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sweetestlamb · 4 years

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Jealous, My Ass

Genre- Is raunchy gutter filth a genre? Because that’s what this is.

Pairing- Ko-Mun Yeong/ Moon Gang-Tae

Warnings- See the genre. If you are an innocent lamb this is not for you. Also I am 100% a feminist (pussy power af) but I will be using some tropes and such I am only human y’all. Jealous hottie is hot. I also haven’t written anything in years so you know, be kind. I just couldn’t get them out of my head.

Summary: Gang-Tae is definitely not jealous. At all. Not even a little bit.

Bring home food. I’m hungry!

Mun-Yeong delicately presses send on her phone and flips it shut, falling back onto the vibrant red couch with a sigh. She sees the small seen on her phone screen notifying that Gang-Tae has received her message and impatiently waits for his reply. Seconds, turn to minutes and no reply comes and she feels her stomach twist in annoyance. Why isn’t he answering her? How dare he? Could he be busy? Why read her message only to ignore it?

She picks up her phone intending to ask him all those questions, when the little voice inside her head that always tells her the worst possible answers whispers “He doesn’t want you. You bother him and he only helps you because he feels bad for you. You’re a BURDEN!” She stands up and tries to physically shake off the those gut-wrenching thoughts- mind flashing back to all the times that the prince in question has saved her.

Riding in on his metal stead in torrential rain. Only to try to dump her back home.

Twisting the fingers of that politician’s son has he tried to slap her. Then walking away and leaving her on the sidewalk after ripping her to shreds.

Calling her an empty can. He had apologized for that but just like she told him bad memories had a way of wedging themselves in your heart and not easily coming out.

Taking that two-faced bitch’s side and telling her that she didn’t own him. Her feelings have changed since she made that claim to Joo-Ri that he was always hers. He was still just a pretty thing then. Now he’s..... more. And his dismissal now hurts more than before. He knows things about her that she has never uttered to anyone. He has seen her in situations that no one else ever has. Not even Sang-In. But she knows that he is also an expert at turning this feelings off. Unlike him, she wears her heart on the tip of her knife. It’s a bloody, messy thing. Locked up for so long that now it just leaks all over him.

Her phones finally vibrates with his answer and she tries not jump but her stupid body has been betraying her ever since he crashed into her life.

She picks up her phone and flips it only, eyes scanning when she sees his reply- No. She stares at the phone in disbelief and anger and- “He doesn’t want you. Nobody could love a monster like you!” This time she can’t ignore her mother’s screeching voice in her mind, sledge hammering into her confidence until it shatters under the pressure. That is the entirety of his response and she sits quietly on the couch feeling like an empty husk. Only years of rejections- him being one of the first- stops her tears from falling. Being around him has made her weak, she desperately forces herself to will her armor back up. She knows she has failed when her phone vibrates and her first thought is please be him.

It isn’t.

A number she doesn’t know pops up on her screen with a message- It was such a pleasure to see you today. I would love to take you out for dinner tonight. Are you free?

Coffee shop guy.

She doesn’t think about her answer before replying that’s another thing she started doing since meeting him and look just where that has gotten her. After replying she swipes up the stairs, dressing down bellowing behind her. She will not be weak. Plus, she’s fucking hungry.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gang- Tae stares down at his phone in shock, genuinely surprised that she hasn’t said anything to retort to his short answer. She hates when he replies with only one word and usually follows those messages up with messages demanding more. She always demands everything he has. And then some.

He lov--- No. Stop. His heart burns in not jealousy remembering how she sized up that not handsome punk at the coffee shop. Gazing at him like he was something to be conquered and then shoving his hand on her perfect little waist. He scoffs recalling her admission that she was like Sang-Tae and only he could touch her only to then place a stranger’s hand on hi-her waist.

It’s not until Cha-Young walks in carefree as if he works in an ice cream parlor and not a psychiatric ward that he realizes that he is standing shirtless, gripping his shirt tightly between his fingers. He had become distracted after receiving her message demanding that he bring food. He wanted to give her the food, give her anything she wanted really. It scared him to hell. It wasn’t until he saw the smug smile and hungry stare in someone else’s eyes looking at her that he realized that maybe he wasn’t what she wanted anymore.

The way she had whispered “CEO” reminded him that despite what he had screamed at her idiot manager in the parking lot she was a celebrity. People wanted her. Men who had way more to offer and were’t terrified of taking what she was offering. She was so beautiful it made his jaw clench in frustration and her haircut only made her more beautiful, it was obscene and unfair. Her hair brushed against her define features and made her already long neck- look like it was never-ending.

“Gang-Tae. Hey, Gang-Tae! Are you listening? What the hell?”

Cha-Young’s voice broke him free from his internal suffering. He quickly put on his uniform shirt and turned his head, repressing all this emotions until his face was a blank slate.

“They need your help carrying a new patient. So stop checking yourself out, you narcissist!” He grabbed what looked like a candy bar before leaving to do whatever he thought constituted as doing work.

With a sigh he slammed his locker shut and left the room. Emotions warring in his mind but he knew from years of practice that none of them showed on his face. Today was going to be a long day.

It was a long day. Stubborn patients, lazy coworkers and he could feel Joo-Ri’s gaze on him whenever she thought he wasn’t looking. It all made him eager to leave, he only spared a smile imagining Mun-Yeong’s anger if she were here to see it happen. He was always mine. She was so possessive of him and he didn’t know yet how he felt about it.

He drove home, not knowing which Mun-Yeong he would get after refusing her and not getting anymore messages from her prior to that. He sighed in relief knowing that her violent tendencies were spared when it came to him. Unless she was violently teasing him until he felt like his skin might combust from the embarrassment and.....lust. He didn’t know how to react around her she made him feel things that he had told himself years ago, he wasn’t allowed to feel.

While others were sharing secret kisses and going on dates, he was learning how to care for his brother. He couldn't abandon him for such trivial things. Eventually girls realized that he wasn’t playing hard to get, there was no getting. Then they stopped. No more coy looks from under lashes, no more pink cheeks and school girl giggles. They moved onto boys that could give them what they wanted.

His plan had worked.

Until Mun-Yeong. She was persistent and his desire for her too made it hard to keep pushing her way. Her full lips called out to him, they both had a habit for grabbing the others wrist and her wrist felt so small and delicate in his hand. One good pull and she would come tumbling into this arms and he could see if her bubble-gum pink lips were as sweet as they looked.

The sound of the front door opening snapped him out of his reprieve- that seemed to be happening to him a lot today. And like a manifestation of his own thoughts there she was, and fuck she looked hot. Unbelievably hot.

He had never seen her in jeans before and the denim stretched down her long legs, hugging her petite curves in all the right wrong ways. A black crop top wrapped around her flat stomach and made her breasts look full, small but a perfect handful. Her shoes were the flashiest part of her outfit, red stiletto heels with a heel that looked like it could kill a man. Her hair was wet and tousled for a perfect messy bedhead look.

Error 404. Error 404. Error 404.

Her heels clicked as she started moving down the stairs, why was she moving in slow motion?

His tongue felt heavy in his mouth has she walked up to him. She stopped a few paces from him, not coming into his personal space like she normally would. When their eyes met the same lighting that always sparked between them, lit up but unlike the other times when she would move into his space like the big bad wolf. Her face was passive and she looked down at the keys in his hands.

“Give me the car keys” she said in that ridiculously sexy deep voice. He willed himself not to get hard, thinking about the patient that threw up on him to stop the blood from rushing down below. Up close he realized that her makeup was heavier than usual too. Dark smoky eyes with a winged liner as sharp as the knives she loved to collect and blood-red lips. He couldn’t stop thinking about kissing and smearing that lipstick everywhere.

As he stood there fantasizing about her as she stood there, he took a deep inhale of breath as she finally moved into his bubble but she was gone as quickly as she came. Snatching the keys from his slack hands.

She stepped around him and made to open the car door he had only just closed and he realized she did not intend to say anything more to him.

“Where are you going?” he asked his voice coarse with desire, she smelled amazing up close. Like cinnamon and something spicy that was irrefutably her.

She ignored him and opened the car door. His arm shot out and slammed it shut before his brain registered it planned to do that. It was minute but her small body jolted from the force that he used. He felt guilt for a second, he didn’t mean to scare her. He reached out to soothe her but before his hand could make contact, she backed up moving away from his touch for the first time ever.

“What’s wrong? Tell me where you’re going dressed like that.” He mentally celebrated when he saw her passive mask drop and righteous anger take its place.

“Move out of my way, I don’t need to answer your questions.”

“Mun-Yeong stop acting up.”

“Don’t give me orders!” He wasn’t ready for the bite behind her words. She was puffing with anger, chest rising quickly and he knew it wasn’t right but his eyes descended down to her chest. His mind provided a quick flash of how perfect her breasts would look bare, her nipples would be so pink and delicious.

It was so fast he almost missed it but he saw an answering flash of lust run across her face. She squirmed under this heavy gaze.

Her phone ringing cut through the tension like a knife. She answered it.

“Hello? Yes, I am on my way now. No. I can drive myself. I will see you soon. Goodbye, Daniel”

Daniel. DANIEL. Who the fuck was Daniel and why was he going to see his Mun-Yeong? He reached out and in a move that was completely out of character he grabbed her phone. She raged immediately reaching around him to get it back. Climbing his back in her quest to get it back. She was hot against his back.

“Don’t call this number again. She’s not coming” he said with finality before ending the call, before that not handsome punk could answer. She slumped on his back before sliding back onto her heeled feet. He turned around with fire in his eyes.

“You are going to meet THAT guy? Ko Mun-Yeong, he is a stranger. Are you crazy?!”

Her only response was to growl at him and wow that would sound amazing in bed as he entered her.

He didn’t know how to stop these thoughts now that they were out.

“Stay out of this. You don’t own me” she threw his words back at him. She was always doing that. It made him realize how stupid he was sometimes. The shock of hearing those words made him freeze and she used that time to enter the car and lock the door before he could stop her.

He spun around putting his hand on the glass and trying to make eye contact with her but she refused to meet his eyes. She pulled out of the make shift driveway like a bat out of hell.

He stood there feeling like the ground was crumbling beneath his feet.

“Don’t go.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She drove down the road before pulling over to breath. What was it about him that got under her skin? She didn’t think he would care about her going out after refusing to bring her food and basically shutting her down every time she claimed they were more. She knew it was because of his brother but she couldn’t carry this on her own.

He was great at coming to her rescue but once that was over, she was pushed away again and she would never admit this out loud but it hurt.

It hurts.

Her phone began to ring and she started the car and drove off. She was still hungry. She wanted beef. Rare. The blood would sate her anger.

She didn’t make any attempts to enter the house quietly. Gang-Tae sat on the stairs eyes piercing into her own. She looked back emotionlessly not sure why he was still up. He never sought her out after fights instead waiting for the next disaster he could save her from. He seemed different today and she wondered why.

“You’re home late”

“So? she retorted defiantly, smelling the fight brewing in the air and hungry for it.

“I asked you not to go. Why can’t you ever listen to me?”

Flashbacks of her mother scolding her forced there way into her mind. You must always listen to me. Be a good girl and always obey Mother. Her heartbeat was loud in her own ears. Her eyes were burning with her effort not to cry. His eyes softened as if her thoughts were visible. He made her feel naked.

His arms flexed as he used them to propel himself off the stairs and for another first he gently wrapped his arms around her waist.

“I was jealous. I am jealous” he grumbled putting his chin on her hair. And for once she was speechless. Why would he tell her that? Wasn’t he scared that she would use that as a weapon against him? He shouldn’t trust her she was a monster.

“You’re not a monster. “

“Then what am I?”

With hesitation he replied, “I wish you were mine.” Her head snapped up so hard that if he hadn’t moved back she would have headbutt him.

“Kiss me” She didn’t know what she would do if he denied her now. This moment seemed important, defining.

He surged forward and kissed her, closed mouth but hard as if he was trying to fuse into her. “Did he kiss you? Did you let him kiss you?” he whispered into her mouth seemingly terrified of the answer but needing to know.

