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greytoiletpaper · 4 years ago

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Out on Allen Street, it’s 7 in the Morning

Set in the Street Siblings au by @a-sketchy-character | @streetsiblings without which I may not have had the motivation to write this much.

Drizzle | Deluge | Squall | AO3

Chapter 4: susurration

The world is dark.

Somehow, she knows how many marks and cuts criss-cross her body; how many bruises decorate her like a canvas. But she can’t feel them, not even one.

Instead, all she can do is listen, tuning in to the rain as it pours, as red droplets fall in time off of Mad Dog’s blade. If she really listens to the sound, it almost sounds like a different boy’s laughter.

She focuses on the noise and it alone, her body so perfectly still.

Mad Dog thrusts his blade to her chest, and Cassandra’s eyes open.

They’ve only been in Gotham for a week, yet, it feels like he never left. At least for Park Row, the “Crime Alley”, the city has never changed. Slowly, the Red Hood and Ravager make the area their own. He does everything to make sure that the Bat never catches a whiff of what he’s doing. He knows it is pointless; even if Bruce knew, he would be too much of a coward to venture into the evil heart of the city.

It infuriates him, the remnants of the old argument. If Batman was ever truly needed. It would be - no, should be - here. In the black, beating heart of Gotham, where crime and cruelty channel through its citizens as if it were in their own blood. Yet for all he prattles about his crusade of justice, Bruce will never set foot into Crime Alley; too hung up on the ghosts of his past to banish the ones that haunt others.

It’s why he’s wearing the original persona of the man who murdered him. Jason had lived these streets, born and raised and died because of them. Deep down, Jason understands what Bruce simply refuses to believe. Some people simply want to watch the world burn, and they can never be stopped, only carefully controlled, managed or otherwise taken out. He never wants what happened to him to be inflicted on someone else. Not if he can help it.

Now, Red Hood is here, slinking through the darkened hallways of Arkham. Past every guard and camera until he arrives at one particular cell. He knocks on the door, and a mop of neon green flips upwards.

The madman beams; his eyes are whirlpools of chaotic energy.

“What’s this? Birdy clipped his wings!” The Joker begins, guffawing like a howling hyena. “I was wondering when you’d come back to see me, little Jay.”

To his credit, Jason doesn’t react. The pneumatic seals of the helmet hiss as it comes off. The Joker never takes his eyes off his face.

“There you are, my boy. Just like your uncle Jay” The lunatic says without tone, feral grin seeming plastered. “Say, you seen Cass anywhere?”

That makes him shift uneasily on his feet. The Joker leans in close, almost conspiratorially.

“You think the Bat ran her out? That he…” Something morbid flashes in the eyes of his monster. “Killed her just like I did you?”

Jason wants to drive his fists into the man’s back. Stamp on his legs until the bones shatter. Bludgeon him over and over with whatever is on hand until the madman’s flesh is nothing but paste. Instead, he stands frozen as the cackling echoes around the room and in his ears.

“I’m not doing this for you,” Is what he says. “And I’m not doing this for me either.”

His hand lifts the pistol from its holster.

“I’m doing this because someone has to do what Batman can’t.”

The Joker takes the words in stride, nodding to himself. To Jason, it’s the calmest he has ever seen him.

“Not a fan of the whole motorcycle fetish style, but to each his own,” The madman’s eyes, still rotting in their own insanity, meet his. Something about the gaze seems so clear despite the instability. “You’re going to be wonderful for the Red Hood name.”

He sighs.

“When you do it, boy, make sure you get as much of the colour out of me.”

Jason nods and presses the barrel into Joker’s forehead, closes his eyes, and everything is silent.

He presses his hand to the glass, the rain sliding down the pane on the other side, its streams the same lengths as the rivers that flow from his red crown.

Fact One, a statement: Roman Sionis is the Black Mask, one of Gotham's most powerful crime lords with connections running deeply in the underground drugs and weapons trade.

Fact Two, an amendment: Roman Sionis is the Black Mask, arguably one of Gotham's most powerful crime lords with sizeable connections in the weapons trade.

Fact Three, a truth: He is absolutely livid with the Red Hood and the Ravager.

Roman stares at the text on the notepad; he picks it up and throws it across the room.

In the space of two nights, the new duo had taken over his entire drug operation and cut off every tie Roman had to Crime Alley. Internally, he thinks ‘cut off’ is still too lacking a description. Half of his thugs breathing through tubes for days. Pimps found castrated and dangling from lampposts. Drug dealers with their mouths frothing as they dissociated. If the rumour mill among villains is anything to go by, Red Hood had killed the Joker in his own damn cell. Roman shudders. He’d seen the images from the crime.

The pair are definitely a threat, and Roman needs him gone as soon as possible. Hiring the Joker would have been one of the best choices: effective, relatively cheap and definitely motivated to take on whoever dares don his previous mantle. Alas, reality disagrees.

Black Mask picks up the phone, ready to dial the more expensive alternative. He sighs and hopes they don’t call Deathstroke the ‘Terminator’ for nothing.

Cassandra dives away at the last second, adrenaline flushing through her body and lifting the fog from her mind. Her opponent’s blade impacts with the ground, firmly planting itself the whole way. Mad Dog, clearly thrown off, becomes an easy target with her renewed energy.

She does not hold back, unleashing a flurry of blows to the assassin’s chest, even as he tries to hold his defence together. With renewed focus, she redirects every strike he makes and strikes him back thrice as hard.

It is not long until Mad Dog is at Cassandra’s mercy, nearly a bloody pulp under her hand.

“Finish it,” Shiva calls suddenly, and she almost complies. But, with her hazy vision, the images of Faizul and the assassin blend together. The vertigo Cassandra is feeling becomes sharper, and she’s drowning in it.

In her hesitation, Shiva tuts and stabs her own blade into Mad Dog’s heart, crimson fluid spraying in all directions.

Cass doubles over, desperately heaving, and liquid green purges from her body.

Bruce stares up at the readout on the Batcomputer. There are new players in Gotham, but there’s something that makes them stand out from the others. They make headway faster than he’s ever seen it, clearing out and claiming Park Row as their own territory in a week.

Twenty-seven confirmed kills and thirty-four hospitalisations. He would have stopped with his investigation then and there. Yet, the detective in him tugs the back of his mind. He checks through the names again and finds that each one is attached to a laundry list of crimes that become more appalling the further he reads.

Then Red Hood killed the Joker; and for the first time since the madman’s debut, Gotham is quiet.

Bruce rubs his face in his hands and turns to the screens entirely dedicated to monitoring his daughter Cassandra. (The memorial makes itself known in his peripheral vision.) Her work in Hong Kong as Black Bat had been phenomenal so far. Every story he can find of her weaves the same story: Black Bat, hero of the Forgotten. Of the waylaid and the oppressed.

What would they think? Bruce finally turns to the statue, mouthing the words on the plaque to himself.

“Can you promise something for me, Bruce? Just one thing?”

“Anything for you, Jaylad.”

He tears his eyes away.

Damian becomes cagey whenever either of the three vigilantes come up in conversation. It is suspicious, but he has had the lesson very solidly ironed in his mind how unconducive to understanding he can be. So, he gives his son his space.

Despite the child's refined nature, little pieces of him remind him of Jason, far beyond the boy's temper, pride, or even his cursing. Bruce had seen Damian in the library once, his fingers tracing the spine of a newer copy of Huckleberry Finn.

Red and orange flash by his primary monitor, and Bruce pulls himself from his thoughts.

