#but never once in the show bleach do they reference the title
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my favorite things/moments from red white and royal blue
so basically like the whole book but bear with me
“they’re saying you got your asshole bleached” “that one is true” “i thought so”
the fact that june and nora are so clearly fucking but we have the most unreliable, oblivious, self-centered narrator ever (affectionate) so its never actually put into the books
“a strawberry-blond, whip-smart democrat with high heels, an unapologetic drawl, and a little biracial family”
june’s plane reading material like what is she on
nora calling alex out for crushing on henry right off the bat. literally on page 10. sis knows whats up lmao
“maybe it is technically a rivalry. whatever.” enemies to lovers is winning
the ENTIRE viscount convo at the wedding please😭😭
“its cute how you think everything is about you” “it should be honestly” “thats the spirit”
the double meaning when alex is thinking about how his fingernails were too stubby to pick out the staples in the pic of henry because his hands weren’t “like a girl’s”
“he’s too perfect. alex wants to poke it.”
“sorry i’m not obsessed with you like everyone else. that must be confusing for you” “you know what? i think you are” iconic
ellen reading the word “cake-tastrophy” with audible distain
alex seeing the paper that says “agreement of terms” and being like “um”
“so you can hate the heir to the throne all you want, write mean poems about him in your diary, but the minute you see a camera, you act like the sun shines out of his dick, and you make it convincing” (ive had this memorized since the first time i read it lmaoo its ingrained in my brain forever)
“have you met henry? how am i supposed to do that? he has the personality of a cabbage”
what the fuck is competitive yachting
“does he get one of these for me?” “yep. and for the record, making it was one of the most depressing moments of my career”
“okay. ill do it. but i wont have any fun” “ god i hope not”
alex thinking his type of love story is more shakespearean and then june saying his and henrys situation is shakespearean
“who does that? who names a dog david? he sounds like a tax attorney. like a dog tax attorney. drink.”
the image of baby alex trying to force an orca wrangler into early retirement because of “inhumane whale practices”
alex’s internal dialogue about shaan (and luna for that matter. god hes so bisexual)
i know henry planned that riding practice so he could come around the corner all bathed in the sunset on a white horse in perfect riding clothes
“haven’t decided yet, but astonishingly, it will not be based on you. remember how we sometimes talk about things that are not about you?” “yeah, weirdly”
“’sorry. er. i was just. cornettos.’ he gestures vaguely toward the refrigerator, as if hes just said something of any meaning”
every time alex refers to henry with any sort of royal title
alex almost missing the question when on a literal talk show bc hes too busy admiring how hot henry is in his sweater and button down (relatable)
alex always describing henry and his eyes with words like fresh and soft and blue
alex being into politics because he genuinely cares about people 🥺 it really is the better timeline
“you know, we have got to stop ending up like this”
“you’re not the prince of me?” “bloody hell”
alex bucking his hips up into henrys 😭 i just know henry almost blacked out lmao
“i cannot believe even mortal peril will not prevent you from being the way you are” yeah
the way they know each other so well without even knowing each other (henrys above comment^, alex calling him out for not being who he is, the entire closet convo and them both just instinctively getting things once they actually stop and breathe for a second)
“wow, youre wrong” the most alex thing ever
i need to be inside cash’s brain to see what he sees when he opens the closet door and they’re just laying side by side on the floor, blinded by the sudden light
“no booty calls” *literally uses it for booty calls*
bitch mcconnell
the way alex describes every attractive man he encounters in vivid detail, practically drooling over all these men, and thinks hes straight
luna immediately trying to get alex to admit hes gay for henry lmao
“you wound me” “you exhaust me” “i enchant you” “ill call security”
all the random emotions alex finds to explain the hot flashes from hot guys doing hot things
“alex you need other friends. friends who arent in congress” “i have friends! i have june and nora” “yes, your sister and a girl who is also a supercomputer”
“but we were ever so careful, dear”
alex being comfortable around henry not caring what henry thinks and being “as weird and manic as he wants”
“i dont know who you think you’re kidding, you hufflepuff-ass bitch”
shaan has a “motorbike”
“like a dickensian street urchin” pls
henry describing like everything about sailing and alex saying “cool” eight hours later 😭😭
everything about pez
alex canonically watches videos of justin trudeau speaking french and thinks hes straight
“he would really appreciate it if henry would stop proving him wrong”
“you are the thistle in the tender and sensitive arse crack of my life” “thanks!”
“tell shaan i say hi and i miss that sweet sweet ass xoxoxo” “i will not”
the entire part of the Great Turkey Calamity. im not even gonna be specific with this one. the whole part. from the part with alex and ellen talking all the way to the texts aboout henrys dad being a babe. everything in between those. its too good to even make a list. how does she come up with this shit. its so good.
“henry’s got his candy cane jim jams on”
“he just doesnt often get told hes good enough” THE SIGNIFICANCE
junes reaction to finding out alex was talking to henry about family shit and then comparing it to a love story
alex freaking out about henry being on the guest list and nora going “this is interesting” i love her
alex with his lowercase letters and henry with his perfect grammar
them going from texting every couple of days to answering each other within seconds
alex saying henrys voice is “like very expensive velvet, something moneyed and lush and fluid all at once”
alex throwing his head back and laughing and henry grinning at him is just so them
the hips convo and “watch me” *gulps down champagne* “i am”
the whole get low scene oh my god the imagery is so good
“you absolutely must know i did not” and alex and nora being horrified henry hasnt experienced this specific experience
forever obsessed with nora and alex being ridiculously smart little nerds but both still being absolutely chaotic young adults who grind up on each other and kiss for fun and start rumors that theyre fucking. the character depth is delicious
“are they too drunk to communicate in english?”
“one, henrys lips are soft”
their first kiss is the equivalent of literal butterflies and cartoon hearts fluttering around and their second kiss is like the height of passion. we love it
“but he thinks about henry, and, oh” asjhkdfbdkbfkjsdfb
alex and nora are the exact people who would have a marriage of convenience planned out
the entire nora/alex bisexual talk lmaooo
“still waters, deep dicking”
“you’ve been, like, draco malfoy obsessed with henry for years-do not interrupt me-”
nora knowing henry is gay but in that way that gays just know and alex being like what???? because somehow this never clicked for him
nora and alex both being bi but reacting to it in exact opposite ways
“the class is ethical issues in international relations. he really has got to stop taking classes so painfully relevant to his life”
alex seeing henry on a date in the magazine and spending a very short time being angry before his common sense and trust for henry and noras words all work together and then his realization and then him immediately being sad for them instead. and then him being like lmao im not straight
imagine youre liam and youre on a date with your bf and the guy you did gay stuff with in high school who is now the fsotus calls you out of the blue and asks about said gay stuff because hes having a sexuality crisis and then he apologizes 😭😭😭 liam is so funny too
“its alex. yeah, him”
alex seeing henry in his suit and his immediate thought is how much he wants to rip it off
“oh,” henry says, like an idiot.
“looking like the goddamn james bond offspring that he is”
“shut up, shut all the way up, oh my god”
i mean, the red room. dinner, hamilton, hot and heavy, god save the queen, yk
all of the inner dialogue from this entire scene lmao so aggressive
“he wants to follow the sound down his throat”
“hes unsure of the dress code for inviting your sworn-enemy-turned-fake-best-friend to your room to have sex with you, especially when that room is in the white house, and especially when that person is a guy, and especially when that guy is a prince of england” this sentence should just be the entire blurb honestly. hidden gem.
“hes done research. he has diagrams. he can do this.”
“his stomach does some embarrassing acrobatics he plans to never tell anyone about ever”
“henry is tall and gorgeous, half royalty, half movie star, red wine lingering on his lips”
im sorry but if someone took my elbow and kissed me while smiling and simultaneously shut and locked my bedroom door i would simply pass out
“he can practically feel the wind in his hair. its ridiculous.”
“so, like, fuck the moors”
alex “we’re still whatever we were before just, you know, with blowjobs” claremont-diaz being all “you went out with a girl” right off the bat lmao
“alex’s frenetic energy and henrys aching sureness”
the descriptions
alex being obsessed with the little curve of henrys waist and his hand being there and that being his proper “god i love men” moment
“devastating”
when alex says wait and henry immediately stops and alex like reassures him oh my god
“hi” “hello” “im gonna take your pants off now” “yes, good, carry on”
im laughing so hard at henry being in love with him for so long and he finally kisses him and alex hurtles through a sexuality crisis and then is like “alright lets go fuck”
“fucking eyelashes”
“alex is living for it, watching henry come undone, letting him be whatever he needs to be while alone with alex behind a locked door”
the part about the fruit basket like 1) lmao fruit and 2) i love that hes not weird about henry having experience like yes
imagining henry copying alex saying “freaking out” aghh
“for fuck’s sake man, you just had my dick in your mouth, you can kiss me good night”
alex is so in love lmao
henry laughing <3
“it should not provoke anything visceral, carnal, or bodice-ripping in nature in him at all”
“you look...sweaty” “im gonna go uh. say hi to henry”
“enjoy your summit with the english delegation”
“fifteen days removed from henry swearing at the ceiling of alex’s bedroom and unsure of how to proceed”
“what in the rich-white-people-sex-dungeon-hell?”
“he whips a thick leather strap off a hook on the wall and alex almost blacks out”
alex’s verbal reaction to the polo attire and henry trying to keep up
“henry is swearing up a storm, which is still disarmingly sexy”
“that shithole? not if i can help it” “oi! thats disrespect of the crown, that is. insubordination. ive thrown men in the dungeons for less” “hey, dont threaten me with a good time” ok london boy
the way henrys name in all the emails is different words that fit hrh
actually all the different names they use in all the emails overall
“and its all so fucking french”
“alex has to admit: henry really has a solid handle on his personal brand”
“but perfect stoic prince charming laughs when he comes, and texts alex at weird hours of the night: youre a mad, spiteful, unmitigated demon, and im gonna kiss you until you forget how to talk. and alex is kind of obsessed with it.”
“and alex is drunk and fucking transported, feeling every moment of twenty-two years and not a single day older, some kind of hedonistic youth of history. birthday head from another country’s prince will do that”
“and alex’s heart goes so fucking weird that he has to put his head in his hands for a full minute. (but, like, its fine. its not a whole thing)”
“for the record, i agree with you, but also, tell me more”
never seen a book bring up such a natural build up to a love of gay history and how important it is
“hes starting to understand what swelled in his chest when he reads about stonewall, why he ached over..” YES. THATS IT. THATS THE FEELING!!!!!!!
“i will chop my own tit off”
“i will staple your dick to the inside of your leg if it keeps it in your pants”
alex knowing when henry is in his moods and wanting to help
“baby”
the phone call where henry spills about his family and then alex spills about his past and then about both of their previous dating experience and mental health and gahhh
“two parentheses enclosing 3700 miles”
“i miss you” “i miss you too”
the way it ropes in how alex missing dinner with june brought up past shit for her
june finally snapping and them talking about henry
“you have so much in you, its almost impossible to match it. but hes your match, dumbass” ahhHHHHHHHHHH
“hes like some kind of billionaire, genius, manic-pixie-dream philanthropist.” yep thats pez
the facetime when pez and henry are in the car and alex feeling better because henry looks well rested and the goofy banter
llwynywermod does NOT sound like it should. idk what it should sound like but not like it does.
henry using his royal accounts money for specifically charity yes
“hes always wanted to be a person with a legacy in this world. henry is undoubtably, determinedly that. its a little intoxicating.”
“yall do school weird”
june and nora drooling over pez LMAO “i want to put my fingers in his mouth”
cash wearing a feather boa yes
dont stop me now. all of it.
bea and alex and knowing how rare it is
god i can feel the joy
“bisexuality is truly a rich and complex tapestry” *june shoves napkin in his mouth*
“o captain my captain” “have you got talking points”
alex is literally drunk but he sees henry get nervous and immediately switches into Concerned Boyfriend Mode
travel size lube
f i n g e r s
so much love
i know henry saw his love mirrored right back at him in alex’s eyes and knew he had to make a joke
“theres something so incredibly intimate about sitting on the bed they wrecked the night before, the only one who watches him create Prince Henry of Wales for the day.”
“hes got a suspicion all these feelings are why he held off on fucking henry for so long”
“so this is the gang now, huh?”
“how is a man to get anything done knowing alex claremont-diaz is out there on the loose? i am driven to distraction.”
“o fathers of my bloodline. o ye kings of olde. take this crown from me, bury me in my ancestral soil. if only you had known the mighty work of thine loins would be undone by a gay heir who likes it when american boys with chin dimples are mean to him” please
i love alex going back to henrys emails when he is upset
“utah ugly, christian ugly, ugliness couched in dog whistles and toothy white smiles”
“not every white supremacist is a meth head in bumfuck mississippi- there are plenty of them at duke or upenn on daddys money” BLESS
“as if alex, first son of the united states, is unfamiliar with how campaigns work”
the text thread with henry alex june and nora lmao so chaotic
“1. tf is this? arent there poor people in your country? 2. ive already been in the royal box” “you are a delinquent and a plague. please come?”
“don’t worry, i dont think they can detect the thick air of horn-town betwixt you two from the lawn”
“all mischievous smiles and swooping cheekbones”
henry touching two fingers to the back of alex’s elbow mm
philip and henry are the equivalent of a strict parent and rebellious child. “oh you hate alex being in the box? we’re gonna go fuck in a supply closet then. fuck you”
the way henry got right up in his space but didnt kiss him im-
“just so we’re clear, im about to have sex with you in this storage closet to spite your family. like, thats whats happening?” “right” “awesome, fuckin love doing things out of spite”
“and it should be- it should be funny. it should be hot, stupid, ridiculous, obscene, another wild sexual adventure to add to the list. and it is but...it shouldn’t also feel like last time, like alex might die if it ever stops”
“you’re brave. i could use some of that”
woman at her toilet
obsessed with alex and henry both having so much knowledge to share with each other
“and alex’s heart doesn’t spread itself out in his chest, and he doesn’t have to grip the edge of the settee to steady himself. because thats what he would do if he were here in this palace to fall in love with henry”
“i see you more than i see clean underwear”
“if shes not giving it to you, im not giving it to you. shes much nicer than me”
“there’s this way henry has of listening to the erratic stream of consciousness that pours out of alex’s mouth and answering with the clearest, crystallized truth that alex has been trying to arrive at all along”
“oh fuck me” “blurgh” “fucking shit. goddammit ass fucker” “what” “jesus tits”
the mental image of this entire scene but especially “henry flies out of bed too. he truly is a picture, wearing an expression of bewildered panic and absolutely nothing else”
“get in there” “quite” “yes we can unpack the ironic symbolism later”
“zahra is standing there with her thermos and a look on her face that says she did not get a masters degree to babysit a fully grown adult”
“it is, alex thinks half hysterically, a very solid visual pun”
“do i even wants you to explain what the fuck is happening here? literally how is he even here, like, physically or geographically, and why- no nope.”
“oh my god i thought you were getting into international relations or something” “i mean technically-” “if you finish that sentence, im gonna spend tonight in jail”
“youre literally putting your dick in the leader of a foreign state, who is a man, at the biggest political event before the election, in a hotel full of reporters, in a city full of cameras, in a race close enough to fucking hinge on some bullshit like this, like a manifestation of my fucking stress dreams, and youre asking me not to tell the president about it?” “um. yeah?”
“would it make any difference if i told you not to see him again” “no”
“ask me if im afraid of the crown”
“exploring your sexuality: healthy, but does it have to be with the prince of england?”
“history huh? bet we could make some”
“the phrase ‘see attached bibliography’ is the single sexiest thing you have ever written to me”
“should i tell you that when we’re apart, your body comes back to me in dreams? that when i sleep, i see you, the dip of your waist, the freckle above your hip, and when i wake up in the morning, it feels like ive just been with you, the phantom touch of your hand on the back of my neck fresh and not imagined? that i can feel your skin against mine, and it makes every bone in my body ache? that, for a few moments, i can hold my breath and be back there with you, in a dream, in a thousand rooms, nowhere at all?
“ill let you look at one boob. the good one” “theyre both good”
“theres a combination of girl sounds from the back seat”
“hi love’ he hears henry say quietly, privately, right into the hair above his ear, and alex’s breath forgets how to do anything but laugh helplessly”
imagining henry grinning in the passenger seat and bopping his head to the music aghhgndksk
“lbj was obsessed with his own dick. he called it jumbo and would whip it out all the time. like in front of colleagues, reporters, anybody” “american politics. truly fascinating” “you wanna talk, henry the VIII?”
“a little appreciation for the patron saint of gender-neutral bathrooms in california? little shit”
“and alex is. well, alex is so in love he could die”
“-maybe even with the apron still on-”
“i didnt realize this was a jazz brunch”
the skinny dipping is so cute before it goes wrong
“hes spent too much of his life talking, talking, talking to not know the signs when someone doesnt want to hear him anymore”
“henry you motherfucker! henry, you piece of shit, get your ass down here”
“alex’s heart is going to fall out of his ass. henry looks unimpressed”
“really nice. fucking ghost me for a week, make me stand in the rain like a brown john cusack, and now you wont even talk to me. im really just having a great fucking time here. i can see why all yall had to marry your fucking cousins”
“seriously’ he says, helpless and indignant”
obtuse fucking asshole
“i fucking love you, okay?”
“i never imagined you would love me back”
“what do you want? “i want you-” “then fucking have me”
THE LIVES WE WANT-- THEYRE NOT THAT DIFFERENT. NOT IN THE WAYS THAT MATTER. YOU WANT TO TAKE WHAT YOU WERE GIVEN AND LEAVE THE WORLD BETTER THAN YOU FOUND IT. SO DO I. WE CAN FIGURE OUT A WAY TO DO THAT TOGETHER”
“tell me youre done with me. ill get back on the plane. thats it. and you can live here in your tower and be miserable forever, write a whole book of sad fucking poems about it. whatever. just say it” “fuck you”
“hes in stupid, unbearable love, and henry loves him too, and at least for one night it matters, even if they both have to pretend to forget in the morning”
“dont miss it this time. hes too important”
the copy of le monde
“thats not good enough for me”
“i honestly have never thought i deserved to choose. but you treat me like i do”
“what about you’ he says, as if he doesnt know-”
“diaz, you insane, hopeless, romantic little shit. it had better be forever. be safe”
prince consort road
i need someone to love my rambling like alex loves henrys rambling
everything about james I because i was obsessed before this book but now i really really am
“oh yeah. the top list of reasons to love you goes brain, then dick, then imminent status as a revolutionary gay icon” “you are quite literally queen victorias worst nightmare”
bringing up david and jonathan yes ma’am
can i please slow dance in this room please its all im asking
“two homes side by side”
“hey, have i told you lately that youre brave” afTER HENRY SAYING HE COULD USE SOME OF HIS BRAVERY AGHHHHH
“it is, indeed, bullshit”
“what is it american politicians say?- thoughts and prayers”
“and im there, using up your shampoo and making you come to the grocery store with me”
“here lies prince henry of wales. he died as he lived: avoiding plans and sucking cock”
“because im not like the rest of the men in this family, beginning with the fact that i am very deeply gay, philip”
the rooms the rooms henry putting the bad memories in the rooms and then the vase THE WATERLOO VASE BECAUSE ITS TOO BIG FOR THE PALACE AND NOWHERE IN THE PALACE COULD HOLD HIS FEELINGS FOR ALEX AHHHHH
“happy and animated and so alive, a person living in dimensions i couldnt access”
“i thought, this is the most incredible thing i have ever seen and i better keep it a safe distance away from me. i thought, if someone like that ever loved me, it would set me on fire”
“and then, inexplicably, you had the absolute audacity to love me back. can you believe it?”
“you love so much bigger than yourself”
henry being a beautiful writer and alex being a list maker is everything. play to your strengths i guess
speaking of lists: THE LIST THE LIST THE LIST !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
alex realizing how he brushed him off in attempts to make him feel better and how he accidentally hurt him too and acknowledging that and apologizing. we love a healthy relationship
“im calling you as soon as i send this, but i know you like to have these things written down” yes
“did you get engaged?” “*shrugs* i had the weekend off”
zahra calling alex princess 😭😭
“oh fuck my ass” more great zahra content
alex being strong for henry in the car and calming him down instead of making it about himself when hes freaked and disgusted (and kinda violent) too 🥺
“you’re it okay? im never gonna love anybody else in the world like i love you. so, i promise you, one day we’ll be able to just be, and fuck everyone else”
“you do realize youre talking to a united states senator” “yeah, big fucking man”
the way alex tells raf is so intense and so them
“topography on the map of you, a world im still charting”
“your spine’s a ridge id die climbing”
“give yourself away sometimes sweetheart. theres so much of you”
“ik this is a sad part but “you horny little miscreant”
“what did you do?” what did he do?
“gay defcon five”
alex reacting to the leak decimates me every time its so heartbreaking but its written so well
“do you feel forever about him?” “yeah, i do” “then fuck it”
zahra pulls through frfr with the plan to go to london
“listen up you fuck” so affectionate
“i will personally make your balls into fucking earrings. i will scorched earth your entire motherfucking life”
“she pauses, presumably to listen to him agree because alex cant imagine him doing anything else”
“sweet and posh and shaky and confused”
“sweetheart”
actually just the entire phone call. the whole thing. true love
zahra and alex have such a fantastic dynamic
bea was fr finna hit philip with a guitar
when they see each other after the leak😭 dont talk to me
the description of grief when youre young and how it changes you is so perfect and concise and beautifully worded and it makes me cry
“i love him, with all that, because of all that. on purpose. i love him on purpose”
“six feet of boy curled around kicked in ribs and a recalcitrant heart”
“alex’s ears are ringing”
the way she pointed out that philip said “if youre gay” i never even noticed this but people do this!! all the time!! irl! its so demeaning
“fuck off, philip, i love him” w his chin stuck out <3
“we’ll take the raping and the pillaging and the colonizing, we’ll scrub it up nice and neat in a museum, but oh, no, youre a bloody poof? thats beyond our sense of decorum” get his ass!!!!
“you can take your legacy and your decorum and you can shove it up your fucking arse, philip. im done” GET HIS ASS!!!!!!
*buttons jacket* “for what its worth, that is the bravest son of a bitch ive ever met”
“we banged it out last night”
gotta hand it to catherine, she chose a hell of a time to come back to life
“the princess who ran away with james bond”
“ive been gay as a maypole since the day i came out of mum, philip”
“in the silence that follows, alex has to bite down very hard on his tongue to suppress the urge to laugh hysterically”
alex “we could still do that” claremont-diaz
“i dont care for that tone at all” put him in his place catherine!
page 354= the page i finally started sobbing the first time i read it
seriously how is everyone in the better timeline not sobbing into their hands seeing these rallies
“wouldn’t i mum? wouldn’t you like to find out” ajshdjfbshjbfskbf
“ya know, i think all that cocaine i did must have really done a number in my reflexes” LMAO
never tell me the odds
“dc dykes on bikes chase protestors” yes ma’am
to be continued
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my laptop restarted so now i no longer have access to photoshop. will be describing any memes i want to make over text now.
#teresa talks#not rt#i KNOW ive made that floating dude and dude running away meme before#captioned the 11 rock bleach musicals and me#but i cant FIND IT#im like halfway through the opening number of the first one#and it's SO surreal because they just keep yelling BLEEEEEEAAAAAACH as like a lyric#but never once in the show bleach do they reference the title#or is the title even explained#so it just feels very disconnected from the show
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All about the Dullahan
Thomas Croften Croker’s Fairy legends and traditions of the south of Ireland (1825-1834) seems to be the main – if not only – written source of full folktales about the Dullahan. It contains a section titled “The Dullahan” which consists of four folktales, one ballad, and some research notes that refer to further stories.
Not all these stories actually even use the name Dullahan, but Croker seems to have gathered them together on the basis of them being headless. Explaining: “Headless people are not peculiar to Ireland, although there alone they seem to have a peculiar name” (1928, p. 98). So which Dullahan does Mr Croker have on offer? The answer is: a set of very different creatures which he all calls Dullahan, but which are not always referred to as Dullahan and who are, from story to story, revenants, fae, death omens, and a restless spirit.
I will sum up their characteristics for every story and give a verdict on their supernatural nature under the cut (this got very long):
The Good Woman (1928, p. 85-98):
Type 1:
A short woman in a large cloak that conceals her completely who is:
Headless, and isn’t carrying her head
Shows up in twilight, seen only by a man riding home alone
Very quick and nimble, can leap onto a horse and over a wall, seem to glide rather than run
Does not speak, does not make a sound when jumping on the ground
Is corporeal, as she can be touched
Is described as a “merry wench”
She allows a man to give her a ride before jumping off his horse and running away from him, clearly making a game of letting him chase her
She runs into the ruins of an old church near a pool to meet with:
Type 2:
A crowd of “well dressed ladies and gentlemen, and soldiers and sailors, and priests and publicans, and jockeys and Jennys, but all without their heads”
These Dullahan are having a party, where they dance around a torture wheel set with skulls (unclear if these are their own heads) amidst the ruins of the church, to the music of ringing bells and rattling bones
Accompanying them, but not dancing, are:
Type 3:
Skeletons with loose heads that they bowl and throw around as a game
They have bleached bones covered by moth-eaten shrouds
These Dullahan speak, but only in unison “as with one voice, that quavered like a shake on the bagpipes”
One of them carries his head under his left arm while he offers the human protagonist a drink
All three types are referred to as Dullahan
They all leave in “a great hurry scurry with the noise of carriages and the cracking of whips,” presumably making off with the protagonist’s horse as well, who accuses them of being “the horse stealing robbers of the world, that have no fear of the gallows”.
VERDICT: Revenant. Having wild parties, tricking people, and stealing from them is definitely fae behaviour, but apart from that these Dullahan seem to be playful and rather powerful undead, that once were human.
