#Maybe it’s just that I’m not used to my feelings being evenly passively acknowledged by other people

[skhardwarevers1]

is everything progressively getting worse or am I just tired and need to go to sleep

[littlemisspascal]

Death and an Angel part 6

Helmetless + Death!Din and Cupid F!Reader

Summary: Three things happen at once. 

He pulls his glove off and tosses it aside. You forget how to breathe.

Rating: T

Word Count: 2,114

Warnings: Swearing, backstory, angsty angst, fluffy fluff, mutual pining finally acknowledged, overuse of italics, don’t mess with Din’s Cupid or he’ll kill you

Author Note: Important please read this! Ok, so if you’ve been following along you’ll know I had no outline for this originally. And well, that’s come back to bite me. I had to make an edit to Part 2, a small one but still the very beginning will look marginally different if you’ve read it before today’s date Dec. 16, 2020. Basically, I took away the implication that You don’t know exactly how You became a Cupid. So, yeah. Hopefully moving forward I’ll be better handling all this *awkward shuffling*. As always, thank you for all the support and I appreciate every one of you so much ❤

Links to Part 1 and Part 5 and Part 7

Cross-posted on AO3.

Photo Inspiration:

Silence floods the ship in the wake of your admission, stifling and charged with enough tension you fear breathing too loud will set off a chain reaction with disastrous results. It makes the hair on the back of your neck prickle, every instinct inside of you screaming to teleport away, if only so you no longer have to see Din stubbornly trying and failing to hide his internal turmoil behind a mask of indifference. 

When he opens his mouth, you tense but the question slices through you all the same. “When?”

You hesitate, making a face. “Din, we really don’t have time for this. Let’s just move on—”

Without warning, the hand holding your elbow slides to your wrist and twists, turning your palm up for inspection. Din stares at the blank expanse of skin, then slowly his gaze lifts, and he releases you as if you’ve poisoned him.

“You’ve never lied to me before, angel. Did you honestly think now was the best time to start?” he asks, and something breaks inside of you when he looks at you as if you’ve become a total stranger to him.

But before any pain can begin to sink in, anger overcomes you as his assumption registers.

“I’m not lying, you asshole,” you say sharply, feeling a faint pulse of petty satisfaction when you notice the subtle way his stance shifts defensively, betraying his surprise at your boldness. Resting your hands on your hips, you fix him with your fiercest glare. “For all that you are a powerful ancient being of the universe, you are also the biggest, most ignorant fool I’ve ever met. You have absolutely no idea how Cupids become Cupids, do you?”

You don’t offer him even a second to respond, too wound up and fueled by the overwhelming desire to make him get it. To make him understand you’re not purposefully trying to hurt him. If it were up to you, you’d make sure he never felt any kind of pain. But that would require having a choice and that is the one thing the universe did not grant you as a Cupid.

“Every Cupid was once a mortal with a soulmate,” you explain, choosing each word with careful precision while watching his face to make sure his focus never wavers. “And every one of us was rejected by them. When we die, we’re transformed into Cupids, losing our soulmate markings in the process.” When you feel your bottom lip begin to wobble, you pause to take a steadying breath. “You asked me before, what is the true purpose of a Cupid? It’s to help others find the kind of love we never experienced for ourselves.”

Din stands there in front of you, still staring passively, and you’re scared for a moment your words have made no difference, but then his jaw clenches so tightly you hear his teeth grinding. 

“You were rejected?” he growls, vicious and guttural, the sound of a feral beast.

He pivots, fist colliding with the wall with enough force it dents the metal beneath his knuckles. You flinch at the noise, shocked at the abuse he’s inflicted upon his beloved ship. Every bone in his hand should have shattered upon impact, but because Death is immune to such damage he merely turns back to you, breathing raggedly and eyes blackened with rage.

“Tell me his name.”

You’ve already begun shaking your head before you say, “So you can go hunt him down? Hell no. Trust me, it doesn’t matter.”