Batman rises, ready to confront whatever ghosts will taunt him in the shadows.

The world roars in her ears, and no matter how hard she tries, Cassandra can’t stop the erratic sequence of deep breaths that claw out her throat. For once she’s glad she’s not wearing her old costume. The mask reminded her too much of smoke inhalation and chains and-.

“Why?” She rasps in a throaty, breathless voice that has not escaped her for years. “Why would you do this?”

“Can’t a mother test the progress of her daughter?” Shiva replies coolly. Her stance gives off nothing, so Cassandra does not deign her a response.

“He went looking for me, you should know.”

Her head snaps up.

“He was curious. A unique girl who can read the body as if it were a book and a unique woman who can do the very same? An unlikely coincidence,” Shiva turns her head away, ducked down as if she had already admitted too much. “He asked me, if it was my choice to leave you with your father.”

“It wasn’t.”

Sandra nods.

“He told me that was, and I quote, ‘a load of shit’.”

“Sounds like Jason,” Cass mutters under her breath. A hush falls between them, not comfortable but not unwelcome either.

“It is not me you came here for,” Sandra says with such conviction that Cass can’t help but gape in her disbelief. Of course, she did. Shiva gave birth to her.

Before she can voice her thoughts, Sandra grasps her shoulder and wraps her arms around Cass.

“You’ll find your brother soon. I can promise you that.”

Gotham rumbles, her shock snaking through the crown of her scalp. She knows that tonight is the night; when events will pass and tear the whole city asunder. For better or for worse, she cannot tell.

But she is eager to find out for herself.

“Think that’s a wrap for tonight?” Jason asks quietly, almost inaudible over the Gotham rain. It’s the only coherent sentence he’s made in days, so Rose takes what she can get.

“Probably, you’re not shanghaiing me into grabbing groceries, right?”

“Maybe,” He chuckles, but even though his voice is filtered by their comms, she can tell it’s forced. “Anyone ever tell you how similar some of our problems are?”

“Really? You realised this just now?” Rose rolls her eyes because, honestly. “I mean, at least your dad isn’t some psycho assassin supervillain.”

“Aww, Rosie, making your old man sad. Truly, I’m hurt,” Hues from orange and blue armour melt from the shadows as Deathstroke emerges, eyeing her. “You don’t wear the uniform like Grant did.”

“It’s not meant to and either way, I barely knew him or Joey.” She draws her blades, trying to hide how much her arms are shaking. It doesn’t help. “No thanks to you.”

“Is that Slade?” Jason’s voice is like music to her ears, relaxing her muscles in the ways she needs.

“I made your brothers stronger,” There’s an edge to Slade’s voice, sharp as the glistening blade he brandishes. Ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. “I suggest you come with me so you can be the same.”

“What, dead because of problems you caused?” She laughs shakily, grimacing under her mask. “I suggest you fuck off.”

“I’m coming, Rose.”

“No can do. There’s a hit on the two of you, and its fait accompli,” Deathstroke makes a ‘what-can-you-do?’ gesture and Rose darts forward, her tears faster than the raindrops that dance on her skin.

Batman has followed the Red Hood for hours now, and he has no idea what to think. He expected someone wielding the Joker’s former identity to be as insane as the Clown Prince himself. Yet, the red helmet only bobs up and down as if it were in conversation rather than rotating listlessly.

Despite how antithetical the new face in Gotham is to his beliefs, some actions catch him off guard about the man.

While he has seen no deaths on this patrol, with every bone the criminal breaks, the same hands offer food to street children and escort working girls to their homes. Bruce is thrown, viscerally, into a memory of the bird that flew beside him to do the very same.

The Dark Knight watches him stalk through Park Row, freeze and then take off in another direction.

It is time.

He pursues the criminal, sprinting across the rooftops of Gotham, gliding above catwalks and fire escapes. Within minutes, he overtakes and blocks the path ahead of Red Hood, who curses and vaults over his body.

Or at least, he tries to as Batman grips the man’s ankle and slams him back into the pavement. Hood never misses a second, drawing a knife and swiping at his limbs. He lets go; the man faces him again, twirling the knife round and round.

“B,” A modulated voice hangs in the air, but there is a quality to it that tickles his conscious, like an old ghost whispering in his ears.

“Red Hood, I suggest you surrender peacefully, or I –.”

“Cut the act, alright? You think that just because you’re Batman, nobody can be above you,” Red Hood laughs. Through the modulator of his helmet, it comes off as hollow. “The truth with a saying like that –.” The knife is stowed away. “– It just means nobody is beneath you either.”

The criminal grapples him; kick, jab, punch, kick again in a rapid dance of attacks that Bruce can barely keep up with. Some of the criminal’s movements are achingly familiar yet so foreign that the composite form nauseates him. Red hood strikes over and over until he actually has him, the Dark Knight, pinned.

“And some of us can’t wait to drag you all the way down.”

Jason had always had a gift for speaking. His sister’s hands may be knives, but his words were bullets.

Breaking out of the Red Hood’s hold, that is what Bruce muses in his mind.

They’ve been at a game of cat and mouse for so long now. Locked in a chase of diving and darting around a maze of alleyways and rooftops. Jason drops on one of them and turns to face his pursuer, who draws short away from him.

“What, can’t work it out?” He triggers the seals on his helmet as he lifts it off. Without the lenses he can see, even in the rain, the second Bruce recognises him. “You really didn’t care enough to remember my name or something?”

“Jason,” Bruce’s tone gives off nothing and everything. “W-Why are you doing this? How are you –.”

“I’m doing this because you refuse to do what needs to be done.” Jason snarls, venom laced in every word. “You want to rule them by fear, but you never go any further with the ones who aren’t afraid.”

“Jason, I don’t under-.”

“I died for your cause, and in less than a year you shove some other kid in the uniform so he can die too!” He is raving now. He also doesn’t care. “You let my murderer run wild and slaughter thousands and when someone finally steps up to do what needed to be done, you cut her out?”

“I had to –.”

“Had to what? Isolate her? Run her out of the only family she’s ever known? She was my sister, my whole fucking world; who believed in you and you left her like she means nothing to you! Cass is gone now, and that is your fault!”

“If you would –.”

“Do you even remember? That the only thing I ever made you swear to me, that you vowed on your life, was that you’d never let her down?” For once this night, his voice isn’t angry or vicious. It is a void, detached from any feeling. “Guess I should have known better.”

He knows, almost intrinsically despite the years, that if there is one thing that Jason has said tonight, those are the words that pierce Batman’s defences. It’s why he lets Bruce rush forward like he wants to. Allows the chase to continue. When he jumps, Jason lands in an apartment that carries the same bloodstains that leaked down his mother’s arms a lifetime ago.

Black Bat arrives in Gotham, and superficially, it is empty. She almost hails Barbara when bright flashes shine in her peripheral vision. Lo and behold, Deathstroke and an unknown are locked in a duel below her.

Cassandra drops from above, and at that moment, she kicks Deathstroke into a wall hard enough to knock him unconscious. His opponent, she notices, stops immediately.

Before her is a girl, hair silver under the moonlight, garbed in orange and black.

Then the Batmobile rounds the corner, a small figure rising from the hatch.

"Black Bat," Robin says, "You have not responded to Oracle, she was-."

Damian's eyes bug out once he notices the girl beside Cassandra. She fully expects him to snarl or draw his ridiculously long katana. Instead, uncharacteristically rushes forward and embraces the girl tightly instead.

