lips grazed my ear for the closeness of them. “If the D’amicis enlist the help of some third party goons- guys just tryin’ to whip up some extra cash, feed their families- and those guys wind up in Finger River afterward, de LeShapelle signed the order. She pays the legal team, too. Been doing it since the eighties.” My gaze fell away from her. “Nobody’s innocent here, dollface. If Penelope is now- which I doubt- she won’t be in a couple years. Maybe she won’t gun anyone down, but she’ll sure as hell be signing the orders for somebody else to do it. That’s D’amici tradition.” I didn’t respond, letting my silence speak for itself. I still couldn’t get the picture of Red Hood pointing a gun at Penelope out of my head.

“Andre! Come, come.” A voice interrupted my thoughts. Jason turned and gave a charming smile to a man with a thick accent in a monochrome black suit. “Pardon, my dear, but I must steal your companion for a moment.” He addressed me. I smiled agreeably.

“He’s all yours.”

Jason- Andre, as it were- left in a blur of suits and pocket watches, and I wandered around the townhouse for a while, busying myself with scones and inspecting baby pictures until ten minutes passed, and the air began to dizzy me.

Nights in Gotham were always pretty; the shadows filled all the cracks and made the flaws too dark to see. In Little Italy, the view from the balcony was particularly breathtaking, with colors like oil paints against a dusk canvas. Stars hung low in the fading light, competing with the twinkling lights of the city below. I could see a ferry steaming along in Finger River. The shade of blue made me realize how the chaos had worn on me. Stepping onto the terrace was a cool and much-needed repose.

After a while, footsteps sounded behind me. They were heavy and relaxed; lazy strides that could only be Jason’s. He was intimidating in his armor, lurching into a fight with fistfuls of firepower and that daunting stance he always took. But somehow, he was more intimidating here, out of his element, with wine and music and satin blouses, affluent society moving around him like water in a stream. He was uncharacteristically poised to pretend. In a fight, I could see the anger, the strain, the stubborn willfulness in the way he trusted completely the momentum of his own body. He was a great combatant, but I knew his moves. I always knew what he wanted. Here, even though I could see his face, I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Everyone was his enemy, everyone was his friend. He could smile at a mafia goon and scowl at servant, and feel the exact opposite way. I felt like he was always lying.

Jason sauntered over and leaned against the Romanesque stone railing. He smelled like cologne and wine, and in fact tipped his glass to his lips for a sip.

“Hope it wasn’t too overwhelmin’.” He muttered, eyes falling on the city. He looked apologetic- but perhaps it was the lighting.

“No, it’s fine. I just needed some air.”

Something like glass breaking sounded from inside, followed by a chorus of laughter. He glanced back, amusement dancing on his lips. I wondered if he’d rather be back there; he did so seem to love the fray.

I ran a finger across a crack in the railing. Dick would have loved to know I’d attended a party with the upper echelon of mafia society. I thought I’d remembered a stupid story about his escapades with congressman’s daughter at the G.C. Opera House.

“What’s wrong?” Jason’s low voice broke through my thoughts, and I looked at him, surprised at the expression of interest he wore. I hesitated, shifting my weight as I stalled. Of course I didn’t want to tell him I’d been thinking of Dick.

“It’s stupid.” A beat.

“Yeah? Tell me anyway.” He said, with some finality. Again, I paused.

“Go on, little bird.” He said, drawing almost imperceptibly nearer, dipping his head close, drawing a line between ourselves and the mansionful of strangers. “Tell me.”

I was agonizingly aware of the modest inches between us. “My moms… they loved to travel. Everywhere they went, they always did something- something memorable. They were the life of the party, everywhere. They had a lot of stories.”

He didn’t say anything. It made me nervous, so I kept going to fill the silence.

“They probably came to Little Italy a lot. Probably before I was born. Ma used to tease me, because I never did anything. Or went anywhere. I just studied and… stayed home.”

More silence. I didn’t even want to look at him. He was the Red fucking Hood and I was telling him about my dead moms like he was alcoholics anonymous.

“I can’t help but feel like… I don’t know. I guess I wasn’t disappointing them, really. But I keep thinking how happy and proud they’d be now if they… if I could tell them all the stories I have now.” I concluded, watching cars with golden yellow headlights file like ants down the cobblestone streets.