“No.” He pushed her into the wall and she hadn’t realized that he had been cornering her in for a while. She pressed her tongue into his mouth and felt him melt into her, his body a hard line. His muscles pressing her against the wall. He seemed inexperienced with kissing this way but he made up for it with enthusiasm. He chased her tongue and played with her as she teased him. Licking into her like she was dessert and he was ravenous.

Should I just play with you?

“Mun-Yeong tell me to stop. Please. I can’t stop.”

She ignored his pleas instead wrapping her arms around his neck and he instinctively scooped her up. Big hands gripping her ass, squeezing and kneading the flesh. Moaning his approval into her mouth. She had never been this turned on. Nothing had ever been this good. They grinded against each other, she could feel his excitement pressing into her. She felt the hunger consume her again and she pushed him back.

He started to apologize even as his dick pointed out, begging for her attention. She fluidly slid to her knees. He gasped and froze in place. His eyes honed into her lips, watching her like she was both the predator and his prey. She licked her lips, never looking away from his eyes more expressive than she had ever seen them.

Beautiful.

The sound of his zipper descending was loud in the room. The only other sound was their pants for air.

“Do you want this?” She finally spoke and he shivered at the sound of her voice. She didn’t make anymore movements, for once patiently waiting for his answer.

She watched the war play across his face and wondered who would win? She busied herself biting at her own lips. His thumb pulled her lip from the grip of her teeth, tilting her face up towards him. “I want this, I know I shouldn’t but....”

She didn’t care about whatever self repressing reason he had. He wanted her. He had showed her before but now he was saying it.

She tugged his worn jeans down, too-soft from years of being worn and washed. His boxers did little to hide his erection. “Wow”

His blushed tinted his face and chest in a pretty red and she smirked up at him.

“You do it” She calmly commanded him and he looked confused, like she had just spoken to him him in English. “You have been holding back for all these years, I want you to do it. Show me what you want”

At his perplexed face she boldly took his penis out through the slit in his boxers and aimed it at her mouth but that was it, he hissed in pleasure. Breath speeding up at just her touch on his heated skin. She stopped and simply opened her mouth, eyes gleaming mischievously. The moment he understood what she meant was a beautiful epiphany.

He made no movement, besides the involuntary one his dick made that caused him to close his eyes in embarrassment. “Stop thinking with your head for once and think with this” She grabbed his dick for emphasis. He thrusted into her hand one, two times but seemed to lose his resolve again.

“He tried to kiss me. He grabbed me by my waist and told me he wanted to give me the world. He said I’m the sexiest woman he has ever seen.”

She watched every muscle in Gang-Tae’s body coil. His eyes which were always the window to his soul, said what the fuck did you say? and then he grabbed her hair.

“He can’t have you. You’re mine. I’m yours. You said it we go hand in hand!

“Then show me I’m yours. Make me forget about everyone but you. Do it!”

She was barely able to finish her sentence before her mouth was full. His taste exploded on her tongue and he was better than all the goods Sang-In had brought her. Once his dick was in her mouth, he was a man on a mission. She opened her mouth wider and let him have fun. He thrusted fast, then slow, then deep, then leaving only the tip.

He’s never done this before. He doesn’t know what he likes.

She let him use her mouth, happy to be the first person to do this with him.

Mine.

He found a rhythm that he seemed to like, deep and slow. She could feel every vein under the thin, hot skin and his precum leaked onto her tongue before she greedily swallowed it. That made his hips hitch forward suddenly and he momentarily slid down her throat. She pulled off slowly. Knowing the picture she made, on her knees with her red stained dick-plump lips. He picked her up as if she weighed nothing, she loved how strong he was.

He devoured her lips. dipping and licking his own taste out of her mouth. She felt them ascending and realized they were going up the stairs. He easily held her weight with one arm and used the other one to push open her bedroom door.

With four large steps, he dropped her on her bed watching her body bounce. His eyes zigzagged all over, seeming unsure of where he wanted to look. She pulled her shirt over her head and heard his gasp and threw her shirt to the side. His eyes settled on her chest, “You’re beautiful” he whispered with revere tinging every words.

She felt herself blushing, shocked that he was able to have that affect on her. He climbed onto the bed with her, using just his fingertips to caress her skin. He touched the top of her breast before moving down to her stomach, but eventually making his way back to her breast. She sat up and leaned forward silently giving him permission and he didn’t need anymore encouragement this time. He unhooked her bra, eyes wide as her breast came into view.

Under his intense gaze, she felt a fleeting desire to cover herself. Before doing the opposite and laying her hands to the side, fully displaying herself to his hungry eyes. He leaned down and kissed her breast, too gently. So she whispered “Harder” and his mouth consumed her nipple and she threw her head back from the blinding pleasure. Behind the buzzing that filled her ears, she could hear him as if he were miles away “so pink, you’re so pink” and she had no idea what he was talking about but she needed him to keep going.

He palmed her breast that wasn’t in his mouth and she reached down to grab his erection, it felt harder than before it that was possible. She twisted at the top gathering the fluid there and using it to ease her way, up and down his length. He bite down on her nipple as she made a corkscrew motion at the top. He ripped her jeans off her body and she hadn’t noticed when exactly he had even unbuttoned her pants.

He slid down her body and she groaned in annoyance at losing her grip on his dick, it was her new favorite toy. So perfect and hard, she couldn’t wait to have it inside her.

“What are you doing?” She panted looking down and seeing him just looking , his jaw was slack and his pupil was wide and she just watched him as he stared at her covered pussy. What seemed like a lifetime later, he pulled her panties down. They were white and lace. She shivered at the puff of hot air that hit her and she felt herself get wetter. He curiously tasted her with a kitten-like lick that made her mind short circuit. He must have liked what he tasted because after the first lick, he spread her open and took a greedy lick the second time.

His strong arms splayed her open to his mercy and he was a quick learner, he quickly dissected that she liked broad licks and extra attention on her clit. This was the best thing that had ever been done to her body. She almost didn’t hear his quiet question, “Can I...Mun- Yeong can I...fuck you?”

She couldn’t believe that he had been able to say the words. She almost wanted to stop and applaud. But she saved her teasing because when she finally opened her eyes he was hovering above her, his penis so hard it was flat on his stomach and it had leaked an idecent amount of precum. Glossy in the pale moonlight. If only she had been a painter instead of an author.

“How do you want me?” She continued to press his comfort level, but she was also genuinely curious. She knew he was a virgin before all this, she wanted anything he wanted. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, before laying down and dragging her on top of him. He blushed up at her but there was a glint of determination in his strong jaw.

“I want to see you. I want to see your eyes when we do it.”

She didn’t answer verbally, choosing instead to grind herself down on him. Slipping across his groin, dragging her wetness over him. Feeling him slip into her folds and shuddering at the heat. She lifted her hips up before finding his hard erection and holding it, ready.

“Wait don’t we need a .....condom?”

She shook her head no. She had been on birth control as soon as it was allowed.

“I want to feel you”

That answer rendered him without words and he gripped her hips in his huge hands, helping her lift up before the world momentarily went white. She knew she should take it slow but as soon as she felt him inside, the beast burst out of the cage. She placed her hands on his broad chest and slammed down onto him, riding him hard. Snapping her body back to bring him deeper in.

He was an absolute mess beneath her, shaking his head no, begging her to slow down while he contrarily met her thrust for thrust and fucked her like the world was ending. She fell on his chest and he immediately wrapped her in his arms and continued to rock up into her velvety, wetness. Panting in her ears.

“You feel so good. So good, please, please”

She knew that he was close from the pistoning of his hips, the sound of their skins smacking filled the room.

“Don’t hold back, fuck me harder. Don’t stop!”

He flipped them over, pressing her arms about her head, she made a mental note that she liked that. Really liked it.

“Say my name, Say I’m yours”

“Gang-Tae, Gang-tae, you’re mine. I’m yours. I...”

No. Not now. But it was enough to push him over the edge and she was so confused on his pleasure that she forgot about herself until she felt his fingers rub her clit in a circle motion and she too stumbled over the deep end.

His body tightened and he pressed deeply inside her, her walls clenching around him.

“Sex feels amazing.”

His sudden admission sent her into a fit of giggles, and soon he was laughing too and he fell on the bed from his laughter. Their laughter boomed in the room, now eerily quiet without their sex sounds.

Zzzzzzzzztttttt

She looked over and saw him looking down at the floor at whatever was vibrating, before leaning over and picking it up.

Her cellphone. It must have fell out of her pocket when he ripped her pants off.

He opened her phone without her permission and they needed to have a talk because only she was allowed to do that.

“It’s that punk. He’s sad you couldn’t make it.” He looked at her with glaring eyes. “I thought you went out with him”

“I lied. I got beef by myself and then came home.”

He looked upset before laughing again. Then he reached over and flicked her on the forehead.

“Ow what the hell!”

“I’m deleting his number” and she rolled over and pressed her naked body against him, not caring about whatever his name is.

She felt his penis plump up after a moment of cuddling him naked, “Stop being so horny, I’m tired now” she whined.

He stroked her back before his hand trailed down to her butt.

“This is all your fault” he answered before dragging her into a languid kiss and rolling on top of her. “You pulled my safety pin, this is the result.”

He exploded all night.

#it's okay to not be okay #psycho but it's okay #ko moon young #moon gang tae #fanfic #smut #kdrama #iotnbofic #psycho but it's okay fanfiction #filthy gutter trash #send me requests I'm in a giving mood

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mendrax · 3 years

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My first review of Evangelion: 3.0+1.0 Thrice Upon a Time

Here’s my first impression under the cut...

The franchise as art.

Not just the Eva franchise but the concept of a franchise itself. Because franchises, as they exist in the world of filmmaking, are inherently a capitalist product designed for escapism. Let’s go to the movies for a brand new chapter in the ever-sprawling saga of commoditized characters conquering a new mile in the millennially trotted hero journey, yay! Isn’t that how you can describe the act of purchasing a ticket to the latest entry in your favorite franchise? And what’s so wrong with that, anyway? After all, we need our escapism when life becomes unbearable. It’s just a public service really!

And is Eva really that different? At the end of the day, no matter how avant-garde it can be, it’s still a product that we’ve come to consume, quite literally, again and again. Not only that, but it’s also a damn good profitable IP with millions of merchandise goods, box-office record numbers and, now, a distribution deal with one of the gods of capitalism: Amazon. Long gone are the days of non-profit experiencing of it. You can now legally pay to watch its whole audiovisual canon in Netflix and Prime.

Still, even after its paradoxical commodification, the text of Eva itself remains as a message of anti-escapism. No matter how many figures, blu-rays and streaming services you pay for, the message of Eva remains the same. A message that quite starkly opposes itself to this escapist consumerism. Even if, ironically, is this very message that, due to its humanity, has touched the hearts of millions who have then turned it into another comfort food. This is so sad, alexa play komm, susser tod…

Now, cynicism aside, the reason 3.0+1.0 elevates the concept of a franchise to an art form is, quite simply, because, at its best, art is a method of communication delivering a message that could only be delivered through its chosen medium. I could very easily tell you to go outside and touch some grass, talk to your parents and hug your dearest, but that’d never have the same impact as experiencing the Eva franchise from start to finish.

3.0+1.0 is a film that can’t work without experiencing all the films and TV episodes before it. I mean, it has its own beginning, middle and end but, really, its message can’t be as impactful without the other entries in its franchise. The film itself rehashes images and situations we’ve come to intimately know from its predecessors. Not only that but it converses with them, presenting nuanced and overt contrasts of key moments. Particularly in its final act, we see the reversal and echoes of a lot of moments from End of Evangelion. Asuka gets mangled, not by outside forces, but by her own doing. Misato gets shot but she survives this. Ritsuko shots Gendo, but doesn’t kill him. Shinji doesn’t punish Gendo by devouring him through Unit-01, but instead saves him by getting close to him. This last one might be one of the most heart-wrenching moments in the whole movie, which, it’s worth noting, serves as the wholesome counterpart to EoE’s bitter ending. To say nothing of the contrast 3.0+1.0 presents to EoE’s beach scene…

But these are all narrative points that, with some serious talent, could even be conveyed through literary form and film, as we know, its powerful because its an audiovisual medium. And here’s where Eva, time and again, separates itself from most, if not all, franchises in recent memory. Its images are not only narrative but discursive. I’d even argue that, come its ending, Eva uses images that don’t really advance its plot, but rather help to cement its discourse, its message. And its been doing that since eps 25-26… The last minutes of Eva will always be a Brechtian assault on the senses with images that demand to be studied and interpreted. They’re not there to finish the bedtime story with a kiss on the forehead of your overworked soul, but to shake it out of its zombie state and fill you with emotions you can’t even describe through words until much later, if at all… I believe that’s why a lot of us have come back to Eva again and again. Not necessarily for its plot, but for the rise of emotions and thoughts that bolt through your core as you experience its final moments and how they re-paint the whole journey you’ve just travelled to get there.

