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Showcase ⋞ 〈 𝐆𝐀𝐎𝐒 𝐆𝐎𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐒 〉 ⋟
- Thread starter Gao
- Start date
Gao
[sad jester jingle noises]
GRAYSON
GRAY
now playing...
I
II
III
about this muse
call him
GRAYSON LAVICCHI
pronouns
HE/HIM
AGE RANGE
25 TO 45
FACECLAIM
CILLIAN MURPHY
If I fell between the wall and my bedframe would anyone care.
Assembled mature in the austere stencil of high-born ideals, you’ve taken to this way of life like an alcoholic to rye whiskey. That is; ingested quick and easy and without complaint. Spent years steeping in this settled lakebed of dust and ash, you’re now so intimate with overlaps of shadow that against all odds you survive in this pernicious space like fervid briar.
Shelves are so heavy with the forgotten bodies of books and adolescent naivety, that you tend to forget the mounting ache of your own.
their ACTIVITY
Created this babygirl when I was like 12 and never let him go so he’s my resident senior citizen. Pawpaw wants to retire but I won't let him.
CURRENTLY ACTIVE IN:
MISCELLANEOUS:
WARNINGS
This character and their links may allude to or depict imagery of: Mental illness, death, blood, eyes, spiders, religion, drug abuse and emotional abuse.
GALLERY
ALTERNATIVE FACES
Tom Hughes depicting Joe Lambe. A back-up face-claim if Mr Murphy is being used. Go white boy go.
UNIVERSES
ATROPHY
#SOL
#MODERN
#ADDICTION
You have always been alabastrine, the patron saint of cold and immovable. Poor company and poor conversationalist, days bleed into each other, blotting through calendar parchment in a mosaic of unconscious static. Groundhog existence is a coffin, and until now you could bear with it, ignore the torpid shade that trudges your undersoles with lead and loyally return to the desk and paperwork like a knight to its altar.
But this, This is what lures you away from that well-worn path of savvy judgement, and what a curious amalgamation that your sheltered naivety could fester so greedily wayward.
It coats your skin in feverish sickness; a conclusion to the siege of the mind; your overcast disposition is colored effervescent light at gums rubbed numb and brain matter rimmed ultraviolet.
Temper acedia, cut another line of coke to mutilate the body into matching your mind, and maybe then you’ll have a chance at solace.
Sweet fruition your insidious drug, for this illusionary paradise is all that is keeping you above the tide.
EIDOLON
#SUPERNATURAL
#MEDIUMSHIP
#GHOST-DAD
Body an abandoned purgatory of mist and cruor, you have never known which one holds true dominion.
You live in a hive of the dead, and they mold their shapes to the shadows. Listen to their silent pleas and secrets sealed against mineral skin; you are their messenger, not at all by choice, and destined to bear the atlas weight of existing through the veil.
The only thing that makes you real, makes you different, is sickenly warm flesh and a skull brewing with water and electricity. You find no comfort beneath city asphalt, wanting your young body back in tandem with your even younger mind that is unplagued and tepid.
Sometimes, you admit, it is like standing upon the edge of a tall cliff and knowing something is calling to you from the bottom.
PALE RIDER
#GRIM
#APOCALYPSE
If they were to be warned in advance of His arrival, perhaps they would attempt an escape, pamper their final outfit, prepare a will. But it is cruel and sudden the way they deal their hands, you Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
Vanquished dewdrops of mortalkind, Death is not at all potent terror and crumbled bone dust. Life is but a disruption of eternal nothingness, and it is like being taken home to sleep. Sat bedside like a pale enigmatic guest, there is a pleasant hum from the room next door, and what is left but to sink into the plush abyss?
When sheets of sleet turn to ice or the moon sinks beneath the basin of the sky, it is written with temporary promise, but you are plagued with the final paradox of life and demise.
You are afraid that dying means very little without meaning.
I’d puncture my skull and drip every dream I’ve had into soil, shadows for worms to eat.
I’d pour blood straight from my wrist to feed them, let the moon and stars nest like rot.
♡coded by uxie♡
-
click!
GRAY.
The Medium.
-
Full name
Grayson Lavicchi
Nicknames
Gray (don't)
Pronouns
He/Him
sexuality
afraid bi
I JUST THINK MAYBE SOME OF YOU SHOULD BE LIKE, NORMAL.
appearance
height
6'0"
(182cm)
weight
160lbs (72kg)
hair c.
Raven Black
eye c.
Gray
build
A pale cast, Grayson is a sylph of Stygian layers. Held to strict guidelines with no purchase for sloth or slack, a tall presence that crosses rooms like an incline of oil-black carrion; those absorbed in their own devices may fail to notice the Medium perch in their presence, as he settles, crosses one long leg over the other, and lets pale fingers open a book to its marked page.
Hair
A bleed of poets ink spills a hymn of funereal formality, a short style governed with perfectionism and frequent fuss. Under the jurisdiction of intrusive gaze does he heed atavistic reflex; checks the state of his hair and frets over a particularly errant strand.
