#i jest...i know its difficult to trust people...gods i know

[ghost-t-cryptids]

A fake book cover I made for my LoZ fanfic!

(My commissions are OPEN!)

[pomegranates-and-blood]

Madness, pt.2

Madness, pt.1

My Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader, Sigurd/Blaeja (mentioned, alluded?)

Summary: So, I wrote a sequel to Madness, I really don’t know what to put in this summary. This takes place in the expanse of a few months/year, but hopefully the pace of the time passing is clearish in the story ;)

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: Mentions or allusions of death, mentions or allusions of abduction/kidnapping, mentions of (hypothetical) rape, and I don’t really know what else. Does blood kink count? Cause, subtle blood kink.

A/N: First of all I want to thank all of you for the amazing reception to Madness. I am so thankful, and so humbled you guys like my writing and this story. Really, thank you so much for your feedback, your kind words, and your support. Means the world.

Second of all, I’m sorry it took so long to get the sequel out. I wasn’t exactly planning one but ngl, I have fun writing these two, and I hope this doesn’t dissapoint. Love ya! <3

Putting up the act of being dragged a hysterical, frantic mess of a woman all the way from the docks to the King’s dungeons was not that difficult. You had kept the nervous energy within you ever since you accepted getting on that boat, and finding a release to it was…cathartic, in a way.

The King’s bodyguards that kept firm hands on your upper arms as they took you to the prison that will be your home for who-knows how long don’t push or shove you into the cell, making you wonder how many people are truly aware of this ruse.

The moment the door is closed, the moment you are safe behind the iron bars and away from the crown and its reach, you cannot help the laugh -hysterical, hoarse, crazy laugh- that leaves your lips, that breaks its way out of your lungs.

You are free.

You lay on that cell for so long you forget to keep track of the time, but small little laughs leave your lips every once in a while, as you lean on the tips of your feet to look out the small window, into the foreign sky.

Free.

You laugh again, shaking fingers enclosed around the iron bars, and you hear a shuffling sound behind you.

“These people say I’m crazy. I wonder what they’ll have to say for the Princess that laughs at her own imprisonment.” King Ivar states, squaring his shoulders and standing tall on the other side of that cage door.

You smile, “You did it. You promised, and you did it. You got me out of there.”

“I keep my promises,” He states, resolute, before continuing, “Any other woman would be terrified, not delighted, at being on a Viking’s cell.”

You shrug, “Maybe they are right, maybe I am crazy.”

The King considers you in silence, clear eyes piercing as they take you in, and after a few heartbeats, shakes his head minutely.

“No, not crazy.”

____

You have learned more and more of these Norsemen’s language, and in turn you’ve taught King Ivar more of your own -it didn’t surprise you when he ordered you to teach him, saying when he negotiated with Alfred he didn’t want some meddling translator-; and you’ve learned of their traditions, and their Gods, and their honor.

Heartless, Godless, nothing but barbarians; they used to say. But you’ve seen the mothers loving their children like any Christian would, the faithful honoring their strange Gods in their own way.

They know nothing but bloodthirst, they care for nothing, love nothing; that’s what the soldiers used to whisper to terrify the maidens. But these are a people alive like any other, and yes, they are cold and harsh and brutish, but if their King is anything to go by, they are as capable as humanity as any other.

If you believed their tales, which you never truly did, thanks to King Ecbert’s lessons; it would have all still crumbled to dust and lies before your eyes as you grew closer and closer to the man that ‘abducted’ you.

All their tales of cruelty and ruthlessness and bloodthirst, they are more than true, of course; but they forget to tell of the awkward gentleness with which he holds your hand and presses absent kisses to it; they forget to tell of the cautious vulnerability that shines in those pale eyes when the sun sets and it’s just the two of you and your secrets and your promises; they forget to tell of the shuddered breaths over your lips, the eyes that fluttered closed when you lean close enough, that fill you with warmth to your very core.

They forget many things. Hopefully, they forget to tell about you, too.

Let you be forgotten by those people that killed your mother; let you be forgotten by the God that never looked upon your family with none of his mercy; let you be forgotten by the boy you may have cared for but never loved, not like this.

You spent a fortnight -maybe?- in that cell. It didn’t surprise you, a believable claim that you willingly came with King Ivar to Scandinavia would mean the leverage to return you to Wessex would be null. What did surprise you, though, was that you were very often visited, almost every day, by the King.

He is a fascinating man, he was to you since that first moment. He never ceased to be, even now, after months of secrets and pried truths and reluctant vulnerability and him.

Shortly after, you were allowed more performative freedoms, and it didn’t cost you much to put up an act that slowly waned and disappeared that you feared, hated even, the heathens that took you captive.

You’ve seen the ashen faces of those who returned from battle against the Vikings, you’ve heard the tales of the women that trembled at the memory of the raiders, you’ve known of their fame ever since your mother was gifted her uncle’s head by one of these Norsemen.

It is not hard for you to imagine why a woman -a sane woman, maybe- would fear them. And so, the act is not hard, the ruse is not difficult.

And let them think the King broke you, let them think a poor maiden was stolen from her home, let them think you long to return to your home, let them think you feel nothing but cold. In the meantime, you will be free, and safe, and growing to love a King that gives you nothing but warmth.

____

“I want to learn how to fight.” You tell him one evening, as you watch the sun set over the distant waves, and hear the training warriors somewhere near the longhouse.

He hums at your words, lifting your hand and absently pressing a kiss to the back of it before he asks, “Why?”

You offer a shrug and a small smile as you retort dryly, “A Princess, alone and surrounded by savages, she should have some means of defending herself?”

The King offers a side smile at your jest, and it feels like a tiny victory. Always does. It always has, ever since the first time you saw him, you don’t even remember how long ago.

“I could let someone teach you.” He finally drawls out, slowly, meticulously.

You cannot mask your enthusiasm, you realize too late, “Really?”

“For a price.” He clarifies.

“I wouldn’t expect otherwise. What is your price, my King?”

But he shakes his head, “That secret is mine to keep for now,” Lifting his eyes to yours and knowing he won, King Ivar insists, “Do we have a deal?”

“Yes!” You say quickly, surprising even yourself.

“Are you su-…” The King starts, even as some strange softness teases at his expression. You realize that you have startled him, and somehow that makes the excitement bubbling in your chest greater.

“Yes!” You interrupt, biting your lip and offering a sheepish shrug in apology when he glares at you, “I’m sorry, but yes.”

“Sit down, no one is going to train you now.” He chastises, but you know his tells by now. And the gentle tug of his hand on yours to bring you closer again is not even needed for you to understand he wasn’t ready or willing for you to part form his embrace. You concede with a breathed laugh and a smile that you press against his own lips, and rest against his side with a sigh.

“Thank you.” You whisper, so quietly you barely hear yourself.

“Hm. You know, I never convinced myself you aren’t at least a bit crazy.” He muses, with what you know -but he’d deny to his grave- is a soft kiss pressed to the crown of your head.

____

“Fuck!” You gasp out, Ubbe’s sword a hair’s width away from your neck, “Shouldn’t there be…wooden swords, or something?”

“Don’t you trust me?” The Prince asks around a smile. You answer with widened eyes and pushing his sword away from your neck with your own.

“Not when you hold a blade to my neck, my Prince!”

The Viking laughs, genuine and young, and you find yourself smiling back. You both assume your positions again, even if you are certain you are one sneeze away from being gutted.

“Why did you want to learn anyways? Aren’t you West Saxons supposed to sue for peace instead?” Ubbe starts as he guides your arm through a motion to break out of a block.

“I am Mercian, but yes, we do prefer talking.” You answer, focused on following his indications.

“Then why learn to fight?” The Prince insists.

“I want to be able to defend myself.”

King Ivar calls your name from behind you, a greeting and a demand of your attention as he approaches you and his brother. You turn around, and he inserts himself into the conversation you were having with Ubbe,

“Defending yourself also includes not starting fights you cannot win.”

“Ladies don’t start fights.” You shoot back quickly, side smile on your lips.

You hear him snort a laugh and your smile widens.

“But you do,” Ivar says, just as you deviate with your sword Ubbe’s attempt to strike your leg. “For someone so…”

Pushing back against the other son of Ragnar, you interrupt him.

“Don’t say small.” You grit out as you turn around, fight on pause.

“Small,” He supplies anyways, emphatically. He looks maddeningly delighted when you furrow your nose in annoyance, “You surely seem to love starting fights.”

“If by ‘starting’ you mean not letting you get away with-…”

“Get away? You get the last word every time I e-…”

“Brother, Princess,” Ubbe calls out, eyeing you strangely before motioning with his head, “Training.”

You nod, getting your focus back into place, and try getting used to the unfamiliar weight of the shield in your hands as you face the bearded man again.

Ivar’s voice cuts into your thoughts again, and your concentration evaporates along with your patience.

“Why are you standing like he does? You are half his size, you can’t mimic him and expect good results.”

You face him with gritted teeth, “Well, if my teacher did something other than berating me I could-…”

“You asked for my help.”

“I…shut up,” You sentence, turning back to Ubbe and correcting your stance to something you feel grounded and able to move on. The older Prince looks at his brother, considering, and then takes the shield from you. You let go of it with ease, but still question, “My Prince?”

“He’s right. You are small.”

“Thank you.” You sentence dryly, and the other man chuckles in response.

“I mean we can’t have you fight like you would in the front lines. Instead, fight like you would in an ambush.”

You shrug, because you have no idea what he means, and let him guide you through the movements.

____

You know what he’s going to say before you even hear him.

“Again.”

“Everything hurts.” You groan as you sit up from the cold dirt.

“I don’t care,” Ivar is quick to retort, and you have a feeling he can sense you rolling your eyes, because a taunt is quick to follow, “You Saxons may stop when you are in pain, but Vikings don’t. Again.”

Gritting your teeth and letting one or two curses in your native language leave your lips, you stand up and lift the sword. Prince Hvitserk smiles, hands toying with his axe as she studies you for a moment.

For once, you attack first, slashing towards his side, but the wooden hilt of his axe stops the movement. Not hesitating, you pull back and try again, making the Viking take a couple of steps back.

He breaks the block with a twist of his weapon’s hilt, making your sword slide off and your balance weaken. The victory is his as he raises the great axe over his head with a yell, but you lift the sword, stopping him even as you are forced to grab the blade with your free hand to give more strength to the block.

Blood pours from between your fingers and sharp pain follows, but you keep your attention on Hvitserk and wait for the moment you see him decide to push instead of retreat and attacking again. When his strength focuses on his upper body, like he did to you many times before, you place your boot on his inner thigh and kick outwards.

The force of your kick sends you stumbling back, but you catch yourself. The Viking falls down in his back though, and with enthusiasm you hold the tip of your sword over him. Victory.

You allow yourself a small smile, and Hvitserk shoulders his great axe as he stands up, fight over.

“You are getting better, Princess.” He praises gruffly, and you thank him with a nod.

Whatever dignity you tried gaining with the composed gesture is blown by the way you cannot seem to stop the excited pitter-patter of your feet as you walk back to Ivar.

“Did you see?” You ask. Your cheeks hurt from smiling so wide, and you could swear a little bit of your enthusiasm gets to the King, who smiles at you somewhat softly.

“He went easy on you.”

“I know that.” You answer with a roll of your eyes.