Hanlon’s Mill (p. 103-109):
A great high black coach drawn by six headless black horses, with long black tails reaching almost down to the ground, and a headless coachman dressed all in black sitting up on the box
Possibly heralded by strange sounds during twilight: “such blowing of horns and hallooing, and the cry of all the hounds in the world and “the golloping of the horses, and the voice of the whipper-in”
They appear near a pool of water, bringing darkness with them that blocks out the moon
Neither whip, nor hooves, nor wheels make any sound
The day after a hitherto healthy man has fallen ill and dies
Not called Dullahan by name
Verdict: Omen. Specifically the ghostly coach-a-bower, the death coach. The image of a black coach (or hearse) riding by to foretell someone’s death is quite a common occurrence in folklore.
“Another legend of the same district (as Hanlon’s Mill)” (p. 109):
A black coach, drawn by headless horses, drives to and fro every night, both through the countryside and through a town
It stops at the doors of different houses, but anyone who opens the door to it gets a basin of blood thrown in their face
Not called Dullahan by name, but the story is not told in full
VERDICT: ??? Supernatural prankster? No mention is made of this coach foretelling death, so this seems to be mischief for mischief’s sake. Throwing blood at people is also not very spectral, nudging them a step towards fae in my book.
A legend from Dublin (p. 110-111):
A coach, sometimes driven by a coachman without a head, sometimes drawn by horses without heads, drives furiously past a castle where a clergyman hung himself, possibly with supernatural aid
Not called Dullahan by name, but the story is not told in full
Verdict: Omen. The coach-a-bower again, but this time not to foretell a death but to announce that an (unnatural) death has taken place.
The Harvest Dinner (p. 112-128):
A great old family coach, drawn by six headless horses, driven by a headless coachman
There are headless passengers inside and four fine footmen standing behind the coach, also headless
They emerge from a moat with a great rumbling noise and go towards an old church
They are driving at the rate of a hunt and make sparks fly out of the stones of the road (which implies their horses were horseshoes!)
Even with the whole coach they are faster than a man on horseback
A gate opens for the coach as by magic
Not called Dullahan, but referred to as “fairies”
Ahead of them in this procession are other fairies: “the prettiest little fellows you ever laid your eyes upon. They were all dressed in green hunting frocks, with nice little red caps on their heads, and they were mounted on pretty little long-tailed white ponies, not so big as young kids"
All are seen by the light of the (full) moon, by a man going home alone at night, but he is not afraid of the headless fairies after he notices they have no eyes to see him with
VERDICT: Fae. They are clearly taking part in a fairy procession and are minding their own business, possibly going to have a party at the old church.
The Death Coach, a ballad (p. 134-136):
A coach decorated with a shroud, with headless horses, headless driver and headless passengers
The wheel spokes are thigh bones, the pole a spine and the lamps sculls
They drive at great speed and the coachman cracks a whip
They stop at a churchyard where they speak with the dead in the ground, arguing with them to let them rest there for the night
They plan to go on tomorrow: “for having no heads of our own, We seek the Old Head of Kinsale" (this is a place in Ireland, the whole ballad is full of puns like this)
VERDICT: More rowdy revenants. They have a very gaudy death coach, but do not foretell death, and are clearly accustomed to sleeping in graves.
An anecdote from Cork (p. 136):
Dullahans “drive particularly hard wherever a death is going to take place”
They come in a great crowd, with a large procession
The coachman has a long whip “with which he can whip the eyes out of any one, at any distance, that dares to look at him”
VERDICT: Omen?? Fae that are into death for the goth of it??
The Headless Horseman (p. 138-150)
A headless rider who carries his head under his right arm or in the pocket of his coat, on a headless white horse, who has its head floating in front of it
The head is gaunt and ashy pale, with “depressed features” that look “like a large cream cheese hung round with black puddings” and has two large, fiery eyes, matted black hair, and a mouth that reaches from ear to ear
He wears a scarlet single-breasted hunting frock with “a waist of a very old fashioned cut reaching to the saddle, with two huge shining buttons at about a yard distance behind”
He appears to a man on horseback, at night, in the rain
The head speaks in a hoarse voice, but only sparingly, most questions only get a “Humph”
The horseman rides without use of whip, spur or stirrups
The ground shakes under the weight of the hooves, which make a fearful clattering noise and stir the water of nearby pools into waves
Gladly enters into a race with the protagonist and he even promises the man that his horse will be safe
He is never called a Dullahan but just “the headless horseman” and even refers to himself in this way
After the race the headless horseman reveals that ever since he and his horse broke their necks at the bottom of a hill he has been trying to find a man brave enough to ride with him, he gives the man his blessing, promising him that he will never desert him nor the old mare he is riding (and supposedly helping him to win horseraces)
VERDICT: Restless spirit. To me this fellow has very little in common with the other stories. This is very much a doomed rider type of figure, although the curt conversation has a striking resemblance to a similar headless rider in the story A Queen’s County Witch (Yeats, 188, p. 151-154), where the figure is a witch in disguise.
Croker collected his stories in the typical 19th century folklorists’ style, through correspondence, interviews, and borrowing from other authors. He also rewrote the stories quite extensively, and has been criticised on his attitude towards “the Irish peasantry” as he did so. Yeats was one of these critics, (while he did still consider Croker an expert), and as he is the only other 19th-century source on Dullahan I thought his short notes are worth quoting too. He refers to the Dullahan (or Dallahan) both as “headless phantoms” and one of the “solitary fairies” (p. 81), and mentions them in the section “The Banshee”:
“An omen that sometimes accompanies the banshee is the coach-a-bower [cóiste-bodhar]—an immense black coach, mounted by a coffin, and drawn by headless horses driven by a Dullahan. It will go rumbling to your door, and if you open it, according to Croker, a basin of blood will be thrown in your face. These headless phantoms are found elsewhere than in Ireland.” (Yeats, 1888, p. 108).
CONCLUSION: If it’s Irish and headless and walking or riding around ominously, it’s a Dullahan. Which may be a fae, a ghostly omen, or a revenant, just as they please. There clearly is no one coherent definition to be found.
I still insist on putting the cursed headless horseman in another category though. Dullahan clearly have some shared preferences, like a love for twilight and moonlight, horses and coaches, ruined churches and pool. And, interestingly, they seem to always show up either with a coach or a whole company. So I feel justified in saying that the spectre of a solitary person who remembers his own death and knows his reason for still roaming the earth, does not embody the Dullahan sprit.
#well#that was a lot of reading#and I shall now put this delightfully obscure piece of folklore to bed#irish folklore#dullahan#revenant#ghosts#fae#laura babbles#I will blame Azura for all this at least in part to justify myself
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I felt like the plf war was rushed
1.Plf advisors getting hype but no payoff
2.Only miruko, Momo, and Kirishma got time to shine
3.Machia got defeated to easily
4.The war felt more like a raid
I don't know if I feel like it was rushed, per se--it's by far the longest arc in the story so far by number of chapters, and would be even if you cut off the Tartarus jailbreak and the entirety of the hospital aftermath. What it absolutely does feel like to me is unbalanced.
You note that the "war" feels more like a raid, and you're right. As a caveat, it's worth keeping in mind that "Paranormal Liberation War" as a name for the arc in question is entirely an invention of the fanbase. To the best of my knowledge, the reasoning for the name was that big action shonen series like BNHA (Naruto, Bleach, Hunter x Hunter, etc) always have a war arc, so what we were seeing in the lengthy, mass combat confrontation with the PLF had to be HeroAca's equivalent. It's not a term that's in the manga itself, however, not called as such by the characters, not referred to as such by Horikoshi or his editors, not even namedropped in chapter or volume titles. If it feels like a raid, that's probably because that's what it was intended to be.
And that's the problem, really. This arc shouldn't have been about a couple of raids; it should have been about a war.
(Below the cut: a bunch of fired-up complaining. Uses some harsh language, and talks about both injuries and deaths we did see and some we logically should have.)
From the outset, we were told that the resources Shigaraki had amassed were "on par with, or even stronger than" the resources of the hero-saturated society. Yet, we're expected to believe that a force that strong is so easily taken down by a single coordinated set of raids? Yes, the heroes had the benefit of surprise, but there's just so much that doesn't work for me.
First off, and to get this out of the way, it's ridiculous that the heroes even had the benefit of surprise. The MLA had an unknown number of hero double agents. They had people in the government; they had people in the infrastructure. This is an organization that had been living undercover completely unsuspected for multiple generations--how did the HPSC ever manage to carry out a massive, country-wide investigation on such a secretive group and coordinate multiple simultaneous, comprehensive raids without a single person finding out and alerting the higher-ups over a period of only three and a half months?
When exactly did Hawks have time to go and revive Best Jeanist--which he tells us he did personally--such that none of the bugs and micro-cameras he was covered with picked up on it, and both he and BJ could be back in the positions they needed to be in for the raid to begin?
How did Skeptic find out about the raid such that he only discovered it at the last possible second and not minutes, even hours, before it kicked off? How did hundreds of heroes (and even "hundreds" is being conservative, given the fact that they had seventeen thousand people to detain) close in on the villa without anyone from the PLF noticing, either Skeptic with his information network or mundane precautions like people on watch?
Even granting the heroes their surprise advantage--which I don't want to--if the advisors were all supposedly "stronger than the average hero," why didn't we see any of them winning? Okay, yes, Hose Face beat Midnight, but he had every possible advantage in that "fight"; I hardly count it as some big impressive defeat that shows us that the villains were holding their own.
Here's another thing: the MLA styled themselves as an army--they were demonstrably trained in troop tactics. When we saw them in Deika, even their nameless on-the-ground people were capable of coordinating with each other on the fly in response to the movements of the enemy, as we saw come up repeatedly:
Yeah, they were off-guard at first, but as soon as the advisors made the front line (which, you'll note, was immediately), that disadvantage really should have begun eroding. Certainly once Geten--Geten! The number one MLA member most willing to disregard collateral damage! And there he was being a proper leader!--got to the front and started yelling orders, we should have seen the PLF rallying, and I can't imagine any sensible justification for the tides not turning when a) Re-Destro showed up to occupy the highest-ranked hero on the field, b) a bunch of heroes peeled off to try to stop Machia only to get trampled for their efforts, and c) Trumpet got dug out.
You know who don't style themselves as an army, though? Heroes. Oh, they get some basic lessons in cooperation as students, but the extent of such lessons we see is stuff like "why it's important for heroes to have signature moves"--so that on group missions, their reputations will precede them and fellow heroes will already know their shtick. U.A. teaches the odd lesson plan that involves the kids fighting in groups, but there's a huge difference between you and 3 to 6 of your buddies fighting a similarly-sized group in a practice fight, or a handful of heroes teaming up to take down some criminal low-lives, and the mass combat scenario that was the raid. For heaven's sake, look at our closest other equivalent: the raid on the Hassaikai base. At every turn in that encounter, the heroes let themselves get split up and picked off, winnowing down their numbers. It's even explicit in the narrative that hero team-ups were, in the age of All Might, uncommon, and heroes are only just beginning to adjust to fighting in teams. The erstwhile MLA should have had the advantage there.
As to Machia's defeat, I think the big problem with it is not how it happened, per se, but the timescale involved. The plan itself was sound enough, and even with all the kids' efforts, it still took Machia reaching Shigaraki and not getting any new orders to follow to really do him in. Given what we can extrapolate about his movement speed, though, I just don't think the kids should have had time to set all those traps, especially given how much of that equipment would have had to be fabricated by Momo on the fly. I know she's gotten stronger and all, and good for her, but you're telling me that in the four months between Joint Training and the raid, she went from passing out because she created a bag of goodies and one (1) cannon to being totally fine and still able to coordinate her fellow students while cranking out 23 jars of sedative, dozens of feet of rope/cable, multiple fire-resistant coats, explosives they somehow had time to bury, and three cannons?
For fuck's sake, Jirou gave Machia's ETA as under ten seconds. Yeah, Mount Lady slowed him down, but "only a little"--how much time could she possibly have bought them, that the kids were able to to coordinate and enact everything that plan involved?
You guys, go read this post by @codenamesazanka. Machia is so fast. So unbelievably, incredibly fast. "Twice as fast as the fastest train in the world" fast. "Horikoshi clearly did not stop to think about the distances involved here" fast. Three miles in ten seconds fast. It would have been hard enough to square with the needs of the plot that the kids were sufficiently far from the villa to have the kind of time they needed to swing Momo's plan at all, but Horikoshi explicitly letting Machia get right on top of them before the kids even start just makes it completely impossible for me to credit. Machia clearly being slower aboveground than he is when burrowing does not make that much difference to my suspension of disbelief.
My other big complaint? More people should have died, for real. The PLF warriors would not have been holding back. They were ready and willing to kill anyone they came up against. The heroes did have to hold back, because heroes, as we're told over and over again, are not supposed to kill, no matter how dire the circumstances. That difference in ability to exercise force should have been yet another significant advantage for the PLF. I could write an entire list of characters that I think could have reasonably been killed during the raids. That wouldn't be to say that I think any individual, specific character on that list should have died, just that, based on the parameters as they were presented to audience, some number of them should have.
I mean, honestly. How did Horikoshi wanna show us Gang Orca's unmoving claw in the wake of Machia's passage and not have Gang Orca on the list of the dead? How did Fat Gun run right into a mass melee and still have enough fat left over afterward to survive getting trampled by a walking mountain? How did Thirteen survive not getting pulled out of the hospital basement when Shigaraki's Decay hit? How did Trumpet survive getting a staircase dropped on top of him? How did Gran Torino survive a fist through his tiny old man chest cavity?
I could go on and on, but it's not just about the deaths, either. I'm not saying that Kamui Woods necessarily should have died by swinging himself face-first into a blast of blue fire, but I am saying that he should have been out of commission for longer than three goddamn days. You bet your ass I'm saying that after telling us that Hawks' weak point is fire, making us watch him spend at a solid minute or more with his wings wholly enveloped in Dabi's 2000 degree flames, and having Dark Shadow exclaim that his back is completely burned away, Hawks should never have grown his wings back, much less so quickly that they were already visible under his shirt a single day later.
More deaths, more maiming--heck, even more retirements. I'm not saying I love that kind of thing in my fiction--I don't, actually. I think an overreliance on it is a sign of edgelordy nonsense. But the scenario that we had demanded to be treated with the kind of gravity that would have led to such an outcome. To set up a conflict like the raid and have the villains only barely be able to scrape a partial escape, to try to tell us that Shigaraki's victory in Deika granted him such a terrifyingly powerful force only to have them lose every battle they got into, to tell us this was a blow that shook Hero Society to its core, only to be so unwilling to kill or retire any heroes the audience cares about that Midnight is literally the only significant loss… It doesn't work. None of it works.
I don't have much to say on which characters did or didn't get a highlight. I think there were a few more people than you listed that got some good scenes--Tokoyami and Uraraka both got material I liked quite a bit; Dabi famously out-trended the U.S. presidential election on Twitter when he (literally) came clean, and Mr. Compress gave us some wonderfully interesting and characteristically opaque material to chew on. On the whole, though, adding more character moments would only have been dragging out the problem: the scale of the PLF's threat and the HPSC's chosen method of dealing with it are simply incompatible with the feeble "neither side truly won or lost" resolution we got.
And that's my rant on that--thanks for the ask!
#and yet#i still hate it less than the shitshow that went down with lady n and overhaul#inkbuckets#paranormal liberation front#meta liberation army#bnha#stillness has salt#stillness answers
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Jeweler Richard Fanbook Short Story #25
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Sri Lanka Nakata Diary
Title: I got to make some time all of a sudden.
Hello, this is Iggy.
Just as the title says, I suddenly managed to make some time for myself here in Sri Lanka. The guest who was supposed to come over had to go on a last-minute trip, so I wound up with almost an entire day off.
My boss told me that I should take it easy while I was at it and that studying was forbidden, so if you’d like, please give me suggestions. I think there aren’t many people living in Sri Lanka among the ones who are seeing this, so anything goes. Like your favorite ways to spend your leisure time, for example.
By the way, I like cooking when a senior acquaintance of mine comes over, but I noticed lately that I don’t cook much when I’m alone. Eating out is best when it’s Sri Lankan curry.
Ely_03
Hi, Iggy. I always have fun reading your blog. I live in Greece. I have interest in Japanese people because my daughter is studying abroad in Japan, so I’m happy to have found this blog.
1975Halleluja
Do they not have night clubs there? How about you try going to one? I’m reading you all the way from Egypt.
BB_Typhoon
How about trying to clean up your room? It might be surprisingly messy.
Archangel
Hello, nice to meet you, Iggy-san. If you are in Sri Lanka, apparently, there is a Sri Lankan massage called Ayurveda. You are finally having a day off, so isn’t it a good idea to relax in a way you have never experienced before? Take care of your body. I found the spa below. Not so bad, is it?
(This URL is only visible to the administrator.)
Title: I went to do Ayurveda!
Hello, Iggy here. Thank you for your previous comments to my blog.
I went to the spa that Archangel-san introduced to me, and it was a series of first experiences, so I was very excited. Back in my country, I kind of imagined that women were the ones who get this kind of massage, but if my tired body would get better, I could keep getting it in the future too.
The owner of the spa was a Tamil speaker. It would have been great if I were more able to talk to them. Thanks to them, I experienced enrichment in many aspects.
Iggy out.
Archangel
Iggy-san, it seems you had a fulfilling day and nothing makes me happier. I think that the most efficient way to study about languages and gemstones is to proceed with the two paralleling each other like wheels. I hope your training will be fun.
Punk_Of_England
When I read a blog from someone who’s having fun, I have fun too! If there were a ‘like’ button, I might have pressed it nonstop. Take care of your health. Man, anonymous sections sure are convenient.
Title: Three-Wheeler
Hello, Iggy here. I had a question in one of my updates.
Do you remember that, last time, I wrote an article about purchasing a three-wheel bike called Three-Wheeler? I’ve been addicted to riding it around lately.
I did have a driver’s license in my motherland, but I was the kind who didn’t have a car or bicycle, so maybe my eyes opened up to the fun of driving a car when I came here.
This thing is like a bike with a hood, so it feels good when the wind hits my face. Finding waterfowl when I’m running around the man-made areas in the evening makes me feel satisfied.
I’m going to study now. After I’m done, I’ll go ride on the Three-Wheeler again. Looking forward to it.
Archangel
Iggy-san, hello. It seems that you are enjoying your new vehicle. Although this is excessive concern, but if I may share my worries about the Three-Wheeler, while it does have a casual ride quality to it, is not appropriate for crime prevention. For example, there is no wall to protect your body if a thug happens to attack from the side of the vehicle while it is temporarily stopped. Your senior and boss have probably already told you not to carry valuables with you when you are riding. Please be careful.
Iggy
>Archangel-san, thank you for always leaving comments. Indeed, I do recall my boss telling me that. I never take valuables with me when I use the Three-Wheeler, but I’ll make sure to take it to heart once again. Thank you very much.
ilovestones
I went back to read the article about the Three-Wheeler. So cute! I don’t see bikes like that in my country at all. Must be fun to drive around one of those. I think this would come in very handy if you ever feel like renewing all the strata within a 20km radius of your house. I’m jealous.
Punk_Of_England
This might be the anonymous section and all, but I think people’s quirks show in their text, so it’s hard to tell if they haven’t yet been discovered or if they’re just being let through...
Title: Men in Skirts
Iggy here. Just as the title says, I’ve passed by several men who were wearing skirts. I wonder if it was traditional wear. But it also had a colorful and casual feel to it, so I’m slightly confused about what it was. I’m not very confident as to whether or not I was making a rude face when I looked at them. My apologies to them.
Archangel
>Iggy-sama.
That is called sarong, which is a traditional wear in Sri Lanka. Please refer to the URL below.
(This URL is only visible to the administrator.)
I believe you understood that it is used as formal wear. Perhaps the fact that there were so many men wearing colorful sarongs means it was a wedding ceremony? Do not be so discouraged.
Title: I was given a sarong!
Iggy here. For now, please take a look at this photo.
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I got a red and blue gingham check sarong! It’s comfy! Since it’s the locals who wear it, as expected, there’s lots of pros to it – it’s breathable, doesn’t bleach in the sunlight, and it’s easier to walk in than I had imagined.
As you can see in the picture, the length is down to the ankles. It’s longer than a Scottish skirt and that helps. It seems people put this on to go to wedding ceremonies. So cool. Above all, it suits the climate of Sri Lanka, so I think that’s better to wear than Bermuda shorts if you want to spend time here.
I received this from my neighbor, but it’s extremely comfortable, so I’m planning to buy one or two more for myself. I wonder if this can’t be worn every day.
Shinghalion
I am a local. It makes me happy that you like my homeland’s clothes. This sort of garment also seems to be trending amongst Sri Lanka’s elite college students in the recent years, so if there are any places near you where college students hang out, then the boutiques next to them are where you should aim to go. Please have a pleasant life. By the way, it seems to me that someone is leaving several comments. Are you okay? If they are being a nuisance, it seems that there is also a block function here. Just my excessive concerns.
Archangel
>Shinghalion
Pleased to meet you (just for the sake of it). Please do not say such outrageous things to someone you have never even met.
Title: I ended up accumulating sweets.
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I made too many...
The picture is of coconut rolls, pudding and caramelized date. As one would expect, I can’t eat them all on my own, but when I tried to share with my neighbors, they told me that it’s bad for children’s teeth and got a bit angry, so things are awkward. What should I do?
Title: My boss came over!
The sweets that I made in big quantity didn’t go to waste. Lucky me.
Weird coincidences do happen. I’m truly glad for that.
I wonder what I should make next time he comes. Please leave a comment if you have any suggestions. As for Sri Lankan sweets, I still only know about things like watalappan, and also the rolls, cream buns, and coconut dumplings sold at the station’s kiosk. But all of them are delicious, aren’t they? If you have any recommendations, please tell me.
Archangel
>Iggy-sama, I saw your post with great interest. However, I do not think you should forget about the true feelings of the person in question. Please use every day to improve your own skills and promote your physical and mental health. In that respect, as expected, I think that the sweets you are supposed to make should have focus on your current specialties, but do you agree?
Shinghalion
>Archangel, overprotection can be a bad habit if it goes too far. How about you realize that already?
Archangel
>Shinghalion, Neither I nor you know each other at all. Please refrain from speculating and saying such things on your own accord.
Punk_Of_England
Phew~! This is getting kinda interesting. I’ll be watching over the course of events.
ilovestones
Hum, please leave it as that. This is Iggy-san’s blog. Aren’t you being a bother to him?
Archangel
I resent my actions.
Shinghalion
I apologize.
Punk_Of_England
I’m sorry.
Mura_Shimo
Heya, Iggy-san! It’s your well-acquainted H.S. I came to see your blog! It’s a fun one with lots of comments. Considering that you said you didn’t advertise it to anyone, that’s amazing! Natural virtues maybe?
I wanna see you again and talk! Do lots of updates~! I’ll do my best at guitar practice too~!
Punk_Of_England
The possibility of toleration has disappeared, huh. A-san, you okay? Are you going to be silent for the rest of your life?
Archangel
I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, but I am hesitating as well. Remaining silent might be the safest.
Archangel_Of_Archangel
Hello, nice to meet you, Iggy-san.
I read your entire blog. You seem to be having lots of fun. That is a relief. I have experience with working in a country a bit farther to the southeast than Sri Lanka, so seeing you live a fun daily life reminds me of my youth, which makes me both cry and laugh. This is a very good blog where your daily life comes to mind in vivid colors.
Also, the way that so many people are looking after Iggy-san in the comment section made the corners of my eyes feel hot. Speaking of which, do the people who leave comments on this blog really have no relation to Iggy-san and just watch over him through this blog?
>Archangel-san, can we talk again?
Mail account
Sender: [email protected]
Destination: [email protected]
Message: I shall contact you through the usual phone number.
Sender: [email protected]
Destination: [email protected]
Message: I will be waiting for it. Thank you for always taking care of my son.
Title: The comments decreased?
Hello, Iggy here. Ever since the last update, I feel that the people who always send comments to the blog have gone quiet somehow. Have I written anything weird? It is weird for me to make such a request, but if there is no problem in particular, please be as dynamic as always. I mostly spend my time by myself, so I get encouragement when I read from you.
The city has become lively with the preparations for Perahera. It seems there will be many plans for the summer again, but will I be able to see it live? Iggy out!
Archangel
>Iggy-sama, hello. I shall write a long comment in due time.
#housekishou richard shi no nazo kantei#housekishou richard#jeweler richard#the case files of jeweler richard#nakata seigi#richard ranashinha de vulpian#jr short story collection#tanimoto shouko#jeffrey claremont#shimomura haruyoshi#saul ranashinghe ali#nakata yasuhiro#tsujimura nanako#yukihiro utako#novel#my translation#richard
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angel (chilling adventures of sabrina)
summary: as the only pure mortal in the fright club, there seems to be an influx of interesting things happening in greendale that you are unaware of. a certain prince of hell happens to find that interesting.
warnings: typos, probably.
a/n: ummm maybe i binge watched caos this past week and maybe i’ve fallen in love. i’ll let you figure that out. also this is my first time writing for caos (and not marvel, lol) so let me know what you think!!’ pls give feedback thank u.
add yourself to my tasglist!
ps: this gif is mine so if you use it, please credit!
When all was said and done, Sabrina and Caliban had come to amicable terms regarding the shared responsibility of ruling Hell.
It didn’t take much convincing for Caliban to relinquish his prior ambition after learning his rule would end within a day, as the Pagans would have defeated him and taken Earth for themselves. Sabrina’s ability to show him the time loop she was once trapped in gave him a reason to quit the fighting and rule Hell on an equal scale, no questions asked.
Plus, he started to like the bleach blonde witch.
You, on the other hand, felt like you had missed out on the most important plot piece of the greatest film of all time.