Eyes
Cinereous matter wreathing sooty iris, there is a vicious needle to the Medium’s natural stare. A pick to ice that spiders with fracture, they see paths and often stray to its distraction, flicker with focus to descend on dunes of filmy skin and wet runs of suppuration. With light molasses in its urge to break the horizon, lethargy weighs bones and pestle blues sweep to stain under eye canvas; inhabitants of the veil all but make pariahs of Grayson’s secular gaze.
Scars
Two faces of the same feeling, this slender crescent guttered by ring-wearer. Incising scar beneath his left eye, the mar is vague and pallid, coalesces to skin of matching hue. It may be healed and knitted with history, yet Gray is yet to settle the flintlock memory— the trophy of it.
Modifications
Languorous melt to the malignant maw of tequila, memory has been chewed and spat out a bygone night of feather boa and a crude living room tattoo. Origin of the smiley face on his ankle and its artist are consigned to hungover oblivion, which Gray thinks is for the best.
Distinguishing
It is an appearance ridden with insomnolence, starved haggard of smiling or relaxation. Lacking comfort and satisfaction, he diffuses air with silent admonishment and looks down upon others with arrogant sagacity. An energy so dismal, eternally pinch-browed and scowling. It does not take long to reach the sombre understanding that this caricature of luminous doom is all he has ever known, that he has grown so very intimate with this vacuous black.
Face-claim
It's our babygirl Cillian Murphy
personality
Traits
Compassionate, ambitious, responsible, perfectionist, hopeless romantic, naive, emotionally durable, white knight complex, outspoken, hot-headed, tidy, grumpy, prude, control-freak, a mentally ill adrenaline junkie.
iN DETAIL
Born with a gilded spoon pressed to the flat warmth of his tongue, there’d never been opportunities for self-reflection. Dreams and the illusion of free-will crafted out of childish idealism, he’d been fated to fulfil what had been charted in detail from boyhood: a burden, marionette strung with barbed tethers of legacy and luxury.
Anchored by the perfectionist design of his family’s making, Grayson encapsulates every part he never wanted to play. Even as a boy, mature, or some semblance of it. Ambition his lodestone, dawn-lit wisps of enjoyment from the addiction of success wound tendon deep; an identity formed and calcified around the vulnerable anatomy of parents’ approval is a double-bladed pendulum, spear-headed precedence that drowns the smallest of failures into suffocating terror. He’s wreathed tight, bridled so taut that any strayed seams become a noose to the slope of the throat.
Creation of compassion, it is pale hands that usher bug from bedroom to garden, stows romance novels underarm and wears a heart emblazoned crest-like on the same sleeve. For beneath his gloam and regimen it is veins of care that underlie the thin skin draping over framework. Cares not only for what is seen as woodland and benevolent, but also those wretched and salvageable. It is simple, almost childlike naivety, that he does not see empathy as a baring of supple throat, not an offer of heart to altar and knife, but a lance to be wielded. It permeates in everything he sees and hears, as if to stir the sea, prove it can still be moved, know that his humanity remains intact.
This vein of care he cannot dig through skin to uproot, grab it like a frayed rope and unspool it in ribbons of viscera, be it ranting, fussing, comfortable silence, all of Grayson is seeped in compelling honesty.
Yet concocted under the hierarchical blood of his father, Gray harbours more anger than he’d ever like to admit. Spun thick with ire, it weaves under skin and steals away to white blades of teeth long before he can consider its consequences. For rage is a self-sustaining force that retraces the hug of well-worn steps, like father, like son, hissing and spitting syllables of fragmented glass; tongues abuse freedom.
There is something barely tethered, unspooling in maddening sequences borne of a famished youth; enticement of the unknown. Grit and stain forbidden from the poise of his seraphic palms, wealth has coloured Grayson naïve, but the sheltered and pearlescent unmarred flesh begs no deterrence for curiosity.
An empty feeling covets for distraction, danger— to shrug control and feel the thrill of corporal embodiment. Found and relished in the risky glimpses of shimmering ardour, ephemeral rushes in the peak of a speedometer, drink of cigarette smoke or a railing of a bridge, he’s quick to become an ark of lost ambition. Reckless, dismissive to obligations, snoozing alarms, there is leonine laziness not yet indulged and unknown divine freedom from letting a stray thread split into an entire seam.
Habits
Insomnia wreaks havoc through any acceptable sleeping schedule. Accidental naps are promptly followed by flustered claims, not asleep, only resting my eyes.
Rearranging things. Tidying other people's items, clothing and hair without asking. Finds most people in his estimation to look like scruffy little hobos. Much like a spurned mother.
Crossing arms over his chest, pinching the bridge of his nose, grinding teeth. The epitome of tension. A grouch.
Buttoning and unbuttoning the cufflink of his sleeve for no real purpose. Additionally, sometimes wears glasses he doesn't need because they make him focus better.