“And you are bleeding everywhere.” Ivar points out, signaling with his head to your hand. Reminded of your wound, you bring up your fist but Ivar is quick to catch it in his own hand.

You open your palm to see a cut running down your palm and similar ones -although not as deep- in your fingers. Your eyes follow the trail of a thick drop of blood that slithers down the side of your hand to your wrist.

Apparently, Ivar’s eyes followed the same droplet, for he moves your hand to his mouth and quickly licks off the offending drop.

“Ivar!” You chastise, tugging softly at the braid at the back of his neck, stopping his tongue from continuing trailing maddeningly the skin at your bloodied hand. He laughs, his eyes darkened when he looks up at you, and you cannot deny the rush of heat that look sends through you.

“I like it when you call me that.” He says, side smile still bearing the mark of your blood. You have the errant, traitorous thought to kiss the stain of blood off his lips, and because you can, because there’s no shame in lust or love, you lean down and do exactly that.

The metallic taste of your own blood on his lips makes you wonder if you could convince him to forget there’s a kingdom past your bed if only for a few hours; steal him away so he can think, taste, or feel nothing but you, so you can think, taste, or feel nothing but him.

Instead, trying to gather your wits and keep your voice even, you answer, “It is your name.”

“But you also call me ‘my King’,” He says, hand still holding yours and moving it so that he can see the wound more clearly. You keep your eyes on his profile, and find yourself startled when he suddenly looks up at you, head cocked to the side. Thankfully he doesn’t notice your eyes tracing the shape of his lips, and instead asks, “And you don’t really mean that, do you?”

You huff a laugh, “You are King of Kattegat.”

“But am I your King?” Ivar insists, eyes narrowed.

“I…” You start, stopping yourself when you realize you have no quick answer to give. You are not Viking; but you also have sworn no fealty to no king or kingdom, not since the ruse of your ‘capture’ was started. Still, you give him his answer in a soft voice, “No.”

He seems almost pleased, his smile turning more sincere when he states, “Call me by my name from now on then.”

You agree with a nod, the only answer your lips give is a smile, before you lean to speak by his ear. You will never cease to be delighted at the wonder mixed with desire that darken his eyes whenever you remind him of how much you want him.

Turns out stealing a King is way easier than you thought. You needed only a whisper in his ear and a sway of your hips.

____

“You are getting better,” The King starts that night, and you turn your attention to him with a smile. The people have months ago stopped staring at the crazy Mercian Princess, and the whispers about how happy she looks even as a captive have quietened; and for the first time since your mother died you have felt safe and comfortable. King Ivar continues, “For a Saxon.”

“You could just compliment me, you know.” You offer with a side smile.

The King uses the hand he holds in his -he always does, he always finds a way to be touching you and your hands seems to be a preference of his- to tug you closer where you sit on the bench next to him, and it is with a breathy chuckle that you find yourself pressed against his side.

He considers you for a few moments, before leaning close to your ear and whispering, so low only you can hear,

“You are a maddening woman, you know that?” His fingers intertwine with yours before he continues, “A maddening, infuriating, crazy woman. The most beautiful and fascinating woman I’ve ever met. The woman I…”

His words die, because they always do. Even if they always do, even if he has never admitted anything, even if he has never said he cares for you, or loves you; your heart still skips a beat every time you dare hope he just might.

But because you’ve grown to know him, to understand, you do not feel pain anymore. You let yourself believe he loves you when you feel his hand reaching for you in the dead of night, as if to make sure you are still there; you let yourself believe he loves you when you are the last one to open your eyes after you make love and find his eyes on you, his expression that of wonder and peace, you let yourself believe many things.

And so, you give the answer to the words he hasn’t -can’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t- say,

“I love you.”

As always, as every time you tell him of your love since that first time, Ivar’s expression softens, his shoulders drop, as if you bring relief to a part of him you don’t notice is always on edge.

Because he has his tells, and he knows by now you know of them.

And when you tell him you love him and you are alone in the safety of his -your? You don’t remember sleeping anywhere else- room, his eyes close and his lips pull into the smallest of smiles, soft and content.

And when you tell him you love him in the great hall, like now, he drops the tension in his shoulders and claims your mouth, sealing the words against his own lips as if to prove they are real, they are true.

He has his tells, and they betray that even if he does not dare say the words, he does feel the same.

____

You wake up at an absence in your bed, and missing Ivar’s warmth you sit up. You find him sitting by one of the chairs near a window, his hand by his mouth and a furrow in his brow. His eyes are intent on a map of England he keeps on a nearby table, and you realize what kept him awake without needing to hear a word.

“Word from Winchester?” You ask, getting out from under the furs but only moving to the foot of the bed, where you sit with your legs underneath you.

“Mhm. Alfred demanded proof you are safe, and the letter you sent was enough. But, since you are safe, he asks now that you are returned to him. In exchange for Lindsey.”

“Lindsey? Ivar, that’s-…”

“It’ll allow me to take over half of Mercia, I know” He doesn’t seem thrilled at the idea, even if he showed you, you don’t know how many moons ago, that having free access to that region would give him a great advantage. “And Alfred knows too. He knows what you are worth.”

And so the reminder of what this deal entails -your return- falls on your stomach like a dead weight. Of course, of course show could you forget? A Princess stolen in exchange for a ransom to be paid by those who want her back, a while of freedom bought until the offer is made, and if the offer is enough, you’ll sail back to Alfred and need another way to get away from there. One King walks away with new lands, the other with a bride.

But you remember those days spent in Winchester, before he was King, before Blaeja was Sigurd’s wife, before you were his ‘prisoner’; and you remember him asking what if he didn’t wish to return you to Alfred.

You remember that, and you remember every day since; and so you hope, and taking a deep breath and steeling yourself for the response, you ask,

“What will you do?”

He considers you in silence, with cold, calculating eyes. But with a grunt, he throws something he was holding in his hand and takes his eyes away from yours. You startle, but say nothing. You don’t think there’s much -if anything- you can say.

Tension is written all over his form, and after a few calculated breaths, he meets your eyes again.

“Marry me.”

“What!?” You squeak. He calls you a mad woman then comes up with these ideas.

But Ivar settles with calm, with certainty, in his madness. Like when you’ve seen him plan an attack, you realize he has thought of the alternatives, the outcomes. And, like in strategy, like in chess, he has certainty in what the next move must be.

He stands, using the crutch to move closer to you and sits next to you on the bed. His hand runs through your hair and settles comfortably at the back of your neck.

“I took a Princess from him, but he won’t take a Queen from me.”

“W-What are you saying?”

“They won’t make Queen of Wessex and Mercia a woman that was made wife to a Viking, much less Queen of Kattegat.”

Your heart beats madly in your ears, you feel like one of those trapped rabbits you saw the hunters bring back. You only look back at him with a knot in your stomach and wide eyes.

“And Lindsey?”

“We’ll threaten to send you in pieces if he does not send those papers, if he doesn’t concede. When he does, we’ll announce we’re married. They’ll think I stole you away and forced you, but they won’t be able to take you away, since we’ll be husband and wife.”

“In the eyes of your Gods. It will be nothing but pagan nonsense to the church. They’ll annul it, claim I was raped and so I am still fit to marry Alfred.”

And in the blink of an eye you are back in that hidden room in Winchester’s palace, sneaking thanks to Blaeja and her Prince to meet with the man that promised to steal you away; exchanging ideas and hopes on how to make this work.

“We’ll marry before their God too.”

He says it certainly, with no hesitation. He truly thinks of it all, doesn’t he?

And you wish you could say yes, you wish you could accept and finally seal your future away from England’s hands. You truly do, but…

“No,” You whisper, feeling the tears threaten at your eyes. The moment the simple word leaves your lips, you have another man standing before you. Closed off, with an edge of cruel madness shining in his gaze. “I’ll find another way. I won’t marry you for a business deal.

With a snarl of anger making his nose furrow, his jaw tighten, the King lets you go. You stand on shaky legs and walk a few steps to where he used to sit, eyeing the map of the land that saw you be born.

The land that might see you die, if they give you no choice but to return.

But Ivar calls your name, and interrupts your dark thoughts. It is the uncertainty where before there was strategy, the vulnerability where before there was confidence, the softness where before there was steel; what makes you turn to him with a new kind of tension taking over your body.

“T-Then marry me because I love you.” He whispers, a twitch in his expression speaking of how unmoored he is, how uncomfortable with the confession, with the possibilities it opens before you. With the power it gives you.

It should thrill you, to know you hold power over him. He has held power over you for so long, he has had your love for so long, it is only fair you have his heart in exchange. But the fear you see shining in his pale eyes startles you, softens you, breaks you.

So you step closer, so close he can reach up with one rough hand and set his touch at your waist -he always finds a way to be touching you, he always does- and he does, his eyes following his hand before meeting your own again.

“This is madness.” You whisper, and his lips curve into a smile, because he understands, he knows.

And the answer leaves your lips as easily as your feet jumped into that ship, and you whisper your yes against hungry lips, forgetting there’s a world past the two of you.

____

So, that is it! Hope you liked it, and hope you didn’t mind the lil Persephone’s abduction imagery sprinkled about, I am way too invested in Greek mythology atm for it not to show in most of what I write lol.

Btw, Lindsey is a region in the Kingdom of Mercia, here’s a map in case you were curious :)

Would love to know what you think, and thank you so much for reading!

[theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction]

Spook-vengers Tower

Characters: Reader, Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Bruce Banner, Peter Parker, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson (all platonic)

Inspiration: Halloween!

Warnings: None.

Summary: Your plan to host a Halloween party at the tower was sabotaged and so, you enlist the help of the mighty Avengers. What could go wrong?

It had been perfectly planned out from decorations to the catering and music - that was, until Baron Zemo attacked the tower the day before. It was a futile, and frankly petty, retaliation that he knew he would lose given that all Avengers were stationed at the base. The villain was quickly tossed out but the damage had been done to the top floor where you were meant to be hosting a Halloween party for the children of New York as a charity fundraiser.

With less than twenty-four hours on the clock you thought that a full home of superheroes could be wrangled together for the common cause to help fix the mess.

Oh, how you were wrong.

Yes, they banded like a team. And yes, they allocated specific tasks.

The only problem was that they appeared to be working according to their own time and party design post-tower fight. Your only saviour was Natasha who you trusted to pick up a themed-cake from Hell’s Kitchen without a fuss.

With the Black Widow out on a dessert mission, you found yourself watching the rest of the team put up the ‘emergency’ decorations after a quick clean up of shattered glass and broken tables.

“I don’t know if I should be in the kitchen, (Y/n). It’s a stressful place.” Bruce confessed a little sheepishly. You would have taken sympathy on the doctor but the man with multiple PhD’s had the easiest job. All he needed to do was follow the recipe for all the cold treats - you even organised the ingredients.

“Bruce. There’s literally nothing to bake or measure. And if following instructions to mix melted chocolate is too hard then you really don’t have a promising career as a chef.”

You hadn’t meant for it to sound snappy but his complaint came across as meagre. Of course, despite being overwhelmed with the volume of things happening, you weren’t a horrible person and your eyes caught themselves on the short, tousled brown hair of their youngest member. Peter had been carrying orange and black chairs three times his weight across the room when he spotted you waving him over. The young boy quickly set the chairs down by an overturned table and jogged over.

