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bewitching-elizabeth-olsen · 3 years

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Press/Gallery: How Elizabeth Olsen Brought Marvel From Mainstream to Prestige

“The thing I love about being an actor is to fully work with someone and try so hard to be at every level with them, chasing whatever it is you need or want from them.”

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Studio Photoshoots > 2021 > Session 008 Magazine Scans > 2021 > Backstage (August 19)

Backstage: Elizabeth Olsen grins widely over video chat when recalling many such moments on set with her co-stars. Yet, she can’t bring herself to divorce such a lofty vision of film acting from the technical multitasking it requires. The camera sees all.

“But then you move your hair, and you’re in your brain, like: OK, remember that! Because I don’t want to edit myself out of a shot. I know some actors are like, ‘Continuity, shmontinuity!’ But the good thing about continuity is, if you remember it, you’re actually providing yourself with more options for the edit.”

That need to balance being both inside the scene and outside of it, fully living it and yet constantly visualizing it on a screen, feels particularly apt in light of Olsen’s most recent project, “WandaVision.”

The mysteries at the heart of the show grow with every episode, each fast-forwarding to a different decade: Could this 1950s, black-and-white, “filmed in front of a studio audience” newlyweds bit be a grief-stricken dream? Might this ’70s spoof be a powerful spell gone awry? Could this meta take on mockumentary comedies be proof that the multiverse is finally coming to the Marvel Cinematic Universe?

The series’ structure, which branches out to include government agents intent on finding out why Westview has seemingly disappeared, calls for the entire cast to play with a mix of genres, balancing a shape-shifting tone that culminates in an epic, MCU-style conclusion. What’s key—and why the show struck a chord with audiences during its nine-episode run—is the miniseries’ commitment to grounding its initial kooky setups and its later special effects-driven spectacle in heartbreaking emotional truths. It’s no small feat, though it’s one that can often be taken for granted.

“I was thinking how hard it would have been to have shot the first ‘Lord of the Rings,’ ” Olsen muses. “Like, you’re putting all these actors [into the frame] later and at all these different levels. All the eyelines are completely unnatural. And yet the performances are fantastic! And technically, they are so hard. People forget sometimes that these things are really technically hard to shoot. And if you are moved by their performance, that took a lot of multitasking.”

As someone who has learned plenty about harnesses, wirework, fight choreography, and green screens (she’s starred in four Marvel movies, including the box office megahit “Avengers: Endgame,” after all), Olsen knows how hard it can be to wrap one’s brain around the work needed to pull off those big, splashy scenes.

“If you think about it, it’s, like, the biggest stakes in the entire world—every time. And that feels silly to act over and over again, especially when people are in silly costumes and the love of your life is purple and sparkly, and every time you kiss them, you have to worry about getting it on your hands. Those things are ridiculous. You feel ridiculous. So there is a part of your brain that has to shovel that away and just look into someone’s eyeballs—and sometimes, they don’t even have eyeballs!”

The ability to spend so much time with Wanda, albeit in the guise of sitcom parodies, was a welcome opportunity for Olsen. Not only did it allow the actor to really wrestle with the traumatic backstory that has long defined the character in the MCU, but having the chance to calibrate a performance that functions on so many different levels was a thrilling challenge.

“It was such an amazing work experience,” she says. “Kathryn [Hahn] uses the word ‘profound’—which is so sweet, because it is Marvel, and people, you know, don’t think of those experiences as profound when they watch them. But it really was such a special crew that [director] Matt Shakman and [creator] Jac Schaeffer created. It was a really healthy working environment.”

Related‘WandaVision’ Star Kathryn Hahn’s Secret to Building a Scene-Stealing Performance ‘WandaVision’ Star Kathryn Hahn’s Secret to Building a Scene-Stealing Performance Considering that the miniseries spans several sitcom iterations, various layers of televisual reality, and a number of character reveals that needed to feel truthful and impactful in equal measure, Shakman’s decision to work closely with his actors ahead of shooting was key.

“We truly had a gorgeous amount of time together before we started filming,” Olsen remembers. “Our goal was—which is controversial in TV land—that if you wanted to change [anything], like dialogue in a scene, you had to give those notes a week before we even got there. Because sometimes you get to set, and someone had a brilliant idea while they were sleeping, and you’re like, ‘We don’t have an hour to talk about this. We have seven pages to shoot.’ And so, we were all on the same page with one another, knowing what we were shooting ahead of time.

“Matt just treated us like a troupe of actors who were about to do some regional theater shit,” she adds with a smile.

That spirit of camaraderie was, not coincidentally, at the heart of Olsen’s breakout project, Sean Durkin’s 2011 indie sensation “Martha Marcy May Marlene.” As an introduction to the process of filmmaking to a young stage-trained actor, Durkin’s quietly devastating drama was a dream—and an invaluable learning opportunity.

“It was truly just a bunch of people who loved the script, who just were doing the work. I didn’t understand lenses, so I just did the same thing all the time. I never knew if the camera would be on me or not. There was just so much purity in that experience, and you only have that once.”

The film announced Olsen as a talent to watch: a keen-eyed performer capable of deploying a stilted physicality and clipped delivery, which she used to conjure up a wounded girl learning how to shake off her time spent in a cult in upstate New York. But Olsen admits that it took her a while to figure out how to navigate her career choices afterward. In the years following “Martha,” she felt compelled to try on everything: a horror flick here, a high-profile remake there, a period piece here, an action movie there. It wasn’t until she starred in neo-Western thriller “Wind River” (alongside fellow Marvel regular Jeremy Renner) and the dark comedy “Ingrid Goes West” (opposite a deliciously deranged Aubrey Plaza) that Olsen found her groove.

“It was at that point, when I was five years into working, where I was like, Ah, I know how I want it. I know what I need from these people—from who’s involved, from producers, from directors, from the character, from the script—in order to trust that it’s going to be a fruitful experience.”

As Olsen looks back on her first decade as a working actor, she points out how far removed she is from that young girl who broke out in “Martha Marcy May Marlene.”

“I feel like a totally different person. I don’t know if everyone who’s in their early 30s feels like their early 20s self is a totally different human. But when I think about that version of myself, it feels like a long time ago; there’s a lot learned in a decade.”

Those early years were marked by a self-effacing humility that often led Olsen to defer to others when it came to key decisions about the characters she was playing. But she now feels emboldened to not only stand up for herself and her choices but for others on her sets as well.

“[Facebook Watch series] ‘Sorry for Your Loss’ I got to produce, and I really found my voice in a collaborative leadership way. And with ‘WandaVision,’ Paul [Bettany] and I really took on that feeling, as well—especially since we were introducing new characters to Marvel and wanted [those actors] to feel protected and helped,” she says. “They could ask questions and make sure they felt like they had all the things they needed because sometimes you don’t even know what you need to ask.”

It’s a lesson she learned working with filmmaker Marc Abraham on the Hank Williams biopic “I Saw the Light,” and she’s carried it with her ever since. “I really want it to feel like we’re all in this together, as a team,” Olsen says. “That was part of ‘Sorry for Your Loss’ and it was part of ‘WandaVision,’ and I hope to continue that kind of energy because those have been some of the healthiest work experiences I’ve had.”

If Olsen sounds particularly zealous about the importance of a comfortable, working set, it is because she’s well aware that therein lies an integral part of the work and the process. As an actor, she wants to feel protected and nurtured by those around her, whether she’s reacting to a telling, quiet line of dialogue about grief or donning her iconic Scarlet Witch outfit during a magic-filled mid-air action sequence.

“Sometimes you’re going to be foolish, you know? And [you need to] feel brave to be foolish. Sometimes people feel embarrassed on set and snap. But if you’re in a place where people feel like they’re allowed to be an idiot,” she says, “you’re going to feel better about being an idiot.”

This story originally appeared in the Aug. 19 issue of Backstage Magazine. Subscribe here.

Press/Gallery: How Elizabeth Olsen Brought Marvel From Mainstream to Prestige was originally published on Elizabeth Olsen Source • Your source for everything Elizabeth Olsen

#Elizabeth Olsen #WandaVision #Avengers #Scarlet Witch #Wanda Maximoff #Sorry For Your Loss #Avengers Infinity War #Avengers Age of Ultron #Captain America Civil War #Ingrid Goes West #Godzilla #Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness #Marvel #MCU #Candy Montgomery #Love and Death #Avengers Endgame

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newmusickarl · 3 years

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Album & EP Recommendations

My word, the music world has well and truly spoiled us this week!

The past seven days has seen a colossal avalanche of new releases, so much so I’ve barely had chance to keep up with it all. Although this is not the full list of everything from the past seven days, here are the 16 (yes, 16!) new releases I’ve enjoyed the most this week.

As there is so much to get through the rundowns are (mostly) a bit shorter than normal and there is no single Album of the Week, instead I simply recommend checking out whichever album or track sounds most appealing depending on your preferred taste.

So without further ado then, here’s what’s good:

Californian Soil by London Grammar

It’s been four years since the release of London Grammar’s last record Truth Is A Beautiful Thing - an album that I enjoyed, but I’ll admit also left me feeling somewhat underwhelmed coming off the back of their incredible breakout debut, If You Wait. As it turns out, the band themselves were also having a tough time around that period, with front woman Hannah Reid in particular battling relentless industry sexism, as well as the persistent physical pain caused by her fibromyalgia condition. With this being the case, it is amazing that the young indie-pop trio have made it to their third album at all, let alone delivering what is their best work to date.

Opening on a grand, string-drenched Intro, the record soon morphs into the sun-soaked guitars and soaring orchestration of the album’s glorious title track. It marks an early highlight as Reid catches the audience up with the tribulations of the last few years – “I left my soul on Californian soil.” From there the album doesn’t really let up as the band move through a series of career-defining tracks – the gorgeous contemporary groove of Missing, the dance-influenced How Does It Feel, the chilled-out ambience of the dreamy Baby, It’s You and the sublime, stripped-back closer America.

However, the album’s strongest moment comes when Reid confronts music industry sexism head on with defiant anthem Lord It’s A Feeling. Beginning with some twinkly xylophone, before evolving into an atmospheric synth-laced backdrop where Reid pulls no punches:

“I saw the way you made her feel, like she should be somebody else,

I know you think the stars align for you and not for her as well,

I undеrstand, I can admit that I have felt those things mysеlf”

The cutting lyrics against some blinding quiet rave instrumentation leaves quite the impression, as does this sterling record in general. After a slight misstep, London Grammar have well and truly rediscovered themselves and they have honestly never sounded better – a truly incredible album.

If You Could Have It All Again by Low Island

Oxford electo-pop outfit Low Island are another band that have defied expectations to get to this point. This, their debut album, was not recorded in a professional music studio – in fact, the vocals were recorded in a bedroom cupboard of all places. The band themselves don’t even have a manager or a record label. In every sense of the word, they are a truly independent band. For a self-financed, self-produced effort, If You Could Have It All Again is a quite remarkable first outing.

From melodic, uplifting opener Hey Man, the record quickly jumps into spoken word electro punk banger What Do You Stand For, featuring acid-drenched synths and a dancefloor-ready groove. Fans of FIFA 21 will recall Don’t Let the Light In, with the glitchy pulse of recent single Who’s Having the Greatest Time also standing out. That said, it’s the smooth, infectious sway of I Do It For You that still pulls me in the most.

Having followed the band since their early EPs, I’ve been rooting for Low Island for a while now and this is one debut album I was highly anticipating this year. Safe to say, my expectations have been met – this is a fantastic, accomplished record, which leaves me eager to see where they go next.

The Greatest Mistake Of My Life by Holding Absence

There was a time when the difficult second album used to be a thing, but listening to the sophomore effort from Welsh rock band Holding Absence this week, I’m really not sure that exists anymore. After a dramatic and impressive self-titled debut two years ago, the band have wasted little time taking things up a notch, with this new album cinematic and masterfully produced from beginning to end.

From standout singalong anthems like Afterlife and In Circles, to the album’s epic seven-minute penultimate track Mourning Song, The Greatest Mistake of My Life shows a band pushing themselves and driving forward with ambition at every opportunity. In a year packed with outstanding rock and metal albums already, this is most definitely another one you can add onto that list. Soaring, impressive and demanding of repeat listens.

We Forgot We Were Dreaming by Saint Raymond

It’s been six long years since Nottingham-born singer-songwriter Callum Burrows, AKA Saint Raymond, released his debut album. However it seems the time away has been well spent as this long-awaited follow-up finds Burrows in fine form, with this album packed to the brim with catchy, glossily produced indie-pop anthems.

From the brilliant title track that opens the record, to the bouncy riffs of Right Way Round, Talk and Solid Gold, to more subdued and heartfelt moments like Only You, this album will have you smiling, singing your heart out and dancing your troubles away.

Flu Game by AJ Tracey

AJ Tracey may have only been three years old when Michael Jordan was winning NBA championships with the Chicago Bulls, but that hasn’t stopped him making a record influenced by the legendary icon and his famous 1997 Flu Game. Like many others including myself, grime superstar AJ Tracey spent lockdown watching the brilliant The Last Dance documentary, and this record weirdly works as a fantastic unofficial companion, but also just a great summer rap record.

McCartney III Imagined by Paul McCartney

Even if like me you completely missed Sir Paul McCartney’s 2020 album McCartney III, it’s well worth checking out this reimagining, where he has called on the help of some of his famous musician pals. This is a real who’s who line up of guest features including Beck, Khurangbin, St. Vincent, Blood Orange, Phoebe Bridgers, Damon Albarn, Josh Homme, Anderson .Paak and more, making for quite a fascinating mix of sounds and styles.

Moratorium (Broadcasts from The Interruption) by Enter Shikari

And finally on the albums front this week, genre-benders Enter Shikari have released a brilliant compilation of all their lockdown live performances, headlined by an incredible string-tinged acoustic version of The Dreamer’s Hotel and a beautifully stripped-back “At Home” rendition of Live Outside.

Tracks of the Week

Introvert by Little Simz

Wow, wow and wow again. Still fairly fresh off the back of her masterful, Mercury Prize nominated third album Grey Area, this week British rapper Little Simz released the first taste of her next record in the form of this epic and triumphant opening track. At six minutes in length, this majestic and operatic political anthem aims to grab the listener by the collar and shake them awake. Without a doubt, one of the best songs of the year so far, the powerful video for which you can view above.

Smile by Wolf Alice

The second taste of their forthcoming album Blue Weekend, Smile continues Wolf Alice’s pattern for alternating Loud/Soft releases, with this one featuring buzzy guitars, punky vocals and a hypnotic chorus melody.

Beautiful Beaches by James

Although written off the back of the California wildfires that impacted front man Tim Booth’s local community, the lyrics on the band’s latest anthem purposefully offer a dual meaning, giving hope to those dreaming of a post-lockdown getaway and fresh start.

He Said She Said by CHVRCHES

The Scottish trio made their much-anticipated return this week, with Lauren Mayberry also sharing her experiences of sexism on this arena-ready synth-pop banger.

Matty Healy by Georgia Twinn

Georgia Twinn delivers an infectiously catchy break-up anthem, inspired by an ex-boyfriend, who’s most interesting feature was supposedly looking like the 1975 frontman.

Kill It by Vukovi

Underground Scottish rock outfit Vukovi’s new single is so good, they even managed to get KILL IT trending over the weekend of its release. Masterfully produced with big bold riffs and trancey synths, this one just sounds huge.

Can’t Carry On by Gruff Rhys

The latest solo single from the former Super Furry Animals frontman is a stunning, super-melodic tune with an instant chorus you’ll be singing before the track has even finished its first play.

Ceremony by Deftones

One of the highlights off their last album Ohms, the nu-metal rockers have now delivered a cinematic new video directed by horror legend Leigh Whannell. Check it out!

Chasing Birds by Foo Fighters

And finally this week, Dave Grohl and company released a trippy new animated video for this Medicine At Midnight cut to help celebrate 420 in their own unique way. Again, well worth a watch!

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throughscreendoors · 4 years

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i may destroy you 2.4

I’ve just been reminded of how great things can be. Was watching some Fran Lebowitz interviews on YouTube and she was commenting about how little great art there is, and how expecting masterpieces from artists is insane. If an artist creates one masterpiece, that’s an exceptional achievement—and many artists get worse over time, not better. Also many artists and writers never make a single masterpiece, let alone a single good or great thing. By extending her thinking there’s very little great anything, which is harsh but true—but I May Destroy You was great.

America teaches us to measure ourselves by what we consume. The high schooler who likes the obscure band tells everyone about it until it isn’t obscure anymore, and he has to find another one to brandish. Digital media disrupted that, because there’s no consensus or mainstream taste to snipe at from the fringes.

Algorithms have deconstructed the taste pyramid into a horizontally organized structure of some kind. We’re all ensconced in our own permeable bubbles, sure, but we don’t really make those bubbles anymore. Spotify or Netflix suggests things to us based on limited data points, we select those things and think we’ve chosen them. I thought for a while that irony died in the early 2000s, but it actually just got sharper; now you can ironically and unironically like obscure and popular art at once from a kind of superposition. Carly Rae Jepsen comes to mind here—she’s simultaneously recognizable pop icon and marginalized indie darling, authentic new voice and post-ironic pastiche.

There is no irony or sincerity anymore. They’ve welded together in an atom-wide scalpel that slices everything all the time in our words and preferences and values, so subtle we don’t even feel it. We recombine before we slide apart into a pile of flesh cubes.

That flattening of tastes has meant every created thing—whether widely recognizable or obscure—must fit into some algorithmically imagined category (or be made to fit one). Perhaps subconsciously fighting that trend, endless new meme formats have risen in response (a kind of organic algorithm, perhaps). A VSCO girl wears these shoes and takes photos from these angles; this is the lonely divorced dad starter pack; here is stock market boyfriend explaining GME and AMC to his astrology girlfriend using images created on 4chan for incels.

As algorithms slice us more and more precisely into bits and we reassemble those bits more and more astutely into formats we can understand, something strange is happening. New categories and dominant values are springing up that seem unassailable, protected by these two alternating currents—particularly around the messiest subjects. People who overcome trauma are heroes; the world can be divided into abusers and victims, oppressors and the oppressed. Implicit is that nobody really disagrees with these statements anymore, they just wield them as truths for different ends. The positions can be inverted, in other words, but those are the positions.

Part of what makes I May Destroy You so great is that it tears those unassailable categories down. On trauma and sexual assault, those in-the-know understand that trauma constitutes a reorganization of the brain. Memories can disappear and suddenly reappear. Our emotions can fluctuate wildly. People can pursue dangerous situations they wouldn’t otherwise; they can reverse on things they knew to be true for years instantaneously.

