solitvrs

[solitvrs]

what does your heart look like?

molten lava and charred flesh

Your heart burned so fiercely that it burnt itself out, leaving horrible scars in its wake; scars inside your chest and on the hands of those who touched you, the hearts of anyone who got close enough to connect to yours. The person you are now is no longer recognizable, burnt up by your own anger and passion and love. The injuries can never be fully erased, but they can be soothed with time and trust and forgiveness.

tagged by: @rippleofwords (♡)

tagging: @velvetineblue / @swansofmisery (gaya) / @tvsteoftrvgedy / @uroborosymphony (quinn) / @thegreenswillcome (jay) / @antiromantlc (jooyoung)

[solitvrs]

It’s not exactly finesse that she encapsulates — Gaya is a mannerism entirely of her own, special breeds born only under the most peculiar of circumstances. It’s some years of conditioning within similar constructs, molds that attempted to package them into pretty little products. She is the result of the genes that make her and he is also the abandonment of the same. A force to be reckoned with, he thinks, as heels click against the floors, seemingly emphasizing her existence from a start that had begun by shunning it. 

Lips curl. Ridiculous… in all the best ways, he makes the wordless declaration. It’s a compliment really, while fists round out against his body with the same force as usual yet a measure more playful. He responds to the gesture by teetering momentarily in his stance only to root himself for effect. “Ah… too soon to assume you’d outgrow these things, huh?” There’s a nod that follows, seemingly content in his fate. “You know, you’ll want to hug me one of these days,,” he begins, the idea already inspiring humor in the lines of his face. “What should I do then? That’s when I should make my escape, right?” 

Jinwoo’s taken these exact same steps before — an offer, a declaration, a challenge. He predicts Gaya’s intentions just by the way she moves, witnessing the sparks that fly from her fingertips as it comes electric to his own. The plume of anticipation grows between them; two hungry, adrenaline-seeking souls buzzing in their withdrawals, looking for their next fix. The gallery comes as a labyrinth easily maneuvered by the one who masters it and he doesn’t trail far behind. And finally, when they’re thrown into the whims of the night, does he find exactly what seems to draw the line of her nose just a tad bit upwards, those telltale signs of pride and pleasure. 

He is perceptive to her tastes — he jokes that sometimes, they’d be able to body swap with little consequence. So maybe if she were to pull up the security cameras would she find that earlier, his gaze also wandered temptingly across the body of her car, admiring the choice in brand and trim, assumptions made in where she was receiving her service. It’s a smirk that’s clear and she hardly needs to explain herself; he understands simply because he’s wrapped around his own until he accepts her challenge by disappearing within. Leather grows under the rough flesh of his hands, both cars now humming with delight. They’re cold, hard metal skeletons vibrating to life as they pull forward, this city of industrialization sprawling before them as though it was theirs for the taking.

And take it, they do.

Their playground; the rules don’t apply to them. A thumbprint on society, and him, a ghost, their identities spilling in and out of a container that fails to restrict. The sight of smoke comes first before the scent of burning rubber comes second as he throws all caution to the wind. It flickers, ignites into a full blaze behind his eyes and there’s nothing else in his sight — images of long stretches of pavement spotted with the occasional golden glow of a street lamp, skyscrapers sinking their teeth deep into the sky nothing but a glorious backdrop to it all. There’s a question as to why he was even here in the first place; existential in nature, it often makes him brood. But in these moments does he find life breathing fresh into his lungs, temporary thrills and adrenaline causing joyful lapses in memory. 

He takes the lead, but not for long — Jinwoo’s a degree more seasoned, yet she’s a different kind of dose of willful and blatant disregard. It’s in his rearview mirror that he catches glimpses of her gaining steadily on him as he taps the brakes teasingly, turning and weaving to block her from passing before giving in. “Yeah! I’m getting bored of kicking your ass, Choi Soojung!” His voice whips out of the window just as fast as the wind does within, biting and reviving him with its sharp chill all at the same time. And it’s with that does he hit the pedal and pulls further away, the rev of his engine nearly visible and chaotic in the air.

To peg him a gentleman would be uncharacteristic — to let Gaya win, even more so. To call her out on her bullshit, he had never held back. Nor did he ever play the hand she’d expect, throwing out rock against her scissors, flicking her forehead with very little refrain. But it wasn’t as though the trade wasn’t even. She was a terrible competitor in the fact that he simply did not win enough, an unfortunately worthy opponent who ultimately sharpened him like a knife against steel. Somehow, he has a lot to thank her for and leaves her in all his dust to express the sentiment. Because he also knows her well enough that victories are earned whether she likes it or not and to challenge him against the road… all he can say is that she does well. A little too well.

Tires spin slowly as he pulls in, Gaya, he assumes, is somewhere behind. Pride clings to him like the grains of rice she’d pick off his face when they were kids, never fully understanding what her expression held until they were much older. He half-expects it to make its appearance as he exits with a smile that refuses to falter, as though plastered against his face in a perpetual state of glory. He’s ready to offer some remorse in the form of a shrug of his shoulders, a handshake to congratulate her in her valiant effort? But he’s met with nothing but the low, musical hum emanating from a nearby jazz cafe, traffic now populating a busier side to the city. A woman’s voice sounds nearby and catches his attention, deepening his hands into pockets as he waits. 

'That far behind, huh? You didn’t get lost on the way, did you?'