“(Y/n), this is going to be an amazing party. What can I do to help?”

His peppy voice and eager eyes managed to coax a brief smile from you and you gestured to the scientist standing to your side. “Think you can give Bruce a hand in the kitchen with the party treats?”

“Halloween candy preparation with the Hulk?” Peter clapped his hands together. “Count me in!”

Bruce gave a nervous laugh as he led his chatty partner back towards the kitchen. You took in a deep breath and closed your eyes hoping that you hadn’t just added to your list of problems. 

Ready to check on the rest of the preparation, you turned around and managed to take a step forward before Steve approached you with a pumpkin and a proud smile. He shifted the pumpkin ‘face’ around in his hands so you could see it.

“What do you think?”

A monkey - the man carved a damn monkey onto the hull of the vegetable. You glanced over his shoulder to the table and found that the primate wasn’t alone. It’s like he had created a pumpkin zoo.

“They’re meant to be scary.” You told him bluntly, no trace of an amused smile on your face. “Scary - not educational.”

Steve looked at his creation, shoulders and smile dropping a little. “Well, I thought that...”

“It’s pumpkin carving, you shouldn’t need to think when there’s less than fifteen hours until people arrive!”

The outburst came out louder than expected and drew the attention of the few in the room. Tony sauntered over and draped an arm around your shoulders, “You know, I think I might change my costume and just go as you. Honestly, it’s a lot more frightening.”

You heard a roar of laughter from the God of Thunder by the balcony and shot him a scathing look that made the man swallow down any further jests in pure fear. Tony gestured to the newfound silence, emphasising his point. “See?”

You lifted his arm and freed yourself from his carefree attitude with a huff. It was difficult enough that your earlier preparations were ruined and now the team - who usually had your back when villains rained hell - were treating this like a joke.

“Lighten up, (Y/n). We’re going to have a great ‘Spooky Town Monster Mash’.” Clint commented as he attached some fake cobwebs to an arrow. With his eyes cast down, he couldn’t see how furious you were when he got the name of the party wrong - and you had repeated it several times in the last week! 

The avenger aimed his bow high above the elevator door and let it the loaded arrow fly until it hit its mark and splattered the white cotton messily against the wall. The only thing he succeeded in doing was jamming the doors as they attempted to close - the mechanics whirring and grinding loudly. 

The Hawkeye pursed his lips and hummed at what had just unfolded. “I think your decorations are a little dodgy.” He assumed despite it being clear that his idea to use his weapons indoors backfired.

You were raging at this point and probably just about to scream at the top of your lungs when there was the distinct beep of an incoming message was heard through the room. A holographic screen appeared in the centre of the room with the familiar faces of Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes. All eyes were drawn to it and Steve paused what he was doing as he stepped forward.

“Hey guys.” Sam greeted in a quick whisper, eyes glancing around the figures in the room before landing on the blonde-haired man. “We’ve tracked Zemo to an abandoned medical facility but he’s got more friends than the two of us can handle and-”

Suddenly, the Falcon was nudged aside as Bucky leaned in closer. “Did you carve a monkey on that pumpkin?” He asked with a frown. Steve glanced down at the orange vegetable in his hands and racked his brain for a response when Sam took charge of the call once more, pushing his co-Avenger out of frame.

“So, can you spare a helping hand?”

Straightening his shoulders, the Captain nodded. “I’m on it.” He confirmed and waved his hand to close the projection. He had just turned to ask if there were any volunteers when you stormed past him in a blur.

“I’ll go.” You said quickly, leaving no room to argue. “This tower is a nightmare.”

Almost two hours later, you found yourself wrapping the last five of Zemo’s henchmen together with some rope while narrating how their boss destroyed your event which was being ruined further by your friends.

“...so, you can’t blame me for wanting to throw one of them off the tower, right? All I wanted was a fun night for the children.”

The henchmen looked at each other confused and gave a small grunt in reply. It didn’t really answer you but at least it meant that they were listening. You fastened the rope together and began to talk again about classic Halloween parties when Sam and Bucky returned. They jogged past the knocked out soldiers until they reached you.

“Zemo took off.” Bucky sighed, head shaking with disappointment.

You couldn’t blame him or Sam, sometimes the bad guy got away but it just meant that you’d be ready to strike them down when they resurfaced.

“We’ll get another shot at him.” You smiled.

Sam nudged his friend in the metal arm and chuckled. “Come on, we’ve got a Halloween party to get to.”

And just like that - you remembered why you came on this mission.

“Can’t we just stay here or go out for a drink instead of going back home?” You asked only for Sam to laugh and shake his head.

“Not a chance. Friends don’t let friends attend party disasters alone.”

Bucky perked up at the change of topic and sent you a sympathetic smile. “(Y/n) you just took out twenty armed henchmen. The party has nothing on you.”

You would have stayed to argue the point further but it would have been futile as the duo refused to step back. With a reluctant sigh, you agreed to return to the tower and found yourself standing in front of the tenth floor doors, mentally preparing yourself for the chaos inside.

Alright, let’s get this over with. You thought and pushed the wooden panels wide open.

The first thing you saw was a bright orange and black banner hanging across the balcony window reading ‘Happy Halloween’. Then your eyes dropped lower to a confectionary table that was decorated and hosted party snacks, including a mystical bowl of fruit punch that sent plumes of smoke over the edges until it fell into nothing. Children were laughing and screaming and you noticed the spookily-carved pumpkins - not a monkey in sight!

“What the...?”

Tony strolled over and handed you a glass of red wine. “Welcome to Spook-vengers Tower.” He smiled, taking a sip.

You watched a few children run around and play while some pulled down the fake webs and others grabbed as much candy as possible. When you had left, this place was a shamble so the turn around was surprising until you spotted a few of the Avengers by the table.

“Nat put the fear of god into you, didn’t she?”

Tony smacked his lips together, enjoying the beverage. “Like you have no idea.”

Masterlist here

[intensitystoner]

Scribble for @sifkiweek

Day 2 - AU

~2,000 words (attempt at lil’ humour)

Jotunheim was nothing but ice on the surface, such a vast layer over the original soil of the planet that most forms of life couldn't survive here. The few cold-bearing pines that arched towards the sky heedless of the chilling storms had been here long before the Jotunn arrived and the winter they brought along killed all other creatures and plants; this was one of the few superfluous facts that Sif knew, besides ways to find food on foreign land or to recognise the enemy.

Instead of lore, she excelled at warfare: this is what brought her here with the golden armies of Asgard, to take over control and gift the land with their culture and technology. She saw this as a great opportunity to prove worthy of her title. Many people had doubts about her, some had the most insulting accusations. She deemed it wise to stabilise her reputation at this opportunity by delivering a few Frost Giant heads back into the camp from the solo scouting mission she volunteered for among others.

That said, there had been no Giants in sight for what felt hours of wandering in the bone-bursting chill. The ever-present snow gnawed its way under the protective layers of her neck-high armour and padded cloak. Valiant Sif soon got bored of the monotonous rows of icebergs, ice valleys, ice canyons and ice plains. She started looking for caves, through the derivation that the giant inhabitants must be hiding away in fear of her. She ventured into a cavity under a cliff, with icicles hanging off from it like a coarse beast's fangs. She crept bravely inwards in the deepening dark, stumbling occasionally as she tried keeping a hand against the wall, determined that such a difficult place must be a hideout, and she would bring back the desired slain heads from here if it killed her. But Norns, how deep were those miserable beasts tucked away?

She startled when a small light flashed into her eyes, but she quickly figured out that it was the end of the corridor beyond a bend, and with breaths eased, she stepped outside.

Almost immediately, splashing of water hit her ears. Frowning at the peculiarly misplaced sound, she turned to observe the thick bundle of mist. Then she recoiled and reached for her sword, although she hesitated to believe what she perceived: there, in the middle of the snow field, was a steaming pool, and in it, a Frost Giant crouching, presumably washing something.

There were so many peculiarities about this that she couldn't enumerate them at once. So she settled with carefully drawing her sword and creeping up on the vile being for a long awaited death match for valour.

Her hand was halfway towards the handle when a crude bellow interrupted:

"Just what the hell do you think you're doing, barging in like that? Can't you see I'm defenceless?"

Astonishment made her hover for a moment, but she quickly remedied it by swinging the blade into an attack stance before her. Encouraged by the comforting metal in her grasp, she responded:

"I will never trust your word or your demeanour, monster! Prepare yourself, for this is the last day you see this meagre sunlight!"

"How dare you?" came the low hiss as an answer.

Vengeful assault it is, then. Her eyes narrowed in preparation for the well expectable offence, her muscles tensed as the figure moved.

When he stood, she noticed three things consecutively: the giant, uniquely, had pitch dark hair of shoulder length; he was but the size of an Aesir, the scrawniest Jotunn she had seen; and – she gasped – he was naked, and his nakedness didn't stop below the hips as he rose, eventually presenting himself in his entire unveiled glory.

"You've got some nerve, pointing that measly stick at me, Asgardian," said the not-so-giant one with hands on his hips like he weren't as bare and plain as a newborn.

Well, plain wasn’t entirely accurate, as he wore the intricate carvings of his kin all over the body, smooth curves following the muscles and other significant features – quite elegantly sculpted, at least for a barbaric Jotunn build, she thought with some untoward warmth throbbing in her temple. In this critical moment when life or death could be decided within a single breath, half of her attention got wasted on not to glance where his fingers on those unbelievably narrow hips were pointing.

"Are you perhaps dull?" mused the creature then and gestured with a full arm towards the cave entrance, forming each word clearly: "Make your way back where you came from, and I'll grant you mercy this one time; solely because I'm past an especially tiresome group hunt with imbeciles."

The insulting tone stirred Sif out of her stun.

"Or better," she spat, "I'll be the one to hunt you down, and we'll see who's dull. I'll let you get armed now and face me properly for the slaying. Move out, be quick about it!"

The measly but impudent Giant – or whatever it was, she was less and less sure – laughed at her soundlessly.

"All right," he said when he regained control over his breaths, "I see how we stand. But I know one even better." With eyes wide, he bent closer to share the excitement. "Getting armed to spar with you would be a waste of time. I'll fight you off unclothed like this."

She could have exploded from the perky glint in his eyes and the spread arms. Though she tried to stay untouched, anger – so she named the sensation – heated up her cheeks.

"You will learn your place soon enough," she promised mostly to herself, but she remained where she was for now, unsure of what to do: a victory against someone exposed and weak like this was not what she could have bragged about at home, and especially not if this was the only thing she brought back today.

"Oh, I’m sure it’ll be an easy win for you. If you climbed this high in the palace of gods, you won't even break a sweat killing someone like me, will you?"

So that’s what the game was about. He knew very well that her honour wouldn't let her fight an unarmed being, and he evaded the battle this way. No wonder he was trying to get away; with his size, he must have been a weak link, probably subject to continuous scorn. And his marks-

Dumbfounded, she lowered her sword and took a step closer for a better look, meanwhile noting how the movement didn’t even break his infinitely bored posture.

"A royalty," she breathed staring at the curved lines on his forehead, symbols for a crown or horns according to Aesir scripts. "You're meant for the throne? How is that possible? You're so-"

"Majestic, indeed," he cut in.