On the other side are people who don’t understand or refuse to learn these facts, people who trot out the same debunked arguments (why wouldn’t you report right away..., how is it you now conveniently remember..., why did you go along with it for so long..., etc). The beauty of the show is it uses that idea of the unassailable category against the viewer, in case they are skeptical. We follow Arabella’s consciousness; it behaves like it behaves. It’s our job to follow its oscillations and make sense of it.

By taking that simple stance, the show paints every character as both hero and villain, victim and abuser. It is nearly overwhelming how interconnected and interdependent everything in the show is—swallowing it all threatens to destroy the characters, as it does our own minds. It’s not a coincidence that the bar where much of the worst that happens in the show is called Ego Death.

There’s a new-age positivity that has seeped into the culture lately that we can heal from anything, we can infinitely grow and expand beautifully into ourselves and into the future. The show skewers that point astutely. In truth, you don’t heal from trauma—it’s a rupture in our consciousness, in the very structure we use to interface with reality. We don’t “heal” from these things, we die to the old version of ourselves. We reach forward and backward at the same time, experiencing joy and agony at once as we’re sliced into millions of pieces and recombined into a new structure. As we scan over that inner structure in our minds, we’re liable to come across pieces that don’t belong next to one another. That’s what we mean by “processing” something, be it a memory or ourselves. We may cry and laugh in the same breath.

It’s a real challenge to use art to deconstruct the entire cultural moment, while also offering a deep and rich representation of inner and outer worlds that aren’t seen very often on TV. It reminds me of the horror in the futuristic surrealism of Random Acts of Flyness, but more optimistic. It’s more generous in spirit than that, and it reaches into dangerous areas. The conclusion of the show threatens to infuriate the primary fan base the show is made for (in one of the truest artistic risks I’ve seen on television in some time). It has nuanced takes on feminism, veganism, consumerism, social media, consent, race and modern alienation, and it does it all in consistently experimental way with an amazing soundtrack and a huge heart.

It’s interesting to watch a British show as an American with all this in mind, as I think the majority of Americans don’t leave that phase of consumption. It’s tempting to hail a show like I May Destroy You as a way to call attention to yourself; it’s challenging, nuanced, empathetic and so on (and because I like it, I must also be those things, etc). I think watching the show is more of a wake-up call than that, and it feels false to use it that way.

Artists have such a privileged place in society. They are the most interesting and the most inspiring, and now everyone wants to be one. But there’s a difference between being creative and being a good artist. I don’t think being a good artist is an intrinsic thing in the way racists allege that race is intrinsic. Still, I do think good art has to come from some kind of novel experience of the world—and even that isn’t enough. It must be matched with virtuosity of some kind. Possessing both of those qualities is exceptionally rare.

Michaela Coel made something that feels entirely for her with this, and it’s incredible that she managed to. The pressure to give in to outside influence, to make things more digestible, to accept money for a lack of control is nearly overwhelming in my own experience; I assume it must be for others as well. I think maybe this is another mark of real artistry—when your desire to say something so outweighs the social pressure to stop you from saying it (obviously, this isn’t the only mark, just one of them).

What inspired me most about this is it’s a show that makes good on its promise. It makes you think about the darkest, most shameful parts of yourself that you would least like to share with the world and challenges you to start sharing them. It encourages the kind of self-examination that truly might destroy you—even if you’re not a victim of sexual assault. It’s a terrifying feeling, but the grace note of it all is that "you” are always being destroyed by outside forces, and you are also always recombining. What “you” means always contains its opposite, it seems to argue, and for that reason, we ought to be dangerously kind.

#I may destroy you #michaela coel #artists #tv review #artistry #fran lebowitz

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kittensjonsa · 4 years

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For @jonsa-creatives' Jonsa event of anniversary of Queen Sansa's coronation.

How could I miss out on my take on such an iconic TV moment? 👑

Summary: Jon returns to where he truly belonged.

Following a bit of canon verse, post S6 reunion by the fire, and scenes behind closed doors after Sansa's coronation.

Rated M for the obvious. *bows, from yours truly*

(Note: I tried though I still cannot do/read canon verse fics because S8 was traumatically bad, I’m still grieving. Only great thing out of it was Queen Sansa and Northern Independence. Consider this a small fix it closure. :-/ )

The Return

Jon..

The wind chill remained deep in her bones. The leather of her makeshift cloak that draped across her chest callous and taut in her grip. She hears the cry of a wolf not far behind. Her legs, somehow still her own, plod heavily in the snow.

The true north.. The wildlands..

Jon had spoken of this place many times. How it was vast and cold, beautiful and free.

Come back. Come back to me. Come home.

As if the winds had heard her, it howled in response. Sansa hears howling and laughter, then came the screams. Screams that were familiar, she had heard them before. Screams that mirrored her own.

“Your Grace!”

Sansa gasped for air desperately, fearing it was her last. Beads of sweat pooled on her forehead as Sansa sat up from under the covers. The guards had burst through the door, faces fraught with concern and searched the room immediately.

“Are you all right, Your Grace? We heard.. screaming,”

The screams were hers, after all.

“I.. I am all right. A bad dream, is all.”

The guards looked at one another and retreated. “Shall I… call for the Maester?”

Sansa shook her head. It was another nightmare, just like the last, and no potion strong enough could make them go away.

They always return.

“No, no one is to bother the Maester. I will see him tomorrow morning. Please.. as you were.”

It all seemed so real. She was there, feeling the dampness sticking to her skin, soaked through her worn boots. The scent of snow, sharp and crisp, still deep in her lungs. The mind has a strange way of coping with pain, Bran once told her. I know why. Why she kept returning to those lands in her dreams.There was only one reason and it was because she wanted to look for him. To bring him back.

Jon..

Sansa laid down again. A bad dream. That was all. She sighed, raising her left hand again and stared. Sansa's eyes fluttered close once more, as her fingers brushed against the raised sliver of skin, tender as if it was still healing. It was a day she would always remember. How could I forget.

“What happened? Are you hurt?” Sansa heard the door close from behind her.

Sansa placed a new bandage as another had soaked through. “Nothing. Just an old wound. Pay no mind to it. Although, could I have some water to wash?”

The splashing of water comforted her. As the footsteps that slowly approached. She was safe, finally. No one would hurt her here, for now.

“Here, let me take a look at it.” Jon's hands were warm as he reached out for hers. The tightening of his jaw tensed his grip.

“Did he.. did he do this?”

Sansa watched as Jon lightly ran his fingers along the scar. It was a deep wound and the slightest touch still burned, but the pain was nothing, remembering how she had endured far worse.

“No. From a piece of wood. In the river, when I..”

When I escaped. Ran as far as my legs could carry me through the woods past Winterfell. When Theon led me to the river.. where we decided we deserved better.

The pause was enough. Jon clasped her hands in his and with his other hand, seized a dagger from his side. Sansa watched on, curious and dazed but realised the moment he let go.

“Jon.. wait.. what are you doing?”

A grunt and a gasp as dark drops of blood dripped onto the floor, Sansa's hand was now wet with blood. Jon had her bandage removed and placed the bloodied hand over her own.

“Now, we both have scars. You... You're not alone.”

Sansa stared at their hands as their bloods mingled.

“Jon.. why would you do such a thing?”

Stunned, Sansa flinched slightly as he squeezed his grip and turned to her. His eyes were dark even against the brightness of the fire.

“You're here now.. and you're real. This will be ours to remember. Right now at this moment, that you've come here. To Castle Black. To me.”

Relief washed over him, especially now seeing his own blood, warm and wet. He was still bleeding, like before. He was still living, flesh and blood indeed.

“And you're right.”

Sansa's eyes finally met his, their hands still joined.

“About what?”

A deep sigh left his body, feeling the weight he had been carrying become heavier.

“We're taking back Winterfell. We're taking back our home.”

Jon…

The crackling of the fire was soothing to his ears but it wasn't enough. It failed along with the collective white noise of snoring and grunting of the wildlings he had grown used to. As well as Tormund's boisterous laughter and off key singing every once in while whenever they made camp. He hadn't slept for days and tonight in particular.

Sansa…

Jon rubbed his eyes, coaxing them to slumber - but a rough patch of skin brushed against his face, sending a tingle down his spine.

Sansa.

The mark was permanent, it had been years now and still it stood out, as the day he made it. It was still soft to the touch, a deep gash line now held together by new skin.

He often thought of her, of Winterfell. He missed his home and he missed her especially. He had left her one too many times and this time for good albeit against his will. He only wished her well and happy that she was home finally, safe and ruling in her rightful place.

“Winterfell belongs to my sister, Sansa.”

He had said that once, to someone and meant every word.

Cousin Sansa. Ruling in the North. The best one yet. Winterfell was Sansa’s heart and soul and there was no one better than her to look after it.

Come back. Come back to me. Come home.

Jon blinked. He hears her, her voice a faint whisper as if she was sat next to him. He wanted to, with every fibre of his being. Winterfell was still home, even though he had lived many years away from it. And tonight, the need to return home was something he could no longer ignore, try as he might.

“The Queen in the North! The Queen in North! The Queen in the North!”

The chants were deafening as Sansa looked on around the hall. These were her people. People who loved the North as much as she did and fought for it. How could she not look after them? Father and Robb would've done the same.

The crown had rested heavy on her head. It was forged with care, with love and fealty from those who mattered. Sansa stared at the carved precious metal now in its place, sat on a pillow in front of her, resting for the night.

The moments replayed in her mind again. All of the North were gathered for her, to welcome their new Queen, of a free and independent kingdom. All but one. One she missed dearly, one whom she wanted so badly to be in the hall, seated by her side.

It was her wish to rule Winterfell together. As King he once was and her as Queen. She would not be here if it wasn't for him. The void in her grew stronger as the day went on.

“She's the best they could ever ask for.”

A flood of tears came over her without warning. Sansa clung on to her vanity for support.

“Oh.. Jon. Jon...”

Body wracked with sobs, Sansa peeled off her robe and crept under the furs for the night. Loud cheers and singing could still be heard down below, celebrating the North's freedom from the Seven Kingdoms.

She had truly done it. Truly free after centuries, no more heeding the call of any kingdoms, they were their own sovereign.

Sansa inhaled deeply as she blew out the last candle and shut her eyes. She would attempt to sleep once more. This time in peace.

Jon.. come back. Come back home.

A small creak. Sansa turned and thought she saw the door rattle in the dark. A silence followed and Sansa turned back again towards the window.

Drunk guards, maybe. Perhaps the ones she had released from their duties that night. They refused at first but it was an order from their new Queen that they dared not defy. There is no need for guards tonight, she was safe. This was Winterfell, her own Winterfell now. No one would dare. I’m their Queen now.

“Shhh..”

A hand clasped over her mouth.

No. Oh Gods. No.

Sansa screamed. But only a muffled whimper escaped as the warm palm covered her face. All of the horrors that she once encountered, flashed before her very eyes. Sansa gasped for breath as she tried to scream once more.

But.. That scent..

It was all too familiar.

“Sansa.. shh. It's me.”

Sansa squirmed as another hand snaked around her back, enveloping her. The hold wasn't a firm one but tight enough that made her realise that somehow, she'd felt this before.

“Jon..?”

Sansa clawed aimlessly in the dark. Her hands finally found their bearings on a furry cloak, heavy and thick and as she went further up, Sansa could feel her heart almost burst.

The curls. Unmistakable. Soft ringlets filled her hands as she brushed against them and without a second to waste, hauled the body towards her.

“Jon...?”

A hand softened its grip and gently stroked her hair in the dark.

“Sansa.. it’s me.”

Jon. He came back. Sansa pulled him closer again, tightly as she could against her barely clothed body.

“Jon.. I.. I called for you. Did you hear me?”

Jon took a deep breath, drinking in her scent as he held on tightly.

“You did. I heard you.”

Warmth pooled at her neck, feeling his face nuzzling her skin. Sansa turned around, her hands still clinging onto fistfuls of his curls.

“Let me see you.. Your Grace.”

Sansa did not want to let go but she needed to see him. Look and touch him, that this wasn’t all a dream. Leaping out of her bed, Sansa scrambled to light the nearest candle she could get her hands on.

And there he was. Standing right before her, in all his black leathered glory. Wearing the cloak she made him. He looked every bit like how she remembered him, as the day they said their goodbyes.

“Jon.. it really is you..”

Jon smiled, the pouty sad smile he was so good at and once more, Sansa fought back her tears.

Jon went on his knees and bowed his head. “Your Grace, pardon my absence on your coronation day. Will you forgive me?”

Sansa nudged him gently to rise. “There is nothing to forgive.”

Their eyes finally meet and it was a moment Sansa would treasure till the end. Though the chill filling the chambers was getting too cold to ignore once Sansa realised she was only in her nightclothes.

“Jon... you.. look the same. A little ragged perhaps.” How comforting, that nothing much has changed.

Jon smiled as he sighed. She was beautiful. More now than ever. And her hair, radiant still.

“Come here and sit with me. Tell me, how you've been? Are you well?” Sansa asked quietly as she led him back to the warmth of her bed.

“Aye, as well as I can be. Nothing's changed in Castle Black. Ale's still shite,” Jon chuckled, still holding fast onto Sansa's arm. His eyes stayed on hers, taking in every second at how they beamed beautifully with joy. Though for a second, they wandered further below as the small but bright light caught onto every curve of Sansa's. He hadn't seen her like this before and it embarrassed him - chastising himself for stealing into her chambers in the dark of night like a fiend. But there could be no decree, no law that would stop him from seeing Sansa. Not tonight.

Her special day. One for the history books. He had it in him well enough how he wasn’t supposed to be here. Banished into exile meant everywhere else, even the North. No one could know he was here, except Sansa. She called him to her, in the first place and he heard her. He needed to be near her. A need so strong, he'd risk his life. She was worth it all.

“I wanted you here. Oh I wanted you here so much.. I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Sansa. I had to come.. and see you.”

“You did.” It was a joy Sansa could not contain, seeing Jon here in the flesh, though she could hardly believe it. Don’t be a dream.. please.

“Are you real? Are you really here? I've had so many nightmares lately… I just-”

Jon pulled her closer again once more, this time their faces almost touching, his hand cupping her face gently.

“It is me. This isn't a dream. I am here. And so are you.”

She had to know. Sansa needed it to be real. I have to..

“Jon..”

His lips were soft and warm. His tongue slick and welcoming as she pressed her open mouth on his. He is real…

“Sansa... You.. must-”

She wanted more. Yes, I must. Sansa's hands grabbed onto the straps of his cloak and coaxed his hands to her bosom, heaving as her mouth hungrily drank from his.

The small flame flickered as Sansa helped Jon remove his furs. The doublet was next.

Hearts racing, Sansa and Jon locked their gaze onto one another, both knowing already what will come next - ready to dive in head first into this debauchery.

Sansa tugged at the laces that held her nightclothes together. It did not take half a second for it fall off her shoulders, leaving her bare before him.

Taking off his under clothes in response, Jon sucked in a breath as they both faced each other, naked and wanting. Missing each other was too light a term, it was more of a deep, low burning desire that had grown more and more with each passing day of being apart.

“Sansa...”

Sansa reached out for Jon to come closer. “Jon... Hold me.”

Butterfly kisses peppered her shoulder. Slowly, Jon went lower and Sansa closed her eyes, committing to memory every touch lavished on her.

Sansa let out a small whimper as his lips nibbled on her belly.

“Jon..”

His hands crawling up as his head lowered, grabbing a handful of her breasts, feeling Sansa quake from every graze of his fingertips.

“I need you..”

She hissed as Jon finally reached her spot, moist and waiting.

“Then.. have me,” Sansa whispered as Jon's fingers squeezed the insides of her thigh. So close.

Jon kissed and nipped at the ripe heat of her flesh, his fingers parting the tender folds of a place he never thought he'd be.

Another hiss and a soft groan. Soft, long legs gently closing in around his head as his mouth greedily laps up bits of her.

She tasted heavenly. Warm, wet and inviting. He would take his time, devouring her bit by bit, inch by inch till every part of her body was etched into the very depths of his soul. His teeth pulled and nipped, his tongue delving deep in and out of her folds, how he could go on forever.

How he wanted to take her. This could be his last day on this wretched earth and he would not change a single thing.

“Unnhh... Jon..”

Sansa bit down on the back of her hand, struggling to keep her cries down. Jon groaned, his hardness growing as Sansa quivered in his hands, writhing in his arms as the sharp volts of pleasure shocked her body.

Yes, this was exactly why he wanted to come home. They had taken far too long for both of them to get here but the wait has made it all the sweeter.

Jon crept up to Sansa, desperate to see her face once again, to watch her as he takes her, finally.

Sansa sighed as Jon's hard flesh rubbed against her bare thighs and rested precariously between her thighs. Her dripping entrance in wait of an embrace, a long awaited reunion she yearned for. It was time.

The pain of desire proved too excruciating.

Take me. Take me now.

“I've returned home for you, Sansa,” Jon whispered, his eyes focused and unblinking. Sansa could only nod. No words were needed.

“And now.... now I'm going to fuck you till kingdom come.”

#jonsa #jon x sansa #queen sansa coronation anniversary #jonsa au #queen sansa event

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ventingbouto · 5 years

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Going through those funky reveals

I’m not sure why I want to write this, but I wanted to look at those little reveals- you know the little bit at the end when our boy is out of whatever bullshit disguise he’s been in and is shimmy-ing around? Because these scenes are some of the most interesting, tense, memorable scenes in all of the modern era.

So.

The Derek Jacobi reveal sort of takes place around five minutes before the episode ends. I say it like that because that’s when he’s revealed to be The Master, specifically. But we do know before this mark that he’s an evil Time Lord and series three does build up to this reveal.

This regeneration is only (consciously) on screen for about two-and-a-half minutes, but he’s very fondly remembered as being sinister, comparatively calm and quite angry. He improvises his plan, for the most part, but always gives the impression that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Obviously this doesn’t last, and we get the Simm Master cropping up. He is the one who actually has a conversation with The Doctor and seems to be a lot more energetic than his previous regeneration. The conversation seems spiteful, on The Master’s part, and as if he’s bragging.

At the end of the day (or the episode) The Master holds all the power (aka the TARDIS) and, even to new viewers, this seems like a very not-good thing.

Next…

I wanna talk about Missy. We’ll get back to Simm later.

Now Missy’s appearances are built up throughout series eight and it’s clear she’s planning something. She seems quite elegant, if not a bit eccentric. In Dark Water she has quite a few scenes with The Doctor- kissing him, claiming she’s a droid, obviously not being a droid, mocking The Doctor and the actual reveal scene.