3.0+1.0 is filled with such images that, one day, I’d love to analyze. I’m still too shocked from having watched it almost 20 hrs ago and this is already too long, so I’ll leave this task for subsequent viewings… still my mind can’t help but replay certain images over and over, even as I write this… from Misato looking at the photo of her son and Shinji… Kaworu crying as Shinji extends his hand to him… the juxtaposition of Unit-01 lying on its side, staring at the phallic ruins of Nerv HQ, and Shinji, on the same position and equally sized, staring at the piano he played with Kaworu… baby Shinji blatantly rejecting Gendo, only to find comfort with his mom, and baby Asuka painfully looking at this from afar… to the shot of Shinji and Rei, discussing the neon genesis, on an dismantled theater, as frames from the TV anime are projected onto them and the brick wall behind them… I can’t word what these images mean yet, but I’m looking forward to doing it one day…

I suppose this has turned into a long ramble, but I’m still sure of my opening thought. 3.0+1.0 takes elements of every entry on the Evangelion franchise to express a message that could only be conveyed with such impact by having consumed the entire franchise beforehand, and it does so in a way that doesn’t perpetuate the comfortable escapism of other franchises. Its very message of anti-escapism and use of images that converse emotionally, aesthetically, and intellectually with the viewer prevent it from being purely a capitalist product designed for escapism. It’s a piece of art, worth of being discussed at the same level of any work from a grand master of any other type of art. But it’s also a franchise… hopefully this will inspire more franchises as art forms.

And now, as a post-scriptum, because no review of Eva is worth anything without some shameless personal history, I must say that my journey with Eva has been like none other piece of media… I was introduced by it at 18 years old, fresh out of high school, by the person who would become my best friend, and I remember, back then, finding it incredibly comforting and enigmatic. It helped me through a period of drastic change in my life, from changing majors halfway from English to Film, to becoming an older brother at 19 (after a life of being an only child). I was incredibly depressed and struggled with addiction for years after that. I related to Shinji and his perpetual running away from life but, now, seven years later I got to see the conclusion to that journey my best friend invited me to… I also earned my bachelor’s degree in film, have a comfortable job and have been sober for 10 months. I don’t run away as much but I’d be lying if I wasn’t still, somewhat, disconnected from most people in my life. To be honest, I related so much to Gendo’s story on this film and that scared me. It’s still hard to let people in but, still, there’s been some growth. Small victories that allowed me to accept this final film’s message as completely valid. It’s just so wholesome, isn’t it? And yet, there’s a bittersweetness to it… like in every ending, you’re glad it happened but it’s painful coming to terms that it’s over. I cried for a good thirty minutes after it was over, washing the tears away, only to stare at my reflection and turn into a sobbing mess… I’ll never get to experience anything like this for the first time and that’s just incredibly sad… still, I’m so fucking glad for it all, even the wait (as shorter as it was for me) and I do believe I’ll be able to say bye-bye, all of Evangelion… one day.

#evangelion 3.0+1.0 #neon genesis evangelion #Shinji Ikari #Kaworu Nagisa #rei ayanami #gendo ikari #Misato Katsuragi

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clenastia · 3 years

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I did a thing! And wrote another little prompt-response, though I don’t remember where I found the prompt before. Probably here on Tumblr, but I always save the interesting ones to a google doc so I’ve lost the post... Perhaps I’ll hunt it down later.

This one’s tentatively called Herald of the Storm, 1300 words, and I definitely plan on adding more parts to it!

Fic below the cut as usual! (im too lazy to re-add my italics right now... ugh)

Prompt: Despite your reputation as a Dark Lord, you have a strict moral code. So when a young girl showing signs of abuse wandered into your realm, you took her in. Now the neighboring kingdom is accusing you of kidnapping their princess. You have to choose between returning her to her abusers or war.

She was so thin, was his first thought upon spotting the girl. So thin it was nearly grotesque, body all sharp angles and painful corners, starvation clear in every inch of her appearance.

Tora may have been a dark lord, may have conquered half a dozen kingdoms and been plotting to conquer half a dozen more, but-

Seeing a young woman look like that, trembling on the steps of his palace, every part of him screamed that it was wrong.

He doesn’t even know who she is, when he first brings her in, feeding her and offering her the full aid of his medical staff. If he lays a few minor spells over her, to encourage healing and rest and peace, well.

Being a dark lord doesn’t stop him from using more blessed magic. Just makes it a bit trickier, is all.

And she needs every blessing she can get.

Even cleaned up, wearing a proper gown, he doesn’t recognize her.

It takes a couple weeks, the girl slowly gaining weight but never opening her mouth, never speaking, only staring at the world with dead eyes, before he even begins to suspect.

The last he saw of Princess Maria, she was a proud, upstanding figure, decrying him for his wicked ways, galvinating her people and encouraging them to stand strong against his tyranny.

It certainly was an effective speech, the military of Doran seeing an influx of recruits. And he, still recuperating from his recent conquest of Illysi, knew he would rather not fight with the large sea-faring kingdom, at least before his numbers recovered.

Perhaps he could take to the field himself, even out his lack of men with his own overwhelming power, but he’s no fool. The more his enemies see of his strength, the easier it will be for them to discover his weaknesses.

And he hardly minds being seen as a languishing ruler, willing only to command his men from afar. It breeds an arrogance in his enemies that is easily corrected when they finally make it through all his guard, certain in their belief that his great power is an exaggeration meant only for intimidation.

Surely though, this cannot be the Sea King’s daughter. Surely he would have heard if such a notable figure had gone missing.

Perhaps it is only a similarity…

He tells himself this, even as she looks ever closer to the princess as her health returns.

She never speaks.

It is enough for him to tell himself she must be a different lady.

Until a page rushes into the medical ward, calling for him by name, and the young miss spins around, eyes seeking desperately until they land on him.

It’s the first time he’s been called anything other than “Your Majesty” in her presence, and he wonders a moment what she must think.

The page interrupts his consideration, bowing deeply as he holds out an opened letter.

“We have received missive from King Austwhil of Doran, to return his daughter or face war with his people!”

Well.

So much for it only being a passing similarity.

Whatever hardship she befell to land on his doorstep, it might be best to get rid of her. He’ll need another year yet before he has all he’ll need to fight with Doran the way he’d prefer.

Only, when he turns to her, he finds her trembling in fear.

She curls back, deep into herself, pressing against the headboard like it might swallow her.

It’s a posture that might make more sense if she were looking at him, if she were focused on him, but even his magic tells him he is not the target of her fear.

It makes no sense.

“Come now Princess, surely you know I have no desire to quarry with your kingdom. I’ll have you returned to your father just as soon as you recover-”

Her head snaps up, eyes wide with fear, and she lunges at him.

She’s weak, weak enough he doesn’t bother to move, and by the time her fingers close around the hilt of his ritual knife it’s far too late to stop her.

His magic won’t work on that blade, won’t wrench it from her grasp or deflect its edge and he stands sharply, kicking his chair over as he moves back, out of range-

But she doesn’t turn the blade towards him, instead stabbing into her leg with a viciousness that has him frozen in shock as he tries to understand-

She jerks the knife out, raises it, and he barely grabs her arm before she could stab herself again.

“Have you gone mad-? What- what’re you doing-?” his hard-earned eloquence deserts him, and he’ll have to kill the staff later, can’t have them spreading rumors but-

“If I don’t heal you won’t send me back.” the Princess’ arms tremble, still desperately trying to stab the blade down, and Tora struggles more than he should to pull the blade from her fingers.

Her words, ghostly silent on her lips, very nearly make him drop the blade he fought to recover.

That.

Is not the response of a happy child.

“Are you so desperate to avoid your home, Princess?”

She flinches.

Tora desperately hopes he’s misunderstanding the situation.

“You realize you’re quite a valuable ransom. I can’t just keep hosting you because you’re upset with your fiance.” he tries to be flippant, but Tora’s already fairly certain this is no drama over an arranged marriage.

No arranged marriage would be worth sheltering in the palace of a man like him.

“I’ll do anything.” she promises in a whisper, curling back into herself now that her weapon is lost. “P-please just- don’t send me back- I can tell you a-about the defences, t-the army, whatever you want so please don’t give me back to him-”

Ah.

That’s a bit harder to explain away.

But it can’t be true, it’s not allowed to be true, because he can’t-

He’s a dark lord and an usurper and a peasant-born fraud he can’t just-

“I don’t want to do it anymore…” she sobs, too-thin shoulders shaking.

His denial crumbles. “What was the Sea King making you do, child?” Tora asks gently, righting his chair with a flick of his wrist and slowly sitting down.

She tenses, waiting nearly an age before her back slowly unwinds itself and she answers.

“I-I don’t know… some sort of magic- th-they kept- taking and taking and taking and it hurt it hurt so much I don’t want to- it hurts I don’t want to- please- please don’t send me back-”

Fury bubbles, a rising crescendo, and perhaps Tora will invite that war regardless.

Kings and their magic, he scorns, standing sharply once again, this time spinning to face his page.

“Fetch me General Hynna at once.” he orders, then glances to the medical staff. “Take care of her, no more visitors. Clearly someone is a spy,” he hisses the last bit, eyes lighting in malice.

Hunting spies is ever so much fun.

The Princess glances up from her shadowed arms, and he offers her as kind a smile as he can manage. “As a Mage King, I can hardly allow such an insult to my powers and my patrons. Have no fear Princess. You’ll return to your country a Queen.”

Perhaps it will not serve him well, in the long run. He has a world to conquer and a beast to fight, and he can do neither if Doran is allowed to rally around their beloved Princess. Especially not with all the allies they have across the sea.

Even so, a father torturing his child for her power is… perhaps too close to home.

He remembers Eitru’s corpse, remembers his vow of Never Again, and he knows that if he breaks it, he will truly have given up the very last of his soul.

Never Again.

It beats in time with his heart, a mantra of fury, and he knows he will not wait for his armies. Not for this.

His General is a competent sort. Between them, they’ll find a way.