"Well, not quite-"

"I get it, knightess, you're wondering: how can such an eloquent being be found among barbarians?" The tiny Jotunn presented himself with both arms while speaking, in a languid stride towards the side of the steaming pool, undisturbed by Sif as she smoothly followed his procession with relentless steps and keen eyes. "Could the land of Frost Giants ever nurture something as refined, as poised, as glamorous as this? Could they hide something that no codices in the golden halls of Asgard tell about? Let me soothe your wonder: they can't. Yes, I am Laufey's son; yes, I will have the throne of Jotunheim, and then woe to all that have wronged me. But no, these brutes have no mind to hold me as the jewel in the swamps of their miserable existence,” he boasted while heading for a bundle of clothes on a cleared rock. “I have nurtured my own self, my own talents: everything you're ogling now has been grown through sheer discipline-"

He was about to bend down for the leathers when she stepped in; but before her blade would have stirred, his arm whipped towards her, and she grew motionless as something sharp dug into her neck. His face was languid, his eyelids low over his crimson look at her.

"I merely wish to dress, milady," he cooed like he was victim to the threat. "Won't you allow me this one boon?"

"It's Warmaiden for you, beast," she snarled as her breath let loose again. "And you better learn your place before you think again that I'm ogling anything."

She hid her relief over the fact that she had a voice, her skin intact, though the sharp thing was still pressed tight against her throat. And where in the Nine had he been hiding it up to now?

"I may grace you with your name on my lips, if you give mine due respect,” he replied while reaching for his clothes once again. “Namely, I am Loki, third son of Laufey, would-be King of-" His lofty words merged into a quiet snarl as his lowering arm got smoothly replaced with hers, the much longer sword keeping his chin up. "You may address me as Your Highness, shield maiden."

He uttered the title with such contempt that for an insulted moment, his insightful knowledge failed to catch her attention. But the epiphany reached her before she'd have retorted, and her sharp breath turned into a threatening hiss.

"How do you know so much?" she demanded.

And he laughed, once again that modest hissing sound under his breath, as if he weren't even doing it to mock her, and then he continued obtaining his clothes despite the blade grazing his skin.

"By reading. I taught myself runes, carving them into the snow," he admitted, though his tone felt a lot like he was but jesting. "I used the sharpened bones of my slain ancestors."

"You're an outcast, aren't you?" she inquired with her deepest scorn, just to retort.

That seemed to hit the mark.

“I'm a rightful heir of Jotunheim, and I'll live up to it," snapped the annoyingly fine-wired creature while winding the girdle and kilt around his hips with irate movements.

The Jotunn soldiers Sif had seen always settled with this amount of clothing, so she eyed him in mild surprise as he went on throwing the skin of a soft-furred beast around his shoulders, with her blade following the movements in loutish idleness.

"You may not live up to anything your people don't accept," she pointed out meanwhile. "I hear that resilience is power in this realm, which you seem to lack miserably. Your nation has yet to adopt some higher values."

"Higher values," the creature repeated with honest amusement. "You could list a hundred of those in one sitting, I bet."

"Tell me then, if you’ve read so much, what do you hold for one?"

"There is no light I could shed in your head, Asgardian," he said bending towards her to emphasize the statement. "Your mind is already set, the Allfather's teachings too deeply rooted within you since your birth."

"I only first saw Asgard after I came of age," she protested, too quickly before she'd have considered whether she owed him this excuse.

He took it in with a surprised arch of eyebrows. His exhale was audible when he turned to leave.

"Then you may have a glimmer of hope. Don't waste it. The nearest horde is wandering east of here, by the way, full of the dullest-"

"Waste what exactly?" she snapped while hurrying to catch up with him before he could elope or have time to catch her off-guard. "Do you really hold yourself so-"

"Fine, I'll be your guide. You could have just asked nicely, you know. You should be well aware of the benefits of courtesy, since you come here with your people to preach about it."

“I have no need of a guide,” she announced as they walked on side by side.

“Don’t you, now? How long exactly have you been circling around in the area again? Not even noting that you passed the most significant landmarks you’ll ever find here twenty-four times altogether? And this before I grew bored of you and retreated believing to be rid of you for good?”

“I don’t need a blabbering guide, like you,” she corrected, her look challenging.

“And yet here we are,” he announced brightly. “If you’re not attentive, you’ll find yourself my spouse after I obtained the throne.”

“You’ll regret that a thousand times, I’m not marriage material.”

“Challenge accepted.”

An abrupt silence followed as their thoughts caught up to the mutual jest, filled with unintended smiles. Not yet giving it much significance, they carelessly trudged on in the snow on their joint path.

[project-ohagi]

Dabi x Reader

Buy me a coffee!! <3

Greyromantic: Can experience romantic attraction, but weakly or infrequently; feeling alienated from romance; only feeling attraction in specific circumstances.

Asexual: Having little/no sexual attraction or interest in sexual activities.

Questioning: Process of exploration regarding gender, sexual orientation, sexual identity.

----

The phenomenon of love is a complex, chemical concoction that has long been weaved into the fabric of our society. It is presented as a requirement, with those who find the concept either too challenging to thoroughly comprehend, or lacking in appeal, branded as anomalies. In its pursuit of normality, it quickly alienated those whose hearts just couldn't conform. In a different society, one not quite so dominated by this 'normality' of romantic and sexual interests...you might be forgiven for your limited knowledge. But this one...it seems to blanch at the very idea that happiness can be attained in the absence of romantic attraction.

As such, those identifying along the Aromantic or Asexual spectrums are often overlooked - even shunned. But, the greatest truth of it all is a lot simpler than you may expect: an emotion as profound as joy cannot be induced solely by succumbing to carnal desires, or tasting the lips of another. No...it is through self-acceptance, and the acceptance from those for whom your heart beats - parents, siblings, friends...and perhaps in this manner, the meaning is amplified.

But...what happens when you are forced into complacency, into setting aside your own interests, to 'further evolution', or to 'finally be normal'?

You were still trying to figure this out.

Who were you...really? Why couldn't you summon an emotion as free and universal as love?...Romantic love? Why did it seem so incomprehensible, so...intangible? These were the thoughts you battled with, every waking moment. They burrowed deep into your mind, so that you could never pull them out. They were elusive, yet...constant, nagging.

Why am I so different? Everyone else has crushes...even Toga likes that one UA boy! Ah, yeah...she asked me if I have someone I love. I just said "No". Saying: "I don't even know what 'love' is" seems a bit...she'd definitely call me weird. Then the others would probably laugh at me...

You felt...incomplete, like a jigsaw puzzle with only half the pieces. You felt the isolation, suffocating you. It hadn't been a conscious decision. You didn't awaken one morning and think 'You know what? This whole 'love' thing? It just isn't for me! ' You craved a connection, a bond of some kind - holding hands...a hug at most. Anything more was frightening to imagine. What if someone...pressured you? Or stole a kiss, as an offhanded action? You couldn't bear it...not even the mere thought. It was likely the main contributor to your chronic anxiety and paranoia. Your treatment at the hands of society, the ridicule and the fear of phrases such as "It's just a phase!" or, "You need to find the right person!"...they fuelled the flickering spark of villainy in your eyes.

After all, outcasts and monsters are interchangeable to most common folk.

But you didn't want those labels. You were a lost lamb, wandering aimlessly - what you really needed was guidance...someone who would listen and advise, someone who would accept you and every burden you carried, without question or quandary. But you said nothing...so you got nothing in return. Dabi was the closest to a...a source of strength? Motivation?...Potential love interest? But...how would you ever truly know? How could you discern the romantic from the platonic? It seemed impossible - simply a waste of time. Still, you never fully resigned to this fate of...loneliness.

You wanted to cherish, and to be cherished.

You wanted to love, and to be loved.

Perhaps it was the unyielding voice of fear, of desperation and pain, but...you just didn't know! You didn't know...and, it was difficult. You studied Dabi's face, and while nothing immediately heated your cheeks, he wasn't...unattractive. Aha! Maybe that was love? Alas, you discovered it to be more aesthetic attraction. It was a little disappointing, but perseverance should've been the key, right...?

Why? Why do I feel so little? Dabi is there for me, right? So surely if anyone, I should love him!...Do I love him? How can I tell? Is there some sort of test? How would a test even be administered? What kind of questions would I have to answer? I don't think I could answer them, even with study. If I'm struggling so much now...

And anyway...Dabi was a dominant male, whose sexuality was unclear. Even if you managed to settle on a definition of 'love', and figure out what role it played in your life...there was no guarantee that Dabi would want you. The jury was still out, on your gender - 'questioning' was your placeholder for the moment. But, you usually dressed masculine...would he be okay with someone so indecisive? Someone who might be neither male nor female? And, what if...what if he wasn't the one?

Say I can find love, and I start to understand it...who's to say that the person I love will be Dabi? It could be anyone! Maybe they were right, and I just haven't met the right person...but, I kind of want it to be Dabi? Is that...bad? Oh god, it sounds so selfish! He'll just be tied down, and if we find out that I don't actually love him...what would he do? At the very least, he'd be angry...

Dabi...the more you recalled his honey-laced voice, all the flirting you failed to notice until it was pointed out (clearly, he was doing that in jest), and those blue eyes (steely from years on the run, that probably depleted the pools of guilt and regret often accompanying mass killings, thievery and other criminal acts), the more confusion festered. You just didn't understand! Was it love? Or was it conversion? Were you trying to become 'normal'? Well, as normal as a villain could be...? Or did Dabi really mean something...something greater than you believed? Something...beyond what you currently knew?

This journey of self-discovery had approached a torturous junction.

Why were relationships so sought after, so expected? Even you desired one. How else could you ever hope to form a deep bond, or receive that fabled 'feeling of ecstasy' from holding hands or hugging? If there was no romance, mainstream media would lead you to the conclusion that there isn't a 'proper' or 'deep enough' connection - there can't be. You wanted to experience these things with Dabi. No-one else. You couldn't explain why. He was...an unusual character, mysterious and with perhaps a similar level of complexity as the daunting questions you were asking yourself. But mentioning your plight to him simply wasn't an option. Villains were responsible for themselves; the League was nothing more than a safety net.

Besides, Dabi was heartless.

...Or so he liked to be portrayed.

Urghhh...why is this so complicated? How am I supposed to know if I love him? The signs are...increased heart rate and blood to the face, right...? That seems unhealthy...is that actually supposed to be a good thing??

"Hey, you stopped spacing out yet, (V/n)?"

Shit! No, no, no! I haven't finished spacing out!

Sheepishly, you turned in the direction of the voice. Why did Dabi always seem to materialise out of thin air, whenever you thought about him? Did you magic him here, by accident? Subconsciously? However you managed that...you hated it. Your existential crisis really didn't need a spectator. Break out the popcorn, why don't you?

Can't I have a break down in peace? Wait...am I even in my room?...Did I seriously question my entire existence right here in the bar? It's a good thing there's no-one else here...I don't need more people telling me that I'm crazy...

You sighed. "...Yeah."

His brows furrowed - this was unfamiliar territory. Helping people had never been his speciality, especially given his own trauma . But for you...it was certainly worth a shot. "What's up? You on your man-period or something?"

Off to a spectacularly dreadful start. "I - I don't know if I'm a man, though...how could I-"

"Relax, it was a joke. Your pronouns are they/them, right? I'm not gonna call you a man just for the sake of argument. Nah...Hey, scoot over." A for effort.

