triples
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- Thread starter triples
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triples
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jack of diamonds
i own nothing and owe nothing
houndin
by layto
basc.
1
r.name
lee mingyu
2
n.name
elvis, bastard
3
age
twenty
4
sexuality
bisexual
5
d.o.b
12 august
6
p.o.b
shenzen, china
height
183 cm | 6'0"
weight
74kg | 163lbs
mods
ear piercings (two each side: top + helix) | gang tattoos (back & left chest)
scars
the most noticeable is the small, jagged one resting on his right cheekbone, a remnant of one time when a whiskey glass was smashed into his face; the others are on his arms, scattered, thin & faint
others
has a small, vaguely heart-shaped mole on his right shoulder
mingyu
psy.
his
persona
lee mingyu isn't a friendly person. that is the first thing most, if not all, people who meet him understand, the moment they look into his eyes and are hit by that unimpressed, judgemental glare. armed with a dismissive attitude and cutting, snide tone, it's no surprise that he's gotten into many a fight for the pettiest reasons. mingyu has a penchant for riling people up, intentionally or otherwise; it is a flaw he has made exactly zero effort to fix, seeing little need to cater to sensitive idiots. thanks to that, his name is well-known, at least among street-dwellers, and well-hated.
and, yet, people get wrapped up in him all the same β his presence is magnetic, whether because of his surprising cleverness or unshakable confidence, often to the point of intimidation. even if you think he's the rudest guy you've ever met, even if you can't believe the audacity of this insane bastard, it's easy still to get swept up by his pace, and for the atmosphere in the room to be swung along with his moods like a ragdoll in the hands of a tyrant. he knows it, too; it's clear in the way nonchalant arrogance oozes from his every move, as if the world revolves around him, as if he believes he's invincible.
(as if nothing could ever scare him.)
lee mingyu isn't a good person, either, or even really a decent one, though this conclusion can take a while longer to arrive than the first. but once you see it, it's obvious. you can't trust this guy with a dime or a million. he won't give you a goodbye before he leaves the next morning. he won't give you a warning if you're walking off a cliff. he won't give you a second glance when you're begging for help. in fact, he'll give you a black eye before he gives you much else, if you so much as graze his nerves, something you're especially bound to do by hounding him with pointless sentiments.
if you're brave, or just stupid, enough to really push him, however, you might get some words of venom shoved down your throat instead β and then you'll wish he was fake enough to drip them in honey. brutality seems instilled in his bones, lunging out every now and then to take a bite out of some unlucky soul, before retreating back behind his bored demeanor like a sated pet.
morality, on the other hand, seems a complete stranger. getting hurt, hurting others, breaking and being broken; these are natural things, or so he claims to believe. even the lines he wouldn't cross, others could step all over in front of him, and he wouldn't bat an eye. he only ever gets angry for his own sake, and god help you when he does. if at his best, mingyu is like an unpredictable, exhilarating ride, then at his worst, he is an uncontrollable, vicious storm, and you're only safe in the eye of it all.
(no one's ever gotten that close.)
drink it in
scroll
the
details
virtues.
charismaticoutspokenastuteflexibleunruffledresilientcourageous
vices.
arrogantindividualisticuninhibitedstubbornharshsarcasticapathetic
likes.
thrillfast carsmoneystray catsapple juicecold weatherspicy foodbeing lost in a crowdfreedom
dislikes.
sojusummerchihuahuassloppy drunkswhiningvegetables (general)muppetstoo much noisetoo much silence
things to noted
his mbti type is estp.he works at a club named feline as a bartender & occasional bouncer.he can be found in the wild around midnight at street races, whether driving or just watching; his favorite car is the mclaren 720s.he has an unwarrarnted hatred for dolls and anything to their effect β and, no, fuck you, he's not scared of them.he communicates fluently in korean & chinese, and has picked up bits of english along the way, mostly through drunk foreigners.
that liquid violence
hist.
his
story
unwanted cargo
container number 00154789A left the ports of shenzen, china on a chilly, fog-covered morning in november 2008, aboard a small cargo ship. it was delivered to south korea, a little over four days later, where it was quietly separated from the rest of its batch, no longer to be found. the container was nondescript, on the outside, even as it sat in a seedy warehouse a way off from the ports of mokpo. its contents, however, were rather remarkable: 20 tons of white rice, 8 kg of cocaine and a seven year old boy.
one of those things weren't supposed to be there β as a group of men dressed in the distinctive style of the local mafia would quickly realize, when they pulled open its large steel gates β and it wasn't the cocaine.
nobody was quite as dumbfounded by their discovery as the boy himself; the memory of how he ended up alone in that void-like darkness had been eaten away by the terror it instilled in him, as every day he lost further track of time and touch of reality. it comes only in nightmare-esque flashes of yelling, screaming, sobbing, begging and being dragged across a concrete road, skin tearing off like stickers from paper. a harrowing sequence, that was well left faded, and even better if he could simply forget.
but the process mattered little, as it often did, compared to the results. he was there, then, cowering in the corner, cold and hungry. by the time the first hint of light returned to his world, along with the slow creak of a lifted latch and murmured voices that sounded alien, all he really knew was his name.
unfortunately, that wasn't what the towering figures wanted from him. they crowded around his curled up body, staring down at him with shadowy faces, growling words that meant nothing to him in harsh, clipped tones. a hand reaches out pulling his arm away from his face, removing his last line of defense. a leg kicks him in the shin, sending a sudden, shocking flood of pain through his systems that made his eyes open fully for the first time since they'd found him. and he remembered that there was one more thing that he knew: how to run away.
will meets way
survival is a terrifying instinct. it can turn, even if for the briefest moment, pain into violence, man into beast, prey into predator. or, in the case of lee mingyu, a lost, pitiful child into a sly, thieving one.
he had escaped from the clutches of every stranger who got too close; there was no such thing as friend or foe, when fear and confusion were more than the limited rationality of his young mind could overcome. even the people who wanted to help him, he had hidden away from, unable to find it in himself to trust their soft voices and warm hands. whether a disproportionate distrust of adults was something he always had or a brand new trait born from this brand new experience, he had it in spades.
but if not for adults, who else could get him food? shelter? money? he was all skin, bones and bruises already. though the concept of death was vague in his mind, the aching in his body wasn't, and he realized there was only so much further than he could waste away. and, so it began, mingyuβs swift journey to the conclusion that he did not need to rely on people to give him things, he just needed to take them.
