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webbywatcheshorror · 1 year ago

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Webby Reviews Horror: Saw (2004)

You (probably) know what Saw is. On the slim chance you're one of today's lucky 10,000 who doesn't, it's a movie about a serial killer who puts his victims in deadly traps in order to teach them a lesson about valuing their lives, asking them what acts of violence or self-harm would they commit to keep themselves or their loved ones alive?

I won't lie to you. Saw is one of my favorite movies of all time, above almost all others. I've mentioned on a few other reviews how much I loved them, how much they influenced me, but this one blows them all away. It came out on video around when I was 15 or 16, and back then I hadn't had a lot of real experience with horror as a genre, but I thought I knew enough about it. And I didn't care much for it. (I used to be a huge wuss. I still am, but I used to be, too.)

Then my dad brought this movie home, and when I finally got around to watching it, I was entirely and irrevocably altered. Suddenly I realized that I knew absolute jack shit about horror. Its potential, the kinds of stories you could tell, the effects it can have on an audience. Without Saw, I would be an entirely different person, and I know how that sounds. I really do. But it's the truth.

Anyway, I said all that to impress upon you how very incredibly biased I am when it comes to this movie, so you can keep it in mind as we dive into more specific things during the review.

Another thing to keep in mind is that I am looking at this as a standalone film, and not the first of a franchise of films. (I might, sometime in the future, review the series as a whole, but not today.)

Review under the cut, and as always beasties and ghouls, SPOILERS ahead! (Yes. There are people who haven't seen this movie. Why they'd be reading this, I have no idea, but that's their business.)

Where do I even begin with Saw. I could talk for hours about it, the characters, the tragedy of it all, the in-universe details and the real life behind the scenes stuff. I am fully enamored with this film.

We'll start with the cinematography, since I'm not very knowledgeable on the topic and I'm less likely to ramble endlessly about it.

The scenes of the other victims in their traps, where it speeds up, really gives them a sense of mania, of panic. It really adds to the terror of the situation and gives these characters we get to see so briefly some needed characterization with the camera work alone. In fact, every time they do the choppy editing, it lends a feeling of tension that permeates the entire movie.

There's a scene, one of many, that has stuck with me these past 19 years, and it's the shot of little Diana Gordon sitting up in bed, half her bedroom shrouded in the darkness. On first watch, it's deeply unsettling, but even after you know who it is, it doesn't get any less fucking terrifying. One of my fears is the dark, not being able to see into a room or the entire room, because of scenes like this.

The characters. Good god, do I love the characters in Saw. They're complicated, flawed, neither good nor evil but a secret third thing: deeply human. (Except John Kramer, but we'll get to that.) They're all just People, trying to make it through the day, however they can. Adam, trying to pay his bills and keep himself fed by spying on people; Lawrence, dealing with the stress of being a doctor and a father who's lost his joie de vivre and decides to cheat on his wife about it; Tapp, wracked with guilt over losing his partner and letting Jigsaw escape, throwing everything he has into stalking the wrong man at the cost of his own health. The more we learn about these characters, the more fascinating they become to me.

Let's talk about John for a moment. More articulate people than I could tell you, in rich detail, about why he's not a savior, but I tend to just boil it down to this: you can't 'fix' people with trauma. I think John is evil, or close to it. Look at the people he chooses to punish- Paul, who cuts himself; Mark, who claims to be sick but is also seen out and about; Amanda, a drug addict. Paul could have depression or some other mental illness. Mark could have an illness that is only debilitating /some/ of the time. Amanda has an addiction problem. You know what would have actually helped them? A fucking support system. Some understanding. Not additional issues, JOHN.

John is, despite his tendency to target those already struggling, still an interesting person, as Zep says. He's also a hypocrite of the highest degree. Shaming Adam for being a voyeur, but drugging himself so he can lay in the middle of the bathroom floor for who even knows how many hours just so he can watch Adam and Lawrence fumble around? Pot meet kettle situation.

(I'm trying to keep this from becoming an entire-ass essay, I really am, but as I mentioned, I could do this all day.)

Adam and Lawrence's transformation throughout the movie is so intriguing to me. Lawrence, the logical Father Knows Best guy, used to always being the one in control of any given situation. Adam, low on the social ladder, prone to emotional outbursts, used to being kicked when he's down. By the end, they've become entirely different men.

Lawrence changes into an unthinking mess, acting on his out of control emotional state to an extreme degree, while Adam becomes a man who not only finally wants to live, but puts in the work to prove it, attacking Zep and killing him, with the kind of determination he hadn't shown until that moment.

The twist is still just so good. It was mind blowing then, and it's a great story beat today, almost 20 years later. When John sits up, Hello Zep playing in the background... it still gives me chills. To think of how Adam must feel, alone in a room with nothing but the dead for company, waiting on the promise of a severely injured man, thinking it's finally over.

Adam's screaming into the darkness breaks me a little, I won't lie. The horror of his situation finally overcomes him and all he can do is scream. That sound is burned into my brain, possibly for life. Then, the credits roll, with the calmness of the credits, Adam's cries still echoing before the quiet music begins to play, and the audience is left stunned. No relief for us, no relief for Adam.

In the years before the sequels, there was so much talk among my friends and I about what could have happened afterwards. Did Lawrence make it out? Did Jigsaw ever get caught? Did Adam die alone in that grimy bathroom? I used to make up possibilities in my head about ways Adam could be saved.

You see, I've always identified with Adam. Struggling to keep going, feeling outcast, chained in a place we didn't want to be, having to rely on others for help getting out, dismissed as juvenile, clinging to people that hate us because it's better than being alone, and wasting our lives because we weren't living them the way others thought we should, regardless of WHY. I had always hoped he made it out. Maybe in some other reality he does.

Anyway enough about that, let's move on. One thing of many I love about this movie is how it makes you think, really think, about what you would do if this happened to you. Would you, could you, crawl through a cage of razor wire to save yourself? Could you kill the family of a co-worker to save your own skin? Could you maim or dismember yourself?

There's an excellent podcast, Jigsquad Pod, that talks about this next point, but I have to mention it also. Jigsaw feels like a boogeyman figure. He sees your every sin. He judges you, then takes you from your place of safety- your house, on the way home from work, and punishes you. It can happen to anyone, anywhere. He can't be caught, can't be killed. He's a phantom. I love that feeling in this movie, the almost campfire story of it all, the way you might tell it to your friends in hushed voices at a sleepover.

I give Saw X ghosts outta ten. It may not be the movie James Wan and Leigh Whannell set out to make, it may have been rushed and stitched together out of all the footage they had and then some, but it's a masterpiece in my heart. It changed me, in hundred of ways I can't begin to understand, but I'm glad it did. (Not all of those ways are for the better, probably. I mean, I did spend several hours once, thinking up- in detail- what my personal Saw trap would be.)

As much as I love the entire franchise overall, cop-centric soap opera that it is, if it had stopped at just this one, I'd still be satisfied. I hope it never gets a remake, because there's no way it could ever be made more perfectly than it already is, flaws and all.

#saw #saw movies #webbywatcheshorror #webbyreviewshorror #horror movie #movie review #leigh whannell #james wan #cary elwes #shawnee smith #danny glover #michael emerson #saw franchise

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sweetlikehoneystingslikeabee · 2 years ago

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Ok ok so in an earlier ask I asked for a penpal situation between Croc and Ivy and I was wondering if a gender neutral/nonconforming reader could receive a romantic letter (with a little bit of spice thrown in) as if they were lovers before the rogues went back to Arkham.

The reader in question is a plant lover, into saving the environment, very kind and sweet and nonjudgmental, and also a little nerdy. No name is preferred (even the placeholder y/n).

Love Letter Double Feature! Killer Croc x Reader and Poison Ivy x Reader

Alright you got it. Since you sent me this in one ask I'll just do them back to back starting with Waylon. As a reminder this is for my Valentines Event for this week! as a note ((text)) is an observation on the letter, not something they wrote out.

TW: suggestive

You've received a letter that the paper is a little beaten up. On close inspection, you can see pen marks that have pressed too hard and almost gone through. There's white-out in a couple places. It's slightly crumpled as though someone kept taking it out and handling it. Maybe to read it over and make sure it was good?

Cher,

I kept writing this over and over. Feels like shit and it's not good enough, you know? And don't give me crap about it not being a big deal. It's gotta be nice. Never had anyone to write to for Valentine's before.

Where do you even start? I love you, you know that part. You give me this joie de vivre that's hard to put into words. like it's worth it to get up in the morning. Even in fucking Arkham. Counting down my days. Bullshit they're only letting me write you for now instead of letting you visit. I think most of the rogues here have somebody trying to visit.

And damn do I got an envie to see you cher, to feel you. You're so warm and cute, even when you're talking about some nerdy thing you got into. Actually, that's when you're cutest. You get so into it. Makes you look tasty. Can't get into too many details, they read our letters. But you know. ((There's a wobbly winky face drawn here.))

Don't deserve you, but I got you. The kindest person I've ever met. But you gotta be careful, babe, you can't save the whole world. So don't do anything crazy while I'm gone, alright?

Love,

Waylon

---

You've received a letter with mossy growth on the envelope. It's not a lot, but even this much tells you exactly who it's from. The letter itself has an almost intoxicating smell. You close your eyes and it's like being in a private secret garden lush with life. With a shaky breath, you open the letter.

Hello lover,

I hope you like my gift. A little experiment I've run in my cell. I've had to assure the guards that crossbreeding moss won't be the grand escape plan of the year. Give it some love and care- you'd enjoy using it for ground cover or even a small terrarium. Seeing what you do with the plants I give you makes me deliriously happy. I can't thank you enough for taking care of my personal collection in my stead.

Not everyone would be brave enough, but I think my babies sense that you're a kind soul. It's what drew myself to you, after all. Someone who genuinely cares about what I do and not just my looks. That's what's always enticed me about you, love. All the men and women that would quake and quiver at my feet and you are the jewel amongst all of them.

I miss you dearly. Between being restricted in how I can grow, and knowing you're going to bed alone- my time here at Arkham seems to move even slower than normal. I just want to see you. To share our moments in our private, intimate grove. Remember the last time we were together and the bedroom turned tropical?

I'm laughing now even thinking about it. Let's aim for our own apartment ecosystem once I'm home.

Love,

Pamela

#foxy valentines event #foxwriting #killer croc #waylon jones #poison ivy #pamela isley #x reader #not waylon writing out his letter seven times

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mmushroomwriter · 2 years ago

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19,22,23 for the all the ROs if you don't mind 😀

I absolutely don't mind! From this list, feel free to request more! Also, this got really long so I had to put it under the cut <3

19. What is your character’s biggest relationship flaw? Has this flaw destroyed relationships for them before?

Luci avoids confrontation in most ways he can. In his life, he's been taught that it's usually easier and better for both parties if he just backs down from any sort of conflict. Due to [redacted] circumstances he's never been in a relationship, so it's never been a problem.

Katia has very specific ways of showing affection and if someone's not clued into them, she can easily be misunderstood as not caring. And no, but only because she's been too caught up in her work/mind to actually get into a relationship before.

Ettie tries not to actually grow actually attached to people, so she might get into a relationship, but she might not necessarily feel strongly towards them until a while in if at all. And although it has been the reason for a few break-ups for her, they were all only intended as short flings anyway and all of the endings were initiated by her - so I don't know if I'd call the relationships destroyed.

Osric and T actually have a very similar problem but in different ways - that problem being insecurity. Osric is always very hesitant to actually make the jump to going into a relationship but once comfortable enough in the fact that the other person likes him back, he'll relax a lot. He also has some hang-ups around PDA. T on the other hand absolutely CANNOT deal with any form of embarrassment or awkward situation, and so has a pretty big fear of rejection. This causes them a lot of stress, but like Osric, they'll relax once they're more confident that their feelings are mutual (although they'll probably take longer and retain more of that stress than Osric). It hasn't really destroyed any relationships for either (although T did once have to get Gisela to break up with someone for them because they couldn't bring themselves to), but there are many relationships that both could've had but didn't because of it.

Cass I mean, Cass's biggest relationship thing is that they are trying not to be in one as to keep everyone they care about safe, but ignoring that, it's probably the fact that they're terrible at expressing how they feel. It's either all bottled up inside never to be let out, or a big messy explosion of emotion. And again, they've never been in a relationship for it to potentially destroy.

22. What does your character like in other people? this is not a conclusive list for any of the ROs, and they will still like people that don't have these traits

Osric: honesty, a sense of humour, humanity and kindness (not necessarily a soft kindness that everyone can see, but the type of kindness where they can be wearing a fucking rad "scary" outfit and scowl at everyone, but they'll still wave back to a small child, or stop to feed a stray cat)

Luci: understanding, creativity, the ability to express themself and passion (it doesn't have to be for any of his interests, but he'd love for someone to be into fashion like him)

Katia: independence, a sense of pride for what they do, strong morals and curiosity (they don't have to be particularly smart or academic, it's more the pure want for more knowledge and understanding that she adores)

Ettie: spontaneity, a certain joie de vivre/zest for life, gratitude and trust in her (not only to do right by them but that she knows what she's doing for herself as well)

T: caringness, quick wit, humility - although they don't have to be super humble and a willingness to listen and work together

Cass: loyalty, open-mindedness, the ability to smile even in a tough situation and patience (especially because it'll take Cass a long time to fully trust in a person/situation being safe)

23. What does your character dislike in other people? this is not a conclusive list for any of the ROs, and they can still like people that have these traits also, obviously none of the characters are cool with bigots or anything similar, these lists are more annoyances to the characters than actual line-in-the-sand deal-breakers

Osric: a patronising stance towards him/his music/his beliefs, being overly judgmental, a feeling of superiority due to the art/music/media they like/consume and not acknowledging their privilege if coming from a privileged background

Luci: controlling nature, a short fuse on their temper, an obsessiveness around reputation (not appearance-wise but persona-wise) and carelessness (for both others and their interests)

Katia: strong optimism, chattiness, a need for constant/near-constant attention and dismissiveness towards her interests (they don't have to be interested, just not downright dismissive)

Ettie: an inability to move on, cynicism, being serious all the time and being overly cautious/the inability to be impulsive

T: argumentativeness, impatience, stubbornness and gullibility/the inability to figure out truth from fiction (A.K.A. they get annoyed by bad media literacy)

Cass: aggression, invasiveness (as in needing to know what's going on with everything all the time), quietness (this is literally just because Cass doesn't talk much, and if the other person doesn't talk much either, it's going to be way too quiet) and a lack of common sense

#answered!#anon #playlistsfortheendtimes #cass #luci #osric #t #katia #ettie #pftet #worldbuilding #ROs

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bloodybusiness · 4 months ago

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Maybe it was the distraction of the topic that seemed to put Suresh in a better mood, talking of lives lived and grey hairs. Both held their fair share of grief, though both perhaps were fortunate thus far. Suresh was in the same position he had been at such an age so it was certainly commendable. "I think I know the issue with how different our lives are." There was the hint of a smirk, a tug of his lips with a shake of his head. "You're French. Lived with the French, you know, Eiffel Towers and cigarettes. Fashion and haughty. I grew up around the Cajuns. We've got joie de vivre. Take whatever hand we're given and play with it, trying to celebrate it." Maybe he was analyzing the differences in what was once a shared culture...though more likely another jab at the French as he often did. Not that Nick 'celebrated' so much anymore.

