#also me listening to reverie and experiencing Emotions again | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

whosjunglejim4322 · 4 years

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Warnings: SMUT, insecurities but mark just needs a lil reassurance abt how good he makes you feel, finger fucking/sucking, he cums in his pants, fluff bc yall r in love love <3

Mark knows he's being irrational about this whole ordeal. One conversation shouldn't be getting under his skin like it is, but this one thing seems to be knocking at the forefront of his brain, throwing him out of focus as of late.

So what, you masturbate. It's normal, he's not there all the time, of course you do. He does too, but he also becomes outrageously horny everytime he so much as thinks about your skin or the way you kiss him. And it's safe to say he thinks about you alot. Alot alot.

"It's different, though? I'm a guy, we jerk off an outrageous amount," he argues, furrowing his eyebrows as you stare up at his pacing form from the bed, grinning. He's cute when he's flustered.

"And girls just...aren't supposed to get horny without the help of a guy?" You inquire.

He stops pacing at this, slumping his shoulders. "that's not what I mean, I just-" he sighs, plopping himself next to you on the edge of the bed. He chews on the inside of his lip for a moment before shaking his head.

"Nevermind, I'm just tired." He runs his fingers through his disheveled hair, looking at you apologetically with his big doe eyes.

You're still amused, giggling as you reach over to cup his rosy hued cheeks, pulling him to your mouth for a kiss.

"A little toy could never replace you, my love."

You'd reassured him that night by wrapping your lips around his dick, and he was too lost in the belly aching anticipation and bliss of it all, to really pay attention to what it was you'd just said.

A little toy.

He hasn't stopped thinking about it. It's both slightly irritating, while also being the new source of his sexual frustration when he's supposed to be practicing. He thinks it may be more irritating than the ladder though, because as much as he hates to admit it, he is a jealous creature.

It's silly, childish and he knows it. Maybe that's why he's so unsettled by this, because he knows that you love him. He knows you like his dick, from what you've expressed. But, maybe he's doing something wrong?

Maybe you just don't want to to wound his ego, and instead act like his dick is enough to satisfy you. Of course, he knows some sensations are better than others, but how often do you need to touch yourself? Does he not please you enough in the moments you two are together?

These questions still nag him when he walks into your apartment at around 7:35 pm, causing worry to crease between his brows.

You, of course, pick up on this when you round the corner from your bedroom to see him making his way towards you, lost in thought. Your arms snake around his middle and your lips place a kiss to his jaw. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"What's got you all mopey?" You ask, searching for any signs of pain or discomfort in his eyes, only to be stumped by his undreadable expression. Maybe he's just had a long day?

He hums, broken from his self depricating reverie, evidently not realizing he's wearing his emotions so blatantly.

"Nothin' just tired, wanted to come home." He buries his face in the crook of your shoulder once you've pulled him into your room, his breath warm against your neck.

You must've just taken a shower, skin the scent of his favorite soap that always has him sniffing you randomly throughout the day. He squeezes you tighter.

You kiss the side of his head, reluctantly pulling yourself away only to grab his hands and move to the bed, not believing that there's nothing more than just fatigue that's got his usual goofy smile hidden behind such a frustrated countenance.

You crawl onto his lap once his back is against the headboard, his hands slipping underneath your shirt to rub your back, a habit when he's nervous. He knows what's coming, already avoiding your eyes.

"Are you gonna tell me what's wrong, Mark Lee? No excuses, this time." You mean business, but your voice is still as soft and comforting as ever. He can't resist looking up at you once you stroke his cheek with your thumb, featherlight.

With a drawn out breath, he reluctantly responds, knowing it'll only eat at him further if he doesn't.

"It's just....I feel like maybe I don't do enough for you...sexually? Like, I know everyone masturbates and It's totally fine you use a toy and stuff, I just feel like...like maybe It's better than...than what I can do? I know I'm not the most experienced but-"

He's stuttering, ears tomato red at the tips and he's a bit perplexed to see such a jubilant smile spreading across your face as he rubs the back of his neck, embarassed beyond belief.

"Mark..." you cup his soft, blazing cheeks in your palms, forcing him to meet your gaze as squeamish as he's suddenly become. "you're that upset over something like this?"

You don't sound judgemental nor teasing, despite the way you're grinning. But still, he wants to hide his face, wants to bow his head in shame. Suddenly he feels very foolish.

Not being able to stand seeing him so crestfallen, you reassure him, trurthfully. Your heart aches.

"Hey hey, look at me bub," wide doe eyes stare back at you, as you move some of his hair out from in front of his forehead where the strands have fallen. "you are more than enough, so good that when you're away I cant stand it. I have to touch myself, and I'm not just saying that."

His expression has regained some confidence, though you're not done yet. You've got this determination swirling in the pit of your belly, thrumming through your veins. You want him to know how truly incredible he really is, how good he really makes you feel.

"I think about your hands, your mouth, your dick. And you know what? By the end of it I'm not even satisfied, because that little toy isn't you. Do you understand? Hmm? Or do I have to show you?"

Suddenly his heartbeat is loud in his ears, adams apple bobbing as he swallows. He's hardened underneath you and you known that you've got him.

"I-I understand, now. But you could still show me, you know. If you want." His voice is a little unsteady but the corners of his soft, pink mouth twitch at the corners with an echo of a smile.

It's too much, Mark Lee absolutely will be the death of you. And so you kiss him, in a way that has his toes curling and his arms wrapping around your middle like a boa, refusing to let go.

Your fingers are tiwsted in his hair as you suck on his plush bottom lip, a gasp leaving his throat when your teeth nibble the sensitive skin. He can feel your hardened nipples through your sweater, pressing against his chest.

Your knees have tightened around the small of his waist as well, crotch rubbing against the strained bulge in his basketball shorts. You whine into his mouth.

"Mm, you should feel how wet you make me," his hands venture lower at this, until his warm fingertips are pressing into the flesh of your thighs. "go ahead Markie, touch me."

He groans, not being able to hold it back from his chest at the sound of your voice and your generous offer. His fingers, delicate and eager rub your pussy through your lounge shorts, and his jaw slacks a bit at your lack of underwear.

Your tongue slips against his, mouths parted and greedy while he slips his hand into the warmth of your shorts - and practically whines.

He wasn't expecting the abundance of your essence, the utter and complete lack of friction as his digits glide effortlessly through your silken folds. He takes his ring finger and presses the pad of it against your entrance, circling and listening to the lewd, slick sounds.

"Oh fuck," he croons free hand on your lower back and urging you against his touch. "you're s-so wet already, how are you so wet?" He's mystified, and completely fucked.

"I told you." You kiss him again, swallowing his reply and grinding your pussy against his palm. Without warning, he slips a finger in, and then another, falling apart at the way your walls so eagerly welcome them. He trembles.

"Mm, Mark." You're reaching down, underneath his arm and gripping his length, hot in your hand underneath the slinky material of his shorts. He twitches.

Suddenly his fingers are curling inside of you, and he begins to languidly pump them in and out of your sopping heat, on fire from his toes to the top of his head. You have to grip onto his shoulders, momentarily forgetting your previous endeavor of palming his dick.

He doesn't mind, not when you're whining like this, fingers digging into his skin, your body rocking against his while your walls hug and squeeze around his digits.

"Does it feel good?" He asks genuinley, but already knows the answer, too high off of this moment to not want his ego stroked. Your eyebrows are furrowed, lips kiss bitten, skin hot to the touch. You can barely make out an answer, and he swears all the blood in his body rushes straight to his dick.

"S-so good Markie - harder, please." You bury your face in the crook of his shoulder as tour thighs tremble around his narrow hips, lips trembling against his throat. He obliges you happily, anything to have you wilting against him like this. To hear more of the sounds you're making, for him.

Anyone outside the door would know whats going on, with the squelching of your wetness and the vigor in which he's fucking you with his fingers, heel of his palm nudging your clit with each thrust. You already feel that pit of pressure inside your belly expanding, so close to the brink of exploding.

He's fairing the same, if he's honest. You're rubbing up against the painful, throbbing boner in his bottoms, hidden behind only a thin layer of clothing. Your juices have leaked, leaving your own shorts wet at the crotch and the sight is erotic in a way that makes him buck up against you.

His free hand cups your face when he adds a third finger, pulling you from his shoulder to look at your face.

He damn near blows his load right then and there.

You look like you're on the verge of tears, not able to hold yourself up straight. A blush burns his skin, when you lean into his touch, fingers grasping at the front of his white tee.

"M'gonna cum soon Markie."

His heart threatens to explode from his chest when you turn your head and suck his thumb into your warm mouth, closing your eyes and bliss while his fingers pump into you, buried to the third knuckle.

This causes him to thrust into you with a sudden jolt, and the way his fingertips rub against the sweet spot deep inside of you, has the build up of pleasure finally spilling over like a broken dam.

The fingers on either of his hands are soaked now, one with your saliva and the other with your cum. You're gripping onto his wrists, letting him massage the inside of your walls while they contract around him, eyes rolled to the back of your head.

The sight, the feeling, is too much. You're a mess, a beautiful, sopping wet mess and without warning it's like a freight train is hitting him at full force, cock twitching willdy as pure bliss seeps through his pores.

You're still shivering, humping his hand while spurts of cum fill the inside of his shorts, dripping down the crease of his thigh and even soaking through the material a bit. Your eyes are barely able to open, but you will them to when you hear the almost imperceptible groan that strains from his throat when your heartbeat finally stops drumming so loudly in your ears.

Your belly lurches, skin tingly to the touch as he slumps against the headboard, peering up at you with more adoration than you can handle.

"I-I came in my pants." He breathes out, panting heavily alongside you. The thrill that runs down your spine like a tremor at the realization that he's cum, untouched, because of you, is what allows you to have half the mind to pull his fingers from your aching heat - replacing the others in your mouth.

His head lolls to the side, honey eyes trained on you like it’s impossible to look away while you suck your juices from his digits, humming around them. It's like he's staring up at the sun, mesmerized.

And then you're kissing him, and he's sure he's gone to heaven. He tastes you on the tip of your own tongue, and you're so sweet, so tender when you grasp his cheeks.

"I came in my pants too, by the way. Technically." You smile, and he chuckles warmly, giddy. His arms encapsulate you and he nudges the tip of your nose with his own.

The toy can have its fun, he thinks to himself. Because really, truly, nothing - and no one, will ever be as lucky and as enamored as he is with you.

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h-worksrambles · 2 years

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Immediate thoughts on completing Klonoa 2

Thanks to the Phantasy Reverie Series, I finally had the chance to play Klonoa 2: Lunatea’s Veil. And put simply, I loved it. It built on the first game mechanically in numerous ways that I found compelling. It had a solid difficulty curve from easy to surprisingly hard. The remastered visuals looked lovely, the soundtrack was excellent, maybe even surpassing the first game. It had endearing characters and a straightforward, yet engaging and well presented story Well, I say ‘straightforward’, but right now, I want to talk about my takeaway from that story, and especially the ending. To do so, I’m going to have to spoil both Klonoa 2 as well as the first game Door to Phantomile, so consider this your warning if you haven’t played these games (which you should).

First, I want to take some time to appreciate the core moral of Klonoa 2. We travel through four kingdoms that each guard an element of human emotion, Tranquility, Joy, Discord and Indecision. Four traits that, the game tells us, are what define how we live in harmony. The climax revolves around the return of the lost Fifth Kingdom. This turns out to be the Kingdom of Sorrow, the fifth emotion. This kingdom was rejected and sealed away, and Lunatea hid behind a veil of ignorance, forgetting that this sorrow even existed (hence the title). The main antagonist, the King of Sorrow, seeks to return and blanket the world in sorrow after it denied him and his people for so long. The game ends with Klonoa, wanting to help the King rather than destroy him, choosing to accept the fifth kingdom, because Sorrow is just as much an important emotion as any other.