Instead of pacifying him, this only infuriates him further. “How can you say that? That bastard broke your heart when he was supposed to cherish you, protect you, love you above all else.”

“You think I don’t know that?” you ask peevishly, letting your temper get the better of you. Sparing a moment to mentally count to ten, you quietly reveal, “I can say it doesn’t matter because I don’t even remember who he was. There is no point sending you to kill someone who’s face I can’t pick out of a crowd.”

The sudden way Din’s whole body slumps in response to the news, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, expression scrunched and dumbfounded, would have made you laugh if the circumstances were entirely different. Being what they are, you can only meet his stare evenly, silently assuring him you’re not joking in the slightest.

“I don’t understand,” Din says at last, looking like he wants to approach but is unsure you’ll welcome his nearness so he keeps his distance. “You never told me you had memory loss before. What happened to you?”

You shrug helplessly. “I don’t know. For as long as I’ve been a Cupid, all my memories from my mortal life have dark spots, like something poked holes in them.��

Din glances away as he mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like ‘Or someone’ but before you can comment, his tone rises to its usual volume as he says, “Is this why you collect all those old newspapers? To try to help you remember?”

You recall with embarrassment him having previously commented on the pile in your living room. That moment feels like years ago, the two of you sitting in your apartment and Din asking...if Cupids were on the list of potential soulmates. Was that his way of asking if you were on the list? Surely not. He’s much cleverer than that.

...Isn’t he?

“I just,” you shake your head, refocusing on the current conversation. “I keep thinking maybe I’ll find something that fills in the gaps. I don’t like this pit in my stomach, this feeling that I’ve forgotten something important.” You huff a self-deprecating chuckle. “Other than my soulmate, I mean.”

He offers you a smile, small and lopsided, likely meant to be consoling, but you see right through it. You see his pain in the tightness around his mouth, in the way his fingers flex at his sides like it’s taking all his self-control not to reach out to you. Your confession has hurt him. Badly. It’s the kind of hurt no amount of bacta can heal.

The silence returns, different than the one usually experienced during hyperspace in that it wishes to be broken, for someone to say something, anything. You would grant its wish except your thoughts are a jumbled mess inside your head. Deep down, there is a part of you which knows there is nothing you can say that will fix this—this being the chasm forming between you and Din, widening with every passing second spent staring wordlessly at each other. 

Would telling him sooner have prevented this heartbreak? Probably. But looking back, you can’t think of an opportune moment. You had never thought your crush could be requited—not just because you were already matched, but also because it had always seemed so ridiculous, imagining the great and powerful Death feeling anything remotely close to affection for an unimportant, low-ranking Cupid. 

“Angel,” Din begins after a few minutes, his voice anchoring you back in the present. He’s staring over your shoulder, brow furrowed thoughtfully and you can practically hear the gears turning inside his head. “Earlier, you said you didn’t tell your boss I was your client. Why didn’t you?”

“I-I don’t know,” you stutter, before an unexpected wave of boldness comes over you. Digging your finger into the armor on his chest, you remind him, “You came to me first, remember? Not them. So, I figured you didn’t want them knowing.”

“I couldn’t care less who knows,” Din deadpans.

“Oh.” You blink, hand falling back along your side, because what else can you say.

“You want to know what I think?” Oh Maker, he’s stepping closer until there’s only a foot of space between you two. His voice is a low, raspy murmur, sending your heartbeat into overdrive. “I think you didn’t want them knowing because you like being the only angel who does.”

You start to squirm, fight or flight instincts at total war with each other. His theory isn’t too far from the truth, making it all the worse hearing it out loud because it practically oozes possessiveness which is exactly what you’d feared.

“Before you pull away from me again,” Din continues, knowing you and your mind too damn well. “I want you to listen when I say nothing that you’ve told me changes how I feel about you.”

“Din—” you try, only for your voice to crack.

Then three things happen at once.

He pulls his glove off and tosses it aside. You forget how to breathe.