Another young man's game. Or maybe he just found his joy in bottles rather than parties in celebrations like when he was back in the South. Not to mention he found New York simply didn't have the same heart as Louisiana. No community like he knew and just a bunch of tourists on every corner. If it weren't for the Syndicate, Nick would have left the city long ago in favour of something more in tune with his own soul. Yet here he still was, twenty-five years later.

If there were two things Nick was self-assured of, it was his talent with business and his appearance. So the sarcastic joke about his eyes wasn't enough to cause so much as a hint of pink but earned a dull chuckle. He certainly used his features many times and held a certain level of vanity. But not so much it was narcissistic by any means, thankfully. "Are you flirting with your boss?" he teased, looking to Suresh with a raised brow. "Now, I don't think those are rumours you want to be sparking, is it? First you're flirting with him, then people think you just slept with your boss to rise up." Of course, Nick had been the one to start it, but that was how it often went. He'd lure the conversation one way before completely acting innocent if only to catch someone off guard. And, well, he did quite enjoy flustering the nice and neat Suresh. If anything, it was a sense of normalcy.

Maybe it wasn't the time or place but this was Suresh, someone he trusted almost completely. Not to mention the other could give as well as he could get, often sharing in the teasing retorts. No wonder some that rarely saw them thought they didn't get along well.

But the topic of Adelaide....it was a definite shift in the air. It had him tense up, words that usually came so easily stuck in his throat. There were probably only a handful of people among the Syndicate that wouldn't be told to shut up if not outright threatened if they brought her up. It was lucky Suresh was one of them. Memories of golden hair, laughter, glasses clinking. They were all things better left buried somewhere while he was working and a reason Nick spent most of his time working. He barely even registered Suresh sitting back down. One hand moved away from the broom, running down his face as if to wipe away the thoughts. Of course Adelaide had adored Suresh. Those practical puppy eyes on uncertainty the first time he came over, it was enough for her motherly nature though Suresh was only a couple years younger than her.

"Now's not the time." Back to sweeping up the glass, pulling them into the dustpan with the broom. If anything was left, it was miniscule and Nick could only hope Suresh didn't walk around the funeral home barefoot of all things. Rather than find a trashcan to pour the glass into, it was set aside as Nick moved to Suresh instead. Crouching down in front of him to be more at eye level. "I've spent every fucking day dealing with what I lost. I think about her all the time. With every glass I drink, every time I write something down, with any sale made on the behalf of the Syndicate, and every dollar brought in. It's how I keep going. But right now, I'm not cleaning up a fucking funeral home because of Adelaide." His tone was serious, hoping to ring through to Suresh. "I'm doing it because I'm concerned about you. I'm not here to deal with my issues, I'm here to support you. You're one of mine, mon petit. So if you need to talk, it's never going to be heard by anyone outside these walls. I'm not here for Adelaide or me, I'm here for you." Now wasn't the time to focus on his traumas, it likely never would be. He had buried that down in the hospital when he was discharged.

Before Suresh had met Nick he hadn't spent much time thinking about how much he could still have. His old life had been ashes. A transplant in a different country because he couldn't go back to the other two he'd spent most of his life in. And he had thought that would be it. Eek an existence out as the criminal he'd been branded. But Nick had, had so much. Still did. And what he lost hadn't been his fault. After, he had the resources to take revenge unlike most people that had to take their grief and stuff it into wounds that would never stop bleeding. The power that came with being Captain gave Suresh control over his life in a way that he hadn't thought possible. The Syndicate had rewarded his coldness and his efficiency and Suresh had made sure he paid the people that had given him so much autonomy and safety back everything he could.

Dark eyes caught Nick's lighter ones. He tilted his head curious about the question. And then Nick answered it himself. Suresh nodded his head, "I would say you have." Despite everything Nick had responded to his losses by making the Syndicate even more formidable. Many wouldn't have manage it. Even if Suresh objected to how Nick treated himself physically. The perpetual sad smile appeared again, an expression that came to the surface of his face only in these hours of the night. Too tired to change or hide, "Non, not a competition. I meant what you just said, you are the best to live your life. I am the best to live mine. Whatever they look like."

Suresh smiled, happy when he heard Nick laugh. It was a good sound. He assumed there may be a little cosmetic assistance to the colour of Nick's hair but what did a little vanity like that matter? It looked good. The smallest of movement as he shifted on the chair. "Perhaps I miscounted." Suresh replied but scoffed, "Oh yes, all the times I get lost in your eyes. So very distracting." He let out a dramatic long-suffering sigh uncrossing and recrossing his legs, "Then I will ask again in six years."

He hadn't had much hope that would be the end of this. The snap of the two words from Nick had Suresh pulling back his arm quickly. Not a flinch but close. His jaw clenched tight. Suresh would do what Nick told him. Not because he was worried about the consequences, but because Nick had his loyalty. He'd known better than to get up but he couldn't stop himself. This was why he kept it all inside of himself. What was the point of it? Of sharing feelings and memories. It was painful. It was unnecessary. They could have lived their whole lives without this moment and it would have been fine. He turned stiffly and sat back down, the coat over his lap as he put his arms on the armrests of the chair, gripping them tightly. He kept his eyes on the glass and the broom. Boiling quietly at himself and the fact that Nick wouldn't just stop. Broken glass tinkling against each other across raw nerves. It had been selfish to speak of her. Unhelpful. He had meant it kindly. Because she deserved to be spoken of. And this was him not hiding. Which had caused his friend unnecessary pain.

He drew in a breath and held it as Nick's voice travelled over the sounds of broken glass. Good memories. He stopped holding his breath. A small smile at the comment about the wine and he nodded. Unclenching his fists and resting them on the coat in his lap. Muscles relaxing as he listened. And it hurt, but not in a bad way. Remembering a night he'd tried to teach her every pompous French term for wine analysis he could think of while laughing too hard as she tried to parrot him. He had initially thought it was just pity or some type of test that got him the dinner invites. He'd been so stiff. Worried about making a mistake. But it had quickly dissipated. A sense of care that he could only stand so often before retreating. But one that also lifted his spirits when the invite came. He thought about what that dinner that never happened would have been like. What they would have talked about. Lost. Gone. But they had other memories. And they had the present. "She was very kind to me. She didn't have to be. You both were." He looked down and cleared his throat softly, fixing the jacket again, carefully folding it in his lap. Needing to do something with his hands. There was more to say but he was out of practice in voicing it.

#tw grief #convo | suresh | 03

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highladyluck · 4 years ago

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Mat’s Types, or On Tricksters

I recently made a joke about Mat's 'type' essentially being the Shadar Logoth dagger, and while I stand by it, I also think there's a lot more to it than that. I believe Mat actually has two types, which is entirely appropriate for a trickster archetype. One of his types is playful, joyful, generous people, who reflect his early- but persistent- personality. The other is sharp, powerful, existentially dangerous people, like the person he becomes over the course of the series. Like a raven- itself a trickster figure in Haida storytelling- Mat is attracted to shiny things, mirrors, and death.

But first, some definitions. I'm calling Mat a trickster archetype, so what is that? The trickster archetype is built on a kind of dual contrast. To trick someone, you must change things in a surprising way. Tricksters introduce chaos into an ordered system, or reveal order in what was thought to be chaos. (It's not surprising, or a change, to add order to order, or chaos to chaos.) So tricksters are transformational, liminal figures, who defy expectations and subvert the preexisting order- but who therefore *require* predictions and structure to have any kind of impact or meaning at all. Playing a game requires there be rules; revealing a loophole requires there be a contract.

Within this definition, there's still a huge range of characters you can call tricksters, and it's useful to categorize them across spectrums. One axis of a trickster is "effectiveness", which refers to the trickster's ability to effect change; this is 'incompetent to competent', 'foolish to canny', 'harmless to dangerous'. Another axis is "motivation" which refers to the trickster's ethical structure; this is 'good to evil', 'generous to selfish', 'just to unjust'. There's another kind of axis that's related to motivation, which I'll call "comprehensibility", and which refers to the trickster's transparency of motive; the range there is 'knowable to unknowable', 'familiar to alien', 'clear to mysterious'. If you wanted to chart them all I'd make effectiveness the horizontal x-axis, motivation the vertical y-axis, and comprehensibility the z-axis perpendicular to both of them, but this is starting to get into 'gesturing at the wall map with crazy eyes' territory and I'm mostly just going to be talking about effectiveness and motivation anyway, so let’s move on.

Tricksters can be foolish figures, always getting caught, often the butt of their own joke. That's our early impression of Mat- a prankster who never really seems to get away with anything, or a fool caught in a trap of his own making. Mat is also generous, insofar as he has apparently been rescuing people his whole life, plus he's very 'easy come, easy go' about money, and has a decent instinct for gift-giving, whether those are compliments or actual physical presents. He has a strong sense of justice that puts him at odds with people who have (unearned) privilege and who are abusing power, and he loves verbally trapping people into confronting their own hypocrisy.

He keeps these traits throughout the series, but he also develops ones on the opposite side of the axes. Stealing the Shadar Logoth dagger is the catalyst for Mat's development from 'harmless, benevolent trickster' to 'dangerous, morally complicated trickster'. It literally overwrites first his personality, and then his memories. While he gets the personality back- sort of- he never gets the memories back, and his quest to do so sets him on the rest of his path.

By the end of the series, Mat has undergone enormous trauma and developed a much stronger sense of self-preservation. He becomes a canny and multi-talented figure, a brilliant tactician and strategist, a dangerous enemy to have. He's most selfish and cruel when under the influence of the Shadar Logoth dagger, but it turns out he's also never been in the rescuing business for free, he wants to be needed and will get a little pissy if he isn't (although to his credit, he respects people's wishes if they say they don't want to be saved from themselves.)

His greed for adventure and shiny things was what got him into trouble with the dagger, and he never quite loses his appraiser's eye (or taste) for luxury goods. And Tuon is entirely right to name him 'Devastation' or 'Ruin'; he's constantly blowing things up, killing enormous amounts of people directly or by proxy, and while everyone in this series commits war crimes, he's got the dubious honor of having another character (Teslyn) actually say to his face, "You know you just did a war crime, right?"

Mat spends the early books- when he's in good enough health to do so, and has the opportunity- pursuing women, wine, and song, and I mention them all together because that's the vibe he's going for. Mat genuinely loves flirting and dancing for their own sake, as fun things to do with receptive people, and that extends to sexual activities as well. It's a joyful, generous, playful way of interacting, and Mat's joie de vivre seems to attract people with similar attitudes.

Yes, Mat sometimes puts his foot in his mouth, but he's not actually disrespectful of anyone else's agency, so he's doing better than the rest of the Two Rivers boys. He doesn't make assumptions about whether there will be a next interaction or not, or how far each interaction will go; each step is negotiated with input from both players, which makes it a kind of game. Mat doesn't have long-term relationships with these fun, playful people, but he's not looking for that, and neither are they.

The other kind of people Mat is attracted to are what I'll call 'dagger people', who are sharp (smart, competent, possibly literally an edged weapon), powerful, and existentially dangerous. It is *possible* that Mat might have acquired this taste without the Shadar Logoth dagger's influence. He likes battles, he likes adventure, he generally treats women as respected equals, he might have gotten to 'date a woman who can kick your ass' all on his own. But Mat loved that Shadar Logoth dagger, they had a whole entire fucked-up relationship, and when they broke up he got a bunch of rebound knives and also some sharp, powerful, and existentially dangerous people's memories shoved into his head. Like calls to like, blood feeds blood, etc.

And boy, does Mat find these ladies, or more accurately, boy, do these ladies find him. Case in point: Melindhra, the sexy darkfriend Maiden of the Spear. I think Aludra partially fits, too- sharp, confident if not powerful, dangerous (though not so much to him as like... the world.) Mat isn't pursuing or attracted to either Joline or Tylin, but they also fit this description, and they definitely pursued him. (I'd love to add Lanfear to the list of 'dangerous ladies who made passes at Mat' but I can't quite do it with a straight face.) I don't think Mat's thing for dagger people really reaches its full flower until he starts getting to know Tuon, though.