Psychopath on the road. Has a lead foot when driving omfg bro chill the destination isn't going anywhere.
IDK SNORTING COKE IS KIND OF BAD.
Skills
In contrast to every inch of his glum veneer, Grayson is surprisingly humanitarian. Housed between the ribs is his bedrock, in his veins are paths of its sediment. He holds forgiveness and empathy as easy as a hand; doesn't want to believe that anyone is beyond, or above, help.
Plagued since young, he was not born with a stare of steely apathy. Not merciless nor cruel, simply a touch jaded. Perhaps it leads to his habit of fretting over the inconsequential, yet gory horrors of the world usually fail to surprise, nauseate, or intimidate Grayson. He is not afraid of much, a blanket of torpor that is both gift and curse.
Exploiting every minute and waking breath to dedicate into his work, he is a man consigned to his career. He works hard, for perhaps that is all he really knows how to do, and in turn, has accumulated an archive of success. He knows what he's doing, and with the unconventional help of the dead loitering in his periphery, it can give him an unfair advantage.
Looks professional and important when holding a briefcase. He likes this.
Fears
Claustrophobia.
likes
Romance books, hazelnut coffee, cats, neatness, rain, libraries, the ocean, calligraphy, driving, vanilla, jigsaw puzzles, peculiar socks, naps, spiders & other creepy crawlies.
dislikes
Sweet or spicy foods, small spaces, loud rooms, people crying, brash personalities, flirting, painting, violence, yellow, physical touch, pianos, finger food, most things, you.
history
THE BEGINNING
Childhood was a cave.
Outside coloured neon violet, inside lined morion quartz and mute greetings. When everything is drawn as a precise staccato breath, all remnants of adolescent enjoyment are stifled in a blanket of overcast sky. A distant, reserved flavour of apathy filled its place, pooling the spaces around gold-lacquered birth-right and comfortable trust-fund. Resplendent in its security and mythic grandeur to others, it was a childhood lost in a miasma of decay, greased on prayer and verses of the bible.
For what could have predicted it? Who could have? Not divined in the muck of oolong tea leaves, a splay of tarot or bowl of sanguine entrails, nothing to foretell of flesh torn from ossein and veins of marrow suckled like ruby foam. Lifting veil like a vestigial layer of warm skin, it is haunts of decay and cruor that plague the periphery. Faces mangled asunder and bodies a ruin of sour viscera, it is soon to be pursued by spoil, ashen flesh swollen sea-green and crushed plum, corneas desiccated dry once withered and coated with flies.
And when the sun rises it makes no difference, ceases not the separation of oil and wet skin slippage, the larvae eggs hatched to mulch inside fertile tissues and vinegary meat. Slack jaws rattle with every inhale, sacs of acid and pus away with churning rhythm. Each morning he rises from bed turned casket, struggles to exist within his own skin as it has been stretched between each bone beam. Scraped away fat and meat, left to thin near a translucent membrane.
Sterile light of a psychiatrist's office was weekend obligation, stung at the crescent of his lashes with ascetic air. Woman’s buttery smile in stark contrast to a teenage boy’s bloodshot eyes and sallow wax skin that’d stare back, he has learned not to complain, grasped onto principles of courtesy and routine long before he’d even understood why, for obligation is his first language, questions his second. Principles bestowed by the man who reigned his family name, it had been father who demanded he stave, relent. A chance of forgiveness, an illusion of normal, means one must fast them for aeons.
THE MIDDLE
No psychiatrist or acrid lozenge brought remedy, unorthodox parenting sealing atlas-weighted fear into a tight cupboard, compartmentalised away for an illusion of normalcy. He could spend eternity till reduced to bone dust on the imperial flooring of his family line to gather a footing, to succeed in garnering patriarch approval. To seal protest and batter the inside of your mouth bloody with silence; his father’s blood is scalding— he has felt it, lathered its boil over a cold fist —the darkness more so, and the hug of a cupboard burns skin more than admonishment ever will.
So his ribs become a warchest, storing away each disregard and reprimand like a library of cruelty. Left to darken like wood in rain, like applebark cooked in sun till brittle and flaking. He fills his mouth with gravedirt, spins a silky tapestry from the larvae that hatch in its soil in which to be a faultless descendant. There is something rotting in him, bearing an accolade of each ring, one for pointer, middle, thumb, a ring for skull and its wine-red retribution.
Seasons are dissolving on his tongue like dust, like particles of summer and dead fruit. Eden is full of vacancy, blooming fetid with sinuous absences. He’ll watch the world tilt into sleep and long to follow, as Icarus loves the sun in its yellow yolk warmth and warm ambition, yet loves the ocean all the same, one wing dipped in solar flame, one in salt brine; split a moth by the wings and the body must hold to half.
THE NOW
He has a face like many others, a man in a sharp suit with eyes to match. Morbidity settled home like river-laden silt, and what was once heavy and asphyxiating through youth became only an inconvenience. Indifference rolled from boned shoulders, sombre-toned heir swathed in his short-tempered arrogance. A pretentious adult with a bad mouth, yet redundantly countered with a streak of strict pacifism.