the trigger was an elderly man, whose grip on mingyuβs wrist was stronger than his frail countenance would imply, yet gentle. he held onto him as he spoke on the phone, and despite not understanding most of the words mingyu understood that he was calling the police. as he stood there, his gaze wandered onto the thick leather wallet that stuck out from the manβs back pocket and quickly became glued to it, and the possibilities it represented.
he reached out, tugging at the manβs long sleeves, staring up with the most expressive eyes he could manage and watching as pity filled the ones gazing down at him. the entrapping grasp on his arm loosened, as the manβs hand came to rest instead on mingyuβs head. it was only a matter of seconds, from him slipping the purse out of its confines to scrambling down the street, deaf to the old manβs yell behind him. a matter of seconds for him to become a pickpocket, marking the first of many crimes to come.
did belated guilt creep from his heart and up his throat, making the snack heβd bought with a stolen note hard to swallow? yes. but it hurt less than starvation.
errand
from the first time on, it only escalated. for being so young, mingyu could only be considered a prodigy at everything bad. he didnβt need words to lie. he didnβt need teaching to learn how to steal. little sleight of hands to sneak a phone or wallet, or longer cons where he showed up far too late at night at a familyβs house so they would let him stay, not knowing that they would wake up the next morning with missing valuables and no lost boy to be seen β all ideas that came naturally to him as time passed, plans that were executed cleanly without rehearsals.
so could you blame him, then, for getting too brave for his own good? for deciding that the tattooed, scarred thugs hanging around the corner were as valid a victim of theft as any other?
as he slipped past them and out the alley, the skinnier man's wallet hidden in his sleeve, it seemed as though the decision might not have been so terrible after all, until an abrupt pull on the back of his collar sent him stumbling backwards and to the ground. a loud, angry jumble of words spilled from the mouth of the bald man, his expression twisting, and mingyu braced himself for a heavy blow to fall on him or rough hands to grab his collar. instead, what he got was a gasp of recognition.
βyou!β the skinny man exclaimed, laughing rather pleasantly as he picked up his stolen wallet laying next to mingyu, βiβ¦youβ¦β¦dead!β a familiar set of words, unusual in how they didnβt sound like a threat. rather than a slap, he threw an empty cigarette box down at mingyuβs feet. βmoneyβ¦.you want?β an ear-perking question, βbuyβ¦..backβ¦.you keepβ¦.β
mingyu stared at the two crisp bills held out between the thugβs fingers, an excessive amount for just one box of cigarettes, and understood rather quickly his new assignment.
needles and knives
nine years, he spent going from smoke-alcohol-snacks shuttle boy to improvised translator for the chinese sailors to a full-blown liaison for the mafiaβs cooperation with the local chinese gang (that is, the foreign labourerβs workers union, of course). moving up the food chain, one could say, though if you'd never seen him as the disheveled weakling he used to be, you'd think he was simply born beating up once-rich brats desperate for drugs and filling out designer jackets they βgiftedβ.
mingyu β or elvis, as the streets knew him best β is seventeen when he first gets the gangβs signature tattoo on his chest. not because they only considered him a member then, but because his growth spurt had finally calmed down enough to inspire confidence that the ink wouldnβt get all messed up by the rapid expansion of its canvas. you laugh, but when three years ago his senior asked him why he didn't want to get the mark, that was exactly the reason he gave.
itβs around the same time, like life playing its little pranks, that he gets the first hint he might regret having a permanent reminder of the organization on him.
the sight of the broken man hanging by his feet brought little more than disgust to him in that dingy basement, sitting on a chair that was covered in either dried blood or rust. but kim jimin (the skinny man, mingyu once knew him as) seemed to be having the time of his life, either because he was a psycho like the others called him when talking shit behind his back or because he was so high off the ecstasy that everything was funny to him.
βmingyu, what do you think?β jimin questioned; he wasnβt looking for a proper answer, mingyu learnt to tell from all the years heβd spent around the man when heβd made up his mind.
βhe doesnβt have shit,β he replied, annoyance shining through his tone, βthis was stupid.β unfazed β thatβs what mingyu always was. unfazed by crime. unfazed by violence. unfazed by drugged-out psychos. thatβs why jimin liked him, and why he kept him around even after moving up the ladder. the biggest advantage of that was that he could be as rude as he wanted, unlike with the other bosses.
βhow do you think a face looks without a nose?β comes the discordant reply. the man whips around suddenly, pocket knife in hand that he swirls so its handle faced mingyu.
βletβs see.β
for a moment, his brain went blank, save for the single line: what the fuck? this wasnβt a horror movie. he wasnβt a butcher. stabbing someone was different from maiming them. breaking noses was entirely different from slicing one off a manβs screaming head. with all those facts in mind, what the fuck was this sudden demand? how the fu-
βhey, hurry up.β
he looked up at the man, holding out the knife like he held out the cash all those years ago, like this was the same kind of errand as buying some cigarettes. and he looked away, so the thoughts going wild in his head couldnβt be seen, as he tried to muster back the confidence he just had in his tone.
βi donβt want to, my shirtβs new,β he gives himself an excuse, but there is no reply. the manβs shadow over him felt heavy, like a judgement. like smoke, suffocating. he knew. he had to. that mingyu was freaking out. that his shirt was far from the reason.
he gritted his teeth and forced himself to stare back up at the man, and say, with all the nonchalance he had in him, βand that guy smells like piss, hyung.β jimin barked a laugh, pocketing the blade without pushing it further, and mingyu passed the moment by like he wasn't bothered.
he wasn't bothered. he still sat there to the end, still lit up the guy's cigarettes, still drove him home. because he wasn't bothered. then he showed up at a convenience store unannounced, dragged out a friend for drinks and got himself smashed. because he wasn't bothered.
and when kim jimin's body turned up in the sea three weeks later, after those at the top decided he was getting too crazy for his own good, mingyu didn't go to the funeral. because he wasn't bothered.
how to run away
the blood on the corner of his lips still tasted fresh when his phone began to rang. the plaque was a more painful thing than heβd expected to get whacked across the face by. his mind was occupied with cursing out the boss for using such a uselessly heavy thing; last time had been a whiskey glass, and that was already bad enough.
what kind of idiot mob boss sends someone to talk to another gang and then gets mad at them for doing their job, anyway? paranoid fucker. maybe he really should just backstab him and leave this place. kim jimin may have been a help in getting to where he was, but in death the hatred his enemies had for him was spilling over to mingyu. things were getting complicated β a word he hated.
the phone rang again. with an annoyed click of his tongue, he finally checked the screen.
caller: han jueon.
he frowned. he thought the guy was on a job, too. it wasnβt late enough for it to already be over. though, then again, here he was, also with a task already completed.
