#henry is a well intended pure soul | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

obeymebabes · 4 years

Note

Hi hi! Could I request a hc with the brothers where Mc does the same thing Clem,from eternal Sunshine of the spotless mind does? Like,MC and the brother breaks up and MC decides to get a procedure to erase him and their relationship? Sorry if this is confusing:(

I unfortunately have never seen the movie so I can't exactly base it on that, but I do like the idea of MC having their memory erased, so I did the best I could.

⚠️ Warning: Absolute pure angst. This broke my heart. Grab the tissues. Seriously, you'll need them. I cried writing every single one of these.

Lucifer

The break-up really hurt him. It hurt his pride, his heart, and his soul. This broken man was now in a million pieces.

Lucifer wasn't isn't very good at receiving kindness, or love, so it was new to him, but he still did his best.

Now, everything he had ever loved had found a way to betray him, and now you belong to that list as well.

Where did he go wrong? What happened? Was he not enough for you? He always tried, even going out of his comfort zone for you.

He would try his hardest not to show how broken down he truly was, not in public. But behind the scenes he would break down, letting the tears fall.

Even with all of his hurt, he always tried to make an effort to smile at you when you passed him in the hall, even though it physically pained him to see your face.

One day after RAD, you passed him in the hallway as you normally do, but he noticed you didn't even bother to look up at him, which was unusual for you.

Turning around, concerned, he painfully uttered your name, "MC?"

You turned around, a confused look on your face. "How do you know my name?" You paused, "Do I know you?"

There goes the rest of his pride. His heart sank. Did you really not remember him? What about your memories together? The relationship you had? All of those special nights you had spent together?

He was left completely speechless. He simply took a breath to try to avoid letting tears form and mumbled "I'm sorry" before fleeing the scene.

Lucifer desperately tried to erase such an awful memory from his mind but his negative thoughts became too much for him.

That night he was a mess, putting every ounce of blame on himself. He drank until it hurt. He cried alone in his room. His broken heart fueled a now drunken rage that tore him apart from the inside, out.

You were the last thing that truly held him together. You were his stability. Now, everything you ever shared was just a memory of his, and only his. How could this happen to him?

Mammon

Mammon never truly processed the break-up. He avoided it like he avoids his debt papers.

In his eyes it never happened. It was just a little fight, right? There was no way either of you meant any of it. He never meant what he said. He was just frustrated. His brothers stressed him out.

Mammon tried desperately. He begged, pleaded, did everything he could to try to convince you to take him back.

The memory of you crying and screaming "I wish I never met you!" haunted him, day after day, night after night.

However the memory never stopped him from trying to win you back.

Having a sudden burst of confidence one night he went down to your room, breathing a deep breath before knocking at your door then letting himself in.

"MC we need to ta-" His words cut short as he noticed the terrified and confused look on your face.

"Are ya okay? Why are ya lookin' at me like that?" Mammon's heart pained at the confused look you gave him.

"Should I know you?" You asked, staring blankly at the demon before you.

"MC, c'mon that ain't funny! Of course ya remember me! I'm The Great Mammon!" Mammon's golden blue eyes were now overflowing as his heart broke all over again as you sat in front of him with a very confused look on your face.

You eventually called for Lucifer, who had to remove his absolute mess of a brother from your room.

From outside of his door, the sound of destruction filled the empty silence of the halls. Through broken sobs he yelled to himself, saying he was nothing but scum.

While the scenes of you both together replayed in his head he couldn't understand how he had let it come to this. He had lost his most precious and treasured gift. You.

Levi

Levi didn't take the break up very lightly.

Night after night he would stay awake, distracting himself by playing games, watching anime, and talking to Henry 2.0.

"Of course this would happen, Henry, no one ever likes me. I'm just a stupid yucky otaku. I'll never be good enough, not like my brothers."

Levi spent many hours sobbing, just heartbroken at the little things that reminded him of you.

He didn't understand where he went wrong. What did he do to deserve this? Why did he have to get so attached to a normie anyway?

Rather than trying to talk to you about it, he hid in his room, making sure to avoid you at all costs.

What Levi didn't realize, is that the memories you shared, were bothering you just as much as they bothered him.

His heart ached, but eventually after being hyped up by his best pal, Henry, he mustered up whatever confidence he had to finally get out of his room and talk to you when he saw you.

He wasn't at all prepared for what was about to happen.

Already shaking like a leaf, his target was aquired. He noticed you were walking towards him. His heart beating out of his chest.

As you neared closer he took a breathe, tried to focus, and spoke up, "MC? C-Can we talk..? About u-us.. please. I-I need to know what happened. I can't take it anymore."

Your blank expression tugged at his already hurting heart, but your words truly felt like a final hit on a boss.

"Sorry, have we met before?" Your voice was calm and pure, indicating to him that you truly didn't know who he was.

Left frozen in shock, he could feel his body tingle, his eyes watering, his chest tighten, his throat left dry.

"N-No, I'm sorry. I-I thought you were someone else.."

When he finally got back to his room, he was both torn, and upset. Envious that you now didn't have to share the guilt and pain of remembering all of the great memories you both shared. He should've known better than to fall in love with a normie.

Satan

As good as he was at controlling his rage, he completely lost all of his cool after you both broke up. His heartbreak overwhelmed his emotions and he was barely able to keep himself in check.

He spent many nights trying to talk himself through the pain, reciting everything that went wrong and how he could've fixed it.

Satan tried desperately to look at the logistical side of this. But his heart hurt too much.

He had spent his time in the library, trying to use books as his way of keeping him grounded. The more he read, the more he realized that the scenes in the books he was reading reminded him of you and everything you shared together.

That was until you casually walked into the library.

His aching heart pained at the sight of you. He wasn't ready to see you just yet, but he maintained the little composure he had left. He had to speak the truth.

"I thought I'd never see you in here again. You know.. I miss you, and I'm sorry that things ended the way they did. I hope you can forgive me for acting like such a fool."

He studied you, but the more he watched, the more he felt his heart crush under the weight of your expressions.

"What? Oh, you're talking to me? Sorry, but I can't say I know who you are. I think you might have the wrong person."

Confused, he watched your puzzled face try to look for any sign of familiarity, "MC, what are you talking about?"

"Sorry, are you the librarian or something? Is that how you know who I am?"

Then it finally clicked in his head. You truly didn't remember him.

This boy was somehow even more shattered than before. His emotions too shocked to form a proper response.

"My apologies, I must get going."

When he finally reached his room, he slammed the door shut, sent into a seething rage from the pain that now flooded his chest, he destroyed his room, books tossed everywhere.

Satan wasn't the same after that. Blinded by the hurt, he went on a rampage, not making any attempts to hide his anger. He was torn apart, angry that he couldn't even do anything to prevent such a disastrous situation.

Now he holds all of your previous memories, and he can't do anything but cry over how much he misses what you had. Before the world around him turned dark.

Asmo

Of course Asmodeus didn't handle a break up very well. He either spent his time sulking around, or he out partying, overspending, and trying to hide the pain that you caused him.

Most nights Asmo would come home absolutely wasted, then eventually cry himself to sleep while he stared, broken-hearted, at the spot that you used to lay.

He wanted nothing more than to forget everything, to start over. He never wanted to lose you the way he did.

His broken heart could barely stand the sight of seeing you, and it was getting to the point where he was even ashamed to look himself in the mirror.

One of his drunken nights he stumbled through the empty midnight halls, tears already streaming down his perfect face.

His glossy eyes met yours as you headed down the hall for a late night snack.

"BABYYY!!" Asmo called, wiping his face before quickly clinging to your frame. He started to sob again, repeating his drunken slurs.

Carefully but with force, you pried the intoxicated demon from your body and looked at him confused.

"Sorry, I don't know who you think I am, but I don't know who you are, or what you're doing, so if you'll just...excuse me..." Your confused tone made him break down more.

"W-What do you mean you don't know who I am? I-I'm Asmo! I'm the... the prettiest d-demon in Devildom! Y-your lover!" He could hardly speak through his broken sobs, trying to crawl towards you, just to be able to touch you again.

Asmo pathetically watched you shake your head and stumble away from him, heading off to the kitchen like you intended.

Left a mess in the middle of the hall, Lucifer eventually heard his groaning and helped him back to his room.

Upon getting to his room he crawled to sit in front of his full body mirror, his peachy eyes examining every flaw he could find.

"How!? How could they forget me?! I-I thought they loved me? W-was I not enough? Was I ever enough?"

He continued to stare at himself in the mirror, mascara stains dripping down his face, lipstick smudged, hair a mess.

"I'll never be good enough. Why can't I be as pretty as I was when I was an angel? Why did I have to get cursed with this sin? Why? Why!?"

Asmo was broken. All he wanted was to be happy, together, with you. Now he was left with regret, a broken heart, and the precious memories that he could no longer think about without tearing up.

Beel

While he may have seemed completely fine on the outside, Beel was absolutely torn to pieces after the breakup.

Not everyone noticed, as he tried to play it off like he normally does when he is feeling upset.

Beel is one to keep his emotions to himself in fear that he will upset the ones he cares about most.

In an attempt to fill the painful void in his heart that was left from you leaving, he ate more. Everything in sight. It was a lot worse than usual.

Some nights after Belphie would fall into a deep sleep, he would just stay awake and cry, questioning himself and where he went wrong.

During a late night breakdown, with a growling stomach, he left the comfort of his room to quickly grab a snack from the kitchen.

While rummaging through the fridge, he wasn't able to hear you enter the room.

"Oh, I didn't expect anyone else to be in here." Your voice making him jump a bit, not expecting to hear you. His heart pained at the sound, but he quickly wiped his eyes before turning to you.

"Huh? Oh. Hello MC! I was just getting a snack, like I usually do. You know.." He tried to keep his composure while looking at you. He admired your face, missing being able to gently press his lips to yours, and hold you tightly in his arms.

"Oh? Uh, how did you know my name? I don't remember ever seeing you before.. are you new here?" Your words felt like needles throughout his body, but he smiles a soft smile.

"S-Sorry, allow me to introduce myself. I'm Beelzebub, the 6th born, Avatar of Gluttoney.. I uh, I hope to see you around more." And with that, he made his way back to his room.

Letting the pain of everything he has even been through wash over him like a tsunami, he let himself go. Belphie eventually woke up and found him still a mess and tried to comfort him.

He poured his heart out to his younger brother, who was now crying as he watched his soft-hearted brother cry to him.

Beel never truly recovered. He was just a shell of what he used to be, going many days without eating like he used to. He wanted to feel the pain of his hunger to distract himself from the memories he helplessly carried of your past relationship, and all of the other pain he has deep in his heart.

Belphie

Similar to his twin brother, Belphie was very good at hiding his emotions.

Your separation had him very uneasy. His mind wasn't able to fully grasp that you were no longer his.

He spent many of his days sleeping, much more than he normally would. He would miss meals, miss school, even miss student council meetings.

His sadness and pain of losing you only made him lose more motivation. He knew that there was nothing he could do.

After everything you'd been through, he knew deep down it was for the best.

Eventually he started having nightmares. At first they were nothing too unusual, simply reminders of your loss of relationship.

As time continued, they got more vivid, worrying the sleepy demon.

One night he had a dream you'd forgotten him. As if you'd never met him. He woke up in a cold sweat at the thought, but simply tried to brush it off.

The next morning he managed to get up for breakfast, sitting across from you. It was eerily silent as his brothers were worried about the tension between you both.

Watching you lean to your side towards Asmo, you'd whispered something that Belphie couldn't quite make out, but judging by the look on Asmodeus, it was not something he would've wanted to hear anyway.

Curiosity eventually getting the best of him, he pulled Asmo aside to ask what you'd whispered to him this morning.

With a dull face and hesitant expression, the Avatar of Lust told him that you'd asked who he was, as you didn't recognize his face.

With a heavy heart, Belphegor set off to try to find you. He had to know if his nightmare was in fact coming true.

"MC? D-Do you remember me?" The demon asked, holding himself together the best he could.

"I'm sorry, have we met before? I can't say I've ever seen you before?" Your words cut like knives.

So it was true? You didn't remember a thing.

While he was thankful he was able to start over, it pained him to know you'd never understand how he knew so much about you. Of course he couldn't say anything either, in fear of driving you away.

It haunted him for so many nights. Over and over he'd have the reoccurring dream that became reality. Eventually he gave in, staying up as many nights as he could before his body gave out from lack of sleep.

414 notes · View notes

falle-ness · 3 years

Text

I'm in the mood for philosophy and associations today. And you thought I'm just making gifs? Nah, I'm a pretentious fucker who loves adding the subtext and layers of meaning to everything.

Ressler is always pictured as someone who is essentially good, and whose strength comes from resisting the temptations.

“And lead us not to temptation but deliver us from evil...”

fits pre-Reddington Ress, and, well, Ress in general. Since that AA meeting in a church, I've headcanoned Ress as a strong believer in God (he never actually openly mentions it, so as I see it, his faith is a personal matter to him which is something I also relate to).

Ressler's relationships with Reddington and Henry/Mitchell are two turning points at which Ressler has been broken and reborn again to navigate through the gray world he's living in.

Mako Tanida episode can be considered a breaking point in between the two. Ressler is refusing to see the world in more shades of gray (pun not intended). But what happens next forces him to finally open his eyes and adjust his moral compass.

“Allies today, enemies tomorrow.”

Ressler has lost his best friend, and the love of his life. All because of a “fickle human nature”—greed. This episode proves Red isn't wrong to define our world as a complex and unpredictable.

Reddington and Ressler

Turning point one: Anslo Garrick

I see it as the only episode from the whole show where we've seen the real Ress behind his mask of tough and badass guy.

It's the only time he allows himself to be vulnerable, and though he's ashamed of it, ashamed of what Red will think of him, Red does what Ress doesn't expect—he accepts him. Regards him not as a [shitty] agent chasing him around, but as a worthy opponent, nemesis, and, finally—human being behind the [shield] badge and an allegiance to his Homeland. It's something Red understands and respects, once being such an ambitious, dedicated-to-the-cause-man himself.

I'm aware that not everyone will read into that, and that's fine; hell, it's pure speculation, even, but I've been sold onto that because of the acting. The chemistry and the subtext which has been born out of two equally gifted (*yes, for me James and Diego are equally talented though their methods of delivery are varied, yet together they complete each other) actors. Thanks to Diego's masterful acting which is slightly lost in the glory of James's, an attentive viewer can read it all in Ress' eyes—how his personal soul temple is in flames.

What makes this even more beautiful is the fact that Red has absolutely no reason to save him. None. He could've left him there to bleed out.

But he didn't.

A selfless act from a self-centered, violent man.

And it breaks Donald down.

Ressler is so proud, never asking for anything, never letting anyone to help, with “real men don't cry” attitude. Now—helpess like a child, his life depending on a criminal he's wasted his life chasing. It's a hard pill to swallow for such a man like Ressler.

“This criminal is saving my life, why, why he's doing it” conflict is growing into “why does he care?”.

Donald has no idea that Red also doesn't have a loving father, and that's why he knows what is going on in Ressler's heart.

Among many things he know, Red is aware of one thing Ressler, despite having a mother, is lacking—a father (guess how is it to grow up with a cop in a family and then lose him because of his job). A boy will always need a father; he'll seek his approval; he needs his acceptance—as a worthy man.

Red reads it in Ressler—because they're the same, two lonely boys deprived of father's love.

My dear comrade @yddraigwyllt once pointed out that the whole situation impacts Ress so much because Red takes Ress' father place (no, that doesn't impact me slash-shipping them, I have separate headcanons for that).

And all this time, since his father's death, Ressler—subconsciously—seeks for this love.

Hence the attitude, the desire to look tougher than he is. Basically, he's sublimating what he feels (and what he hadn't a chance to feel because his father was taken from him at the most tumultuous time of his youth) into his job—into Reddington. Reddington is a reminder of how his father's murderer got away (I disregard “Brothers” ep, sorry not sorry), and he's also an embodiment of everything Ressler loathes.

And this person, a stranger, and a criminal—the kind Ressler is taught to hate—not only offers him compassion he isn't supposed to have for the men like him, Ress; he comforts him at that moment—something a father would do for his child who is scared.

Finally, Red saves his life. Unconditionally. The way a parent would (or a lover, but that's up for interpretation).

What is interesting, Red doesn't mean to take Ressler's father place; it's just happens—it comes from Ressler, really.