Even now, declining interest recedes in a slow crawl down his spine— testament to a gossamer-thin disguise for struggling mental health. After lacking identity from years of prioritising only “normalcy” and the idealism of success, he is beginning to feel more absent than river Lethe nothingness. Lost to an undefined oblivion, the need for following obligation has felt quiet as of late.
He has stopped bucketing water from the sinking ship, knows there will be no port, awaits for its keel.
It is small suffocations that are begging him to capsize.
MISC
ability
The ability to hear, see, communicate and physically interact with spirits of the deceased. An ability that’s far more inconvenient than practical, since Grayson has little to no control over what they decide to do.
He’s sleeping? Time to learn an Irish dance on the hardwood floors. He’s looking a fraction too calm? Time to pick up some expensive fine china and toss it around. He’s having an important conversation? Time to play footsies beneath the table. The haunts give rise to Grayson’s peculiarities, looking or speaking at nothing, glaring at flickering lights or reprimanding whatever, whomever, is touching the wall at 3am; most people are wise to dismiss his behaviour as schizophrenic delusions.
He cannot control the dead, cannot force them to tell him things, cannot make them appear at his whim. But on occasion they prove useful, bringing him tendrils of information case-related or relevant happenings in the area. And on other very rare and highly unspoken occasions, they possess his body and cry in a woman’s bathroom because they entered the vessel of a weird lanky pale man and not a beautiful busty lady.
We don’t talk about it.
Headcanons
➢ Has sonic hearing for “ew is that a spider” and will scramble out of nowhere to put it outside before anyone can kill it.
➢ Charm level of Styrofoam. Thinks letting someone borrow a pen is top tier flirting.
➢ Hates all sport, but great at speed-walking. Mildly terrifying if he decides to sprint anywhere.
➢ Passionate that people who fold page corners in books deserve to die. Use a bookmark.
➢ Says confusing and morbid things in his sleep. Occasionally sleep walks. Blair Witch era.
➢ Doesn't eat breakfast. Running on caffeine and hatred alone. Takes his coffee with milk, but no sugar.
➢ Finds horror themes boring, and is notoriously difficult to scare.
➢ This single hair is out of place so I'm going to fix it for you.
➢ Cat fanatic. Likes cat-themed items, calendars, socks, etc.
➢ Has little custom sweaters and hats made for Oatmeal. A persian cat that he stole from his 7 year old neighbor. Mind your business.
➢ If you interrupt silent reading time he will start manifesting that you die. Let his fictional people kiss in peace.
➢ Just a very distressed ghost dad tbh.
➢ Perhaps the only white man who doesn't walk towards scary noises, just tells the demonic entities to stop touching things. Same energy as pet owners who wake up because they hear someone eating plastic.
➢ Takes the "Am I Gay" quiz once a month just to lie on every answer and feel secure in his heterosexuality again.
➢ Stared at his dead grandmother throughout her entire funeral because her ghost was bitching from the front row. Funerals are just really awkward for him.
➢ Gives names to ghosts who don't speak. Get off the furniture Max.
now playing...
Make It Stop
UNEASY LAUGHTER
♡coded by uxie♡
-
tba. just not rn. thank u.
Last edited:
Gao
[sad jester jingle noises]
FUNAI REN
船井 蓮
now playing...
I
II
III
about this muse
call him
JUST REN
pronouns
USUALLY HE/HIM
AGE RANGE
20 TO 28
FACECLAIM
90'S ATSUSHI SAKURAI
If I visit your place and the vibes are weird I'm stealing something from your fucking house.
Attachment inspires you like a dog inspires a rabbit, and tendrils of Marlboro smoke are all that are left of your visits. With doors inched to a silent shut at hours of daybreak or a midday slam that flays ears with demands to leave, you know there is nothing for you here. Perhaps there is nothing for you anywhere.
The lure of a false home is cancerous in its vividity, and you are mangled with a plethora of contradictions. Simultaneously seeking and running, angry and melancholic, confident and scared, cold and scalding and sun-skin and ocean blood, what sickening self-perpetuating burden you feel just by lingering. Your existence is a debt you can never pay back, and you’d rather careen into the ouroboros habit of casualty and collateral ruin than bear a moment of that vulnerability.
their ACTIVITY
My grown toddler with a knife ♡♡ u can do no wrong ♡♡♡♡♡♡ deranged malewife ♡♡ klepto critter ♡♡♡♡ boisterous boytoy ♡♡ he ♡♡
CURRENTLY ACTIVE IN:
- Nada! He is resting!
MISCELLANEOUS:
WARNINGS
This character and their links may allude to/depict imagery of: Poverty, parental neglect, violence, blood, ghosting, avoidant attachment style, cannibalism um anyways
To clarify his face-claim passed away in October and I'm normal about it (lying). If uncomfortable with deceased fc I advise just skipping this whole character.