I really like this message. Our ability to feel sadness is what allows us to appreciate the good times of our lives. If you bury your worst memories, your pain will only fester until it bursts out of control, as the King’s did. These feelings shouudn’t be shunned but accepted. Pixar’s Inside Out was applauded for including this important truth in a kid’s story in 2016, but Klonoa pulled it off in 2001, in a PS2 game no less. However, there’s a parrtcular aspect of Klonoa 2′s message I want to address. Specifically, how it links back to the first game. To do so, I need to touch on the Klonoa series’ approach to canon. In doing so, I risk exposing my own inexperience with the series, having played the first game years ago (and replaying it several times), experiencing the second only now, and only sort of knowing about the handheld games while trying to avoid spoilers. If I misunderstand the series, I invite Klonoa fans to correct me in the comments. To my understanding, the Klonoa games are not all directly connected. Klonoa’s status as a Dream Traveller coming to new realities and dreams in each game leaves every story mostly seperate. This is why Lolo can show up in Klonoa 2 and again in Dream Champ Tournament and Heroes with a different backstory. It’s the same person, but different versions over different dreams. And it’s left up to interpretation if Klonoa even remembers each one after he leaves. After all, do you remember all your dreams?

Anyway, that’s all just setting up context. Let’s talk about the level, The Kingdom of Sorrow in Klonoa 2 and how it completely recontextualised the ending for me. One of the final levels of the game, the music track here is called Hyuponia: Ruin of Sadness. It’s a hauntingly desolate track, that perfectly sets the mood for exploring this abandoned ruin that embodies the emotion of sadness itself, and I loved listening to it as I went through the level... And then I heard something very familliar. The Windmill Song from Door to Phantomile. And when I realised I wasn’t just hearing things, I got chills. Nor is this the only piece from the first game subtly integrated into the track. You can also hear the ending theme,The Song of Rebirth, and the intro theme And I Begin to Wonder, among others. Music that serves as a memory of Klonoa’s own sorrow. Anyone who’s played Door to Phantomile will doubtless remember that ending. Put simply: Klonoa learns that Phantomile is not his real home. As a Dream Traveller he was summoned there to save it from evil, and was implannted with fake memories of living there his whole life by his supposed best friend, Huepow, to motivate him to save the world. The game ends with Huepow guiltily revealing the deception, and Klonoa, horrified at this, being pulled from Phantomile back to his own world. Unlike later games where Klonoa seems to flit from dream world to another knowingly, here he was coerced and manipulated into it, and the act of leaving was crushing.

In Klonoa 2, while his role as the Dream Traveller is mentioned, Klonoa never mentions the events of the first game. One could speculate that he either doesn’t remember it, or only remembers it vaguely, like a half-forgotten dream. But even if it was a dream, those feelings were real to Klonoa, that’s the whole point of Door to Phantomile’s tragedy. Klonoa himself, therefore, has his own forgotten sorrow. Much like Lunatea itself. By integrating music from Klonoa’s past adventure into this level, the game imples that Klonoa is, on some level, confronting his own sorrow, and players of the first game will have that in mind as they learn the truth about the KIngdom of Sorrow directly afterwards, encouraging them to link the two in their minds (at least, that was my reaction). The lesson about accepting that painful things happen, that they shouldn’t be pushed down, that it’s ok to feel sadness so you can heal and remember the good times, is not only a lesson Lunatea as a world needed to hear, but so did Klonoa.

This comes full circle in the game’s final scene, when Klonoa says goodbye to Lolo. When Klonoa was seperated from Huepow he was devasted, refusing to accept the horrible truth that his best friend had been manipulating him, that his life in Phantomile was a lie. He clung to Huepow even as he was being magically wrenched out of the world. In the sequel, Lolo is this game’s Huepow analogue. She is Klonoa’s companion who powers his Wind Ring, she grapples with the responsibility of a lofty position, (a priestess rather than a prince), and parts ways with Klonoa at the end of the game. But look at the difference in how Klonoa reacts. He’s not crying, he’s not screaming in denial. He’s not being forcibily wrenched out of the world. He clearly knows what’s about to happen this time, that he has to leave. He lets Lolo cry and vent her feelings before giving her some important advice: “Lolo...I may leave this world..but we’ll always be...together. I believe that if you don’t forget the sadness of this moment, we’ll always be...together...Okay?” After these parting words, Klonoa walks away calmly. The dream world of Lunatea fades away around him, and the final shot of the game is him waking up back in his own world (which is also an analogue for the player, using their inputted name like in the first game). Klonoa has not only learned from his experiences with the King of Sorrow. He has, even if just on an subconscious level, processed his past suffering in Phantomile, and accepted his responsibility as the Dream Traveller. He’ll keep wandering from dream to dream, helping wherever he’s needed. Eventually he’ll have to leave each time, and that will always be sad, but instead of forgetting those experiences, he’ll endure that pain and walk away from it, remembering the good parts along the way. Maybe I’m just reading too much into it. Or alternatively, maybe this was super obvious, and Klonoa fans have been saying all this for years. But I wanted to write down how this ending, and this game for that matter, stuck with me. Klonoa 2 is a charming, yet thought-provoking game, that I’m thrilled I finally got to experience, and one I won’t forget anytime soon.

#also yes my images are from the ps2 version as they’re easier to find online #the remastered cutscenes naturally look great #klonoa #klonoa 2 lunatea's veil #klonoa phantasy reverie series #klonoa spoilers #ending thoughts #story analysis? i guess?

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pinnithin-writes · 4 years

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A scene rewrite from MTZ episode 301, when Pleck and AJ went to save C-53 from foodservice hell. Corporate blues got me down, man. 2005 words.

He’s had worse jobs before, he considered.

The tinkling of the service bell was cheerful and the heat from the warmers was pleasant. He was never lonely, surrounded as he was by valued customers from six to midnight. Here, he was the member of a team, possessing a critical skill set necessary to keep this ship on course. He was loved. The training videos said so.

C-53 was undeniably two dimensional these days, which was fine by him. Two dimensions were easier than three, a square simpler than a cube, an employment less painful than emotion. The restraining bolt had been firmly secured for six months now, and every day that passed made his old profession feel more and more like a distant dream.

Yes, he’d had worse jobs before, but he also felt that maybe he’d had better.

His wandering processing shunted neatly back into place as a customer approached the register. This particular On-N-Off location was never empty for long, situated as it was in the heart of Holowood. It kept him blessedly busy. Taking and inputting orders was automatic by now, and he met such a delightful array of people throughout his shifts. Sentients from all over the galaxy came to his restaurant. C-53 was incredibly lucky.

“‘Scuse me? Excuse me? I have choked on this toy, and-”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that-”

“So I’m going to sue. What is your name?”

He paused for only a fraction of a second. “My name is C-53, madam, I am a Yumbassador here at On-N-Off Burger.”

This was a line he still tripped over from time to time. His coding hadn’t fully smoothed it over. He’d always been C-53 - he couldn’t remember a time he ever wasn’t - but there was a different way of introducing himself he used to say with more conviction. C-53 changed frames like other sentients changed hairstyles, but his identity was something that tethered him to reality as he cycled through lifetimes.

He had perhaps been C-53, protocol and diplomatic relations droid, the longest. It was a habit that hurt to unlearn.

The restraining bolt tapped a reminder into his processor. There were patrons to care for. He gracefully handled the choking customer, unsticking the transient object with some simple physics and a chair. Honestly, what would this place do without him? He returned his attention pleasantly to the line of tourists snaking before him.

“Okay, I’ll have uh, one Space Shack burger, uh…”

“Sir,” C-53 broke in gently. “A reminder this is not a Space Shack, this is On-N-Off.”

“You guys don’t have Space Shack burgers?”

“Well, we have On-N-Off burgers.”

“Oh, well,” the customer faltered and their voice fell to a mutter. “Space Shack only has Space Shack burgers.”

“Well, that’s how branding works, sir,” C-53 explained. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “I don’t mean to rock your world, but-”

“You’re rocking my world,” the customer laughed.

The exchange was vaguely familiar, as if C-53 had made this gentle correction many times before. He probably had, in all reality - his patrons were alway a little starstruck from the Holowood experience and it was easy to make mistakes - but this familiarity felt… older. Fonder. Something plucked in his coding, something that was almost loneliness, and he allowed the restraining bolt to lead him away from the feeling.

It wasn’t like his memory was totally wiped. He kept a fairly accurate recollection of his past firmly locked in his internal hard drive. He remembered names and places and events. He just preferred not to. His current bolt wasn’t nearly as harsh as his old Alliance one - that awful thing had shocked him anytime an emotion surfaced like a fork in an electrical socket. No, this one was nicer. It had his best interest at heart.

He was knocked out of his reverie by a loud, commanding tone from the front door. “I’d like to order something!” A CLINT, fully plated in battle armor, was waving his rifle conspicuously in the air. “And speak to a manager!”

While this interjection was startling, the voice that followed hit C-53 much harder.

“No, not here - wait in line! Wait in line!”

It was a voice he knew quite well; one he never thought he’d hear again. A voice with a smile in its words. A voice always on the edge of laughter. His processor flooded with a surge of emotion as his memories rushed back, and for a second the restraining bolt scrambled to bypass his programming. C-53’s ocular sensors snapped toward the sound and caught a shock of blue hair further back in the line. It was him, alright. How had he found him?

The CLINT was still hollering from the front door. “I’d like to order something and speak to a manager!”

“AJ!”

C-53’s vocalizer spurred a response automatically and against his will. “Sir, we have a fairly obvious line structure,” he said, indicating with a hand. “If you could just fall in line back there-”

“I’m doing it,” the soldier interrupted, lowering his blaster. “I’m in the line now, and I’d like to order something and speak to a manager.”

“No need to update me any further until you’ve reached the front of the line, sir. Thank you.”

He watched the CLINT fall in with his companion and returned his attention to the customer at hand. Blue locks of hair tugged at C-53’s periphery, but his trust in the restraining bolt kept his sensors aimed on what was important. Somewhere in his coding, a small part of him was screaming through questions and probability, muted and far away.

From C-53’s left, his manager slouched out of their office, drawn by the shouting. “Did somebody say they wanted to speak to the manager?” they sighed.

“Ah, yes, this gentleman does,” C-53 began, but his explanation was cut off abruptly.

“Yes, I would like to,” the CLINT asserted. “I’m ordering stuff and speaking to the manager.”

Protocol allowed C-53 to move his field of vision back to what initially shocked him, and for the first time he was able to fully lay scanners on the tellurian accompanying the CLINT. That was, without a doubt, Pleck Decksetter. He looked different from the last time they spoke - his hair was longer, his face more tired, and he had ditched the ratty orange Federated Alliance jacket in exchange for an even rattier bathrobe, for some reason. But the grin softening his cheeks was sunny as always.

The CLINT, who seemed to be affiliated with Pleck in some way, leaned to him with a stage whisper. “Now’s your chance, now’s your chance-”

“Just relax,” Pleck told him, offering a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

He glanced across the diner and caught C-53’s gaze. His expression was complicated, cycling through so many emotions in rapid succession it was hard for C-53 to clock. As the CLINT reengaged with the manager, Pleck winked - or perhaps only blinked; he couldn’t quite tell with the eyepatch - and slipped out of line.

“Hi, manager, I’m relaxed… right now…” the soldier said to C-53’s superior, who stood by looking disinterested. “And I’d like to order something from you.”

“Oh, you don’t need to order from me,” they answered, gesturing to the register. “That’s what my fine employee C is here-”

“I’d like to speak to the manager,” the CLINT insisted.

C-53 took that moment to break in, unable to follow Pleck’s progress across the restaurant while his programming was in a headlock. “Okay, well, would you like to order, or would you like to speak to the manager?”

“I’ve been told to do both.”

A polite beat of silence. “You’ve been told to do both?”

The CLINT fidgeted, looking lost. “...Yes.”

Movement in his periphery gave C-53 a millisecond of reaction time, and he flung himself out of the way just as Pleck crashed through the register’s divider. Panting, he gripped one of C-53’s shoulders tightly, and with his back to the counter, the droid had nowhere to go. His other hand carried a device C-53 was very familiar with, and alarm zinged through his coding when he recognized it.

