#its so barren and devoid of emotion and I hate it

[arolesbianism]

Bro I just checked in on ensekai with my sibling how are y'all living like this

[librababe99]

Moments Between Time: Part One

CW: angst, hurt, dystopian, Mutant!Reader, mental anguish, existential despair, suggestive emotional and physical intimacy

Word Count: 2436

A/N: Hey loves! So I' m back with the first part of this new series featuring DOFP! Logan---Definitely one of my favorite x-men films that I went to see in theaters a few years back. I really hope y'all enjoy it--As always comments and feedback are highly appreciated! - Libra * .♡ *:･ﾟ✧ ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

(Part Two)

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The world had become a graveyard of memories, littered with the remnants of a civilization that once thrived. The skies, once a brilliant blue, were now a perpetually overcast gray, the sun a distant and pale shadow of its former self. Buildings stood as crumbling sentinels, their facades scorched and broken by years of unrelenting warfare. The air was thick with ash and the scent of burning, a constant reminder of the lives that had been lost and the battles yet to be fought.

The war had waged for years, perhaps decades—time had lost its meaning in the endless cycle of violence and survival. The Sentinels, monstrous machines designed to hunt and exterminate mutants, had decimated the population. Humanity, too, had been nearly eradicated in the crossfire, caught between the relentless advance of the Sentinels and the desperate resistance of the mutants. Those who remained were either in hiding or dead. The world was a barren wasteland, devoid of hope and teetering on the edge of oblivion.

You stood on the precipice of what was once a thriving city, now reduced to ruins. The wind howled through the skeletal remains of skyscrapers, carrying with it the echoes of a world that no longer existed. Your heart was heavy with the weight of all you had seen, all you had lost. But you were still standing, still fighting. You had no other choice.

Your powers had been both a blessing and a curse in this war. The ability to manipulate time was a formidable weapon, allowing you to slow it, speed it up, or even rewind it in brief bursts. But every use took a toll, draining your energy, leaving you weaker with each passing day. It was a power that came with a price—a price you had paid over and over again, watching friends and allies fall only to rewind their deaths, knowing that it would only delay the inevitable.

And yet, despite everything, you had survived. You were one of the last remaining members of the X-Men, a shadow of the team that had once stood as a beacon of hope in a world that feared and hated them. But hope was a luxury none of you could afford anymore. Survival was all that mattered, and even that seemed like a losing battle.

Beside you, Logan Howlett—Wolverine—surveyed the desolate landscape with a grim expression. His once fierce eyes were hardened by the years of combat, yet there was a depth of sorrow in them that matched your own. His presence was a constant, a rock in the storm that raged around you both. You had fought together through countless battles, each one more desperate than the last, and had watched the world crumble piece by piece.

Logan’s wounds healed quickly, his regenerative abilities keeping him alive when others would have perished. But even he was not immune to the emotional toll of this endless war. The loss of friends, of family, of a future worth fighting for—it all weighed heavily on him, carving deep lines into his face, turning his hair to gray.

For years, you and Logan had been comrades in arms, partners on the battlefield. But there was more between you than just the bond forged in blood and fire. There was something unspoken, a connection that ran deeper than either of you dared to acknowledge. It was a thread that had woven itself through the fabric of your shared experiences, pulling you closer even as the world around you fell apart.

The quiet moments between skirmishes had become precious, stolen time where the chaos of the world seemed to fade, if only for a brief while. It was in those moments that you would catch Logan’s gaze, his eyes searching yours as if seeking solace in the only place it could be found. There were times when your hands would brush, a fleeting touch that sent a spark through your entire being, a reminder that you were still alive, still capable of feeling something other than pain and despair.

But there was no room for love in a world like this. No room for the vulnerability that came with it. To love was to risk losing everything, and neither of you could afford that. So, you kept your feelings buried deep, hidden beneath layers of resolve and determination. There were more pressing matters at hand—survival, resistance, the slim chance of victory.

As the days passed and the future grew increasingly bleak, a plan began to take shape among the remaining X-Men. It was a desperate, last-ditch effort to change the course of history, to prevent the events that had led to this catastrophic timeline. The idea was to send someone back in time, to a point before the Sentinels were created, before the war had begun. It was a long shot, but it was the only chance you had left.

The choice of who to send was obvious. Logan was the only one who could survive the journey. His healing factor would protect him from the physical strain, and his mind was strong enough to endure the temporal displacement. But even with his abilities, the mission was fraught with danger. If it failed, if something went wrong, there would be no coming back.

Your role in the plan was just as crucial. Your powers would be used to anchor Logan’s consciousness in the past, to guide him and keep him connected to the present. It was a task that required immense concentration and would drain you of almost all your energy. You knew the risks, knew that there was a very real possibility that you wouldn’t survive the attempt. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was giving Logan a chance to succeed, to change the future, to save the world.

The night before the mission, you found yourself unable to sleep. The weight of what was to come pressed down on you, a heavy burden that you carried alone. You had always been strong, resilient, but the thought of what lay ahead filled you with a sense of dread that you couldn’t shake.

You sat alone in the darkness, the cold air seeping into your bones, your thoughts a tangled mess of fear and determination. The reality of the situation was sinking in—this could be the last night you ever spent in this world. The last night you would see Logan, hear his voice, feel his presence beside you.

The sound of footsteps drew you from your thoughts, and you looked up to see Logan approaching. His face was set in a somber expression, the lines of worry etched deep into his features. He said nothing as he sat down beside you, the silence between you heavy with the weight of all that was left unsaid.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. There was nothing that needed to be said, no words that could capture the magnitude of what was about to happen. But the silence wasn’t empty—it was filled with the unspoken emotions that had been building between you for years. The tension that had simmered beneath the surface, always there but never acknowledged, was now impossible to ignore.

Finally, it was Logan who broke the silence. His voice was rough, low, like gravel underfoot. “Tomorrow’s gonna be hell,” he muttered, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the first light of dawn was just beginning to break.

You nodded, your throat tight with emotion. “Yeah. It is.”

He turned to look at you then, his gaze intense, searching. “You ready for this?”

You met his eyes, seeing the concern there, the fear that he was trying so hard to hide. You managed a small, sad smile. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Logan’s hand reached out, hesitating for just a moment before he rested it on yours. The warmth of his touch was a stark contrast to the cold that surrounded you, a lifeline in the darkness. You looked down at your joined hands, your heart pounding in your chest.

“This could be it,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “If things go wrong… I just… I don’t want you to—”

You shook your head, cutting him off before he could finish. “Don’t,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “Don’t say it. We can’t afford to think like that.”

But even as you said the words, you knew it was too late. The reality of the situation hung between you like a shadow, impossible to ignore. Logan squeezed your hand, the pressure grounding you, pulling you back from the edge of despair.

“You’re strong,” he said, his voice steady, reassuring. “Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. You’ll get through this. You have to.”

The intensity of his gaze, the way he looked at you as if you were the only thing in the world that mattered, took your breath away. For a moment, you felt like the world had stopped, that there was nothing but the two of you in that cold, desolate night.

Without thinking, you reached up and cupped his face in your hand, your thumb brushing lightly over the rough stubble on his cheek. “And you,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “You have to come back. You have to make it right.”

Logan’s eyes softened, the hardness in them giving way to something deeper, more vulnerable. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” he vowed, his voice fierce, filled with a determination that sent a shiver down your spine. “I swear, I’ll make it right.”

The moment hung between you, heavy and charged, the tension that had been building for years finally coming to a head. It was as if all the barriers you had both put up, all the walls you had built around your hearts, were crumbling in the face of what was to come.

Before you could second-guess yourself, before the fear could take hold, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his. The kiss was fierce, desperate, a collision of pent-up emotions that neither of you could contain any longer. Logan responded immediately, his hand coming up to tangle in your hair, pulling you closer as if he could merge your bodies, your souls, into one.

There was no room for hesitation, no time for doubt. The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more intense, as if you were both trying to pour everything you felt into this one moment. It was a kiss born of desperation, of the fear that this might be your last chance to feel something real, something good, before the darkness swallowed you whole.

Logan’s other hand slid to your waist, pulling you into his lap as he kissed you with a fervor that left you breathless. You could feel the raw power in him, the barely-contained rage and pain that he carried with him every day, and in that moment, you wanted nothing more than to take it all away, to make him feel something other than the constant ache of loss and regret.

The world around you seemed to fade into nothingness, leaving only the two of you, wrapped up in each other, clinging to this one moment of passion and vulnerability. It was as if time itself had stopped, holding you in a suspended reality where nothing else mattered.

But time, as always, was cruel. The kiss slowed, the intensity gradually ebbing away, leaving behind a bittersweet longing that settled deep in your chest. You pulled back slightly, your forehead resting against his, your breaths mingling in the cold air.

“Logan,” you whispered, your voice trembling with the weight of all the things you couldn’t bring yourself to say.

He opened his eyes, and the raw emotion you saw there nearly brought you to your knees. There was so much in his gaze—love, fear, desperation, hope. It was almost too much to bear.

“Whatever happens tomorrow,” you said, your voice barely audible, “I need you to know… I—”

But before you could finish, Logan captured your lips again, silencing you with a kiss that was somehow even more tender, more meaningful than the last. It was a kiss that spoke of promises unmade, of words left unsaid, of a future that might never come.

When he finally pulled back, his hand still cradling your face, his expression was one of fierce determination. “You don’t have to say it,” he said, his voice rough but steady. “I know. I’ve always known.”

Tears stung at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, nodding as you leaned into his touch, savoring the warmth of his hand on your skin. The dawn was fast approaching, the light slowly creeping over the horizon, casting long shadows over the ruined city.

The reality of what was to come settled over you both like a dark cloud, but in this moment, with Logan’s arms around you, you felt a sense of peace that had eluded you for so long. You knew that this could be the last time you ever saw him, the last time you felt his touch, his kiss. But you also knew that if anyone could change the future, it was Logan.

As the first rays of sunlight pierced the gloom, you pulled back, reluctantly breaking the embrace. Logan’s eyes searched yours, and you could see the same mixture of hope and fear reflected in them.

“It’s time,” you said, your voice steady despite the turmoil in your heart.

Logan nodded, his expression hardening as he prepared himself for what lay ahead. But before he could step away, you reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly.

“Promise me,” you whispered, your voice trembling with the weight of the words. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

Logan’s eyes softened, and for a moment, the hardness in his expression melted away, replaced by something tender, something achingly vulnerable. He squeezed your hand in return, his grip strong and reassuring.

“I promise,” he said, his voice filled with a quiet intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. “I’ll come back. I’ll find you.”

With one last lingering look, Logan turned and walked away, his figure disappearing into the shadows as he prepared to embark on the most dangerous mission of his life.

And as you watched him go, your heart heavy with a mixture of fear and hope, you whispered a silent prayer to whatever gods might still be listening, begging them to bring him back to you.

Because in this world of darkness and despair, Logan was your only light, your only hope.

And you weren’t ready to let that go.

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Taglist: @hughverine @itzyahgirllkita1 @nonamevenus

(If you'd like to be added to the tag list for this series moving forward just comment below <3 )

[desomniis]

I'm not sure, but it feels like truth | Chapter 8

WIP | 8/? | 42,994 words | Hogwarts AU Charlos fic

As the professor soliloquised about the history of Crystal balls, half of the class fell into the arms of slumber while the others fought for their awareness to stay afloat, Carlos was one of them. His eyelids grew heavy as he was lulled to sleep by the professor's voice.

“So, how’s divination so far?��� Charles whispered cheekily, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he poked Carlos’ torso.

Carlos jolted upright, shaking the slumber out of his head. “Very exciting. Something about… flying carpets and lamps and… what is it about again?” Carlos joked, with a cheeky smile.

“It’s about balls, mate, crystal balls,” Charles replied in a hushed voice, careful not to catch the professor’s attention.

“Ah, yes, balls…” Carlos teased.

Charles tapped his arm lightly, “Hey, you’re gonna help me write my essay for this, so pay attention.”

“Oh, I will?” Carlos feigned ignorance, “I thought I was here to help you sleep?”

Charles looked at him with his eyes wide open, fully awake. “And you’re doing an excellent job at doing that, mate.”

Carlos stifled a yawn. “How did you put up with this for 3 years?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Who said I did?” Charles admitted. “This was my naptime period.” He snickered.

“Ah, so you do sleep in this class.”

“Sometimes.”

“Just sometimes?”

“Maybe, more than that.”

“And I doubt this was the only one?” Carlos asked his eyebrows raising in suspicion, a bemused grin on his face.

“Hmmm… maybe also, Arithmancy, Potions…” Charles listed off, his tone becoming more apprehensive.

“…and?”

“Astronomy?” he admitted with a guilt-ridden smile. “Listen, Professor Räikkönen talks like he’s always about to fall asleep and it's at night, so how can I not? Besides, everyone in that class already does,” he explained.

“That’s fair,” Carlos agreed. Professor Räikkönen was as lifeless as they come, his voice devoid of any emotion. He drones out about the stars and constellations like a small fly passing by one's ear, something to be forgotten, inconsequential. He didn’t understand how he could talk about the grandiosity of the universe like its barren desert, he hated it. Maybe one day, when the professor retires, he could take the position. It would be a simple life in this castle called home. It was a nice thought.

“But I thought you liked Astronomy?” he asked.

“I do,” Charles admitted with a smile that made Carlos’s heart skip a beat. “but only when you’re the one teaching it.”

Carlos felt his cheeks heat up. “You’re such a flirt,” he muttered, shoving Charles’ playfully which made him stumble a little off his seat. The crystal ball bounced as Charles knocked his knee on the table which attracted the professor’s attention.

“Ah yes! A volunteer.” Trelawney perked up as she sauntered over to the boys. “Now, what do we have here?” she inquired, her eyes darting between the two with an expectant smile.

Carlos stifled his laugh as he looked at Charles, expecting him to answer. It was his class and grades in the first place.

Read the whole thing here.

[hannie-dul-set]

sins of lust [yoon jeonghan]

“lust /ləst/ — the mind governed by the flesh is death, but the mind governed by the spirit is life and peace - romans 8:6″

LUCKY 7′S MASTERLIST

PAIRING | yoon jeonghan x female! reader GENRE | college! au, borderline smut, angst WARNINGS | nsfw themes obviously lmao but no actual doing the dirty because i can’t write smut for shit, swearing, jeonghan is the literal devil WORD COUNT | 4.5k

a/n: I’M SO VERY SORRY THATTHIS IS SUPER LATE ; - ; but anyways!! this is my last piece for our luck 7′s collab with @haokyeom​ :D this was,, very out of my comfort zone but i still do hope that you enjoy :’>

Your mother had always told you to never trust strangers.

“They’re like foxes,” your mother had once said as the both of you gazed through the window of your small cabin beside the thick walls of trees in the woods. Her hands rested gently over your small shoulders, and you two eyes the coat of orange fur speeding through the outside, a familiar stuffed animal hanging limply by its mouth. You had accidentally left it outside while you were playing.

You frowned upon seeing the animal disappear into the trees, and even at your young age, you knew that it was lost forever.

“They take what they can without a hint of remorse. You wouldn’t even know until you see them running away,” you looked up at your mother who stared into the distance with eyes stained in sadness. You turned around, hugging her waist and burying your face into her stomach, and she released a laugh as she patted your head. “My Y/N’s a smart girl, right? Never forget mommy’s words, okay?”

