quality.

hitman for hydrus. ambition and greed gets you everywhere, baby.

[mimedusa-blog]

yo im dropping medusa due to IRL stuff going on! so sorry bois and grils

[mimedusa-blog]

goodbyes are forever.

@mixneptune

here’s the thing about getting shot that the movies horribly understate: it. hurts. like. a. fucking. bitch.

so here she is, hand barely supporting herself on the building, white hot in her torso and hand holding that heat in like it’ll stop the bullet from moving every time she does so much as shift more than she has to. she doesn’t even realise where she is until she sees the street sign, squinting, almost throwing up, but coughing up some bile and spitting it on the sidewalk. god, god, it hurts. she doesn’t even know if she’s breathing anymore, but her legs, heavy and mechanical, drag and lift and drag and lift across the pavement, sticking close to the back alleys and finding the door that she slams her fist on. once. again. she doesn’t know where her voice has gone. probably spilled out with the rest of her guts. 

she leans against the wall beside the door, knowing it opens one way and not the other, and leaning so that she’s in full view if the door ever opens. there’s no guarantee that she’ll get any type of help, but she nonetheless knocks once more, and doesn’t realise her eyes have closed until she notices that it’s gotten dark, and panics slightly from it. so she opens them again. knocks, again, because god knows she won’t let herself die at the back alley of a pc bang.

[mimedusa-blog]

slow dance.

[mimedusa-blog]

mixneptune‌:

Qian slips her hand into Jinah’s like it’s second nature and it was, once upon a time. It feels strange to return to this ‘normalcy’ that only existed between them ten years ago. They didn’t hold hands like this anymore. When they did, it was more nails biting into flesh as one of them drove the other to a euphoric high. But this kind of hand holding? Where there was something soft and tender behind it? It was like an extinct species that had suddenly reappeared. Qian didn’t want to think too much into it and acted as if nothing had happened.

 “No, I suppose not.” She has a small smile, looking at Jinah with — something. Something like love. She would never admit that it was love, not right now at least. “Stay! Please. I — I don’t want to be alone right now.” She’ll say that it’s because she’s at her most vulnerable right now, alone in a place that could expose her to so much. Having Jinah there to corroborate on things would be an ease on her mind. It certainly wasn’t because she wanted her company for just a little longer.

that’s weird, she thinks, why is she looking at me like that?

it’s an odd look on qian’s face. usually, she’d yell at her, throw insults, break her heart like she still had one (and she didn’t, did she?). this whole deal with holding hands would have been out of the question before this incident, and being asked to stay might as well been asking her to do ten backflips on the back of the elephant in the room that neither of them want to address. jinah does the next best impossible thing and holds her hand with both of her own, and brings it to her lips to kiss the knuckles that could’ve been cold. here they are, warm and soft and alive, and jinah will never let herself admit that she’s thankful for that, too. it’s both an agreement and a bold step, and she lowers that hand back down, still clasped between her own, and grins like she’s done nothing at all.

“why’d you piss someone off that badly, you idiot?” she doesn’t sound angry. concerned, maybe, if she could admit that too with the rest of the things. “next time, when you’re better, we can spar – you look like you’re getting rusty with age, old lady.”

[mimedusa-blog]

you’re mine.

[mimedusa-blog]

mixneptune‌:

“It was supposed to be three! It was always supposed to be the three of us. But you, you decided to make it two.and now look at where we are now.” They were meant to be a hppy trio, leaving behind whatever their past was, together. They were meant to open new doors, to be whatever they wanted and not what everyone expected of them. But then they were two and suddenly, they are exactly what they were groomed to be. Killers who knew nothing of remorse. Monsters who went bump in the night. Beasts who would fight to their very last breath. There was nothing soft about either of them, not anymore.

