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thexanwillshine · 3 years

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a;lskfjdk

Author: thexanwillshine (twitter, ao3) Pairings: Levi x Hange Cross-Postings: AO3 Notes: made for Day 2: Confessions of Levihan Week 2021

“But Levi,” Hange whines as she slumps her head on the back of her sofa and closes her eyes. “Kissing scenes are so tricky to write.”

Perhaps it’s the fact that it’s almost 5:30 in the morning. It could also be because he's tired from lack of sleep. Whatever the case, Levi Ackerman’s filter completely disappears when he asks, “Do you need a demonstration?”

Levi Ackerman can argue that every writer he’s met is always a little bit more eccentric than the average person, but no one proves his theory more than Hange Zoë.

Hange wakes him up in the middle of the night, voice screeching on the phone in her excitement. He responds groggily—as one does when their sleep is disturbed at an ungodly hour by an overly-excited author who acts as if they’ve just found out the answers to the universe—and tries to keep himself sober enough to understand what in the goddamn fuck Hange was talking about this time.

“Levaaiiii,” she says, drawling out his name in a manner that was both annoying and endearing, “I’ve figured it out!”

He can almost imagine the look on her face: starry-eyed in her joy, mouth stretched wide into a grin, fingers shaking as she bounces in glee, shifting her weight from the heels of her feet to the tips of her toes . . .

And Levi exhales in both relief and the tiniest hint of delight, because this is exactly how he wants Hange to be: happy .

Nevertheless, he replies “Figured what out?” snarkily.

Hange’s response comes out quickly, as if she needed to say everything that had to be said in the span of five seconds or less. “So you know how I’ve been trying to write a fiction novel because I wanted to get out of my comfort zone?”

Levi hums in acknowledgement as he fixes the covers over his legs before turning on his bedside lamp. He leans back on the bed frame and closes his eyes to listen to her ramble.

“So I was thinking, I wanted to write a romance novel, because you know how people fall in love and stuff?”

“No Hange, I’ve never heard of that concept in my entire life,” Levi says in a deadpan voice.

Hange laughs, because of course she would know that’s his pathetic attempt at lighthearted conversation. Levi is glad that she knows him better than most people, and it is this sense of familiarity that made him feel particularly comfortable when graced with her presence.

“Just because you’ve never fallen in love before doesn’t mean it’s not real, Levi!” Hange tells him in jest.

Wrong, Levi thinks.

“After all, you’ve probably never wanted to kiss someone your entire life!”

Wrong, Levi thinks.

“Sure, Hange.”

He rolls his eyes at her teasing, because yes, Levi has fallen in love—and maybe, just maybe, he’s still on the road to understanding what it meant to treasure someone far more than just a regular friend.

He shakes off such thoughts before maneuvering Hange back to the initial reason why she had called. “So, what did you want to tell me?”

“I finished,” she proclaims on the phone, her voice proud, “I finished writing the first ten chapters.”

Levi blinks in confusion before sitting straight up, the information processing in his mind that was still a bit drunk with sleep. “You what?” “I couldn’t stop writing,” Hange told him sheepishly, detecting the slightest hint of concern in her editor’s voice, “I’ve been writing for the past 24 or so hours. Maybe more.”

Levi grunts in annoyance, pulling the covers away from his body and jumping out of his unmade bed. He runs a hand through his dark locks, sighing. “Four-eyes, you need to get some sleep.”

“But Levi,” Hange says in protest, “I need you to read my draft. There are some parts I just don’t think are super natural.”

“And I was sleeping like a regular human being,” Levi retorted as he shrugged off his shorts. After that, he put on jeans that he had recently washed before patting down the shirt he was wearing in a pathetic attempt to get rid of the wrinkles that had accumulated while he tossed and turned in bed.

“Oh my gosh, Levi, I didn’t realize the time!” Hange replies, and he can almost feel her guilt starting to set in. “You should go back to sleep,” she immediately adds. “Take care of yourself!”

Levi slips on his rubber shoes and grabs his umbrella before answering. “Coming from you? Not that credible.”

Hange laughs light-heartedly, and his heart flutters just a tiny bit. Levi pushes the feeling away almost as quickly as it had come.

“Have you eaten?” he asks, almost dreading the reply.

There was none.

“Hange,” he calls, but there’s still no response. “Hange. Answer me,” he says firmly, prodding her on. “Have you eaten?”

The laughter that comes out from the other end is nervous. “Woops.”

Levi sighs. He opens his car door and slips inside smoothly, grabbing his keys from his pocket and starting the engine. “Hange, you’re supposed to eat.”

“Sorry,” she tells him honestly. “I really didn’t want to ruin my momentum. I can’t believe I forgot.” She mumbles her second sentence, sounding almost deep in thought. “I’ll go find food now! Want me to email you the working draft? You can look at it in the morning when you wake up.”

“No need,” Levi tells her, placing his phone on his dashboard and accelerating his car. “I’m on the way.”

“Levi!” Hange exclaimed excitedly as she heard her doorbell ring at around four in the morning.

She rushes to the door in delight, opening it to reveal Levi standing in front of her, a paper bag in his hand and a jacket half-heartedly slung over his shoulder.

“Hi,” he greets calmly, before walking inside and letting himself in.

Inwardly, Hange thanks whatever god is out there for her foresight. Her unit was relatively clean since she hadn’t really done anything since Levi’s last visit. The place seemed to pass Levi’s health protocols, since he sat on her couch and placed the paper bag on the table right across from him.

“Eat,” he tells her, crossing his arms over his chest.

Hange grins, before plopping down beside him and opening the paper bag. “What did you get me?”

“You’ll see.”

She raises an eyebrow at his ambiguity, before taking a glimpse inside the paper bag.

The smell of quesadillas immediately fills the room, and Hange lets out a soft squeal, taking out the food from the bag quickly.

“Oh my gosh,” Hange says as she nudges him on the shoulder. “You also got me onion rings! You know me too well, Levi.”

“Unfortunately,” Levi responds sarcastically, and Hange laughs almost automatically.

As Hange hums in glee, picking apart the paper wrapped around the food items, Levi maintains his silence. They stay like that as Hange eats. Every so often, she would comment about how the amount of cheese was perfect and how the onion rings just about melted in her mouth. Levi alternates between watching her eat and scrolls through his phone placidly.

Soon, he chooses to break the silence. “So where’s your draft?”

Hange is munching on her last piece of quesadilla when she glances in his direction. “Oh, it’s on my laptop! I can’t believe I forgot to tell you, this food was just so good.”

Levi stands up and heads on over to Hange’s room, gently pushing the door open and scanning the area for her laptop. On top of her unmade bed was a half open Macbook Pro, which he gently took before returning to his seat beside Hange.

Without hesitation, Levi opens the laptop and inputs the password. For some reason, Hange made it his birthday—1225—because she claimed that no one would guess such a random date. He is greeted with a blaring Google Docs document entitled “a;lskfjdk.”

“Nice title you got there,” he comments, and Hange chuckles.

“I didn’t want to think of a title yet, okay!” Hange pouts, and Levi nudges her foot gently in an attempt to comfort her from his own teasing.

He scans the document first before reading it. Hange is a good writer, but fiction is an entirely new genre for her. Immediately, he notices common habits from writing research papers leak into her new work: overexplaining, using words that are too formal for her target audience, sentences a little bit void from emotion.

He takes note of these comments on her notes app before going over her draft again, this time more meticulously than he had done previously. During this time, Hange finishes eating, wraps her trash and tosses them all inside the paper bag before standing up and dumping the entire thing inside her garbage bin.

“Levi,” she calls as she washes her hands through the sink faucet. Levi gives her the smallest hint that he’s listening by raising his eyebrow, but he doesn’t take his gaze away from her laptop. “I’m going to take a shower,” she announces, and he waves his hand dismissively.

Hange smiles to herself. Levi is always nagging her whenever she would accidentally hyperfixate on her writing, but he acts the same way when reading her works.

When Hange stepped inside the shower, Levi was already conducting a deep dive in her third chapter. The gears in his head slowly begin to turn as he begins to analyze her work.

The story revolved around the tales of the people who went to the clinic. The first chapter was a brief introduction on who the main characters were: There’s Janelle, a bright-eyed psychologist whose passion influenced the people around her. Together with El and Bea, her trusted assistants studying under her guidance, they would aid the people who went to the Hopiatria Clinic seeking care.

Meanwhile, the second chapter featured a child who felt as if she was being blamed for the death of her mother by her father. Her mother had died in a plane crash shortly after the young girl wished that her mom could go home on her sixth birthday. Janelle talks to the child gently while El and Bea provide emotional support, offering the child toys and biscuits whenever the need arises.

The third chapter was trickier, and it was there that Levi noticed a twist in Hange’s writing. The story revolved around a boy busy getting her doctorate, and a young girl who had been in love with him ever since they were in college. It’s the young girl who comes to Janelle’s office, and she relays the tale of her unrequited childhood romance to the psychologist.

The young girl is passionate, and wanted to take a step forward in order to guide her towards falling out of love with her best friend. Janelle presents two suggestions: (1) confession, while being fully-open to the possibility of rejection, and (2) accepting rejection without confession. The young girl decides to go with the first option, but to her surprise, the boy returns her feelings.

Everything seemed well-written up until the end of the chapter, where Hange had written,

And then they kissed.

Levi scrolled down the page, tilting his head to the side in slight confusion. That’s it? He thought, trying to find the rest.

Everything had been so well-described; from the girl’s internal turmoil—caused by her fear of destroying their friendship and the pain that came with unrequited love—to the boy confessing his own emotions for her.

The ending was anticlimactic, to say the least.

As he blinked at the google document in confusion, already typing out his comment on her notes app, Hange emerged from the bathroom. Her hair was loose on her shoulders, wet from her shower. Wrapped around her waist is his bathrobe, which she had borrowed from him long ago and never bothered to return it.

Levi scoffs as he glances in her direction. Here she was, parading with the cloth on and rubbing that specific fact in his face.

“Hey,” Hange greeted, smiling as she ran a hand through her brown locks, “How’s the reading going?”

“It was okay until the third chapter,” Levi says honestly, pointing the laptop screen in her direction. “The ending’s anticlimactic.”

Hange hummed, pursing her lips together. “Yeah. I didn’t really know how to end it,” she tells him as she opens her cabinet and grabs a few pieces of clothing. “Give me a bit, I’m going to change.”

She disappears into her room and Levi focuses on her story, trying to think of a way to spur Hange on and perhaps actively improve the ending’s writing.

Hange emerges in a loose t-shirt (which was, once again, his) and shorts. She sits down right beside him, leaning over his shoulder to glance at her laptop and read the specific line that particularly irked Levi.

“It’s that one, right?” Hange asks, pointing at the last sentence. “And then they kissed.”

“Yeah,” Levi responds, shaking his head. “Everything was so well-written up ‘till that point. You were able to describe the emotions perfectly, and the narration’s not that bad . . save for a few paragraphs that maybe should’ve stayed in your research papers.”

Hange chuckles. “Old habits die hard,” she responds, before taking her Macbook from his lap and transferring it to hers. “So what should I write?”

Levi shrugs. “I’m just your editor. You’re the writer.”

Hange pouts. “Yeah, but I don’t know how to make this better.”

“Maybe describe the scene more,” Levi suggests. “Everything ended so abruptly. Every emotion you’ve created and built disappeared in that one line.”

She nods in agreement. “But Levi,” Hange whines as she slumps her head on the back of her sofa and closes her eyes. “Kissing scenes are so tricky to write.”

Hange’s eyes shoot open immediately, and Levi’s face turns red just as quickly.

“F-Forget it,” he says, interrupting her just when he saw Hange open her mouth to speak. Any semblance of calm in his body disappears immediately, and his heart starts pounding against his chest in a rhythm that reminds him too much of a beating drum.

Hange, however, looks elated.

“You want to kiss me?” she tells him in excitement, blinking at him. “I’d like that. It could help me write this scene, you know.”

Levi looks away. “It was just a spur of the moment question.”

“So, you’re not going to kiss me?”

He actively avoids her gaze because he can already see from his peripheral vision that she looks sad, disappointed even. He grunts in response, closing his eyes and focusing his attention on a random spot on the wall.

“Oh,” Hange replies, “Well, I thought it was a good idea.”

Contrary to popular belief, Levi does want to kiss Hange. More than anything.

There were many reasons why: Because she looks so handsome and beautiful at the same time, and her very smile could light up any room she’d walk into. Because she says his name in the most endearing way. Because she understands his flaws. Because she has one of the kindest hearts he’s ever seen. Because she welcomes him with open arms, not a single thread of hesitation in her mind.

Most of all, it was simply because she was Hange.

He steals a glance in her direction, and she’s slightly fiddling with the hem of his shirt, her head downcast. Her sad expression tugs at hi

Levi thinks he’s already in this too deep, so he decides to speak.

“Did you want me to kiss you?”

From his periphery, he sees her look up at him so quickly he thought her neck would break. “What would you do if I said yes?”

He doesn’t dare turn his head in her direction when he replies quietly, “What do you think?”

“Would you kiss me?” Hange asks inquisitively, tilting her head to the side.

Levi’s heart skips a beat.

“Maybe,” he says in a voice barely above a whisper. “If you’d let me.”

Hange is silent for a moment, and Levi thinks this is it, I’m going to be rejected, but he feels a gentle finger touch his chin and turn his head in Hange’s direction.

He is met with her brown orbs, shining just a bit in what seemed like hidden glee. He cocks an eyebrow at her then, confused.

“I’m letting you,” Hange says, laughing. “Kiss me, I mean.” Her face is already slowly nearing his, and he can almost see the way her thick lashes brushed against her skin.

Slowly, Levi raises his head just a tiny bit and responds against her lips, “Okay.”

Hange smiles and closes the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his neck as he does the same around her waist. She tastes like the peppermint of her toothpaste, smells like his shampoo (which he had kept in her apartment since he always found himself staying over), and felt warm as her skin made contact with his. Hange's lips are gentle, slow, and a little shy—so different from how she usually is. Levi knows it’s because she doesn’t want to scare him off, so he makes the first move and nips at her lower lip, taking it between his teeth and sucking it gently.

She lets out a moan, and Levi takes this as a sign to continue. He slides his hand over her back, and she shudders and deepens the kiss at the same time. Her tongue meets his, and they battle for dominance. Hange’s hand sweeps over his undercut and pushes him towards him, and it is then that he lets out a sound that vaguely resembles pleasure.

After a few minutes, Hange whispers “Levi,” as her lips make contact with his. He hums in response, pulling his lips away from her and connecting his forehead with hers.

“Hange,” he says, breathless.

“Is this you telling me you like me?” Hange asks, closing her eyes.

He doesn’t form a reply through words, but he nods and closes his eyes as well.

“Great,” Hange tells him, pecking his lips with her own. “Because I like you too. Ever since I met you, I’ve liked you. Even though you were so rude to me on the first day of college.”

He chuckles silently in relief, pulling her closer to him before placing his chin on her shoulder. “Think you’ll be able to write the ending now that you know what a kiss feels like?”

Hange laughs, and it vibrates against his shoulder as she hugs him tighter. “It’s exhilarating. I probably wouldn’t be able to put into words how good I feel that you like me back.”

“Try,” Levi teases.

“Well . . . you know that alternative title I wrote for the fictional novel?”

Levi’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “The keyboard smash?”

Hange nods. “Yeah. That’s exactly what I feel like right now.”

a;lskfjdk.

#levihan #levi x hange #levihanweek 2021 #LHW 2021 #LHWeek Day 2

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allycryz · 3 years

Text

WOL Challenge #7: Want

[Prompt List Here]

[Filled Prompts Here]

Early Shadowbringers spoilers, companion piece of sorts to Day 4: Outrage

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Nerys x Haurchefant

Summary: Nerys and Haurchefant’s reunion on the first. Sometimes, bodies and minds don’t cooperate and even though you’re horny and can’t keep your hands off your lover.

(Basically–I wanted to write about how things going “wrong” in the bedroom is not an indictment of your relationship. Sometimes there are a million little factors that get in the way.)

They cannot leave Eulmore fast enough.

Neither speaks as they hasten over dirt roads and dry, brittle grass. Gatetown grows smaller and smaller but somehow, the tiered city only looms more. When will they send someone to hunt them? The way those girls in harlequin motley moved–Nerys saw the training in it. Should they need to, that pair can kill. And quickly.

Reason prevails by the third hill along with the chilling memory of the singer. Her patron’s promise of ascension. She’d had an uneasy feeling before and now, after seeing the tame sin eaters in Vauthry’s chamber…

“They don’t kill where others will see,” Nerys says aloud. “Into the sea or fed to their monsters. I think we’ll be alright.”

“...Twelve preserve,” Alphinaud murmurs. “I knew there was something terribly wrong, but I had no real notion. It’s the one place the Exarch hasn’t sent spies.”

“That is telling. About their security and about what could wait inside.”

Alphinaud scrubs a hand over his face. A rare nervous gesture for him, even in front of close friends. He strives to appear cool and calculating in all things. She clasps his shoulder and squeezes. “We’ll figure this out, Alphi. How to help them.”

He huffs a laugh. “Do you know...I actually missed you calling me that.”

“You didn’t like it before? I’m so sorry, I would never have-”

“No, no, please Nerys. I didn’t dislike it so much as...felt it was undignified. But now?” He looks up at her. Smiles. “I’m glad to be with my friend again, and I want her to use it.”

“Alright,” she grins back. Grateful for the spot of warmth after the utter horror behind them. “But if I ever do anything-”

A shadow falls over them.

Nerys’ gaze jerks up as she reaches for her lance. Not a sin eater but something coming from the monstrous cliffs, circling once. Twice. And then it dives down towards them.

Her thighs and calves sing in anticipation, ready to leap. Beside her, Alphinaud murmurs a spell. The dark shape becomes the silhouette of an amaro, becomes a more defined beast, and the rider–

The rider yells something. Unintelligible, and then not. It is her name. It is her name and the voice is–and the rider is–

“Nerys!” He calls again. His blue cape streams behind him as the amaro dives. Unceasing light gleams against his golden armor. To her eye, he looks like a hero summoned out of an ancient tale to offer aid.

“Haurchefant!” She rushes forward and he jumps from his mount, the beast landing seconds later. It’s not clear who touches who first–her arms thrown about his neck, his about her waist. He lifts her off the ground and spins her about, his laughter the purest music to her ears.

Nerys cradles her leather-clad hand against his cheek and kisses him. It has only been weeks for her, but losing him atop everything else had near broken her.

For him, it has been two years. No wonder he kisses her so fiercely, so deeply, the rest of the world falls away. She feels him tremble against her. Tears fall down his cheek.

“My Haurchefant,” she says, wiping beneath his eyes. “I missed you so much.”

“I’ve ached to see you again.” And then he resumes their kiss, crushing her tight against him. It’s possible he will never let her go again. It’s possible she won’t either.

At last he lifts his head and turns to Alphinaud, eyes bright and shining. The young man pointedly watches the ocean with red cheeks. “Good to see you, Alphinaud. It’s been an age.”

“Yes.” Alphinaud clears his throat. “I wasn’t aware you were around?”

“Mm. Playing the diplomat in the settlements above. You can only get there by amaro.” He gestures to his mount. “Luckily, I’m allowed to partner with Yami when I need wings.”