βwhat?β he asked, curt as ever. jueon, on the other hand, soundedβ¦ off. the line was cutting off every other second, all he caught, with his attention admittedly more focused on not walking into a streetlamp, were the words: gun, apartment and help.
had jueon ever asked him for help before? nothing came up in recent memory. they werenβt exactly the supportive type of friends; not for each other, or for anyone else. but as the call ended and a message notification appeared, its preview what seemed like an address, it became evident that this truly was an SOS.
mingyuβs steps slowed to a stop, his figure stilling for a moment before pivoting around toward the parking lot where his motorcycle rested. how bad of a situation can someone like han jueon possibly get into, he thought, that he would need his help?
"what the hell is this?"
even as he asked the question, he knew there was no use in an answering. "this" was somebody who had been shot and killed. even up until when he had walked into the room and saw blood splatter on the wall, he had been calm. it was the identity of the victim which had stupefied him more than the fact that they were dead.
why the fuck would you call me here, you fucking rat?, he considered asking. or maybe he should throw something, or just grab the bastard and punch him unconscious. but it quickly dawned on him that there was no time to be angry, and no time to regret.
because the process mattered little, as it often did, compared to the results. he was there, then, and there was a corpse on the floor. he was not only a witness, but also a suspect. in the end, there were only two options.
snitch? or flee?
he licked the new pool of blood on his lips away, and squatted down, deftly removing the silver rolex from the bodyβs wrist. it was lighter than he expected, but real nonetheless. the choice wasnβt so difficult. there were two things in the world that suited him least and yet he knew best:
his name, and how to run away.
misc.
No Service
3:03
Tuesday, 27th December
-
han jueon
what r yall fighting about now loll
-
what r yall fighting about now lollughin a sea of passing fancies and casual acquaintances, jueon is a rare creature in mingyu's world, perhaps best defined as a "friend". despite the complicated and at times aggressive β physically or otherwise β nature of their relationship, it can still be considered his realest, closest one. other factors aside, the fact still stands that jueon was ultimately the trigger for him leaving his old life behind, after all.shut up -
hwang myohee
just ask nicely you motherfucker
-
just ask nicely you motherfuckeroi don't ignore memyohee & mingyu are like oil and water; they just don't mix. they can tolerate each other's presence, barely, and that's as best as it gets on a good day. they bicker constantly and, though his distaste for bringing her into the fold has faded over the months, he has no plans to start playing nice.pretty please bitch -
yoo saerin
οΌοΌγΈοΌοΌi'll fix it when i get home... i'm so sorry
-
οΌοΌγΈοΌοΌi'll fix it when i get home... i'm so sorrybruh i meantsaerin is a brand of nice that mingyu simply isn't used to dealing with, which might just be the one thing saving her from his wrath, considering he's not any happier about this new addition to the group than the last one. it's too early yet to say whether her sweetness will put her in better or worse graces with mingyu in the long run.forget it -
kim jimin
just go beat them up kid & say i let you
-
just go beat them up kid & say i let youyea yeafor most of his childhood and adolescence, kim jimin was one of... no, the only real support pillar mingyu had in the wild world of the mafia. saying they had some kind of familial relationship is bullshit, and jimin taught him all the worst things he knows, but the man's downfall to drugs didn't only affect mingyu in the more practical senses, even if he doesn't acknowedge it.just go to sleep alr hyung
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βif you don't stay wrapped up in darkness, how will you sleep? if you don't cling to your cruelty, what will you have left to hold? hey, boy, when you run out of anger to burn, how will you stay warm? the night is cold, and so are your eyes. underneath the city lights, they shine.
his
traces
-
basc.
psy.
hist.
misc.
Last edited:
triples
*:ο½₯οΎβ§*:ο½₯οΎβ§
nine of clubs
i can never sleep, even in my dreams
sleepy hollow
by su lee
basc.
1
r.name
yoo saerin
2
n.name
sera, mushroom
3
age
eighteen
4
sexuality
demisexual
5
d.o.b
9 january
6
p.o.b
incheon, s.korea
saerin
psy.
her
persona
if saerin was once like a greenhouse flower, sheltered and sweet, she has since been abandoned to a wilted end. gone are the days when she smiled brightly, spoke freely or cried sincerely, without considering the consequences of her emotions. never again will she link arms with a friend without fearing their reaction, or comfort another without feeling like an intruder. the glass walls she lived within have become dirty and cracked; her perspective of the world will always now be tainted with harsh lines and the dissonant shades of reality.
still, she tries her best. saerin is nothing if not for her tolerance; how else could one be an idealist otherwise? being truly a person who finds warmth through others, she is faithful and understanding even to the bitter end, often to the advantage of those around her rather than herself. that is not to say that she is blind to the faults of other people β though sometimes she wishes she could be β it is simply that whenever the choice between empathy and dismissal arrives before her, saerin consistently chooses the former, believing in the strength of kindness and the power of karma.
it is a subtle yet dazzling personality, one that many a friend looked towards in their times of struggle, serving both as a pillar of support and a kind embrace. though a quiet and subdued girl, frequently lost in her own imagination, she unfailingly formed fast, close bonds with the people around her wherever she went. she holds many close to her heart, and though she may not realize, many still hold dear their memories with her as well. they remember her as somebody beautiful, somebody that accepted them as they were and made them feel home, a source of solace.
the problem with sources of solace, though, is that they don't often receive what they give away. it is a habit for her to soak in the loneliness on her own when people walk away, along with the blame for whatever bad circumstances that arise around her. yoo saerin is the person she is least understanding towards, her last pick for salvation, and yet the only person she has always had by her side when times are tough. yoo saerin, into whom she retreats when she feels like crying, and who flies her away to a different land.
saerin is a dreamer, that much is clear, and the real world is colder than the one she sees; every time she realizes this a little more, she also denies it a little more. her benevolence was built upon a foundation of naivete that, for most of her life, had never been sullied; a naivete that is quickly crumbling. it begs the question: how strong she can stay through it all? will she break through her confines with her own hands, pure still but not so fragile? or will her glass walls turn into stone, and leave her truly alone β a withered bloom in a gloomy hall?