GALLERY
ALTERNATIVE FACES
Daisuke Andou from Dir en Grey. 90's visual kei had something in the water.
UNIVERSES
CITY WRAITH
#SOL
#MODERN
#FLAKEY KING
Memory unfolds your history into a series of textures and places, and you have chosen to sever the people from it like a blade sheathed in loom. Left a revenant name of missed calls, You must understand, you try to explain over the phone in the limbo between city asphalt and the earliest bus, it is better this way.
Novelty doesn’t last forever, and it is easier to leave before they find reasons to hate you.
A foolish stray, you know better than to return where you’re not wanted. Everything is simple when you only have to care for yourself, but you are a fickle thing with a lifelong proclivity for wanting everything and everyone you cannot have.
Belonging isn’t made for people like you and I, but that won't stop your selfish search.
KOMOREBI
#FANTASY
#DRAGON
#VILLAIN
It is the worst type of breakage, when hurt splinters and the dam of impassivity you pretend to plead the ache is nothing finally crumbles under its pillar of performance.
Your ego is swollen and barely intact, your body less so, but you plan to remain being nothing short of incendiary to the touch.
Bestowed yourself twice the reverence of a god, mourned saltwater and the slough of serrated cliff face where your teeth have been mauled down to smooth stones on rocky spires, where your shoulder-blades have been mutilated through heat haze and seafoam:
How many will dry bathe in a parched jaw of cardinal till you are appeased? You are their oathbringer, soothsayer, little harbinger of fire.
And if you are unhappy, everyone else must suffer.
But that comes after you play with this warm glowy candle for an hour. Purr.
SEVERANCE
#ZOMBIES
#CANNIBALISM
#SORRY
You'll always remember that Winter.
For when the world bears you hungry, it leaves an incision that cannot be cinched shut. A mouth naught but a smiling wound teeming with teeth, lips slaked red in unbridled voracity to satiate. Childhood hunger seeps in distilled dregs, desperation unable to lay itself dormant in the aftermath of survival.
Your stomach is gutted hollow, emptied like a sieve. Everything to be pulled from the bone, still screaming.
And there is something in your throat clawing its way out as a sob, cleaves the jugular raw in specks of amber copper and poppy rust. Glass cutting nails rake into oesophagus, shoving whitestone teeth aside and tongue into yield just for a chance to upheave this vinegary meat.
To consume human flesh is betrayal of humanity, a delivery of one’s own eulogy.
But if you feel far from God, who moved?
Ancient and vicious, luscious as dark velvet. It blooms in you, a poppy made of ink.
I beg show me how to change skins, how do I dare to survive as an unlovable thing.
♡coded by uxie♡
-
click!
船井 蓮
THE KLEPTO.
-
Full Name
Funai Ren
Nicknames
Just Ren
Gender
He/Him
DOB
OCTOBER 28TH
I CAN'T MANSPLAIN MANIPULATE MANWHORE MY WAY OUT OF THIS.
appearance
height
5'10"
(177cm)
weight
185lbs (84kg)
hair c.
Dark Brown
eye c.
Dark brown
Hair
Splayed loose like a cat o’ nine tails, leather black and insidious as they come; Ren’s hair heeds not for the decree of organisation. Garnished androgyny coats shoulders to fringe ribs, and those with an appeal to touch will be met with a curt slap on the hand and a warning of, paws off.
Eyes
Molten amber beneath the sun, irises don a shade of Cimmerian ink. Almost impenetrable by light, there is a quality of ravine-deep opia to his stare: invasive and impassive. Oil pools emulate that which glitters in his grasp, but the lack of any complex thought behind those lashes is a short-lived secret.
Build
Sturdier than height first suggests, Ren is broad shouldered, stocky, yet cuts a lean figure. Regrettably appears taller from a distance. Height is a mindset, he encapsulates this.
Scars
Consequences of childhood delight and trying to pat something he shouldn’t: Grandmother's cruel Bichon Frise located an ankle and delivered the blow.
A bottle of liquor as brutal collateral for a mouthy remark. Blood tasting lager, the lip scar stands testament to combative history.
X
Modifications
None, but after a few martinis he has a habit of asking for earrings. As of yet, people have been wise not to fulfil his intoxicated requests.
Distinguishing
Cutting a silhouette of scrappy ink, disavowing gaze is as icy as northern wind. A natural expression that strips warmth and emits short-tempered disinterest, strangers are prone to deducting he must be an immoral ruffian. Appears threatening, is usually harmless.
Androgynous attributes often provoke whispers of tall woman or feminine man? These situations are settled by the blunt approach of lifting his shirt to flash his chest at them. He lacks rational thinking.
Face-claim
90's Atsushi Sakurai
personality
Traits
Greedy, brash, dishonest, demanding, victimizing, rowdy, scrappy, noncommittal, melodramatic, pedantic, bold, determined, excitable, materialistic, foodie, plucky, spontaneous, charming, giving, sacrificial & independent.