And you did. For eighteen years, you had lived with only the company of your mother, your homeschool teachers, and your precious cat, Salem. There were times when your grandparents would visit, usually during the holidays, but you weren’t exactly close with them (they didn’t seem to like you, either). It was only when you had finally entered college when you were given the chance to actually mingle with other people, especially people that were your age, and it was the first time that you had left to live on your own outside of your homey cottage beside the woods.

Initially, your mother was against the idea of you living in your campus’ dorms, especially the fact that you had to live with another person that you knew nothing of. You weren’t keen on the thought either, but it was far more reasonable than commuting every single day to the city all the way from the middle of nowhere.

At least your roommate was never around.

‘Staying over at Johnny’s xx,’ you sighed upon seeing the text message, and you stepped forward in the light when the person before you did as well. It was only the third week of the semester and you were already wishing for things to go back as they were.

A part of it was your fault for being socially inept, generally avoiding people and not even talking to anybody unless talked to. Your mother’s words rang into your head every single time, and naturally you had built up a wall. This wall was what made you feel comfortable, made you feel safe— you don’t trust anyone here, and it would be better to finish your studies without getting personally tangled with other people.

“Hi! What can I get you?”

Though, there were indeed times where you wished that you were at the very least not so awkward.

“A regular americano,” it took you so much strength to squeeze that out of our esophagus, relieving the tightened airway with a breath of relief when the barista nodded at your order and jotted it down. Hurriedly, you went to sit at an empty table, your racing heart making you move quicker than necessary. God, you wondered how many more trips to campus cafe would it take until you finally got the courage to order without feeling you were being held at gunpoint.

You huffed, squeezing your eyes shut. At least you didn’t stutter today, so that’s improvement.

Stop deluding yourself, Y/N. You’re still—

“Whoa. Careful, now.”

A thud. The feeling of warmth fluttering over your shoulders. An unfamiliar sweet voice seeping into your ears. And you looked up.

“Are you okay?”

His steady grip had left your shoulders but the traces of his warmth were still buzzing over your clothed skin like mini fireworks erupting when he made contact, and when you met his concerned eyes, it felt like you were about to reach the climax of the light show. He didn’t say anything, only waiting for the confirmation to fall from your lips with a worried look on his face. Your heart was still racing, but it was in a completely different rhythm. 

You had once felt your heart threatening to bounce off of your chest out of fear, and at times due to excitement. Your pulse rising due to nervousness was already like an unwanted friend to you.

But this.

What is this?

“Miss?”

“I, uh—” the man shot you a smile that was devoid of any malice despite you being a stuttering and mess that was frozen in place. Heat rushed to your cheeks while you were trapped underneath his gaze. You wanted to move but it felt like your mind was completely detached from your body, soaring above your head because you can't seem to grab a hold of it. But with enough willpower, you managed to squeak out a small “sorry’ before shuffling away to the farthest seat possible with your head down.

When you sat yourself on the seat, the first thing you did was look up to the direction of the male, only to see an empty space. You bit down your lip, hastily taking out your laptop from your bag and just move on from what happened, but the racing of your heartbeat refused to let it go. Was this… normal? You let out a choked groan, removing your hands from the keyboard to bury your heated face into your palms. There were times where you hated that you were so sheltered, and this was one of them.

If only your mother wasn’t so protective of you, if only she let you live a normal life, if only—

Your phone started buzzing.

Slowly, you sat up and took out your phone from your jean pocket, and the pace of your heart was slowed down by a surge of guilt.

‘How were classes today, honey? I hope you drank enough water today. Even when I’m around, you always seem to forget. The weekend is just around the corner. Are you coming home?’

You smiled. Of course, your mother had only wanted what’s best for you. Finally relaxing your muscles, you adjusted your position on the chair and silently tapped on our phone.

‘Classes were fine, mom. And that was before! I’ve been drinking a loooot of water, you know? Do you want me to…’

The next day had come. You quietly entered the near barren classroom, the early morning rays leaking through the open glass windows on the wall. You liked this class mainly because not a  lot of people are enrolled in it— even if it meant sacrificing a few more hours of your sleep. The less people to deal with the better.

I’ll just take a nap later after lunch. You thought to yourself as you let out yawn, your palm hovering over your mouth as you did. You arrived a little earlier than usual, so there was still an ample amount of time to review for a test for a different class before your professor arrived. You recalled your conversation with your mother yesterday, and you were slightly disheartened when you told her that you couldn’t come home for the weekend because you had a lot of things to finish that required you to be on campus. Even if you wanted to go, you couldn’t risk lagging behind your work.

A few more people entered your peripheral as you were scanning your notes, and you took this as a signal to put it away. You pulled your bag over your lap and tucked in your notes neatly before pulling out your laptop. More people started flooding and you noticed that the seat beside you was now occupied.

“You seem fine today.”

You jolted, the familiar voice entering your ears causing the veins underneath your skin to start buzzing. The moment you turned your head to your side, you were met by a small smile from the man that you bumped into yesterday. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I-it’s fine.”

Has he always been in this class? You’ve never seen him here until now. Then again, you didn’t really pay attention to the faces around you. The gap between your chairs seemed a little too close for your sanity, so you scooted a bit farther to the left.

“Are you feeling alright now?” his voice caused you to abruptly freeze as you tried to discreetly move your chair without being exposed, and you bit down your tongue. As if he noticed the sudden distance between you two, he thoughtlessly moved his chair closer. “You didn’t look too well yesterday considering how dazed you were.”

Why was he talking to you? A lot of people did try to befriend you during the first few days, but it gradually stopped upon them seeing how dismissive you were. “O-oh, I’m fine, uh— sorry for bumping into you,” he had his elbow propped on the table, his cheek resting on his palm as faced you, a seemingly permanent smile on his face that you’ve been desperately trying (and failing) to avoid. Maybe isolating yourself from the rest of the world dulled down your ability to perceive normal human emotions like the stuttering of your heart was trying to tell you.

Jesus, you thought that you were going crazy.

“That’s good to hear,” he hummed, turning his attention to the laptop screen before him. “My name’s Jeonghan, by the way.”

Jeonghan. You repeated in your head. Why did finding out his damned name feel like 200 pounds of gratification? Maybe you were really going insane. He cocked his head to your direction, the curve of his lips that never disappeared aiming directly at you, but they did not part to say anything. Jeonghan looked like he was waiting for you, which caused you to intermittently panic because why in the world was he just staring at you like that?

“It’s not fair that I gave you my name but I don’t know yours.”

Oh.

“Y/N,” your cheeks flared as you spoke, diverting your eyes from him out of embarrassment. “It’s Y/N.”

He released a light laugh before nodding in affirmation, and you swore your heart was trying to run away from you in condonation. It felt like hours had passed it between the seconds of your small exchanges, causing you to wonder when your professor was going to enter and distract you from the fervent blows on your ribcage.

It didn’t seem like your professor was arriving any time soon— the guy was always late so you weren’t even remotely surprised but for the love of god, he could’ve made an exemption today. Your eyes flickered over to Jeonghan’s space on the long table, and you saw him scribbling indecipherable doodles on what was once a blank sheet. You bit the inside of your cheek, debating with yourself over and over again until one side of your mind finally overtook your senses and sensibilities.

You jumped into the ocean when you’ve never even stepped into a lake.

“I—I never noticed that you were in this class until today.”

It took a lot from you to say that one simple sentence, the words barely squeezing past your throat, and you realized just how pathetic you were. Luckily for you, Jeonghan didn’t seem to mind the lapses in your voice, the diversion of your eyes, or the way your fingers nervously thrummed over the white coated desk. Even if he did, he didn’t say anything about it, only sending that angelic smile on your way.

“Really? I’ve noticed you since the first day,” he started. “To be frank, I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while now, but you always looked like you didn’t want to be bothered.”

“You— you wanted to talk to me? Why?” 

He shrugged. “You seemed cute,” there was a slight pause before he continued. “And I was right.”

You blinked, gawking at him. Jeonghan was saying such— such unprovoked things without a hint of shame while your face was flaring like it just made contact with the sun. In the middle of you trying to recover, your professor had finally decided to walk in, capturing the attention of Jeonghan and everyone else inside the class. You released a breath that you didn’t know that you were holding and lightly tapped both of your cheeks in attempts to lower your ever rising temperature. You caught the male beside you laughing a little, and when you slightly turned your head to face him, you were struck defenseless with a playful wink.

It was quiet for the rest of the class, but you couldn’t focus. Not when your mind was making a lot of noise, not when your heart was about to explode inside your chest.

And definitely not when the pretty boy beside you kept on shooting you glances in between. 

“Do you like movies?”

Jeonghan asked the moment he sat down beside you, and your brows raised at his sudden question. It had been a week since your first encounter with him, and within those few days, you’ve been seeing more and more of him. You weren’t sure if it was a coincidence or if he’d been deliberately trying to squeeze himself into your life.

But what did you know? Nothing. That’s why you let him.

“I do,” you answered, a small smile tugging at your lips. You remembered the times when you and your mother would watch countless movies in just a single day when you were feeling sad. You couldn’t leave the house easily, and when you did it was nothing but forest, forest, and more forest. Sometimes you were lucky to come across a wild hare, or sometimes even a small deer. Which reminds you— it’s been a while since you’ve gone home. You took a mental note to schedule some time for you to go back there.

Your curious eyes flickered over to Jeonghan. “Why?”

“There’s a film festival this weekend,” he leaned back against his chair, legs crossed and arms swinging lazily at his sides until he raised one hand to your face, a finger poking your cheek. “And I’m taking this pretty girl with me.”

“What?”

You gaped, dumbstruck. His lips were pressed into a brazen smile as his eyes were gleaming at you while you were still frozen in shock. He didn’t even ask you— did he think that you were just going to go with whatever he’s saying that easily?

“I—I haven’t agreed to anything!” you rebuked with a quick stammer, which caused a frown to replace the previous smile on Jeonghan’s face.

“But I thought you said you liked movies,” he sat down straight, the legs of his chair making a noise upon meeting the floor. The unabashed pout on his face, accompanied by the confused furrowing of his eyebrows, soon dissipated from his features when he let out a sudden gasp. “Wait, are you saying you don’t want to go with me?”

“I-it’s not that! I’m just—”

You couldn’t come up with any words to follow, distracted by the pained expression that Jeonghan wore. Was he just overreacting to mess with you? Was it fake? Or was he really hurt? Your ineptitude to social cues made you want to rip your hair out of your scalp. Once more, you quickly looked at him before snapping your head away, harshly biting down your lip before taking in a sharp inhale.

“Okay, fine!” Jeonghan’s face lit up, the corners of his lips tugging upwards. “I—I’ll go with you.”

You refused to look at him with how much your face was heating up, but you heard him let out a satisfied hum. It was quiet for a moment, giving u the opportunity to relax your shoulders and release your breath. Looks like the professor is late again. You dug into your bag to take out your notes, relaying yourself before class actually starts, but your actions were halted when you felt a thin, cold object pressing lightly against your arm. You looked over to see a phone, and the phone was attached to a hand, and a hand which belonged to a Yoon Jeonghan who was twinkling at you with an expectant gaze.

“Your number.”

Any moment now you swore that you were going to melt.

Within seconds, you snatched the device from his hands, rapidly smashing down the few digits, and you shoved it back to him at the speed of light. How you wanted to throw yourself out of the window, right now. A quick buzz in your pocket distracted you from your internal meltdown, and you took your own phone out, expecting a text from your mother, but instead—

‘See you on saturday, pretty girl :) hehe <3’

You shot up to meet the smug smile on Jeonghan’s face, and you bashfully looked back down at the message on your phone, feeling a smile of your own blossoming on your face.

It was late at night when you two finished.

Jeonghan insisted on bringing you home, protesting when you said that you said you could make it your way back at the movies, protesting when you said that you can walk through the campus to your dorm building alone, protesting when you said that you can head upstairs by yourself, and now when you had finally reached your floor, he stopped protesting— but he didn’t seem to how any signs of leaving just yet.

“Did you have fun?” he asked in a quiet tone. It was near midnight, and neither of you expected that the festival would go on for this long. You nodded, laughing a little, back pressed against the door leading to your room. Perhaps you were feeling a little loopy and tired from all the movies you watched, some of the scenes that stood out to you still replaying in your head.

He smiled, a few tufts of his hair shadowing over his eyes. “I’m glad.”

“I took note of a few of the films that I really liked! I’ll probably rewatch them with my mom when I get home,” you beamed, and he chuckled at your enthusiasm. “What about you?”

You almost regretted that you asked. Jeonghan was silent for a moment, a pondering look on his face as his eyes stared at the side before quickly flickering back to you. His lips were curved into a playful grin as he ever so slowly closed in on you, causing you to melt yourself into the wooden surface of your door as your heart violently thundered.

“Do you want me to be honest?” he asked in a teasing tone. His face was barely hovering over yours, and you felt your nerves screaming at you to rest your racing pulse. He didn’t do anything, though, seemingly waiting for you to respond to his question, but all you could manage was a small nod. “I wasn’t really paying attention to the movies.”

Your breath hitched and your mind was a whir. What was he doing? The waves of your senses were pulsating in an uneven rhythm, causing you to stumble over your own presence of mind as it was gradually slipping away, replaced by a haze of an uncharted storm of emotions overtaking you.

Heat was rising and you didn’t know what to do.

“I would have paid attention if it wasn’t for this pretty girl distracting me the entire time.”

“Jeonghan!”

You exclaimed, your voice being louder than expected. “I-it’s getting late. Isn’t—isn’t it time for you to go?”

There was a nervous smile on your lips as you stared up at him, eyes quivering when you tried to meet his clouded gaze. You waited for him to go, to step away from his closeness so that you’d finally have enough room to breathe, but dropped an unexpected question.

“Do you want me to go?”

The silence was deafening.

Jeonghan waited for you to say something, but the answer was something you yourself did not know. He waited until he derived the answer from your lack of response, sending you a nod and a smile before turning away. Your eyes were shaky, teeth sinking into your bottom lip in your moment of an unprecedented assault of hesitation, head filled with white noise because you couldn't think— therefore you listened to the fever stirring your restlessness.

You grabbed onto the sleeve of his coat at the last moment.

There was a glint in his eyes when he turned around, a knowing look on his face as if he had been expecting it. Swift steps and an even swifter heartbeat chased after you and once again Jeonghan was mere centimeters away from you, his warm breath igniting fire against your skin. “You could’ve just said so, pretty girl.”

He didn’t even give you the chance to breathe when he captured your unguarded mouth with his.

The air brushing against your fevered skin felt different, especially when Jeonghan was all up against you, ravishing your parted lips until you felt your senses slipping away. God, you’ve never done anything like this before and your conscience belatedly rang in your ears the moment you felt his hot tongue claiming yours as his own. You let out a faint whimper, the voice at the back of your head yelling at you that this was wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. This was wrong.

You barely knew him— ten days wasn’t enough for you to know him. But you were too drunk over this foreign heat of emotion unfurling in your core to listen to your better judgement. You shouldn’t have stopped him from leaving, you shouldn’t have let him graze his teeth over your skin, let his hands roam all over your your body, let the feeling him pressed roughly against you being the only thing your dizzied mind could think of

But fuck, it felt so good.

You blindly reached for the door knob as you let Jeonghan trail wet kisses on your neck, and with a clicking of the lock, the both of you disappeared into the darkness of your room.

You said that the first was going to be the last— your mother’s words like playing a mantra in your head to bring you to the edge of guilt. But a week had passed yet that “last” never seemed to surface.