“C-53,” Pleck said breathlessly, “I’m here to save you - come with me.”

C-53’s scanners, unbidden, went to the overturned piece of machinery sizzling into the linoleum. He wanted nothing more than to meet eyes with his old friend, but the restraining bolt clamped down hard on his consciousness. This was company property. He’d probably have to file an incident report.

Belatedly, his vocalizer fired up again. “Pleck, what did you just do?”

The tellurian’s grin was lopsided. “I - I had to remove this grill station in order to have a little bit of room for us to exit,” he explained, laughing slightly at himself.

The sound stirred something in C-53, something he was not allowed to examine. “Okay.”

“Look,” Pleck insisted. “Come with me - we’ve gotta go. You’re in grave danger.”

His response was automatic. “Well ah, Pleck, I’m afraid that I am a valued employee here at the On-N-Off Burger family-”

“No, no,” the tellurian protested, “not anymore-”

“The larger organization that owns the many fine On-N-Off Burger locations across Holowood.”

Pleck wasn’t having any of it. “C-53, stop, no, listen - You’re so much more than that. We have to get back out to the Zyxx quadrant and - and save the galaxy!”

Oh, this hurt. The restraining bolt was no longer gently guiding C-53’s emotions - it was gripping them tight, a vice on his coding. When the word ‘family’ leapt from his vocalizer, a horrible feeling turned deep in his cube, suppressed immediately by a corporate-owned padlock. Pleck was standing there, burning into him with his remaining eye, and C-53 ached in his indifference.

“I think the On-N-Off Corporation values me just a little bit more highly than you do,” he replied. Saying that to Pleck’s hopeful face felt like splicing his own wires.

The tellurian’s brow furrowed only a little as he twirled the restraining bolt remover in his free hand. “Okay, alright,” he said, his smile unaffected. “Just hold still.”

“Okay, I’m-”

Pleck pried the bolt off.

This... was far worse than what C-53 was experiencing before. As soon as his shackle clattered to the floor, everything came surging to the surface at once, and there was nothing left to break the wave overtaking him. What was he doing here? How had this happened to him? His scanners cast a perplexed look around him, taking in the overturned grill - that awful thing - his manager, the droves of customers, the accursed register. A vile feeling wriggled into his circuits, a dismayed realization, a disgust with the self.

And there was Pleck, watching him expectantly. Without a trace of judgment in his eye, even having found C-53 in such a state. A second wave raced up his programming, this time gentle and bleeding. This was something fragile. He was afraid to touch it.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” an onlooking customer commented, breaking the silence. An uncomfortable ripple of laughter ran through the restaurant.

C-53 finally collected himself enough to speak. “Oh my Rodd.”

“C-53, let’s go,” Pleck responded, cheeks pink with relief as he patted his frame.

He said it like it was so simple. Let’s go. Let’s get out of here. C-53’s newly untethered emotions roiled within him, too complicated to fully unravel and examine right then and there, so he clung to Pleck’s certainty instead.

Let’s go. Easy.

There was nothing for C-53 here. On-N-Off certainly wasn’t his family. His family had come to retrieve him, and now it was time to assemble the other missing pieces. Carefully, he strung a sentence together, though his words seemed hilariously inadequate for the sentiment lying beneath them.

“Pleck, I can’t thank you enough,” he said. “This has been a punishing six months.”

“I spent the last six months training to become a Zima knight,” Pleck answered seriously.

“Oh…” C-53 shook his head, blindsided by annoyance and affection in equal measure. “Pleck…”

He really was back, wasn’t he?

#mission to zyxx #pleck decksetter #c-53 #aj-2884 #pleck/53 #ink #listen man its been over a year and im still emotional over the fact that pleck went to find c first

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forestcathedral · 4 years

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‘Til I See Stars

Fandom: Obey Me! Shall We Date?

Pairing: Implied MC/Lucifer (feat. my MC Abel), mostly a genfic.

Rating: G+

Warnings: Difficult upbringing. Transphobia in the form of past (read: family) experiences, nothing graphic. Referenced drinking, referenced unsafe driving. (No one is hurt!)

A/N: This was something cathartic and therefore I didn’t edit it very much, so apologies if it’s a little everywhere. Might come back to fix it later. Maybe I’ll write more about my MC? He’s a delight.

— “I won’t accept this, this isn’t you.”

“It is me, it’s always been me!”

Abel had stormed from his house, boots thudding against the cracked board flooring as he descended the stairs while his parents had screamed behind him. Slammed the car door, gunned it out of the driveway. It was practically Hollywood worthy, if they ever made barely-relatable movies about people like him.

When Abel showed up at his friend’s home, dark eyes rimmed red, they had immediately taken him in. A cup of warm tea was in his hands within moments as he regaled them with his story. Loyalty he’d never been shown by his blood was given freely by friends. A few weeks later, at the tender age of seventeen, he had moved (or rather, was kicked out) in with his aunt who he had not spoken to since he was a child. Upon hearing her reasoning after he visited her when she reached out to him, and the way she seemed so loving when her mouth formed the phrase ‘other half’ as she looked at her supposed housemate, Abel understood immediately.

All of it moved in such a blur that Abel still cannot remember the exact details of the week his father spat out, “That’s your problem now.” over the speaker phone when his aunt said she was taking him in. The memories are patchy at best.

So much had changed in such a short amount of time, yet Abel still pressed forward with no other option in his mind. Celebrating graduation from college, working in his aunt’s greenhouse to help begin paying off his student loans, and not having spoken with his parents since a phone call three months ago that ended in yelling (something about ‘betraying god’s plan’), there was something on the horizon in a way that Abel didn’t think was possible five years prior.

There was still a fight within him, though. Always, there was this inescapable urge to let go. In high school, he sat diligently through his school work or after-school activities, trying to help his father work on the old, 1800s farmhouse they lived in, or tutor his brothers, or stay active in the church he tried to feel something in. Forgoing nights out with his friends and missing moments that later on in life, he would mourn. Anything and everything to avoid the guilt that followed him like a shadow in the form of his mother’s wistful comments about seeing him in a wedding dress. When he moved in with his extended family, the heaviness still bore down on him, miserable for the regret he felt despite knowing it was the right thing to do. Senior year he had scraped by, and college, while it helped him bloom into who he longed to be, still held a dissatisfaction he couldn’t place. As though something vital was missing.

He had been thankful when his group of friends invited him out to spend the night drinking and dancing. It was the most free he’d felt in years.

Abel could feel the dread melting from his shoulders, lost to him as he flung his arms above his head, feeling the midnight wind pulling at his sleeves and hair. In the other occupied car seats, his friends did the same through their laughter, crying out the song lyrics blaring through the stereo. Any tears he might have shed earlier in the evening were long forgotten, the sting of his mother’s words so many years ago gone from the splendor of the present moment. The cold air dried his tongue, but he screamed the songs through the wind anyway. It was perfect. It was everything he needed.

The memory was kept close to his chest, even when his friends moved away and lived their lives thousands of miles from him as the years rolled on. They kept contact, but Abel missed them through it. Even at twenty eight, having made new friendships and experienced new lovers while he learned his new ‘family’ craft to eventually inherit some day, the empty feeling in his gut never left. At first, he thought the hole was from the lack of social interaction, or emotional exhaustion of never letting himself really sit and feel. Even his ‘aunts’ expressed their concerns, gently forcing him on long weekend getaways when they could afford it, which he politely accepted out of gratitude for all they had done for him.

When that fateful application to a ‘unique’ exchange program crossed his desk amidst the stacks of grad school applications, Abel couldn’t have possibly guessed the direction his life would take.

. . .

“.. are you okay? Abel?” Lucifer’s voice broke through the reverie he’d been stuck in.

“What?”

Lucifer, who was kneeling in front of him now, had his face twisted in mild concern. Abel saw Satan and Mammon’s equally worried faces behind him as well. The stereo that they’d been listening to Earth-music on was turned down by Asmodeus, who also made his way over to sit next to Abel on the sofa. The other brothers seemed to be wandering over, too. Even Belphegor, whose relationship with Abel had been slightly strained since he came back, looked concerned.

“Oh, are you feeling homesick, listening to music from your human realm?” Asmodeus cooed softly, once he had cuddled up next to Abel, arm around his shoulder.

“Huh? I don’t-” Abel wiped at his cheek unconsciously, suddenly noticing the wetness there. “Oh, was I...was I crying? I’m sorry, I’m not sure what came over me.”

Of course, this was a lie. But they did not need to know about the way his fingers caressed the wind while he sat next to people who he no longer spoke to, singing over the radio and screaming into the night air in the back seat of a car, so long ago.

Lucifer took one of Abel’s hands into his larger ones, and something about the way his gaze settled made the human think the lie hadn’t gone over well.

“Yer joking, right?” Mammon scoffed, “This some kinda human thing to get mopey over songs?”

Satan immediately elbowed him in the ribcage, causing Mammon to slap him back, and before they could continue Lucifer turned around and shot both of them with a hard glare. Message received.

Beelzebub sat on the side Asmodeus wasn’t occupying, looking serious. “Do you want me to make you something? There’s some spiced lavender tea that you like in the kitchen still.”

For a reason that was beyond Abel, in that moment, he was dragged back to the age of seventeen, on his friend’s doorstep, looking for anywhere to go, feeling like the world was crumbling around him. Abel felt himself start to cry again.

“Ah, I didn’t mean to,” at the sharp exhale that left him, Lucifer squeezed his hand tighter, “Shit. It’s okay, I promise. It’s just…”

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” Asmodeus said softly, rubbing circles along Abel’s shoulder blades.

“Y-yeah! Words ain’t always needed. Gotta do what ya gotta do. ” Mammon chimed in, albeit unsure of himself.

“Mhmm,” Satan agreed, although he looked just as dumbfounded as Mammon, “letting it out is good.”

Abel looked up at all of them, then. Fully, truly looked at each of them, even through his blurry, tear-filled vision. There was a surge of something he hadn’t been able to place until now. Even with their emotional goodbye after his first year at RAD, with everything they had all been through together, the entirety of what exactly each of them meant to Abel felt more raw now than he thought possible.

Mammon, for all his thinly hidden emotions and quiet, genuine integrity. Levi, for all of his drive and passion for what he loved. Satan, for all the struggle he overcame to find his own self, and in some ways Abel found him the most relatable if he thought about it. Asmodeus and all the sincerity behind the sensual bluster. Beelzebub, who would set aside even his strongest cravings to offer something tender and kind in return. Belphegor, while there was a tension between them, was desperate to make a connection beyond his own misdeeds. They all were.

And then there was Lucifer. Oh, Lucifer, who looked at him now so sweetly it made Abel’s heart ache. There was a special kind of affection he held for the eldest demon, to which the secret, doting kisses they shared in the dark held to the magnitude of their connection.

“Sorry if this is too human of me.” Abel laughed through the tears streaming down his face, wiping under his eyes with the hand Lucifer wasn’t gripping onto. “But I love you all so much.”

There were a few sighs and clicked tongues around him, but nothing patronizing or hurtful. Instead, they all seemed to move around him, quieter somehow, showering him with various sentiments of support and mutual affection. Abel heard all of them clearly, but so much of it melted together into a singular warm feeling within his chest. It had been a troubling journey, but his heart was full. At long last he understood what he had been missing for so long.

#my writing #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me!#mc x lucifer #obey me mc #tw transphobia #mc is trans but the brothers say fuck transphobia #IDK WHAT ELSE 2 TAG #this felt good to write

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ilovereadingandilovebreathing · 6 years

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apologizing right before they pass out, with logicality?

Ooooooo nice. I love me some Logicality. I imagine you wanted something cuter (aka as cute as whump CAN be lol) buuuuttt I ran away with this. Sorry. ♥

I once dreamed of writing this Post-Apocalyptic-ish AU kinda thing that vaguely resembles The Road by Cormac McCarthy, so here’s a One Shot from that so maybe I’ll freaking write it

Sorry it starts out really Logan heavy. And really exposition/general boring writing heavy. Clearly I’m dying to write this thing.