#clena's original ficlets #clena writes a thing #herald of the storm pt1 #herald of the storm ficlet

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theghostofashton · 4 years

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arthur pendragon: character analysis

i’ve been wanting to do this for so long, and a lot of people said they wanted it on that post i made about potentially doing it, so....here we go. strap in, y’all. this is gonna be a long ride.

i’ve had this thought in my mind since i watched the series for the first time through. arthur, canonically having depression, but it never being outright said, because, let’s be real, i don’t think they had a working understanding of depression as a mental health condition (i’m sure it did exist - the earliest accounts come from mesopotamia, but it definitely wasn’t thought of back then how we see it now). i think the episodes that really solidified it for me were 3x12 and 3x13. there were little hints leading up to it, like this,

this is from excalibur (1x09), and you can see arthur’s face change when uther says this to him. you watch the surprise physically manifest on his face, because uther has never told him that. he’s gotten this:

and again, uther admits that it’s entirely his doing, and not arthur’s:

and this is important because of something else that happens in the episode. 1x09 is arthur’s coming of age ceremony, where he officially takes the title of crown prince. i was reading someone else’s post about this - all credit to them for what i’m about to say here. they were talking about arthur being the best warrior in camelot, and how that’s....well, remember this?

so you mean to tell me that there are no older, long-standing knights? ones who’ve been training for longer than arthur’s been alive? he’s the best? or he’s been forced to be the best by his tyrant of a father who could do nothing but berate him his entire life, to the point where he genuinely believes he’s a disappointment and inadequate. what did arthur have to go through to get to a point of literally being the best warrior in the kingdom before he was even crown prince?

most people headcanon arthur as around 20 in the first season, potentially turning 21 at his coming-of-age ceremony. and y’all, let’s be real. he’s still a kid. 20 is not a full-fledged adult, by any means. i’d argue that he barely had the chance to be a kid, before uther stepped in and begun to groom him to take over the throne. he didn’t have friends, aside from morgana. the men with him in the pilot are never seen after the first episode. as soon as merlin arrives, he latches onto him, again, because merlin is the first real friend he’s ever had.

merlin is also the first person to completely and utterly refuse to treat him like a royal. we see it in the first episode. merlin wasn’t raised with a concept of royalty and class order the way arthur was, obvious from the way he speaks to arthur, even after learning he’s the king’s son. and arthur, as he’s been taught his whole life, is all “you can’t talk to me like that i’m the prince”, but really...he latches onto that, throughout the series. merlin treats him like an equal. like arthur. not the prince, not the future king, and i’d argue, given the whole destiny and “two sides of the same coin” thing, merlin would have all the more reason to treat arthur like he’s special. but he doesn’t.

this is why arthur is so attached to merlin. this video is hilarious, but you realize, through watching it...arthur has people who could dress him, serve him, etc, in the kingdom. there are hundreds who would be happy to. but that isn’t good enough. he needs merlin. because merlin sees him. merlin sees arthur, underneath all of the princely royalty and formality. merlin makes fun of him and laughs at him and doesn’t take his crap, makes him feel normal, makes him feel human, i would absolutely argue. merlin makes him feel like he’s more than a representation of camelot. he’s a person, too.

in 3x06, when arthur almost marries elena, it’s merlin who gets him to stop the wedding. it’s merlin’s speech right before, merlin’s reaffirmation that no, he’s not just the future king of camelot, he’s a person, and the kingdom is shit if it means their ruler is unhappy. it’s about arthur’s royal duty, but it is equally about his happiness. merlin won’t let him forget that.

arthur’s been raised to believe that his feelings don’t matter. his happiness doesn’t matter. it’s camelot, above all, and he just has to live with that. newsflash to uther: feelings don’t go away simply because you tell someone not to have them. arthur represses everything because he’s been taught to. he’s been told that’s what’s needed from him. being true to himself is selfish, because he can’t do that and lead a strong kingdom at the same time. it’s impossible.

also worth mentioning that when he does try to do what he wants, make himself happy (i.e courting gwen), uther sentences the love of his life to death and forces him to deal with that. even though gwen ends up being fine (bless u merlin), that fear, that panic, that the person he loves most will be forcibly ripped from him because for the first time in his life, he’s doing something for arthur... again, it reinforces that what he wants doesn’t matter. his feelings and his happiness do not matter.

and now we get into what really solidifies this for me. the end of season 3. morgana’s betrayal. more specifically, this scene:

and here, what’s really really interesting to me, is that even merlin evokes the “you’re the prince this is your royal duty” card, in trying to get through to arthur. he goes there, because he knows that this bad. arthur is the most defeated he’s ever seen him.

the first time i watched this scene, with merlin bringing him food and trying to convince him to eat, it reminded me of how you’d treat a friend going through a depressive episode. try to lift them up, bring them something to eat, and promise them they can conquer what they’re dealing with.

and then we have this:

that scene, with arthur slowly emerging from the cave, ready to fight again, just reminds me so uniquely of what i just said above. merlin, the concerned friend, trying to do something, when someone they love is dealing with stuff, and arthur, finally emerging from his depression and garnering the strength to try again.

this is a little moment, but i’ve always thought it was so important:

you’re not tho. and merlin knows that. this is after merlin was hurt by the dorocha, after he and lancelot come back. the other knights are sleeping, and the camera pans out to show us merlin and arthur talking. specifically, arthur being vulnerable and scared and sad, about what’s to come. the thing is, he wouldn’t have opened up and talked about it to anyone, other than merlin. it’s like merlin has become his safe space to be honest about everything he represses around literally anyone else. merlin knows he’s not okay, and arthur knows he can’t convince merlin otherwise, so he just doesn’t. that like.....immediately after that scene of them welcoming merlin back, we cut to this. arthur starts to open up, speak his real feelings, because merlin is there and merlin is his Person, and he’s okay to do it. there’s no pretense.

and then we have grief pt. II

the end of season 4, agravaine betrays arthur, and then we have these scenes, more heart-wrenching every time i watch them.

this is his inadequacy. his lack of self-esteem. arthur doesn’t believe in himself, like, at all. he hasn’t lived up to uther’s standards, he hasn’t been the “expectation” of a strong and powerful king, and that is reinforced by the people he loves constantly turning on him and betraying him, convincing him that they care about him and then turning on a dime and trying to destroy his kingdom.

tristan tears him down so easily. too easily. if arthur really was arrogant, overconfident, self-obsessed, he wouldn’t sink this deep based on someone whose opinion has literally no impact on his life or power over him’s words.

(there are def more scenes throughout season 4 that show this, but i’m realizing how genuinely long this post has gotten and i feel like i need to shut up soon so i’m just pulling the biggest scenes)

god, i just wanna wrap him up in the biggest hug and tell him he’s doing well. he’s doing the best he can, and it is enough. but arthur genuinely believes this. he believes he’s awful, and disappointment, and an unworthy, undeserving king.

and then we have this, going back to what i said earlier about merlin being the concerned friend trying to help someone they love out of a depressive episode. arthur wants to go back to bed and wallow in his sadness and inevitably repress it, and allow himself to be defeated. merlin has other ideas.

there are a lot of ways to read this scene. the way i see it, arthur needed this. he needed to feel this confidence and assurance in himself. he needed to feel worthy. merlin used magic to get the sword out of stone as a tangible, visual representation of arthur’s strength and power as king.

........and then it is completely torn away from him in 5x03. fuck uther. fuck him so hard. he deserves to burn. i’ll never forgive him for 5x03, for this:

the look on arthur’s face after uther says this absolutely kills me. this entire scene kills me.

uther calls out the knights, arthur says they’re some of the finest camelot has known, uther says that listening to others makes you look weak, and then arthur’s voice starts to waver as he says that listening to others is a sign of strength, not weakness. he’s trying so hard, to remember what merlin’s told him, what gwen’s told him, what everyone in the kingdom has loved him for for so long, and uther tears it down in seconds.

arthur’s voice remains shaky through the rest of it, as uther criticizes gwen and arthur’s decision to marry for his own love and happiness, because again, what he feels and what he wants does not matter. even after his death, uther is still finding ways to destroy any sense of self-worth and self-esteem arthur’s worked so hard to build. god, it makes me fucking furious.

arthur starts crying after uther tells him he’s destroying his legacy. he’s been trying so hard to be good, to be worthy, to be something, and it’s torn down, once again.

he keeps trying to believe in himself and build that self-worth, but people keep tearing it down, reinforcing the things he already thinks of himself.

let’s talk about gwen for a quick second. my girl. i love her so much. when arthur is doubting himself, feeling badly about a decision, she’s always there to remind him that he is good, he is strong, he is capable.

this is 3x12. and in this scene, arthur still looks like a scared little boy, unsure of the future. and gwen says this, and you watch his face change, you watch her remind him that he has done good, he is good, and that she’s proud of him. finally. someone is proud of the decisions he makes. someone believes in him.

when arthur is doubting himself, gwen is reminding him of how good he is. she always makes sure to say it.

this is 5x12. episode before last, and arthur is still not sure of himself. he still doubts everything. this is not something his reign has fixed in him, because it’s not fixable. the things he’s endured, the abuse uther has put him through, has developed into depression, into this overwhelming self-loathing, because he constantly feels as though he isn’t enough. he constantly feels unworthy.

angel’s delivery in these scenes is always magnificent. you can hear the emotion in her voice, the vigor with which she’s trying to convince arthur that he’s more than he’s been told his entire life. she knows he struggles with this. she knows it’s hard for him to believe. she keeps telling him he’s good, because he hasn’t grown up hearing that. and he needs it, desperately. you know how they say your love language is something you were deprived of as a child? arthur’s is absolutely words of affirmation. he needs them.

merlin does it too:

arthur is a good king and a good person. he is strong, and brave, and every bit the king camelot deserves, if not so much more. this is another post entirely, but this is why it bothers me when people get angry at him for how he reacted to merlin’s magic. look at merlin’s place in his life. look how much he trusted merlin with, how much of himself and his soul he beared to the only person he could trust with his honest, vulnerable, raw feelings. i ship merthur, but even if you don’t, the actors have said that merlin and arthur had a bond that superceded everything. they were soulmates. imagine your other half lying to you for as long as merlin did.

(this is not to say merlin isn’t valid for keeping it hidden for so long - i get that he had his reasons, i’m just saying that arthur’s reaction was justified).

but yeah. arthur pendragon is a depressed, insecure angel who desperately needs all the love in the world and i will never shut up about it. he is a good, strong, self-less king, who led camelot to its true greatness. he made us so proud.

#im def gonna comb through this over and over and rephrase things #but i just spent three hours doing this instead of researching for my thesis y'all are welcome #arthur pendragon #arthur #merlin

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donteattheappleshook · 4 years

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Of Cars and Bars Chapter 7/13

As always thank you Krystal @kmomof4 for all of your amazing beta work and for just being a lovely person. This story exists because of you!

Summary:

Rated E

When Emma Swan is offered the chance to go on tour as an opener for one of the most popular up and coming bands of the decade, the last thing she expects is to find that the lead guitarist is the stranger she had a one night stand with five years ago.

This started out as a smutty two shot about Emma Ruby and Mary Margaret going on a road trip and has evolved into a slow-burn mutual pining angst-fest.

Read it from the beginning on Ao3 and Ffn because tumblr eats all my italics.

Smut under the cut!

Chapter 7: Awake My Soul

And now my heart stumbles on things I don't know / My weakness I feel I must finally show / Lend me your hand and we'll conquer them all / But lend me your heart and I'll just let you fall

Emma flipped over onto her side for what felt like the hundredth time tonight. She didn’t know if she had slept at all. When she glanced at the hotel room clock radio she saw that it was 5am. What time had it been when she’d gone to bed? Midnight? Eleven? She didn’t even know anymore. Most of the night had been spent in a raging fury. It had taken hours for her breathing to even out enough to even begin to relax and for her muscles to stop clenching so hard her hands curled into fists. She’d wanted to hit someone, anyone, well, particularly Killian, but anyone would have done in the moment. After that, her anger had settled into a quieter, sort of humming in her blood and in the back of her head, just loud enough to remind her that it was there and that she was still too upset to sleep.

She flipped over again and squeezed her eyes shut against the early morning light that was peeking through the curtains she’d neglected to close. She groaned and slammed her pillow over her head but it was no use. She couldn’t stop thinking about it. Killian's words echoed over and over in her mind and each time it sounded different.

At first they’d been harsher, crueler, like he’d been trying to hurt her. Then, as her anger had subsided they replayed in a dull, monotone way, a continuous reminder of what she didn’t live up to. Eventually, his voice had become her own as she’d appropriated the words. That was the worst. She’d already thought those things about her music and about herself but she’d buried those thoughts long ago and she liked them there, out of the way where they couldn’t bother her.

How dare he? How dare he just… insult her? No it was more than that, it felt like he’d picked out a part of her soul and deemed it unworthy. He had no right. And she was going to tell him. She was going to go over there and rip him a new one. Who talks to people that way?

The new, fresh anger was rolling through her now as she made her way down the hall and towards Killian’s room. She liked this anger better, it was always easier when it was directed at someone else. As she passed Ruby’s room, she suddenly remembered what time it was. Good, she thought. I hope he’s in bed and I drag him out of a peaceful night's sleep. I hope this ruins his whole morning, no, his whole day.

As she approached his door though, she noticed it was ajar. Even better. She could just barge in and really give him a piece of her mind. She walked in.

Emma had been prepared for a terrified, confused, just-woken Killian. What she hadn’t been prepared for was the sight of him, sitting on the floor in the middle of the room with a guitar in his lap. She also wasn’t prepared for the sight of him shirtless, the muscles in his forearms and shoulders tensing and relaxing as he picked the strings. What the hell was he doing? It was five AM! And why the hell was he shirtless?

