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how-queerious · 8 months ago

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been seein lot of posts calling the cast weird for the way they/their characters are being with the whole "destined" aspect of callowmoore but like consider who does and does not seem to outwardly ship it that way.

maybe there are things and dynamics i've been missing but to me there is a clear division between which characters (not actors) are pushing it and which are not; The main people seeming to push for it are FCG, Imogen, Laudna, and Fearne. The main people just watching and not really swaying either way are Orym, Chet, and Ash. Here's my thoughts on the possible motivations for that from a character perspective. With that in mind, I have focused on the PCs here; I have all the love in the world for matt as a DM, but to untangle the intricacies of his character work in literally even just one episode at a time is a whole other post. Accidental essay below the cut y'all.

broad strokes are that the camps are divided primarily* by who has and hasn't had extensive adult romantic relationships. Laudna, Imogen, and FCG are all experiencing what seem to be their first real adult relationships, and have had notably, explicitly little experience with romance at all beyond that. Fearne herself, despite her age, also seems to have had very little experience with romance and love (remembering that casual or platonic sex is not romance). They have all been starry-eyed and naive about love in prior episodes, and Laudna in particular has a childlike view of it. To compound this, Fearne has been lonely the vast majority of her life, just her, her nana, and their companions of questionable sentience and willingness. Exhibited in some of the darker episodes, and stated by ashley (at some point), she is literally just learning how to feel as mortals do in the prime material plane. Many of us as young shippers were drawn to the allure of the "Soulmate AU" for a lot of the same reasons.

On the other side of the coin, we have the three opposed or neutral. Chet and Orym, unlike any of the others, have both experienced long-term mature romantic relationships. Though Chet often focuses on the sex, and Orym tends not to focus on anything if he can help it, both have shown in their character choices and interactions with people from their past that they have the understanding of mature and healthy(ish) romance. As a contrast to their knowledgability, Ashton has only ever been burned by what should have been love in the past, and has not experienced romance. They have spent their whole life fighting fate, and will continue to do so for at least the time being. He is just learning to let themself love platonically, of course they don't want to follow "fate" to a romantic relationship with someone as chaotic and beautiful and terrifying as Fearne. They'll do the cool combos with her, and he'll flirt and tease, but anything else is unknown territory in a field already littered with the casualties of their past attempts to trust.

Though they may seem to be pushing for this fated dynamic in a way that feels very off for CR, there are genuine and realistic character motivations for them to do so. Perhaps I'm putting too much thought and faith behind it, but I think the specificity of who is or isn't pushing speaks great volumes to the fact that these are all people who have a wealth of theatric and improvisation experience and knowledge behind them. They are all actors with more than my lifetime of hard work behind this "silly game" they play, and I think we ought to consider that.

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goldeneyedgirl · 11 months ago

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TwiFicmas23 Day 2: In the Dark of the Night 2 (Eye of the Storm)

Good evening everyone! I hope your December is going well and slightly more organized than mine! I am also exhausted, so please excuse any ridiculous errors.

Tonight, we have a section from the sequel to In the Dark of the Night; Cryptid Alice-verse is a favorite of mine - the world is bonkers, Alice is nuts, and Jasper is just here for a good time. This was requested by an anon early in the year, and I was happy to add it to the list. (Heads up, for 2024, I am changing how ficmas requests work for my own sanity.)

This is a very early first draft of this fic, so everything and anything is liable to be retconned but we're here for vibes above all else. I highly recommend reading the first story or this is going to be extra weird.

tw: allusions to rape & abuse; generalized descriptions of body horror.

eye of the storm.

The coloured lights flash over the room at random - hundreds of sweaty, reeking human bodies and the kind of music that rattles its way through your bones. It’s loud and dark and has become one of Alice’s favourite places in a very long time. The raves in Berlin - and most of Europe - are the easiest places to hunt.

The music is good, too. And she loves to dance.