"You could sit literally anywhere else."

He smirked. "You gonna stop me, sweet-cheeks?"

Sweet...?

"Thought not. Anyway, what's going on? You've been all doom-and-gloom for the past...two hours." He motioned over to the clock.

Had you honestly spent so long in contemplation? Gods, you could've unlocked the secrets of the universe, but no. "I've...kinda been asking myself that."

"Oh?" It was obviously a prompt, but talk of your romantic inclination (or lack thereof) would likely be regarded in the realm of 'stupid' and 'childish', so...could really you trust him?

I've always been too nervous to take risks...Guess now's as good a time as any to change that.

You swallowed down the uncertainties, the anxiety and everything in-between. They didn't help - they only hindered. And...you did need to release this burden, that weighed you down so heavily.

"Um...it's - it's...confusing. Really...confusing. I guess, I simple terms: I don't know what 'love' is. I know it probably sounds really dumb to you, and I feel stupid for even saying it, but...I've never...never had a crush, never been in love. I don't...I don't feel anything romantic towards, well...anyone!"

"Not even a bit?" He asked, blank-faced.

"I - I don't know. I really want to, though. I'm just...I'm scared. There's always this underlying fear of...what if - what if someone forces me? Y'know? What if...I date someone, and they can't accept that I'm different...that I might never feel anything for them? I don't want to be lonely forever, Dabi! I want someone, I really do! I say I've never been in love, but...the truth is, I just don't know! I know that I don't need to kiss someone. That's what I...what I don't want, but...I - I still want to hold hands with someone! I'd still like a hug, every once in a while...I don't know what I'm doing, or really...who I am."

For a few moments, he was silent beside you, just drinking in the flood of information. He refrained from reaching out, or gazing too intently. It took time to settle on an appropriate response. "You're looking at it as an issue, though - something you've gotta resolve, before you can move on. I'm not the best with advice, trust me...but I can tell you that it's a journey. It'll continue and evolve, as long as it needs to. You'll...probably know when you're ready, or...something. All that sappy crap. You don't have to force yourself to understand it all now."

I'll know...?

"When I'm...ready?" You repeated, eyes tracing the lines on your palm.

"Yeah...probably."

Just before you lost all coherency, a single thought fluttered to the forefront of your mind: My heart...just...skipped a beat?!

[Word Count: 1775]

[citruspeel]

ruin [oneshot]

[jon x sansa] In which, out at sea, Jon knows shame was not the best company to keep - not when he had ruin to return to.

[3.2k, contains boats]

[post-season 7 episode 7 coping material]

In her dreams, pain was never part of their reunion.

Their parting had been difficult. The mere mention of him leaving had brought forth worries she never wanted to relive. Nothing good comes of a Stark who ventures South, they had all said, and for generations, it had rung true. Their grandfather, their uncle, their father, Robb – she didn’t need another name to add to that list.

“You’re abandoning your people.” Her worry had come out of her mouth in bursts. It was a wonder her voice did not crack. “You’re abandoning your home.”

It took all of what she had to stop herself. You’re abandoning me.

He only stood in the center of the Great Hall, eyes poignant. He declared he was leaving them in good hands -  in hers - and she could not deny that his trust made her proud. No one had believed she could do it, no, and she was grateful for his confidence. But with the thought of him leaving her, departing to treachery, she could not help but fear for him.

The lords of the north had dispersed, the Great Hall was emptied, but Sansa’s mind was still on their discussion. Unease seated itself deep in her stomach, crackling up her spine as she went about the keep. Why go? Why not send an emissary? Why not tell me? Dozens of questions plagued her as she half-mindedly accomplished her tasks. Before she knew it, the sky was already purple, dotted with stars in the afternoon dusk.

“Sansa,” his voice jarred her out of her thoughts. Sansa looked up; she had apparently, unknowingly, walked to his chambers.

“Jon.” She swallowed a lump in her throat and looked at him. He seemed pleased at her arrival. “I…”

“Come in.”

Jon closed the door behind her. His belongings were already gathered by his bed, ready to be taken on the morrow. Sansa’s stomach churned at the thought. She wrung her hands together as she looked at him.

“Jon, I – ” Suddenly, she found herself at a loss for words. Why was she there? What was it that she had to say?

He studied her for a moment, then heaved out a sigh.  “I’m sorry,” he said, and she saw it, the sincerity in his eyes. “I know I should have asked, or should have told you at the very least. But…”

Sansa waited with bated breath. “But what?” she asked, voice small.

A wistful smile broke on his lips, and he chuckled. “If I had talked to you, I know you would’ve found some way to make me stay.”  

Sansa felt a heft press against her chest. Her voice felt trapped in her throat, but she managed. “I would have. I can be very convincing.”

Jon smiled at her, true this time. “I know. But believe me, Sansa,” he took her by the shoulders, his hands warm through the fabric of her gown. He held her secure and looked at her square in the eye. “I will come back. I promise. Going South will be fruitful for me – I am no Stark, after all.”

She knew he spoke of it lightly to comfort her, but she couldn’t help but frown. But you are, to me. “Words are wind, Jon. The South is a treacherous place. You’re meeting a Targaryen, at that.”

Jon let go of her. His hand went up to her face, gingerly tucking stray hair behind her ear. “I’ll come back, Sansa. Believe me.”

She pulled on his other hand and held it, squeezing gently; somehow sadness and warmth bloomed in her at his touch. She could never forget it, how she didn’t want to let go. How the scent of him lingered in her mind. How she had to steel herself back as she stood in the ramparts the next day, waving back at him, quelling her worries with his attempts at reassurance.    

Since he left, she could not help but long for him. To see him roam around in his furs – the ones she made for him – and find comfort at the sight. To delight in seeing his sullen face break into a smile when they were together. To once again feel his hands cup her cheeks and feel his lips press softly against her forehead. But what she had were only hopes and wants and dreams, too often broken by doubt and reality.

The days turned into weeks, and to console herself, Sansa would often imagine his return. She’d stand on the battlements and wonder where she’d spot his retinue. She’d sometimes imagine dragons hovering over the keep. She had thought of how tired he would be, and how he would want Old Nan’s pies to fight off the cold. But in all of his homecoming’s iterations, pain was never an option. It would always end in a sweet embrace, in smiles they both couldn’t hide. It was supposed to be a celebration, a bright memory against the dull, dark winter.

But life did as life does.

He had seen Arya first. She had bounded up to him, and he had happily taken her in his arms. His joy was unbridled as he set her down and noted how much she had grown. She could see so many questions brewing behind his eyes, but they disappeared as she approached. He kept his gaze on her as she came near; it was only broken when she embraced him, to make sure that he was real.

Her heart had rammed against her ribcage. ‘Thank the gods,’ she had whispered to whoever was listening, tightening her arms around him. His return brought her happiness unlike any other. Warmth filled her as she felt him smile against her ear, her hair. But soon he drew back, holding her by the elbows.

“Sansa.” Her name sounded so sweet off his lips, but it carried a weight she could not understand. She searched his eyes for clues, but he looked away.

A heavy silence fell upon them, and it was then that Sansa knew something had gone wrong.

She held his hands. Tell me, she tried to say, as she pulled gently at his wrists to make him look at her. She ignored the foreign retinue that had entered her – their - castle. Tell me what’s wrong, Jon. Tell me what I can do.

But he said nothing. The grin he had worn when he met Arya was gone; the smile he had as he held her disappeared. In their stead, Jon only spared Sansa a glance, nodded to Davos and their guests, then went on to meet Bran with nary a word.

With each step he took, dread spread through Sansa’s veins. She looked around at their guests for a clue, a hint, for anything, trying to ignore the heaviness that settled onto her chest.

“Are you afraid?” Brienne had asked her once. “If I may say so, my lady, you are more than capable of holding the fort. I am at ease knowing Winterfell is in your hands.”

Sansa had let out a nervous chuckle. “Thank you, Brienne. I hope to do well. But…” She had trailed off as the winter winds picked up. Why was it so hard to say? “What truly worries me isn’t him leaving – it’s how he’ll return, or if he would, at all.”

She then saw her, the Dragon Queen. She stood resplendent beside her steed. Sansa felt her breath hitch as she studied their guest, dread further filling her the longer she looked at her. It was unmistakable. As the Queen set her gaze on the King of the North, Sansa saw it clearly - in her eyes were want, need, and desire.

Maybe Jon never returned, after all.

-

It was shame.

It took him a while to realize what it was that unsettled him, but the moment he stole away from her cabin, he knew it was shame. It bubbled in the pit of his stomach, then spread to his fingers like wildfire. It was not the best company to keep in the middle of the night – not with the harsh wind howling in his ears, the seas churning below him.

He could remember how it happened. It was clear as day, as if the gods made sure he would miss no detail. From the loaded silence that had fallen upon the room once supper was over, the warm firelight that had flickered against the wooden walls, down to the bitter aftertaste of the wine they had shared – he could recite it all from memory. The wine Davos had given him tasted peculiar – it was a taste he’d never forget. Finest in Dragonstone, his Hand had said, but they both knew it was a lie.

He had drunk the wine willingly; it burned dully down his throat. Its warmth had coursed through his veins, welcome, soothing. But soon it became heat - powerful, uncontrollable, stifling.

Above deck, Jon buried his head in his hands as the wind rattled his cloak. Her cloak. Its scent of fur and worn-out leather was now both a comfort and a curse.

What have I done?

It was unbearable, how he could not forget it. The way she stepped towards him, eyes locked on his. Her eyes were a bewildering purple he had never seen before. As she held his gaze, he became aware of how her wine-stained lips moved as she talked – ‘A minute, my lord?’ - and how as she walked, her hips swayed in tune with the ship’s gentle rocking. He aimed to say no, to refuse, but his head went ahead and nodded.

‘Anything wrong, Your Grace?’ The words sounded strange coming from his mouth. He inwardly frowned as he noticed that he had followed her, that he was now captive in this…Queen’s chambers. Why was he there?

‘Have you an answer to my offer?’

Her voice was soft yet steely. She took a step forward and tilted her head towards one side.

‘I have made…’ He had started, then followed with a deep breath. His eyes wandered to places he would rather not notice. ‘I believe I have made my stance clear, Your Grace. I will not –

‘All you need to do is accept me,’ she murmured. She took another step; Jon felt her breath graze his skin. It took all of what he had to tear his eyes away and focus on anything else – the snow drifting past the cabin’s small window, the furs on the bed, the way the wood creaked as their ship crawled closer to White Harbor. In the flickering flames, the cabin reminded him of the small hearth at Castle Black.

Suddenly, a voice rang out in his head, sparkling, joyous, in jest.

Can you forgive me? Her laughter had been music to his ears. Forgive me.

In his mind’s eye, he could see her clearly. She had been sitting by the fire, his tankard in her hands, her smile so infectious he wasn’t able to stop himself from smiling. But as soon as he thought of her, guilt washed over his delight. Any emotion he felt was then defeated by this odd, inexplicable want – an urge he couldn’t control nor place.

‘Accepting me…would it be so terrible?’ The Queen’s whisper broke his train of thought; her lips were now a hair’s breadth away. Jon willed himself to remember that furnace, a haven where he’d rather be, neatly tucked away by the edge of the world. But his body refused him. The heat had taken over, and it had made him stand still, weak as the Queen laid her hand on his shoulder, tracing the laces that held his leathers together.