"Wilson. A-are you finally assisting us in Gotham?" Damian says, even with his head buried in a shoulder. "Drake may be intelligent, but his incompetence with the sword is impossible to rectify."

"Missed you too, D-man," The girl chuckles and ruffles the boy's hair. "I would help, but what’s up with tall, slim and broody over there?"

Cassandra crosses her arms expectantly at Robin, who obviously only just remembered her presence when he unlatches himself immediately. His cheeks may be red, but Damian still raises his chin proudly.

"I found her, Rose," His body language and eyes seem to sing. "I found his ukht."

The girl spins sharply, wolfish eyes drawn wide. “You’re her,” Rose breathes, awe rippling off her body. “You’re Cass.”

She would have flinched, but the body language is so familiar. Cass tilts her head.

“Yes.”

Rose grabs her arm so hastily that she almost rips it back in shock. But something is so honest about her body language that Cass relents, letting the girl lead her where she is needed.

He kneels, tracing the dark stains. Behind him, Batman pauses. Not even he would dare to disturb the sanctity of this room.

“Jaylad, please -.”

“Don’t call me that. That isn’t who I am,” Jason rounds on Bruce. He gestures to the shattered window, the ripped upholstery, and the bloodstained floor. “This is what I grew up being, what I never wanted anyone else to.”

He taps the insignia on Bruce’s chest with his pistol.

“That, right here, was your promise to people like me. People that needed help and protection,” He spits. “And you couldn’t even do it for the ones closest to you.”

"I just want to-."

"Want to what? Parade your antiquated sense of morality to hide, while the rest of the world suffers for what you refuse to do? Or cast out others from taking it in their own hands?"

Tears are building in his eyes, but he wipes them away while Batman stands ramrod straight.

"I don't think you understand. That you've never understood," The man begins, and Jason gapes because what the hell does that mean? "If I let myself cross that line, even for Joker, I won't ever come back."

"You know what I think about that, Bruce?" Jason breathes deeply, feeling the whispers of the Pit roaring with the heavy rain in his ears. "I think that's a huge self-aggrandizing load of bullshit."

He charges forward, knocking Batman's legs from under him and ramming his face into the ground. Batman is down to his knees before either can even blink.

"And I'm so fucking tired of hearing it."

Jason levels the barrel at Bruce’s forehead, torbernite lining the edges of his vision, engulfing him in an absence.

“What’s the use of you learning to do right when it’s troublesome to do right?”

Then, her voice shatters the tension in the air, gripping his heart and silencing the susurrations of the rain that suffocated his ears.

“When it ain’t no trouble to do wrong, and the wages is just the same.”

“Cass?” The boy in the alleyway says. A gun. An apple in his hand. The girl falters in the doorway, her fist tongue clenches, and she nods.

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anothercouch · 4 years ago

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A Pair of Wings - Chapter 2

Angelmont is a dazzling kingdom for aspiring angel hunters and sorcerers alike. Though, when Logan finally sees the dark truth of this beautiful place, he’s casted out and labeled the local lunatic of the kingdom. He saw no logic in angel hunting and its cruel practices. Now he’s determined to prove them wrong, but after nearly ten years wasting away in a forest and losing hope, he’s on the brink of throwing his invention away. That is, until a curious angel falls from the sky right in front of him.

Word Count: 1.2k

Previous, Next, Masterpost

——————–

Logan grumbled to himself as he picked up his precious box and went outside to sit. There wasn’t much in the box except a gift he kept dearly, and, as old as it was, it looked to be in pristine condition. He sat down on the porch of his small cabin as he looked out to the kingdom he used to call his home. A sigh came out as he looked down at his old gift his father had given him. It was one of the few things that brought him some comfort and it was something that pressured him to continue his invention. Today, though, he felt absolutely hopeless. He couldn’t bring himself to continue working on it. His eyes were weary from all the sleepless nights, and when he did sleep, it was always at his desk. Even with his weariness, the thought of resting he simply pushed away. He was so close to finishing his invention that resting was not an option. A wind blew as he watched the sun rise up in all of its glory. Maybe its beaming light would at least wake him up more.

A week had passed since Virgil visited the cabin. Quietly, he hid in the trees as he noticed the human was looking up at the sunset with that box he must’ve seen for the millionth time. Very rarely did he see the human open it, and when they did, he could never get a good look at it. It must’ve been very dear to them if they’ve kept it for so long. He looked over to the rising sun from the trees. Though he didn’t like to be awake at this time, he had to admit it was beautiful. He loved how the sky turned from purple to red, to orange, and finally blue. It made for a beautiful scene as the sunlight shone onto the mountains just behind him and the small forest that separated Angelmont and angel territory. He could feel the warmth of the morning star, even in the cover of the treetops and wind. It was these times that made him feel just a bit more at ease, especially when going into the forest. Many angel hunters went out at night so there weren’t many humans up so early at this hour. Of course, except the human that sat at their porch.

Virgil, as much as he didn’t like humans, felt pity for the human. He’d always hear them working on something, never giving a break for themself. In all honesty, he wondered how they survived out in the wild like this for so long, especially when a certain angel is out and about patrolling the forest. To him, there seemed to be nothing stopping them from simply living in Angelmont. It was a utopia for humans, at least that was what he heard when travelers sailed down the river. So why did they torture themself, living alone? It was a question that always scratched his head when he came to the cabin now. He liked living alone plenty, but to isolate themself from their own species still seemed like madness in the angel’s mind. And from the likes of it, it looked like they were on the verge of insanity. There was rage in their eyes, but he’d always notice a sprinkle of hope, no matter what mood they were in.

Logan, as frustrated as he was with himself, decided to take a break and simply rest for the day. He didn’t want to cut or burn himself in an accident because of his tiredness. Plus, an injury would slow his progress down on his invention. It was the first break he had taken in years since he was exiled. Every day, he worked tirelessly from sunrise to sunset, so to take a break felt awfully weird for Logan. He took one last look at his gift and soon went back inside. It felt much warmer inside the cabin now, most likely since the wind made him a bit chilly. He looked over to the bed that was straight across from the door. Suddenly, a thought came to his head. He hadn’t slept in his own bed for months. Gently, he put the box down at the base of his bed and touched the blanket he made out of old clothes. The softness, as worn as the blanket was, made him wide eyed. He hadn’t slept in his bed for so long that the softness from just a blanket filled him with joy. Soon, he tucked himself into his straw-filled bed and quickly fell asleep.

Virgil watched as the human went back inside their cozy cabin. For a few minutes, he tried to tune in to see if they’d start working again but not a single slash or clang came from the cabin. It was very unlikely of them not to be doing something and he’d only seen them resting once in the nine years he’d taken notice of their presence. Perhaps they were exhausted or even weary? As quietly as possible, he climbed down the tree he was in and hid behind another, making sure he didn’t hear the human stir inside the dark wooden cabin. He perked up his pointy ears, listening. Once, he heard nothing from inside, crouched down on all fours. The wall he was hiding behind had a large horizontal window that faced Angelmont, letting the light in from the sun. There was also a very distinct human smell. It was somewhat meaty, but also another unfamiliar smell to it. The smell was a bit on the weaker side but certainly clung to the old dark walls. It was almost as warm and soft as an old tree, damp from the rain, but without the kick after.