She blends in well enough, with the skin-tight skirt and the top that only covers up the bare minimum, and the artfully smudged makeup. Enticing enough to catch attention, but not memorable enough that she’s at risk. Not that it would matter that much, but she prefers to be just another face in the crowd.

It allows her to hunt for longer in one place, when she’s utterly forgettable.

She orders a drink, and then another, because human alcohol makes her feel warm and her limbs feel looser. It makes dancing better, and the people easier with her - some of them can sense that she is not like them, that she is something old and complex and terrible. The alcohol makes her more likeable, more human, even when it’s her imbibing it.

But her head is still clear when she finds a mark, when he sidles up to her with undeserved confidence. He’s the kind of smug that comes from money and a lack of consequences. She doesn’t miss the pill in her next drink or the way his smile widens when she tosses the drink back like water. The effect of the pill is minimal on her; it manifests several moments later, when they’re sneaking upstairs to the store rooms, past the velvet rope blocking the narrow steps. She stumbles on her high heels and he chuckles low; unfriendly and the kind of laugh that would chill anyone else.

And then her dizziness passes, and she almost pities him.

It goes the same way as always - he thinks he’s got the upper hand; she acts enthusiastic to his ministrations and she knows he almost feels bad - mostly that he wasted whatever tranquilliser he slipped into her drink, not about the harm he planned for her.

Her venom tingles on his lips and tongue, and he blames the drink or five he’s had and settles in.

She thinks about asking him some questions once her venom addles him, questions she shouldn’t know to ask. About girls and pills, about hurting and pain, about the haunted little sister he’s not allowed to see anymore.

But that’s not why she’s here, and would just agitate him. It always gets messy when they get agitated; she hates it when they panic.

Luckily, he’s easily subdued because she’s absolutely starving. Probably the alcohol. Her venom does funny things when alcohol is in the mix.

She’s not in the mood to take her time and be neat about this; she tears into him like an animal - first is that ephemeral part of him that humans have no word for him. The sacred part, similar to a soul. The pain of that defies understanding; she remembers hers being flayed from her being, once. Punishment for poor judgement. Humans’ are delicious and she savours it.

It’s all over too quickly, and she leaves him behind without looking back - lying in the middle of that dark, dirty room with the music ponding through the floor. His throat ripped out and ragged, and his chest cavity open, gleaming wet and red but hollowed out for her hunger. His left femur is broken; a rather pitiful attempt at a protest.

The blood on her skin and in her hair sinks in, pulled through to other hungry parts of her in different points of time and space. She’s nothing and nobody, and no one pays attention as she slips back to the bar for one last drink; sugar sweet enough to make her teeth ache but with that hot dry burn she enjoys more than she should.

It’ll be at least a day, if not two, before they find him. A horrific death, the work of a psychopath. A little sister will hide in her bed to muffle her relief that he’s gone and never, ever coming home. Almost a dozen girls will smile at the knowledge that he might not face a judge and jury, but something took their pound of flesh.

But her messiness means that she’ll only have another night or two before she has to move on. She’ll eat again, and that should last her for a while.

A pity. She liked Berlin.

—

The next night - her grand finale before she leaves for Norway - is a grown-ass man who shouldn’t be offering her the things he whispers in her ear, shouldn’t be sliding his hands up her stocking-clad leg - shouldn’t have even approached her and brazenly taken a seat at her booth.

This time, it’s in an all-night coffee shop with dim lighting and a faint haze that comes from carelessly bold patrons lighting up at the late hour. She demurs and gives the old pervert every opportunity to leave, but he laughs at her and boxes her into the booth, and the look in his eyes is hard and absolute.

She’s never been fixed in time and space, so she can see exactly the path that this old bastard has planned for her - either she consents or he takes it by force. He will hurt her if he needs to, like he has to other young girls before, some of them his students.

The shadow he casts has his wife, his daughter, his mother cowering from rage and violence. He won’t be missed. So she pretends to be afraid, to be cowed by his aggression, allows him to drag her out of the booth by her elbow. She lets the flesh mottle and bruise, lets him feel like the predator.