The amaro in question grants them an unimpressed yawn and turns to sniff at the brush and dirt.

“I was only told you were on a covert mission,” says Nerys, arms staying firmly about his waist.

“And so I was. No doubt Eulmore would be displeased to learn of any alliance that doesn’t funnel more bodies their way.”

At that, Nerys shudders. Does he have any idea how right he is? The grim expression says he might. “But you two seemed set out for somewhere. May I offer my aid?”

“We’re for Cracked Shell Beach,” says Alphinuad. “Our rides await us to return to the Crystarium. It is best that we don’t linger here overlong.”

“It’s safe to say we’re not welcome back to Eulmore.” Nerys tries to keep her tone light. Her right hand clenches and then flexes, directing the tension out of her.

“Say no more.” He brushes his lips against her forehead. “To the beach then. Once you debrief, we will catch up.”

“Indeed.” Alphinaud begins walking again. “If you’ll forgive the turn of phrase, it has been an extremely long day for the both of us.”

“Forgiven,” says Haurchefant with a glance at the undying light above. He clicks his tongue and Yami leaves his foraging to stand beside him. Elezen and beast escort them to the shore.

Nerys feels some of the dread and horror eke away as they walk, their hands brushing against one another.

A long day indeed. Their report takes time, weaving the state of Stilltide and Wright into all the details they might remember from Eulmore. The harlequins, the meol, the singer, the entitled lord surrounded by Sin Eaters. Haurchefant is a steady presence at her side, his hand pressed against the small of her back.

Alphinaud’s findings are more limited, having been occupied with the Chais. But with pen and paper he is able to sketch near accurate renditions of the layout and positions of the guards. He recalls the naivete of some servants versus the abject fear he witnessed in the shopkeepers and merchants. Those people were not beholden to individuals with fickle tastes. How many servants had they seen come and go?

“Tomorrow,” says Nerys. “I’ll find Alisaie. As it stands, I need some rest before I leave again.”

“Of course, of course.” The Crystal Exarch nods. “I’ve arranged a suite for you at the Pendants. Pray, go eat and rest. Just tell the Manager your name and he’ll take care of things.”

She nods. “Thank you. Haurchefant, I’ll tell them to expect you?”

“Yes, love.” He kisses her, chaste and gentle before their audience. “I won’t make you wait too long.”

As promised, the Manager brings her to one of the largest suites she has ever seen. Far larger than some apartments in Revenant’s Toll. She must look like a fish, gaping as she does. He smiles and rises to every inch of his considerable height.

“The Exarch asked for my best, dare I assume you like it?”

“I do,” she says, walking over to the long dining table. Nerys could easily host a supper party here. “May I trouble you for the time?”

Her chronometer is wildly out of sync with this timestream. On her way here, the streets had seemed more empty but a city rarely sleeps. A truth both here and the Source.

The Manager glances at his own device. “Fifteen minutes past the eleventh bell. We keep the shutters closed for our new guests but they are free to open them as they like. Can I get you anything?”

“It looks like there is plenty of food and drink for the next few days. Ah, my companion Lord Haurchefant will come through shortly. He’s allowed to know where my room is.”

“Oh! That’s right, he is another from the Exarch’s homeland…” The man looks thoughtful. “Such a nice man, from what I remember. I’ll point him in the right direction.”

Blessedly, he does not linger. Nerys immediately avails herself of the restroom and then strips off her leathers. She is unbelievably parched and feels dirty, despite her mandatory shower at Eulmore. The perfume they provided is still too cloying upon her. First will be another rinse, and then drinking a carafe’s worth of water to make her feel whole again.

It hasn’t been that long for her since she saw him. Not really. They had been separated far longer–during the campaigns in Ala Mhigo and Doma. But that had been different. She knew he was safe in Thanalan, under Urianger’s watchful eye. He had fought during their final push, that harrowing night with Zenos and Shinryu. Even then–it was different knowing he battled alongside Aymeric and Lucia.

But when Maxima returned with him as still and waxen as the others, breathing but unresponsive…

Something broke in her that day, against the Ascian wearing Zenos’ corpse. It was not one thing but likely a host of cracks and fissures from near-constant struggle and battle. But if there was one moment that started the chain reaction...it was seeing Haurchefant trapped in his own body.

Having him back feels like the day after her harrowing experience in The Vault. Letting herself into his room and finding him alive and, if not hale and whole, at least recovering. The relief of it threatens to send her crashing down if she thinks too long on it.

Sometimes, Nerys wonders if there is something wrong with her. One person is not meant to feel this much, to have emotion so fierce it seems to course all through her. Years of learning to keep it below the surface only does so much. It doesn’t stop her from experiencing it.

She steps out of the bathroom in a robe and Haurchefant is there, slicing up an apple at the long dining table. He still wears the golden armor and cape–a design, she realises, is very close to what the Crystarium guard wear. Though she has seen none with that color of plate.

“You could have changed clothes,” she says. “You still can.”

“Ah but…” He rises. “That would have prolonged returning to you. And maybe I want you to see me in my ‘official’ uniform again.”

Nerys walks towards him, taking in the sight, He is always lovely and she suspects he always will be. Fortemps men age extremely well. The ensemble does add a certain...magnificence to him. He might be a prince in such armor, if they still had such titles in Ishgard. “You look amazing. You said you were forming alliances?”

“Mm.” He meets her in the middle of the room, wrapping arms about her. “The dwarves of Tomra are excellent smiths. I thought to impress them with meticulously crafted armor. Different from what I might use to treat with the Night’s Blessed.”

These are all terms she doesn’t know outside of the Exarch’s explanation of where her friends are. He speaks them with such ease, as if he is a son of the First and not a visitor who arrived two years ago.

“Is there anything you can’t do?” She asks, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear.

He smiles. “Oh plenty. For instance, I cannot keep my hands off of you.”

“Good.” She releases his cape from his armor and watches it pool on the ground. “Then don’t.”

Thus permitted, Haurchefant kisses her as fiercely as he did in Kholusia. His armor presses against the fluffy white material of her robe, her exposed skin, and she doesn’t care. It is a welcome prod against her fatigue along with the aching need clenching at her center.

He tilts up her chin and presses a hungry mouth to the underside of her jaw, to her throat. She shivers as his gauntleted hands cradle either side of her neck. Haurchefant knows she cannot abide pressure at her throat stronger than a bite or kiss. Cold metal laying atop her shoulders is different.

Nerys doesn’t know what it means that it’s affecting her so. That can be worked out later. She wants him now.

Haurchefant tosses her belt aside and pushes the robe open and off of her. It lays gathered their feet along with his cape. “Give me a moment, love. I’ll have this armor gone.”

“Don’t bother.” Nerys slides her hands to his belt, finding familiar straps and catches. Armor is armor, most of the time. She’s well-acquainted with removing certain pieces for a fuck after a battle. To her disappointment, he does remove the gauntlets but leaves the rest. In the moment he promised, she frees his cock.

“The bed.” He says, voice urgent. Punctuating it with a harsh, brief kiss. “Go lie down.”

“My lord.” She rushes to cross the room. He is like a shadow, just behind her by a step as she moves. Watches her lay down for him. When he adjusts her–draping her legs over the side of the bed and sliding a pillow beneath her–she is breathless.

Haurchefant is often bossy with her in bed. Including one memorable afternoon in Ala Mhigo, when he tied her to the cot and ordered her to be quiet. (Tent walls are thin, after all). What drives him now is as fierce as she has ever seen, a consuming hunger that rages just below the surface.

Nerys swallows, throat still unbelievably dry. Water will wait till after. Everything can wait till after. Her tongue grazes her cracked lips. “I missed you.”

“You…” He plants his hands on either side of her, his greaves grazing her shins. “I wished for your arrival as often as I dreaded it. I wanted to see you and yet, I did not want to drag you across worlds for another conflict.”

Haurchefant shifts his balance to one arm–the non-dominant hand–and slips his fingers between her legs. She has no idea if the scars from the Vault transferred to this body, though she sees the telltale signs of fatigue. The pain must still-

Nerys sighs as he spreads her folds, two fingers easing into her. “You know...I would cross all rifts to find you.”

“I know.” His lips brush her forehead. “And I know you will face whatever comes and win, as you always do. Even so, would that I could grant you a reprieve.”

“This,” she says, spreading her legs wider. “This is respite. This is what I need.”

He creates such need in her, an ache that demands satisfaction. Especially with the intent look in his eyes, the passion trembling just below the surface. The kind of intense, overwhelming desire that keeps her awake at night until she reaches for her toys.

His touch is direct and purposeful. All the right movements, the right pressure–he remembers it all. Nerys tilts her head back, eyes closing as she sinks into the feel of it. The building in her. A slight cramp forms in her left calf and she lifts that foot to rest on the bed, rocking in motion with his fingers.

It’s there. It’s right there. She just needs to push further in that direction and he’ll have her in pieces.

“Haurchefant.” Nerys lifts her head. “I need you.”

It is as much for him as it for her–he is tense with the force of holding back his passion. Relief crosses his noble brow and he nods, slipping his fingers out of her. The sight of his tongue tasting the slick on them sends a new flutter through her.

“At your service,” he murmurs, wrapping a hand around himself. He takes a moment to find the notch before pressing in, slow at first and then all at once. The angle is...she shifts herself until it feels right, sighing. Draws her other foot up. Turns out her hip more so her bent outer thigh touches the mattress. Better, but...

Still as a cat, he looks down at her. Holding himself in place, unwilling to move though the need in his cerulean gaze is almost painful. “Is this alright?”

Nerys nods. “This is alright. I’m alright. Let me…”

She lifts both feet, resting her ankles on his shoulders before extending her legs. She is tall but so is he, not much further to go. Much better. This is a position she knows and one she always likes. Especially with him in armor like this, fierce and strong and overpowering.

“Go on,” she urges, rocking against him. "Please."

He requires no further coaxing and begins moving inside her. Nerys grips at the sheets, sliding her hips in tandem with him. There. Right there. If he just drives at that spot...

Even his finger on her clit can't distract from the returning cramp. She flexes her foot a few times, annoyed with herself. She has him back and he is a magnificent, golden knight before her; and her body creates obstacles. The growing cottony feel of the inside of her mouth. The warnings of a headache along the too-tight muscles at her nape and temple.

Nerys bats these annoyances out of her brain and sets her focus to him. The thick, hot length of him sliding into her. The gentle and insistent pressure of his thumb. The blazing blue of his eyes as he looks at her like she is a precious treasure.

It's there. She can see the edge of relief.

She can also feel her body refusing to move past this stage, the artful touch at her clit moving from delightful to numbing.

"A moment," Nerys gasps. "Sorry, can we…"

"Anything. Anything." His voice is a near growl in contrast to his words. He seems liable to fall apart at any moment.

"Just-fuck me right now, no hands," she says. Sometimes the nub needs a brief reprieve before she can come.

The hand at her clit disappears, splays instead on the bed beside her head. His hips snap back into motion and she gasps at the jolt of it.

Twelve. She is slick and needy and has wanted this for weeks now. The feel of his heavy cock. The utter surrender to him, a man who owns her soul and heart and-

"Shit!" The cramp blossoms at once into a throbbing, consuming pain. Too much to ignore. "Sorry, sorry, it's not you, my leg-"

Haurchefant trembles above her, leashing his desire. It takes him some time to speak. "Per...perhaps a different position? And I'll remove the armor."

With other men, this is the point she would have carried on and faked her climax. But he would not thank her for such deception. Too empathetic by half, too much of a gentleman.

"Just...put my legs down and finish in me." She says at last, frustration prickling at her eyes and throat. This is their reunion and she can't even-

"My heart." Reverent, gentle, he slides her legs back down. His breath is so ragged. "I can-"

"Please." She adjusts herself against him. "Let me do this for you? You're trembling."

He sighs. There is a faint shudder as he holds himself back. "I am not so green I can't control myself."

"I know. But I'm saying you don't have to." Nerys tightens around him. "Come for me, please."

Haurchefant shudders as her inner walls clench around him, stuttering out a breathy moan. One nod, then he moves in her again. The leg has a brief spasm and for a moment she fears it will be too much-

And then he slides deep into her, shuddering and filling her and gripping the blanket by her head so tight he might rip it. The feel of him falling apart re-kindles some of the heat in her. It is not satisfaction but it is nice, seeing him like this.

Haurchefant kisses her, a mindless, fierce claiming of her mouth. She groans as he stutters inside her with the aftershocks.

"Nerys, dearest…" He whispers like a prayer. The tone and the care in that settles her. The love in his eyes settles her.

The armor does come off. Another time, they’ll figure that out. It was...well it isn’t funny that she’s had sex when both parties were armored but this was beyond them. But it’s a cousin of humor, at least.

And at least she can smile. Keyed up as she is, it is a blessing to feel some contentment about the whole thing. And Haurchefant is gentle as he cleans her up, warm hands soothing over her until she relaxes. Carefully kneading at the interfering calf.

They lie naked in the cool, crisp sheets. Skin against skin, calmer now. Haurchefant slides a hand through her hair. "By the by; I should have said this, the moment I saw you. You look utterly beautiful with this new cut."

Warmth flares in her cheeks and chest. "You like it?"

"Mm. Exceptionally pretty." He kisses the tip of her nose. "Somehow you are the Most Beautiful Lily in Ishgard no matter what you do with it. As well as other countries and worlds, naturally."

"Oh now you're just exaggerating." She kisses his shoulder. Her stomach chooses then to growl, loud and angry.

"...beloved," says Haurchefant, brow creasing. "When last did you eat?"

"Far too long ago," she admits. "I was going to eat and drink but...well, you put your hands on me and that was that."

He sighs and sits up. "I even cut up fruit for you before I became a distraction. Come, let's take care of you."

Nerys slides her arms around him. "I like the sound of that. Do you have to leave the Crystarium again any time soon?"

Haurchefant smiles, eyes a little sad at the notion. “Likely. Let us make the most of this time, ere we must part again.”

“I can do that.” She relaxes in his grip, curling up against his warmth. For the first time that long, interminable day: peace settles upon her.

#seaswolchallenge #nerys eluned #haurchefant greystone #wol x haurchefant #duskwight elezen #duskwight warrior of light #dragoon warrior of light #alphinaud leveilleur #crystal exarch #///////explicit fic #ally writes

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weaselbeaselpants · 4 years

Text

Hazbin/Helluva are hated for the exact same reason they’re loved:

Before I begin I need to repeat something and that’s that you please, kindly, DO NOT BOTHER ANYONE WORKING ON THE SHOW WITH THIS POST. I don’t care if you’re a fan looking for their opinion or a “critic” looking for their response. THESE PEOPLE ARE WORKING HARD, THIS IS NOT A CALL OUT POST IT’S JUST FAN DRIVEL LEAVE PEOPLE ALONE OKAY?!?!?

okey

Here are the facts of the matter:

Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss are independently produced cartoons made by a bunch of people juuuuust breaking in on the animation market, and/or internet famous artists having fun with the world they’re producing. The creator, like her style or not, is inspired and VERY passionate about what she likes and what she wants. Everyone working on the show is really into it and their work. It’s such a self-made fandom it was technically a fandom first and a product second. Fans feel like they (and technically do) have a say in how the show should be run and what the characters should be.

It is popular enough to attract attention online but not overblown by the mainstream media.

On the positive side all those things mean:

It’s crew is tight-nit and very passionate + stick up for each other and their projects. It’s basically a giant colab. Whether they were preexisting fans/friends of Viv, the people working on it got to work on something they liked and with people they liked.

The animation community is super pumped and excited for them be they fans of the animators or just people who like cartoons and monsters and stuff. They’re positively skeptical and in on the hype cause they want to see more fluid adult animation and more indie projects take off (also 2D)!

It’s fandom LOVES the characters, concept, and story. They are more invested in what the characters could be rather than what they actually are, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing; to love something based on the concepts presented and use it to make AUs, hypotheticals and what not. Cringe all you want at the Onceler fandom (you can) but it is impressive to make all that material from so little!

They’re both edgy and insensitive based on their subject matter alone. And yet, the creators and fans DO intend for the show to be a net-positive: there IS supposed to a be representational aspect to it’s design and it’s audience. Brandon Rogers, the modern John Waters, is a pure shock-humor artist; an example of the sincere but not TOO serious risque nature these shows should have, and BOTH attract a pretty happy and excitable LGBTQ fanbase who hate bigotry.

The creators directly talking with fans means there’s again a sense of togetherness to the whole production. That the creators tell people to ship what they want BUT NOT TO BULLY is really cool + important.

As an aside, they can only say so much and Viv is at this point not 100% of Hazbin or Helluva’s creation. It’s other people speaking for or with it now. Neither pilot is a singular idea and musing of one person anymore, they are stand alone products and they are not immune from critique or favoritism.

Buuuuuuut, there’s a flipside to these things as well:

Beyond NDAs (as an aside, a lot of productions have these I don’t think it’s amoral that Viv had this) the crew is tight. When they hear how a site that they’ve heard through the grabevine hosted the guy who sent Viv rape porn*, even if the critique is from a user who hates that guy, THEY AREN’T GONNA HEAR THEM OUT. And they shouldn’t. They are tired and don’t want to be involved, at best (or want to move on from past drama) and biased towards Viv, at worst. They stick out for each other in the business and also who are you gonna stan if you were in their shoes? A person you don’t know on a forum you’ve seen post creepy shit OR your friend who paid you, promos you, talks to you and you like to work with?

Ask yourself honestly what you would do if someone said:

“hey I’m from [4chan/Kiwi, ED, Tapatalk, Reddit, ect]. I’m sorry for what happened but just so you know-”

I so get the crew just straight up blocking on sight. I don’t CONDONE it, but in a postGamerGate world I understand it.

AND when it comes to accusations made against the VAs, a producer, or one of the artists, and ESPECIALLY the creator - people are gonna just handwave it away convinced, it’s just whining or has alterier motives + again, friends stick together and choose sides...like Brock Baker’s :B

It’s popular so it’s gonna get love and hate. I know critics are not gonna like to hear the later, but it is true. It feels cathartic to dunk on a property when fans are crazy and you feel it’s overrated/bad. People feel good dunking on this mishandled, problematic clusterfugg cause they know not as many people are watching and unironically liking, say, Alfred Alfer ----- (please don’t look that or Emily Youcis up. Here’s the tvtropes page. Do not look beyond this point PLEASE)

Likewise, the clout surrounding the show is biased and detracted form being too mean as well. Everyone can tell there’s a kind of toxic mess under the covers but no one wants to deep dive or prod the details of something people are working on and liking so much, especially not when the loudest detractors are asshats like P.K. Russel.

A lot of merch has been sold and produced WELL BEFORE the rest of the shows or the finalized series/designs have been laid out. If nothing comes of either show it will be bad having all this merch hyping something that doesn’t exist. If it does but is so radically different than the vision in Viv’s and fan’s heads (these are both PILOTS, I’ll remind you) it’s gonna disappoint. I just know it.

People were writing Hazbin fanfics and AUs before the pilot was dropped and have made sequels to both before we have even a clear picture of what the ending is gonna be. People are in love and writing for a franchise they don’t know. They know the idea of it and the version of it in their head, but they don’t really know it.