2251 WORDS. CHILL, SELF.

WARNINGS for blood, injury, needles, PAIN, kind of graphic depiction of sewing up wounds, constant fear/anxiety, generally tense situations, crying, passing out, mentions of war and other tense political situations

Keep running. Keep running. Logan don’t you dare stop running now. You can hide underneath the Dragon’s Bridge. It shouldn’t be far now.

In any other circumstance, Logan would’ve chastised himself for giving in to Roman’s childish nickname for the dilapidated overpass, but for once in his life, his instincts took over his pride. Survival was the priority.

Unfortunately, the natural flight reflex and accompanying chemicals were wearing off. Logan had never felt a pain like this in his entire life. His chest felt as though it was on fire, full to bursting yet absolutely empty and desperate to be filled; he gasped and heaved, feeling as though his lungs were clawing their way past his ribs to get air in faster. He hadn’t heard footfall behind him for the last few minutes, but the raw fear that had jump-started his body into action had urged him on.

A sob escaped his lips when the crumbling, graffitied landmark came into view. In his former life, Logan wouldn’t have been caught dead or alive around such a decrepit place, but these last few weeks had scooped out the Logan that used to live in this body and replaced him with someone he was still getting to know. Those weeks were what Logan imagined hell to be like; he had been forced to shed his former life and fall headlong into a foreign existence of day-to-day survival and seemingly endless struggle, all in pursuit of what….He didn’t really know. None of them did.

((More under the cut; hiding the disturbing part))

His pace only slowed once he reached the top of the bridge, a necessity for grabbing onto the broken pieces alongside the structure and swinging down into the hollowed out place between the earth and concrete. This place had become base camp, hospital, war room, and home to Logan and the strange, eclectic group of young men that he’d found himself with after the world went to hell, and Logan was even beginning to think of the place with a twisted kind of fondness only discoverable when anything not awful was good.

Logan fell into the darkness of the cave-like hole, landing heavily on his feet and immediately collapsing to the dirt floor. He laid on his side and curled into himself, his breath coming in and out in a painful mix between gulps and gasps, and he tried with whatever power he had left to bring himself back under control. He remained there until his head stopped spinning and his breathing evened out to a reasonable pace and power. When he could without keeling over, Logan slowly pushed himself up to sit with his legs crossed, leaning heavily on his forearms with his head in his hands. Logan closed his eyes and focused on breathing and listening. After a full minute without hearing any sound, Logan let out a deep sigh and burst into tears.

As with many things in this new life, crying (what seemed to him like) constantly was an experience Logan was becoming accustomed to. His birth home had been one of strict rules and manners, upright men and women whose only emotions shown in public were feigned hospitality and genuine indifference. They never showed happiness. They never showed anger. And they certainly never showed sadness. Everything was swallowed and repressed, as was the life of the family of a critical world diplomat in an age when the world was constantly on the brink of absolute chaos.

Logan bit his lip when images of his former family rose unbidden, chastising him for responding so illogically to a situation. This sort of time required silence, planning, action, and preparation, they would inform him, not wet eyes and splotchy cheeks, but such thoughts only made Logan cry harder. Not for the loss of his family; no, not for the strangers he’d been forced to live with and kiss on the cheek and pretend to be associated with, but for the years lost in such a place. For all the times he’d wanted, even needed, to cry, and he hadn’t for fear of bringing their wrath upon himself. Years of emotional repression had built up within him like pitcher filled to the very top, so high that there would be a slight dome to the top of the liquid, and splashes of the pent up pain spilled out whenever they had the chance. Much to Logan’s chagrin.

The other’s shared Logan’s animosity for outward suffering, but they gave themselves over to it far more easily and frequently, seeing no reason to hold back anymore. Despite his logical nature, Logan had been the one to hold on to his airs the longest, but somehow, out of everyone in their rag-tag group of survivals, Patton had been the one to break him. Logan never imagined that such a ridiculous personality would do anything but repel from one like his, but for whatever reason, Patton had stuck onto him like a slug on a Dogwood tree, and yet…Logan didn’t mind. Not anymore. At first he’d wanted to peel the bubbly youth off of him (physically and metaphorically), but over time, he let down his walls enough to find comfort in Patton’s optimism and unconditional love, even if he’d recently found that the former was less-than-authentic.

Pounding footsteps shattered Logan’s reverie. The footfall traveled half of the length of the bridge and stopped. Logan stared straight up, eyes following where source of the steps sounded to be as they picked up again. A figure appeared at the end of the bridge he could see from his vantage point, and Logan grit his teeth, praying to go unnoticed if it be the enemy. He trained his eyes on the spot, watching the person’s awkward movements as they scooted down the hillside that also gave access to the bridge.

Sensing familiarity in the movements, Logan cried all over again when he wiped away his tears to bring Patton into focus, throwing his hands over his mouth to stifle his cries. If Patton was running so desperately, surely danger followed close behind. Logan stayed quiet until Patton landed fully on the ground, and then Logan shakily rose to his feet, keeping his mouth stopped up with his hands.

Patton faltered at his sudden appearance, but when he realized he was with a friend, Patton hurried over to him and pulled him into his embrace, silently sobbing into Logan’s shoulder as Logan wept quietly into his hands. When they’d composed themselves enough to speak in comprehensible whispers, they sank to the floor and sat knee-to-knee; Patton clasped Logan’s hands tightly between his own.

“Oh my god, Logan. You’re alive. You’re- oh my god, I’m just so happy to see you.” Tears poured out of Patton’s eyes, and Logan squeezed Patton’s hands.

“I understand. I am happy that both of us survived…but….what of-”

“Please. I don’t….I don’t know. And I can’t….bear to think of that-” Patton cut off when a far more intense pounding sounded overhead. The pair clasped each other’s hands tightly, one praying and one willing the mass of disgruntled human shells to keep moving.

Minutes ticked by slowly in dead silence, broke only by the occasional shuffle from above, before a great sigh sounded and the chaos above seemed to go back to where it came from.

When the landscape fell into complete silence again, Patton and Logan released great breaths and squeezed each other’s hands. Logan clenched his jaw and muttered, “How long must we live out this horrible-”

Patton suddenly gasped sharply and wrenched his hands from Logan’s. He pulled up his pants leg, revealing a deep wound that spanned the width of his calf.

“Patton, what-?”

“One of them…had a shovel….He tried to take me down, but….Remy helped.” Patton grimaced. “I guess….adrenaline kicked in…right? Not…a good time…with the…supplies….gone…” Patton smiled lopsidedly, his eyes beginning to glaze over.

“Patton, your whole pants leg is soaked-never mind. Not important. You stay here, focus on staying conscious, and I will gather the medical supplies.”

Logan hoisted himself up to begin a hunt for what few medical supplies they had left. Finding the remnants of a roll of gauze, partially rusted scissors, and nearly dried up disinfectant, Logan cut the bottoms of his pants legs off to stop the blood flow and attempt to clean out the wounds. Before starting with the gauze, he remembered Patton what had salvaged from a house they’d broken in to.

“Patton…where are the needles and thread?”

“O-over in the….clothes pile.” Patton gestured vaguely around the space.

“Helpful.” Logan mumbled. “Patton…I am going to attempt to sew your leg together.”

“But…you don’t….sew….Lo-lo.”

Rolling his eyes at the nickname, Logan replied evenly, “Not like you, but I know enough. If you are alright with it, I am going to try.”

“Oh-kay, Lo-lo-lo. I….trust you…” Patton slurred, swaying even as he sat on the ground.

“Here.” Logan gave him a bunched up rag. “Put this in your mouth to bite down on, and lay on your stomach, please.”

“Oh-kay….” Patton obediently fell onto his side and clumsily rolled onto his stomach, leaving his hands splayed at his sides and his head on the ground.

“Patton, this might be the worst pain you’ve experienced in your life, and I apologize for being the one to cause it, but…”

“It’s okay, Lo…I trust you…” Patton whispered, his eyes fluttering.

Gritting his teeth and uttering another useless apology, Logan began his painstaking work. Patton cried constantly, tears spilling down his cheeks, but he had sense enough to clasp his hands and bite down on the cloth Logan gave him.

Halfway through, a particularly rough cry broke from Patton’s throat, and Logan dropped the needle.

“P-please, Logan….I…can’t-”

“Patton, we can’t leave this open-”

“It HURTS.”

“I know, Patton, but you have to let me help you! Stop being such a child!”

Patton stiffened.

“I…apologize, Patton.”

“It’s okay….finish….I’m sorry…” Patton bit down on the cloth, eyes clenched tight.

Logan bit his lip, steadying his resolve before bringing his hand down on Patton’s wound. Hard.

Patton screamed and went completely limp and silent.

Logan exhaled. “I’m so sorry, Patton…but it had to be done.” Logan reached over and pulled the cloth out of Patton’s mouth so that he didn’t suffocate. Picking back up the needle and wiping it on his shirt, Logan continued with his heavy task.

After the longest, most tense period he had experienced, Logan carefully finished stitching Patton’s leg together as best as he could, thanking whatever deity that he wasn’t squeamish as he tied off the end.

“There. I’m so sorry, Patton, but it was all I knew to do.” Logan sighed as he stood and returned their now fewer supplies to their places.

Logan came back and lowered himself next to Patton, sitting hunched beside him as Patton breathed steadily. Logan resolved to let the other youth rest for a while. Surely he needed it.

Just when Logan was beginning to feel himself relax to the smallest degree, Logan’s ears detected shifting leaves just as a pair of dark figures emerged from the forest beyond the bridge. Their approach drew Logan to his feet and in front of Patton, vigilant even when the footfalls turned into thuds a few yards away.

“Did we lose them? Do you think we lost them?”

“I think so. I think they got bored of us at the treeline. Too complicated for their idiotic brains.”

“Virgil? Roman?” Logan’s voiced cracked horribly as he tried to quietly call out for his comrades.

“Logan?” Even in the quickly receding evening light, Logan could make out their familiar shapes, and he felt himself sag in relief.

“I am here, Virgil.”

“Logan, oh my god-”

“Patton?!” Roman’s voice was choked, and he quickly fell to his knees beside the unconscious young man. “What-”

“In his efforts to escape the raid, Patton was injured by a Horde with a shovel. He passed out amid my efforts to help him.”

“Oh my god.” Virgil murmured, standing and staring at the figure sprawled on the floor.”

“What of Remy?” Roman asked quietly, pensively. “I know he and Patton ran off together after we were ambushed.”

“I…do not know. Patton just said Remy helped him escape somehow.”

“Oh my god….”

“Virgil?”

“I just-what about Luke?”

“I thought Luke was with the two of you?”

“No. I never saw him after we split.”

“He and Remy have survived thus far, as have the rest of us. Surely they are alright.” Logan tried to reassure him.

Virgil stayed silent.

“How did you escape?” Roman queried quietly, taking Patton’s hand in his own and rubbing his thumb over the other’s knuckles.

“Ran. Ran until I got here and could not run any more.”

“We did, too.” Roman replied. “Ran into each other when we tried to hide in the same shed.”

“A shed?”

“Yeah. No time for recon, though.” Virgil put in. “Just running.”

“We can go back when it is safe. For now, we need to dig out what is left of our provisions and trust that the others will find us.”

“What about Patton?”

“He will rouse when his body is ready.”

“Harsh, Lo.” Virgil quipped, instantly looking remorseful.

“It is alright, Virgil.” Logan breezed past him. “It is a tense time.”

Virgil nodded mutely and shuffled after him to help while Roman stayed with Patton, now rubbing his back and gazing out sadly into the world beyond their tiny sanctuary.

Can it only get better or worse from here?

#sanders sides #sanders sides fic #sanders sides fanfic #thomas sanders fic #thomas sanders fanfic #mine #asks #replies #fic bingo #heybrofic #tsfanfics

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zodiac709-blog · 6 years

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Aries: March 21st – April 19th

Aries, you haven’t experienced less in the matters related to love. But this love experience has ended in a painful and hurtful manner. However, Aries, you need to give more chance to improve your love life as certain things in past ended in the painful and worst manner doesn’t mean it will happen again, things change so you need to change too. So, it’s the perfect year to bring the substantial changes in your love life and don’t worry all these changes will be beneficial for you. So, be ready to experience an amazing love life in 2019.