“Huh.”

I blinked- not really sure what I was expecting out of him. Emotional intelligence-wise, he did die when he was a 15 year old boy. I never really yearned for him to offer me solace; but the way he just looked at me and listened made me feel like I could say anything.

I looked over at him, and he flashed me a toothy, wolfish grin and sipped his wine.

“So, if they were here, what tales would you tell em, darlin’?” He asked, eyeing me with some unreadable plan formulating in his head.

“I… well, I don’t know. I guess I don’t have anything that impressive yet. I’m spending my first ever mafia party on a balcony.”

“Easily remedied. Come on, I’ll get ya another glass.” He stood.

“Well, I‘ve never drank wine either.”

He looked at me with genuine surprise. “Ever?”

I shrugged. He settled back against the railing. “Do you want to?”

“I don’t know…” I hesitated. I’d had beer before, and burning liquor in the dark quells of some distant classmate’s basement party. But that, I could barely remember. I added quietly, “It smells bad.” He laughed his uncanny, jagged laugh.

“Yeah?” He gave me a vexatious look. “How ‘bout just a taste?�� I glanced at the empty glass hanging in his fingers.

“Too bad you drank it all.” I said teasingly.

“I said a taste, not a sip.”

He drew closer. Leaning on the railing like we were, it was easy to forget my height reached only his chest. Before I could give any forethought to what any of this would mean for me, his calloused fingers were tilting my chin upward, tipping my face toward his. I could feel the warmth of his body and breath- it made the night seem colder, though I knew it was tepid at worst. His lips were soft and considerate when they met mine, gently adding pressure. It was a feather-light, brief thing. What startled me more than the kiss itself was the gentleness of it.

When he pulled away, I breathed, realizing I’d forgotten to. I blinked as he let go of my chin, a small grin playing at his lips as he surveyed my reaction. Realizing he wasn’t going to kiss me again himself, I leaned in this time, butterflies fluttering in my stomach as I did. Jason kissed me back, more enthusiastically this time. His tongue danced against my lips until I parted them, whereupon he slipped it past my teeth. The intimacy cradled me like a blurry dream- I hadn’t at all been expecting to be here with him, tonight, like this; and yet here I was, and not wishing to be anywhere else. Jason was with me- tall, strong, gorgeous Jason Todd- choosing me over all the rich and beautiful people of Little Italy beyond the stained glass french doors of the terrace. Choosing me over the criminals and vagrants he had the power to puppeteer for any purpose he so chose. The way his mouth and tongue felt was dizzying. And he was right; I could taste the wine. Fruity and tangy, with a more earnest, earthy bitterness just below the surface. When my breath hitched, asking for air, he pulled away. After a deep sigh, I leaned into him, letting his arms encircle me, laying my head against the fabric of his shirt.

Our mission was over. We could’ve left any time. But there, then, I couldn’t even associate with the idea of pulling away from him.

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triumphorce · 7 years

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Canali cloth attire, laid nonchalantly over fire, from topics uninspired to disgruntling pressures under fire, targetin spires, charrin sleeves and leavin nothing but naked wholehearted beings and tarnished iron trim,

Finest barbed wire imprisonment, causin marred alliances, as blood rushes from self and rusts the pine links and pinned leaves of holly twine wreathing appeasement in drama, makin tied seam strength synonymous to tenacious, blocking and blanking aiding regimes agelessly fought for, proud of sorrow, lamenting praising or barrowing triumph,

Enough with all the staged in attention addicted Lady Gaga verbal-apparel, needless needle embroiderin shared ploys of disappointment, but this ain’t Roleplayers anonymous and if it was you staged it rather obvious, in which case, yeaa, I think we got it,

shit changed, you couldn’t foster, lest maintain and thus you lost “it”, only caught up in acts of homicide and robbery, so bring the coffin please, from Dubai to a community threw to die in poverty,

Only spewing faux wit, So now I faux pas truth, dismissin laundered talent, in a drought cause you deserted yourself, So now it’s comin back to haunt you, in all of these fluent water spouted lakes, flow faux naïf-unbound, quenchin haters inner child, Dasani crisp, Danali limits I exemplify in lyrics, announced atop of cliffs, offerin poetic gifts to ones not honest to his or her own, spread my mission and bring it home,