She lets it last as long as it takes for him to find a place where no one will hear her scream. She even lets him push her out of her shoes, but that’s no loss - she wishes she’d gotten the purple.

And then when he’s staring down at her, his eyes greedy and violent, she smiles and she takes her prize.

He dies in that alley, his eyes wide in terror as he faces down the kind of demon that are only meant to be found in books. Disappointingly, the honour of the killing blow goes to the dumpster he fell again, slamming his neck against the edge hard enough to break bones. She always likes the sound and the flavour when their deaths are her own.

He’s gone before she even tastes him; she’d wish him a speedy trip to hell, but some say that’s where she was born. And the parts of his essence and soul she’s going to tear into… there won’t be anything but shreds of him left to dissolve into the air.

“Alice.”

The call is soft and so far away and blows away the dust of an open path in her mind, a singing thread, that she had not forgotten but had long since made peace with its silence. It had been a shrine to something sacred, and she almost gasps out loud at its echo in her mind. She wants to call back, to holler down that open path, but she pauses, blood running down her face, as she listens.

The words are faint, but heartfelt and it hurts her own head to widen that path. It’s been a while and, unlike her others, she’s only ever opened one path to one soul. One person. She’s out of practice, and it’s like untrained muscles screaming at a sudden lurch into a run.

“Alice, I always hoped we’d cross paths again.”

The regret is heavy in his thoughts, and she presses closer, trying to see through his eyes. It’s blurry and white and green.

“I’m sorry.”

Oh, he tastes like forest and sunshine and leather on the back of her tongue, and she missed him. He was supposed to call for her decades ago.

But why now?

“You could have helped us. Hell, you probably could have saved us.”

That’s when he touches the ribbon in his pocket. Her ribbon, the one she left him with. A talisman, a physical anchor, a key that reinforces the path; she’s relieved he kept it. Oddly touched that he’s carrying it, but it makes everything easier for her. Clever boy; his hand on the ribbon is enough for her to grasp onto, to pull a fragment of herself into the scene in his mind.

“I wish you were here.”

The scene sharpens as if she is standing there in the snow, barefoot, facing…

Facing down the thrice-cursed Volturi and their entire court.

What has happened?

Aro’s smile is wide and that of a crocodile about to close its maw around the thing it wants the most. And that thing includes Jasper.

The entire city of Berlin shudders for a moment, something that will later be uneasily explained away as an earthquake, but is her rage that shakes the city at its core because she can reel it back inside of herself.

A shiver, not a storm.

Not yet, at least.

Aro, who has made himself untouchable over the centuries, and still manages to strike wildly at them, her and her kin. His blows rarely kill but they do cut and wound; her own scars are still fresh enough in her mind. One of the downsides of being outside of time; the memories never age right.

The Old Ones have warned them all not to go after Aro; they are allowed only defence, never offence. They say that creatures like the Volturi, full of avarice and wrath, will pave their own downfall. They have seen it so many times before; Aro and his kin will burn themselves out, and another will take their place.

The Old Ones and the Eternal Sleeping will not rise for anything short of war, and it will not be a war of their own making. That is the first law, and one she has obeyed.

But this… Jasper is hers. Marked and strung together, crudely but holding fast. He is hers to defend above all else, and no one can do anything about that. She just wants to know why Aro has come after Jasper and the Cullens. What she knows about the Cullens is vague; mostly gleaned from other fragments of herself, other lives they lived. They are peaceful people with too much money and little concern for those outside themselves, no matter what they tell themselves. They are human, it is their nature. But she is certain that they are not a danger. Not to Aro, not to the human population, not to anyone. What flimsy excuse is Aro using now? A desire for more gifted bodyguards? More power and land and wealth?

Whatever he wants, it’s nothing good.