She couldn’t help but stare at the dexterous way his fingers moved over the instrument. She followed the sloping line of his neck and shoulder, noticing how the muscles there were taunt, making them look more pronounced. She always forgot how strong he was. You wouldn’t necessarily know it to look at him, he was lean and his muscles weren’t showy. But like this, it was impossible not to notice and again Emma found herself remembering how easily he’d managed to lift her up, to pin her against a wall. Shit, no. She was mad at him, she reminded herself.

Thankfully, she only had a few seconds to watch before Killian noticed her. He looked surprised to see her but not necessarily unhappy about it. He set the guitar down and stood, taking a few steps towards her and Emma took in the lines of his chest and his stomach and the hair that covered them. Fuck.

His face was flushed and his hair was sticking up at all angles making him look flustered and Emma tried desperately to channel the new feelings he was stirring in her back into the anger she’d arrived with.

“Swan? What are you doing here?”

She dragged her eyes away from his chest and his arms. There was a tattoo on his forearm. Milah. Had that been there last time? She couldn’t remember.

“Emma?” he asked again when she didn’t answer.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded to know. How dare he throw her off her guard like this.

He looked back at his guitar on the floor and then back at her with confusion written across his features. “Playing scales?”

“What? Why? It’s five in the morning!" She frowned and shook her head, trying to ignore the way his collar bones were so prominently on display everytime he turned his head.

He laughed a little at her outburst and it pissed her off that he felt relaxed enough to find humor in this. Meanwhile, she stood there simultaneously annoyed and unable to keep herself from staring at the fine line of hair that disappeared into his stupidly low-slung sweatpants.

“I know. I couldn’t sleep. It helps me relax.” He frowned. “Usually anyway.”

Well, good, she thought, at least he was stressed. She didn’t like the idea of him being relaxed right now, not when she was such a raging inferno of mixed up emotions. She tore her eyes away from the spot where his hips met the top of his pants and forced herself to look him in the eyes. He looked tired, like he really hadn’t slept either and Emma reminded herself of why she was here. Because he was an asshole.

“What you said last night,” she started and she saw the shame wash over his face.

“Emma…” he started but she held up a hand..

“Shut up. I’m talking.” She stepped forward until there was very little room left between them. Rage pumped hot through her veins, filling her head and rushing in her ears until she couldn’t hear anything else. “You have no right,” she hissed, jabbing her finger into his chest. He didn’t flinch but he didn’t back down either but she noticed the way his shoulders straightened, like he was expecting a fight. Good, he was going to get one.

“You don’t know anything about me.” Her words were icy now, fueled by the anger and the heat burning in her stomach. She stood as tall as she could until she was almost eye level with him. “You don’t get to know anything about me.” She could feel his breath on her face, his lips only inches from her own, she practically breathed the next words into him. “You don’t get to make assumptions about me or my music.”

She heard his sharp intake of breath, like he wanted to say something. She cut him off. “My music is mine. Your opinion means nothing to me.” Her arms came up to shove at his shoulders. He didn’t fall back from the blow but she saw the frown pull down his brow and his own hands grabbed hold of her arms, trapping her against him. She could feel the heat of his skin under her fingers. She tried to shove him again but he held her firm.

It was hot. It was so hot in here, way too hot. She couldn’t think straight, her mind was foggy with heat and anger. All she could feel was her own heart racing and his fingers on her biceps, his chest against her own. They both stood frozen for a second, glaring at one another. The heat of his chest was seeping through her shirt where they were pressed together, their breathing heavy, ragged and sharp.

“You’re an asshole.”

“I know.”

And suddenly, she was closing the barely existing distance between them. He met her halfway and their mouths crashed together gracelessly. There was no finesse, no attempt at gentleness or softness, just pure anger and desperation and want. She didn’t care that this was a terrible idea. All she cared about was that she was burning and she wanted him. She didn’t even know if it was anger or just lust, or both, but she knew she needed him to quell it - to fuck it out of her. Because that’s what this was. That’s all this was.

She freed her arms and wrapped them around his shoulders, one hand fisting in his hair and the other grabbing hold of the side of his face, pulling him down as she set her heels back on the floor and let her tongue delve into his mouth. He groaned against her lips and she could feel it reverberating through every inch of where they were pressed together so tightly. His hands came around her back, pressing her even closer as he returned her kiss with just as much ferocity. One of his arms slid down around her hips, pulling her against the hardness she could feel through his pants, and it sent a shock straight to her core.

She needed him now. She could remember the last time she’d had him, how good it had been and she wondered why the hell she’d been avoiding this. She wanted him and he wanted her and right now all she could think about was that they needed to get their clothes off. Immediately.

She wrenched her mouth away from his and almost smiled at the way he followed her, refusing to end the kiss until he saw that she was trying to remove her shirt and his hands were suddenly at the waist of his sweats. She bit her lip as she watched him untie the drawstring, distracted by the sight of him undressing. The urgency in his movements suddenly filled her mind with all the things she wanted to do to him and she forgot what she was doing. He looked up at her and the raw desire in his eyes had heat flushing across her face, over her chest, and down into her belly.

He reached forward, forgetting his pants, and suddenly his hands were under her shirt, calloused fingers sliding over her sides before pulling the material roughly over her head. The moment it was off he threw it across the room and took hold of her again, covering her lips with his and pressing their chests together. She whined at the feel of the coarse hair against her naked breasts and he made another one one of those deep, groaning sounds from the back of his throat that had her desperately pushing herself against the hard ridge of his cock, desperate for some release.

His breath caught in his throat at her actions and instantly he was picking her up, wrapping her legs around his waist as he lowered her down onto the floor beneath them. Again she was taken aback by his strength but this time it just made her want him more. Heat was pooling like liquid in her limbs and in her her gut. As soon as her back hit the ground he was on her, or she had pulled him down, she couldn’t keep track anymore. They were a mess of groping hands and grinding hips and Emma just needed him inside of her or she was going to explode.

He finally allowed the slightest bit of distance between them so he could palm her breast and she used the brief separation to reach for his pants, pushing them as far down his hips as she could manage. He took the hint and pulled back, kicking them off quickly before falling back on top of her. She was working on getting her own off but he was pressing hot, wet kisses everywhere on her skin and she couldn’t focus. His teeth closed over her nipple and she cried out, back bowing as she pushed her chest up to his mouth. He turned his attention to her other breast and ran his tongue roughly over its peak before moving down to bite at the skin of her stomach.

Finally, somehow having more presence of mind than her, he slipped her pyjama pants down her legs and tossed them aside. She was so lost in her need and her desperation that she was caught off guard by the heady, open-mouthed kiss placed against her center. Fucking hell. He was so good. She remembered how good he was. She could feel his tongue flicking out, brushing against her clit and she forced herself to pull his head away.

“No,” she said. She didn’t want to come like this and at this rate she would in seconds if he continued. And they didn’t have time - at least, she didn’t have the patience.

He looked at her with a flicker of doubt, like he was worried he’d done something wrong. “No?” he asked.

She used her grip in the back of his hair to pull him back up her body. “I don’t need it,” she told him, taking hold of his cock and lining him up with her entrance, letting him feel how wet she already was, how much she needed him inside of her.

“Bloody hell, Emma,” he groaned, hips rocking forward instinctively. His face screwed up in an impressive show of self control. “Do we need…” he trailed off.

She shook her head. “I’ve got it covered. Please.”

Apparently that was all he needed to hear. His hand found her thigh, pulling her leg up over his hip as he thrust inside her. Both of them gasped at the feel of him, buried to the hilt in her heat. She knew he was big, she’d been with him before, she’d fantasised about it since, but fantasy and memory didn’t compare to the real thing, to the stretch and the burn and the feeling of being so incredibly, perfectly full. She needed him to move and she told him so. He let out a curse at her demand and obeyed.

There was no build, no slow gentle getting to know each other again, no adjusting. They were both too desperate and too impatient. Every thrust pulled a cry from her lips until Killian muffled her moans and his own, covering her mouth and kissing her deeply, probably trying to avoid letting everyone know what they were doing. He didn’t relent, fucking into her fast and hard, keeping her leg hitched up around his back, pulling the other one up until she was wrapped around him completly, opening her up to him so he could thrust deeper, hiting that spot inside of her that made her bite down on his shoulder.

Emma knew she wasn’t going to last. She’d been on the edge since she’d walked into his room and started yelling at him. She met his thrusts, fingers clawing at the slick skin of his back, her hand grabbing hold of his ass and pulling him even harder against her. She could feel it, it was so close. “Killian,” she sighed, whined, she didn’t even know. The sound of his name spurred him on as he picked up his speed, hips snapping together as he set a punishing pace.

Yes. Oh, god, yes. She was so close. Almost there. She could feel the coil in her stomach winding tighter and tighter with every grinding of his hips against her clit, every drag of his cock deep inside her until finally she broke, a cry so loud leaving her that even his mouth couldn’t silence it. Her nails dug into his back, her legs tightening around his waist, her walls squeezing his cock as she rode the waves of her orgasm until she heard him let out a strangled sound from deep in his throat, his breath catching as he tensed above her. His head fell against her shoulder and she reached up to twine her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, not sure if she was trying to steady him or herself.

Fuck.

They lay there in the middle of the room, the only sound their shaky breathing as both of them struggled to come down from their high. Every bone in her body felt like it had melted. Nothing existed outside of her and Killian and the pleasant hum of the post-orgasm haze that was coursing through her body. She didn’t mind his weight on top of her, though she could tell he was doing his best to keep most of it off. She could still feel him inside of her and the thought alone made her want him again. She knew she could have him too if she wanted and it was incredibly tempting but she held back, letting him roll off her onto his side, one arm still slung across her ribcage. His eyes were closed and his brows were drawn together as he breathed heavily through parted lips. He looked as wrecked as she felt.

She turned her head to look at him and smiled a bit at his expression. She reached her hand out to stroke the hair on his chest, surprised by how relaxed she felt around him. She should be bolting now but she didn’t have it in her. She chalked it up to him just having utterly worn her out.

He cracked one eye open and gave her an amused smirk. “What?”

She shrugged. “That was a hell of an apology.”

He laughed but it was exasperated, almost more of a groan as he rolled onto his back. He ran his hands through his still-damp hair, making even more of a mess of it than it already was. He dragged his hands over his face and along his jaw before turning and propping himself up on his elbow.

“Can I tell you I’m sorry now?” he asked and she raised an eyebrow suggestively.

“I thought we’d just established that you already did.”

“With words, Swan,” he scolded, rolling his eyes mirthfully.

She watched him for a moment and then nodded.

“I’m sorry. I know that that doesn’t make up for it but I am. I can’t take back what I said but I can promise you it won’t happen again.” Hesitantly, he took her hand. She let him. She let him lace his fingers through hers and bring them to his lips where he placed a soft kiss to the back of her knuckles. “I didn’t mean to make you believe that I don’t think you’re talented… but I realise that I was a complete and utter tosser and what I said was unforgivable.”

She considered him for a second, looked at their hands which were now resting against his chest. He looked so remorseful that she wanted to forgive him. But she couldn’t. It had hurt and she needed to understand why.

“Why did you say it?”

Killian looked at their hands, fingers still intertwined and marveled at the fact that she was letting him do this, letting him touch her like this. Yes, they’d just had sex but that was different. He hadn’t known Emma long but he knew enough to know that this kind of touch was different, sex was physical, holding hands was… intimate.

He should tell her, he thought. He should tell her that he’d read her journal and that he knew she was capable of such beauty and poetry that it had felt like it was wrong that she was keeping it hidden away. But if he told her, he could lose her. And he couldn't lose her. Not again.

He sighed, determined to tell her as much of the truth as he could. “For me, music is a way of expressing everything you feel but can’t say. Sometimes, when something happens that makes you feel with your whole body, feel so much it hurts, you can’t find the words. But, when you put it in a song, it all makes sense and you can take that feeling and share it with someone else and some of the burden is lifted for a moment, because someone else is feeling it and helping you carry it.”

He chanced a glance at her then. She was watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite read but she didn’t seem angry so he continued. “Writing music was my escape for a really long time. It - it got me through a lot of really shitty times.” He felt her thumb run over the back of his hand but he was pretty sure she’d done it unconsciously.