hurt me, heal me
scroll
the
details
virtues.
honestcompassionateopen-mindedloyalprotectiveearnestimaginative
vices.
passiveguardedsecretivedaydreameridealisticsensitiveself-critical
likes.
pianoautumnrunningdiy projectslandscape artavocado milkshakeshamsters/guinea pigs/rabbitspeace & quiet
dislikes.
large crowdssmoking & smokersinsectscranberry juicedancing balletalgebrahighschoolraised voicesbeing a burden
things to noted
her mbti type is infp.she used to be on the track team and specialized in 100m dashes.her nickname "mushroom" comes from the short haircut she'd had from elementary school until middle school.she has never worked even a part-time job in her life; her only working experience is doing chores for extra money from her mom.she has two older siblings who are twins: sangmin & sujin. she gets along with the former much more than the latter.
but never leave me
hist.
her
story
innocence
her first clear memory is of feeding a bird in the park. it was a mynah, with yellow streaks across its dark feathers, running up the sides of its face like an awkward smile. it was braver than the rest of its friends, stepping forward with its head tilted, beady eyes curious, and she had been so anxious to stay still, to not scare it away, that she had held her breath. her seriousness was infectious β her mother beside her, reassuring hand on her shoulder, and even her father & siblings sitting back on the wooden bench behind them, became quiet in anticipation of the moment. the bird waddles closer, slowly, so slowly, unaware that it was the star of their show. and, then. finally! it began to peck at the bread she held out.
and a burst of delighted laughter escapes her, and it is lifted by the breeze. as people pass by, and as more leaves flutter to the ground, the sounds mix into an abstract spring melody.
she has wondered why many times; why that arbitrary, unremarkable moment? what about it struck her young mind so deeply that she recalls so distinctly, every step of the process, all the little details? to this day she has no answer. perhaps she didn't really want one.
it had been a beautiful day.
myosotis sylvatica
their family never stayed in the same place for more than a year or two. city to city, state to state, they moved around endlessly throughout saerin's childhood; once i get the next promotion, things will calm down, her father would assure them, and it was never true. her parents tried to give her some semblance of stability, opportunities to make friends β an online tutor, ballet lessons, annual church camps β but it never changed that it was difficult.
difficult to say hello, to make those awkward greetings to a new class, a new school, the lines of unfamiliar faces. difficult to say goodbye, to have a tearful farewell right when she had made a wonderful friend and exchanged those childish vows (we'll be best friends, forever). she had meant them, every time, but distance & time always proved too strong a foe to overcome.
so she says it again: hello, goodbye.
she gets used to it eventually. she picks up little tricks β the right questions to ask, the best way to introduce herself β to getting closer to people (she didn't think of them as tricks, but her sister told her that's what they were) and she decides to join a sports club instead of the arts her father wanted, because they always seem to spend so much time together. she liked being on a team, and how she felt like a part of wind when she was running.
she gets used to the process of making friends; she's good at it, even though she's not loud and cheerful like sangmin or as confident as sujin. she gets used to trying her best to stay friends with someone a city away, to the happiness when it lasts for at least a while and the sadness when it doesn't. it's fine, she tells herself, like her mother used to when they were driving away, because she'd made good memories with them and that was the most important part.
and she says it again.
hello.
goodbye.
we'll always be friends.
and one more
there was something exciting about the last β act, day, love β more than even the first. as she stood in front of the class, self-introduction ready in the pocket of her mind, saerin's heart flutttered for that reason. because this may have been the first time that she was meeting these people, first period she'd spend in this class, first week in this school, but it was the last time this would all happen.
no more being the new girl, the transfer student, the stranger in a familiar place. no more moving around, and having to learn where things and who people were. no more changes; she'd spent her whole life making and adjusting to change after change, pretending she didn't mind, and now she could settle down.
and she was excited. everyone could tell, by how she'd grown out her hair for the first time in four years, by the social media accounts she had finally started, by the way she smiled at herself wearing the ugly navy plaid skirts of the school uniform in the mirror. and, maybe, even by her walk down the aisles of tables to her assigned seat, smile on her face a little too bright to be just polite, tone upbeat as she greeted her seatmate.
"what's your name?" \ "oh, park mijoo..."
she was ready for this final new beginning, and determined β confident, even, after all the practice β for this to go right.
your side
it had gone wrong. "because they were friends" β saerin had never needed any other reason. maybe that was her mistake. looking back, it was undeniable that she had made one, somewhere along the way.
she had brought mijoo along to hang out with the girls from the track & field club, because the timid girl always said sheβd like a bigger social circle. was that wrong to do? should she have known from the start, that they would treat her like an outsider, like their follower, like someone less-than? she couldn't have, yet she feels still the guilt weigh heavy on her heart.
when they made those hurtful comments and passed them off as jokes, she had told them off. but she hadn't cut them off. should she have? even though the victim herself said that it was fine, even though she didn't want to escalate the situation, even though she agreed that it was better to forgive than feud, should she still have walked away and taken mijoo with her? her sister always told her she was weak; she was right.
"you know it's not true? you look g-" \ "saerin, it's okay."
the first time that verbal turned physical, she'd told the teachers about the incident even though she was warned it wouldn't help. and it hadn't. and though she stuck up for mijoo as best as she could, there were always days when she would walk into the classroom and see a look on her friend's face. and her stomach would twist with terrible emotions.
the first time that their nasty pranks were focused purely on her, instead, she hadn't told anyone. she didn't want to be a cause of concern, and she convinced herself she didn't care. it was just a wet shirt. it was just some ugly notes in her locker. it was just childish scribbles on her desk. mijoo saw them, eventually, but she never commented. and perhaps saerin should have found that odd, but she was just glad.
"you go ahead!" \ "are you... sure?" \ "yeah, mijoo, have fun."
even to that point, she thought she had done what she should have. she believed that it would stop eventually, as long as she took the higher path. this was a test, and she would be tolerant, as she was taught to be, she would have the will and faith to pass it.
then, she saw it. mijoo at her seat, with scissors and a ruined art project. the one she had been talking about just that morning, because she was so excited and so proud of what she'd made. she'd told her that she just couldn't wait to add the finishing touches, and finally see her vision realized. but that vision had been cruelly defiled right in front of her.
mijoo had frozen, her mouth opening to form an explanation and closing again, as distressed as saerin was. that sight gave her the strength to hold back the tears that sprang forth. of course, she thought, almost relieved, of course. they did this. how could they do this? she had taken a quiet step towards her friend, and in a tone as soft as her eyes, she had began to speak.