Mat spends much of the series looking for both his types, and tends to find either one or the other, but not both in one person- until Tuon. Like Mat, Tuon is actually both these types in a sometimes uneasy coexistence. For all their many differences, they think about each other much the same way. They both find each other very layered and confusing, but also are surprisingly quick to trust each other, which is striking in people who are very suspicious, in a fraught situation, and on opposite sides. I think most of the reason they trust each other is because they have the same very contractual personal honor system, where 'my word is my bond'. That's a trickster thing; tricksters have to keep some kind of rules, or how else will they play games and know whether they've won or lost? But their rules can be hidden or idiosyncratic (that's the z-axis, comprehensibility) as you see in 'bargains with the fae'-type situations. Personal honor is also a feature of royalty, though, where the personal and political are bound together, and a person's promises can be treated as legal contracts, as well as honor-based societies in general.

Mat and Tuon take their promises to each other very seriously, but are also always both looking for loopholes so they can get the upper hand. They also are both following the script of prophecy, which I mention because they both devote a lot of time to subverting their own expectations about how exactly that prophecy is going to play out. Mat buckles down and says “I’m going to make this come out in my favor somehow, even though it’s not what I wanted,” yet he’s still surprised at how and when Tuon completes the marriage ceremony; Tuon does not find Mat anything like she expected, and she also is surprised at her own feelings for him. Near the end of the series, they take a break from playing tricks and mind games on each other, and instead bluff everyone else on the battlefield, tag-teaming their trickster powers for one last surprise attack.

Ok, so how is Tuon Mat’s first type, playful, joyful, and generous? She loves playing games with Mat, both actual literal games like stones, but also their weird flirting/power plays. She's super competitive, because anyone who wasn't who was in her shoes would be dead, but she's a good sport, "satisfied when she wins and determined when she loses". She's also got "mischievous" smiles, and turns the tables on Mat in a super trickster-y way, writing the letter that puts everyone in the circus under her protection except for Mat and his crew; which means he and his coterie are still 'not safe' and thus he has to keep travelling with her rather than bringing her back to Ebou Dar right away, by the terms of their promise.

Mat gives us really lovely descriptions of her in moments of joy, and one of the first things we learn about her is that her genuine smile makes her look completely different from the normal Resting Bitch Face she affects for self-preservation reasons. She's generous in the sense that she's (often) willing to consider other points of view and give people second chances, when others in her position wouldn't and don't. She has the generosity of privilege, which I admit is not the most laudable form of generosity, but it's still a form of generosity. She also has a natural compassion and merciful impulses that have been trimmed and hemmed and twisted into only the forms her society deems socially acceptable, but they're still there.

I have less of a job to do proving that Tuon is a 'dagger person'. You remember how I joked about 'sharp' meaning 'literally an edged weapon'? Well, I don't know how else I'm supposed to interpret "Tuon’s right hand swept across, bladed like an axe, and struck [the footpad's] throat so hard that he heard the cartilage cracking". SHE'S LITERALLY A WEAPON. MAT HAS FINALLY FOUND A REPLACEMENT FOR HIS SEXY EVIL KNIFE. :') She's also super smart, super canny, and a snappy dresser to boot. She's one of the most powerful women in the world, and by the end of the series Mat is absolutely into it. (The bit where he's like "She's so good at giving orders! *heart eyes*" is simultaneously hilarious and alarming. I get it- I simp for Kuvira from Legend of Korra, I can't throw stones at anyone who’s like ‘hot evil Empress, please step on me’- but there's a time and a place, Mat.)

And, of course, she's an existential threat to the world, Mat's family and friends, and (theoretically) Mat himself. The Seanchan Empire, despite not being bigoted towards the Tinkers and having pretty good gender equality, is committing massive human rights violations left and right, thanks to the slavery, channelerphobia, and imperialism. As a tool of the Empire, unless he works on extricating himself, Mat's going to be culpable for that (he already is, really, but it could be worse), which is a stain on his soul that I don't think either he or the readers want. Being a tool of the Empire is an existential threat to Mat's idea of himself as an independent agent and good person, and I guess also an existential threat to his life since he's getting all those assassination attempts from his coworkers. (I am excluding Tuon from the assassination attempts; as I've mentioned in a previous essay, her threats to Mat are not serious and are in fact a form of deranged flirting.)

Tuon and Mat are both dual-axis tricksters, in their way. Tuon- or I should really be saying, Fortuona, Lady Luck- is more on the bringing order to chaos side, and Mat falls most characteristically on the bringing chaos to order end of things. But they switch roles- Mat shores up the proper order of things when he reminds Tuon to keep her promises, and Tuon is often a chaotic influence at court, with her mercy or willingness to change her mind. They also both understand what it's like to be both a person and an archetype- Mat worries about losing his individual choice and freedom by becoming a hero, and Tuon worries about becoming too vulnerable and individual to be the strong and impartial hand she thinks the Empire needs.

They've also both experienced their instincts and worldview being overwritten by external forces; for Tuon it's been happening since birth and she's almost entirely embraced the process; for Mat, it was the consequence of a choice he made and he fought it every step of the way. They have very different responses, but they've experienced weirdly similar 'erasure' experiences. And they both have good and evil impulses entwined in complicated ways. Tuon is a survivor and a monster; a preserver and a destroyer; a person and an empire. And Mat builds a relationship with her when- and because- he accepts that he is both a lover and a fighter; generous and thieving; a person and a weapon. You may not like it, but this is what peak narrative compatibility looks like.

#wheel of time #wheel of time meta #meta #mat cauthon #tuon paendrag #mat/tuon #problematic fave tuon #trickster #tricksters #'I had more thoughts on my one-line joke so here is a follow-up essay' should be inscribed on my tombstone #it's about the ARCHETYPAL DEPTH #RJ gave me a 7-layer-dip of mutually reinforcing thematic parallels and my poor little 14-year-old literary tastebuds never recovered #mat/dagger

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imhereformr · 4 years ago

Note

Bish, prompt 48 for brella, pretty please💘

Sorry for the delay with the prompts. I've got a pile of them to do, but I got a tad sidetracked...

Anyways, bish, enjoy some sad Brandon and comforting Stella 💔♥️

48: I called you at 2am cause I need you.

Brandon gently lowered himself onto his bed, his fingers gripping at the edge of the mattress to hold him steady. He tried to regulate his breathing, but his breath continued to come in short, ragged gasps. It felt like his heart had dropped into his stomach; like it had displaced his supper, sending it back up his throat. He wanted to puke, wanted to shout and curse and cry, but nothing came up. Somehow, he found himself curled up on his bed with his temple resting against the cool metal of his phone, right on top of his bundled standard issue blue Red Fountain blanket where he’d dropped the phone a few minutes earlier. At least he thought it was a few minutes.

His mother had called. He’d been so happy to hear from her until he heard the choked sobs that she was trying to stifle. His mother – a pinnacle of strength in every way, shape and form – barely managed an intelligible word between the gasps and whimpers. Something about one of his sisters, that much he’d caught. There’d been some shuffling, and then his father’s voice, strained but clear. Margie – his youngest sister – had been hit by a car. She’d been playing soccer in the front yard and had accidentally kicked her ball into the street. The old man behind the wheel hadn’t seen her coming; she had appeared from behind a parked car too close for him to stop in time.

Brandon had wanted to hop on the first flight home, but his parents had refused. It was the middle of finals, he needed to be at school. His father had insisted that Brandon had worked too hard to flunk his last finals and not graduate. Brandon didn’t care – he had a guaranteed job with Sky anyways – but he didn’t dare disobey his parents. They would call once the doctors have them an update. It was all they could do for now.

He hated it; hated that he was stuck here. Margie was his favourite of his four sisters, partially because she was too young to torture him like the others had, but mostly because she had that something that he loved. A joie de vivre he’d heard Stella refer to it as. Margie’s laugh was loud and honest; she was bubbly and kind. Of course, she was only seven and the world hadn’t tried to hurt her enough yet, but Brandon had a feeling she’d maintain her sunny disposition even when it did. Margie reminded him a bit of Stella if he was honest, right down to how stubborn she could be. How many times had he told her not to run into the street? Surely more times than he could count. Still, typical of her, she didn’t listen. And look where she was now.

And look where he was.

Curled up in bed, unable to help her.

Useless.

Terrified.

Brandon’s eyes snapped open. It was dark, and the clock on his bedside table read 1:37. He could hear Sky snoring softly on the other side of the room, blissfully unaware that Brandon’s world was falling apart. Somehow, Brandon had ended up in his pajamas. Somehow, he had ended up in his bed. In the back of his mind, Brandon knew he must have decided to try to get some sleep, but he had no memory of any of it. Everything after hanging up was a blur.

Half asleep and stumbling in the dark, he found his way to the common room. After tossing aside the gaming remotes that always seemed to be left on the couch, Brandon took a seat. He pushed aside the books that Riven left hanging on the coffee table and put his feet up. Luckily, he’d thought of grabbing his phone on the way out of his room. He dialed his mother, father and sisters’ phone numbers. Nobody answered. Nobody. How could nobody answer?! It was barely past supper time on Eraklyon! He desperately needed an update on Margie, even if it was just that nothing had changed – at least that meant she was still alive.

Brandon dropped the phone onto the coffee table and lowered his head into his hands, gasping in surprise when he felt the water on his palms. He hadn’t noticed that he was tearing up. The realisation broke the dam, and the tears that had refused to come earlier flowed freely and abundantly now. Brandon managed to stifle any whimpers that might wake the guys – though it wasn’t likely since Timmy and Sky slept like rocks and, knowing Riven, he and Musa were off somewhere breaking curfew for the sake of a quick fuck.

He hadn’t even realised he’d picked up the phone and dialed until he heard Stella’s sleepy voice in his ear. The wracking sobs gave way to a steady, gentle stream of tears. Even groggy with sleep, her voice always seemed to soothe him. Riven said Stella’s voice was annoying and high pitched, but Brandon disagreed; he found her voice bright and cheerful. He loved her voice.

“Brandon?” she repeated, worry seeping into her beautiful voice. “What’s going on?”

He had no idea where to start.

My sister’s hurt.

“Hello?”

I’m worried.

“Brandon?”

I’m scared.

“Is something wrong?”

He cracked. The sobs shook his body again, and he had to cover his mouth to stop from screaming and waking the whole school.

“Brandon?” He could hear her panic overwhelming her tone, taking her voice from sleepy and light to high and desperate. “Talk to me. Please.”

I need you.

He tried to speak but he couldn’t. The words died somewhere in his throat, suffocated by the sobs and whimpers. He hung up. There was no point in keeping Stella up to force her to sit in silence. She needed to sleep; she was in the midst of her final exams too.

A knock on the balcony door scared him out of his haze. He had no idea how long he’d sat on the couch staring at nothing. He’d been vaguely aware of the sound of someone trying to sneak through the halls; of water rushing through the pipes as someone took a mid-night shower; of the moans coming from one of the adjacent dorms; and the pounding on the wall accompanied by a voice demanding the lovers shut the fuck up. But the span of time in which that had happened, Brandon had no idea.

Brandon grabbed the nearest thing he could find that would serve as a weapon – the TV remote, not useful but it would have to do – and slowly approached the door. He slid back the curtain that covered the glass door and nearly dropped the remote when he saw who was on the other side.

Wasting no time, Brandon opened the door to let Stella in. She de-transformed before entering and Brandon was surprised to see that she was in her pajamas with her hair in a messy high bun. He’d seen Stella in her natural, not dolled up state on more occasions than he could count, but he’d never known her to leave the safety of her dorm without looking like a top model.

Amber eyes fixed their worried gaze on him as her hands found their way to his cheeks, brushing away the dried tears. Stella wrapped one of her hands around the back of his neck and pulled him into a hug. He could smell the residual perfume that lingered on her; the sweet scents of rose, jasmine, sandalwood and vanilla filled his senses, and he happily let them. He wanted nothing more than to bury himself in the safety of her arms and not come out until he knew the world was as it should be.

Brandon’s arms wrapped around Stella’s small waist and pulled her as close as physically possible. There, in the warmth of her, he let himself break on purpose. Stella ran her hands through his hair while she let him cry, planting light kisses on his shoulder, neck and ear. They stayed like that for a few minutes until Brandon’s tears subsided and he reluctantly pulled himself away. Stella didn’t let him get too far, though, as she gripped his arm and gently dragged him over to the couch. She sat at the end, dragging him down with her and resting his head on her chest so that she could wrap her arms around his shoulders.

“What happened?” Stella asked quietly as she waited for Brandon to adjust into a laying position and return his head to her chest.

“Margie was in a car accident” he managed. His voice sounded weak and broken to his own ears, he couldn’t imagine how bad he sounded to Stella, but she didn’t seem to care. She held him tighter and kissed the top of his head without saying another word. Stella knew how much he loved his family, especially his youngest sister, and he knew she understood how devastating the news was to him.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the night. Stella continued to hold him until he fell into a restless sleep, and she fell asleep soon afterwards. Brandon’s phone woke them just before 6 when his mother called to inform that Margie was stable and would likely make a full recovery. Even then, Stella didn’t let go and Brandon didn’t ask her to. He would happily stay in her arms until the end of time. Or until one of them needed to pee.

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pikapeppa · 4 years ago

Text

Fenris/Rynne Hawke: Disappointment

A (VERY late) prompt fill for @talesfromthefade, for @dadrunkwriting Friday!

Set during the later end of Act II. It’s basically a drunken conversation featuring some cuteness, but even more angst, pining, and UST. 😭

~6100 words (SORRY, MY PROMPT FILLS ARE LONG). Read on AO3 instead.

************************

Fenris was sitting at the table in his mansion and struggling with a copy of Hard in Hightown when he heard a knock at the door.

It was more of a bang than a knock, really, and the sound instantly put him on alert. Before he could reach for his sword, though, he heard the laughter.

His shoulders relaxed. Hawke, he thought ruefully, and he went to open the door.

Hawke tripped into his house with a giggle, followed closely by the scent of brandy. “Fenris!” she chirped. “I’m so glad you’re here, I was about to — hic — set up camp on your front step if you didn’t answer the door. Would you care for some wine?” She haphazardly waved a bottle of wine in his direction.

He hastily took the bottle before it could hit him in the face. “Er, thank you, but no. How much brandy have you had?”