While Harvey, Theo, and Roz had known about Sabrina’s secret since her sixteenth birthday, you were left in the dust about the shenanigans that went on around Greendale. You were truly the only mortal with no magic or witch ties, but the other four couldn’t say the same. Sabrina was a witch, Theo’s ancestor Dorothea often visited him in time of need, Harvey’s family had a history of witch hunting (which he does not partake), and Roz’s ability to foreshadow the future with a simple touch proved to be more useful than she had originally thought.
You were a mortal. A regular high school student whose biggest problems were studying for four AP classes every day while balancing cheerleading and other extracurriculars.
It wasn’t until recently that the strangeness came to light. What the Fright Club had failed to mention was that Sabrina had continuously hexed you in order to keep you out of harm’s way by leaving a small bag filled with her Aunt Hilda’s concoctions in your bedroom. It worked its magic when you slept, an invisible blanket covering your eyes that made their strange disappearances seem normal.
But it seems like that hex was fading. Sabrina neglected to change it out every other week due to being preoccupied by Caliban’s yearning, the Dark Lord’s agenda, and Lilith’s drama regarding Hell. Now you sat with wonder and couldn’t help but feel left out of a great adventure that your friends embarked on.
A month had passed since Sabrina and Caliban had made amends. You grew to understand the nature of it and the four filled you in on all you had missed with a guilt hanging over their heads. It was hard to hear and understand, but ultimately you couldn’t hate your best friends for wanting to keep you safe.
You knew not to question Sabrina’s whereabouts if you weren’t able to find her because she was most likely taking care of business down below. You still had yet to meet Caliban and the only information you gathered from him was what the gang caught you up on and Sabrina’s grievances whenever she felt annoyed by him.
“You know, this is all a weird concept,” you said. “I mean, I guess I always had my faith and doubt kept me guessing about what’s really out there, and it’s really out there,” you said, stealing a fry from Theo’s plate. The five of you sat in Dr. Cerberus’s diner and decided you weren’t going to do anything that wasn’t normal for teenagers.
“It still creeps me out,” Harvey admitted. “Hell was worse than I could’ve imagined.”
“Caliban’s got things under control and Lilith’s doing just fine being an advisor,” Sabrina said. “I don’t think she’s mad about the ruling situation anymore. Lucifer’s still doing his bidding but I think they’ve reconnected.”
“That’s...good?”
Sabrina chuckled. “Trust me, it’ll take some getting used to.”
“That is an absolute understatement.”
The door to the diner chimed while you fished inside of your purse for a quarter.
“I’m gonna go pick out a song, any requests?”
“You’re the music genius,” said Roz. You smiled and walked towards the front of the diner.
As you approached the machine and put the quarter inside of the slot, a tall man with sand colored hair loomed over you and watched.
“Can I help you?” you asked.
“Not really. Just observing.” You quirked an eyebrow, not recognizing his face despite knowing everyone in the small town.
“You’re not from here, are you?” you asked.
He chuckled. “Is it that obvious?”
“Greendale’s a pretty small town. It’s easy to spot someone who’s not a local,” you replied.
“Well in that case, I’m not from around these parts. Far from, actually.” He looked at your hand and then the juke box. “What song are you choosing?”
You pried your gaze away from him to look back at the machine and put the coin in the slot, choosing “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” before looking back at him.
“Satisfied?”
The handsome stranger looked at you and didn’t try to hide the face that he was checking you out by letting his eyes look at your body up and down. Not that you minded.
“Very,” he said with a sail try voice before walking around the corner. “The name’s Caliban.”
“Y/N,” you replied. You raised your eyebrow before walking back to the other four and sat down in your previous seat only for the handsome stranger to approach the table.
“Caliban,” Sabrina greeted. “What a lovely surprise.”
“Nice choice,” Roz commented, hearing the song play throughout the diner.
“That’s Caliban, as in the Caliban?” you asked.
“It’s good to know you lot have been talking about me,” he said, crossing his hands over his chest. “I decided to take a break from, you know, and come see what you love so much about Greendale.”
“She knows about Hell,” said Sabrina.
“Funny how I’ve never seen her there, or anywhere with you four, as a matter of fact,” Caliban replied.
“It’s a long story,” you said, sipping on your chocolate milkshake. “Not an important one, though.”
“Contrary,” he began. “You’re the first purely true mortal I’ve met in Hell or otherwise with no ancestral ties to witches or greater magic. That’s pretty important to me.” You blushed, not knowing what to say or do next.
“Is there a reason you’re here?” Harvey asked with a slight attitude. Caliban shifted his focus from you to him, which made your body relax a little bit.
“I didn’t come here for business or to whisk Sabrina away, if that’s what you’re wondering. I’m just here to see what makes Greendale so special, though I think I’m starting to see why.” Caliban spared no expense and was not shy about looking in your direction as he spoke his last statement.
“Don’t even think about it,” Sabrina said sternly. “You are not going to get any ideas, are you?”
Caliban chuckled and put his hands up in defense. “Whatever you say, Sabrina.” He began to walk away but not before turning around and winking at you. “See you around.”
Caliban walked out the door and you didn’t bother asking where he was going next.
“Dear Satan, he’s so annoying,” Sabrina said, exasperated. “It’s like he’s made it his personal mission to make my life, well, a living Hell for lack of a better term.”
“At least he’s not hellbent on defeating you anymore,” Theo reasoned. “I think he’s trying to get to know you a little bit better.”
“And he’s doing it by flirting with my best friend?” Sabrina asked. She put her head on your shoulder and and ate a fry from her plate. “You know I love you, right?”
“Mhm.”
“I’m not saying you need to stay away from Caliban, but you need to be careful around him. At least until we’ve worked together long enough for me to trust him completely.”
“Loud and clear, Brina,” you said. “I still can’t really wrap my head around this whole thing. I can’t watch horror films about Hell and witches the same ever again.”
The Fright Club laughed.
“It’ll take some getting used to,” Harvey said. “I mean, I was pretty apprehensive at first. Remember when Brina and I broke up and I spent every day at your place after school?” You nodded. “That’s when she told me she was a witch. It was kind of hard to wrap my head around until everything with the Pagans and angels happened.” You nodded, soaking in his words. “Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with feeling like you don’t understand. I don’t even understand most of it, if I’m being completely honest.”
“In think that’s enough food for me,” said Roz who pushed her plate to the middle. “Seeing Hell with my own eyes really suppressed my appetite.”
”Oh, shoot,” you said, looking at the clock mounted on the wall. “I have to head home and help my mom. I promised her I’d help clean the kitchen and I’ve got to be home in ten minutes. Can I pay you guys back?”
“Don’t worry about it. See you tomorrow?” said Theo.
“Count on it!”
***
You saw Caliban not long after your first encounter with him. The idea of him being the ruler of Hell (alongside Sabrina) was still a hard concept to understand and you weren’t quite sure if you were supposed to bow in his presence or not.
“Unnecessary,” he said when you asked. Caliban sat across from you at the local coffee shop, offering to walk you when you had caught his eye. You harbored a hot latte and he held a blueberry scone in his hand. “I think you mortals like that glory.”
You shrugged. “Can’t argue with that.”
“Hell doesn’t have formalities when it comes to celebration other than referring to each other by one’s title,” he explained. “It’s just easier that way.”
“You make it seem like Hell’s a relaxed place to be.”
He pinched a piece of his scone off at put it in his mouth, smirking at your statement.
“Oh, far from it. As righteous as demons are, we’re not that shallow.”
“It’s kind of hard to believe you’re made out of clay,” you said, taking a sip of your latte.
“Why do you say that?”
“I dunno,” you said. You reached over the table to poke his bicep. “You seem so real. So human.”
Normally, Caliban would’ve been offended by such a comparison. But he smiled.
“I suppose. I don’t question my creation. I accept it and try to live as adventurously as I can.”
“I hope to,” you said. “Getting out of Greendale, I mean. It’s my biggest dream.”
“You’d want to leave this town?” he asked.
“Well, yeah,” you replied. “I have nothing going for me here. I’m powerless and there’s no reason for me to stay where I’m not needed.”
To his surprise, Caliban felt his heart jolt at your comment. He was wordless for a moment.
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know,” you said. “Maybe somewhere on the west coast. Maybe I’ll still be in New England. College is the perfect opportunity to explore the world and come back home for a few weeks at a time.”
“This is where Lucifer fell, you know,” said Caliban. “The sacred place is hidden deep in the woods where there’s a clearing of rocks and stone. That’s why this place is driven by witches of the Church of Night.”
“I still can’t believe the Devil is walking among us,” you said, shaking your head. “My mom used to force me to go to Sunday school, and I suppose I did have faith. It’s all meta now.”
“Are you still a believer?” he asked.
“I kind of have to be, considering you’re here.”
Caliban smiled.
“Do Heaven and Hell ever interact withe each other?”
“Not exactly,” he began. “We’re on civil relations but don’t want anything to do with each other. They stay up there so long as we stay down here. I’ve never encountered an angel before.”
“You haven’t?”
“They aren’t allowed to come down to Earth unless absolutely necessary,” he explained. “Not really sure why but it’s one of their more important rules.”
“I think I have a headache,” you teased. All of this knowledge about celestial beings truly made your senses adapt to your surroundings in Greendale and you were more than aware of the fact that God was real.
“I should go,” Caliban said, standing up. “I need to escort some souls back to Hell and send some up north.”
“You mean not all souls who are sold to the Devil go to Hell?”
“Sabrina and I negotiated that,” he said. “No more soul-selling. The ones that preexist will be discussed by her and I, and we decide if the punishment is worth the crime. I don’t think someone who sold their soul for a good cause needs to spend all eternity down in Hell. That’s why she comes down there all the time.”
“Huh,” you said at a loss for words.
Caliban smiled. “I’ll see you around, princess.”
***
The next time you see Caliban was with the rest of the Fright Club. He was wearing a linen button down with several buttons popped open, exposing his bare chest with black slacks and white sneakers. His hair was tousled and you swore this was the most human you had ever seen him.
“Ambrose is being a little paranoid and wants me to check out the edge of Greendale for threats,” Sabrina said. “I think he’s just worried about me co-ruling Hell while living on Earth. It’s nothing to worry about.”
“You say that like it’s just another day in Greendale,” you said.
Sabrina shrugged. “I mean, it kind of is.”
“Well, do you need us to do anything?” Roz asked.
“I want you to come with me, if that’s okay. Harvey, Theo, and Y/N, you don’t need to come. I’m sure this is Ambrose being Ambrose.”
“Are you sure, Brina?” Harvey asked.
She waved him off. “It’s fine, really. Roz and I will spend a few hours making sure things are normal and we’ll meet back at my place for dinner? Aunt Hilda’s kind of expecting us.”
“Wouldn’t miss it!” Theo said enthusiastically.
Sabrina gave the group one last smile before she took Roz’s hands and teleported out of the room, which left the four of you.
“I can give you a ride, Theo,” Harvey offered before looking at you. “And you too. I don’t mind driving to the other side of town.”
“I can take her home,” Caliban said. Harvey looked at you and Caliban spoke again, noticing his hesitation. “Part of our deal was that I made sure her friends remain unharmed. That includes Y/N.”
Harvey seemed to accepted this answer and grabbed his keys from his pocket before bidding you a goodbye. He and Theo drove off in his truck before you and Caliban left in the opposite direction.
“So, uh, do you want to come in?” you asked, awkwardly standing by the front door after he insisted on walking you in.
“I don’t mind,” he said. You fumbled with the keys before opening the door with a shaky hand and let him inside. It was the first time you were letting a boy into your home (other than Harvey and Theo, but your relationship with them was strictly platonic) and you felt a little more nervous than usual. After figuring out you had liked Caliban more than you originally expected, there was nothing you could do to stop your heart from beating just a little too fast when we he was around. Him being in your house did nothing to help the situation.
As for Caliban, his usual overwhelming desire for a carnal relationship was nowhere to be found when he stepped into your house. He looked at the white walls decorated with family photos and admired the ones with you as a child. Caliban watched as you put the house keys in a glass dish and followed you to your bedroom.
It was odd, Caliban thought, to feel nothing but tranquility. He was almost always hyperaware of his surroundings and wary of demons and souls roaming past him in Hell, but it was just the two of you. Two bodies under one roof.
“My parents won’t be home until later tonight. N-Not that we have to do anything!” you added. “I just mean they’d freak out because they haven’t met you before.”
Caliban chuckled. “I wasn’t planning on making a move, if that’s what you were wondering.”
You didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
“Your room suits you,” he said. Caliban admired the photos on your nightstand and polaroids pinned to a brown board on the wall filled with memories from your past with the Fright Club and other friends and family members. He saw a stack of books beside your bed and a fish tank sitting by the window, your closet doors closed, and decorative pieces that highlighted your personality.
“Thanks,” you said, laying down on your best. “You can sit, you know.”
Caliban took this opportunity to lay next to you. When you felt the bed dip, you averted your eyes to the ceiling.
“What are you thinking about?” Caliban asked after a long pause of silence.
“How fast life changes,” you replied. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, but with all that I know, how can I keep all of this celestial knowledge a secret from my parents? The world is always doubting Heaven and Hell but I know the truth. I don’t know if being purely mortal is helping me out in this situation either.”
“You’re an innocent,” Caliban said, turning his head to look at you. “So pure and clean. Your soul has been untouched by neither light or night and it’s probably the one thing that’s going to save you in the future.”
You turned your head to meet his gaze. “I’m still powerless.”
“Maybe in one way, but not completely. You have no witchcraft magic but you have intelligence and intuition. You know not to meddle with things that aren’t of your concern.”
You were silent.
“What else are you thinking about?”
“How much I like spending time with you,” you confessed. “But it’s hard, you know. You’ll be in Hell most of the time and you’re made of clay, for crying out loud.” Caliban chuckled. “I didn’t really think you’d be around as often as you are.”
Caliban was silent.
“What are you thinking about?”
“You,” he replied. “I’m always thinking about you. I used to think morality was a disease, but it’s not. It’s a rationale, just like any demonic presence.” Caliban moved closed to you.
“I think about what love is and how I don’t know what it really means.”
“I think love means different things to different people,” you said. “I think it’s mutual respect and loyalty. It’s knowing details about someone, big and small. It’s about being together but knowing you can be independent. Love is hard and it takes time. Love is not instant.”
“You’re pretty wise for an innocent,” he said.
You laughed. “Maybe I’m just a hopeless romantic.”
“Maybe not.”
Caliban lifted his body to hover above yours, your chests barely touching as his eyes gazed right over your lips. You dared not to move and Caliban hesitantly leaned down further so that your lips barely brushed against one another, the goosebumps on your skin taking affect. Because you weren’t pulling away, he took it as a silent signal and pressed his chaste lips against your soft ones.
There was no spark. No magic and no fireworks. There was only you and Caliban, and there was no other way you would’ve wanted your first kiss to feel like. Time slowed down as Caliban relaxed by your touch and your hands roamed his neck. The cold outdoor air was replaced by the warmth of Caliban’s body and when he pulled away, he let his thumb stroke your cheek as he cupped the side of your face.
“You are, dare I say, an angel.
“That’s a compliment, considering I know how much you despise them.”
He laughed. “Perhaps I’ll make an exception.”
Caliban leaned down once more to press a tender kiss to your forehead and you closed your eyes in bliss, happy to accept the good that came with the craziness of the last month. You looked at his structured jaw and grinned at his loving gaze, letting out a tired laugh.
“Perhaps.”
#caliban x reader#caos caliban#caliban#caos caliban x reader#chilling adventures of sabrina#caos x reader#sabrina spellman#my writing#angel
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( PART ONE HERE ) & ( PART TWO HERE ) here are EVEN MORE NINE CHARACTER BASES ( label & background & personality ), all of whom i have played out in the past. they expand beyond ‘ the queen bee ‘ and ‘ the awkward nerd ‘ because i think as a community we’re all tired of the cliche bull, so have some of my most fun & most subversive times. these are for inspiration purposes as well as admin purposes. if you are going to use these in an rph setting, i request credit, but otherwise, it’s not necessary. ( all details viable to change ; pinterest board links available for all of them - if you are interested in my characters, see my muse page ) TW : violence, alcohol, drugs, child neglect, murder, death, abuse, kidnapping, adultery
001. THE GOLDEN CHILD TURNED DARK — you grow up golden. you’re the oldest child of the best psychic in town and no one likes to remember it. your childhood is a string of choir practices and photoshoots and sleepovers only ever at other people's homes. ( you sometimes wonder whether your home is even a home at all, for it is vast and cold and unsettling ground at the best of times, and a war ground at the worst of times. ) your mother’s a showman and you are more party favor than you are human, most of the time. for you, they will forget her black cats and tarot decks and smoke screens. you are too good to ever be apart of such foolishness, right, sweetheart? you’d never put your hands in something like that, we know. you’ll smile and nod; you try not to think about the way that you share your mother’s same big eyes. the fact that as she gets older, the more sense she makes. how sometimes, inexplicably, more often than not, she is right in one way or another. that your mother is playing god and winning, and sometimes you let her take your hands and take your energy, and you are winning too. they’d never suspect the dirt on your hands like they suspect your little sister, who never had the patience for your mother's whims and wishes and stays bitter about the way people treat her. sometimes you can’t stand her for still being kind to you when you know it’s not fair that she’s on the outcasts of society when people treat you like a god. when you hear the blonde cheerleader with full lips call your little sister an ‘arrogant fucking occultist,’ you’ll beat the shit out of her until it takes two of the football players to tear you off. you’ll have a heart to heart with her about it later, where she stares at you in fear and you in guilt. she doesn’t press charges but you become the first class president to ever get expelled. you never tell your sister, even though she begs to know. hell, sometimes you don’t even know. it’s your mother’s work on you and you know it. some cosmic karma for playing with things she shouldn’t. your sanity for the sake of a little bit of power. you’ll don your mother’s long dark gloves. her heavy veils. you’ll become a fixture at the haunted home at the end of the block.
002. THE FLIGHTLESS BIRD — your mother tongue is not your mother’s mother tongue and you never manage to remember this fact. your cousins are a world away, but you’re glad they are. they love to mock you and your shiny, pristine life away from everything that was once your mother’s pride and culture and family all wrapped in one. you’re not enough of an immigrant but this isn’t your homeland, either. you can’t help it, though. you fit in like a new dress. your whole life, all everyone has ever wanted to do was try you on for size. for what it’s worth, you’ve grown used to being tossed aside, even if it doesn’t make it hurt any less. your grandmother, who crossed continents because she missed your smile, likes to say that your curse is your love of humanity, but you think it’s that humanity doesn't love you back. no matter how hard you try you can’t hold on to that helium balloon called happiness and all your broken bridges trail behind you singing a siren song trying to take you home, but you don’t think you have a home. where would it be? your birthplace, where everyone looks like you but no one really gets you, or where you grew up, where you know everyone but sometimes wish you didn’t. your mother tells you to grow up. that you remind her so much of her sister, who weaves tales all marked with complicated, who your grandmother will reference with one finger to her temple in a swirled motion. your mother doesn’t do complicated, and you’ve never been anything but, which you think is probably why she spent so much time at work, and not with you. you’re okay. you adapt. it’s all you know how to do.
003. THE HEIR — before you are even born, you have a reputation. your last name is the brand you’re not sure you ever wanted. when your mother was twenty-five she inherited the title of head of the crime family she was born in. the crime family that runs the east coast. when you are twenty-five, you’ll drink until your heart beats thunderously in your chest. when you are twenty-five, your best friend will comment about how unfair it is that your life has never been yours, that tomorrow you will be gone forever, that you will have to dedicate your entire life to running something you weren’t even born to run, and you will beat her to death and live to regret it. when you are born, you are not mommy’s little heir. you’re second in line. your big brother’s love shines down on you. he’s different than you, or your little brothers who have a sickening taste for this kind of life. he’s kind. before you can grow to understand that he is the best of your family, your mother cuts him out with a single dinner party and you won’t see him again until you’re sixteen and he shows up outside your school with an expensive leather jacket on and tries to beg you to come with him and get away from this life you’ve been saddled with. you will look him in his eyes and ask him, trembling, fingers playing with the hem of your skirt, eyes blurry with tears, “have we met?” your mother raises you to be strong. unflinching in the eyes of adversity. knives nestled into your boots, blood dripping from your mouth, a smile on your lips, the first gift you ever get is the lives of the men who kidnap you when you are thirteen. you’re so angry in a way your brother never understood how to be. you’re so angry you don’t know what you’re angry about anymore. your lot in life? your family? your personality? the fact that you understand violence, deeply and intimately? that you invite violence into your bed? that it does not make you flinch and you cannot, will not remember a time that it did? you will never be normal. this is your normal. it’s an inheritance and it’s yours. an inheritance worth a life.
004. THE GONE BOY — your mother tells you that you were born in the winter. she tells you that she thinks a piece of winter got into your soul. that she’s afraid you’ll never move past it. you’ll shrug your shoulders and smile at her. you try not to think about it too much and you do a pretty good job of it. she sees too much of herself in you to be happy. all her worst parts, the kind she didn’t bring into your parent's marriage. you’re the youngest child. the favorite, or at least you were until you got old enough to have a rightful personality. your older siblings envy the fact that your moms are still together while their parents don’t live in the same states. you’re supposed to be the best one yet because they’ve had a lot of practice by the time you rolled around, but all you’ve ever done is make problems for yourself. you take joy in finding ways to piss people off. when you’re thirteen, you’ll bleach your hair white and your mama’s face when she sees it is something you treasure so deeply. when you’re fifteen, you’ll come home from school high as a kite and telling your mother your eyes are red from crying is better than the truth. mama will understand crying, but you’re supposed to be the golden child with the pretty blue eyes. their perfect little experiment and you just want to scream because you know, you fucking know, but the fact of the matter is that you’ve never really cared. you’re more you than you will ever be them and half of them is glad but the other half is indignant and the bad side is louder. you can understand that. all your bad side is, is loud. they ask who you are, and you’ll always tell the truth. they just wished that you hadn’t.
005. THE TSUNAMI — you hit the news at sixteen years old. the littlest heir of the biggest chain of luxury hotels across the west coast. your mother didn’t want this life for you, but you’ve never given it much thought. all you’ve ever cared about it is waves that crash just right and that marvelous feeling you get when it’s so early in the morning that no one else is awake but the birds are chirping and the sun is peaking out. you’re simple in that way. people like complicated, but for the first sixteen years of your life, you are anything but. you like surfing and you like kissing whoever you want and saying fuck wherever you want. your first best friend starts a smear campaign against you after you break her heart by outgrowing her. she’ll say whatever she likes, and most of it you can acknowledge has some truth to it. you’re popping pills ( adderall's a hell of a drug, baby, you’ll croon out to her, mouth spinning around the straw of your slurpee ) and you’re always crawling back to your mommy. people are enthralled by you. they want something from you that you never cared to give. you’re peculiar in a way they want to write about or scream about, but you don’t have time for any of it. you never meant to hurt anyone, really, ever at all. you’re more baby bird on the verge of flight than you are spoiled brat with hundreds in your wallet.
006. THE GREEK TRAGEDY — you’re the og child prodigy. one of the most famous ever and if you had a normal childhood, you would come to understand the consequences of this. you wonder about it. would you have cracked under all that pressure or would you have been a diamond? some ivy league college before you hit puberty, saving the world, and making sure everyone knows it, all the while? you never find out. when you’re still a child, you’ll wander off. that itself is not a problem. you always wander. you live in the middle of nowhere because your parents are fancy, famous scientists with more money than you will ever need and your house is surrounded by nature. you prefer that to the marble columns. the problem is that you wander and you are found, but it’s not who you should be. by the time everyone realizes you’re missing, properly, milk-cartoon, headlines on the morning news missing, you’re out of the state. you’ll be everywhere. your face, your story. you won’t realize this until you’re seventeen, but they looked for you. everyone looked for you. no matter how many years had passed, everyone still waited for you with bated breath. you won’t get to be a child prodigy, but you will get to be something else. a killer. the man who finds you has hands coated in blood and he wants to make sure you do too. before you know anything, you know violence. your intelligence is no longer the most important thing about you. in fact, it’s not even mentioned. he wants to know how powerful you can swing, how silently you can sneak up beside someone, and with how much force you can dig in a knife. you forget your old life. your parent’s kind smiles. your sister's gentle hands. the way everyone knew your name. now, you have no name and you have no story, just someone to follow. there are others like you, who got taken away by him, but he doesn’t like you guys hanging around much. you’re not the favorite, and he never fails to tell you this. you’re too you. he will hit you and you will spit blood with a smile on your face. a part of you will always be free, and you tell him this. all he does is hit you again. when you’re seventeen, he’ll leave you in the city and tell you not to come home without blood on your hands. you go to a diner, sit at the counter and pray they don’t make your dirty self leave as you sip orange juice. the news plays. celebrity marriage. robbery. and, suddenly, an anniversary, eight years to the day since a child with your cheekbones disappeared off the face of the earth. it all floods back and you’re left reeling. in a short period of a few months, you will escape from his hand. you will also very, very nearly die by his hand. you will go home. they never stopped waiting.
007. THE FALLEN PRINCESS — you don’t look goddamn anything like your siblings. it’s the first thing people say when meeting you and your mother's smile will always tighten around the edges. you’re tall and blonde and shining and they’re all pale skin and brown hair with the same roman noses and aura of power. you get the family's mossy green eyes but nothing else. your mother always dismisses it as a fluke and your father never mentions it, though you never fail to notice how his eyes always skim over you. you just attribute it to the wrongness in you. the one they never stop talking about. physical proof that you’re the black sheep of the royal family. it’s your eighteenth birthday when your mother sits you in her waiting room and tells you that almost two decades ago, she had a brief and passionate fling with one of their country’s soldiers before he went into the war and was never seen again. it all makes sense but you wish you could just go back to before she ever told you. everything pieces together. you’re a mar on the family's reputation and their dirty little secret in plain sight. your father is not your father and he’s only ever acted like it. you’re a living product of your mother’s whims, which he never fails to mention are his least favorite of your mother’s qualities. it only makes you worse. the royal terror, they call you. you’re the youngest of the family, the little asshole with a less than little drinking problem, and eventually, it becomes an open secret of your lineage. word gets around fast in a kingdom like yours, but it isn’t even yours anymore, really. one of your hands reaches out for a crown that will never really be yours but still sits heavy on your head.