In Detail
Ugly intentions dressed in pretty hues and spun in a tango of take, take, take, Ren lives in a love language borne of deception and magpie fascination. Searing the flesh of hands and burning salty blemish into tongue, greed with no satiation.
But desire is a slow strain of decay. Wants sharing the same mantelpiece as needs, belonging together like cast rings of old lovers. Nothing distinguishes the two when of poor origin. Anything wanted was a need, and as such, indulgence was ill-fated sin. Lowered into a half-animal state, gross rapacity spools from fingers in fulfilment of materialistic appetite. His hunger has always been a taking, eating for the abyss of absence. Dormant in the regolith of bones like cold kerosene waiting for flintlock ignition, Ren is still to find out how to stave this gluttony.
For compensation he’ll be anything for anyone. Mild fisted demure or a foul-mouthed tempest; profit is his father, and Ren is loyal in honouring him daily.
Scorched by carmine scrape and watercolour bruise, injury surprises nobody, paints him as an instigator poking bears and receiving a well-deserved mauling in return. Hosting a temper that is no secret, Ren; 蓮 Water Lily, is carved not from lotus petal flesh but something rough-hewn and carnivorous. A nervous dog turned rabid with a nettle-lined heart, anger proves to be self-imposed medication for hurt, forgetting that survival is no longer surging forward on instinct or fear, not an incising hunger unable to be cinched; that living is no longer desperation or clawing hands through bins.
This childhood seeps habit in distilled dregs, incapable of lying dormant.
Family blueprint leaking salience, he’s all but resigned himself to tradition: a mother's trust issues and father's fear of commitment that sink to arctic marrow depths. Intimacy is frightening, sentimentality is a weakness, and affection is an iron shackle shaped for the thick of the throat; an attractive leash with only so much to give before it chokes. Plagued by fear of being owned, by god, career, partner or place, by anyone or anything but himself, Ren has only ever wanted to bite down hard on anything offered to his hothouse mouth. No hand, not even those that feed him, are safe from his wilderness.
He has curled himself to the shape of people he once knew, pieces of them he carries in his voice, his mannerisms, humour. The need to imbue fractures with others was to acknowledge there were absences, but it was his stubbornness speaking, perhaps pride, that thought he was above needing anyone at all.
Pulled by an undercurrent of risk, speech and action are all too easy in lapsing into disaster. Impulsive, he’ll take what is given and take what he can steal. Red-flag arrows bitten between teeth, its usage to ward off predators or bait in prey are uncertain— even to himself— for there is charm to his antics, gestures and nicknames that err on affection. Sauternes sweetness uncharacteristic for a man of his own self-interest, whimsical playfulness blurs the dissection of fact or fiction.
In that denial lies the unspoken testament to his gravitation for company; a matching phone charm, a tupperware of nefarious cooking, a peeled fruit placed into hand. Someone who desires intimacy plagued not with history or labels, only to have a place to melt when tired of being cold— if just for a moment. Known to crack and crawl away from warmth when attachment grows molasses and sticks tar to skin, he dares not be viewed as a trinket, save relationships are left as nothing more than scoured veins.
An insecure narcissist who cares not for politesse daggers, a brash yet smooth-talking stray who collects blood in palm by biting moons from nervous fingernails, it’s a paradox of needing unconditional loyalty yet unequivocal freedom that becomes his fatal, fearful garotte.
Habits
Fixation on nails when nervous. Digging into palm, tapping, picking or chewing at the skin around them.
Starting fights he can't win, then pulling a power move of calling them a coward while running away.
Holding everyday items like a weapon. Mildly threatening for absolutely no reason.
Too superstitious. Nervous of the number four. It’s the death number.
Skills
Addition & subtraction. Gemology. Hotwiring old vehicles.Stealing. Being disarming in conversation. Charming in a "villain's incapable henchman" type way where you know he's up to no good but he's still somehow likeable.
Fears
Drowning, horror films, clowns, happy people, ghosts, demons, dead things, unlucky numbers, mimes, dying, needles, black magic, children, anything relatively creepy.
likes
Money, hot chocolate, bubble-baths, glitter pens, animals, sunlight, phone-charms, milk-pudding, jewellery, naps, martinis, food, markets, heights, cooking shows, compliments, bugs, cars, driving, homemade things.
dislikes
Crowds, horror films, blue, liars, apologising, being cold, rain, books, cleaning, deep water, Halloween, commitment, pretentious words, wealthy people, blondes, Elvis (he's scary).
history
VOL. ONE: BEREAVE
Created down at the heel, deprivation raised him.
Rat-nest hair and barefooted, wounds of poverty left a muggy smear of need. Household artwork of stains and holes embellished in walls; crooked peeling of wallpaper akin to crêpe skin. When monsters in the dark are black mould sticking soft, breathing wet to corners of the room, music the tendering of men’s shoes— devilled hooves, sneaking across floorboards to a door splashed in dawn light, one learns not to value art in the world.