But Qian wanted to be more. She wanted more for the both of them so badly. She wanted something for the two of them that wasn’t just this. Whatever this angry thing between them was. Being with Jinah again was something that had began to resurface recently. She craved her presence and touch, even if a part of her recoiled at the very thought of loving someone like Jinah. Oh, but love her she did. Try as Qian might, Jinah had her heart and soul in the palm of her hands. Truly she would still do anything for her. That was, assuming that the inner turmoil would finally stop. A part of her still had such a visceral reaction to Jinah, to lay with someone who hurt her so deeply. It was fear, fear of being cut so deep yet again. She couldn’t stand top feel that pain again. 

“Leave, like I told you to the first time. We aren’t good for each other.” And maybe they never were, but that’s just how it is sometimes. Your other half should bring out the best in you, but their best? A fiery storm that could not be contained. And maybe Qian would miss that. “Good bye, Jinah.”

so this is it, then.

this is what she gets for hope. for feelings. her father was right, and qian, as always, drives the point home for a ghost she’d rather leave behind in cramped rooms and dark spaces. qian was supposed to be the light against it. apparently, she’d rather be nothing. she’d rather be the one who ruins expectations and breaks hearts and – oh. hold on. isn’t that what she’s good at doing anyway? – i should’ve known, jinah thinks, and steps away, to the side, anywhere closer to the exit. instead of grief, then, jinah’s expression turns bland, blank, like someone had wiped over the surface of her frown to replace it with the same nothing that qian wanted them to be. if they aren’t good for each other, then no one can be good enough for qian. or her standards have taken a dip for the worse, if seolhyun is any measure of it now. 

“fine.” in hindsight, too, qian has told her to leave enough times in the past. she’s always thought it was temporary. it could always be retracted with a hello, or an open door, or outstretched arms. this time is the first and only time jinah has ever issued her an ultimatum, and clearly, she’s made her choice. she moves to the door, opens it, and doesn’t pause when she closes it with, “goodbye,” never uttering a single syllable of her wretched name.

[ / end ]

[ahahahajknvm-blog]

—Strawberry Swing

[mimedusa-blog]

mixneptune‌:

There’s a reason why hope was at the bottom of pandora’s box. It was just as dangerous as everything else contained in that box. In fact, it was probably the most dangerous. To have hope in the face of anything in your path, not matter how dangerous or stupid. To believe that anything was going to be okay. Why anyone would prescribe to this dangerous optimism was beyond Qian’s understanding,. At least before she met Jinah. Now she could overdose on the stuff and still have this stupid grin on her face.

“I’ll always be your’s as long as you’ll be mine. I’d do anything for you, Jinah. I love you so much, I don’t know what to do about it sometimes.” Her heart was so full of feelings that she didn’t know how to name. There was new ones popping up every day too, like that one time a boy looked at Jinah for far too long (she cornered him after she sent Jinah to go and get them something to drink. She left him crying). Qian takes her hand, kissing her palm and up each finger. “If you’re going to give me everything, I’ll do anything for you. I’ll conquer the world for you, give you each piece as we grow old together.” She pushes Jinah down, straddling her as she leans down and kisses her, deep and slow. “I’ll love you forever and always, until I have nothing left to give you.” She travels lower, kissing the curve of her neck. She’d continue even further had her phone not blared an angry sound.

Qian makes a sound of displeasure, but knows she has to answer the call. It’s the emergency ringtone and her gang knows better than to bother her alone time with jinah. She gives Jinah one last kiss on the cheek and rolls off her. “Give me a second, I have to take this.” She takes her phone out of her pocket and answers in Cantonese. The voice is frantic as she answers their questions. It ends relatively quickly but still Qian looks upset. “I have to go attend to something, I’m sorry. I know I promised we would spend the rest of the day together.”

these are dangerous promises to make. promises, in the first place, between creatures such as them, are dangerous precisely because jinah tends to remember more than most. i’ll do anything for you sounds like a dream that she’s not allowed to have; it sounds like her mother to her father in ways that she could never understand until then. but they’ll never be like their parents, and jinah lets herself believe that with a kiss she dutifully returns, arms around qian, hands at her back, holding her close in all this. it feels full and good and warm and soft, and all the things she never thought she’d ever be able to feel, especially not with a girl, and not with qian. for all her talk, she’s surprisingly and incredibly cheesy, and despite that – despite everything the world throws at them – jinah laughs, smiles, and says, “i love you too, cheeseball.”

then, they’re interrupted, and the moment is ruined. she supports herself on her elbows and listens, and thinks about how much hotter qian is when she’s speaking like this – and she knows that’s wrong, because her girlfriend looks upset, and it probably wasn’t a good thing. 