He fought to remember her. The feel of her cheeks against his gloved hands, her ice blue eyes that bore wisdom and mystery, the small quiver in her voice whenever she said his name. Jon. But the warmth Sansa brought to him was poison itself. Davos had made sure that he knew it, as if how he berated himself over it thousands of times wasn’t enough.

‘She will be your ruin, Your Grace,’ his Hand had told him. Jon knew it was pity disguised as a warning. ‘And you, hers.’

It had to be done.

Jon groaned and looked upwards, the wind whipping at him as their ship tore through the waves. The stars were still shining, their innocence mocking the disgust in his veins. He could still remember how the Queen smiled as she kissed him, triumphant; how helpless he became as Davos’s toxin took hold of his body. How shameful it was that as the night wore on, he could only focus on how snow drifted across the window, on how the furs were soft against his skin, on how the Queen’s silver hair burned bright red in the firelight.

In that moment, it was enough.

Jon heaved out a sigh. He wished for sunrise, hoping its rays would burn his shame and sin away. But the dark sky only laughed.

-

“Tell him I must talk to him.”

“My Lady, I’m afraid we can’t. The maester had said the King needs rest, not visitors – ”

He stilled. The wine had addled him, but he’d know her voice anywhere.

“It will only be a minute.”

Jon took a long draught from his flagon and let it roll on the floor once he was done. He thought she wouldn’t want anything to do with him after how he had avoided her these past few days, but he guessed wrong. Was there still any use in resisting?

“Let her in,” he called out weakly.

The door creaked, and after a rustle of fabric, it thudded closed. He sat still in his spot, waiting. The wine had given him a nice numbness, erasing all his fear and guilt of being alone with her. Why even resist?

“Jon?” Her voice was soft, full of concern. He must have looked pathetic, slumped by the foot of his father’s bed. Or was it uncle’s? He had no idea now. He probably looked no inch the King they claimed him to be, nor the Prince Bran said he was.

“I am fine,” he said, barely looking up. He was so tired, oh so tired. Why was it that his troubles never ceased? They only seemed to multiply the longer he lived. “Allow me this night’s rest; I will right myself come morning.”

“I doubt that.” Sansa picked the flagon up and set it away. She sat beside him, folding her legs under, her skirts pooling around her. Jon took in a deep breath and sighed.

A pregnant pause befell them, and in the warmth of his chambers, the lack of distance between them pained him rather than relieved him. The last thing he needed was even more remorse about what he wanted for himself; her being there only made his want all the more real.

Jon turned to her and blinked slowly. A strange mix of guilt and stifled joy came over him as he studied her. In that addled night out on the sea, seemingly so long ago, his mind had done her no justice.

She was so close, it would have been a crime not to take her in. In the orange glow of the fire, her hair burned bright, as if it was flame itself. The Queen’s, in the firelight, was nothing but a pale imitation. He could breathe in the scent of her -  wood, snow, winter rose – and it intoxicated him more than he already was. Her eyes were on him, focused, still holding the curious mix of frailty and strength that always drew him in.

“What is it?” she asked, straightforward, holding his gaze. He could see how his drinking worried her. “We have the Queen. We have her dragons. We have what we need. Is it something you can’t tell me?”

It took him a while to respond. She was so precious, he thought, that he didn’t want to taint her any further with his sins.

“Jon,” she repeated, more forcefully this time. She furrowed her eyebrows together and took his hand in hers. It nearly broke him, how her touch was home, hell, and heaven all at once. “We should trust each other, shouldn’t we?”

Where should I begin? Jon only sighed again as the wine flowed through him. My troubles are nothing in the face of war. But inwardly, they bothered him all the same. Should he tell her about how he was a promised Prince? How he grew doubtful of his place in the North? Of how painful it was for his truths to be undone? How about the transgressions he had committed out at sea, bedding his own aunt? I know nothing, truly. He had done it all to forget Sansa, but all it did was make him want her more. Could he tell her that?

He nearly laughed at himself, at his foolishness. All of his thoughts threatened to tumble out of his mouth, all racing to get out, but he said nothing. He merely leaned and rested his head on the crook of her neck. He felt her tense at his touch, but she soon relented.

I’m tired of fighting.

His fatigue came out in rattled breaths. He resisted no longer as Sansa turned to him fully, immediately taking him into her arms. She asked no questions and demanded no answers; she only offered solace words could not give, comfort only silence could provide.

-

A few stray snowflakes swayed into the room as flurries drifted across the windows. In the hearth, embers were all that were left. Sansa didn’t know how long they stayed that way, enveloped in each other’s arms, and she couldn’t care less. It shook her, seeing Jon so broken. He had his spells of frustration. He had brooded more often than he smiled. But never had she seen him so desolate, so down, that he couldn’t say anything.

Tears brimmed her eyes as she did her best to soothe him. Suddenly, all her concerns seemed so foolish. The shame she had felt when she realized her longing, her fear of losing him to the Queen, the yearning she had tried to ignore and forget when he was gone – it all didn’t matter now. Whatever it was, this burden that had hurt him so, she wanted him to know that he will not suffer through it alone.

Sansa hoped her embrace could convey what she felt. I will not leave you, she thought as she dropped kisses into his hair. We are together, she thought as she murmured sweet nothings to his ear. You will always have me, she thought as she held him tight against her.

Jon shifted in her arms. She felt his chest rise and fall as he took in a deep breath, seemingly inhaling her scent. Then she heard it – a soft whisper. She could even feel his wistful smile against her skin. His words – a prayer, a creed, a confession - ignited an overwhelming warmth that surged to her fingertips.

His arms circled her and never let go.

‘You can never be my ruin.’

-

A/N: So this…was basically a leak coping mechanism. Haha! I came across Boatbang leaks and I’m like ‘JFC I have to reverse that STAT’ so I churned this out. I didn’t read up full on the Boatbang details (don’t spoil me, please!) so this is purely my take. 

It was a painful birthing process. Shout-out to this post by @lookingatyousideways who mentioned this fic. I’d been playing around with the Boatbang fix but it was this post that solidified my direction. The whole ‘ruin’ angle came from it. :)

Hope episode 5 bodes well for us! If not, well, there’s always the fics hahaha

[thinktwice222]

newskin

What are the ceilings of being human?  I was just thinking that having control of habits can give you power.  power of choice?

today was difficult.  Went to practice with a girl for a band and she ended up being too nervous (bad) (while i was good nervous), so we ended calling it short. 

Do you ever wonder if people can see what they fear most in someone else’s reflection? Sometimes I see myself labeling my innate human actions, that have a solid amount of reason behind them, as manipulative. Maybe I just have big dick energy, wow I really hope I’m chill.  I know I can be a little bit of a drama queen sometimes, but if I actually get along with you (aka we have shared hobbies, I want to have hobby info buddy over petty shit).  But then again I have dropped some ‘ships over dumb things... although they may have been founded in shallow grounds.  I need to grow a tall tree with deep roots.

Or I can just become that by myself and naturally attract mutuals.  So I’m go to practice/jam with this girl tomorrow  and see where it goes.  It might be pushed into band_project2, where band_project1 still lies undisturbed after first jam sesh and promises for more.  The best about all this is that I’m starting to get into failing, which means not taking it so personally, which in turn helps to take the pressure of practice.  Now in my mind Im wondering if I like it too much and is it something that will give me an easy way out (that of which I don’t want).  

My friend needs to walk when she gets nervous, she told me she figured that out while she was in school.  Maybe writing is my walking.  Its like riding a ten legged horse, kinda like a millipede, I do love those.  Maybe that can actually be my next pet.  An African giant millipede.

That was a fond memory.  Being at the Botanical Gardens and eating chocolate crickets.  That was before we held the millipedes like black heavy bracelets that kissed your wrist softly.  I can’t remember who I was with, I keep wanting to put my ex-gf in there because I shared another wonderful memory of bug handling with her while in New Mexico.  

etymology.  Entomology.

Can’t get my scanner on the printer working.  It’s a nice scanner too, my computer is just not properly registering it.  Wia this, Wia that. Can’t it all just be labeled with big red letters so that even a dummy like me can  find it? 

Sometimes I worry that if you undergo life events while high and you learn from them also when high that your personality grows in a split fashion.  My idea is that certain skills or understandings can be experience in an altered state. What if you become more aligned with an altered state, rather than sober? The other half argues that at the end of the day, you are physically one.  Mind cannot survive body, both fall at the end of the day.  So ride the wave.  Then thoughts of my mother kick in, who am I to challenge genetics, especially in the face of addiction.  Then again, is it not human to have weakness? Maybe this is my weakness and I can choose to feed it. Can I trust myself to see if it takes my life?  

Life is a serious thing, I feel like I need to still stay in my cave becoming better at what I want to do.  If projects and creativity are what I am dedicating my life to, hoping that I find stable income with the flow of those projects and stable part times in between. 

My thoughts on environment (that which you surround yourself with) are changing again.  Before it felt like it was wearing me, and now I’m learning how to wear it again.  Sometimes I wonder if why I drift off into my dead more often than not is because its ugly here.  I will admit I was spoiled with an ideal of reality.  That and I learn most of my speech from watching television, or someone told me that after I commented that people in grade school found my accent weird.  I also have a tick where I repeat myself.

Sometimes I like to think that I had a twin and all the things I do abnormally are because of whatever killed my twin, lol.  It’s a nice thought to have a buddy.  The people I directly attract are too difficult sometimes, and i’m not here to hurt feelings.  

So I sent my test panel page of the first author I’m thinking about working with, they haven’t responded yet.  Of course I picked the most flammable point, but it was also the page with the ‘FLAMING RED SUPERCAR”, I have no regrets.  It also has a choke hold on a woman in one of the panels, which I’m not thrilled about. I got my hit back without realizing it by accidentally cutting a panel.  I didn’t add it back in because it seemed extra and I liked the layout.  Plus the guy might not even Like my style, and that’s enough for me to ditch the project.  His email a mix of elephant and the Hindu God with the head of a bull elephant.  Looking over the sent page, it looks pretty good, especially the supercar.

I went and bought poptarts for myself.  I don’t even know if I have done that before.  Maybe I made a request on a family shopping list, but I dont give myself much.  I got smores. I remembered it from watching The End of the Tour, about an interview with Infinite jest’s author, David Foster Wallace. I have been trying to read the book for a while now, and ended up getting it on my phone with the kindle app.

Infinite jest pairs well with the infinite scroll and the percent finished marked at the bottom.  It’s as I remembered it, drugs, anxiety and tennis, thats all that was mention up to where I stopped last time a couple years ago.  I think i’m at 5% this time around.  Really what I was to find are some Douglas Adams books.

Work tomorrow. Another dealine on Friday. xlr to 1/4′ cord coming on thursday, along with something else that I can’t remember, how exciting, a surprise. Is it just me, or is one of the Rs in ‘surprise’ redundant.  It’s hard to edit a language, I remember a tidbit of history scuffle with the editing of English in (pre)usa. Still going to put out that band poster, but when..... I think I might make a diagram of a snake with the band positions labeling anatomical parts. With some big red letters.  

Deadline on Friday is covered in bugs, and I’m already entrusted with the script.  So I’ll sketch out all the pages first then work on character design.  My scanner isn’t working but maybe my roommate will have a tip of some  sort.  Then the ball really will be rolling. 