008. THE STORYTELLER — you’re five years old and your mother tells your uncle that one day, you two will have screaming matches loud enough to wake the neighborhood. you’re ten and your big sister tells you that sometimes she doesn’t even know who you are, that you’re a cycling door at best and a rolled dice at worst. you’re thirteen and the doctor tells you he knows you’re an intelligent kid, but he wishes you would act like it. you’re a rolling stone of your own. you like screaming and fighting and no one likes that side of you. the dirty, loud one, the one you really weren’t raised to have, but sometimes when your mother isn’t around to call bullshit you’ll say is a product of moving so much as a kid, or of your dad never being around, or of never fitting in the right way. but it’s quite possible that you were just born this way. with some kind of fire in your soul that has never been quiet enough for you to hear yourself think, or at the very least, hear before you run your mouth. your mouth which more often than not will leave you stranded in fights and in relationships you don’t know how to get out of. you like causing a ruckus. flirting with people you shouldn’t, drinking honestly excessive amounts of alcohol, saying fuck around your abuelos just to see the looks of horror on their faces. you’ve been told both that you have a big heart and that you’re a big bitch, and it makes sense because you’ve always been bigger than life in one way or another. too much for people to swallow with ease, so they usually just don’t try. you’re fine with that. you have enough try in your for both of you guys.
009. THE RICH KID ADDICT — the first thing you remember is your mother. you must be four or five, sitting next to her on the fancy dining chairs, dressed in perfect little church clothes and your feet not reaching the floor. you asked her what daddy was talking about. all you hear is angry and death and destruction and revenge. your mother tells you in her soft voice, her matching eyes quivering with something that is not fear but rather pity, that your daddy has a curse. you learn much about this curse over the rest of your life. it makes your father not a father. an angry bitter man who shouts at you to get the hell out of his lab, to get out of his sight for a few nights, to stop asking so many questions. there are periods of reprieve that you never understand. your father’s happy again, hanging out with his best friend who you thought he loathed, wearing hawaiian print and having the same kind of smile you used to have before things got so hard all the time. but then it’s all over again. you’re sixteen, doing astrophysics homework in the living room while sipping on sangria in a stemless wine glass when things will come to a head. your father’s bad again, but he’s pleading with you, saying baby, baby, just come to the lab, just come see what i’ve done this time. this is new, so on even feet you’ll follow him in, until he wraps a handcuff around your wrist and puts the other one around his lab chair. you scream and you bang things, but no one’s there to hear you. your mother’s at a conference call in miami. your father tells you it’s fine, it’ll all be okay, and you beg him, please, daddy, please just let me go. he takes out a syringe and it’s green and big and you scream and thrash, and then you wake up in your bed. you feel the same and look the same, but you rip the doorknob off its hinges. when you cut your finger in engineering it heals up in seconds. you feel more awake, more real than you ever had, but worse than ever. he poisoned you and you’re not you anymore. you can’t cope with it, but his eyes shine with pride whenever he sees you around the house. you drink to forget it all and you become a cliche, but you’re never sober enough to be aware of it. a bit of beer on most nights and a lot on the weekends turns into pills and bottles and long nights, until your mother’s divorcing your father and it’s psychiatrist offices and failure notices and tabloids.
#rph#rpt#writing#Resources#masterlist#admin help#rp help#mine: char bases#part tres by popular demand !#happy quarantine kids!!!
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Behind The Album: Nevermind
The second studio album from Nirvana was released in September 1991 via DGC Records. This release would be their first on that label, as well as the first album to feature new drummer Dave Grohl. The album initially begin as a project for Sub Pop with producer Butch Vig attached to it at the suggestion of the label. They traveled to Madison, Wisconsin to record at Vig’s studio in early April 1990. At this time, the group recorded eight tracks including “Lithium,” “Breed,” “In Bloom,” and others, but Cobain was still working on more material for the record. On April 6, the band played a local show in Madison, but the singer strained his voice putting on hold temporarily the recording sessions as they had a short Midwestern tour that same week. After the tour, drummer Chad Channing announced his departure from the group putting everything on hold once again. Krist Novoselic and Cobain had seen the band Scream featuring drummer Dave Grohl and were impressed by his playing. By lucky coincidence, his group broke up around that same time. Grohl contacted Novoselic to see about an audition. He would join the band shortly thereafter as the bass player would say with Dave “everything fell into place.”
By this time, Sub Pop continued to have major financial difficulty, which worried the group. Cobain made the decision to forgo working with such an independent label, but instead signing with a major record company. After shopping around for a few months, they signed with Geffen Records imprint DGC after a recommendation by Kim Gordon of Sonic Youth. The label would suggest a number of producers for the second album, but Nirvana held out to continue to work with Butch Vig. The reason behind this came in the fact that they were comfortable with him. Another factor was that he did not ask for percentage points upon the release of any album. The group recorded the LP at Sound City Studios in Van Nuys, California in May and June 1991. In an interesting twist, they needed gas money to actually get to the studio to begin recording, so the band played a show for extra money where “Smells Like Teen Spirit” would be performed for the first time. The other new song that had not been worked on in the previous sessions was “Come As You Are.” The recording sessions lasted 8 to 10 hours a day as Grohl and Novoselic completed their parts in a matter of days. Cobain‘s work took a little bit longer as he added more guitar parts and put the finishing touches on the vocals. He would sometimes only finish writing lyrics just before he would sing them for the album. Butch Vig would say that he only could convince Cobain to double track his vocals when he told the singer that John Lennon used to do it. The producer expressed frustration with the Nirvana frontman. “He'd be great for an hour, and then he'd sit in a corner and say nothing for an hour." Nirvana was unhappy with the first few mixes of the album after they finished recording. They made the decision to bring in another producer to do the mixing. Eventually, they decided to bring in Andy Wallace, who had worked on Slayer’s 1990 album. Krist Novoselic she would say, “We said, 'right on,' because those Slayer records were so heavy." Nevermind would be mastered at the Mastering Lab in Hollywood. Howie Weinberg began working on the record despite the fact that nobody else from the band had arrived yet. By the time everyone had gotten there, he was essentially done. After the release of the record, the band expressed a tremendous amount of dissatisfaction with how it sounded. Everyone in the group felt that it was too commercial. Kurt Cobain said, “Looking back on the production of Nevermind, I'm embarrassed by it now. It's closer to a Mötley Crüe record than it is a punk rock record." Butch Vig would later say in an interview that it was the artist in Cobain that made him complain like that. One simply could not say in public thank you for helping to create an album that sold 10 million copies.
The major influences for Kurt Cobain during the writing of Nevermind were Pixies , the Smithereens, REM, and the Melvins. He intentionally wanted to emphasize melody in a much more emphatic way on this album. A key development came when they released the single “Sliver” before Grohl had even joined the group. The singer said it “was like a statement in a way. I had to write a pop song and release it on a single to prepare people for the next record. I wanted to write more songs like that." His goal from the onset was to write power chords that could be combined with punk rock guitar riffs. He would use the example of trying to combine the Knack or Bay City Rollers with Black Flag. One new feature of the music on the album emerges in the band's employment of extreme dynamics, meaning that there exist abrupt changes from quiet to loud verses. Guitar World would say this about Cobain‘s playing on this album. “Kurt Cobain's guitar sound on Nirvana's Nevermind set the tone for Nineties rock music." Dave Grohl would later say that the singer always stressed that the music came first, not the lyrics. He was still writing lyrics halfway through the recording of Nevermind, while Vig has said that some of the lyrics are inaudible anyway. "Even though you couldn't quite tell what he was singing about, you knew it was intense as hell." Later on, Cobain would complain about journalists trying to understand him through his lyrics. “Why in the hell do journalists insist on coming up with a second-rate Freudian evaluation of my lyrics, when 90 percent of the time they've transcribed them incorrectly?" Charles R. Cross, author of the Cobain biography Heavier Than Heaven, would claim in his book that half of the songs on Nevermind are about Kurt Cobain‘s ex-girlfriend Toby Vail. The first line of “Drain You” was something that she had actually said to him, “One baby to another said 'I'm lucky to have met you.” He modified the lyrics to “Lithium,” which had been written prior to meeting her in order to reference his relationship with her. The phrase “Smells Like Teen Spirit” was something that she came up with while living with Cobain. It was originally meant as a joke, but the singer took it as some sort of revolutionary phrase. Krist Novoselic would later comment that the track “Lounge Act” is undoubtedly about Vail.
The working title of the album had been Sheep, which Cobain thought represented a funny inside joke as to who would buy the album. The origin of that title comes from the public's reaction to Operation Desert Storm. The singer decided to change it to Nevermind because he also liked the fact it was grammatically incorrect and symbolized how he felt about life. Nevermind also referenced one of Cobain’s favorite albums by the Sex Pistols, Never Mind the Bollocks. He does mention the title once in the track “Smells Like Teen Spirit:” “oh well, whatever, never mind.”
The famous cover of the album was conceived by Cobain as well after watching a television show with Dave Grohl about water births. They first tried stock footage of water births, but the images were much too graphic for an album cover. They finally found at least one photo that may work, but the company wanted $7500 to use the photo. Finally, a photographer went to a pool to find a baby for the picture. The actual baby they found was someone named Spencer Elden, the son of a friend of the photographer. Eldonwood recreated that picture for subsequent anniversary photos for the album throughout the years.
The album debuted at 144 on the Billboard charts, but by January the record was number one in the country. The success of “Smells Like Teen Spirit” saw the demand for the album spiral in such a way that the record company could not keep up with the demand for a time. Geffen Records needed to stop printing any other albums released around the same time, so they could make more of Nevermind. At its height, Nevermind sold 300,000 copies a week. The LP would be certified platinum in November 1991, a mere 13 months after its release. The president of Geffen Records would say this to the New York Times. “We didn't do anything. It was just one of those 'Get out of the way and duck' records." The members of Nirvana seemed relatively unconcerned about the success of the album as Novoselic would say in an interview that achieving gold record status was cool, but not that important to him. By the time of their European tour in 1992, the sales of the album made any marketing ideas previously planned by the record label to be unusable.
Another interesting thing that came about through the phenomenal popularity of the album was the fact that not many places actually reviewed the album at first. Most of the reviews remained positive, but they seemed to stress the potential of the band. Entertainment Weekly’s David Browne would give the album an A minus, while the New York Times would say, “With 'Nevermind,' Nirvana has certainly succeeded. There are enough intriguing textures, mood shifts, instrumental snippets and inventive word plays to provide for hours of entertainment." The best review probably came from Everett True of Melody Maker, who had this to say. “When Nirvana released Bleach all those years ago, the more sussed among us figured they had the potential to make an album that would blow every other contender away. My God have they proved us right.” Not everyone loved the album though as evidenced by the Boston Globe saying that the record was for the most part generic punk rock. The greatest achievement of Nevermind was the fact that the record brought Seattle grunge, which later became alternative music, into the mainstream. The bands, the fashion, the culture that existed in Seattle now had made its way to Madison Avenue. The album led to the success of other groups like Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Smashing Pumpkins, and so many more. Please check out the article later in this book on the story of grunge for further discussion on the cultural legacy of Nevermind. Rolling Stone named the album number six in its 2020 list of the 500 Greatest Albums of All Time, as well as number one on its list of the Greatest Albums of the 1990’s. In 2001, VH1 would poll over 500 rock writers and journalists for the greatest albums of all time, which led to their choice of Nevermind as the number one album. In 2005, the record was added to the national record registry put together by the Library of Congress. Even Pitchfork would name the album number six for the decade of the 1990’s. The site wrote, “Anyone who hates this record today is just trying to be cool, and needs to be trying harder."
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SUEDE – now with humour
Suede featured in the Danish free music magazine GAFFA shortly after A New Morning came out, October 2002 (no. 10). An interview with Brett and Mat, short comments on the album tracks, and a review.
Photos by Casper Helmer and Morten Larsen. The magazine can be downloaded as .pdf here (look for pages 22-24 and 50).
Translation of the interview by Peter Albrechtsen under the cut. Own work.
OUT OF THE DARK
Brett Anderson and the rest of Suede have acknowledged that the substance that dreams are made of can neither be ingested nor inhaled. It has to come from the heart. And it does on their new album A New Morning, which was one of the topics of conversation when GAFFA met a transformed band in Copenhagen
FIRST HE TURNS LEFT, TAKES A FEW STEPS FORWARD and looks towards the mirror in front of him. Then he turns right, but keeps looking at himself. Everything is taking place in sliding movements, and there is evidently some satisfaction with what the mirror shows: The black leather jacket with a retro cut and a white back label sits tight around the slender, yet top-trimmed body.
If you didn't know better, you would think that Brett Anderson was practicing for a catwalk. The 35-year-old Suede frontman is hardly going to throw himself into that kind of thing for the time being, though he would be guaranteed to do well with his obvious expertise in hip twists, affectations and flirting from the edge of the stage. Right now, though, Brett is in a Copenhagen luxury hotel, where he's trying on a jacket just purchased by the band's British make-up artist, Nicci Welsh, who eagerly watches Brett's shameless poses. Brett is satisfied, but he has a twinkle in the eye at the same time, which reveals that something is hiding behind the charismatic singer's wide smile and chalk-white teeth.
–What do you say, Mat? Isn't it cool? Brett asks and looks over to his childhood friend, bassist Mat Osman, who understands well the look Brett's sending: Now, Mat must nod affirmatively. So he does. Brett looks over at Nicci with "thank you – yes, he would like to take the leather jacket home with him to London". But Nicci has also noticed Brett's hidden agenda and politely but firmly points out that "if you just thought to give it to a friend when you get back to London, then you can easily forget that."
Oops. Brett is exposed and quickly hands the jacket back to Nicci, but his now even cheekier grin shows that he certainly does not feel guilty, but simply perceives the whole scene as a bit of a show-off. As he himself puts it, a few minutes later: –Had it been three years ago, I would have kept the jacket for fun and given it to a friend 14 days later – simply to take advantage of my position as a pop star.
In other words, Brett Anderson has undergone certain changes over the three years since Suede's previous album, Head Music, and their brand new, fifth opus A New Morning. And the changes apply not just to his relationship to leather jackets, but simply to his whole lifestyle. In fact, the whole band's lifestyle.
Breakdown
Ever since the ten-year-old debut single, The Drowners, Suede have been heavy consumers of drugs all over the world, and they have never hidden that. Right from deliberately ambiguous song titles as Heroine and The Chemistry Between Us for opinions on the benefits of narcotics in provocative interviews, which the sensationally horny British press has lapped up themselves. "Coke is good for sex", "it's great to hear music on ecstasy" and "it's better to take drugs than to drink, because then you have a better next day" – all immortal quotes from Anderson.
But now it's over: Suede is clean – or something like that – and Brett clearly states that "I have become a happier person. My life on hyperspeed is a chapter over. I've even gotten into a good shape!"
–You start taking drugs because you want to feel good. It's that simple. And at some point, you do not feel good any more. It's that simple, too. That's what happened to us, Brett states in a dry and declaratory way.
Since Head Music, Suede had to say goodbye to keyboardist Neil Codling, who collapsed due to overexertion on Suede's tour in Australia in the autumn of 2000 (actually 1999). Half a year later, he quit completely because he suddenly had a relapse after having been recovering otherwise, and was about to break down completely. Neither Brett nor Mat clearly want to talk about it, but then admit that "it made them reflect on some things around both the band and themselves“. Brett, however, insists that “It was many different elements that led to what has happened with our lifestyle in recent years. Both the band and I myself have entered a new stage."
The changes around both Brett and Suede have also taken place over a longer period. First, Anderson started with giving the critics right who had complained loudly that he repeated himself on Head Music. Then he moved from the hectic London into his newly acquired country house in the peaceful natural area of Croydon (somewhat similar to when he moved into a monastery to write the texts of Suede's eight-year-old masterpiece Dog Man Star). He totally isolated himself, lived without a telephone and television, "buried" himself in literature and wrote the first lyrics for A New Morning.
–Oh, now it's starting to sound like I've gone and became boring, Brett chuckles, but hurries to add: -This is certainly not the case. In the old days, I deliberately avoided literature because I was terrified that literature would spoil my pure language. I would not be a sexless secretary who clapped on a typewriter. But now, I have found out that it doesn't necessarily have to end that way, and I read like an obsessed now. I read like a motherfucker. In one of the new songs, Obsessions, I refer to Bret Easton Ellis, but my favorite author is Albert Camus.
Actually, my paranoia about literature just says all about how far out I once have been. I was so afraid that my mindset would be infected by everything possible, but honestly, I must have had a hysterical tendency to pump everything up to pretentious heights. After all, both love and music are in fact very basic emotions, Brett says, who, however, admits he let out a roar when he went as far as to get his hair bleached last year ("it looked like crap, for God's sake," he sighs with one head-shaking laugh). However, it was an obvious sign that Brett felt the changes coming. And enjoyed it to the fullest drag.
Producer problems
In fact, Brett enjoyed being away from the big city so much that he persuaded the others to go to Iceland for a while and work further on the material that gradually became structured. In Iceland, the band briefly collaborated with Sigur Rós producer Ken Thomas, who, however, should turn out to be the first in a series of failed attempts to find the perfect producer.
–The magic was missing, Mat explains, but the creativity did not fail, and the band engaged in vastly different concepts around the upcoming album – "we considered making both a pure acoustic pop and an electronic folk record."
A New Morning became none of those. After leaving former Beck producer Tony Hoffer, Suede ended up slipping into the studio with Stephen Street, who is best known for his collaboration with The Smiths and Blur, and with Street behind the mixer, a renewed focus was there. The opening number Positivity took only three hours to write, and Brett describes it as "one of those magical moments in a band where everything melts together in the most beautiful way."
Those kinds of moments are, of course, the result of the fact both I and the rest of the band are dedicated to the music in a different way than before. Every single moment in music is important to me now. Every single moment in my life is important now. I have rediscovered both myself and the music, proclaims Brett, who hasn't changed in one aspect: He is still extremely talkative, well-worded and energetic – even when he explains it new album title:
–It's not so strange if A New Morning sounds as a religious quote – the last few years have truly felt as a bit of a revelation. We have chosen to see life from a new perspective. We have pretty much spent the 90s on an insanely exalted search for success, fame, money and all that sort of thing. Of course, music was the starting point, but it was all about consuming, savouring and worshipping life excessively. For me, this record is about having a completely different approach to life: Life is something small, fragile and completely unique. Something to watch out for. The new record is simply more intimate, human and much more honest.
This shouldn't be perceived as if Brett is now taking distance to his characteristic textual universe populated by the sad fates of the big city. On the contrary.
–I still have a great sympathy for people who are left in the lurch by the system and politicians, and I will continue to have that, he emphasizes, adding that "it's very much my self-understanding that has changed recently – not my worldview". Osman nods approvingly at Brett's side and adds with no hidden allusion to the title Dog Man Star, that "if you were born in a pigsty, you have so much to achieve, so much to flee from" – both Brett and Osman originally come from the unglamorous London suburb of Haywards Heath.
–Our songs have always been about ordinary people who achieve extraordinary things, and that's how we have been as a band as well, I think. You can easily be something special, even if you come from the pure nothing, and we have stuck to it, even though we have personally driven it too far into the extremes. We are still very much real people who have lived very real lives, and our songs are still about very real feelings, Brett points out.
–We will always fight for all the people who are trying to cope against all odds, and who try to maintain pride in adversity and frustration. Now we just have more surplus, passion and energy ourselves to fight the battle. Now we can really do it with an open heart.
Photo descriptions:
"I HAVE RE-DISCOVERED BOTH MYSELF AND MUSIC" Brett Anderson
"I HAVE BECOME A HAPPIER PERSON. I'VE EVEN GOTTEN INTO A GOOD SHAPE!" Brett Anderson
A New Morning
– according to Suede themselves
Positivity
Brett: –In many ways our programme statement: It really strikes a new, more cheerful tone. As I said, it was written in no time, and that's pretty incredible for us, because we're really perfectionists when it comes to songwriting.
Lost In TV
Brett: –Probably my favorite track on the album. The melody is based on backing vocals, and in that part, the song is more related to the Beach Boys and the Beatles than to old Suede. Why is there no one doing that kind of thing anymore?
Obsessions
Brett: –This is the last piece we wrote for the record. That's my favorite text. The fun of it is that the lyrics are in a way very personal, but at the same time guaranteed incredibly universal. I will undoubtedly receive many fan letters about that song.
Lonely Girls
Brett: –One of the first songs we wrote. A lovely lullaby-like groove. We even use bongo drums on it. A really nice number, which probably comes from the fact that I originally wrote the melody while I was in the countryside.
Beautiful Loser
Brett: –One of those songs where I really sing in a different way than usual: Harder, raw, dirty. In many ways, it's the album's ultimate live number: The energy is fearless, and the chorus is silly.
Streetlife
Mat: –It started as krautrock: The same groove that ran and ran and ran for eight minutes – it was totally Germany in 1971 – but it changed radically when the chorus appeared purely out of nowhere.
Ashtray Girl
Mat: –Ashtray Girl and Beautiful Loser are perceived the most as “old-school Suede”, but actually, they were both written by Alex Lee, who is our brand-new keyboardist. Funny, right? Another funny thing is that the lyrics are totally meaningless.
Untitled
Mat: –My favourite along with Streetlife – right complex and yet a simple song. Originally a very folk-like song, but our producer Stephen Street made it more electric. Suddenly we began to sound like a whole band.
...Morning
Mat: –It's about getting up in the morning, and we discussed a lot how we could underpin that with sound. Several weeks later, we ended up sticking a microphone out of Brett's kitchen window. So simple. So difficult.
One Hit To The Body
Brett: –It's our attempt to make an I Will Survive. It's about me having to pull through, no matter how smashed I am. Actually an old song we rediscovered in the studio. Reminds of Bruce Springsteen, oh.
When The Rain Falls
Brett: –Believe it or not: it was originally a spoken-word number in the style of Serge Gainsbourg. I sat down and breathed heavily into the microphone. Now it has become something else after all, for I had to admit that I sounded neither French nor sexy.
Suede: A New Morning
Reviewed by Jan Opstrup Poulsen
After the very electric Head Music, Suede landed soft and comfortable in the poetic corner of A New Morning. Brett Anderson still sings about beautiful losers and self-created troubles of youth, but melodically, A New Morning is a luminous and optimistic album.
As on the masterpiece Coming Up, it’s the individual songs that are in the centre, like little stars in the night sky. But Suede doesn’t have the usual tempo of melodies at all. A New Morning is distinctly an album of ballads, and in Brett Anderson's most captivating moments, the album hits sublime moments.
There are more typical Suede songs on the album, like the excellent Beautiful Loser, that we have heard from them before. A ballad like When The Rain Falls doesn’t change the state of affairs either, although one has to indulge in a grumpy admiration how Suede fabulously handle these ballads. On the other hand, great things happen in the opening song Positivity, which is a proudly towering pop song. This magnificent approach to pop songs fits Suede's finely tuned melodies like a glove and is well followed up on several songs on the album like Lost In TV and Astrogirl.
Brett Anderson hasn’t become less affected, and guitarist Richard Oakes balances, as always, on the edge of disruptive, to end up in a harmonious melody line. But on the more ordinary songs, Brett Anderson sings with the desperation of an angry rock singer and to that extent, he reaches beyond the edge of the stage as a performer.
A New Morning therefore has all the ingredients for a good Suede album that will divide the record people between rapture and contempt for these assumed excesses, respectively. But it's just too sour to be negative when the world can be so bright and inviting.
#brett anderson#richard oakes#mat osman#simon gilbert#alex lee#suede#a new morning#mine*#enjoy some exclusive non-threatening Blonderson ANM content : )#Suede in other languages#suede in denmark
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Three Days ~ 65
~*~Sebastian~*~
I turned back toward the others. Sam was looking at me, "You're hopeless."
I looked around, hoping she was looking at someone else, "What? Why?"
"Three weeks ago with the good luck kisses and Reese Cups you were ridiculous. This week... hopeless. You're a big soft squishy marshmallow of a boyfriend. I expected more."
I went for a confused look, "Do we know each other well enough for you to ride my ass like this?"
She smiled, "Apparently."
I held up a finger in Scott's direction before he could say anything. Everyone laughed.
We talked, laughed, and drank until the ref blew the whistle. Like earlier I was between Sam and Mallory. Sam leaned closer, "Too far?"
I knew she was referring to her teasing after Emma left. "Oh hell no, perfect." I sat back enough to include Mallory. "Thank you. I'm much more comfortable in front of five hundred people than in a small group. Expectations are different. You fucking with me lets new people know I’m just a guy here to watch his girlfriend play volleyball."
Sam looked at Mallory, "See, hopeless."
Mallory smiled, "Yeah, but cute as hell."
“Am I imagining the southern accent? It comes and goes.” I looked between the two of them and they indicated I wasn’t imagining. “Southern accents are trouble.” I shook my head, took a drink of my beer, and watched them win the first set.
Emma ran over, "Hungry. Would you order me something, please?"
I gave her a thumbs up and I had plates of appetizers ready when they got to the table. After losing. I slid off the stool, giving it to Emma, standing behind and to the side. I reached around her to eat while my other hand kept in contact with her. Touching her back. A slide across her shoulders. Anything for the contact. When Emma was finished eating, she leaned back, using me as a backrest. I leaned in and kissed her temple, my hidden hand on her hip.