“oh...” she tries to hide the disappointment in her voice. she isn’t very good at it yet. that might be why she’s gotten beat up so often, but qian will never lay a hand on her, and so she isn’t afraid of feeling the truth of it. “uhm... okay. if you really need to.” she sits up, hums, and gives her lover a kiss on the cheek. “one for the road.” and a smile, to boot. anything that made her upset must’ve been bad enough, and she doesn’t want qian to worry any more than she should. “go, go – i’ll pack up here. i’ll see you tomorrow.” to be safe, she kisses qian’s other cheek again, smiling. “two for me. okay. now you can go.”

[ / end ]  

[mimedusa-blog]

slow dance.

[mimedusa-blog]

mixneptune‌:

Qian hears the pattering of foot steps and mild panic starts to rise, she still hasn’t fully put together just what her story is and while normally she can fly by the seat of her pants, her brain was just a little too foggy for her to be fully confident in her mental capabilities. However, once they’re fully through the door, the panic subsides. It really shouldn’t since Jinah has the perfect opportunity to just clean up what the dead man in the alleyway failed to do. Still, that wave of comfort washes over her and she feels at ease.

“I think it’s going to take a lot more than just a knife to end me.” Qian cracks a smile, she shouldn’t feel this happy to see Jinah, To hear that she was somehow proud that Qian didn’t die.She felt like she was 18 again and let that love trickle back to the surface, she was too tired to push it away. At least that’s what she’ll tell herself later on. “I feel like I got hit by a freighter, but I suppose that’s to be expected.” Everything still ached and she didn’t feel like checking to see how bad everything looked. For once, she’s considering riding out her stay instead of attempting an escape. 

She wants to ask why Jinah is here, why bother to check on her. Instead she decides on. “How did you get in?”

“i know.” she does. this isn’t a lie. she knows that qian can withstand more than a knife, but seeing her lie in that bed doesn’t make the sinking feeling any lighter than it had been when she saw all that blood. jinah isn’t the squeamish type, but she also hasn’t slept for the past few days. it’s something else that she doesn’t want to admit yet, not like this, so she sits at the chair by qian’s bedside and reaches for her hand without blinking. if she acts as flustered or shy about it as she is, it’d draw more attention to the fact. maybe it’s better to pretend it was by accident. the dark circles under her eyes could be to blame. the most sleep she’s gotten is the light dozing off at home, in the shower, until she catches herself before she falls forward and slips.

she doesn’t elaborate on that either. the question registers late, though, and she blinks a little before smiling a little. “it’s a secret. i can’t tell you all my tricks, now, can i?” her thumb idly rubs qian’s palm, keeps a soft grip, enough for her to pull away if she wanted. “do you want water? should i go and let you get some rest?”

[mimedusa-blog]

you’re mine.

[mimedusa-blog]

mixneptune‌:

Qian is stunned when she hears those three words. I love you. They ring in her mind over and over. She feels lightheaded. The last time she heard those words from Jianh were just too long ago. It feels fake, but it doesn’t feel quite like it. The admission is too sudden, like she wasn’t even expecting to admit it herself. This isn’t some planned attempt to get Qian to listen and follow her like she was the child from ten years ago. So the silence permeates until it’s her turn to fill the room with her laughter.