Taurus: April 20th – May 20th

Wow! All the matters related to love will just be amazing for you Taurus. If you are single than you will meet that special someone who will bring lots of thrills in your life and if you are already in love than you will completely relish your love life. You just need to be real with our partner about the undiscovered reverie. In 2019 your love life will even give you the chance to explore yourself.

Gemini: May 21st – June 20th

Gemini, you have set an unbelievable high standard for yourself and this will bring lots of obstacles while finding that special person of your life. Sadly, we have said that even your 2019 love life predict that you will not find your ideal mate. You need to accept the truth that not everyone is perfect in this world. Gemini you just to come out of your comfort zone because maybe someone at somewhere is just waiting for your love.

Cancer: June 21st – July 22nd

Cancer this coming year you will not be so interested in your love life, but you rather dedicated yourself more on the betterment and fitness. Your healthy lifestyle will make you more cheerful and confident. So, get ready as your healthy lifestyle is going to bewitch many capable partners towards you. But do not be impatient and choose the first one, be patient and wait for the right and special one.

Leo: July 23rd – August 22nd

Leo, your personality is bold, and confidence is something that is naturally inbuilt within you. You even give more importance to your self-respect. This coming year your pridefulness will be extremely high. So, Leo you must always make sure not to let your pride control you and ruin your love life, as this can lead to some overwhelming heartbreak for you as well as the person whom you come across. Or else, you will summon 2019 with retrogation.

Virgo: August 23rd – September 22nd

Virgo, the fear which you have been holding inside you is the biggest drawback to form a romantic relationship. You are totally scared to make connections with the outside world because you have a fear that people you meet are only going to hurt you, due to this you have missed many potential partners. So, this coming year you need to take your fear to the backseat and let down all your personal limitations and let people enter your life. I know it’s not going to be a very difficult task for you but believe me it’s gonna be beneficial.

Libra: September 23rd – October 22nd

Libra, 2019 is the year which will bring lots of opportunities for you in your love life. But before that, you need to forget all the past sufferings and overwhelming heartbreaks. It’s not gonna be easy for you but have you ever realized why can’t you form a new connection and the answer is right in front of you that’s your past relationships. Libra, it’s time to forget all this because this coming year you will get an opportunity to move forward. So, take full advantage on this chance, a chance to find a potential partner.

Scorpio: October 23rd – November 21st

Scorpio, 2019 will drive you hard to emerge from your comfiness and take a chance. If you are already in love than you will find a different side of your love life and your mate and for singles, it’s time to blend in love. Scorpio, by falling in love you will not only gain knowledge about love but also you get an opportunity to find your inner self.

Sagittarius: November 22nd – December 21st

Sagittarius the most vital thing you need keep in your mind in 2019 is that you should not see back and just keep moving forward. You will find someone from the past approaching you, yet it will even tempt you to return to the similar state. Sagittarius, just need to believe in yourself and listen to your instincts who knows looking back means once again being hurt. Just be patient as better things are coming along.

Capricorn: December 22nd – January 19th

Capricorn, you only give more importance to the thing that you listed as your first priority but unfortunately, you always keep love at the list of least priority. Despite this, you will find the love of your life, but simply you will not give much importance to that department. In 2019 you will be too busy making your career and will even achieve great heights in your career, and along this way, you may find your love.

Aquarius: January 20th – February 18th

Aquarius, you believe that feelings and emotions will make you feel unsafe and that’s why you always try to distance yourself from those feelings. However, this coming year you will cut this chain because you will feel passion and aspirations, but, initially, it may make you feel strong emotions. All this desires and passion is only going to inspire you to take your relationship to a new height.

Pisces: February 19th – March 20th

Pisces, everything happens for a good reason and this the most important line you need to always keep in your mind in 2019. As 2019 is will be similar like 2018, a complete package of passionate romance, few thrilled flings, and sadly some woeful heartbreak. Pisces, prepare yourself to embark the journey of an emotional rollercoaster. But don’t worry! better things are coming for you in the near future.

#2019 #love #love life prediction #prediction #zodiac signs #2019 love horoscope #zodiac709 #love horoscope #love astrology #revivezone

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baek-again · 7 years

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THIS ISN’T GOODBYE // PART 2 // BAEKHYUN [ANGST]

Baekhyun x Reader Words: 2096 Notes: Y/L/N = Your / Last / Name REQUESTED so this took a really long time and i have zero idea about how the korean military system works so i’m really sorry if this is nonfactual /: ALSO! i’m still very much not over descendants of the sun

PART 1 // PART 2

The call had come later that evening, from the commissioner's office regretting to inform you that Byun Baekhyun was unfortunately not been recovered and that until his body was found he would be considered missing in action. But, it didn’t come as a shock, you had suspected it to be the case before you had even picked up the phone, you just knew that he wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon. However, it still came as a crushing blow, like you were a delicate and refined sculpture carved out of thin ice and you had taken a hit from a mallet.

Your friend had offered to stay with you overnight to make sure you were okay, but you had assured her that you would be alright and that you didn’t want her engagement to be ruined because of you. So you slept alone that night, not for the first time, but the loneliness you felt made you feel more isolated than ever.

The sofa became your bed and each night you would dull your mind with the petty drama of soaps and sitcoms until you fell asleep. Because other people's problems seemed to be overshadowed by the feelings you felt inside, yet somehow it helped, you could zone out of the issues and heartbreak surrounding you and let your mind be consumed by someone else’s story.

It wasn’t until several months later that you made your way back to the bed. You had gone out for a couple of drinks with two of your friends, comforting one of them on her misfortunate breakup. Sat at the bar, the three of you had already attracted a bit of attention, so much so that your night of drinks might have been free if you had accepted. However, all of the bidders had been for your two glammed up friends, not for you- until then.

The man had almost caged you in, his thick, robust, ‘compliment me- I work out’ arms forming two barriers against the bar and the back of your chair. “Can I buy you a drink beautiful?” He asked, his voice deep and his words slow, he murmured them in your ear like an incantation. Perhaps he hoped they’d work like a spell and magic him into your tight fitting pants.

You glanced to your side, only to see your two friends sending you not-so-subtle nods and thumbs up’. But, instead, you pressed your painted red lips together in a sorry smile and said, “I already have a boyfriend.”

The man sighed and turned away without a word, visibly disappointed. You wrinkled your nose, glad to be out of the musty cloud of cologne that surrounded him.

In your peripheral vision, you saw two surprised faces staring at you open mouthed. “Are you crazy?!” Your friend squealed, “He was so hot! And you don’t even have a boyfriend.” Her voice is slightly slurred from drowning her sorrows in expensive cocktail probably named by a drunk Caribbean pirate somewhere down the line.

You shook your head, “Until Baek’s tags are mailed me in the post, he is still my boyfriend and until I see them bury his body in a coffin I am not single.”

Your friend raised her eyebrows, “Jeez, I’d rather my boyfriend was dead.” She mumbled under her breath.

Your other friend rubbed both of your backs, her diamond encrusted engagement ring glittering tauntingly in the dimmed pub light.

You forced back the tears that threatened to overflow. Why did everyone think he was dead, so far they had already found one of the other missing bodies. And that meant that the 5 missing soldiers had been alive, just under the imprisonment of a radical group of mercenaries, but not dead. The first body had shown up just over a month after they had gone missing, he had been shot in the head with his body left for dead in the dust of the fleeing group. When the forces found him his tags were laid out upon his chest like a message of ‘one down, four to go’, a sort of catch us if you can- before it’s too late game.

The words repeated themselves in your head in the taxi home that night, he is not dead. He is not dead. He is not dead.

And again when you dragged yourself into your bed, the sheets crisp from lack of use. He is not dead. He is not dead.

And yet again as you curled up in a cocoon of many blankets, the layers of material folding like petals around your delicate heart. He is not dead.

✦

The sunlight filters in through the unclosed curtains and you unfurl yourself from your blankets, the morning was strangely unpeaceful. Not from the expected cars and buses, or the business men and woman and students on their commute and not from the trucks and workmen who had already been up far before the sun. No, the thing that disrupted the peace was something in the air, it was carried on the breeze and in the song of the birds, it was in the rustle of the trees and the almost excitement it carried with it. A whisper humming a victory song that is growing louder the more voices that join it.

Your phone beside your bed rings and it makes you jump, violently shaking you out of your dreamy revery. “Hello?” You answer in a raw, morning voice, “Who is this?”

“This is General Seo. Is this Miss Y/L/N?”

At the sound of the deep voice on the other end of the phone line, your back immediately straightens and a buzz of electricity shoots along the arteries of your body, jolting you into a more upright position. “Yes!” You exclaim, trying not to sound too optimistic. Don’t get your hopes up. You tell yourself, but it’s hard to prepare yourself for the worst when the small voice in your head echoes the words had been chanting to yourself for the past months, he is not dead.

“What I am about to tell you is very important and should not be repeated until otherwise notified, do you understand?”

You hiccup out a weak “Yes.” and squeeze the spot over your heart, attempting to tame the creatures writhing about and feeding off your worry.

The man continues: “Last night we carried out a raid on a suspected hideout of the group that have our missing troops, that raid was successful and we were able to safely remove all four of the men being held captive. Your fiance was one of them and is being treated in intensive care, it will be a couple of days before he is released, but please know that Byun Baekhyun is not dead.”

You whisper the last words along with the General, not bothering to correct him that you aren’t actually engaged to your boyfriend, realising that it was probably only under that pretense that you would be allowed to hear those words. The tears stream down your cheeks, but they aren’t the sad, lonely tears that you have become accustomed to, far from it. These tears are full of gratitude, “Thank you.” You wail through the phone line, an intangible grin forming on your face as you imagine the old General Seo hold up in his office holding the phone away from his ear to avoid your hysterical sobbing. “Thank you so much.” And you hang up.

You flop back down onto your bed and roll around squealing, your body is full of the adrenaline of a drugged up cage fighter before a match and you can’t breathe, you don’t know what to do with yourself, with the overflow of emotions you are experiencing.

You reach for your phone and ring your friend and release a torrent of words about nothing in particular, things about Baekhyun that you miss and things you want to do when he gets back to make up for the lost time. If she stops listening at some point, she doesn’t let on, she lets you ramble about all the inconsequential things that mean the world to you, like the dimples in his cheeks and the way he makes coffee for you in the mornings, the sparkle in his eye when he kisses your neck whilst you wash up and the way he asks you to rub his shoulders after a busy week at work. It’s only after almost 40 minutes that she tells you she needs to go to work but there’s a smile in her voice as she asks: “When do you get to see him?”

“They’ll let me know.” you breathe happily.

And they do, two unbearable days later after being able to think of nothing else, your phone rings telling you that your ‘fiance’ will be on the 4 o’clock flight and will be ready to be picked up an hour after.

✦

The traffic on the highway is horrific, the cars are stacked up bumper to bumper for at least a kilometer in both directions, behind and in front of you and you slowly crawl forward at the pace of a snail. Luckily you set of several minutes- 34 to be exact- early and you get to the airport on time with a couple of minutes to spare.

The sign overhead tells you that Baekhyun’s flight has just landed and you begin to pace up and down the waiting room, your eyes glued to the arrivals gate.

The waiting room is quite busy already, there is an old lady waiting there with two small children holding a glittery sign that reads ‘WELCOME HOME DADDY!’ with sparkly love hearts surrounding it. There is a middle-aged man there in a smart brown suit, there is a huge bouquet of yellow flowers in his arms and he hops nervously from foot to foot. There are half a dozen chauffeurs standing against the back wall holding sheets of paper and Ipads with names that have important looking initials in front of them. They are the standard family welcome party there too, the ones that look like they have come out for an outing rather than to pick someone up.

That’s when you see him, it’s a quick blur of khaki and then his face. He’s lost weight, that’s plain to see, the bones in his cheeks are more prominent and the clothes that were tight fitted and smart when he left are baggy around his shoulders and thighs. But his eyes are the same, though, a little more tired than they used to be, they still light up the room when he sees you.