She turned to him with wide eyes. “Brandy? Me? How did you know?”

“You smell like you were bathing in it,” he said dryly.

A beautiful grin lifted her lips. “Wouldn’t that be the dream? An entire — hic— bathtub filled with brandy, just for me. I could be persuaded to share with you, though.” She shot him a saucy wink, then began meandering toward the table. Her gait was loose and lazy with booze, yet somehow her hips were still moving with their customary alluring sway, and Fenris eyed her wistfully as he followed her to the table.

She gasped and petted the pages of his open book. “Ooh, were you reading?” she asked brightly.

He grunted and scratched the back of his head. “Trying to, in any case. It’s slow-going.”

She looked up at him with hopeful eyes. “Can I help you? I can help, if you like.”

He eyed her with a touch of exasperation and placed the wine on the table. “You’re hardly in a position to be assisting with this at the moment.”

“Oh please,” she scoffed. “I’m not that plastered. I’m only a tiny bit plastered. Look, I can absolutely help you with this.” She peered at the page. “Now if only the letters would stop moving all over the place.”

Fenris huffed and pulled out a chair for her. “Sit down, Hawke. You look as though you’re about to fall over.”

She sighed. “I suppose you’re right,” she said. Then she promptly plopped down on the floor and started pulling off her boots.

He shook his head, then sat in the chair he’d just pulled out. “What is the special occasion?”

She smiled blearily up at him. “Hm? Occasion?”

He gestured at her. “Is there a reason you’re this drunk?”

“Do I need a reason?” she said. “Maybe I’m just full of joie-de-vivre, as the Orlesians would say! But Orlesians would probably also spit on my taste in Rivaini brandy, so never mind that.”

Fenris frowned slightly. Her tone was as jocular as ever, but she wasn’t meeting his eye as she spoke. “Were you at the Hanged Man?” he asked.

“I was,” she said cheerfully. “Varric and Bels and I got into this fabulous darts tournament, and–”

She broke off suddenly and looked up at him in horror. “Oh fuck. Oh shit. Did you want to come? Oh Fenris, I’m sorry, I should have come to get you before going to the Hanged Man but I didn’t even think about it, I just went straight there, I’m sorry–”

He waved her off. “You went straight there from where?” he asked.

“From the Gallows,” she said, to his surprise. “I took Mother to visit Carver today, and–” She snorted. “Can I just say that it went swimmingly well? Swimmingly, splendidly well. It’s definitely something I’ll be doing again, perhaps in fifty years or so.” She broke off with a goofy giggle.

Ah, he thought. Now it made sense. Something unfortunate must have happened during her visit to the Gallows with her family.

“Did it truly go well?” he said quietly.

She finally met his eye, and for a brief second, her smile slipped before returning to her face. “It did!” she said. “Mother was happy to see him, even though he could just visit the house when he gets his leave days. Can you pass me that wine?”

Fenris hesitated. It was probably a bad idea for Hawke to have anything more to drink. But she was a grown woman who was free to make her own (possibly poor) decisions, and who was he to tell her what to do?

He reached across the table and picked up the bottle of wine. Then he came to join her on the floor. By the time he was settled beside on the floor, she was beaming at him with so much uninhibited fondness that it made his stomach twist.

He dropped her coppery gaze and pulled a small knife from his pocket, then pried the cork out of the bottle. But instead of offering it to her, he took three big gulps.

She laughed. “Fenris, you boozehound! I thought you didn’t want any.”

I don’t, really, he thought. But if he didn’t drink any of it, Hawke would drink the whole bottle by herself.

“I changed my mind,” he said, and he offered her the wine.

She beamed at him. “You beautiful thing, you. You’re joining in with me.” She took the bottle and took a long drink, then lowered it and gave him a quizzical look. “What were we talking about?”

“The Gallows,” he said. “Your mother.”

“Ah yes! Oh, Mother.” Rynne laughed and shook her head. “She said the funniest thing. There I was, talking to Carver and just, you know, needling him about the usual stuff. Asking about his love life, pointing out the irony of him becoming a Templar in the first place, the usual sort of thing. And my mother…” She snickered. “My mother jumps in and starts carrying on about how Carver was just trying to support the family while I went swanning off to the deep roads.” She snorted with laughter. “Can you believe that? ‘Swanning off to the deep roads’! Those are the words she used. As though—” She broke off with another giggle. “As though the deep roads are some fancy Orlesian spa that you and I and Varric and Anders just bloody decided to ‘go swanning off to’ for a few months.” She chuckled some more and lifted the bottle of wine to her lips, and Fenris watched with a pang as she took a few gulps.

When she lowered the bottle, he gently took it from her hand. “Did you set her straight?” he asked. “Remind her of the reason why we were gone so long?” Namely, that Bartrand had locked them in the ancient thaig, resulting in the need to wander even deeper into the cursed bowels of the thaig before finding a way out?

“Oh Maker, no,” Hawke said. “I never told her why we were gone that long.”

He lowered the bottle and stared at her in surprise. “You didn’t? Why not?”

Hawke snorted. “Are you kidding? She’d have a fit if she knew. She’d fuss and carry on about how dangerous it was and how she never wanted me to go in the first place, even though we needed the fucking money to get the fucking Amell estate back.” She broke off and took a deep breath, then smiled at Fenris and pointed at the wine. “Can I have some of that?”

He quickly took another big drink before handing her the bottle. She took a sip, then broke off with a snort of laughter. “She thought all this time that I swanned off for months. Can you believe that? The deep roads weren’t exactly a cake walk. D’you remember those rock wraith things that were eating the lyrium down there?”

Fenris sneered. “Ah yes. And that hunger demon.” He shot her a reproving look. “I still think it was unwise for you to offer it sandwiches.”

“And I still think it was worth a shot,” she retorted. Then she sighed and offered him the bottle. “Ah well, what’s done is done. It’s just…” She huffed in amusement and shook her head. “She wanted the fucking Amell estate, so I got it back for her. Next time she wants something, maybe I should just become a Templar too.”

Her cheeky smile was still in place, but she was too drunk for the smile to fully hide her true feelings. Fenris eyed her sympathetically, but he didn’t know what to say. He had no experience with providing any kind of comfort.

He took another sip of wine and wracked his brain for something to say. “I wasn’t aware that the Templars were accepting mages among their ranks,” he said finally. “Has Cullen found a soft spot for you that I didn’t know about?”

She grinned at him, and his heart fluttered; her smile was genuine and warm once more. “Oh Fenris, don’t be silly,” she said. “Cullen has had a soft spot for me all along. Don’t pretend you didn’t notice.”

“Hm,” he said. “I suppose all that scowling and telling you off could constitute a soft spot, according to some.”

“Exactly,” she giggled. She took another sip of wine, then gave him a pitiful look. “I know I’m barging in on you and all, but I wasn’t in the mood to go home just yet. Is it all right that I came here instead? Any safe port in a storm and all that.”

He frowned. Safe port in a storm? “Are you concerned that your mother will harm you when you return home?” he said quietly.

“No no, of course not!” she exclaimed. “It’s just a figure of speech.” She barked out a laugh. “My mother, harm anyone? Don’t be ridiculous. She couldn’t harm a wasp even if it was about to sting her.”

Fenris eyed her skeptically for a moment, then shrugged. “You can stay for a visit. I suppose it is only fair, since I…” He trailed off awkwardly. He was about to tell her that her house had become something of a safe space for him as well — a place where he felt at ease, almost at home, particularly when he and Hawke were lounging together in front of the fireplace in her study. But to admit such a thing would be veering far too close to telling her how much he still longed for her, and he didn’t dare let the conversation venture there.

It was surprising that he’d even said as much as he had, in fact. He usually did everything in his power to keep his tenderness for Hawke under wraps, for fear of letting her think there was a chance of them being together again. Why had he nearly said something now?

She offered him the bottle of wine; it was three-quarters empty. That explains it, he thought in resignation. With a small sigh, he took the bottle and drank from it once more.

Hawke stretched her legs out and leaned back on her palms. “So! What were you reading before I came bursting in to ruin your night?”

He lowered the bottle with a smirk. “You really couldn’t tell? You are that drunk?”

“I am quite spectacularly drunk, yes,” she agreed.

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were only… what was it you said? ‘A tiny bit plastered’?”

She snorted. “What is this, an interrogation in Aveline’s office?” She poked his arm. “Come on then, tell me. What were you reading up there?”

“Hard in Hightown,” he said. “Varric gave it to me. I am only on page ten or so.”

Hawke chuckled. “Of course that’s what Varric gave you to practice with. Any excuse to get more readers.” She suddenly straightened up and gasped, and Fenris recoiled slightly in surprise; her face was bright with enthusiasm.

“I just had the most fantastic idea!” she chirped. “You should write a book!”

He wrinkled his nose. “What would I write about? And besides, I can’t write.” He didn’t tell her that he’d been secretly writing terribly-spelled letters to her since the day he’d mastered the alphabet. That was one secret that even his half-drunken mouth would never spill.

She waved one hand dismissively. “You’ll be able to write in no time, you’re brilliant. And the book should be about your life, of course!”

He frowned. “My life? Why?”

“Because you’re strong and handsome and interesting. And you lived with the fog warriors!” she exclaimed. “You probably know more about them than anyone in the whole of Thedas!”

His frown deepened. “Reflecting on that time in my life is not exactly pleasant, Hawke. It did not end well, if you recall.”

She wilted. “No, I know, I just meant… oh fuck, I put my foot in it, didn’t I?” She nervously patted her cheeks. “Maker, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you think about awful things. I was hoping to make you think of nice moments when you were with them since I know you liked living with them, but… ah, I’m an idiot. Don’t listen to me.” She reached for the bottle of wine.

He allowed her to take the bottle. “It’s all right. I already knew you were an idiot.”

She shot him a grateful smile. They passed the bottle back and forth for another minute, and when it was empty, Fenris placed it on the floor beside him.

“You’re not wrong. I did enjoy living with the fog warriors,” he said. “It was… unusual to spend time around people who were not afraid of me. But I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised; the fog warriors were the most courageous people I ever knew.” He draped his arms loosely around his knees and glanced at Hawke. “Even their children had no fear of me.”

She nodded and didn’t speak. Her expression was a picture of attentive focus despite the boozy flush of her cheeks, and something about her attention prompted him to go on when he usually would not.

“I remember the first time I stepped into their… settlement, for lack of a better word,” he said. “I was weak after healing from my injuries. Every step I took required a great deal of effort. But as I walked through their settlement with one of their healers at my side, a child approached me. A boy, perhaps five or six.” He grimaced. “Or maybe seven; I’m not familiar enough with children to guess their ages.”

“Five, seven, it’s all the same,” Hawke said softly. “The little boy approached you. What happened then?”

Fenris tilted his head as he remembered the moment. “He was holding a ball that looked to be made of dried branches and twine. He stopped and stared at me, and I was certain he was going to run away. Or perhaps throw the ball at me in disgust. I’ve suffered worse from children in Minrathous. But…” He slowly rubbed a hand through his hair. “He asked in Seheronese if I would play with him. The healer translated for me, and I… I didn’t believe her, and I didn’t believe the boy. I thought they were taunting me. I…” He swallowed hard. “I went back to the tent and didn’t come out again for another day. But the same boy approached me again when I emerged. He continued to approach me until I agreed.”

Hawke’s face lit up with a brilliant smile. “You played with the fog warriors’s children?”

He shrugged. “I had little choice. They are very persistent.” He gave her a tiny smile. “All of their people are persistent. Stubborn and determined. Or… they were, at least, before I…”

Blood. Screaming. Women and children fleeing, to no avail. The horrible images flashed through his mind, raw and undimmed by time, and Fenris dragged a hand through his hair as though that could pull the memories out.

The only time he had ever seen fear in the fog warriors’ faces was when he had put it there.

“Hey,” Hawke said softly. “I’m glad you were happy while you lived with them. I know it ended badly—”

“I killed them all,” he snapped. “It ended badly because of me.”

“I know,” she said. “I know you feel responsible. But I’m still glad you were happy there for a time.”

He stared hard at her for a moment, but her expression was calm and steady — surprisingly steady for someone who was so drunk.

He sighed and shifted his position on the floor. “I was happy with them; you’re right about that. The only time I could ever remember being happy, really. Before I came to Kirkwall, at least.”

Hawke perked up. “Before you came to Kirkwall? Does that mean you like living here more than being in Seheron?”

He huffed at her hopeful tone. “I don’t know that I would say that. But… this city has its charms. They may be few and far-between, but it does have them.”

“Like what?” she asked.

He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Such as… that apple pie at that one particular stand in Hightown.”

Hawke nodded. “Oh yes, that pie is fantastic. What else?”

“The music at the Hanged Man isn’t completely terrible,” he said.

“I do love the music there, it’s true,” Hawke said brightly. “Anything else?”

She looked so hopeful. Fenris gave her a chiding look. “Why do I get the sense that you’re fishing for compliments?”

Her beautiful amber eyes grew wide – suspiciously wide. “Me? I never! I never ever fish for compliments. Particularly not from broody handsome elves with the sexiest voices I’ve ever heard.”

He scoffed and rubbed his mouth. “Kaffas, Hawke. You will make me blush.”

“I’m not talking about you,” she said. “I’m talking about some other elf.”

She clearly was not. Her smile was coy and warm, and it made his ears feel uncomfortably hot. “I see,” he said dryly. He absently rubbed the red scarf on his wrist and studied her from the corner of his eye. She was humming to herself now and gazing at her bare feet with the sort of vacant smile that made it clear how drunk she was.

Then he surprised himself by speaking again. “I suppose some of the people here are tolerable as well,” he said.

She perked up. “Oh really? Like who?”

Fenris shrugged and leaned back casually on one hand. “Sebastian is a fine man.”

Hawke snorted. “Perfect Sebastian. He doesn’t count. He makes everyone look bad. Who else?”

“Varric,” Fenris said. “He’s forgiven my gambling debts on more than one occasion.”