The reveal itself takes place a minute, if not less, before the episode ends and Missy says nothing for the rest of the episode. So why is this so memorable? At least, in my opinion…

The music, the filming and The Doctor’s face are probably all good candidates as to why. Though I personally think the lack of speaking is what makes this scene so great. Missy’s reveal is unique to her; she has spoken quite a bit before the reveal (both in the episode and the ones beforehand) so she purposefully doesn’t. The lack of speech, just letting her words truly sink in and letting the meaning of them- just how much shit The Doctor’s in- really be understood. As nice as a monologue would be, it weirdly suits her.

Shall we get back to Simm?

Oddly enough, he is revealed at about two-and-a-half minutes before the end- though because he was in the trailers, I’m sure many people guessed who he was the second he started talking to Missy. But I digress.

He spends years, more than we even see clips of, in disguise- playing the long game and plotting. We come to really like him, really become attached to the façade he puts on. But the person he loses that façade for? Himself. And no, I’m not talking literal. Around Missy, he doesn’t remotely bother pretending to be nice or funny, he begins his build up to his reveal. It’s obvious he takes great joy in all of this scene.

The unique-ness of this reveal is who it’s to. It’s a reveal to Missy, who seems concerned (if not scared) of her past. His response to her is to say he’s “worried about his future” which, in my opinion, is clearly him trying to upset her more. He’s also quite calm, wanting to appear sinister to himself, and seems to be trying to impress Missy.

It’s very interesting, if not confusing to anyone who hadn’t seen previous episodes. I mean, this has got to be the reveal that makes the least amount of sense to new viewers… Regardless, it’s a very memorable moment.

Onto the new guy!

Now this wasn’t set up, it came right in the first episode of the series which automatically makes it unique. He officially says he’s our man at about four minutes before the end, and he spends most of that time monologuing. He flaunts just how evil (and wonderful) he is, taking in The Doctor’s horror and the companion’s shared confusion.

New viewers can relate to the confusion of Graham, Yaz and Ryan while older fans can feel the shock that The Doctor feels (if not with a bit more excited squealing).

What is so good about this reveal is the fact that O is someone who The Doctor trusts, and even insists that they employ the help of. This isn’t The-Master-without-his-memories or Missy-not-exactly-trying-to-be-quote-on-quote-“friendly”, it’s someone who has been texting The Doctor, has many files, is someone she genuinely likes. It’s playing the long game, but more directly so. It’s classic undercover and classic Master.

Simm went undercover as Razer primarily to hide from the people he fucked over and bring about the rise of the cybermen, The Doctor and co turning up was just a plus. This is well-planned and specifically aimed at The Doctor. And it really fits- mostly because Thirteen is such a warm, friendly, trusting, benefit-of-the-doubt style Doctor. This makes it such a gut punch, to the point where The Doctor doubles over.

Overall, Master reveals are truly iconic. They are usually the greatest scenes from that series, or even that Doctor’s run. They’re the first impression of a brand new regeneration of one of the most memorable characters in TV history. Dhawan is no exception and, if he had never appeared in any other episode (Derek Jacobi style), we would still hold those four minutes of jokes, threats, sinister-ness, mind-blowing-ness, flaunting and monologuing up as a great iteration of this character.

So wow! This was long as anything, but I needed to post it or I would’ve just screamed at my family about it and they’re getting so bored at this point.

#doctor who #doctor who series 12 #doctor who spoilers #the master #the master (simm)#missy #derek jacobi master #the master (dhawan)#o #spyfall #utopia #dark water #world enough and time #ta-da #analysis #is this my analyising?#or just rambling

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kayteewritessteve · 5 years

Text

DT - Drunk Twitter 1/3

Description: One stupid drunken night leads to an uncomfortable week from hell. That only gets worse when you are forced to face the problems, that your drunken escapades caused, head on. Yeah, you are never going to drink ever again.

Masterlist HERE.

Word Count: 8,380 ish.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader.

Rating: PG.

Warnings: Lots of curse words, awkward moments, and a slightly frustrated reader. Little angst here and there, but lots of stupid humour.

Requested: Nah, this just randomly popped into my head and I ran with it.

A/N: I sadly don’t own any of these characters. And no beta reader, so I do proudly own all the errors and this story, so there’s that.

You groan loudly as your hand flails out from under your duvet cocoon, blindly searching for the hellish contraption that currently insists on screaming at you. It is far too early for such an ungodly sound, and you are far too hungover for this shit right now.

Your hand finally makes contact with the screeching little asshole that is your alarm clock, causing a loud smash to echo through the room, just from the sheer force of your flailing limb alone. And then instantly your room falls back into silence once again. Though the constant ringing in your ears, both from the alarm and your hangover, makes that last fact slightly unknown to you in this moment.

You groan, grumbling incoherently as you pull your hand back into the warmth of the little blanket bundle that has now become your life. You plan to spend the rest of your days just hiding in this dark little cove, and then eventually one day dying here. Which from the aches and pains wreaking havoc on you currently, might be sooner, rather than later.

Why the hell did you drink so much?! Who let you polish off two bottles of wine last night?! Like, where the hell was your adult?! Clearly from this day forward you’d need someone to constantly make life choices for you, so that you never ended up in this position ever again.

You vow in this exact moment, that from this day on you will never ever drink again.

But then you remember your best friend's birthday is in 2 weeks, and you groan loudly. Okay, so you kinda have to drink for that, but mark your words now, that will be the very last time that you do!

Your phone buzzes on your bed beside you, lighting up the dark little fortress you’ve created around yourself. And whelp, looks like you never plugged it in last night. You’re honestly surprised it’s even still alive. You’d have to write a tweet to Apple about how their phone actually made it 24 hours on one charge. You’re sure that’s something they’d like to know about, as that was a highly uncommon thing to actually happen.

You reach over to grab your phone, picking it up and bringing it close to your face, before hissing at the brightness and yanking it away with such force you’re surprised you didn’t fling it across the room. You squint your eyes as you fumble to turn the brightness down, and once you successfully have you bring the screen back to you. Directly in front of your face so your blurry, dry eyes can actually read it.

And instantly you gasp loudly, your eyes watching as notification after notification pops up on your lock screen. Your twitter is blowing up right now and a cold sweat promptly rips through you. Because oh God, did you do it again?! Did you seriously post something while stupidly drunk again?!

Fuck. You groan, unlocking your phone quickly to check. Because for some ungodly reason, drunk you always insisted on posting the stupidest tweets. Normally you’d wake up the next morning, hungover and a little closer to death than the day before, and you’d open your twitter to find all the ridiculous shit you’d posted about, the previous night. Usually all of which only had maybe a retweet or two, a couple likes and usually at least one comment—thanks to your lovely best friend. Her comments normally consisting of both laughing at you and calling you out for being a crazy drunk tweeter. She just knew you and your quirks far too well. It was seriously a problem.

But this time, this time was clearly entirely different. However that was just an educated guess, due mainly to the hundreds of notifications that you now had, thanks to whatever your dumb drunk ass had posted, which had obviously blown up. And now you’d be lucky if you could sweep it under the rug like you’d always done in the past.

Oh God, please don’t let it be another praising tweet to some figure head or celebrity. That seemed to be your go to favourite thing to drunk-tweet. You had this weird need to cheer random strangers up when you were drunk. This insistent desire to support and appreciate the people you idolized. Oh please God say you didn’t tag the person the tweet was about this time.

Your shaky thumb clicks the iconic blue and white, Twitter app icon. Completely ignoring the ridiculous number in the little red circle on the icons top right corner, as you do. You haven’t even read the tweet yet and already you’re freaking the fuck out.

You quickly make your way to your profile and your eyes widen at the insanely large rant, that’s continued through multiple separate tweets, and is now sitting at the top of your page. Your eyes skim over them all, in order of posting, and you cringe, truly and utterly mortified now.

‘Do you ever just hear of someone in passing, or see them in the media, and have this instantaneous deep longing emotion within you. Not a longing in the sense of wanting them, but entirely due to hoping with everything inside you that they find their true happiness one day..’

‘..‪That they wake up in a few years and smile, like truly smile, because they are exactly where they wanted to be. Where they deserved to be. That they’d ended up with every desire they had yearned for. And I’m not talking about material objects. I’m talking life goals and accomplishments..’‬

‪‘..I’m talking about the true important aspects of life. The things that actually matter in the grand scheme of it all. Well, that is how I feel whenever someone brings up Steve Rogers. Or whenever I see an article or a news story about him. I instantly have this desperate want for him..’‬

‪‘..to be happy. Truly and utterly happy. The man deserves exactly that, and yet so much more. What with everything he has done for us and this planet. If anyone in this world has earned their happily ever after, it’s that man.’ ‬

‪Oh God. You groan, as your free hand comes up to cover your face in sheer horror and embarrassment. I mean, at least the silver lining here is you didn’t make any major spelling mistakes, and you also luckily, completely forget to actually tag him in it. So those are both small victories, in and of themselves. ‬

‪But the fact parts of that rant had blown up, regardless of you actually tagging him, is a little disheartening. You’re pretty sure he’s either seen it or been informed about it by now. And even if by the off chance he hasn’t, you know it’s only a matter of time before that changes. ‬

‪You scroll through the notifications and you feel your heart stop, as all the blood leaves your body and goes—honestly who knows where it goes, but it definitely doesn’t stick around to be apart of this train wreck of a situation. You abruptly sit up, the blankets falling from your upper body and pooling around your waist now.

‪Tony Stark retweeted your post. ‬

‪5 little words that make you want to delete every social media account you currently have, plus move to ‬Lesotho or something. Never heard of Lesotho? Well, that’s exactly why you’d picked to move there. Because most people don’t really know it even exists, nor where to find it on a map. So it would be the perfect place to hide away, and start a new life under a fake name.

Yup, it’s settled. Pack your bags, we’re moving to Lesotho!

You don’t even have it in you to read Mr. Starks response back to your tweets, nor dig any further into your notifications to see who else may have retweeted this whole mess. God, what is wrong with yo—

Your phone ringing scares the complete shit out of you, damn near chucking the metal brick across your room, for the second time this morning if anyone is keeping tabs, as your heart thumps loudly in your chest. However, you manage to keep a firm grip on your phone, but just barely. Effectively saving the thing from an untimely death, thanks to being forcefully introduced to your bedrooms brick wall.

Though come to think of it, maybe smashing it would be the best option here?

You sigh deeply as you finally notice it’s your best friend calling, a groan leaving your throat as you then instantly realize that she is probably calling thanks to your stupid Drunk Twitter rant. You contemplate not answering for a second, you could pretend you’re still asleep. But you know she’ll just keep calling until you answer, or worse, she’ll just show up at your house and let herself in with her spare key. Then you won’t have the luxury of hanging up on her if her teasing gets to be too much.

So as you click the answer button and hesitantly raise the phone to your ear, you prepare yourself for your incoming humiliation. I mean, more so than your already currently experiencing. Which is both surprising and frustrating, because who knew you could ever be this mortified in real life? You certainly didn’t, but yet here you are.

“Oh my God, Y/N!” Lindsey’s loud voice mixed with her unabashed laughter rings out of the phones speaker, it’s so loud that you instantly yanked the phone away from your ear. Your headache coming back tenfold as you groan loudly and message the side of your skull.

“Giiiiirl!!” She hollers now, and so lustrously that you can hear her perfectly, even with the phone still being nowhere near your ear. “What the hell were you drinking last night? And where can I get me some!”

You grumble out a, “you need to lower your voice or I’m hanging up on you.”

“Awe, is someone a little hungover today?” She coos in a motherly voice, though at a much quieter level now, at least enough to warrant putting the phone back to your ear once again. However her voice may be softer now, but the playful and teasing edge to her tone is as loud as a freaking bomb.

“More like dead,” you mumble falling back down to lay on your bed and slinging your free arm over your eyes. “Or at least I wish I was.”

Her gleeful cackle rings out of the phones speaker now. “Girl, don’t say that! I’d miss you too much, and you’re fucking famous now!”

You just groan, not even remotely interested in what she means by that.

“Oh, and why am I famous now, Lindsey?” She says in a mocking tone, clearly trying to impersonate you, but in your opinion not coming anywhere close. “It’s so wonderful you should ask Y/N! Probably because your tweets are all over the news stations, social media and the internet. Even most of the Avengers have already retweeted it, most notably Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff, Sam Wilson AND Bucky Barnes. Ya know, all of Steve Roger’s best friends. But yet, no one has commented on whether the recipient of your beautiful drunken words has actually seen it or not. Buuuuut we can all assume he probably has.”

“Can we just not do this today?” You roll onto your side, your free hand now pulling the duvet up and over your head again. “I am in far too much pain and far too humiliated to be having this conversation right now. Can we please, for the love of all things that are holy, talk about something else? Anything else, I beg you!”

“Hell no!” She exclaims, you wincing at the abrupt volume change. “My best friend is famous! And all because she drank too much wine and tweeted a ridiculously sweet rant about thee Captain America! Honestly, this. Is. Just. Too. Damn. Good.” She squeals, “you can’t even write better shit than this!”

“Lindsey,” you groan, “I am way too hungover and under caffeinated for this right now. Seriously, I’m going to hang up now and hopefully fucking die.”

“Fine, fine,” she relents but you can still hear the humour in her voice, “I promise I’ll drop it, for now. But get your sexy ass out of that bed and meet me in the kitchen STAT.”

“Uuugh,” you drag the sound out. “You’re freaking in my house right now, aren’t you?”

“I am,” she says gleefully. “But before you flip shit, don’t. I brought coffee and bagels, so be a good girl and get your ass out here or I’m going to eat all of it myself.”

You don’t even respond as you hang up the phone, she had you at ‘coffee’. You quickly flip the blankets off yourself and roll out of bed. Not even bothering to check yourself out in the mirror because honestly, Lindsey has seen you at your worst. So she is entirely used to this from you.

You trudge your way out to the kitchen, seeing your best friend pulling wrapped food from a brown bag and you groan again, but this time happily. Her eyes dart up to you and she gives you a once over, a small frown on her lips now.

“Oh boo thang, you look horrendous,” she says softly, sweetly, as you reach her, and she hands you the large to go cup of coffee. “Drink this. Then go jump in the shower, you stink like shame and poor life choices,” she scrunches up her nose playfully.

“I honestly don’t think a shower will remove those particular smells from my skin. I think that’s just my natural scent now,” you giggle as you take a deep waft of the glorious life juice’s warm aroma, a content sigh coming out on the exhale. You bring the drink to your lips and almost moan. Yes, you are this much of a coffee nut. You take a few generous gulps then stumble over to the counter stools and plop down. “But a shower does sounds like a good plan,” you nod, the cup staying close to your mouth for quick and easy access.

She hums in agreement, nodding as she hands you a wrapped up bagel. “So, should we talk about what caused you to want to get ‘Sappy Drunk Tweets’ wasted last night or?”

You sigh, “I just had a shit day at work. My boss was a raging asshole, yet again.” You shake your head, “but what’s new?”

“I can not stand that evil little man!” Your friend growls. “You seriously need to find a new job, Y/N. You can’t keep working for that piece of shit anymore. And I honestly don’t think your poor liver can take much more of these semi frequent beatings. Somethings gotta change.”

“I know, I know,” you nod, “I’ve been searching for something else, but there just isn’t many available jobs at the moment. But I’m hopeful I’ll find something soon.” You take another large gulp of the sweet, sweet liquid gold, feeling as the warmth radiates throughout your whole body, as your brain slowly begins to rejoin the land of the living.

It’s been a few days since your stupid drunken escapades on Twitter, and a few days since Lindsey visited. You both had enjoyed your coffee and bagels, talking about everything and nothing. Luckily she had kept the drunk tweet talk to a minimum, like she promised. And once you were all done that, Lindsey headed off to work and you hopped in the shower, before spending the entire day on your couch, watching movies and pointedly ignoring your phone. Or rather, the never ending string of notifications on said phone.

So now you’ve been basically hiding out since then, only leaving your house to go to work or to make a quick trip to the store down the block from your apartment. The stupid tweets are still blowing up, people are still retweeting them and talking about them.

You’d hoped this would have all blown over by now, that something else ridiculous would have come along and stolen everyone's attention. But alas, you aren’t that lucky. Because not a damn thing is going on in the world right now, obviously, as everyone is still very much hung up on your whole embarrassing sap fest.

So much so that you are being recognized now as the ‘Steve Tweet Woman’. Which is just fucking outstanding—ha! not!

News outlets, websites and talk shows have been blowing up your phone and email, asking for comments or to set up interviews. Wanting to know if anyone from Steve’s camp has reached out to you, or if you’ve been invited to the tower to meet the team. Also asking if you and the Avengers are now friends, or at the very least acquaintances. And those are just a few of the things they are asking you. Honestly, those are the least ridiculous questions—which is freaking sad.

So leaving your house has become a damn chore now, you have to wear a full disguise just in the hopes no one recognizes you. This is not what you wanted at all. Shit, you don’t even know what you wanted from making that tweet, but this for sure was not it. Not even close.

You’d avoided Twitter along with all your social media playforms since that dreadful morning, as well. You were just too overwhelmed with all the notifications and messages you’d been receiving ever since. Far too many to ever read, let alone even keep up with. Nor did you want to see what any of them actually said.

You sigh, trying to focus back on your computer monitor. You were currently at work, hiding out in your cubicle and keeping your head down.

At the moment you worked as a writer for a news and entertainment website, much like Buzzfeed but nowhere near as large or well known—And I know! Ironic right? Uuuugh! Your damn life was just such a joke.

Your cubicle neighbour, Tyler, springs up over your divider wall. His arms resting on the top as his chin sits on them, a small frown on his face. So this obviously isn’t going to be good.

“Do I even want to know?” You ask quietly before he can utter a word.

He sighs, “probably not. But sadly you kinda have to know.”

“Okay,” you spun slightly in your chair to face him fully. “I’m ready, lay it on me.”

“The boss saw your tweets,” he starts and you wince in embarrassment. “He messaged me as your email keeps sending his messages back undelivered. So you should probably check into that, but first, he wants to see you in his office.”

You groan, dropping your forehead onto your desk with a thud, “my email has been so swamped the last few days that I shut down the receiver.”

“Understandable,” he says quietly, and you can hear that the frown is still present on his face.

“Does he want to see me now?” You peek up at him.

He nods, “yeah, said it was urgent.”

“Shit,” you mumble and sit up, grabbing a notebook and pen quickly as you stand from your chair. “Well, wish me luck, hopefully he doesn’t just fire me the second I walk through the door.”

Tyler shakes his head, “he’d be an even bigger idiot than we all currently think he is, if he did that. Don’t sweat it, at worst he’ll probably just throw a tantrum and give you a slap on the wrist.”

“On second thought, I think I’ll just quit instead,” you say playfully as you walk out of your cubicle. Hearing Tyler’s deep chuckle behind you as you do.