“H-hi, mom. Yeah, I—I’m fine, don;t worry. My classes just ended and—ah!”

You bit down your tongue after releasing the uninhibited noise, gulping down when you realized that Jeonghan had no intentions of stopping his ceaseless attacks from your jaw all the way down to your chest. There was fear trickling in your veins as your mother was still at the end of the line, possibly hearing the indecent sounds coming from her own daughter. You tried your best to remain quiet, but it started to become impossible when you felt Jeonghan’s teasing fingers brushing over your clit. You stared at him with wide eyes, suppressing the violent waves crashing over you, but all he did was smile at you and kiss you cheek before pressing his fingers down.

A loud gasp fell from your quivering lips.

“Mm? Shouldn't you be keeping quiet, baby?” he mumbled into your jaw before pressing a down kiss, and you let out a shaky breath. The hand that you were using to hold your phone returned to your ear, and you were welcomed by the worried voice of your mother.

“O-oh, it was just Salem! The little guy suddenly jumped— jumped on my lap,” you trailed off with a hint of nervous laughter, and you met the mischievous glint shining in Jeonghan’s eyes. He removed himself from you, causing you to close your eyes in relief and let out a sigh. “Home? Ah, I—I don’t think I can go there soon, but I’ll make sure to— oh my god.”

You were too focused on your conversation on the phone to notice that Jeonghan was now buried between your legs, nipping at your inner thighs. You slapped your hand over your lips, suppressing your moans from his bites, kisses and licks. He shot you a look of warning, and your heart stopped when you felt his hot breath hovering over your core. Quickly, you fumbled out a farewell into your phone.

"S-sorry, mom, I—I have to go—"

Another week had passed and you started to feel the consequences of your decisions crashing over you like falling debris. Jeonghan and you still met frequently, but "good morning" and "good night" texts slowly fizzled into conversations consisting only of "can I come over?" and "are you free?". It left a heavy feeling in your gut when coffee dates and movie theatres were forgotten, replaced with nights in his or your room, and suffocating scenes in his car. You couldn't help but think that maybe you should have thought things through.

But you were weak.

Today was no different.

You were buried in your bed, thick blankets covering your figure as you watched Jeonghan swiftly pull a shirt over his head. He had an evening class after this and you couldn't blame him that he was in such a hurry. Even when knowing this, you still wanted to take your chances.

"Jeonghan."

You called out to him in a quiet voice, small and fragile and lacking in firmness. He stood in the middle of the room, ready to leave but he turned around to look back at you— even if it was stupid, it bubbled the faintest shimmer of hope. You pulled the covers closer to yourself, looking down at the crumpled white sheets as you pressed your lips together before saying.

"I like you."

He didn't say it back.

Instead he smiled at you, feet padding against your wooden floors as he walked up to you in bed, pressing a small kiss on your forehead before ruffling your already messed up hair.

"I'll see you tomorrow, pretty girl."

But you didn't see him tomorrow.

You didn't see him at all after that.

The seat beside you in class was now occupied by an abhorrent emptiness that made you want to drag your nails against your skin. You tried searching for him in the crowded walls of the large classroom, but he was either not there or hidden by the enormous mass of bodies. He left you with a heavy heart and the only one you could find yourself to blame was yourself. Your mother's words never stopped ringing inside your head since then.

It was like fate was laughing at you when you saw him again at the campus cafe— just like the first time you met him. You were in a hurry to leave when you accidentally bumped into him, your coffee nearly spilling from your hands. You parted ways without anything exchanged.

Your mother had always told you to never trust strangers.

Maybe you should have listened to her words.

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (45) || atz

The stunned silence brought on by the ludicrous request is broken by Commander Kang actually adding on to that preposterous behest. Even in your own stupefied daze, you somehow manage to hear the next words that leave the commander’s mouth.

“I also want my son, Kang Yeosang.”

Every thought flees your mind all at once, leaving only a barren mental landscape behind, a mere deserted wasteland. Time seems to slow down for you, air turning liquid as the words drift over to you gently like a fallen leaf swirling and eddying on the surface of a still lake. A moment of eerie calm is all you get, before the actual meaning of the words, with all the force of a sledgehammer, smash into you harder than a battering ram.

You’re terrified.

Numb, predatory fear prowls into your mind, nestling and rooting itself there before you can finally register its presence. It’s tormenting you, torturing you. Your base instinct screams at you to flee as fast as you can possibly run before this man can get his hands on you, but your legs are frozen to the deck. You can’t even scream if you wanted to, let alone run, and even if you could, where would you run to?

Your mind is pulled and twisted by fear and anxiety in all directions, but as much as you hate to admit it, doubt wells up in you.

Yes, you know that the crew think of you as one of their own. Yes, you think that they truly do care about you and that they would, under some of the harshest circumstances, never sacrifice you for their own interests.

But in response to this deal? The reward is too enticing, as alluring as fresh nectar to a honey bee. How do you even refuse an offer like this? Hell, you’re tempted to take the deal yourself, even if it means sacrificing yourself in the process. One crew member of the ship for the safety and security of the entire crew? When will you ever get another offer like that?

However noble you may want your intentions to be, though, you know that you’re selfish.

Because deep in you, you’re desperately wishing that your captain turns it down.

No matter how selfish that makes you, no matter what your crew has to give up, part of you is terrified of dying. It’s more than a mere survival instinct, more of a deep seated desire rooting in you. You can’t die, not now, not when you’re nowhere near the end of your journey-

At your own trail of thought, something claws at your heart, so painfully you actually feel it in your body. Shocked panic runs through you at the words that have just passed through your mind, because when you try to figure out exactly what they mean, the pain in your head grows more and more, from a mere throbbing to an agonising pounding of your mind.

Journey?

But before you can think your brain into a catatonic state, your captain speaks up, his voice trembling with fury, knuckles white around the handle of his cutlass as if he can’t wait to slice the man before him into a million tiny pieces. Even if it’s not aimed at you, the incensed, red hot rage is all too clear in his words, sending a shiver down your spine as your survival instinct screams at you to bolt.

“What. Do. You. Want. With. Them.”

Every syllable is shaking with vengeful fury, as if he can’t wait to rain hell’s wrath upon the Commander, but Kang Yongsun merely stands his ground calmly, eyeing the captain with a cool, collected gaze.

“I want my son back with me for personal reasons-” He begins, but San finally snaps, lunging forward furiously before Jongho catches him by the arm, yanking him back even though you can see from the battlemaster’s furious expression, he wants nothing more than to bludgeon the man before him to a bloody pulp as well.

“How dare you call him your son that after you were the one who abandoned him in the first place?” San screams, writhing against Jongho’s grip, his usually calm demeanour completely shattered into smithereens. For such a lithe man, your master is surprisingly strong, nearly wriggling out of Jongho’s hold before the young battlemaster catches him once again. “You f*cking destroyed him when you betrayed him like that! You’re a heartless liar!”

You too, can feel anger rising up in you even through your numb shock. From the little you had glimpsed of Yeosang’s memories, the navigator had truly looked up to his father, loved him dearly though he’d gone years without seeing his face, idolised him, even. When he had been given over to the Pirate King as the object of a deal, you had felt everything within him shatter like glass.

Yeosang had truly almost been destroyed beyond repair.

“It is not my problem that Yeosang was foolish and believed that I loved him.” His father states dispassionately, as if he doesn’t care the least about his only son. Horror and disbelief runs through you as you stare at the man. How can any human being be so… inhumane? “I never told him I loved him, so I’ve never lied to him in the least.”

Your heart drops in your chest. This man…

“Let me go, Jongho, let me kill that bastard! He thought you loved him!” San continues howling in rage, thrashing against the younger battlemaster. You’ve never seen your master in such an uncontrolled manner, and he’s not even drunk. “Yeosang almost starved himself to death the first few months he was on the ship because of this shithole, I’m going to kill him-”

“Mingi, bring San to my cabin and help me keep him there for now.” Your captain says coldly, obviously noting that Mingi’s barely restraining himself from swinging that huge axe and chopping Commander Kang right in half, seething with white knuckled fury. The quartermaster, clearly knowing that he’s going to do something reckless if he stays here any longer, merely grabs San around the middle and hoists him into the air, carrying him away from the main deck to the captain’s cabin, San screaming and swearing the whole way.

“And don’t you dare touch my apprentice! I’ll hunt you down to the ends of the earth and destroy you, you asshole-”

The cabin door slams shut, effectively cutting off the sounds of your master’s fury.

Then your captain turns back to the commander, who looks completely unruffled by San’s accusations and screams. For a moment, you’re actually terrified at how stony this man’s face is. His facade is as cold as ice, to the point it almost unnerves you. It’s nothing like the silent calm Yeosang possesses, but he instead has a far more menacing, emotionless demeanour, as if he’s more golem than you are.

You imagine yourself like that, briefly, for a moment. A body of clay, with silent, unblinking, dispassionate eyes. More soulless than any human being around you.

The mere thought of it scares you.

“And what do you want with Chin Hae?” Your captain then adds on with gritted teeth, barely managing to cling on to his own facade of calm. At the sound of your name, your hands start to shake from fear, but then Yunho takes your hand in his, gripping it tight.

You turn slowly to look at him, knowing that you probably look like the day you had first met, terrified of the death that was ever so imminent in that alley back in Raguza, except this time your fate lies not in your hands, but your captain’s.

Yunho meets your eyes with a nervous, uneasy gaze, but when he speaks, his voice is full of surety.

“Hongjoong-hyung would never give you or Yeosang up, no matter the price.”

And you believe him. Your captain had already endured so much for you and the crew, if not him, who else could you possibly trust with your life? His actions spoke louder than words, with his body he had already shown you his dedication to his crew back in Nassau. With the determination he had plunged straight into the sea witch’s den, you knew he was willing to give up so much for you.

Yes. Your captain would not accept this deal. You believe that, at the very least.

“I cannot answer.” Commander Kang answers calmly, but from his words alone you can tell he’s not lying in the least. “My superior officer has ordered for it, so I obey his orders without question.”

“Like a obedient dog cowed into mindless submission.” Jongho snarls mockingly, grounding the end of his mace against the deck. But Kang Yongsun doesn’t react to the sneer at all, instead nodding in agreement with the statement.

“I do my job as required of me.” He replies, his voice completely devoid of emotion, before turning back to look at your seething captain, his one eye now a bright, venomous green. “But even if you do not give the woman Chin Hae up to the Royal Navy in a deal, we will still be forced to hunt her down anyway. She has a bounty on her head as well.”

At that, Hongjoong actually flinches in shock. You yourself are confused, why would you of all people be targeted specifically by the Royal Navy? In comparison to all the other members of the crew, you’ve not committed as many crimes as they have, so why you?

“How much is it? The bounty.” Your captain demands tonelessly, and Commander Kang opens his mouth to answer.

And with his next words, you feel your mind melt into a puddle of incomprehension.

“One thousand gold pieces.”

You nearly spit blood in shock, and from the way Yunho’s body goes entire rigid, he’s just as stunned as you. One thousand gold pieces, you imagine blearily, as if you can’t think straight anymore. You must be going crazy.

It can’t be possible. You’d heard from Yunho that the bounty on the captain himself is five hundred gold pieces, wanted alive by the Crown. How can your bounty be twice the price of your captain’s?

That’s it. You’re either dreaming, drunk, going deaf or crazy, because you can’t be hearing any of this. None of it makes sense.

Commander Kang continues calmly, as if he hasn’t just dropped the biggest bombshell of the century on every person on board this ship simultaneously. “And our orders are to take her back alive, so you needn’t worry about her being killed in our hands-”

Hongjoong lunges with his cutlass faster than your eye can see.

There’s a clang of steel against steel as Commander Kang raises his blade just in the nick of time to save himself from being split from head to toe by the edge of your captain’s sword. Even for a man well past his prime, the Commander must obviously still be fighting fit, because his arms only tremble slightly when he holds his sword steady against your captain’s overhead slash.

They stand there for a moment, locked in some sort of stalemate, before the two of them pull apart, swords levelled at each other.

You realise that this is the first time you’ve seen your captain in action. Not the playful mock duels that he, Yunho and Jongho have on deck with the crew cheering them from the sides, betting on who would win, but an actual fight in which your captain’s eye is completely cold and calculating, reading his opponent’s every move, predicting every strike. Adrenaline floods your veins from the sheer tension in the air, but you’re frozen with numb shock.

Nobody moves as the two captains exchanged dark looks, charged to the brim with unspoken meaning.

“I should kill you where you stand.” Hongjoong hisses, lips bared in a snarl. But Commander Kang simply smiles through gritted teeth, keeping his blade at the ready for another surprise strike from your captain.

“But I’m the only one who knows why the Royal Navy wants the woman.”

You don’t think you’ve ever seen your captain so incensed.

“Her name. Is. Chin. Hae.”

Whirling around, Hongjoong lunges forward with a flick of his wrist, the cutlass darting out like a snake’s tongue, ready to cut at least some part of his opponent’s sword arm off, but then the hooded man from the side slides between your captain and the commander in the blink of an eye, the longsword in his hands stopping the cutlass dead in its tracks.

The hood falls from the man’s head, revealing soft brown curls, soft, sweet features and a gentle nose, deep brown eyes that seem all too familiar to you even though you’ve never seen the man before in your life.

Why are they so familiar?

Because you’ve seen them on someone else before.

There are three rings braided in his hair, brushing his temple lightly.

Next to you, Yunho freezes, eyes going wide as if he’s seen a ghost. The spear actually goes clattering from his trembling hands to the deck, the sound unnaturally loud in your ears, his face turning white as a sheet as he manages to utter just a single word in disbelief, barely above a whisper.

“Gunho?”

On a ship somewhere in the middle of an ocean, a man sits silently in the cabin with his eyes closed.

He’s so still he might just be a statue, completely motionless. If it weren’t for the slight rise and fall of his chest, he could have been mistaken for a dead body. A minute passes, then two, the water clock in the corner making soft noises as it keeps track of the time.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Suddenly, the man’s eyes slide open, a sinister smile curling on his lips as he breathes in deeply, resting his chin on his fingers, the picture of calm and composure. However, his eyes dance with a terrifying, maniacal light, his deep blue eyes glowing ever so slightly in the dim room with some sort of unearthly gleam.

“The prophecy is finally coming to pass.” He sighs in pleasure, the dangerous purr of his voice like silk dragged across skin. “I knew you would do me proud... my son.”

There’s a knock on the door and he rises to his feet, stepping across the room. Soon, he will be free of all of this, he deserves more, so much more, he’s going to be the one with dominion over the-

“Captain! We’ve caught its trail!”

Twisted, depraved glee rises in him as his fingers dance on the hilt of the silver knife at his side excitedly. He pushes the door of the cabin opening, the sun’s rays crushed under his feet as he steps forward to the main deck, watching the sea of blue all about him.

He drags his tongue against the blade, a deranged grin on his lips as he seeks out his next prey. The sirens are easy targets, but they don’t yield nearly enough.

“Let’s go kill the hafgufa.”

[acraftedmistake]

A Person Who Has Never Played MCSM Writes A Story About MCSM: The Dark Room

The Dark Room

If you were to leave Obsidian Town and walk north for some time, you would run into a large ravine. Peering into the ravine, you’d be met with an abyss and believe sunlight could never make its way in there. The end of this ravine met where the forest--one of many--began. If you walked to where these two collided, you’d find a smooth stone staircase hidden between the old oak trees. The stairs led to the very bottom of the ravine; the steps were built into the sides of it. Redstone torches, which were only lit during the day, were placed above every several steps.