The fandom can not take criticism. This is bad. Everyone is a critic and inside every critic is a nerdooo ~ ((critics do have fandoms and everyone will like something problematic for reasons)) Fans want to criticize but they’re scared of being ostracized from the fandom and kicked off of forums/servers, which has happened to two underage fans already. **

The fandom feels entitled to their ideas and to the creators’ attention. If it were any other fandom it is sooper cool that creators allow people to ship as they please, but not one that’s currently still in development and whose finalized characters haven’t been figured out. The babies have been sent into the battle field at only a few months old alongside veteran ship/canon/entitled cartoon fandoms like Steven Universe and Rick and Morty. It’s like the scene from mother! where the crowd dismembers and eats the baby.

Viv and has a serious influence on these people so even when her and a bunch of fans/artists are just gabbing about stupid memes on twitter, this invites a slew of onlookers to attack these people***. Despite the influence you can have or say to stop this behavior, it’s waaaay harder to put a stop to it than just saying “hey guys be nice” (Anyone else remember the inner-drama of Brony fandom? Like chuds would even take the word of the AskMolestiaMod to heart when their one goal was to take down the dreaded Essjaydoublewes that threatened their rape jokes).

Fans also have no boundaries. Sea also; Lincar Rox.

Being a netpositive doesn’t mean everything you say or do is devoid of critique. If you make vulgar/shocking adult content it will have fans and it will have detractors regardless of the positive intent. As I’ve said earlier, the problem with Viv’s works isn’t really the content but the context and the presentation. You can say Angel Dust is an inspiring character all you want. To some people that’s absolutely true but that does NOT absolve the fact that the it’s a cis woman writing and glamorizing an abused crossdressing gay man. People are gonna be offended and the creator needs tougher skin about this be it satire, parody, or drama.

*back when they were fixated on Zoophobia, there was a guy on Bad Webcomics Wiki/Tapatalk for the comic who posted art of Viv’s decapitated head getting raped by Angel Dust as a “joke”. Oh! and he also took the complaints the wiki had and made Viv and ED page. The rest of the forum was not happy but yeah that happened. The forum itself is the same as any reddit thread and NOT a hate site, but yeah um Viv has every right to quit after that, sorry.

The evidence is linked here in this google doc, which is why I linked it. (tbh I sympathize with the author but I don’t think it’s their place to say when Viv should have let the world known about the harassment porn )

**the underage fans who were bullied/blocked/demonized by creators are frootrollup1, for doing redesigned fan art, and StarVader from the Tapatalk/BWW forums, who was targeted and blamed by fans for Lincar’s shit. I’m not linking them for fear of their safety.

***The meme and twitter thread that went off the rails is one you’ll have to scroll down a bit through @gamergirluprising‘s post to see.

Okay that’s all.

---

#hazbin hotel #vivziepop discourse #vivziepop critique #vivziepop drama #Helluva Boss #helluva boss critical #hazbin hotel critical #bad webcomics wiki #tapatalk #Lincar Rox #Brock Baker #hazbin critical #critical hazbin hotel

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wincore · 5 years

Text

talk | kim dongyoung

pairing: prince!doyoung x princess!reader

words: 8k

prompt: anonymous sent: For the Valentines day request may I request one w nct Doyoung? (also if you can, an au where he's a prince and reader's a princess?)

genre: royalty!au, arranged marriage!au, fluff, hurt/comfort

warning(s): a tad suggestive?

gif credit

You’re not exactly someone to bow your head and agree to a command. You weren’t raised with a lot of freedom, but you sought it anyway, and the mere taste of it never let you live the way you should be.

Princesses aren’t supposed to be like you—they’re supposed to be prim and proper, smell like roses and all things rich and wonderful, they’re supposed to smile and laugh with the princes, hold their head up with dignity but bow when they’re ordered to. They’re not supposed to sneak out at midnight to stargaze, or get their knees scraped climbing trees, they’re not supposed to scowl or make ugly faces at any advances from the opposite gender, and they certainly aren’t supposed to keep disappearing, especially during important dinners.

The news had your insides crumbling when you heard it, when your mother notified you with a look of disdain, scolding you for being absent from the palace almost all the time. Her words only seem to reproach your actions, conveniently missing the point that maybe, just maybe you aren’t at fault at times. To be robbed of freedom, to be married to a man you’ve hardly glanced at, to be treated as if you aren’t a person at all—it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth at best.

You’re often told you have a lot of independence. It doesn’t make any sense to you, just how anyone could have the audacity to tell you that. They’re not the ones caged by societal rules, rules that require the binding of your soul and the full capabilities of your body. You can’t count the number of times you’ve physically restricted yourself from screaming, or just punching someone in the face (you wish you knew how to without damaging your knuckles, but you’ve been denied that lesson several times). You’re not purely hot-headed, or impulsive, but you’re allowed to at least have these thoughts, right? Or are you supposed to keep a check on your thoughts, too?

When you see Kim Dongyoung in his navy blue suit, the golden twigs and leaves etched across the shoulders and the sleeves, you hear your mother sigh beside you. You sigh too, but for a different reason altogether. The princesses across the entire continent would love to take your place; you know your friends would, after they gasped and laughed in joy, congratulating you after you told them, missing the point like everyone else. But they make some sense, of course. He’s handsome, ethereally so, and he’s rich. Moreover, he’s known for his failproof war strategies that men of ordinary intelligence don’t usually come up with. But that’s all you know of him. You don’t know if he has any passions, or if he’s a puppet like you and other people in your position. You don’t know if he’s kind to the poor, or if he likes walks through gardens. You don’t know if he likes to read, or if he has a favourite smell, favourite food, favourite colour. All you know is an image other people have painted of him, and you’re meant to spend your life with this hollow shell of a man you don’t know, who you now won’t let yourself know, purely out of spite.

You sit at the wooden bench in the royal garden, awkwardly playing with your hands. You’re left with Doyoung, as he prefers to be called, and you’re meant to talk to him. It’s a freedom your families have given to you, to get to know each other before your lives are intertwined forever. Sunlight streams in, and the browns of his eyes vaguely remind you of the woods on a spring afternoon.

“You probably hate this as much as I do, ” he says, cutting the thick silence, no sign of humour in his tone. In fact, his lips are pursed into a grim expression quite possibly reflecting yours.

“Probably more,” you grumble. As a lady, you’ve been taught to never use that tone. But as you, you can’t care less, now that you know he feels the same.

Doyoung scoffs. “More?”

He turns to look at you, the expression on his face more begrudging than anything. His shoulders are tense, or maybe he’s been taught to sit with them straight. Either way, he doesn’t seem to be enjoying his time with you.

“What?” you laugh. “You want to turn this into a competition to see who hates it more?”

You think Doyoung might have cracked a smile from the way his lips twitch, but he maintains his mildly annoyed expression, refusing to continue the conversation. The seconds drip slowly, and every time you hear a rustling from behind the entrance pillars, Doyoung reluctantly inches closer or you start giggling as though he’d said a really funny joke. The dishonest atmosphere of friendliness you delicately put up with your words and actions might as well have brought you closer—after all, you’re on the same boat, doing the same thing—but at the end of it, the prince of the north leaves with an empty smile, and you do the same.

You lie to your mother about how wonderful a man your fiancé is, and how you’re glad she’s chosen such a fitting suitor for you. You feel a little sick uttering the words but you don’t show any signs of discomfort, as your mother’s face brightens. You don’t lie very often, but the nervous crack in your mother’s voice and her shaking eyes tell you that you should be a good daughter for once.

When you enter your bedroom, you think you’ll cry. You’ve never been very fond of this room, always comparing them to a prison but now that you’re aware you might not see it again, you feel some sort of indescribable regret in your chest. Were the walls always this shade of green? Weren’t they blue once? Is your new bedroom going to have the same shade? Will you even be able to sleep there? There are so many questions you have, and none of them have a hint of optimism in their essence. It’s just a spiral of terrifying thoughts only someone who’s been drowning can understand, someone who’s been stolen from, someone with too much on their mind.

You meet Doyoung once more, three weeks before your scheduled wedding and you end up arguing, much to the horror of your mother. It wasn’t necessarily your fault, but when is an argument ever the fault of only one? Doyoung and his sharp words leave you annoyed and you shoot back with words equally prickling, and the entire situation turns messier than ever. You don’t even remember what it was that set you off; maybe Doyoung was picking a fight on purpose as a last attempt to refuse this marriage. Either way, it ticked you off and you’re more unwilling than ever to partake in the sacred bonds of marriage with this man, this entitled prince, this smartass who thinks he knows everything.

In a way, you’re glad your differences come into light so early—maybe your parents will call it off, maybe they’ll realize it’s not wise to marry you off to a foreign land. But of course, when the entire country is at stake, what does the life of a little princess matter? No, the marriage is still to take place in three weeks, and it needs to be for the sake of peace between nations, even if it is at the price of yours.

It’s strange to be the centre of attention at a wedding. You would have almost forgotten it’s your own were it not for the several congratulatory messages you keep receiving, and Doyoung’s arm placed gingerly on your waist. His tight-lipped smile at the guests, the one you know is not real, unnerves you because you display the exact same one. The irony is high, as the day celebrating love and joy is taking away yours completely.

The atmosphere is meant to be bright and cheerful, with the gold chandeliers and painted glass that impresses everyone entering the hall. The musicians play a soft, but festive melody and you would doze off if it weren’t for Doyoung’s tight grip over your hand. You glare at him every time his hold gets too strong, or after he makes someone you hardly care about introduce themselves to you. So you’re more comfortable in your new home. How laughable. Maybe he likes the way your temper flares red and shows up across your cheeks. Hopefully you’ll be able to ignore it with time, his meaningless jabs. You cringe when the thought flashes through your mind, how you’ve already started planning your days after, how you’ll spend it with the man beside you. It brings you dread and you try to ignore it best as you can, for at least this day.

Doyoung leads you to the middle of the hall, one hand on the small of your back and the other intertwined with yours. Having to dance under the prying eyes of an audience adds to the painted blush of your cheeks, and the only way you can calm is by looking at Doyoung’s face. You almost step on his foot once or twice, but you’re glad no one notices the prince’s mild winces. You think Doyoung is probably going to scold you afterwards, and you let yourself frown a little. You aren’t a child, but well, this isn’t exactly what you had prepared for; dancing has never been your area of expertise, especially with a partner, and you find yourself counting the seconds till this is over.

“Why are we doing this?” you whisper to Doyoung.

“It’s called a waltz,” he replies, nonchalantly.

“I know that,” you glare at him. Seriously, you can’t be that bad. But you’re relieved when it’s over.

The sunlight streams in and forms perfect patterns on Doyoung’s face, the pretty curve of his lips or the sharp bridge of his nose highlighted for you, and all others to see. Some glare at you or sigh as if wishing they were in your place. You could almost laugh. You wish you were in theirs. It’s no doubt Doyoung looks better than most princes, but the resulting grudge of being enforced to do something blinds you to it. You’d never admit it at this point—after all, will it give you your freedom, your happiness? So you shut your mouth and smile every time a lady passes by to compliment him, or tell the two of you how sweet a pair you make.

You cry to sleep your first night after getting married, sleeping as far as possible from the man you’re bound to. You think Doyoung might have heard your whimpers, but you don’t care. If you’re going to be miserable either way, what’s the point in hiding it? The pillows wet with your tears and the cold prickles your cheek, and you flip it over for a warmer, dryer part to rest on. This exchange goes on till you tire of crying, till your eyes run out of tears. You don’t think you’ve cried this much in quite a while, but the feeling doesn’t reduce with time. Tiredness might just be the only thing to lull you to sleep.

Doyoung had probably fallen asleep far before you realize; you don’t feel him shift or move and the only sound coming from him are soft, steady breaths. You fall asleep to Doyoung’s breathing, the only thing to ease the grasping feeling in your chest.

You might have felt a ghost of a touch across your cheek in the morning, but you refuse to believe it was Doyoung’s or any attempt at comforting you on his part.

It’s freezing in the mornings and at night—curse the Winter Palace to be perched atop a hill; the clouds occasionally kiss the palace towers, its icy breath shrouding the area. Doyoung tells you it’s one of the warmer regions of the north, and you’d find the harbour further south. The prince of the north knows how to handle cold, and you’ll have to learn too. In fact, you have a lot to learn. You know the kingdom ends at the ice wastelands at the north and the harbour at the south, but you hardly remember the rest of its geography despite your old tutor’s best efforts. So even if you were to try sneaking away to be with yourself, somewhere far for even a little while, you wouldn’t know where to go. You’re too embarrassed to ask Doyoung, and he doesn’t seem like he’d be willing to answer you without some snide remark.

Homesickness comes in waves, and leaves you a little nauseous, a little in despair. It shows on your features, the circles under your eyes, your parched lips, the hollowness in your eyes, or the slowing of your pace. Sometimes you take aimless walks in the evening, sometimes you struggle to breathe at night. The glances from Doyoung don’t scream worry to you, but they aren’t completely at peace either. Perhaps he feels sorry for you. Whatever it is, you don’t need his pity—you’re not a child nor a slave, and you’d rather he look at you as an equal, capable of the same things he is. It is perhaps your work that keeps you sane during these terrible bouts of homesickness—the planning for the trade between kingdoms, the right policy to adopt for the people, how to enhance the economy. You have a say in all of these, and you’d claim to be even better than Doyoung if you hadn’t seen him at work, his thinking sharp and detailed.

If there’s anything you love about the Winter Palace, it’s the view from your room. You can see the far ocean between the two rising pieces of land, the small hills always reminding you of the flower fields in your kingdom. The hills are coated in various hues, and it’s a marvellous sight during different times of day, with the changing moods of the sun. Doyoung occasionally stands beside you to admire the sunsets, but you barely exchange any words, before any one of you goes inside. Sometimes he looks as though he wants to say something, but the silence stays, only broken by the call of the birds or a particularly strong breeze.

The Winter Palace, ironically, faces the mildest of the northern winter. The ones further north aren’t as lucky as you, to survive winter with just a few thick coats and warm boots, and you’re almost glad the capital is here. It could have been closer to the harbour, in your opinion, but that made it vulnerable to spies and attacks from foreign countries. You still hate the stupid weather.

Doyoung might as well represent the climate with the cold words that come out of his mouth. He doesn’t like to appear soft or sweet or helpless in any way, and it irks you. He speaks too bold, too loud even, and he likes making his disapproval obvious. You’ve had arguments with him before on how one should behave in a public setting, so you let it go occasionally but sometimes it just blows out of proportion, how he can get away with whatever he wants. You know it’s not completely true, but the thoughts cross your mind anyway.

As the days leap forward, it seems as though Doyoung and you have made a silent pact to stay at least half a metre away from each other. His touch would be too foreign, and a kiss even more alien, even if it is to prove your sham of a marriage as true. The last time you felt the fleeting touch of his fingers was perhaps at the wedding. You hear rumours now; the people don’t believe in your ‘love’, or the treaty, and if it progresses into further unease between the nations, you’re done for. After several arguments, you adopt a policy with Doyoung of at least linking arms in your monthly strolls through the city.

The war might have died, but there’s still a long time to go before the people accept each other. Doyoung and you still struggle to deal with the aftermath of your grandparents’ actions, and the progress occasionally gets delayed. But Doyoung and you were trained better than this, and you might even come to pride yourself on what you’ve achieved so far. Doyoung still holds his frown during council meetings, but you’ve seen at least a ghost of a smile across his features at your unorderly remarks.

“I don’t understand why the princess must be present during these meetings,” the head of the treasury had once commented.

“It’s Queen for you,” you had retorted, “and if the presence of a woman makes you so uncomfortable, I think you’re underqualified to be in this position.”

Some had snickered at the treasury head’s red face, some had solemnly agreed with you. But Doyoung maintained that neutral expression of his, urging the council to move with matters more pressing, and you still think you had imagined the corners of lips curving upwards. It doesn’t make sense to you how that thought actually gives you a strange flickering hope. The thought of making him smile makes you strangely excited, and a little happy even.

“You don’t like them?” you ask Doyoung, nervously glancing at the palace guard dogs.

“What? They’re alright,” he says, looking the other way.

“You’re scared of dogs?” you ask, amused.

“No,” he presses, his eyebrows knit together. “I’m not afraid of dogs.”

“Whatever you say,” you smile, and make your way towards the dogs, one hand raised to let them know you’re no enemy.

The dogs love you, and the whole palace knows it by now. They sprint across the garden and into your arms, and you’re almost knocked over by the force they arrive with. You scratch the back of their ears and brush your fingers through their fur. Doyoung looks at you, confused but approaches carefully.

“You know they’re trained to kill, right?” he tells you.

“And we’re trained to be fake, but that doesn’t sound too fun, does it?” you reply, not taking your eyes off the dogs.

Doyoung crouches beside you, still beware of the dogs and looks at them. Maybe you’re imagining things again but Kim Dongyoung actually smiles, his gums showing and a little laugh escapes his mouth. It sounds wonderful to you, and you let your smile grow into a wider one.

“That one has funny ears,” he comments.

“Well that one actually chewed off a man’s arm last week,” you inform.

“Oh,” Doyoung retreats his hand that was about to pet the dog.

The two of you laugh and the dogs join in with their little howls, and it’s the first time you feel as if the world isn’t against you.

Months pass by and it is enough to discern rumour from truth for the man you call your husband, the first being his cold-bloodedness. Even you might have thought that of him at the very beginning, but heartless? Doyoung is anything but heartless—you’ve seen the way he treats his subordinates, the council members, his people, even the way he offers a sliver of kindness to prisoners who do not deserve it. He might have been cold towards you but it’s only the ice that forms naturally in a forced relationship. He talks a lot to his subordinates—he talks a lot in fact, but not to you. Well, he does but it’s not enough. He usually initiates small talk in an attempt to make you feel comfortable; you know it’s only for your sake and you are grateful, but it doesn’t feel enough, doesn’t feel whole. Do you expect more from him simply because he’s your husband? You probably don’t deserve it when you haven’t shown him kindness of the same.

Doyoung’s habits worm their way into your subconscious near the end of a year, and you don’t feel any change adjusting yourself to him. It’s a thing you never thought you’d be able to do—to leave the comforts of home and find a new one in a man you barely knew. But now you recognize him through the tone of his voice, the twitch of his lips and the light in his eyes. He hates walking all the way to the courtroom every day, and he especially hates running or any other form of physical exertion. (“Because sweating is disgusting.”) He prefers studying in the library to fencing out in the fields, yet he is still an above average combatant. He can never handle spicy food and it had taken quite a while to cure his hiccups after trying the gifts from the southern prince. Doyoung likes his sleep, and he prefers finishing work early to go back to your bedroom and rest. At least there’s one thing you have in common, and it’s your love for sleep.

Doyoung can’t sleep without a pillow. The first night you’d wedged a pillow between the two of you and he’d narrowed his eyes at you for taking his pillow. The discomfort had only lasted a while before he’d brought in an armful of pillows to place all of them around him. Every day since, you sleep in a castle of pillows, Doyoung’s touch never within your reach. It’s the way you’ve both managed to build your own walls that makes you realize that maybe you should’ve walked out when you had the chance. That maybe you could have found a life elsewhere, somewhere in the midst of freedom and not trapped within your own walls. Studying Doyoung is a thing that tells you how he acts or what he’s about to do, but there’s only so much you can understand when you don’t even know what he’s thinking.