The situation he's in brings him back into his childhood, to moments of loneliness; when he's helpless, incapable. Vulnerable. And the only person a kid can rely on at such moments of need, is their parent.

This is so psychologically loaded, and I'm not sure the writers have even thought about it. It's all Diego and James. And I have no idea whether it was on purpose or they just went with the flow and added that subconsciously.

With Red and Ressler's backgrounds in mind, their scenes become even more poignant.

We all know what happens next—Red shows that he can take as much as he can give. It adds more layers to their interaction and, ultimately, connection.

This is right here is why I love them so much: Red leaves in Ress not only his blood, but something a far more dangerous—doubt. Even a seed of doubt is enough to sow confusion and lead the saint astray. At the same time, if handled right, doubt can be helpful—

how does one go through life not questioning it?

Isn't it something a parent does?

And don't get me started on what happened in Mako Tanida. That was as personal as burning someone alive—only to protect the person you care for.

Ressler and Prescott

Turning point two: Laurel Hitchin and Henry Prescott

Let's fast forward to Henry Prescott.

Since I've started actually slash-shipping him and Don, I've reevaluated my opinion about Henry/Mitchell. Without my dear comrades, @randomprivateer and @yddraigwyllt I'd be the same pilot Ressler who sees the world one-way :)

First and foremost, an uncomfortable, but necessary truth—Ressler should've could've confessed and go to Cooper either the moment he kills Hitchin (the way he did it is something for another day; however, again, my dear comrade @yddraigwyllt once hinted at a very peculiar way Diego acted it, and the possible subtext behind his gestures and attitude, which brings a whole lot of questions and headcanons) or the moment Henry reaches out.

But Ress doesn't.

If we bounce back to the religious court, this can be interpreted as following: Henry is the “temptation”, the Snake in the garden. Red (I'd say it's not a stretch to take him as the God within the criminal world), or a God, is usually the one holding an apple of Truth, and as I see it, has all the answers Ressler wants. So he becomes a protector, a guide and mentor for Ressler whom he senses to have had lost his way.

*Tbh, I'm not quite sure how I feel about Red burning Mitch alive because... Hell, on one hand, it's an overkill, and as a resslington shipper I'm glad he did it, but... On the other hand, it's very, very, VERY personal (and we all know how personal Red gets in his revenge when someone he loves and cares for is hurt), and the only possible explanation for that could be that Red, er, was jealous. Yes, jealous as “in love” and “hurt by Ress choosing another”. Yes, you read it right. He was jealous of Henry. Not gonna elaborate. Try rewatching the Informant now, ahaha.

I couldn't understand it earlier, and thought Red is actually enjoying watching Ress suffer.

*tbh, a part of me hates Red for not helping him and considers Red a heartless motherfucker for breaking Ressler that much just to see if he can survive it, and I'm overall FUCK YOU RED FUCK FUCK FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING PRICK mood regarding this, but I digress

If I look at it through these lenses, it makes sense: one can't learn to swim without almost drowning at least once. Yes, it was cruel of Red to watch and not interfere the moment he knew—and he knew, that fucking bastard knew—Ressler is in too deep. And instead of forbidding him, Red watched—cautiously—whether or not Ressler can get out.

Tough [father's] love, huh?

The nature of Ress/Henry in-canon relationship is twisted. But is it, though? Yeah, Ress suffers, yeah, it's blackmail, but at the same time (and I had to accept it, even if at first I was totally on Ressler's side because I cared for him more), it's a fair (almost) trade.

Prescott does his job, and does it perfectly. Conscience isn't his problem. And, well, one could assume Ressler knew the conditions under which Henry operates since Red knows those—unless he specifically wouldn't share that.

Which, I think, is a blop from the writers—Red couldn't have predicted that Ressler would kill Hitchin. In any case, him not telling Ressler the whole truth how Prescott operates and watching Ressler doing his bidding while savoring a glass of wine, is... disturbing. Problematic content™ at its finest. But we love it in this house.

On the contrary, even if Ress didn't expect he would be asked to do something in return when already paid the money, it was naive to believe that someone from Red's world won't try to use an FBI agent. Donald probably thought he was protected by the alias Red's given him and the overall Concierge of Crime association (like a son protected by his father).

Truth is, Donald had underestimated Prescott—just like he underestimated Red, relying only on the image made up from investigations, photos, crimes.

Or first impression—don't forget, Prescott reluctantly assisted Red in his endeavors to help Ressler out, and this might have led Ress to perceiving Henry as some small fish in this business. While in fact, as it turned out, Henry and those like him, are essential to any criminal.

Donald had missed a person behind the image, behind the mask. Twice already—same with Red, too.

As a shipper, I'd say Henry considered Donald as a personal challenge in his line of work—never hurts to have a pet FBI agent on a retainer. A very stubborn agent, yet obedient and thorough nonetheless.

One could argue that Prescott pulls a carpet from under Ressler, but now I see that it's not really that. It's a sad truth, but Ressler brought this on himself.

He got scared. He got so terrified that his first thought was to call someone who doesn't know him at all. Someone who won't ask questions. Someone who, despite being a witness to his shame and guilt, won't act on it—or so he hopes in the hot moment, forgetting that Prescott will cost him more than just money.

Does it make Don a coward? Maybe. Probably, even. Either way, he's nothing without his job, it's the only thing which pulls him through all the shit he's been subjected to. And him doing anything to keep it is justifiable—at least, in my eyes. Yes, he mostly did it out of selfish reasons—he didn't care how many innocent lives he'd save if he's gonna get his job back. He just wanted “himself” back, his identity. He didn't want to become someone like those he's been hunting. Someone similar to the man his father was murdered by—which is something he keeps carrying with himself all this time.

It's a testament of how much more darkness Ress is hiding within himself. And that he constantly tries to fight it—that's why he knows exactly at what dark impulses Dr. Thrall is hinting at. Because he's felt them too.

He acknowledges them with conversation with Red earlier—both times he almost let those impulses guide him, lets the dark consume him, and both times Red was there for him. Yes, yes, we know Red said, “I did it for myself”, and all that. Again, truth is, there was no reason for him to save Ress (again)—TF wouldn't have been disbanded because of one agent. Yes, they'd be investigated, but only Ressler would have gone down. Red didn't need Ressler at all—another agent could have been on the TF, and things went on.

The doubt which was clawing at Donald since Anslo had found its way to him—Donald, blinded by his ambition, made a deal. Not with the devil, but close to that. He probably told himself it's a lesser of two evils.

And that's where the doubt given to him by Red comes into play.

One could think that from Mako Tanida Ressler had come out less damaged since Red took half of his guilt in a way; I'd like to think it was Red's attempt to help Ress to escape that self-destructive route he's well aware of (we know Don hadn't).

The doubt about what the world really is. About his place in it. About what's right and what's wrong. About crossing lines. About price and worth of one's oaths.

This doubt leads him to stay and do Prescott's bidding and regard himself as low as possible. With no possibility of making amends and getting absolution. In a way, Red becomes Ressler's priest who has forgiven him his sins. I find it symbolic, given how much Don places in faith and God.

Resslington vs Pressler

These two relationships, Red/Ress, Ress/Henry are both twisted in their nature, yet different in aftermath.

Red/Ress is about the disruptive influence, widening one's horizons beyond the frame of the precise black-and-white world; it's learning to embrace yourself as a whole and undivided. Embrace your identity.

Accepting faults, flaws, and dark impulses.

At times, there's no choice left but to lean to and embrace the dark impulses. Govern them, keep on a loose leash, but a leash nonetheless.

It's also about the ability to pierce into yourself, into the abyss of your soul. And be at peace with all you find there, both good and bad.

Darkness doesn't exist without light, and light—without darkness. Silhouettes in darkness are deceiving; the light is the truth, nothing escapes it.

And, of course, it's about the consequences to one's actions.

And—which is no surprise to realize after seeing the same already with Red/Ressler—it also teaches one to be aware of the price to pay for whatever choice they make.

Ress/Henry may be destructive in its nature, but after given it some thought, I'm associating the aftermath from it as the one from an arson.

It peels away the unnecessary, leaving raw remntants of one's soul. Often—ugly and repelling, the ones we don't show to anyone.

It's a pensive, unbiased look under a magnifying glass at everything one's hiding, everything one's terrified of.

Big thanks to my comrades, @randomprivateer and @yddraigwyllt.

Shoutout to my resslington fellas, @glowstar826, @cesar-hoe, and @bi-ressler.

This long-ass essay is inspired by @kiss-my-freckle posts about TBL.

#the blacklist #donald ressler #raymond reddington #henry prescott #meta #my posts

51 notes · View notes

the-black-bulls · 3 years

Note

Luck for the HC ask game?

My sunshine boy!

Sexuality Headcanon: demi, demi, and demi! his heart is in the right place, he's in love with adventures and adventures love him back, and there's nothing in the world that could rip them apart!

Gender Headcanon: him and Henry are gender apathetic buddies!

A ship I have with said character: I strongly ship him with Magna in queer-platonic way. I also ship him with Fragil from Rill's squad after reading a couple of stories about them. Oh, and Rill too, the Luck/Rill ship is too endearing to pass.

A BROTP I have with said character: So many to list, off the top of my head... Charmy; they're the chaotic freedom-loving duo, they're also the squad's lucky charms (pun fully intended) and they always bond over their little mischievous pranks, Magna; self-explanatory, the ultimate BROTP of all brotps!!! Gauche; the only black bull who takes luck's insanity with mild amusement and shrugs it off, partly because he's also mentally screwed up himself, partly because of an incomprehensible affinity that stems from the elfin souls sleeping inside them.

A NOTP I have with said character: Yami as usual, and I'm also not much into Magna/Luck as romantic or sexual ship despite shipping them myself, probably because I can only see them in a pure queer-platonic way.

A random headcanon: he loves fishing with the other black bulls, it's one of the rare activities that keeps him still and focused for as long as it takes to catch a fish, and his eyes will spark with pure and cute anticipation the whole time!

General Opinion over said character: please, words cannot describe my love for this dangerously endearing boy, I really love how, behind everything, he still loves his mother genuinely and thinks well of her, and I'm also really fond of his voice, especially when he's happy and excited!

#not a quote #ask game #luck voltia

25 notes · View notes

littlefreya · 4 years

Text

Rip You Apart - Part 2

Summary: He demanded you to stay away from his basement, but you were curious by the howling sounds. Now he caught your scent and the beast inside him wants to claim what your body offers.

Sequal to Part 1

Pairing: Werewolf!Henry Cavill x Reader

Word count: 1.9K

Warnings: AU. Dark Fantasy, violent rough sex, MaleDom / FemSub, overstimulation, biting, manhandling, unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of bodily fluids. All the good stuff.

A/N: Okay, I woke up this morning and wrote the short drabble and did not intend to have such warm feedback from you guys. So a gift from me to you here is part two! Many thanks to the AMAZING @agniavateira who edits my work!

Title: Rip You Apart

The deep blue gaze followed your hands as you reached to the cuffs around his thick wrist. Standing on the tips of your toes, you made an effort to reach the small iron pin that held the cuffs together. The screeching sound of grinding metal filled your ears as you managed to pull the small peg between your thumb and index finger.

Henry’s arm fell heavily to the side of his body. You’ve meant to reach his other arm when he grasped your jaw tightly and held your face to his. He pulled you close, tilting your head up and letting his nose run up and down your neck to catch your alluring scent.

A low soft groan left his lips while his hand brought your ear to his mouth. “You can still run, turn away and I won’t hurt you.”

You whimpered, your breath shuddering through your chest. There was no physical or mental power that would make you want to turn and leave him behind. It was as if you were bewitched, your mind weakened by whatever was in the air.

Perhaps it was those piercing blue eyes that had you under his spell?

The only will you had was to touch him. Trembling fingertips pressed onto hard abs, now lubricated with sweat that made his skin glow in the dim light. You slid further down and squeezed his pulsating manhood, whimpering once more as you felt his girth between your slender fingers.

He wasn’t lying, he was about to rip you apart.

Henry hummed with pleasure, his free hand tugged your hair, forcing your head further back as he ran his beard down your exposed throat. It was as if he meant to mark you with his scent, to frighten away any other wooing male who might come in your way.

“I don’t want to run,” you answered, enchanted. Your skin tingled and reddened under his ministration. Gently and carefully, you nudged him away and shifted to undo the other cuff while he stared at you with growing anticipation.

You knew well enough he could have freed himself once the first cuff was off. It was your loyalty that he needed.

He coveted your full devotion and more than anything, he coveted you.

The remaining cuff fell to the ground, thundering through the room and through your trembling heart. You stepped away, watching as Henry stood free, arms pressed to each side of his body. His gaze pierced through you silently, penetrating into your soul. There you were, a young succulent female who wandered into the territory of a starved ferocious beast.

Instinctively, you paced back with fear as he began to move. Your feet were nearly stumbling but you needed them no longer.

In a flash, you were held against his body, toes dangling in the air as his hands grasped you onto him. His grip was so stark that you couldn’t help but yip, yet your cries were muffled into the mouth that devoured you.

He kissed you with an aching craving, his tongue invading between your lips to domineer your very breath. You’ve never been kissed this way, as if you were claimed, any refusal you made is to be dismissed.

Not as if you wished to refuse him.

Henry’s hand made it clear that he has no intention of letting you go either. His hands found your behind and pressed you into his hardness, the slight friction enough to make him moan into the depth of your throat. The sensation of his girth against your abdomen made your panties soaked and the vicious smirk that formed within his kiss did nothing but alert you that his need for you was dire and unrelenting.

Within seconds, you were shoved to the ground with the large, burly man climbing on top of you. His fingers wrapped around the fabric of your clothes and ripped them shreds. Your shirt, your jeans, and your undergarments were now nothing but a pile of rubbish laid on the ground.

Alarmed, your hands came to cover your chest, your legs crossing to shy away from his hungry glare. But the enormous god-like creature would have none of that, his hands forced yours away, pinning your wrists to the floor while his knee kicked your thighs apart.

“I warned you,” he spoke darkly before lowering his head to the throbbing tendon in your neck. Warm wetness flicked over your throat as his tongue descended down your skin. You shivered and hissed at the way his saliva chilled in the cold air once he moved away.

Following the course of your body with his mouth, he savoured on every inch of you with vast enticement. To him, you were a delicacy to be consumed, and damn if he didn’t want to have it all.

“I always wondered what you taste like,” he murmured against your breast, the tip of his tongue circling around your nipple. A deep moan departed from your lips, your voice aquiver, your body arching on the floor, taking whatever he offered as a great whore. You brought yourself to grind at his knee, leaving a trail of wetness against his trousers.

“Please, Henry.” You urged, trying to induce more friction. The chains weren’t lifted from him, they were passed onto you. Now you were bound to his sinful will, resistance was futile.

“Take me!”

If only you’ve known that those words brought his promise to light.

Sharp fangs sank into the plumpness of your breast, his teeth broke into your tender skin.. You yelped out in pain only to be comforted with pleasure as he licked at the blood that dripped from the bite.

“You smell so good,” he murmured against your chest as his hands finally left your aching wrists. Within seconds, every inch of your body was left bruised. Deprived, he left his seal across your body, scratching, suckling, nipping, and kissing at every pure piece of flesh. Even the sacred space between your legs wasn’t spared. You gasped, left reddened and swollen as he abused you with his wicked mouth and tasted your elixir with every suckle of his lips.

“You taste even better,” he murmured, his breath vaping hot against your cunt.

You bit on your knuckles, pushing yourself into his face to urge him to fuck you with his mouth.

But you’ve gravely erred. It wasn’t the time to please you, it was time to wreck you.

Kneeling between your legs and unbuckling his belt, he exposed his endowed cock to your smitten eyes. You whimpered as you drank in the sight of his perfect manhood, adorned with ridges and veins that ran through its generous width. Your body shivered as you realized he was about to enter you, and make you take him all the way inside with no bargain.

With every means to keep the promise he made, he gripped your thighs, nails digging into your muscles. He pulled you toward him until your ass rested on his thighs, positioned for easy penetration.

His beautiful blue eyes focused on your terrified gaze, his hands further spreading your thighs apart.

“After this, you will be mine forever, do you understand?”

It wasn’t a question meant to be answered.

You both cried out as he entered you with a violent slam. Your wail was deep and full of pain against his melodic shout of overwhelming pleasure as his cock sank fully into your lush depth. He was too large, splitting you in half. Your walls struggled to shove him away as if to banish this sinful invasion into your body but he would have none of it. Smirking, he pulled away only to shove into you again, even harder. There was no parley nor did he mean to spare you, you were meant to stretch and accommodate him.