The sun was starting to rise quickly, and, even though there were few angel hunters in the morning, it was still incredibly dangerous for Virgil to be out in the open. Slowly, he peeked through the windows, finally able to see the inside for the first time. On the far-right corner was the human, asleep in their nest, as what angels would call it. A strange stone structure was close to the human’s nest that was filled with some burnt logs. There was also a table to the left of the bed with what he presumed to be food. Though, what interested Virgil the most was the table that was to his left side near the window. It had what looked to be a flat sheet from a tree with writing on it. Next to it was a candle, most likely for light, and a metal frame that was on a stand. Half of it was covered in leather and it was rather long. He noticed just how thin the leather was which was surprising. Was this some kind of armor or weapon? Though, as he inspected more and more, his eyes widened at his realization. Slowly, he raised his right wing to compare it to the metal frame. The shape of it was perfect. Now, Virgil finally knew what that poor human had been working on. They’ve been making their own pair of wings.

#sanders sides #logan sanders #virgil sanders #fantasy #a pair of wings by perci #fanfic #fanfiction #angst

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regrettablewritings · 6 years ago

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Arthur Curry x Shy!Reader HC

A/N: Uhh... Heehee...Hi. I’m not gonna pussyfoot, this thing is way overdue. But for anyone who vaguely remembers, I had an anniversary fanfic raffle thingy back in January and ... yeah this is the result. Many, much, and eternal kudos to @this-red-in-my-ledger for their infinite patience with me and my perfectionist brain, tendency to overthink, weird motivation schedules, and school and work schedule, etc. Words cannot express how flustered I am at how late this is. I hope its length proves to be able to compensate at least 5% of what you’d hoped for. ...Though if it’s too long (and it most definitely is), please regard me as a fool who never learns. Once again, thank you so much for your patience, you are an absolute doll!!!

Despite being a man mostly shrouded in mystery, Arthur Curry was not exactly what some may refer to as “demure.” Aloof, maybe. Cynical, definitely. Reluctant to interact with others without an arguable consequence, most assured. But absolutely none of this is out of shyness. In fact, it’d probably an actual fact to claim that Arthur had nary a shy molecule in his entire being.

A man of his size and appearance could never afford the characteristic of being shy, not ever. But a man of his background had insecurities to spare. Specifically, those stemming from a sense that he didn’t quite belong with either world he had been linked to the moment his human father managed to conceive a child with an Atlantean queen.

Making matters worse is the unspoken sense of duty he has towards either realm, with assuring that both remain as safe as possible from both one another and outsiders sticking their noses where they ought not to.

This lack of belonging gave way to a rebellious attitude, one that led the man to apparently decide that if he wasn’t going to be provided an allegiance to begin with, as most people do, then he wouldn’t accept any unless he gave them the okay. It was just better this way: To push away than to pull or be pulled in. It was very liberating, having that sort of control over his own circumstances . . . Or so Arthur professed.

Nevertheless, Arthur took advantage of the devil-may-care reputation (or perhaps lack thereof, given his inability to stick to one place for too long). He owned that sense of disconnect and renamed it freedom. And he would own that freedom: He would take what he wanted within reason, party up if the circumstances were right, and leave with the tide.

. . . And then there was you.

You were also on the more closed off side, but for very different reasons. You didn’t have the same insecurities brought on by a lack of fitting in as Arthur had: You were just flat out shy.

However, you were nothing if not also dutiful and hard-working. That was what made you ideal in the eyes of one Lucius Fox, whose trust in you was enough for him to recommend you to Bruce Wayne’s services as his more publicized assistant. Though, in your own self-deprecating words, you were more like a glorified babysitter of sorts: When Alfred couldn’t accompany Bruce for certain travels, you came in handy to assure that there was always some form of backup.

(“He would attempt to survive off a diet of alcohol and perhaps occasionally a steak if he could,” Alfred scoffed once. “Maybe chased with only two hours’ worth of sleep, perhaps.”)

With Bruce’s newfound interest in finding the metahumans featured in Lex’s files, your presence was needed now more than ever

You admittedly had your hesitancies and were more than allowed to voice them but at this point, you knew it was mostly hopeless: You hadn’t been with Bruce for too, too long, but you had at least known him long enough to know that once his mind was made, it would take the combined force of a Kryptonian and Amazonian to actually move it.

And so here you were, out in an isolated village in Iceland, the wind slapping your face sore while your ass pained from riding on a pony across the rugged terrain. Your loyalty knew some bounds; unfortunately, these weren’t quite the bounds that would send your loyalties running. (Plus, the job paid well.)

It was this follow-you-to-the-ends-of-my-loyalty mindset that made you follow Bruce down, down, down into what you surmised might have served as the village’s gathering hall. All eyes were on you and Bruce, of course, as the two of you were outsiders in a hamlet that couldn’t have had a population expanding beyond perhaps seventy – and that was you being generous.

You were really hoping that some of that generosity would be extended to you, though: Their eyes bore into you with mixtures of curiosity and suspicion. You didn’t blame them for it, but it certainly did nothing for you dislike of having so much attention casted upon you.

You felt almost ashamed as you stuck to Bruce as a duckling does to whatever they’ve imprinted upon. You only let up once a decent enough crowd had gathered, and Bruce attempted to speak with the denizens about the metahuman he’d come to potentially acquire the assistance of.

And that was how you first laid eyes on Arthur Curry. Not that you had much of a choice: He was taller than even Bruce for one thing. And if that weren’t enough, his naturally-tanned skin and glorious dark-and-sandy locks surely stood out against the small sea of pale faces topped with mostly blond hair.

It also didn’t hurt the situation (or your eyes) that that this man was certainly quite attractive even at a distance. Ruggedly handsome, but not in the same way some might consider your employer.

This man had a look about him that said he could easily swig Jack in one hand and swing fists in the other without breaking a sweat. (However, if his body was anything like you imagined it must be beneath that clumpy sweater and dingy coat, you wouldn’t have minded seeing a little perspiration on him.)

These features proved to be key in your determining that this striking man differed from the rest.

Unfortunately, so could your boss. This, along with his smart mouth, let to the long-haired beauty of a man promptly grabbing your boss by the collar and slamming him into a wall, an aura of primal aggression radiating from him all the way to the back of the room where you stood.

In short, your first introduction to Arthur Curry was far less than ideal. You were downright intimidated by this man more than you already were by default of your own timid nature. When the two men left the hall to discuss the matter, you made sure to keep your distance. You knew Bruce could more than take care of himself alone, but you couldn’t trust this new guy for jack shit after that scuffle.

“That your assistant?” Arthur questioned, glancing back at you. Your distance did nothing to hide your tensing at his sudden regard. Bruce sighed, exasperation coating the visible puff of air. “…Yes,” he responded gruffly. Arthur nodded with approval. “Nice…” he murmured before looking back at Bruce. “She single?” Bruce’s eyes narrowed with exasperation as they rolled in their sockets. He wasn’t sure which annoyed him more: That Arthur was clearly trying to remain off topic, or that he was doing so by using you (and with such a lackadaisical manner, no less). “Can we please focus on the matter?”

Yes, but to less than ideal results.

You stood there, gobsmacked as you watched the tan man begin to strip down. At first, your thoughts encircled around the insanity of it all: You were in the ice-blistering realm of Scandinavia during a particularly freezing bout, this lunatic was about to catch a death of cold!

As you were beginning to question further Bruce’s credibility for attempting to recruit such an idiot, however, Arthur removed his shirt – and your tune was peeled away along with it.