A sound that sounds like a whimper leaves your lips and before you can think a rational thought, you are speeding towards him with your arms open wide.

The bag that was straining the muscles in his arms is discarded on the floor as he catches your figure, you almost bowl him over you are so forceful. You are finally back in his arms and the feeling is better than you had imagined it would be. You hold him and he holds you, your bodies fitting together like two pieces of a broken vase and your yearning for each other is the glue.

“I missed you so much.” Baekhyun whispers in your ear and in that moment, you are the happiest you have ever been. His hands have become coarse in the weeks of his absence and the tough skin scratches your soft cheek as he cups your face. “So, so, so much.” He whispers these words like they’re a dangerous secret in between peppering your lips with soft kisses.

You pull away to study his face, inspecting it like an artist would before painting a masterpiece. There are subtle things that have changed that you didn’t notice at first, some of his features are sharper than they used to be, there are scrapes and scratches along his cheekbones, a fresh looking one along the bridge of his nose and a nasty scar on his forehead. His body is different too, he doesn’t stand as tall as he used too, his posture is slightly slumped and he’s standing with his weight more on his left foot than his right, like the right side can’t support him enough. You decide you won’t ask him about what happened, whatever it was it wasn’t good but if he needs to talk to someone, you promise to always be there.

“Let’s go home.” You whisper.

Baekhyun nods, kissing your cheek one last time, “Let’s.”

#a shoddy ending tbh #but hey #HE'S NOT DEAD #(try to be surprised)#byun baekhyun #baekhyun #baekhyun scenario #EXO baekhyun #exo scenarios #exo angst #baekhyun angst

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ratherhavetheblues · 5 years

Text

INGMAR BERGMAN’S ‘SUMMER INTERLUDE’ “Get the lead out, little lady!”

Way back, when Ingmar Bergman was a hack by necessity, he found himself (being an acute student of Hollywood flutter) ready at last (around 1950) to speak his piece. The vehicle he chose for this debut, namely, Summer Interlude (1951), involves all the treachery and emotional violence mowing us down for the next forty years. Although his portfolio would include marvelous instances transcending destruction, those marvels would be hedged in a way that protracted evil would seem to triumph on planet Earth. But what is planet Earth but a sick puppy in face of the infinite potential of the cosmos? In the days of Summer Interlude, however, we should not neglect the singularity of heartiness putting in a dynamic (perhaps) never to be seen from him again. This singularity is the special gift and the special task of our film today.

Whereas, at the outset of a saga like Bergman’s Cries and Whispers (1972), there is a piercingly beautiful rendition of the grounds of a large estate in early morning light, only to become promptly swallowed up by vicious interaction and horrific physical decline and death, the tyro matter goes to sheep-dog persistence to show us that an agency of uncanny love is very much in the mix. Not being able to deploy (as with the film of 1972) remarkable chromatic effects, our preamble reveals an estate of some opulence, rich foliage including daisies in bright sunlight and gentle breezes, benign white clouds and, particularly, a body of dancing water with a rocky shore to be displaced with the sea looking back toward the now distant structure, touched by a carefree flute motif. (The last detail to note here, is three chevron-form windows at the mansion’s upper floor. That they resemble jaws as well as a formation of dialectics indicates how early Bergman’s instincts for synthesis were in play.)

Plunging right through that whimsy, only to engage more whimsy, there is the harbor of Stockholm and its flotilla of tour boats and ferries to be supplanted by a bicycle parked at a curb while leaves dance along the sidewalk. Promptly we enter a ballet theatre and its hubbub, which could have shattered the intuitive dance. That it doesn’t, has to do with the two ancient, long-term office functionaries, first seen receiving a package for the prima ballerina, Marie, and shooing off a reporter claiming, “She’s [Marie’s] expecting me.” With this mundane buzz, there emerges, by way of the courier/ messenger, a surprise: “What’s that smell?” Though the more assertive sentry claims that there is no smell, there is the delivery boy pressing the case, “You’ve lost your sense of smell, friend.” (With that, the discoverer pushes his hat into a rakish angle. This action tends to confirm that the reporter—his tabloid called, “The Year Round,” being about the usual—is dressed to resemble a whimsical and eccentric Hollywood detective with his trench coat and rakish fedora.) The smaller of the two sentries comes to life with, “Something does smell funny!”—something in the air we should take seriously. The rotund top-cop loses his temper about that volatility and yells out, “That may well be, but no outside brat’s gonna be telling me that! I’ve worked at this theatre for 40 years…” An in-crowd shaping up, disinclined for change. The delivery to “Miss Marie,” by the second-in-command, becomes another rakish motion, this time not so tacky as the poses of American tough guys. The boss-sentry rips open the curtain behind which he directs traffic and instantly there is the little old flunkey ripping open Marie’s dressing room and presenting her with the package. The shock of that gusto links to the mysterious “smell,” invading the ordinary with a type of acrobatics. (Here we have the comedic outset of what will become, in The Seventh Seal [1957], a blue-chip uprising against arrogant insiders.) In support of noticing that a dance is in force, somewhat supplanting the rigid activity of the ballet, we have a number of dancers in tutu costumes, seen from below on a rather precipitous catwalk down flights of narrow stairs. Almost simultaneously with that rush to a dress rehearsal, we hear a loud, grinding noise filling the hall. This also coincides with Marie’s opening her package to be jolted by the diary of a former lover who died while she watched him carelessly dive into a rocky seaside, along a trajectory of compromising distraction and superficiality which he—not she—could have averted. This unexpected arrival eclipses the work in progress. With everyone in place except her, many of the bemused run to the sense that Marie is losing her grip. We hear, “Something’s going on with Marie. Everyone says so!” (A cut to the stage curtain, and it strikes us as dark and fussy with frills.) Marie is induced to return to be a team artist, but her escort, one of the many support staff needed to satisfy a pedantic culture, worries, “There’s something strange in the air today! I told the missus so when I woke up. The weather and all, and I had a strange dream… Something’s going to happen, I feel it coming…” After a short passage with the premiere (the dancers performing the ballet, Swan Lake) and during an expectant musical thrust, the lights go out.

The on-again, off-again lighting is “some king of glitch,” necessitating an evening dress rehearsal. But the “glitches” we’ve just experienced speak to an agency—always there but seldom noticed. Surely the arrogant ballet master alerting Marie that there is to be a lull in the workplace that day and going on to be viciously rude toward an elderly woman helper of the dressing room, would be missing in action regarding that agency. (He tells the ballerina, “I’m cool.” But no one’s fooled about that, since cool is the medium of disinterestedness, also known as acrobatics.)

We’ll follow how Marie spends that rest, and whether she amounts to anything better than the laughable wannabe. She goes out, but before that she stops at the phone booth at the doorway, to connect with the man from “The Year Round” [the everyday, the common]. She can’t reach him. But can she reach the pattern of meteor-passes on the phone booth glass? On hearing from the decades-long bouncer that he had bounced her date, she spits out, “They should send you packing!” That being exactly the register of the “cool” one. The hapless doorman remarks, “There’s something hard about her.” Marie bumps into the person of interest while yawning, and meandering along a sidewalk. She complains to him, “I’m tired because you won’t let me sleep at night.” Thus, ensues a bitter row about preoccupation with career, culminating with him telling her, “I can’t stand old sourpusses!” She has carried along the diary, and when, at the docks, passing a tour boat ready for an excursion, she is rallied by a crewman calling, “Get the lead out, little lady! Are you coming or not?” She can’t resist a bid to shake things up, to recapture what she imagines to have been the heights of love. A sprightly harp motif joins her windfall along with the sunny sky and lovely seas, in addition to a white wake and white smoke from the chimney, conspiring with the white clouds. She enters a precinct of thrilling space, serenity and its brave instincts. Pensive, while the boat skirts a forest, she could be seen to be an artist of vast promise.

On reaching her destination, she finds the key to a small and decrepit cabin, where she sits on a dusty cot. She closes her eyes and recalls a summer day 13 years before, when she graduated into the corps de ballet, by way of a celebratory performance. “A day like no other day of the year!” But she had to include, within this treasure of skill, the complaint, to one of the trainers, “That was awful! The orchestra played too slow…” Her listener replies, “Don’t try that one…” [to cover errors by blaming others, resorting to place others at a disadvantage]. She then shifts the advantage game to the form of, “It didn’t go well…” [I’m a perfectionist without peers]. The more mature correspondent here covers the cut-throat’s vanity with, “No, but you were brilliant…” All he gets in reply is, “I’m going home to have a good cry.” Frustrated, his retort is, “You do that.”

Marie may have been in the spotlight here. But her account includes another male backstage, smitten by her sensuous presence and early authority. He’s quickly disposed of by the larger sentry, before being introduced. But we should know right now (before succumbing to overkill from the measure of wholesomeness this movie packs) that Marie, for all her impressive resolve, is locked, as is most of the population, into life-long superficiality, with occasional faint hope being to no avail. And yet, this Bergman standby will in fact be tempered—not simply, as with the usual drama over the years, a demolished gem—by a perpetual vector of efficacy (a glitch), notwithstanding having been virtually never taken out on the road. Whereas the young admirer, far more capable of real artistry and power than she, will die in the course of taking her too seriously, he will have deposited, in his diary, the wherewithal (and he is not alone in this challenge) to shut down a gigantic farce. We do need to notice and celebrate the many upbeat moments, because their sunniness is quite unique in the works of Bergman. And thereby we are enmeshed in a critique: on the order of loosening up (somewhat) the good stuff.

Out she goes (in her reverie), on the same boat she would use after the quarrel with the reporter, for her summer holiday, and who should be seated next to her but Henrik, the finder of celestial apparitions. She remarks (not exactly a calling card), “It’s cold.” His shy and awkward reply is, “Are your legs cold, miss? I mean, since you’re a dancer…” He goes on to declare, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.” After sorting out each of their positions on the Stockholm Archipelago, the impressiveness of Marie’s home takes precedence. He jokes, “Yeah, the Manor. Gruffman [his large poodle] and I used to raid the orchard there.” This brings out more coldness in the ballerina: “Perhaps our paths will cross, if only if you come to raid the orchard,” she stakes out a far from equitable intercourse.

Now that we’ve floated the crisis (a much lower key than that of, say, The Passion of Anna (1969), we’re treated to Marie’s susceptibility to cogency when alone and heeding “glitches.” She wakes up on the cot to be welcomed by a foursome of intense squares of light upon the wall. (The makings of a twosome without attitude?) She hums a happy tune while putting on her bathing suit, and then she opens wide her arms to the sun. She carries a long fishing pole to her rowboat at the dock, and we regard her smoothly rowing from a seagull’s perspective, which is also the perspective of disinterestedness. Who knew? We’re treated here to a play of rallies, the likes of which are very rare in the Bergman catchment. She drops anchor, puts a worm on her hook and falls asleep in the molten sun. A cuckoo sings. (No matter that her endeavor here comes to naught. This film has opened up a very long-term payoff.) The splash of Henrik’s diving into the waters nearby wakens her to a divided result. She is amused by his whimsy; but also displeased to feel exposed that she can’t handle the rigors. “Hello, again,” she takes up a form of pecking order. “Swim, miss?” he invites, perhaps having taken umbrage with her seeing him as a thief. “Too cold,” she maintains. “Try,” he argues, all smiles. And therewith Marie finds a way to put him at a disadvantage. “Think we could drop the formalities?” the modernist tweaks the old-fashioned. She takes further control by asking, “Do you like wild strawberries?” And away they go, with a harp fanfare, to her place. “No one knows about it.” While they are enjoying the treats, a bird calls so furiously that she becomes confused. He shrugs it off with, “I usually call it the summer vacation bird.” (One other aspect of the wild things in this skirmish is Gruffman, the dog, in the process of losing his special fluency with the boy.)