“But I think, at the same time, it turned me into a snob and a prat and I forgot that my experience isn’t everyone’s experience. Sometimes music can be fun and that music is just as valid.” He felt the corners of his lips pull up, fondly remembering a particularly fun pop song that had changed his life five years ago. She smiled at his self-deprecation and his heart lifted, feeling free of the weight her anger and her pain had ladened on it. “If your music brings you happiness and it brings happiness to others then please don’t let one asshole stand in your way. Even a devilishly handsome asshole.”

He smirked at her and she rolled her eyes, turning to face away from him, across the room. She was still for a long time and he wondered if maybe she hadn’t forgiven him. But then she reached out, fingers just barely able to brush the strings of his guitar where it rested against a chair. Her voice was quiet.

“It used to be like that for me too.”

He looked at her, lying on the floor of his hotel room, naked, with one hand in his own and the other on his guitar, her hair golden and pooled around her in waves as she shared a small part of herself with him. She looked like a Renaissance painting. She was the most beautiful, fierce, talented woman he’d ever met and she was letting him in, only a little, but it was something.

Five years didn’t matter. The fact that they'd only shared a total of three nights and a plane ride together didn’t matter. Looking at her now he knew he was in as much danger of falling for Emma Swan as he’d ever been.

He didn’t push her to play, he just waited as she gently stroked the strings, lost in thought until she turned back to him, smiling suggestively. She dropped his hand so that she could prop herself up on her elbow, mirroring his pose.

“So, I figure we should set some ground rules.” He raised an eyebrow at her in confusion and she gestured between the two of them. “If this is going to keep happening,” she clarified.

Killian couldn’t help the slightly smug, slightly thrilled smile that broke across his face. “Is it going to keep happening?”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, we tried to be professional and look where that got us.” He only grinned wider, happy to be reminded that he was currently laying naked on the floor with an equally naked Emma, with whom he’d just slept with, and who was informing him that they would be sleeping together again.

“It can only be sex, Killian,” she told him. There was the tiniest hint of an apology in her tone, so small that he might have imagined it, but her tone left no room for argument. His heart dropped a little but he did his best not to let it show. He’d been expecting that. She continued. “Relationships… feelings, I can’t… do that. We can be friends. At least, I think we can be friends if you ever get your head out of your ass, but that’s it. Friends. Friends who have sex.”

Friends. He could handle friends. If all he ever got was to keep Emma in his life as his friend then that would have to be enough. The fact that he would also be lucky enough to have her in his bed was just a bonus. He gave her the best, most dashing grin he could muster.

“Well, we’re certainly compatible in that department,” he teased, letting his fingers brush along her waist down to her hip.

“You can hook up with other people if you want,” she added.

He cleared his throat. “And you as well I suppose?” That was harder. He could be her friend, but knowing she was with someone else could break him. He had no intention of being with anyone else.

“Yeah, just be safe,” she said and he smiled at her practicality even while feeling as though his insides were being ripped out. “Killian,” she said, tone serious, “I mean it. No feelings, okay? This can’t become romantic. If one of us ends up wanting more, then we just end it,” she finished matter of factly. She pointed a finger at him. “And no writing songs about this!” She gave him an accusatory look as though she assumed he would. She assumed right, but still.

He rolled his eyes at her. “Agreed. No songs. No feelings,” he promised. He knew this would hurt. He wasn’t sure when it would but he knew it would be bad when it did. ‘If one of us wants more’ she’d said. They both knew he was the only one at risk of that. But he wanted her. He couldn’t help himself and he would throw himself on this altar if it meant he could have her - in any capacity.

He held out his hand and she shook her head at him laughing a little before taking it. He shook it once and then used his grip to pull her so that she fell across his chest. “So, friend, how would you like to be very unprofessional right now?” he asked, smirking as he traced his fingers up the base of her spine. He felt goose bumps break out on her skin where he touched her.

She gave him a wicked smile. “Lock the door.”

#cs fanfiction #captain swan fanfiction #cs fanfic #captain swan fanfic #cs smut #captain swan smut #cs angst #captain swan angst #of cars and bars

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theculturedmarxist · 4 years

Link

It is quite fair to say that I became a Socialist in a fashion somewhat similar to the way in which the Teutonic pagans became Christians--it was hammered into me. Not only was I not looking for Socialism at the time of my conversion, but I was fighting it. I was very young and callow, did not know much of anything, and though I had never even heard of a school called "Individualism," I sang the paean of the strong with all my heart.

This was because I was strong myself. By strong I mean that I had good health and hard muscles, both of which possessions are easily accounted for. I had lived my childhood on California ranches, my boyhood hustling newspapers on the streets of a healthy Western city, and my youth on the ozone-laden waters of San Francisco Bay and the Pacific Ocean. I loved life in the open, and I toiled in the open, at the hardest kinds of work. Learning no trade, but drifting along from job to job, I looked on the world and called it good, every bit of it. Let me repeat, this optimism was because I was healthy and strong, bothered with neither aches nor weaknesses, never turned down by the boss because I did not look fit, able always to get a job at shovelling coal, sailorizing, or manual labor of some sort.

And because of all this, exulting in my young life, able to hold my own at work or fight, I was a rampant individualist. It was very natural. I was a winner. Wherefore I called the game, as I saw it played, or thought I saw it played, a very proper game for MEN. To be a MAN was to write man in large capitals on my heart. To adventure like a man, and fight like a man, and do a man's work (even for a boy's pay)--these were things that reached right in and gripped hold of me as no other thing could. And I looked ahead into long vistas of a hazy and interminable future, into which, playing what I conceived to be MAN'S game, I should continue to travel with unfailing health, without accidents, and with muscles ever vigorous. As I say, this future was interminable. I could see myself only raging through life without end like one of Nietzsche's blond-beasts, lustfully roving and conquering by sheer superiority and strength.

As for the unfortunates, the sick, and ailing, and old, and maimed, I must confess I hardly thought of them at all, save that I vaguely felt that they, barring accidents, could be as good as I if they wanted to real hard, and could work just as well. Accidents? Well, they represented FATE, also spelled out in capitals, and there was no getting around FATE. Napoleon had had an accident at Waterloo, but that did not dampen my desire to be another and later Napoleon. Further, the optimism bred of a stomach which could digest scrap iron and a body which flourished on hardships did not permit me to consider accidents as even remotely related to my glorious personality.

I hope I have made it clear that I was proud to be one of Nature's strong-armed noblemen. The dignity of labor was to me the most impressive thing in the world. Without having read Carlyle, or Kipling, I formulated a gospel of work which put theirs in the shade. Work was everything. It was sanctification and salvation. The pride I took in a hard day's work well done would be inconceivable to you. It is almost inconceivable to me as I look back upon it. I was as faithful a wage slave as ever capitalist exploited. To shirk or malinger on the man who paid me my wages was a sin, first, against myself, and second, against him. I considered it a crime second only to treason and just about as bad.

In short, my joyous individualism was dominated by the orthodox bourgeois ethics. I read the bourgeois papers, listened to the bourgeois preachers, and shouted at the sonorous platitudes of the bourgeois politicians. And I doubt not, if other events had not changed my career, that I should have evolved into a professional strike-breaker, (one of President Eliot's American heroes), and had my head and my earning power irrevocably smashed by a club in the hands of some militant trades-unionist.

Just about this time, returning from a seven months' voyage before the mast, and just turned eighteen, I took it into my head to go tramping. On rods and blind baggages I fought my way from the open West where men bucked big and the job hunted the man, to the congested labor centres of the East, where men were small potatoes and hunted the job for all they were worth. And on this new blond-beast adventure I found myself looking upon life from a new and totally different angle. I had dropped down from the proletariat into what sociologists love to call the "submerged tenth," and I was startled to discover the way in which that submerged tenth was recruited.

I found there all sorts of men, many of whom had once been as good as myself and just as blond-beast; sailor-men, soldier-men, labor-men, all wrenched and distorted and twisted out of shape by toil and hardship and accident, and cast adrift by their masters like so many old horses. I battered on the drag and slammed back gates with them, or shivered with them in box cars and city parks, listening the while to life-histories which began under auspices as fair as mine, with digestions and bodies equal to and better than mine, and which ended there before my eyes in the shambles at the bottom of the Social Pit.

And as I listened my brain began to work. The woman of the streets and the man of the gutter drew very close to me. I saw the picture of the Social Pit as vividly as though it were a concrete thing, and at the bottom of the Pit I saw them, myself above them, not far, and hanging on to the slippery wall by main strength and sweat. And I confess a terror seized me. What when my strength failed? when I should be unable to work shoulder to shoulder with the strong men who were as yet babes unborn? And there and then I swore a great oath. It ran something like this: All my days I have worked hard with my body, and according to the number of days I have worked, by just that much am I nearer the bottom of the Pit. I shall climb out of the Pit, but not by the muscles of my body shall I climb out. I shall do no more hard work, and may God strike me dead if I do another day's hard work with my body more than I absolutely have to do. And I have been busy ever since running away from hard work.

Incidentally, while tramping some ten thousand miles through the United States and Canada, I strayed into Niagara Falls, was nabbed by a fee-hunting constable, denied the right to plead guilty or not guilty, sentenced out of hand to thirty days' imprisonment for having no fixed abode and no visible means of support, handcuffed and chained to a bunch of men similarly circumstanced, carted down country to Buffalo, registered at the Erie County Penitentiary, had my head clipped and my budding mustache shaved, was dressed in convict stripes, compulsorily vaccinated by a medical student who practised on such as we, made to march the lock-step, and put to work under the eyes of guards armed with Winchester rifles--all for adventuring in blond-beastly fashion. Concerning further details deponent sayeth not, though he may hint that some of his plethoric national patriotism simmered down and leaked out of the bottom of his soul somewhere--at least, since that experience he finds that he cares more for men and women and little children than for imaginary geographical lines.

To return to my conversion. I think it is apparent that my rampant individualism was pretty effectively hammered out of me, and something else as effectively hammered in. But, just as I had been an individualist without knowing it, I was now a Socialist without knowing it, withal, an unscientific one. I had been reborn, but not renamed, and I was running around to find out what manner of thing I was. I ran back to California and opened the books. I do not remember which ones I opened first. It is an unimportant detail anyway. I was already It, whatever It was, and by aid of the books I discovered that It was a Socialist. Since that day I have opened many books, but no economic argument, no lucid demonstration of the logic and inevitableness of Socialism affects me as profoundly and convincingly as I was affected on the day when I first saw the walls of the Social Pit rise around me and felt myself slipping down, down, into the shambles at the bottom.

#jack london #socialism #american literature

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tmandpm · 5 years

Text

Four Names She Had, and One She Didn’t

Daughter.

Her eyes darted around the moving scenery as they drove. Her heart was conflicted over the new chapter she was starting. She hated to leave home, but she was ecstatic to see the world beyond the vicarages and churches her childhood had been filled with. She looked to the front of the car where her parents were sitting, holding hands, and she smiled sadly.

She had been her father’s little companion since the day she was born. He had given her the world as she grew. They passed by a pond, and she laughed quietly as she remembered when her father had attempted to take her fishing. She couldn’t have been more than four. He had sat her in his lap, fishing pole between her hands that his were holding, and they had waited and waited and waited. Nothing had bitten, and she was sleepy and moody when an older man had passed by, stopping at the fence to yell that there were no fish in the pond. It was meant for swimming only.

“Tessa, are you okay? You’re very quiet,” her mother said in a soft voice.

“I’m fine. Just thinking.”

Her eyes took in the half smile as the older woman turned back to look at the road. Her mother. Her mummy. She always felt a tug in her chest when she looked at her. She could vividly recall the days they would spend in the back garden playing all sorts of games. Her mother had always been the sort to make the best of the worst situation. It had been her birthday, and they had promised to take her to the park and have a picnic when a storm came from nowhere. She remembered how she had cried until she’d made herself sick when her mother had come in her room quietly and pulled her downstairs. Her eyes had gone wide when she saw the indoor picnic and sheet fort she had made. They’d stayed in that thing all day, playing with dolls and board games and cards. It had broken her heart to see the older woman shrivel into someone she wasn’t...someone who was a ghost of who she had been.