A laughter echoes in the emptiness and the whiteness of the walls. Mental institution, he said. Of all responses, it somehow was the dearest to her. The press would cover her name in a praise while the bourgeoisie of Seoul would bow down to her, art afficionados throwing, aligning millions of wons to hang in their livingroom a piece of Gaya’s piece of Genius. The adopted firmly believed it was the reputation of the Choi family that gave her that notoriety she did not ask for. Perhaps even in her art she knew how to play the part, an art to suit her heiress character and not the real essence of her core - or else she would turn the dropplets of blood Jinwoo sees as mirages on her skin into a canvas.  “Good thing the ward policy is to encourage psych mates to visit each other for playtime hmm?” The woman answers with the same amusement by the corner of her eye, returning the compliment in a way. 

Her eyebrow then arches slightly at his line. “Daaamn. From sweats to actual pants, look at you being a whole success story.” She comments with her gaze moving from up to down on his attire, he is dashing indeed compared to these old times where they would wear rags - not out of poverty but out of lack of style - kicking around, covered in either motor grease or dirt. Of course it is in her character to pretend she wouldn’t be too sensitive to it, yet, perhaps she is. Looking like this side to side - they did come a long way after all. “Haaah.” She exclaims then at him questioning about her tendency to punch and push him. “You do know it’s my way to express Gratitude, when you gift me something cool for my sweet thirty I might actually stab you out of love and care.”  Gaya adds this time pushing him again but a little more in a playful act, there was this bantering boyish ways to her despite her atire of Yves Saint Laurent and Jacquemus, a side that is naturally coming out raising when they were together. Her head then gives a firm single nod. “My style? Scotch and cigars then. You know I would kill for that right fucking now, that’s how long my day have been. Wanna hear about yours too. Come on let’s go, I passed by Black Fang’s garage last night for a little bit of grease, she is purring like a cat in heat.” She finally speaks, leading him out the room, grabbing her keys and leather jacket on their way out.

The one purring like a cat in heat is her ride - parked in the back of the gallery where Jinwoo parked as well as he is familiar with the premises, it is safer for their vehicles waiting side to side that of course are among the finest. Based on Jinwoo’s occupation, speed is needed, as for Gaya it’s always been her love for mechanics and adrenaline, and to finally own something big and fast and snazzy. Audi was always her choice, and so once outside, she climbed in, leather gloves on : one firm around the stick, the other grabbing the wheel, window rolled down to keep an eye on Jinwoo inside his own. The painter is throwing her hair in the back, stretching her neck on purpose in dramatics as she is more than ready to the race him up to the bar. “Ready to get your ass kicked Jo?” She throws with her usual confidence from her position, pride smirk on her lips, head still orientated to the side. The high gates are unlocking in front of their eyes, offering the roads to the two of them. As soon as it would be fully open, it’s a Go. Her heel is pressing down the accelerator causing the motor to roar.  

The gates are open.

GO.

The cars start running in screeching tires in the core of the cold night. Jinwoo is good at what he does, while her, it’s the recklessness that’s making her this agile perhaps, slaloming in between the cars on her path, without never losing a sight on Jinwoo’s one while the city lights are moving at high speed around them. Her tires are screeching and wincing as he’s going a little faster than her and so she speeds up again now that the streets get a little more clear in the area they’re entering. “NOW NOW, YOU’RE FALLING ASLEEP OVER THERE?!” She yelled along with a wide grin and her wide open raven eyes that meet with his the moment their vehicles are side to side. 

[solitvrs]

Couplets: A Love Story, Maggie Millner

[solitvrs]

continuation from x

He keeps it to himself: what had pulsed red in his veins only moments ago is his best kept secret. How blood stains the white shirt he wears beneath early-spring layers, how his breathing had only calmed once he found his fingers slick with the rain that speckles copper, the rounded shape of a door handle.

Jinwoo pauses. 

He's doused in a golden shade that spills through the shop’s front windows and he sees double in crystal patterns. Finally, he decides that he does indeed need this — he wants this. This sing-song sound of the bell that announces his arrival even while bruises blossom against the stretch of skin across ribs, raw hues dancing against flesh like an animated mosaic.

He risks giving himself away.

But he’s a creature of habit. Of schedules and rituals once he’s found solace in things and places he’s thoroughly tested. His own standards, and this was simply just a part of the plan. A space made up of a murmur of voices and an aroma strong enough to provide the same high that patrons, instead, choose to pay for — paper in exchange for steaming cups of frothy drinks warming their palms. It’s trivial, this indulgence. The least of efforts, of one’s own life purpose, and yet…

and yet.

He doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t drag his feet when he dives deeper. Expressions of the smallest of nuances, his gait is still the usual but a measure more stiff. Droplets of water skid across softened leather as he pulls out a wallet under the fixed gaze of a particular barista and for a moment, he makes eye contact.

It's void of the usual suggestion: that there was something brewing between them, that the way their fingers skim past each other now still causes a bout of electricity to spark, residual even as he walks away.

It takes tender positioning against a seat that welcomes him near the back of the cafe. His usual spot. Away from the large glass panels spattered with the wetness of a rainstorm that had come unexpectedly, the omen that he hadn’t recognized until he felt his ribs crack under the force of a metal bat. His body had caved into the trauma, but it never takes long for something to shift into focus for Jinwoo and the ambush lasts only for a few moments; the smell of blood is still acrid in his senses.

He forms his hand into a fist and loosens it, repeating this pattern of tendon and bone rippling across the surface of his skin; they cross themselves before aligning like puzzle pieces once mismatched. Somehow, he’s never questioned this phenomenon his body so often undertook. Bruises would fade into nothingness over the course of a few hours and open wounds began the mending process as soon as blood would spout forth. Even now, the rigidity of his worn body begins to knead itself loose and it’s not long before his breathing slows, calms, unravels threads previously tangled together.