“But then who will keep me entertained everyday?”

“You’ll find someone,” you giggle, shrugging. “My replacement, most likely. Though sadly they will never be as awesome as me!”

“Ain’t that the truth,” he agrees as he lowers back down into his chair and you continue on towards your bosses office.

A moment later you find yourself standing outside of his closed door, notepad clutched to your chest. You have no idea what this impromptu meeting will be about, but you can only assume it has something to do with your stupid drunken posts.

You take a deep breath in, raising your fist up to knock on the door. And a moment later hearing a muffled and authoritative, “enter.” God, he really was just such an entitled asshole.

You open the door and peek your head in, “you wanted to see me, Sir?”

He glances up and nods, “ah, Y/N. Yes, come in.”

You quickly open the door and make your way into his office, closing the door and then hastily moving to stand in front of him.

He interlocks his fingers together and rests his hands on his desk, just staring at you. “Why isn’t your email working?”

“Oh, uh,” you shift awkwardly in your spot. “I um, I shut it off for a bit.” You nod, “just till I could get caught up on the emails I already have.”

He raises a brow at you, “your email is being swamped with messages, I take it?”

You nod again, “ah yes, Sir.”

“Does that have anything to do with the tweets you sent out last week?”

You almost groan, almost, but manage to contain it. “It—it does, Sir.”

He nods, glancing to his monitor, “now normally, foolish shenanigans such as this would be grounds for termination. And I was going to fire you for the embarrassment you’ve brought on this company, but I had a change of heart. So you won’t be losing your position just yet.”

You nod slowly, wishing you could give this idiot a piece of your mind. But your need to pay bills and have a job forces you to bite your tongue. “Oh, um, thank you, Sir.”

“But,” he flicks his beady eyes back to you, “you will have to make this up to me.”

You almost gulp, what the hell does that even mean?! “Um, how,” you clear your throat, “how exactly would you like me to do that?”

He leans back in his chair, a smirk on his lips. One that instantly causes a chill to run down your spin, and this time you do gulp. “There is a press conference in 3 days. You are going to attend it on behalf of our website.”

You nod, following along so far, and honestly this doesn’t sound so bad. Getting to be at a conference first hand is a huge accomplishment. Being trusted enough to be the one present is a big deal in this company. Normally only seasoned writers get to attend such functions.

Yet, something about this feels...off. Like there is a shoe about to drop nearby and you can’t shake that thought. “Okay, um of course, Sir. But what is the press release for, exactly?”

His smirk grows into a full blown grin and your heart rate picks up instantly because of it. “I’m so glad you should ask,” he nods, “It's a press conference for the Avengers. They are opening their new facility and are holding a press junket to cut the rope and answer some questions.”

And instantly you choke on air, no joke, then coughing a few times to clear your airway. Because oh fuck. Fuckity fucking fuck fuck. Why you?! Why does life always do this to you?!

“Um, Sir,” you start quietly once you stop coughing. “I don’t um—this is not to say that I’m not completely honoured that you’d choose me for this job. But uh, I really don’t think it’s a good idea to send me to this. Not with everything currently going on, at least.” You swallow thickly, your hands turning clammy as your nerves pick up. “There, ah, there has to be someone more qualified to send to this event. Ya know, someone other than me.”

He shakes his head, “there isn’t. And even if there was, I can’t send anyone else. You were specifically asked for by name, we weren’t even originally supposed to attend this press release. Only larger media outlets were invited.” He opens his top drawer in his desk and pulls out an access pass on a lanyard, holding it out to you. You gingerly step forward to take it then take a few hasty steps back once it’s in your grasp. “You were the only one invited, and were given an all access pass for the whole event.”

You gaped at him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open as you glance between your boss and the press pass currently in your hand. “But ah,” you shake your head, “why me?”

He shrugs, “probably because of those silly posts you made. You clearly caught someone's attention. So get to work, you have a press conference to prepare for,” he dismisses you with a wave of his hand.

But you just stay firmly planted in your spot, “Sir, I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Oh but it is.” His eyes shoot to you and narrow, “so you either attend that conference or I’ll fire you. We are making the most out of your blunder here, don’t mess this up. You only have one shot at this, and I expect the article from this to not only be outstanding, but also on my desk Monday morning. This is the break our website needs, but if you aren’t willing to pull your weight and fix your mistakes, then we don’t have a place here for you anymore. So it’s your choice, Miss Y/L/N.”

You sigh defeatedly, and nod, “okay, I’ll do it.”

“I figured you would,” he nods once then turns back to his computer screen. “Close the door behind you.”

You nod, spinning on your heels and exit the room. Shutting the door softly behind you like he’d asked and then heading back to your desk to start preparing for this press conference.

But all you can think about is how truly mortifying this whole week has already been. And it’s clearly only going to get worse from here on out. How do you get yourself into these things? Now someone from the Avengers team has specifically requested that you be there. Great.

Were they planning to embarrass you further? Were they going to make a mockery of you because of a stupid drunken mistake? Were you going to regret accepting this article instead of just quitting?

You glance down at the press pass in your hand and sigh, there is no way to know currently just how this will all play out. But sadly, you’ll be finding out the answers to your questions soon enough. And in a little less than 3 days, at that.

You stand in front of your full length mirror—wearing the seventeenth outfit you’ve tried on so far this morning—and trying desperately to find faults with it. In all honesty, all the outfits you’ve tried on had looked perfectly fine and would have worked. But you were determined to stall, to waste as much time on pointless outfit changes as you could, so that you didn’t have to face your reality.

That reality being that today was the day, today was the Avengers press conference at the new facility. And oh God, how you really did not want to have to do this today.

I mean, the moon wasn’t in the right placement. Nor was Jupiter currently aligned. And your horoscope had warned you about ‘life changing events should you venture out of your box.’ And you could only assume said life changing events weren’t going to be good ones, and this was very much venturing outside of your box. Plus like, you just had this strange gut feeling, something deep inside you telling you that something was going to happen today—And one should always trust their gut in true times of crisis.

So really, that was all to say that this was a horrible idea, and you should probably just stay home. Yeah, it’s settled then, you’ll stay home. That was a much smarter plan for sure.

Your hired car pulls up to the large, intimidating steel and glass structure and you instantly feel like you’re going to puke. And if the hired car didn’t charge you your first born for doing just that, you’d gladly probably have puked in this exact moment. It comes to a stop and you thank the driver before collecting up your belongings and climbing out.

Glancing around you notice a bunch of people hanging about, some with large camera’s around their necks, others with microphones. But all are wearing various passes, some look similar to yours, however none match it entirely. Your hand grabs on to the pass around your neck and pulls it away from your body to examine it more closely.

Yeah, yours is the only one like it, that you can currently see. Which yeah, that’s extremely odd, for sure. You release the pass, letting it fall back to your chest and head towards the check in booth, just wanting to get this all over with so you can promptly go home and die of humiliation in your bed. Alone and away from the world.

You give one of the ladies at the table your full name and instantly notice a wicked smirk appear upon her lips as she hears it. Which honestly can’t be a good sign for what’s to come. No, this is a sign you should probably just leave now. The universe is clearly trying to warn you, but your dumb, job needing ass can’t leave. No matter how much you desperately want to.

She hands you a map, pointing to the location where you will be standing for the conference. Then she points behind herself, in the direction you are to head and you mumble a quick thank you before heading the way she showed you.

As you make your way to the location, you continuously glance between the map in your hands and the area around you. The last thing you need right now is to get lost on this insanely large property, and end up missing the press release all together. Oh God, your boss would pitch a fit if that happened.

Your heels click on the cement ground, thankful you aren’t trudging it through grass at the moment. Heels and grass do not mix, and with your luck you’d probably end up twisting an ankle or snapping a heel. And the last thing you want right now is to draw unwanted attention to yourself. Ya know, more so than you already have.

You glance down at the outfit you’d finally begrudgingly decided on, choosing to stick to basic shades to help you blend in a little better. No fancy or colourful prints or shades today. No, blacks and whites was what you went with. Hoping that most of the other press members would be dressed similarly. And with one glance around you, that hope actually came true.

You’d decided to go with a black pleather pencil skirt, that was form fitting but also flattering to all your softer areas. With a long sleeve white shirt tucked into it, and simple black pumps. It was a pretty basic look, but that’s exactly what you were going for. You wanted to blend in, praying none of the Avengers or press would even noticed you, let alone figured out you were the drunken Twitter tweeter.

God, doesn’t that just sound so stupid? The ‘Twitter tweeter’. Just ridiculous. And to think, this is your life now! This is who you are now. Seriously, the next time you drink, you are going to leave your phone at work. As you clearly can’t be trusted with it when you’re intoxicated.

As you make your way closer to the spot the nice lady had shown you, you realize that you are the only one in this location. All the other press are further down, in front of the stage, whereas your place is off to the side. It has a perfect view of the stage, but there is nothing and no one to hide behind.

You halt your steps, and even though it’s a beautiful sunny day, you feel a cold sweat come on. Are they segregating you? Are they going to make an example out of you? Or treat you like some circus clown?

You know these thoughts are ridiculous, these are world heroes we’re talking about here. Good people who put their lives on the line everyday for everyone else. But maybe they are going to force you into speaking to the press, maybe they are going to use you for good PR. Your stupid tweets are the hot topic at the moment, everyone is wanting the inside scoop on you, your life and your possible new affiliation with the mighty team.

But being in the spotlight isn’t your thing, you like to be unknown, anonymous. Just another face in the crowd. And if this is an ambush, then take you the fuck off that sign up list. You are not interested in this being spun around on you. Fuck that.

You turn on your heel and head back to the main press area, you’d just hide out there amongst all the other reporters and journalists. At least you could hang in the back and keep your head down while you take notes.

You might be overthinking this. Or be acting a little too irrational at the moment. But cut yourself some slack, this week has been hellish and overwhelming, to say the least. And your poor frazzled mind is in overdrive mode, overthinking the smallest things and making you a bit of a basket case. Clearly you don’t handle stressors like this very well. That’s obviously a flaw of yours, but one you very much do not plan on addressing today. Or ever, maybe. But definitely not here and now.

You reach the main press area and tuck yourself into a back row chair, lowering your large black purse onto the ground and digging through it to grab your notebook, recorder, pens and your phone. You’d record the whole press release, taking notes and photos here and there. Then when it was all over you planned to hightail it out of here, long before anyone noticed you. Hopefully. That was the plan anyways.

You glance around, noticing a few nearby press members staring intently at you. God, you hope none of them cause a scene and point you out. You quickly glance up at the stage, seeing that it is still empty and none of the team is up there yet. So you drop your eyes down and decide to just doodle in your notebook till the junket begins.

Time seems to be ticking along at an alarmingly slow pace. Probably just because you are so desperate for this to all be over, therefore it’s doing the opposite now. The minutes currently feeling like hours to you.

Finally, after weeks of waiting—at least you swear it’s been that long. You hear commotion up on the stage, and notice as everyone around you is seated now, taking photos. You grab your phone and flick your eyes up to the stage, seeing the mighty group of heroes slowly ascending the stairs and fanning out on the platform.

You snap a few shots and then prepare your recorder, hitting the button to start it once Tony Stark makes his way to the microphone. You balance the recorder on your left leg, your notebook open on your light and pen at the ready. Your phone sitting in between both legs, fully charged, set to silent and camera app open.

The conference starts with Tony doing a speech, thanking everyone for being here and just general PR stuff. You are sort of paying attention, but also not. You know that you can always listen to the recording later if you miss any part of this conference, so there isn’t a huge weight on you to be fully listening currently.

So instead, you get lost in your own mind, continuing to berate and chide yourself for your horrible life choices. Ya know, all the ones that led up to this very moment. You keep your eyes down for most of the event, only glancing up periodically to snap a few more photos here and there. But then they flick back down to continue doodling in your notebook.

On the plus side, the grassy, flowery meadow you have been drawing this whole time is looking wonderful. Even if it’s only in all blue and black pen ink. But focusing on this is better than possibly locking eyes with the poor victim of your latest drunk tweets. You know he is up there, because they all are. And the last thing you want is to look at him currently. Your immense guilt and humiliation preventing you from even entertaining the idea of ogling the handsome man right now. Not even a little bit, no matter how badly you want to. No matter how much you want to see just how attractive he is in person. You can’t allow yourself to.

You don’t even really deserve to be here right now, the only reason you are, is because drunk you is a sappy asshole. Had you not posted those stupid tweets, you wouldn’t have been invited here today. God, how you wish you had a time machine right now.

You’d made a bunch of mistakes throughout your life, I mean, who hasn’t? But this one was by far the worst, you were definitely paying for this one. Tenfold. Maybe this is the wake up call drunk-you needs though. Hopefully she will have learned her lesson from all of this. Buuuuuut knowing her, probably not.

You sigh, picking up your phone to take a few more photos as the time nears to the official opening of the facility. To the rope cutting, which is the true reason you are all here today. You keep your eyes on your phones screen, but movement off to the side of the stage catches your eyes and they snap from the screen to it.

They lock with a greyish blue set, and you see the owner of said eyes glance over your face momentarily, before a smirk breaks out on his lips. Bucky Barnes aka The Winter Soldier aka Steve Roger’s lifelong best friend. You are currently having a stare off with an ex hydra assassin, and an insanely good one at that.

You are just about to break the eye contact when you notice him elbow the blonde super soldier to his right. Leaning in once he has the other man's attention and whispering something in his ear, before his head nods in your direction. Oh God, this also can’t be fucking good.

The blonde furrows his brows for a moment, his eyes scanning the crowd before they land on you. And the second your eyes meet, you are fucking trapped. Because, Jesus! This man is basically a human bear trap, and your ass just willing stepped right on to it.

Greeeeeat. Now you’re having a stare off with thee Steve Rogers. Just exceptional. Note the extreme sarcasm.

And then you notice as he frowns, most likely now realizing you are the crazy lady who tweeted about him. He snaps his eyes away from you, turning to glare at his best friend. Who only grins wider in return and then shrugs his shoulders before nodding his head to the billionaire at the podium. Mr. Roger’s heated gaze then flicks to the side of Mr. Stark’s head, narrowing a little more and honestly, if looks could kill, everyone here today would be witnesses to a murder. To the death of Iron Man, at the eyes of Captain America.

And oh fuck, this is not going well. So much for going unnoticed. You can’t do this, you can’t be here any longer. This is all just too much and you want to go home.

You quickly pack up your belongings, throwing them haphazardly into your large purse. As the tears of humiliation begin prickling in your eyes. What did you do to deserve any of this? Clearly you fucked up in a past life and now you were paying for it in this one.

Your eyes involuntarily glance back up to the stage, tears threatening to fall but you try to force them to hold off until you are away from this place. Away from all the prying eyes. The last thing you need is photos of you crying like a baby, at the Avengers new facility opening, to start circulating the internet and only adding fuel to the fire.

They’d probably play it up like you were this insanely huge fan, and just being here made your crazy come out to play. Bawling your eyes out for just being here, in the presence of the hero you so clearly had lady wood for. But yet, that wasn’t it at all. You know most of these people were probably too focused on Mr. Stark to even notice the moment between the super soldiers. You’re pretty sure you were the only one who actually did see it.

Your eyes lock once again on the intense pair of blue ones, finding yourself momentarily trapped all over again. Then his eyebrows furrowing snaps you out of it, thankfully, and you feel a tear slip down your cheek. You quickly wipe it away as you turn and hastily make for the press area exit.

You don’t look back, you can’t bare to see the relief probably on Mr. Rogers face now. He is probably thankful you are leaving early. He probably never wanted to actually see you in the flesh. He probably thinks you are just some ridiculous, crazed fan who went out of her way to either try to get noticed by him, or boost her career via the exposure.

God, how far from the truth that actually was. But not like you’d ever get the chance to prove that to anyone now. You vow in this exact moment to delete your twitter the second you get into the Uber. Like completely deactivate your whole account. Then you’d have no way to embarrass yourself ever again. At least not publicly, not in front of the entire world.

As you reach the spot where the hired car had dropped you off, you pull out your phone and open your Uber app. You had a hired car set up to pick you up later on, for when the press release was supposed to be over. But as it was still early and now only over for just you, you needed a ride and fast.

You begin filling out the order, hastily walking down the laneway towards the main road. Like hell were you going to stay standing on the facilities grounds any longer. Risking being seen or stopped by random press members. You’d just meet the car down the road a bit. That was the best plan here.

But as you are making your hasty get away, you hear fast footfalls coming up behind you. And you cringe slightly, too nervous to turn around and see who is coming towards you currently. You pray it’s just someone running to meet their car. Maybe one of the press people has an emergency and needs to leave early because of it?

“Hey, hold up,” a deep voice calls from behind you, effectively killing that last thought dead in its tracks. Much like you wish would happen to you right now. If you could just drop dead in this moment, you totally would. You didn’t have suicidal thoughts, ever, but in this exact moment, you’d take any out you could get. The sheer humiliation of this week finally crashing down on you.

You sigh, quickly wiping your cheeks of the few tears that refused to stay put in your eyes, and slowly turn around as the footsteps near you and come to a deafening halt. You know whoever it is, is now only a few feet away from you and there is no avoiding this awkward situation any longer.

You instantly realize the person now standing mere feet from you, is the very last person you want to be anywhere near right now. Even with keeping your eyes down, focused entirely on the ground so that whoever the person ended up being wouldn’t see the tears, now in your eyes. You still instantly know that it’s Steve Rogers, the newest and current victim of your drunken praise, and it now takes everything in you to not start rambling out a ridiculous apology, while also bawling your eyes out.

A heavy silence looms over you, starting to feel as if you are being crushed by it. You take a deep breath, keeping your eyes honed in on the cement ground. “I um, I’m really, really sorry,” you start, the words coming out raspy from your unused and tear tingled voice. The volume barely above a whisper so you quickly clear your throat, “I shouldn’t have come here today. I ah, I didn’t want to ever make you feel uncomfortable in any way. And I guess I just need to apologize to you for my ridiculous antics last week. And ah, and for stupidly agreeing to come to this junket. I’ll just um,” you glance over your shoulder momentarily. “I’ll just be going now,” you finally glanced up at him, as you gesture with your thumb over your shoulder and take a step back. “Sorry again, for um, for everything.”

But holy fuck, he is so much better looking than you could have ever imagined. Up close and personal he is a freaking dream boat—Argh! You have no right to ogle this man! Give your damn head a shake. You are the very last person on this planet who is allowed to fangirl over him right now.

You quickly turn and continue to hastily make your way towards the road, not even giving him a moment to respond to your words. You don’t need him to say anything back though, he doesn’t owe you a damn thing. You are the dick that brought this all on to not only in yourself, but this poor man as well.