He knew he was hurting you yet there was no power to stop the beast that took control of the reins. Loud grunts chanted through his mouth, and his brow furrowed with concentration as he held you hard and fucked you like an animal.

Tears sprang from your eyes, he made you sear with each thrust yet something inside you wanted this, needed him to use you, to unload his pain into your willing wound. You pushed to meet his thrusts, squirming upward, grinding yourself against his body. Soon pain mixed with pleasure and your cunt became devoted to his claim.

Henry’s brow softened at your acceptance, thrilled as you took everything given to you. He watched with awe as you whimpered for him with ecstasy, tugging on your own hair as waves of pleasure licked at the spot where your bodies united.

His hand reached out to cup your jaw forcing you to look straight into his eyes as he pounded you. Jostling on the floor you quickly grabbed his hand, forcing his thumb into your mouth. You moaned and sucked hard while his cock bottomed out inside you causing warmth to gather within your loins. You were close, never feeling so full and whole in your entire life.

Yet Henry gave a glare that was a mixture of awe and fury. It was wrong of you to provoke the beast but you couldn’t help it, you heeded the calling of something archaic.

“You’ll take what’s given to you.” He blurted and placed his hand on your neck, choking you as he began to pound into you at a violent pace. It was all that was needed for you to lose yourself in his carnal union. You screamed in ecstasy, feeling yourself falling apart around his cock.

Henry looked at you with fury, eyes blazing at your sight of bliss. With a grunt, you were flipped on your knees and entered from behind. You were still clenched from your last orgasm yet he ignored the protest of your walls and took your hair in his fist, fucking you with inhuman stamina.

All you could do was succumb to his need and moan as he punished you with impossible speed.

“Is this what you wanted?” Henry rasped in your ear. “Is this what you expected you’ll receive?”

“Yes!” you screamed, feeling yourself clench again. The room filled with the squelching sound of your wet skins slapping against one another with great haste. Adding to the symphony of his animalistic growls which overpowered your succumbing cries.

Once again pleasure was taken against your will. Your cunt milked at his cock woth desperation, begging him to join you in this dark paradise, to give your body what it needed. You were on the brink of collapsing, muscles violently trembling beneath him as he took you in vigour, yet once again you were flipped, taken to a new position before you even managed to catch your breath.

Down on your back, hands pinned at each side of your head, Henry drove between your legs, his blue eyes met yours, ravenous and feral. He gasped against your lips, drops of sweat trickling down his face and falling onto yours.

Beyond sore, your body couldn’t take him anymore. With tears in your eyes, you begged.

It was all that the beast needed.

With a great roar, he swelled and twitched inside you and you felt the hot rush of his load sprouting into your accepting womb. Gasping, he collapsed onto your chest and you immediately embraced his trembling, exhausted body and quietly ran your hands onto his back.

“Mine,” he groaned against your bruised skin.

“Yours,” you answered as he remained buried inside you, making sure his seed dwells there for as long as it needed to be.

_______________________________________________________

#Henry Cavill #Henry Cavill fanfiction #AU!Henry Cavill #Werewolf!Henry Cavill #Werewolf Henry Cavill #Henry Cavill x reader

2K notes · View notes

mybeautifulchristianjourney · 3 years

Text

Mystery of Providence

by Matthew Henry

"Look, I go forward, but he is not there, and backward, but I cannot perceive him. When he works on the left hand, I cannot behold him; when he turns to the right hand, I cannot see him. But he knows the way that I take; when he has tested me, I shall come forth as gold." - Job 23:8-10

Job here complains that he cannot understand the meaning of God's providences concerning him and is quite at a loss about them. Eliphaz had bid him acquaint himself with God. "So I would with all my heart," says Job, "if I knew how to get acquainted with him." He had himself a great desire to appear before God and get a hearing of his case, but the Judge was not to be found. Look which way he would, he could see no sign of God's appearing for him to clear up his innocence. Job, no doubt, believed that God is present everywhere, but he seems to complain of three things. (1) That he could not fix his thoughts nor form any clear judgment of things in his own mind. His mind was so hurried and discomposed with his troubles that he was like a man at his wits' end, who runs this way and that but brings nothing to a head. It is the common complaint of those who are sick or melancholy, that when they would think of that which is good, they can make nothing of it. (2) That he could not find out the cause of his troubles nor the sin which provoked God to contend with him. He could not perceive wherein he had sinned more than others, for which he should thus be punished more than others, nor could he discern what other end God should aim at in afflicting him thus. (3) That he could not foresee what would be the end, whether God would deliver him at all. He was quite at a loss to know what God designed to do with him.

Job satisfies himself with this: That God himself was a witness to his integrity and, therefore, did not doubt but the issue would be good. After Job had almost lost himself in the labyrinth of the divine counsels, how contentedly does he sit down, at length, with this thought: "Though I know not the way that he takes (for his way is in the sea and his path in the great waters, his thoughts and ways are infinitely above ours and it would be presumption in us to pretend to judge of them), yet he knows the way that I take." His friends judged of that which they did not know and therefore charged him with that of which he was never guilty. But God, who knew every step he had taken, would not do so. It is a great comfort to know that God understands our meaning, though men do not, cannot, or will not. God approves of it. He knows that, however I may sometimes have taken a false step, yet I have still taken a good way, have chosen the way of truth, and he is well pleased with it.

Those that are in affliction may comfort themselves with these three things: (1) That they are but tried. It is not intended for their hurt, but for their honor and benefit; it is the trial of their faith. (2) That when they are sufficiently tried, they shall come forth out of the furnace and not left to be consumed as dross or reprobate silver. (3) That they shall come forth as gold, pure in itself and precious to the refiner. They shall come forth as gold approved and improved, found to be good and made to be better.

Now that which encouraged Job to hope that his present troubles would thus end well was the testimony of his conscience for him, that he had lived a good life in the fear of God. God's way was the way in which he walked: "My foot has held his steps" (vs. 11). Job had by the grace of God persevered. God's word was the rule by which he walked. Whatever difficulties we may meet with in the way of God's commandments, though they lead us through a wilderness, yet we must never think of going back, but must press on toward the mark. The word of God is to our souls what our necessary food is to our bodies. It sustains the spiritual life and strengthens us for the actions of life. It is that which we cannot subsist without and which nothing else can make up the lack of. We ought, therefore, so to esteem it, to take pains for it, hunger after it, feed upon it with delight, and nourish our souls with it. This will be our rejoicing in the day of evil, as it was Job's.

#Mystery of Providence #Matthew Henry #Job 23:8-10

5 notes · View notes

charlemange1 · 4 years

Text

Holding Out for a Hero (Frankenstein one-shot)

*Victor just returned from Ingolstadt. Now what does his family do with him? Sometimes caring too much is worse than not being there at all…*

A full moon enveloped the ballroom in shining silver, giving those sitting across from me the appearance of ghosts. From the way their shoulders slumped beneath the weight of life, they seemed more dead than alive.

“We appreciate you seeing our son back home, Monsieur Clerval.” Alphonse repositioned himself on the couch. “I only wish it were under happier circumstances.”

“I could not allow my friend to return alone after such tragic revelations, Monsieur Frankenstein.”

“Please, call me Alphonse.”

“Alphonse.” I echoed, my tongue fumbling with the word. I still wasn’t used to the informalities that came with adulthood. I wasn’t used to the little portrait of William hanging below the painting of Caroline, either. The surrounding candles made their painted eyes look alive, as though they too were part of this most miserable occasion. The ghosts of the dead eager to pass judgment on the living.

Elizabeth slipped into the room like a shadow, settling on the couch beside Alphonse and stroking his hunched shoulder. Ernest sat to their left, his eyes on the floor.

“I’ve put him to bed,” Elizabeth said. “Victor is exhausted, we shouldn’t worry about him wandering in on us.” The kind smile she held for Alphonse soured for me. “Henry, what has happened to Victor? He didn’t write for years, and when you visited him in Ingolstadt you wrote back that he was fine. Fine! The man—if you can call him that—who walked through our doors this morning is anything but!”

“What happened to William has unnerved him, that is all.” My voice faltered. I couldn’t say murdered.

“The news of William alone couldn’t wither a man like that,” Elizabeth paused as Ernest stood and walked to the window. With his back to us, he dragged a finger across the dusty sill. “Caroline’s death shadowed Victor when he left for university, but now it has consumed him. Grief must have been eating at him for years. You promised you would bring him back to us, Henry. How could you have let him fall to such a state? You were his friend!”

My fingers dug into my palms. My feelings for Victor extended far beyond simple acquaintances. She couldn’t understand how wretched his state had been on my arrival. Of the contents I had found in that horrid dorm. Who could explain those racks of rotting flesh seasoned with strange salts rising to the rafters? Sanity does not linger on a floor where bits of animal and man have liquified into mush carelessly tracked across alchemic symbols written in flaking blood!

To think that the son of the renowned Alphonse Frankenstein, fiancé to the fair Elizabeth, brother to sweet William—would be an accursed resurrection man! Our Victor—a graverobber!

I knew he wasn’t writing home, yet where was I while he grieved? I’d remained in Geneva, lost in my world of poets and prose while obeying father’s every order like a dog. I wasn’t fit to wear the crown of heroes in the plays I had forced Victor and Elizabeth to partake in as children—I was a coward. No amount of memorizing the escapades of Odysseus and scripting grand adventures would change that. It was all I could do to throw Victor’s instruments into the Danube before the authorities of Ingolstadt sniffed them out.

My silence to Elizabeth’s question was not to protect the grieving family from Victor’s sins, but to cover my own shame. Father, Victor, the noble Frankensteins, when would I stop disappointing the people I loved?

At least Victor had returned to the light. He had renounced his dark practices—whimpering in his sleep of imaginary monsters that haunted him. That history was buried, and I saw no need to dig it up again. So I held my silence as Elizabeth held my gaze with teary eyes.

“Accusations will not fix the past. What’s done is done,” Alphonse laid his hand over Elizabeths. “What matters now is protecting the son that still remains to me. Henry, you were with Victor at Ingolstadt. Would you consider him a harm to himself?”

“A harm?”

“Yes. He nearly collapsed when greeting us, and when he raved about knowing William’s killer his eyes were…wild. I have never seen such misguided certainty in any sane man.” Alphonse rocked in the chair. His knotted fingers pressed together to ease their shaking. “Henry, we, I—"

“Must I be the one to say it?” Ernest faced us from his place by the window. His eyes were cold chips of the moon behind him. “Henry, is Victor mad? Is it best to send him to the asylum before these fits of his are noticed by higher society?”

“Ernest,” Elizabeth croaked. “Do not say such things!”

“My apologies. I forgot Victor can do no wrong!” Ernest spat. Out of all of us, he had known Victor the least and William the closest. “My brother has been murdered and an innocent woman imprisoned for the crime! All this talk of Victor, Victor, Victor! He never wrote, he wasn’t here! He was never here—but Justine, little William, they were! Now they’re gone, and it’s still all about him!”

Silver tears spilled down Ernest’s cheeks. Elizabeth approached him as though the boy were a wounded animal. “Breathe Ernest, calm down.”

Ernest wrung his hands, turning away. Elizabeth stood still. I was mute.

“He wanted to play hide and seek,” Ernest said. “I let him run off and hide. I abandoned him.”

“You did all you could.”

“You didn’t find him sprawled on the grass,” Ernest’s voice was barely a whisper. “Those horrible bruises around his neck were inflicted by a force of evil. Pure evil! Justine could not have done such a thing. Not her. Not her!”

Ernest’s fingers clawed at his messy hair. Elizabeth yanked them down to his chest.

“Acting this way will not help Justine,” she said firmly. “We must present ourselves in court as sensible people if she is to stand a chance!”

Ernest raised his head, really seeing her for the first time.

"You owe that to your brother.”

“Yes, yes I supposed I do.” Ernest nodded. “I won’t let her be taken from me too.”

“Of course,” Elizabeth smiled, holding back tears. Her eyes flickered to the paintings of the dead. “We owe them that, William.”

“William?” Ernest ripped his hands from Elizabeth’s grasp. “ERNEST! MY NAME IS ERNEST!”

Elizabeth scrambled to correct herself. “No, Ernest, I didn’t mean—”

Ernest slammed the door behind him, cutting her off. The portraits of the dead swayed from the force. Had his yelling woken Victor? Would the noise send his weak mind into another fit?

“Ernest,” Alphonse called after his son, though his voice had lost the authority of a magistrate long ago.

“I will see to him,” I stood, tracing the route to Victor’s room in my mind. Backing toward the door, I added, “Victor is not mad. But his mind is…” my hand circled in the air. “Fragile. Like a budding flower. The Victor we love is there, he’s just not ready to emerge in full yet. We can cox him back out with time. Just, give, me, some, time!”

A handful of candles lit the hallway, and I jumped at the figure slumped against the outside wall. Victor flinched like a startled cat, his watery eyes lowering in shame like a dog. “Victor, you are supposed to be resting,” I whispered, glancing back to the open door where his family waited.

“Resting is all William can do now,” Victor’s voice rose and fell unsteadily. “As long as I live, I intend to act! The monster’s out there, plotting who he’ll take from me next. I know it, Henry!”

“Yes, Victor,” I smiled, stepping closer.

“You don’t believe that I did it,” Victor shook his head, his tangled locks falling over his eyes. “That I conquered death.”

“Indoor voices, Victor!”

“Out of everyone, you alone dared to imagine the impossible. You filled your head with tales of knights and grand adventures! I had thought you’d believe me. You saw my lab. My notes!”

“Those alchemical scribbles have never made sense to me, Victor. You know I’m but a humble poet.”

Pandering to his genius often evoked an eye-roll or a good-natured punch, but now Victor’s arms only trembled in his oversized nightshirt. When Alphonse had the garment purchased, he expected a confident intellectual well accustomed to German cuisine to wear it. The loose fabric made Victor look small, an underwhelming shell wrapped in expectations that didn’t fit. My arm wrapped around his boney shoulders, leading him down the hall toward his bed.

“Let me tell you a story, Victor. One we’d read as kids.”

“I do not need to be fed children’s stories,” Victor chided, stumbling despite my support. “William is the child! Was, he was a child…”

Victor pulled away. I feared where this was going.

“His blood is on that daemon's hands. I must tell the court the truth. They can raise an army. We’ll scour the mountains until that monster is destroyed!”

“Victor, you’re much too weak!” My mind raced. I’d have to appeal to him and play along. “Save your strength! If we are to destroy your ‘monster,’ it must be done the right way. With caution.”

“We?” A bit of life returned to Victor’s eyes.

“Yes!” I nodded, leading him forward. “But you mustn’t speak these things to another soul. They’ll claim insanity and lock you away!”

Victor didn’t look convinced. That stubbornness was what I loved and hated about him.

“If you are institutionalized, how can William be brought to justice. You need to be here, Victor.” Victor lowered his head, considering. “Promise me you won’t speak at Justine’s trial,” I pressed. “Elizabeth has memorized a speech to woo the judge if he leans toward a guilty verdict. You needn’t trouble yourself.”

“Yes,” Victor sighed. His head slumped on my shoulder in exhaustion. The air around us was filled with his shaky breathing. It felt like we were the only two in the house. In the world. “He shall not claim another soul. I won’t let him hurt you, Henry.”

I pulled his shivering body close to mine, away from life, from the pain that had reduced him to this state. “Of course, and I’ll protect you.”

For a moment, just a moment, a massive shadow fell on the moonlit tile. My head snapped to the window, but nothing was there. The shadow vanished. A passing cloud, no doubt. No mortal man could boast such massive size.

“Henry, do you still believe in your adventure stories?” Victor whispered suddenly. “Of Robin Hood and King Arthur? That good can vanquish evil? That we can win?”

Pulling away, I led Victor to his room and settled him into bed.

“We’re men now, Victor. It’s time we gave up such childish inclinations and lived in reality.”

I couldn’t waste time fantasizing about the impossible. To be the hero he needed—to rescue my friend from himself—I had to exist in the real world.

#I'm trying to dabble in subtle romance so have some Clervalstein!#frankenstein fanfiction #frankenstein #henry clerval #victor frankenstein #clervalstein #frankenstein fanfic

36 notes · View notes

verifiedaccount · 5 years

Text

25 more movies (and one miniseries) you can watch on youtube

I posted 11 movies that are on youtube yesterday (Part 1) but since things are really starting to get shut down here’s more worthwhile movies and a miniseries you can watch for free on youtube right now

Leave Her To Heaven (1945): Gene Tierney is Ellen, a woman whose only crime is “loving too much,” and also all the other crimes she commits to make sure there are no competitors for husband Cornel Wilde’s affections in John M. Stahl’s incredibly lurid and entertaining technicolor melodrama.