She let out a scintillating laugh. “Has he? Oh, Varric. He’s such a soft touch.”

Fenris smirked and gazed idly at her legs – lovely legs that were regrettably covered by trousers. Lovely legs with soft golden skin that was so smooth beneath his hands…

Before Fenris could stop himself, his drunken mouth was opening once more. “You are good company, as well,” he said.

Her face lit up with a slow and breathtaking smile. “Am I, now?”

He shrugged and ignored his suddenly thrumming heart. “You can be. When you aren’t aggravating me.”

She raised one hand innocently. “Those were all failed attempts at flirting, I swear.”

He gave her a chiding look. “That’s hardly a comfort, Hawke.”

“It should be,” she said. “I’m usually a very good flirt.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” he said wryly.

Her smile widened. “Maybe I should try harder, then.”

Her cheeky voice was ripe with its usual humour, but there was something more to her tone now: something husky and heated that made Fenris’s clever retort fade away on his tongue. He studied her face carefully, and his heart jolted; only now was he realizing how close she was. She was sitting right next to him, and although they weren’t touching, they were so close that they might as well have been. Her knees were almost brushing against his thigh, and she was leaning in as though to take shelter against his chest, and he… kaffas, his shoulder was curled toward her as though he wanted her to take shelter against him.

A rush of excitement filled his rib cage, followed by a surge of terror. I can’t, he thought. He couldn’t let her get any closer. Not because he didn’t want to; venhedis, there was nothing he wanted more. But the closer she got, the more she would see just how damaged he truly was, how unprepared he was for what she was trying to give, and he couldn’t… He couldn’t stand it. The thought of looking into her perfect amber eyes, of seeing their heat replaced with pity instead...

She wet her lips, and Fenris was instantly distracted by her mouth: her lush raspberry-red mouth that he vividly remembered kissing, even though it had been almost a year.

Then Hawke nibbled her lower lip, and Fenris could feel his own lips parting as though by instinct — as though the movement of her lips was a siren call, a lure drawing his own lips to react, to lean closer to her, to breathe in the wine-scented warmth of her breath…

He inhaled slowly, and his heart thudded in his ears. She smelled exactly as he remembered, of sandalwood and sweetness and a hint of sweat from dancing at the Hanged Man, and overlaid on it all was the scent of the wine she’d drunk — that they’d been drinking together.

Then Hawke’s hand rose slowly toward his face.

His breath stuttered, but his heart burst into a galloping race. Her fingers were reaching for him, reaching for his cheek, reaching so slowly that he knew she was giving him time to stop her. But he was frozen on the floor with Hawke sitting so close to him, so damned close that he could smell her intoxicating scent, and her fingers were drawing nearer still…

She stroked his cheek gently: so incredibly gently, with just the tips of her fingers. And with that one simple touch, the buzz of longing in his gut hit a fever pitch.

Fenris closed his eyes and turned his face toward her fingers, and her thumb brushed over his lower lip. He exhaled shakily, and he was distantly aware that his breath sounded far too much like a groan.

“Fenris,” Hawke breathed.

Fenris. That was all she said: just his name in her husky voice. But it was almost enough for him to come undone. His name in her voice, carried through the air on a breath of desire: fasta vass, it was too good, too evocative, too strong of a reminder of the past — of the mistake he’d callously made by going to her in a moment of anger-fuelled impulsiveness.

A mistake he was primed to repeat right now, in a moment of impulsiveness that was fuelled by alcohol instead.

He reached up and grabbed her wrist. “I can’t,” he rasped.

Her eyebrows tilted in a way that made his chest ache, but he forced himself to stay still, to not move, to not bridge the mere inches that separated his lips from hers. He held her wrist in a steady grip and stared steadily into her glittering amber eyes, and he forced himself to remember – to remember the way those same amber eyes had filled with tears when he’d walked away from her before.

The memories of their night together still tortured him, along with all the attendant reasons why he couldn't let this same mistake happen again. He was an empty shell whose history had been carved away and replaced with anger and hate, and nothing about that had changed in the year or so since he and Hawke had tumbled together into her bed. He was still the same broken man, the same ex-slave with a mind as scarred as his body, and in the time that had passed since that one glorious night in Hawke’s arms, Fenris had failed to make any changes in his life.

He hadn’t tried to find his sister. He hadn’t done anything other than take on jobs as an errand boy and follow Hawke and her friends around in their ill-advised adventures. He still sat alone in his mansion at night fuming about Danarius and Hadriana and all their misbegotten ilk. He was still just as blank and ruined as he’d always been, and he couldn’t… he didn’t dare inflict that on Hawke, not again, not even if he was drawn toward her in a way that he’d never been drawn to anyone else before.

They sat frozen on the floor for an interminable minute, Hawke’s fingers a hairsbreadth from his cheek and her wrist entrapped by his intractable grip. Fenris stared into her eyes and ignored the plumpness of her lower lip, and he prayed for the strength to move away from her now – right now, right this second now, now before his frenzied thoughts led him away from the reasons he shouldn’t touch her and brought him back to all the selfish reasons that he should.

And oh, the reasons he should, the reasons he wanted to fall into the crystal clear pools of her eyes and take what her slightly-parted lips were offering: those reasons were… fasta vass, they were far too close to the front of his mind. The pleasure of her body stretching beneath his own, of her needy gasps filling his ears, of her comforting hands cradling his face as she told him that there was nothing ruined about him–

“I can’t,” he snapped. He pulled her hand away from his face and turned away from her, dragging shaking fingers through his hair as he did.

For a brief, terrible moment, Hawke was silent. Then she laughed.

“Of course!” she said brightly. “Of course, I didn’t mean to – I was just, um – I’m terribly drunk, you know, and it’s – I should go home. I’m just about ready to fall asleep right here on your floor, which probably means I should go crawling into my bed before I end up like another one of those corpses in your corners here.” She snickered and pushed herself to her feet, and Fenris watched painfully as she stumbled toward the door.

She wasn’t wearing her boots, though. Fenris hastily pushed himself upright and ignored his own slightly spinning head. “Hawke, wait,” he said. “Your boots–”

She cut him off with a haphazard wave. “It’s okay, please, don’t say anything, it’s like it never happened.” She reached for the doorknob.

Fenris darted forward and planted one hand on the door. “You need to put on your boots,” he said. “You can’t go out without boots.”

“Why not? You do it all the time,” she said belligerently.

Fenris raised his eyebrows, but before he could reply, she sighed and sank down to the floor. “Ah, you’re right. My feet are terribly tender and delicate. Where are my bloody boots?”

Fenris silently brought her boots and socks, then waited with an ugly mixture of fondness and misery as she clumsily pulled them on. When she was finally shod once more, she stood up and did a dramatic curtsy.

“On that sparkling note, Rynne Hawke takes her leave,” she announced. She giggled and opened the door, then promptly tripped on the front step.

Fenris snatched her arm and her waist before she could hit the ground. “Fasta vass,” he complained.

She didn’t reply; she was far too busy laughing. Fenris sighed heavily, then stepped out of his mansion and pulled the door closed behind him. “Come on, Hawke,” he said wearily, and he looped his arm around her waist to guide her home.

She hiccuped and squeezed his arm. “Did you see I—” She broke off with a giggle. “I didn’t even make it one step out the door! Oh Fenris, aren’t you pleased I came to your house tonight to entertain you?”

“Not particularly,” he muttered, but not for the reasons she thought. He hadn’t had his hands on her this much since the night they’d spent together, and her drunken state wasn’t making the curve of her waist any less appealing. And his drunken state wasn’t making it easy to maintain the barriers he’d been building to keep her at bay.

She squeezed his arm again. “I know, I’m horrible, I’m a nuisance. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I’ll — hic — bring you some of that apple pie that you like first thing in the morning, bright and early. You’ll be woken by the smell of fresh-baked— eek!” She tripped over a paving stone with a squeal, and Fenris scowled as he pulled her upright.

“Quiet,” he hissed. “If you cause a disturbance, I will be the one who’s blamed.” He scooped her up into his arms and continued in the direction of her mansion at a faster pace.

She gripped the collar of his tunic and beamed at him. “You hero. You chivalrous thing. You’re making a drunken girl’s dream come true.”

“Perhaps you can return the favour and keep your voice down,” he scolded softly. He was already on Hightown’s radar as ‘that elf of Hawke’s who squats in the derelict Vint mansion’, and he didn’t want anyone to find a reason to complain to Aveline again about his presence.

“All right, all right, I’m being quiet now,” she stage-whispered. Then, to his surprise, she actually fell silent.

He carried her in silence for a couple of minutes. She eventually rested her head against his shoulder, and he guiltily savoured the scent of her chestnut hair. But she still didn’t speak, and eventually Fenris wondered if she’d fallen asleep.

He glanced down at her, and his heart lurched; her eyes were closed, but her face was tinted with melancholy, and there were tears trickling down her cheeks.

He hastily looked up at the path ahead, but his entire rib cage was aching now, as though his heart was swelling and pushing against the walls of his chest. He ought to say something – something to soothe her, like the way she was always trying to soothe him when he was angry. But he was the cause of her distress, so what was there to say?

He swallowed the lump in his throat and didn’t speak, and they made the rest of the trip to the Amell state in silence.

As they approached the door, Hawke finally spoke. “Don’t knock. I don’t want to wake her.”

Fenris nodded. “Where are your keys?”

“In my pouch belt,” she said. “You can put me down now. I promise I won’t disgrace myself by falling onto my own front step.”

Her tone was cheeky and warm, and for some reason, this made his chest hurt even more. He shook his head slightly. “I’ll bring you safely inside.”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “All right. I won’t complain about being carried by Thedas’s most handsome elf.”

He scoffed softly, then waited as she pulled out her keys and unlocked the door. But as they were moving toward the stairs, Leandra’s bedroom door opened.

Leandra stepped out with a scowl. “Rynne, I’ve been beside myself—” She stopped short at the sight of Fenris and clutched the neckline of her dressing gown.

“Surprise!” Rynne exclaimed, and she patted Fenris’s chest. “Two for the price of one!”

Fenris cleared his throat. “Hawke, keep your voice down,” he mumbled.

She pulled a little face. “Right, right, people sleeping and all that,” she whispered. Then she blew a kiss to Leandra. “Hello, Mother! Go on back to bed, all right?”

Leandra stared at them for a moment longer, then lifted her chin and went back into her bedroom. As soon as the door was shut behind her, Hawke burst into giggles.

“Maker’s balls,” she whispered. “She’s going to be furious in the morning when you’re not here. I might not be able to bring you apple pie after all. I’ll be too busy nursing the new asshole she’s going to tear me in the morning.”

Fenris grimaced at the vivid image, then headed for the stairs. When they were in Hawke’s bedroom, he set her down on the bed.

Hawke snickered to herself as she pulled off her boots. She clumsily shucked her vest, then started pulling her shirt over her head, and Fenris hastily turned away.

He awkwardly tugged his ear. “I’ll, er. I’ll just…” He trailed off and started shifting toward the door.

“She’s disappointed,” Hawke said.

He glanced cautiously at her. She was tucked in bed and covered up to her chest, and her lips were curled in a sad sort of smile.

Fenris took a cautious step closer to the bed. “She will get over it soon enough.”

“No, I mean she’s disappointed that I’m not Bethany.” Hawke’s smile widened. “Honestly, so am I sometimes. She had the most perfect milkmaid skin. I bet you would have loved her too.”

His heart twisted painfully. Whatever Bethany’s virtues were, there was no doubt in his mind that she would never have found her way past his armour and burrowed beneath his tainted skin the way that Hawke had.

But he couldn’t tell that to Hawke. Such words meant nothing if he was incapable of backing them up with the devotion that she deserved.

He swallowed hard. “Get some sleep,” he said softly. “I will see you in the morning.” He slowly made his way to the door.

“Fenris?”

He glanced at her. “Yes?”

“Do you want to know what I like best about living in Kirkwall?”

“Half-off Tuesdays at the Hanged Man?” he suggested weakly.

She let out a bark of laughter. “Aw, half-off Tuesdays. That’s almost my favourite thing.”

He leaned against the door jamb. “I give up, then. What do you like best?”

“Running around this fucking place with you,” she replied.

In the dim lantern light of her bedroom, her smile was sweet and free of guile, and Fenris felt his throat growing thick once more. He felt the same way, of course; Kirkwall would have no value if not for her. She was the reason he had decided to stay, even after the exquisite disaster of their night together. Even knowing he was no good for her, he was incapable of leaving her side.

He gazed at her for a moment and drank in the perfect softness of her smile. It is the same for me, he thought. You are the only reason I’ve remained in this Maker-forbidden city. The confession crept close to the edge of his tongue, ready to spill into the soft and intimate atmosphere of her bedroom.

But the walk from his house to hers had cleared the booze-induced boldness from his mind, and he was no longer at the mercy of his selfish heart.

He bowed his head politely. “Get some sleep,” he said.

Her smile widened, and she snuggled down into her blankets and reached for the bedside lamp. “Goodnight, Fenris,” she said softly.

“Goodnight, Hawke,” he murmured. A moment later, her bedside lamp went out.

Fenris quietly closed her bedroom door, then padded silently downstairs. Orana was awake and waiting nervously by the door to lock it behind him, and he murmured an apology to her as he left. Then he was slipping stealthily through Hightown back to his empty mansion.

Once he was in the mansion once more, he sat at the table and stared at Hard in Hightown, but the words were meaningless on the page, unseen by his unfocused eyes.

Hawke thought she was a disappointment, but nothing was farther from the truth. Nothing about her was a disappointment — not her incessant jokes or her drunken visits to his home, not the fact that she was a mage, and the memories of her naked body bending beneath his hands… venhedis, nothing about those memories were a disappointment either.

It didn’t bear thinking about, though. Hawke might not be a disappointment, but Fenris certainly was, and that wasn’t going to change anytime soon.