“Love, we’re here,” she could hear her father say as she snapped back to reality.

“I’m glad you two will only be a phone call away.”

“We are too,” her mother whispered as tears filled her eyes.

………………………………………………………..

Sister.

She couldn’t quite believe her ears when Cathy had said it. “I’m...what now?” She asked.

“I told them you were my sister,” she said with a smile as she took in the dumbfounded look on her face. “Face it, Theresa. You practically are.”

She nodded as she sat back on the couch. Sister. She had heard the word countless times, but she had never considered herself close to one. She had been an only child. Her parents had, had her late in life, and any cousins that she had were much older than her. It boggled her mind that Cathy considered her one. Joy and John had taken her in without so much as a second thought, but she never thought Philip’s siblings would.

Philip plopped down beside her on the couch, arm slinging around her shoulder. “You okay?”

“Does David think of me as a sister?” She asked suddenly.

“Yeah. I guess,” he shrugged. “He wanted to poke his eyes out after he walked in on you in the bath. That’s something he’d do with the girls.”

She nodded as she stared in front of her.

“What is it? You’re thinking awfully hard.”

She sighed, leaning into him. “I just never thought I’d have siblings. It’s a bit...I don’t know.”

“Gross? Annoying? Irritating?” He teased.

“Odd. It’s odd to have a family so...big,” she admitted.

Philip smiled, kissing her forehead. “Get used to it. You aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.”

……………………………………………………….

Wife.

The weight was obvious on her hand, specifically her left hand. And to be exact, her ring finger. It had yet to be twenty-four hours, and her whole life had changed. She was married. She didn’t even have the same last name. Her eyes drifted to the man laying beside her. He was on his stomach, eyes closed as he dozed. The sheet was draped across his legs, and the first thing she noticed was how youthful he looked in his sleep. Her hand ran through is unruly curls as she shifted, sighing at the soreness between her legs.

“Morning,” he muttered as he pulled her closer.

“Not quite,” she giggled out.

He smirked, eyes still closed. “It’s after midnight.”

“Damn. You’re right.”

“Look at that. A wife telling her husband he’s right,” he teased, kissing her head. He smiled as she rolled into him more, face buried in his neck.

“I like that name.”

“Wife?” He asked curiously.

“Your wife,” she corrected.

“I like you being my wife too,” he whispered before kissing her neck softly. “I like that I get to kiss you anytime I want.”

She giggled as they snuggled again. She loved the fact they got to do this, share an intimacy they didn’t before. She couldn’t wait to see all the little things she missed. They had put in an offer on a house, and they had a good chance, but she loved having him in her flat...in her personal space for a long period of time. They had decided to put off a honeymoon until after they had a house, saying it was more important to have a home than a week away. Her eyes fluttered closed as his hand traced up her thigh.

He kissed her deeply, rolling her onto her back. “What would you like, wife?” He asked while smiling down at her.

“You. It’s always going to be you.”

……………………………………………………….

Orphan.

She hated it. It was like acid on her tongue every time she said it. She saw the pitying looks everyone gave her. She wasn’t stupid. Her life had been ripped apart. Everything was painted in black and shades of grey. She was tired of the tears and the pain and the hollowness that wouldn’t leave. Her parents were gone, and she had to accept that.

She had thought it was getting better. She had gone back to work, she had taken her life in her hands and forced normality back into it, but she could feel the volcano about to rupture inside. She kept pushing in down until Philip had brought her a cup of tea one night. The sobs had come so easily it was like they had never left.

“Oh, darling,” he whispered as he rubbed her back.

She looked at the cup, heart wrenching. “It’s her tea set.”

He gasped. “I...I didn’t know. It was in the cupboard,” he explained, pain lacing his words.

“Why me? Why did they leave me?”

They were questions that had been swirling around her head since her mother died, and she wanted the answers. She wanted the closure. She craved it.

“They didn’t want to. You were their world, Tessa.” His arms pulled her into his chest as he rocked them back and forth on the couch.

“I’m an orphan,” she said through her tears, voice quivering and cracking. “It’s not fair. He...He was only meant to take her...not both of them.”

“Who, love?”

“God. Did he abandon me too?” She asked.

His eyes went soft as his heart crumbled. “He most certainly did not. I don’t know why He did it, love, but He’s not cruel, and He did not abandon you.”

“I just want them back,” she whispered. “I just want them back.”

……………………………………………………..

Mother.

It was the one that hurt more than the rest because if people called her that it was cruel. They taunted her with it. Political cartoons, critics, even family members that didn’t particularly like her. It was all some sick joke to them. Her and her husband’s infertility had become a punchline, and it broke her heart every time. She knew it hurt Philip just as much as her, if not more than. He had told her that one night after they had gotten tipsy on a bottle of his favorite red and made love. He had whispered into her hair that he wished the public didn’t automatically blame her for it all because he knew she blamed herself enough.

The truth of it was that they didn’t know. She had decided after one too many negative pregnancy tests that they should stop. She didn’t want to know whose fault it was. She didn’t want to know which body was too defective to create a life. It never really stopped though, the ache to grow a child in her belly or to see Philip as a father. It was ever present and ever painful.

The older she got, the more she looked back on her periods with speculation. She began to wonder if the unusually heavy cycles had been miscarriages, and she had been too naive to realize it. She asked herself if the great blood clots that she passed at times were actually the babies she had so wanted. She had only voiced these thoughts once to her doctor, and she had never mentioned it again.

It was a dull ache now. The fact they didn’t have a spare room made up for the grandchildren was a constant reminder. She could see the resigned sadness in Philip’s eyes when he watched her with children, and she knew he could see it in hers when he held a family member’s child. They had each other, but they both knew it wasn’t the same. Love conquered and love healed, but love also brought wants and desires. And sometimes love just wasn’t enough to fix everything no matter how much two people loved each other.

#fanfic

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pokeasleepingsmaug · 7 years

Text

Feed You the Sky: Reworked Chapter 3

After managing to convince Ivar to give me back the reins, I think I might have gotten this chariot back in a better direction. Ivar was just too noble in the first version, and I think this is more believable. I would really appreciate feedback on this, if yall have time to read both versions and let me know which one you like better :) And a big thank you to @shesafreesoul not only for the original prompt, but for helping me realize that Ivar just wasn’t acting like Ivar in the original version of this chapter. I hope this one is better, even though I’m still not sure if I’m 100% satisfied with it. But it’s late, and I’m tired haha

Ivar rode at the front of his warriors, his brother Ubbe at his side. He was surprised to find himself longing for his younger days, for leading the great army like a storm upon the Saxons with all of his brothers. As always, a pang of deep regret flashed through him at the thought of Sigurd, but he pushed it aside. This was not the time for weakness. He was a son of Ragnar Lothbrok, and a king himself now. There was no room for weakness in his life.

He pushed these heavy things, these weaknesses, aside. This was a time for focus. The seat of King Egil's kingdom was in sight now, dawn breaking over it and bathing it in soft gold. Smoke drifted lazily from cooking fires, and he could just see the earliest stirrings beginning. They would be preparing their breakfasts now, maybe feeding their livestock.

He had pushed his men hard, kept them riding deep into the night and roused them again hours before dawn. They were tired, he knew, but the bloodlust that sang through him allowed no delay. He hungered for the warm stickiness of blood on his face, the jarring in his arm from blocking a lethal strike. He craved the rush of godlike power from delivering a killing blow.

The old familiar anger, his constant companion for as long as he could remember, simmered in his blood. He took those earlier regrets and channeled them into it. He would use them, turn his weakness into strength as he always did. The simmer turned to a rolling boil, ready to be unleashed. When it came upon him like this, there was no end to what he could achieve.

Ivar raised his ax with a savage howl, urging his horse forward, and set about destroying the peace of Egil's city. It was a large city, with strong fortifications, but it was lightly defended. Ivar knew most of Egil's troops were off on a raid somewhere, led by a man named Brynjar. His spies had returned nothing about the result of the raid, but he knew they would not be returning for a day or two, at the very soonest. This would be an easy morning's work.

Arrows rained down from the top of the walls, but they bounced harmlessly off his shield. “I am Ivar the Boneless, King of Kattegat and son of Ragnar Lothbrok, and you will open your gates and fight me like true men!” He buried the blade of his ax deep in the wooden walls, furious the gates would not open to him.

He wrenched his ax free as the gates swung outward, some violent god answering the prayer in his heart for bloodshed. It was not a smart move on Egil's part, but the small voice of reason in Ivar's head, the part that thought this must be a trap, was easy to ignore over the roaring of his blood in his veins. He would take this kingdom and make it part of his own. He would paint his face with the blood of King Egil and sit on his throne. He would lead the warriors of his enemy to victory once they were loyal to him, and he would drain every drop of blood from those who stood in his way.

Ivar's forces easily outnumbered King Egil's, and Ivar felt a momentary rush of disappointment. He knew this was a small kingdom and that most of its warriors were gone, but still he itched for a long, fierce battle. This one would be too easy. He turned to inspect his forces, cold blue eyes calculating. “Ubbe. Split the troops in half. Half will fight with us, and the rest will wait in reserve.”

Ubbe's light blue eyes were incredulous, and he sputtered in confusion. “But... Ivar, this will be an easy battle. King Egil's lands and wealth will belong to you before the morning ends.”

“It will be too easy. Men will fear me more if they hear how I conquered Egil with only half of my forces. And even this,” he waved a careless hand at the warriors assembled behind him, “is only a quarter of the forces I could muster, if I wanted. No. Men will say Ivar the Boneless commands a huge army, but that he is so fierce he needs only a small part of his entire force.” The look in his eyes was the primal anger Ubbe hadn't seen there since Ivar became king, and his voice was a growl. “I thirst for blood, Ubbe, and I will not share it with a man more than I need to.”

“Ivar, do you not think this is a trap? What man in his right mind, when outnumbered, would open his city gates?”

Ivar shrugged. “I do not care about his motivations, only about my victory.” He turned away from Ubbe, leaving his brother to deliver the order. Shaking his head in silent disapproval, Ubbe delivered the order to the chieftains. They were fighting men all, and those selected to wait in reserve were understandably angry.

With his selected fighters at his back, Ivar drove his chariot straight toward the approaching forces. Their number was pitifully small against his, but Ivar didn't care. Battle-hunger raged in him, sweet and irrestible as a siren's song, and he would gladly drown himself in a sea of hot blood if only he could taste its salt and iron on his thirsty lips.

The slaughter was quick and thorough, barely enough to satisfy him, but that didn't matter. Ubbe had found King Egil among the army, and he at least had killing the king to look forward to. He would sit on the man's throne, hands still warm and sticky with his blood. The thought made him almost giddy. He rested the full weight of his gaze on the old king, and saw him quail. Ivar knew he could be a frightening sight, but he was too far gone in the battle-haze to really control himself now. A brutal death would be the best way to satisfy himself, to slake the rage threatening to eat him raw.

King Egil stood straight-backed, meeting his eyes squarely. His leather armor was old and ill-fitted, but had probably fit him when he was a young man. He knew the old man hadn't fought in many years, not since he took a wound in his leg. What Viking king didn't fight? This man didn't deserve to be king. Only the strong deserved that honor. Ivar was strong, despite the cruel way the gods crafted him. How dare this man call himself a king? He was a pretender. Ivar seethed.

The ax in his hand cried for the blood of the king, and Ivar could resist it no longer. He let it fly, screaming like a berserk, and he could almost feel the ax's satisfied sigh as it buried itself in the old man's ribs. He fell, losing his sword, and Ivar slithered toward him. He sat over the fallen king, leering, and ripped his ax free of the flesh. He dipped one hand in the fountain of blood bubbling from the gaping wound, and dragged his crimson fingers down his face.

The old man seemed to look through him. “Kára,” he croaked. Ivar shuddered, strangely satisfied by that one word. He had seen the life leave countless men, but none had ever called the name of the Valkyrie who came to collect them.

He nodded, savoring the strange chill that licked up his spine. “Yes, old man. Kára comes.”