The sound of a cup against the table awakens him from this trance followed by the soft focus of her form coming into vision — the barista from earlier, the girl in the park. He doesn’t even know her name and yet their steps fall in line with one another’s, continuously pulled together. A magnetized attraction defined by destiny, a part of him wants to believe. A deep, secret romanticization of occurrences that seem unlikely, glowing red at his core. That, or something much more sinister.

Daggers lose their edge as he simmers in the moment and takes a short sip of the drink she’s delivered. It warms him and bleeds into his extremities. There’s conversation that she seeks, yet he’s not sure if he’s ready to entertain. Still, he blinks once, twice, before looking up with the invitation he so carefully accepts. 

“She's doing well.” Jinwoo nods slowly with the mulling of thoughts. A small Siamese cat with a gray-speckled face had been their most frequent visitor whenever they had crossed paths at the city’s central park. Sheepish encounters when he had realized that he came empty-handed while she dug out treats from her pockets. “But I'm not sure why I had to be the one to take her in.” Had he not been in this mood, the innocent protest would’ve landed differently. He reframes words not yet verbalized before deciding to speak again. “You’re the one she’d been following around… at least take some responsibility and help me name her.” It still comes bluntly, but the twitch at the corner of his lips finally gives a part of himself away.

The night had already consumed life outside the shop as rain erupts against the ground like broken shards of glass. Drowned chaos is still audible as he watches her mouth move delicately around a reveal of desires he could commiserate with. She looks for an escape and curiosity piques — what sort of demons would a woman like her be haunted by? A series of questions that are subsequently squashed as he pieces together the argument that he couldn’t do this for her. With his own monsters menacing, endlessly wound around his being… he catches himself with wandering thoughts and clears his throat as though she could see right through him. Because what was this other than a simple request for a service he was accustomed to providing?

There’s an agreement that settles between the two of them as lights further dim throughout the night. It’s not long after he’d arrive that the shop would close its doors, encouraging existing customers to slowly spill out into the streets and wander their way back home. He waits for her by his car, indefinitely soaked in darkness, disappears within it as soon as he spots her approaching figure growing in the night. An unspoken invitation as the passenger doors unlock and it’s only until she’s seated within does he glance in the rear view mirror.

“Somewhere far, huh? I think I have a place in mind.”

[solitvrs]

WHAT ART MOTIF ARE YOU?

a lonely person.

Though you may be quiet, your heart is full of longing. You spend much of your time with your own mind, and that may very well be a beautiful thing.

“Maybe I had had an illusion, I thought. I stood there a long time, gazing at the rainswept streets. Once again, I was a twelve-year-old boy staring for hours at the rain. Look at the rain long enough, with no thoughts in your head, and you gradually feel your body falling loose, shaking free of the world of reality. Rain has the power to hypnotize. But this had been no illusion. When I went back into the bar, a glass and an ashtray remained where she had been. A couple of lightly crushed cigarette butts were lined up in the ashtray, a faint trace of lipstick on each. I sat down and closed my eyes. Echoes of music faded away, leaving me alone. In that gentle darkness, the rain continued to fall without a sound.”

Art reference: Automat by Edward Hopper

Tagged by: @rippleofwords / @swansofmisery

[solitvrs]

It’s oddly similar to the scent of blood. Mixed with the tender aroma of worn leather and aged grease, twisted and chilled with fallen ash and oil-stained concrete. A cigarette balances precariously against his lips as body bends for a miracle shot. The colliding sound snaps as numbered balls scatter, their colorful blur across a sea of faded baize mesmerizing until they find home in the internal workings of the billiards table. He doesn’t always win — it’s a fact that he’d hate to admit. Yet it’s with concentrated precision tonight that lands him at the top and the flash of triumph in Jinwoo's eyes is bright enough to blind anyone who catches it. Connections are loose at best here and so he decides to go easy on them. But there still is nothing better than watching opponents wallow in their shame, in their defeat, as the magic of the handshake turns itself into a pocketful of cash.

It’s not exactly his home turf — he matches better with the sparse decor than he does with the camaraderie shared between members of Black Fang, observing how loyalty ran thick in their veins and how warmth somehow radiated within these cold, metal walls. Tinder ignites under the common interests of polished steel and burning rubber, of organized trickery and assault, loosening their tongues into a reflection of their self-justifiable ravages of the day. It's gasoline and a sense of purpose that fuels the mentality here. It’s a phenomenon that he has gradually come to see with respect, the aspect only once absent due to his own allegiance to an outside party. And of course, pocketing fistfuls of cash was a worthy enough incentive as well if not for the invite, the bond he had developed with two of Black Fang’s most important members. Tai and Quinn — they keep him close like this. A friendship budded from days where their violence was a lot less refined, Jinwoo realizes that the pair have woven themselves so tightly together that even upon reminiscing the past does he fail to recall either of them being absent from each other’s sides. He admires their dedication to one another; fast and furious, but love birds all the same.

Slowly, he peels his shadow off the wall and morphs into something three dimensional, the splash of light from above revealing the stark contrast of pale flesh and jet black hair in segments. Gaze snaps into place as he takes a prolonged drag, releasing it into a continuous stream of dense smoke as he walks towards heightened chaos. Oblivious to the substance of everyone’s focus, neatly folded bills disappear between fingertips because he’s no longer a betting man and instead, he stands nearby like a boat anchored out at sea. He makes eye contact with Tai through the gaps of shifting, excited bodies, the line threaded through his mouth curving as he makes a wordless exchange of school-age pride. ’I won. You thought I’d never kick that guy’s ass, didn’t you?’