With that heavy thought, he closed his copy of Hard in HIghtown and went to bed.

#fenris #fenris fic #fenhawke #fenris/hawke #fenris x hawke #fenris/femhawke #fenris x femhawke #fenris/f!hawke #fenris x f!hawke #fenrynne #fhawris #pikapeppa writes

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goldeneyedgirl · 4 years ago

Text

Part 2 of MCU/Twilight verse

“That MCU crossover I’m writing that actually hasn’t mentioned the MCU at all yet.”

Alt 7: Found Family

Rating: T for swearing

Words: 2,551

Summary: Twilight X MCU crossover. The Snap doesn’t just kill humans. What happens next?

Notes: Is this even Whump-y enough to count to Whumptober? I don’t know, everyone’s grieving. I made myself watch Endgame again and I found something useful. I know it probably feels like I wiped out a lot of characters, but there’s method to my madness. I’m desperately resisting the urge to make some obvious corrections to the MCU, and I’m pretty sure the last two chapters are going to be needlessly self-indulgent. And yes, I need a title.

Part One here

two. survivors

What happens next?

It’s a good question, and one Alice used to be able to answer. Her predictions have… well, they haven’t stopped, but there are less. Maybe she’s not saying everything but he doesn’t press.

They stay in Forks. It’s the easiest option, really. They have resources at the Forks house - all of Jasper’s computers, Rose’s cars, Carlisle’s medication stash. And for, now, it makes sense to keep up the masquerade - the orphaned Cullen kids, in that big old house.

And Seth Clearwater. Neither of them have made more than polite inquiries about the Quileute reservation, because what can they do, really? They weren’t allowed on the land, and nothing they offer will be accepted. Seth doesn’t want to talk about it either, so they just… don’t. Not yet.

The first announcements and news reports are hard to listen to - half of all living creatures. Humans, animals, plants, sea-life… just gone. Then there are the people who survived, but died in the aftermath; the patients in surgery with the dust of their surgeons sinking into their chest cavity, the passengers on an airplane, the school bus with no driver. The news plays on, listing losses and catastrophes until he loudly asks if Seth wants to play Xbox instead.

Alice goes with them, and sits crosslegged on a recliner, watching them.

“Carlisle would have liked that,” she says suddenly, when Emmett realises the error in picking a war game - should have opted for a racing game instead.

“Liked what?” he asks, as he gets up to change the disc. Seth doesn’t say anything, playing with the recliner buttons instead.

“‘Half of all living creatures’,” she quotes. She’s been wearing one of Jasper’s t-shirts under her cardigan, and the scent of his brother is fading the longer she wears it. “Carlisle would have appreciated that. That the universe thought we were living creatures. Might have convinced Edward that we weren’t total monsters, either.”

Seth looks up at her, confused. “Why wouldn’t you be living creatures?” he asks, concentrating at the recliner tips him right back.

“We don’t breathe or age or change,” Alice says, a smirk playing around her face as Seth yelps when the entire chair begins to tip, but luckily it doesn’t fall.

“But you eat,” Seth accepts the controller Emmett passes him. “And you’ve got families. That means you still count.”

“I wish we didn’t.” Emmett doesn’t realise he’s said those words aloud until he realises Seth and Alice are both staring at him. He wants to explain that if they didn’t count, then there wouldn’t be five vases lined up on the mantel (three empty) full of dust. That he wouldn’t be sitting here playing Xbox with Seth Clearwater, and Alice wouldn’t be wearing leggings and her husband’s t-shirt, looking brittle and tired. That he wouldn’t go into their room every night, and bury his face in Rose’s clothes to keep himself from going insane.

But he doesn’t need to. They both understand - Alice sits with Seth when the boy sniffles and tries to hide it; Emmett hears Alice padding around Jasper’s office, having a conversation with thin air, questions asked to silence. If there was some loophole they could grab with both hands and exploit, he knows he and Alice and Seth would take it, humanity and life and all those upright and moral things be damned.

“Just what everyone needs,” Alice muses, leaning back and stretching like a cat. “A world where humans and animals were cut in half but the vampires weren’t.”

And she’s right. That would be a mess. The fucking end of times.

“That would be a cool movie,” Seth says absently, focused on the screen and forcing Emmett’s car off the road and into a ravine.

Alice watches them play for awhile before getting up. A few minutes later, there’s a knock at the door and low voices. Charlie Swan, with Carlisle’s phone. Emmett lets Seth win a second race, focused on the conversation Alice is having - why it took Charlie so damn long to bring the phone, how they’re holding up; his irritation at the delay it took to get Carlisle’s phone is tempered when he hears the genuine concern Charlie has for Alice. He doesn’t know much about Bella’s father, but he seems like a good guy.

Not that Alice needs to act the part - she looks broken. Most of the time he feels like he’s seeing a part of her that he shouldn’t be seeing, that the loss and grief that becomes her is somehow shameful to witness; it’d be less awkward to see her naked than to see her twisting Jasper’s t-shirt in her hands with that glassy look of hopelessness she tries to hide.

Alice feels the same about him; that Emmett without Rose is devoid of that joie de vivre, that endless good humour, the extra joke. He feels tired in his bones, deflated, and distracted with the space in his chest that Rose used to fill. He feels like an old man, when he was never finished being a young man, never made it to middle-age.

But they are trying. Especially with Seth in the house - he’s taken over the bedroom that Esme planned to give to Bella, mostly because it didn’t stink of vampires as much as any other room; and neither of them wanted to dismantle Esme’s studio or Carlisle’s office. It wasn’t really much - a mattress and boxspring, a dresser and desk. Alice had given him a laptop to use, and found some new bedding for him, and occasionally even remembered that a fourteen year old boy shouldn’t be eating pizza six nights a week, and probably needed more boundaries than they were giving him. But Alice isn’t maternal, and her attempts at forcing vegetables and a bedtime on Seth usually get forgotten within a day or two.

Charlie Swan leaves, and he listens as Alice puts Carlisle’s phone into his vase, and then he focuses on the game so that Seth doesn’t think he’s letting him win because of pity or anything.

—

It’s not until late summer than people start bothering them. Parents of classmates who suddenly don’t have any children of their own to worry over. Colleagues and acquaintances who feel some kind of lingering responsibility. Busy-bodies, usually a part of some self-aggrandising self-appointed community group butting into everyone’s grief.

Alice ignores the early attempts to interfere, to crack open both the metaphorical and literal door for anyone who isn’t Charlie Swan. She’s taken to doing the oddest tasks, but Emmett doesn’t ask. At the moment, she’s painting every single door in the house with a swirling pattern of flowers that is tiny and detailed and fills up the day. Esme would have a conniption if she saw her lovely doors like this (he remembers when Alice and Jasper first arrived, and her art projects ran afoul of Esme - she had apologised and channeled that manic energy into embroidery instead; there’s a pair of unspeakably ugly curtains hanging in the Vermont house from one panicked week when Jasper went off with Peter and Charlotte).

Then the harassment starts - both her and him, since he’s apparently considered her ‘guardian’. Alice hangs up the phone numerous times wordlessly before being so outstandingly rude to Mrs Newton that both he and Seth stare at her before Emmett remembers he’s actually supposed to be in charge - as far as the rest of the town knows, at least - and calls to deter any more visits or phone calls or casseroles because Alice isn’t well and the disruptions are upsetting her.

If Carlisle or Esme were here, they’d think to send Mrs Newton flowers or something as an apology, but they aren’t, and no one can get Alice to apologise when she doesn’t want to, and Seth confided in him that she’s crying when he’s hiding in the garage and Seth is totally at a loss over what to do about a crying girl that isn’t Leah, so maybe they’ll just leave it at that. Give the town something new to gossip about.

But it does spark sudden realisation in both Cullens about a topic that has been long forgotten - school. Alice and Emmett have both graduated, but Seth had not. Seth had another four glorious years in high school, even if the Res school is down to double digits of enrolments, and probably won’t even run every weekday.

Seth whines and begs and negotiates until Alice stamps her foot and demands to know what Sue Clearwater would say and that makes Seth all small and miserable, and Alice hates herself and Emmett solves the problem by making a large donation through one of their anonymous charities to the Res school so that Seth can at least do online learning, and apparently that’s a huge deal that is on the local news, and that makes Alice and Seth laugh because only Emmett would stop a teenage boy’s whining by revolutionising a tribe’s educational provisions with a cheque large enough to sustain a small city for a year.

But it’s good help - it means the children who suddenly have no parents and have to raise siblings can still study; it means that half-empty classrooms don’t necessarily mean half-empty classes; it also means that other tribes with larger losses and no way of schooling are invited to join them.

That’s one good thing they’ve managed.

He also fixed the backdoor as good as new, so it should be two, but he’s pretty sure that doesn’t count now that Alice has painted flowers blooming and dying all over it.

At some point they both bully Seth into going home again, to get his own stuff - clothes and bedding and photos and all those things you look for when you’re in a house that isn’t yours. He yells at them, they yell at him, and he storms off. But now there’s a photo of him with his parents and sister on his dresser, and a bunch of books crowding his desk, and the world’s most beat-up DS under his pillow. There are more photos, somewhere - Emmett knows that because Alice knows where they are and then one day there are two framed photos joining the vases on the mantle - one of Sue and Harry Clearwater on their wedding day, and one of Leah laughing. Neither of them knows what happened to Sue or Leah precisely on that day, but Seth doesn’t bring the ashes with him, so they don’t ask.

Summer folds into fall, and what’s left of Esme’s gardens wither up. Charlie Swan checks on them every few weeks, sounding tired. There’s a lot of work for him right now - mostly community and social issues, like scared and orphaned children hiding, people struggling with money, grief, religion. There’s been some shortages of food, since there’s less being grown, less people to process and package and ship it, and a little town hours outside of Seattle is not a priority to whomever is deciding where to send a milk delivery.

They order Seth’s food from high-end places online that deliver them quickly and quietly; Alice starts choosing long-life and bulk items, and no one needs to ask because it’s obvious things will get worse before they get better. Seth holds a pretty intense grudge against the powdered strawberry milk, though.

But food shortages are the least of their worries, as Alice uses the dining room wall to start taking nonsensical notes, and Emmett’s heard enough stories to know that losing a mate can be… well, he’s not having much fun, but the very last thing he needs is to wrangle Alice if she’s lost her mind. Dead or not, he knows he could never lay a hand on her even if she did go nuts out of love for his family, out of respect for Jasper, and out of this funny bond they’ve somehow formed, being the last ones left.

The notes turn into lists, lists of everyone they’ve ever known, in her swirling handwriting. Even people they know are gone, like Bella, goes on the list.

Then she starts striking out names, like she’s slashing with a knife - Carlisle, Esme, Jasper, Rosalie, Edward, Bella, Charlie, Sue, Leah, Sam, Jacob, Paul… Slash, slash, slash.

Then it starts getting interesting. Peter and Charlotte are gone, but so are half the goddamned Volturi (Alice smirks as she crosses out Caius, Jane, Alec, Dimitri because imagining Aro on his throne with grief-mad Marcus and only the minions is a pretty picture indeed). Carmen and Tanya have survived, but Kate, Irina, and Eleazer are gone. Garrett is alive, but Randall and Mary aren’t. J Jenks didn’t make it either, which makes things… difficult.

Alice scowls darkly as she scratches out Maria’s name, and Emmett wonders if it’s because she didn’t get to do the honours of destroying the Mexican harpy herself. Or because wherever Jasper is now, so is Maria, and Alice is left behind.

Finally, she is done, and the list is nearly balanced in living and dead. Alice’s left eye twitches, and whatever she’s thinking she doesn’t say as she stands up.

“Alaska and then Mexico, then,” she says to him, and he gives her the Look that he gives her and Edward and Jasper every time one of them forgets that not everyone has a gift and some of them have to use their words.

“We need to check on Carmen and Tanya; I think they need us,” Alice explains, still examining the list. “I saw that we need to go. And then we’re going down to Mexico.”

“Maria’s dead,” he gestures at her list, and Seth wanders in stuffing his face with Pringles, and turns white at the sight of Esme’s freshly defaced walls; evidently Motherly Wrath is something universal across all of the species.

“Maria’s dead, and left behind a bunch of fresh newborns,” Alice sounds tired. “There’s no one left for clean up, Em, no one who knows. And it will be bad if we don’t step in soon.”

There might be something cathartic in that for Alice, undoing Maria’s life’s work. Maria’s lands weren’t exactly in the wealthiest or most populated lands these days - Jasper kept a secret map that wasn’t at all a secret - and if going down there and taking off a few heads saves a mother or father or child, then maybe it’s worth the hassle.

“Fine. Alaska and Mexico,” he agrees, and Seth cheers.

“Road-trip!” he declares around a mouthful of chips. Alice rolls her eyes.

“I’ll make you up a passport,” she says, not even bothering to argue with the younger boy that he’ll be joining them. “We’ll take the Jeep, Em - Rose just finished it.”

The words hang in the air for a second, and he nods in agreement. There might be something in that, taking the last gift-gesture-offering Rose ever did for him on their End-of-the-World Road Trip. Alice can rip the heads off newborns, he can drive around in the SUV his wife carefully and lovingly put together just to please him, and maybe he’ll buy Seth a beer in Tijuana.

Closest thing they’ll ever get to therapy, he supposes.

#my fic: jar of hearts #alice cullen #emmett cullen #seth clearwater #twilight fic #i should check the jalice prompts again for ch 3 #but is this crossovery enough for a crossover?#like we're aggressively not talking about the avengers yet #we'll get there #i promise the roadtrip isn't just an excuse to run into captain america buying a milkshake or something #there is plot and purpose #we are above that sort of cloying and anemic meet cute #in this fic at least #others not so much

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betweenthetimeandsound · 3 years ago

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Three Minutes to Eternity: My ESC 250 (240-231)

#240: Joci Pápai - Az én apám (Hungary 2019)

"Hallom őt, az ő szívét a húrokon Látom őt, múló idővel az arcomon Az ő hitét büszkeség vallanom Ezeregy dalból ezt az egyet dúdolom, dúdolom"

"I can hear him, his heart on the strings I can see him, bearing the passing time on my face I’m proud to confess his faith Of a thousand and one songs this is the one that I hum"

If there's anything I love at Eurovision, is when someone sings a song from their soul. And in both of Joci's entries, he does just that.