"it's okay, mijoo, they made you do it, right? we... let's-"
"stop it!"
the scream echoed in the empty studio like a cry through a cave. she went quiet, shocked.
"just stop trying, saerin. i hate this about you!"
pieces of her art scatter around her like a broken screen, a thin cover saving her from the sight of how mijoo's face twisted.
"you're just like them β you're just using me."
that wasn't true. she wanted to tell her that wasn't true. but she couldn't. so she stayed still like a good target would, letting sharp words fly at her. and if they could cut, she would have bled dry.
"did it make you feel good? to be some kind of hero for little poor me?"
silence. she couldn't reply, she was speechless. she couldn't move, she couldn't see clearly. she had taken in so much already, and now, all this.
mijoo's expression shifted into one of a person who'd just realized what they'd done, and she left behind only the shuffling of feet, while saerin stood in a mess of her shattered efforts and broken beliefs. what had she done wrong? all she had done was try to be a good friend. all she had ever done was that, she had always tried her best to help, she was always on everybody's side who needed it.
and as even the fading reflection of her friend left the windows and her shadow seemed to flicker on the white walls of the dark room, she finally stopped to wonder:
who was on hers?
suffocation
darkness exists even in good people. even in good people, it can seethe and surge and scream. and good people, they deal the worst with it β when they hold their darkness in their hands, what they fear more than its growling existence is that it may bring horror to another. and so they swallow it. they take it, deep into their beings, and hide it away.
but does hiding things away make them disappear? never. the darkness still festers within them. it grows, and grows, and grows. it fills them up, like salt water in their lungs, and they shudder as they try to hold it in. but it doesn't work. they are not endless; in space or strength. eventually, it will seep out, slowly, agonizingly.
and there are only two endings to that tragedy: they unleash it, or it destroys them.
so she sits there, hollow but intact, accompanied by melodies that brought her solace once. so she is haunted by the memory of a single moment, rather than the months over months of torment, not knowing if that were for the better or worse. so she had escaped from one trap, but caged now in her own room, terrified of the judgement, the disappointment, the pity that has replaced the love in their eyes.
alone, she thinks. all she does is think.
sometimes they are resentful thoughts. if her bullies had just left behind their inexplicable hatred for her as they leave behind the school, if they hadn't threatened another victim β not her ally, she has accepted that, mijoo could no longer be called a friend β to force her out to that alley, it could all have been avoided.
if they hadn't carried such malicious intentions, if they hadn't called her out to such an isolated place, someone would have stopped their struggle before it had gotten that far. or maybe it was because it had been the same night of their graduation, and they had been so eager to let her know that it wasn't over. if they hadn't been, if they'd even just waited for the next morning, she would have seen the car speeding down the narrow lane, and she would have stopped. wouldn't she?
that's what she wanted to believe.
but sometimes the thoughts, especially the one that intrude her sleep, are self-loathing. self-blaming. because she had gone there with the determination to put a stop to it all. through words, yes, but her words had failed. they hadn't listened. they had laughed. and when yena had grabbed her by her hair, all saerin had thought of was getting away, not of whether her nails against the girl's face would make her bleed.
because when yena had stumbled backwards onto the road, her first emotion hadn't been concern, or surprise, but happiness. because for that fleeting moment she'd felt free.
because, staring down at her own scratched-up hands, she could no longer answer with confidence. if she had known the car was coming, would she have stopped?
though her eyes stung, she couldn't sleep. she stood up and left her bed, heading quietly to the kitchen in the dead of the night. she needed a cup of water; she grabbed the jar in the fridge, and a glass from the counter, trying to feel some sense of normalcy from the trivial, mundane actions.
"saerin?"
the wary voice of her mother shakes her out of her daze, and she spun around, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. they stand there, time passing in slow motion as they try to find something to say. her mother collects herself first β she was a collected, patient person, always. a good person.
"go to sleep, you need to be rested,"
she said it in a tone saerin's disordered mind couldn't grasp. but it was a tone she had heard before, enough times for an ominous feeling to arise.
"we're going to the hospital tomorrow, to visit that girl."
"what?"
her mother's eyes narrow. and suddenly, it was a woman she couldn't recognize in front of her. a shadowy figure. her vision began to shiver.
"you have to apologize to her parents, don't you? they were kind enough to drop the charges."
was there any more conversation after that? did her mother leave in anger or with that numb expression she always had in the past few weeks? saerin didn't know. she knows of standing alone in the refrigerator light and the sound of heavy breathing, muffled sobs. she knows of the way the water had turned into ice in her throat, and scalded her from within. she knows of it appearing again, an unwelcome, yet familiar guest.
it; the darkness, blooming in front of her, like a queen of the night.
and she knows how she left it in that house, how she is still scrambling to get far away from it, so that it may never consume her again.
misc.
No Service
15:56
Thursday, 21th December
-
hwang myohee
n make sure you stay away from mingyu!!
-
n make sure you stay away from mingyu!!he's not that bad...myohee was another picture in the hall of people she had to leave behind, another precious memory to replay when she was down... or so saerin thought. but when they met again on those streets, myohee shifted once more from an old friend to a saviour, a warm light in saerin's darkening life.rinnie. trust me. -
lee mingyu
?? i don't smoke, it's prob jueon's
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i put the pack in ur room!?? i don't smoke, it's prob jueon'smingyu isn't like anyone else she's met before, to say the least. to say the most, he's kind of terrifying β or at least, he was when they first met, and he'd told myohee to "fuck off with your fucking charity case". though he's mostly just been ignoring her since, saerin has well marked him down as someone not to get on the bad side of and treads carefully around him.oh! i see ^^" sorry -
han jueon
yea i'll take care of it laterrrr
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yea i'll take care of it later(///β½///) thank you jueon-ssi!!!!jueon seems normal. he seems relaxed, nice, mature. comfortable. whether it's the advantage of being compared to mingyu, or because he's the only source of reassurance she has during the other two's many fights, saerin likes being around jueon, even though myohee advises differently.yea no problem -
mr & mrs yoo
we're giving you one chance to come back right now
-
we're giving you one chance to come back right nowsaerin loves her parents. she owes so much to them, she adores them, she put faith in them. and that's why it hurts to see them.i hope you know how foolish you're being
it's a breaking point that their relationship has been building to, if she's honest. their dire lack of understanding over her situation in school (if they're being mean to you, tell them to stop, or tell the teachers! / why would you want to switch schools, honey, weren't you so excited to settle down?) and their strict, conservative opinions in general have slowly but surely adding tension to her relationship with them, even if not vice versa.