As the summer goes very wrong, Marie makes a point of having nothing to do with Gruffman’s equilibrium. On hearing from the college boy of his having been shunted off by his divorced father to a rich and hateful aunt, Marie tries to bring to bear her vision of soaring virtue. “I love blind kittens, don’t you? And babies… And people that other people think are ugly. And mice, of course.” (How close to Anna, the martinet of “Security,” in the film, The Passion of Anna, is Marie?) As an afterthought formality, she adds, “and poodles.” How much did she care about Gruffman? After Henrik’s death, she demands having the deep creature put done, with the slimy concern, “The poor thing shouldn’t have to live” [in malaise].

Henrick’s not feeling that his concerns are getting across to her—“It’s just that people don’t take me seriously…”/ “Oh dear,” she chuckles, “is it really as tragic as that?”—prompts him to declare, “No one cares about me but Gruffman…”/ “Really,” she mocks./ “No,” he insists, “only Gruffman!” The conversation continues to fall short of serious connection. “What about me? Do you care about me? Would I have brought you here if I didn’t?” is her infantile rationale./ Even a freshman could smell that glitch. He politely replies, “I’ll have to give that some serious thought.” Serious thought, about a gulf, crashes into him immediately, by her happy face, “I’m never going to die.” Not content with pushing around the population, Marie has no qualms about pushing around the cosmos. And before leaping to the conclusion that she’s a dancer, period, we should be alert to the possibility that her moments of vision at the beginning of the morning might just touch upon an agency—far from about forever alive—which could move a headstrong dancer-laborer to recognize that powers do surpass and sustain mere human physiology right up to a right death. “I may get really, really old, but I’ll never die.” Henrik, after fielding this matter of incredible self-concern, shares his very different sense of “serious thought.” “While, I’m scared… Scared that I, Henrik, will suddenly fall over the edge into something dark and unknown.”/ “Why do you talk like that?” she complains. He explains, “The feeling just comes over me [a glitch], clear as can be…” He smiles, having in fact reached the same territory of Marie’s gratitude; but from another, more visceral angle. “But it’s interesting, don’t you think?” Henrik looks for a link. She smiles uncommittedly. But she does manage to maintain, “Hey, Henrik, I think we’re going to be friends.”/ “I think so too,” he hopes. (Here, we should delight in the helmsman’s great craft in theatrical dialogue, casting light where darkness has prevailed.)

This high ground proves to lack traction. Here she is, back to her default zone at the estate, receiving, from a rich uncle who hopes to bed her one day, an expensive bracelet. This Uncle Erland, an amateur classical pianist of some finesse, grows his hair patrician-long; and, in the midst of it, he installs two strands of white curls which set the table for the kind of synthesis Marie and Henrik struggle to master. Erland, teased by Marie that he lusted for her now-deceased mother, trains his rationale toward a supposed supernal gift which Marie’s actress-mother possessed. Marie, in her most sustained register, teases and triumphs, “And is the bracelet a token of my artistry?” Her uncle, frequently drunk, advises, “We’d run away, you and I… and live life to the fullest… seize the moment and hold it tight…” In reply, she maintains, “I already seize the moment and hold it tight.” Her patron dismisses that arrogance, telling her, and laughing, “You think so, poor dear? Lucky the man who will teach you. There’s so much to life…” The lunch dissolves with her coquetry, seen often, no doubt, at many affairs. But rushing to the traction involving Henrik, , she finds that he had been once again trespassing and overhearing the minor cynicism. (Erland’s wife, regarding with him her racing off, states, “She’s run off, dear Erland, and you can’t catch her.” Sometime after the death of Henrik, he will reel her in, for a while.) A frosty new friend greets her, and Gruffman doesn’t even look her flighty way. She uses the dog as a ventriloquist’s doll: “Gruffman, why’s he mad?” Clearing the air, she refers to the gift-giver as merely “an old codger,” and adds, once again, “Is it as tragic as all that?” She cuddles up, and then pushes him into the nearby waters. “I got you!” she adds. A cut reveals the three returning in his canoe. Her voice-over, covering the scene as Henrik wrote in his diary, emphasizes, “One night, after a scorching summer day of blazing sunlight, there was an immense silence that reached all the way up to the starless vault of heaven… The silence between us was immense as a well…” Hopping gracefully from one small purchase of the treacherous surface to another, she induces Henrik to follow suit, which he does. (Two forms of poetry.) The friends lie on their bellies upon the flat rocks. She adds, “The rocks are still warm. His contribution—“Everything seems unreal tonight, don’t you think?”—elicits from her, “It’s beautiful” [beautiful as a bracelet?]. A small “glitch” having come to concentration for her, brings to her: “We’re inside the same bubble… It’s so beautiful I could burst, break into pieces and disappear without a trace [“I’ll never die” a poor fit for this understanding]… You know, kissing must be fun…” His response, “Must be, since everybody’s doing it” [in sexy Sweden], once again doesn’t find them on the same page. He thinks out loud, “Everything’s so difficult, and all connected somehow… Marie, I like you. I’m in love with you, and all that… I mean… You must think I’m stupid. I’m just a damned fool. A damned coward!” And once again she drops the ball. “How does it feel?” she asks. (Not the big picture; but, “How am I doing to brighten your melancholy?”) “What?” he wonders, is she talking about. She clarifies, “You said you’re in love with me.” He, wanting to drop the subject going nowhere that could work for him in her context, puts out a slap-dash cliché, “You feel it in your chest and stomach.” This brings her to the failing of poetry, and she laughs at him. Having a miserable time expressing the subject by duress, he struggles with a quicksand of language. “You’re knees feel like they’re full of applesauce, and your toes curl up. But it’s mostly in the chest.” (Bergman’s ironic bite here involving a possibility to make amends, given long enough time to live. She, facile most of the time, amends, “In the heart.”) “I don’t know what,” he puts an end to the revealing farce. But he politely asks, “What about you?” She, having been accorded all her life the license to duck out of conundrums, rudely shoots back, “Who said I was in love with you?”/ “You’re right,” he acknowledges—and this would have been his cue to do something else during his vacation. But from her perspective there was nothing more interesting here than toying with reflection. She comes up and puts his arm around her shoulders. “I think it’s in my skin,” she gets around to replying to his asking about the subject. “I want you to touch me and stroke my skin with your hands…” As he moves to kiss her, she rushes away, whips out a cigarette, hands it to him and they proceed to toss flat stones into the inlet. Far from the creative acrobatics stalking this film, the rippling of the waters doesn’t catch fire. Then they canoe, and their return is bemusing. She marches straight on to the dock, leaving the more evolved two to bring the awkward craft to steadiness. Their land route passes cherry blossoms and a peacock, but they meet the beauty with less than incisiveness. (Traction missing.)

Now both of them needing a new outlook on life, they visit the salon of the estate of Erland. “He’s probably a bit drunk, but don’t worry about,” are the opening notes by her aunt. They sit on a polar bear rug, and listen to Erland tell of, “Your mother, Marie, used to dance for me on evenings like this… when it was quiet and still, and moonlight filled the room …” (Less than celestial? Or once celestial?) He moves on to, “Now all the clocks in the house have stopped… We were alive in those days…” Marie escorts Henrik to the garret room where she is supposed to work out every day, during the closure of the ballet. Here Marie, in voice-over, reads Henrik’s read of the moment. “It was the ship’s horn tooting in the distance, and other things echoing too. The silence and the anticipation… The blood whispering in our ears. A strange mood set in… almost like a melody [a musical progression]. A new room opened up in our minds…” Then she resumes the jist of her leaden factuality. “Two crows talk in the trees every day at 4 a.m. They’re quite sweet… Then your “summer vacation bird” appears…” Henrik is recalled as responding to this introduction, “You sound like a museum guide…” She responds with, “I think we should kiss each other…” The choreography of her gleaming eyes, his soldiering forth, and his ending on top of her on the carpet is indelible, not requiring any additions. Henrik gently touches her cheek. Then a deep kiss and a pan to Gruffman with his own saga of alienation. A cut to the morning, discloses only their arms and hands reaching upward and touching, as if a primer were found to be a better bet. Marie, as if to disarm any notion of her being not so bad, becomes a radio soap opera ingénue. “Now you have a lover… How does it feel? Exciting? I’m sure you’ll tell your friends. Will you boast about us?” Properly miffed by this violence, he says, “I can’t give any guarantees. But we will get married.” She commands, “But now! How do you feel right now? Haven’t you longed for this?” He once again admits having had fears. “And you’re not now,” she probes, being almost a selfie about making a splash. On hearing that he’s no longer afraid, she has to brag, “I’m never afraid of anything!”

That gross overestimation becomes the mantra of her dark solution to form a happy ending (for her) within their deadly reconnaissance. She covers his mouth as he adds, “I am” [afraid]. That cover will launch her woodland theatrical regime, going lickety-split to shed an unsupportable endeavor. (Gruffman’s being a steady source of love becomes almost totally lost in the shuffle.) And they race to the shore—Hollywood-intensity-style—early rebels without a (viable) cause. A piccolo motif applying a whip, we see them on the lake, she in her stolid rowboat, they in their lyrical canoe. Then to the vicinity of their cabin-castle, where he lifts her over his head as if on the ballet stage, the Romantic-era fantasy so wrong in this world of very hard acrobatics, and only then deploying juggling which might catch fire. A rain shower leads to them hunkering down on the cabin cot. Marie reads the unwelcome passage, “Days like pears, round and lustrous, threaded on a golden string [onscreen, a stormy sky… a church]. Days filled with fun and caresses, nights of waking dreams. When did we sleep? We had no time for sleep…”

Pan to Marie in real time. She finds Erland in his kitchen. He tells her, “Nothing’s ever surprised me in my life.” Boarding the boat back to the rehearsal, the sway of a lamp lights up more reverie, the reverie of her putting her foot down. It begins with her on pointe, working out in the garret. The arrival of Henrik and Gruffman is nothing but an annoyance. “So, it’s you two…” The two visitors sit on the floor feeling hated. After a while, Henrik says, “You don’t care about me. I’m always waiting for you.”/ “I’ve got a job to do… Fine… Just say the word…” She reasons, “We’ve been together night and day for two months… Good lord, you’re a pain today! Here I am groveling and apologizing… Just go. I’m fed up with your moods…” [moods being their real “job to do”]. She does engineer a truce upon this shaken basis, telling us, “I spent the whole day looking for him…” She finds him at his hostel/ mansion, where an influential aunt and a clergyman with a big hat, remind us of the trials of Alice in Wonderland. (This being another instance of lazy mood headed for LA.) Their being addicted to chess opens the door to Bergman’s The Seventh Seal. As if a marvel of paradox, the grandee claims, “I like living. That’s why I’ll outlive the bunch of you! Nevertheless, I still feel like a ghost.” Marie passes on the invitation to enjoy the “port.” Also, part of the awkward standoff, the divine states, “This may seem ridiculous, but I have the strange feeling I’m rubbing elbows with Death himself” [a reprise of the frissons at the outset].