The words are muffled, and she takes a moment to look over at Jasper. He’s standing there beside her, stoic and staring, not flinching. The anger streaming off him is palpable and she wishes she’d seen him before now.

You could have called me at any time, Jasper. Just to talk, just to see how I am. I would have come in a second. I wondered if you’d forgot about me, truly. I supposed I am flattered by the fact I am your last regret, your longing thought, though.

She shudders and looks around, her senses stretching. He’s right where he’s supposed to be, and that’s a long, long way from Berlin. It’s been a long time since she had to take herself apart this way, and there’s a risk. A price that has to be paid, and she’s not unwilling to pay it, if he’s amendable.

“Jasper?”

Of all the ways that Jasper thought he would die, this is not it. Not standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his closest people, staring down the army - there is no other word for what Aro has brought, larger than the biggest Southern army Jasper both faced and wielded - of Volterra, trying to defend the life of a half-breed child with ribbons in her hair and pompoms on her coat.

This is not a trial. This is an execution, a public one as a reminder that they were here by the grace of Aro’s will and that no one is safe if the King of Volterra is displeased.

He’s sorry he brought Peter and Charlotte into this mess. He should have known better than to trust that the Volturi would play by the rules, especially when the Volturi wrote the rulebook.

No, this is not how he thought his death would go.

But to be fair, he thought that once back in Texas when he was faced with three red-eyed women with smiles full of promises. So perhaps he should be more surprised that he didn’t see this coming.

Edward gives him a pinched smile that is more of a grimace. Aro is still talking, still taking this opportunity to remind everyone who he is, that he should be considered a wise and compassionate leader.

He wonders if Marcus considers him that; the man looks like a shadow, like the death of all things. Jasper has heard rumours about Didyme’s demise; some of them are farfetched, ridiculous even. But others… the way Aro smiles at the Cullens and their friends, Jasper cannot doubt that he is capable of terrible things.

“Of course, there is the hidden crime, one that I’m not even certain that you yourself are aware of, dear Carlisle,” Aro smiles benevolently, but there is no kindness in his emotions. He’s angry and jealous and greedy; his gaze is flickering over all that have gathered here, for the Cullens, as if

“You have seen my thoughts, you know of all our doings,” Carlisle intoned stoically.

“Of course, my friend! And I am delighted to discover the joy and miracle that is young Renesmee,” Aro beamed at the child, clutching tightly to Bella. “I trust that you have no comprehension about what is going on, and that loyalty to our long friendship is cherished, Carlisle.

“However, the crimes that are occurring under your nose are ones that risk not only our world, but the human one also - they are toying with things that should never be disturbed. It is an act of violence, of terrorism, unspeakable evil…

“The oldest creatures that roamed this earth, they were dangerous. Monstrous in a way that we cannot comprehend. Ungovernable. Very, very powerful in ways that have been lost to us before the first vampire walked the earth,” Aro spread his arms out, as if he is performing for a crowd. And perhaps he is. “Many of those creatures are long gone, but there are a small few that still exist amongst us. We have tried to protect our kind from them, to exterminate them to protect our secret and to protect our kind from them. They cannot be reasoned with. They are dangerous to everything we hold dear.”

Aro has everyone’s attention with that little speak, but all he can think of is a kiss that stole his mind and his will. Of limbs snapping and cracking around too-many joints, and those big eyes, with that knowing smirk. Of blood that was too hot, and the puff of a heartbeat in the back of his mind.

Of something that lasted a night, however warped and strange it turned out, that marked his memories indelibly.

The ribbons twists through his fingers.

“…And yet, as I stand here, one of your friends, Carlisle, has summoned one, called one here. Is that not an act of war in itself, dear Carlisle?”

Carlisle splutters, the denial genuine and frustrated. “Aro, you’re being ridiculous!”

“I’ve been tracking this particular one for many years. She possesses a skillset that is very… dangerous if left unmonitored. Her anchor lies here, we’ve traced it. And, dear Carlisle, I believe you when you say you are ignorant of all of this. But someone here has betrayed you, and they alone should pay the price."