Once you’ve reached the bottom, you’d be greeted with a field of green grass with puffy, red flowers scattered about. Bushes with budding flowers were placed along the dirt path, helping to better define the clearing in the field.

The path would lead your eyes to the entrance of--one of the many shrines of--The Hero’s Awakening. Two towering, beige columns--one broken, the other still standing--had been wrapped by vines, and stood on both sides of the shrine’s entrance.

The shrine was built into the ravine itself, and was much more spacious than the exterior leads one to believe,

Above the wide, open doorway was The Awakening’s symbol, a simplified shape of a hollow eye which watched all who entered.

Their doors were always opened when the Sun was out, serving as a home and a haven for the people. Even after gatherings.

It was quite the walk from home, but to many, the traveling was worth it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“... And I was trying to help!” Jesse exclaimed, his voice echoing through the empty nave. The only other people here were Cecil, who was sitting in one of the many barren benches, and Brenner, who stood across from Jesse. There was no gathering happening for the next few hours, so Jesse could raise his voice as much as he pleased.

“I am aware, Jesse.” Brenner began. His arms were at his side, stiff. “But what you did was reckless and unprompted. You put yoursel--”

“Unprompted?” Jesse repeated. His face twitched.

“I thought you guys wanted to know what Aiden was doing!” He pointed to Cecil then to Brenner.

Cecil’s head kept swishing back from Jesse to Brenner whenever either of them spoke. His sickly pale skin and light blond hair would constantly be caught in the corner of Jesse’s eye, annoying him to no end. It was like a bug continuously zipping by that Jesse would love to crush but couldn’t.

“We never said such a thing, Jesse. Perhaps you misheard.” Brenner said, his foggied eyes locked onto Jesse’s face. “Regardless, you’ve been able to receive information far better and quieter than yesterday.”

“Now hold on!” Jesse started approaching Brenner, his hands curling into fists as Cecil watched him with worry. “I was not the one screaming my head off, that was all Radar’s--”

The moment Brenner heard his words with the nearing footsteps, he slapped the side of Jesse’s head with as much force as possible. Jesse stumbled back and rubbed the stinging area, glaring at the man through the curls of his hair.

“You do not speak that traitor’s name here!” Brenner finally raised his voice, looking down on the boy.

“You have been acting rambunctious and careless these past few weeks. We finally retrieved you from prison after Cavern City and what did you do? Threw yourself out there and drew all attention towards yourself! How do you justify such behavior?!”

“I’m only doing what you wanted.” Jesse argued. “You guys keep sitting around, planning, waiting for everything to fall into place! I just want to GET somewhere.”

Cecil stood up from his seat, ready to join the quarrelling, but Brenner heard him shifting and motioned him to sit back down.

“Is this about your two friends, Jesse?” Brenner asked with a horrible mixture of sympathy and shaming. A tone which only Brenner perfected. A tone that could back anyone into a miserable corner.

Jesse stiffened. He gripped and pulled on a handful of his hair. He didn’t want to respond.

“I was afraid of this.” Brenner said after receiving no answer. “Is this… Impulsiveness because of your friends? You do understand for everything to work, you must be patient. They’re only a small part...”

“Shut up…” Jesse muttered to himself as Brenner continued. He’s heard variations of this lecture before. How he’s ‘over dramatic’ or ‘acts out’. Usually, he’d hate them for the way Brenner spoke, treating him like a misbehaving child rather than an adult. But this time, this lecture was different. More… Personal. To have Brenner bring Jesse’s deceased friends into it made him tremble with anger. Brenner had promised him if everything played out as it’s supposed to, Lukas and Olivia would be back. Of course Jesse wants to rush and finish every part of the plan, of course he’s going to be ‘reckless’, those were his only friends. He’s told Brenner this before. Why doesn’t he understand that?

“... Honestly, it makes me wonder if you even deserve to have them--”

Jesse’s eyes widened and, without any restraint, shouted “SHUT UP!”

Jesse’s grave mistake echoed through the hollow nave. Brenner’s talking ceased and he stood still. Cecil’s pupils shrunk and he held his breath.

Jesse had rarely ever raised his voice at Brenner, much less yell at him. No one did.

The echo seemed to have rang throughout the room for ages before it finally faded. All Jesse and Cecil could do was wait. Wait for Brenner’s brows to crease, for the scowl to form, for his posture to stiffen further as he’d peer down.

But he didn’t.

Strangely, his body loosened. His shoulders drooped as he slowly put his hands behind his back, looking at Jesse with… Concern.

“Or perhaps…” Jesse recognized the tone Brenner was speaking in all too well. “You need time to think.”

Brenner began walking towards him. Cecil left his seat to join the elder man’s side. Usually Jesse would back down, be verbal with his refusal to come, or show any sign of resistance, but a part of him had anger still fueled by Brenner’s words.

He stood in place, watching Cecil extend his hand out--the long sleeve of his disgusting brown suit swaying with his movement--before Jesse shoved him away.

“I don’t need you to hold my hand.” Jesse muttered through gritted teeth, loud enough for Cecil to hear but not Brenner. “I know where it is.”

Cecil stepped back, visibly frustrated.

‘I wish you had been blinded as well.’ Jesse thought to  himself as shoved past the two of them, making his way to the door hole at the very end of the nave.

The ‘door’ was on the far left from the stage. On the stage was a wooden podium with The Awakening’s cracked and worn symbol that has stood here for ages, ancient, dusty pots which were only decorated and lit for special occasions, and two long, draping banners--wrinkle free--that hung from the walls. In the middle of the wall between the banners--far enough to not cause a fire--were two redstone torches. Their combined fires were bright enough to nearly illuminate the stage and nave entirely. All except for the door hole. A hole which led to a dark hallway devoid of all life, light, and comfort. It was almost as if light itself avoided the area.

No matter where you sat at the nave, the door could always be seen. Even a snippet of it. It was a reminder. A warning of where the people could be dragged to if they acted out.

“Maybe I do need more time away from you.” Jesse said, making his way to the door hole and stepping into the abyss of a hallway. Brenner followed behind--Cecil as well--having no problem keeping up with Jesse’s fast walking. Jesse heard no response from either of them. All he did hear were his footsteps echoing as he continued walking deeper and deeper into the hall, growing colder and colder.

Jesse picked up the pace. He could see the weak glow of the redstone torch at the end of the hallway. The fire was barely enough to light the door, which was built into the left side of the hall.

Jesse gripped the cold, metal knob and swung the door open. “I finally got out of jail only for you to put me in another one. Fine by me!”

Oh, how he wished Brenner could see the scowl on his face.

“Jesse, this is not a ‘prison’, it’s merely--”

Jesse didn’t want to hear it. He slammed the door in front of Brenner’s face as hard as he could, wishing the force would crumble the walls and crush them all. He leaned against the door and pressed his face against the rough wood of the door. He heard Brenner sigh then lock the door.

“Please understand this isn’t punishment. I would never do such a thing.” Brenner said on the other side. “I only want you to… Think. Think of what you’ve done, what’s been going on… We’ll continue this conversation once you’ve calmed down.”

Jesse wasn’t sure if Brenner was expecting a response, but he gave him a half hearted “Mhm.”

Jesse kept his face against the door, listening to Brenner and Cecil walk away as they talked to themselves. About Jesse. Once Jesse could no longer hear the steps or chatter, he turned back around to face a room he was far too acquainted with. The Dark Room.

He had been in this room a number of times throughout his few years with The Awakening. All for reasons Jesse could not recall. Perhaps it was mostly arguing. Verbal. That was what Brenner had always said. Jesse didn’t think he had ever gotten physical in the past. He could control himself, even during the most frustrating times, today being one of the examples.

‘I didn’t even do anything.’ Jesse grumbled to himself. Was defending yourself considered a sin now? Brenner had seen Jesse at his lowest moments, he had heard his raised voice before, yet Brenner would never give a proper explanation to why Jesse would be taken to this miserable room. ‘Calm down’, ‘Think’, ‘Don’t let your emotions get the better of you’.

Jesse shifted around, letting his back lay against the door, and stared at what little the room provided.

All there was here were four falls.

Four stupid walls.

Three bare walls and one wall straight across from the door with two redstone torches placed high. No matter how dim, they were the only source of light. The two torches are, in Mahlon’s words, ‘The Hero’s eyes watching you’. Jesse could never see it.

‘Think.’ Brenner’s voice echoed in his head.

Think? About what? What is there to think about? About how much he despised this room?

He had his own room in the shrine. They offered it to him when he had nowhere else to go, and he was grateful for it. Jesse had wondered if being sent to his room would be blissful or humiliating in comparison to being thrown into this horrid place. Yes, he’d be treated like a child, but his room had things to keep him occupied. His journal, the few books The Awakening gifted him, a pen to scribble with, a bed to rest on.

But here? There was nothing.

Actually, that wasn’t necessarily true. Besides the unavoidable torches, there was something in this room, and it was far from delightful.

Jesse knew he wasn't the only person to have been locked in here before, he knew Radar had been here once, and it’s evident the moment you step in. An overpowering, nauseating scent of sweat, urine, feces, and vomit of the people who had been here before was enough to make anyone sick. And though Jesse had been able to deal with this repulsive smell more and more, he still understood just how disgusting it was. They had never cleaned this place. Jesse knew. He had seen the same stains and piles remain with each visit.

The two cleanest areas of this room was a small portion of the floor by the door, and by the torches, where most people tend to stay by. He was uncertain if the walls were cleaned, but he didn’t want to take any chances. There were a few instances where Jesse had dozed off in the room, and each time he’d awaken with the smell holding onto and choking him while grime stuck to his face and clothes. Jesse’s feet would cramp for staying in his shoes for too long, but he refused to take them off here. He would never condemn neither his socks or feet to ever come into contact with the cold, sickly floor.

Jesse, unlike the many others who had been taken here before, could survive in this room. He could tolerate the aches of staying in the same position for hours, his appetite had dwindled throughout the months, and he’s learned to suppress many of his body’s urges.

All Jesse can do is sit around, ‘think’, and wait.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A few hours must’ve passed, Jesse could hear footsteps and chattering growing by the minute. A gathering will be happening soon.

It didn’t feel like a few hours passed. Jesse couldn’t explain it, but whenever he sat in place, pulling his hair or finding another way to keep himself occupied, time managed to fly by. A window would be nice. A window would be wonderful. He’d love to see a snippet of the sky rather than the murky gray surrounding him, and those red torches with their red glow.

Jesse didn’t mind the gatherings, he often attended them, but being in the room while one was taking place was a different story. Here, he dreaded them. They seemed significantly longer and louder. He didn’t know if the leaders did this intentionally or not. Their raised voices would travel through the hall, push their way through the cracks of the door, and into Jesse’s head.

The commotion had died down, and those sweet seconds of silence allowed Jesse to prepare for the eternity of talking.

He breathed in and placed his ear against the door. He couldn’t do anything else but listen.

While the gathering’s introduction--a brief speech of what the leaders would be talking about today--started out muffled, Jesse recognized the deep tone as Brenner’s.

“...With the anniversary of The Hero’s Banishment approaching, I can only imagine how excited you must be. And while Cecil, Mahlon, and I do have plans for the day, we believe now would be the time to discuss the importance of restraint and patience…”

Jesse shot up, grit his teeth, and saw red. He glared at the door, hoping the daggers would dig into Brenner’s skull. Jesse kept staring intensely at the door, his hands clenched and shaking. He hated it. He hated it. He hated it.

He swung his leg back and began kicking the door. He kept kicking at a consistent speed, getting increasingly louder; he wouldn’t accomplish anything, the door was new, it wouldn’t break. But he knew they could hear him, he could interrupt the leaders with enough of a ruckus.

Jesse stopped. A smile crept across his face.

‘They can hear me.’ Jesse remembered. Yes, the only benefit to this room and the hollow hallway, he can hear them and they can hear him. Why waste his energy thrashing about?

He just needs to be… Patient.

Jesse turned back around and leaned against the door, waiting for the time to come.

He’d have to wait for the People’s Payment to finish before the speech would start. Then he could begin. The Payment was the shortest part of the gathering; row by row, people would come to the stage and offer however much money they desire, but if they did not have any money on them--or chose not to donate--then they’d ‘pay’ with a Truth. A confession. To admit to anything, no matter how big or small. A small number of people, mostly newcomers, often confessed to smaller actions, such as breaking a framed photo, stealing, misdemeanors, but you’d have the rare instances where others would confess to heinous thoughts and actions.

Jesse could make out the leaders’ “Thank you”s, the faint confessions of the people, the money being placed into the basket, all those tiny sounds combining and fueling Jesse’s excitement.

Everyone fell silent again. Brenner cleared his throat, everyone leaned close, ready to listen. Even Jesse found himself eager for Brenner to begin talking.

The moment Brenner began speaking, a strange happiness rushed through Jesse. He had never been happier to hear his voice today. He allowed Brenner to continue the speech for several minutes, waiting like an enthusiastic child for the perfect moment.

Once he was certain Brenner had become immersed in the discussion, Jesse took a lungful of the repulsive air.

“MENDAX!”

Brenner continued talking.

“MENDAX!”

The talking weakened for a moment before carrying on.

Jesse remembered listening in on a conversation the leaders had when they believed he was asleep, where Malhon--the oldest of the three--was ranting about how much he despised the word. Jesse had no idea what the word meant, nor the history behind it, but he one day said the word aloud with Mahlon in earshot and was met with deafening shouting and thrown into the room. He was let out far sooner than expected, their reason being Jesse’s lack of knowledge of the word.

“MENDAX!”

To this day, Jesse still doesn’t know why such a word sparks such an outrage, but he knows it made the leaders upset. And that was enough for him.

“MENDAX!”

He’d only yell the world when in the dark room. He thought it a harmless way to ‘get back’ at the leaders, make them ‘even’. Being in the room was already his punishment, they couldn’t possibly punish him any more. Jesse wished he could see their faces each time he spoke it, to see them repress their anger in front of the people must be a sight to see. It’d interrupt the gathering, Mahlon would send Cecil over to tell him to knock it off like usual, and Jesse would continue until his throat would burn.

“MENDAX!”

He began banging on the door with his fist, occasionally twisting the knob reckless to make it sound like he was attempting to escape. He could no longer hear Brenner’s voice, but he did hear footsteps approaching.

‘Cecil.’ Jesse thought to himself. He stood up and positioned himself by the door, close enough to be face to face with Cecil the second he’d open it.

He heard the jangling of keys and the turning of the knob.

The door cracked open. Jesse’s eyes widened, he instinctively backed away, and what little of a smile he had vanished.

“Are you done?” Brenner asked coldly, his white eyes piercing into Jesse.

Brenner had never been the one to quiet Jesse. Not in the room. Never. Never. Never.

Brenner took Jesse’s silence as a ‘Yes’ and closed the door, leaving Jesse alone once again.

Jesse clutched his stomach, his petty anger had been replaced with… Not fear… Not fear. Worry. Worried he would stay here longer, worried what Brenner was going to do, worry.

Jesse sat down, his back facing the door. He had dug himself into this four cornered hole, and all he could do now is wait.

He hugged his knees. He couldn’t think of anything. All sounds have been drowned out. The talking, the footsteps, the crackling of the torches’ fires, everything.

He remained in the position for a while. He wasn’t sure if it had been minutes or an hour, but it was a while. His eyes had been kept on the small bits of torn skin on his fingers as he spaced out.

It was beginning to bother him.