“I’ve been alone my entire existence and I kept telling myself that was how the universe intended it to be. That I couldn’t love anyone because I kill everything I touch.” A smile pulls at his lips when he looks down at his bare hand and a note of awe slips into his voice. “Then you came along, beautiful and clumsy and unafraid to call me out for being an ass. I started looking forward to each full moon because it meant I got to see you and admire every new detail about your life you chose to share with me. And then when this appeared,” he nods towards the soulmate marking, gleaming faintly beneath the overhead lighting, “all I could think of was you.”

You feel your throat becoming thick as you blink back tears, inhaling sharply through your nose. “Why didn’t you say anything at the train station? Why would you let me try to set you up with matches if you liked me that way?”

Din grimaces, abashed. “Because after you said there weren’t any Cupids on your list, I realized you didn’t know I liked you. I convinced myself I had to show you how I felt, instead of tell you. Although,” he holds up a finger, backtracking, “I actually almost did confess, on our way to Sorgan, but you stopped me. And that just further convinced me actions spoke louder than words. I knew none of the people you found me could ever compare with you, so I thought once you saw each unsuccessful connection, you’d realize the only hand I want to hold is yours.”

“Din, it can’t be me.” Your protest is weak, on the verge of caving in, forcing you to try another angle. “I can’t have two soulmates.”

He inhales a breath so sharp and unexpected, it startles your poor heart into skipping a beat.

Din looks at you like you’ve gifted him all the stars in the galaxy, brown eyes blown wide with hope. “Angel, do you mean it? That you consider me—”

“Of course, you idiot.” You attempt a laugh, but it comes out sounding broken and forced. “As Death, as Din, as whoever you want to be, I’ll always consider you. But...what if what happened on Sorgan happens to us? What if the universe doesn’t favor us?”

“I just want to be yours.” Din extends his hand towards you. “And if that means breaking the universe’s rules, then fuck it. We’ll make up our own. Together.”

Time seems to stand still, like you’ve entered a realm separate from the rest of the universe where you’re able to forget you have a complicated past, filled with holes and a soulmate who rejected you. Here it’s just you, Din, and his offer to love you unconditionally. Here you have a choice.

And it’s the easiest one you’ve ever made.

You slowly lift up your hand to hover in front of his, fingers trembling as they uncurl.

“Together,” you whisper.

And then your hands are moving to meet one another, closer and closer until his fingertips brush yours, sending a spark of warmth through your nervous system. Oh, Maker, you had described what you imagined a soulmate connection was like, but you had no idea this is the true experience. It’s like a sunrise dissolving midnight skies, lighting up your surroundings with breathtaking vibrancy. You can’t fathom how you survived all this time being in his presence without feeling his touch.

“Dank farrik,” he mutters hoarsely, sounding just as overwhelmed and awestruck as you feel.

You open your mouth, but instead of words a whimper of agony escapes instead. That lovely warmth spreading from your linked hands has started to boil, white-hot and furious. It’s as if all your internal parts have caught fire and are slowly withering to ash—your organs, your bones, even your kriffing blood. 

Your body crumples and Din cries out your name, but you don’t get to hear him say it, unconscious before your head collides with the floor.

Tag List:  @leilei-draws​, @theocatkov​, @becauseican2, @vintagesaph​, @stardust-and-starlight​, @kay2304, @odelia-d32, @adrieunor​, @remmyswritings​, @gallowsjoker​, @rhiannon-russo​, @randomness501​, @eleine-t1d​, @nicotinebirds, @sylphene​, @softly-sad​, @maytheglitter​, @melobee, @rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives, @eleinemk, @captain-jebi, @aerynwrites, @promiscuoussatan

[dcbbw]

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words....Together

This is my submission for the Choices Fandom Game: A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words. My picture was given to me by the very awesome @blackcatkita and is below. This is a one-off taking place at the end of TRR Book 3. I went way over a thousand words. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please excuse any typos and/or grammatical errors.

All characters belong to Pixelberry.