The second winter brings about illness and you are not spared. It’s the first time you see Doyoung worried and a little panicked maybe, but you shake off the idea that it’s because he has any feelings whatsoever for you. If you died, he’d probably have to take a new wife and it’s another hassle all over again. The thought makes you uneasy; just when you’re getting used to the place, you might have to leave again, even if the leave holds freedom.

“Do you always have to move your arms in your sleep?” Doyoung asks, irritably. “You almost toppled over your breakfast.

“Ugh,” you grunt, flipping over to turn your back to him.

“Are you not going to eat?”

“Stop nagging me,” you say. You forgot formalities somewhere in the middle of summer.

“I am not nagging you,” he complains, “You sleep too much.”

“Are you really complaining about someone who’s dying?” you snort.

“You’re not dying,” he replies quietly.

You maintain silence for a few moments, and you think he’s walked out, even if you didn’t hear footsteps. You turn to find warm eyes staring at your form under the blankets, and it’s the first time you see the ice melting.

“Why are you here anyway?” you cough out.

“I just thought I’d stay with my wife,” he mumbles. You hear him clearly, but you don’t know why the blood rushes to your cheeks, for you’re sure he’s referring to what you’d look like to the palace workers and the people. You’re glad he sees the red in your cheeks as sickness, and you hug the blankets closer.

“Are you cold?” he asks, standing up.

“No!” you rush, “don’t come any closer- you’ll get sick!”

“Of course not. I’m not stupid like you.”

“That’s no way to talk to the queen,” you grumble.

“You don’t exactly speak the way you’re supposed to speak to the king either.”

“Touché.”

Doyoung’s gestures grow increasingly warm, and perhaps they had always been warm but you were too busy looking for the cold. Yet you still refuse to give in—it’s a dangerous thing to be the one with feelings in a doomed relationship. Doyoung takes care of you almost better than the nurses; he mostly stays by your side, and makes sure your recovery is the priority. He has your prescription memorized, and he’s faster at providing you with your medicine than your caretakers. Doyoung prefers you stick to the herbal products, and although the taste makes you gag, you have it anyway for fear of the reappearance of Doyoung’s rants. He nags you to no end anyway—apparently anything you do is too dangerous to him. You once called him mother as a result and his annoyed face was funnier than anything that comes out of his mouth (“I’m offended you would think that.” “You’re not as funny as you think you are. No one in the council thinks you’re funny.” “They have no sense of humour, and neither do you, it seems.”). He laughs and jokes with you as a friend and it doesn’t help the warmth blooming in your chest. Marriages like yours aren’t meant to carry love.

“Read to me,” you tell Doyoung, when you watch him trace the edge of the papers of the book he’s reading. The candlelight barely allows you to see his face, but he keeps it posted on a stand beside him to read.

“You’d find it boring,” he says, not moving.

“There you go with assuming again,” you click your tongue.

“Fine,” he says, “It’s about kings and queens.”

“You’re right. It is boring.”

You hear Doyoung’s exasperated sigh and smile to yourself. Why do you love to get on his nerves so much? It doesn’t really matter though; you’d just like to relish in the moment.

“I can tell you a story though,” Doyoung says, cutting the silence. There’s a strange uncertainty in his voice and your ears perk up faster than usual. “It’s a story the villagers like to tell their children—about the time the god of mischief got into trouble for his pranks.”

It’s the first time you realize that you really like Doyoung’s voice. He can sing too as you’ve heard him do in the evenings when he thinks no one is around. His voice, as warm as honey, gives you a taste of hot chocolate on your tongue, or the essence of sunset and the peace of sleep. It’s like the feeling of air filling your lungs and you’re glad you have a reason to breathe. Doyoung’s voice is charming and pacifying at the same time, and strangely home, and you rest easier knowing he’s with you.

You think you should owe your life to Doyoung. It’s quite definitely because of him that Death withdrew his hands from around you, and even in the worst of nights, it was Doyoung that really brought you back. You return from sickness a little kinder to your husband, if not entirely. You speak easier to him, without overflowing jabs at each other and it’s honestly refreshing to be husband and wife for once. Well, not exactly. It’s refreshing to not treat each other as enemies for once, to be friends perhaps.

Doyoung still won’t touch you though, even a gentle caress or a pat on the back, and it’s not like you expect him to. It’s still too foreign, too strange but it gets frustrating at times when you feel your heart in your mouth. You try to shake it off, try to ignore it, bury it, anything, but the cursed feelings gnaw at your chest and soul. Maybe you’ve grown too used to his worried glances, or the care in his voice. Did you miss being taken care of, being a little pampered? Or perhaps, despite your best judgement, had you fallen for the prince of the north? Sometimes you wish Doyoung hadn’t been so kind to you that month.

“Are you not going to bed?” Doyoung asks you, dressed in your night gown, staring ruefully from the balcony. He’s just arrived from the negotiations with the neighbouring kingdom, as you can tell from his full suit and the glimmering crown atop his head that looks like a structure sculpted out of crystals of ice, a thing only the finest of sculptors could do. He stares at you with round eyes, like it’s really you he finds special, and not as if you’re the one that probably ruined his life. You don’t blame him for yours turning out this way, but then again, who knows what he’s thinking?

“Do you want me on the bed with you that bad?” you joke, but Doyoung turns red. Maybe your innuendos really do get to him.

“I just thought you’d be sleeping,” he grumbles, “That’s what you usually do.”

He walks inside, and sets his crown atop the dresser. He’s never treated it as a prized possession, or like its worth; it’s just something he has, but doesn’t particularly want.

You hug yourself when a particularly strong breeze blows your way. Spring never seems to show its face in this kingdom, but you bear it just to look at the stars. They bring you peace, a certain harmony in their existence. Maybe it’s the fact that when you’re gone, when your kingdoms no longer exist, when there are kings and queens no longer, the stars will still be there. And whoever you are, no matter what life you’re having, you can still look at them, still wonder.

Doyoung appears to drape his coat around you, and it startles you, jumping at the sudden contact. Your movement startles Doyoung too as he raises his arms in defence.

“Sorry,” you apologize at the same time.

Doyoung is the first one to smile, and the flutters reappear in your chest.

“Guess the habits don’t go away,” he says, turning his head to look up at the sky.

You shrug and pull the coat closer as subtly as possible. It smells like rich perfume, roses and jasmines, but there’s also another scent, a scent that’s completely Doyoung. You would never admit how calming that smell is, or how you wish you had more of it.

“Do you have a favourite?” Doyoung asks. It’s surprising to see him ask questions again months after he’d given up trying to pry answers out of you.

“Not really,” you tell him. It’s true. You’ve never really thought about it, if you could pick a favourite star. They’re all lovely and bright in their own ways.

“Me neither,” he shrugs.

You stand there with him till the silence becomes unbearable and the air too cold. That night, there are less pillows between the two of you, and your cheeks heat up at the embarrassing thoughts that inevitably cross your mind, the touches that could be.

The few days of spring are celebrated with a ball, the grandest gathering of the entire north. The other northern princes partake in organizing, and the entire lands come to celebrate. It’s not the first time you’re visiting, but it is the first time you’re hosting. Last year, spring had decided to not show up, and the ball had been cancelled altogether, much to your dismay and Doyoung’s relief. (“It’s not very fun when you’re hosting it.” “Maybe you just don’t know how to host.”)

Now that you think about it, hosting is pretty difficult. Although the work has been divided among several managers, you and Doyoung have to oversee all of it, and you think you’ll break your back by the time spring is over. Everything needs to be perfect, from the music and performances to last minute details like the colour of the curtains in the ballroom, or the intensity of light coming from the chandeliers. The fireworks for the last day have to be perfectly timed, and the science staff’s new colours have to be tested. The security needs to be tightened around the entrance, and guards have to be posted at every watchtower. Royalty makes enemies, and it’s never too much to be sure.

The first celebrations take place on the hilltop, the one you can see from your bedroom, full of golden calendulas. There’s an open hall at the centre, and the first day must be celebrated there with a prayer to the gods. The southern gods are different, but everyone tags along nonetheless to watch the ice sculptures and water-dancers that are infamous across the entire land. The dancers appeal to the gods, while the musicians sing hymns and prayers in ancient tongue, in front of the intricately carved block of stone. It’s the ancestral stone of the royal family, and every major event, every inauguration takes place with a flurry of prayers to ancestors and gods. You wonder if Doyoung had to send his prayers too at some point, when he was crowned prince.

Doyoung now can’t care less about the holy rituals and prayers, but he has responsibility to maintain. He stands at the back of the crowd, not really paying attention, although people stop to stare at him occasionally. He wears his navy blue suit with the golden leaves again, with the sparkling diamond crown perched atop is head, and he looks uncomfortable at best. The problem is that he looks dashing, the handsome prince he’s rumoured to be, and the ladies staring at him make you more annoyed than you’d like to admit.

Before you can approach him, he’s pulled by the arm by his brother and they sneak into a room when no one’s looking. Curiosity hasn’t been your most rewarding quality, and you follow, feet nimble and fast.

“You’re okay with this?” Gongmyung whispers when he’s sure they’re out of earshot.

“What?”

“This? The marriage, and everything?”

“I think you’re over a year late,” Doyoung says drily.

“If you haven’t adjusted in over a year, that’s a problem, isn’t it?”

“Not what I meant. Are you really asking me how I feel about something I was forced to do?” Doyoung’s voice raises slightly. “And this long after it’s already happened? You were barely there at the wedding too!”

“Not everything you’re forced to do has to be bad,” Gongmyung says, “And I couldn’t have stopped it even if I were there.”

“Well, you’re wrong and everything is terrible. I never wanted this.”

You feel a pang of hurt in your chest. You thought he was warming up to you, when in reality, he’s probably been hating every second he’s with you. Hell, he probably blames you for the marriage like you blamed him in the beginning. You start walking away, careful as to not alert them, and Gongmyung’s chiding fades away as quick as possible.

Well, if Doyoung really doesn’t care, why should you? You take a seat in the middle of the audience, hopefully blended in and replay all your interactions with Doyoung, anger bubbling in your chest. Was he pretending to be nice for your sake? Does he think of you as some poor creature that needs pity? Or does he hate you so much that he wants to hurt you, take your heart and burn it?

A gentle tap on your shoulder snaps you out of it, and you’re met with the last person you want to see. You honestly thought your outfit was inconspicuous enough.

“Why are you here?” Doyoung asks. “You’re supposed to sit at the royal table.”

“I don’t want to,” you scowl.

Doyoung seems to be a little taken aback by your sour mood, but he retaliates nonetheless.

“You’re being childish!” he accuses. “What’s got you so upset?”

You.

“Is that what you think of me? A child?” you grumble.

“You’re certainly acting like one,” Doyoung says, his lips curled into a frown.

“I don’t care, I don’t even want to be here,” you say, getting up to leave.

Doyoung grabs your arm, and even through the silk gloves, his touch is as cold as ice.

“Let me go,” you says, your voice low, and Doyoung complies with a nervous gulp.

You don’t speak to him the rest of the day, and go to bed early just to avoid him.

Doyoung spends the next few days wondering what went wrong, why you’re either avoiding him or getting into more and more arguments with him. He hates it, the way he loses his temper with you, how you’re the one seeing this side of him that no one has seen with the exception of his brother. He hates this part of himself, and you’re the last person he wants to be seeing that.

The morning starts with yet another argument, and Doyoung sighs internally. Sometimes he wishes he could shut your pretty little mouth with a kiss, but the thought itself is weirdly embarrassing to Doyoung, and his face gets too hot when he thinks of it. Will he ever be able to tell you? That he’s fallen for you despite his best efforts, despite fate being against the two of you?

Why had he? Is it because he felt like a boy, not a prince, with you? Or is it because how easy it’s become to talk to you? Maybe the fact that you’re almost as good as him at pulling up strategies, and coming up with efficient design plans. Whatever it is, the blooming feeling in his chest cares for none of that, only seeking to be with you. This isn’t the kind of falling in love he thought he’d experience as a child—in fact, he didn’t even think he’d have time for it. The princes in the storybooks were hardly like him; they were strong and stupidly brave, extremely impulsive much to Doyoung’s distaste. He just assumed that’s the kind of men that women liked, and he directed his attention towards more pressing matters, like learning war strategies and how to rule. It’s not like he had a choice, but he can’t lie that he didn’t enjoy those classes.

“I don’t…I don’t feel good enough,” you say, and Doyoung snaps out of his thoughts.

He sighs. “You keep giving excuses. Tonight’s the main event, with the fireworks and all, you know?”

“I just don’t want to go,” you say, crossing your arms.

“You act like such a child sometimes,” Doyoung complains, at the end of his wits.

“You don’t even understand me,” you say, your voice low. “I have my reasons and you keep treating them like rubbish, like they don’t really matter.”

“Well, you’ve never told me them,” Doyoung says, rising to his full height. He loves the way you have to look up at him, your lips slightly parted, and oh, how he wishes you had met under different circumstances, had different feelings for each other, anything. Mostly, he wishes you would see him the way he sees you.

“You’re just picking fights on purpose,” Doyoung whispers, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Wouldn’t that make it easier?” you ask.

“Make what easier?”

“Us.”

Doyoung doesn’t respond—he still doesn’t understand, why are you looking at him so cold? Was he misunderstood, did he do something wrong? He hates the uncertainty of unspoken words, usually preferring to talk things out. But you definitely didn’t want to face him, so he let you go, the feeling in his chest weighing him down.

Doyoung admits that you look pretty in the royal dresses, but you look prettier in your nightgown gazing at the stars. Stars are too romanticized in his opinion, but they feel important when you look at them like that. The night is as majestic as it was planned to be and Doyoung sighs in relief when one by one all the events turn out to be a success. The only blemish on the perfect nights seems to be the fact that you are still ignoring Doyoung, darting from corner to corner, always out of his grasp. His frown deepens, watching you talk and laugh with almost everyone; your old friends are there too and he can’t help the jealousy sprouting in his chest. He doesn’t feel like the High Prince of the North, Kim Dongyoung, but more like a little boy, who’s losing his patience and maturity by the minute.

The last shred of Doyoung’s self-control vanishes when one of the southern princes wraps an arm around you. He strides over to your group, flashing the sweetest smile that sickens even him and excuses the two of you. He holds your hand tender but firm and pulls you out of the celebratory hall.

You know you’ve probably gone too far with your temper tantrums when Doyoung pulls you outside the hall. Yes, you’re being a little childish maybe, but at the end, you don’t want to be the one with a broken heart, forced to be with the one who broke it. If you told him, would he laugh at you? Or would he tell you he’s sorry? Would you be forced to live with the shame, the rejection, the strangling feelings? It’s better to distance yourself from the beginning, let the fights warm you with their fire if love won’t.

Doyoung’s grip on your hand is slightly uncomfortable—he’s wearing those cursed gloves again and not even the silk ones. You know he likes his hands at a comfortable temperature but it’s ridiculous how he never seems to part with them.

“Do-doyoung,” you say, pulling at his hand so he stops and turns to face you. He looks dishevelled, a slight anger in his eyes and lips pursed.

“My hand,” you say.

“Sorry,” he chokes out, retreating his hand. He looks as though he’s fighting several thoughts, deciding what to do. He bites the inside the inside of his cheek, and you smile at how he looks like a rabbit, like a mountain hare you’ve seen around here to be precise.

“What’s so funny?” Doyoung asks, furrowing his brows.

“You,” you laugh.

“Oh really now?” He raises an eyebrow. “Last time I remember, you said I’m not very funny.”

“Your face is funny.”

Doyoung scowls, but seems to regain composure.

“Are you going to tell me now?” he asks, his expression back to determined. “What did I do?”

“What did you do? You did nothing.” Exactly. You did nothing.

“Do you blame me?” he asks, stepping closer. “For the marriage?”

“Not any more than you blame me,” you tell him.

There’s a long silence before Doyoung responds, his voice barely above a whisper, “I don’t blame you.”

“Then I don’t blame you,” you say, truthfully. You never have blamed him.

Doyoung runs his fingers through his hair, a sudden but small smile gracing his lips. He steps closer once again, and clears his throat as if he’s about to say something. He looks a little nervous, like what he’s about to say carries weight, like it’s a secret others can’t know. He glances down at your lips and your heart catches in your throat. Despite everything, you still find your voice, still gather enough wits to joke.

“What? You want to kiss me? Hm?” you tease, the sarcasm dripping. Your voice goes down a notch as you grin. “Place your mouth over mine in the dark corridors where no one is looking?”

“Don’t provoke me,” he responds, the vein in his neck appearing to aid the strain in his voice. The sudden seriousness surprises you, and you find yourself face to face with a rather pissed off Doyoung. It’s never nice when his voice drops lower than usual.

“It’s just a stupid show to you, isn’t it?” he starts, the anger obvious in his voice. “You’re okay with just pretending- it doesn’t really matter to you, right?”

You don’t say anything and he continues, “Do you even know how hard it is? To be the one in love in a one-sided relationship? Do you even care?”

You stare at him in stunned silence. “It’s awful, you know? I tried, I tried my best, but do you know how hard it is to not touch you? To not hold you, to just throw my feelings away? Of course not. You don’t know how scary it is- I feel like I’ll burn at your touch.”

“There you go with assuming again,” you grumble, before raising your voice to a proper volume. “You really think I don’t know the feeling? When all I’ve been wanting is for you to kiss me this entire goddamn party?”

Doyoung purses his lips. It’s not a regular sight, him being speechless. He unconsciously moves forward, and you press a hand against his burning cheeks.

“Doyoung,” you whisper, sudden boldness coursing through you, “Kiss me.”

Doyoung doesn’t waste a moment, cupping your face and leaning in. The feeling is exquisite, far more than anything you’ve tasted, or smelt, even if Doyoung bumped his nose against yours a little too hard at first. He takes his time kissing you, the repressed feelings pouring out as though this is his only chance at redeeming them. The pressure against your lips is the warmest thing you’ve felt in the northern kingdoms, and you smile against Doyoung’s lips. He pushes you against the wall for better support, and you find your arms moving to wrap around him, subjecting yourself to him and his touch as much as you can. He tastes sweet, like the wine he had tasted earlier and the kiss is slow, fulfilling and perfect.

“Please get rid of those stupid gloves,” you murmur against his lips.

Doyoung removes them wordlessly, and discards them into some corner, before pressing his thumb against your cheek. His hands are warmer than you remember, and you take them in yours to kiss his knuckles. If he wasn’t red enough already from the kiss, he turns redder and you feel your ego swell some more. You lean back in, and your lips press gently against his this time, and he hums in satisfaction. You kiss in the dark corridors where no one can see you, but it’s the kind of kiss that is supposed to be spoken of only between two.

“You’re very stupid,” Doyoung tells you in the morning, eyes still sleepy.

“I was expecting a ‘good morning, love of my life!’ but okay,” you glare at him. It’s the first time the pillows aren’t there between you, but Doyoung’s touch is as good and soft as any.

“You made me so worried the past few days,” he says, a frown making its way onto his face.

“You didn’t look very worried when your tongue was in my mouth.”

“Do you have to be this way?” Doyoung says, his face and ears a brilliant red.

“I was kidding but I couldn’t resist the idea of your blushy face,” you say, smugly.

“I don’t think that’s a word, and I swear I’ll get back at you one of these days,” he says, glaring.