Forever getting nearer…

In completing literary pyramids of intricately-equaling mirrored wit, clearer than disappear and gentle wind, so why do I still progress through temperance, when seeking creative ledges and you can't? risen over fallen tears and then some, tearing hair out and donating it, hearing nothin to turn my cheek, only bit inside of it, fearsome hearings anxiously veered me to mutiny within my mental premises,

Breached only by a will to hold on for the truth of dawn’s sight, my muse has already prophesized,

So all the whining and sighs are not from loss in site, just from loss of sight to finding pride, ultimately locked by their own conceit, slowly teeming in self affixed, self-defeating exemption of ever proceeding again, ignorantly limitin their consistency and causes them to make excuses as proof of cloaked Excellency, good enough to leave them hopeless in others’ motives while only promotin de-motifs,

So don’t stick around if you enemy to entropy of Nyxheim’s present loathe-state to future shone intimacy, loss of lust whilst shifting reigns in palindrome planes of outer realms, nothing gained to balance attention deficient objection-ist, only denoting initials sewn in collages

Of over-flaunted acknowledgments, either in past-due accomplishments, preceding reasons for “dis-membership”, or indicative diction of whose grievance was largest in adoptin Nyx, ehhhh, really more like auctioned it,

And left those who were followin nothin but college-long lists of problems and Martyr trails of wrongly “discarded” characters, that newcomers are forcibly strayed to wallow in,

Cause you felt betrayed, orphaned with no conception of tolerance or perseverance, so you bring Apollo carriages, carrying Carrie despair within, isolating Carian with over-weary, heavy cargo of caricaturing problems, harnessing false pretenses of sharply edged double-sided warfare relieving care of duty,

Started bombing in the name of over arching tales for plotted dreams in fallin air, waiting to be harvest bare,

But faith, as sun’s rays, fades to darkest made disguises, on a stage portraying lively, their pain, light seldom playing a part in, not sayin what’s displayed is fake, but obstinately placing blame in comments that only lack grace, negates the modesty, replaced with garnished garbage feeds, it’s okay to leave, but not absolve your fallen dreams through thoughts displayed, always talkin bout Arcadia when it’s obvious that that ain’t the problem here,

subliminally imprintin dreams, that only break ‘way the ones who inherit post-Bush offices, self acclaimed authors in the art of roleplayin but lose throttle when change of what has brought them here brings loathe to redeem past events, no desire in furthering grasps, or going beyond to creatin a masterpiece,

Needing to get away from all of this, might drop another thousand bars again, so maybe it’s best for the one’s stuck in the dust of production’s joggin pace, place their resignation, doin nothin but hatin and disengagin,

Been restraining range in all of these poems’ exposure and chosen topics’ engagement, Been thinkin a cadence of change in scenery is needed, so I needle topics, stringing phonics, innovatively harpin new is the god in us,

More importantly, expressing more openly my focus on what’s goin on in ominously woven carcasses unbeknownst to their artistic reach in ever paused heart beats, in that moment, leavin no hope for today, tomorrow’s already over,

If none elope, then what other possible motion is left, guess I need to spell it out cause most of all I’ve seen is over-merited

Oblivious talkin, no shown weight difference in comparison of something cherished behind, just pound for pound hypocrisy

Encased in deceitfully thoughtful speeches boxed in reminiscences, obnoxiously demeaning what the beginning offered,

Speaking of how awesome it once was, forgot love, well what’s not love is the op-tion to allow what you claim gave you a faucet to fall flacid,

Turnin diamond ring carat facets to fragmenting all of us, and not even from any leave of absence, but more because of a leave in passion and that is self-practiced,

In the face of comparin the past and present, one in the same path of two,

So of course what’s already been contracted looks more attractive when you haven’t attempted latter effort, or laddered endeavors, lapped or even attempted to catch ghost from past time trials, just just the action of lacking spirit,

never heard of movin backwards to get to past hurt and since truth is truth, what’s done is done,

Like what’s hope is hope, thus, when true and influenced, is so, still only renewed once the whole of affiliates facilitate to group as one again

until then i will promote hope in, and gratitude forever owed

Fin.