With the way you felt your cheeks burning, you no longer noticed the biting cold. His body was far more than what you’d initially imagined it to be. But perhaps more startling than his finely-cut physique were his eyes: Like the ghosts of sunken ships, illuminated by the sheer will to survive. You’d never seen anything like them, and you highly doubt you ever would again.

They flickered in your direction once more, for a split second, before returning to Bruce. “You’re out of your mind, Bruce Wayne,” Arthur ridiculed, and his sights went back to you. You felt your heart leap ever so slightly as you watched him aim a nod at your person. He then flipped back into the water before torpedoing elsewhere, away for your boss’s ludicrous proposal.

That would’ve been the last you’d have seen of Arthur Curry, had it not been for Steppenwolf’s less than pleasant surprise visit to Atlantis.

The next time you saw Arthur, he wasn’t nearly as undressed as the last time you’d seen him. You experienced a very short-lived flicker of disappointment, overthrown by the concern with the reason as to why he’d even taken up the previously rejected offer of joining the team.

Also . . . Whatever he was wearing did look quite impressive on him. Almost draconian, yet doubtlessly born in the sea. Much like the man himself.

And, once again, Arthur was quite aware of your stares at him whenever you entered the area. When you came to the Batcave to serve Bruce and “his new friends” drinks or to bring down any equipment as requested by Alfred, you would always somehow manage to spar Arthur a glance.

Unfortunately, not much was exchanged beyond a simple “thank you” or “excuse me.” Even on Arthur’s end, he could barely get a flirtation in before he’d be ushered elsewhere or snapped at about losing focus by your employer. And you? Expecting your coyness to be put aside for one second just to speak to somebody of his stature was an order taller than the man himself. (Plus there was the whole “he’s only here because Steppenwolf got the Mother Boxes and was preparing to bring about the Earth’s reckoning” but, you know, what can you do?)

Which was a shame: From what you were able to conclude from what few and often distant interactions you’d had or were able to observe, Arthur wasn’t as bad of a guy as he’d made himself out to be back in Iceland.

Back in the village, he was cold and gruff, exuding an air that said he was constantly ready to knock somebody’s teeth in over the smallest slight no matter how unintentional. But here? More laidback, still somewhat intimidating, but in the same way as a fellow who hung out at the local tattoo parlor and made small talk with the artists and customers but otherwise caused no real trouble.

Plus, his wiseass comments toward Bruce even managed to crack a smile out of you – something which he made note of and couldn’t help but muster pride from.

All things considered, the pleasant relief that he wasn’t as bad as you’d thought managed to relax the nerves you’d accumulated since you first laid eyes on him. It almost made you forget that you were on the verge of the end of the world. Almost.

Things were being received surprisingly well on Arthur’s end, also.

While you admittedly weren’t the type he usually found himself drawn to (which must be noted was essentially closer to a female version of himself), your more introverted nature still had its charms.

For what it was worth, he initially read your timid nature as one of a “stone-cold bitch” in the most respectful sense: The image of the aloof, perpetually unimpressed career woman who took no shit from her male coworkers (or, in this case, employers), and who always had an acerbic comment waiting to drip off her tongue if pushed beyond a limit she had personally set. Basically, his expectation of you in your “natural habitat” had been formulated through what he’d seen on TV or in movies.

Regardless of whether you truly did have anything to snap with, however, this proved to not be case exactly.

He quickly noticed that your quiet, withdrawn attitude wasn’t one of disinterest as he assumed anyone working for the likes of Bruce Wayne would be in possession of. In fact, on the contrary, you seemed quite interested in the matters at hand. He could see it in the little things: The ways you might lean in somewhat whenever Bruce brought up a diagram or whenever Victor brought forward new information; the occasion where you would tap Bruce’s shoulder, prompting him to lean towards you so that you might show him whatever it was you had pulled up on a tablet that might service the cause; that glimmer in your eyes that Arthur had managed to catch sight of during the very, very few moments he was just close enough and you simultaneously dared to look up at him.

The first time he’d seen it, he thought it might have been a fluke or the trick of lighting. Maybe he’d mistaken it for a desperation to leave, call the rest of the night off, and spend what may be your last night of existence binging Netflix and pizza at home.

But the second time he’d caught it, Arthur knew what he saw: Dedication, a yearning to be a part of this to a bigger extent than what you already were. But on that note . . .

He did also capture some nerves in your glances: Ones that, in spite of your eagerness to help, also seemed to want you to hide behind a one-way mirror and pitch in without the possibility of sounding clueless or out of line. In short: You weren’t this stone-cold bitch who would, without hesitation, necessarily break a man’s balls beneath her heels – you were just a bashful ball of nerves, and not in the nervy sense of being emboldened enough to look him dead in the eyes!

Not at all the type he usually found himself looking at. In fact, it was the brash, almost bullyish part of him that was beginning to coax him into teasing you a little bit, maybe riling you up.

And yet . . . He liked for someone of such an introverted manner, you seemed to have a lot more going on than what he’d initially thought. Almost like an oyster, if he could be pardoned for the clumsy comparison.

After witnessing the smiles you would occasionally share with Diana, the ever-present, underlying flame of determination that flickered as you helped to prepare the team for what was to come . . . Arthur Curry couldn’t help but wonder what more there was to you. What lay deep in your depths, beneath the seemingly one-note surface?

Plus, let’s be real: he had totally been checking out your ass every chance he got. The weather-proof gear he’d seen you in back in Iceland did absolutely no justice to your figure. He was quite pleased with what lay beneath all those goose down wears.

As you watched the team depart for Russia, you couldn’t help but feel your stomach drop into a low, dirty pit. There was no guarantee that anything would work into anyone’s favor, but you forced yourself to keep a calm countenance as you followed Alfred back into the labs. There was no use in worrying; all you could do was hope for the best. In the meantime, it would do some good to help monitor Bruce’s mechanisms.

Still, you found yourself considering the weight in your stomach, that sickening twist that twanged almost nauseatingly when you regarded what its source was: The regret of not having actually spoken more extensively with Arthur.

You found it weird that you were feeling so much over someone you’d barely met. Sure, the version of him that had been here not even a full hour earlier was a complete upgrade from the one you’d met less than a week ago. But still, it seemed odd of you to put that much weight in not having talked with the nearly complete stranger.

“Well,” a voice in your head thought, “isn’t that more reason to have gotten to know him better?”

You blinked at the intrusive thought.

You were unable to stop your thought process from forming its next declaration: “If they survive this, I’m going to overcome this shyness and actually freaking attempt to talk more with Arthur Curry.”

Meanwhile, on the Flying Fox, Arthur Curry was glowering: Diana had left that stupid lasso laying all will-nilly, and he’d been its unfortunate victim. At this point, he’d made an ass of himself by light-way insulting all the males onboard, flirting with its one member of the fairer sex, and then going back to Bruce to say, “ – and you know what? I don’t wanna die! I’m young, there’s shit that I wanna do – like Bruce’s hot assistant.” Bruce’s eyes hardened, befuddled at the crudeness. And yet, he couldn’t stop himself. “Don’t gimme that look, I know you’ve seen her. Look, man, if I survive this, I’m asking her out, sorry that you missed your shot but – ”

By the time he’d realized the extent of what he’d said, the damage had been done. He scowled as he tossed the Amazon the Lasso of Hestia and threatened Barry to keep his silence of the series of revelations before storming off, face burning. He trusted the other three members to hold some semblance of maturity on the matter and never bring any aspects of it back up.

He’d put too much faith into the one who was the most mature of them all.