Song Inspiration: Why, Annie Lennox:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HG7I4oniOyA

Word Count: 2311

Madeleine x Hana, Hana Lee

Writer Tags: @speedyoperarascalparty @ao719 @leelee10898 @riseandshinelittleblossom @zaffrenotes @drakewalkerwhipped @stopforamoment @annekebbphotography @lizeboredom @boneandfur @mind-reader1 @jovialyouthmusic @ooo-barff-ooo @bobasheebaby @ownworldresident @hopefulmoonobject @sleepwalkingelite @likethetailofacomet @silviasutton1989 @blackcatkita @blackcoffee85 @kennaxval @andy-loves-corgis @callmetippytumbles @iplaydrake @the-everlastingdreams @brightpinkpeppercorn @agent-bossypants @tornbetween2loves @jlouise88 @choicesbyjade @breaumonts @thehonorarybeaumont @pixelsandkink @innerpostmentality @katedrakeohd @darley1101 @carabeth @sirbeepsalot

Reader Tags: @cocomaxley @mfackenthal @moneyfordiamonds @romanticatheart-posts @choicesarehard @gibbles82

My tag list: @gennesaret @aworldoffandoms @sirbeepsalot @katedrakeohd @hopefulmoonobject @simsvetements @cora-nova @carabeth @custaroonie @liamxs-world @lauradowning29 @speedyoperarascalparty @thequeenofcronuts @wickedgypsymoon @timmagicktoad

“So where are we headed?” Hana’s hair blew around her face as she stared out the passenger window at the passing scenery. The rolling green hills were beautiful to watch as the car zipped along the road. The day was warm, but not warm enough for air conditioning, so she had let her window down. The smell of nature filled her nostrils.

Madeleine turned her head briefly to look at Hana. God, she is so beautiful. “It isn’t far from here. We’re staying on the grounds, just on the outskirts.”

“I had no idea your estate was this huge.”

“One of the oldest and largest in Cordonia. I think only Duchy Krona and the Palace grounds rival it.” There was unmistakable pride in Madeleine’s voice.

“And why are we going to wherever it is we’re headed?”

“Can’t a girl want a weekend away with her favorite person?” Madeleine grinned at Hana. She wanted to take a hand off the wheel to stroke Hana’s cheek, but the careful driver in her wouldn’t allow it. She settled for saying, “You are so beautiful, Hana. Maybe the most beautiful person I have ever seen.”

Hana was uncomfortable with compliments. She never knew what to say, so she gave Madeleine her default response. “No, my dear, you are the most beautiful.”

“Stop that!” Madeleine’s voice frustrated. “I do not compliment you looking for one in return. Hell, I am not even complimenting you.” Madeleine shook her head as she took a deep breath. “Hana, when I tell you these things, it is what I see in you. What I notice about you. I offer you these observations for you to accept them, that’s all.”

Even after months of dating, Hana still got wary of Madeleine when she was too nice for too long. She was used to the Madeleine of the social season and the engagement tour. That Madeleine she could handle, and she broke out her trusty argument yet again to goad that Madeleine into making an appearance.

“I hope your surprise has no chocolate, you know given your allergy and all.”

Madeleine smacked the steering wheel in anger. “How many times are you going to bring up the chocolate allergy thing? Look, it was wrong. I know you put a lot of thought and effort into the event. But I was insecure, and trying to wield as much of the little power I had while I could. I can’t keep on apologizing for that.”

“You can and you will!” You know why I keep bringing it up? Because I have no idea when this Madeleine”, she gestured to Madeleine, “will leave and that one will show up. A snake without fangs is still a snake.”

Madeleine pulled the car over and looked at her stunned. “So you think I am a snake?” She asked the question slowly.

Hana continued to stare at Madeleine, the resolve in her eyes wavering. “Sometimes.”

“Jesus Christ, Hana! I have been called many a thing: crown chaser, she-devil, bitch even. Never a snake. Wait, that one time Riley said it as a joke, but never by a lover, of all people.” Madeleine exhaled a long sigh. “Think what you will, but since we have been together, I have been nothing but sweet, caring, considerate and accommodating of you, your feelings, your needs. I am trying really hard to be a better person for you. A little acknowledgement would be appreciated.” Madeline pulled back onto the road. As she concentrated on driving, she said evenly, “The devil isn’t as black as you paint her, Hana.”

