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Jennie for Moonshot

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it’s show time

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Quote

Um from Umbridge

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next

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( jisuko )

“Tch, I find that very hard to believe!” she spits back jokingly as doubt-filled eyes narrow at the male, chopsticks pointed at him accusingly. In all honesty, it wasn’t that she actually didn’t trust him; Jisoo simply enjoyed poking fun at the male. His reactions were price every single time, no matter how frequent her teasing had become over time. But still, there was indeed some wariness that would ensue on occasions like these. The fact of the matter was, he had absolutely no reason to do this for her to begin with, and that seemed to be the root of her semi-serious suspicions. The easiest way to react, she thought, had always been to bring their mutual friend into it. 

“Nayeon was probably there with you, huh? She’s the one who knows me the best!” Despite how easily those words seem to fall from her lips, they never failed to bring a rather uncomfortable feeling to flutter in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t exactly put a finger on what it was; all she knew was that it wasn’t pleasant. Far from it, actually, and the thought of him one day confirming the statement only seemed to make it worst, but she decides not to think too much of it. Dwelling on the issue would not be of any help anyway. “Why are you so obsessed with being called that? Aish. Fine, fine!” the female says before taking a deep breath. “Oh… mehrong!”

He pulls a chair, turns it around and sits himself across the other female in a stubborn manner. Jooheon knew she wasn’t going to let it rest but he was just so affected he couldn’t even hide it. Though he thought he had to so he purposefully tries not to utter her name. Instead he molds a bar of chocolate through his palms under the table and eats it to calm his nerves. She gets nothing but a sidelong glance, his eyelids practically tapered from squinting so hard at her in the midst of their silence. He perversely takes a bite on the chocolate yet still watching over her actions. 

“Look, if you really don’t believe it, maybe you should come and make food with me instead.” he speaks in a monotone, all void of laughter at this point but him choking a bit on his food must have ruined the air of seriousness. He doesn’t know why but something in his own invite made him a bit embarrassed. It was risky for sure, but nothing about it should be embarrassing. In fact, if only she were allowed to know of his secret abilities, maybe things would be easier. He wouldn’t have to be so secretive nor would he be teased the process behind the appreciative gesture, plus it was a cool ‘power’ the more he thought about it. Everyone loves food. Even he did more than he ever will his games. But he knew what that tiny sacrifice do to his gift.

A scornfully derisive sigh was given vent to over her claims once again. “I’d say I know you pretty well. What you like and don’t like, I know it. Besides, don’t you see how busy she is now? I don’t even remember the last time we hung out! Have you even seen her personally? I don’t think so.” He objects but with a voice soft as possible, though still a bit loud. He didn’t like his current position with the female of topic with his feelings unresolved, and with how popular the childhood friend had become, he couldn’t help but think there’d be more competition. To forget was the goal. Besides, he was satisfied with the company he had now and if he was grateful for one thing, it was for how he’d met Jisoo from her even she wasn’t going to grant him his silly little request.  “Alright, I see how it is. I don’t even get a thank you.”

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Some fancy quote I'll never be the author of.

Quennie

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was he weeping? he wasn’t sure. he felt clean, sated in his anger. any tears he might have had dried up with his body. he was burning, seething. he was everything his mother had taught him not to be and all for her. that was the irony of it. for so long kihyun’s mother tried her best to keep him locked in a bottle thinking no one would try to shake him up and see what pours out. she would lock it with expectations and her idea of love until he was breaking the glass himself. he would whine and weep and wither at his own wishes and maybe once upon a time he wept at the words. maybe once upon a time when someone mentioned his mother he would cry and he would sniffle and snivel at their feet.

his mom wouldn’t like that. but then again he’s not sure what she would like or what she would approve it. she’s always been so careful so particular with her words and her teachings and he still has trouble grasping it, still has trouble becoming it. expectations are suggestions and orders are possibilities. kihyun never stayed completely on the path laid out before him and he knew she despised it but she also allowed it. if kihyun were to come home bleeding from a fight at school she didn’t coddle him and ask him if he was okay, but she didn’t smile when he said he’d won. it was all his fault and nothing could ever be perfect. he could win and get scolded for being ungentlemanly, he could lose and be scolded for ruining reputation. there was no dancing around just disappointment. she might smile if he came home clean but he wasn’t a boy who came home clean. she might smile if he said he didn’t throw a punch but kihyun wasn’t a boy who didn’t.

once upon a time she did let her hand linger on his cheek, young and bruised and sporting a fair pout. at that time kihyun decided his mother liked parts of it. that’s the problem. she only ever seemed to like the parts not the whole, the shoved and the leaking but never the full or the bare. kihyun was tired. visibly tired. he wasn’t weeping he was breaking.

“I’m not asking for take backs. I’m telling you to take it back before you can’t.” there’s something so ironic about the position here. kihyun has always been violent after someone provokes him but he always makes sure that he isn’t the only one looking wild, he makes sure it looks like two animals and not one and that way he can lose himself even more. it’s not because he’s concerned about onlookers but because he can’t stand the thought of being too different from anyone else. he can’t stand thinking he’s some ticking time bomb while everyone else is content. everyone has discontent in their hearts, everyone has something akin to what he feels. he’s not the only one and he can’t be. he’s not that different! so he struggles he keep his grip on the lighter, his teeth digging into his lips and effectively the threat doesn’t die out. it’s simply subdued.