“I look forward to you keeping your promise,” Diana smiled, almost tauntingly.

Arthur Curry sat onboard the flying transport. Against all odds, they had won, and now they were en route to Gotham, where he’d left his more comfortable clothes, where a nice, hot shower was, where a place to crash (courtesy of Bruce’s hotel connections) was, and where –

His pale eyes widened in spite of their owner’s exhaustion. Shit. Shit.

Gotham was also where you were: single, shy, giving off no hints as to whether you were ready to mingle, much less with the likes of him.

Your heart was beating so fast, you thought you were about to vomit it up. Sure, you’d told yourself you were going to attempt to talk with Arthur if he got back. But if you were being honest, you were sort of hoping it’d be after a buffer of time where he would be recuperating from the battle and you would be prepping yourself to actually speak with the rugged man. That, and you were really thrown off by the fact that not ten minutes after he’d gotten off the Flying Fox, he had marched straight up to you. He hadn’t even changed out of his war gear, arguably adding to his threatening appearance.

And yet, everything he said and the manner with which he said them seemed to work against his daunting form.

“I uh…I honestly didn’t think this would wind up happening. To be honest,” he coughed, hand scratching at the back of his wavy locks. He was even less like the man you’d met in Scandinavia than before.

“Uh . . . Listen.” He steadied his eyes on you, causing you to tense somewhat visibly. “I know we haven’t . . .” he lazily gestured his hand in a rolling motion “—talked. Formally, I mean. But I kinda made a promise sorta thing and . . . Okay, look, I think you’re really hot in a sorta sexy secretary kinda way but also I think it’s kinda cute that you always wanna help and all and sorry for being fresh but you’ve also got this real sweet caboose on ya and I just – ”

He froze. You weren’t sure if it was because you possibly had a rejecting expression (really, all you knew about your face right now was that it was blazing with blush and that your eyes were wider than usual), or if he’d considered the possibility that he’d gone too far with the blunt statement about your ass. However, as he glanced down and grimaced, you found your answer: There, wrapped around his lower thigh just enough for impact, was a shining lasso, the rest of which trailed away from the two of you. Its end was found, wrapped around the hands of one grinning Diana.

Well shit.

After forcing himself to calm down from the huffiness left from removing the lasso, Arthur cut to the chase: “So anyway, I was wondering if maybe you’d like to get a drink with me? Or something?” At that last bit, you could’ve sworn you could make out a very specific type of infliction. It was a very familiar one to you because it had been the same kind that plagued you your entire life: One of shyness.

Arthur noticed it as well and inwardly cringed. His alpha male persona? Ruined by the slip of a tone.

But for you? It was just what you needed to feel encouraged to look into those strange eyes of his and actually respond.

“Well…,” you began, if not a bit quiet and trembly (after all, you weren’t completely removed of your nerves), “I’m not sure if a bar is exactly the greatest first place to get to know one another.” You quickly added ad you watched his shoulders begin t slump, “Buuuuttt…maybe I could have a certain somebody pull a few strings; get us a nice place to ourselves?”

Two things then happened that pleased either party: Your eyes replicated that twinkle of interest that had him intrigued before; and he smiled a genuine smile. It was a very nice one, if you said so yourself.

Nobody honestly expected the relationship to go entirely too well, save for Diana. Arthur is brash and gung-ho and while the team now knows he’s capable of a softer side, his demands that they never bring it up again honestly make them hesitant to trust in his ability to show that part of himself to you.

Your shyness, coupled with your sensitivity, mean that he’s going to have to at least try and tone it down a bit; you’re at a 4 or 5 at best! – and he’s at an 11 when you need him closer to maybe a 7.

Bruce, against his initial intentions, sort of goes into Papa Wolf mode where he lightly threatens to mess Arthur up if he puts you out of your comfort zone

What can we say? Bruce has some paternal traits kicking around in him.

Still, he prepares himself for the worst when the day finally comes. To his surprise, however you don’t call him in hysterics, ranting about what a jackass his unrulier teammate is. You don’t call off the next day due to a rage-drinking-induced hangover, or even from one caused by you feeling pressured to keep taking shots.

Instead, you arrive at work practically glowing.

To everyone’s surprise, Arthur isn’t too bad of a boyfriend for you.

Okay, he’s actually just flat out not a bad boyfriend period.

His intense demeanor makes it so that nobody dares mess with you when you go for walks downtown; his sense of humor surprisingly tickles you, and he finds yours to be appealing in its own right. He knows you struggle with speaking to others, even if you need help, so he has no problem with stepping in and making sure that you get what you need and that nobody takes advantage of your demure mannerisms.

Plus, to everyone’s surprise (including his own), he likes talking with you. That interest in your unintentional enigma never went away: he wants to crack you open, see what pearls of intrigue lay within you that you don’t generally bring to surface for everyone. He feels honored to be the one with the most potential to see all of it.

(Though, to be brutally honest, he’s still going to tease you about certain aspects of yours. Maybe lightheartedly, but nevertheless with frequent vengeance. Calling him Fishcakes tends to get him to back off for a little bit, though.)

Unfortunately, due to his commitments (as a hero, as a ruler, etc), he can’t always be there. But he tries his damndest to make it up to you whenever he’s back in town.

Dates between the two of you are kinda compromised.

Arthur isn’t used to having a long-term relationship, so dates with actual meaning are a bit wobbly for him. Honestly, given his history, a “date” usually meant going to a bar, him and the girl he’s with getting hammered, and getting frisky.

Maybe they’d try it again another time, but nothing serious ever came of it because it was made from nothing serious.

Bars – at least the dives he’s used to – aren’t necessarily your scene, though. So he has to get a little creative.

He’s learned to swallow his insults aimed at museums and bookstores because if it means seeing you smile, then it ain’t all that bad, is it?

You’re still gonna buy him, like, three cheeseburgers after this, though, make no mistake.

Besides, picnics in the park have their pros: For one, it gives him an excuse to put his head in your lap and demand you scratch his scalp for a bit while he takes it easy,

The two of you don’t really go to the aquarium, though; it makes him feel a little anxious to see all these aquatic creatures contained.

Plus, he’s heard what some of them are thinking and it’s generally not good

He enjoys taking you to places with “good water.” As in “nowhere near the shithole that is Gotham or the arguably polished turd that is Metropolis.”

If you’re up to it, he’ll happily create a pocket of air for the two of you and speed the both of you to clearer ocean waters. (Don’t worry, he’ll hold you nice and tight, nothing to worry about.)

If this man can get a date with you at a beach, he’s one happy fellow. He’s totally in his element and is in the perfect environment where he can show off not only his body, but his abilities.

Even if you just want to keep it simple and build sandcastles or collect seashells, he’s going to find ways of showing off: He’ll manipulate the tide a smidge to keep it from coming in and ruining your hard work, or he’ll request his aquatic friends to make scooch some pretty shells or any available sea glass close enough to the shoreline that the tide will do the rest.

You may roll your eyes at this, but you do eventually thank him for it after every time. After all, you now possess a mighty fine bowl full of gorgeous shells and soft, rounded pieces of green glass because of his efforts.

He enjoys trying to find ways to get you to open up a bit more.

It’s not that he finds your shyness annoying or necessarily a hindrance, far from it: he enjoys that your modesty sort of creates a series of slides for him to try and pull back, creating layers upon layers of new things to learn and love about you.

But, as mentioned before, he can’t always be there: He doesn’t like the idea of you becoming too reliant on his boisterous behavior and getting taken advantage of during one of the instances where he isn’t present.