I can't explain my want for contact. Before we met, before I saw her, before I heard her voice, I knew the feel of her touch. Her hand on my arm. Since that first touch, I've always wanted it. Maybe it's because touch was the first thing I knew. Like if the first thing you're attracted to is someone's smile you always remember the first one and want to see it again. I've never been touch hungry like this. I don't mind, kind of like it actually, and I'm not all in trying to overthink the why. It's just different. Hopefully, the relationship outcome will be different too.
Mallory's voice saying, "Barbie Bitches at ten o'clock," drew me out of my thoughts.
Emma said, "They're really not that bad."
Mallory snorted, "Yes, yes, they are."
There was a group of five heading our way. Three women and two men. I'm going to go ahead and guess the bleached blondes are the Barbie Bitches. There is a natural blonde in the group, so I could be wrong. The men were lagging a little behind. The one with short black hair had a full beard and the other had shoulder-length brown hair with a couple of days growth of beard. I don't feel jealous or insecure, but I am aware these are men she knows. Possessive. Protective. Proud. Definitely wanting to mark my territory, I guess her using me as a pillow does that. If she sits up I may have to kiss her. Tragic.
One of the guys recognized me first. He elbowed the other and nodded. I went on talking with Nick about the best flavors for chicken wings. I’m partial to teriyaki. Hot sauces aren't for me. I like flavor over burning the shit out of my mouth.
The five reached the table, hugs and handshakes for those nearby. Emma leaned forward and the hand I had on her hip magically moved to her shoulder when other eyes locked on me. Beside me, I heard Sam mumble, "Hopeless."
I looked at Sam and laughed, giving her a silent thank you. I realize someone in my line of work not liking to be the center of attention seems strange. Work and personal are different. Meeting her friends is personal, but the first minutes when they're recognizing work me is uncomfortable. I wish it wasn't. I don't like it.
Emma did the introductions, "This is my boyfriend Sebastian." I do like how she gives me a title. It feels like a diversion, setting an expectation. There's no question who I am. I'm not Sebastian with a dangling "the actor." I’m Sebastian "the boyfriend." That makes me uncomfortable too but in a much more fun way. She pointed as she gave names. "Justin, Caleb, Rose, Tammy, and Toni."
There was no way in hell Toni and Tammy weren't the Barbie Bitches. I was right about the hair too. I waved, "Hi, nice to meet you. Everybody work with Emma? Teachers?"
They told me what they taught. Toni and Tammy are English, Rose is Physics, Caleb is History, and Justin teaches programming and robotics. I looked at Rose, "I got a zero on my physics final." They laughed and I shrugged. "In my defense, of the eight seniors, the highest grade was a fifteen."
"You had a shitty teacher."
I widened my eyes and nodded in agreement, “Yeah, he gave us shit about the scores. I told him they said more about him than us. Finals were over, I didn't care."
Everyone started sharing stories from being a student or things students had done. Turned into a competition between the high school and elementary teachers for the most inappropriate comments and behaviors. High school was funny because they knew what they were doing, elementary because they didn't. I felt embarrassed for the mom who got the call her vibrator had made it to show and tell.
The game going on behind us was in the last set. Emma took off for the bathroom. When she came back, she went to the middle of the high school teachers, thanking them for coming. She was a good hostess.
Toni glanced at me before turning to Emma, "Are we really supposed to pretend he's not Sebastian Stan?"
Several things happened all at once. On one side of me, Samantha said, "Yes." On the other side, Mallory groaned. In front of me to the right, Tammy nodded her agreement with Toni. A little to the left, Emma said, "No."
Guess who I want to hear more from?
"You don't have to pretend you don't know who he is. But first and foremost, he's a person, so we're not going to talk about him like he's not right there." Emma looked at me with a smile. I was uncomfortable again. However, her protectiveness is hot.
Tami grimaced, "Sorry."
Emma hugged her to soothe the rebuke, "He scrambles my brain sometimes too."
I want to scramble more than her brains right now.
Tami looked at me as Emma headed around the table. "I'm sorry, Sebastian."
I waved away the apology, "You can ask me anything you want about work when they're warming up. The rest of the time I'm here to watch my girlfriend play."
It was Justin who did the fist pump, "Yes!"
I laughed.
Caleb faked a cough, "Fanboy."
"And not ashamed."
I had a fan. Sweet.
I'd taken Emma's seat when she left. When I started to get up she shook her head. She stood right up on me, laying her hand on my thigh. I lifted my arm over her, my hand landing on her ass, and my fingers going under the leg of her shorts to run my fingertips along the curve of her ass. My other hand, which was already under the table, moved her hand from my thigh to my crotch. I never stopped talking with Dawn. Beside me, Sam turned her back to me and leaned against the table, blocking anyone else from seeing. She’s definitely my favorite.
I was torn when the other game was over. I would miss our under the table fun, but the sooner the game was over the sooner we could go home.
Jeff walked around the table, heading toward the court. He pointed at me, "Your last good luck kiss sucked. Do better."
I jumped off the stool, grabbed Emma, dipped her low, and kissed her slow and deep. It felt very good. Reluctantly, I set her back on her feet. I looked at Jeff with my eyebrows raised.
Jeff grabbed Emma's arm and pulled her toward the court. "Much better. Thank you."
I turned back to the table to find all eyes on me. I shrugged with my hands up, "Taking one for the team." I took my spot back on the stool.
Justin leaned onto the table, "I have questions about stunts and drone shots." That conversation went on for a while. I could talk all day about that shit because it’s not directly me.
Toni wanted to know about Evans. Nia asked about gossip sites.
"I don't go there. Anybody can pretend to know anything and people will believe it if they want to. Even random guesses are going to be right sometimes. A friend had something real show up. It's best to ignore it. It'll go away with the next scandal. A lawsuit confirms and calls more attention." I could tell Rose had a question, "Go ahead."
She smiled, "Fanfiction."
I returned the smile, "What about it?"
"Love it? Hate it? Any favorites?"
I finished the last of my beer, considering how honest to be. I went all in. "I'm human. I got curious. For about a week. It doesn’t bother me. If a character I brought to life feeds someone's creativity I’m flattered. There are good stories and good writers out there. One of those could write a script, hell, for all we know someone who won an Oscar used to write fanfic."
"Real person stuff?"
I bobbed my head back and forth while looking at Dawn. "Still fiction and no more me than Bucky is. The imagination and amount of time spent on me is still flattering. All that's a step away. Now, the thirst tweets. Those are the things I wonder if people realize I see that. Fanfic is about an imagined version of me. Tweets and comments on Instagram are directed to me."
Caleb jumped in, "I bet you get the same things live at photo ops and shit though."
I nodded, "Some people lack boundaries."
Cindy said, "You looked uncomfortable reading those thirst tweets."
"Sort of." I laughed, "I wasn't embarrassed by content, just reading them out loud."
There were a few more questions before the whistle blew for the start of the game. I said, "Boyfriend time" and turned around.
It was another nail biter of a game. They lost the second set. All of us were screaming and clapping. It was a lot of fun. I liked this, being the spectator while hanging with her friends. I’ve always liked going to things and being the support person for friends. Fuck knows I’ve asked that from them enough. What I didn’t like was that this place didn't have Reese cups and the deck was too high for a between set kiss. Piece of shit dive bar.
They won the final set with a rejected spike by Becky and Nick. The team jumped in the air and hugged. So did Sam, Mallory, Scott, and I. I moved out of the middle to get to her first. In my head, I could hear Sam calling me hopeless.
I walked toward the opening to the court and met them, handing out words of praise. Emma stepped onto the deck and crossed the short distance into my arms. I kissed her head, "You did good."
"Thank you." She left my arms, kissed me, and took my hand. "It was a fun game. And I didn’t hurt myself."
We headed back to the table talking about plays and laughing. Emma sat down and pulled a beer from the bucket. I leaned my elbows on the counter behind me between Emma and Mallory, stretching out my back to reverse the hunching over during the game. I watched her profile as she talked with her friends. I could stand here looking at her all night. It didn't take long before I saw her energy drain away. Her smile shrank and her eyes lost their sparkle. I stood up, tucked a piece of hair that had escaped her ponytail, behind her ear, and waited until she turned her head like I knew she would. "You're tired." Not a question. She nodded. I turned to Mallory, "You ready?"
"Anytime."
I put Emma's bag on my shoulder. Emma stood up, "We're heading out."
Several other people said they were too. It wasn't late, but it was a weeknight.
I waited while they hugged their goodbyes. Mallory was back to me first. I slung my arm around her shoulder, "She's like a hostess saying good night to her guests."
Emma heard me and smiled. She joined us and I put my arm around her too. "Nice to meet everybody. I’m sure we'll do this again. Have a good night."
The three of us walked around the building to the CRV. I put in the code, opening the passenger and rear door, closing it behind them. I could see Mallory put a hand on Emma's arm and while I could tell they were talking I couldn't hear them. I walked a little slower around to the driver's side.
They didn't stop when I got in. Mallory was telling Emma about the questions during warm-up. When I turned to back out, Emma looked at me, "I'm sorry you were uncomfortable."
I smiled, "It was fine."
Emma's hand went to the back of neck, "I don't like you being uncomfortable. My friends making you feel that way."
"I don't enjoy it either, but it's part of being with you. You get my fans and a lot of other bullshit. I get your friends. I got less uncomfortable as they got used to me." I took her hand from my neck, kissing it before laying our joined hands on my leg. "I did like you going protective. You handled it well."
Emma barked a short laugh, "I wasn't ok with them objectifying you."
Mallory added, "I call them Barbie Bitches for a reason."
I laughed, “I’ve survived worse.” Emma leaned over and kissed my cheek. “See, all worth it.”
“Emma, you know they’ve sent out shit. Your room is going to be Grand Central tomorrow.”
Emma sighed. I thought to say something but wanted to hear from her first. I wasn’t surprised by her response. “You can stay at home if you want.”
“Without you?”
“Yeah, I have to get packed up but you don’t have to go.”
“Nope.” It was never an option. “What sort of an asshole would I be if I’m not willing to deal with your co-workers dropping by your classroom. I promise you what you’re going to have to deal with will be much worse.”
“I get that, but to be fair, there’s not been much fall out from your fans.”
From the back seat I heard, “There will be. Probably is, but you don’t have an online presence to know.”
I nodded backward, “What she said.”
“I don’t know how your fans react to girlfriends, but I was a huge One Direction fan. Fans were brutal to their girlfriends. One released a cookbook and they left shitty reviews bringing her rating down on Amazon. Death threats to one if they broke his heart. They went all the way back in their social media and dug up shit. Hopefully, your fans are older.”
“Not always.” I guess this is when we’re going to talk about this. Maybe having a friend who’d been a fan would be helpful. “I won’t say fans cause breakups, but they don’t help. It’s complicated. There’s more nice than ugly, but a lot of time the ugly is really ugly. Like you said, trashing her career, her cookbook because of who she’s dating. Girlfriends don’t always react well. Friends don’t always react well. The men, me, don’t always react well. I’m good at hiding when I don’t want to be seen, but I don’t understand people who can hide whole relationships for years. Hell, we’ve already been spotted having lunch. Two weeks in. I don’t know what the right answer is, because I haven’t found it.”
Emma jumped in, "On the plane home I went looking around. There is a blog with all your relationships. Chronologically."
I'm sure I looked horrified. Because I was. "I don't want to know that. I don't want you to know that."
Emma grimaced and shook her head. "I didn't read any relationship stuff. I'd have to give you my high school and college diaries to equalize the invasiveness." She faked a shudder and Mallory laughed. Emma continued, "I was looking for fan reaction. There were links to Instagram posts, Twitter threads, and other blog posts. They have lots of opinions."
"Yeah, I know."
"You can't win." She pointed at herself, "Neither can I."
She’s not telling me anything I don’t already know. "And you're still here. Are you crazy?" This was a legitimate question.
Emma reached over to play in my hair again, "Only about you. I'm going to focus on what I can do something about. You and I. I'm too curious to not look, and I can't promise it won't get to me, but at the end of the day I get you." She leaned across the console and I met her for a kiss. "Also going to keep my shit on private."
Mallory spoke again, “I know it’s totally none of my business.”
I interjected, “Wouldn’t be discussing in front of you if we weren’t ok with your opinion. Sometimes outside opinions see things better. Especially if you watched a fan meltdown before. Thank fuck I’m not in One Direction.”
“Can you sing?”
“Not in a way anyone wants to pay to hear. Maybe a charity karaoke or something.” I liked injecting laughter into a not funny conversation. I worried about this. I worried about Emma get drug through shit.
“I think you have to find a balance. You can’t do something because of fans, but you can’t avoid things either. Fans don’t react well to being kept in the dark, but they are quick to be pissed by baiting or what they think is rubbing their face in something.” She put her hand on her chest, “For me, and remember I was seventeen, I didn’t care about casual dates or whatever, but if it was serious and they were being spotted everywhere it was different. Then it becomes fans creating their own stories if they don’t have the real thing. Some fans got pissed when they could see what was going on, but being told nothing was going on. Felt like they were being lied to or treated like crazy fans. Again, with balance. How much are you ok with revealing versus how much fiction is tolerable. Emma’s right. You can’t win.”
I waited until we got to a stoplight and turned to look at Mallory, “Now, you’ve given me things to think about.”
Mallory shrugged, “I think you play to the sane stable fans. The others are going to create chaos no matter what.”
“Ummm.” I was full of thoughts.
Emma chuckled, “Will you be filling me in on these thoughts.”
“When I’m done overthinking and sorting through them.”
They went back to talking and I tried to leave all the thoughts behind. They needed to simmer. I’d look at them later. When we reached Mallory’s place I jumped out and ran around to the other side of the car. I pulled Mallory into a hug. Initially, she tensed and I was afraid I’d entered unwanted affection territory, but she quickly relaxed and hugged me back. I’d just surprised her. “Thank you for everything. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Emma was smirking when I got back in, “What?”
“I think you get comfortable with people before they’ve totally adapted to you.”
I knew what she meant. “I hug too quick.”
“No, no, no. Not too quick. It’s just fun to watch the reaction because getting used to talking to you is very different than being in your arms. You up close is better looking than you a few feet away. Your blue eyes. And your arms and chest feel . . . mmm.” She shimmied in the seat, “So good.”
“That may be just you.”
She started laughing. Hard. “I don’t think you believe that.”
She was right. I started laughing with her, “I do know I can cause a reaction. Not gonna lie, it’s fun.”
“I can’t wait to see you with a group of fans..”
“It’s a mind fuck. Prepare to deflate my ego. I can get a little out of hand after events.”
“Really?”
I nodded, “Part of why I take friends with me when I can. Hours of screaming, crying, and shaking fans. Being told your gorgeous and they love you. The stories about what something I’ve done has meant to them. It’s all pretty heady shit.”
“Plus all the hugs and inappropriate comments from beautiful women.”
Well, I walked myself into this. Luckily, I could tell she was teasing me and not taking it seriously. “You know how visual I am.”
“You just bring all that pent-up sexual energy home to me and we’ll work it off.” She patted my thigh. “And if you’re getting too cocky we’ll go to a Pearl Jam concert and you can feel the love rolling off fifty thousand plus people all at once.”
Comparatively, I ain’t shit.
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Record Player
Description: In which Steve Rogers discovers that his neighbor shares his taste for big band/swing music, and she plays him some records of her own. Mildly inspired by the french movie Blind Date. Set between Winter Soldier and Civil War.
((Contains: Domestic Steve Rogers. Old movie references. The Rat Pack. Bucky taught Steve how to foxtrot. Tony Stark making old man jokes. Tony Stark and Natasha playing matchmaker.))
The first time he heard the music, he thought he was having a stroke. He spent at least five minutes scrambling around his apartment trying to figure out how he was hearing a big band even though his record player was off. He was one more minute away from calling Tony, thinking he was under some kind of attack, before he realized it was coming from a different apartment.
He wasn’t sure if this revelation confused him more than the mysterious source of the music itself. Not a lot of people listened to the stuff from his time, this he knew. Playing those songs or requesting one or two of them at Tony’s galas had often earned him a mocking joke or two from his teammates. “Old man” or “grandpa” were the most popular, albeit uncreative, nicknames.
But here he was, hearing one of his favorite albums being played by someone else loud and clear.
It was coming from behind the bathroom wall. The building had been laid out so that the bathrooms of most units were back to back, meaning tenants shared a bathroom wall. His neighbor had never made much noise before, and he was rarely reminded that there was another person with their own life and routines occurring on the other side of that thin plaster. Until now.
He racked his brain trying to figure out if his neighbor was someone he’d met before. Maybe in passing in the stairwell, or in the laundry room? Was this a man or a woman? Were they a real neighbor at all? He remembered bitterly the time his neighbor in the last apartment building had turned out to be a Shield agent. Maybe Tony or Sam were playing a joke on him? He briefly considered calling the scientist again. Regardless, whoever this neighbor was, they were familiar with the old soldier’s music taste.
It was seven in the morning. Tony probably wouldn’t be awake yet, if he’d even gone to bed at all. Steve made coffee and started some housekeeping he’d put off during a mission.
The neighbor let the whole album play before the music ended. They didn’t replay it afterwards.
The second time he heard the music there was singing with it. That’s how he found out his neighbor was definitely a woman. A lovely mezzo-soprano voice lilted through layers of orchestra and running water.
Steve, upon the discovery that (1) his neighbor was female, (2) she could sing beautifully, and (3) she was currently singing in the shower, had the decency to blush like a gentleman. He sat like that on his couch, legs propped up, book in hand, face red as a tomato for six minutes until his gaze could refocus on the printed words in front of him.
She sang through the whole album, a different yet familiar one this time, continuing after the shower stopped running. When the album was over, there was a brief pause until he heard the door down the hallway open and shut. She was leaving her apartment.
It was eight in the evening.
He looked up from his book towards his own front door. It was at that moment that a seconds-long daydream, like something from a Gene Kelly film, played out in Steve’s head. A daydream in which he hopped off his couch with an appropriate degree of urgency, book discarded. He would open his door to see the flash of her hair disappearing down the stairs. He would call after her and ask for her name. He would stop at the top of the stairs and lay eyes on her for the first time, and she would be beautiful, probably dolled up to go out with her own friends. She would look up at him with a dazzling smile and say--
Steve shook himself. His heart was pounding in his chest. The heat returned to his cheeks. What a silly thought.
The third time, he had started it. He hadn’t been aware she was in her apartment or he wouldn’t have played it so loud. He had spent the day cleaning the apartment and listening to some records of his own. He was up to his elbows in bleach, scrubbing his bathtub when the current album finished in the other room. He wasn’t in a hurry to switch discs.
It was maybe two minutes before he heard her voice on the other side of the wall. It was distant, like she wasn’t in her bathroom, but rather, deeper in her apartment. She was singing the words to the last song he’d played, unaccompanied. The rhythm was perfect, and she imitated the vocal tone of the time period in a way he didn’t know was possible. When she came across a line or two that she didn’t know, the lyrics faded into light humming.
Steve realized he had stopped scrubbing to listen better.
He wondered briefly if she knew how to dance to this kind of music. Evidently, it was something she had an interest in; surely she could have the musicality to dance. Then his thoughts were bombarded by the revolutionary notion that if she couldn’t, he would love to show her how.
Before the serum, Steve had trouble finding partners to go to dances with. Bucky, of course, had been kind enough to teach him a couple dances anyways, for practice. It wasn’t until after the serum that Steve had been confident enough to actually invite a girl or two onto the floor for a foxtrot. And by the time he went into the ice he wasn’t half bad at it.
Peggy would have been impressed with it, he thought bittersweetly.
It had taken him a long time to make peace with the dance he missed with Peggy, but he realized by now that it wouldn’t be fair to deny himself the chance to dance again. Or fall in love again, for that matter.
Steve’s thoughts came to a halt.
He had stopped scrubbing a while ago. The singing had stopped too, although he couldn’t place when.
As confusing as these thoughts and feelings were, when he took up the scrub brush again, Steve wished with unmatched desperation that she would sing some more.
The fourth time, she was playing an artist he did not recognize at all. The big band style and the songs were the same as the ones the two neighbors had listened to before, but he couldn’t place the singer. This troubled Steve greatly.
It was practically routine by now. She would play music and sing at seven in the morning, presumably while she got ready for work; and every once in a while, she would do the same in the evening while she got ready for bed or maybe to go out with friends. If Steve was home to hear either, and he usually was, he spent the time in a trance, listening attentively while drawing, reading a book, or drinking his coffee.
The songs however were typically ones he’d heard before, so this new voice was decidedly not part of the routine. After the fourth or fifth track, the curiosity ate the supersoldier alive, and he picked up his cell phone.
“Cap-sicle. Are you calling me from your rotary phone? How long did it take you to dial this number?” Tony Stark was relentless.
“Shut up, I have an important question for you.”
“Is it something you could Google? We’ve shown you Google,” Tony rambled. “Pepper, haven’t we shown Cap Google?” He could hear Tony yelling, aside.
The phone couldn’t pick up Pepper’s response. There was the sound of a toolbox falling followed by explitory grunts.
Steve padded closer to the bathroom door, and continued, “Do you know who this is?”
He held the phone out, microphone first in the hopes that it would pick up the music through the wall.
It was Pepper who answered, “Oh, that’s Harry Connick Jr. We hosted him at a fundraiser once, I think. He’s wonderful”
“He’s alive?” Steve asked curiously. He didn’t know people alive today still made music like this.
Steve was scribbling the name into his notebook when the neighbor started to sing again.
“Oh my god, Cap, is that a girl? Pepper, that’s a girl!”
Steve’s heart skipped a beat at Tony’s question. He pressed the phone back to his ear and ran as far from the bathroom as he could. Yes, it was a girl. Steve wanted to say, But not one I’ve met.
Pepper’s voice floated through the phone, “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”
“I don’t,” Steve said before hanging up.
After the fourth time, Tony teased Steve about the music as often as he got the chance. They would be gearing up for a mission, and Tony would ask if Steve needed to play a pump up song and then suggest some sappy track title by The Rat Pack. Natasha caught on the fastest, as did Clint shortly after that. As far as Steve could tell, though, the others on the team didn’t quite know a girl was involved. Tony had enough respect not to let that cat out of the bag yet. But it was only a matter of time.
The mockery and chuckles would die down as soon as they got on-site for their missions, and by then Steve would be pushing any thoughts of thin walls, showers, and record players far from his mind. For the sake of his survival, of course. He couldn’t imagine what would happen in his line of work if he was caught daydreaming.
It wasn’t until he was on his way back to headquarters that Steve let his mind wander to thoughts of his neighbor’s voice or her showering habits. (Bucky would have elbowed him if he’d heard that thought, either proudly or disapprovingly, depending on the day.)
It hadn’t taken long for Steve to realize that he looked forward to coming home to the music a little too much; but it was taking longer for him to acknowledge that coming home and hearing her was so relieving to him because it meant they were both safe and sound again.
That wasn’t a bad thing to look forward to, right?
The fifth time Steve heard the music, Natasha and Tony heard it too. The minute it started, Steve knew he was done for.
The two avengers had come over to his place, he wasn’t sure what for specifically; maybe they had just been bored since their respective partners were preoccupied with work and thought bothering Steve would be a good use of their time. They were standing in Steve’s living room bickering about some bet Tony had made with Clint the previous weekend, when an enthusiastic, syncopated band intro played audibly from behind The Wall. Natasha and Tony’s words died on their lips as they slowly turned their gazes towards the bathroom doorway. Then, as the lyrics began, they turned their heads perfectly in sync with each other to look at Steve, who (until now) had been turning the pages of a newspaper mindlessly while they argued.
It was too late to duck behind the pages. Natasha’s critical gaze had already caught the pink undertones overcoming the supersoldier’s cheeks. As embarrassed as Steve was, he was fighting hard to keep a smile off his face at the sound of the voice.
Tony pointed a hand at the offending Wall, and said, “She’s your neighbor?”
“Is this what you do now?” Natasha asked Steve. “You don’t go on dates, because you have a crush on the record player from the apartment next door?”
If Steve didn’t know any better, he’d say she sounded offended.
“You’re dating your neighbor?” Tony asked again, his hand still pointing.
“We’re not dating,” clarified Steve. “I’ve never even talked to her.” He hadn’t meant for that to slip out.
Now Tony and Natasha looked even more shocked.
“You’re joking?” Tony yelled.
Steve winced. He hoped his neighbor hadn’t heard that.
Tony started marching towards the front door. Steve leapt off the couch to stop him before he did something Steve would never recover from.
What ensued in Steve Rogers’ apartment in the next few minutes could only be described as a superhero, sibling-style brawl. The object of the game was simple. Tony and Nat did everything they could to get out the front door to meet the mysterious jazz singer, embarrassing Steve in the process. And Steve did everything he could to stop them. Everything.
He and Tony exchanged kicks and punches. There were some illegal bites and scratches on Romanoff’s part. Headlock, armlock, leglock. Steve tried it all. The coffee table got smashed to bits under Steve’s weight when Nat thought it would be smart to flip him over her shoulder. He was just pulling himself back on his feet when he heard the unmistakable sound of Tony’s Iron Man suit repulsor. Then silence.
Sure enough, his arm was outstretched, the Iron Man gauntlet encasing his left hand. Steve’s gaze followed the direction of the blast from his position on the floor.
There was a hole in Steve’s wall. His bathroom wall. Which also meant Tony Stark had just put a hole in his neighbor’s wall.
Steve’s eyes rolled, and he let his head fall back onto the floor with a thunk. At least the shower isn’t running this time.
Nat was stepping over debris from the living room fight to the bathroom to peer through the hole, her boots on the floor making the only sound in the two units. The hole was about the size of a teacup saucer and was smouldering at the edges. She straightened up and looked at the boys.
“Well, you better go apologize, Steve,” the redhead exclaimed, not without smugness.