“Compose yourself. Bear your troubles. Stand tall.” he repeats it as mockingly as possible. he spits it past his lips and his fingers curl even tighter against his side. knuckles turn white, vision turns red and for a moment kihyun isn’t sure why he bothers listening. he is composing himself, this is him composed! any other day he would have launched himself at the female but it’s been a long day and he can’t keep up with what he should do and what he would do and could do. he’s tiring out second by second. “who are you talking to?” it doesn’t click as quick as it should, that she’s ordering him around and treating him like a kid as everyone else does. usually it clicks immediately and he’s got a fire of a response to give people but that’s when kihyun’s body starts to move in sync with everything around him.

he’s composed and that’s not him. he’s concealing his troubles in his palm and that’s not him. he’s slouching, curving his anger in his body like a disease. that’s not him. kihyun’s going against all her words because he’s used to it. he’s used to going against everything thrown at him because that’s how he survived. here is someone asking him to strip himself bare for the first time in years and who is he to deny? he’s been pulled so tight, woven so deep that he almost forgot who he was.

the white dies down. the red spreads through his body and his hands shift out his pocket. the movement is nonchalant, he’s got this silly smile on his face, something like freedom in his eyes. wild. primal. he wonders what his mother would say if she saw him, taking steps to the woman with the lighter now brandished in his hand, spray can in the other. would she smile? laugh? reprimand him? for the first time he has time to think and he chooses not to, let’s his body and words work on their own.

���you want me to compose myself? bear my troubles? stand tall.” he does. he holds both items up for her to see. he’s standing straighter than he has in weeks and the strength is from adrenaline pulsing in his body. all he is is before her and all his cares are out the window. the tip of his index finger dances around the can with a promise but his thumb? his thumb flicks against the lighter, baiting, waiting.

“be very careful what you ask for.”

The world is full of hostile magic and it cannot survive much more. It wears disguises like him and her; both of them in their self-involved phases. When one seems to get away with it, it rebounds twice more. It’s an illusion that ricochets in physical existence. Just as it was happening to her. Now it had decided to take its toll after decades of exploitation; decades of misuse and abuse. Now, after taking its time, it had ruled to use Arabella for her own ends. She, and everything she cared about, has and will become ashes. What sunders between herself and everything else will come to be incredibly permeable.

She knew the weight of her words. She knew none of it was a game. She knew she can’t hurt someone without harming herself, otherwise she doesn’t really understand magic, or reality for that matter. Opening up to the spirit realm and attempting to command forces for a negative cause meant opening herself first to all harm that will be caused. At the end of it all, it becomes herself that she seeks to harm as the true danger was on the impact it has to her soul; the karmic debt she’d accumulate in just the few remaining moments of her life.

Regardless, he shouldn’t have said such a thing. No matter how much she spits and hisses, he shouldn’t entertain it. Yet what was he to do? How should he comply with an unannounced rule? His downfall isn’t to blame on himself. The fault was in his unfamiliarity of the hazard that she is. A fight would mean disaster, and the reason she wouldn’t want it happening was because she’s lost all control.

Her semblance had slackened, unwilling to be triggered: it unleashes without warning or precedent. There was no guarantee of safety for anyone, not even for her. The destructive force comes through her. It fills, and becomes her, before it can go anywhere else. As much as she had less and less of a concern for her own welfare, it’d mean taking another life along with her, and if not, maybe leave equal damage, or damage on an immense scale that could last a person’s entire existence. As much as she didn’t care for the boy who carelessly threw taunts and what seemed like empty talk at her, she couldn’t let it be. For despite her recurrent bad habits and false virtues to the eye, guilt wasn’t something she could live with, much less bear to her grave.

It wasn’t him or anyone else, it was for her peace of mind. How much more selfish she could get at this point would deem immeasurable. She swore to never live with regrets. Having to commit atrocity before her inevitable death would put thousands of years risking all that she had to waste.

She shivered despite the clammy warmth building under her quickly heating hands. Her stomach began to sink. A familiar odd feeling crept into her belly, and she realized it had been rising, slowly and gradually, for some time. It started as an itch, then became a dull ache, and now that ache was sharpening then amplifying. Only something had temporarily plugged all of her senses; a mysterious thing that had magnetized her hand into a grip on the telltale bulge of her concealed weapon and tuned the bounds inside her to his scornful gaze.

Her conscience reaches to her, warning her of the repercussions, repeating them over and over, chanting: do not drink your own poison of grudge. Without any more spiteful words to send back, instead she shoots a menacing stare, triggered by his indifferent, albeit perceived slightly arrogant, behavior and diminishes right when she slinks into a decisive stance. Her hold on the weapon looses with her eyes closing solemnly and a sigh escapes her. Once the eyelids flutter open, she summons a projection of her aura, fueling what manifests into a duplicate of her yet in a form of a tangible shadow. She charges forward with haste, chopping his arm forcefully with the blade of her hand to send the lighter slewing away. Behind her, the shadow becomes engulfed into flames and dwindles into ashes. She grabs his face before brutally raising him above her height and slamming him to the ground once, but it was enough to cause debris to fling around.

Lost in her unwarranted and uncontrolled fury, the male became trapped under her weight as she slams his head against the hard concrete once more and it was only then that she had realized Kihyun was already unconscious. Her hands trembled in subdued rage mixed with remorse. It consumes her, little by little. She sat rigid and paralyzed. With all her will, she prevented herself from choking out of her own breath. Through her parted lips, she drew only tiny gasps. She couldn’t stand to see what she had done. In her guilt, she resorted to sparing a few drops of her healing potion, the exact potion she’d literally and figuratively die to run out of, pouring it into the small gap between his chapped lips.

As soon as his skin grows warm, she takes the chance to flee from the ruin she had caused before he could wake up again. She leaps out the window accessible as it is with its glass broken, and falls to her knees the next moment her two feet touches the ground. She could feel herself weaken in each step but she’s lost enough of the concoction brewed by a friend so hard to reach in just a day. In the small deed that follows a catastrophe, she still hopes at least to be able to sleep with ease in the night. Only this way would she not attempt another act of self-destruction.

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