but ever since the accident, every conversation they've had with her has been tinted with its memory. it's clear to see how much it shocked and disappointed them that she would ever get into such "trouble", and that hurts her. it breaks her heart, fills her with thoughts she doesn't want to harbor, to know that their impression of her, their own daughter, has been dirtied so drastically by something she can't fully accept was her fault. that it put more sadness in their eyes to see her hurt someone else, than to be hurt herself β yes, to bring pain to others is a terrible thing, but she had been in pain, too. why couldn't they have seen that?
like glass, once broken, it was irreparable. they had become a source of darkness for her. she needed to get away, so she could breathe. -
yoo sangmin
have you found a place? give me a call when you can, okay?
-
have you found a place? give me a call when you can, okay?sangmin is four years older than her but, though she looks up to him, he's always felt like a friend. he's undefeatably cheerful, a trait saerin wants in herself and something that's brought her comfort time and again. if he was in town, perhaps his house would have been where she'd headed when she ran away, but sangmin is currently working in jeju island. he has since offered for her to come live with him anyway, but she neither wants to burden him nor trusts completely that they can keep it secret from their parents.yup! i'm doing fine, oppa, don't worry (ββ’ α΄ β’β) -
yoo sujin
mom's going crazy on my phone rn
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mom's going crazy on my phone rnwhat are you doing?when people first learn there are fraternal twins in the family, they usually assume it's saerin and sujin. ironically, the two sisters couldn't be more different if they tried. sujin is a tough, no-nonsense type of girl whose cynical perspective clashes often with saerin far kinder take on the world, marking one of many personality gaps between them that prevents them from being close. and yet, sujin was the first to ask if saerin was okay after the accident β not "what happened?" or "why did you do that?", just "how are you coping?" β an image of her sister that saerin took more to heart than any fight they've had.this isn't like you..
TAP NOTIFS TO VIEW RELATIONS
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βfalling; she is cutting through the summer breeze, listening to the goldfinch's love song, bright green leaves caught in her messy hair, a stark figure in the azure sky. in this moment, at least, she is beautiful. may she never reach the ground. falling;
her
ghosts
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basc.
psy.
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misc.
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reveriee
ββ(β§β½Β° )
ace of spades
oh, the goddess of destiny is testing me again
die die (Feat. CHOILB)
by GIRIBOY
basc.
1
name
Han Jueon
(νμ£ΌμΈ | ιδΈ»θ¨)
2
aliases
Shin Jaewon (μ μ¬μ; current) / Yuryeong (μ λ Ή; lit. ghost) / Kim Jun (κΉμ€)
3
n. names
Ju (μ£Ό) / Yury (μ 리) / Eonnie (μΈλ /j /s)
4
age
twenty
5
gender
cis man (he/him)
6
sexuality
bisexual demiromantic
7
d.o.b.
October 24
8
p.o.b.
Mokpo, South Korea
νμ£ΌμΈ
psy.
his
persona
For a criminal, Han Jueon is surprisingly nice. Mild-mannered, easy-going, and (usually) not one to pick a fight, Jueon is easily the least controversial one in the room, especially given the company he keeps. Though he's neither generous nor exuberant enough to sweep you off your feet, he's pleasant, and that's enough for many.
Despite people's initial impression of him, Jueon is certainly not normal; he landed himself into the mafia and onto its hit list not too long after, and surely has a host of flaws that he is simply not willing to brandish on his sleeve. Molded and now unfazed by life's apathy, Jueon has absorbed the attitude of the universe, and is equal parts blunt and indifferent as he is unassuming. He would give the weather forecast and news of your cousin's suicide the same regard, and would do little to hide it. Yet for all his unmasked indifference, Jueon is at worst insensitive, but nearly never malicious. Ask him to help you out, and he'll try if he can and be upfront if he can't. For all that he is, Han Jueon is no liar, no sadist, no manipulative bastard, and frankly? There are far worse people out there, and for someone like Jueon, you'd only have to walk five steps to find one of them.
As for his own brand of notoriety, Jueon's is very rarely defined by his blasΓ© nature and more by his unrestrained spontaneity. Eagle-eyed but short-sighted, Jueon lives a spur-of-the-moment lifestyle that is only sustained by his quick thinking and his observant gaze. He chases after physical enjoyment and present experiences, and seems to have little to no capacity to think even three steps ahead -- but that has never bothered him, as Jueon has always managed to rectify the consequences of his past actions with a rather clever present one. Jueon finds little issue in his own lifestyle, but it becomes a problem when others are swept up in his storm. Unfortunately, Jueon has never been the best at accommodating others, and squeezing them into his spontaneous plans is often an afterthought at best.
corpses in my closet
scroll
the
details
virtues.
mild-manneredobservantquick-thinkingupfrontventuresomeunfazedeasy-going
vices.
short-sightedspur-of-the-momentreticentbluntindifferenthedonisticrisky
likes.
sweet mint gumsmokingcheap candysweetssexgunsnighttimestarsfruit ninjastrawberry flavoringhard liquorcatsanimated filmsbanana milksamgak kimbap
dislikes.
schoolstem subjectsthe heatrunningclose combatred winestteokbokkichessenergy drinkslacking control over his bodygetting drunkroutinecomedy movies
fears.
being physically numbed/restrainedhospitals
things to noted
he is an istp 9w8has 20/8 visionhas mild protanomalyallergic to penicillinis comfortable with rifles and pistols, but prefers revolvers (his favorite being the smith and Wesson 586 in a blued finish)has a strong mokpo accent (that he's trying to fix)religiously unsure, but raised presbyterianhis favorite book of the bible is Ecclesiastes; his least is the book of jobused to pray every night before sleeping -- now only does so occasionallyhates getting drunk because he gets uncharacteristically giggly and affectionate, which is shit he knows he won't like dealing with the consequences of -- hence why he only drinks alcohol straight so he can tell how much he's consumingironically wanted to be a police officer when he was youngerhe and his sister juhye's (3 years younger) names mean "god's words" and "god's grace"
have turned to bone
hist.
his
story
the garden of eden
Han Jueon was meant to have a quaint upbringing. A quiet one. Save for the small bump that was his mother's passing a few years after his birth, Han Jueon was intended a smooth and blissful childhood; perhaps not one with much luxury or privilege, but one of simple joys and pleasant memories.
