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dangermousieWent to see Aeon Flux tonight and, surprisingly, loved it. Never go see anything on the night Chronicles of Narnia open because the lines to the ticket booth were psychotic. Aeon Flux theater was full too, because I think it got a lot of Narnia overflow.Also, they had a trailer for some horror movie with Kristen Bell and I kept expecting Logan to show up.
Anyway, on with the movie. I loved it. Maybe because I went in with no expectations, I don't know. Is it the best movie ever made? Nope. And it has plotholes you can drive a truck through. But do I care? Once again, nope. I have always had a huge weakness for sci fi dystopias, so this was great. I thought it had some interesting ideas, I realy loved the visual look of the movie, and Marton Czokas as the Chairman Trevor Goodchild was smoking hot in that rumpled scientist kinda way that made me want to pin him to his lab table for some private experiments of my own. Ahem. Especially since it totally had my lovely h/c kink with Aeon helping wounded Trevor and digging bullets out of him. Plus, I totally fell in love with the sheer FUBAR OTP of Aeon/Trevor. Because? Guuuuh, so good with the whole enemies/fated lovers thing. I eat that stuff up with a spoon. It's not every couple that starts with an assassination attempt that turns into a night of passion. Followed by almost choking. Guuuuh.
So yeah, rationally, not a good movie. Emotionally? Who cares, I adored it.
In fact, I adored it so much, I wrote an AF fic. *defiant stare* Please read and comment, I don't care how undignified my begging sounds. :P
Title: Ellipses
Fandom: Aeon Flux, the movie. Aeon Flux/Trevor Goodchild
Rating: Very strong R, at the very least. Maybe NC-17, depending on your prudishness level. This is the closest to PWP I’ve ever done.
Author’s Note: An Aeon Flux fic? And a PWP? What can I say, but that I love the sheer beautiful FUBARness that is Aeon/Trevor.
Her gun is touching his neck and she can see him swallow a little bit faster than is normal. Whatever he is thinking of, his body has a mind of its own and it just wants as far away from the gun as possible. There is a comfort in the familiarity of that reaction, but she isn’t sure she can deal with the rest. With the inexplicable fact that she has a gun pointing at him point blank and yet he doesn’t take his eyes off her, and he looks at her as if she is the biggest present he has ever hoped to have, as if a Monican assassin makes his private world perfect .
She hates him. She pulls him closer, gun at her side, tight in her right hand, as she thinks of how easy it would be to pull that trigger, to feel the bones of his neck snap in her hand.
She hates him. Her mouth pushes hard against his. He is startled and doesn’t respond for an instant but then he is kissing her back and she can feel the desperation and desire and she isn’t sure if its his or hers. She doesn’t know which one will freak her out harder. She feels herself go hot and cold and he’s killed her sister and she bites his lower lip, not gently at all, and she can taste the blood and he moans into her mouth and she drops the gun. Her gun is on the floor and she isn’t sure she cares. She is freaked-out and turned on and full of confused, unfocused rage. She can feel his hands on the small of her back, warm through the thin cloth of her suit and for a dazed moment she imagines he’ll leave permanent marks. He is holding her tight enough to hurt and he isn’t close enough and her hands pull him closer.
She hates him. She has lain awake imagining him dead, paying for what he’s done. Over and over and over. His hands are on top of the fabric covering her breasts and her nipples push against the fabric and now it’s her turn to moan and she closes her eyes so she can better concentrate on the feeling. She thinks of her hatred as she struggles against her clothes, desperate to be bare, skin to skin. She thinks of rage, and revenge, and repayment. His clothes come off in a heap and she knows she’ll never be sure afterwards if it was he who removed them or whether she did that, yanked them off, piece by piece, no coyness or seduction, just pure desire. And hatred, always hatred. She cannot forget that.
They are on his bed together and there is no grace, no gracefulness to their actions. This is nothing she needs to have, she thinks as she feels the pressure of his body covering hers, as she grabs his shoulders to bring him closer, as she gasps when she feels him push his way in. And she knows she is falling apart because she let him touch her at all, and she feels she will shatter in a thousand pieces if he will stop touching her, and she knows she hates him, and she knows only want.
Throughout it all, he keeps his eyes open and he is looking at her with a thoroughness that is alien to her, and intensity that shakes her up. He never looks away, not for a second, and he never closes his eyes, not even when they kiss. He keeps looking at her face and somehow that strikes her as the most fucked-up thing of all.