“M’kay, so you’re at a bar – ” “Lies, slander, libel, misinterpretation of character – ” “Fine,” he says through gritted teeth. “You’re at the ice cream parlor – shut it, you had your chance – and some, I dunno, punk who frequents the sodie fountain comes up to you and starts causing you trouble. What do we do?” “Tell him to please leave me be, I’m trying to enjoy my sundae.” “Mhm, or?” “If he’s persistent, call management.” “Good, and what else?” “Well, jeez, Arthur, do you want me to break a milkshake glass on the counter and use it as a shiv!?” “Noooooo: You could always say, ‘Piss off or else my big, scary boyfriend’s gonna come and shove a piranha down your dick.’” “What the – I’m not saying that!” “Not now, you’re not, but by the end of our training, you’ll be saying all kinds of tough guy and gal things!”

It’s . . . a work in progress.

He loves it when you blush. Even if you have dark skin, he’s picked up on cues that hint that your face is on fire.

He’s more observant than he lets in on, but trust me: he knows how to read you after getting to know you. He can see that way you smile or that certain way your eyes may flicker or whatever may have you and instantly know that roses are blooming in your cheeks.

“Aaaawww, is Babygirl feelin’ sheepish?” “Shut up, you big fool.”

Now, when it comes to the more . . . physical side of the relationship, he struggles with taking it slow

Not to knock on you, but Arthur’s rather used to women throwing themselves at him. Hell, he’s had at least two women wrap their legs around his waist in the same evening he’d taken them out on their first (and often only) date.

It’s because he’s used to, well, bolder types of women.

Honestly, he struggles for a good while: He’s not going to force you to do anything you don’t feel comfortable with, not ever, but he’d be lying if he said it was easy to not think about smashing his lips against yours and pinning you to a wall (preferably around Bruce’s place) and mark you up with hickies and possibly other, more personal things.

However, this change of pacing in a relationship, coupled with the fact that this is his first long-term one, does the man good: It teaches him more patience and consideration.

He even begins to enjoy the softer, sweeter things that he’d previously scoffed at as being “too vanilla”, such as kisses to the forehead or hand-holding.

Still, he does get strong makeout hankerings. (If you appease him, he’s more than grateful every time.)

That being said, if and/or when you do start to feel a bit braver about venturing further into the realm of intimacy, you still may possess some insecurities.

You’re no fool – you know what sort of man you have on your hands. You don’t need to look to the sides or behind you when the two of you walk somewhere to know that he’s being checked out by at least three people. He’s practically a demigod species-wise, and still remarkably attractive from the viewpoint of him being a normal human.

Even though you try not to, you can’t help but let some worries slip through the cracks: Maybe you’re just an appetizer to hold him over until he lands his sights on a more “fulfilling” meal; maybe you’re too plain for him (you know that that’s what goes through the minds of many gawkers); maybe you should show more skin . . .

But worry not: Cliché as it may sound, Arthur very much likes you the way you are. If you’re comfortable with you, then he’s comfortable with you. In fact, it makes him admire you even harder because it shows you’ve managed to do something he still struggles with: Being comfortable with his own self.

He finds it very sexy when you think you look nice in an outfit or when you take even the tiniest step out of your comfort zone to try a new look or accessory, and will honestly struggle all the more with keeping his hands or lips to himself.

But once you give him the okay, he’s all over that: Hands squeezing that ass he loves so much, kisses below the neck, utterances of flirtations ranging from PG to downright dirty.

If you gather up the guts to move even further or just flat out hit a homerun, it becomes a guidebook in itself.

Protip: One of the sexiest things you can do? Simply where one of his shirts, which is oversized on you thanks to his massive height. It doesn’t have to be wet, but it sure isn’t a problem in his eyes.

Cuddles. The boy is a slut for cuddles no matter what he tells you. Arthur may not necessarily be touch-starved, but he’s definitely bankrupt on accumulated touches of affection. His loner attitude always made it difficult for him to receive that sort of thing, especially since nobody he went out with was ever in the picture for too long. So when it hits him that in this relationship, such a thing is not only possible but welcome, he can’t help but feel a well of excitement brewing within him.

You in his lap, you by his side, you with your head on his chest, traditional spooning, you with your head on his lap or vice-versa, him lying down with you on his back, him sitting on the floor between your legs or the opposite, his loves it all!

The problem is, he won’t even admit this to you. But he tries to be sneaky about getting what he wants.

“What’s the matter?” “Hm? Nothing.” “Really? You look sad; you need me to cuddle you?” “What? I mean, it’d be nice but I’m not really –” He sighs, as if exasperated, “Can’t be helped; c’mere.” You aren’t given much time to object as you find yourself being collected into his warm, muscular embrace.

Sometimes, however . . . he slips up. And by that, I mean he’ll “happen” to slip into bed or onto the couch next to you in a way that presents himself as the little spoon.

Actually, of all the ways he likes to cuddle, jetpacking may be his favorite. Unfortunately, unless you think enough about it, you’d probably not notice it until later in the relationship due to how rarely he lets it happen. But it makes perfect sense otherwise: He’s so used to everybody having expectations for him. He’s so used to feeling obligated to do all these things for worlds he doesn’t necessarily feel the strongest connection with. Going off of that, there was the life-long sense of not being completely bound to either existence, creating insecurities galore.

Sure, he’s started to take the steps in the right direction but it’s still very hard, especially since those steps are accompanied with the extra weight of him now being a member of something bigger: An appointed rule of Atlantis, a balance-keeper between the land and the sea, a member of an actual team . . .

You don’t need to be told that it’s frustrating. You truly do commend him for taking it as well as he is.

But obviously, it takes its toll on the guy more often than he’d let his teammates in on, so it often times falls on you to help him cope.

Interestingly, this honestly seems to be the most he lets you do. Or rather, the most that even needs to be done at all.

But the fact of the matter is, you’ve come to love this position as well.

Because it allows you to feel like the brave and strong one in the relationship, just like how you suspect Arthur must feel much of the time. The way Arthur constantly wants you to feel, not so that he doesn’t have to try as hard at being a boyfriend to a person so different from him, but because he wants the best for you and doesn’t want the world to hurt you or make you feel out of place for who you are. Of course, he doesn’t want you to change, but he does want you to recognize the inner-strength you have, the inner-strength he sometimes worries you forget about amidst your worries and own frustrations.

But for the meantime, this will do: With your big, brash aquatic boyfriend allowing himself to feel delicate, and your usually quiet and shy self, feeling brave and protective.

It surprisingly works, this weird little world the two of you have created together. You both find that you fit into it together quite perfectly.