Narrow-eyed and headstrong, hacking asthma spattered with slush, lips slicked fire and ice, poverty spoke of misery. Nibbling like a flea, rice mashed in watered down tuna cajoled into a fighting mouth by mother's determined hand.
A matriarch like a film star beauty, rouge lipped and stashing prison letters in the bottom of her makeup case; Ren's father spoke from behind a partition of manganese steel bars, written words she’d pore over like an expanse of gold after downing butter-yellow highballs. Cold-eyed Scheherazade with nothing tender for her part-time boyfriends: love was an ingredient, weak and devourable.
Picking hair from meat dropped on the living room floor, cutting mould from stale bread, survival and small delights felt only in shame. Longing for vinegary mint dousing Easter lamb, spiced rice and grapefruit ice instead of bone froth and animal remnant, he takes crumpled bills and smoothes them into tidy stacks, cleansing them of history in preparation for a future. Goose-down bed, propped on a pillow with Sencha tea and an ivory bowl of apricot fruit. Owner of a chateau, dreams can become cancerous in their vividness. Invading every inch in an ache of conquest, little conqueror fascinated by jewellery noosed to the bend of swan-like necks, hands prying at anything that gleamed.
A school of forty names, what do you want to be when you’re older?
Rich.
Zealous, Ren would burn himself fleshless and skeletal to keep coals alight. Brought to his knees for what he wants, boasting accolades of bruised knuckles and split lips so long as victory comes morning like new sacrament. Driven to fever-point madness, unwavering determination is ingrained in his very being.
Painfully rich.
VOL. TWO: SUSTAIN
Vermin tripping over crumpled bodies of laundry, blunt scissors hacking ink shocks of hair to the kitchen floor; trials of high-school spent speaking the universal language of Go Away and hiding behind classrooms to thumb a knife under tangerine skin.
Having a creature of habit for a son, the well-rehearsed play would repeat with every man who’d made their way into his mother’s life; step-dads never found credence with an intemperate Ren. He remembers the first, in a house coated with sepia light and stewing in smokey film. Held by hollow walls and draft swept floorboards, sickness would seep from the door frame to stoke the sting of a replacement father.
He asks his mom to leave them.
She says no.
By the third, he knew this phenomenon. Grew tired of its pattern, allocating scraps of fondness in inevitable disappointment only to watch them walk out the door months later. Reared on detachment, nurtured by discomfort, cells swarmed bitter with venom of acedia.
It sat with him quietly, most days, the resentment he’d tend like a well-fed animal.
It sat with him loudly, the day he packed his things and left home for the first time.
Fresh beginnings became the only way to wrap hands around his heart and breathe new life into it.
He had never been good at poring over textbooks or working shifts nine till five. Hegemony never bode well for those that value freedom, a burn that Icarus and his crude waxen wings would find familiar.
But unlike son of Daedalus, Ren chose to forsake light and warmth for the price of faraway travels. Strange, how uncomfortable he grew with happiness, fearing the slow decay a stable job or relationship could— no, would invoke. He began to brace for a pull of that phantom cord, the leash taut at throat, or a drip of hot wax down his arm in caution; he'd grown too familiar with domesticity and sun-hot skin.
Amid new tension borne of impatient stagnancy, it would begin small. An itch that something wasn’t quite right; a stranger to the oregano leaves he planted during spring on his kitchen window, strained cups of sencha tea and bakery bread left cold on porcelain dishes, milk of speech sour in his mouth. He was a stranger in his own household. An incurable disease, a total aberration.
Small issues burrowed like worms into rotting woodwork until taking flight devoured daily thought. It was only a matter of time before the magpie collected its treasures in hook and beak, snapped at hands that reached, and departed for samsara.
There was medicine in burying himself six-feet underground, hair saturated from untimely weather as the subway train rattled over rodents and littered trash. Wet eyes conflicted with fingers deleting a eulogy of contacts; reincarnation did not come cheap, and it was easier to disappear without call or explanation. He is a ghost of abandoned connections, haunted by missed calls and angry voicemails never to be played. Known to leave a violent meteor trail of strife and massacred relationships, Ren is making yet another effort to settle and stay in line.
But there’s a natural instinct to cowardly flee from fallout of his own creation, or the fear of leaving claw marks in everything good he has ever touched.
VOL. THREE: NOW
Even now, grown, feral things find places to rest; taut, smoke-strewn apartment buildings. Cesspool of despair, tenants marred with loss and needle-point hobbies. An unholy Eden of the damned that dangles unattainable happiness over the gaping mouths of starving livestock.
Each morning he’d wrestle up the vertical slide window to climb out onto the fire escape; a beggar’s balcony to exhume smoke and lock eyes with a squirrel perched on a dumpster lip. There’d been no point pretending to dodge nostalgia, seeing those above when living in the silt of the food-chain. Looking up with obsidian, watching an unhinged deity flare glutton lungs like black dahlia. Pitied hand would toss a slice of multigrain bread over the railing and watch it scramble to pick from the damp pavement.