They are damp and done and hoarse. His fingers are on her body, tracing blind patterns as if he is trying to memorize the shape of her bones and she wants him to never let go. She hates him.
Anyway, on with the movie. I loved it. Maybe because I went in with no expectations, I don't know. Is it the best movie ever made? Nope. And it has plotholes you can drive a truck through. But do I care? Once again, nope. I have always had a huge weakness for sci fi dystopias, so this was great. I thought it had some interesting ideas, I realy loved the visual look of the movie, and Marton Czokas as the Chairman Trevor Goodchild was smoking hot in that rumpled scientist kinda way that made me want to pin him to his lab table for some private experiments of my own. Ahem. Especially since it totally had my lovely h/c kink with Aeon helping wounded Trevor and digging bullets out of him. Plus, I totally fell in love with the sheer FUBAR OTP of Aeon/Trevor. Because? Guuuuh, so good with the whole enemies/fated lovers thing. I eat that stuff up with a spoon. It's not every couple that starts with an assassination attempt that turns into a night of passion. Followed by almost choking. Guuuuh.
So yeah, rationally, not a good movie. Emotionally? Who cares, I adored it.
In fact, I adored it so much, I wrote an AF fic. *defiant stare* Please read and comment, I don't care how undignified my begging sounds. :P
Title: Ellipses
Fandom: Aeon Flux, the movie. Aeon Flux/Trevor Goodchild
Rating: Very strong R, at the very least. Maybe NC-17, depending on your prudishness level. This is the closest to PWP I’ve ever done.
Author’s Note: An Aeon Flux fic? And a PWP? What can I say, but that I love the sheer beautiful FUBARness that is Aeon/Trevor.
Her gun is touching his neck and she can see him swallow a little bit faster than is normal. Whatever he is thinking of, his body has a mind of its own and it just wants as far away from the gun as possible. There is a comfort in the familiarity of that reaction, but she isn’t sure she can deal with the rest. With the inexplicable fact that she has a gun pointing at him point blank and yet he doesn’t take his eyes off her, and he looks at her as if she is the biggest present he has ever hoped to have, as if a Monican assassin makes his private world perfect .
She hates him. She pulls him closer, gun at her side, tight in her right hand, as she thinks of how easy it would be to pull that trigger, to feel the bones of his neck snap in her hand.
She hates him. Her mouth pushes hard against his. He is startled and doesn’t respond for an instant but then he is kissing her back and she can feel the desperation and desire and she isn’t sure if its his or hers. She doesn’t know which one will freak her out harder. She feels herself go hot and cold and he’s killed her sister and she bites his lower lip, not gently at all, and she can taste the blood and he moans into her mouth and she drops the gun. Her gun is on the floor and she isn’t sure she cares. She is freaked-out and turned on and full of confused, unfocused rage. She can feel his hands on the small of her back, warm through the thin cloth of her suit and for a dazed moment she imagines he’ll leave permanent marks. He is holding her tight enough to hurt and he isn’t close enough and her hands pull him closer.
She hates him. She has lain awake imagining him dead, paying for what he’s done. Over and over and over. His hands are on top of the fabric covering her breasts and her nipples push against the fabric and now it’s her turn to moan and she closes her eyes so she can better concentrate on the feeling. She thinks of her hatred as she struggles against her clothes, desperate to be bare, skin to skin. She thinks of rage, and revenge, and repayment. His clothes come off in a heap and she knows she’ll never be sure afterwards if it was he who removed them or whether she did that, yanked them off, piece by piece, no coyness or seduction, just pure desire. And hatred, always hatred. She cannot forget that.
They are on his bed together and there is no grace, no gracefulness to their actions. This is nothing she needs to have, she thinks as she feels the pressure of his body covering hers, as she grabs his shoulders to bring him closer, as she gasps when she feels him push his way in. And she knows she is falling apart because she let him touch her at all, and she feels she will shatter in a thousand pieces if he will stop touching her, and she knows she hates him, and she knows only want.
Throughout it all, he keeps his eyes open and he is looking at her with a thoroughness that is alien to her, and intensity that shakes her up. He never looks away, not for a second, and he never closes his eyes, not even when they kiss. He keeps looking at her face and somehow that strikes her as the most fucked-up thing of all.
They are damp and done and hoarse. His fingers are on her body, tracing blind patterns as if he is trying to memorize the shape of her bones and she wants him to never let go. She hates him.