It was beginning to bother him a lot.

He needed to take his mind off of what had happened somehow. He needed something.

He slowly began picking at the skin around his thumb, slowly scratching and peeling whatever he could grab onto.

He would do this often. It helped.

It helped.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He stared at his hands, attempting to pick off the remaining bits of skin, but just barely touching them caused them to sting intensely. He stretched his hands out in front of him and stared. They were torn, burning, and red. He moved his fingers about in the darkness, watching them. Watching them. In the dark. Watching.

He couldn’t stare at them any longer.

He couldn’t.

It reminded him of--

It reminded him of--

How long has he been in here?

The gathering ended long ago.

How long were they planning on keeping him here?

He was usually kept in the dark room for six to eight hours, but that was his rough estimate.

The longest time he had been kept in this room was 12 hours. Supposedly. He had fallen asleep in there, and was informed of how long he had been locked in when Cecil awoke him. A part of Jesse wondered if he was lying.

The first time he was in the dark room was his shortest time. He was only there for four hours. He was in there because of Radar. Jesse could recall his first time in the room all too well.

After he had spent his first few months in The Awakening, Jesse kept asking about Radar. Why did they hate him? Why did he leave? He heard Radar’s side of the story, but began questioning the legitimacy of it after spending more time in the shrine. He wanted to hear the other side, but was dismissed and told ‘not to talk about him��, to ‘never interact with him’. Jesse didn’t listen and did so anyways. He had found Radar and asked for an explanation, to elaborate on his experience with The Awakening, to explain why he’s referred to as a ‘quitter’, but Radar panicked.

Radar panicked and told Aiden where Jesse had been.

Then Aiden and all his friends tried to find him, and Brenner found out, and--he hated him. He hated Aiden, he hated Aiden’s friends, he hated that damned quitter. He hated him.

It was Radar’s fault Jesse was thrown into the room for the first time, and now it was Radar’s fault Jesse was thrown into the room this time. That damned--

Crack

Jesse brought his head up.

Snap

Those dreadful torches.

Many people would bring themselves closer to the torches, they were the miniscule source of warmth and light within this unforgiving room. But not Jesse. Not anymore.

Jesse despised these torches. The flames which never went out, the wood that’d never burn out, the faint smell of smoke that mixed with the bodily fluids, the crackling of the fires perfectly mimicking the sound of breaking bones that’d interrupt any coherent thoughts, how the torches managed to make the room feel even colder.

Crack

He hated them.

CRACK

Jesse slowly stood up, his strained eyes locked onto the torches as he approached them. He had tried to tear those wretched things from their place every time he was here and never could.

But this time…

This time will be different.

Jesse stood before the taunting wall, looking up at the torches. They were so close. So close within his reach.

Though the wall might’ve been filthy, Jesse couldn’t care less. He pressed himself against the wall and shot an arm up, trying to reach for the wood of the torch while his other hand dug into the cracks of the wall.

He stood on the tip of his toes, the tips of his fingers barely brushed against the wood.

He was so close.

He was so close.

It can’t be that hard.

It can’t.

He kept stretching his arm, attempting to grab either of them several times. His arm was quickly growing tired, he let his hand drag down the wall, scraping the skin of his fingers along the way as dirt stuck onto them.

He hated this.

He shot both arms up, desperately trying to grab--to feel--the torch, imagining the satisfaction he’d be rewarded with. He instinctively put one foot against the wall, as if ready to climb, and tried throwing both arms towards the torches. When one would fail, he’d drag it against the wall, causing his hands to feel as though they’ve been set ablaze.

He’d scratched and tear at the walls, jumped, pleaded, all while sweat began mixing with his saliva; his eyes forced tears out.

Each time his hands would scratch the wall, they’d run past a section which was getting more and more damp. It could be filth. It could be his blood.

He didn’t care if his fingers bled, if the skin would shred and be reduced to nothing but bone. He didn’t care for his burning eyes, begging him to blink and look away from the horrid light. He refused to blink. He refused to stop. He wanted to get them.

He will get them.

He hated them.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The door opened, Brenner stepped in.

Before him, on the far other end of the room, stood Jesse. His side against the wall, hunched over, taking heavy breaths as his burning, aching fingers were sprawled out. He stared at the man with eyes showing both exhaustion and wildness. All energy had been taken, all he could do was remain in place with his mouth open. Breathing. Watching.

“Did you get all of that out of your system?”

[asphodelical]

Things that I loved: 

The story - Eco-terrorists trying to take down corporate greed, a one winged harbinger of death, and a parasitic alien. It’s good. 

Environmental message - It wasn’t just how the original base message of the game revolves around the government abusing the natural resources of the planet. It was how it affected the environment and the people, too. On the world map, the area surrounding Midgar is completely barren and devoid of grass. Red XIII is the last of his species due to the government. Town’s economies and ways of life have been completely disrupted due to mako reactor explosions. The game constantly reminds you how bad it is to ruin your planet in so many ways and that makes it feel real. 

Tifa Lockhart - Tifa is my all time favorite female Final Fantasy character. She’s a true introvert, but also has the ability to punch and kick her way through life. I love female characters who show that you don’t have to have a tough/bad bitch attitude to be strong. 

Cloud & Tifa - My ultimate Final Fantasy couple. (For the record, the only other couple who even comes close is Zidane/Garnet.) I know the development team only created Tifa after they decided to have Aerith, the primary love interest, die. However the relationship between Cloud and Tifa was just infinitely more well executed to me. I found it far more organic to watch two characters who both struggle with expressing their emotions and inner turmoil lean on and help each other grow. The entire segment of going through Cloud’s mind space was beautiful and I don’t understand how anyone can claim that this ship isn’t canon. 

The cast - VII’s cast is iconic for a reason. It’s definitely top tier in managing its character’s development. They all have distinct personalities and arcs without overindulging in backstories. The thing that really makes the cast shine is that everyone is united against Shinra, but for vastly different reasons. (Let’s say in contrast to the cast in X who are united against Sin because it’s a massive killing machine and needs to be stopped.) 

Shinra - I love it when fantasy worlds have a form of government that isn’t a monarchy. This creates a lot of potential for different types of villains and more interesting relationships on both sides. Shinra has so many major players and it was fun to go against characters who all had their own opinions about their jobs. 

The soundtrack - I’ve been very familiar with VII’s music for a number of years now. It still deserves a spot on my love list.

Things that I hated: 

Cloud & Aerith - At the risk of inciting intense shipping comments from anyone who actually reads this, I couldn’t hate this pairing more if I tried. Their entire relationship was based on telling not showing. Nothing that occurred between them made them, at any point,  seem like an inspiring or a natural couple. It didn’t help that the writing was so blatantly rooting for them that it almost seemed forced. To me, Aerith’s romantic pursuit of Cloud honestly just feels like she’s projecting her unfulfilled feelings of Zack onto Cloud. I said what I said. 

The polygon models - I know this is unfair. It’s a product of its time. But wow those overworld polygon models are really unattractive. The battle models are at least adequate. (I’m playing the PS4 port so I don’t think I can mod it.)

Chocobo catching - I found this mechanic to be really annoying and I’m thankful it was only mandatory for one instance. 

Unnecessary mini games - Frankly I’m really hoping that the remake will be eradicating most of the mandatory mini games because there were SO MANY and it didn’t really make the game more fun. The vast majority of them were just plain annoying. The soldier marching, sneaking past the Shinra guards, and boulders in the Temple of the Ancients were the most face-palm worthy for me. I hope to not see them and more in glorious HD. 

The summons - this is one of the only Final Fantasy games where the summons had no true role in the narrative. In that aspect, I don’t mind that much at all. If there’s no place for magical deities in the story, then don’t force it. But that means there’s really no explanation for these creatures, other than just different manifestations of materia I’m guessing. It almost would’ve been better if there had been entirely new summons created, like they did with XII. This honestly really isn’t a huge deal, but I prefer it when the summons play a role in the universe somehow. 

The timer running through battles - Hello anxiety, my old friend. 

[my-mysme-blog]

Solace

Pair: MC x Jumin

Genre: Angst

How did this happen? How could his guards let this happen? Who was this person who kidnapped her? Where was she? Was she safe? What if something happens to her? What if she was crying? Just let her be safe… The world was so unforgiving for his angel and she was so precious to him to be left alone in a dangerous place like that. Facing their share of Jumin’s unbridled rage, all the guards were promptly fired. Flyers of missing person promising a bafflingly tremendous reward were now like a new addition to the flora of the country. The TV stations ran missing ads for MC more frequently than any other. He even hired Seven. Money was not even worth mentioning if it could pave a way for MC’s safe return. But she was not returning, and no one didn’t ask for ransom.

Was there ever a more wretched man? His sorrow and despair were all seeping out of him, touching and reforming all of him. His eyes showed an abyss of unspeakable emotions; dark rings under them were like annual rings indicating the days of her absence. His voice was hoarse from being used too much. His black suit looked like mourning clothes on him. RFA members and his father tried to calm him but to no avail. Not even his beloved Elizabeth could ease his pain. After experiencing the prosperous reign of his rightfully crowned Queen, the reign of Elizabeth the 3rd was heartbreakingly desolate. A mere cat was no match for MC, the thought itself was presumptuous. Thus, he spiraled deeper into the abyss of his stimulated emotions and thoughts, as days passed without offering any relief from the pain nor any news about his beloved’s whereabouts.

…

Seven did not want to be the one to do this. He did not want to find her like this. He himself was barely holding on, yet someone had to inform Jumin. God, why does it have to be me? Jumin… How will he react? He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. He dialed Jumin’s number. He hesitated to call the number. He bit his lower lip and looked painfully at his phone screen. Then he steeled himself and pressed the call button:

“Hello, Jumin. The thing is.. I… I found MC-”

“Really?! Where are you right now? Is she okay?” he sounded unbelievably happy. God… I can’t tell him.

“You… you need to come and see for yourself. I will send you the coordinates. I’m sorry, I- I can’t do this.” Seven cut off the phone because he felt the tears scorching his eyes once again. His whole body was heavier with guilt and sadness as he sent him the coordinated. I’m sorry, Jumin… I wasn’t fast enough…

Jumin rose up suddenly. Jaehee, who was with him noticed something was off. He looked terrified. She did not even want to consider the possibility. But if that were true… Mr. Han couldn’t be left alone to face it. She shadowed him as he ran to his car. She got in, and he said nothing about it; he had far more important thoughts to deal with. Jumin asked Driver Kim to take him to the coordinates as fast as possible. MC, my love, please be safe… Please… Seven, why did he sound like that? Is it one of his pranks? Please, let it be so, I beg of you… Jaehee informed the new bodyguards to come, just in case.

Jumin and Jaehee arrived to find Seven crying. Jaehee immediately understood what might have happened. Oh Lord, no! Please, let her be safe. Jaehee, being behind Jumin, couldn’t see his face; but she noticed he was going straight to the shed mere meters away. He hesitated at the door. What if… what if something happened to her? No! She is fine, Seven is just… being Seven. He then pushed the door.

Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw. His love was on the ground with an air of solace bestowed upon those who were relieved from all the worldly pains. Crimson elixir of life had escaped the its vial through a treacherous crack, leaving heinous trails behind. Her face so full of color and vigor where her smiles once bloomed was bleak and barren. Yet, he refused to believe the most obvious outcome. No, she is only sleeping. And she is pale because the ground is cold. Yet, he felt afraid to confirm any of his suspicions. Still, he slowly found his way near her body. His fingers found their way to her wrist, but they felt no pulse. Her chest was not moving either.

He did not want to face the harsh truth of being robbed her warm embrace. He cooed her name, he begged her to open her eyes, he pleaded, he cried; all for no avail. Jaehee was trying to make him let go of MC’s body even though she herself was crying. Jumin was trying to plead with the dead: “No, we were married... We had an agreement MC! You cannot leave me not until death do us apart-” And he fell on his hands and knees crying. Yes, until death do them apart. Her wife was now Death’s. He has veiled her as his bride and took her away to his side. So cold, harsh and absolute that veil was, it was pervading her features. “No, MC… You promised me… You said you would stay by my side until I felt better… Please, don’t leave me like this… Please…” He looked so lifeless, so hopeless, so empty... Warm tears were destroying his cold exterior. He refused to let go even when the police and his bodyguards along with his father arrived. He knew that this was the last time he could hold her in his arms. He had to be forced away from her.

Nobody could imagine what terrible pains were tormenting him. He completely shut his emotions out. Yet he was full of them. But his sorrow was too great, too profound to be expressed by tears or wails. Her absence changed everything, to the finest detail. The penthouse felt so hollow without her presence. She unraveled all the tangled threads and wove color in his life; and when she disappeared, everything seemed to be strangling him. He felt suffocated despite, or no, because of the abundance of space. He longed to feel her warmth, to touch her, to find solace within her arms, but none of these seemed to be within his reach. As Time nurtured his sorrow, her despairing apparition become more discernible. He could almost see her form, hear her voice; her touch haunted his skin. There he was, sitting on her side of the bed, crying as he held a dress perfumed with her scent, to savor her scent before it leaves him too. How ironic it was, that he who was thought to be able to have anything he desired, couldn’t have what he wished for so vehemently. He had all he never had to wish for, but his sole treasure was taken without a notice.

Time was a blur to him. He did not remember much of her funeral nor whatever that followed it, due to shock. He did not want to face with her death like everyone else said. The loss was too great, too irrecoverable. So, he decided not to face it at all. Now, he was working himself until he could not think. All his waking hours were filled with work. He did not sleep much, either. His dreams were too full of her and he hated to remember how the reality was devoid of her each morning he rose. Everyone was worried about him, but neither their voices nor their concerns reached him. And the days went on as time and torment slowly reduced the Jumin Han to dust before the spring wind.

One day, as he was going over one of the countless documents, he felt more aware of the extreme strains on his body and mind. Darkness started to spill out of the black ink of the document and invade his sight ever so slowly. He rubbed his eyes, but nothing changed. He just felt… tired. Tired of it all. Maybe I should rest a little bit before I start going over the other documents. Thus, his eyes slowly closed, and the rest embraced him.

…

He woke up to feel a slow touch on his shoulder. He did not want to open his eyes. But then he heard the owner of the touch speak: “Jumin, you shouldn’t sleep here.” All drowsiness left him and he instantly stood up.

“MC?!” multiple emotions marbled his voice.

“Yes?” MC was holding a blue blanket to cover him with. She had a warm and serene air about her.

“I thought you left me… I thought you died… Why? How are you here?!.. Was I dreaming?” he asked desperately.

“Yes, you were dreaming. And now, you are awake. Jumin, you look so tired. Shall we rest together?” she said with a compassionate smile on her face.

“I must have slept for so long,” Jumin mumbled with a quizzical look.

“Not that long,” she answered.

“But, I want to rest by your side. I feel so… tired,”

“Then let’s rest together.”

“For how long?”

“As long as we want.”

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it ^^

[cinnamonrollpatton]

Azaleas

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Summary: Roman and Virgil argue about actions and discuss flowers.

Words: 2929

Also on AO3

Virgil stares at the familiar bright red flowers growing below the old bench he’s sitting on, remembering seeing similar flowers throughout the week. It’s quite odd to see such bright colors thriving in this otherwise barren and desolate street in the middle of nowhere. The ground is dry and lifeless, the grass brown and dying; Virgil wonders just how these flowers are thriving in this bare area devoid of life. Maybe they’re just adapted to be like dandelions and can grow virtually anywhere?