“Do you think admitting this is going to change anything? You think loving me is going to be some magical excuse and I’m going to forgive you for what you did to Seolhyuin? Jinah, You haven’t even apologized for hurting her.” And maybe this is why they would never work out. While Qian was selfish, Jinah only cared for herself. She’s not sure if she’s ready to commit to the person who cut her so deeply the last time. “Doesn’t matter if we want each other, if we love each other. It’s not just the two of us anymore, and I’m not going to be isolated because you can’t control yourself.” Qian takes a deep breath, trying to center herself for what she’s about to say. 

“I don’t expect you to understand any of this, so get out.”

seolhyun – again! jinah should’ve broken her entire face, made it cave in. she doesn’t know why qian sees so much worth in a woman that isn’t her, that isn’t someone as great as her. seolhyun is just another pretty girl who’s caught her attention, just another project, or some source of petty little feelings that qian doesn’t need. she frowns, scowls, and doesn’t understand. she hates that qian is right about that, at least, but it doesn’t make it any better. instead, it squeezes lemon directly into an opening wound, cut deep by an admission of love (which isn’t cheap, nor is it easy) so brutally rejected by a demand to apologise neither of them care that much about anyway.

“god, you – then make me understand! i don’t get it! why does it matter so much? of course it’s always going to be the two of us! it’s always going to be the two of us!” this isn’t true. jinah knows it the second it leaves her mouth. it was supposed to be the three of them, in a mansion, with a vineyard, making their own wine and laughing together. but it’s the two of them left, and jinah knows it’s her fault, but hasn’t it been ample time to move on? “i don’t care about that insignificant little – i just. don’t. care. i care about you. but if you don’t...want that...” 

saying it out loud makes her frown deeper, makes her inhale sharply, “then fine. fine. you know what? fine.” she’s said it three times now. it is not, in fact, fine, especially not when she shoves qian’s shoulders and glares her down to match. “you want me to leave? fine. say it. say you never want to see me first. then i’ll leave. just know that if you do – once i leave – i’d rather die than come back to you.” 

[mimedusa-blog]

start a riot.

[mimedusa-blog]

danixmi‌: 

She follows them, being as quiet as possible, letting the two guide her to wherever they decided to go. The guy was clueless to it all, and Dani felt like the woman was acting to frank, to not know she was being followed.

It was a little too late when she enters the scene, the man already unconscious in the woman’s arm. “Turn around! MPD!” Dani commands, her handgun quickly pulled out of its holster, pointed towards the female’s back. She steadies herself once she turned around, dropping the man like a rag doll, “I said MPD! And put your hands up in the air, and drop whatever weapon you have on you!”

the riots don’t bother her. none of them do. this type of juvenile, lashing-out behaviour is for the lesser brutes in the gang, but not jinah – save for the car fires earlier, of course – because she’s just better.

or, at least, she thought she was.

see, getting rejected so forcefully puts her in a worse mood than a higher-up betraying the rest of them. if she isn’t in prison yet, then it must be a good thing, and if this exposes all his other contacts, then all the more for her to kill. but qian? – qian isn’t someone jinah can just lash out on. so, she becomes medusa instead and pretends it doesn’t absolutely suck, and knows that the only thing that can make her feel better is a nice little act of petty murder.

but here this woman is, interrupting her alone time, and opening her hands, palms facing this – what, MPD? officer? – oh, fuck off.

for all that she’s done and all the nothing that she feels, this is as close as she can get to annoyance. her brows furrow, one raises, and she inhales a scowl and exhales it out of her system. it’s better to be calm. “or what?” she challenges, taking a step forward. “do you see a weapon on my hand?” it isn’t. it’s tucked where it’s supposed to be, and taking it out while her opponent is armed would take more time and effort than she can afford. “i haven’t done anything, officer.” her tone is anything but innocent, now. she doesn’t even bother lying, or hiding the severity in her glare. she waits for the officer to come closer; then she’ll make her move. “i’m just giving the man his medicine.”

[mimedusa-blog]

you’re mine.