Hana looked out the window, blinking back tears. Why did I say that? Why do I keep starting that argument?

“I’m sorry”, she said softly. “I just…I just get scared.”

Madeleine was silent the remainder of the trip.

Twenty minutes later, Madeline spoke abruptly, breaking the silence. “We’re here.” The car pulled to a stop in the back of a wooden cabin. Behind the cabin, there were lush woods. The cabin backed onto a lake, and a red canoe sat at the edge of a makeshift deck/dock.

Hana looked around, her eyes wide. “This is amazing, Maddy! Do you come here often?”

Madeleine was busying herself with unloading bags from the car. “I used to when I was younger. I would come here on weekends to escape my parents, and pretend I was an adult, living on my own. I would sit in the canoe in the evenings, and read books.”

“Did you ever bring anyone with you?”

“No. You are the first person I have ever brought here. Well, aside from servants.” She looked over at Hana as she set pieces of luggage on the ground. “Just so you know, no servants this trip, so cooking and cleaning are on us. I had them bring groceries this morning, so we do have food.”

“You can’t cook”, Hana protested.

Madeleine arched an eyebrow, and there was a hint of teasing in her voice. “I pour a mean bowl of cereal, and make excellent sandwiches, thank you very much.”

Each lady grabbed her bags and trudged to the back door. Madeleine unlocked the door, and stepped inside to disarm the alarm system. Hana walked in behind her, eyes wide as she took in the state of the art kitchen. Hana dropped her bags in the kitchen as Madeleine kept going to one of the bedrooms.

Hana was looking in the refrigerator when Madeleine returned. “We have steaks, chicken, fish, potatoes and veggies. Maybe we’ll have steaks, baked potatoes, and salad for dinner?”

“Sounds fine. I’ll check the wine cellar to see if there’s anything that pairs well with rustic.”

Hana shook her head, a small smile spreading across her face at “rustic”. Anything not brought to Madeleine on a platter by a servant was rustic. “Will you make the salad?”

“Sure.” Madeleine’s tone was neutral, but Hana knew she was still hurt.

Hana busied herself cooking dinner, while Madeleine searched the wine cellar. She emerged 30 minutes later with a bottle of Bordeaux. She then rummaged in the fridge for the vegetables to make a salad. She rinsed the ingredients, then grabbed a bowl from one of the cabinets. She did not speak one word to Hana.

After a few minutes, she announced the salad was ready. Hana was removing the potatoes from the oven. “Oh, good! Can I see it?” Madeleine slid the bowl across the counter to her.

Hana looked in the salad bowl and back up at Madeleine, a frown on her face. “That salad is making a pretty passive-aggressive statement.”

Madeleine looked at the bowl of whole lettuce, two whole tomatoes, an uncut cucumber, and a whole, unpeeled onion. “What? I promised cereal and sandwiches only.”

Hana grabbed the bowl. “I’ll wrap it up and make us a proper salad for lunch tomorrow.”

Madeleine shrugged. “Fine with me.”

Hana plated their dinners and brought the food to the table. They ate in near silence as they alternated between gazing at their food and out the window at the peaceful lake. Both wrapped up in memories.

Liam and Riley were away on their honeymoon. Madeleine had just been named the Royal Communications Director, and Hana had been appointed a Guardian of the Realm, as well as a member of the newly formed Royal Council. Hana was still at the Palace while she debated whether to move into Valtoria before or after Riley’s return. She wanted to wait until Riley’s return because Valtoria would be empty, but so was the Palace. Liam and Riley were honeymooning, Drake was splitting time between Lythikos with Olivia and Rashad’s estate working on some public land negotiations, and Maxwell was gearing up for his upcoming book tour.