You got the chance to apologize to him, which is more than you could have ever asked for. Now you just want this all to be over. You just want to go home and pretend like this entire week never happened. He can go back to his normal life, and you to yours.

God, you could really use a stiff drink right now, but that’s what got you into this whole mess in the first place. So that’s probably not the smartest idea at the moment. So instead you’ll settle for a giant tub of ice cream and a lengthy, tear filled, phone call with your bestie.

“Wait,” he says softly, probably so he doesn’t startle you any further, as you feel a large warm hand grasp your elbow, urging you to turn back around.

You clench your eyes shut, why can’t this just all be over already?! Why you?! You take a deep stuttering breath in then open your eyes and turn to face him again. He releases your elbow as you do and then you awkwardly lock eyes with him once again.

One of his large hands comes up to rub the back of his neck, the action almost looking sheepish. Clearly he also has a few words for you, and whatever they are you’ll totally deserve them. Even if they are chastising you for your stupid posts. So you quickly steel yourself for what’s about to come.

“I ah, I wasn’t—“ he pauses then quickly corrects himself, “I’m not uncomfortable about you being here,” he shakes his head, “not at all. I just—firstly, I just wanted to apologize to you, actually. I know they probably forced you to be here today, I don’t really know how, but judging by your reaction to all of this, I’m guessing you really had no say in being here.“ He sighs deeply, “I had no idea that they’d actually invited you, so I can only assume that Tony played a huge hand in all of this. He really likes to insert himself into other people's lives, so I apologize that you got dragged into this. He doesn’t really know when to butt out.”

You nod slowly as you glance down to the ground again, “it’s okay. You really don’t owe me anything, I honestly brought this all on myself. I um, I don’t blame anyone else for any of this, but thank you for saying all of that.” You look back up at him, “it really helps to hear. This week has just been—“ you cut yourself off with a deep sigh, as you wave a dismissive hand around, “sorry, that’s really not important. Um, just basically thank you, ya know, for easing my mind with all of this.”

He frowns a little, but quickly corrects it. And you still just honestly want this all to be done with. But he looks like he still has more to say, so looks like your hopes will go unanswered this time. And just as you suspected he speaks up again.

He shakes his head, “don’t mention it, but I should really be the one thanking you.”

Awe, isn’t that just so dang sweet of him—wait, what?! I’m sorry, come again?! Your eyes widen as your mouth falls open slightly. You imagine it’s a super attractive look—note the sarcasm again—but you honestly can’t bring yourself to care about that at the moment. Because what did he just say?

Your eyebrows furrow after far too long of a moment with you just gaping up at him. “I’m sorry if this is rude, but um, why exactly would you owe me a thank you?”

He smiles down at you, then quickly glances over his shoulder before looking back to you. “I’ll explain all that, but first, can I show you something?”

You find yourself nodding before you’ve even realized it. “Um, yeah. Yeah, of course.”

“Okay, great. Just uh, just follow me then,” he says through a hesitant smile as he leads you off and away from the gathering. You aren’t sure where exactly he is taking you, but for the first time all week, you aren’t worried at all. Probably because this is Steve Rogers, the man out of time, and a true gentleman, in every sense of the word.

And maybe, just maybe, your hellish week that all began thanks to one stupid drunk moment, might just end on a way better note. Maybe your Drunk Twitter escapades weren’t all bad. Maybe they weren’t entirely horrible.

But honestly who really knows, you’d just have to wait and find out.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Part 2 of this, from Steve POV, will be coming sometime this week! So stay tuned for that!

@caps-lockdown @itsstillnotwhatyouthink @tfandtws @boxofteenageideas @wangdeasang @giggleberts @casuallydarktiger @theonelittleone @agentbadbitch @ratwrites @starrystellars @bandsandanimefreak @rockyroadthepastryarchy @lovvliies @cuffski @icesoccerer @alwaysright4 @lilsthethrills @steeeeverogers @zombiepotterfour @mu-mu-rs @ledandan1244 @straightforwardly @denzmallows @xremember-me-notx @gwynethjodie @lollipopdomination @capstopavenger @jemimah-b99 @rcvenqers @justkending @alagalaska @silent-loucidity @sabertooth-potato @pies-wands-and-more @interstellarmess @gabriella69816 @phantom-soilder @wordlesscaptain @captain-hammer-of-asgard @starstucknature @viarogers @pixieferry @kaithezaftig @the-kinkiest-goblin @hysterically-original @badassbeckettswan @heyiamthatbitch @zlixlle @capsicledoll @givemehopenfandoms @pretendingandpreposterous @frozen-phoenix17 @emotionallysalty @saturngirlz @atomicsludgedonutbiscuit @ivannagotthebeat @bohemian-barbie @marvelous-capsicle @ivoryhazlewood @steverogersxreader @cjhorseback @jasminecalia @secondstar2disney @jessiedaeum @betsynodak @capricornprince118

#au fanfiction #fanfiction #long post #long read #marvel au #marvel fanfiction #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x you #drunk twitter #steve rogers au

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owenshire · 4 years

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Robert Muhlbock (virtually) Inducts Nine Inch Nails into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame 2020

Nine Inch Nails. One band, and often one man, with a computer (and guitar) against the world. Oh yes, Nine Inch Nails have added members for live performances and gained members (well, a member) for studio compositions, but from this “band-like-musical-entity’s” earliest days, it was just one person—one person who combined pop-hooks with industrial whirs, and harrowing rage with uncomfortable vulnerability. And his name is Trent Reznor.

No one should claim that Nine Inch Nails invented a genre. They didn’t. But they sure as hell popularized and perfected it. Electronic, Industrial, ‘Disco Death Metal’—whatever you want to call it, the labels don’t really matter. In fact, I think the genre should just be called “sounds like Nine Inch Nails” which is compliment enough on its own, right?

Nine Inch Nails are one of the most important, vital, inspirational, talented, and unique of musical artists. I love them. And now I’m going to tell you why…in a lengthy video essay, so settle in. And if you don’t have the fandom or attention span for what I’m about to say, go back to consuming shitty tweets and dumbfuck Instagram posts because you’re not wanted here anyway.

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My first introduction to NIN began like so many others: by catching the iconic video for “Head Like A Hole” on MTV—the band rocking out amidst electrical wires and magnetic tape, until it seemed like the entire writhing mess would consume them whole. It’s an image as potent today as it was some 30 years ago.

However, my real introduction to NIN was originally steeped in urban legend. I was in grade 10 and I heard Pretty Hate Machine played on my school bus on the way home. The owner of this cassette tape, a “cool girl” who shall remain nameless, told me that the album was “out of print” and “unavailable.” In short, she assured me that I would never be able to find a copy, but, guess what, I did.

In a trade with former MMA coach Shawn Tompkins—and in my grade 10 art class no less—I swapped two ninja stars for a box of his old cassette tapes, and Pretty Hate Machine was one of them. This was my own NINJA moment, if you will—does anyone get that reference—anyway, upon witnessing said trade some random guy in my art class immediately offered me $25 for the Pretty Hate Machine cassette tape—a king’s ransom in 1990—but of course I wouldn’t sell. I knew it was valuable—and in more than one way. Instead I played the hell out of the cassette in my Walkman. I was 14 years old. “Terrible Lie” was my favourite song from the album. And it still is.

And then—poof—like that, NIN dropped out of my life. Where’d they go? Well, I guess they were making a name for themselves during Lollapalooza 1991, white chalk dust and all. Not that I knew any of this. Pre-internet I had no idea what was going on. In fact, I wouldn’t hear any new NIN music until almost a full year later when one of my friends with a penchant for industrial music introduced me to the Broken EP. As he handed me his CD for borrowing, he warned me that it was “pretty extreme.” And he was right. The Broken EP is why album warning stickers were invented: it was a fist to the face, a kick to the face—it was even an ass to the face.

Anyway, the Broken EP was my real introduction to the seemingly bottomless rage of NIN. When I heard Broken I was just starting to get into so-called “heavy” music, but nothing could have prepared me for the lyrical and musical brutality of “Wish.” While Reznor’s litany of profanity was extreme—at least to my sheltered 16 year old ears—what truly staggered me was the song’s main riff (you know the one I mean) the one that is so distorted, so disturbing, that it sounds like a guitar being burned alive while flailing in a wind tunnel.

I’d never heard anything like it before—it wasn’t cock-rock; it wasn’t fake satanic rage done for laughs, theatre or to impress--no. Instead it was the audio embodiment of complete destruction and utter despair. And 30 years later, it’s lost none of its power.

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These same sentiments must be applied to The Downward Spiral, Nine Inch Nail’s career defining work that launched the band into mainstream success. Too often discussions of the record get bogged down by emphasis on “Hurt” or “Closer,” or, to some extent, “Heresy.”

Yes, “Hurt” is the perfect album closer and expression of pleading vulnerability, and, yes, “Closer” and “Heresy’s” choruses were brutally raw and shocking in 1994 (and, it should be said, still above average shocking in 2020), but I feel the album is best presented as a whole. This was the beginning of NIN’s discovery that (to paraphrase one rock critic) just as much tension can be generated with a whisper as with a scream.

Dynamics have always been a huge part of NIN’s’ sound, and The Downward Spiral stands as a defining moment. The album, as all of you know, begins with “Mr. Self Destruct” (well, that’s not entirely true—the album actually begins with the audio of what appears to be a man being beaten to death while submerged underwater)—but anyway, “Mr. Self Destruct” was as sonically astonishing to me as “Wish” was two years prior. As I listened to the verses of “Mr. Self Destruct” I kept asking myself “Is it supposed to sound like this? I can’t hear what he’s saying”—it was such a cacophony of meticulously detailed and layered noises, but of course not without substance or a melody: its quiet refrain of “And I control you” buried so deep in the mix, it mirrored the subconscious itself.

“Mr. Self Destruct” gives way to “Piggy”—again a haunting track that’s almost tender and such a shock in sequence given the song that preceded it. Again. Dynamics. Surprise. Making the atypical typical in the best non-traditional way. Does that make any sense? Anyway, I felt the same way about the mini-piano solo/ lyric pairing of “now doesn’t it make you feel better” before the dramatic pause in “March Of The Pigs”—I don’t think any of us saw THAT coming. I was literally shocked when that phrasing appeared out of no where, emerging like a tiny ironic rainbow out of the whirlwind of thrashing drums, crazy guitars, and “stains like blood on your teeth” screams the preceded it.

Speaking of screams, the title-track of The Downward Spiral still stands as a monument to vulnerability, despair, and pure abject horror. It’s the only song I’ve ever heard that I am afraid to listen to. When I listen to The Downward Spiral, I wait for the song the way a child hides behind a blanket awaiting glimpses of a film monster: I know it’s coming, and I know it’s going to be horrifying…and it always is. So why do I subject myself to it?

______________________

That’s a fair question. Let’s be frank here: Nine Inch Nails isn’t for everyone. It takes a certain personality to fully appreciate the band’s complete package of black, blue, and bleeding, “but you can dance to it!” Still, NIN is more than mere nihilism and hopelessness. Those who label the band in such ways, kind of miss the point. To me, NIN has always been—lyrically at least—about catharsis: I suppose ALL music functions as such—a tool of understanding, and a mechanism for coping. Trent Reznor once commented on the vulnerability of his lyrics, saying in an interview with NPR that his topic of choice was less about vanity than it was about delivering a performance with honesty and integrity. The only topic that mattered—his emotional struggle—was the only subject he could speak about with authority and with conviction.

However, it just so happens to be a struggle that millions of other people share. When Trent Reznor sings “Now you know/ this is what it feels like” on The Fragile’s “The Wretched,” he is inviting his audience to share in his pain. Whether he intended it this way or not, his is a gesture borne or isolation but ending in comradery: many of us certainly know what “this” “feels like.” And many, many more of us can certainly relate to the words “Dear World, I can hardly recognize you anymore.”

In short, Trent Reznor’s lyrics, as personal as they are, speak for us: his fans. He speaks for me. He still does.

Interestingly, themes consistent in NIN’s best work offer a type of almost emotional ambivalence: caring, but not caring; wanting to be helped, yet rejecting help; and most importantly, wanting to be alone, yet desperately wishing to connect with others. The songs “We’re In This Together” and “The Fragile” perfectly illustrate these sentiments. To me, it is no coincidence they are sequenced side by side on the “some-critics-didn’t-like-it-at-the-time-but-have-since-come-to-their-senses-album” The Fragile.

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Musically, however, NIN is best known for three distinct styles of music: computer chaos, groovy beats, and symphonic soundscapes. I’ve touched on the first—and will return to it—but for now, let’s discuss the second. I’m not a huge fan of the term “death-disco”; however, NIN’s long list of ass-shaking beats, should not be overlooked. What began on Pretty Hate Machine with “Sin” and “The Only Time,” pleasantly resurface on “Into The Void” only to be perfected on “The Hand That Feeds,” “Only” “Capital G,” and “Discipline” not to mention a large portion of Hesitation Marks.

But back to computer chaos—or maybe just chaos in general. I can think of no better example to illustrate my point than the final coda to the song “The Great Destroyer” on the fabulous dystopian opus Year Zero—one of my favourite albums of all time: the sound of things falling apart—wires frayed, systems destroyed, screens cracked: static humming and ‘please stand by’ messages flicking forever. The Eater of Dreams. “All we ever were—just zeros and ones.”

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The final cornerstone of NIN’s musical contribution is soundscapes and instrumentals, and what a can of worms THAT is given all that’s transpired since 2011. Anyway, when The Fragile was released in 1999, more than a few fans bemoaned its inclusion of no less than 7 instrumentals, and yet these contributions have always been a signature addition to NIN’s body of work: from “pinion,” “help me I am in hell,” “a warm place,” the deeply personal “La Mer,” to Ghosts I through VI, NIN’s experiments with sound have always been integral to their songwriting process—a willingness to experiment and a love of discovery which surprisingly, yet somewhat inevitably, lead to NIN’s work in soundtracks. Beginning somewhat inadvertently with Tony Scott’s Man On Fire (look it up), and then deliberately on the video game Quake, this creative direction eventually resulted in (as we all know) various Oscar and Emmy nominations and wins for Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross, and yeah, while technically not “Nine Inch Nails” releases, I think we can all agree it’s hard to separate the two sometimes because as we all know, the line begins to blur, amiright?

The point is this: Nine Inch Nails were and are no strangers to pushing boundaries musically, visually, and artistically. Some defining unconventional moments in the band’s career to me are as follows:

· The 97 one-second tracks on the Broken EP before its final two songs; the infamous Broken film itself—a movie I found on a bootlegged VHS tape and rented for a mere 1 dollar at the time—and then proceeded to wish that I never did.

· Moving on, there is of course the band’s seminal 1994 Woodstock performance, where the musicians arrived on stage in a foggy haze, caked head to toe in mud, and bringing the apocalypse with them;

· Next we have the Alternate Reality Game developed around the release of Year Zero,

· There was the free download of The Slip; and the free downloads of Ghosts V and VI some years later

· Who could also forget about the NINREMIX website where fans were invited to remix the band’s songs and post them for all to enjoy, and copyright be damned.

· Um, there was also that time they said “a heartfelt fuck you” to the Grammy’s.

· And finally we have Nine Inch Nail’s unexpected live appearance on the rather toned down Austin City Limits.

And the list goes on. Trent Reznor once explained such actions in the most self-aware terms possible: he likes pushing himself (as well as his fans) out of comfort zones, to flirt with mainstream conventions but to approach and execute them as only Nine Inch Nails can: with integrity and—to borrow Trent’s appraisal of the late David Bowie—“uncompromising vision.”

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Speaking of integrity and uncompromising vision, NIN’s humility is one of the band’s most inspiring and endearing characteristics. In Reznor’s case, we’re talking about an accomplished artist who admitted publically that he still feels he has so much to learn about his craft—that he’s barely scratched the surface regarding his mastery of sound and songwriting; a man that mocked his own starry eyed expression upon receiving an Oscar by pairing it with the caption “I see unicorns” and inviting fans to provide similar self-deprecating taglines. A man who speaks in measured tones about his opportunities and successes in his life—and does so, repeatedly I might add, quietly, humbly, and gratefully.

Such self-awareness is extremely rare in show-business let alone by a band that’s achieved as much as Nine Inch Nails.

And guess what? Here’s the thing. I think there’s no stopping them. With Nine Inch Nails—particularly, Trent and Atticus no matter what they call themselves and until they are inducted into the IHOR as solo artists, anything’s possible:

· Scoring a children’s movie? The upcoming Pixar film Soul? Why not? Let’s have some more. Give me a children’s album!

· Creating a vintage jazz ballad (the unparalleled “The Way It Used to Be”) in a week and making it indistinguishable from other songs of the era? Of course!

· Winning a Tony Award to become part of the EGOT club—I say sure. In fact, prediction: before the end of the world (so basically, in about 30 years) Nine Inch Nails will get an EGOT. There. Prove me wrong.

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In 1997 Spin Magazine once hailed Trent Reznor as “the most vital artist in music today,” while in that same year Trent Reznor appeared on Time Magazine’s list of the top 25 most influential Americans.

These accolades were well earned; however, I prefer a statement made by some music magazine critic whose name escapes me in their review of a Nine Inch Nails album whose name also escapes me: they said, “we can only hope something else pisses him off,” sentiments which I’m sure are echoed by many, and to which I reply…there seems to be no worry about that.

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Nine Inch Nails encompass a facet of popular art that is as necessary as it is compulsory: they remind us that the world is not pleasant; tragedy is inevitable; the game is rigged; faith is a lie; and everyone you know will abandon or disappoint you.

But guess what? If you’re lucky, the way out is through, motherfuckers.

I am honoured to induct Nine Inch Nails into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

#trent reznor #Robert Muhlbock #Owenshire #Nine Inch Nails #Rock and Roll Hall of Fame #Rock Hall 2020 #The Fragile #Year Zero #Pretty Hate Machine #Broken #Hesitation Marks #The Downward Spiral

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littlestsnicket · 4 years

Text

the witcher: betrayer moon

The beginning of this episode seems to draw so much more on horror tropes than other episodes. Not that I watch a lot of horror to actually know that. This bit isn’t actually that gory, but there’s something about the slow painful dying that’s really ick.

The random ass Witcher is smoking a fucking pipe! I missed that the first time around. It seems like he dies a lot too easy for someone with heightened Witcher senses. I guess there just narratively isn’t time for that to take longer but it feels a bit sloppy in a way this show usually isn’t.

Two funny things about the scene with the prostitute: (1) we immediately establish that they’ve been at it long enough to run out of refreshments which is great, and (2) she’s singing Jaskier’s songs and using them to identify Geralt’s scars. That comes up in shippy stuff a lot but let's assume that is not what they’re going for. The best thing about it is that Geralt is annoyed at the singing and scar identification but also 100% willing to ignore all that if it means a pretty lady is touching his chest like that. I’m amused.