[mimedusa-blog]

mixneptune‌:

There’s more laughter and hearing that sound of amusement just makes her so angry, like her rage means nothing to Jinah. So she lets her frustration loose, slamming her head into Jinah’s. Maybe breaking her skull is the only way to get anything through to her. She just needed something to get her to shut up and listen. “What part of she’s not your replacement do you not understand? I’m not trying to get rid of you, but you’re pushing your luck.” Again. Qian is trying to be more patient, to not jump the gun. Both literally and metaphorically. A gun would be so useful here.

“What part of this is a lie? The fact that I want you? Or that I can’t stand how you’re acting right now?” She releases Jinah and rubs her temples, trying to ease the throbbing in her head, she’s not sure if that was from the headbutt or how ridiculous this entire exchange is. “Was. I was your’s. And I’m not doing shit for you. Maybe once upon a time I would give you that stupid mansion on the moon, but that’s the last thing I’m going to do at this very moment.” Qian returns to jinah, shoving a finger into her chest. “We’re not going to happen, ever.”

the sudden head slam makes her see stars, yell out an “ow!” without meaning to. if anything, it does break the fantasy, it breaks the mood, and instead sours it with what comes next. qian seems to have a knack for ruining any kind of mood that involves intimacy, which, to be fair, is something her father would actually approve of this time around. too bad they aren’t quite what they used to be – that much is clear. too often, too much, jinah wishes that qian would just shut up and accept that these are things that are for her alone: this jealousy, this obsession, this –

“but i love you,” she blurts out, not knowing whether she’d rub her temple or her chest or her throat to soothe the growing, throbbing ache in them. when she blurts it out, she knows it’s just as true as when she admitted it a few weeks ago. while there had been radio silence since that moment of truth, that silence on its own should speak volumes: jinah wouldn’t avoid qian so much if it wasn’t true. it wouldn’t hurt this much if it wasn’t. “what do you mean, ‘we’re not going to happen’? that’s just – stupid! you want me. i love you. i don’t understand why –!”

[mimedusa-blog]

you’re mine.

[mimedusa-blog]

mixneptune‌:

The laughter is like Jinah is splashing some gasoline onto her flames and she’s just sitting there fanning them, as if she’s trying to see just how hot they can burn for her. Qian drops her grip from Jinah’s clothes, but only in favor to rear back a fist and send it straight into Jinah’s cheek. She doesn’t hold back like she would normally consider, she hates ruining a pretty face. But at this moment, she didn’t care. Qian doesn’t stop at just the punch and brings her forearms against Jinah’s throat, pinning her back against the wall.

“And I’m warning you, don’t ever do something like that ever again.” Qian is considering pounding Jinah’s face in, she clearly was not understanding that Qian was absolutely furious with what she had done. In fact, this all feels like some game she’s playing. As if being a petulant brat was somehow going to get the two of them together. Only thing is that the opposite is occurring instead. “None of that was called for! Did you think she was some replacement?” Qian rolls her eyes at the thought. Nothing could ever replace Jinah. “And you know what? I do want you, so fucking badly. But it’s never going to happen. Not when you act like I’m something you get to control.”

she’s too busy looking at the simmering anger on qian’s face and trying to decipher whether it’s hatred or anger or both. jinah knows it can be two separate things. these feelings are a confusing affair, and apparently, enough to grab her attention long enough to miss the fist coming towards her face until it hits her cheek. it’s hard enough to send an explosion of pain from her jaw to her temple, and she grits her teeth, but she isn’t given enough time to retaliate in turn before a forearm presses against her throat.

she chokes, frowning – what, this really isn’t foreplay? 

it doesn’t make sense. jinah just got rid of her competition. she didn’t kill that insignificant woman. why would it matter, anyway? – and still she doesn’t ask, gritting her teeth, hands coming up to grip qian’s forearm and trying to pry it off (and, if she really did try, then she would’ve at least made a more significant difference to the pressure at her windpipe). “wh – huh –?” is her next response. she doesn’t expect qian to agree. she doesn’t expect the admission, so much so that she laughs, incredulous, then pauses, and laughs again. short, bitter. it twists at her chest again, and she truly does scowl this time, just as quick as her reaction to the statement. “what... a shitty replacement,” she manages to ease out of her throat. “and what a shitty lie... you’re mine, qian. did you...– forget? you’d do...anything...for me... remember?”