Madeleine was still at the Palace because her new position would keep her in the Capitol more often than not; until she got a good feel for her duties and time actually needed in the office, it seemed best to stay put for the time being. The two women passed each other nearly every day, Hana avoiding Madeleine’s eyes and speaking only when necessary, and Madeleine gauging when to shoot her shot. Again. Hana had already refused her offer to dance at the bachelorette party, and had barely accepted her apology after the wedding.

Then one day, she came across Hana playing a game of ring toss by herself and asked if she could join. That led to having breakfast together, then lunches on a weekly basis, then dinners, and eventually Saturday date nights. The more time they spent together, the more fascinated Madeleine became with Hana; for Hana, she began letting her guard down slowly, and found herself wondering what it would be like to kiss Madeleine. One Saturday night, after too much wine and too much food, Hana found herself stretched out across Madeleine’s bed, watching her undress, preparing for bed..

“I like you. Like the way Liam likes Riley.”

“Liam loves Riley”, Madeleine laughed at Hana.

“I like you and want to kiss you.”

Madeleine looked at her in surprise. She had wanted the same thing for weeks, but wanted to be cautious. She did not want to scare Hana or be rejected again, and being with a woman was uncharted territory for her. But if the lady was asking….

Madeleine walked over to the bed, lying beside Hana. Green eyes met brown eyes and held. Madeleine’s hand reached out to touch Hana’s cheek as she leaned in to kiss her. Soft lips met soft lips, tongues lightly darting before Hana pulled Madeleine in closer, deepening the kiss. Their first time was amazing, wonderful, and for Madeleine, she knew why it never worked out with anyone else. If she was unsure of her feelings for Hana before, she was certain now. She was in love with Hana Lee.

And they had been together ever since…..

They finished dinner, Madeleine offering to do the dishes. “I’ll dry”, Hana said. They quickly tidied the kitchen and Madeleine went into the den to pull a book from the bookshelf.

“Going to the canoe to read.”

Hana looked at her. “May I join you?”

“Do what you want”, Madeleine’s tone was noncommittal.

The two women crossed the yard, headed towards the dock. Hana reached her hand out to grab Madeleine’s; Madeleine immediately took it. They made their way down the stairs, and Madeleine helped Hana into one end of the canoe, then settled herself into the other end.

Hana looked at Madeleine with sad eyes and blurted out, “I’m sorry! I keep pushing your buttons because I just can’t believe you want me, you love me. All my life, no matter how pretty I am, how smart and talented I am…I always lose. And since the wedding, you have been incredible, like a whole different Maddy, and as wonderful as she is, I keep waiting for this to be a cruel joke. I keep waiting to lose again.” Hana’s voice was breaking.

After a few moments of silence, Madeleine spoke. “You’re infuriating.” She scooped a handful of the cool water and flicked it in Hana’s direction.

“I know in my efforts to keep you from leaving, I seem to keep pushing you away. Please…please give me a little more time to trust you. To trust myself.”

“I’m not leaving”, Madeleine said simply. “I know better than most what that feels like. I’m going to stay and fight for us.”

“Are you sure it’s just so you aren’t rejected a third time?” Hana’s hand flew to her mouth.  Oh, crap! That came out all kinds of wrong! “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! It didn’t sound like that in my head.”

Madeleine winced inwardly, but heard the sincerity in Hana’s tone. “Maybe I’m staying because I found someone worth the fight.”

“It’s just that I have never been enough.” Hana looked out at the water.

“You have been giving the right parts of yourself to the wrong people. You will never be enough for the wrong people.”

“Why are you willing to fight for us?”

“You love me.” Madeleine said simply. “I can be a horrible person, I am a difficult person. When we first met, I treated you as less than and that is something I will always regret and will forever be sorry about. But you gave me a chance; a chance for true friendship, and then at true love. I am in love with you Hana, and if it means having the same argument every day for the rest of our lives, then we’re having that argument.”

“Our parents….” Hana’s voice trailed off.

“Screw our parents. We have lived every day for their approval, and die each night from their rejection. I want to live my remaining days for your approval, not theirs.”

A breeze came across the lake, causing Hana to shiver. “You’re cold”, Madeleine observed. “Come here.”