You smile and place your fingers on Doyoung’s cheek. You’re glad to find them still warm from the sudden rush of blood. Doyoung smiles back, his lips stretching into his adorable gummy smile, and the mushy feeling comes back at the sight.

“I didn’t know it would turn out this way,” you say.

“Me neither,” he breathes out.

You move closer to Doyoung and rest your head against his chest. His heartbeat, the rise and fall of his chest, all of them give you a feeling you didn’t think you’d be able to feel after getting married, after handing over your freedom. The touch of a lover, kisses pressed against your mouth, they were all stories made to charm little princesses. And although you know they came at a cost, you wouldn’t take it back. You don’t regret it, not at all now. Doyoung gives you peace, a different kind of freedom altogether and you wouldn’t ever let that go.

Doyoung rubs his thumb in circles at the small of your back, humming a familiar tune. You cherish the moments now, for you never know what the future is hiding. You know you’ll be throwing a lot less tantrums from now on—Doyoung likes talking it out, and for once, you’ll admit it’s the better way to sort problems. It’s the way the little things mesh to bind your lives that makes you see clearly. You’re lucky—you really are, to have fallen in love with the man you were supposed to. But you’re blessed to have fallen in love with a man who fell in love with you, who you wouldn’t regret spending the end of your days with.

2K notes · View notes

msjr0119 · 5 years

Text

Forgive me

Part 7- Goodbye for now

A mini series, includes suicide and abuse.

Based on true events but using TRR characters who are owned by Pixelberry.

@annekebbphotography @burnsoslow @drakesensworld @ladyangel70 @kingliam2019 @bbrandy2002 @butindeed @bascmve01 @drakewalker04 @pedudley @captain-kingliamsqueen @duchessemersynwalker @insideamirage @of-course-i-went-to-hartfeld @kozabaji @texaskitten30 @ibldw-main @kimmiedoo5 @nikkis1983 @dangerouseggseagleartisan @gnatbrain @walker7519 @lodberg @cmestrella @hopefulmoonobject @addictedtodrakefanfic @angi15h @liamxs-world @rafasgirl23415 @notoriouscs @yukinagato2012 @dcbbw @qammh-blog @nz1091 @beardedoafdonutwagon @cordonianroyalty @custaroonie

******

The Derby had ended, Liam was relieved as he couldn’t concentrate watching it with his father and Regina by his side- constantly asking questions regarding his relationship with Riley. Thoughts constantly repeated in his mind debating whether or not his father was being sincere with his previous words that were said. Drake came by to see him - to check on how his best was doing.

“Hey. I’ve got us a drink. Riley and Max won. Them two together are acting like excited puppies. It’s slightly annoying.”

“Drake come in.” Liam shouted sounding relieved to have some proper company by his side. Constantine and Regina excused themselves leaving the two men alone. Drake passed Liam a beer, as Liam was about to thank him- he noticed something on Drake’s neck.

“Erm, have you been sneaking off with Ella again? Or has Bat-sien had a go at your neck?”

“Damn! I might have to ask one of the girls for some make up. Is it bad? How are you and Riley? Have you kissed and made up yet? She wouldn’t tell us anything.”

“It could be worse. Leo used to literally have blood dripping down his neck. Yes, we are fine. My father is insisting that she should be Queen. Leo is inisisting that I should be Lucas’s father.”

“Leo? You’re as bad as Riley.”

“He’s here Drake. We are not crazy. I wanted to ask you something. A favour really.” Drake suddenly felt a cold shiver down his back- assuming it was just due to the grief he ignored it, wondering what type of favour a prince would require from a commoner.

“Shoot.”

“As there’s no social season, we won’t be doing all the usual events. I know you don’t like all the noble events anyway... so I was going to ask if you could go back to New York with Riley. With Ella too. Then come back together.”

“But you need me here. I go to those events because you are my best friend- my brother.”

“I need someone I trust to keep an eye out on Riley and Lucas. I just thought you’d, what do they say? ‘Jump at the chance’ to see Ella more.”

“Okay, I’ll do it. But you owe me some whiskey.” The two friends laughed at Drake’s bribery techniques. Liam knew he would owe him a lifetime of whiskey for protecting his family.

*****

It was Saturday morning, a week since the gentlemen had first met Riley. A week since she had informed them of the news that nobody would want to be hit with unexpectedly. Walking over to Lucas’s cot, Liam admired his nephew. A fusion of emotions hit him whilst looking adorably at the boy; happiness that this little miracle could carry on the Rhys name, sadness that Riley and he was leaving in the morning and guilt that Leo wasn’t around to celebrate this first milestone. Picking Lucas up, he held him tightly- in a week he had fallen in love with Leo’s mini me.

“Happy first birthday buddy. Your mommy has done a brilliant job of raising you. I love you so much. I hope to spend the rest of your birthdays celebrating with you. Are you going to be a rebellious prince like your father or the ‘goody two shoes’ prince like your uncle?”

“Hopefully a bit of both?”

“Ri... I... I didn’t know you was awake.”

“I felt cold once you got out of bed.” Riley smirked at him, her eyes pleading for him to join her back in bed, with the young prince. Liam carried Lucas over to the bed, witnessing the unconditional bond between a mother a son as Lucas wrapped his arms tightly around her neck.

“Happy birthday my baby. You are so loved. I am never leaving you, you mean so much to me. You may not remember today when you’re older, but this is such a special day.”

“I’ll leave you both to it.” Liam began to walk towards the door, Riley was confused as to why he would disappear- she knew he had no meetings today.

“Why? You’re family. We’re family.” Feeling relieved that Riley wanted to include him in this special occasion he smiled fondly at the two of them. The two people who at this moment in time meant the absolute world to him. Clearing his throat, he couldn’t wait to show Lucas what surprise he had for him.

“I asked Drake to pick me up a present for him from me.”

“You shouldn’t have. The greatest present you could have given him is being present in his life.”

“I’ll always be there for him and for you too.” Kissing her on the forehead he meant every word and had hoped that she would understand that he was being sincere. Sitting Lucas on the floor, he opened Riley’s presents from her first, and then Liam’s. The little boys eyes lit up.

“It’s a bit sentimental to me. Myself and Leo always used to play with trains. I hope he likes it. The royal family tend to keep children’s birthdays private, with just close family and friends attending. I wasn’t sure if you had anything planned seen as though it was an impromptu trip coming here. We could take him for a walk around the grounds? Have a picnic?”

“Sounds perfect Liam.”

******

Riley, Liam and Lucas spent the day just together- allowing Lucas to play with his new toys. Liam had built a train track that travelled all around his room- Riley wasn’t sure who was having more fun. The adult Prince or the young prince. The picnic was brief but simple- all feeling over faced after a while. Once bathing Lucas and reading him a goodnight story, he fell asleep immediately - Riley and Liam spent the remaining time they had together wrapped up under the quilt- their limbs intertwined. Both feeling content in each other’s embrace, surrounded by a calm atmosphere- Liam began to have hope that this was a premonition of what his future was going to entitle.

The morning after; Riley, Lucas, Drake, Ella and Rob were preparing for their flight back to New York. Liam had insisted that they used the royal jet suggesting that he would escort them there- but Drake disagreed, making a valid point that it would be harder and more emotional for Liam to let go of them.

“Drake will look after you both in New York, I will ring you every day. I’m going to miss you both so much.”

“We will miss you too. Won’t we Lucas.” Lucas snuggled into Liam, unable to keep his emotions hidden- Riley walked over to him, caressing his cheek and wiping away his tears with her thumb.

“I’ll be back before you know it your highness.” Liam didn’t care who saw his affections towards Riley, his lips brushed hers not in a teasing way but in a passionate and demanding way instead. Losing theirselves in each other, neither wanted to pull away. “Riley...” he whispered quietly yet slowly, her heart began fluttering at his voice.

“I’ll be waiting for you, always. Nothing will prevent me from seeing you both again.... Riley?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.” Riley hesitated at first, not knowing if to say those three little words back with an audience watching them.

“Liam, I...”

“Riley, come on. Say goodbye. I’ll look after them Liam. Can’t say that I’m going to miss the balls these next couple of weeks.” Drake laughed at his own sarcasm- slightly grateful that he didn’t have to put himself through those events. Liam didn’t feel like attending all the royal events. It was time to say goodbye. The goodbye he knew was coming sooner rather than later but also dreaded. The goodbye to the only person that he had ever felt content with. The only person that he had felt happy with. Without her he would feel like he had lost a limb. The last week, consisted of times that they would just talk, laugh, do normal things that normal people would do. Gaining a bond, learning about each other- sharing memories about Leo. Wishing he could turn back time, so he could have supported Leo when he was alive, saving everyone from all this continuous heartache. Already knowing that his chest would feel empty the minute she left- the only way he could get through this pain was knowing that she was going to return with Lucas.

“I’ll ring you once we land.” Liam nodded before kissing her with one lasting lingering kiss, attempting to hold back the tears that were forming in his baby blues. Watching the SUV drive away, it was as if it was in slow motion. Once it was out of sight, he headed straight to his quarters pushing past everyone who was shouting his name in a concerned manner. Entering the room, the scent of Riley was still lingering. Laying on his bed, he smelt the perfume she wore. Everything reminded him of her, crying uncontrollably into the pillow- he felt more alone now than ever before.

*****

A week had gone by, Drake had kept his promise always checking in on Riley and Lucas. Whilst also getting to know Ella- slowly falling in love with her. Debating on whether to return to Cordonia or to give love a chance. Riley and Liam had too had kept to their promise, always talking on the phone at every opportunity given- both always feeling devastated when they had to hang up. Much to her surprise, she had sold her apartment quickly- now it was a waiting game for the deal to go through. Riley was working, it was dead as if she was stood in a morgue- most of the shift was spent daydreaming about Liam and their discussions over the phone, during this excruciating time apart. Thinking about her last call with Liam, knowing it was only going to be a matter of days before she could see him again.

“Hey.”

“Hello. Are you okay?”

“I’ve got some news. I’m homeless.”

“What do you mean?”

“The apartment sold. The couple loved it and are eager to move in as soon as possible.”

“That’s great news Riley.”

“Isn’t it? Also, I officially only have another week to work. Because I didn’t use all my annual leave- my manager has let me use that towards my notice.”

“So you’ll be back sooner than expected?”

“Yes. It’ll just be myself and Lucas though...Drake is taking an extended stay in New York.”

“I gathered when I spoke to him before. I’m thrilled that you’ll be coming back earlier. I have to go, I don’t want to but I have to. Another ball. I’ve missed you both so much- it’s not the same without you both.”

“We’ve missed you too.”

Unexpectedly Drake and Ella stormed through the door, looking panic stricken unbeknown to her. Before Riley could read their expressions, she poured a whiskey and a cocktail. Whenever her manager wasn’t around she would sneakily give her closest friends a drink on the house. As the two of them arrived at the bar, neither touched their drinks which was unusual- instead just looked at each other with sorrow in their eyes, holding back the tears, they didn’t know how to explain to Riley the news they had just received.

“Are you two going away for a kinky weekend away? What’s with all the bags?”

“Riley... Erm... I don’t know how to tell you this....”

“Drake don’t worry- you’re not my babysitter. I won’t tell Liam. It’s our little secret. Enjoy your time together.”

“Riley, you can’t tell Liam anyway.... he... there was an explosion and an attack on the palace....”

Riley’s brain faltered for a moment, every part of her froze as if her life was on pause. Realising that her brain needed to try and absorb the words that Drake had just said- maybe she misunderstood what he said, but looking at the two people in front of her realisation hit her, waking her up from the trance immediately.

“I... I... oh my god... I didn’t say that I loved him back... Drake you didn’t give me chance to... I can’t... breathe...” Feeling guilty that he had forced to abruptly end their painful goodbye- he needed to think positive even though he was dying deep down. Placing his hand on her shoulder, he told her to breathe- following his instructions and advise she felt slightly better.

“Riley, he’s alive. He’s fine. Well not fine but he’s alive. We have to go back to Cordonia now.”

“What happened to him?” She asked, barely able to ask that question. Tears were now uncontrollably running down her cheek- her mascara was smudged. Drake lent towards her holding her hands after wiping her tears.

“He had a forceful blow to his head, attempting to protect Kiara, who was stabbed.” Looking at the time, he knew Bastien would be here with Maxwell within the next few hours travelling on the the royal jet. “They think he may have become blind due to the explosion and the trauma. I’m so sorry Riley.”

#theroyalromance #choices trr #riley brooks #drakewalker #liam rhys #riley x drake #riley x liam #trr forgive me

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flibbertigiblet · 5 years

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Episode 1: FORESHADOWING GALORE

Was it a perfect episode? No. The pacing is still a bit iffy, the dialogue bland, and important scenes felt rushed/undeveloped. But did it give me hope and/or satisfaction? Yes. Light on action, but heavy on foreshadowing, this episode lays the groundwork for three of our favorite theories – Dark!Dany, Political!Jon, and Jonsa.

As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, I never thought that we would get all our theories openly confirmed in the first episode. The showrunners are giving us the last moments of calm before the storm, and it makes sense that they allow the viewers to enjoy Jon’s homecoming and the various reunions between several beloved characters before they hit us with the major twists those theories entail. What they do instead is pepper the episode with strong hints of these outcomes. In this post, I’ll be highlighting the plot points and dialogue that support these theories, rather than going through the premiere scene by scene.

Let’s jump right into it. This is a long one.

Arrival at Winterfell

After a heartfelt hug with Bran (and thank the gods that we finally get a semblance of humanity from the Three-Eyed Raven in this), Jon turns to Sansa, who had been watching their reunion with a small but fond smile on her face. As Jon rears up to embrace his “sister”, the camera makes sure to cut away from them to focus on Daenerys and Jorah, watching them from a distance. Bran is kept in frame, observing their reactions. Sansa too, turns her gaze on the newcomers, even as she wraps her arms around Jon.

I will admit to being disappointed that the reunion hug between Jon and Sansa was much briefer and less intense than what we got in the HBO trailer, but in retrospect, that fact makes me go “hmm”. After all, they chose that particular sequence to be the first and only snippet from S8 to show in that trailer, despite the episode’s truncated version of the hug (or any other scene from the season, really) being a possible option. A photo of this scene shot from yet another angle from a Spanish(?) publication was circulating the internet only days ago. D&D want us to pay special attention to the relationship between Jon and Sansa.

Podrick Dany certainly is.

Dany and Sansa eye each other from across the courtyard, before the former approaches the Starks. As Lyanna Mormont and Lord Royce stare at her with suspicion, Jon makes introductions.

“My sister, Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell.”

“Thank you for inviting us into your home, Lady Stark,” Daenerys says with a fixed smile. “The North is as beautiful as your brother claimed, as are you.” (You know, one way of interpreting this line was that it was Jon who told Dany that Sansa is beautiful. Because, well. She is.)

Sansa is not impressed by the transparent attempt at flattery. She looks Dany up and down and leans back slightly in thinly-veiled disdain, but her words and voice are perfectly civil. “Winterfell is yours, your Grace.” Take note: neither she nor anyone else in the courtyard bends the knee to their would-be queen.

Daenerys doesn’t buy Sansa’s act for a second, but Bran doesn’t have time for this catfight and tells everyone what’s what. The Wall has fallen, and the Army of the Dead (+ dragon) are marching to Winterfell. That sobers them up quickly.

Meeting the Lords

Everyone is gathered in the Great Hall. Pay attention to the framing. At the head table, Sansa has been relegated to Jon’s right, where Davos, as the Hand of the King, used to sit. Daenerys has taken up Sansa’s former seat to his left, where the Lady of Winterfell typically sits. In this first shot, however, Dany is standing by the fireplace, leaving a visual and metaphorical gap between the Northern pair and Team Dany, represented by Tyrion, who is seated at the far end of the table.

As acting leader of Winterfell, Sansa is the one running the meeting. She establishes the fact that she has called on all the banners to retreat to Winterfell, and asks for an update from Lord Umber, last of that once-mighty House. A young boy no older than Bran was in season 1 pops his head out from behind one of the nameless Lords. He is small, and cute, and has been singled out by the script, so clearly he is doomed.

He addresses first Sansa - “We need more horses and wagons, my Lady,” – then Jon – “and my Lord,” – who flashes him a quick smile – “and my Queen.” – and only then Daenerys, who does not love being third on this list. “Sorry,” apologizes awkwardly. His business is sorted out, and he is sent off.

Jon instructs Maester Wolkan to send ravens to the Night’s Watch to summon them to Winterfell. “At once, Your Grace,” says the man, out of habit, probably, but it’s all the excuse Lyanna Mormont needs to stand up to sass Jon for renouncing his crown (mostly because D&D have designated her the improbable mouthpiece of the North and have not bothered to introduce us to any of the other lords).

Jon tries to make his case, but nobody is convinced, not even when Tyrion tags himself in. As he tries to sway the Northern lords, the camera cuts to the other three – Jon in between the two women, Stark and Targaryen, black and white. They really couldn’t be more obvious about the symbolism here, but in case you missed it, the showrunners give us more evidence that we’re not about to get The Hair Braiding That Was Promised.

Sansa is facing the lords, addressing Tyrion, but is clearly speaking to Daenerys when she asks just how Winterfell is supposed to feed Team Dany’s massive armies and the dragons. Like the responsible leader that she is – take notes, kiddos – Sansa had spent the past few months stockpiling supplies to help her people through winter. Was the North expected to support these newcomers too? “What do dragons eat, anyway?”

“Whatever they want,” says Dany.

The two women look at each other with no further pretense at friendliness. Battle lines have been drawn.

(Jon sits there, pretending not to notice.)

A Proposed Proposal

Davos, Varys and Tyrion are discussing how to salvage the alliance between their respective sides. Davos tells the others that Northerners do not trust easily, that this trust needs to be earned. But he is hopeful that it can happen. “On the off chance that we survive the Night King, what if the Seven Kingdoms, for once in their whole shit history, were ruled by a just woman and an honorable man?”

He is talking about a possible marriage between Jon and Dany, but at this point the audience knows the truth of their relationship, and by the end of the episode – spoiler – Jon does too. Whether or not the GA realizes it yet, this makes the conversation equally applicable to the Jonsa side of the triangle.

Plus, le gasp! A Stark-Targaryen marriage? How dreadfully romantic.*

*Okay, I am actually strongly anti-Rhaegar, but the show plays them as some kind of grand romantic pairing so I will try to contain my antipathy for the purposes of this review.

A Darker Turn

Down at the courtyard, Daenerys is feeling somewhat put upon.

“Your sister doesn’t like me.”

Jon tries to mollify her. “She doesn’t know you. If it makes you feel any better, she didn’t like me either when we were growing up.”

“She doesn’t need to be my friend. But I am her queen. If she can’t respect me…”

WHAT, DANY? IF SANSA CAN’T RESPECT YOU, WHAT WILL YOU DO?

We’ve been saying it for a long while now, but guys. Dark!Dany is coming. While certain elements of the fandom persist in denying the obvious trajectory of her character arc, the foreboding undertone of this line is hard to ignore. What made this even more chilling was that she said this to Jon, a member of her family, who doesn’t yet know at this point in the episode what Dany’s extreme reaction tends to be for insubordination.

(Oh, but we know.)