[lunefiles]

SULLI for marie claire, 2019.

[mimedusa-blog]

you’re mine.

[mimedusa-blog]

mixneptune‌:

Anger, the one thing Qian never bothered to control. It fueled her life for so many years that it was almost essential to how she lived. Her fury was not something to be trifled with and many the people who have crossed her path have learned that very well. She was learning that she had to temper that anger, controlling it so that she would not make sloppy mistakes that would later come back to haunt her. But Jinah, oh JInah. Qian struggled with how she felt over her as is, her heart could not be controlled when she was near. In all aspects.

When Jinah just shrugs off her words, it just fuels the fire burning in Qian’s chest, it roars loudly and demands to burn even hotter and brighter than it already does. She pushes further into Jinah, the back of her hands digging even further into her flesh. “What will it take to get it through your thick skull that this isn’t anything other than me warning to back the fuck off?! This isn’t me getting ready to bed you or whatever the fuck is going on in your head.” Qian’s expression isn’t her usual cold, almost bored look. Instead her lips are pulled back in a snarl  and if looks could kill, jinah would be a bloody mess on the floor.

oh. qian’s angry. this makes sense, in light of things, but jinah laughs anyway because of what she says next. there’s no kiss waiting for her, but there isn’t a punch, either. it’s beginning to hurt where qian has her hands right under her throat. jinah knows she can’t be that angry if she hasn’t used this chance yet to choke her out. again. surely, it isn’t that bad.

“please, i was just warning that other girl, too.” jinah’s already forgotten her name. the second she didn’t become a threat, and the second she was no longer useful, it also became just as useless an endeavour to remember what she would call the petty little woman other than ‘she’ or ‘her’ or ‘that one you thought you could replace me with’. so she rubs qian’s arms, like that’ll calm her down. what nice arms. surely qian knows that jinah’s doing this for love, doesn’t she? “don’t be so coy, baby. you know it’s...charming. don’t you like it when i’m jealous?” she asks, playful, unafraid, giving an exaggerated pout before bursting into short laughter. “i know you want me. you want to be with me. you like me. why do you keep denying it?” 

[mimedusa-blog]

slow dance.

[mimedusa-blog]

mixneptune‌:

Qian manages to form a weak smile as Jinah scuttles off, she managed to get away. Good. She’d still care for her even in life threatening situations like this. Why did she care so much? Qian didn’t have time to mull over these questions as the bright lights flash through the alley and the sirens bounce off the walls. The paramedics are saying things, crowding her body, Qian gives nonsensical answers in a mix of Mandarin, Cantonese and Korean. They manage to piece enough information from her, at least the important things. They get her onto a gurney and then into their ambulance. Soon they’re speeding off towards the hospital.

The next time Qian is fully coherent and awake, she’s in a sterile hospital bed. The room is plainly decorated and unsurprisingly, there’s no waiting for her. She pushes down the disappointment bubbling in her chest. While her brain vaguely remembers hearing Jinah saying she’d see her at the hospital, Qian really shouldn’t have expected to see her. Instead she needs to try and get her story straight. Does she want to be Song Qian for this? Absolutely not, why would some shady hit man want to kill her? Instead, she’ll need to wrack her brain for one of her fake identities that are nearing it’s expiration. After that she can solve how to explain why her would be assailant is dead. Ugh, this was all too complicated for someone who just came back to consciousness.

it’s not routine for her to get into a car and follow an ambulance without wanting to kill the person inside it. she arrives at the hospital and scrambles to make some excuse without implying any relation between them, but that’s the problem. of course they won’t let just anyone – much less a stranger, no matter how empathetic – saunter in and inquire about the patient. they won’t let her stay by her side, either. this way, though, she won’t be baited into giving them her identity which (she thinks) qian might appreciate.