Nothing is permanent, need to remember that.  And also not blame myself for it either. Work on Tuesday.

[thekoreanlass]

The gargantuan box office film based off Joo Ho Min’s webtoon of the same name follows up the first film adaptation ‘The Two Worlds‘ with ‘Along with the Gods: The Last 49 Days‘.

And while the first film focused on the simplistic story telling of the death and trials of an ordinary fireman, Kim Ja Hong (Cha Tae Hyun), and the three guardians–Gang Lim (Ha Jung Woo), Haewonmak (Joo Ji Hoon) and Lee Deok Choon (Kim Hyang Gi)–who escorts him to the afterlife, where Ja Hong will be tried for how he lived his life and where he ought to spend eternity in, the second installment to the film adaptation focuses on the even more complicated trial of his brother, Kim Soo Hong (Kim Dong Wook), and the discovery of the guardians past and how they were connected to each other.

As expected the film adaptation does not fail to impress with its outstanding story line, albeit more complex, that is bursting with laughter and deep emotions that will really mess with your tear ducts, of a deeper understanding about the guardians past lives that they forgot–which we were given little hints of from the first film, plus their present relationship and how the discovery of their past shall affect their future, great CG effects and superb actors that once again shone through their roles.

Though it didn’t totally focus on Soo Hong’s own trial–consider it the subplot connecting the past to present happenings and the agent moving the story to its intended direction–to continue where they left off immediately from when Ja Hong ascended and got reincarnated, the film doesn’t disappoint though people might consider it a setback to the film that it focused more on the three guardian’s backstories. I think that it has in fact given the film adaptation series an upper hand when they compacted in a two and a half  hour film what seems like the prologue and epilogue combined for the story. That saves them time though it must have felt hasty and overwhelming to some viewers.

The Story:

The story picks up where they left off from the end of the first film and shows us the three guardians bringing Soo Hong to the afterlife and fighting ghouls in the desert wanting Kim Soo Hong’s soul with them.

Soo Hong, albeit having an unjust death, has shaken up the underworld with the stunt he pulled off when he transformed into a vengeful spirit (in the first film) and caused havoc on earth, harming humans. That was why many were against Gang Lim’s claim of him being the new paragon that they wanted to ascend and whom they will be working on for their 49th trial.

It doesn’t help Gang Lim’s cause that Soo Hong isn’t willing to be reincarnated. He thinks the life he had lived was enough and he doesn’t want to go through the same thing in another life. But Gang Lim’s stubborn dedication, though using unconventional ways to save Soo Hong from suffering in eternal hell, led them a chance for the trials. However, there’s a catch, that while Gang Lim and Soo Hong journeys through the trial alone, Haewonmak and Deok Choon must bring to the afterlife the old man, Heo Choon Sam, who is already beyond his expected time living on earth. Otherwise, failing would mean giving up their guardian position and their chance to be reincarnated, which had been what they had been promised before once they successfully ascended 49 deserving souls.

The impossible task to escort Heo Choon Sam to the afterlife has been proven harder than they thought, though, when there’s an undefeatable household god, Sung Ju, who insist on carrying his task because of the old man’s grandson, Heo Hyun Dong.

Sung Ju may be a god, but the film has shown different sides of him whereas he can be almighty and knowledgeable about the afterlife, he was also someone that can sympathize with the child, who’s more compliant not to harm any humans because of his status and righteous character, and who’s overly optimistic about the stock market when he invested the money the old man got from the demolition team, causing loan sharks to linger around them because of his debt he has incurred because of his choice to trust his own decision which so far made his stocks plummet to a negative, nada, nothing.

He constantly bickers with Haewonmak while they continue to strike deals with him to convince him to give up Heo Choon Sam’s soul to them, which are probably one of the few scenes that brought laughter throughout the length of the film but also brought us to levels of melodrama. What’s great about his character, though it breaks away from Ma Dong Seok’s typical tough guy roles, is that it makes him more amicable and fun to watch while he also tells Haewonmak and Deok Choon of their pasts.

Throughout the film while going back and forth with what’s happening to Gang Lim’s quest to save Soo Hong in the trials and Haewonmak and Deok Choon’s task to retrieve Heo Choon Sam’s overstayed soul, we discover something far deeper about the three guardians, which wasn’t exactly revealed in the first film but of which they left hints of. This gives the film some edge and starts to engross viewers about what really transpired in their past lives and how are they going to handle it.

What’s even more interesting is how each of their lives were weaved together in the past and how we get most of the twists from these backstories. The irony of their relationship and why they were together is shown in detail, how it came to be, who decided for it to be that way while Gang Lim is allowed to retain his memories and not the same for Haewonmak and Deok Choon. As the reel plays in front of you, you’ll come to realizations you never had before and while the fact is already at your grasp the film still doesn’t fail to surprise you out of your wits when you come to connect the dots.

But what’s even more impressive is how Soo Hong’s trial also subtly relates to Gang Lim’s difficult life in the past as a human and in the present as a guardian.

Gang Lim made us laugh with his jests in the first film, but despite him losing that spirit in this sequela and his character toning down to the guilt-filled and suffering guardian for a millennia, he shows us what greatness it can do if you try to right your wrongs in any way possible. Reminding us that asking for forgiveness can never be too late and bestowing that forgiveness is not as impossible as you think.

And though It’s already hard that he has to live a life suffering with the memory of his not so good past, its another story when the cause of his suffering is next to him. This realization as the trials slowly conclude with Yeomra as one of the witnesses and Sung Ju’s parting words as he vanished (after his pot was broken) penetrates the wounded hearts of those who suffered the most in their past, Haewonmak and Deok Choon, and they find their reason to forget and forgive.

The film ends with all of them finding out the truth about their past, Soo Hong’s ascension and chance to reincarnate, and also the three guardians going back to earth to retrieve Heo Choon Sam.

But of course, it never fails to gift us with twists even until the end–though they made us think otherwise and doubt at first–which is much better than our expected outcome: Hyun Dong finally starts school, but he also has Heo Choon Sam bring him to his first day, the three guardians lost their chance to finally reincarnate because of their decision but in exchange the humans have happier days until its finally time, they also get another paragon to assist in trial, Won Dong Yeon (Do Kyung Soo) who died as a witness, and leaves us thinking of more possibilities as we discover Yeomra isn’t what we simply think he is and as his millennia as the King finally comes to an end it’s even more interesting when he offers Soo Hong to work with him.

Final Thoughts:

As a fan of the first ‘Along with the Gods‘ film, I was quite excited when I heard about it getting a part 2. Finally watching it after the subs came out, I think I am not disappointed though it’s something I am mildly surprised with, since it did not really focus on the paragon’s road to reincarnation, but turned the other way and went for telling the backstory of the three guardians, which is totally fine with me and which I think is quite interesting once you’re immersed in the film.

However, I must admit that I was really looking forward to a real continuation of what they started in the past wherein the story was simply about three guardians trying to ascend Ja Hong and the recollection of his painful past that’s deeper than how we first thought. I liked that it tackled the individual and unique pains of people and though the life he lived isn’t so perfect, he found forgiveness and he got what he deserved in the end.

But then again, thinking back to the two movies, I must say they also made a smart move in tackling about the guardians’ past because that gives us a window to what have been left unanswered in the first film. Now we’re totally brought out from the dark and no secrets will bring setbacks to the continuation of the film adaptation series.

Additionally, I think whatever we need to know about Soo Hong and his unjust death was already uncovered in the first film while solving Ja Hong’s own mystery. So, technically, there’s not much to go back to in Soo Hong’s past that’s even worse with what he had or which will be equally gripping as in the first one. I think the reason why his story is even put as a subplot is to give his own story closure and to give light to Gang Lim’s backstory, which we’ll later find more similar to Soo Hong’s than not. That must be the same reason why Gang Lim stubbornly fought for Soo Hong’s ascension, so that he and the one that sinned him won’t suffer the same fate he did for a millennium.

Technical-wise, I think that this film still has it all despite of its small shortcomings. The movie has a great story line–that’s still a fact. The pacing and the back and forth story telling is still easy to follow, though there may be times when you’ll notice it loses its momentum as it switches from one side to the other, however gains it back at some point. I think they did that to not overshadow anybody since Haewonmak and Deok Choon were in a completely different world than Gang Lim and Soo Hong. I must also commend the great editing and the still surprisingly superb CG, which is clearly seen when the Jurassic Park’s T-rex comes out of nowhere because Soo Hong says it’s the only thing he fears.

The actors are also one of the main assets of this film. It’s a given that Ma Dong Seok is a god send for gracing us with his adorable tough guy presence, which has mellowed down because of  his household god role in this film but is nonetheless interesting. But there’s also our beloved actors that portrayed the three guardians–Ha Jung Woo, Joo Ji Hoon, and Kim Hyang Gi. I think that Ha Jung Woo’s sass and fun was left out in this film, but can’t blame him because it isn’t the game this time. Still, I think he did well in his role. Then there’s also Hyang Gi whose kindness and selflessness shown with her past self. And my AWTG favorite, Joo Ji Hoon, who really rocked his sarcastic, bickering and temperamental Haewonmak and his Goryeo long-haired, dirty looking warrior look. I think that though his character extremely differs in the present from one millennium ago that it’s nothing much I would want to argue about. Either way he’s lovable.

As a special mention, Kim Dong Wook who portrayed Soo Hong is the true revelation to me here. I don’t know this actor at all, but aside from the vengeful spirit stunt he pulled off in the past and him taking the bar exam eight times before passing the first round doesn’t really say much how perceptive he was while he was constantly bickering with Gang Lim. Nonetheless, I’m interested what he and Yeomra will be up to now that he agreed to work with him.

And now that Won Dong Yeon is the next paragon would that mean Do Kyung Soo will be the next main star in the third installation of ‘Along with the Gods’?

Rating:

‘Along with the Gods’ doesn’t fail to impress. It is always filled with something new while moving us with poignant life lessons. Rating it I give it 4.9 out of 5.

‘Along with the Gods 2: The Last 49 Days’ Film Review The gargantuan box office film based off Joo Ho Min's webtoon of the same name follows up the first film adaptation '

[sayedhusaini]

Too long a post ... but too visible for the eyes ... by Fantalius

(A not so short section from the short story The Holy and Captain K. Kate, the spirit of St. Katherine of Alexandra, has been speaking about the 6W concept; War Without Weapons for a World Without War.)

“To summarize,” said Kate, “the corporate elite believe that economic conquest of everyone can be achieved by applying the formula: Control the government, own the military and maintain war production.”

The silence between us grew because Kate waited for me to say something and I didn’t know what to say. She sensed my dilemma and spoke quietly in my ear, “They are killing people. Daily.”

She may as well have slapped me in the face.

“What do you mean?” “Not only in Iraq and Afghanistan, but Pakistan, Yemen, Somalia and other places. Daily. They speak of these people - when forced to speak of them at all – as terrorists, insurgents, Taliban, extremists, suspected militants, whatever, as though these labels justify murder. The majority of the victims are villagers and people whose crime consists of living in a place the warlords intend to control. The message shouts murderously clear, resistance will not be tolerated.” “You really know how to make it sound horrible.”

“Look at me! If you have any trust in me at all, trust what I am about to tell you.” She didn’t have to wait for my intense concentration. “It’s much, much more horrible than I have described. Much more!”