He starts making a mental note to ask Logan later until he remembers with a jolt that he can’t.

...Perhaps Princey would know.

“-would be different this time- wait, are you even paying attention? Virgil? Virgil!”

Speaking of Princey, Virgil thinks as his eyes snap up to Roman, who has suddenly stopped his frantic pacing in front of the bench to stare down at Virgil with narrowed eyes. “What?” Virgil asks.

“You’re not listening to me!” Roman says, putting his hands on his hips.

Virgil sighs, his eyes passing the lit lamppost behind Roman to watch the setting sun in the distance. It’s dusk again; Virgil hates it when it’s dusk. His focus shifts back to Roman. “Because we’ve had this conversation before, Princey. We can’t go back, you know that.”

“We could , though, if we just-”

“No.”

“I’ll be more careful this time, I promise, just-”

“No!”

“But we-”

“We’re not going back!”

Roman’s hands curl into fists. “It’s like you don’t even miss them! What’s wrong with you? Do you even care about them?”

Virgil clenches his fists in anger, ready to lash out and retaliate, until he realizes what he's doing and freezes, focusing his gaze on the red flowers again, intentionally slowing down his suddenly shallow breath. “Pump the breaks, Princey,” he says, his voice soft, gentle.

Roman flinches, catching himself as well, then runs his frantic hands through his hair and closes his eyes. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry. I just- there’s a lot of- I feel…” his voice trails off as he makes a vague gesture with his hands.

“I know,” Virgil says. “It’s fine. I feel it too.”

Virgil wishes he didn’t though; there’s a pulsing, desperate longing inside of him. His heart is aching because of it, and it’s torturous, almost overwhelming. He knows there’s only one way to permanently soothe it: going back to the others. And as much as it hurts, Virgil cannot bring himself to do that to them; he’s not making that mistake again.

As the sun goes down, this desperation strengthens its grip, and Virgil has to fight to not lose himself in it. It’s so tempting to go back to the others for one last time, to talk astronomy with Logan, to hug Patton again, to ensure Thomas is truly ok and safer without them. He wants to stop the aching in his chest and see the rest of his family.

But Virgil gave into that temptation once. He doesn’t make the same mistake twice.

The longing is slowly enveloping Virgil, he can only imagine how much more intense it is for Roman. The royal side may not be the one literally representing feelings, but he is naturally more emotionally charged than Virgil is.

According to Roman, this curse, unlike most of the magic from Roman’s realm, is “exclusively emotional and unique in its nature”, which in Virgil’s head roughly translates to Roman has no friggin idea what they’re dealing with either.  Despite the curse coming from Roman’s Imagination, the royal side knows as little as Virgil does.

Roman sighs, and Virgil refocuses on him.

“It’s not fine,” Roman says. “What I said was still uncalled for. I’m sorry. I know you care just as much as I do. I know that.” He sighs, collapsing onto the bench next to Virgil. “I just- I just miss them.”

“I know. I do, too.”

Roman fiddles with his sash. “I want to see them one last time.”

Virgil sighs, closing his eyes. “We can't. It’s not safe, you know that.”

Roman waves him off. “It wasn’t safe last time because I didn’t know what I was doing. This time, we'll be more cautious and we'll see the dragon witch coming, and-”

“I bet Patton still has that cast on his arm,” Virgil interrupts casually, keeping the pain from his voice. Roman deflates instantly. “Logan probably is still taking care of those burns on his leg. And don’t even get me started on the effects on Thomas from last time.”

“That’s not fair,” Roman says, his voice full of hurt. “I didn’t know she would show up, or that they would get hurt. I didn’t mean for-”

“All of this to happen,” Virgil finishes for him. “I know. I get it, Princey, I do. I’m not blaming you. But I also know that every time the sun goes down, this curse gets stronger and you get more ansty-”

“I do not!” Roman lies.

“You do, you don’t fare well when it’s dark and there’s no distractions.” Virgil says. Neither does Virgil, but that's besides the point. “I know it’s tempting to think that we can be smarter and meet up with the others again without leading her right to them. But that’s what we thought last time, and that ended horribly, for everyone. And if we go back, the same, exact thing will happen again because we still have no idea how the heck it happened last time. We can’t do that to them again, Roman. Trust me, I want to see them again too, but we can’t. I’m not changing my mind on this. Please stop asking.”

“I’m sorry. I just-” Roman’s hands move to his chest. “My heart hurts.”

“I know. Mine does too. We’ll be ok, though.”

“I feel like I should be doing something,” Roman says, his hands fiddling with his sash again. “I hate this. I hate running and not knowing and not being able to do anything and hurting . I just-” Roman’s voice breaks. “I miss them. I miss them so much and it hurts. ”

Roman breaks, and suddenly he’s sobbing.

Virgil’s chest aches even more and reaches out a hand. Roman latches onto him desperately.

“I know,” Virgil says, gently squeezing Roman’s hand. “Trust me, I know. But you gotta calm down now, buddy. Take deep breaths with me.”

Virgil runs his thumb along the back of Roman’s hand, looking away to the yellow flowers by their feet. He listens to Roman’s rapid breaths gradually slowing down, trying to match Virgil’s.

Roman, Virgil has learned, hates being looked at when he’s crying, as he completely convinced that he’s not a “pretty crier”. Virgil has never really understood what Roman means by that; how can tears be pretty? He’s never seen anything but pain in his friends’ tears. But if avoiding eye contact with Roman when he’s sobbing helps comfort him, Virgil is more than willing to do so.

Gradually, Roman gains back control of his breath and stops his sobbing. After squeezing Virgil’s hand once in gratitude, he lets go and starts wiping the tear tracks off his face.

“You ok?” Virgil asks.

Roman nods with a small smile on his face, and Virgil sighs in relief.

Roman’s gaze falls to the ground near Virgil’s feet, and his smile falls off immediately.

“What's wrong?” Virgil asks.

“I really hate those flowers.”

Virgil looks down at pink flowers, then back at Roman, who has his hands clenched again. “They’re just flowers,” Virgil says, then frowns. Something feels off . “They do tend to pop up wherever we are when the sun goes down, though.”  

Roman grimaces, and Virgil sighs. “Ok, what’s up?”

Roman runs his hand through his hair. “I just- they’re azaleas.” He says the name in disdain.

“Ok...? Are they poisonous?”

“Well, yes, but that’s not really why I -” Roman pauses, running his hand through his hair again. “It’s what they represent that’s bothering me; it’s way too appropriate. Generally, azaleas symbolize a desire to return home. And passion. Temperance, death, femin-”

“Hold up, death?! There have conveniently been death flowers in every place we are during the night, and you didn’t think that would be important to mention?”

Roman crosses his arms. “Well, I’m sorry if I don’t notice every single flower that’s around us all the time!”

“How do you not notice them? They've been literally everywhere!”

“I’ve been a bit busy trying to figure out how to undo this curse, thank you very much, and-”

Roman freezes, catching himself, and sighs as he forces his shoulders to drop. “Wait Virge, stop,” Roman says, running his hand through his hair. “We’re doing the thing again.”

But Virgil can’t stop. There’s a fire burning too brightly in his chest, and he’s spitting out words before he even realizes what he’s saying. “I’m sorry, whose fault is that? Remind me again, whose realm did this curse come from? Who created magic that he couldn’t understand and then let it get out of control? Who couldn’t defeat his own made-up antagonist? Who-”

“Virgil, buddy, calm d-”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Virgil is standing over Roman, glaring down at him. He doesn’t remember getting up from the bench. Nor does he remember when exactly his previously loose hands became fists.

He should probably be concerned about that.

Frankly, he doesn’t give a darn.

“Ok,” Roman put his hands up in surrender. “Alright. I don’t want to argue with you, Virgil.” His voice is low and controlled. “And I know you don’t really want to argue with me, either. You wanted to know about the azaleas, right?”

“Well yeah,” Virgil huffs. “But I really doubt that flowers are actually going to help us in our situation here.”  

“Probably not,” Roman shrugs. “Still doesn’t hurt to talk about it, though. I think she’s mocking us with them.”

“With the death flowers? Really?”

“Yes, really, hear me out for a sec,” Roman says. “Passion: the curse amplifies and intensifies all the emotions we have, like the anger and frustration that keeps causing us to snap at each other. Temperance: we have to focus to temper and calm ourselves down to not lose ourselves to the hyped up emotions.”

Virgil remembers he’s standing over Princey and forces himself to fall back onto the bench and relax his hands.

“Femininity,” Roman continues. “Because the dragon witch is literally the only female antagonist any of us have. And a desire to go home,” Roman sighs. “I don’t think that one really needs explaining.”

“What about death?”

Roman shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t think it’s even applicable; azaleas only symbolize death threats when they’re sent in black vases.”

“That sounds...very specific.”

“That's flower symbolism for you; it's like a whole language in itself,” Roman sighs happily. “It’s quite funny when people who don’t really know flowers send them as gifts for others. Like a while back, Patton came into my garden to pick out some flowers for Logan, but he didn’t know the names of the flowers or what they mean, he was just picking out colors he thought looked nice. So he’s picking out things like petunias and orange lilies and butterfly weeds, which basically combine into a passive-aggressive insult-salad wrapped in a bouquet. And I didn’t even realize he was about to give it to Logan until-”

Virgil smiles as Roman continues talking about the past, watching Roman’s face and movements slowly become more animated as he gets lost in the anecdote. It feels peaceful and tranquil, so unlike the emotional rollercoaster they usually deal with when the sun goes down.  Moments like this, when the curse feels lighter and nothing hurts, have been too rare. It’s been way too long since Virgil has see Roman’s shoulders relaxed and thrown back and his eyes alive and content like this.

Virgil almost relaxes himself until his eyes glance down to yellow flowers.

Wait, yellow?  

“Hey Roman…” Virgil says. “Does the symbolism change if the azalea’s color changes?”

“Well, yeah, color is a huge part of flower symbolism, Virge.”

“Alright. Follow up question: weren’t those red before?”

Roman follows Virgil’s gaze to the flowers and frowns. “Huh, I could have sworn they were pink.”

“Pink? When the heck were they pink?”

“When the heck were they red?!”

“Since we got here! How do you not remem-” Virgil feels antsy energy building up in his chest again, and he takes a slow breath to dispel it. “Ok, let’s think this through. When exactly did you notice they were pink?”

“When I first noticed the azaleas,” Roman says. “...which was right after I was calming down…” Roman springs up in excitement, causing Virgil to flinch. “Oh! I got it!”

“Got what?” Virgil asks. He can see the gears turning in Roman’s head, but he’s not following.

“When did you see the azaleas as red?”

“I already said that, when we first got here.”

Roman shakes his head. “No, I mean, what was happening? What were we talking about at the time?"

Virgil bit his lip. “...You were frustrated and pacing, and you wanted to go back to the others again.” He pauses in thought. “And they were definitely still red when we were arguing after that."

“And they were yellow when I was talking about Patton and Logan!”

“Yeah...?”

“So the colors changes based on what we’re feeling!”

“So what, the mocking death flowers actually mocking mood death flowers?” Virgil asks, sarcastically.

Roman just smiles.

“Oh great,” Virgil deadpans. “The mocking death flower are actually mocking mood death flowers.”

“Yup! And the color the azalea changes to matches what it symbolizes. Like, red azaleas emphasize passion, like those intense emotions we had earlier when we were arguing, and pink is seen as less intense and more affable than the red, so it popped up when we were calming down.”

“What about yellow?” Virgil asks.

“Yellow means family,” Roman says, smiling. “There must be some kind of magic in them. That’s kinda cool, isn’t it?”

“No,” Virgil says. “No, it’s not cool.”

There’s jittery energy building up inside him again, running down his arms and legs, making his whole body shake.  “We still don’t know to stop this curse or how she tracked us the first time, which means we still can’t go back to the others. So we’re still stuck here, and now apparently the dragon witch has a way of tracking our emotions, feelings, and thoughts through magic death flowers instead of just amplifying them? That’s not cool, that’s horrifying.”

Virgil pulls his legs to his chest and wraps his arms around his knees. “This is horrible. We’re probably never going to be able to go back.”

Roman frowns in concern. “Virgil…”

“It’s been days, Roman,” Virgil continues, curling into himself even more. His heart aches again. “Days, and we still know as little as we did when this first started. We’re getting nowhere.”

Virgil’s vision blurs, and he closes his eyes, feeling tears slide down his face. There’s no real point of wiping them away, so he doesn’t. “We’ll never be able to go home.” He says, defeated.

Roman is silent, and Virgil internally curses himself. Virgil was supposed to hold himself together so someone could keep Mr. Extroverted Right Brain grounded during this swarm of emotional chaos, not bawling his eyes out like this. He had one job, and he’s failing at it. But he can’t fight the overwhelming pessimism looming in his head or the desperate longing in his chest right now.

Virgil hears Roman shuffling closer to him. “Hey Virgil, buddy,” Roman’s voice is soft and careful. “Is it ok if I hug you?”

Virgil nods without looking up, and arms are gently wrapping around him, pulling him down until he’s leaning on Roman. “We’re going home, eventually," Roman says with a confidence Virgil doesn’t understand.

“But we can’t.”

“We can’t right now, but that doesn’t mean we won’t later. We figured out the azaleas today, maybe we’ll figure out something else about the curse tomorrow, and then we’ll be able to go back then. Just because we don’t know how to get out of this now doesn’t mean we won’t figure it out later.”

Virgil lets out a watery, humourless chuckle. “That made too much sense. You kinda sound like Logan.”  

Roman shrugs. “I guess the nerd rubs off on me sometimes.”

“...I miss him.”

“I do, too.”

“...I’m not sure how much longer I can do this,” Virgil admits. “This is freakin torture.”

“I know. But we’ll be ok.”

“How?” Virgil asks. “How are you so sure about that?”

“Because I’m going to be leaning on you and you’re going to be leaning on me, and we’re going to figure this out together. Plus, earlier you said it yourself, Sunshine, we’ll be fine,” Roman pauses. “Also, the azaleas are pink again, so we must be doing something right.”

Virgil opens his eyes to check, and sure enough the previously yellow flowers are now pink.

The sun will rise and set again soon. The curse will make their hearts hurt and their tempers short. Roman will feel like pacing, shouting, and crying. Virgil will feel like curling up into nothingness and disappearing. It’ll feel like hell.

But there will also be azaleas to warn them when the passion becomes too intense. Virgil will have Roman to inspire hope and courage when all feels lost. Roman will have Virgil to stop him from losing himself in the energic emotions when they become overwhelming.

They’ll help each other trek through this living nightmare.

Tag List: @thelogicalloganipus

[asimbelmyne]

Dirtying the Paper

Fandom: Star Wars VIII: The Last Jedi 

Pairing: Kylo Ren/Rey

A03 Link

Summary: She wanted to run, to flee, to dive into the forest before he could say anything about the nature of her drawing, but his eyes continued to demand her attention, narrowed in scrutiny and naked in their sincerity, tracing the lines she had painstakingly scribbled across her sketchbook.

A/N: Welcome to the drawing AU no one asked for! It’s super long, so be prepared. I’ve put a piece of my heart into this. Be kind. 

For Leann, who likes my writing but hates my trash.