so she waits, figures out the patterns, the roster, the staff. the nurses. they are all too familiar with each other and no matter how well she blends in, and even if she does manage to sneak in, it would only be for a few hours.

but this is what she does.

she waits. she doesn’t usually wait, but she does now, and she’s patient until she has the opportunity to grab some scrubs and enter the private room and close it soundly behind her. she does this for as long as it takes, for as many days, sitting there doing nothing, but not being bored at all – until one day she sneaks in, closes the door, and sees qian awake. “i knew it,” she blurts out, smiling. relieved. “i knew you wouldn’t leave me.” it’s narcissistic, true, but this is how jinah is. that’s why she’s done all this, hasn’t she? certainly not for qian. but she pauses anyway. it’s always been contradictions, buts, ifs, and only qian. “how are you feeling?” 

[mimedusa-blog]

you’re mine.

[mimedusa-blog]

mixneptune‌:

Qian was never one to let her emotions run wild, not anymore at least. The little festivities that hydrus decided to put on may have had her on edge, but qian was still in control. Or was, at least in regards to a certain individual. She had just returned home from a chat with Seolhyun and for the first time in a long while, she was absolutely livid. How dare she use her name to not only lull her friend into a false sense of security, but to also kidnap said friend and abuse her for information. All because of a past relation. Unbelievable.

So when she hears that voice ring out through her apartment, Qian is out of her seat in a flash and has the collar of Jinah’s shirt in her grip. “Who the fuck do you think you are? You think you can just throw my name around and hurt my friends because you seem to think they overstepped?” Qian slams her against the wall by her door frame, her grip on the fabric leaves her knuckles white. “We aren’t anything, you do not have a say in my life. You haven’t for the past ten years.”

she doesn’t expect the hands in her collar, of course. she doesn’t expect the fury that greets her (though, to be fair, she should have), and can deduce (correctly) what this is about. of course she knows what this is about – they’re cut from the same cloth. they always have been. qian had been more truthful about it before, and now she was in the same place that jinah herself had been in when they were younger: thinking that caring about normal, boring people would get her anywhere towards being somewhat better. that’s the thing, though, isn’t it? they can’t be better. it’s why jinah forgives her for her (non-righteous) anger and smiles instead. her words don’t hurt because they aren’t true. surely, they aren’t true.

besides, nothing else matters. no one else matters. what friends? what other lovers? jinah’s the only one qian can love. she has to be. “hah, what’s this?” she asks, almost laughing at the attempt to rile her up. she certainly smiles through it. “is this foreplay? i do like it when you get all...mm... rough...” her hands come over the fists that almost choke her, fingers ghosting over those strained knuckles, drawing nonsensical patterns on them, and not at all urging them away. “and...handsy...so close... don’t i get a kiss, baby?” 

[mimedusa-blog]

                         it’s not revenge if it’s justice.                                                                                - wait, who the fuck are you?

                                   ( relationship moodboard task with @hunterxmi​ )

[mimedusa-blog]

                                  sometimes... things that are expensive.... are worse.

                                       ( relationship playlist task with @sunnyxmi )

[mimedusa-blog]

a fear of small spaces and raised hands ( 22 January 2005 ) ( tw: claustrophobia; child abuse )

her father says, “you were born to be greater than the rest of us.”

they live in a single-storey home with a basement. they have no cars and certainly no garage to put it in. their house isn’t small, but her bedroom is. she doesn’t have much in her room because there isn’t any space for more than a small, disused mattress that reeks of piss and a three-tier plastic drawer that holds most of her clothes. she knows her father makes more money than that because the master’s bedroom is at least three times the size of hers and their bathroom is well-stocked and they never go hungry. they have a big table for entertaining guests in suits who give her father folders that make him go away, and when they’re bored, they can sit on a clean couch and a big television in a room that jinah isn’t allowed to step into for more than five minutes. as a child, she doesn’t understand how much a new punching bag costs or the other equipment they have in the basement. her mother smiles because her father lets her drink and be merry; he comes home bloody sometimes and her mother asks her to fetch the cleanest towels and fill a bowl with warm water to clean his face. 