#once again sorry that this is god forsakenly late!!!#you're my...AAAANNGEELLLLLLLL!!!!#arthur curry x reader #aquaman x reader #arthur curry imagine #arthur curry imagines #aquaman imagine #aquaman imagines #dceu imagine #dceu imagines #justice league imagine #justice league imagines #arthur curry headcanons #regrettablewritings

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un-nmd · 7 years ago

Text

Recent listening—

John Zorn, Naked City (1989) Reserve judgement till after you’ve heard the likes of “A Shot In The Dark” or “You Will Be Shot” (detect a theme?) for in these Lynchian juxtapositions of the mundane and the visceral, Zorn and co-conspirators laugh in all the faces of the jazz purists, art music graduates, avant-garde cultists—compartmentalisers or cataloguers or labellers, basically. The madness was always there. Zorn was only woke enough to listen to the wind and precipitate what she betrayed of her lover’s broken heart, or hearts: New York, L.A., Chicago, either/or, doesn’t matter, once past a critical mass all tend to the same limit, the wind’s seen ‘em all and they’re all the same. Naked City’s a portrait of order gone to anarchy. Whatever identity the “Latin Quarter” once had is here presented as a frenetic collage of whims; predatory, music liable to combust at any given moment. Likewise “Siagon Pickup” for an oriental equivalent. But sometimes the omens are bad enough that you can anticipate the storm, and even enjoy it, revel in it when it comes. Like on “Reanimator” where Zorn’s freakout heralds some insane climax that’s euphoric for the awakened. And please don’t miss that it’s all awfully hilarious to them as they feel and know that these stoic truths are lost on those yet to accept that all’s gone to shit, yes, even in your ivory towers, your vaults and penthouses and corporation headquarters; there its only letting itself take a bit longer to be known, but chaos’ll come, so you might as well wise up and enjoy it.

Death Grips, The Money Store (2012) Rather a lot to take in upon first hearing. Immediately plainly a refinement of the aesthetic put forth on Exmilitary but now with an entire studio to run around in these kids have wrought havoc on Mr. and Mrs. White’s 8-track ideal—couldn’t come up with a more fitting antithesis to De Stijl (and Mondrian’s, too) if you let the industry wallow another decade. So why’s this defunct Detroit duo in the mind?—cos where are the guitars, man? Every beat’s packed to near bursting with all manner of production craftsmanships (or gimmickries if you see it that way), MC Ride’s tripping bars overlaid—too much matter, really, to be dealt with on the first wave. But you appreciate the covenant this sonic assault bespeaks—this hip-hop New Complexity has room only to deepen from here. So steep in it, and by about round 3 or 4 (depending on how acute your lobes are) you’ll have undergone some sort of desensitisation to this violence in noise—and now you’re in a place to prophesy. Despite Ride’s barely discernible delivery (except on the eponymous hooks to nearly all 13) the ‘point’ of it all somehow gets itself across—it is, unlike the music itself, not very complex, and mainly involves embarrassing amounts of non-specifically directed anger. Dare I say it, there’s no filler on this, it’s a wild enjoyable ride and a happy side-effect to the maximalist production is there’ll always be something to tickle the ear. And when the hooks do come its a righteous clarifying of the chaos that would eventually get old if it stood alone. Plus, theorists can invoke an unholy marriage by ascribing some mutant Bartókian arch form: “Get Got” and “Hacker” as symmetrical sandwiching allegros, “Double Helix” as Nachtmusik?

Ornette Coleman, The Shape of Jazz to Come (1959) If you’re hearing these albums in the same order I did you’ll get the same shock upon flicking on what you expect to be Coleman’s near-incomprehensible emancipated bebop and instead hearing a tune that’s actually perfectly singable, and moreover, one that you actually know—how’s that? Must be covering some standard which has somehow osmosed itself into your consciousness but—look it up, in fact its a Coleman original! And so where have you heard it before? Ah: Zorn. It seems then that those slurring drunkard articulations on the head to “Lonely Woman” embodied one of the few Coleman melodies (if not the only) that stuck itself to the underbelly of the hard bop canon—shape of jazz to come, indeed. But it wasn’t so much the heads that would (or were, at least, intended to) mould future generations—rather what lay in between: the emancipation of melody, yes, forget keys, forget harmonic structure, and while you’re at it throw your modal jazz out the window. I’ve always felt ‘harmolodics’ to be a poor term because really it ought to be just melody, that element of music which Coleman raised to the highest pedestal; melody alone, melody a priori. But as a pseudo-theoretic buzzword it does just fine.

John Coltrane, Offering: Live at Temple University (1966) First thing you notice is Coltrane’s uncomfortably, blatantly in the fore. There’s a need to turn it up so you can make out the other activity and by the time you’ve done so Trane’s tenor’ll be blaring out so loud it’s like he’s right by you. But the mixing seems to get more favourable as the numbers progress—or maybe you just adjust. Yes, revisiting, he’s up in your grill but not to intimidate. He’s there to send a very personal message. This was, after all, his penultimate live recording before he quit the grid in July of ‘67. He was getting close to something, and to tell it, he’s gotta get close to you. In the old quartet he might’ve had trouble getting so spiritual. You get the feeling that the mystic tendencies were more at home in this more familial second ensemble. There’s a communion of sorts. And technically they’re equally fine: Alice takes up right where McCoy Tyner left off and actually on her solos she’s more in line with her husband’s ‘sheets’ than her predecessor, part of the reason why the closer on this has replaced what used to be my favourite “My Favorite Things”: Belgium ‘65, check it here. And this is no mean feat as Tyner’s comping/the extended solo on that one’s where quartal harmony came of age, or at least in my experience. The opening to the Offering take’s also a real rarity: double bass goes at taut catgut like anything but cool. We’ve heard with what’s now alarming regularity the rhythm section’s other two rip loose free-form and its high time the other essential’s had a stake in the fun. But now let’s discuss what assures Live at Temple a place in legend. Drop in somewhere about halfway through “Leo”. Trane’s just finished up screaming outta his tenor. Rashied Ali’s going at it now, wild thing on the kit like a hurricane, whirling, whirling, an Almighty gnashing of teeth on calf hide for six or so minutes when all a sudden Trane comes—or is it Pharaoh?—some fella a-moanin’ like a lunatic at the rapture; Obeah Man, elder. Some sole black voice monophonic, like plainchant only infinitely more ancient. What, or whom, are they invoking? Seems they’re their own demons—that, or they’re oracles, come to preach the word in sonic semiotic, purveyors of the sound and the fury.

Food For Animals, Belly (2008) These D.C. fellas put out a remarkably consistent aesthetic and with more personality than you might expect from hip-hop in the industrial vein. That is, what you might expect is: An incoherent, arbitrary mish-mash of overvolted sawtooths, saturated found noise, and other cheap effects; at heart no more than a glorified dubstep. That’s where Christgau was coming from with Death Grips as “Skrillex-as-Unabomber or Skrillex-sans-fun”. But this, like Hill’s trio, is undeserving of such scoffing critique. Any incoherence (and sure, there’s plenty) is but part of a higher level narrative that itself is coherent. Hear it like timbre composition—argument between textures drives the musical conflict. Timbre variation dictates form. And sure, the jargon’s a little dry so let’s talk application: lyrically “Belly Kids” retells the ubiquitous suburbian nostalgia that we also found on the Arcade Fire’s Grammy laureate. As words cast mind’s eye far back, music evokes some sort of youth decay in reverse; the same motion but in sonic terms. The opening’s the hardest the beats ever get on this. Only one direction to go from there. So we ease up and ease up, harshness tempering at each fresh verse, vector very clear, then arrival at the final lines, delivered nude, final lines and the final element: the word. And you know them because they’re self-same to those that were spoken in the apocalyptic beginning. Brahms would be proud. A similar clarification but more on the scale of the Tristan resolution occurs between “Maryland Slang” and “Tween Fantasy” in which the former’s verse is resurrected (Mahler would be proud) before the latter’s velvet shimmering manifold, a thousand tiny chimes in a gentle breeze. And there are many more gems to be found in this urban gizzard (hints: “Shhhy” sample, preprise/main event) but I’ve written enough already.

#john zorn #death grips #ornette coleman #john coltrane #food for animals

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