Rey couldn't pinpoint the exact moment Ben's face had appeared in her sketchbook, but she knew that it had required little effort on her part, an act far too natural to be normal. Something in his eyes had captured her attention, a remote glow that reminded her of dappled sunshine, warm without really intending to be, struggling to make itself known. His stare gave voice to secrets he refused to entertain in the presence of anyone but himself, secure in the knowledge that his mouth would never betray his mind. He lived in blissful ignorance, purposely avoiding anything that threatened to crack his composure. His potential had been buried behind a sheet of glass so opaque she could hardly see through it, seeping into his irises like smoke, bleeding into brown, black, and white until nothing but passivity remained in its wake. Their interaction had been brief, but the look in his eyes lingered long after his back had faded into the distance, a blur of black surrounded by an endless expanse of green. Her sketchbook had captured the essence of his soul, rendering his eyes in muted tones of black and grey, colours she wished she hadn't used. Her pencil had seemed inadequate in the face of someone so brutally complicated.

She had always been fond of graphite, devoting hours to its use, sketching anything she could get her hands on, but Luke's lessons were of little consequence when it came to Ben. He encouraged her growth in artistry, but disliked anything that had to do with him. Ben's name had become as crude as a curse, immortalizing his egotism and destroying the solidarity his penchant for painting had provided. In his search for fame, Ben's love for art had been forgotten in favour of greed, lost somewhere in the throes of his paintbrush. Rey had never seen his work, but Luke would often speak of it in reverence, allowing the sheer memory of its beauty to saturate his words, imbuing his voice with colour, line, and light. She lived in Ben's shadow, evading his failures in an effort to assert her prowess as an artist, her resilience in the face of adversity, and her strength in defying his darkness, something she knew he'd never been able to fully accomplish. Her life as Luke's apprentice had never been difficult, but difficulty often arose in his inability to let his nephew's decline fade from memory. He continued to shoulder the weight of it, blaming himself when all else had failed, refusing to move beyond the mountain Ben had erected in his path.

Rey's time with Luke had provided her with enough knowledge of Ben's exploits to make her feel as though she had known him herself. Her curiosity had become immobilizing and she didn't really know why. She yearned to create something that would make Luke stare at her in the same way he'd reminisce about Ben's work, eyes glazed over in memory, alight with something akin to wonder, something she wished he'd bestow upon her drawings, her sketches, or even her paintings. That day had yet to pass, but Rey had grown used to waiting. She had been waiting for Luke's constructive criticism for many, many years. Her time had been spent in solitude, sitting amongst the trees at the edge of his estate, drawing until her fingers had turned black from exertion, practicing. She'd often draw the things she'd loved as a child, sketching familiar faces and places until they all seemed to meld together, forming one solid scene. Sometimes she'd see Jakku's barren fields, the shape of her father's mouth, or the delicate curve of her mother's eye. Everything seemed scattered, balanced precariously across her sketchbook like a constellation, never completely coherent. When Ben had appeared in the clearing for the first time, marching through the forest en route to Luke, she had seen something familiar reflected in his gaze, something she had only ever seen in herself.

He came and went after that like a storm, always predictable and always alight in anger. His eyes found a place in the blank spaces of her sketchbook, alike in some ways, but different in others. She could never get the shape right. His irises always ended up being a shade lighter than she preferred, brimming with emptiness, displaying a loneliness so acute that it made her heart ache in reciprocation, a look too sorrowful to belong on anyone's face. She felt as though she were doing him a great disservice.

It was then she'd stop.

Rey tucked her pencil behind her ear, chewing absentmindedly on her lower lip. Her sketchbook lay abandoned on the ground, far enough away to calm the tempest that raged in her heart. Ben had become an obsession, inching his way into her thoughts until he had taken root there, unfurling like a flower. She wished he hadn't broken Luke's heart. She had spent enough time with him to see how much Ben's actions had cut him to the core, mutilating his love for art and everything that had come with it. His teachings were tinged with guilt, saturating everything she had fought for and everything she had yet to accomplish, staining her work like blood, proof that he had been caught red-handed, immersed in his own personal ocean of grief. Rey could hardly grasp her pencil in his presence, let alone draw the things he wanted her to, but she continued to persevere, hoping beyond measure that her devotion would rekindle his former self. Ben had been Luke's greatest student, but had become his greatest regret. She hated him for destroying everything Luke had embodied, but pitied his lack of judgement, his disregard of self, and his stupidity for allowing avarice consume everything that had made him human. His artwork had been beautiful once, pure of heart. She didn't want to know what it had become.

Rey closed her eyes, withdrawing her hair from the nape of her neck, pilling it atop her head in a series of messy knots. Her pencil was jostled from its roost above her ear. She swore out loud, muttering something incomprehensible under her breath, seeking purchase where there was none, freezing in terror. Ben had returned from his visit with Luke. He stood several feet away from her, pencil in hand, staring at her sketchbook with a look on his face that resembled curiosity. His mouth was pressed into a hard line, a line that vocalized everything she knew him to be feeling. She wanted to run, to flee, to dive into the forest before he could say anything about the nature of her drawing, but his eyes continued to demand her attention, narrowed in scrutiny and naked in their sincerity, tracing the lines she had painstakingly scribbled across her sketchbook. When he looked up, staring at her for the first time since their encounter weeks prior, a part of her heart hitched in rhythm, forcing the air from her lungs. Her desire to flee disappeared.

"Your shading is wrong," he said, gripping her sketchbook tighter between his hands. "My eyes are darker than this, but I doubt you'd know that."

"It's nothing. Give it back."

"Nothing? That's an understatement."

The urge to run returned in full force, pulling at her conscience like a string. Ben had become a ghost, stripped bare of meaning, seeping into her bones like lead, weighing her down and siphoning her strength. Rey lived in a storm of his making, one that continued to persist, bouncing from place to place like a ball, always in motion. He stuck out like a sore thumb, a problem that continued to grow, bleeding across her vision like Jakku, a colourless void of brown, red, and black, draining her dry. Instead of avoiding her, he had chosen to linger. His proximity made her uncomfortable. The look in his eyes sent chills down her spine, staining her cheeks until they were as red as her lips, stretching across shoulders, arms, and chest until she looked as flushed as an apple. She could see why Luke had grown angry with him. His capacity to sympathize had become a withered thing, weak in comparison to his love of self, spoiling everything that would have made him a great man. His conceit was as obvious as the freckles scattered across his pale face, a poison that threatened to swallow his mouth, his nose, and the emotional integrity she'd seen in his eyes.

"I'll pry it from your hands if I have to," she persisted angrily, infiltrating his space.

His smile was unexpected, yet there in its entirety. "I'd like to see you try."

"I seriously doubt that."

"Do you?" he asked, allowing his eyes to flit across her face. "I wouldn't be surprised if you did."

"It's my sketchbook."

"Finders keepers," he said, his voice a low timbre. "I take what I want."

Rey didn't know how to respond to his suggestion. She stared into his eyes until he had grown quiet, searching for cracks in her composure, cracks she'd never let him see. His gaze was intense, the stare of an artist skilled enough to see inside of her heart, but not skilled enough to stay there. Unlike Ben, Rey had lived a life of devoid of colour, a life filled with greys as lifeless as rainclouds, untouched by light, empathy, and art. Luke's compassion had taught her many things, strengthening her constitution, reinforcing her belief in humanity, and changing her outlook on life. Her inner world had always been vibrant. When she looked into Ben's eyes, she caught a glimpse of the man he had been, and the man he could become. He was beautiful, unfolding before her like a map, a map he had hidden so far inside of himself that he had forgotten where it had gone. His heart was as resilient as his soul, made to endure, made to last, and made to love. He had lived so long in ignorance, ascending somewhere beyond Luke's frustrating cynicism in an attempt to become his own person, misplacing his love for art along the way. If he was a monster, so was she.

"Not everything," she said at last, wishing he had the courage to simply be himself. "There are some things you don't have the strength to take."

When Rey saw Ben again, his eyes were the colour of autumn leaves, flashing like bits of amber in the storm they had found themselves in, softening the sharp panes of his face until he seemed to blend into the background. She had tucked her pencil behind her ear as an afterthought, admiring the shape of his figure against the blackened sky, clutching her sketchbook against her chest in an attempt to ward off her thoughts. She had bought herself a new one, but it lacked character. Her encounter with Ben had left her restless. She didn't know how to let his words go, how to ignore everything he'd said and everything he'd intended to do, afraid of what it may have meant to her and to him. He was a mess, a puzzle left unattended, waiting for someone brave enough to put each piece back into place without flinching. Rey was afraid of what she had seen in him. Her hands shook in anticipation, thrumming with an energy that rivalled the distant sound of thunder and the steady beat of her heart, pounding through her veins like a drug, heightening her senses. She reached up with one hand, pulling her hair up and over her head, tying it in place. This time, her pencil stayed where it was. He moved so that he was standing in front of her, standing so close that she could hear the way his breath hitched, whistling through his lips like the wind, brushing across her face.

"You need a teacher," he said, sharing her air. "I can help you."

"I have Luke. He's always been enough."

His eyes flashed again, this time in anger. "You're wasting your potential."

"Am I?" she asked, digging her nails into sketchbook. "I'd rather break my wrist than go anywhere with you."

"Is that what you really think?" he demanded, staring into her eyes. "Ah, it is."

"Don't look at me like that!"

"Like what? Like I know you? I'm not blind, Rey. We're alike and you can't even see it."

"You're nothing like me," she cried, sounding angrier than she felt. "You abandoned your family!"

His stare grew more intense, a silent challenge she refused to acknowledge. His life had become meaningless, a cautionary tale Luke had been desperate to weave into her lessons, something she had taken to heart in an attempt to please him. She didn't know who Ben was, what he had been like as a child, or why he had strayed so far from his path in life. She had grown to understand his loneliness from sheer circumstance alone, but had neglected to realize that their struggles had often been the same. The reality of his words hurt more than their implications, bruising her heart and everything she had placed inside of it. Her love for Luke seemed tainted, tarnished at the edges, black where it had once been white. She couldn't forgive herself. Her betrayal would break his heart, ruining everything she had worked towards, everything he had taught her, and everything they had achieved together.

"Join me," Ben pleaded, curling a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "You don't have to be alone anymore."

Her response was swallowed by the sound of thunder.

When Rey saw Ben for the last time, he had brought her sketchbook with him. She had left hers behind, stowed safely in the shelter of Luke's hands, a promise made of graphite, pulp, and integrity. She would return one day, with or without his nephew, but had grown to understand that her place in his life had been overshadowed by Ben's betrayal. Luke needed time to heal, and she needed time to figure out who she wanted to be. For the first time in her life, Rey could see bits of blue beyond the storm she'd lived in, peeking through the clouds in an effort to be seen. It had always been there. She would have smiled if it weren't for the look on Ben's face, a mix between anger and remorse, as if he knew exactly what she was doing and why. She wished he'd understand, but they had grown beyond compassion, beyond conceit, and beyond their playful animosity. When she looked into his eyes, she saw him for what he was. He was simply Ben.

"You're leaving," he stated sharply, filling her space. "Why?"

She smiled, but it was a bitter thing, filled with words she'd never say out loud. "You may have taken my sketchbook, but I won't let you take my heart too."

She wanted to draw the look on his face, how his mouth had fallen open in shock and how his soul had taken flight, breaking free from the cage he'd locked it in for so long. In the span of a heartbeat, Ben had become the man she'd seen in the storm, raw in his sincerity, wishing she'd take his hand. His fingers curled across her cheek in an attempt to still her thoughts, pulling her close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, close enough to feel his warmth stretching across her skin like the sun, and close enough to taste his breath, swallowing her whole. He was a broken man, incomplete in more ways than one. She wished he'd find it in himself to forget, moving forward until his past had become one solid blur, embracing his future instead of lingering in places too dark and too cold to provide closure.

"Don't go," he whispered, brushing his lips against her own, a ghost of a kiss.

Rey pulled away, gripping the edge of her sketchbook until it slipped from his fingers.

"Goodbye, Ben," she said, looking into his eyes one last time.

His fingers fell from her face but his warmth remained, a permanent reminder of everything she'd lost.

Rey opened her sketchbook several days later in the window seat of a train on its way to France, far away from Luke's lessons and Ben's piercing stare. She had pulled her hair into a low-lying bun, allowing it to rest against her neck in an attempt to protect her pencil's place above her ear, prepared to draw for the first time in many weeks. What she saw embedded into its pages broke her heart.

She saw herself, a mess of colour, line, and light so vibrant and so beautiful that she nearly cried, sinking into her seat until she thought it would swallow her whole.

It had required little effort on his part. He had taken everything she hadn't already been willing to give.

[vintagebeverly]

autumn leaves (reddie) chapter seven

Eddie hasn’t seen the trees change colors since he was a kid, so Richie deems that the two of them should take a road trip to Derry and see the trees change colors. Cue lots of bad car karaoke, too much coffee, and Eddie absolutely losing his mind over the gorgeous reds, oranges, and yellows of the fall leaves.

Or the one in which Eddie hates Richie, of course, until he falls in love with him.

Words: 1281

Warnings: lots of swearing, angst

Genre: tooth-rotting fluff with angst mixed in

chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four | chapter five | chapter six

The alluring scenery including the inviting hues of orange, yellow, brown, and red were scattered across the trees and laying on the street which was still damp from the earlier rain storm. As they drove past the iconic sign that read; Derry Welcomes You, Eddie felt the memories of being at the quarry, riding his bike, and building dams at the barrens flood back to him. He was absolutely taken with the beauty of the town, no matter how ugly it was beneath its skin. The radio was quiet, the atmosphere thick. Eddie looked over at Richie, who, while concentrated on the road, didn’t realize how stunning his surroundings were. As they continued to drive, Eddie spoke up.

“Uh… Do you wanna stop and watch the sunset?” he asked.

“No time, let’s get you to Bill’s house.” was Richie’s answer. Eddie nodded, at first disappointed, but he understood. He glanced out the window again and was immediately entranced by the trees, watching the leaves dance with the wind and land on the ground. No, he wanted to watch the sunset with Richie. Bill could wait.

“Let’s stop,” he began, “I have this feeling like the sunset will be especially pretty tonight.” Richie took a turn and they were met with an empty parking lot, devoid of people yet so full of memories. Eddie took a deep breath, feeling the autumn air enter his lungs. He closed his eyes and felt the sun on his face as it lowered deeper into the horizon. Richie turned the car off and was suddenly reminded of the first stop on their trip.

“Oh no, no useless stops, Richie!” Eddie sighed. He knew Richie would stop at nothing to bother him, even if it meant altering his travel plans. Richie turned to face Eddie for a brief moment before focusing on the road again.

“It’s not useless, Eds,” he explained, “It really is a lovely little place. Just this once, and we won’t make anymore extra stops.”

What a lie he had told.

Richie recalled every stop they had taken, every town they’d seen, and how he wanted the road trip to last forever. Then he came to a realization: It was all ending here. Even if Richie were to see Eddie again after all of this, it would never be the same. He learned much about his friend, but even more about himself. He loved Eddie, he truly did, but he wondered if they could ever be together. The problem wasn’t the physical distance between their homes, it was the distance you couldn’t see, the one which just kept tearing them apart at every chance it got. Every time Eddie told Richie he loved him (which had been more than once now), it didn’t feel real. It was more like Eddie was blinded by either infatuation or hatred, and Richie couldn’t figure out which. He looked over at the boy beside him and recalled the first time he had realized his own feelings.

He leaned closer, and closer, and closer until he himself could barely breathe. His face was merely centimeters away from Eddie’s. He closed his eyes and inched even closer, feeling their breaths combine. The way the moon lit up the room created the perfect scene for Richie, almost being able to feel the moonlight on their faces.