M (1931): Fritz Lang’s masterpiece is the basis for every subsequent movie about hunting a serial killer and it’s still the best one.

The Naked Kiss (1964): Here’s the jacket copy from Criterion: “The setup is pure pulp: A former prostitute (a crackerjack Constance Towers) relocates to a buttoned-down suburb, determined to fit in with mainstream society. But in the strange, hallucinatory territory of writer-director-producer Samuel Fuller, perverse secrets simmer beneath the wholesome surface. Featuring radical visual touches, full-throttle performances, brilliant cinematography by Stanley Cortez, and one bizarrely beautiful musical number, The Naked Kiss is among Fuller’s greatest, boldest entertainments.”

Underworld USA (1961): Dave Kehr on the film: “Sam Fuller's harsh, obsessional 1960 crime drama is narrated in the style of a comic book gone berserk. Cliff Robertson is the neurotic hero, bent on avenging his father's death by infiltrating and destroying a crime syndicate that operates under the redolent name “National Projects.” Corruption is all-pervasive in this vision of America, and Fuller disturbingly suggests that only a madman can make a difference. One image from Underworld—of a heavy striking straight at the camera—prompted Jean-Luc Godard to describe Fuller's films as “cinema-fist.” There is no more apt phrase.”

Pickup on South Street (1953): Another Sam Fuller. Here’s Georgia Hubley of Yo La Tengo on the film: “Richard Widmark manages to portray himself as twisted, conniving, pathological, sleazy, tragic, vulnerable, and handsome all at once in most of the movies I’ve seen him in, and never more exquisitely than in this, one of my favorite film noirs.“

Journey to Italy (1954): Richard Brody on the film: “One of the most quietly revolutionary works in the history of cinema, Roberto Rossellini’s third feature starring Ingrid Bergman (his wife at the time), from 1953, turns romantic melodrama into intellectual adventure. [...] From Rossellini’s example, the young French New Wave critics learned to fuse studio style with documentary methods, and to make high-relief drama on a low budget.”

The Spook Who Sat By The Door (1973): A satirical thriller based on the Sam Greenlee novel about the CIA recruiting a token black agent who quickly realizes they have no intention of letting him advance to a meaningful position and decides to head back to Chicago to teach the black revolutionaries all the latest guerrilla warfare tactics. Despite playing to packed houses the film was quickly pulled from theaters with little explanation and remained out of circulation until a DVD was issued in 2004.

The Big Combo (1955): Dave Kehr’s capsule: “This 1955 film noir borders on total abstraction for most of its length and then achieves it in an astonishing final scene—a shoot-out in the fog that suggests an armed and dangerous Michelangelo Antonioni. Where the usual noir takes place in a nightmare world, this one seems to inhabit a dream: there's no longer fear in the images, but rather a distanced, idealized beauty. With Cornel Wilde, Jean Wallace, Brian Donlevy, and Richard Conte; the director is Joseph H. Lewis (Gun Crazy).”

The Stranger (1946): Orson Welles’s film concerns an FBI agent (Edward G. Robinson) tracking Nazi war criminals whose search takes him to a small Connecticut town where the local schoolteacher (Orson Welles) is not what he seems. It’s the most conventional Welles film, reportedly intended to prove he could turn in a movie on time and on budget, but it’s still plenty entertaining.

F For Fake (1973): Orson Welles documentary/essay/whatsit about forgers and frauds, specifically Elmyr de Hory, who became famous as an art forger because instead of forging existing paintings he painted new ones in the style of famous artists, and Clifford Irving, who wrote a best-selling book on Elmyr and then was busted for a fraud of his own, the fake Howard Hughes autobiography. A wildly enjoyable, incredibly edited, one of a kind mindbender.

Citizen Kane (1941): It’s Citizen Kane. You just have to put up with hardcoded Korean subs.

Detour (1945): Roger Ebert on the film: “Detour is a movie so filled with imperfections that it would not earn the director a passing grade in film school. This movie from Hollywood's poverty row, shot in six days, filled with technical errors and ham-handed narrative, starring a man who can only pout and a woman who can only sneer, should have faded from sight soon after it was released in 1945. And yet it lives on, haunting and creepy, an embodiment of the guilty soul of film noir. No one who has seen it has easily forgotten it.”

A Woman Under The Influence (1974): Dave Kehr: “John Cassavetes's 1974 masterpiece, and one of the best films of its decade. Cassavetes stretches the limits of his narrative—it's the story of a married couple, with the wife hedging into madness—to the point where it obliterates the narrator: it's one of those extremely rare movies that seem found rather than made, in which the internal dynamics of the drama are completely allowed to dictate the shape and structure of the film. The lurching, probing camera finds the same fascination in moments of high drama and utter triviality alike—and all of those moments are suspended painfully, endlessly. Still, Cassavetes makes the viewer's frustration work as part of the film's expressiveness; it has an emotional rhythm unlike anything else I've ever seen.”

Opening Night (1977): Another Cassavetes masterpiece, again starring the great Gena Rowlands, with Gena as an actress mentally disintegrating as she tries to prepare for an upcoming play. Easier to start with this one than A Woman Under The Influence. Richard Brody on the film: “Though there isn’t a movie camera anywhere to be seen—and Cassavetes, with his tightly sculpted, uninhibitedly intimate images, is a master of the camera—Opening Night captures with astonishment and boundless admiration the uninhibited ferocity of the art that brings life onto the screen. (In fact, Cassavetes had originally planned to take the role of the play’s director.) It’s one of the greatest tributes ever paid by a director to an actress.“

Magnificent Obsession (1954): It’s not necessarily Douglas Sirk’s best technicolor melodrama but this adaptation of Lloyd C. Douglas’s ridiculous bestseller is the most melodramatic one. From Cine-File: “Produced in the wake of Henry Koster's CinemaScope adaptation of Douglas' THE ROBE, Sirk's 1954 remake of MAGNIFICENT OBSESSION is, by any standard, an absolutely batshit movie. (It's the kind of film where a lecture about the radical power of kindness compares the crucifixion of Christ to the act of turning on a light bulb.) It's not so much an adaptation of Douglas as a third-hand amplification of his aura. "Ross Hunter gave me the book," Sirk recalled, "and I tried to read it, but I just couldn't. It is the most confused book you can imagine.” As Geoffrey O'Brien asserts in his essay for the film's Criterion release, Sirk earnestly examines that which he admits to finding absurd, forcing such questions as, "What if this weren't crazy? What if it were real? What sort of a world would that be, and how different would it be from the one we inhabit?" Therein lies the genius of Sirk's glorious melodrama, one certainly worth seeing in all its Technicolor magnificence.

All That Heaven Allows (1955): Geoff Andrew on the film: “On the surface a glossy tearjerker about the problems besetting a love affair between an attractive middle class widow and her younger, 'bohemian' gardener, Sirk's film is in fact a scathing attack on all those facets of the American Dream widely held dear. Wealth produces snobbery and intolerance; family togetherness creates xenophobia and the cult of the dead; cosy kindness can be stultifyingly patronising; and materialism results in alienation from natural feelings. Beneath the stunningly lovely visuals - all expressionist colours, reflections, and frames-within-frames, used to produce a precise symbolism - lies a kernel of terrifying despair created by lives dedicated to respectability and security, given its most harrowing expression when Wyman, having given up her affair with Hudson in order to protect her children from gossip, is presented with a television set as a replacement companion. Hardly surprising that Fassbinder chose to remake the film as Fear Eats the Soul.“

Written on the Wind (1956): Dave Kehr: “One of the most remarkable and unaccountable films ever made in Hollywood, Douglas Sirk's 1957 masterpiece turns a lurid, melodramatic script into a screaming Brechtian essay on the shared impotence of American family and business life. Sirk's highly imaginative use of color—to accent, undermine, and sometimes even nullify the drama—remains years ahead of contemporary technique. The degree of stylization is high and impeccable: one is made to understand the characters as icons as well as psychologically complex creations.“

His Girl Friday (1940): Geoff Andrew’s capsule: “Charles Lederer’s frantic script needs to be heard at least a dozen times for all the gags to be caught; Russell’s Hildy more than equals Burns in cunning and speed; and Hawks transcends the piece’s stage origins effortlessly, framing with brilliance, conducting numerous conversations simultaneously, and even allowing the film’s political and emotional thrust to remain upfront alongside the laughs. Quite simply a masterpiece.“

Bringing Up Baby (1938): Ignatiy Vishnevetsky on the film: “Possessed by an overwhelming sense of comic energy, Howard Hawks’ screwball masterpiece heaps on misunderstandings, misadventures, perfectly timed jokes, and patter to the point that it’s easy to overlook how rich and fluid it is a piece of filmmaking, effortlessly transitioning from one thing into the next.”

Underworld (1927): Dave Kehr: “The first full-fledged gangster movie and still an effective mood piece, this 1927 milestone was directed by the master of delirious melodrama, Josef von Sternberg. George Bancroft is the hard-boiled hero, granted tragic status in his final sacrifice. Ben Hecht wrote the script, and many of the same ideas turn up, in a very different moral context, in his screenplay for Howard Hawks's 1932 masterpiece, Scarface.“

Q - The Winged Serpent (1982): In Larry Cohen’s cheapo classic, Quetzelcoatl terrorizes New York. Michael Moriarty plays a bumbling, unlucky small time crook (the robbery he participates in goes hilariously wrong; losing the keys to the getaway car is just the start) who accidentally discovers the monster’s nest and realizes he’s stumbled into the opportunity of a lifetime. He’s willing to help the authorities, including cops played by David Carradine and Richard Roundtree, but they’re gonna have to pay for it. Very goofy and very fun.

Stalag 17 (1953): Billy Wilder’s classic mixes POW drama with comedy as a group of prisoners in a German POW camp try to figure out who in their barracks is a rat while they plan their escape.

Hellzapoppin (1941): Ignatiy Vishnevetsky: “The opening reel may be the most manic stretch of go-for-broke gonzo comedy to come out of studio-era Hollywood, with the zoot-suited duo of Olsen and Johnson introduced tumbling out of a New York taxi into the bowels of hell (“That’s the first taxi driver that ever went straight where I told him to!”) in the midst of a musical number about how “Anything can happen / And it probably will.” Dozens of throwaway gags—including the first Citizen Kane reference in film history—and an argument with the projectionist (once and future Stooge Shemp Howard) follow, before the movie snaps into something vaguely resembling sanity. From there, Hellzapoppin’ finds Olsen and Johnson wandering in and out of a musical comedy that’s seems to be on the verge of falling apart and tussling with such comedy ringers as Martha Raye and Mischa Auer, the latter cast as a real Russian nobleman who’s trying to pass as a fake Russian nobleman. It’s like a Marx Brothers movie playing at triple speed; it eludes easy summary—it’s a real “you have to see it to believe it” kind of movie—and often stretches the limits of the Production Code. True to its absurdist sensibility, Hellzapoppin’ ended up getting nominated for an Oscar by mistake, for a song that doesn’t appear in the movie.”

Outrage (1950): Directed and cowritten by Ida Lupino, this was one of the first Hollywood movies after the implementation of the production code to deal with rape and one of the first to tackle its psychological aftermath (the censor office actually made them take the word “rape” out of the script so it’s never uttered in the film). Richard Broday on the film: “Outrage is a special artistic achievement. Lupino approaches the subject of rape with a wide view of the societal tributaries that it involves. She integrates an inward, deeply compassionate depiction of a woman who is the victim of rape with an incisive view of the many societal failures that contribute to the crime, including legal failure to face the prevalence of rape, and the over-all prudishness and sexual censoriousness that make the crime unspeakable in the literal sense and end up shaming the victim. Above all, she reveals a profound understanding of the widespread and unquestioned male aggression that women face in ordinary and ostensibly non-violent and consensual courtship.“

The Hitch-Hiker (1953): Another Ida Lupino joint, this one a lean and mean film noir. J. Hoberman on the film: “The “Hitch-Hiker” script, written (uncredited) by the socially conscious journalist Daniel Mainwaring, was inspired by an actual case: Two buddies (Frank Lovejoy and Edmond O’Brien) pick up a murderous psychopath (William Talman) who forces them to drive him to Mexico. It’s a brutal story handled by Ms. Lupino, one of Hollywood’s very few female directors, with the same steely determination and emotional sensitivity found in her strongest performances.”

And the miniseries:

The Singing Detective (1986): Here’s the entry from the BBC’s list of the top 100 British television programs, where it placed number 20: “For many Potter's masterpiece, this extended six-part filmed drama series mixes flashback and fantasy to create a psychological profile of a writer of detective fiction hospitalised by a crippling skin disease. Though not, the writer stressed, autobiographical, the drama features many elements from both Potter's own life (the disease, the childhood setting) and his body of work (particularly the use of popular music from the war years). As usual with Potter, it also caused controversy at the time for the frankness of its sex scenes, though its position as one of the most challenging and inventive of all TV dramas is secure.“

181 notes · View notes

wistfulcynic · 5 years

Text

To Keep It All The Year (3 /4)

Anyone up for a spot of pure fantasy in which people are essentially good and their positive actions are rewarded with deserved happiness? Yeah, me too. It’s been a WEEK, for me and @katie-dub and anyone else in the UK with a conscience and a shred of human decency, so let’s all have a bit of an escape.

SUMMARY: Killian Jones is a broken man, betrayed by everyone and everything he thought he could believe in. He’s all but given up on life until a fateful meeting with bartender Emma Swan and her son Henry gives him a reason to live again, and a chance to redeem his past.

All it takes is a little Christmas magic.

On AO3 | Tumblr: Part One | Part Two

Thanks as ever to @thisonesatellite who keeps me fuelled with whisky and lebkuchen, a paring ordained by the gods, and also because MAGICAL WREATHS OMG WUTTT ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Tagging all the folks from the last tag list, PLEASE do let me know if you want to be added or removed. @kmomof4 @shireness-says @snidgetsafan @darkcolinodonorgasm @snowbellewells @stahlop @mariakov81 @courtorderedcake @jonirobinson64 @tiganasummertree @ohmightydevviepuu @shardminds @jennjenn615 @superchocovian @teamhook

PART THREE: THE FUTURE

Killian moves out of his apartment that very afternoon. He can’t bear to spend another moment there. He needs a fresh start in a new place, one that will encourage him to be better rather than indulging the worst of him.

Everything he owns, every single thing, fits into a large satchel and a medium-sized suitcase. Packing it all takes less than an hour. Killian drops his key into the landlord’s mailbox and heads across town to a guesthouse he found with a quick internet search, not a great place but his finances are limited and it’s still better than that apartment. There’s an actual bed, for a start, and part of him is tempted to crawl into it and drink until his chest stops aching and he no longer sees the crushed look in Emma’s eyes each time he closes his own, but he has made promises to himself and he intends to keep them.

So instead he falls back on the least damaging of his old crutches and heads out for a walk. The guesthouse is a bit rough around the edges but the neighbourhood whose western boundary it marks is a vast improvement over his old one. There’s an elegance and dignity in the slightly run-down buildings here, like they’ve aged gracefully and in comfort without any of the desperation and squalor that characterised his old place. They’ve kept their head up, even through hard times, and they haven’t given in. A lesson lurks in there somewhere, he thinks.

He’s been wandering for about half an hour when his attention is caught by a door. Not a particularly remarkable door, but has a jolly little Christmas wreath hung upon it which brings a smile to Killian’s face. Something about those little wreaths always draws him in, he thinks. Something he can’t quite put his finger on...

The door is made of wide wooden planks painted a deep forest green and boasts an old-fashioned brass knocker in the shape of a roaring lion. It belongs to what appears to be a small bookshop, and as Killian pushes it open he feels a stirring of eagerness that he hasn’t felt in years. He can’t remember the last time he read a good book. Something layered and complex, he thinks, with a well-crafted world that he can dig into and lose himself for a while.