Oh hey, organized labor!

‘You can’t kill the vukodlak so you decide to kill your king?” — that’s a real odd take on the situation, but I suppose it’s not an unreasonable take on what Geralt knows of the situation. Maybe. And he’s so derisive about it. Geralt’s political views are complicated and warrant more thought than I am willing to give them right now to unpick.

“And if you can’t kill it?” “Then I die.” ICONIC.

It’s an interesting touch that the guard captain knows people by name. He seems very engaged on a personal level. It gives you a feeling of how small Temaria is.

I’m not going to look at this in terms of adaptation (that would be a separate thing if I even get around to it) but I think it’s a really interesting choice to pull Triss into this story.

This has been going on for 6 years?!? No wonder people are close to revolt.

Oh Geralt’s angry face when he finds out that Triss lied about the other Witcher fleeing. Like don’t undermine his professional honor.

I’m really glad they didn’t give Geralt cat eyes. I found it really distracting in Good Omens when Crowley wasn’t wearing his glasses. It’s just an odd thing to see on an otherwise human passing creature.

Yenn? Why are there illusions of people you conjured watching you have sex? Why is that something you thought to do? The way they are smiling and the just like... warm applause is so odd. What is the kink you’re exploring there? I want to understand, Yennefer.

“You are a first draft of what nature intended.” The delivery of that line is so funny. (Also, I imagine that is how book!Dandelion’s hair looks.)

“We remake ourselves on our terms. The world has no say in it.” There’s a lot to unpack there. Especially with how Tissaia explains it in terms of power.

“Call her a unicorn if you like.” Fanon is wrong about how much Geralt talks in the show. It’s not all just hmm. Relative to all of his dialog there’s not actually that much of that.

I very much enjoy the way Geralt’s deduction skills are shown here. And also how he confronts royalty as someone who is both not a subject and has very little to lose in terms of social standing.

Stregobor!! AAAAAGH! He’s so awful

“The all powerful sorceress Tissaia de Viress is knocked down from her glass pedestal.” Teenage rebellion Yenn (although that does oversimplify their relationship.)

Geralt just like... ignoring Triss’s questions is really good. There’s not nothing to the fanon characterization of Geralt.

Sniffing! Sniffing years old scents! How does Geralt function out in the world with all of that input? I guess he’s used to it.

“Kings have done more for less.” “True.”

Istredd calls her Yenna!

“I will not be schooled by some man that pimps the world as some romantic adventure. My world is cruel. Unpredictable. You enter, you survive, you die.”

“You’re just angry because you lost your chance to be beautiful.” “I want to be powerful.” “Seen and adored with everyone watching.” “It is what I’m owed.” “No amount of power or beauty will ever make you feel worthy of either.” This whole exchange is so good. Yennefer and Istredd are young and flailing about but know each other to hit the mark a few times.

The aesthetic of this ball is so confusing. What is that music? Maybe Yenn’s dress as “what a early 2000s teen thinks a witch should dress like” was more intentional than I thought. That’s what this party is too. It’s got a strong, for lack of a better word, fanon Harry Potter vibe.

Angry Yenn! She has got to be so used to being able to emotionally beat down people by the time she meets Geralt.

“This isn’t my first time trying to save a princess who others see as a monster.” “What happened to that princess?” “I killed her.” Geralt is fucking impeccably honest. That is a huge part of who he is as a person. What a thing to say to a king.

The prostitute assumes Geralt was in love with the princess and Foltest assumes he is incapable of it. And Geralt does not correct him.

“She was hiding from the brotherhood...” Wait!!! Did Yenn give the guard captain the curse?!? I think she could have timeline wise.

Yenn chooses to keep her eyes and her scars. She also very explicitly knows what she is giving up. Which she, importantly, never puts up for debate. But this really isn’t informed consent. That is the life path she was, essentially, sold into. She also doesn’t get what she was promised in a court appointment. The thing that stands out to me on this watch is how little real power and influence Triss has in Temeria. I think it’s easy to suspect that Yenn didn’t put in her all at court, because by the time we see her next it’s been such a long time and she is so jaded. But I don’t think that’s the case at all. There is something going on here with women needing to be beautiful to exercise power and it also, simultaneously, undermining them. It’s a complex thing.

Geralt can be pretty fucking ruthless when he lets himself. Just abandoning captain dude to die. Not that he’s a good person or whatnot, but still.

The snow particles add a lot to the aesthetic of the fight sequence with the striga. And the noises the striga makes are truly horrifying.

Yennefer is insane to do this without any kind of pain relief. I read some very good meta about Yennefer believing it should hurt. I don’t have anything insightful to say about it.

The little moments of Geralt being clever while fighting! I’m trapped so let me aard through the floor to escape. That is next level situational awareness!

Yenn’s transformation intercut with Geralt fighting to break the striga curse. What does that imply? Lots but I’m really not sure exactly what.

Geralt trapping himself in the crypt. It’s so clever but also feels like an act of desperation. And he’s relatively unscathed until the mostly uncursed but totally feral princess tries to eat him.

Yenn and feral princess are in very similar fetal positions post transformation.

Yenn’s face when she walks into the ball! It’s a really complicated face. Something about her ever so slightly vague open mouthed expression reminds me of Steve Rogers post Captain America transformation. It’s a similar “I have just undergone something incredibly painful and now am different” thing.

So what would have happened if Yennefer ended up in Nilfgaard? Would it have made any difference?

“Anyone else would have killed the princess. You chose not to.” “I’ll take my coin now. I need to get back to my horse.” yeah sure Geralt. Triss knows you’re not in this just for the money.

Vortex of Fate!!! This is not one of the episodes where they say destiny an unreasonable number of times, but Triss does say it there at the end. (And also the bit about destiny being related to choices.)

“I feel something waits out there for you. Something more.” CUT TO CIRI! There are a lot of really clever things with how these storylines are woven together.

You know what? I did not miss Ciri at all this episode. Freya’s performance is good and there’s nothing wrong with the writing, but she is definitely the character and storyline I am least engaged with.

#the witcher #mayo blogs the witcher #oh hey i did the first two of these literally 4 months ago--since i picked it back up again that is good odds i will finish eventually #this is really more for my reference than anything else but why not share my rambley thoughts about things

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hamlets-ghost-zaddy · 5 years

Text

st. jude (the patron of lost causes)

Part 8/8

Donald Malarkey x Reader

A letter arrives in Paris a day after you do.

Constance, having impersonated you to the British mail officer, waves it as a white flag of truce, charging through your newly assigned convalescence hospital ward. “Mail from Austria!” she sings, snapping your eyes up from the young officer you’ve been ordered to keep special watch over, changing out the cold compresses for hot ones over his hollowed eye-sockets. You blink once, twice, pretending the boy’s incomplete face hadn’t morphed into Don’s the longer you looked. Though, you think, I’m grateful for a reason to look away.

Thrust under your nose, you have nowhere else to look but at an envelope scrawled with blue-ink letters, messy and nearly-illegible and absolutely perfect. You savor your name on mailing address, Don’s on the return, lettering too large initially before turning thin and cramped. In your imagination, Don’s warm laughter tickles your ears, his smile sheepish, and he offers weakly: ‘What do you want? I can’t help it if ‘convalescence hospital’ is too long to fit on the envelope!’

Accepting the letter with careful fingers, touching as little of it as possible—perhaps to preserve the sanctity of mail, you so rarely received any, or to preserve the sanctity of his handwriting, the first sample of it you’ve seen—you slide a nail along its lip and draw out the letter inside. Your fingers are shaking; you’re not sure when that started.

“I wish Eugene would write to me,” Constance says to the air above your head.

“Did you ask him to?” you ask, distracted as you recall how to read, your eyes caught and stuck on the first words (“my love”). Sure you’ve misinterpreted the words, sure your mind only conjures what it desperately wants (needs) to read, you begin again. But no. It reads the same.

“Well, no,” Constance prattles, “But the implication was definitely there when I said goodbye to him.”

You’re not listening—how could you possibly with the world held at range, muffled by a shining ring that pierces your ears, bright and yellow but maddeningly loud?—to her, not comprehending the flustered patter of her worries. You’re not doing much of anything: not breathing, not blinking, not moving, all in fear that the letter might disappear, might be spirited away back to him, as if he didn’t mean it and could take it back from five hundred miles away.

“What—?” you finally croak, when you reach the last line of the letter, when Constance has long-since petered into silence, frowning at you in concern. Swallowing past a dry throat, you try again: “What does this mean?”

“What does what mean?” Constance asks, practically.

You read to her: “‘I’m coming to you in Paris, so you’re not allowed to go anywhere. I’m coming home.’”

Paris in July is a riot of color, of life, and the wet heat blanketing the city—making sheets stick at night, your uniform during the day—makes you wonder if Bastogne or Haguenau truly existed. If they happened. The cold, a freeze you thought so deeply seeped into your bones that your blood would never melt, is distant in the joyous jubilation of Paris in summertime, Paris in victory.

But death fills your nostrils, ghosts haunt your sight, and when the long days on duty at the convalescence hospital inch to an end, your muscles are limp, your body is weary, and your soul tired. You appreciate Constance inviting you out to the dance halls, the jazz lounges, and the USO shows with her various beaus, but there’s an unspoken understanding that it’s all a courtesy. You wouldn’t accept, couldn’t accept, not when the war was over but the greatest horror had been saved for the end in that little, damned German town.

You’d come alive, you know as you mark off the calendar hung up in the nurse’s sleeping quarters, when time brought you July 23rd and a train from Austria brought you Don Malarkey. You ignore that line in his letter—that one you and Constance can’t make sense of—because you can’t stand the thought of him coming here, to Paris, only to be ripped again from your arms, bound for the States and Oregon. Bound for a life without you, ocean liner ticket in his back pocket and a suitcase of opportunities in hand. Opportunities that didn’t fit you. So, you ignore it. (Or, you try to, but the minutes before sleep, or as you bathe before a shift, or take a meal break, are too quiet and your brain insists on filling it with thoughts of what if—what if—what if—)

And, on the twenty-seventh, when the morning shift ends, and you hurry for the metro and Gare de l’Est without bothering to change from your nurses’ uniform (as if every slight offering could tempt the clock faster), you wait for energy to surge through your veins, to blossom across you skin and in your chest. But, you only rush faster as if the wind will fill your hollowness.

Those sunken gaps where eyes should be, those skeletal men in the camps where laughter should live, those ghosts where living boys used to stand—

You plunge into the train station’s crowd.

The crush of humanity tosses you in its mad current, and you allow it to drag you along, only breaking for air to squint at the chalkboards announcing arrival times, delays, and departures; only turning on your heel to pace the ruler-measured straight train platforms when you reach one end, hurrying to retrace your sentry path. The great clock in the station’s lobby, luminescent and gold, ticks on. The chalkboards announce a train from Strasbourg—his train—but where—?

Arms are tight around your ribs, a chest is hard against your back, and a laugh is low and warm against your hair.

You kiss him before you see him—the surest way to check he’s real, he’s there, because the war has taught you not to believe your eyes. If you did, you’d suffocate from the weight of the horrors, the depravity—but ah, he’s kissing you, his nose bumping yours in his eagerness to tilt his jaw to match your jaw, to kiss you so your lips will slide and lock into place. As if he kisses you well enough, for long enough, nothing could break him from you, or you from him. You taste the sweetness of coffee with sugar on his mouth, smell the sweetness of fresh showers and fresh laundry, touch the sweetness of his downy soft curls, his sun-taut skin, his double-blessings of double-icons.

When you break away, he kisses your fingers clasped in his, devoting time to kiss each knuckle, the basin of each palm. Then, those earth-brown eyes meet yours and thank God they’re still there, there are no more ghosts than when you last saw them, that light shining past phantoms still flickers in those brown irises, strong and stubborn. “Thank God you’re here, that I’m returned to you,” he whispers, his voice caressing ‘you’ with a tenderness that paints pink onto your cheeks.

You squeeze his hands, words flown from your mind. He doesn’t seem to notice, too busy marveling at your hands in his, your face holding a smile for him. Occasionally, he presses more kisses, soft and vague, to the pads of your fingers, your nose and cheeks, as if to assure himself you still breathed from one second to the next. Finally you muster, “How is it possible that the three weeks since I got your letter felt longer than the whole war?”

His grin, opening like a flower for you, dominates his face. He kisses you again, assuring against your lips: “It’ll be worth it, I promise.” Yet, he pulls away suddenly, your lips chasing his a few inches, askance for more kisses. “But can you lead us to a church? Maybe Notre Dame?”

You restrain yourself until the bridge connecting Paris to its religious heart, the Île de la Cité, and Notre Dame’s graceful spires rise above you like the fragile arms of a ballerina, reaching heavenwards in holy praise. “Don,” you begin shaky, nibbling your lip. “Don, I—” Your voice falters, fails; if you ask the question, you’d have to hear the answer. Do you want that? Do you want to know what he meant when he said he ‘was coming home?’ If he boarded a ship for Eugene, Oregon tomorrow morning; could you stand knowing?

“Yes?” he prompts.

“I—” you try again, sucking in a deep breath, and knowing you have to stand knowing. “I was wondering if you’re going home, to Eugene?”

“Well, uh, of course,” Don replies, stretching out the word, blinking at you. His eyes sweep around—to the neat, pale Parisian townhouses capped with black shingles and dotted with spilling flower boxes, to the men on bicycles and the women with little dogs—and he says, “As much as here is nice, I’m sure, I’m going home.”

“Oh,” is all you muster.

He notices how you deflate, how happiness evaporates from your eyes, and he frowns. “Why? What do you mean ‘oh’?”

“It’s nothing, nothing at all,” you insist, feeling foolish. He meant what he wrote, and meant precisely as he worded it: he’s coming to Paris and then he’s bound for home. You should have expected as much; he has every reason to crave the familiarities of home, to seize them the first instance he can and—

He pulls you to a stop, cradling your face with both hands, his thumbs rubbing away the stray tears that slipped the gate and managed to leak from your eyes. “‘Nothing’ she says while she’s crying,” he teases gently, his mouth quirking, his eyes betraying his worry. They’re not soil now; they’re something more solid, ancient, and buried deeper in the earth. Something unmovable, and maybe that thought prompts you to admit:

“It’s just what you wrote in your letter, that you’re coming home. You’re going home to Oregon soon, and just stopped off here, and of course I’m happy for you, but—”

His laughter interrupts you, confuses you, and before your mouth can pop open in protest, he’s kissing you anew. Gentle at first, but then he’s nibbling your lip, biting it, exploring how your body—flooding with heat and your throat squeaking involuntarily—responds to each new sensation. He delights in your reactions, delights in knowing they’re his doing, and when he breaks from you (you suspect your mouth matches his: red and swollen), he says, “Eugene is the place I call home, but my home…” he shakes his head as if in correction, “My life is you. You battled away the ghosts, you fought back the gray, and revived this.”

He places your hand on his chest. Under your palms, his heart beats, jackrabbit quick.

A pause. Then, he pulls one of his icon necklaces from under his uniform. Checking the image briefly, he pulls it off only to thread over your head. “I know it’s not a ring, but there is a church—” he gestures and you squint up at Notre Dame. You hadn’t noticed you are stopped in the great square in front of her, hadn’t known she witnessed your foolishness “—we exchanged symbolic things, if you know what I mean, and . . .”

And you had fallen in love with him, your spirit and happiness married to him, since a supply tent in Haganau.

You nod, breathing, “Yes, I do,” because you know what he means; you’d swear to it. You kiss him now, and when your forehead rests on his shoulder, you find your fingers turning the new icon around and around. Holding it up to the bright July light, you squint, asking, “Who is it?”

“Anthony of Padua.”

You kiss the icon, kiss Don, and feel as though you could kiss the day itself or kiss Paris in all of its riotous color and wonderment: what you knew you lost hadn’t been found. What you didn’t know to need, had been given generously, abundantly.

Life finds a way.

#band of brothers #band of brothers imagine #band of brothers imagines #band of brothers fic #donald malarkey imagine #donald malarkey #donald malarkey x reader #last part cha cha cha #hurt/comfort #my writing

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awakenedredemption · 5 years

Text

&&-— a b o u t.

—ACCESSING g.u.n. FILES...

ENTER PASSWORD… MA…RI…A. maria.

—ACCESS granted.

❝IF THE WORLD CHOOSES TO BECOME MY ENEMY, THEN I WILL FIGHT LIKE I ALWAYS HAVE.❞

CODE NAME: Project Shadow. GIVEN TITLE: Ultimate Life form, Shadow the Hedgehog. AGE: Unknown.

GENDER: Male. HEIGHT: 4'0. WEIGHT: 85 lbs.

SPECIES: Anthropomorphic Hedgehog/Alien Hybrid. DATE OF BIRTH: Unknown. OCCUPATION: G.U.N. Agent.

CURRENTLY IN POSSESSION OF: One chaos emerald.

❝EVEN IF MY MEMORIES ARE NOT REAL, IT’S STILL ME, SHADOW.❞

ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Good. ORIENTATION: Unknown. APPEARANCE: A crimson stripe is marked nearly over Shadow’s entire body; His quills, the corners of his eyes, his arms, and legs, the very same same color also present in his eyes. Crimson clashes with ebony as the majority of his fur is pitch-black. His muzzle and ears are an orange-tan like color, while gold is present on his boots and inhibitor rings. On the center of his chest, a patch of white fur is apparent, probably one of the more ‘iconic’ parts of Shadow’s appearance. FAMILY: Professor Gerald Robotnik (surrogate father) and Maria Robotnik (surrogate sister).

PERSONALITY: Shadow is seen as a ‘lone wolf’. He’s clever, intelligent, bold, confident, and ruthless. When Shadow has an objective in mind, he will complete it by any means necessary. Emphasis on ’by any means necessary’. He’s never been one to open up to others, at least, not at first.

Despite his brute exterior, Shadow does have a soft side. He cares for the well being of humanity, helping those in need when deemed necessary. Although rare because of the emotional walls he’s built up, Shadow will even go as far as offering kindness someone’s way if he feels they deserve it.

LIKE(S): A quiet atmosphere, music (genres of the 1940s & 50s), making improvements to his motorcycle/arsenal, the adrenaline rush of facing off with someone whose power rivals his, baking sweets (he’d conceal said habit, never admitting to it), eating sweets, watching documentaries/science-fiction & horror films, cats (his favorite breed of cat is ragdoll), tea, showcasing his abilities to anyone who dare oppose him, and the presence of a certain blue hedgehog. DISLIKE(S): Liars, anyone who threatens to do harm to those he holds dear, feeling helpless or powerless, anyone with an obnoxious or clingy personality, an untidy environment, paper work, anyone who takes ‘the easy way out’ or quitters in general, those who appose his current objective/mission, and being unproductive or feeling as though he’s been ‘unproductive’.