When Sam learns of what Daenerys did to his father and brother, he could barely hold it together long enough to excuse himself from her presence before falling apart. Despite what Dany stans would have you think, this is a perfectly human and normal reaction to hearing such dreadful news. Also human and understandable? Mistrusting the kind of ruler who would execute a man for not bending the knee. Especially since Sam has personally seen a more humane sort of leadership before in Jon, who he later urges to take up his birthright as the true heir to the Iron Throne.

Other metas have discussed Dany’s approach to leadership and her increasingly draconian (an apt word, no?) attitude towards what she feels is her rightful position as Queen of the 7K. That she can and will take what is hers. A sense of entitlement not dissimilar to that which she attributed to her dragons earlier in that public display which did not endear her to her Northern subjects…

Side note: We’ve seen the indiscriminate destruction that an unchecked dragon can reap before when one of them – then only half-grown – killed the young daughter of a goatherd in Meereen. We even received a handy reminder of this straight from the mouth of Dany’s staunchest supporter and ally only in the episode before this one: “Dragons don’t understand the difference between what is theirs and what isn’t. Land, livestock, children…letting them roam free around the city was a problem.” – Jorah Mormont, S07E07.

And because it hasn’t been hammered into our heads enough, we are reminded of this again later on, when her Dothraki riders list exactly how much her dragons had consumed just that same day (“only eighteen goats and eleven sheep”, which apparently means “the dragons are barely eating”). This is followed by a powerful shot of said dragons surrounded by the charred bones of the livestock that could have fed dozens of people.

The same people who cowered as the dragons flew over Mole’s Town, and whose fear she appeared to relish.

Foreshadowing much?

That Dragon Flying Scene

Oh boy. I’ll be honest. I wasn’t excited to see this one at all. In the end it was both more and less awful than I imagined it would be. The dragon riding scene is bound to be controversial. Thrilling to some, pandering of the worst kind to others. To me, it smacks of fanservice, but let’s give the show the benefit of the doubt and try to parse its storytelling purpose in the greater scheme of things.

Despite Daenerys’ unsubtle threat towards Sansa in the previous scene – which Jon was conveniently prevented from addressing due to the interruption of the Dothraki – and the sight of Drogon and Rhaegal apparently sulking whilst surrounded by the remains of the food they are “barely eating”, the showrunners made the odd decision to play this scene with a note of levity.

Out of nowhere, Dany oh-so-casually encourages her lover to try riding her dragon, a foolhardy decision based on what, exactly? The one time Jon had a moment with one of her “gorgeous beast(s)”? Dany teases him about his initial reluctance, and laughs at his ungraceful attempts to hang on as the two dragons freewheel over the snow-covered lands of the North before landing in front of a beautiful waterfall for a “romantic” moment.

In dialogue calling back to Jon and Ygritte’s famous cave scene (listen, are D&D just going to troll us by recycling all of Jon’s best hits?):

“We could stay a thousand years, says Daenerys, looking back at Jon. “No one would find us.”

“We’d be pretty old,” says Jon with uncharacteristic humor.

I believe Jon’s lightheartedness stems as much from his being home with his family at long last as the thrill of dragonriding with a pretty girl by his side. The two flirt using cheesy lines straight out of bad fanfiction before sharing a kiss which I suppose will please the stans.

Not me, though. Romantic music playing in the background or not, like in boatbang, the supposed passion of the moment is interrupted by a third party which makes the whole thing awkward. The final shot of Jon’s eyes widening as he sees Rhaegal staring directly at him as he kisses the Dragon Queen made me snort, but it is unclear whether it was played for a laugh, is meant to underline the awkwardness of this romance, or be an ominous portent of the revelations to come.

And Now For the Good Stuff

That terrible unnecessary Disneyfied brightly lit, panoramic, even mildly comedic sequence contrasted sharply with the scene between Jon and Sansa only minutes later. We are treated to a Jonsa staple: a warm, candlelit scene full of tension, fluttering eyelashes, and heaving bosoms. This time, the air is shimmering with a new emotion – jealousy.

The two start off by discussing a message from Lord Glover, who “wishes (them) good fortune but he’s staying in Deepwood Motte with his men.” This immediately sparks an argument between them about Jon having bent the knee. They’ve had variations of this fight before, and to be honest, it’s a little tired. While I fully understand Sansa’s reservations about the presence of Dany and her armies in the North in terms of logistics, I tend to be more sympathetic to Jon’s insistence that the discussion on Northern independence needs to take a back seat for the moment given the gravity of the threats they are facing. But Sansa clings stubbornly to this old argument, and she (rather unfairly) lays the blame for Lord Glover’s desertion at Jon’s feet (let’s blame who is really at fault here, Sansa – the disloyal lord himself).

But of course, that’s not really what they’re fighting about.

“You didn’t tell me you were going to abandon your crown,” she says, voice shaking with anger as she turns her back on Jon.

Jon, frustrated, moves several steps closer. “I never wanted a crown. All I wanted was to protect the North. I brought two armies home with me, two dragons.”

Sansa spins around. “And a Targaryen queen?” she spits out.

Ah, and here we come to what appears to be the true cause of her wrath. Jon reminds Sansa that without Daenerys (and her martial strength), they don’t stand a chance against the Army of the Dead. Sansa is silent. She cannot argue the need for the armies and the dragons, but she takes particular exception to the woman who leads them. Why, Sansa? TELL US WHY.

It’s in their eyes as much as their words.

Jon heaves a deep sigh, closes his eyes. “Do you have any faith in me at all?” (Y’all, this line just about broke my heart cause he just wants her to love trust him.)

Sansa’s eyes are soft and slightly glassy. “You know I do.”

Jon takes another step or two towards Sansa, never breaking their gaze. “She’ll be a good queen. For all of us.” His eyes move away briefly. “She’s not her father.”

Sansa looks down, gathering herself with a deep breath. “No, she’s much prettier.”

Jon gives a pained smile of acknowledgment. It is his turn to avoid her stare.

“Did you bend the knee to save the North?” Sansa asks him, her eyes unfocused. “Or because you love her?”

Jon glances up at Sansa, but doesn’t respond.

END SCENE.

(Let’s give a standing ovation to Sophie and Kit for acting the hell out of this scene. I want a hundred gifs of this, people. Please get on it.)

The subtext is rich, rich, rich, my Jonsas. The dream is still alive.

One Last Thought - The Importance of Sansa Stark

Nothing made me happier than seeing our Queen in the North Lady of Winterfell given all the credit and respect that is her due after seasons of anti bullshit. See:

The people’s deference to her position and the role that she plays in the North

Tyrion’s acknowledgment of her survival skills - “Many underestimated you. Most of them are dead now.”

Arya’s steadfast defense of her - “She’s the smartest person I ever met.” - when Jon (Jon???) himself was expressing frustration towards her (check out @athimbleful 's recent ask for an explanation for Jon’s behavior in this scene)

Even Dany’s behaviour towards Sansa (first with that cringey introduction), and later when she singles her out for not “respecting” her, despite the fact that none of the Northern lords were showing her any warmth is an indication of her awareness of Sansa’s alpha status, which is right and just and exactly as it should be.

As recent promo materials, cast interviews, etc. seem be strongly pro-Sansa, I am reasonably optimistic that this all bodes well for our girl. For that alone, I will breathe a little easier...

...at least for one more week.

#got spoilers #got episode review #anti daenerys #dark!dany #political!jon #political jon #jonsa #jonsa is coming #got s8 #got s8 spoilers #jon snow #sansa stark #sansa stark defense squad

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artificialqueens · 5 years

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Show me the Stars, Chapter One (Trixya) - Kite

A/N: It’s been a long ass time since I’ve posted to AQ, but here I am with a Trixya fic. Hope you guys enjoy it! Feel free to check out my concept art over on my tumblr @youre-a-kite. And if you’re feeling the space themed lesbian au vibe, check out my fic Artemis on Ao3, which features Branjie, Trixya and Scyvie in space.

Summary: Trixie is a tour guide in a planetarium who makes up the facts as she goes along, and Katya is an astrophysicist who takes the tour with the intention of calling her out, but doesn’t.

Trixie sighs as the gaggle of elementary kids start to screech when she dims the lights, plunging them into darkness. She waits for the teachers to regain control of the room, and nods politely whilst they apologise, but she knows it’s going to be a few minutes before the kids settle.

It’s the same story every day.

But on the plus side, it usually means she can shave five minutes off the end of her presentation. Ten minutes, if one of them needs the bathroom half way through.

“Good morning kids,” Trixie says, with as much enthusiasm as her slightly hungover self will allow. “My name is Trixie Mattel and I’ll be your tour guide today. Please remember that there is no eating or drinking in the planetarium. Now, raise your hand if you’ve ever seen a star.”

-x-

The door to the break room slams shut behind her.

“I swear to god, I’m quitting tomorrow,” she groans.

Pearl scoffs. “Bitch, you say that every day.”

“I know, but this time I mean it.”

This isn’t how Trixie pictured her life would work out when she moved to LA the moment she graduated college. Like every other hopeful out there, she was going to be a star. She thought she’d at least have a recurring role on a sitcom by now. But gradually, as her savings account has drained, acting classes had been switched for shifts at the makeup counter in the mall. The agent that she’d hired became a luxury that she was no longer able to afford. She’d taken a job at the planetarium because she figured it was the closest thing to acting that she could find, but, God, she fucking hates kids.

Her colleagues are the only thing about the job that she actually enjoys. She’d gotten the job through her roommate Kim and became friendly with the other pretty quickly. She’s never been one to shy away from social situations, especially not at work.

In the break room, anything goes.

Last week, their boss, Brooke, had pulled Trixie into the office to give her a lecture on ‘why we leave our personal lives at home’ when she realised that half of the tours started late one morning because her guides had been too busy grilling Trixie about the hickey on her neck from her Tinder date to keep an eye on the time. Honestly, that talk had gone in one ear and straight out of the other. She figured that it was pretty hypocritical, coming from the woman who’s almost definitely banging the chick who works in the gift shop.

“Trix’, you’ll like this,” Pearl tells her, beckoning her over. “When Violet was working the public telescopes last night, some old couple asked her to point them towards Ursa Major.”

Violet laughs loudly, “like I know where that fucker is.”

“What did you do?” Trixie smirks.

When their job amounts to little more than following a script and flicking the lights on and off at the right time, they all know how stressful it can be when they get asked a specific question.

Violet shrugs, “I just pointed upwards. What else was I supposed to do?”

-x-

After lunch, Trixie is leading the ‘Moons of the Solar System’ tour that is open to the public. On the one hand, the ratio of children to adults on these tours is always much lower, so that’s a positive, but on the other hand, members of the public come with their own set of problems.

There’s the entitled moms, who think that their kids should get to climb up on the displays. There’s the know it all dads, who like to jump in with a ‘well, actually’ every once in a while. There’s always a group of tourists who never listen to the ‘no flash photography’ instruction at the beginning. But every once in a while, there’s someone interesting or quirky or different, that makes her shifts just about bearable.

Pearl is collecting ticket stubs at the entrance to the planetarium dome, and gives Trixie a nod when the last members of the audience have filtered in. As she leaves, she closes the doors behind her and sets the lights so that they begin to dim.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gents. I’m Trixie Mattel and I’ll be your tour guide today. Please remember that there is no eating or drinking in the auditorium. Now, raise your hand if you’ve ever seen the moon.”

She rattles through the opening section about Earth’s moons fairly quickly. It’s the most boring part of the script by far, since even young kids will already know this by now. With feigned enthusiasm, she asks her audience participation questions about solar and lunar eclipses. Once she’s finished, someone raises their hand to ask a question. She prays it’s something she knows the answer to.

“When’s the next lunar eclipse?”

Trixie shifts uncomfortably. The woman’s blue eyes are piercing, waiting for her to answer.

“Um, some time next month. You’ll have to check out our website for further details.”

The woman nods, seemingly satisfied. But she’s barely into her segment on Jupiter’s four largest moons when the woman speaks up again.

“Which space probe has travelled the furthest?”

She has to use all of her willpower to force herself not to roll her eyes. The Lord really is trying to test her today. Quickly, in her head, she rattles through all of the names of the space probes that she knows, trying to pick the one that sounds right.

“Um, Galileo,” Trixie guesses.

The woman smiles, but says nothing.

“And how far away is-“

Trixie has to cut her off.

“I’m sorry ma’am, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave all questions until the end.”

The woman apologises, but it doesn’t make Trixie feel any less on edge.

The thing is, Trixie knows that he answers are wrong. She knows that she’s making up the majority of her script on the spot. And she knows that the parents here are lapping it up, planning to go home and brag to their book club friends about how their kids enjoy educational pastimes, because they’re just so damn gifted.

But this woman. Who’s teetering in skyscraper heels and watching her like a hawk. Who’s nodding along with the presentation, smirking softly to herself, like she knows something that everybody else doesn’t. Trixie is sure that this woman knows that everything she’s saying is bullshit.

Trixie sets up the projectors to play a short clip showing the names and sizes of some of the solar system’s biggest moons, then positions herself in the back corner of the room. Then, as if this woman isn’t odd enough already, she starts to look up at the dome. But she doesn’t look up like all the rest of the parents, with a semi-interested expression and frequent glances to her watch. She looks up in awe, like this is the greatest thing she’s ever seen in her life. Like nothing could bring her to look away, not even for a moment.

And it’s funny, because Trixie is as captivated by the woman as the woman is by the moons.

At the end of the presentation, Trixie is dreading the asking the audience for questions, because she knows whose hand is going to be the first in the air. So, she drags out the end of the show for as long as possible, praying that she overruns. When Pearl pokes her head through the door to give her the two minute warning for the start of Kim’s next group, she’s so relieved, she could kiss her.

“And that’s all we have time for today folks. Please exit via the gift shop on your right. Have a lovely day!”

She makes a beeline for the door, but of course, the woman follows her.

“Hold on, I didn’t get to ask my questions,” she smirks coyly.

Trixie sighs and gestures to the edge of the corridor so they can stand out of the way of the crowds.

“Look, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing but-“

The woman holds up her hands in defence. “I’m not playing any games, I just wanted to know-“

“Save it,” Trixie cuts her off, and she really hopes she’s right because if not she’s just been very, very rude to a curious audience member. But then the woman grins and she knows she isn’t wrong. Trixie sighs. “Are you going to tell my boss?”

The woman shrugs and Trixie’s eyes widen.

“Look, I’m sorry if your kid didn’t enjoy the show or whatever. I’ll get you tickets to the next-“

“Ew, gross” the woman cuts her off by shaking her head, “I don’t have a kid.”

“Oh. Then why are you at a kids planetarium show?”

The woman laughs. Her teeth are perfectly straight and perfectly white, not that Trixie cares.

“My niece watched a show here last week, but the new facts that she learned turned out to be the biggest load of garbage I’ve ever heard.”

Trixie ought to be embarrassed, but really, she’s just annoyed. Why can’t this woman just leave a bad review on trip advisor like a normal person?

“Are you some kind of space expert or something?”

The woman takes a business card out of her purse and hands it over.

Prof. Yekaterina P Zamolodchikova. Astrophysics Department - UCLA.

“Jesus,” Trixie mumbles.

“No, Katya,” the woman replies, holding out her hand for Trixie to shake.

Trixie doesn’t shake her hand.

“Please don’t tell my boss, I really need this job.”

“Maybe if you really needed it, you’d be less terrible at it.”

Trixie shrugs. “That’s fair.”

Katya’s gaze sharpens. “What you’re doing isn’t right. Kids come here to learn and you’re just making shit up as you please.”

Trixie shifts on the balls of her feet. It would be easier to just let Brooke tear her a new asshole than have to put up with this. Maybe if she tells her before Katya has the chance, she’ll get to keep her job.

Trixie looks at her watch and sighs. “Okay, if you’re going to tell her will you at least tell her tomorrow, so that I get paid for the rest of the day.”

Katya looks Trixie up and down, then grins devilishly. “I’m not going to tell her.”

“You aren’t?”

“No.”

Trixie blinks rapidly, then stares at her, unaware of what they’re supposed to do now. Then, Katya gestures to the business card in her hand.

“See the address? I want you to meet me there at eight. I’m going to teach you what you need to know.”

Trixie narrows her eyes. “You’re a college professor and you want to teach third grade physics to a terrible planetarium tour guide…”

Katya shrugs. “Or I could tell your boss that you can’t do your job properly.”

“Fine. God damn it. Whatever. I’ll be there.”

Trixie had been warned of the unsavoury side of life before she moved to LA, but had never thought she would be blackmailed into being educated.

She looks down at the card in her hand, but when she looks back up, Katya is already walking away.

“How will I know where to find you?”

“You’ll know,” she calls back over her shoulder.

“This had better not be a trap so that you can kidnap and murder me,” Trixie shouts after her, earning her a few uncomfortable glances from nearby parents.

“No promises,” Katya tells her, then leaves the building.

#rpdr fanfiction #trixie mattel #katya zamolodchikova #trixya #lesbian au #show me the stars #kite

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thewisestofallowls · 5 years

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I have something to say regarding the Miraculous Episode fandom

I've been watching miraculous for about... 2-3ish years now and I've noticed that the fandom gets progressively worse after almost every episode. If the episode is just a filler episode but is otherwise good and fun, it becomes THE WORST CRIME AGAINST THE FANDOM. If an episode is genuinely bad then all hell breaks loose. It seems as if nobody can give good episodes credit and only want to see the bad in everything. It could be an episode with the best animation, plot, and character development and the fandom would still find something to bitch about.

If Marinette makes a mistake, she becomes the absolute worst person in existence and how dare they make her the main character, even if she learns her lesson in the end. Nobody cares about these main characters and everybody acts like they would rather see characters that havent had enough lines to fill up a page as ladybug and chat noir. Half the fandom hates Adrien and the other half cant see anything he does as wrong. Hell, a good number of the fandom actively prefer the ACTUAL VILLIANS of the show and cant see anything wrong with them. Like excuse me lila (while being a good plot device) is a pathological liar and evil. And gabriel is an emotionally abusive father, enough said. The only characters that have more than a 50% praise rating is alya and nino, which is understandable since they aren't meant to be plot devices but comic relief.

People also tend to forget that this is in fact a kids show. There is most likely not some deep seeded evil plot to be misogynist or racist or whatever. Please stop telling me that Adrien is a misogynist asshole or that marinette is racist because she doesn't seem to care much about her heritage. These characters are 14/15. I know plenty of people that have family with a deep heritage that dont really care until they're older.

Almost every top post is bashing the creators to hell and back and then they get upset when the creators stop giving a smelly cow fart about what those people think. I'm sorry but I grew up in a time where you respected what creators did for you even if you dont always agree with their methods. I was taught that we, as the audience were supposed to give constructive criticism and not outright hate. Yes the creators make mistakes. No, not everything astruc does i agree with. Yes, there are times when I wish the show would go a different way or do something different, but those things do not ruin the rest of the show for me.

This fandom has become childish and rude. I used to respect this fandom for how nice everybody was and how creative, how pleasant it was. Now I dread going through the tags trying to find that one good post. I can no longer respect this fandom (with a few objections, such as @miraculousepisodes ).

I rarely scroll through tumblr anymore but miraculous ladybug was one reason I did and now that might not last much longer.

These people who have nothing better to do than write "salt posts" and hate on a children's show are honestly sad, and I am saddened that they are taking over this once great fandom.