As if now the Red Queen must rule, they encounter a fizzling fireworks display, move on to the cabin and play dubious razzmatazz vinyl discs, which bleed over to early Disney animation (by her) drawn on a paper sleeve. The show (while they drink their diminished milk) features them: Gruffman, made to sit down, while the lovers flirt; Gruffman becoming the fat sentry; and the old lady’s chest of money coming their way. The last vignette has the chest of money, the preacher and a wedding not happening. The chest changes to the big sentry, the ballerina becomes morose, and all that is left is Henrik’s sailor hat and a ballerina being the dying swan of the ballet, Swan Lake. From there, she declares, melodramatically, “Listen, it’s so quiet. Suddenly, everything went quiet.”/ “Maybe we’ve landed on another planet,” is how Henrik now unhappily reveals his capitulating to Disney. “An alien planet,” Marie piles on [about to claim a victim]. They crawl out of the little doorway, bathed in moonlight (doing its best). The one never afraid of anything becomes uneasy about a crying wind. His attempt to calm her, while having bought into her bathos, slides along to, “Such fine breasts you have, miss!” That jag of witlessness culminates with her, “As for me, I’ll be faithful as long as I feel like it. And since I always feel like it, I’ll be faithful till doomsday.” (The register here is just to the left of pre-Code-Hollywood.) There is a loud bird call. “What an ominous sound!” she shudders. (One person’s shudder being another person’s glitch. Both of them miles from their personal best, while personal becomes a disease.) He, dragged along by her cripplement, says, at this point of worn-down traction, “Don’t you recognize the eagle owl?” Oblivious to the puerility they have contracted, there she is, “I don’t know. I just feel like crying tonight. It’s like a toothache in my soul.” Hollywood forever, she emotes, “Hold me so I don’t break into pieces!” He, never realizing embracing a crash, replies, “My little darling. My love. My dearest darling and beloved friend. Hold me tight. Tighter. Let’s stay up all night until the sun rises, and the trolls burst…”

It’s the morning of the supposed Olympian love cake, and he’s ready to keep the so-called magic alive. He scampers to the top of a picturesque ridge overlooking the pretty waters, and takes flight. The rock face he rocks leaves him close to death. Gruffman comes to his struggle to right the ship that might have resolved to something she’d never become. By the time she arrives at the hard facts, he tells her—all poetry lost—“My back!” (His “back,” his second front of deadly and ravishing truth, if only he could have steadied it, becomes a fitting epitaph to a young adventurer.

The conclusion of Henrik’s life is not quite the conclusion of Henrik’s being a player in Marie’s life. The saga’s last moments comprise the lovers, in a Stockholm hospital room, where he regains consciousness for a few seconds before dying. Her strongest emotion is horror, not love. She had arrived wearing a chic, shiny black leather coat, giving her continuity with the American melodramas she had burrowed into at the end of the summer. (Similarly, she suggests here an oil slick.) Her retreat from the hospital, with no further concern toward any sequel, is as stagey as it is incipiently uncanny. Piling on the pushy “mystery,” she and Erland (he having secured the diary) create a film noire parade along a corridor while exiting the mishap. First there is Marie, enclosed by shadows resembling prison bars. Following her, like a gumshoe, there is the silhouette of Erland pulling on his European habit like a cape. From out of that delirium, she condemns Gruffman to death and allows Erland to confirm her sense of being cheated by life, resentful nihilism. “I’d spit in his [God’s] face!” The uncle/ paramour, holds forth with, “Protect yourself, build a wall around yourself, so the misery can’t get to you.” She tells us—the diary segueing to the career of a prima ballerina of questionable quality—“That’s how I forgot Henrik… In the end, I wasn’t just protected but locked inside…”

That trace of self-criticism needs thirteen years to yield a pitiful “recovery,” as problematic-heavy as noir is problematic-light. The evening rehearsal proceeds nicely; but Marie’s concentration remains divided. The sentry informs her that the “hack” with the trench coat had been at the door again, “but he left.” She assures those ancients that she saw him. This surprises them inasmuch as, “it didn’t make her happy either…” In her inner sanctum she’s visited with eerie features of décor; but “it didn’t make her happy, either.” A visit from one of the leaders of the company, trying out his disguise for the figure of Dr. Coppelius—wherein the latter attempts to bring to life a puppet—has the same haplessness, concerning lightening up, as the décor did. “You don’t dare leave, yet you don’t dare stay… You see your life clearly just once… when all your protective walls come tumbling down. You stand there naked and cold… seeing yourself as you really are… I can see it in your eyes” [that you have had such a brush]… Then the hack obtrudes; and a hack interplay, from both “lovers,” ensues. She asks, “What do you think of the two of us, really? We’re nothing to write home about.” She comes to a point of veering. She blurts out, “So now, Henrik…” The voice of the street pounces on this, “Is my name Henrik?” She replies by handing him the diary and telling him to read it overnight. (What would come of it, she has no idea; but she would be forming some possibilities trailing out to others.) In a voice-over, this time not manufactured by Henrik, she tells us, “I feel like crying all this week and next… Crying away all my shabbiness… and all this wasted time… [But] Do I want to cry at all? If I really look deep inside, I’m actually happy!” (She puts out her tongue to the mirror she has been subjecting herself to. The Hollywood soundtrack only approximates her mood.)

All we pretty much see of the next day is a bit of the performance of Swan Lake. One twist shows the noire lover backstage during the bittersweet saga. Did he read the diary carefully? Probably not. Marie, in a lull where she’s not onstage, brings him to a place of rendezvous and she touches his cheek. Then she’s back onstage where her steps bring her to a rather awkward pyramid of less than sublime acrobatics.

Does the oracle in the Dr. Coppelius disguise speak truth about, “You see your life clearly just once?” How about three or four times? Would that be a life? How far could Henrik (a very early version of the Dr. Borg, in Wild Strawberries [1957]) have gone, were he never foolishly became in awe of Marie? From here on in, we must ponder the vast subtleties of this neglected open door of a film by Bergman, having slammed perhaps a bit too forcefully his clowns. It is well and good to measure the horrors of “virtuousness.” But interludes of magic there bring to bear a second front, and its acrobatics and juggling.

#ingmar bergman

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godsavemefrombts · 7 years

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jikook and 12

12. Things you said when you thought I was asleep

A/N: This sort of ended up being a sequel to my jikook oneshot The Lake And Us… Whoops

Word Count: 1363

Jungkook came back after cleaning himself up, smiling at thecurled-up form of his boyfriend. After all the insecurities were dealt with, hethought to himself, maybe this was why he was with Jimin. No onecould pacify him like Jimin could. But he definitely preferred it that way,he concluded as he slipped under the covers wrapping his arm around hissleeping boyfriend. “I’m not going to question it, why we’re together, whyyou’re with me because I’m glad you’re with me. Nobody can give me the amountof pleasure you give me, and honestly, I don’t want anyone else with me rightnow. With you I want to spend the longest time of my life because I know aslong as I’m beside you, I’m satisfied and happy. So if push comes to shove, Iwill refuse that contract in the city. I don’t want to give away us…”

He knew it wouldn’t change anything but he only had the courage tosay these words of appreciation towards Jimin at these times, when he wascurled up in bed, asleep leaving Jungkook awake. Jimin had been sleepy, almostdrifting off after their activities while waiting for Jungkook to come back butas soon as the taller one had wrapped his arm around his waist and pulled himinto his chest, his voice rumbling through his chest into Jimin, he woke up. Hehad left his eyes closed because Jungkook’s voice was the lullaby he neverthought he’d need but he was also glad he hadn’t fallen asleep. Jungkook wasn’ta man of many words. They were only spoken when the said male was overwhelmedwith emotions of a certain sort.

Jimin wondered if his present dilemma caused this onslaught ofpoorly masked anxious thoughts. He almost felt guilty for not revealing thekeys of the apartment he had just purchased and furnished while Jungkook wasbusy with university activities. But he was proud of himself because it was arare occurrence, this gravelly, impatient and unsure voice of Jungkook’s. “Thankyou for being you Park Jimin, you don’t know how much you’ve helped me. I’vebeen praised for my singing because it sounds brighter. You wouldn’t understandhow much I need you, you’re literally my sunshine, and the only one I will everneed because of how warm just the thought of you keeps me. I write bettersongs, can express myself better and it’s because of everything I have seenwith you, felt with you and experienced with you. Thank you Park Jimin. As longas there’s you, I don’t need anything else to stay happy,” Jungkook continuedto ramble against his back.

Jimin shifted finally. His throat was tightening up so it was timeto break Jungkook out of his reverie. He looked up at a surprised Jungkook’sface, wide eyes, an open mouth with twitching fingers against Jimin’s back. Hegrinned up at his younger boyfriend. “I’m your sunshine? Then are you mysunflower Jungkookie?” he asked in a deliberate tone, wriggling his eyebrows athim which made Jungkook laugh in disbelief, his arm tightening around Jimin tobring him closer, their foreheads against each other as they stared into eachother’s smiling crescents. “I guess I am then, aren’t I?” Jungkook responded toJimin’s earlier question, pressing a soft kiss against his pillow-like lips,smiling when he felt Jimin’s lips stretch into one of their own.

“Go to sleep Guk, I have somethingto show you tomorrow,” Jimin told Jungkook, his thumb circling around the appleof Jungkook’s cheek. Jungkook’s eyebrows scrunched together briefly beforestraightening again, “okay hyung, goodnight.” Jimin repositioned himself torest his ear against Jungkook’s chest. After Jungkook’s voice rumbling throughhis chest, this was the next most effective way for him to go to sleep.Listening to his heartbeat. Jungkook didn’t know what it was his hyung wantedto show him but he was sure it had something to do with the dilemma he sharedwith him. He stayed awake for a while longer than Jimin, noticing theirsynchronised rising and falling chests with a satisfied look in his eyes.

Next morning, Jimin woke upearlier. As usual. So he slipped out of the grip Jungkook had on him. Orrather, it would be better to say he tried to. Because he couldn’t. It simplytightened on him further accompanied by a whimper that fell from Jungkook’slips, his eyebrows creasing as Jimin’s movements tugged him out of hissubconscious state. He clearly didn’t appreciate it but when he opened his eyesto look at a smiling Jimin, his lips formed a pout, murmuring something aboutit being unfair to be so cute so early in the morning but it was normal forJimin by now.

Looking back at it, he could havenever thought about it, waking up to a boyfriend with his arms around him.Having a boyfriend itself seemed like a foreign concept to him. He hadn’t beenlooking for romance but definitely he had fantasised about the wonders at onepoint. And now that he had a boyfriend, his next question was how. How did heland a treasure like Jungkook. But he knew questioning it might take Jungkookaway from him and he in no way wanted that.

Jimin pulled away from Jungkookand slipped off the bed, grumbling mentally about the cold temperature in hisroom since he was earlier in the comfort of his duvet. He thought about how hewas going to tell the news to Jungkook, the news of his new apartment, as he madehis way to the kitchen to make them some coffee. After lazily scuffing his feetabout in the kitchen, he was finally done making them their coffee, brewingthem differently. Black coffee for Jungkook and his with milk and sugar. As hepoured the coffee in their respective mugs, he registered the familiar weightof Jungkook’s arms around his waist as his head came to rest on his shoulder,his hair tickling his cheek.

“Good morning,” Jiminsaid with a smile, turning to peck his lips before continuing with his earlieractions. Jungkook hummed happily in response which was enough to satisfy Jimin.Jungkook took his cup from under Jimin’s arm when he was done pouring it. Hewent to the table in the kitchen, sitting down on one of the stools around it,his eyes following Jimin’s movements around the room before he sat oppositehim. Jimin had just put spaghetti to boil, coming to the table with ahalf-filled mug and the coffee pot itself for them to refill.

An hour and a half later, Jiminwas driving down roads Jungkook didn’t know very well. They were nearing thecity centre. Jungkook didn’t know anything since all Jimin had given himthroughout the 90 minutes and their drive, was a charming smile and a smug“you’ll know soon”. After another agonising quarter hour, Jiminparked the car in a parking space and led the way to a building. Jungkook shotquestions at Jimin again but he was shut up when Jimin asked him to have sometrust in him. And so when the lift stopped at the 18th floor, Jungkook steppedout behind Jimin with sealed lips.But when Jimin started fishing for something in his pocket, standing in frontof one of the 4 doors in the hallway, he started feeling uncomfortable. Jiminturned back to Jungkook and opened the door behind him, beckoning Jungkook withhis free hand. Jungkook finally asked him what was itching under his skin eversince they entered the apartment building. “Where are we hyung?” heturned around to ask Jimin who was closing the door behind him. “This is our new abode,” Jimin smiled, spreading his arms out togesture to the apartment. “You don’t have to choose between me and yourdream,” he explained, which widened Jungkook’s eyes. “I bought itbecause it would be easy for both of us to commute from here and come back toeach other,” he shrugged as a dumbfounded Jungkook walked forward withheavy steps before embracing Jimin.“Welcome home.”

Send me a ship and one of these and I’ll write a mini fic

#jiminnetwork #KKreationsNet #parkjmnet #yoonminguknet #busanboysnet #jikook #bangtan scenarios #bts scenarios #park jimin #jeon jungkook

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