Contact breaks and dissolves into memory interrupted when Quinn's voice splits through the air like the crack of a whip. A mad declaration of an intruder that fortunately enough, implies she’s in control. And so he delays his reaction and steadies his hand at his side where a small blade is tucked within, watching Tai remove himself from plush cushions. It’s not long after that he finally decides to trail him, not exactly wanting to meddle in matters that don’t necessarily involve him. But what once was curiosity is quickly replaced with a sense of responsibility, effects of visits that have become so increasingly frequent and extended that this degree of mild assimilation was simply unavoidable.

He becomes one with the others; another loyal follower of this religion that Tai and Quinn had managed to conjure up. He was a believer in this event that bound them all by one common goal: to obtain justice for privacy that is violated, for threatening their security in situations where they willingly became their most vulnerable. He wanders until he’s standing next to Tai as they all lay their eyes on the perpetrator: a woman quickly shrinking under a collective of hardened stares. The bulb glows deep red as they begin their interrogation, watching with both hands now hanging loose around his ribs, threat now turning into a source of entertainment as members relax their stances, still in control.

It’s visible. There's a wave of heightened discomfort passing through everyone’s stature as the mention of ‘Lee’ is thrown into the air. Quinn pierces it before Tai rips it to shreds and Jinwoo remains motionless, finds himself further curious in the way a human being could wilt just like flower petals in the harsh sun. It doesn't matter in the moment who she was or where she came from, whether she was police or something a little less corrupted. Just that she was a sharply contrasted figure to the environment that curls viciously around her, clearly in the wrong place at the wrong time, and yet so familiar to the point that he finds his heart lodged in his throat the moment her gaze finds his. 

The sensation is dizzying. Eyes penetrate him from all sides and for once, anxiety blossoms at his chest as though his identity was suddenly fraudulent. He's neither here nor there and Naeun (he’s only just learned her name the other day, too) is sure to see right through him now. How their innocent, coincidental run-ins at the park could be thrown askew. How his quiet nights remaining past closing time at her café nose deep in a book could be interpreted as a presence that was now menacing, unwelcome. And then he flips through these thoughts like the pages of his books and wonders: why does it matter?

It’s instinctual only at this point; how he masks all subsequent physical reactions that could give more of him away. Expression shrugs off recognition, leaving behind all propositions that he had any sort of personal relationship with the woman. Even as Quinn’s stare presses against his skin like a hot iron, he tosses it aside and douses it in frigid waters. “I think she works at the café downtown.” He offers it as a suggestion rather than fact, flicking ash against the concrete at his feet. “You know, that place with all the paintings? Looks more like an art gallery than anything.” There’s a long pause as he carefully thinks of his next string of words, every syllable heavy with subliminal warning. “She probably really was here because of Lee and got lost. That’s exactly it, isn’t it?”

he used to hate the aroma of smoke; it stung his eyes and coated his lungs, and reminded him of people he wanted to forget: the hardened, tobacco-laden voices that served as background noise in his childhood, discussing the details of an illicit business that a young Taiyang didn’t understand yet… ( in his innocent youth, he never knew exactly what his father’s job was; only that he was away from home many days, and most nights … )

but he’s gotten used to it; the smoke doesn’t make him cough anymore, and anything offered to him from quinn’s elegant hands, he would never cease to inhale— for he was more addicted to her presence ( to her weight in his lap and her laugh in his ears ) than he could ever be to any ‘drug’ …

it’s why his eyes follow her, when her cat-like movements begin to slink her body away from him. his smile had been wide ( laughing at some old memory they were sharing) but it faltered when she moved away; his expression took on a questioning look, and his fingers enclosed a loose grip on her arm. fingertips glided, tingling down her smooth skin, to finally wrap around her smaller hand. “where are you going?” he asks, but it was a playful question, eyes naturally reverting to a puppy-like gaze, silently wanting her not to leave his side.

they were having such a good time,reminiscing! tonight had been the first time in awhile that the recent tragedy wasn’t lingering around them like a noxious cloud, bringing down the mood. it wasn’t so somber and dark, for once. they could finally laugh, talking about some dumb thing one of the members had done during the heist, instead of feeling angry. vindictive. and so, SO sad. he thought that maybe, just maybe, they could take a break from mourning what had happened to him, and have one night of fun…

it had been so nice to see her smile without any touch of sadness behind it, and he didn’t want it to end…

when she explains her reasoning, he slowly lets her go. but not without pulling her body to him first— to press a kiss to her cheek, and then a playful nip and kiss to the space between her neck and shoulder. “ what do you need your phone for? let’s be done with work for tonight, ” he suggests…

but he knows it doesn’t really work like that. they were always on call, especially at night. and as much as he wasn’t in the mood for WORK right now, at least it was a distraction. it was better than being idle with grief. so his loose grip lets go of her, watching in a smitten daze for a few moments, as she walks away…

his eyes then turn back to Jinwoo when she’s out of sight, placing the cigar she had lit up into a well-used ashtray. he examines the orange fiery tip of it in lighthearted thought…

“ how many puffs do you think are in one cigar… ? divide that by 3,000,000, and that’s about how much whoever buys this is gonna pay per puff,” he muses aloud. andwhat a ridiculous expenditure. the rich spend their money in such weird ways… like this EGREGIOUSLY expensive brand of luxury cigar. fans of the brand would put down 7 digits worth of Won just to buy ONE single cigar. “I don’t get it,” he concludes. “'doesn’t taste like it’s worth 2,500,000 won.”