The shop is surprisingly spacious, with row upon row of tall wooden bookshelves lined up straight as soldiers along its walls and a broad central aisle leading to the till and a small cafe at the back. Twin spiral staircases rise up on each side to a mezzanine where he can see more shelves and a cosy reading area with overstuffed sofas and armchairs and a few scattered beanbags of the perfect size for children. Killian walks slowly down the centre aisle, aware his mouth is hanging open and barely resisting the urge to spin around, gaping in awe. Were he asked to give a description of his ideal bookshop it would be precisely this, he thinks, from the aged patina on the shelves to the fluffy grey cat curled on a cushion in the window, to the truly dizzying array of books. It is magnificent.

“Can I help you find anything?” Killian shakes himself from his reverie and turns to see a petite brunette in towering heels smiling a friendly smile.

“Ah, no thank you, lass,” he replies, “I’m just br—you know what, actually, yes. You can.”

He explains what sort of book he’s after and the woman—Belle, according to her name tag—leads him around the shop in search of it. She makes excellent recommendations, a fair number of which he’s already read, but after an enjoyable hour or so Killian has a small armload of books he can’t wait to crack open and perhaps, he hopes, a friend.

After he pays for them he and Belle stand at the till for another ten minutes or so, chatting amiably. Killian formally introduces himself and informs Belle that he’s just moved to the neighbourhood and is out exploring. He’s just about to ask if she knows a good place to eat when he spots the small sign taped to the cash register.

“Are you hiring?” he says in surprise.

“I am. I could use an assistant three or four days a week,” says Belle. “You interested?”

“I might be,” Killian replies. He’ll need a job to afford the new life he intends to build for himself, he thinks, and working in this lovely little shop with Belle would be a dream come true.

“Any retail experience?” she asks.

“None. But I’m a fast learner and fairly widely read.”

“I’ll say,” says Belle wryly. “Okay, let’s give it a try. I can start you on—” she names an hourly wage that has Killian’s eyes widening.

“Is that the standard market rate for a bookshop assistant?”

“Nope.” Belle’s voice is cheerful and also makes it clear she doesn’t intend to answer any questions on the subject.

“Er—okay. Well, that would be more than satisfactory.” Enough to give him the new beginning he needs, he thinks. More than.

Belle nods. “When can you start?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Perfect.”

—

Belle lives above the bookshop, in a two-bedroom flat that she claims can get a little lonely. She claims this a week into the new year when she learns that Killian is looking for a place to live, and insists on showing him the spare room that very minute.

Her flat is tidy but comfortable and the room she shows him plainly furnished, with polished hardwood floors and plaster walls painted a warm ivory. A large chest of drawers takes up one corner and in another is a metal framed bed spread with a quilt that he’s sure is handmade. There’s a single wide window framed by soft yellow curtains that turn the afternoon light golden and a single framed poster on the wall, of Waterhouse’s Miranda. Killian stares at the painting for some time, thinking it should probably upset him. Instead he feels soothed, by the room’s gentle simplicity and by the shipwreck safely tucked away in the brushstrokes of an oil painting. He moves in the next day.

He and Belle get on splendidly. Their habits mesh in a comfortable way, both being meticulously tidy early risers, equally content to spend their evenings in heated argument about books as in the silent companionship of reading or watching television. Killian almost wishes their easy friendship could develop into something more, though it does occur to him that he’s never had a woman as just a friend before and perhaps this is a thing that might do him some good.

That and he still dreams of soft golden hair, and green eyes that see into his soul.

He begins to eat regular healthy meals, sharing the cooking duties with Belle, and after a month or so of that he joins a gym. He still goes on his long, rambling walks but far less frequently than before, using them as an opportunity to explore new neighbourhoods rather than a desperate attempt to escape his demons and he never, never stops at the docks.

He also starts seeing a therapist, on Belle’s gentle suggestion after one too many nights of being woken up by his nightmares. She can recommend one personally, she confesses, for the very same reason that she is able to pay him so well. The bookshop is financed by hush money—she spits the words—her lavish divorce settlement from a man who controlled and abused her for years and when she finally managed to leave him tracked her down and nearly killed her. She grips Killian’s hand tightly as she tells him this, tears rolling unheeded down her cheeks, yet there is a ring of triumph in her voice as she explains how he signed over more than half his assets to her in exchange for her promise not to prosecute, or sell tales of his abuse to the press.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have taken it,” she says. “Maybe I should have exposed him instead, or pressed charges. But he could weather bad press or bribe his way out of jail time while it will take him years to build his business back up again. Decades, even. And meanwhile I have my shop. And my freedom.”

Belle knows as well as Killian does how heavily tainted money can weigh on person’s conscience, and that the only way to bear its weight is by turning it to something good. She’s a survivor, just like him. Just like Emma.

Slowly, so slowly, Killian feels the parts of himself he thought were broken beyond repair begin to mend, and every day he focuses on that healing. He nourishes his body with exercise and good food and he nourishes his mind with books and conversation. He nourishes his soul as well, with his therapy sessions and with the bookshop’s weekly children’s story time, which Belle insists he take charge of after catching him watching wistfully from behind a shelf as she sat surrounded by a semicircle of rapt faces, reading an adventure book.

He was thinking of Henry.

He thinks of Henry often, and of course of Emma. Every time he rambles through a new part of the city he wonders if they are living there, perhaps in one of the sprawling houses with soft green lawns in the residential areas, or maybe in an airy loft in one of the edgier, artier neighbourhoods. He hopes that wherever they are they’ve found a true home of their own, with security and comfort and reliable childcare for Henry. Emma no longer needs to work so she could study full time if she wished, or do something else entirely. She wouldn’t strictly speaking need to do anything, but if Killian knows her—and despite the short duration of their acquaintance he’s quite certain he does—she will want to keep studying, for her own satisfaction and to find a career that suits her. Emma Swan could never be content sitting around all day doing nothing. She would want to do some good in the world, regardless of her personal circumstances. The kindness she showed to a strange man in a bar when she had next to nothing of her own was proof enough of that.

It hurts to think of them but it’s a good sort of pain, a gentle, bittersweet ache that warms his heart, nothing like the tearing agony he felt for so many years whenever he thought of Liam. Thoughts of Emma and Henry inspire him, keep him moving steadily along this new path he’s chosen to tread. Though he’s certain he’ll never see either of them again he wants to live his life in a way that honours his feelings for them.

He doesn’t go back to the bar where he and Emma met, not often. It’s just a place to drink without the magic her presence lent it, and drinking is a thing he’s trying to do less of these days. But the following Christmas Eve he finds himself back in his old neighbourhood standing before the plain brown door. There’s a jolly little Christmas wreath hung upon it, and Killian knows by now that he’s powerless in the face of those wreaths. He lets it draw him in through the door and over to a stool at the bar where he orders the expensive rum Emma gave him last year and sips it slowly as the memories that infuse the very air of this place both warm and pain him. He’ll allow himself this, he thinks, just this one small lapse. He’s worked hard all year, he can have one evening of self pity. His Christmas gift to himself.

“Hey, sailor.”

The voice is impossible and yet he hears it, turns towards it in astonishment then scrambles to his feet.

“Emma!” he gasps. He stares at her, drinks in the sight of her, of the face that’s haunted his dreams for a year lit up by a bright smile. “What—what are—I had no idea you’d be here.”

“I almost wasn’t,” she replies. “I was at a Christmas party across town, actually. but then I just had the strangest urge to come here and so here I am.”

“It’s wonderful to see you, love.” His astonishment ebbs and gives way to a fierce and fearsome joy. He can’t believe she’s here, right in front of him and real, and so lovely he aches to look at her. “How are you? How’s Henry?”

“Henry’s great. I’m great. We’re great.” She laughs.

“That’s... well, it’s great.” His smile is beginning to hurt his cheeks, but he could no more stop smiling it than he could make the Earth spin backwards.

“It is,” she agrees. “Listen, um, can we sit down somewhere?”

“Of course. Can I get you a drink?”

“Yeah.” Something shifts in her smile, sharpens it in a way that steals his breath. “I’ll have a rum.”

He orders one for her and another for himself and they sit together in a small, round booth in the corner of the bar. It’s cosy and intimate and it envelops them, making Killian’s heart pound and his mouth go dry.

Emma seems unfazed, giving him a cool once-over as he slides in beside her on the leather seat. There’s a new confidence in her demeanour now, the kind of quiet assurance that forms in people who answer to no one but themselves. It sits well on her, he thinks. Comfortably, like it was always waiting for her to slip it on.

“You look good,” she tells him.

“Um.” He feels himself flush and gulps some rum to wet his throat. “Thank you. You look lovely, but then you always did.”

She observes him in silence for a moment, sipping her own drink. “I looked for you, you know,” she says.

“You did?”

“I did. Do you know how many Killian Joneses there are in the phone book?”

“Er—no.”

“Zero,” she declares. “Including you.”

“Ah. Well I don’t really—”

“But,” she interrupts, “as it turns out, I’m pretty good at finding people, even when they don’t want to be found. I found you, eventually. In that bookstore where you work.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I was going to come in but you, ah, weren’t alone. I saw you through the window, standing with a woman. Laughing.” She stares into her glass. “I’d never seen you laugh like that before. Or at all.”

“A woman?” Killian frowns in confusion. “What woman?”

“A really pretty one with long brown hair,” says Emma quietly. “Cute dress, very petite. You looked... close.”

“Belle,” he says. “My boss and flatmate.”

“Flatmate?” Emma repeats with an odd note in her voice. Her eyes flicker up to him then back to her glass.

“Er—my roommate,” he amends.

“I know what a flatmate is, Killian.”

“Ah. Yes of course, I just, er—”

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

He’s taken aback by the non-sequitur, and the shy smile that accompanies it. The shy smile and the eyes shining with something that makes his already galloping heart pound harder still. “Well, it’s Christmas Day,” he replies weakly.

“That’s also a thing I know.”

“I was just planning to have a meal with Belle, maybe watch some Christmas movies,” he says. “Nothing special.”

“Why don’t you and Belle come to my house instead? For dinner?”

“Oh, well, I—”

“Come on, you have to,” she cajoles. “Henry would never forgive me if he found out I’d seen you and not invited you. He talks about you all the time.”

“He does?”

“He does.”

Killian takes another gulp of rum, emptying the glass. He feels dizzy at this turn of events, almost afraid that they will turn out to be nothing more than another fevered dream. Surreptitiously he pinches his thigh and when he feels the sharp prick of pain he risks a look at Emma. She’s still smiling, that same hopeful, expectant smile he’d been so powerless against one year ago. “Well, I’ll have to check with Belle but I’m sure she’ll agree,” he says. “I’ve—mentioned you and Henry once or twice myself, she’ll be over the moon to meet you both.”

Emma’s smile turns radiant. “Give me your number and I’ll text you the address,” she says. He does, and a moment later his phone dings with a new message. Her address he recognises from his rambles as belonging to a part of town that’s nice but not ostentatious, with comfortable family homes and plenty of parks and very good schools. He thinks about Emma and Henry living there and feels a warm glow of sheer delight. It’s exactly what he hoped for, for them.

“I have to get home,” says Emma. “I told Henry’s babysitter I’d be back by midnight. But—you will come over tomorrow, won’t you? About noon? You promise?”

Killian smiles. “You have my word. I’ll see you then.”

—

Belle agrees to have dinner at Emma’s with as much enthusiasm as he predicted, practically dancing with excitement at the prospect.

“The mythical Emma and Henry!” she sings. “I feel like I’m about to meet a unicorn, or Santa himself.”

Killian’s stomach is dancing too, with anxiety and eagerness and hope. Foolish hope, he tells himself firmly, but it ricochets around his insides nonetheless and refuses to be quashed. He walked away from Emma a year ago so she could have the freedom to make her own choices and she chose to find him, to invite him back into her life. He’s not certain quite what that means but he thinks—he hopes—��that at the very least he won't have to go another whole year without seeing her and Henry. That thought alone is enough to make his Christmas bright.

As he stands in the shower with the hot water flowing over him he thinks about how very different his life is than it was just a year ago. The fact that his shower is hot and the water plentiful is the very least of the changes. He no longer has nightmares, no longer feels haunted by his past or fears he might be swallowed up by bleak despair. The dark moods still come from time to time but he is prepared for them now, equipped to weather them without turning to self-destruction. He feels healthier than he has since his navy days, physically as well as mentally. His paunch is gone, replaced with firm muscle, and though he’ll never be as ripped as some of the younger men he works out alongside, he’s toned and strong and that’s enough for him. His complexion now has a ruddy glow, especially when he returns from one of his walks, and he’s begun to take more care with his appearance again, keeping his hair trimmed in a flattering style and investing in a nicer wardrobe.

He gets out of the shower and towels himself dry, then dresses in some of his new garments: charcoal trousers and a black sweater over a shirt with a soft tonal pattern, pale purple and blue against dove grey. He wonders what Emma will think of his new clothes, what she will think of all the changes this past year has wrought in him. He wonders if she’s thought of him the way he’s thought of her.

He wonders what he can bring to dinner this afternoon. There’s a bottle of good wine in the cupboard that he and Belle planned to have with their own Christmas meal and of course many things in the bookshop he’s sure Emma and Henry would love. That should be fine for gifts but still something troubles him, an itchy sort of tingle at the back of his mind, like he’s forgetting something vital. What was it that he brought for them last year? He frowns as he tries to remember. The ship for Henry, that was it, and flowers for Emma from that odd little shop, the one with the florist who reminded him of... of...

Bloody hell.

Killian reels, gripping his bedpost for balance as memories from the year before come flooding back, clear and perfect as though they happened only yesterday. It couldn’t be, he thinks, it’s impossible, and how could he not have noticed at the time? How could he not have seen?

Magic, little brother.

“Killian!” Belle raps sharply on the half-open door of his bedroom, her tone of voice suggesting she’s been calling him for some time. “Are you ready to go? It’s nearly half past eleven.”

“Aye, love.” He breathes in deeply and stands upright. “Be right there.”

They go down to the shop where Killian selects several books for Henry, some of which are slightly above his age group—because a child should have a library that builds towards the future—and, remembering the shelves in her old apartment, a picture frame for Emma made of delicately carved rosewood. He wraps them carefully and rings them up on his employee account as Belle calls them a cab. It’s not far at all to Emma’s house but when Killian suggests they walk Belle informs him crisply that while he might enjoy a snowy stroll across twelve city blocks her shoes would not, and takes out her phone.

The quiet Christmas streets make the ride a short one, but Killian is glad of even a few minutes of peace to sit and to think and spends most of the journey staring out the window at the snowy trees and lawns and attempting to sort through the chaos in his mind.

“Why didn’t you put the wreath on the door this year?” he asks Belle.

“What wreath?” She turns to him with a small frown.

“Last year there was a Christmas wreath on the door of the bookshop,” he replies. “A small one, made of evergreen and holly with pinecones and cinnamon sticks and a big red bow. It’s what caught my attention as I was walking by, why I went inside.”

Belle shakes her head. “There wasn’t any wreath, Killian, though that’s a lovely idea. Maybe we can get one for next year.”

“Aye. I know just the shop to get it from,” he mutters, and then the cab pulls up to Emma’s house.

It’s a charming little house, two storeys of dark red brick with slate blue trim on the windows and on the wide porch where comfortable looking wicker furniture and outdoor toys are all jumbled together. There’s a snowman on the lawn, jaunty and quite pleased with himself in his red and green striped scarf and an actual top hat, surrounded by piled-up and solidly-packed mounds of snow and the gruesome remains of what was evidently a long and hard-fought snowball battle.

The mat lying at the foot of the front door reads Welcome! Everything is fine in soothing green lettering and Killian and Belle exchange a grin as they ring the bell. From within they can hear the sound of voices and then the door swings open and Emma appears, looking festive in skinny jeans and a green sweater with the cartoon face of Rudolph on the front, his nose large and round and glittery red. There’s a plastic holly sprig behind her ear and a bright smile on her face.

“Hey!” she says. “Come in! You must be Belle, I’m Emma. You can hang your coats just here.”

They do so, shrugging the coats off and handing Emma the wine and gifts which she accepts with a laugh that holds a touch of surprise. She leads them down a short hallway and into a cosy living room with a plush sofa along the wall and a tall and brightly decorated tree in the window. A fire blazes beneath a wooden mantelpiece where Christmas stockings labeled Henry and Emma still hang, empty now, and bits of wrapping paper and ribbon still cling to the rug in front of it. Killian has just enough time to observe these things before a miniature whirlwind bursts through the door and barrels into his solar plexus.

“Killian!” Henry cries, squeezing him in a tight hug. “Mom said you were coming but I couldn’t believe it. I missed you. Why didn’t you ever come back?”