HOBBIES: Reading (partial to science fiction & horror), cooking (baking is his specialty), sketching/taking notes on significant landmarks he’s discovered, dancing (dances to genres such as swing & ballroom), polishing his weaponry along with his motorcycle, and taking his motorcycle out on a joy ride.

❝THE BUILDERS NEVER UNDERSTAND HOW THEIR CREATIONS TRULY FEEL.❞

ABILITIES: Immortality, rapid healing, chaos control (able to control chaos energy; positive && negative), uses attacks such as chaos spear, chaos blast, spin attack, is highly acrobatic, a weapons specialist, and knows a thing or two regarding mechanics.

HISTORY: Shadow was created on what was known as the Space Colony Ark, a government funded facility with the purpose of housing soon to be made weapons of mass destruction. His creator was a brilliant scientist by the name of Professor Gerald Robotnik. He created Shadow with the intention to help cure his grand daughter, Maria, who suffered from neuro-immune deficiency syndrome. Maria would quickly become Shadow’s best friend, even seen as a sibling perhaps. Many wonderful memories were made in that place, a place that Shadow could never forget even if he tried.

The possibility of hope would soon come to an end though once the government tactical group known as G.U.N. found word of this ‘Project Shadow’. The idea of him was a threat, and they wanted to neutralize said threat. G.U.N. infiltrated the colony, taking down all those who stood in their way. In a bleak attempt, Shadow and Maria tried escaping the colony. There was but one escape pod, and Maria upon doing what she felt was right pushed Shadow inside. The pod closed on him, Maria giving him a final farewell. Before Maria could launch the pod into space, a G.U.N. soldier stood from behind weapon in hand, ordering her to cease her actions.

Once again, wanting to do what she felt was right despite being scared, Maria released the pod, the G.U.N. soldier pulling his weapon’s trigger upon instinct. Maria died within moments, giving Shadow the worst possible last look at his only friend. The pod Shadow was in landed on Earth, G.U.N. operatives finding it fairly quickly. They locked Shadow away within the deepest levels of their facility on Prison Island. There he was sealed away for 50 years, lost in cryogenic slumber.

❝A SUPER-DIMENSIONAL BEING? HEH, THIS MIGHT EVEN BE A FAIR FIGHT!❞

HEAD CANON VOICE: David Humphrey. HEAD CANON SINGING VOICE: Colton Haynes. GENERAL HEAD CANONS:

—Shadow’s current place of employment is with the military organization known as G.U.N. - [ to be updated... ]

—Genres of music such as swing, jazz, and rockabilly have an immense affect on Shadow. - [ to be updated... ]

—Shadow is able to speak multiple languages; English, French, Spanish, Japanese, Chinese, and Russian. - [ to be updated... ]

—Even though he does not care to admit it, Shadow has a major sweet tooth. - [ to be updated... ]

—A clean house is a happy house, or so Shadow’s compulsive cleaning habit says. - [ to be updated... ]

—Shadow has an affinity for the color blue. - [ to be updated... ]

—Shadow loves science. His favorite categories lean toward: Astronomy and Geoscience. - [ to be updated... ]

GAMES CANON IN ZONE:

(BOLD = heavily influenced Shadow's character)

-— Zone is in correlation with @SHARPANDPOINTYSONIC's Sonic.

—Sonic the Hedgehog 1-3 —Sonic & Knuckles —Sonic Mania —Sonic CD

—Sonic Adventure —SONIC ADVENTURE 2 —SONIC HEROES (altered story line) —SONIC BATTLE —SHADOW THE HEDGEHOG (hero route)

—Sonic Rush —Sonic the Hedgehog 06 (memory is hazy) —Sonic and the Secret Rings —Sonic and the Black Knight

—Sonic Unleashed —Sonic Colors —SONIC GENERATIONS —Sonic Lost World

—SONIC FORCES -present/time (aftermath)

#[ OOC. ;; mun update ]#[ OOC. ;; mun rambles ]#[ Behold the ultimate power! ;; musings ]#[ //A mobile friendly about the muse page! ]#[ //Thanks so much for taking a look! :3c ]#[ About. ;; about muse page ]

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deathbyvalentine · 6 years

Text

Larp + Other Prompts

A changeling child comes home

He wasn’t ours any more. I wasn’t sure what they had done to him, what they had changed him into, but he was irrevocably different. First of all, he barely spoke. When he did, words were picked extremely carefully, each given a weight and gravity that sat ill-fitting on him. His mannerisms too were erratic and unpredictable. He moved quickly, going from absolute stillness to movement in the blink of an eye. He seemed to watch us, always.

But he was still my son, even fractured, even changed. He wrapped his arms around my waist, and though his skin was cold, the intent was warm. He smelt of ice and wind, but he nuzzled into my neck, as if he was trying to rescent himself into home.

It was our cat really, that cemented the decision. He was curled in a chair by the fire, bathed in flickering shadows, back to the door. She padded in, rain-damp and murder-happy. She took one look at him, the baby she had once protected, licked, bitten, and ran straight into his arms, purring as she had never done since. He held her, blinking, and pressed his face into her fur. I half think he was hiding some tears, but who knew if fae cried?

The thing is, he had to adjust to having a sister too. The baby that was left in his crib had grown. She was uncannily beautiful but astoundingly normal. She laughed loudly, blew on dandelions and chattered at a hundred miles a minute. In hindsight, perhaps we had all loved her a little too easily, but she had become ours, as moulded by us as we had been by her. I was worried about them meeting, about silver blooded rivalries and jealousies.

I needn’t have worried. They were kin in a way I couldn’t understand. They looked completely different, him with pale skin and dark hair, and her with dark skin and pale hair, mirrors of each other. They called to each other, as blood calls to blood. As soon as they touched, something shifted. Something shared. He fitted in a little better, she a little worse, as if they were sharing the burden of being displaced.

At least the cat finally decided it liked her.

Cal’s Gun

I don’t know what was wrong with It. Usually It was a sure-fire shot, confident in holding me, often barely bothering to aim. That might have been because of the Wrong-Energy pulsing through It, admittedly. But It rarely missed, and rarely failed to fire.

But now It’s limbs were shaking, moisture seeping from It’s palms, my barrel pointing at the floor rather than at The Enemy. It’s oxygen exchange was going into hyperdrive. I wasn’t sure why.

Was it The Enemy? I suppose they were different from normal. Not the Wrong-Creatures dripping with slime and that Energy, or the Flesh with their shouting and lofty ideals. Not some Wood Creature which It had been cooing to me about, promising a hunting trip where we could truly test my range in a way we hadn’t in far too long.

They were Like Me but Not Like Me. Carved out of metal, at least partly. But they were not oiled, their joints rusted. They were Flesh shaped, and as one of It’s friends shot at it, blood and oil spilt. A judder of horror went through me however, causing a shot of las to hit the ground. They were Not Like Me and Not Like It. Their heads were empty and their Spirits were mostly silent. Me and my It recoiled as one.

Later, It prayed to me, incense filling the air, my Brethren also resting on their altar, connecting to the Omnissiah. Not just the usual Thank Yous and Maintenance. There were promises. That It would never butcher me, never use me like that. That It would protect me as I protected It. I was lucky, I knew. Too many of my Brethren were neglected by those that used their service, lucky to get even a drop of libation. It was not like that. It had kept me well for many years and I would serve It for many more. Ours was a beneficial relationship, one of equal energy and exchange, the way it ought to be. And I had noticed the Motive Force within them growing stronger every day.

We were One, but not like those Creatures earlier. Never like that.

A Day in the Life - Cal

They couldn’t sleep, but they could rest. And they rarely rested in their own bed nowadays. And unfortunately, they couldn’t stay in Nic’s room all night, watching holovids, not since the Cardinal had whipped up the psyker fear to fever pitch. But their armscrew seemed no more afraid of them than ever, and insisted they lay down in their dormitory for at least four hours. It was somewhat soothing, being in a dim, warm room with nothing but sleeping people, their tired ache leeching into Cal. It did help, much to their disgruntlement to lie down, giving their broken body something like a break.

But soon they got restless, the loud voice in their head unable to be ignored or blocked out any longer. it was absolutely maddening, in the most literal sense. They’d rise, rubbing at empty eyes and coming away with gold palms. Their security would rise more reluctantly, and push them to have breakfast. From bitter experience, they knew more often than not if left to their own devices, Cal would forget.

They received help putting on their naval tunic, fingers fumbling over the gold buttons, co-ordination out the window. Their sense of shame about it all had long since flew out the window. These officers had seen them in worse shape. The uniform still sat oddly on them, a little too big, the sleeves slipping over to half way down their palms. But they liked it, the dark blues rather than the bright reds they had lived in for so long. It was undoubtedly a officer’s uniform too, matching the rest of the Chaser’s. They had never looked quite the same as the Lord’s Confidence, colours too different, cuts too modern.

The mess hall was a bit of a sensory overload compared to the quiet of the bunk room. So many buzzing thoughts, so much chatter, clattering plates, ration packs heated and consumed. Their security placed a bowl of hot porridge in front of them to pick at, and ultimately be consumed by somebody else. They generally got more mileage with some recaff. That, despite its lack of practical effect had quite the placebo effect on Cal, who seemed marginally more with it afterwards.

After that, they were all business. They swept through the corridor to their office, conveniently located close to the astropathic chamber. A few members of their choir would stand to attention before being waved off. First, the messages received while they were resting. To be sorted into if they were to be responded to or not, and if they were, levels of urgency. Then compiled into information to compile into a brief to make its way into Nic and Bridge’s desks. A servo skull assisted them, reading and writing, helping the otherwise painfully slow work. Cal wasn’t sure if any of their midshipfolk had realised quite how illiterate they were yet and they preferred to keep it that way.

It was methodical work, the type that occupied the mind rather than being completely taxing. Cal didn’t have to fight off the haze that was constantly flickering at the edge of their mind, making concentration an aim rather than a given. They rarely stopped for lunch, time mostly confusing to them as a concept nowadays anyway.

After their choir had came back from lunch, the real work began. It was the closest Cal got to connecting to the ship itself, and it required the sharpest wits possible. And casting took a terrifying amount of energy. Therefore, it had to be a finely run machine. Everything arranged and in order, everything ready for as soon as Cal needed it. And as soon as they were done, immediately dismissal so Cal could lie down in their office without being disturbed until strength came back to them. Yet another weakness they were hiding. But it did seem to be working.

They were good at their job. They loved their job. They took a great deal of satisfaction in their job. None of their choir were openly hostile to them, and the other officers of their level seemed to be making an active effort to embrace them, despite all their weirdness making that a somewhat uphill endeavour.

When they had downed some rehydration fluid, they decided to give an inch usually. Nic had pushed them to at the beginning, and now it almost seemed easy to go into the officer’s quarters, sip some recaff and even venture an opinion in one or two conversations. They still were eerily quiet, still not quite like the others, but they were clearly theirs. The mark of ownership was well and truly pressed upon them - the ultimate mark of this being the gift of the blue and gold blindfold. They still treasured it a truly disproportionate amount.

Next, their favourite time of day. The security waited outside the doors, looming, heavily discouraging any passers by from entering. It was the smaller chapel they preferred, with the metal that shone enough to look like stained glass. The quiet calmed them more than anything else. Well. Almost more than anything else. They knelt at the front, close to the altar, close to the icon of Her. They could stay here for hours, lost in their thoughts and visions, feeling close to Him. Usually their first security officer came and retrieved them gently, knocking them out of a near trance. Usually to shove a corpse starch bar into their hand.

Then, it was restless visiting time. To visit Gwyn, or Pip, or Anya depending on whoever was on shift at the time. Just so they weren’t alone, just so they could feel half-way normal. Just so they could feel like they were treasuring the time they had here, because Emperor knew it wasn’t going to be a long time. Cal tried to memorise all of these moments, clutch at them so they wouldn’t turn into water and slip through their fingers.

And then, it was almost over. They drifted to the bridge, much to the chagrin of Nic’s security team. A quick moment of eye contact was enough to establish whether it was likely or not that he was going to be able to clock off in any reasonable time. If they were lucky, and he was, then it was mint ration pack hot chocolate and dreadful holovid series time, curled up with the cats.

It was the closest thing to happy they had been in a long time.

#larp #prose #prompts #death unto darkness #short story

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aion-rsa · 3 years

Text

Alien vs. Aliens: Which Is the Better Movie?

https://ift.tt/2VZ88Yt

Thirty-five years ago, James Cameron’s Aliens opened in theaters, stunning audiences and surprising even the most jaded critics. Here was a much belated sequel to a Hollywood blockbuster that was seven years old—and at a time when sequels were synonymous with soulless cash grabs. Yet in so many ways, Cameron’s follow-up took the ideas introduced by Ridley Scott and company in Alien and ran with them. More than just an added “s” in the title, Aliens marked an entire shift in tone and even genre. Rather than horror, we were now in the realm of action; instead of hiding in the shadows, the sequel overwhelmed audiences with spectacle. Like the poster said, “This time, it’s war.”

With near universal praise, Aliens even earned an Oscar nomination for star Sigourney Weaver in a role she’d already played once back in 1979. Hence many fans have spent years and decades arguing which is the actual better movie: the Ridley Scott chiller that started it all or the James Cameron thriller that blew the concept into the stratosphere? Well, sit back because Den of Geek movies section editor David Crow and west coast correspondent Don Kaye are going to settle this debate once and for all.

Horror or Action

David Crow: For more years than I’d care to remember, I’ve heard science fiction fans and genre aficionados say James Cameron’s Aliens is one of the rare sequels that is better than the original. That action heavy clichés are, somehow, an improvement over probing, immersive horror that lingers in the mind like a waking nightmare. To this day it is baffling.

For all of Aliens’ undeniably high-octane thrills, it lacks a fraction of the existential dread and infinite mystery which makes Alien one of the best science fiction films ever made. Originally engineered by screenwriter Dan O’Bannon as a “haunted house movie in space,” director Ridley Scott and a legion of collaborators elevated the concept into something unwaveringly oppressive in its nihilism. The Nostromo spaceship at the center of the film might be “haunted” by an alien organism, but so is the film itself. Half of the movie’s design was dreamed up by concept artists Ron Cobb and Chris Foss, who evoked a grungy, dilapidated vision of our future among the stars that still feels real in its sweatiness, and the rest was masterminded by H.R. Giger, who designed the now iconic “Alien” creature as well as the derelict “Space Jockey” ship that the organism’s egg is found on. The intentionally disparate sensibilities creates a genuine culture shock in the film that remains unsettling long after you know what John Hurt’s last meal looks like.

In the tradition of H.P. Lovecraft, the film’s heroes have ventured into the unknown or forbidden, discovering a beast truly alien in nature and beyond our comprehension. To know a fragment of its mystique, and a bit about its bizarre life cycle, is to be violated—figuratively and literally as a facehugger shoves itself down your mouth. It is perverse and intentionally unnatural. And unlike any of its sequels, this movie succeeds in tapping into our primal abstract fear of the unknown, and the implicit anxiety that comes with discovery. It transcends genre and remains the lone masterpiece in the franchise.

Don Kaye: Right from the start, I will say I agree with much of what my esteemed colleague David Crow says. Alien is an undisputed masterpiece that hits the sci-fi/horror sweet spot in a way that most of the films which have come in its wake have failed to do. And yes, the film is extremely Lovecraftian in its incredibly atmospheric evocation of the existential dread and terror of both deep space and the alien organism itself.

But if there had to be a sequel to Alien (and the laws of Hollywood dictated that there must), it couldn’t just be a repeat of basically the same story. What James Cameron did so brilliantly with Aliens was take the initial tale told by Ridley Scott and Dan O’Bannon and expand upon it while preserving most of the mystery surrounding the title menace itself. Cameron did formally jump genres from “haunted house in space” to “military sci-fi,” but he retained enough of the brooding horror of the original to make it not just a worthy successor, but a fuller, more epic film in many ways (he did much of the same with his own Terminator—making a far superior sequel in Terminator 2: Judgment Day, which is surely a debate for another day).

In Aliens, Cameron expands the mythology just enough to give us more tantalizing details about the xenomorph without over-explaining it or shredding the mystery around the species entirely (ironically, it would be Ridley Scott himself who did that in the awful Prometheus and Alien: Covenant years later). He also expands wonderfully upon the character of Ripley (Sigourney Weaver), making her the center of the story while adding a slew of colorful new cast members who in many cases are more memorable than the crew members of the first film’s doomed Nostromo. While both films are genuine classics, in the end Aliens has held up over the years as the more satisfying experience.

The Most Expendable Crew

David: Don, I’ll agree that Aliens is a worthy sequel. But as a sequel it can only ever be a copy—an extension of the original genius. And while Aliens is certainly more epic, I would hardly call it more satisfying. For starters, there are the characters you mistakenly claim are more memorable than the original crew. I’ll grant you that Aliens’ ensemble is colorful, but in the same way stock characters on a Saturday morning cartoon can be colorful. As is often the case in Cameron screenplays, the characters are broadly drawn archetypes who speak almost entirely in on-the-nose dialogue with all the subtlety of a villain waving a gun on the Titanic as it sinks.

The effect is definitely thrilling the first few times you watch Aliens, but after viewing the film more than twice, my mind is left to drift over the triteness of these haplessness “marines.” That’s probably why my favorite of the bunch is Bill Paxton’s Hudson, a caricature in cowardice who still always lands the laugh. He also sums up the surface level appeal of this entertaining spectacle: “We’re on the express elevator to Hell, going down!”

Conversely, the cast of characters in Alien feel painfully real. Created during the tailend of New Hollywood’s golden age of ‘70s cinema, there is nothing false or showy about any of these performances. They’re all underplayed to a degree, even talking over each other, but that is by design. Going into Alien in 1979, you wouldn’t know who the “hero” of the story is and might very well assume it is Tom Skerritt since he’s the captain and had appeared in popular ’70s TV shows. By contrast, Weaver was a complete unknown when she played Ripley, a survivor who persevered before “final girls” became a convention unto themselves. However, she is only a survivor in the first movie, not an action hero. She’s even-handed and levelheaded, and a woman from the jump who appears to be the most astute and thoughtful of the crew.