Again, constructive criticism is great, hate is not. Hate does nothing but make the creators dislike you. Everybody is entitle to their opinion and everybody is entitled to prefer one character over another but if you cannot at least treat the main characters with some modicum of respect, just stop watching. You would be so much happier if you just stopped watching.

I guess that's what I'm getting at here. If you dont like the show or you feel that it sends a bad message, stop watching. Let the people who do like it enjoy it and go find something you like better.

Edit: I love miraculous and will probably never stop watching this show despite how frustrated I get at their obliviousness and the fandom.

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criminalspacebros · 5 years

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what is this feeling - space au

Another space au one shot! This one takes place about a year and a half after Jay and Cole met as they’re very good friends now. Basically, Cole’s struggling with dealing that he’s in love with Jay.

Pairing: Bruiseshipping (ColexJay) Space AU

What Is This Feeling?

Cole couldn’t describe it.

Actually yes, yes he could.

It was like his body was on fire. It was like knots forming in his stomach everytime. It was like he had simply forgot how to breathe. It was like his heart had melted into a puddle, eyes softening everytime they fell upon the space pirate.

It was like-

Okay, maybe he couldn’t describe it as well as he thought.

The feeling was purely indescribable.

One thing he knew for sure though, was that the pink in his cheeks just wouldn’t shake away.

Cole panicked. He was supposed to be strong. Yet he was crumbling at the feet of another.

He was supposed to be the one who people fell for.

He was supposed to be Cole.

Flirtatious, charming, witty, Cole.

But why now was it the other way around?

That wasn’t to say Jay was equally as dashing as he, but for some reason, to Cole, he was. And now he was falling for him.

All it took was a smile. Just a single smile. One smile. It made his whole body lock up, afraid to move, the feeling he would miss something if he looked away, even for a millisecond.

It made his heart beat faster. It made his cheeks turn rosier.

Cole put his face in his hands, desperate to hide his face as his thoughts spiraled out of control about Jay.

A clinking sound caught his attention and he shifted his head, peering over his fingers to see a slim glass of some kind of drink sitting in front of him. His eyes wandered over to the space pirate who was excitedly pulling his own glass towards him.

“It’s just grape juice,” Jay whispered to Cole with a little snicker.

So, yes, the two of them were at a bar. The kind of bar where every wanted fugitive and criminal liked to hang around and get wasted. It was Jay’s idea, for starters. But not for the drinks, for the karaoke.

However, when they arrived, the stage had already been taken by two other young boys, headbanging to the wordless tune.

Jay had shuffled to the bar, plopping down on one of the stools, heart heavy when his hopes of getting to the karaoke mic first crumbled right before him.

And, Cole couldn’t describe it, but he dreaded seeing Jay feeling hopeless.

Even without his silly little crush, the half of their BF pin that Cole held onto entitled him with the duty of being the one to cheer Jay up in times of need. Unfortunately, that time was now. And now, there was a nagging little voice in his head that told him he’d only screw things up if he tried to help.

So, he didn't. He merely sat, and that's when the thoughts about Jay began to stir in his head.

“You ordered grape juice at a bar?” Cole wanted to laugh. He literally could not help it. What kind of person ordered a glass of grape juice at a bar? Someone like Jay, that was who.

Sweet, innocent, kind.

And very, very, adorable.

“Well, yeah, I just figured… you know, I'm not the type to get wasted at a bar.” Jay hunched his shoulders, turning his head away so that Cole could only see his eyepatch.

Cole snagged a stir stick and stuck it in his grape juice, swirling it around. He'd never actually had grape juice before, let alone any kind of fruit juice. Unlike Jay, Cole was the type of guy to go out to bars and get wasted.

Typically, the alcohol never affected him, the couple times it did, however, Cole wound up destroying the karaoke stage. He won the title as ‘Karaoke Drunk’ at the bar, something Jay knew all too well as he had seen the recorded video.

See, apparently someone actually had caught all of it on video and shared the whole thing with the bar, flat out embarrassing Cole in front of everyone. Funny enough, he had an original copy.

That day, Cole had snagged the mic from the person up on the stage and waved him off, kicking the stool down. He flipped through the song choices, face flushed. “Let’s see, what song’s this?”

“Okay! I’m gonna sing this song!” He slurred out of spite.

The music started to play and a familiar tune reached his ears. His tainted mind quickly registered the tune and he swiftly jumped into the music. It first started as a loud screaming, Cole clearly unaware of anything he was doing. But as soon as it hit the chorus, Cole’s voice started to pick up and he unravelled the most melodic tune.

Haven’t you noticed that I’m a star?

He hopped off the stage, shimmying his way through the audience that began to collect.

I’m coming into view as the world is turning!

All through the night Cole sung, doing things he probably would have never done if he were sober. Eventually, he passed out, asleep at the bar.

Cole stared at Jay as he continued to mindlessly stir the grape juice.

The space pirate was drinking from a straw, the biggest smile on his face. Cole forced himself to hold back from blushing, looking away whenever necessary.

Cole found it absolutely ridiculous. He found himself absolutely ridiculous.

He wasn’t in love. He couldn’t be in love. Not him. Not with Jay. No way.

Jay looked his way and opened his mouth. Cole tried not to let himself get distracted.

“You’ve been stirring the grape juice for two minutes straight. I want to know how you like it. Do you want it? Or… or should I just order you something else?”

Cole couldn’t help but notice how his eye crinkled with every word.

“Oh! Cole, the stage is open!” In an instant, Jay zipped past him and onto the stage, grabbing a hold of the mic and flipping through the song choices. He looked up hesitantly, “Cole! Come on! Let’s sing together!”

The fugitive spun around in his seat, leaning back against the bar. “No. No, I’m good down here.” Cole slammed his mouth shut when he caught himself stuttering.

A frown fell on Jay’s face but it was immediately replaced by a smile as he started the music.

Cole watched in awe, not even realizing that he was staring hopelessly at the pirate.

The space pirate had chosen ‘Accidentally In Love’, which gave Cole a good laugh as it seemed to match his exact thoughts at the moment.

And, though Jay’s singing voice wasn’t exactly perfect, Cole had to admit it was cute to see him try.

In the midst of all his singing, Cole opted to give the grape juice a try.

Surprisingly it wasn’t as bad as he thought. On the other hand, Jay had noticed and he silently cheered into the microphone, biting his bottom lip as he tried to hold back a giggle.

Cole’s cheeks grew immensely warm.

He quickly spun back around to keep Jay from noticing, staring down at the table.

Minutes passed and Jay had surprised Cole from behind, poking him on the shoulder with a soft ‘Boo!’ once he was done.

Though a part of him wished he got the chance to stand up there and karaoke the night away with Jay, he knew another part of him had forced him to stay behind for obvious reasons. Maybe some other time.

Meanwhile, Jay was seated beside Cole, nudging him ever so slightly as he laughed.

“You should have came up, dummy! It wasn’t that fun without you, y’know?” He said, softly adding the last part.

Cole only nodded.

As the space pirate laughed some more, Cole felt his heart beat faster. His brown locks bounced on his head as the boy threw his head back, falling forward and using an arm to hold him up before his body could collide with Cole’s. His smile was bright. A light pink color dusted Jay’s cheeks, hiding his freckles.

Cole bit the inside of his cheek.

He wondered:

What would it be like to kiss Jay?

Cole couldn’t believe he had just thought that.

Cole couldn’t believe it at all.

#lego ninjago #ninjago #ninjago cole #ninjago jay #cole brookstone #jay walker #bruiseshipping #geodeshipping #bruise au #geode au #colexjay #jayxcole #space au #fic #ninjago fanfic #fanfiction #oneshot #romance

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marginalgloss · 5 years

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san andreas fault

The first thing worth saying about The Mars Room by Rachel Kushner is that although it is set in a prison for women, it is really nothing like Orange is the New Black. It is also not exactly a ‘prison novel’. Perhaps any description of it ought not to be centred on a prison at all; if we call it instead ‘a novel about a woman who had a rough childhood, who becomes a sex worker and whose life takes a bad turn through circumstances beyond her control’, that would be another way of talking about it. But it could also be called a ‘a novel about the post-industrial American landscape’ or ‘a novel about how capitalist ideology came to occupy unquestioned every aspect of what had previously been the prerogative of the state’. There’s a lot going on here.

Most of the chapters follow a woman named Romy Halls. Hers is one of those names which seems at first almost too Dickensian to be real, but which somehow concedes its own sort of authenticity. Romy is sent to jail after killing a man; after they met in the strip club where she was a dancer, this man began stalking her. Owing to an ineffectual public defender, this was no defence at all in the eyes of the judge. Romy is sent down, separated from her young son, with little hope that she will ever see him again.

Prison is relentlessly awful. Every pointless, inhumane, degrading, exploitative detail is noted by the author — everything from the arbitrary rules that determine what can be worn to the expensive bureaucratic monopoly of the prison telephone system. OITNB at times suggested a camaraderie between the prisoners, and reminded its audience that the reasons women tend to end up in prison are often quite different to those of the opposite sex. The Mars Room does a little of the same, but it’s far more bleak and violent. By comparison it maintains a certain distance from the other prisoners. Many of them are nasty people: murderers, baby-killers; they throw boiling sugar-water in each other’s faces. The novel seems to concede that a certain kind of person here exists beyond the understanding of a novelist.

It is a bad place and the world outside is not much better. This is California in the early 00s, a blasted landscape of decaying malls, vacant lots, fast food forecourts and dubious strip joints. It is an infinite suburbia, radically decentred, deprived by design. This is where Romy grew up; the novel opens with a long bus ride that takes her out that world and into the prison-world, somewhere nameless out in the vast west coast wilderness. Geography is notable in this novel, but most of these places seem to exist beyond names. You couldn’t point to them on any map. In this regard, prison seems like the ultimate kind of placelessness. Incarceration involves a deliberate separation of the inmates from the natural world — the barren panopticon of the yard and the running track could barely be called nature. Eventually the prisoners come to feel a kind of dread at the sight of the mountains and orchards in the distance. They are only symbols of failed escapes, can only suggest slow suffering in the wilderness.

But there are other aspects to this novel. From time to time a chapter will be written from another perspective, typically a male one. There is Gordon Hauser, a fairly average middle-class professor who runs classes for the inmates in Romy’s prison; and there’s Doc, a bent cop serving time for murder(s) in a separate facility for sensitive inmates (i.e. those most at risk from violent recrimination). Part of Hauser’s role is to stand in for the naivety of the expected audience of this book. He is educated, liberal, lightly contemptuous of the other staff, and mostly convinced that his role is to rehabilitate women who must have suffered some terrible evil to be where they are in life. He is confounded when some of the women tend towards exploiting his generosity. The reader might be inclined to be more generous towards the inmates. Even this doesn’t seem like an especially unreasonable thing for them to do, given the circumstances.

Doc, on the other hand, is one of a handful of characters here who are almost entirely without redeeming features. (Kennedy, the man who Romy killed, is the other; the single chapter dedicated to him is a portrait of entitled, predatory masculinity that is grim without reservation.) Doc is simply awful — a sneering shell of a man — uncaring, unapologetic, universally contemptuous. These chapters throw into relief a broader problem that the book has with the voice of its characters: all of them are too much of their own type. If Doc and Kennedy are villainous, Hauser is mostly just an object of pity. Romy, on the other hand, is nothing but sympathetic, and at times her voice seems less like her own and more like an authorial surrogate. The problem is not so much that she’s literate, or that her voice is devoid of an ‘accent’ that we might associate with poverty in the Dickensian sense; it’s that there’s something in it which stretches the confines of first-person narration a little too far, until it feels almost like the narrator has herself become omniscient. She reads like a person commenting on their own life as if it had been lived by someone else. (Perhaps you could argue that this is the point.)

Hauser, meanwhile, does not spend all his time in the prison. We see a good deal of his life outside, underlining the kind of everyday freedom he enjoys in the wider world. Sometimes he retreats to a cabin in the wilderness to read, to live amongst people totally unlike him and to think great thoughts. Other authors are invoked — Thoreau, naturally — but also Theodore Kaczynski, who was once known as the unabomber. A handful of extracts (notably uncredited) from Kaczynski’s diaries are blended into the chapters here. I wondered about this. Those chapters emphasise his violent reaction to the industrialised destruction he saw all around him, which was apparently so at odds with the measured quality of his prose.

Is that contrast as surprising today as it once was? I’m not sure. The Mars Room seems circumspect about the purpose of these passages. There’s a reluctance in the text to say what should be obvious: that Kaczynski went too far. Perhaps the novel is only trying to suggest that the impulse to tear it all down, by any means necessary, is still compelling. Who amongst us hasn’t been irritated by the sound of loud motorcycles, or appalled at the sight of logging in familiar patch of forest; who hasn’t felt the urge to do something?

Fifteen or twenty years ago it was the thing to hold up Kaczynski’s writings as being philosophically sound — worth reading, even if the ultimate results of his methodology were beneath contempt. I wonder if this is still the case. The outsider logic of the unabomber — the man who would set himself apart from the rest of humanity, in his cabin, with his rifle — has almost become the new normal. I say ‘almost’ because Ted thought we should do without, while the angry white men who came after him saw no reason to chase the same asceticism. But some of them were happy to take up rifles and to build bombs regardless. They saw something of the same threat in the world around them.

#books #rachel kushner #the mars room

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islamcketta · 5 years

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When I found a copy of Friday Night Lights by H.G. Bissinger in a Little Free Library on Super Bowl weekend, I thought it was placed there to help me brush up on my football lingo before writing a big article for work. Instead, I think it was there to help me get through the following weekend—the weekend of my Djiedo‘s memorial service in Austin. It was a timely lesson, too, in the problems of racism and classism that persist in our country, but what made it just right for me right now was understanding what makes a hero in Texas (or anywhere).

Endemic Racism

We know we have a problem with racism in our country. Or at least I hope we know how much of a problem it is. It was helpful for me, though, to dig into this story of a small(ish) Texas town obsessed with football and how much they did not see (or did not want to see) how they excluded entire categories of people based on the color of their skin. Living (as a white person) in the Northwest, it has been easier for me to pretend that the civil rights era put us on the right road to setting ourselves straight. But reading about Odessa forced me to look hard at some ugly facts. It’s hard to change the views of people who are comfortable with their lives, even (especially?) if those lives are lived on the backs of others. I was gobsmacked by the fact that Odessa’s high schools were not integrated until 1982. Not only that, but the sense of white entitlement that accompanied that segregation.

This book made me look differently at my Texas experience this time around. I’ve been looking even harder at my own actions and beliefs in the past few weeks as I’ve watched the Ralph Northam controversy unfold. I’ve never worn blackface nor a klan uniform, but I know I’ve said some racist, bigoted, sexist, and downright mean things in my life. I’m actively trying to be better, but that doesn’t change the hurt I put into the world. Looking around me in Texas this trip, I’m seeing so much of what I’ve failed to see at home—the stratification of the society around me. I see the Hispanic cashiers at the CVS, the Hispanic cooks working behind white cashiers at the BBQ joint, the almost entirely white and Asian audience at my grandfather’s memorial.

When my Djiedo’s people came to the U.S., they were just hunkies—a racial slur that encompassed anyone from Eastern Europe. He worked his way up from coal miner to professor to presidential advisor, but none of that makes me entitled to better treatment or a better life just because my ethnicity blended out in a generation. I was shocked to read about the casual racism in Odessa and it was also all too familiar. It’s easy to think I’ve earned the life I have based on my merit (that’s the American ideal, right?) when really I’ve had so many advantages (and not just racial ones).

Class Matters

One of the stories I was raised with was that my Djiedo was friends with everyone—from the man who made paperclips to the man who owned the paperclip factory. In some ways I think this was true as I’ve met some of the friends he accumulated over the years. True that many of them had achieved much in life, but some of that was that age gives us time to accomplish much and I often had the feeling that Djiedo had known many of these men “when”—before they became the titans they became.

Reading about Odessa’s origins and the glorious days of oil booms and the terrible failures of busts, the fact that people were pulling down large salaries with little to no advanced education and then were flat busted when the price of oil changed reminded me how much of our identity we tie up in our achievement—and how hard we fall when that achievement is taken away. It made me think about how harder it’s getting to make a living wage, even with a college education and how, as a country, we’re drowning in student loan debt because school seemed to become the right (only) option after 2008 even as tuition skyrocketed. How this takes us all so much farther from the “pull yourselves up by your bootstraps ideal. How it makes us afraid. How in our fear we pull even farther apart as a country. How a life like my Djiedo’s is still maybe possible, but not really. And I wonder what we’ve become.

The Making of Heroes

On a hill in the middle of the Texas State Cemetery stands a granite stone as close to burnt orange as you nature allows. On that stone the names of my grandfather, grandmother, and aunt are engraved, their ashes buried beneath. It was a big deal to my Djiedo that he was able to be buried there. Having never forgotten where he came from, acclaim mattered in every bone of his body.

I couldn’t help but think of my Djiedo as Bissinger returns again and again to the image of the Permian Panthers as gladiators—boys who carry the hopes of an entire town for a few months in the fall. While being a player didn’t change their class, they were heroes on the field. Until they weren’t. Some of those boys made good after, but not based on the brutal things they did to their bodies in that stadium.

Because my Djiedo was building for the long haul, his sense of achievement only grew with time and he never had to experience that sense of bubble bursting. Instead, my family and I sat in a large hall on Saturday while deans and a university president lauded my grandfather. They talked of his energy, the way be made friends with everyone (and for life), and his propensity for throwing erasers at sleeping students. It was a surreal experience. The kind of thing Djiedo soaked up and loved, the kind of thing most of the rest of us dreaded (being trotted out for display for the achievements of others can make you feel, well, less than achieved yourself), but something I know he earned. The stories were familiar, the film, too, but appreciated, all of it. There was a lot of love in that room for my Djiedo. And reminders that my own heart could (and should) be more open. That I have been given everything and now my life is only what I make of it (in alignment with whatever values I choose).

Life is not linear. Nor is the path to success. I was reminded of that and inspired when, at my Djiedo’s graveside, my cousin did what I would never have thought to do—she opened the lid to the urn and let my curious son release a smidgen of Djiedo back into the world. Djiedo lives on in places of honor—that cemetery, the John J. McKetta School of Engineering at the University of Texas, in my heart. And his legacy is set. Now it’s my time on the field. May I do honor to the name of great man and to the life I have been given.

The post Friday Night Lights on Race, Class, and the Makings of a Hero in Texas appeared first on A Geography of Reading.

#Lit #Books #USA & Canada #friday night lights

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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Why Werewolves Within Isn’t Your Typical Werewolf Movie

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

The small town of Beaverfield is much like many others across the nation in 2021. There is political polarization, longtime residents suspicious of newcomers, a stark wealth gap, infidelity, gossip, and at least one guy who is either a scary loner or just wants to be left the hell alone. But in the new film Werewolves Within what really sets Beaverfield apart is their lycanthrope problem.

Based loosely on the multiplayer Ubisoft VR game of the same name, the film — which is now playing in theaters and hits Digital Rental & VOD on July 2 — is a horror-comedy whodunit where a handful of locals are locked down during a winter storm while a monster hides amongst them.