She had me in a trance. Before I could respond, she continued. “These horrors spread. The nature of the conflict guarantees its spread. It’s only a matter of time before the people in the USA and the allied countries experience similar horrors first hand.”

She had maintained her soft, loving voice while emphasizing the horrors and predicting their spread. It was too much for me. I blew it. “Don’t you ever get angry?” I shouted angrily. “Have you ever been angry?” “Once.”

“What happened?” “During my lifetime I was one of the Christians in the years before and after 300. We were nothing like the Christians of today. We had no churches except for modest gathering places. Nor did we have bibles, standard liturgy or even a standard set of beliefs other than the belief in one God who viewed all people equally.”

“Jesus. It was the belief in Jesus that united you.” “Not exactly. Most of us regarded Jesus a great prophet who brought us the word of God, the truth of God. The term 'son of God', for example, was a common metaphor to designate a prophet of excellence. Jesus was always referred to as 'the' son of God instead of 'a' son to testify to his unique greatness. We viewed those who twisted the metaphor into a reality - viewing the messenger as God himself - with strained tolerance. As long as they acted in a Christian manner, we saw no reason to cause dissention based on how one viewed the essence of our prophet. We were naïve.”

“I’m confused. What was it that made you Christian? What was `acting in ‘a Christian manner’?”

“The teachings of Jesus made us aware of the dignity of humanity under the authority of God. That was the key. We recognized no other authority and took direct responsibility for the welfare and condition of the people around us. We worked and lived to help and support each other. Our lives revolved around community. You can say that we all worked on the project of humanity with God as our only boss. Emperors, kings, governors and other worldly dignitaries commanded no respect from us. That’s why we were so hated and persecuted. If the rulers couldn’t command respect and couldn’t count on our obedience, their rule would prove powerless.”

“So the rulers struck out at you as a way of defending themselves. You were the terrorists of your time.”

“We were as hated and despised as terrorists of today, but we were much more threatening because of our lack of terrorism. We weren’t even aggressive. We simply turned our backs on the norms and traditions of the ruling order and built our own world. And we succeeded. We grew stronger as the empire grew weaker.”

“I’m not sure what you mean by grew stronger. You mean that more and more of you became believers, became Christians”?

“Yes, of course we had our ideology, our belief, and this was important, but our strength was also real and practical. The functions of society were in our hands. We supplied each other’s needs and helped each other in every way. The rulers claimed to be our protectors, but all they did was take from us and cause problems.”

“But you were part of the Roman Empire.” “We were living in the Roman Empire, but we were building a world that was not part of the empire.” “You were like a mushroom on a rotting tree,” I said in jest. “Yes, a healthy growth on a rotten system. The mushroom analogy is … mushy. Our world was strong and vibrant.”

“So what made you angry?” “After I was killed…” “You were killed?” “Beaten, tortured, raped and killed.”

I could not picture anyone harming the beautiful and gentle Kate. “Why? What did you do?” “I didn’t do anything. I was singled out because I was an influential Christian.” “Were you a priest? Some sort of leader?” “No, not influential in that way. I had no leading position. I did however influence many people. Many people joined us because of my example and the way I talked.”

“Your loving way of speaking.” “Not so much how I spoke, but what I said. I could sell the idea of Christianity, the concept of living as equals under the authority of God.” “And that’s why you were tortured and… (I couldn’t bring myself to say raped.) … killed?”

“Yes, and the fact that I was young, a woman and came from a wealthy family. My very existence was a threat.” “So they killed you.” “Yes, tortured, raped and killed me.” “That certainly explains the anger.” “That’s not what made me angry, or it’s not the anger I’m talking about.” “It’s not?!” “No. What made me angry happened a few years later.” “Something worse that being tortured, raped and killed?” “Much worse.”

We were silent. I’m certain Kate knew that I was trying to figure out what could be worse. My imagination couldn’t find anything.

“You’re going to have a hard time convincing me that something was ‘much worse’ than what you went through.”

“Wouldn’t you say that a thousand years of death, despair and destruction weighs more than one individual’s suffering? What’s one death compared to hundreds of millions of deaths? One rape weighed against millions of rapes?” “I don’t understand what you are talking about, Kate. Are you saying that you were not angry about your fate because many people have shared a similar fate throughout history?”

“Forgive me, I’ll explain. This is very difficult for me. The coals of anger still glow within in me.”

Her eye’s swelled with tears and I was about to say something when she held up her hand to stop me.

“Permit me to cry if I must. The tears are a valve on the pressure of anger. You see… they gave our world away. Gave it away! We struggled for over 300 years. Despite persecutions we kept developing and building. We succeeded. We were in command of a new world. Then they gave that world away.”

Her tears were now flowing freely even if her voice was calm. I couldn’t keep my own tears back even though I didn’t know what she was talking about.

“My martyrdom as it was called occurred at the beginning of the last great persecution. A few years later in 311, Galerius, the same man who initiated the attacks against us, ended them by declaring that Christians should be treated with tolerance, The Edict of Toleration. Two years later, emperor Constantine went even further. His edict not only granted Christians full authority to practice their religion, but he returned property that had been taken from congregations and supported Christians in several ways. He was more than tolerant. He was pro-Christian even suggesting that he felt Christian himself.”

“That was certainly welcomed.

“Yes and no.”

“Yes and NO! What could be bad about that?”

“Of course it was good that the persecutions ended. The edicts however were portrayed as justice and tolerance offered by the rulers of the empire.”

“Weren’t they?”

“No! They were declarations of surrender. They didn’t give us anything. They attacked us and we defeated them. We broke their efforts to punish us and they were forced to stop. We ruled life in the empire, not them. In response to the persecutions initiated by Galerius - The Great Persecution – we, the Christians, shut the empire down. Alexandria, for instance, where I lived was for all practical purposes a Christian city. Almost half of the population was Christian and the rest of the people supported, cooperated and sympathized with us. Even many of the Roman soldiers were on friendly terms with us. Shortly after the persecutions got under way, the people withdrew all services and supplies. The Roman garrison could get no bread or food, no repairs or supplies. The ships in the harbor could not be loaded or unloaded. Even the prostitutes disappeared. The Roman troops met empty streets. People shut themselves indoors or went to relatives in the countryside. Soldiers throughout the empire rebelled and refused to follow orders rather than attack Christians. The rulers fought among themselves. The empire ceased to function. They had no choice but to declare an end to the persecutions, to admit defeat.”

“So what if they made their defeat look like a gesture of tolerance? They were trying to save face. The important thing was that the persecutions stopped, Kate. The Christians could practice their religion in peace”.

“If that was all there was to it, it would have been acceptable. But the defeated emperor took over the Christian movement. With the victorious Christians allowing it. Incredible! The victors handed over the victory to the defeated, to the enemy. For 300 years we built a society divorced from imperial authority. We turned our backs on the rulers and built a society by supporting each other. We suffered horribly under their persecutions. Yet we prevailed. We won our independence. And then we gave it away. Suddenly the emperor was calling the shots, telling us what to do, arranging meetings and creating policy for Christians. In the face of defeat he gained control by proclaiming tolerance and claiming to be a friend of the Christians. We had lived, worked and struggled in total disregard of imperial directives for 300 years and suddenly we were submitting to imperial will because the emperor was nice to us. He was helping us. Or so it seemed. We hadn’t needed any help from the authorities for hundreds of years, but when we were at our strongest and won a decisive victory, we were taking help. In reality, the emperor was helping himself take control.”

Kate’s voice had grown hard. I hadn’t seen her this upset. “So that’s what made you angry?”

“That’s what started it,” she said and her anger faded and threatened to turn to tears again.

“What do you mean ‘started it’? Do you mean that the anger got worse or that it lasted a long time?”

“Both. Read almost any account of history and the source will mention that Christianity proper began with Constantine at the head of the Christian Church. He gave financial support, built churches, freed the congregations from taxes, passed out land grants and adopted Christians into his administration. What he actually did, – and you’ll never see this in the history books – he bought the Christian movement. And destroyed it.”

“You mean he changed it”.

“No!” said Kate with a sharpness that startled me. “Destroyed it. Obliterated it. … Killed it. It ceased to exist. The Christianity that sprang from Constantine grew into the Christianity of today. As I mentioned earlier, we, me and my Christian contemporaries, were nothing like the Christians of today.”

“Nothing and nothing. There must be quite a few similarities”.

We were silent. I saw how Kate regained her calm. Her face softened and she smiled. I knew that whatever she would say next, would be said lovingly. I was right.

“Did you know that Charlie Chaplin and Adolf Hitler were born under the same sign just 4 days apart?”

“No.”

“They were both short men; both were raised by a mother who divorced their father; both became famous and were known for the same short mustache and both lived outside the country of their origin. Quite a few similarities.” “OK, I get your point.”

“The mushroom known as the European destroying angel (amanita virosa), and the common Button or White mushroom (Agaricus bisporus) are nearly identical. The one is delicious and nourishing, the other will kill you.” “As I said, I get your point. But were the differences between your Christianity and the one that developed after Constantine really that different? Both were based on Jesus.”

“The differences were basic, fundamental, as different as Charlie who spread laughter and Hitler who spread death, or as different as identical looking mushrooms being nourishing contra deadly. We were a healthy growth concerned with and active in everyone’s welfare. Equal in status and dignity we took responsibility for our community. They re-established a hierarchy where a leader told the people that they were sinners, but could hope for salvation after death if they followed the rules laid down by the church. We turned our backs on worldly authorities, they claimed that the authorities had a divine right to rule us and should be obeyed.”

“You make Christianity after Constantine look like an evil organization.” “I don’t have to do that.” She was back in lovingly mode. “They are very good at that themselves. Take care to avoid equating the people with the organization! Note also that Christians accomplished many positive things along the path of history. We are still left with a general picture of 1700 years characterized by conflict and war; a tiny wealthy elite driving toiling masses; slavery, intolerance, persecutions and any number of evils. Neither slavery or war could have occurred among us early Christians. Or take a simple thing like an 18-year-old woman having considerable influence in the congregation. This was nothing unusual for us in our community of equals. It was an impossibility for over 1000 years of Christianity.”

“There’s a lot to what you say, Kate, but you’re not going to convince me that you and your Christian contemporaries were a collection of saints living in a utopia.” “I should hope not. We certainly had our problems and conflicts. That’s not the point. The key issue didn’t occur to me until many years later when my anger was diluted by time. I then realized that the people had abandoned God in favor of worldly authorities. This was the same as abandoning their own responsibility for life and how it developed. The rulers willingly accepted responsibility in the role of God’s representatives on earth.”

“Kate, I need to take a break and think about all that you’ve said. Despite your loving way, you are one heavy lady.”

Kate laughed. “OK, but before we take a break, there’s one thing I must make clear for you about God. Our God and the God of today’s Christianity are two completely different things. They live in different heavens so to say. We were part of the Hellenistic world. This world consisted not so much of heaven and earth, as of the spirit and the flesh. God, for us, was the body of the spirit that united us in the equality of the flesh. Atheists who take responsibility for life and humanity are aligned with and work in harmony with the force of God. People who do not take responsibility for life and the community are subjects of worldly authorities. They have abandoned God regardless of the intensity of their professed religion. To abandon responsibility is to abandon God. It’s not a crime, but it’s the ultimate sin.”