Richie smiled, remembering how Eddie woke up and their heads collided that night. Then again, Eddie had had a nightmare, so it wasn’t something to be smiling about. Perhaps none of this was. The melancholy emotions Richie had felt for the entire trip weren’t something to be smiling about, and yet here he was. He had been rejected over and over by the love of his life, only to have his heart broken and then repaired by the same person. It was as if Eddie was out to get him, like he wanted to mess with his feelings. Richie knew better than this, however, and decided that was incredibly wrong.

Eddie opened his eyes and met Richie’s gaze, grinning from ear to ear. Eddie knew something had been off about Richie for the entire road trip, but he had never been sure of what. To Eddie, nothing else was wrong. He loved Richie and Richie loved him, whether they were going to be together hadn’t mattered. Eddie knew it was hard for Richie to believe a word he said, but he decided that he never was good at expressing himself explicitly, all he ever did was complain about the things he disliked or didn’t understand. Other than that, he found it hard to focus on the bright side of things. Of course, it wasn’t entirely his fault, growing up in Derry (especially with a mother like his) had conditioned him to be a pessimist in the worst possible way. Despite all this, he found love and warmth with Richie. It was like everything that was missing from his life could be found within Richie.

Neither of the two said a word, yet they knew everything they needed to just by looking at each other. The silence was light and airy, leaving room for both of them to breathe, unlike other moments they had previously shared. Soon it turned dark, and the stars started to come out. Of course, this seemed familiar to Richie as well.

He held onto the collar of Richie’s denim jacket and closed his eyes, feeling all of the germs from Richie’s lips transferring to his own. He pulled away for a brief moment, but that moment ended by Richie running his fingers through Eddie’s hair and stealing another kiss. Eventually, Eddie relaxed and continued to pull at Richie’s jacket, almost ripping the collar off while Richie tangled his pale fingers through his hair and pulled it gently.

Richie reached over and started to play with Eddie’s hair, while the other boy’s face turned beet red, but he kept grinning nonetheless. The absence of sound continued, but now their foreheads were pressed against each other, Eddie looking at Richie’s chapped lips.

“I love you.” Eddie whispered.

“I know.”

As they pulled into Bill’s driveway, Eddie hummed a sweet tune while Richie stopped the car. He watched Eddie walk around to the back of the car and retrieve his belongings from the trunk, including a small red snowglobe. Richie didn’t want to leave the car, leaving Eddie without looking back was a lot less painful than getting his foot caught in the door. Instead, he rolled down the window while Eddie walked up to the front door.

“Eds!” he called, “Aren’t you gonna say goodbye?” Eddie dropped his suit cases and ran to the car window, smiling as he grabbed Richie’s face and planted the world’s biggest, most dramatic kiss on his ice cold lips. It lasted for a long while with both of them focusing on how their hearts felt so astonishingly heavy, yet untroubled. Neither of them cared even when Bill was on his driveway staring at them, or when he was asking for help with Eddie’s bags. In that moment, the only people who existed were Eddie and Richie.

Both of the boys were smiling too much to kiss anymore, and when they pulled apart Eddie kissed Richie’s nose.

“See you around, yeah?” asked Eddie. Richie merely nodded and Eddie went to help Bill with his own bags, while Richie pulled out of the driveway. Richie watched as Eddie opened the door, honking his horn at the two, who in turn jumped about ten feet in the air. Eddie turned around with a look on his face while Richie grinned slyly.

“See you around.” he yelled as he drove away.

a/n: so i think this is the end of autumn leaves ): ......i might do one more chapter, but prolly not unless ppl want it. i have an idea for it, but it’s not entirely necessary to the story so idk. tell me ur thoughts.

tag list: @belric @edskasqbrak

[oscopelabs]

The Venomous Beauty of ‘By the Sea’ by Angelica Jade Bastién

[This month, Musings pays homage to Produced and Abandoned: The Best Films You’ve Never Seen, a review anthology from the National Society of Film Critics that championed studio orphans from the ‘70s and ‘80s. In the days before the Internet, young cinephiles like myself relied on reference books and anthologies to lead us to film we might not have discovered otherwise. Released in 1990, Produced and Abandoned was a foundational piece of work, introducing me to such wonders as Cutter’s Way, Lost in America, High Tide, Choose Me, Housekeeping, and Fat City. (You can find the full list of entries here.) Over the next four weeks, Musings will offer its own selection of tarnished gems, in the hope they’ll get a second look. Or, more likely, a first. —Scott Tobias, editor.]

As a woman you learn early and often how beauty is its own currency and how easily it can be turned against you.

Every generation has had otherworldly figures that communicate this truth writ large— Lana Turner, Joan Crawford, Elizabeth Taylor, and, of course, Angelina Jolie. In previous generations, actresses learned to make a meal out of the male gaze and its relationship to the contradictory power women can find in using their own beauty as a weapon. This gave us indelible moments like Rita Hayworth’s striptease in Gilda, Michelle Pfeiffer slinking across the screen in latex as Catwoman in Batman Returns, and pretty much anytime 1950s sex bomb Marilyn Monroe had a camera in front of her. In Sunset Boulevard, when Norma Desmond looks at her past self on-screen with a mix of nostalgia and anger, she isn’t just mourning the past of the industry that made her famous, but the power that came with the brand of womanhood she exhibited in her youth. In her third feature as writer-director, By the Sea, Angelina Jolie takes the rarely seen approach of interrogating the art of watching and being watched as a woman through a prickly, even combative female gaze.

At first glance, By the Sea has a simple, even thin plot, with not much to offer. In 1970s Malta, an American couple take a trip to a coastal hotel in hopes of fixing their rotting marriage. Vanessa (Jolie) is a former dancer in a perpetual opiate haze, numbing herself to a past tragedy, while Roland (Brad Pitt) is a formerly successful writer pickling himself with whatever booze is around. Things take a perverse turn when Vanessa discovers a peephole that lets her look into the room of the young, hot, newlyweds next door, Léa (Mélanie Laurent) and Francois (Melvil Poupaud). For a good portion of the film characters seem remarkably passive — they drink, fuck, or lie dazed on balconies.

Upon closer examination, By the Sea proves to be a beguiling mix of existential erotic thriller and tone poem—an audacious, challenging film brimming with heady ideas. With profound emotion and visual ingenuity, the film examines how love so often curdles into hate, the art of seeing and being seen, and meta-textually, the currency of movie stars in a cinematic landscape starved of them.

It’s clear from the first few minutes that Jolie is a startlingly self-aware artist. She understands how her presence and that of her equally famous soon-to-be-ex husband can warp a film—and she takes full advantage. By the Sea has the sort of grand, movie star introduction we don’t see all that often; it leans into Jolie and Pitt’s outsized personas rather than obscures them. In a dashing silver convertible, they drive the winding Mediterranean roads, passing by rocky mountains and the cerulean sea. They sit wordlessly next to each other. He has a surface level affability and looseness to his demeanor.  She’s unmoving, inscrutable. Yes, it’s gorgeously shot and utterly alluring. But there is an uneasiness to their silence that hints at the turmoil to come.

Thanks to its slow rhythm and repetitiveness, By the Sea weaves a strange spell. As images of the older fisherman rowing through the sea, Roland drinking himself into an embarrassing stupor, and Vanessa artfully arranging herself across the room continue, the film lulls us into a place of comfort. Jolie isn’t interested in the typical conventions of plot or even what’s to be expected of artful projects celebrities create for themselves. She instead shows a finely tuned interest in mood. Once Vanessa discovers the peephole and the illicit thrill of stepping into the lives of the idyllic newlyweds, she can’t turn back. There’s a raw brutality to the way Roland and Vanessa interact with each other that amp up after she discovers the peephole. They’re like two wounded animals clawing at each other. But what is entirely unexpected are the flashes of cruel humor and absurdity.

When she hears Roland coming back to the room one day, she plugs up the peephole and slides across the floor with a frantic sloppiness. She casts one of her blank stares, playing coy. But he already found the peephole on his own. It’s a brief moment but it’s utterly ridiculous to watch—her fear of being discovered, his knowing glance, her feigning the sort of opiate stupor he’s come to expect. Then the whole film takes a turn. “Will you watch with me?,” Roland asks. Soon Roland and Vanessa are making their voyeurism into a daily ritual.

But Vanessa isn’t satisfied with just watching them. She wants to influence them. Roland goes along with it out of the misguided hope of bringing back Vanessa from the edge. He sees the libidinal thrill she gets from watching this couple and watching Roland watch them as well. Even though she’s dedicated to staying in the hotel and not venturing any further than the market, he sees their voyeurism as an opportunity to give their marriage the spark that was seemingly extinguished years prior. He even goes so far as to suggest they get the neighboring couple drunk and watch what happens later.

What follows is a brief, kinetic scene of them getting ready in the bathroom. The camera swoons around Vanessa as she sprays her bouffant with copious hairspray. Just to her side, Roland waves a towel with one hand and drinks with the other. Their understanding of one another is clear in how they move: Her at the vanity, him at the sink. Him with his liquor, her with the pills.

By the Sea understands marriage and the way people who’ve been together for a long time can hurt each other. This is most pointed in the film’s relationship with intimacy. Over dinner with the objects of their voyeurism, the noise of the café fades away as if Vanessa’s hearing everything through another hole in the wall, rather than actually being present. Characters often look directly at the camera (or just about) as if in conversation with the audience. Important meetings (like the first time Vanessa comes upon Léa in real life rather than through watching her) are shot from a distance—whole conversations unheard in favor of taking the perspective of another character watching from afar. Mirrors are a pivotal device for Jolie as a director. Roland and Vanessa often exchange meaningful glances not by looking directly at each other, but at their reflections. Late in the film, Roland forces Vanessa to go out for dinner and dancing. She’s nervous, her voice barely above a ragged whisper. He lovingly smiles, trying to get her out of her shell. When he takes her onto the dance floor, things start out romantically. But soon she begins spinning like a broken top. She flails and sidesteps and twirls. In the fragmented mirror above the dance floor, her reflection is splintered into several duplicates as she continues to move with manic energy before Roland comes to her side.

By the Sea’s cunning understanding of the ways being seen affects identity extends beyond Christian Berger’s lush cinematography, with its painfully intimate framing and rich color palette. The costuming by Ellen Mirojnick gives the film a timeless quality and strengthens the characterization. Good costuming is beautiful. But great costuming is lived in, acting as architecture for the actors. It not only frames their face but brings the internal machinations of their characters into the physical realm in subtle ways. Vanessa is entirely devoid of color, her hair an ashen blonde that hews a little too close to Jolie’s skin. She only wears snowy whites, fresh creams, and deep blacks. But as her obsession continues, pops of color are introduced—pink lipstick, the blue pills she knocks back, and a skirt red like a fresh wound when they go sailing. In one of the most harrowing scenes near the end, Roland peers through the peephole to find Vanessa with Francois;  when he undoes her top, her bra underneath is a striking red. Mirojnick’s costumes go so far as to suggest that Vanessa “self-medicates” with luxury. After an incident that alludes to a failed suicide attempt, she returns to the hotel drenched in ocean water, looking like a shipwrecked bride. Even in her despair, she’s gorgeous.

Throughout the film, there are hints as to what cataclysmic tragedy upended their marriage. Vanessa’s long gazes at children are an early tell. After Roland discovers Vanessa’s flirtation with adultery, he drags her back into their room, forcing her to acknowledge the emotions that are keenly felt but left unexplained. She’s barren. In watching Léa, she didn’t only want to witness someone else’s fairytale early marriage (and remember her own) but utterly destroy it. Watching Léa reminds her of her inability to have children after several failed pregnancies.

In watching Vanessa glamorously sulk around the hotel room, committing one self-destructive act after another, I thought of something Truman Capote wrote describing the common thread between Elizabeth Taylor, Judy Garland, and Marilyn Monroe. “[They had an] emotional extremism, a dangerously greater need to be loved than to love, the hotheaded willingness of an incompetent gambler to throw good money after bad.” It’s easy to turn unlikeable, grotesque, outsized women into camp spectacles. But Jolie avoids that trap while still finding humor in this hard-to-love story. Even as Vanessa harms everyone around her, especially Roland, with increasing cruelty you can’t help but understand, even sympathize with her, since Jolie so fully constructs this broken doll of a woman. You understand the anguish beneath her manicured surface, even as she reveals herself to be as wounding as she is wounded.

By the Sea shows the influence of Bergman, Antonioni, and Godard in its moodiness, pacing, and styling. Critic Kim Morgan, one of the few defenders of the film, also sees a bit of Roman Polanski’s Bitter Moon. But it feels more profoundly like the spiritual heir to the collaborations between another legendary couple, Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. The venomous wit of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and the cracked out Boom! are its clearest antecedents. There’s enough haunting melancholy and elegant vulgarity to make By the Sea escape being mere mimicry. Jolie understands “primal pull” that classic Hollywood movie stars represent. Watching Ava Gardner with haughty grace smoke cigarettes in The Killers or an impeccably styled Bette Davis walk off the ship in Now, Voyager holds an allure that’s hard to explain and even harder to deny. Jolie leans into this seductive power, displaying it over and over again until it’s nearly unbearable. This highlights the greatest strength of the film: how it argues acting is its own form of auteurism.

As Vanessa, Jolie gives a towering performance, communicating the ways women buckle under interpersonal expectation. Her elegant physicality nods to the character’s past as a professional dancer—she’s always in various states of elegant repose. Even when she’s a makeup-smeared, hysterical mess, there’s a sense that she’s still posing and adjusting herself, as if being watched and studied. She’s either in a drug riddled haze, a violent hysteric, or wearing a mask with no legible emotion. She’s a woman of extremes. Jolie asks in every line reading and every gesture for us to understand Vanessa’s disinterest in being likable.

Watching the vicious critical appraisal of the film when it was released two years ago, I couldn’t help but think of what John Berger wrote in The Ways of Seeing, “You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting ‘Vanity,’ thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for you own pleasure.” It wasn’t so much that the film was hated but that many critics refused to engage with the film itself. Instead of seeing the outsized personalities of the star couple at its center as something that enriches the way the film approaches voyeurism and the personalities we craft for people, it was seen as a hinderance. There was a sexist edge in the oft-heard critique of the film as a “vanity project” as well. As Sheila O’Malley wonderfully states in her appraisal of the film, “In order for that criticism to be valid, Angelina Jolie would have cast herself as the luscious sexually-alive object-of-desire living next door, seen through the hole in the wall. But Jolie didn’t do that. Instead, she plays a woman jealous of that golden happy sexy woman next door.” The criticism of By the Sea was virulent and intellectually simplistic in ways that showed disinterest in how women construct themselves, as if their dreams and fantasies can’t have value. It’s this sort of mindset that adds to why women struggle to find footing in Hollywood in meaningful ways as directors. It also displays a discomfort for when a woman of great beauty turns herself into the subject rather than an object.

An actress of Jolie’s stature is the architect of her own image and story in ways that American culture still scorns. Yes, there is a meta-textual edge to By the Sea, given its topics of child loss, adultery, the art of being watched, and beautiful people making a mess of things. But By the Sea amounts to more than merely being a gorgeous, meta take on one of Hollywood’s most famous couples.

With By the Sea, Jolie encapsulates the cardinal sin women are warned against: she doesn’t give a damn if you like her. She eschews plot for mood, easy answers for hard truths. She privileges beauty as not only an important pleasure to be found in cinema but a subject worthy of intellectual study. In doing so, she creates nothing short of a masterpiece.