whether Taiyang understood it’s exorbitant price tag or not, he would surely benefit from it. the members of Black Fang had scored a whole shipping container worth of boxes of the cigars, and they would go on to sell them to buyers with a generous upcharge. best of all, they’d stolen them, so the cigars had cost them nothing but the price of their labor, making them PURE PROFIT. they were going to make an absolute fortune off of these things, and the members had been pretty giddy about that. a lucky few of them even got to take some home, free of charge…

and yet, despite the frivolous waste it would be, Taiyang had discarded one cigar carelessly into an ashtray, as if was just another cheap cigarette out of a carton of many cheap cigarettes. he didn’t really care about the money. more money wasn’t going to buy him what he really wanted… he’d learned that lesson the hard way.

he eyes are on Jinwoo, wondering what he’s thinking. Tai doesn’t know much about him. like most of the members of Black Fang, he mostly knew Jinwoo by his reputation; his talent, his skill, his role within the family… Jinwoo’s intimidation and his past as a underground brawler was a well-known fact, too. but as for his personal life? Tai couldn’t tell you much of that. the man had to be vetted and deemed trustworthy to Black Fang, before he was let into the inner circle of this garage, but aside from that, he was rather enigmatic.

and tonight would be as good as night as any, to change that, Tai thought…

but Quinn’s voice broke through the momentarily silence between them, and Tai turned suddenly away with a sharpened alertness…

but felt grateful that her voice carried over with amusement: the sound of fun. but it’s the kind of fun Quinn has when she’s holding a gun or a knife. he knows that tone of hers, and adrenaline rushes through his blood like flames when he hears it; his heart pounds with a quickness that only she can drum up. what is she up to in there? what did she find? his beloved Quinn, ever the source of surprises and fun, uncontent to let a night be ordinary… she was such a dream, incomparable to any !

the reason for her exclamation was uncovered to be a young woman, who Tai examines from afar with no familiarity. he dryly, airily advises the gang members he passes by on his way to meet Quinn on the ground floor: “ if this is someone’s girlfriend, you better speak up now… and start thinking of a damngood apology. ” not for him, of course; for Quinn. they should know better than to let anyone around her bike!that was a big no-no; do NOT mess with his Princess’s stuff. do not mess with the Princess, period! but maybe some idiot was trying to sneak their girl in through the garage— wanted to impress her by what and who she would see in there… it was a shockingly BAD idea, because NOBODY was allowed in here without permission from the leaders… but people had done stupider things in the name of love and/or lust, so it wouldn’t surprise Tai. however, Quinn did NOT seem to like this intruder, and because of that, she was already at an astronomical disadvantage when it came to seeking Tai’s 'forgiveness’ and mercy for the break-in. “ — or eulogy,” he added, casually. looking at the woman, though, he could not help but notice she looked surprisingly brave, given the predicament she was in … anything less than pissing your pants and screaming was brave when you had 12 guns ( and one Quinn ) pointed at you. when he reaches Quinn’s side, the couple’s devious expressions almost match, glimmering in the dark of the garage. his devilish, charmed grin is solely because of Quinn, though, and not their 'guest’. “who’s this? you’re making friends without me?” he 'complained’ with jest, knowing full-well from Quinn’s expression that this was no'friend’ of hers. she was some form of prey, more likely...

and when Quinn whispers to him, he quickly understands why. his MIRTH from before is lost completely. this wasn’t about a simple break-in, or her Kawasaki… no, his eyes spark with a flash of anger in them. not at Quinn, of course— but at the strangers ludicrous claims. Lee? what the hell could this girl know about Lee? Lee was THEIR best friend, but neither he nor Quinn recognized Lee’s 'messenger’… so how could she possibly mean anything to Lee?

like two clawed cats, the pair stalked and leered over the little mouse with cuttingeyes. “a ’message’? is the ’message’ that you’re a liar and probably an undercover cop? because there’s nothing Lee would tell YOU that he wouldn’t tell us.” his tone is sharp and thoroughly disinterested in whatever 'message’ she claims to bring. he and Quinn stand in front of her, a united front of suspicion, distrust, and malice. she was probably a investigator, he decides— someone who knew Lee’s name and knew of his association with Black Fang. THEY WERE LYING, and he didn’t know what they intended to get out of it, but he didn’t really care. they weren’t welcome here. the unfortunate stranger couldn’t possibly know the open wound she had touched upon, by speaking his name to the grieving pair…

[solitvrs]

Teeth Never Sleep, Ángel García

[solitvrs]

“What is there to smile about?” He saw it. The way Jinwoo's lips twitched into a small smile but the man was quick to hide it. Fortunately, he's quicker. He's able to witness such a rare instance that he can't help but tease this guy a bit. Normally, he's not like this and he's oddly the receiving end of these situations. It could be that he's gotten too comfortable around his childhood friend again that he can't help it. Who cares about excuses and reasons, anyway, a writer like him gotta pry a little bit. “Something good happened today, young man?” (just a random prompt since I passed by 🍃)

He lets out a sigh when he mentions it. By now, tensions about facing the past had melted from his person and left behind a malleable shape of blurred edges – soft. Soft as Jinwoo regards him with the same brand of minor amusement, a mood he feels growing entirely on its own volition… simply put, he just can’t help it. “Are you always going to be like this?” It’s him with the sharp eyes, yet this friend of his never ceases to snipe him whenever he believes he’s successfully hidden himself away. “It’s nothing. There was just this message…” It trails with purpose as the bright wash of his phone drenches his blushing face in its light, exposing him – he speaks before he thinks and though the trait is no stranger to his character, never does he allow it to throw privacy to the wind. Steps falter as he stands, cursing under his breath.