Hana made her way gingerly to Madeleine, and settled against her, her back pressing against Madeleine’s chest. Madeleine wrapped her arms around Hana. “Better?” Hana nodded. Madeleine leaned in to kiss Hana’s neck.

“What are you reading?” Hana snuggled in closer.

Madeleine picked up the well-worn paperback, and read the cover. “Wuthering Heights.”

“Oooohhhh, scandalous!” Hana squealed. “Read it to me?”

Madeleine smiled. “Of course.”

And as the sun set over the lake, the two lovers sat cuddling in the wooden canoe, reading Emily Bronte. Together.

[cwkrp]

have a little imagination, will you?

INTRODUCING   son minsik, he/him, 12/04/97 COURSING   ba in applied cinema, third year AFFILIATION   crux ANNOTATIONS   n/a

a note from the past.

TOKEN.

He always remembers it a bit differently, always slightly altered, something he blames on the years of revising his childhood during therapy sessions. It’s always either too hot or too cold, moral ground shifting. His mother says that all that is tangible is indirectly a threat. A knife protruding from his back is only a problem if he bleeds all over the place. The thing about misplacing truths is that he doesn’t know if it will unfurl like the long lines of yawn his mother winds through her knitting needle gauge. He can’t measure the scale of trauma stretching across decades of syrupy boyhood. Doesn’t even know if its an accurate inner image.

It is just, if anything, a color coded concept for the convenience of the set dressers.

One thing he knows is that his father never quite contented with his lack of an independent shape. So he had him stripped of agency, showcasing family tree anxieties in the form of rigorous method acting.

There are several unimportant things to note about Son Minsik’s filmography: it’s a short list, with a total of three entries, one of which is a glorified cameo; It’s genre consistent, with all of his projects having been leaning toward neorealism, with heavy grainy overlays and desaturated colors; And all of them have him die increasingly gruesome deaths.

(Sometimes, and he wonders if it’s the root of the problem, he can’t picture himself alive.)

His father becomes notorious for treating his actors horribly. Especially his son, who plays the main antagonist in a well received trilogy. Which relies more on surrealist themes than qualitative storytelling. But nothing can quite compare to the influx of strongly worded accusations that overwhelm his studio, when a crew member gets laid off and collects their next paycheck from tabloids. ‘Child abuse’ is featured in tacky newspaper headlines that are often difficult to distance from the body of works that feature explicit death scenes with a child front center.

[ DIRECTOR SON CHUL JANG (39) ALLEGEDLY MISTREATING SON AND CHILD ACTOR SON MINSIK (8), STAFF MEMBER CLAIMS ]

He doesn’t remember the press conference, or the microphones being shoved in his face. But he remembers clearly, almost vividly the way his father had trashed their living room, and then turned to him and said that it was somehow his fault. He should just drop dead. He doesn’t compare to all the dead little Minsiks before him who didn’t make it out of his mother’s womb alive. He can’t do anything right.

He shouldn’t be alive.

Yeah, maybe he shouldn’t be.

GROWTH.

In a way, it’s always going to be 2003.

There’s some narrative quality to the way he keeps to artificial constraints, not exactly there, yet exhausting like connecting xanax induced conflicts. He composes a list, because that’s what he always does. Things he wants his audience to know. Things he doesn’t want his audience to know. Things that aren’t important.

He’s unsure where to take it, where to house information.

He shoots short movies that star nothing but landscapes, water, flowers, useless cinematography that holds no spiritual weight. Hair clogging the shower drain likes clumps of memory that he has no use for, accompanied by a heavy bass intro that he mixes together on a shitty DAW.

No one watches movies lacking substance. No one watches boring flicks.

There’s this never ending cycle he’s forced into, that has him trying to catch up to his father, and to a lesser extent his mother. Maybe it’s a form of a misguided, overt cry for attention. Every second counted by 120 frames is just him trying to fill the frame with confessions. Gestures. Every open window is skin being pulled. 34 mm of focal length up close and personal. His father doesn’t trust him. That’s why he’s spent more of his childhood in boarding schools than at home, fed psychotropics throughout to keep him comfortably numb. Always barely hanging on, sedated to the point of passivity.