Directed by Josh Ruben (Scare Me) with a script by novelist Mishna Wolff (I’m Down), Werewolves Within shares cinematic DNA with Clue and Knives Out on the mystery side, as well as The Thing and An American Werewolf in London on the horror end, with a little Fargo thrown in for good measure.

The audience enters the world of Beaverfield through the POV of plucky pushover Finn (Sam Richardson from Veep), the new forest ranger in town before introducing Cecily (Milana Vayntrub, Die Hart), a welcoming postal worker hungry for a new person to meet. Through her, a cast of quirky townsfolk come into focus as the storm approaches, and everyone bickers over the proposed oil pipeline that will bring in big money but is environmentally devastating. And that’s before the corpse is discovered.

What makes the mystery of Werewolves Within especially fun is Beaverfield’s residents are played by a roster of character actors who bounce off one another in the way the cast of Clue did: Harvey Guillén (What We Do In The Shadows), George Basil (Crashing), Sarah Burns (Barry), Michael Chernus (Tommy), Catherine Curtin (Orange is the New Black), Wayne Duvall (The Hunt), Rebecca Henderson (Russian Doll), Cheyenne Jackson (30 Rock), Michaela Watkins (Brittany Runs A Marathon), Glenn Fleshler (True Detective).

Ruben and Wolff joined Den of Geek for a Paranormal Pop Culture Hour to discuss their collaboration on the video game adaptation. In the following interview, they likewise talk of a shared love of werewolf flicks, as well as why murder mysteries and creature features go hand-in-paw.

Note: Quotes edited lightly for clarity and length

What were the werewolves you loved growing up? Mishna, since your last name is Wolff, I think that entitles you to go first.

Mishna Wolff: There’s so many. Joe Dante’s The Howling, for sure. Definitely Wolfen, starring Albert Finney. That’s a great werewolf story. He’s actually wasted in that movie, as well. I would say Silver Bullet has a fun kids’ story in it.

Obviously, An American Werewolf in London, but I was always like, “More decaying humans! Can we get more decaying humans on the screen?” I feel like he uses them so sparingly. I could’ve done twice as many decaying humans.

Josh, what scratched your lycanthropic itch?

Josh Ruben: Clawed, even. I mean, the first one that really hit me was the guy in Monster Squad. He was a blue collar, everyday fellow who you really seem to feel his excruciating pain and torment, and that really hit me. There was something about the kids that kind of went after all the entities in that movie, but the werewolf in that one was particularly terrifying, and so much of it came through his performance. I think between him and the one in Silver Bullet, ridiculous as it ultimately ended up looking, that is a dreadful — as in a good dreadful — terrifying film. It really felt like what would really happen if you and your drunk uncle had to take on a lycan.

Later in life, my most recent favorite is Late Phases. I think that movie is so good. It’s so brilliant, and it’s also a Hudson Valley production. I was shocked by how much I loved that one. That’s a new fave.

Video game adaptations are so often not very good movies. So what was your approach? Was it to just sort of toss away the entire game? What elements do you think were important to preserve from the VR game?

Mishna Wolff: The feel. I mean, I feel like that was always the thing. All screenwriters who you talk to about adaptations, and they talk about, “What do you owe the source material?” I think you owe it the feel, and I feel like certainly, in the midpoint of the movie, when everyone’s huddled in the inn and they’re trying to ferret out who the werewolf is, it does feel like that video game, even though it’s a different era.

How did you set out to play with archetypes and the role women often play in these films?

Mishna Wolff: The movie started out with a lot of thinking about archetypes. I happen to love movies with pretty clearly-drawn archetypes. I like archetypes. I feel like it’s reassuring when you walk into a movie and you feel like “Oh, I know who that guy is.”

I like upsetting archetypes and having little things be different about the archetype than you expect, but feminism certainly plays a role in those archetypes and women in film haven’t always been given life and death stakes, so that was a huge thing that I was thinking of.

Josh, in Scare Me, there is a werewolf sequence. Was that in a strange way, a being a bit of an audition of sorts for Werewolves Within as your second feature?

Josh Ruben: I think it ended up being the case in Scare Me because it is the creature that freaks me out the most and that story, silly as it is, the first one out in Scare Me, is an idea I’ve had in the back of my head forever that just kind of collects cobwebs. It’s all crazy coincidence, and I’m happy to find my brand in recessed shadows, creatures in the dark and quirky, emasculated human beings. I think I’d be fine to tell those stories again and again.

Why do werewolves and murder mysteries pair well?

Josh Ruben: Going back to Silver Bullet, you have that priest character who, once it was revealed he was the big bad, it became that digging your fingernails into your knees, like “Oh my God, they have no idea they’re in the presence of this awful thing.” That’s terrifying, more so than a vampire or pretty much anything else. It’s the true movie monster, where they can walk amongst us during the day and be our brother, best friend, mother, father, whatever, but turn out to be the most violent thing, and terrifying thing imaginable.

And we can all have a monster within?

Josh Ruben: It makes sense, in the allegory of it all. In a film like this, everyone can be implicated. The allegory and theme of it all is, we all have violent, dreadful thoughts every once in a while when pushed to our limits. Even Sam’s character, as wonderful a protagonist as he is, he’s pushed to his limit, as well. Every character could have reason to be a werewolf, hence the wonderful mystery of it all, but it played lockstep for me. It’s a testament to Mishna’s incredible work. I just opened it and was just like, this feels like Arachnophobia and Fargo.

Sam Richardson’s Finn is the new ranger in town and he’s a nice guy. But there’s the notion that either nice guys finish last, or nice guys are too good to be true. So why are we so against nice guys?

Mishna Wolff: Well, yeah, a person can be too good to be true. There’s a couple of nice guys in this movie that are suspicious, and the reason Finn is such a nice guy is because the movie that we fashioned is his worst nightmare. He’s afraid of conflict, he’s a nice guy and he’s about to enter the epicenter of meanness. This movie’s designed to torture him and break him, and it almost does.

Josh Ruben: Nice guys have werewolves within them, mean guys have werewolves within them. Oh, it’s just fascinating to play with the archetype because I think Bundy was a nice guy, at least in his circle, and Gacy, so it’s fun to play with those kind of expectations. There’s a wonderful moment, without giving anything away, where even this wonderful protagonist reaches a breaking point where he has to match everyone else and it should raise the question “Well, shit, could it be the nicest character of all?”

Was there any version of this movie where there may not have been an actual werewolf?

Mishna Wolff: No. I thought about going there and just having it be more cerebral and meta, but I always start everything with the end in mind. Josh was super collaborative, and he had some tweaks on the ending. The werewolf is the werewolf, and that didn’t change, but he made some really nice changes to the ending and I thought it worked really quite well.

Josh, what did you discover about the challenges of tackling a werewolf movie where you’re ultimately going to have to show the monster?

Josh Ruben: When it came down to the werewolf, it’s like, “Well, we don’t need to see skin breaking, we know what this is going to be, we can evoke that visceral transformation and the terror of it all, but let’s just get to it.” At that point, when it came to the werewolf itself, it was nothing too extravagant. It was just like, “Oh shit, this is going to happen.”

Also, within the mythology of this character and this thing, and how fast it killed, it was fun to think about it having control over its changing as part of its, again, mythology and how it went about its business.

Mishna Wolff: That was such a conversation in the room, too, about, “Can it control? It can’t control? How come it can control? What kind of … ” It’s like “Doesn’t matter. Trust me.”

Josh Ruben: No one will be writing mean letters if they’re along for the ride, if they feel taken care of, whether the claws retract or extend, whether they change quickly or not, it’s just got to be a fun ride.

Mishna Wolff: I think the creature features that Josh and I grew up loving were always done a little bit on the cheap with the exception of maybe The Thing and Alien, which were really crazy expensive, but I think that’s part of the fun of the creature feature, to me at least

Josh, with Scare Me, you used the word “incel,” which you filmed before it was part of our lexicon. Now, this is neighbor against neighbor, people are either hiding the truth or rejecting it, and there is the idea that being grouped together can lead to your own death. You could not have predicted the relevancy of this, so how is it landing for you now?

Josh Ruben: It’s pretty phenomenal when people like Michaela Watkins improvise a line like “Antifa.” You think “Oh, that’s going to be the shelf-life joke that will end up on the cutting room floor.” And no, it remains to be one of the more relevant pieces of the film and of this character.

I mean, she’s a Karen. She was a Karen before the Karen thing. With incel, it’s funny, too, because Aya Cash was the first one. She improvised that line, “What are you, an incel?” I didn’t know what the word meant and Fred quite was.

It’s unfortunate how relevant it is, but I’m thrilled that it is because I’d like to think that the film is a ride so, hopefully, regardless of what people take away from it, regardless of the relevance of it all, I’d like to think that it’s coming out at a time where, after the trauma of it all, from the insurrect-y through the pandem-y, that people can at least forget the trauma of the past 16 and a half months and sort of go for the ride. We’re offering less bleak fare; we’re offering more fun fare coming out of this dark chapter, but it’s both wonderful and terrifying that it’s so relevant and will remain to be. There will always be people who are narrow-minded in small corners of the world and narrow-minded in the most liberal corners of the world, as well. The newcomers are no better than the townies, in some cases, in many cases in the film. Mishna Wolff: I think we were banking that people would be ready to laugh at everything that’s gone on, at this point, that people would be ready … Can we make fun of it now? Is it too soon? No?

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Werewolves Within is in theaters now, and will be available on Digital Rental & VOD July 2, 2021

The post Why Werewolves Within Isn’t Your Typical Werewolf Movie appeared first on Den of Geek.

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Noah Gundersen’s Restless Heart

In 2014, Noah Gundersen released his first full-length album. The record in question, Ledges, was a masterclass in contemporary folk music, loaded with confessional lyrics, acoustic guitars, and fiddles. By all accounts, Gundersen seemed like a traditionalist. In 2015, Gundersen quickly followed Ledges up with his sophomore LP, the spiritually fraught Carry the Ghost. It was still a folk album, but Noah was fleshing things out, adding fractious electric guitar and other elements of full band instrumentation into the mix. It was clearly the work of a young songwriter who was yearning to grow. Between the fall of 2015 and the early winter of 2016, Gundersen did two tours in support of Carry the Ghost. The first was a full-band endeavor, presenting the songs on Ghost as they were meant to be heard. The second was a solo tour, where Gundersen played songs from both Ledges and Carry the Ghost on acoustic guitar, solo electric guitar, and piano. It was a stark, intimate presentation, and it showed off what made Gundersen so special: his vulnerable, fragile voice; his songs that could work well no matter how much he built them up or stripped them down; and his honest, forthright lyrics. But something was wrong. Gundersen was having a crisis of faith—not the same crisis of religious faith he wrote about on Carry the Ghost, but a crisis of faith in his own art. When I saw Gundersen on the solo tour for Ghost, he was pointedly reserved. He bantered with the audience occasionally, but during the songs, his eyes were cast toward the floor or closed entirely. And at the end of the show, when a condescending moderator led a Q&A session and suggested that Gundersen was “so young” and “couldn’t have possibly experienced what he sang about in his songs,” Noah seemed at a loss for how to answer—at least politely. When the Q&A ended, Gundersen headed quickly for the stage door. “Instead of my life up to that point flashing before my eyes, it was my future,” Gundersen says of that tour in the press materials for his new album, titled White Noise and out September 22. “A future of playing songs I didn’t believe in and pouring my soul out into a vehicle I no longer recognized or loved.” For those who have been following Gundersen for a little while, that statement may or may not be shocking. Gundersen, I’ve gathered, is the kind of artist who turns against his old work as he continues to grow and change. When I spoke to him in the lead-up to the release of Carry the Ghost, Noah explained the evolution in his sound by distancing himself from Ledges. “My taste and my aesthetic has changed since the writing of those songs,” he said. “I wanted to make something that was different, something that I would enjoy listening to.” While Carry the Ghost may have been something Noah would have enjoyed listening to then, though, it probably isn’t anymore. Just like he grew out of the Ledges material, Gundersen now views the Ghost songs with a similar level of detachment—like they were written by someone else instead of from his own pen. “I wish I knew why it happens,” Gundersen said, speaking of his consistent artistic restlessness. “It’s kind of a pain in the ass. I just think I’m perpetually dissatisfied, which can be really frustrating. But it also drives my creativity and my desire to do better and to make things that are better than what I’ve made in the past.” On Carry the Ghost, that desire drove Gundersen to take the contemporary folk sound of his debut and flesh it out. On White Noise, it drives him to take that sound and crash it off a cliff. Where Ghost felt like a natural evolution from its predecessor, White Noise feels every bit as restless as Gundersen seems in conversation. There are three songs that may have fit on previous records. The rest find Noah casting about and exploring new frontiers. He’s helped in his exploration by Nate Yaccino, the friend who Gundersen brought in to produce the record. (Noah self-produced both Ledges and Ghost.) “[Nate] pushed me sonically in a lot of ways that I wouldn’t have necessarily gone on my own,” Gundersen said. “I think having someone to push back against and have a dialogue with, someone who is creatively enhancing the experience, I think that’s really important. This record definitely wouldn’t be what it is without his contributions.” On first listen, some fans—particularly the ones who have been with Noah since the bare bones EPs he made as a teenager—will probably find some of those contributions jarring. Noah’s vocals get pitch-shifted, multi-tracked, and buried in reverb in the middle of “After All,” the 90s rock flavored opener. Laser-blast sound effects and other ambient noises canter around in the background of “Cocaine, Sex, and Alcohol (From a Basement in Los Angeles).” And “New Religion” builds from an organ-drenched piano ballad into a full-on psychedelic, Beatles-inspired bridge. Still, it’s fairly clear that Yaccino isn’t pulling Gundersen anywhere that he wasn’t ready to go on his own. That’s partially because Gundersen is far from the traditional singer/songwriter that he presented himself as on Ledges, but it’s also because he didn’t completely know where he wanted to go when he started making White Noise. “The early formation of the ideas for this record were kind of all over the place,” Gundersen said. “When I started writing it, there was a phase where it was going to be like a Nine Inch Nails record. I was listening to a ton of Nine Inch Nails. Then there was a moment where it was going to be more like a Nick Cave record. And then it was Radiohead’s OK Computer. And Paul Simon’s Still Crazy After All These Years was actually a really influential record for us, too. “So there were a lot of moments along the way where it was going to be something more specific. And then it kind of just morphed into an amalgamation of a lot of the different phases of obsession that I had.” White Noise sounds as scattered as Gundersen’s words imply. Lead single “The Sound” is a surging rocker with shades of Noah’s side band, Young in the City. Ditto for the cheekily titled “Number One Hit of the Summer.” The synth-heavy “Heavy Metals” recalls the 1980s ambient rock style of The 1975. “Bad Desire” is a bluesy pop song that wouldn’t have been out of place on John Mayer’s Battle Studies. “Sweet Talker” has shades of Coldplay’s X&Y and U2’s The Unforgettable Fire. And “Bad Actors” and “Cocaine, Sex, and Alcohol,” likely to be the record’s most polarizing moments, see Noah wearing his Radiohead influence proudly on his sleeve. The themes of the record are no less expansive. In his Facebook post announcing the album, Noah wrote that it was about fear, anxiety, desire, despair, hope, and joy. It’s also about alienation and division, caused by the simultaneous connection and isolation allowed by social media and by the hateful political landscape inspired by our current presidential administration. The statements here aren’t as clear as they were on Carry the Ghost. There, Noah was exorcising years of personal demons about how religion so rarely practices what it preaches. Here, he’s threading a more universal needle—a fact that pushed him to write more toward a feeling or vibe than a literal narrative. “I didn’t want it to be some kind of confessional on-the-nose angst thing,” he said. “I didn’t want to get up and literally say ‘Social media is destroying humanity’ and ‘Trump sucks’ and all this stuff. That feels so cliché and banal when you hear it laid out literally.” At the same time, though, Gundersen also didn’t want to hide his “confessional on-the-nose angst” behind irony or cynicism, in the way that recent records from the likes of Father John Misty and Arcade Fire have done it. He didn’t want to be afraid of his own earnestness—even if being sincere is rarely what moves the needle in music these days. “I’m not an ironist,” he said. “That’s never really been my style. Something that’s been a part of my music for a long time is trying to express human feelings in a simple way, but an intimate way. And I think [this album] is another side of human feeling. It’s something we’re all going through right now. Experiencing the world changing, feeling this sense of fear and anxiety and not really knowing what to do with it. I can only communicate that through the lens that I’ve experienced it, but it does feel like a kind of universal thing that’s been going on. So I think trying to express that, at least through my own lens, is my own little contribution.” White Noise doesn’t feature a single overt political statement, nor does it include any immediately obvious references to social media or subtweet culture. Still, Gundersen is a deft enough songwriter that you can feel those topics in his songs. “The Sound” resonates as a pointed jab at entitled internet goons who refuse to acknowledge their own ignorance. “How many times will you shit on what you’re given?” the song asks; “How many times ‘til you shut up and listen?” “Fear and Loathing,” meanwhile, was written before Trump got elected—Noah was playing the song on his acoustic tour in early 2016—but might be the perfect anthem for the feeling of dread that seems to have blanketed the entire nation this year. “Nothing changes much/The quarterbacks are drunk/The prom queen just gave up/In Fear and Loathing.” In a lot of ways, White Noise is a record about cutting ties with the past. “There’s nothing left for us here now,” Gundersen sings on “Fear and Loathing.” It’s a fitting lyric for one of the few songs on the album that sounds like his old style of music. Even as Noah turns away from folk music, he has to give it at least one more aching send-off. But Gundersen is smart enough to know that, no matter how much he experiments, his purest emotional fireworks still come when it’s just him and an acoustic guitar. That’s why the three songs that sound the most like Ledges and Carry the Ghost—“Fear and Loathing,” “Dry Year,” and “Send the Rain (To Everyone)”—serve as homecomings of sort at the end of the first and second halves of the record. Both “Fear and Loathing and “Send the Rain” build from slow, acoustic starts to big, full-band catharses. “Fear and Loathing” handles the build-up itself, painting the picture of a small town that’s falling apart—breaking its citizens down with it. “Dry Year” and “Send the Rain,” meanwhile, function almost like two parts of a whole. The former is the record’s sparest and most desolate moment, painting a portrait of a world ready to burn. “Some days the world feels like a building on fire/But everyone’s ignoring the smoke/You would vote for a comedian/If he could comfort you with a joke,” Gundersen sings on the record’s closest thing to an overt political lyric. The “dry year,” it turns out, is a metaphorical drought—the result of a world sapped of its values, its empathy, and the genuine human connection that used to keep it spinning. But Noah’s words aren’t judgmental or hateful. Instead, he hopes that someday, things will change. We’ll stop burning ourselves with political wars and stupid insecurities and let the rain save our ravaged world. Even if none of us live to see that day, Noah reckons we can be a part of the solution. When the audible sound of rainfall cuts through the end of “Dry Year,” he sings “Now the sky is giving up her child/To the dead grass of the back lawn/I hope she takes the water in my body when I’m gone.” And as the album’s final song barrels toward its epic climax, it’s to Noah’s repeated cries of “Send the rain, send my love/To everyone,” shouted over the noise of crashing guitars and pounding drums. The message, I think, is simple: in a world on fire, maybe we can all be somebody else’s rain. --- Please consider supporting us so we can keep bringing you stories like this one. ◎ https://chorus.fm/features/noah-gundersens-restless-heart/

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