Killian’s chest feels as tight as Henry’s arms as he struggles for breath and for the words to explain his conduct. “I’m sorry, Henry, I just—I—I had some things I needed to sort out with myself, before I could be good company to others.”

“But you’re here now, right?” Henry pulls back and looks up at him with brown eyes as wide and trusting as ever. “And you won’t go away again?”

Killian hesitates. He doesn’t want to presume, but then again Emma did come to find him. Surely it wasn’t overstepping to say he would visit Henry from time to time? He senses her watching him and looks up, catching her eye with an imploring look. She nods to him and he swallows hard before returning it.

“Aye, lad,” he says, stroking Henry’s hair with a hand that’s not quite steady. “I won’t go away again.”

“Good,” says Henry solemnly, and then his face lights up. “Guess what? I have my own room now!” he cries. “Do you want to see it?”

“I do indeed.” Killian glances at Belle who waves him away. “Go,” she says. “I’ll stay here and chat with Emma.”

Henry’s room has bunk beds with Thomas the Tank Engine sheets and an overflowing toy chest in one corner. There’s a small bookshelf as well, with the beginnings of a fine library already on it, and taking pride of place in the centre of the very top shelf is the ship Killian gave him last Christmas.

“I play with it in the tub. We have a tub now,” says Henry when he notices Killian looking at the ship. “Mom made sure we did but she says I can’t play in it every day because I splash too much and take too long, but on Saturdays I can play as long as I want.”

Killian takes a moment before replying. “What else do you like to play with?” he asks hoarsely.

Henry shows off his toys and books and though Killian is anything but an expert in parenting he can see that they’ve been carefully chosen for both fun and enrichment, and that while they are plentiful there aren’t too many for one child to use. Emma hasn’t spoiled him, or herself, despite how easily she could have.

When they head back downstairs they find Emma and Belle laughing together on the sofa, each with a cup of hot chocolate in hand and a plate of Christmas cookies on the coffee table in front of them.

“Hey!” says Henry indignantly. “I want hot chocolate!”

Emma gives him a stern look and he flushes. “Please,” he adds.

“There’s some for you in the kitchen,” she says, setting her mug down on the table and getting up. “Would you like some too, Killian?”

“Yes, thank you,” he replies.

They drink their chocolate and munch their cookies and conversation flows easily and merrily among them. Killian is amazed at how well Emma and Belle have hit it off and Henry is ‘on his Christmas behaviour,’ Emma says with a laugh, sitting on the floor playing with his trains and listening, occasionally piping up with a question or comment. Belle and Killian tell them all about the bookshop and Emma promises to bring Henry there as soon as possible.

“For the story time!” cries Henry, eyes wide at the prospect, and then Belle suggests he might like to open the presents they brought him. He squeals with delight at the new books, and Killian gets so caught up in telling him about them that he doesn’t notice Emma quietly unwrap the picture frame until he hears her soft “Oh!”

He turns to see her staring at it with misty eyes and an expression that makes his heart clench. “I know how you love your pictures,” he says softly. “I remember.”

“Henry, what do you say we find a place for those books on your shelves,” says Belle. “Then maybe you can show me your room and the ship Killian gave you last year?”

She ushers Henry from the room, leaving Killian and Emma alone, staring at each other.

“Emma—” he begins, just as she says “Killian—” and they share a nervous laugh.

“Me first, please,” she says, and he nods.

“Of course, love.”

She licks her lips and takes a steadying breath before she speaks. “When you walked away last year,” she begins, “outside the bank, I was so hurt. I know why you did it—I think I know—but it still hurt and for a while I was angry. I thought—I thought we had a connection, and then for you to just leave like that, I—” She shakes her head. “Well, I tried to forget about you and move on, build this new life for myself and Henry, and I did build it but I couldn’t stop thinking about you. All year I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, and I missed you. That may sound dumb since we only spent a day together, but that’s how I feel.”

“It doesn’t sound dumb at all,” he says. “I missed you too.”

She gives a small, choking laugh. “I thought you didn’t,” she says. “When I saw you and Belle in the bookstore, I thought, well, he’s forgotten all about you.”

“I definitely did not,” he replies. “I couldn’t. I thought about you too, all year.”

“Really?”

“Oh, aye.” He attempts a smile. “Every day.”

Her eyes are liquid soft and their expression makes his blood hum. “I don’t want to go through that again next year,” she says. “I want to… to see you, and not—not just as a friend.”

“Emma—”

“And don’t say you’re too old! I know that’s what you’re going to say.”

“It is true.”

“It’s not. You can’t be more than what, thirty-four, thirty-five?”

“Thirty-five.”

“I’m twenty-three.”

“That’s—”

“But I don’t care about that, Killian. I like your silver hair and that you’ve had experience of the world. Sometimes I feel like I missed out on so much, getting pregnant so young and since then my whole life has been Henry and trying to get through college. And now I have all this money and I know there’s so much I can do with it, and places I can go, but I don’t really know where to start.”

“Love—”

“Not that I want you to be a tour guide or like an adviser or something, I want—fuck, I’m making a mess of this.”

Killian realises he’s holding his breath, forces himself to exhale and draw in fresh air. “Emma,” he says firmly, “there’s nothing I’d like more than to have a place in your life, and Henry’s, in whatever capacity you wish.”

“Whatever capacity?”

“Aye.”

“So if I said I wanted you to be my—” she takes a deep breath—“my date for a New Year’s Eve party I’m invited to, you’d agree?”

“It would be my honour.”

“And then if I asked you out to dinner?” she continues. “My treat.”

He laughs. “I know a restaurant I think you’d love.”

“And afterwards? If I invited you back here for some coffee?”

“You do make excellent coffee, I don’t think I could refuse.”

“Then if I wanted to go out again, someplace else?”

“You could choose the restaurant, and I would pay.”

“Then maybe a movie sometime?”

“At the old cinema near the bookshop.”

“And what— what if, after a little while, I wanted to have coffee again in the morning? You’d—you’d stay and have that second cup with me?”

“I would love nothing more.”

She nods. “That’s the capacity I wish.”

She’s so close now that he can count the flecks of gold in her eyes and he realises that her hand is on his thigh and his is on her hip, and then she closes the remaining distance between them and kisses him. He moans and pulls her closer, his other hand tangling in her hair as hers curls around his neck and he loses himself in the taste of chocolate and cinnamon on her tongue and the promise of her lips on his. The promise of a future, their future, together.

There’s a clattering noise of footsteps and loud voices on the stairs and they break apart. Killian leans his forehead against Emma’s, revelling in the sight of her dazed and happy smile, and silently thanks Belle for her discretion. Emma stands and pulls him to his feet, and when Henry and Belle appear she beams at them both.

“I think dinner’s nearly ready,” she says. “Henry, let’s go set the table.”

Belle gives Killian a smirk that’s thoroughly ruined by the delight dancing in her eyes. “You look happy,” she says. “And a bit shell-shocked.”

“Aye, to both those things.”

“And you appear to be wearing lipstick,” she teases, handing him a tissue and grinning at his blush. He wipes his mouth and when he offers it back to her she takes his hand as well.

“I’m so glad for you,” she says. “Merry Christmas, Killian. The first of many, I think.”

Killian looks into the dining room where Emma and Henry are laughing as he sets the table and she lays the food out on it. “Aye,” he says gruffly. “I think it will be. I hope.”

#cs fic #cs ff #cs ff au #christmas fic #christmas magic #healing #in mind and body and soul #captains swan #captain book #captain cobra #captain cobra swan #there may be a kiss #to keep it all the year #profdanglaisstuff

58 notes · View notes

heartscfvalor · 5 years

Text

Test Muse: Anne Boleyn, from The Tudors

“I’m that Boleyn girl, and I’m up next! See, I broke England from the Church, Yeah I’m that sexy~ How did I lose my head? Well my sleeves may be green But my lipstick’s red!”

Born the youngest daughter to Lord Thomas Boleyn, first Earl of Wiltshire, and Lady Elizabeth Howard, Anne Boleyn was considered an exceptional girl from a young age. Sent away as a child with her sister Mary, Anne was educated in the area of the Netherlands that is now considered Belgium, with her schooling including, but barely limited to, arithmetic, grammar, history, spelling, and writing, as well as her own family’s genealogy. She was also learned in domestic skills, such as dancing, embroidery, good manners, household management, music, needlework and singing; games were also taught, such as cards, chess, falconry and dice, with horseback riding and hunting as favorites. By the age of thirteen, she was sent to France to become the maid of honor for Queen Claude, who developed a great fondness for Anne and Mary respectively.

In 1522, Anne was called back to England in an effort to wed her off now that she was of age, first to her own cousin James Butler, in an attempt to settle a dispute over titles and estates. However, the plans for marriage were halted suddenly, and never picked up again. She was eventually courted by Henry Percy, a son of an Earl, and an accomplished poet, and thus he was able to briefly win her heart, but again their secret betrothal was unveiled and shoved to a halt, as Percy had been betrothed to another woman since he was a teenager. Heartbroken over this, Anne forbade Percy to come calling for her and refused to ever see him again, leading to him marrying his own intended without another word heard from her.

Thomas Boleyn, a shrewd and conniving man with ambitions far beyond his comprehension, had tried to match his daughter Mary with King Henry the VIII, but the girl quickly fell out of favor. So, he turned his attentions to Anne, intending to bring their family glory, titles and property, and he urged Anne to at least see if she could ensnare the King with her exotic beauty, claiming her eyes were her greatest weapon. Reluctantly, she allowed it, joining a masquerade performance as Perseverance, one of the Pure Virtues, and it was there that she met Henry for the first time, though she tantalizingly never allowed him to get too close beyond learning her name.

And thus began the pursuit.

Henry, already enchanted with Anne, began his courtship, intrigued by her beauty and allure, and furthermore by her intelligence and sharp wit. He sent her gifts and letters and poems, including one such song Greensleeves, that, while not conclusively proven to be written by Henry to Anne, is strongly implied to have been intended for her to woo her.

Anne, ever the quick wit, was at first suspicious of Henry’s intentions and thus did everything she could to try and thwart his attentions. After all, her beloved sister Mary had been labeled The Great Prostitute for her affairs with Henry, as well as the King of France several years prior, and she had already sworn that her maidenhead would only belong to her husband, whoever he may be. But her “playing hard to get” was what drove Henry to frenzy, pursuing her even further, offering her titles and love. In the end, Anne was drawn to the dangerous flames and thus succumbed -- somewhat -- to her budding love for the King, and she became his mistress, but refused to consummate the relationship, claiming that if he wanted the son she could bear for him, then they needed to be married.

From official records, it took seven years for their marriage to even happen, as the Roman Catholic Church refused to allow Henry to ask an annulment of his first wife, Queen Catherine of Aragon, who also refused to be pushed aside and forgotten. Anne, interested in religious reform, managed to wriggle the idea of a Protestant England into Henry’s ear, and soon the King broke away from Catholicism, beginning the Church of England by which he was the head. Annulment was granted, and he and Anne were married, much to Anne’s delight and Catherine’s dismay.

Marriage to Henry, however, was not the fairytale she imagined it would be. At first, their wedded bliss kept them tightly bound, but after their first child was born a girl, named Elizabeth, Henry’s affection and attention to Anne began to waver. He was an egotistical narcissistic man who only wanted male children and for some reason could not conceive them, due to a possible genetic disability that made most of his children -- born by Catherine and several mistresses respectively -- die during infancy or during adolescents, so only three of them survived long enough to reach the throne. As a result, Henry began to resume his cheating ways, distressing Anne so much that she had two miscarriages, both of which were baby boys, which drove Henry into such a rage that he plotted against Anne.

Several enemies of Anne whispered in Henry’s ear to discredit her, and in the end she was arrested and thrown into the Tower of London. She was charged with adultery, incest and treason against the King, charges that were flimsy at best and lies at worst, but she was found guilty regardless and sentenced to death. On the day she died, she granted the people a passionate speech that begged forgiveness for all that she must have done wrong, as well as prayers for the King, whom she still loved -- for whatever reason -- as well as her own immortal soul. It was that that the swordsmaster that had been hired to behead her was the finest in the kingdom, Henry’s one last mercy to the woman he seemed to have loved so passionately, and thus Anne hopefully felt no pain when she died.

But Anne Boleyn got the last laugh, you see. Her daughter, Elizabeth, whom she loved so dearly and left behind when the girl was scarcely four years old, went on to survive atrocities and rise above the rest to become one of the best Queens of England that Britain had ever seen, ushering in the Golden Age of the New Worlds. The heir that Henry had been so desperate to have was the one he least expected to thrive.

#regarding;; anne #visage;; anne #test muse: anne boleyn

3 notes · View notes

silassanford · 5 years

Text

His party is a group of fucking cowards. Or idiots. Or both. He should be seeing his colleagues faces on television every minute of the day, on every news program that they could be booked on. He should be sick of hearing of them on the radio. There should be protests at the gates of the White House every day of the week. Well, it’s as the old adage goes: if you want something done right, do it yourself. So that’s why when he stood up on the Senate floor, he had a plan in mind. He was going to talk until he very well collapsed. Not because he had some true opposition for the bill that stemmed from the pit of his soul. He has purely political reasons for doing this. If it did pass, everyone would know he fought hard against it. And if it failed… well, he would look like a hero of the people, wouldn’t he?

hour one “I stand here today before you to filibuster the Disarmament Act. I will remain here until I no longer have the energy to stand so that I may inform the public about what is at stake with this bill. And if you, a citizen of this nation, has a thought that they would like to express, please tweet with the hashtag filibuster for freedom, and I will read out some of your messages later...” hour two “I would like to bring up some of the excellent points that I have heard over the course of these past weeks. I would like to highlight Admiral Bell who spoke at the Disarmament Debate on the Cora Jones show. I would like to thank him for speaking out on this issue and I will read out one of his statements now. And I quote, ‘I don’t believe that there should be any sort of compromise when it comes to our Constitutional rights, and at best, that’s what this bill is asking of us. I believe that it would set a dangerous precedent in attacking the rights that the government is sworn by definition to protect.’ I believe that we should be following the procedure outlined in Article Five about proposing an amendment to the Constitution. And prior to that, there should be a bipartisan discussion about what such a bill should look like, rather than the president trying to push this bill through as hastily as possible.”

hour three “There is another politician whose eloquent thoughts that I would like to quote: ‘Gun violence is a reality and a tragedy in our lives that ensues from the misuse of a constitutional freedom. Interfering with that is comparable to curbing the freedom of speech because it has resulted in the spread of hatred and bigotry. When a freedom is misused, the answer is not to take it away. The solution is to address it. And this government has empowered every institution in this country to deal with the perpetrators and instigators of firearm-based violence. That is the very definition of ‘political action’. Asking for more is asking me to transgress the boundaries of my power.’ Those words were said by Theresa Wright, on the tragic day of her death. She firmly believed that the solution was not to take away the rights of citizens. If, as the president says, that he is trying to honour Theresa Wright’s legacy, then he should heed her words, rather than pushing his own agenda that goes against her beliefs.” hour four He took a bite out of a burger, flipping to the next page of his very tall stack of papers. He didn’t even look close to halfway through. A soft smile settled on his lips. A nostalgic look. “Some of my fondest memories with my son are when we went hunting together. My son is here, in the gallery, supporting my efforts here today. Hi, Henry.” A warm smile, a wave in the direction of the gallery. “It breaks my heart to think that other fathers won’t have the same opportunity to bond as I did with my son if this bill’s restrictive measures go into effect. What is more American than being able to get into my car with my boy and drive out of the city and taking what my son affectionately calls shortcuts and taking us through this great state of mine, having to fill up the tank of gap and then finally, arriving at one of the four great national forests that my state has and hunt some game? There is nothing more American than family.” hour five “The president hasn’t outlined how he is going to pay for the incentives he intends to hand out. I can only hazard a guess that it will come out of taxpayer money, or heaven forbid, out of the Defense budget which is used to keep this country and its troops safe.”

hour six “I would like to also bring up the point that Senator Lindahl made in the Disarmament Debate on the Cora Jones show, which is that this bill is a “violation of the preeminent human right, and that is the right to self-defense”. hour seven “I would like to acknowledge all of the people who have phoned into my office to express their thoughts about this bill. I would like to give a special shout-out for those from my hometown of Mobile, Alabama, and I will read out the concerns from one of its citizens, Betty McDowall. She has told me she has two adult sons and that she worries about the potential abuses of the lifetime ban, knowing that false claims to the police already have a disastrous effect on a person’s life, and now someone could be be banned for life from exercising their Second Amendment right. This surely is not constitutional. What’s next? Will the government issue lifetime bans on the freedom of speech as well?” hour eight “The president is attempting to forcibly expand the red flag law which is a state legislation and should be voted on at the state level, rather than unilaterally decided here for all of the states.” hour nine “I believe that it is unreasonable to raise the age of purchasing guns from eighteen to twenty five. If at eighteen a citizen can enlist themselves at the military and die for our great nation, they should be allowed to have the freedom to purchase a gun.” hour ten “Within the bill, it is listed that that the person wishing to purchase a gun must justify necessity for owning a gun. This vague rule that places the power in the hands of the government is a dangerous notion that they may be able to bar people from exercising their Second Amendment right. As given the lack of comprehensive criteria, this will lead to arbitrary and uneven decision making which will impede citizens from their right to bear arms.” hour eleven ”The bill has also proposed these ambiguous terns at a municipal level for those applying carry a concealed handgun. It references that a person must be determined to be of good moral character. Now, who is to judge these morals? Is it this administration who will dictate them to us? Would I, Mr. President, pass this judgment? Or would I need to renounce my beliefs that every life is sacred? Will I, and every citizen, need to choose between their religious beliefs and their Second Amendment right?” hour twelve “I do not think that the actions of one man should be used by the president as justification to punish an entire nation and take away their rights…” hour thirteen “I think that it’s certainly a clever ploy for the president to offer a tax credit to bribe citizens to not purchase any guns in the next twelve months. Come election time, I’m sure it will be a nice talking point about out how he’s reduced the number of guns in this country.” hour fourteen ”Now, I haven’t even yet gotten to speak about how excessive and far-reaching it is for a total ban on assault and automatic weapons except for basically law enforcement agencies. Of course the government would want to keep its citizens scared and unarmed.” hour fifteen and thirty one minutes “I hope that my words today have made everyone understand the importance of this moment. I call on all of the senators here to take a look at themselves. Anyone who proclaims to uphold the Constitution must vote no on this bill. Thank you for all listening. And with that, I yield the floor.” At the very least, whatever happened, he damn well that he’d been getting into the records of top ten longest filibusters. He’d been keeping count.