#ivar the boneless #ivar's heathen army #feed you the sky #ivar the boneless fic #reworked chapter

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tysonrunningfox · 7 years

Text

Look at this thing I just found while looking for Eret III scenes on my badly organized hard drive. It’s badass.

“Your ship looks awfully empty, Astrid.” Eret still manages to strut, even with his hands tied in front of him.

Astrid almost points out the small knife poorly hidden in his belt, but getting a lazy guard killed doesn’t seem worth it. It’s not like the buffoon would be any more dangerous with the tiny weapon, if it really came down to it.

“Oh, a Nadder with a broken wing,” Astrid shrugs towards Eret’s ship. “So impressive.”

“Three Hobblegrunts below deck.”

“Wow, I didn’t know you could count that high.”

“Really though,” he turns halfway towards her, his expression tending towards something like sympathy. “If you really came back with nothing, you could claim the broken Nadder.”

“So generous.” Her hands twist reflexively against her bonds, acutely aware of the hidden dagger tucked inside the fur wrapping around her arm.

“I’d miss our little chats if your head rolled.” Another impossibly cocky little smirk. “I’ll have you know that I considered you my equal, until today, of course.”

“There is nothing equal about us,” she smirks when her ship rocks violently on its tether. “Hold onto your Nadder, you’re going to need it.”

“Drago!” Eret greets, full of bravado, stumbling as The Dragon Master shoves him aside. “So nice to—”

“You.” Drago points at Astrid, hand trembling with unkempt anger and a guard steps up behind her, holding a knife to her throat. She smirks, her heart rattling in her chest like a terror in a cage. “Your ship is empty.” The knife tightens against her throat and Eret looks away. Coward.

“Open the hatch.” She forces herself to relax against the knife, ignoring the bead of hot blood that flows down the front of her throat.

Drago stares at her, looming. He grunts and waves his hand in the air, and a guard leaps down onto Astrid’s ship, wrenching the hatch open and falling back at the wave of little wings shoving their way out. Guards with nets clamber over the ship, trying to catch as many of the dozens of baby dragons as they can, swearing when they shoot sparks and feeble, infant flames into the air.

Astrid clears her throat.

“Fifty. At least. Fifty baby dragons and twenty unhatched eggs below deck.” She struggles and the guard falls away, leaving her to stand up straight under Drago’s blank stare.

“The young dragons…” the warlord seems to weigh his words, assessing Astrid with narrowed eyes. “The young dragons don’t submit.”

“Yet.” She swallows hard, pushing another rivulet of blood from that shallow slash in her throat. It hits her for the first time that Drago might not be happy with her cargo, and she can almost feel the screeching pain of that brand, laid against her flesh for a second time. “But when you control baby dragons, you control dragon nature. They’ll never know freedom.”

Eret swears under his breath, a lapse in that right hand man routine.

“You,” Drago points at her again, something almost like a smile contorting his scarred features. “I have a mission for you.”

Astrid bites back a relieved sigh as the guard lowers his weapon with a muted whoosh behind her, blending entirely into the ship, part of the greater organism of Drago’s army. “It’s time to head North.” He says it with such significance that Astrid can almost pretend she understands the impulse, that she can almost ignore the crawling revulsion under her skin.

“Taking Berk is the next step towards the dragon rider’s alpha.”

Berk.

Astrid stiffens in spite of herself, wrists flexing and tugging at tight bonds.

“You,” he points at her with his staff and she almost wishes he’d go ahead and run her through rather than send her to Berk. “You will scout ahead, trap and kill as many dragons as you can. Make them soft, make them scared.”

“Vikings aren’t soft.” Astrid blurts before thinking, and it’s not a compliment. “Vikings don’t go soft when they’re scared.”

“Then make them soft any way you can.” Drago is preoccupied to the point of an odd sort of patience, leaning over the side of the boat and looking at the alpha’s gurgling far beneath the waves. “There is a cave to the North, I will be there in twenty days and you will meet me. Berk will fall!” Drago pounds his staff on the deck of the ship and his men cheer, the muted sort of cheer that’s demanded rather than given willingly.

Drago sneers at Eret and guards step up on either side of him, as hypnotized as the dragons themselves. “You have disappointed me.”

Eret’s eyes widen and he forces that confident composure over his terror, and Astrid can’t help but remember that moment of weakness when she looked to him, to the new raw brand on his chest as the searing iron aimed for her own skin. He was composed then too.

“Drago, if you’re sending Astrid North, you need me here. You’ll need dragons to take Berk—”

“Kill him.”

Eret should have known better. He should have known better than to tell Drago what he does or does not need. “Can’t we work something out?” Eret looks around for a tip, for a direction to aim himself, and Astrid wonders just how quickly Drago’s men dispatched that Nadder with a broken wing.

Useless. Drago has no use for dragons that can’t fly.

“Can’t we work something out?” Eret laughs, as hollow as Drago’s men’s cheers and Astrid sets her jaw. Drago’s men restrain Eret and he struggles briefly, looking towards the edge of the boat like the icy water might be a suitable reprieve.

“You’ve already heard my plans,” Drago gestures with his staff, the laziest that Astrid has ever seen him. “Kill him.”

A knife comes up, Astrid strains against her bonds, and it’s Berk all over again.

“I need him,” she blurts, gesturing to her ship with bound hands. “I lost my men. I need someone experienced.”

She leaves out the fact that she tossed her men overboard when one tried to touch her. At least she was close to shore, it could have been worse.

Drago stares at her, narrowing his eyes and seeming bigger for it, inescapable. In that moment, she doesn’t doubt that the dragon army will someday conquer the world. With Drago at the helm it’s horribly inescapable.

“I need him.” She repeats, louder, like volume can make up for the quaking in her stomach, the memories of Berk flooding her from all sides.

Drago’s lip curls. He stares at her for one last moment before stalking back towards the bow of the ship, towards those gigantic, trembling chains stretching down through frigid surf. She turns to Eret, “let’s get out of here,” someone cuts her bonds and she rubs her wrists absently, shoulders shrugging uneven separated from the comforting weight of her axe. “Now, before he changes his mind.”

Eret falls into step beside her, footsteps eerily silent for his size as he follows her down a rope ladder to her ship. She starts yanking ropes, hands shaking in earnest now as Drago’s fleet mobilizes behind them, armored dragons clinking ominously in the bellies of the great ships.

“You saved my life,” Eret turns to her after a long silence, stepping up next to her and detangling rigging with sure fingers.

“Don’t take it personally,” she kicks the hatch closed, double checking the latch and nudging her canon back into its notch in the side of the ship. Drago’s men always mess everything up, stomping all over the place like a herd of wild gronckles. Her axe fits back into its holster on her back, and she fits her hatchet back into her belt from its hiding spot, and the chill metal is weighted with comfort.

“Why?”

She looks towards the outlet of the bay, surprised and oddly grateful when her ship catches a breeze and starts sailing. Eret always would have beaten her in a boat race.

“You didn’t need to die,” she shrugs. “It was senseless.”

He’s quiet for a long time, until they’re out of the bay and skirting the coast of the continent, lurking close to shore until the sea opens to the North. The occasional Thunderdrum breaks the surface to the West, out of their reach and ability and Eret comes to stand beside her at the bow, trusting the wind.

“Have you ever been to Berk?”

“Not in a long time.”

00000

Hiccup leans closer to Toothless’s back, shifting his left foot pedal and diving down closer to shore. They looks the same, the pebble beaches of his childhood, and he urges Toothless out over the ocean, hoping to blend into the inky surf. Berk is dark now, most nights, and the Night Fury blends easily into the inky sky.

Hiccup looks over his shoulder one last time before shaking the sense of wrongdoing from his shoulders and coasting on the sea breeze towards the chief’s house. His old house. Smaller from the sky.

The lanterns are out, and he cares more than he should, always hoping to catch a glimpse of his father after four long years. He wonders if his father would look smaller too, the insignificant chief of Berk after he’s seen so much of the world. Toothless chirps at a burned building near the town square, dragon scales littered across the ground.

Disrupting the nest is wrong.

When he first found the nest four years ago on his way out, it pained him. He wanted to fix it somehow, to try and contain or stop the massive queen in the volcano, but now he knows that’s just how the world works. Every nest has its queen and Vikings were stupid to settle this close to a nest. Presumptive, like people always are.

Dragons aren’t a force that can be controlled like armies or iron, they’re the weather, they’re earthquakes and surging seas.

“Ok bud, let’s get back,” Hiccup pats Toothless’s neck, glancing at the dim orange glow of the forge before urging the dragon back into the sky, soaring above the clouds to shield himself and blitzing back towards the sanctuary.

This is stupid. He doesn’t know why he keeps doing this, flying over Berk like he’s suddenly going to see something worth seeing. It’s only getting more likely that he’s going to get caught. It’s the one thing his parents could ever agree upon, that he should stay put where they last left him.

That’s not entirely true and he softens slightly, sitting up in the saddle and wiping his hands over his face. His mother understood the need to see the world, encouraged it, went with him. It was only when they ran into Drago Bludvist just this side of Bulgaria that she ushered him home as fast as Cloudjumper could fly.

That was two years ago, two years cramped in that sanctuary that once felt so spacious and fantastic.

He ducks through the entrance, landing Toothless and jumping off too quickly, like he was never riding at all. His saddle squeaks when his feet hit the ground and he worries over the twice fixed leather strap fitted around Toothless’s front leg. “What I wouldn’t give for a forge. You’re looking downright shoddy, bud.”

Toothless whuffs and rolls his eyes, bumping his shoulder into Hiccup’s stomach and shoving past to lay near Hiccup’s bedroll, wide, triangular chin resting on Hiccup’s pillow.

“Yeah, go ahead, make yourself comfortable.” Hiccup rolls his eyes and looks around the cave, relaxing when Cloudjumper is nowhere to be found. His mother must be further into the sanctuary and he wonders whether he could get away with being asleep. After the glacial winter air outside, curling up in the warm nook of Toothless’s body is too appealing and he steps in the dragon’s direction. “Scoot,” he nudge’s Toothless’s leg with his foot and sits on the edge of his bedroll, sliding his boots off and tugging an extra pair of socks over his feet.

“You were out late,” Valka appears in the roughhewn doorway, silent and at home within the sanctuary and Hiccup stiffens, shrugging within his layers of wool and fidgeting with the edge of the furs of his bed.

“Just…you know, the usual. Patrolling, looking at…looking at that beautiful ocean out there.” He shrugs, scratching Toothless’s head and frowning when the dragon refuses assistance.

“You know why you can’t leave, right Hiccup?” She walks fully into the room, Cloudjumper following and spitting a shower of blinding sparks onto the half dead flame and bringing it back to life.

“Yeah, yeah. Dragon trappers and Drago and my father. The usual reasons.” He shrugs and feels guiltier than he ever did on Berk, keeping his eyes trained on his feet. “I just—”

“I understand,” she shakes her head at him, fondly admonishing in a way his dad never was. “I understand what it’s like to want to stray but—”

“But you need me here,” Hiccup fills in the rest of her sentence with a nod, shamed in a way his dad could never manage.

“But we need you here,” Valka walks over and pats Toothless’s side, smiling softly at the Night Fury and looking towards her own stack of furs on the far side of the cave. “And you do belong here, Hiccup, I’m so proud of you for finding where you belong.”

“Genius plot to make me stick around,” he gripes through a beleaguered sigh, offering his mother the most genuine smile he can manage. “Just…maybe if you gave me something to do—”

“You don’t know what Drago Bludvist is like—”

“I could learn,” he offers, his voice rising in pitch and waking Toothless beside him. “Toothless is the fastest dragon around, you can trust me to get in and get out without being seen.”

“I can’t—remember, you need to remember that you can’t talk to them. You can’t talk to Drago, you can’t talk to your father—”

“I know.” Hiccup cuts her off, biting his lip and shaking his head, his toes starting to chill against the stone floor. “That’s why I left.”

“And you found me,” his mother smiles, and there’s so much of himself in her face, in her eyes, in the way that her hand traces so familiar over the scales on Cloudjumper’s perpetually curious face.

“And I found you.”

#httyd au #astrid dragon trapper au #eret son of eret #astrid #hiccup #and he's honestly kinda feral and under his mother's wing

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