Aro stares at them, all good humour gone, and not a single one of them understands what he asks. Except him.

He knows exactly what - exactly who - Aro is searching for.

Alice.

It’s been a long time. Since he saw her. Not since he thought of her - she is one of those people who lingers in the memory; it seems impossible that it was just one night, all those years ago. Her presence always lingered; like she fundamentally changed him, changed everything, the second she hitched a ride in that truck.

“I was… in hiding. Then I was exposed. Then I made a choice.”

“There are so many names for us, Jasper. I’d prefer if you just used mine.”

And he doesn’t understand this at all. That Aro has dragged the entire court here, across the fucking world, under the guise of a trial because of Renesmee’s existence and now, suddenly, Renesmee doesn’t matter.

It was no secret that Aro was looking for an excuse. Of course she doesn’t matter. He knows that there are much more terrible, unseen things out there than a little half-breed girl.

(He had been prepared for that, had waited curiously to see if Renesmee came out a monstrosity, an abomination that had too long limbs and a void where her eyes should be. He had been oddly disappointed how utterly mundane she was, as if she was the key to something, to better understanding of things that were probably best left alone. Edward have been confused but annoyed at his reaction and Jasper hadn’t bothered to explain.)

Aro knows as well as Jasper himself that Carlisle would never allow Renesmee to become something dangerous. He would sooner build her a gilded cage somewhere far away than allow Renesmee to do harm to human beings.

Carlisle knows it as well as Jasper; that it wouldn’t be Jasper’s hands left to break Renesmee if she’s too strong, too dangerous, too unreasonable. It will be Carlisle’s, with a tender kiss and a prayer for her redemption. Aro sees Carlisle as weak and easily manipulated, and the rest of the family sees Carlisle as a pacifist, as a champion of life beyond all else.

And Jasper sees him as a father who will protect his family from anything, even their own poor choices. As a doctor who recognises that to save a life, sometimes you must amputate, and Jasper is surprised no one else sees that in him. That they call him ‘doctor’, but they only see the man of faith.

But he digresses. Aro has come here and it is not solely for Bella or Edward or Renesmee. It is for Alice, and she isn’t here. The Cullens have never met her, and he’s never told them about her. What would he say - “I met a demon-god-monster on a highway, and she was beautiful? We talked and argued and fucked, and then we parted ways. And I’ve never forgotten her”? They’d think he was crazier than ever.

He’s always tasted arsenic on everything, since that terrible kiss. Always heard that faint heartbeat in his mind. Kept a ragged ribbon to worry at, looped around his keys, in his pocket for fifty something years.

Alice…

They are going to fight and they are going to die because no one else here has the answers Aro wants, and Jasper is never going to breathe a word. The Volturi numbers into the forties, with the entire court and their witnesses. There just aren’t enough of them to win this.

He should have fetched Maria, should have rounded up every stray, every nomad, every disenfranchised asshole this side of Monterrey for this debacle.

Alice, I always hoped we’d cross paths again. I’m sorry.

“...Jasper?”

“Alice…”

The heartbeat in his head is beating louder, and the taste of her venom is strong on the back of his tongue.

Alice.

—

If only a reunion could have been one of a time-stopping kiss, of being able to look the other in the eyes and say, “I’m so glad you’re safe, that you’re well. I missed you.”

Instead, it is this.

#alice cullen #jasper hale #jalice #alice/jasper #twilight fic #ficmas23 #ficmas #my fic: in the dark of the night #cryptid alice #jasper will absolutely simp for alice as long as it doesn't involve mind-control #i have so many notes on this world and how alice works #wips #someone buy aro a puppy so he stops collecting people #and i use 'people' in the loosest possible way considering alice is most definitely not considered 'people' in this fic #alice is going to look at ness and go “oh a dhampir. they've mostly died out but you can use an ordinary bug spray to get rid of it.”

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