many of her peers pass by smiling and ecstatic on saturdays. they talk about boys and what it must be like to grow up to be desired by men.

her father says, “friends are for weaklings, and i will not raise a weak child.”

the first time he raises his hand at her, he gets upset that she doesn’t fight back in return. “what were all those lessons for?!” he asks, angry that he’s wasted his money, and continues to barrage her with fists that are too big and too fast, and not at all like how they taught her five year-old class on soft mats and pad gloves. “i’ll teach you myself!”

so he does. she stops going to after-school taekwondo. she stops going to summer school aikido the year after that. then, she stops going to after-school kung fu the year after. so on, and so on. her father isn’t satisfied.

this year, it’s boxing – or, at least, it was, until he pulled her out of it. again.

she’s 14 and her father has gotten older. she notices now the crows feet at the edges of his eyes; the receding hairline; the sagging skin. it transpires in slow motion, and she would have watched with further curiosity had his fist not connected with her cheek because her arms didn’t come up to block it. in the next, her arm retaliates, but he blocks it from a move that most certainly is from another discipline. so she adapts, fights, but her arms aren’t long enough to reach with the strength she hopes to hit his throat with. he catches it. twists. she falls, and the wind is knocked out of her lungs, and her shoulder gives a wrenching ache. 

“do you submit?” asks the man. 

“no!” her voice is higher, now, even to her own ears. she knows what will happen if she does. tears well at the edges of her eyes and her hand forms a fist against the concrete. 

he twists harder. “do you submit?”

“n–!” he twists and twists and her forehead rests against the damp, cold floor and she screams and cries and kicks her feet and tries to break free. it hurts, it hurts it hurts it hurts it’s going to break –! 

“jinah!”

“i su-ah–!!!! su-m-it! submit!” comes the sobbed-out response. he lets go of her arm immediately because he has honour. her arm drops and she lifts it and it hurts. he could have broken it again. but he stands, now, and she knows what must be done, and still she tries to sit and say, “i’m sorry – i’m sorry – please, i don– pl–ease! – i-i’ll do better–!”

“i’m doing this because i love you, jinah. you know that.”

she remembers the look on his face when he says that. it makes her close her mouth, purse her lips, and look down again. she remembers being dragged by the cuff like a crying kitten, legs dragging and kicking in the air, screaming no no no no!, hands reaching behind her and the back of her head hitting the edge of the doorway to the little room under the stairs. colour flashes in bright circles. these are the only lights she gets to see once the door closes and the lock clicks closed.

she’s not five or six or seven or eight anymore. her limbs are too long. her body is too grown. 

the space is smaller. her legs bend at the knee and her knees touch her chest and her neck aches from being pressed against the upper corners. she can hear her father step, step, stepping above her head, and her mother opens the door for him and coos and expresses, “again? honey, maybe we shouldn’t invest in these lessons anymore. you know you’re teaching her better this way.”

she’s going to die. 

she’s going to die in this small space with no air. her lungs are shallow with it. it smells like rat shit and piss. stagnant. dead. when her hands try to press at the walls it comes away grainy and sticky and wet and damp. the walls do not move, but they breathe, shrinking with every exhale and never expanding when she inhales. her nails dig into it – let me out let me out let me out – dark and sobbing, heaving, even though she knows she should save her breath. her shoulder, bent inwards, aches something worse, and so does her middle, now pins and knives on her insides. they twist and twist, and the bile rising at the back of her throat might drown her, so she swallows it. she closes her eyes and it’s darker. when she opens them, there’s nothing. this isn’t just looking at the void; it’s living in it. when she cries it’s a roar, a scream, a yell, a plea. there’s always nothing who answers back. 

it’s a saturday.

her parents will only let her out on monday.