“Yeah, Steve, that doesn’t look good,” Tony said, delighted.
Steve, jabbed the back of Tony’s knee with his elbow. It wasn’t enough to knock him over, but it was enough to make Tony stumble and scowl.
Steve wasn’t too quick to get back on his feet. His heart was pounding in his chest, and his face felt hot. These nerves reminded him of when he’d asked girls out before the serum, when he’d been nervous because he knew they’d say no. After the serum, it was easier, because he knew they would say yes. Now he was nervous because he didn’t know what his neighbor would say at all. He’d just put a hole through her bathroom wall!
Tony was already in the hallway, gauntlets retracted and concealed. Steve approached the door, as Tony lifted his hand to knock. Steve looked over his shoulder at Natasha who was leaning nonchalantly against his own door frame.
The door in front of him swung open.
“Hi,” Tony began, charmingly, “Sorry to bother you, but my friend here has been enamored with your music tastes, and hasn’t had the guts to talk to you.”
Steve tried to ignore the fact that Tony had just used the word “enamored”, and that the word “taste” made Steve’s eyes drop to the woman’s lips.
“Sounded like there was a fight,” she said, almost teasingly. Almost.
“Anyways, I put the hole in your wall, which I can pay for by the way. But it’s all his fault.” Tony gestured plainly to Steve.
There was quietness in the air as the two neighbors laid eyes on each other for the first time.
The woman’s body language came across as confident but curious. She’d opened the door ready to argue with whoever had done that to her wall, common love for music aside. The fact that it turned out to be Tony Stark hadn’t made her irritation vanish. She did look like she wanted to know more, though. Her arms were at her sides, and her lips were slightly parted, ready to make another teasing quip.
The woman’s hair was the color of chocolate and dripping water onto the shoulders of her shirt. She had flushed cheeks which were dotted with freckles. Her eyes made Steve’s heartbeat stutter a little bit. They were dark and framed by naturally thick lashes, but they danced the line between being green and blue. He wondered to himself if they ever changed color and decided in that moment that he would love to find out. She was average height and build for a woman in her twenties, which he surmised she was.
She observed that Steve’s blond hair was slightly mussed from the roughhousing, and there was sawdust stuck to the back and shoulders of his shirt from the shattered coffee table. His hand was rubbing at the back of his neck sheepishly, and his complexion was having a hard time hiding his shame. Sure, she’d seen Steve Rogers’ pictures in the news before, but none of the pictures did him justice. He was gorgeous. Despite his nervous body language, he exuded fortitude and strength, and she decided she wouldn’t mind if this neighbor of hers did a little bit of fighting on her behalf sometime. She hoped her breath hadn’t caught too audibly when her eyes met his ocean blue ones. He had the kind of eyes that could give away any emotion she asked them to.
Steve and the neighbor broke out of their trace when the door down the hall clicked shut. Tony and Natasha were gone, they’d disappeared into Rogers’ apartment. Neither neighbor had even noticed.
Steve let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “He will fix the hole from the repulsor blast,” he assured her. She gave him a funny look at his vocabulary.
“I’m Steve.” He offered his hand to her like a gentleman.
“I’m Rita.” They shook hands. “Can he fix the record player too?” she asked.
Steve grimaced, and muttered an inaudible “oh no”.
She left the doorway and came back a minute later with the record player. It was completely mangled from the energy blast, vinyl Harry Connick Jr. album practically fused to it.
“It was within the line of fire, I guess.”
“It’s a good thing I have one you can borrow,” Steve quipped, respectfully.
Rita chuckled, and they both looked shyly at their feet. “Won’t you miss it?” she asked.
His gaze snapped to her face. “I like what I hear from your side better anyways.” The words spilled out before he could stop them, but once they were spoken, he decided he liked her reaction far too much to ever take them back.
The record player almost slipped out of her hands completely. While she fumbled, he caught it from the bottom with one hand easily. She tried not to notice the way her heart leapt from fleeting fright or the way his arm flexed under the machine.
“Can I take you out for dinner sometime?” he asked earnestly.
“To say sorry?” She baited, meeting his eyes.
“The first time, yes. I would use the dates after that to say other things, if you would have me.”
“Yes.”
They smiled at each other, as she hefted the defeated record player back into her own arms.
Just then Tony yelled from Steve’s unit, “Did you do it? Did you ask her?”, followed by a muffled grunt that was undoubtedly from Natasha hitting him on the stomach.
“Yeah,” Rita and Steve yelled back together.
“Atta boy,” Nat called proudly through the hole.
Tony really was going to fix that.
#Captain america#steve rogers#tony stark#natasha romanoff#fanfiction#steve rogers fanfiction#vinyl#records#neighbors au#blind date#the rat pack#gene kelly reference#marvel#writing#steve rogers x oc#mine
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Adrenaline // Jeon Jungkook AU pt 2
Warnings: marijuana use, sexual harassment
Word count: 3k+
The park was 20 minutes away from her apartment complex, which meant that she had no time to go up to her apartment and change first. She shifted into reverse and made her way to the park.
The park was mostly empty during the summer time, so it was no surprise to her that only a few cars were parked by the water. She found a parking space on the other side of the lot, and brought out her phone.
Here. Yellow VW Beatle
She watched as a child threw bread crumbs at a duck in the pond. Something Floridian children did often. The ducks aren't supposed to be fed, but it's like a right of passage in Florida. The little girl was dressed in a cute denim dress, matching hat as well. Her mother was knelt beside her, keeping a hand on her shoulder to make sure she didn't fall in. The girl threw the bread crumbs happily to the ducks, pointing at the ones eating. It was such an innocent moment between mother and daughter. One Delilah never had but witnessed too often.
Her thoughts were broke by a knock on the passenger side window. She looked through the window to see a person holding their phone to the glass. It was the text thread. This was Clarissa's dealer. She unlocked the door and the man got in. He was nothing she expected. He was handsome. He had on blue jeans and a long black shirt. His hair was slightly covering his face. When he turned to her, she couldn't help but feel a butterfly in her stomach. He was extremely handsome. His nose was predimanent, his eyes sweet but focused on the task at hand. His skin was clear and smooth and he was somehow cute but hot all at once.
Her thoughts were, thankfully, by him putting his hand out for her to shake. "I'm Jungkook. You're Clarissa and Bennett's friend?" He asked, a kind tone in his soft voice. Delilah nodded once, pulling her wallet out. She had never been infatuated with anyone before, but the looks alone this man had was effecting her train of thought. Sure, she had boyfriends but they were pity dates she had with them. She had never felt physically attracted to anyone before, so this sudden nervousness made her uneasy.
"my name is Delilah. Sorry I was late, I was getting off of work," She explained turning to him. He raised his brow and half smirked, "you work at one of the theme parks?" Delilah looked down at her uniform and instantly felt embarrassed. "Sadly, no. I work at Timmy's 50's, " She explained, adding some annoyance to the diner name. It was cheesy and showed how self centered her boss was. He chuckled and nodded, "interesting. Anyways, what will it be?" She thought back to the strain she used to go off of, even though she never really paid much attention. Whatever she could get before she smoked, regardless. However she did remember friend in high school was regular on indica strains called… "9 pound hammer, or grape ape?" She asked. He smirked flicking a brow up high, smirking at her, "good taste. I have grape ape right now. Usually it's pretty random, for future reference. You're in luck. It's 20 a G. " Delilah pulled out her purse and pulled a 20 dollar bill out of her phone case, it had the smell of maple syrup on it because it was a tip from a messy table with kids that same day. She passed it to Jungkook, trying not to look into his deep brown eyes too long.
They exchanged the money for a dime bag of the green, with slight purple specs, substance. He placed the money in his wallet and placed his hand on the handle of the car door. He paused, turned to look at her with a cute, bunny-like smile, and stated, "it was a pleasure, Delilah. I hope we meet again soon." As quickly as he entered her car, he was gone.
His scent was of sweet Cologne, definitely something expensive by how it wasn't too strong to notice at first, but lingered like a ghost.
She placed the dime bag into her purse and drove back to her apartment. She couldn't help but think about the way Jungkook had left butterflies in her stomach. Who knows, it could just be nerves from the sale after so long of quitting. Yeah, that's exactly what Delilah insisted on as she made her way into her apartment and into a hot shower, washing the diner smells away along with the phantom touches left from Tims daily harassment.
When she exited the shower, sliding on her denim shorts and baggy T-shirt, she remembered something crucial to her dire need to forget her thoughts, she hadn't had a grinder or anything to smoke from. Sure, she could create a soda can bowl, if she hadn't given up soda her first year of college.
Thankfully, she felt relieved to see she had one wrapped cookie left from Clarissa the night prior. As she unwrapped the single cookie and placed it on a napkin, and then into the microwave, she texted Clarissa.
So, met Jungkook. Problem arises, nothing to grind or smoke with. 😪
Seconds later the buzzing started in her phone. Clarissa had been calling her.
Clarissa was laughing and cheerful, per usual, “D! Come over! I have plenty of old pieces you can take. Smoke with us tonight. We have been wanting to smoke with you for a while, but loved hanging out with you without smoking too. You’re our closest friend!” She continued to ramble on, “Anyways, movie night. Going to smoke and watch… something. We still havent decided, come over!” Before Delilah could protest, there was more laughter and the phone hung up. She huffed out a sigh.
She hadn’t...smoked in so long. The night prior it was an edible. She had been alone. Was she ready to smoke with other people around again? She was always introverted, until she smoked. She shrugged the thought off, thinking too much. She would at least smoke for free and have a cookie and two grams left at home.
She slipped on her white adidas and walked over to Clarissa's place, not bothering to knock, they asked her not to many times because she was like family. The familiar smell of weed hit her like a snack in the face. It was strong and the foggy smoke was rolling out the door behind her.
Clarissa was rushing to the door, a smile plastered on her round face. She gripped Delilah's wrist and pulled her happily to the living room. There were three people in the living room, lounging on the couch and flipping through Netflix. One, Bennet a largely buff man with pale white skin and bald head, but friendly face, was arguing with the two other men. Delilah's eyes landed on Jungkook. He was wearing the same clothes from earlier that day, a smile plastered on his face, making his nose crinkle in a cute bunny-like way. He had been telling Bennet to pick a better movie than the kissing booth. Bennet may look frighteningly intimidating but he was just a big teddy bear. The other face was unfamiliar. It was another man of Asian decent with bleached blonde hair and dimples when he smiled. His eyes were slightly hooded, but it made his stare seductive.
"So I heard you met Jungkook earlier but this is RM, another one of our friends. Follow me to the room, I have a whole set you can keep. Had it for years but you can clean them," Clarissa stood taller than Delilah but she was in an excited, bent-knee type position while talking. It looked as though Clarissa had been waiting for this moment. As if it were the missing puzzle piece to Delilah's personality. In the moment, it slightly burned her soul, but she brushed it off, as she did most hurtful things.
Clarissa had a small cardboard box on her red blanketed bed, the contents inside were like a smoker starter kit. A silver grinder with a rhinestone galaxy as the lid, a beautiful glass blown chillum, bowl, a tray and a palm tree bong. Every one of the contents looked warn but the thought was extreme. "I'll venmo you $100 for this. It's too sweet," Delilah wrapped her arm around her friend in a side hug. Clarissa smacked Delilahs arm, leaving a stinging sensation, "don't you dare. You're family." Clarissa turned around and made her way back to the living room. Delilah pulled out her phone and opened the venmo app, paying Clarissa, before following behind. Delilah placed the cardboard shoe box of stuff on the counter and reached for a water in the fridge.
"Titanic? What are you a woman?" RM had snatched the remote from Bennet, laughing. Clarissa had been seated next to Bennet, snuggled under his arm, passing the blunt to Jungkook. lunt to RM who was sitting beside the couple on the small, three person couch. On the two seater, Jungkook was sitting with his elbows on his knees, staring up at Delilah. That feeling in her stomach soon returned. She turned her attention to the bean bag in the corner, it was either sitting closely to Jungkook, or on the bean bag. She pulled the bean bag to a spot between the tv and the couch, plopping herself down comfortably. “Can we just pick a movie?” Clarissa snatched the remote from RM. She flipped on a random movie. Delilah giggled when the movie began, seeing the title name. “Of all the movies Clarissa, you had to pick the one based in Orlando?” Delilah laughed, throwing a pillow at Clarissa. Bennet blocked it from hitting her. “I’m a sucker for bring it on movies and this is the only one on netflix,” Clarissa retorted. Delilah face palmed internally. She had been a cheerleader most of her life, competition cheer as well. Mostly on fundraisers because her family had been critically homeless most of her life. Bring it On movies were her guilty pleasure, she was glad clarissa felt the same way.
“is this one of those cheerleader films? Oh Lord," Bennet placed his hand on his face and took the blunt from RM, "I think we are all going to need a ton of this. She likes to act these cheers out." The room started laughing, but Clarissa lifted a perfectly sculpted brow at Delilah, "yeah laugh all you want but I think our girl D knows this movie just like I do. How'd you know this one was based in our city?" Delilah could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. She was embarrassed. She was not sure if she wanted everyone knowing her past. Clarissa and Bennet knew, but she hadn’t known the other two men enough. So, she flicked her brow up and winked, not saying anything.
The blunt was now in jungkooks hand, he took two long puffs and passed it to Delilah. Before she could reach for it, Bennet stopped Jungkook, "she doesn't smoke. Sorry D, he didn't know." Delilah and Clarissa both began giggling like a set of school girls with a secret. "I did say that she met our boy JK earlier. I wanted to see the look on your face when you found out, " Clarissa laughed. Jungkook passed Delilah the blunt but it was down to the last hit. She held it in her hand, staring down at it. Everyone was busy laughing atBennets cluelessness, so they hadn't noticed that Delilah was trying to decide if she really wanted to take that nose dive back into the cycle. She made a promise she wouldn't do it again. Maybe she could alter that promise. She loved being able to sleep the night prior. Not thinking too hard. Maybe she could have the best of both worlds. Just make responsible decisions while getting rid of the bomb of memories in her mind. That is exactly what she-
"Delilah?" Jungkook had broken her train of thought, he had done that many times in one day. She felt the pain instantly and placed it in the ash tray. She had burnt the tip of her pointer finger and thumb. The blunt had burned out. She rubbed the burn on her shirt and it had only stung for a second. "How about you guys spark up a bowl while I help Delilah with the burn, " Jungkook stood up, gripping her wrist, pulling her up before she could protest. She didn't like people treating her like she was weak. It was just a small burn. The sting did linger as they walked through the kitchen archway. He opened the fridge and pulled out the tub of butter, scooping a tiny bit with a spoon and forcefully putting it on her fingers. "I'm fine. Thank you. It's just a small burn," Delilah turned the butter with the two fingers as jungkook washed the spoon. "You looked lost. Bennet said you don't smoke? Is this your first time?" Jungkook leaned against the counter, a palm of each hand supporting him.
"Because a first timer could handle the strains I asked for, let alone know the names?" She laughed sarcastically lifting a brow at the beautiful man. He let out a chuckle and nodded, "fair point. So what was getting to you?" She hasn't wanted to tell him her whole life story, as he was a complete stranger. However, the look in his eye showed a sense of caring. His eyes had a glass like glisten and they wandered the depths of her soul they were staring so hard into hers. She felt that feeling in her stomach and she had to force herself to look to the fridge. She kept it short and simple, "I quit about 14 months ago when I moved here. My decisions weren't always…. Thought out. Now I think too much so today… " He took a step forward and placed his hand on her mid back, the feeling in her stomach intensified. He turned her around and slightly pushed her from the kitchen archway, moved around her, looked back to whisper, "I'll watch over you. You're with friends now. If you want to be?" She nodded and they made their way back to the living room. She sat back down on the bean bag chair and thought briefly about the effect that sentence had on her. Of course she'd want to be his friend after that. Even RM seemed cool. If Bennet and Clarissa were close with these two, she trusted their opinions more than anyone. So she decided to let herself go.
Clarissa had hit play on the movie and just as Bennet said, began reciting the beginning. The blue, glassblown pipe went around the living room and made it to Delilah, who no longer hesitated. She took the lighter and pressed the bowl against her lips, warm to the touch. She went to light the lighter, but the tip of her thumb was burnt and made her feel like a hot knife cut into her. "Fuck! " She exclaimed, shaking her hand. Jungkook got up from his spot on the couch and sat on the floor next to her. He reached for the lighter and motioned for her to press the bowl back to her mouth. After a slight moment of hesitation, she did so. He carefully lit the lighter and held it against the green packed substance in the bowl of the pipe. She breathed in, letting the smoke slowly warm her lungs, until she couldn't take it and tapped jungkooks hand with her free one. She cleared the pipe and held in the smoke. She could feel slightly more relaxed and her body became weightless in a sense. She was no longer nervous that jungkook was so close to her. She passed the bowl to Bennet who was next and firSt in the rotation. She turned, thanked jungkook. "I told you I'd watch out for you." He winked, making her heart flutter as if a whole tree shook off its fall leaves in preparation for winter, but in her heart. The effect he had on her showed, she wasn't a light weight so she still had thought about that fact.
Clarissa stood up and began doing the pool cheer off cheer. Her form waoff and she was making everyone laugh and clap at the same time. She made the movie entertaining even for the guys and it had just begun. "Delilah… you know the movie? Explain why you're laughing and not here doing it with me?" Clarissa paused the movie, taking her hit as she stood next to the tv in the large living room. Bennet let out a loud cackle, "okay rissa, maybe not everyone watches it a billion times?" The other two guys laughed.
The overall environment was comfortable and welcoming, and with the help of medicating, she felt comfortable enough with her friends to finally admit one thing about her life. Sure, Clarissa and Bennet already knew most of the dark stuff that happened to Delilah in her past, but they hadn't known she used to cheer.
"Your form is off," Delilah laughed. Clarissa flicked her brow up, "what do you know about form? I cheered all four years of high school!" Delilah nodded, "fair enough. Try… cheer competition squads since the age of 3, working through fundraisers to pay her dues to stay on the squad." Clarissa opened her mouth widely smiling, "no way! Girl, you HAVE TO DO THE CHEERS WITH ME! " she squealed in a high pitched voice. The guys in the room all agreed and took turns pleading at Delilah. They saw it as entertainment. Delilah shook her head. She wasn't sure she wanted to be that vulnerable just yet.
"If you do this, RM, Bennet and I will do one cheer of choice," Jungkook pleaded, gripping Delilah's arm gently pulling at her like a child. She huffed out a sigh, how could she pass that up? "Fine, hand me the bowl. I'm too sober to do this, " She threw the lighter to jungkook who quickly lit the bowl for her. After a second of letting the medication kick in, she felt loose in body, mind, and soul. She pushed herself up off the bean bag chair and stood next to Clarissa after kicking her shoes to the corner. Thankfully, they lived on the first floor so no one would complain. The guys clapped and began the movie.
Delilah and Clarissa began cheering every cheer to the movie, while the guys watched laughing hysterically and occasionally impressed. "Alright I did it, " Delilah plopped down on the bean bag after the credits rolled. Clarissa pulled jungkook, Bennet and RM all up from their spots one-by-one.
"I'm thinking the pool cheer off. I'd love to see our guys prance and dosey doe," Clarissa quoted from the movie. Delilah nodded vigorously. "Hop up there guys you have 10 minutes to practice while D and I go to her apartment to put her pieces away, " Clarissa informed, throwing Delilah her shoes back, putting on her own adidas. Delilah grabbed the box on the counter and they exited to Delilah's apartment. The air was significantly fresher than the apartment they were just in. She didnt have decorations so even though it was the same floor plan, hers looked bigger.
Delilah placed the box in her kitchen cabinet and looked out on her open balcony. Tuck was laying down enjoying the afternoon sun. "Tuck can come inside if he wants. I bought a water bowl about a month ago for when he's over on my porch," Delilah pointed to the door, pulling her phone our of her pocket. "What a mess this cheer will be, " Clarissa laughed, peaking over the railing to her apartment. "Oh god," Delilah complained. Her phone was filled with texts from Tim. He wanted her to cover the dinner rush as soon as the lunch rush was over. Apparently the other waitresses were going to some party at UCF. Tim always let the other waitresses ditch as much as they wanted, because the diner was never too busy for one person to handle. It was in a part of town that the tourists never went, because it was opposite side of the theme parks. The other waitresses also allowed Tim to grope them and even play into it. They were around the same age as Delilah, but both were in college while Delilah dropped out of community college to move back. So, whenever they didn't want to work, Tim brought in Delilah. She needed this job so she always obeyed.
"I guess you're going to have to enjoy the cheer alone. I have to head back to work," Delilah threw up her hair quickly while explaining to Clarissa, who followed her to her room as Delilah changed back into her uniform. "Heather and Maddy are going to another party?" Clarissa asked, anger surrounding her usually peppy voice. Delilah nodded, pulling her poodle skirt and matching white shirt back on.
"It's not fair. The way he treats you. He shouldn't be harassing anyone of you but the fact the other girls let him so they still get paid to ditch?" Clarissa rambled. Delilah could feel the rage in the room as if it were fog. Delilah placed her hands on Clarissa's bony shoulders as Clarissa sat on Delilah's bed. "Honey, it's why I can afford this apartment, my car, bills, and still have some money left I save up for an annual pass to the parks. Tonight's shift tips should get me just enough to buy one on Monday," Delilah reassured her friend. "Come by for dinner if you're too afraid he will act up. Foods on me, " She convinced Clarissa. As Delilah grabbed her purse Clarissa followed her out the front door, holding tucks collar. "Fine. We will drop by later. I'm bringing the guys. You're high as a kite though so… be careful okay? " Delilah nodded once and made her way to work. Being high the traffic didn't bother her so much.
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A/N
I'm loving this so much. I have so much planned. Please leave comments on where I can improve, what you love, and what you want with the story!
-T
#bts#bts jeon jungguk#jeon jungkook#jungkook#jungkook fanfic#jungkook x reader#rm bts#rm smut#namjoon#jungkook imagine#bts imagines#bts x reader#bts fluff#bts jungkook#bts icons#bts fanfic#bts fanclub#bts fanfction
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Of Dirt and Gold
He waited until all the important people had quit the chambers, until the warplanning and the debates and the logistics were hammered out, until the words were chewed over in his mind. It was all the same, he’d thought-- these plannings were just shoving forces here and there, shoring up edges and pressing advantages. It was the most boring part of war; tactics and strategy that did not survive the first encounter.
Now, though, he waited outside Stenden’s office, waiting for the young Lord to return. He did not pace, instead leaning with booths shoulders to the wall, finger tapping out the tune for Goodember’s Fall on his elbows.
Vissehn did not wait long as Stenden came marching up the spiral staircase. He was exhausted and somewhat flustered from the affairs he just had to deal with. Though it had ended amicably, he felt that he was this close to insubordination if he had not come to a compromise with Lirelle. He was glad for Thanidiel’s presence and suggestion- And Vissehn’s support, the one thing he could always count on.
Seeing his friend at his door, he managed a tired smile. “Hey Viss,” he said, the shortened name he had coined on the rooftops seemed to stick. “I think that went well, all things considered.”
“Ey, Sten.” He tried out the shortening of the name, finding it worked better than he could have hoped. “It sure went.” Vissehn pushed away from the doorframe and stepped into the office first, showing his back to Stenden as he gathered… what he could of his thoughts.
Once they were in the room, Vissehn perched himself on the edge of Stenden’s desk and levelled eyes at the youth, one brow cocked. “You and the dead woman sure have a lot of thoughts on people whomst neither of you come from. Those soldiers might be your people by law of these lands, an’ she might see their blood as just the war’s due, but unless they’re dead set to dying for one Lord over another, there’s always more there. Least the militia.”
His voice was carefully neutral, despite the words, and he bounced one leg.
“Do you think I made the right choice?” Stenden’s tone is filled with exasperation. There was no answer to this question of course. Everyone had an answer that was right to them. “I have thoughts of them for sure, but as far as I’m concerned, they are not tools- To be used, expended, until they are of no use to me- That was Mereded’s way, and I’m trying so hard not to repeat his mistakes.”
The anger in the youth abated some at the genuine frustration and consideration Stenden put into the fate of the captured. “It’s a sight better than outright ordering their deaths.” He offered softer, and ran a hand through his golden thatch of hair. “I think yer trying, and that’s more’n I can say for most nobility I’ve come across.” He glanced sidelong, lips pulling into a tight furl. “They’re men an’ women just like us.”
He glanced to Stenden again, taking the measure of the boy once more. That red hair, the fine-boned face that was so like his lady mother’s, the set of jaw that was somewhere between father and uncle. He would grow tall-- as tall as Sederis, in all likelihood, if not taller. Intelligence lit those green eyes, and emotion that was raw and mortal.
“Sten, yer gandsire made his mistakes in thinkin’ oceans of blood would buy lasting peace. There’s no thing as lasting peace-- there’s spans of time where shit isn’t as raw a deal, but it always ends.” He sighed. “If you remember that an’ keep the price of violence low, yer ahead.”
His thoughts swam; Stenden had spent his whole life sheltered in these and the Dawnveils’ walls. He’d never been so hungry his body wasted, never know a violence so far above him he couldn’t retaliate. He wasn’t a cruel or unjust lad-- he was so used to the life of a Lord he knew nothing else.
Finally, he stood up. “After this next engagement, I want ye to set aside some time for yer pal Fish. Not much-- the span of a few days. Leave th’paperwork for yer father for a spell.” He closed the distance and laid a hand on Stenden’s shoulder, forcing his lips to pull the roguish smile that had predicated their trip to the roof. “Ye trust me?”
“I do, of course I do,” Stenden responded with a tired smile of his own, though it would never be as roguish, never be as wide. It was true of course, that he had lived a sheltered life. Never starved. Never struggled for warmth on a cold winter’s night. “It may be difficult, but I’ll make time for you.”