Still, right down to the legitimate grievances between this group’s “upstairs and downstairs” dynamic, with Yaphet Kotto’s Parker and Harry Dean Stanton’s Brett complaining about the bonus situation, there is a much more tactile conflict among the cast that makes this a fuller ensemble and thereby more immersive. They may not be marines, but they are tragically human in their reactions to the unbelievable—and that is not even getting into the brilliance of Ian Holm’s Ash, who might be the best representation of the insidious implementation of capitalistic control over labor ever put to screen. The traitor in these blue collars’ ranks is an honest to God robot who is literally there to divide them for conquest and the company’s bottom line.

Don: I’ll concede the more realistic development of the characters in Alien, but I enjoy the camaraderie and banter among the Colonial Marines. While it’s true that some of them really don’t amount to much more than cannon fodder (or is it xenomorph fodder?)I feel like there’s more going on there than Cameron might get credit for. I also do like the ensemble feel of it all, and the fact that these characters all go into this situation having no idea of what’s ahead of them, with most of them meeting it courageously (with notable exceptions, of course). There’s something about seeing characters in a film charge headlong into an impossible situation that always pulls at this viewer.

Some of the secondary characters go on little journeys of their own too, from Gorman (William Hope) to Vasquez (Jenette Goldstein), and even Hudson has a moment or two to shine as he finally finds his courage toward the end of the film. Watching Aliens, it feels like most of the major or secondary characters get some kind of payoff. If there’s one major flaw I find with Alien, it’s that the second half of the movie basically just mows everyone down, one after the other, which is, I suppose, suitable for the overall tone of despair and nihilism but makes for a less satisfactory film in some ways.

And I agree with you wholeheartedly about the brilliance of Ash, which is why I’m glad that Cameron went in a different direction with Bishop (Lance Henriksen). The character is just ambiguous enough to keep one guessing throughout the film whether he is true to his word that he cannot harm humans or whether it’s all an act—a nice twist on the evolution of Ash in the first film.

The More Perfect Organism

David: You are right, Don: Vasquez is a wonderfully badass character, and so are most of the Aliens troupe. In fact, it’s hard to overlook just how badass Weaver’s Ripley became in the film, beginning as a woman suffering from trauma and ending with the cinematic embodiment of Mama Bear ferocity. “Get away from her you bitch!” had to be why Weaver got an Oscar nomination for an action movie sequel, right?

Yet for all the quotables like that, as well as those of the aforementioned poor doomed Hudson and precocious Newt (Carrie Henn), I much prefer the messiness of Alien; Veronica Cartweight’s Lambert simply shutting down as the Alien tears Parker apart before inevitably coming back for her; Skerritt’s Dallas meekly resigning himself to his fate as he reluctantly goes into the vents; and of course Ripley who shows cool cunning and irresistible command while under pressure, but who’s only act of heroism is the quirk of going back in a deteriorating spaceship for a cat.

But if we’re discussing characters, I think one we’re both glossing over a big one: the Alien itself or “xenomorph.” You fairly dinged Scott for offering unsatisfying explanations for his and Giger’s nightmares in the prequels, but Cameron did it first in Aliens, right down to dubbing the creatures xenomorphs. In the first film, it’s really unknowable how intelligent the Star-Beast is. Is the creature just a feral animal hunting the characters on instinct or is it a dispassionate predator who understands its prey and their inadequate technology? And what exactly are its designs for its victims who vanish without a trace (at least in the theatrical cut)?

Cameron literally turns them into insects in Aliens, repeatedly calling the marines’ mission a “bug hunt.” The unstoppable creature in the first movie turns out to simply be a drone, a literal worker bee or ant in a colony of xenomorphs with a single Queen and countless simple-minded minions. Scott and Giger’s Alien is almost godlike (or perhaps demonic given its sexual undertones), and is described as a “perfect organism.” Aliens removes that mystique, turning the monster into a giant cockroach that can be mowed down in large numbers if you have big enough guns.

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Don: I have to say I like Ripley’s evolution in Aliens, and even more so in the director’s cut where the information about her having a daughter gives a whole other layer to her quest to save Newt in the film. But to be fair, I suppose we’re talking about the original theatrical cuts; even there, Ripley starts out in a completely different and much darker place, not really interested in helping anyone, but her basic compassion towards her fellow humans finally comes to the surface. She stands as the one beacon of decent humanity in an otherwise very hostile universe.

I’ll again agree that there is something majestic and horrifying about the mystique of the Alien in the original film, but I don’t think that Cameron completely removes all the mystery from it. Those eggs did have to come from somewhere, after all. Why not a Queen? And even if we see the species as more of a hive culture, it doesn’t take away from their predatory nature or what appears to be their exceptional intelligence. And it still leaves the ultimate nature and purpose of the aliens unexplained—meeting the Queen in Aliens doesn’t necessarily undercut the fact that we still don’t know at the end of the film what their agenda is (nor should we).

Aliens actually reemphasizes the remarkable adaptability and cleverness of this deadly race. The organism in the original film made quick work out of the crew of the Nostromo; when confronted with first the colonists and then the space marines, the creatures analyze the situation and ascertain that their new victims or enemies must be met with overwhelming force in lieu of having weapons themselves (although their entire body could be considered a weapon, for sure). They are predators and part of a hive culture, but they think, they strategize. That gives them a different spin, for sure, but one that is just as terrifying as the godlike creature in Alien.

The Best of the Alien Franchise

David: I respect that, and for the type of movie that Cameron wanted to make, it worked perfectly. There is little argument that Cameron pinpointed the likely best way to expand (and conclude) this story. After all, the mystery of the creature’s gruesome lifecycle is lost after the first film. David Fincher attempted to return to Scott’s aesthetic with Alien 3 to dire results, and Scott himself struggled with his decades-later prequels. Thus it’s hard to knock Cameron’s action-heavy alternative too much.

Nonetheless, I prefer the, as you say, majesty of Alien and the sensation that you’re watching something grotesque, invasive, and strangely beautiful in its fatalism. I’d also point out that the creature and its world never looked more grimly evocative than in Giger and Scott’s hands. There’s a reason the “last supper” scene with Hurt’s Kane remains the most famous scene in any of these movies. Still, both films are obviously better than what came afterward, though I must admit to having a soft spot for Prometheus. The ideas introduced to explain where the xenomorph and Space Jockey came from in that movie are fascinating, and the visuals and cast were mostly top notch. Alas, the screenplay threatened to derail it all. It’s still a very interesting mess, however (as opposed to the utter failure of Alien: Covenant and the other movies).

I’ll leave it then on this: If you really like the deleted subplot of Amanda Ripley—Ellen’s daughter mentioned to have grown up and died during her mother’s cryofreeze in Aliens—might I recommend the video game Alien: Isolation? More so than Scott’s own prequels, it is able to conjure up the dread of being hunted in a confined space by such a creature. It’s the best Alien anything in the last 35 years… and it was all about evoking that original, perfect organism of a film.

Don: To address your last point first, I don’t play video games so I’ll have to pass on Alien: Isolation—but it’s interesting how sometimes these properties have more success in extending themselves through other media besides movies or TV (I imagine there’s a really good novel out there that takes place in the Alien universe—do you know of any, David?)

I think we’ve come around to where we started, in that we both recognize the inherent high quality of what Scott and Cameron achieved with these two films. And I do think that Aliens did conclude this story, just as Terminator 2 ended that story as well—and Cameron’s elegant endings only point out just how difficult it was for later filmmakers to try and continue both in various failed sequels. For the record, I was soooo excited about Prometheus initially, and there were some fascinating ideas contained in that film. But the execution of them was a major letdown.

My last argument would be that Alien is a concept-driven film and Aliens is a character-driven film (as we said earlier, making it truly Ripley’s story). The emotional payoff of Ripley’s journey in Aliens makes that the more enjoyable of the two movies for me in the long run. But there’s no question that no movie I can think of offhand, not even Cameron’s masterful sequel, quite captures the ice cold, existential horror of Alien. While we may differ on which of the two films is better, I think we can probably agree that Alien may accidentally be the best H.P. Lovecraft film ever made!

*Editor’s Note: David does not know of any good Alien novels but is aware the Scott film is better than any official Lovecraft adaptation.

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bulletnick · 7 years

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Catharsis [Iconoclasts Fanfiction]

He couldn’t stop her.

That was the trouble that solidified on Elro’s mind, over and over, ceaselessly echoing within his mind, as the moon drifted slowly across the sky, stars coming and going, making way for the bright sun.

He had no power. Whatever he wanted for her - she could just do everything against his will.

He was Robin’s older brother, and yet, he had no power to stop her. Physically, he was too weak and crippled. Intellectually, no amount of warning of danger and pain seemed to have any value to her. Emotionally… was emotions could he use to appeal to her? It seemed as though he didn’t have any left. Just a hollow shell of regrets and losses.

Elro did not sleep at all. Despite being immensely tired, his brain was just too restless for it. Perhaps it was just how surreal their ordeal had been, perhaps he’d gotten just enough rest after being shot in the back to prevent sleep, perhaps it was the pain he was doing his best to ignore - whatever the cause, Elro’s eyes never did rest that night.

So… that’s it. I have nothing left. There’s nothing of me left.

When Robin woke up in the morning, after rubbing her eyes as the sun was well on its way to the zenith, was lock eyes with him. Neither said anything, at first. They had no idea what to say, what to talk about.

They were family. They were supposed to be close, supportive, understanding. But Elro felt and saw none of it coming from Robin. Instead, she looked… apprehensive. Unsure. Unfamiliar. Eventually she got up and went for the fridge, and made a hearty breakfast. He only watched as she scarfed down food in a manner he hadn’t seen since their father was alive.

He observed her leaving some on a plate, resting on a table, just within his only arm’s reach. His gaze met hers. She said nothing, again. Just looked back. As if to say: “Eat. You need it”. Even her stare spoke so loudly, and yet in so few words.

No motion was made to pick up the food. After a minute, Robin sighed, and left the house. She didn’t tell him to stay inside, to not leave, to remain safe. Perhaps she reasoned she didn’t need to.

Indeed, she didn't. Where would be go?

The plate remained untouched as the minutes went by. Elro only leaned against the surface, consumed by thoughts.

I tried to protect her, keep her safe. Now she’s fought more battles than anyone ever should. And she remains steadfast, determined, resolute. I won’t ever be able to stop her again.

He doesn’t have his own home anymore. He doesn’t have a wife and child… taken away with Penance. He doesn't have his body, not like he used to. It’s just a pitiful fraction of his former self. He has Robin… not really. It used to be that he always knew where she was, safe, and reliable. But not anymore. Now she used to wandering the world, and getting into conflicts much bigger than she was meant to tackle. He doesn’t even have his job anymore…

Well… he wasn’t sure. One Concern surely wouldn’t last long in this new world that Robin had wrought upon everyone… but Chemico Contra had been busy for the past few months, establishing bases of operation and contacts with communities… there many areas of research still thriving and waiting to be investigated, especially Shockwood… there was promise of reliable and sustainable energy sources in that region. They might help fulfill the demand that the Ivory shortage had left behind.

Don’t fool yourself. Who would hire you? Crippled and injured. “Self-absorbed and irrational.” And of course… the Agents he helped kill. They were the enemy… but who would forgive him for such crimes?

Friends, maybe, would not reject him on the spot. Teegan had always stood up for him, even when he insisted she didn’t. As per usual, he wasn’t listened to. Everyone was always trying to tell him that he was wrong. That he didn’t know what was best. What did they know?

Family. Co-workers. Neighbours. Superiors. Icons. So many of them, dead. He had survived. He had lived through the apocalypse.

And what do I have left to show for it?

Nothing. Just scars and emptiness.

The first few days Robin remains distant, and mostly mute. He can tell she still hears his disapproval in her mind, trying to stop her. She was never meant to be this stubborn.

I was always meant to be the one to stand between her and danger. I promised I would.

After half a week or so, her treatment becomes a bit warmer. If only because he was immensely bored of being inside, he humors her when she suggests she take a walk. Good for the body and spirit, she said.

“Is that what that doctor told you?” The accusation flew almost thoughtlessly, remembering the man who cleaned and changed his bandages as Robin’s “friends” gathered in her home, hoping beyond hope that she hadn’t been stranded forever in the moon, or worse, lost in the void of space.

She doesn’t answer. She just offers to help him.

“I can handle myself just fine.” Pushing back his arm. He wasn’t weak, not too weak to do this.

Robin tries to hide her growing dejection, as Elro leaves her home since he was brought in.

I suppose I shouldn’t be so sour. We are home, after all. It’s still Blackrock, and full of trees, and we’re safe now… the adventure is over.

But as they traverse the familiar paths, Elro can’t avoid but contort his face and expressions, as memories of outings with loved ones resurface and litter the pathways. The bench where they shared many kisses at dawn. The bushes where they played hide and seek with-

“Stop, I can’t-” The words escape Elro before he can prevent Robin from hearing them. Naturally, she turns around to face him with an expression caught between confusion and concern. She’s shocked to see an actual trace of emotion on Elro’s face for once. She immediately steps closer to him, and he instinctively steps back.

“No, you- Please, Robin, can we not-” Elro stutters, no hint of frustration or annoyance in his voice. He recalls the smile that he enjoyed so many times before and after sleep, the cheerful voice that woke him in the morning, wondering what would they do together, dad…

Elro’s weak give way, and he’s forced to kneel, and in front of her favorite patch of flowers, no less. He’s used to burying his grief, and emotions - he had to, he had a job to focus on, a home to provide for, a sister to shield from the horrors out there…

But none of those things exist anymore.

Robin knelt beside Elro, making sure not to get so close. He was never very affectionate, and she doubted that would change right now. But then again, she’d never seen him quite like this… or enjoying an intimate emotional moment with his beloved. So she stayed there, on the soft grass, as Elro maintained his composure, but still the slight shaking in his voice betrayed his true feelings.

“You need time to mourn, and grieve.” Teegan would say that so many times. No, he’d counter, he had better things to do with his time than to mope, and get nothing important done. So he’s stuff down whatever he felt as best as he could, and kept soldering on.

But there was nothing else now. No other responsibilities, no distractions, no assignments… nothing else to face but the growing pain within. There was no escaping it down; the dust had settled, the battle was over, there was nothing more to fight. No more running away from the losses. After the war is finished, you must clear the fields of the ones you’ve lost, and put them where they need to go, clear the earth, and bury the hearts, so that it may start anew…

Elro took quiet breaths, and sheepishly sat on the ground, staring at the delightful red flowers that he’d sneakily take a few off, and take home to surprise her with. A short detour before coming home, to make his appearances all the sweeter and more welcome.

“Robin, I know I told you to stay, many times, but please - this time, can you please stay with me?” Pleading was not something he wanted to do, it was often his last resort when he couldn’t think of anything else.

I’m not hollow. I’m bursting with agony and I can’t handle trying to stuff all of it down and keep it sealed.

To his relief, Robin just nodded, and sat beside him, looking at the same flowers. They were quite pretty flowers… though they reminded her of someone who had to be sacrificed. She wish she didn’t have to, but… she didn’t know what else she could do.

Both of them stared ahead, without saying a word, each contemplating on the people they had lost along the way. Elro realised that the gardens looked different now. There were so many new trees growing, healthy and bright.

Why couldn’t they be here to see this?

He hugged his knees with his arm, and let himself be free to speak what had been confined inside.

“...I miss them. I miss them so much.” Elro spoke. Robin turned slightly in his direction, but said nothing. She didn’t want to interrupt. Elro had barely spoken of dad at all after he died, insisting on being protective and strong for her. But that had never been what she needed from him; she needed someone to sit beside her when things were painful, and to bolster her spirits when action was necessary. Not to stand in the way, as if he was meant to be some sacrifice. So if he was to finally level with her… she’d let him do it, however he could manage to get it out.

“I wanted to come home so much because I… I just wanted to make sure that they could be at peace.” He didn’t quaver anymore, but Robin knew that his gaze and tone meant that he was truly vulnerable at this point. “I… I had been meaning to come back… and mark a small plot of land for both of them. I kept some of their things at work… at one point I thought I could sneak into my old office… grab their stuff… bring it back home…”

He took a deep breath, and clenched his fist. It was very difficult for him… he had trained himself to be stoic, but now he had to unlearn his own instincts. “I needed to come home, because it hurt too much. One day you think you’re fine, the next you’ve lost everything. I didn’t care for One Concern, or Mother, or any of that bullshit - I just wanted to be with my family again. Any way I could. Even if I just stood upon what was left of my home - it was something, anything.”

“When they died, as far as I was concerned, the world had already ended. Nothing else mattered to me.” The wind gently rustled his hair, and Robin’s, who at this point was just listening intently, and in some way, glad that he could finally empathise with her. She thought she had lost someone forever to Penance, as well. She lucked out, in the end, but the fear and panic were no less real, or fleeting.

“I couldn’t even bear to think of risking your life, Robin. You’re all I have left. I was so tired of fighting One Concern, tired of having to puff up in front of Agents, tired of having to listen to another one of Mother’s speeches, tired of just… everything. Life’s been real hard to keep ahold of since, well… Agent Grey.” He felt guilty and proud at the same time. A horrible act, but perhaps… a necessary evil, he thought, if it served to take down the facade of power cast upon the world.

“In the end, I think… I couldn’t look past the grief, because I never dealt with it. I was too busy telling myself that when I was done, when I was finished, only then would I take the time. But now it’s here, and… I’ve made so many fucking stupid mistakes, for Tri’s sake-” He said, bringing his hand to his face, his breaths quickening, his pulse racing-

No tears. That’s what you taught yourself.

His eyes remained dry, but letting out a breath, he was shaking slightly. He had been such an idiot, thinking so much about the way he wanted it all to work out...

But… Sunflower’s here, still alive, still able to smile. And the roses… they’re still blooming. Still pretty. Still loving. Everything collapsed… but that too, shall pass. And here, now… I still have all this.

“Sunflower…” Soft, brotherly, caring. Robin scooted closer, waiting for him.

“I’m sorry, Sunflower. I’m sorry… that I failed you when you needed me. That I’m still carrying all this weight around I should’ve let go so long ago.” Staring at the ground, the shame of long overdue reconciliations bubbling up. “I’m so broken, and I need to heal so much.”

“I know I can’t make you stay - you’ve shown me that you’re own woman now. But… perhaps you could help me get back on my feet? For a little while at least?”

Robin had no words with which to respond. Instead, she answered the best way she knew how: Wrapping her arms around him, and letting him know that she wouldn’t abandon him. If someone could use her help, then she’d so her best.

“Thanks…” He said, feeling a little awkward from the affectionate gesture, but finally, at long last, feeling something warm inside for a long time.

The rose was bright, and blooming. Giving him hope that someday, he too, would find new roots to grow from.

#iconoclasts #ic #video game #fanfiction #fanfic #spoilers #elro #robin #family #hurt #comfort #recovery #catharsis #ff #videogames #konjak #bulletnick #nick

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