And in a sense, it was that. Jueon grew up helping his disabled father run his local convenience store, guiding the old man around the shelves and opening up boxes in the back and standing on his tippy-toes to restock the banana milk. When his younger sister was old enough to pitch in as well, Jueon showed little Juhye the ropes -- how to open the store, take inventory, and balance the cash register at the end of the night when their father was too ill to do so.
Most of Jueon's childhood days were spent with customers rather than other children, but there was nothing to regret and nothing to mourn. Jueon still remembers the times he would pocket snacks from the back for himself and Juhye -- a banana milk for him, strawberry milk for her, a samgak kimbap for him, a choco pie for her. He remembers how his father would tell him stories of his valiant youth at the end of the night as he counted money in the flickering light of a cheap, battery-charged lantern. He remembers waking up before the sun did to open the store and not even being the slightest bit upset about it.
If Han Jueon was sentimental enough to care about the past, perhaps he'd even be fond.
paradise lost
Han Jueon was meant to have a quaint upbringing. A quiet one. But aside from an ailing father's love and a brother and sister's affectionate squabbles, the reality of the world he was reared in was much louder than intended, and much crueler.
When Jueon was allowed to leave the back of the store for the first time, his father gave him a new name. For the self that was to be cherished on late nights in the light of a flickering, battery-charged lantern could not be the self that was to be sent outside, assailed by sneering men with blood on their hands and a gun in their waistband. So when he faced the world, Han Jueon became Kim Jun -- son of Kim Sang, owner of Kim's Convenience.
When Jueon grew older -- old enough to lose the childlike glow in his eyes, but not old enough to shed his chubby cheeks -- and as his father's condition worsened, he had to be the man of the household rather than the boy. Because once, long ago, Kim Sang was revered enough to gain an oath of nonviolence and a group of loyal customers from the warring gangs in the streets -- two guarantees that had began to overstay their welcome. It was Kim Jun's job to get them back.
When strange men would pound on the door in the middle of the night and demand to be let in, Kim Jun would get the key. When a suspicious figure with a familiar inky marking on his neck would wander behind the counter to hide (and sometimes take) something Kim Jun did not care to find out about, he would turn his head and restock the shelves. Later on, when those men would walk up to him and ask for favors (stand here when I go there, go in there and fetch me this box, keep your mouth shut if you hear a squealing rat), Kim Jun would look them in the eye and do it without hesitation.
After a few months, things changed. Jueon began to see a gaggle of gang members periodically smoke outside the storefront; when they did, there would be no trouble for the next few days. He began to see the same people enter the store a few times a week to buy cigarettes, soju, or chewing gum -- "keep the change," they would say, tossing him a β©50,000 bill and occasionally reaching behind the counter to grab a chocolate bar. When he walked to school in the mornings, some passers-by (a few of whom he had never met) would nod to him and even know his (fake) name. By the looks of it, Kim Jun had managed to regain the worldly balance that his father had established.
Business was good, and he was happy.
interlude
Jueon's father told him many things under the light of the lantern, but he had only repeated a few. The first was Ecclesiastes 1:18. The second was John 16:33.
The third was not from the Bible, but rather from his valiant youth. Never start a fight, but if you must, fight back with half the mercy.
crucifixion
Han Juhye had been rather reclusive recently. Which was strange for her; if anything, Jueon was the plainer, quieter one of the two, while Juhye was charming and boisterous and bold. It was as if she lived in the sun while he lived in shadow, and their territories rarely crossed.
In recent days, however, Juhye had crept into Jueon's shadow world and made herself queen. She rarely left her room -- only did so to eat a single meal or to help around the store, and by the strained smile on her face, Jueon could tell that it was her own guilt that forced her out. There were times when she would drift off, eyes blanked out like she was staring into a second realm. Sometimes, she would speak in stuttered, discordant phrases, as if she was trying to tell a story but couldn't get past the prequel. Every time, Jueon would hum and tell her that it was okay, before ranting about another stupid customer to pass the time.
He never pushed her, but Jueon wasn't stupid; she didn't have to say things for him to know. He saw her flinch every time a man approached the door -- and if he was particularly tall, with a rather built upper body and rancid breath from too much chewing tobacco, she would duck under the counter and stay there until he was too far from the store to come back. Jueon, with ever-increasing wrath and dread, understood that someone had done something to her -- something unforgivable.
Their father had a similar understanding, and Juhye was quietly taken to therapy. But every day was a matter of apprehension; how long could Juhye be in the store before someone suspect came in? (The answer was not long). And how long would it be before he came in? (That answer was unknown, which was much worse).
So another tense month passed. And another. Two months of shitty favors and shitty customers and shitty people. When another tall, gangly man with a muscular upper body and rancid breath came in, Jueon suspected nothing -- just looked up from his phone and pointed him towards the alcohol.
But then he saw Juhye, hidden between the candy shelf and the honey chips. Frozen, in plain view. The man saw her too; for a second, he looked surprised, then smiled. He turned back to Jueon -- looked him up and down -- and said, "I knew you looked familiar."
"Are you Hye-ah's brother? You have the same eyes." The man barked out a laugh, and Jueon decided he sounded like a hyena that smoked far too much and far too often. "You're a pretty family. Hye-ah never told me about you." Jueon saw Juhye's hands begin to shake; though the man stood on the opposite end of the store, she knew that she had been backed into a corner.
The man reached over and grabbed Jueon's hand, tracing his fingers over the fresh cut on his palm. A grimy smile gripped his lips. "You know me, right? I'm sure some of my friends have come around." Jueon glanced down at the man's forearm, where a familiar feather design snaked around his wrist. His friends had visited; they were the types of people Jueon did favors for not because they were allies, but precisely because they were enemies. He wasn't allowed to start fights, especially with people as dangerous as them -- that wasn't Kim Jun's job.
The man dug a finger into Jueon's scabbed over cut. "Maybe I should come around more often. Support the local businesses, ya know."