“Why do you care?” Flustered, he pulls his coat tightly around him as though the self-hug of the material would comfort him in his shame. And though he’s revealed nothing, he lets on far more than he realizes with eyes glossed, the corners of his lips threatening to curl. Already, he can see the way Hyukjae’s expression evolves even in the dim lighting, how alcohol had loosened both of their usual resolve and left them gazing dreamily at one another as though they’ve stepped off into a parallel universe that absolved history from their memories. All that remained were two souls forever weaved together, intricately knotted: one highly amused, one prickly with protest. Damn this author and his awful thoughtfulness.

“Let’s go. I’m craving fish cakes.”

[solitvrs]

“This one's on me. Since you stay a lot until the closing time.” A smile graces her lips, offering her regular customer a cup of coffee with a four leaf clover latte art. It's something she has been working on these days for fun. The art though becomes the center of the conversation when the thought comes across herー what would such a mysterious guy wish for? “I gave you a four leaf clover, they say that could bring good luck or even make a wish come true.. If that were so, what would you wish for?” ( random prompt from Naeun to Jinwoo)

It takes a couple of beats for him to recognize the sound of her voice, blinking up from a thin book that’s tucked firmly between his fingers. Somehow, it’s always her that offers him a bit of reprieve from these moments of total engrossment, where his focus had retreated elsewhere only to be coaxed gently back to reality of the present. And yet, he doesn’t even remember her name. Jinwoo brings the cup closer as he observes the shape and purses his lips in thought. “My wish…” For the time-being, he’s inspired to indulge in these short exchanges, these variations in the occupation of his mind. But he’s also never quite “wished” for anything… no, not since he was a child where even then, the existence of dreams was spotty at best.

He looks with a hard stare, not letting on that maybe, in a way, her interruption was welcome. That maybe even the soft lines of her face were a comfort in a world that was often sharp and brutal. Here, the pace slowed to a near-stop where he was allowed time to collect himself; pieces of him scattered across the worlds he'd dove in and out of, not quite the right shape for fitting and often damaging his outer corners. Finally, his gaze wanders away as he pinpoints what it is exactly that comes to the forefront of his thoughts. “I’d wish for a personal chef. Someone who didn’t need to keep to a schedule because they were intuitive to mine. Someone who’d have all my meals ready at exactly the right time.” The smile is small. Profound. That was what you were looking for, right?

“If I found you a real four-leaf clover, what would you wish for?”

[solitvrs]

Jayb - Star Magazine 

[solitvrs]

“… we recognized immediately that we could so easily annihilate one another with the softest breath, the merest flicker. I could extinguish her, and she could burn me alive.”

— Catherynne M. Valente, from “Ink, Water, Milk,” The Melancholy of Mechagirl

[solitvrs]

continuation from LA MAISON VERMILLION

It’s nearly a sea of white with bleached walls only decorated with intermittent splashes of color – soft moods that contrast while simultaneously blending into one declaration, isolated stories from the mind of their creators. Abstraction is often chaos, yet he finds peace here. Like gazing upon the visual manifestation of his mind, following jagged edges with a measured look of curiosity as if doing so would lead him to the answer to it all. Yet he’s always searching, footsteps slow as polished shoes shift cleanly against the floors. Both hands disappear into suit pants pockets, dark hair trimmed and maintained, his pressed jacket the only item he’s left unbuttoned because there still remains an inherent nature of the improper, of never being wound up so tightly that he’s no longer fluid and ready.

Jinwoo slows to a stop as he stares. It’s a coarse cascade of lines and cool tones, yet just like everything else, it still manages to blend together into one harmonious(?) statement. It reminds him of a time long ago of trips to the sea, moments that he’s allowed to spill through his fingers only to gather again once prominent figures come into view; he hears her question and doesn’t turn. It’s only the twitch at the corner of his lips does he let on recognition, of what even the usual coldest parts of him were capable of. “Hm…” There’s a long pause as he squints in concentration. He even takes a small step back for good measure as he suddenly takes on the role of art connoisseur, trying out different scopes before delivering his ever so loving criticism. “Looks like instability… someone obviously in a mental institution painted this.” 

With a sideways look, he finally catches sight of her in all of her glorious familiarity. An impression that’s taken a lot of time to grow and hone as images of blood and dirt sticking to her hair and face still blink in and out of memory; one who was the same kind of rough-around-the-edges as himself, a mutual exchange of dumbass whenever bruises were of a deeper purple and blue than the other’s. He doesn’t have to clarify his earlier statement as she’s used to it by now, just as he is in return, and when he turns to face her, he offers her a wry smile.

“I knew this was a special invite, so I came dressed for the occasion.” A statement that lacks the explanation that this was not entirely for her and the exhibition, that he had a job earlier that required a little more finessing in dressing himself; another statement that also suggests that he took their time spent together poring over alcoholic substances very seriously. “Are you always going to hurt me like this whenever we meet?” He feigns offense before shrugging, as though his indifference could guise some sense of disappointment that she's really left him out in the cold for a beat too long. The thought nearly inspires a laugh – was it really that long ago that these roles were reversed? “Tell me about it after we get a few drinks in us, yeah? I saw a place down the road from here, looks like your style. Let’s give it a try.”

[solitvrs]

continuation from THE REUNION

It’s only been a few minutes since their impromptu reunion and already, the pieces of their age-old dynamic begins to fall back into place. Hyukjae always had the uncanny ability to retort in a manner that would disarm a response – it just wasn’t worth the trouble. And maybe it was one of many reasons why they had gotten along so well, with Jinwoo’s offhand remarks deflected by Hyukjae’s solid and often witty quips; he’s always been the one person he doesn’t fight back against. He stares at him again as though to reassess the reality of their situation, to confirm the identity of this figure that so abruptly claims his childhood existence. Because he knows that Hyukjae was wrong: he was in more trouble than he could express, so much more than this gut feeling that further grips his core.