Sometimes he films himself talking until his throat caves in.

It boils down to this: An onslaught of expectations that eats at his consciousness. He’s trying so desperately to be like his father. Long Takes for everything, close ups on nothing, scenes in nonsequential order so he doesn’t have to make sense of it.

He’s not making sense.

In a way, he’s still eight, nine, sobbing uncontrollably in front of a camera, holding up bloodied palms and confessing to fictional crimes he is unable to separate from his person.

Maybe one day he’ll grow out of it.

a color for the present.

GREEN.

As most things are, love, in a household with a net worth of over $700 million, is seen as a commodity. His mother equates time to affection, and limits what she gives away of herself. A succession of vaguely whimsical moments in terms of front-page photos on a tabloid. Barely enough to not seem like a negligent mother, but not enough to make a significant impact as a supposedly nurturing figure. She has her publishing house to care for, social events to attend, friendships to maintain. A son, as much as he’d been wanted after two miscarriages, wasn’t supposed to be more than an afterthought.

It’s an attitude that translates over to the way she treats his interests. A dismissive nod, a belittling pat on the head, an expensive suit he gets to wear to a gala. She prefers to flaunt his achievements rather than acknowledging him as a her son. He’s an award winning actor (it doesn’t matter than he hasn’t been able to stand in front of a camera without going hysterical since the early 2000s), he’s a talented director (even if his short films are tedious to watch at best and pretentious at worst), he’s attending seoho! (and has managed to assault school staff in a fit of misplaced anger).

In the corny sitcoms he loves, mothers are always warm, pliant, caring. A suicide attempt earns a sympathetic response. A rebellious outburst earns an attempt to understand, reconciling childish whims. Mothers cry, coo, coddle. Mothers defend their children. Mothers accept and embrace the good with the bad.

His mother can’t. But he can’t be the perfect son, either.

BLUE.

“I want you to know that you can be honest with me, okay?” The social worker is nice, with evenly applied make up and shiny hair. His father is always making him buzz his head, offering no real explanation as for why. His mother standing behind him has a steady grip on his shoulders, nails pressing carefully down on his sweater. “I am here to ask you some questions. There’s no need to feel nervous or scared.” He’d tell her that he doesn’t really know what fear is supposed to feel like, but the even weight of his mother is making him feel self-conscious, so he nods instead.

“Last week, one of your father’s colleagues– I’m sure you know him, Kang Duri– has accused your father of mistreating you.” His mother’s fingers furl into his sweater and he can feel his collar growing snug. “He told us that your father often hurt you during filming. Is that true?”

His mother’s hands grow closer to his neck and go slack when she speaks up, “Those are frankly ludicrous accusations. My husband has always been a loving father to my son.” She made him wear a thick sweater in mid July because he’s covered in bruises. She sounds whiny, nasal. Maybe she’s having a panic attack. He knows about those.

The social worker looks apologetic, “I understand that this might be very difficult for you, ma’am. But there’s evidence to back these allegations up, which is why I’m here.” She’s so polite, sitting on one of his mother’s hideous kitschy loveseats, foundation blended down to her neck.

“Minsik, tell her that your father’s never done anything to you.” He can’t see his mother, but he can imagine what her face looks like. A ghostly paleness contrasting her black designer one piece. If anything, it’s always been about her. His whole life. Even at eight, sitting opposite someone who might actually be able to help.

But his mother would be sad. And he wants so much to please her.

“My father is a good father.” It’s not exactly the truth, but it’s an inoffensive statement.

When the social worker’s gone he’s left to himself, trying to ignore the sweat accumulating under his sweater, hands wet and sticky. He guesses, if he were to put a name to the uncomfortable, heavy feeling growing in the pit of his stomach, it’d be disappointment.

Now, almost thirteen years later, he wishes he’d said the truth.