Survival was the deadliest inspiration, epicentre of desire.
Perched like a demigod of thieves, both amusing and recalcitrant is the pawnbroker’s bargaining, steeped with charm usually estranged from a store such as this, Ren leaves visitors with an aftertaste they can’t quite define.
Enigmatic does he laze himself, willow spine slumped in chair with shoes kicked up on the counter. Features carved by red neon signage, he watches like a tabby fascinated by morning songbird, the type to return in the maw of teeth with their necks twisted come the dip of sun beneath basin sky. Dabbles in the regular, runaway teens trying to scrape a bus fare together with trinkets and baubles, an addict pawning a wedding ring that he swears he’ll buy back next week, a single mother with a bad credit score needing grocery funds.
But things can disappear to and from with such ease in a store like this, and loans aren’t all that passes through Ren’s hands.
His curiosity is subtle, ludic and feather-light for what items can weigh upon the counter. A paper bag of jewellery pilfered from whereabouts unknown, a bowie knife no doubt recently sheathed into the body of another, a barrelled instrument of murder, still smoking and coated with sanguine retribution.
Ren can strike a deal as easy as a match, extend his services a sentence past his job description; locksmithing, gemology, crime, disposal of property— he should know better than to touch, plays with the fire of it all anyway. Accepts a wad of bills stuffed into his pocket and shoos the visitor from his sight.
Jack of many trades, master of none, a multifaceted individual of quandary morals; rest assured customers are to be sweet talked and most likely scammed by this charmingly droll gemologist. He’ll buy the stolen necklaces without prying— granted authenticity passes his trained eye and he can undersell its value —dispose of a carmine knife or crowbar— if the price proves to be satisfactory for such taxing work (woe is him),— and might even pick open a safe or two— only after he’s promised half (yes, half) the payout. If there’s value to be found, this whimsical New Yorker will find a way.
Yet he remains uncertain whether to continue this path of opportunity, or seize what he can and burn it all down. He’d been nothing from the beginning, and even now as he catches ink pupils in decanter glass and polished diamond, there’s doubt if rusted iron can ever be minted in gold.
MISC
Headcanons
➢ Takes it personally when he can't just charm his way out of problems. Will flirt his way to success. If that doesn't work, bash their skull in with a mallet.
➢ His credible source is that he made it the fuck up.
➢ "I never did that." but he very much did that.
➢ Knows he’s a poor liar, so settles for giving half truths. The Majesty of Pedantics when it comes to withholding context or avoiding important details.
➢ Loves tacky phone charms. Has a collection, and may give some to friends so they can match.
➢ Calls everyone 'Toots' or a nickname influenced by their appearance or first interaction. Heavy Brooklyn accent which startles most.
➢ Part-time Vegetarian. Eats meat when nobody is around to catch him. He can have a little salami.
➢ Surprisingly good with kids once he gets over the “why the fuck is it staring at me” stage.
➢ Peels fruit for people he likes. Would be more wholesome if it wasn’t just him nudging an apple slice against someone’s mouth until they are forced to eat it. This is his love language please just eat the fuckign fruit.
➢ Seems dumb, but most of his knowledge is about really obscure things that never come up in conversation. Yes, he can recall every episode of the Great British Bake off. No, he cannot spell thesaurus. Yes, he can speak about the chemical composition and internal crystal structure of any gemstone. No, he doesn’t think salmonella is real.
➢ Has had so many jobs it’s bordering ridiculous. This noncommittal flaw, however, has given him surface level understanding in many different careers.
➢ “Would you like me if I was a bee” but genuinely offended if the answer is no. Repeats one week later with "what about if I was a slug".
➢ Can’t spell or write for shit. He can, however, add and subtract at creepy speeds. Nascar has nothing on his ability to count a stack of bills.
➢ Brought up in a cold house, asthma flare-ups aren't uncommon during winter.
➢ Once bleached his hair blonde to get someone to like him. It didn’t work. Now hates blondes.
➢ Can’t cook to save his life, but enjoys trying to make meals. Watches a lot of culinary shows which (unfortunately) inspire him.
➢ “Everyone be fucking QUIET my mom is calling ))):< !!” Will pause horrible bastard deeds just to answer his phone with the most deceitful, “hi mama♡” known to mankind.
➢ Watches horror films with a strategic hand over his eyes.
➢ After alcohol he is a Karaoke king. Stand aside Mariah.
➢Has “your friend’s 8 year old brother who obviously has a crush on you” vibes cause he’s just kind of weird.
Extra
Pinterest Board !!
Spotify Playlist !!
Heya [: ! The guy who hates you and wants you dead just got out of prison.
WELL PUT HIM BACK IN??
SIR????????
now playing...
GOLDEN BOY
BRYCE FOX
♡coded by uxie♡
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no. tba cuz im going 2 bed. nyahaha.
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