#dps #poetry

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Breaking bad: Hollywood wakes up to the power of dark, dangerous women

Forget the sobbing suffering beauty. From Rebecca Halls unlikable newsreader to Jessica Chastains ruthless lobbyist, this is the year of the unsympathetic, deeply flawed femme. Thank goodness for that

The good news is that there are some great female characters coming up in the cinema in 2017. The bad news, if youre looking for inspirational feminist role models, is that you wont always find them in the movies. Lurking behind such obvious audience-pleasing instances of fine upstanding womanhood as Taraji P Henson plotting a course through the cosmos in Hidden Figures, or Rachel Weisz taking antisemitism to court in Denial, lies a monstrous army of deeply flawed femmes perverse, prickly, deluded, depressed, obsessive, venal, scary. Well, I say hurrah for that.

First up, though, is the unfeasibly perfect Natalie Portman in Pablo Larrans Jackie, not so much a biopic of Jacqueline Kennedy as a tone poem evoking its subjects transformation from trophy wife via weeping widow into American icon, a makeover forged by grief. In recreating a historical event made to seem ever more removed from reality by more than half a century of Zapruder, Warhol and conspiracy theorising, the film-maker and his leading lady transport us back to basics: the barely imaginable horror of witnessing your husbands brains being blown out. Portman knocks it out of the park, giving a masterclass in suffering beautifully.

And I mean beautifully. Whereas the likes of Claire Danes and Laura Dern convey excoriating emotional pain by snivelling like you and me, cry-faces scrunched up and shoulders heaving, Portman weeps like a lady, trying to blink back her tears, elegant eyebrows rearing up like rival caterpillars to greet each other across her lightly furrowed brow. She cries cute, a fan comments beneath one of the supercuts of Portmans comely blubbing in everything from Lon to V for Vendetta to the Star Wars prequels to Black Swan. And Larrans camera loves her, whether shes crying in the shower or chaperoning her husbands coffin on Air Force One.

Tippi Hedren in Hitchcocks The Birds. Photograph: Allstar/Cinetext/Universal

There is something exquisitely cinematic in the suffering of women, and depicting their torment in big closeup has long been a favourite pursuit of male auteurs. How often do their cameras linger on womens pleasure? Try to think of great actressy moments in the cinema and the memory veers towards heartbreak more than happiness or fulfilment. Greta Garbo may have laughed in Ninotchka, but this was already so atypical that the publicity department bragged about it on the poster.

No wonder there have been so many films about Joan of Arc – all that in-your-face spiritual agony, with the religious element providing a righteous front for the voyeuristic revelling in pain. In The Passion of Joan of Arc, Carl Dreyer dwells on Falconettis sublime anguish so relentlessly his camera is practically lapping up her tears. One thinks of the womens pictures of Douglas Sirk or Max Ophls, or Rainer Werner Fassbinder (Margit Carstensen in The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant), or Meryl Streep tortured by Sophies Choice, or, more recently, Nicole Kidman in Birth, or Marion Cotillard howling the roof down in La Vie en Rose or Rust and Bone.

Alfred Hitchcock pretty much dedicated his career to putting his leading ladies through the wringer, and duly subjected Joan Fontaine, Ingrid Bergman and Kim Novak to the sort of carefully calibrated mistreatment guaranteed to make them look more alluring than ever. This tendency reached its apex in The Birds, where Tippi Hedren starts off as the epitome of cool blonde chic (impeccable coiffure, spotless suit and pearls) and ends up decoiffed, streaked with blood, her nylons laddered a traumatised victim of assault. Hitchcock is clearly getting off on it. Male directors, few of them attractive physical specimens themselves, like nothing better than to knock perfect leading actresses off their pedestals.

The most Hitchcockian heroine of 2016 was Amy Adams in Tom Fords Nocturnal Animals. Adams plays Susan, a super-soigne Los Angeles art gallery owner who lives in a concrete and glass Bel Air mansion and sports impeccable maquillage, preternaturally straight hair, high-tone couture (as youd expect in a film from the former creative director of Gucci), statement jewellery so pronounced you half expect it to start talking and a fabulously good-looking husband who keeps her in the style to which she is accustomed.