Az en apam is a bit more sedate than his first entry (which will come soon enough), but it's calming and serene with substance. The lyrics, talking about his relationship with his father, is a touching and poetic tribute, one that people should really speak to their loved ones that care about them.

It's just a shame this song was the one to break Hungary's impressive qualifying streak; I thought they were on a path to win soon (though not with this one...). And they left the contest too; hopefully they will steer the ship back to more open waters and come back.

Personal ranking: 5th/41 Actual ranking: DNQ (did not qualify)--12th in the first semi-final in Tel Aviv

#239: Anna Vissi -- Mono i Agapi (Cyprus 1982)

"Η ζωή μας περνά, κι ότι φεύγει πονά Πίσω δε γυρνά, κι όμως κάτι μας κρατά"

"Our life passes by, and whatever leaves, we’re in pain It doesn’t come back, but something holds us together"

In most cases, the first entry somebody has sent in the contest is their best, with a number of exceptions here and there. Anna is one of them; I never liked her first entry, but her other two are fantastic.

Mono i agapi is quite lyrically simplistic--it talks about how love remains between two people, as the world changes around them. But the melody has a very loungy sound--I've heard it being compared to a James Bond theme. While I don't hear why it would be the case (other than the alluring mystery of this piece), it does give a calming vibe, and stands out in the rather mediocre field in 1982.

Personal ranking: 3rd/18 Actual ranking: 5th/18 in Harrogate

#238: Yardena Arazi -- Ben Adam (Israel 1988)

בן אדם הוא רק בשר ודם,” אבק פורח במדבר, בן אדם, בדרך העולם, כצל עובר, כחרס הנשבר "

“A human being is only flesh and blood, Dust flying in the desert A human being, in the way of the world Like a passing shadow, like broken pottery"

Yardena's time at Eurovision 1988 is best known for the anecdote where she goes to a fortune teller who said that song #9 would win that contest. When the draw occurred, Israel was slotted into that place, but was shafted up to #8 when Cyprus withdrew from having an already-released song. #9 would go to Ne Partez Pas Sans moi, which would end up winning and make history thanks to its singer.

This ends up taking away from the song itself; Ben Adam is reminiscent of older folk songs, but it takes off with its own character and flair. I also love the lyrics, which recognizes humans as flawed, without berating them as such. (We need a little bit more of that in the internet world, haha)

The flurry towards the end of the song was well-executed too, and the instrumentation is just fantastic. It feels like one was in a festival!

Personal ranking: 2nd/21 Actual ranking: 7th/21 in Dublin

#237: Amandine Bourgeois -- L'enfer et moi (France 2013)

“Tu m’as fait pleurer à vif Mon cou porte encore ta griffe J’aimais échanger de peau”

“You made me cry a lot You can still see your mark on my neck I used to like exchanging skin”

I love the dark sensuality of this song—with its blues influences, it tells a story of a relationship gone awry, but does so with sophistication. It starts out with a slick guitar line, which later devolves into a full on outrage against the lover at question.

The harshness of this song probably clashed with its opening spot, which is why it’s so underrated. Or it was because of Amandine’s styling...

Either way, it has grown on me since I watched the 2013 contest, and it gets the right vibes going...except with the lyrical story...

Personal ranking: 5th/39 Actual ranking: 23rd/26 GF in Malmo

#236: Ambasadori -- Ne mogu skriti svoju bol (Yugoslavia 1976)

"Ne molim da se vratiš Al’ molim te da pamtiš Voljela tebe samo sam ja”

“I’m not begging you to come back But please remember I only loved you”

Ambasadori was one of Yugoslavia's biggest groups, and they have a long list of who's who in the Bosnia music scene. I'm not familiar with their other music, but Ne mogu skriti svoju bol definitely highlights their artistry, along with the dark-pop take Yugoslavia had in 1970s Eurovision.

This song was initally my fifth place of 1976, but it has steadily grown until it became my fourth (knocking out Portugal in the process) The instrumentation conveys a dark mood, despite the upbeat strings and the poppy sound. There’s a grooviness in it to contrast the sullen lyrics, mourning for a lost love. It definitely stands out in the crowd; along with Ismeta's lack of makeup.

It got rewarded with a second-to-last place, which is way too low for this. And Yugoslavia withdrew for five years, and came back with a new sound...

Personal ranking: 4th/18 Actual ranking: 17th/18 in Den Haag

#235: Zibbz -- Stones (Switzerland 2018)

"Sins of the father make us fall And I can’t do anything about it"

2018 had a number of staging errors which cost several countries qualification. In Stones' cases, this wasn't the case.

Corrine has incredible stage presence, with a sense of strength and attiude as she struts on the stage. She definitely adds substance to this powerful pop-rock song, fighting against bullying in all corners of society.

To further that, she lights a flare at the bridge, which definitely hits the tone of the song home. Plus, it was an awesome moment to behold.

Basically, Zibbz did everything right--great song, thoughtful message, simple but impactful staging, and it still didn't qualify...While it has outgrown me a bit, it's still a total jam.

Personal ranking: 9th/43 Actual ranking: DNQ -- 13th in the first semi-final in Lisbon

#234: Kalomira -- Secret Combination (Greece 2008)

“An open book An open book, well, I'm sorry, I am not Sometimes I'm acting like a lady Sometimes woman, sometimes baby.”

"You maybe an open book Spongebob, but I'm a bit more complicated than that"

One third of the female-bop grouping in the 2008 contest, Secret Combination takes Greek instrumentation and American production to produce quite the gem. I could imagine Britney Spears singing this, but I also thought of the Cheetah Girls when I was listening to it. With a bit of sweetness and a touch of sexiness, Kalomira plays the different roles well--and has a cute moment when the book actually opens, revealing her in a really nice silvery dress!

Personal ranking: 7th/43 Actual ranking: 3rd/25 GF in Belgrade

#233: Avi Toledano -- Hora (Israel 1982)

"וגם ההורה, ההיא עם הה”א קולה עוד עולה, קולה לא נדם"

"And also the Hora, the one with the Hey Its voice still rises, its voice has not been silenced"

Israel had a particular style with songs from the 1980s--they are usually really energetic, with fun choreography in which everyone joins along. It makes for good results and good energy, especially when it's done well!

Hora seems to embody it in many ways, from the celebratory lyrics to the fun dancing across the really tiny stage in Harrogate. It combines Israeli folk music with a sense of joie-de-vivre, celebrating the nation (which as you will see later, may not work today...)

Avi earns himself a strong second place, but he would write something even better the following year (again, will come later)!

Personal and actual ranking: 2nd/18 at Harrogate

#232: Raphael Gualazzi -- Madness of Love (Italy 2011)

"Ma vedrai un altro me in un sogno fragile Riderai come se non ti avessi amato mai Cercherai un altro me oltre all’ombra di un caffè"

"But you’ll see another me in a fragile dream You’ll laugh as if I had never loved you You’ll look for another me beyond the shadow of a coffee"

Between 1994 and 2010, Italy withdrew from Eurovision, with only one participation in 1997. Nobody knows why, with reasons ranging from the rise of a televote to Italian disinterest in the contest, but they were certainly missed. Thanks to the late Rafaella Carra and a bunch of other circumstances, Italy came back in 2011, and they did so in style.

"Madness of Love" is frequently overlooked amongst Italy's post-comeback entries, as some of us aren't into jazz. I don't listen to the genre often, but I like this song particularly. It's flirty and sweet, under a very sophisticated soundscape which reminds me of a 1920s speakeasy. And while people are put off by Raphael's vocals, the way he lets himself go at the end of the chorus is definitely a highlight.

Basically, it's one of those runners-up that should've won against the winner of its year. But it was nicely made up for ten years later.

Personal ranking: 2nd/43 Actual ranking: 2nd/25 GF in Dusseldorf

#231: Anneli Saaristo -- La dolce vita (Finland 1989)

“Minä sammutin elämän janoa vaan Minä osasin onnea anoa vaan Jälkeen kaiken nyt saatan sen sanoa vaan La dolce vita”

“I was just quenching life’s thirst I knew how to plead for happiness After everything all I can say is: The good life”

La Dolce Vita sounds more stereotypically ”Spanish” than “Finnish”, because of its flamenco influences versus the dark pop or metal we expect from the country. Apparently, a lot of Finns travel south for vacations, which makes a bit more sense here.

Either way, it springs a bit of life and joy into a dark heart. It embraces life in its tropical vibe and Anneli’s deep vocals, and conveys a comfortable mood. Apparently, it was also known for Anneli's slight choreography, but I only noticed her standing during the instrumental.

It would be Finland’s last top ten result for many years, but the 7th place it got in Lausanne was deserved (and they should've done better, actually!). A fitting send-off for their long-time conductor Ossi Runne (RIP).

Personal ranking: 3rd/22 Actual ranking: 7th/22 in Lausanne

#esc 250 #eurovision song contest #esc top 250 #esc hungary #esc cyprus #esc israel #esc france #esc yugoslavia #esc switzerland #esc greece #esc italy #esc finland #three minutes to eternity #vintage eurovision

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indiavolojones · 5 years ago

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Diavolo glances at his employer for the night, corners of his mouth turning up in a lazy smile at the other's presence.

“You’re still here?” Lucifer asks, standing by the side of the grand piano with his own glass, looking out into the crowd, “Your set is over. I’m not going to pay you for an encore.”

alternate summary: classy lounge owner lucifer flirts with pianist diavolo! hahaha, you thought dialuci hour was over? think again, baybeeee.

2kish words, G, dialuci, #swanky lounges are tres sexy, y’all.

this fic is served best with some soft jazz and idk, maybe imagine a sepia tone over everything?

As the final notes of his song fade, a hand sets a glass of amber colored liquor on the folded lid of the piano.

(On a coaster, of course. The beautifully made and maintained grand piano is easily worth $80,000 and Diavolo is doing well in his field, but not that well.)

The hand belongs to none other than Lucifer, infamous owner of The Fall, the swankiest lounge in town, and for the last two hours of Diavolo's set, his boss. Diavolo glances at his employer for the night, corners of his mouth turning up in a lazy smile at the other's presence.

“You’re still here?” Lucifer asks, discreetly polishing an imagined scuff on the pristine surface of the piano, “Your set is over. I’m not going to pay you for an encore.”

In a sharp suit befitting his status, Lucifer is always dressed to the nines when he’s at work. The man is devastating to look upon, cutting a striking image as he looks out into the crowd. Honestly, Diavolo doesn’t think he’s seen Lucifer in anything less than a sports jacket…

But he’d like to.

(Maybe a cardigan. Oh, he’d love that.)

Diavolo hums a few notes from the song still ringing in his head, the soft melody tapped into the rim of the glass.

“And yet you’re buying me drinks?” Diavolo grins, an ungodly amount of satisfaction on his face from the almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of Lucifer’s mouth. He’s not sure if it’s a frown or a smile, but it’s something.

“If I’m getting a free show, I can probably afford to offer my musicians a drink or two." Lucifer says — dismissively, as if his standing near Diavolo is not a result of the unavoidable attraction between them, Lucifer drawn to Diavolo like Diavolo is drawn to him. Diavolo cocks a brow as Lucifer realizes his choice of phrasing.

“A free show –” Diavolo’s flirtatious tone is badly concealed as he speaks, interrupted by Lucifer's curt growl.

“Don’t.”

Lucifer would be glaring at him, Diavolo is sure, if not for the casual bustle of the lounge’s patrons. In lieu of an answer that would likely get him kicked out, he raises the glass to his occasional employer, bringing the crystalline glass to his lips.

The burn of the vapours numbing his mouth is familiar, almost like an old friend that still likes to roughhouse, but what really sticks out to Diavolo is the flavor.

Diavolo’s not a whiskey connoisseur by any means, but he’s had enough of a variety of cheap and disgustingly expensive liquor in his life that he can tell immediately. Vanilla. Caramel. Dried fruit. Woody spice. A smoothness as he savors it in his mouth, licks the drops of it off his lips. Jack Daniel's tastes like sickly sweet maple syrup in comparison to the several drams of high quality liquor swirling around his glass.

It's a damn good liquor, aged at least ten years, if his hunch is correct. Top shelf. Easily.

Diavolo glances down at it, something warm like the whiskey (but not quite the same) settling in his belly.

Diavolo knows he shouldn't comment on it. He shouldn't tease Lucifer over a glass of what is likely a thirty dollar (at least!) glass of beautifully aged whiskey, because then Lucifer will abruptly stop as if he’s gotten his hand caught in the cookie jar. Lucifer is a successful business owner, he has the means to be generous like this if he so chooses…

But that's just it. If he so chooses.

Diavolo loves that he chose to do it. For Diavolo! He could shout that off the rooftops, he’s so damn elated.

Lucifer isn’t the type to spoil his employees in such a way – or his family, honestly. Lucifer’s a tough love kinda guy, and Diavolo’s definitely about that. He has to focus on not letting his stupid heart work itself into overdrive with delight that Lucifer is spoiling him so, after months of toeing the line between amusing himself by riling up a hot guy and not getting fired by his most lucrative gig.

The universe both helps out, and ruins it all, with the nearby distraction of someone lighting a cigarette, harsh smoke filtering into the air.

The acrid smell of it makes Lucifer’s nose twitch with displeasure – ah right, he’s been in the process of trying to quit smoking for pretty much as long as Diavolo’s known him. It must be hard when Lucifer’s in charge of a place that actively allows smoking indoors but… Lucifer has more willpower than most people Diavolo knows.