#challenge #cbcchallenge #click the cut at ur own peril it's LONG

8 notes · View notes

diveronarpg · 5 years

Photo

In fair Verona, our tale begins with TOMAS SABELLO, who is THIRTY years old. He is often called TROILUS and is NEUTRAL. He uses HE/HIM pronouns.

He was born into a house of HATE. He was born into a house of hate and he was the sacrificial lamb that was to absolve all the anger that resided there. A coquettish mother who chased after love without a thought for how fickle it tends to be. A debonair father who only knew to love the fire of his anger and the way it made his blood sing. What a pair they made – with his mother’s multiplicity of illicit affairs and his father’s penchant for causing rather volatile scenes. When he was born – with his warm brown eyes, peals of INNOCENT laughter, and hair black as the night sky – they had believed themselves to be absolved of their cravings for drama and hormonal infatuation with one another. The moment they held him in their arms, they thought that God had finally granted them the KEY to love. Imagine their disappointment when her eyes began to wander towards the nurse and his teeth began to grind. Imagine their disappointment when, as their beloved son grew older, the apple of the eye began to rot, as all things do, as all things are meant to. But still, they clung to one another like blood clings to a knife, two sinners dragging their child through their self-made hell. Poor, TRAGICboy, for he knew no better than to do as they did – to love wildly and without restraint, and to destroy it in the next moment, broken hearts littering his Armani-scented wake. He was a boy in love with love, but only knew how to ruin it and ruin it well.

What he did know how to cultivate, however, was fanaticism and obsessive adoration. He discovered his affinity for acting when he was young, changing from one character to another upon Rome’s stage as easily as he changed from one LOVER to the next, leaving both the audience and his multitude of admirer’s wanting more, craving him. Through the many characters he took on, he was able to become a prince of tragedy, a feckless knight, an orphan with no parents to ruin him with their vices. And each time, more grew to love him and that impassioned glint in his eyes, for he was a work of ART of his own making, a statue of David that was not exiled to a pedestal – no, he was to be looked at, he was to be touched, and, above all, he was to be LOVED. Through the many roles he took on and the many souls that fell at his feet, he was able to make the world his, his face plastered on the screen and on playbills, his name harkened by photographers and devotees alike each time he stepped into the streets of Rome. It made no sense to him, with all those who laid flowers at his every step, why anyone would begrudge him for the glory that was duly his. Yet, they did, and they made it known by pressing a gun to his back and a knife to his neck. FEAR struck his heart and held it captive. Death pressed a kiss to his neck where the blade was meant to be. He could feel the brush of His scythe, ready to reap in his soul.

By the by he was able to acquire the services of a man who promised protection, but it would require a trip to Verona to meet him. A city that was murmured about uneasily within Rome’s more esteemed circles, those who spoke of the goings-on there often times draped in jewelry and armed with guns and bullets. With little decorum Tomas informed his family of his departure, informing his despairing fans that this was nothing more than a sabbatical, a means of gathering MUSE and INSPIRATION in the cobblestone streets of Verona overflowing with art, culture, and blood. And he had not been wrong, for, within the city he only BLOSSOMED, with the people he felt as if he were invigorated, practically heady with the torrent of inspiration that swept him up in its unforgiving tides. The muses themselves had descended from their Olympic thrones and fulfilled his prayers within the jewel of Italy. Little did he know that God saw fit to grant him what had long been denied – love. He found it within the face of a beloved woman far too good for the company that she kept, far too beautiful to be anything less than something angelically DIVINE. It hung there at the corners of her gaze whenever she laughed, stars falling from her lips whenever she did so.

It was a WHIRLWIND romance. All who watched envied them for the happiness that they were to be promised. Paintings, lyrics, and poems were weapons in his hands, ones he utilized more effectively than a blade in an assassin’s – which Verona seemed to harbor in abundance. Celeste was helpless to them all, a dove caged by his onslaught of affection. Tools of love were far easier for Tomas to wield than that of iron and steel. But when the words ‘I do’ fell from the tip of his tongue, he had not intended expected to wed the entirety of Verona. He had not known that he had wed himself to the war – for that is what he did, what the Montagues had expected him to do when, before GOD, he had promised himself to Celeste. But what they had not intended was for this man, with his affinity for breaking hearts, to break theirs by denying them his services and leverage. Tomas Sabello was a man that played the game of love and war far better than they had anticipated – and it was his turn to move his queen and declare victory over the city that thought it would do as it always did: destroy him. No, this aficionado of adoration was to teach them all what he already knew – he was a master of HEARTS, and he was to have all of theirs.

CELESTE DUVAL: Wife. The light of his life, the moon of his skies – there was no one more blessed than he, for he had what everyone spends their whole life trying to acquire. He has glory, wealth, adoration, and – above all – a beautiful wife who is perfection incarnate. In all honesty, he thought that he would never be worthy of a woman like Celeste, her wit and steel more formidable than he could ever hope to approach. And yet Fate dictated that he should be so lucky, and he knows better than to question the alignment of the stars. On their wedding day he had asked, truly, for only one thing: that she remain faithful to him. However, for some reason or another, he finds himself doubting the authenticity of her affections and her oath to fulfill those words. Not because he is insecure, no, but because when he studies the pictures that they take together, the notes that she leaves him, the small things she does for him and around him – there is something disingenuous, something that the devil on his shoulder exploits. This is not Rome, though, no, this is Verona. And the truth always comes out, before long.

PAOLA DAMASCO: Old friend. Their history is long and full of adventure, but, more importantly, it is full of affection. Tomas had never had much luck with true friends, they came in short supply when it came to the more elite circles of society – what with the backstabbing, politics, and gossip – so genuine companionship was something rare indeed. Yet he was able to find it as a child, in the form of a pick-pocket who wasn’t too good at her job. When he met her he knew that she was capable of making him better and a grappling hook onto which he could cling to the semblance of sanity in the midst of an unforgiving world. The plights of the world had been difficult for him to fight off, yet it was always better when he had someone to fight against it with. But now the setting had changed and this city was far more difficult to reign in than Rome. Now, more than ever, he needed this compass of a girl at his side. Together, they do as they did as children – fight the demons that tried to tear them apart.

ROMAN MONTAGUE: Charlatan. Tomas is quite practiced at donning a facade, on looking farces in the face and convincing others that they are something true. It is the life of an actor, after all, so the Sabello heir is familiar with discerning the worthy from the inane. Unfortunately for Roman Montague, Tomas has deemed him to be the latter, a man unfit of the crown that everyone seems intent to place upon his head. For reasons unknown to him, Celeste seems to be a part of that entourage that he surrounds himself with, sycophants and yes-men, blind to the fact that their princeling will never be worthy of the role that he has been cast for. Though the two men run in the same circles, Tomas knows this to be an unshakeable truth: his head shall never bow and his knee will never bend to a man that he deems unworthy. And who is more unworthy than a man who hasn’t earned his crown?

JULIANA CAPULET: Secret. For the sake of his wife, he tries not to be seen on the other side of the Adige, where those with Montague affiliations are less than welcome. But he can’t help it after finding the muse of his dreams, the one who has a way of throwing him into frenzies of inspiration. With her gentle smile and bashful ways, he finds it difficult to imagine how a flower such as she – with petals so gentle and pure – has managed to flourish in a city where blood flows more freely than wine. The two of them met at the Twelfth Night Museum, rain falling outside so as to chase away any but the most avid of admirers of classical art, which meant that those who came to worship at the altar of masterpieces were the only ones to be found within the ages walls of the building. He had offered her shivering – and slightly rain-soaked – form his coat and that had been that. Her smile had won him. Her mind had kept him. And she seems intent on never letting him go. Though he is slow to admit it, he is beginning to discover that so is he. What a dangerous thing in war, to have something precious to lose – and to have that person be the “enemy”.

Tomas is portrayed by HENRY GOLDING and was written by ROSEY. He is currently TAKEN by LINA.

#bob morley fc #lsrp #literate rp #lsrpg #mafia rp #mob rp #tomas sabello #n #m #tm #t

3 notes · View notes

minervacasterly · 5 years

Photo

There are a lot of interesting questions regarding Anne Boleyn, and most of them have to do with her religion and how honest she was in her pursuit of Henry. I’ve already addressed the latter, so I will focus on answering the first. There is no easy answer for this and that’s because you can’t answer everything with a one hundred percent assurance when there are still many gaps to fill. This is true in the case of the Tudors, but every once in a while you find about the things they did and what they said, that pin-point you to the right direction. In the case of Anne Boleyn; she has become more of a pop figure than a real human being. In fiction she’s hailed or condemned, and rarely (very rarely) do we see a glimpse of the real Anne. Anne Boleyn was a highly religious woman like any other woman in the period, and also like any other, she was very strict when it came to her household. In her book “Mistress Anne”, Carolly Erickson describes how her religious foundation –and that of her father and brother- came from a current that was taking Europe by storm, and this had to do with reforming the church from within. And she also puts forth that they were involved with Lollardy, which was the heretical sect that had its origins in fourteenth century John Wycliff. Others however, elaborate more on her religious inclinations, pointing out that these started with her father, Sir Thomas Boleyn. The latter introduced his oldest and youngest offspring to Reformist ideology. After Anne’s time in France, she learned even more. In their book ‘George Boleyn’, Cherry and Ridgway, point out the same, adding that George later became influenced by Swiss thinkers and that the two were genuinely interested in promoting religious reform in the country once Anne became Queen of England. Norton and Licence also note that she encouraged everyone in her household to read from her English bible, and finally Lisle, has stressed that her argument with Cromwell was strictly over religion. Cromwell was a Reformist as her, but he was also a pragmatist and as the King’s servant he was bound by his commands. Something Anne didn’t see too well when she found out that what had been taken from the dissolution of the monasteries was going into her husband’s pocket instead of funding schools, and programs to promote religious reform as she intended. Her chaplain, William Latymer, said that she had spoken with chaplains and stressed on the importance of “pure doctrine” and committing fully to the reformation to “yielding good example to others for the discharge of my own conscience.” The full text is as follows: “I require you, as you shall at any time hereafter perceive me to decline from the right path of sound and pure doctrine, and yield to any manner of sensuality, to await some convenient time wherein you may advertise me thereof: the which I promise you to accept in very thankfully part, addressing my self wholly to reformation and yielding good example to others, for the discharge of my own conscience. And as to the rest of my court, I straightly charge you vigilantly to watch their doing, curiously to mark their proceedings, lives and conversations, diligently to advertise them of their duties, especially towards almighty God, to instruct them the way of virtue and grace, to charge them to abandon and eschew all manner of vice; and above all things to embrace the wholesome doctrine and infallible knowledge of Christ’s gospel, as well in virtuous and defiled conversation as also in pure and sincere understanding thereof.”” During her last days, she took refuge in her faith, and her religious devotion can be seen in her last speech, where she asks the people to pray for her souk and commends her soul to the creator. Given how important religious was for people during this era, it is important to separate Anne from the religious aspect, since religion formed part of these people’s daily lives and in the case of Anne, it became one of the things that ended up defining her then and in centuries to come. For more information check out these books: Boleyn Women by Elizabeth Norton, Anne Boleyn Collection I and II by Claire Rdigway, George Boleyn by Clare Cherry and Claire Ridgway; Wives of Henry VIII by Antonia Fraser, Mistress Anne by Carolly Erickson, Six Wives and the many mistresses of Henry VIII by Amy Licence and Tudor, Passion. Manipulation by Leanda de Lisle.

2 notes · View notes

unholyforged · 6 years

Text

⤻ * IIIIIIIIIIT’S EDIE !!!! : back at it again & here to introduce you to my lil #irishaccentaf , #vsmol , #butvstrong , HENRIETTA FIGG !!!!!!!

unlike my intros for siri sadboi black & frankleface longbooty , this intro post will ( hopefully ) not be , like , 1000000000000 words long b/c ,,,,,,,,,, like ,,,,,,,,,, i’m trying to turn over a new leaf ?? and am tryna live a life where i don’t spend 30 days and 30 nights pouring out my heart and soul into my muses backstories whilst crying into a pack of tim tams ?? :’) ajisodjeiowoew . so ANYWAY , without further ado , here’s the loml , henri ♡♡♡

** TRIGGERS : death , religious extremism , physical and emotional abuse .

—— MOBILE VIEW FOR EASIER READING !

⤻ * APPLICATION —— !

* ╰ ( KANG MINA )┋have you met ( HENRIETTA FIGG ) ? ( she ) reminds me of ( holy water and incense ; a girl nailed to a burning crucifix . sorrow burdened , unholy forged —— magic mistaken for sin . could you speak through embraces rather than speaking with words ? it’s easier for her to understand the language of touch . there are brutal fists and the bloom of black bruises , she dreams of liberation ; she can find it if she chooses . so defying god , she closes her eyes , and with broken bones she refuses to cry —— she is divinity unto her own sacred self ; a girl reborn , all evil repelled . she dwells in that hazy in-between world which sits some place between where she’s escaped from , and who she’s yet to become —— an angel that fell , her tears are undone , she’s not holy , she’s no one ). a ( nineteen ) year old ( ninth ) year ( slytherin ), the ( unholy ) is known to be ( + adroit & + compassionate ), yet ( — feckless & — impervious ). that explains why they’re majoring in ( wizarding law ). rumour has it, ( henri ) is siding with ( the order ) in the solemn war that blazes just beyond the horizon. ( admin edie, 22, aedt, she/her )

⤻ * THE BAD BEGINNING —— !!

YEAH , SO , HENRI !!!!!!!!

was born with the name delilah healy .

v religious parents

v religious upbringing

HAD a lot of faith in GOD before THINGS happened

“ what things though , edie ???? ” you may ask

VERY GOOD QUESTION. A++++ , my loves

my cupcakes , i shall tell you :~)

delilah grew up in the irish countryside . devout catholics , delilah’s parents had moved to ireland from korea when they were newlyweds , having heard of the large catholic population there . upon arrival , they changed their korean surname of ‘ hwang ’ to the irish surname of ‘ healy ’ ; the name change helping them feel more a part of the irish catholic church community .

when delilah was a little bub , her parents just thought that she was the most perfect thing in the world ! with silken black hair & bright brown eyes eyes , delilah seemed like god’s gift to the healy’s , tbh .

delilah ( let’s just call her delilah until we get to why she changed her name to henrietta !!!!! ) was practically christined AS SOON AS her umbilical cord was cut tbh . all like *pops out into the world* *has umbilical cord cut* *CHRISTENED* !!!!