Perfectly flawed Amy Adams as Susan Morrow in Nocturnal Animals. Photograph: Merrick Morton/Universal

But, this being a revenge thriller (albeit not necessarily the sort that youre expecting) the delivery of the manuscript of a novel by her first husband throws a spanner into the perfection. Unlike Hitchcock, Ford is a prime physical specimen, and one can safely assume his interest in her downfall isnt so much sexual as conjuring classic Hollywood by expressing emotion via screen style. But many filmgoers have felt alienated by Susan not being sympathetic, and condemnations of the film as misogynistic are not hard to find. A love letter to sexist movies (Bitch Flicks); epitomises salacious, exploitative misogyny (Ruthfully Yours); an ugly, mean-spirited story from start to finish, with a deep misogyny at its core (Bouquets & Brickbats).

I suppose if you like your films to be purveyors of Old Testament-style justice, in which anything unpleasant that may happen to, say, a career woman must be de facto punishment for sins she has committed, then Fords treatment of her is as cruel as that of her ex-husband. But Nocturnal Animals is a cautionary tale, not a moral one. I prefer to think of Susan as a tragically flawed human being, wrestling with lifes complexities and suffering the consequences of her own misguided decisions, yet in control of her own destiny, just like all the best male movie characters. Im not interested in watching the hackneyed rise and fall and rise again of a one-dimensional paragon who learns from her mistakes, triumphs over sexist opposition and emerges in the third act as a shining feminist role model. I want compelling drama and dark nights of the feminine soul. I want Shakespearean, and if that means a character suffering, so be it.

And it looks as if 2017 might be stepping up to bat. Brace yourself for a coven of female characters who are no more sympathetic than Susan. Prepare to see them make awful decisions and do bad things, with results that are sometimes tragic, sometimes comic, sometimes both simultaneously. In Christine, Rebecca Hall gives a fearlessly unlikable performance as an ambitious Florida newscaster whose refusal to play the game leads her into some very dark places. In Miss Sloane, Jessica Chastain is bracingly uningratiating as a ruthless Washington DC lobbyist. In Elle, Isabelle Huppert plays a chilly businesswoman who reacts to being raped by refusing to embrace the traditional movie roles of victim, survivor or avenger, instead striking out into unexpected and distinctly uncomfortable territory.

Elle trailer: Isabelle Huppert stars in Paul Verhoevens noir thriller exclusive video

All these are hints that the next few months could be one of the most promising seasons for choice female roles in years, and what is especially exciting is that female film-makers visions are at last entering the picture. In the three chapters of Certain Women, Kelly Reichardt presents the non-glamorous lives of Laura Dern, Michelle Williams and Lily Gladstone in a precisely observed manner that is the opposite of melodramatic, though one of the segments will still break your heart. Maren Ades Toni Erdmann may be named after the grotesque alter ego of its leading male character, but its chiefly about the strained relationship with his daughter (Sandra Hller), a workaholic businesswoman leading a bleak life in Bucharest. Like Reichardt, Ade isnt in a hurry and prefers slice of life to glamour, but the film packs at least two audience-pleasing highlights to rank with any by commercial Hollywood.

But you dont have to settle for realism, because the more we see movies by female film-makers, the more its evident that the female point of view, like the male one, is not some homogeneous, touchy feely Mama Mia!-type hoedown. Alice Lowe stars in her own directing debut, the deliciously mean-spirited Prevenge, as a pregnant woman whose foetus urges her to kill, and kill again. Lowes Arnold Bennett-ish ear for one-liners, insight into hormonal chaos, and gleeful splatter combine to present a female POV youve never seen before. From the other side of the Atlantic, Anna Biller pays visual homage to the colourful style of 1970s occult thrillers in The Love Witch, the tale of a Californian femme fatale (Samantha Robinson) whose love spells have bloody consequences, but gives the story a modern feminist twist.

Alice Lowe as a woman whose foetus urges her to kill in horror flick Prevenge. Photograph: Western Edge Pictures

And while there is no UK release date for it yet, keep your eyes peeled for Julia Ducournaus Raw, the best and bloodiest slice of body horror since David Cronenberg in his prime. Its about a naive French veterinary student (Garance Marillier) whose hair-raising rite of passage includes brutal hazing, eating raw liver, cannibalism and the funniest, most gruesome bikini waxing ever filmed.

Theres more than enough room for all these films. Some you may love, others you might loathe, but there is no longer any excuse to pin feminist hopes and dreams on to a single film or female character. We contain multitudes.