The action does, however, seem to break the moment between them, jarring Lucifer out of the suspended tension of their chat. Diavolo stifles the flare of disappointment as Lucifer clears his throat, gaze flitting away as he sips from his own glass. Unwilling to let the conversation fade into awkwardness, Diavolo sets his glass back down on the coaster.

“Well, I’ve got nothing else to do tonight but drink myself silly at your overpriced bar, so…”

Diavolo stretches his arms up in the air and rolls his neck side to side, ignoring Lucifer’s scoff at overpriced. After an exaggerated shaking out of his hands, he places them back on the keys, before glancing once more at Lucifer, “Kick me out whenever your next musician is ready to go, yeah?”

“Of course,” Lucifer hums, but there’s a slight quirk to his mouth when he heads back into the crowd.

His departure is followed by the beginning notes of a song Diavolo makes up on the spot, inspired by Lucifer’s long fingers wrapped around clear crystal, and by the soft bite of the whiskey on his lips.

He plays the entire night, despite Lucifer’s loud denouncement of any further pay since his set is technically over.

Lucifer probably has another musician booked to cover the last few hours of the night, but no one disturbs Diavolo, lost in the mindless melody dancing over the keys. It is no hardship for Diavolo, especially when Lucifer requests no set playlist from him. Their clientele doesn’t seem to have a preference or notice, too caught up in being rich bastards, most likely.

Diavolo loves his craft; he loves music more than anything else in his life. There’s something else here, something about his desire to mash the new and the old, to bring life into the classics – he hasn’t told Lucifer about this yet, but he thinks Lucifer would understand. Lucifer’s hired him more than once, so Diavolo knows that Lucifer likes how he plays at least. Diavolo wouldn’t have crossed over that threshold into The Fall a second time if Lucifer hadn’t been impressed with his skills.

Lucifer may look like the stereotypical hot, repressed business type, but Lucifer owns a jazz lounge.

Sure, it’s swanky and pretentious as hell, and all of the drinks are stupid overpriced if you ask him – but jazz, at its heart, is filled with an inescapable, overwhelming joie de vivre that makes the countless hours of practice worth it.

Diavolo knows that it’s late, probably around two in the morning. In his peripherals, he noticed the patrons progressively filter out in their expensive suits and shiny cocktail dresses, swaying with contentment from the good food, great drinks, and even greater musical accompaniment. He doesn’t have a watch and, because he’s a professional, his phone is somewhere at the bottom of his backpack in the employee break room, but he keeps playing anyway, simply because it’s easy for him to do so.

Lucifer shows up again, probably wondering how to kick Diavolo out so that no patrons try to linger past closing to listen to his music. Diavolo senses his presence lingering at the edges of the small performance floor, but allows himself to lean into his music rather than acknowledge Lucifer.

With Lucifer there, Diavolo blatantly puts on a bigger show.

A performer through and through, Diavolo likes to add a flourish to his performances regardless, but with Lucifer standing at the edge of the polished wooden floor that separates the performer’s area from the general floor, he bumps the obnoxiousness up a few levels.

Slow, sustained notes are held longer for the effect, hands moving fluidly as they sweep over the keys. He curls his shoulders in, curls them out, sways as if the music is guiding him, instead of the other way around. Tilts his head back, exposing the long line of his neck, the top buttons of his shirt undone in a way that tends to make the older women in the crowd breathless and…

Lucifer lets him, which is the funniest thing of them all, really.

(He’s been so indulgent with Diavolo lately. He’ll get spoiled if Lucifer keeps this up.)

Gracious man that he is, he allows Diavolo to finish his song, a mindless melody led by his bold, sure right hand, gratuitous ease as his left hand follows instinctively. He switches his chords from the first inversion, to the second, never following a set decision and only choosing what feels right at the moment.

He’ll never play this song the same way again, and he’s glad that Lucifer is there to hear it.

“I hear you’ve got a lovely voice.” Diavolo says, once his foot lifts off the sustain pedal, notes fading. Diavolo turns to Lucifer, who seems (well, he’s stoic, but it’s Lucifer, so it’s subtle) surprised.

“Like an angel.”

“Who told you that?” Lucifer asks, likely already narrowing down the suspects in his head. It’s Mammon, obviously, but Diavolo won’t throw him under the bus and Lucifer will figure it out anyway. Diavolo tries for a mysterious smile, and Lucifer tchs under his breath.

“Mammon.” Lucifer says, but Diavolo mumbles I plead the fifth with his hands held up placatingly, sending an unspoken prayer to the heavens for Mammon’s fate. It really wasn’t his fault, Diavolo’s just nosy.

“You should perform for your customers one day, they’d love it. I can be your accompanist.” Shifting gears, Diavolo leans back on the bench, one hand propping himself up on the edge of it as he tilts his head invitingly at Lucifer. “I’ll even give you a returning employer discount for my services.”

Lucifer quirks one regal, haughty eyebrow, and Diavolo is startled with the sudden urge to kiss the arch of it.

“An accompanist.” Lucifer says, a master at saying few words for maximum effect, “You.” His gaze flutters to Diavolo’s hands, clear disbelief that Diavolo could ever manage to behave. They seem to linger longer than intended, and Diavolo’s so, so glad he rolled up his sleeves a few hours ago.

Diavolo allows himself to look mock-offended, pressing one hand to his chest, “You doubt me?”

“I have always been under the assumption that being an accompanist means to follow someone else’s lead. Are you saying that you’d be amenable to that?”

It’s a clear reference to Diavolo’s fluid style of playing, loose in structure but full of excitement. Diavolo’s music denies what’s written on the sheet music, instead seeking out chaos and harmony in equal shares. An accompanist, traditionally, is not as much of a wild card as Diavolo’s style advertises.

The laugh that bubbles from Diavolo’s chest is warm, inviting, and it shakes his shoulders with mirth. It holds him hostage for a bit, until it mellows out into a chuckle. He wipes at an invisible (read: nonexistent, for dramatic effect) tear from under his eye.

“You got me,” Diavolo huffs, before allowing him to fully take in the sight of Lucifer at the end of a long night, the weary look in his eyes of someone that still has plenty of work to do. Lucifer should take more time off, Diavolo thinks, having an inkling of what Lucifer’s hectic schedule tends to look like. Maybe he just needs to blow off some steam.

“Maybe there just hasn’t been someone I’d like to take charge,” Diavolo settles on, words heavy with an offer, but vague enough to lend a way out. He turns to look back at the piano, lightly dragging his fingers along white keys in a soft, half-attempted glissando, but the smile still plays at his lips.

Silence.

Willing himself to not look up, Diavolo tries to catch Lucifer’s reaction in the polished black grand’s reflection. Of course, it’s a piano, and only offers a blurry, warped image that shows he hasn’t immediately run away at an obviously charged offer.

“And there is now?” Lucifer asks.

The liquor Lu serves Dia is a macallan 18yo triple cask single malt whiskey which is a fun $261 USD per bottle! don’t think too hard about my descriptions of jazz, i got lazy.

#ch: diavolo #ch: lucifer #pr: dialuci #writing #WELP HERE I GO AGAIN #last time it was dia flirting with lu #now it's instigated the other way around!#canon? who is she #i dpn't know her

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doomedandstoned · 4 years ago

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Cave of Swimmers Reach Epic Heights in Infectious New Spinner ‘Aurora’

~Review by Billy Goate~

Album Art by Brian Olson

I've always said that given the right circumstances (say a good set of professional ears lodged in influential places) that CAVE OF SWIMMERS would be a sensation. Why? Because they've got all the right stuff to really connect with people at a time when heavy music has been simmering underground, well-past ready for a fresh outburst. Hamstrung by lockdowns, financial burdens, and fear aplenty, we're ready to dust off our air guitars and party like it's 1987 again (incidentally, the year I first discovered heavy music). I'm not alone in speculating that we're in for another Roaring Twenties, not unlike the carefree days that followed the last global pandemic. And it's precisely this kind of energetic vibe, with its unique Latin-meets-metal flavor, that is ripe and ready to rock 'n' revel to!

Hell, we've not heard a sound this contagious since, well, maybe Sepultura -- and that was another animal entirely. With that said, Cave of Swimmers are very much metal to the core. And oh what a crowd-rousing live show Guillermo Gonzalez (guitar, synth, vox) and Arturo Garcia (drums, backing vox) can put on! I was there when Cave of Swimmers energized a hung-over and droopy mob gathered 'round The Vinyl Stage at the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino, lo those many years ago at the inaugural Psycho Las Vegas.

Doomed & Stoned · The Doomed & Stoned Show - The Cave Of Swimmers Special

All that and they have an appealing back story: two friends whose families relocated to Florida amidst tumultuous circumstances in Venezuela. As teenagers, Arturo and Guillermo grew up idolizing bands like Iron Maiden and Metallica and now they've crafted a fantastic, original style of their own, with wicked guitar play and grandiose vocals built atop a rhythmic array that is simultaneously feverish and suave, with choruses that are imminently singable. Stream their latest LP at least twice through and I can predict which lines you'll be humming at work and crowing in the shower at the top of your lungs.

When the band burst upon the scene in 2013 with Cave of Swimmers, I remember the community sharing it like mad. From "Materia" onward to their incredible namesake anthem, it was as if the Latin Candlemass had emerged from the salty Atlantic to enthrall crowds like some kind of warbling Creature from the Black Lagoon.

Cave of Swimmers by CAVE OF SWIMMERS

Their music-making only got better from there. 2015 gifted us with a second EP, Reflection, featuring a song I have no doubt will one day be a doom metal standard, "Prince of the Power of the Air". I'm telling you, the Psycho crowd went stompin' nuts when they heard those quasi-Biblical lyrics sung in epic doom fashion accompanied by that stern guitar tone, leading up to an incredible solo, and then a delirious second-half, which made everyone dance (whether we wanted to or not). It's infectious, like I said. I'm telling you, this sound cannot be matched. And I'm convinced it will not be stopped, either.

Reflection by CAVE OF SWIMMERS

2021 is Cave of Swimmer's year to ascend, for thus saith the Prophet that dwelleth atop the Rocks on High! Pandemic or no, it was this duo's time to release the material that had been welling up inside of them for so long. I guess we can call this their first LP, even though every spin so far has felt sufficiently hefty to refer to as a full-length. Six songs clocking in at over 30 minutes -- it's the band's next stepping stone in their journey from the recording studio into your earbuds and mine.

Aurora by CAVE OF SWIMMERS

'Aurora' (2021) plays like the first songbird of spring, if you'll indulge my idyllic wording for a moment. It's just so full of earnestness, life, and yes joy. Three things that we've been longing for in the midst of so much treachery and nihilistic despair. Hell, I consider myself something of a nihilist, but this band melts away my grim pessimism. It's all encapsulated in the thrashy, downtuned attack married to a kind of urgent Latin vibe that says "We've got one night left to live, let's die with a smile!"

After an atmospheric introduction that foreshadows material still to come, we're treated to "The Sun," which the band released as a single awhile back. I remember telling them at the time, "You guys should be huge." I meant it with all my heart, too. Certainly, this isn't watered down pop music fare, yet I think the average heavy music listener will find it wholly accessible. I'd put this Cave of Swimmers neck-and-neck with any Top 50 touring metal act, based on this track alone. Maybe I'm just enamored of their sound and being less than objective. So sue me.

Next up: "Double Rainbow," which is a kind of resurrection of optimism. Hope for a new and better tomorrow. "Forget the hate, forget the scene, forget the life of complacency," Guillermo sings. "A second arc, new scenery, our time is here. Don’t let it go! When I hear it, I too want to believe." It's a message that's especially important for us to convey to the next generation of rockers and metalheads, lest they be weighed down by our own disillusionment and mistakes. This is a song that encourages that that brash, foolhardy youthful joie de vivre and its power to change the status quo.

"My Human" opens up with a burst of syncopated guitar that reminds me of something Tom Morello likes to cook up, but its mere window dressing for a song that develops into something purely Cave of Swimmers. A single melodic line of epic singing accented by a soft layer of synthesizer lays out the verse, followed by one headbanger of a chorus. It's a song about companionship and the consolation that we can have in one another, if we will only open ourselves up long enough to being truly human. To give and in turn receive. It also seems to speak of a hope beyond this life, at least in some ethereal, metaphysical sense.

"Looking Glass'' unloads a spitfire of "Say hello to my little friend!" style riffage that rips open into a chorus I could definitely take with me to salsa lessons, if I were to dare return. Remind me to tell you about the time I accidently cracked a partner's nose with my elbow while trying to pull off one of those fancy turn-and-swing maneuvers. Sigh. Some of us have no rhythm, whatsoever. But I recognize a good slam-dancing song when I hear it!

Which leads me to talk "Dirt." Much more gritty than its predecessors, accompanied by a spooky synth of the kind Rob Zombie or Acid Witch are apt to toy with. Even as the mood turns grim, it's a foot shuffler nonetheless. And there's no denying the power of those soaring, falconesque vocals. Guillermo seems capable of transporting listeners to a higher plane of consciousness. Good thing, too, because the message is that we've all been living in our mental prisons for far too long, reinforced by "pride and ego trips."

Billions of us Where are we going to? Chasing our tails around the sun Bleeding our hearts Divided and conquered, too Buy us for sale at the dollar store Raised like pigs on dirt

It's time to break free. The song ends with a section of flamenco-style guitar executed with deft classical technique. It reminded me a bit of Psychroptic's "Euphorinasia" -- another song that makes brilliant use of acoustic guitar.

"C.S." is Cave of Swimmer's swan song -- a send-back to their earliest work. Their reprisal reminds me of something Metallica would do. There's a certain "Nothing Else Matters" mood about it all. Then out of nowhere, a spurt of volcanic riffage and mad drumming breaks out into a Gojiraesque hoe-down. Oh yes, and there's another celebratory trve metal guitar solo lodged in there juxtaposed with complex rhythmic percussion.

I'm telling you, Cave of Simmers cannot be beat. The game belongs to them. Their time is now. Give ear...

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