“And I know they are just men and women like you and me, but there are so many voices Viss, so many. From both the living and the dead,” he ran his hands over his face and through his hair, undoing his tie and letting the locks fall across his shoulders. “My father speaks about them as leverage. Mother speaks about them as means to vengeance. Lirelle speaks of tools to war. Sederis speaks- spoke- of them as children. His duty- my duty, to protect them, from the abuses of power- even- especially the ones from myself.”
“That way, I will never be like Mereded. He may have had two hundred years of peace, but the cost of that is one we are paying for now. Because you’re right. Peace never lasts. Nothing ever lasts.” Vissehn didn’t know what the boy was referring to exactly. But neither did Stenden. In a span of two weeks, which felt like an eternity, everything for the boy had changed. He had changed.
The cascade of red hair was so familiar it ached in Vissehn’s throat. If he could have prevented the death of Sederis, he would have-- his regret, as it was for many, from the Phoenix Wars. He could have saved a friend, and saved a youth from a weight far too much for one to carry so young.
“It’s hard, to just see people as people. That’s all they are, though.” He shrugged. “Sederis was a good man but he was blinded by his guilt an’ what his father tried to make of him. Yer mother’s been a pawn in so many politics… I figure, she’s burnin’ herself up to reclaim somethin’ robbed from her and she’d take all of the Emberglades down wiv her if it means getting her pound of flesh. Women don’t get it easy, no matter their place in the world.” His voice is soft on that, something almost bitter and longing in the words. “Yer father sees numbers an’ can’t tell a man from a scarecrow.” His voice becomes a sneer, and his lips curl away from his teeth. “Thinks yer lineage is what sets a man apart. Huh.”He suppressed the urge to spit.
Taking a breath, he closed the distance and placed a hand on Stenden’s shoulder. “Hey.” Again his voice went low with an urgent earnestness. “Yer doing what you can, right? Just keep trying. Keep making th’choices that no one wants to hear, for the sake of people who may not like or respect ye. You’re more than decent, Sten. I got faith in your choices. I’m here fer advising and helping where I can, but the reason I’m here is ‘cause I got faith in you. I wouldn’t have signed on wiv Solendis, an’ I didn’t become Sederis’ anything but friend, yeah? Ye said you were the Lord of the Emberglades, an’ it weren’t a title-- well, I ain’t signing on with a title, I’m signing on wiv you.”
He speaks with a conviction that he wills to fill his friend, to flow from the place his hand connects. His thumb brushes the place where collar meets skin and he grins roguishly. “I’m here to listen if ye got summat else to tussle with. Or if ye just need some sense beat into yer arse.”
Stenden makes a chuckle, the first today. “I appreciate it, I really do,” he looks up at his friend. “You have to believe me Viss, when I say that I’m trying my best. That if I make a bad choice, it isn’t out of callousness, or that I’ve forgotten that people like you are just that: People.” And at the same moment of confession and a promise not to be callous, he mentioned that very line that got under his skin. Not so much that he said it, but the manner in which it was said. Like it was a matter of fact that there was something that set them apart at the core- and that it was normal
The hand drops. He wants to say it; wants to remind Stenden that they both bleed red, that their bones both bleach white in the sun, that their graves will be no more than stone and earth encompassing decay. Vissehn works the words over like tough hide in the jaws of his thoughts, and no matter how he grinds against it he finds no blood in the meat.
“So long as I have yer trust, we’ll be just fine, won’t we?” His voice is light, grin wide as he throws himself over the chair that faces Stenden’s desk. Words will not make a concept into a man; he cannot break a lifetime of Soldenis lectures with anger or debate or fighting until they’re bleeding, even if his belly screams for it, even if he would feel better by slamming someone with that noble blood hard enough against the stone to see it wash over his hands.
Lying to survive was given to him in the cradle with milk; lies are the currency of the Unwelcomed, and Vissehn was wealthy beyond measure.
Swinging his long, lean legs, Vissehn whistled. “So! Got an uprising to settle, an’ then those… men in the ground who think we’re still fightin’ the Big Blue Lion, huh?”
“Yes,” he was glad for the redirection to the company of Men of the Black Banner who were somehow still operational in the troll tunnels that line the borders of the Emberglades. “I hear they’ve been stealing from peasants all along the mountain range, occasionally burning crops. Must think that the Alliance won and we’re all just sympathizers providing for the enemy now.”
Stenden wondered if the Civil War breaking out had anything to do with their sudden resurgence, or if they had always been there since the end of the war and Zarannis had been observant enough to pick them out.
Vissehn snorted. “Well, it’s a good thing I ain’t goin’ to that lil shindig.” He drew his hands under his eyes and batted his lashes at Stenden prettily. “These lookers would make ‘em shit bricks an’ shoot first, ask questions later.” His blue-gray eyes were certainly not the common Sin’dorei fare, shiny like metal and without the glow most considered inherent in the elves of the north.
“Seems a real shite deal, though. Best of luck to them that are gonna try an’ pry them from their foxholes. Must be hard thinkin’ the world ended.” He whistled softly, but there’s no sympathy in his words; his fey mood has returned, masking the bubbling rage that boiled in his center.
Stenden laughed when his friend batted his eyelashes at him. “I’m sure they would. Hopefully father giving Zarannis their banner would at least make them pause for thought,” he said, shaking his head for his own benefit. “Just like the Shalemarchers. We’ll deal with them the best we can, and if we can get them home- All the better.” The boy failed to appreciate that if they had a home, it was likely gone in Lord Tar’saren’s scorched earth policy he employed against Everliegh. Stopping her advance dead in its tracks. The Bulwark functioning as its namesake.
Still sprawled like a kitten, Vissehn laughed, raking a hand through his hair. “I’ll wish ‘em well an be glad I ain’t joinin’. I’ll take a revolt over men who think it’s all over, anyday. A man whose got kin an’ babes an’ land can be reasoned with. A man without shite? Hoo.” He mimed wiping sweat from his brow.
Propping himself up on elbows, he let his grin reach his eyes. “Speakin’ of…” His tongue passed over his teeth as he weighed the capricious desire in him with the anger he struggled to hold at bay. In the end, he was no match for his own baser thoughts.
“Hows about we don some cloaks an’ slip off to somewhere they’re singin’ the good songs, all bawdy and blue.” He lifted his brows invitingly. “Or we can see if’n there’s some trouble to suss up with yon merchants in town. Somethin’ to get us out of this prison of a castle! Tel’dorei don’t do well in stone walls.” He drawled the last, a helpless and teasing whine.
“I really shouldn’t,” Stenden replied, and felt the weight of his station bear down upon him. But, he had already done his duty had he not? Put his foot down on what he could not accept, and what would be damaging to the realm that he had to put back together. The war meetings were over and it was all he was good for. Tomorrow’s reports could wait. His father was handling the amnesty proclamations. Drafting reconciliation clauses had a deadline that lay far into the future for now. All he would be losing was sleep, and with the war no longer in such a precarious state, he reckoned he could afford it.
“But yeah, why not?” He said with a grin.
Vissehn’s grin was slow and languid, and he pushed up on the chair to rise, slinging his arm over Stenden’s shoulders as she all but pushed the youth out the door to the office and towards the guest wing. “I got a few spare cloaks an’ a ratty tunic that’d suit ye, let’s get gussed down an’ have ourselves a night.” This he whispered into Stenden’s ear, the anger metamorphizing into something capricious and fey; he couldn’t fight Stenden, not right now, so he’d do the damage his father had warned Vissehn against.
He’d make a mortal of the Lord, if it killed the both of them.
--
They made their way through the mostly-empty halls to Vissehn’s suite, and the youth threw the lock as soon as they were inside. “Now, come on, off with that fancy embroidered doily you got on an’ we’ll be out th’window an’ in a tavern afore the maids can gossip to yer father that you were seen walkin’ to my rooms.”
Led by the impeteous youth, Stenden tries his best to be silent as he makes his way to the guest wing. The beating of his heart rises, for the thrill and fears of being caught. Either by his father or the House Guards who would no doubt repeat what they saw to him. “Right then,” he says taking off his shirt of blues and golds and looking to Vissehn to provide him with something… Less telling of his station. “I doubt the patrons at the tavern would recognize me. I’ve hardly shown my face to the people until the last few months.”
“They’ll not think yer anything but maybe a byblow once I’m done wiv ye.” Vissehn’s brows arched high as he dug in his wardrobe, pulling and discarding clothing like mad. He’d earned hazard pay from his stint spying, and a sizable portion must have been blown on the clothing he now tossed wildly-- it was a flurry of linen and cotton. Finally, he found what he sought, and wadded it up before chucking it straight at Stenden’s head.
The tunic proved to be well made, if simple; geometric embroidery around the collar and hems were all it sported by way of ornament, the natural colors of the fibers making it seem of poorer make than it was. “I got that in… I think it was th’humans camp?” He whistled. “Smuggled it on’ to look th’part, but it was Eversong made, the man musta taken it off someones washline.” He snorted. “It’s too big for my scrawny bones but mayhap it’ll fit those growin’ young shoulders of yours.”
For his part, he simply pulled on a tight ocher vest, lacing it over his chest with a skill and speed that seemed uncanny. “Now, out the window we go!” His laughter was wild and bright as he flung himself to the sil and tossed the shutters wide. Without waiting, he was hopping onto the tiles, thoughts already halfway drowning in a bottle.
Stenden caught the wadded shirt as it rushed towards his face and chuckled. Then he gestured at the mess of clothes that had seemed to fountain out of Vissehn’s wardrobe. “I should have expected it but I’m really amazed at all this. You must have an outfit for every occasion.” The boy of the Emberglades pulled the tunic over his head, checked if it fit but tugging on the shoulder edges.
Then, as his friend pulled himself out the window, Stenden smiled inwardly and followed him out. “So do you know where we’re going?” He asked as he pulled himself onto the tiles after Vissehn.
“It’s all part of bein’ a spy, a soldier AND the best damn singer in Eversong.” He grinned as his friend caught up, footing sure on this part of the roof. He’d explored it the first day he’d arrived-- he knew its cracks and shifts better than he knew the path to the front door. “I have to look the part!”
Unsaid was that he’d grown up in the same tunic for a decade, rehemmed and patched until almost nothing remained of the original fabric. When he got his first payment from the Sunguard, he’d been so stunned that the cheque had nearly been caught by a breeze. When the gold was in his hands, he’d spent it all on nothing-- pastries he’d never eaten, amusement and novelties, clothing. His innate vanity had overcome him and he’d been so pleased with the purchases.
It took him longer to realize how he was going to earn the coin; now he kept it out of vanity but the gilt had flaked from the lily.
When their boots hit the cobbles, Vissehn jerked his chin towards the common parts of the expanse. “There’s a spot what I was told about by the cook, I think-- no one will much care who you are so long as you aren’t an Emberheart, so we’ll just have to pass you off as a bastard if someone gets too nosey.” He flicks Stenden’s nose as they walk, his arm finding its way around the young lord’s shoulders once more.
“A bastard huh?” Stenden folded his arms as they made their way down the cobbled streets towards the nearby township. “Shall we pick an emergency name? Reddy Redwheat?” He gives Vissehn a grin and a terrible, terrible suggestion that he thought- for whatever reason- was a good one.
“Oh, and should I put on an accent as well? I doubt I speak like a peasant.” Stenden cleared his throat to attempt a voice, but realized he had no idea what they sounded like. It humbled him somewhat, and his smile faded into thoughtfulness. “Why are we really going to the tavern Viss?”
Vissehn laughed at the assumed name. “Just say yer name is…” He tapped a finger to his chin. “Ah! Say yer Alya.” He snickered. “Her get won’t be round here, the Bears aren’t fond of anyplace without trolls.” he let the words hang enigmatically, still drawing on Stenden’s arm.
“We’re gonna get piss drunk.” His response was easy. “I’m gonna learn you a bit, after the next fight, but I want you to remember how good it is to drink somewhere where noone cares who yer father or mother are, where yer just another nameless cock amongst the roost. Yer accents fine, plenty of lads from the south get good educations, an’ tonight, yer my friend from the south!” He clapped Stenden’s back.
“Alya,” he raised an eyebrow at his friend. “A girl's name?” He brushes off the engenderment, it didn’t matter too much to him compared to other boys his age. Likely a side-effect of growing up around Dawnveil girls who were valued no less than the boys were.
The smile returns to his face when he gets clapped on the back. “Well no worries then, it even sounds like a spot of fun!” An anxiety spread up from the pits of his stomach but he ignored it. It was likely the first time he’d be regarded without his title hanging above his head. Would people hate him, not knowing who he was? Would he truly be just like everyone else? Only time would tell.
“Alya is a boy’s name where I’m from! Right up there with Ilya, Ivan an’ Ares.” He repeated his cousins names by rote. It was strange; he hadn’t seen them in most of his life, but he remembered their names and their faces and how they’d died. “Now, Alyashun, that’s a Matriarch’s name, an’ so I gave you the name of one of her sons. He’s got red hair an’ long ears cause she got him with a nobleman.” His brows wriggled. “Some of the southern lords got Deals with the Mama’s of the clans.”
It didn’t take long, even on foot, to reach the bar. It was less a tavern than most-- meant to service the soldiers passing through and not the locals. So, when Stenden and Vissehn entered, nobody looked up from their tables or glasses. It was all loud voices and laughter-- they were winning, afterall. The atmosphere was light without being riotous, and it seemed the perfect place for a pair of young roustabouts to get a drink.
Vissehn guides them towards the bar itself, and one of the bartenders behind the wood calls out above the din. “What’ll it be?”
“Two of whatevers cheap, my friend!” He slaps his silver down, turning to listen to the motley men and woman having their grand times. The conversations are as expected; the front, the pay, what came next. However, a small group of men next to the pair of youths were speaking of other things-- the camp followers, and their lovers back home.
Stenden listens in on the men. Though most of their conversation continues about lust and desire there are subtle and occasional reaffirmations of fidelity. So despite Mereded’s best efforts to forge perfect soldiers from his people: Drilling children into trained men and women, praising a warrior ethos that found value in being expendable. The people continued to live, continued to love, and outside the laws they lived under- life continued as normal. It made him wonder if he had it in him to change things. Because if this was proof that was all a tyrant like his grandfather could do, what chance did he have?
But he pushes that away as two mugs of the cheapest ale slide across the table to them. “Victory is on everyone’s lips- Victory and what to do with it,” Stenden says with a smile. From Solendis’ propaganda papers that were being published out of a converted farmstead, winning was only a matter of time now.
They outnumbered their enemies three to one. Between House Swiftquiver’s new orders against a new enemy, and Amnesty Offers forging new companies of men. All they needed to do was march up to the last stand of Westheath at the Illithian fortress-home. But of course, the papers did not speak of the sheer disorganization of it all. Army units were spread throughout the Emberglades, some marching towards Kearn, others assisting with law and order in Shalemarch. Worse still, it did not mention that it could be over- Right now- if the Illithians that remained weren’t prepared to fight to the death.
The boy listened to the men nearby them for a moment longer before asking his friend a question. “No one special, no camp followers that struck your fancy or girls where you’re from?” Stenden did not know of course, of his friend’s people. Only that they were different.
“Well, the best of the Sunguard, this war weren’t gonna last long.” He takes a glug of the ale and his brows shoot up. “Cor, even yer piss ale is better out here. I don’t regret slowin’ myself down here for a space.” His gaze slides over the room, but it keeps latching onto the youth next to him. The warm glow of the candlelight seemed to make him older, show the man he would become.
These men and women would serve Stenden; they would live their lives in service, but at least they lived. It was a comfort, that the nature of living never changed. If there were no lords tomorrow, if the whole system was gone, people would still drink. They would still laugh, and fuck, and cry and die. No matter what, people could thrive. If he could, he’d make it easier on them-- use his place and words to pave a path forwards for the people.
No one should have to starve; no one should fight for their right to live. He’d born it, but he remembered the whispered truths from his mothers lips. He knew the promise of the Tel’dorei.
Freedom.
The question startles him out of the reverie, and he looks to Stenden with a half choked laugh. “Me?!” He snorted and shook his head. “Ha! I’m not th’kind to take a long shine. A pretty girl-- or handsome lad-- for a summer’s hour, lips locked with mine and hands a-wandering-- that’s certainly a pleasant waste of time. But I got too many places to rove for more’n that.” He chuckles. “A tumble, sweet parting words, that’s all it’s gotta be for a lad like me.”
The lies flow easily. It’s not hard; it’s not as if the relationships between individuals were kept from him. He knows the mechanics of intimacy-- has given others pleasure. But the charm he summons is as much armor as it is invitation, and when he leaves he knows his paramores sing his praises without knowing the secret of his frame.
“They got a pretty Lady on the line for ye? Kissed an’ cuddled a gal from the Dawnveil’s lands?” He adds, willing to court danger for awhile with the conversation. He leans forward, so their noses nearly brush. “Don’t tell me my friend hasn’t had such a pleasant diversion.” His words come out low, teasing, those pretty blue eyes lidded with mischief.
Stenden takes a big swig of ale before continuing, hoping to dull the heavier thoughts that seemed to be dampening the evening. “Of course I’ve had… Pleasant diversions,” he paused and stressed the last words taken from his friend. “There’s a girl from Dawnveil, niece of one of the maidservants who was staying with the Dawnbrooks for the summer- Least, what passes for summers on the Isle.” A blush seems to rise on the boy’s cheeks. It was nothing serious of course, just a kiss and bit of clumsy exploration before their time was interrupted by a dinner bell. But the thoughts still fired up something within him when he thought of it.
“Sheri,” he said wistfully. “But she isn’t on the line no- Lowborn- and all that,” Stenden waved his hand as if chasing something off in mock annoyance. “In either case, I didn't see her the following year, or this one. So I doubt anything will come of it: To my father’s relief if he ever knew about it.”
Then as the ale started to sink in he narrowed his eyes at his friend, “or handsome lads?” That seemed to resound in his memory.
Vissehn snorts. “Yer father likely had somethin’ to do with her not bein’ there the followin’ year, friend.” He shakes his head, the memory of his conversation with the steward not one he would forget, despite the liquor and attempts to drown out the derision and disdain the man had for the people he considered his lessers. “But that’s a start, my friend!” He pats Stenden’s shoulder, in the way the wise do for the uninitiated; congratulatory and yet condescending.
He does not let his thoughts linger on how ephemeral Stenden’s attentions are; his own are flighty as well, save that he sees the common and the noble with the same lack of permanence.
When his friends eyes narrow, Vissehn giggles wickedly. “C’mon now, you have a good education an’ spent time wiv the Dawnbrooks. You can’t be so sheltered as all that!” He leans in, the ale thick in his breath, and drags a finger under Stenden’s chin-- from throat to the very tip, where he catches the boy quick, thumb at the point of his face.
“I’ve kissed the Jessamine of th’ Rosewinds an’ made her flush so prettily ye could say I placed the flowers in her cheeks; I courted th’lord of Voidsunder so well he gave me a blade fit for a king... all for the price of my lips.” He runs his tongue over those selfsame lips, slow and deliberate. “Had plenty of pretty lordlings an’ handsome lasses. May be a Fish outa water, but they know me by my honeyed tongue, and aren’t liable to forget what I can do with it, either.” His grin widens and he lets a brow rise, conspiratorial and mocking all at once.
Stenden turns red, half from the alcohol, and half from the embarrassment before pulling away from Vissehn’s hand. “I know! I’m not sheltered it’s just that-” he leaned back and gestured at his friend from head to toe. “You’re Vissehn! I wouldn’t have figured-” the boy quickly went back to his drink to shut himself up. His friend was a man’s man. Loud, boisterous, boastful. But he supposed he was pretty enough to draw the turn the heads of many-a-Lord.
Then, after a moment of alcohol mired thought, he gave Vissehn a look. “Were these courting of the Lords and Ladies intentional or incidental?” He asked a not so subtle loaded question.
Vissehn’s laugh is uproarious, and he grips the bar to catch himself from falling off his seat. “Cor, the look on you!” He slaps the counter and takes a long drink, finishing his flagon. Dropping more silver, he chuckles even after the moment of pure, chaotic mirth is spent. “Ahhh… I forget how young you are sometimes, friend!” He reaches up to ruffle Stenden’s hair. “Hoo. I should be kinder,” though his tone is not promising.
At the pointed question, Vissehn snorts, eyes flicking from Stenden to the barkeep who was pouring him more. “People get drawn in by someone who smiles and has a good time. Half th’time I just grin an’ giggle and they line themselves up neat like-- common an’ not.” He pauses. “I tell you this; I’ve taken a gift or so for my charm, but I’m no whore.” He says it without rancor or shame. “I don’t seek coin, or power, or nothin’. I’d be a mighty fool of a strumpet if’n I turned down your offer back when you asked if I’d join on.” He lifted his brow meaningfully.
When the mug was filled, Vissehn nodded to the man behind the counter; he knew the kind, and he knew that the fellow was not a fool. Stenden would be known here, for all Vissehn’s posturing, and that he had come to drink-- and not cause trouble-- would be known as well. What happened with the information, well… he knew an ear or three to whisper in. He’d make this a good thing for the boy-lord, and not one for ill.
Solendis might think making a man of an idea made it lose value; Vissehn knew better. Heroes were made from people, lifted high. You weren’t born a god; the best heroes had a little of the godliness in the blood, and fought-- bled-- wept for the rest.
He shrugged then. “When I was just a sprout, I was popular with my set. Got myself good at talking, and listening, and it did me well. When I joined up with the Sunguard, well-- the good folks there were more noble than not. Myself, Captain Sunshard, The Oracle… who else.” He taps his chin. “Dawnstalker, yeah. He’s common. Highdawn is akin to it. You see how hard it is to name even two hands worth of commborn?” He lifted his newly filled mug for a drink, and then clinked it against Stenden’s. “I’m a simple man; I like diversions. New things, fun things, fun people. I’ll make friends with those around me, easy, and if they want more, well-- if they’re interesting, I don’t see the harm.”
Stenden got a refill for himself as he listened to his friend. “Power flows upwards,” he made the shape of a pyramid with his hands. “Peasants & commonfolk to landowners & merchants, landowners & merchants to their barons, barons to dukes, then dukes to the king- Well Lord Regent in our case.” The boy tried to explain what he knew of the system he was in.
“Commonfolk are good folks, but in the places that make the world, they rarely have the power to stand the others.” He gave a thoughtful pause. “The Glades, we value merit as much as we do birthright. Take Lady Swiftquiver or Lord Tar’saren for instance. Raised to their stations from action- Not whose loins they sprung forth from!”
The boy had forgotten his cover, and began speaking all Lord-like. Not drawing that much attention in the lively tavern but enough for the man behind the counter and some nearby to really take notice. But to Vissehn’s relief, they liked what they heard and made no mention of it.
“I don’t give a lick about power.” Vissehn offered back with a laugh. “I’ve been poor as they come an’ I’ve lead troops, all the same, and power is just another thing they try’n sell ye. I’d rather be fightin’ on my own. Now, I’ll take it-- when needs must, or when it suits-- but that’s not for me.” He waves a hand, noting that the shift in conversation is far easier for his friend to stomach. Well, that was fair-- he was a sheltered lad, and hadn’t lived the kind of life Vissehn had. And well. Vissehn was luckier than his aunties and girl-cousins; he’d at least had the veneer of protection, and choice with his pursuits, brief and limited as they were. He’d never been faced with the ultimatums or the pressure. He’d been a boy long enough for it to benefit him.
“I got a passel of thoughts on things here but this ain’t my home, so I’m gonna listen more than I talk.” He shrugs. “All I know is, pretty face an’ a way with words-- that gets me in a lot of doors. Noble, merchant, common-- we all wanna feel special an’ get that attention from someone who seems interested. When that don’t work, Hawkin’ mail, or th’Sunguard sign would do the rest. Now, I’ma have to find me other sure ways of finding mischief.” He wiggled both his brows.
The boy nods, it was never about power for Vissehn. Stenden remembered their first meeting, how he had casually turned down his offer for power. As meager as something as a cottage and a small stint of land. But perhaps, he thought, it was more about freedom than any particular distaste for power.
He chuckles and raises his mug for his friend, “to mischief then!” Stenden cheers and slips deeper into inhibition. But through his ale muddled thoughts he finds a thread that he picked up earlier but discarded at the time. His smile mellows somewhat as he stares into his mug. “Speaking of mischief- What did you mean my father had something to do with her not being there? Sheri, I mean.”
The pair raise their glasses in the call for mischief, and it's as good an oath as Vissehn has ever given. He drains the flagon again, the quality of the ale just beginning to affect him. Everything has a gloss to it that he associates with the edge of inebriation, and it's a pleasant one-- with pleasant company to boot, even if Stenden is just a lad with more nobility than sense.
The other youth snorts as he puts down the empty mug. "Yee father got some notions about how you ought to spending your time. Which include less of me altogether." He twirls a finger in the air dismissively. "Not the first fucker to tell me I'm a bad influence, first one to say it was cause he'd set his--" Vissehn cuts off, and scowls. "Well, he had his ideas and I got mine. I got the feeling though weren't the first time he's warned someone off of ye, he had the words ready to cut to the quick; we're all just lucky I'm a bastard with no honor to protect from, yeah?" He rubs at the back of his neck. "If he got wind of somethin as sordid as a lordling pawing at a servants girl, well. Seems he's the type to tuck that away and get it gone afore anyone else is the wiser. Hope he just sent her and her auntie packin, an' no worse."
Emotions churn through him, they cut, wash away, and swirl. Like a storm on the alabester wall that was Stenden. He did not know what to do with any of it. "I had my suspicions," his voice hardens, swinging away from the mirth it held just moments ago. "And he must have said the same to you." He gestures for the barkeep to give him a refill.
"To protect me? Did he say what from? From you?"