And so he follows wordlessly, obeying as usual, trailing only a step behind while maintaining the hard impassive line of his mouth as he squints at the sun himself. It’s as though the sky had parted to shine its spotlight on them, knowing that the notion would be returned with an angry, perturbed glare at the sudden responsibility. It’s always been him against the world, of course. And being with Hyukjae meant that he could no longer hide in the shadows that spilled across his path, could no longer keep a particular timeline of their history shelved to further collect dust. He doesn’t quite know what it is that he’s looking to strike first, but his cover has been blown and he resigns himself to the lurch in his stomach when he’s offered a sliver of softness in his direction.

It’s happening.

Somewhere sunk deep into his bones is some semblance of empathy. The once casual, careless curvature of his spine straightens and braces itself for the impact of whatever was about to come their way. He very nearly offers an innocent curl of his lips in return, but interrupts the evolution with a purposeful drag of the cigarette as the sentiment expels in a low chuckle instead – he’s not ready for peace offerings just yet. “I’m a taxi driver now.” Even though it’s not entirely honest, it’s a declaration that is uncomfortably pregnant with normalcy – he lets it sit in the air between them, observing how Hyukjae would take in the fact that his friend wasn’t as lost of a cause as he probably once thought. Doomed to a life of violence and chaos, of simmering tempers tucked into the most seedy corners of society… he’s sure Hyukjae’s imagination could run wild, his ability to create and imagine always above Jinwoo’s own capacity.

The cancerous stick is snubbed out only in exchange for a different kind of vice; there’s a subsequent clink of bottles and glasses that settle against their table, a course in itself before the rest of their food can arrive. Somehow, he’s accepted the meal invite without saying a word, and as though to offer at least some measure of thanks, he takes it upon himself to fill their glasses. And he waits, allowing the other to have the honor first, a wry smile growing, a thread slowly unwinding, as he’s brought back by the grimace that passes his friend’s face. He downs his own drink before mirroring his expression where their contrasting natures would so often meet in surprisingly intimate similarities.

It’s subtle, a shift in atmosphere, and he senses the sudden somber carry of Hyukjae’s tone. Even after all these years apart, he’s still capable of catching onto these minor nuances, yet he manages to deny it all the same for convenience and comfort’s sake. “That’s true,” he begins shamelessly. “But it’s probably because she felt sorry for me, yeah?” At this, he presses his lips against the glass again and pauses before making contact with liquid. “You weren’t exactly a charity case.” A short laugh follows; it all comes out in slow exhales as he finds brutal honesty easier to maintain than rigidity and ‘congratulations’ suddenly skims the edge of his tongue – he swallows it for later. 

“She’d invite me over right away, wouldn’t she? Her doenjang jjigae was always my favorite.”

[solitvrs]

WHAT COLOR IS YOUR AURA?

crimson

rose vines, blood, apples, velvet, sharp nails, galaxies, dripping jewelry. your essence is crimson: you are the strong, defiant and avoidant. you crave some sort of deviation; to walk in another's footsteps feels mundane, a waste of your time. you are possessive and never look back at the things you've lost or forgotten. you are the rebel. you are the one who will change the world. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of red, blush, garnet, and bronze, who share your impassioned existence. you are also drawn to the confident souls royal and gold, who will help you grow and show that not everyone seeks to break you. however, you may struggle to get along with the slow-acting personalities of navy and umber who never seem assertive about anything.

tagged by: @tvsteoftrvgedy / @aworidwithout / @uroborosymphony

[solitvrs]

BIRTHDAY ft. @solitvrs

He has the whole day for himself, one that's away from deadlines and schedules, or at least, he has decided so. It has been a rainy afternoon and plump raindrops pelts sideways against his window, continuing on as the sky greets the darkness. He finally stands and leaves his book by his desk, taking his cup of hot chocolate as he looks out the window. The outdoor view mirrors a dark sea with glints of light coming from the moon above. Time has slipped by again and so his precious day. His television that was playing a soccer match now plays a random program in the backdrop. Hyuk-Jae dislikes the complete silence, after all. It's those moment where he'll be stricken by a pang of guilt rooted from the unknown.

It'll be new year's day tomorrow, he recalls. Not that it's anything special. The world didn't worsen nor got any better and for the time being, today remains unchanged from yesterday and as unfortunate as it is, everyday is this way.

Even as he is thinking, people are dying in this world and he can't even afford to worry about these people because just as they are, he is living in his own might entrusted with a body in the flow of time.

There's still a hint of his lukewarm drink, a mix of sweet and nostalgia, filling him along the sense of tranquility in his own room. A thought passes and he remembers his childhood and the chocolate his mother would make for them. That kid would be there, too. Whenever he enters this memory, it always felt like his own figure would rot and fade away. It was a past that has inherited the colors of the passing days. But these days, they've become less monochrome and more vivid.

A curl visits the corner of his lips as he sees the date, "Even up there, you must be recalling that kid that you even reminded me of his birthday." He mutters in the air. It must be his mother, isn't it? or his reappearance from their sudden meeting a month ago that these memories have been knocking on him.

The funny thing is this person lives next door. Hyuk-jae has recently learned about it. Either it's by fate or he's a fan. He would like to think it's the latter as it fills his ego somehow.

Time moves as it pleases and now those two kids who were somehow always together as kids despite their differences are now suffering in the system called adulthood and society. But then again, that kid, he thinks has always been a little step ahead, always in a fight and always paving his own way somewhere.