“ what a holy child !!!!!! an angel !!!!!!!! ” —— everyone would say this to the healy’s , and the healy’s were like HECK YA our angel faced cute patootie is the gr8est !

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, and then , one day , STRANGE THINGS started happening .

only three years of age , flowers would BLOOM beneath delilah’s feet during moments of happiness , while during moments of distress , melancholy & anger , the ground stirred and shifted where she stood , as if it were about to SWALLOW HER WHOLE.

“ WOAH , DEVIL CHILD , OUR CHILD HAS THE DEVIL IN HER !!! ” —— the healy’s . smh .

a man who belonged deeply & FIRSTLY to god, his OWN SELF SECOND, and his WIFE AND CHILD THIRD , these mystical ( MAGICAL —— but normal WIZARDING WORLD ) happenings were painted by delilah’s father as evidence of his daughter’s DEMONIC POSSESSION . with misguided love & brutal hands , delilah’s father fully intended to cleanse delilah of the devil’s influence .

^ mr. healy began to beat delilah every time somethingmagical strange would happen

for a small while ???? this actually seemed ???? to solve everything ????? :(

a religious girl herself , delilah believed that the magic , the BEATINGS , and MISERY that had consumed her life were all part of some GRAND TEST . all she needed to do , SHE KNEW , was PROVE HER FAITH IN GOD & SHOW that she was worthy , strong and true , and her hardships would be over . GOD would reward delilah for her love and devotion with kindness and fortune, and everything would be fine in the end .

with this belief in mind , delilah ENDURED ALL OF HER FATHER’S BRUTALITIES for years —— she BELIEVED that she deserved the tattooed bruises of deep purple and blue that covered every inch her soft skin , and she spent day after day crying in the darkest corners of her room —— scarcely even daring to believe that she was even deserving of being touched by the rays of sunlight that crept in through her cracked bedroom window . SHE WAS WRONG , SHE WAS IMPURE , SHE WAS UNHOLY .

until one day around the age of 8 delilah turned around and was like “ NOT TODAY SATAN ” @ mr. healy :o & after a particularly harrowing beating , delilah decided to fight back .

DELILAH WASN’T IN CONTROL as the furniture began to hover above ground , kitchen knives and chairs and cupboards levitating in an unnatural manner that foretold the DISASTER about to unfurl . as delilah let a wail rip through the air ( girl broken , girl afraid ) , a cupboard SLAMMED mr . healy to the wall —— CRUSHING & SWIFT . after a moment of pure terror ; the world grew SILENT once more . wood splintering , knives clattering to the floor , dust settling , and delilah held her father’s lifeless body in her arms until strange people called aurors showed up , obliviating her mother , and escorting delilah out from the premises .

six months after the incident, the wizengamot try delilah’s hearing . ultimately, the verdict was that delilah had killed her father ( unintentionally , through a burst of uncontrolled , pre-adolescent magic ) in self-defence —— an event that was built up over a lifetime of emotional and physical abuse at the hands of a cruel muggle mother and father . rather than being locked up , delilah was sent to a rehabilitative ward at st. mungo’s to receive physical treatments from healers , as well as emotional counselling .

it is at st. mungo’s that delilah meets a healer by the name of fenella figg —— and , after establishing a relationship of trust and friendship , fenella and her husband ( ernest ) decide to adopt delilah into their family .

⤻ * SHE DEFIES GOD —— !!

the figg household is the exact opposite of the healy household ; filled with strange but affectionate creatures called kneazles , filled with magic and pumpkin pasties , and filled with love for the sake of people , not for the sake of god . best of all , the figg household isn’t lonely —— for more than finding the love of two new parents , delilah also finds the love of a sister , five years older than her : arabella figg .

in the busy figg household , crowded with commotion , kneazles , and love , delilah finds the strength to defy god , and believe in herself instead . as a promise to herself ( a promise of never faltering again , and never fearing again ) , the girl changes her name to HENRIETTA ( derived from heimiric —— meaning home & power ) —— leaving delilah in her past with her fears & scars .

⤻ * LIL TIDBITS —— !!

cool cool cool , TOIT !!!

so henri is a pretty sweet chick

she’s very capable

exceedingly kind

but pretty sharp most of the time

she will hex u real good if you’re mean

* mushu vc * she’ll hex u , she’ll hex ur cow , she’ll hex ur whole family

dw tho , she will hex her own housemates when they’re being asses too ( and NOT TO STEREOTYPE OR ANYTHING , but being in slytherin , there are ,,, a LOT ,,, of assholes in her house )

equal opportunity amirite ??

henri loves : quidditch ( is slytherin team’s keeper ) , duelling , kneazles , cats, owls, rats, dogs , dragons , octopi , pandas , unicorns , elephants , tigers , chickens , ANIMALS !!!!!!!!!!! , people are okay too ...... !!!!!!!!!! , firewhiskey , bonfires , fireplaces , the colour red ( shoulda been a gryffindor , sorting hat wyd ??? ) , muggle films , kidding around with arabella , hanging out with arabella , arabella (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ , watching the sunset , watching the sunrise , hexing nasty ppl , healing kind ppl , knitting , speaking her mind , starting fights , winning fights , watching the stars at night , her family & those that she holds dear .

henri abhors : clichés, norms, being painted as a damsel in distress , the patriarchy, blood supremacy / and its gross supremacists , people telling her what to do , organised religion , dark magic , tuesdays , arithmancy , losing , being wrong , being woken up , lukewarm baths , peeves , bullies , food that’s gone cold , when it’s cold but not cold enough to snow , when her owl doesn’t come back to the owlery by nightfall , hard beds , disco , condescension , malice & the ones she cares about being hurt .

henri eats a lot . food is her friend . yorkshire puddings are yummo & they are her fave [ assorted devouring sounds ] . she’s also one helluva cook :~))))))))))))

henri has no chill when it comes to her values i.e. fighting against blood supremacists , fighting for gender equality , fighting for equal rights for centaurs ..... EQUALITY THINGS IN GENERAL !!!!!!!! -�� henri has a teeny tiny short fuse when issues of equality are concerned & she is always ready to smite any sonuvabeech who crosses her on these issues . she’s also pretty aggro on the quidditch field yo’ . that’s the unholy 4 u .

my babe can drink more firewhiskey than the whole student body at hogwarts combined , but she never gets drunk . she has the alcohol tolerance of a large blue whale tbH ???? she’s the #mumfriend at parties because she’s the only one sober enough to be .

henri honestly really kind when she lets herself be ????? she finds happiness in watching the stars , in flying , in climbing trees and caring for others —— she finds knitting , and cleaning cathartic , and wants nothing more than to lie down in bed for the rest of her life , surrounded by fluffy duvets and warmth :~))))) however , amidst trying to escape from the clutches of her past , make headway as slytherin keeper in a sport that’s still predominantly played and spectated by men , and trying to come to terms with the fact that there’s a very real war on the horizon , henri hasn’t been left with much room for softness . she is , though —— ... she has the softest of hearts , which is exactly why she needs to make sure her exterior is impenetrable .

OKAY I LIED THIS GOT P LONG BUT PLS COME LOVE MY BABE HENRIETTA !!!!!! :~)

#solemnly:intros #mY BABY !!#is finally here !!! :')

14 notes · View notes

killian-whump · 6 years

Text

OUAT 2x06: Rewatch Blog

Heeey everybody! Welcome to my rewatch liveblog of episode 2x06, “Tallahassee”. This one’s about the capital of Florida, which is called ‘The Sunshine State’ because there’s a lot of sunshine there when alligators aren’t eating you and/or meth addicts aren’t eating your face off.

Wait, what? Oh, my research team has just informed me that this episode isn’t actually about Florida at all - it’s about beanstalk adventures and flashbacks to Emma’s history with Neal. So no alligators most likely. Okay.

Well, let’s get started!

Well, this is off to a great start already! Every episode should start with Killian Jones tied up in some way, shape, or form. Nice!

“Freakier than I remembered from the story.” YOU AIN’T KIDDING.

“Reminds me of death.” Whoa, now that’s a little melodramatic.

Awww, lookit his face D: “Please untie me missus” *flails at him*

Mmm... Angry untying. That’s nice. The leather’s back. Saucy Hook, yay. “Don’t be afraid to, you know, really get into it.” Haha, he’s so cute <3

I HAVE SUCH A BONE TO PICK AND I’M GONNA PICK IT RIGHT NOW.

Flashback Emma’s glasses really bug me. Like, we see NO sign of poor eyesight in any of the young Emma flashbacks, and no signs of poor vision in present day Emma. It’s like she developed poor eyesight for an isolated year or two in her late teens and it just... cleared up?

Oh, I know, I know, she could’ve switched to contacts. Right. However, we see no evidence of that, either. No glasses in the morning or late at night. No issues with spending an extended time in the Enchanted Forest without access to either glasses or proper contact lens care. No vision impairment on Princess Emma in S6 who wouldn’t have access to glasses OR contacts, etc, etc.

So maybe Lasik surgery? Okay, but how would she have access to an expensive medical procedure that insurance didn’t cover (assuming she even HAD insurance, which, given her age and financial situation, is doubtful)?

It’s like the writers gave her glasses as a cute little character quirk in this awkward “ugly duckling” stage of her life without having any idea how glasses and bad vision actually work. Which would be ridiculous, considering Adam and Eddy both fucking wear glasses.

...and then they went and did it again with Robin in S7. No glasses on her primary persona, but her cursed persona needs them to see. And after the curse is broken... she still apparently needs them. WTF, show?!

Okay, but that outfit is super cute, glasses and all.

Yellow Bug origin story, guys! Is there a ship name for Emma and her car? Like, SwanBug or something? There should be if there isn’t. It’s so pure <3

Hahaha, Neal, you little shit. That grin of his is kinda cute.

~ TITLE CAAAAAAAAAARD!!! ~

Not sure why antis pick on that line of Neal’s about women. I mean, I’m not a huge fan of his, but it’s pretty obvious he’s reading the cop and (correctly) guessing on how to play him to get him to let them off. And Emma even calls him on it immediately - and he basically implies that’s exactly what he was doing. Antis don’t make any sense sometimes.

Okay, not as cute now... kinda smarmy. (Hi Ashley!)

Aaaaaaaaaaaand back to the beanstalk!

Oh, they kinda are getting really into it, aren’t they? Haha.

You know, I find it really hard to believe that Killian Jones would ever use the phrase “Tick, Tock” in casual speech. I’m just saying.

“I was hoping it’d be you.” :D

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ “Don’t think I’m taking my eyes off you for a second.”

“I would despair if you did.” ∩(︶▽︶)∩

One of my favorite Captain Swan moments riiiiight here:

HOLD MY PURSE, BITCH

And he follows after her like an eager puppy. Total subbie.

DRAMATIC MUUUUUSIC!

*sips beverage* Still climbing, huh? Seriously, though. Did they climb that far without talking at all? Or did Hook just chatter endlessly the whole time? Somebody better have written a fic of him babbling at her for hours.

“I love a challenge!” Hee hee! <3

“That’s not perception, that’s eavesdropping.” And he doesn’t deny it, lol.

“No, I’ve never been in love.” Okay, but she’s obviously lying. That’s a terribly transparent lie, Emma. You can do better.

The sniffing face, heehee.

That’s a pretty good ruse, though. I mean, really. People just sort of trust expectant parents. Although I’m sure it worked better 10 years ago than it would today.

Imagine if she’d pointed higher up. “Our future awaits us in... Detroit.” “Umm, lemme point again.” “No, no, that first point was legally binding.”

“I don’t really... sleep now.” Oh, sure. That’s normal.

This scene’s kinda boring :/

♫ Welcome to the laaaaaaaaaand of CGI and Giiiiiiiiiiiants ♫

“What happened here?” I mean, he kinda told you earlier in the episode.

“Giants can smell blood... and I’m always a gentleman.” <3

The cheerful way he says, “It’s rum!” XD

...and now my entire female reproductive system has died. That is the seventh time this month, dammit. This man is a menace.

Milah angst. Someone hold me T_T

I kinda don’t care about Neal’s problems.

I like this shade of lipstick on Emma, though. Okay, actually, I just like that shade of lipstick. Fun KW fact: Whenever I’m out and buy a new shade of lipstick, when I get home, I always discover it’s the same as all the other shades of lipstick I’ve bought, thinking they were different and so pretty. They’re all this color.

Colin sounds weird when he says, “You ready?”

You swing that bone, big guy! The things this show had him do XD

...It’s Jorge!!! :D Hi Jorge!!! :D I love him! I loved him on Lost, too. He’s just got such a lovely smile. He not smilin’ now, tho. Looks kinda grumpy.

“You big git!” Hahaha, that’s the best he’s got, apparently XD “You wanna kill a human, eh? You wanna kill a human?” The way Colin says “human” here makes me laugh for some reason, and he does it twice XD “Come on!”

“Come on then! Come on then!” I wonder if Colin’s flashing back to that role he played as a football hooligan in Love Is the Drug XD

Him popping up. This scene is so silly and ridiculous. I confess, it’s not one of my favorites, because it kinda borders on cringey in it’s ridiculousness, but it’s also unintentionally hilarious, so...

She’s so relieved <3

This is a good scene. I don’t have much to say about it, but it’s a good scene. Laying the groundwork for the big reveal of Henry being in the room. Ooooh. Also, I love Snow looking after Aurora.

And Aurora’s tiara or hair decorations or... whatever that is... is so pretty.

“What’s your rush?” Hahaha, you adorable idiot. “How long do you think magic knock out powder lasts?” “I’ve no clue,” as he sniffs coins like a derelict. “That’s my rush.” Like, why does she even have to explain this to him? XD

“Everything we need is right in front of us!” Everyone always turns this into some kind of big CS line, but I always thought it just... triggered a memory for Emma, hence the segue into the next flashback. They weren’t even really facing each other when he said it, so I don’t think it was intended to be foreshadowing. Just my opinion, though. Not legally binding :P

Nice sword, Jack. Not pompous at all.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Epic scene alert. “That’s a plausible excuse for grabbing me, but next time, don’t stand on ceremony.” Yooou fucking idiot <3

EAR SCRATCH *jumps on him* *rides him home*

Yeah, I know. All the liveblogs are gonna be like this. I’m so sorry.

Emma, too, is wondering what she’s gotten herself into. “Oh no. He’s sexy and absolutely ridiculous all at once. I am so fucked.” I think this was the moment she realized she liked him. That fucking menace.

Ugh. This train is just speeding towards derailment D: I hate storylines like this, when you just know the shoe’s gonna drop and-

Uh huh. Here’s August now, dropping shoes all over the place.

That drove me nuts the first time, not knowing what was in the fucking box.

And why did she have to go to jail? Like, dump her, leave her alone, fine, but sending her to jail is a bit... extra, isn’t it?

Ah, she’s so broken :( Alexa, play Despacito.

“Try something new, darling. It’s called trust.”

WHUMP! It’s whump!!! Buried in Rock Rubble Whump!!! :D

She’s even more panicked this time. Nice.

Jorge is mad.

Hahaha, I can’t stop seeing Jen in the green donut, though.

This scene is all pretty great, really. I forgot I was liveblogging.

Sweet, summer child. You’re so enamored with Emma and the compass and... Aw, geez. This is why Colin’s a menace. It doesn’t matter who he’s playing or what you think of them. He puts these faces on and tugs your heartstrings and suddenly you’re like, “Oh, look at this sweet, sincere little nugget!”

And then this happens...

It’s whump! BUT WHY DOES IT HURT MY SOUL D:

And then his voice shakes a little. “What are you doing?”

“Emma... Look at me. Have I told you a lie?” D:

“Why do this to me now?”

“You’re just gonna leave me here to die? Let that beast eat me, to crush my bones?” T_T

“SWAAAAN!!!!” He’s so fucking scared D: I died.

Hahahaha, SNOW WHITE WITH THE TACKLE.

I love how Aurora’s the only one who asks about Hook XD

Congratulations. You get a car. And a baby. When you get out of jail.

THIS IS THE WORST GAME SHOW EVER.

DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUUN BIG REVEAL!!!

...and the end! PEW PEW PEW!!! <3

#ouat rewatch #ouat liveblog #watching fairytales #2x06 #ouat criticism #kw reviews

48 notes · View notes