"Fuck, Sten, I was piss drunk. I'm proud I didn't hit him in the jaw, cause I was that mad but I don't recall all he slung at me. Just that I'd be ruinin' yer future, and he was protectin' your credibility." He will not say he has a much better memory than he lets on; that Solendis knows he is Unwelcomed and Tel'dorei and a lower form of low than even the commoners at this bar, in these lands. Stenden can wring that from his father if he wishes; he can fight the power of his ancestry on his own, without the need to defend the honor of his friend who has none.
There is a quality to the hardness in Stenden that reminds Vissehn of the last days of Sederis rule as Lord in these lands, and it more than the reminder of his own fractured history that sobers the lad. Here was another who would not care to be controlled; sees his father's warning as protection, unnecessary for him, rather than protection of the way of life. He drops silver as a tip, and slings an arm around Stendens shoulders.
"Let's get th'fuck out of here, howl in the hills for a spell. Yer father can't rid you of me; yer the only one who can send my ass to pasture." He offers it consolingly, guiding Stenden to the door.
“Part of me wishes you punched him- But consequ- conse- That’d have been bad,” Stenden slurred minorly.
But as Vissehn slung his arm around his shoulder, the boy rises to his feet and gets guided to the door. “That’s good,” he says, “because I never will.” With one final gesture to the barkeep, he swallowed both his ale and his anger down in one go.
He did not say it, but there was a tension in his heart. Being treated like a houseplant. Put in a box as his father did the gatekeeping. With that information now in the open, he began to wonder how many friends he had lost. Or if that girl from Dawnveil actually did feel the same way he did for her- he had assumed she never came back because he hadn’t mattered that much to her. He had been Solendis’ offering to the Emberglades, except Solendis had never asked if he was willing or not- because the offering was finally beginning to think for himself. Like mother, like son.
-
Image by Jason Manley.
@retributionpriest @stormandozone @thanidiel
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Portraits of a Serial Killer - “The Cell” turns 20
I've often reflected how the influence of Art is a key component missing from Modern Horror. The Xenomorph we all know and fear came from the painted nightmares of Swedish surrealist H.R. Giger, the Screamer is said to have influenced the Ghostface Killer mask. For a further rundown of art's musings over the genre, I would highly recommend 2017's Tableaux Vivants for a look at 60 such portraits and the films they inspired.
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In the summer of 2020, The Medium video game appears to correct that oversight with the recent trailer dropping, adapting Polish painter, Zdzislaw Beksinski's frightening paintings. In the same season of the same year is when The Cell celebrates 20 years (8/17/2020). This film appeared to feature as many artistic influences as possible into its near two hour runtime.
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The sight of chains freaked me out upon watching my first Hellraiser movie, so the sexual perversion of their use in this film did little to alleviate such apprehension, especially as they pulled so tightly to suspend human flesh in the air. Despite a previous scene showing the villain having drowned his victim, this was the true introduction to his villainy - the former showed what he did, that latter why he did it. Even re-watching this film so many years later, I had to look away from the screen, recoiling from such a grisly display.
Typically, in Horror or any film that assumes a particular aesthetic, it is color that makes the impression to set mood. Instead, the use of white in this film, from the K9 to the bleached state of the victims is used to ghoulishly haunting effect.
I remember critics remarking that because of Vince Vaughn's comedic history they couldn't take him seriously in this role and relegated his involvement to stunt casting. I take the opposite stance since, for me, every role after this film simply serves as a reminder that he starred in The Cell. I've always felt that comedy actors do well in dramas - see Robin Williams in "Good Will Hunting" - and I thought that Vaughn did a serviceable job in this film, never distracting from either tone or plot.
I was happy that they just dove into the mechanics behind entering one's mind as an accepted reality, that they didn't get bogged down in techno babble or exposition of the technology. There is a time and place for the virtual journey into the cerebral frontier, such as The Matrix or a good adaptation of the Lawnmower Man, but for the Cell, I'm happy that they focused more on the story and not so much the science. The suits do look like Twizzlers, but it was made by Eioka Ishioka (who passed away in 2012), the same costume designer as Vlad Tepes' suit from Bram Stoker's Dracula. I do like that the two participators are suspended in the air while their minds are linked. It's an eerie callback to the killer's suspension from chains for sexual release. Also, it does give the technology that space age feel as though they are in a weightless environment.
Since the 90's, special effects have been criticized as dominating films to the point Stephen King is quoted as remarking that "story supports effects instead of effects supporting story". Similarly, an argument can be made that at times The Cell becomes too indulgent with its usage of famous art that serve no plot function, e.g. the Horse Split, the Three Women of Odd Nerdrum's Dawn painting, Mother Theresa and her Hallmark card, etc. As the director is quoted as saying "The thing about this film is it’s an opera, and there is no such thing as a subtle opera.” I don't believe that the script was penned as an excuse to pack in as much gallery portraits as possible or is an hour and fifty minutes of a music video. I just wish the director would've used each art piece he seeks influence from to develop the story or the character. The imagery doesn't always portray the killer's psychology or the psychologist's therapeutic technique. If he wasn't going to utilize subtlety, he should have implored restraint. He later added "Anyway, I missed the whole plot, just been talking visual all along, ah, where are we?”
Once in the killer's mind, his depiction as the master of his domain is a hauntingly accurate depiction considering the previous scenes of suspension rings in the back of his body, which unwittingly foreshadowed to the audience his royal appearance to come. Even the name, King Stargher, is a daunting title for a movie monster. When rising and descending from his throne, the violet robes receding from the walls and tracing along the room is hypnotically unnerving.
As tiresome as the "we're still in the dreamworld" trope can become (The Matrix, DS9 Season 7 episode 23 "Extreme Measures"), this film not only flips it when the psychologist realizes that she's "already in", but does so in a cleverly visual way.
King Stargher
Horned Stargher
Court Jester/Vatican Clown
Serpent Stargher
It is interesting to think that a single actor would assume many distinct monstrous characters. Unlike a Freddy Kreuger or a Pennywise that turn into manifestations of their victims' fears, the figures that Stargher assumes are all avatars of his own warped psyche, his own inner turmoil. Vincent D'Onofrio really does put in his all with this role. He's soft spoken and understated when he needs to be and malicious and heartless when the scene demands it. Along with the visuals of the film, D'Onofrio's performance is worth the price of admission. It's a shame that his acting as well as the movie's stunning artistry are what have gone overlooked all these years. Speaking of...
One invalid criticism that has been levied against the film is its attempts to persuade the audience to sympathize with the killer. My intention with the following statement is neither to flaunt my Horror insight nor to divide the lines between fans within Horror and those without. Having said that, even as an adolescent seeing this movie in theaters, I at no point felt remorse for the serial murderer and I chalk up this long-held misconception to a bad read on the film.
So off-base is this "critical analysis" that it can't even be regarded as a Jekyll & Hyde dynamic. The villain is not split down the middle between binary good and evil, where both halves are at war over his soul, or the repressed impulses of his Dark Passenger are manifesting in a heartless butcher. If there is any distinction, it is between who the antagonist was when a victim as a boy and what the man became as an adult victimizer. If anything it is the good that is repressed, not the evil. Furthermore, along with using the film's plot to force Alice down the rabbit hole of the Mad Hatter's mind, this film does address the nature of evil. When referring to Stargher, even Jennifer Lopez's character remarks "The Dominant side is still this horrible thing". The Vince Vaughn detective states "I believe a child can experience 100 times worse the abuse than what Gish (a different killer) went through, and still grow up to be somebody that would never, ever, ever hurt another living being." Thus, these serve as acknowledgement that the abducted criminal is firmly in the driver's seat to the point of its reference as a "thing" and a condemnation of what the killer has become, respectively.
Along with exploring the psychology of the killer, the film does not qualify the villain's innocence, it questions it.
The critics probably missed that pesky detail that would've debunked their headline before they pressed a single word of their denunciation.
These same professional critics wouldn't give a second's hesitation towards throwing Horror under the bus and condemning Scary Movies for inspiring violence if it meant their jobs were only the line, yet they would balk at the notion that continued mental trauma and physical abuse can cause psychopathic behavior.
There are classics and icons worth praising for their plot and performances, respectively, and then there are some Scary Films that Horror Fans view with the understanding of their heavy material and without your typical fanfare because they're a hard watch. I can see where people would be fans of Hannibal Lecter not because they or the film glamorizes cannibalism, but because of Anthony Hopkins' acting chops (excuse the pun). Conversely, John Doe, the serial killer of Se7en, has and will likely never enjoy such admiration because of the cold purity of his calculated evil. The 2 decade critique of The Cell's villain portrayal is a dark cloud that has unjustly hung over its head.
The motif of "the eyes of a killer" was something applauded in Rob Zombie's Halloween 2, yet ridiculed in The Cell 9 years prior?
This film's premise and the fact that it wasn't fully effectively executed makes it primed for a remake. Hollywood needs to be issued a Cease and Desist order of such wholesale dependence on Remakes in general, let alone in the Horror genre. When you consider that so many remakes can't outdo the original and even tarnish the films they attempt to emulate, why not fix the problems of a film that went wrong and take the credit when you get it right?
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lonely and craving feedback
below is a rough draft section from my original novel, North of the End of the World (wip title), and i just.... wanna see what people think of it’s tone so far? i’m gonna come back and smooth shit out later, but for the most part this is the basics of what i want it to be like.
all below the cut. it’s a dystopian setting, with adult characters, so while nothing too pg happens in this tidbit i still wanna remind yall to be careful with yourselves.
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Colorado City. It’s the biggest one in the province, the rest of them scattered towns, clinging to other ruins. Colorado City is tangled, dirty, and overly full, even with it’s large size. It’s not even in ‘Colorado’, wherever that is. It got built on some other city, up in the northern of what was Alberta, Canada.
Colette doesn’t really care if the name is all wrong; it’s a city, it’s where she lives, that’s the end of things. She doesn’t need to know more than that to get by.
Colorado isn’t anyone’s home, far as she’s concerned. It’s just a place they’ve all gathered to clamber over one another; clawing out lives for themselves in a toxic environment, with nowhere else to go. Wasteland towns pop up and get swallowed up in the same month, sometimes. The only consistency anyone can find is here, or another big city. For whatever reason, the biggest of the ruins stay where they are; persevering through the fallout and standing tall.
They’ve even remained sturdy enough that new structures could be built around them, and under them. There are so few places left for humans, where they can defend themselves from the world. They’ve had no choice but to remain in cities like this, forcing it to accommodate them. Multiple levels, suspended between buildings, created to provide more room in their crowded metropolis. The same treatment done downwards; just as equally tangled and packed in.
Colette likes her burrow on the below ground levels. She likes it because the lights in the area are always malfunctioning, because skittering creatures make home in the shadows, because everyone else hates it and she enjoys being contrary.
She also likes it because finding work is easy. Someone who knows the underground like her is valuable, good for odd jobs. Colette has a near flawless success rate in whatever errands she’s given- be it locating an item, delivering something, just about anything, really.
And, unlike most other folks, Colette isn’t scared of the dark, or what hides in it. She’d walk through a pitch-black tunnel no problem; she wouldn’t even flinch. Nothing there is of any real threat, honestly; nothing to be afraid of. It’s what’s inside of people that scares her.
Still, she needs to eat. So, whenever she wakes up each day or night, Colette rolls herself out of bed to get dressed and head out. She knows the hotspots for the sorts of jobs she wants; quick and short, but decent enough pay. The people who frequent those hotspots know her well enough to refer interested parties.
Tonight, Colette wants something she can get done in a few hours. She’s still sore in her left leg from where someone got a lucky kick in. Serves her right, underestimating the thief she’d been sent to steal from. Stupid kid couldn’t have been older than fifteen, but he fought like hell to keep the package he stole.
Colette had kicked the shit out of him in exchange, and pried the package out of his singed hands. The consequences of his theft far outweighed the gain from it, in Colette’s opinion. All the kid had to show for it were burnt fingers and an introduction to the heel of her boot.
She kind of feels sorry for the nameless thief, because that’d been her at some point. But, she learned. She got smarter and tougher. If the thief is lucky, he’ll live long enough to do that, too.
The bar she’s visiting tonight is closer to a giant hole in the wall than a proper establishment. The painted sign on the concrete ceiling says High Street’s End, but the tunnels have no real streets, so most people just call it Jerry’s. Colette calls it a shithole, personally.
She’s woken up in the afternoon today, so the dinner rush hasn’t started yet. There’s plenty of after work drinkers, though, scattered in numbers large enough Colette knows she’ll get to eat tonight.
She lifts her scarf a little higher, over her chin. The strung-up lights of the bar wash out her already sun deprived skin, bleaching her long, tangled blonde hair to near white. Colette has two layers on, a thick sweater and long coat. It hides how lean she is, bulks up her small stature. Doesn’t help the fact that her feet dangle when she sits down on the metal bar stool. A glass of water is set in front of her on the counter, clean and clear.
Colette takes it and drinks it in just a few gulps. Good water is hard to come by; many sources are tainted. Jerry’s bar is special because of that. He can purify it, no matter how filthy.
He’s also older than nearly anyone else around here, making it to the point where his hair is almost pure white and grey. Colette doesn’t much like people, but she has something like fondness for Jerry. He’s a stout set man with a trim beard, paired with a sense of humor that’s as endearing as it is annoying.
“Evening, Russian Colette,” Jerry says with a cheeky grin, leaning on the counter. “You on any particular errand right now? ‘cause I’d rather you didn’t break my furniture again with a brawl.”
Colette shakes her head no. She digs a coin out of her pocket and flashes it in front of Jerry, the five-dollar digits imprinted on it making her point clear.
“Ah, job hunting,” Jerry says, nodding. He takes the coin and digs into his own pockets, producing a notebook. He flips through it, the arthritic swell of his fingers stiffening the action by the slightest margin. “Well, let’s see here… got a few requests for runners up to the topside, two for finding missing persons, an advertisement about a prophet geared educational group…”
I hate being upstairs, Colette signs, though it’s mostly for her own benefit, and those missing people are dead or shipped off already. The group thing is a scam. Probably another con to catch any young magicians without anyone watching them.
“What’s that?” Jerry is bemusedly confused by her hand signs, like always. “You know I only recognize my name in all that hand waving, right? Use a paper, woman.”
Colette raises one hand and lifts a single finger. Jerry guffaws.
“Now that I know the meaning of,” he says, chortling still. “Sorry, but that’s all I’ve gotten today. And you already refused everything else I have.”
Colette snorts. The other jobs Jerry has on offer are as shitty as the newest ones. She passed on all of them because they either paid like shit for an enormous amount of effort, or because she knew she wouldn’t be able to complete it and so wouldn’t be paid.
She taps her glass pointedly. Jerry obliges her a refill of water, right from the tap alongside his beer options. As he hands it to her, he says, “Think on it a little more before you leave, alright? Your good business is good my business, and you haven’t taken a job from here in a few weeks.”
Colette shrugs. She’ll think about it, sure. She’ll think about how stupid the jobs are, and then she’ll leave to find better ones.
Jerry moves on, going to greet other customers coming in. Colette sips slowly at her water, enjoying its sweet freshness. As much as she’d like to buy another five waters, and a hot meal on the side, Colette is counting her coins and not liking the numbers. Jerry’s right; she’s been skimming without serious jobs for a while. Any longer and she might have some trouble.
And speaking of trouble; Colette turns on her stool, hearing a chair be knocked over and rancorous laughter. She raises an eyebrow at the poor guy who’s the butt of the joke. He’s big, bigger than almost anyone Colette’s known. Tall and well fed. He’s also got clothes that lack the level of wear and tear hers has, that everyone’s around here has. Nice deep green coat and a shiny leather satchel; boots that could be new, all the buttons on his shirt still.
He doesn’t look like someone who’s a member of the Families in the city, though. Those sorts never come down here anyway. The guy looks about her age, maybe younger. Early twenties, likely. He’s got a soft cheeked face, with equally soft dark curls framing it. Colette looks at his skin and thinks of the grove of acorn trees she once saw; nuts light as sun to dark as earth. He’s between that, the sort of brown that lets you know it’s not too early or too late to eat the nut.
Colette pushes away the memory of that warm fall, from somewhere far in her past. The guy picking himself up off the ground may look as strong as an oak tree, but he’s clearly no better than a dried twig. Colette can give him a single glance and know he’s easy prey, a target for anyone to take advantage of.
Not her scene. Colette does some pretty terrible things to make ends meet, but she doesn’t cross the line like that. Kicking a thief around is one thing; robbing someone of everything they have is quite another.
Colette grimaces, watching the out-of-towner huff and scold the group of men he’s sitting with. Now she feels all melancholic about how awful everyone here is. She finishes her drink of water, annoyed that her evening has barely begun and it’s already been spoiled.
Colette whistles at Jerry to get his attention, rubbing her fingers together to show she wants one of the jobs. Her mood is quickly sliding into prickly grumpiness; she might as well ruin it further.
When Jerry asks which job she wants, Colette jerks a thumb across her throat.
tbc
#spec ocs#NTEW#shorthand for north of the etc.#My writing#any kinda takeaway you have is accepted as a response#criticize compliment whatever#this is my Big Project for the next few months and i wanna know if its starting off good
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Marvel Cinematic Universe: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Does it pass the Bechdel Test?
Yes, twice.
How many female characters (with names and lines) are there?
Eight (34.78% of cast).
How many male characters (with names and lines) are there?
Fifteen.
Positive Content Rating:
Three.
General Film Quality:
Neither characters nor plot are engaging enough to hold strong interest, making the film feel longer than it is, plus there’s one character in particular whose behaviour seriously rankles. It’s not a terrible movie, but it is thoroughly uninspiring.
MORE INFO (and potential spoilers) UNDER THE CUT:
Passing the Bechdel:
Liz manages a brief pass with her mother before the dance. Liz says goodbye to Betty.
Female characters:
Betty Brant.
Liz Toomes.
Michelle.
Marjory.
May Parker.
Karen.
Mrs Toomes.
Pepper Potts.
Male characters:
Adrian Toomes.
Mason.
Peter Parker.
Happy Hogan.
Tony Stark.
Jason Ionelli.
Ned.
Flash.
Abraham.
Mr Delmar.
Gary.
Steve Rogers.
Coach Wilson.
Shocker.
Aaron Davis.
OTHER NOTES:
Ah, here’s Peter’s video log from Civil War, where he has no idea why he’s even there and it’s completely irresponsible and inappropriate for Tony to have brought him in on something catastrophically dangerous with no preparation and none of the knowledge necessary to make an informed decision! I hate it. This makes me extremely hate Tony. I know I mentioned it already when I reviewed Civil War, but it’s super-true and not going to change any time soon.
See, this thing where Peter is sacrificing academic and social experiences to hang out for Tony’s promised phone call? That’s on Tony. You can’t just rope a kid into your bullshit and then kick him back out into the world with a vague false promise and no follow-up of any kind. That’s not how kids work. It’s not fair to people in general, but it is especially not how kids work.
Peter having to run because he’s in the suburbs and there are no tall buildings is probably the best gag in this movie.
The inclusion of that little detail about the Washington Monument being built by slaves. Mmmhmm.
I find the plotting of this film very dull and predictable, like ‘oh, and now we’ll have another action set piece, now some cutesy highschool stuff’, etc, and as such I feel it drags excessively and I’m just sitting here waiting for each bit to be done with so that we can get to the next, so that it can be over too, because I’m not attached enough to any one or thing that’s happening for the predictable beats to hold internal interest. That said, the Washington Monument piece is pretty good.
The ludicrous ferry accident, not so much.
Tony shows up, lot of shit-talking, blaming Peter for not magically intuiting information which Tony didn’t give him. Urgh. I deeply, deeply hate this version of Tony.
Toomes reveal is the most inspired choice of the film. Keaton kills it on Toomes’ own revelation of Peter’s identity.
This movie sure does go on.
This ‘screwed the pooch’ joke makes me want to bleach my ears. Also, this whole Avenger/press conference business is still Tony completely failing to appreciate how he’s upended this kid’s life; the right thing to do in this situation is not to lean into it and go ‘ok, but what if I upended it...more?’, just like the right way to deal with it was emphatically not to just kick the kid to the curb to figure things out for himself after that initial upending. I imagine I would have enjoyed this film sooo much more if I were not raging at Tony throughout.
Ok, let me just purge on the Tony thing before I go any further, otherwise I’m never gonna be able to focus properly on the rest of the movie. I hate what they’ve done with Tony. That’s obvious. I really, deeply disagree with it. Tony was a hard character to get to like, but the Iron Man films did really solid, intelligent work at achieving it despite the many and sundry hurdles, and the key to that was the fact that they had Tony, consistently, recognising the ways that his actions hurt others and then making the effort to fix that and fix himself, not just blowing it off, making some flashy gesture or throwing some money at the problem and then breezing on out like everything’s fine and none of it’s on him. The Avengers films - particularly Ultron - did significant work at tarnishing the character development of the Iron Man films, and then Civil War came in and - amidst the many, many sins Tony committed in that movie - handed the introduction of Spider-Man over to Tony in an act of incredibly irresponsible and reckless child endangerment, which this film proceeded to double-down on by having Tony completely fail to be a reasonable, thinking adult at any point. Frankly, I don’t feel that Tony’s initial decision to involve Peter in Civil War is forgivable, there’s no walking that back, but the least he could have done is to recognise that fact and make appropriate amends, which - as above - does not mean ignoring the kid any more than it means pandering to his hero complex. It makes me feel really, really old to be saying it, but Peter is a minor, he doesn’t have a strong perspective on the world yet, but he’s also old enough and wise enough that he can’t just have people throwing rules at him and expecting obedience; he needs to be treated with the respect of having things explained, but he also needs oversight because he isn’t mature enough to make choices without it. He needs guidance. That’s the position which Tony actively puts himself in and then fails to follow through on, and it leaves Peter feeling that he has to prove himself, that he has to further endanger himself in order to win the mentorship that Tony promised. As a character response and an emotional position for Peter, that’s great story fodder and logical follow-on from his introduction, and I can’t fault that. For Tony Stark though, who manages to both start and end this movie without actually learning anything, it makes me infuriated beyond belief.
THAT SAID, let’s segue to the natural place: to Peter. The good news is, if this film gets only one thing right, it’s that very precise balance of Peter’s age, with all its accompanying tumult; Peter is mature enough to feel like he’s in control of his life and choices and capable of taking on new, big, adult things, but not mature enough to realise the limitations that come with his age in terms of experience and worldview. He has that ‘teenagers think they know everything’ factor, but without it being conveyed as either too arrogant or too whiny to be palatable. It’s a tough ask for teen characters, generally, as the creative forces behind them are almost invariably adults (and usually have been for quite some time), and it’s hard to recapture the mentality of a teen once you’ve grown beyond that mentality yourself. When Peter declares that school doesn’t matter anymore because he’s ‘probably never coming back’, he’s gonna become an Avenger and that’s his whole life plan right now, no real details, no clarity in what exactly that means for his day-to-day life or where he gets his income or how things might go in the long term, that’s a classic teen moment for him: his future is a concept, all of its parts internally encompassed, and it’s not just that he dismisses the questions, logistics, and concerns that an adult would know to raise, it’s that these things don’t even occur to him in the first place. Peter is in this middle-position, the transition from child to adult, and he’s not as far through that transition as he thinks he is (teenagers never are). Altogether, I may not be enamoured by this film, nor am I especially compelled by Tom Holland’s take on this character (he’s not bad, he’s just...not that enthralling, either), but the particular pitch of Peter’s mentality is spot-on without being, in itself, just another tromp through dull and overwrought teen-angst cliches.
The rest of the movie, on the other hand...I feel kinda bad about spending that over-long first paragraph railing against a certain billionaire who could have done us all a favour and not been in this film (or at least, not as prominently), giving Peter more of a chance to explore his spider-self and what it means to his life on his own terms, instead of being so heavily influenced by how he fits into the wider universe, and then maybe we could have fleshed out more of Peter’s normal life in order to make all the extraneous pieces of this story more meaningful, and less, y’know, extraneous. As-is, I don’t feel like I’ve got a lot to say about it, it’s fairly generic and unremarkable, and while there are some good set-up pieces - Toomes’ whole descent-to-criminal-enterprise-due-to-economic-pressures thing has great narrative potential and scope for reflection upon capitalism in the real world - the story never explores any of those pieces enough to even half-ass a real analysis of the idea. Toomes is rendered a mostly stock villain, the same as Liz gets little to make her more than a bland Love Interest, May is an interchangeable maternal figure, and Ned - while fun and easily a highlight in a cast that’s hardly vying for the title - is also a bit of a heavy-handed stereotype sitting in the comic relief/sidekick chair (the fact that he essentially references this in-story, fourth-wall-denting style, does not make it less uninspired). And I’m not sure how we’re supposed to see Zendaya’s MJ as anything other than a gimmick at this point, kinda seems like she was literally only there so that her preferred name could be used as a weightless ‘reveal’ at the end. Like I said up in the notes, I found the movie to be excessively predictable in a bad way, bringing me out of the viewing experience to count off the minutes and story beats, and as such, even though this is not the worst film Marvel has churned out to date, it is one of my least favourites. I know there are a lot of people who loved it, who love Tom Holland’s version of Peter Parker and found this movie light and fun, and it’s not that I can’t see where they’re coming from with that...I guess it’s just that whatever parts of the story are self-contained are so recycled from so many other films of this ilk, I can’t find anything to attach to, and then the rest of the story which could have been spent making something a little more interesting from those basic, predictable bones, instead is wasted on an over-emphasis on placing this movie into the MCU’s larger framework (an ironic waste of resources since you can easily skip this film without getting confused watching the next MCU movies with Spider-Man in them, Infinity War and Endgame). Anyway. I fear I’m just gonna start repeating myself for lack of anything else to say; I don’t care for this movie, it had at least a good little piece of heart in it but it wasted too much time on things which did not enhance this story or the wider universe anyway, I hate Tony Stark now. The end.
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