He heaves a sigh and finally his cup is empty. There will be fireworks greeting the new year later on and that guy, Hyuk-Jae, thinks while shaking his head (as though he lives any better and has any right to judge), would be all alone in his room, lighting his cigarette and enjoying a cat's company. A little lonely, isn't it? (The author thinks despite his own, even more boring lifestyle).

There's some can of beer left on his fridge and he takes some out, placing them in a plastic before heading out. It doesn't even take much effort nor sweat to get to his place, ringing on the guy's door does. The audacity. The author mutters under his breathe at the count of 1, 2, and 3 and the owner of the room doesn't bother with opening the door. He should just go home but by then the door swings open with an unamused face (then again, that's their default faces, isn't it?)

He scoffs and raises the plastic before making his way in (even if he's not welcome). "How are you born on this festive date with a face that looks like it'll be the end of the year tomorrow?" (And again, he should not be judging others at all...)

Not even a happy birthday. But his handsome presence should do it. Not everyone gets to spend some time with a famous author...

Hyuk-Jae gives it another thought and smiles subtly, this can be a good way to pass time and make up for the lost time, a little detour to the past.

[solitvrs]

Random Headcanon questions!

- Given that he's working as a driver for another underground ring/related party, were there cases where he got himself caught up in a huge trouble?

- what do you think could be his weakness?

- Does he ever come to visit his 'family'? How would the reunion be like?

- He's quick-tempered, but if he's made a friend, what kind of person can he be around them?

- How does he spend his day normally?

Have a good day!

Given that he's working as a driver for another underground ring/related party, were there cases where he got himself caught up in a huge trouble? 

Since he’s been hired as a driver for a party related to his days as a fighter for an underground ring, trouble has not eluded Jinwoo. Masquerading as a chauffeur service, the nature of the job hardly requires the reveal of the identity of someone who simply transports goods and people, yet there are certain tasks that have required his direct involvement. He is no stranger to intimidation; his employer primarily targets corporations with deep pockets. Though, that’s not to say they’re shy in disrupting the lives of the common, working class people. Any instances involving Jinwoo in difficult predicaments were more frequent as a young recruit – he’s learned to be less compulsive and offensible, now more calculating and careful. He often wears a mask to disguise who he really is, but has been identified before and has had to “settle” personal vendettas against him, often not entirely coming out unscathed.

What do you think could be his weakness? 

As he ages, varying weaknesses of his phase in and out of the forefront. He learns and he is wise despite the habit of his inconsequential thinking. But ultimately what lines the foundation to his very being is excessive hubris, a quality that he can’t seem to shake or ever quite evolve. Also not to be mistaken for physical vanity; Jinwoo has an overabundance of pride in his abilities, confidence in obtaining the desired outcomes, taking things by force, underestimating the size of his prey. As a result, he leaves himself open for sudden and unexpected failure, death always a viable path and lurking just around the corner.

Does he ever come to visit his 'family'? How would the reunion be like? 

His immediate family consists of exactly two people: a mother and a father. Due to his adoptive mother’s inability to produce children of her own, she had chosen Jinwoo from an orphanage located in the outskirts of Seoul. And bless her –  adoptions in Korea are uncommon and kept secret for fear of being stigmatized. Unfortunately, suspicions were often raised towards the family throughout his childhood and their suburban community was never above gossip. Though Jinwoo to some degree, loves his family, he very rarely visits and only keeps some contact to manage his sense of filial duty. A reunion between the three of them would be steered by his mother, a woman who’d rather live in blissful ignorance than to know what sort of life her son lives, forever viewing him through rose-colored glasses.

He's quick-tempered, but if he's made a friend, what kind of person can he be around them? 

Making friends does not come easily to him; he is abrasive and judgmental. Therefore, the few that he does make are ones with a very specific type of discernment in very specific types of situations. To outsiders, Jinwoo exists within a thick layer of armor; he is untouchable. And to those close to him, the barrier disengages just enough to poke holes through. Once trust and rapport is established, he is fiercely loyal, harmlessly sarcastic (very prone to teasing, sorry in advance), and unexpectedly thoughtful and considerate. He is a borderline sentimentalist and a great drinking buddy. 

How does he spend his day normally?

If not picking up odd jobs or responding to requests, a day in the life looks rather “normal” for Jinwoo. An explorer and a lone wolf, he spends much of his free time wandering the city in search for his next source of comfort and peace: a late night jazz club, an acoustic cafe, an art exhibition presented by a local. These are places where he can slot himself well out of view while nursing a condition that often drums too strongly on his mind. He is a seeker of tranquility despite his inherent nature, possibly a walking contradiction who does his best to maintain the delicate balance between his own order and chaos.

[solitvrs]

ONCE YOU'RE STRIPPED CLEAN, WHAT'S AT YOUR CORE?

acerbic wit

you're a mentor — an old scarred wolf, an injured soldier, a disgraced paladin. your teachings read as shamelessly pretentious, speaking in rhymes and biting down hard into anyone stupid enough to make the wrong move. this isn't your first life, nor your second, nor your sixth — you'll make the most of your time shackled to this world, no matter how many loops it takes to get it right. with every defeat, you reincarnate; a little smarter, a little quicker, crueler and nastier. will you choose to be brutal, equalizing, that final strike in the face of your enemies? will you go soft, become tender and domesticated? the choice is yours. it's not like i can stop you.

tagged by: @thegreenswillcome / @uroborosymphony / @aworidwithout

tagging: @velvetineblue / @tvsteoftrvgedy / @writtenbykiwi / @rippleofwords / @swansofmisery