Juhye stumbled back against a wall and started gagging. The man did not smile, did not laugh, but one look into his eyes and he looked like he was happy. Jueon slapped the man's hand out of his own, reached over the counter, and socked him in the nose.
One part of him -- the part of him that felt his head being slammed onto the counter, the part of him the felt the metallic blood dribbling down his temple and his nose, the part of him that heard the hyena laugh of a psycho who screeched "you bastard, you think you can mess with me" -- told him that he made a mistake. That he violated the third of only three commandments -- never start a fight.
The other side of him said that he had did nothing wrong. That the fight had been started the moment that shitstain looked at Juhye the wrong way.
And so, Kim's Convenience had become a battleground -- a host to a duel that gangly, teenage Jueon was losing. He heard Juhye cry above the pounding rush of blood in his head, and Jueon's heartbeat only quickened, for he was the only thing standing between that man and his sister, and he refused for that to not be enough.
But he was gangly, teenage Jueon -- 5'8 Jueon, Jueon that couldn't run a single kilometer without panting for breath, Jueon that had always been a spectator to violence and never a participant. He was gangly, teenage Jueon, bleeding out from his temple and his nose and his cheek and his lip, bleeding and crumpling onto the floor. Gangly, teenage Jueon, with only one skill in combat -- one skill that his father taught him "just in case," one skill that his father smiled and murmured "like father like son" about when he took to it naturally.
If you must, fight back with half the mercy. Jueon leaned over, scrabbling for a padlock in the bottom left corner of the back counter. He yanked the cabinet open. Grabbed the revolver at the bottom. Wiped the blood from his right eye. Stood up, squinting with his reddened vision to see that bastard grab Juhye's waist.
Jueon was the only thing standing between Juhye and her assaulter, and that would be enough.
He raised the gun, pressed the trigger, and watched a dying man slump onto the floor.
Jueon sent his shaking sister to the back. Closed all the blinds, flipped the sign to close. Called his father, before sitting on the brick floor, watching dark blood pool from the head of a corpse.
Twenty minutes later, Han Yisak was helped into the store by a familiar man in a dark overcoat. A regular -- Jueon didn't know his name. Behind him followed a gaggle of similarly-dressed men. As Jueon's father went to the back, the men brought dark bags out of their coats, cleaning the front until it looked like no one had died there. At the end of it, the sky was dark and the store was clean. The gang members nodded in farewell, and the store looked like it had the previous day.
But things weren't the same. No, they were entirely different. Things would never be the same after Kim Jun killed a man. After he killed an enemy.
When his father returned from the back, Jueon didn't have to say a word. He knew. He knew that there was a target on his son's head. He knew that Kim Jun would die soon, one way or another. But he said nothing. Simply counted the money in the light of a flickering lantern, reciting Bible verses and telling stories of his valiant youth.
resurrection
Two days later, an unfamiliar man of familiar bearings entered the store and proposed a deal.
He was from the mafia, or so he implied, and Jueon let out a sigh of relief, knowing that in making an enemy out of one group, he had made an ally of a crueler one. The man explained that Kim Jun had demonstrated loyalty, reliability, and a potential that made his enemy's enemy -- and therefore his friend -- willing to offer him protection. "Do what we say when we call upon you," he drawled, "and all those connected to this establishment will be safe from harm."
Jueon had agreed immediately, as he had no other viable options. The man smiled, patting him on the shoulder, before pulling out an image from his pocket.
"Do you recognize this man?"
A glance. "Yes." He was a regular.
"He has overstayed his welcome. Prove your talents for the second time, and your protection will be guaranteed."
Jueon's eyes flicked over to his father, who sat in his stool behind the counter, counting money under the flickering lamplight. Han Yisak was humming a trot song that played regularly from his radio, as if all was well and nothing had changed.
"You have a sharp eye, Kim Jun. Keep a weapon in your hand and you will go far."
And so, that was that. Kim Jun marked the beginning of his end with a second murder, and as he was initiated in the mafia, he took on a new moniker: Yuryeong. For he came from a family that has underwent ecdysis many times before, and the self that lived with a gun as a fifth limb could not be the self that sold cigarettes to petty criminals, much less the self that was to be cherished on late nights in the light of a flickering lantern.
For the most part, however, he was allowed to keep Kim Jun in his collection of masks. He managed the store sometimes, though the birth of a new identity forced a recovering Juhye to take on his old responsibilities. Jueon, as Yuryeong, was on to new things -- primarily minor tasks like standing watch, but occasionally grander ones that required the gun that he had grown accustomed to. Yuryeong had a flawless record, and his name became reputed as one who has fired no more bullets than the number of men he has befallen.
Yuryeong formed new friendships, particularly a unique one with a boy known as Elvis. He practiced with more weapons -- assault rifles, long guns, pistols. He distanced himself from his sister -- it was the better choice, after what had happened. He stopped reading the Bible. He operated the store still, but Kim Jun was a dying man.
But business was good.
interlude pt 2
Jueon's father told him many things under the light of the lantern, but he had only repeated a few. Those that had gone unrepeated were often tales of his valiant youth, which he had so many of that he had no need to recite any of them twice.
What had gone unspoken were the connections that wove the tales into a chronicle, but Jueon never cared for the big picture. After all, his father told him many things under the light of the lantern, and the ones he repeated were the most important. Ecclesiastes 1:18, John 16:33, and the motto he forever holds close to heart.
revelation
Crime is a lifestyle, and the mafia is a family. That's what supposedly separated them from the petty gangs in the streets; they did not tolerate disloyalty.
So with every order delegated to him, Yuryeong obeyed, as no one betrayed the family. It did not matter who they came from -- as long as they were a higher-up, Yuryeong heeded their commands.
Their family was a rather large one; an underboss from Gwangju had transferred to Mokpo for a brief period of time (for a reason Jueon was unaware of), and Jueon was sent to the man's apartment as protection for the first night. It was an easy job; Gu Donghyuk was rather talkative and rather sadistic, but Jueon minded little. The underboss must have found him entertaining; Jueon was repeatedly called back to be Donghyuk's protection, and he begrudgingly found himself spending too many nights in another man's apartment.
Donghyuk liked to drink scotch. He liked to get drunk, and when he was drunk, he liked to blab. Jueon found himself in situations comically similar to those of his youth in the light of a flickering, battery-charged lantern; Donghyuk, much like his father, loved to talk about his past conquests. Except Donghyuk's were more so explicit tales of the enemies he tortured before letting them die a slow death.
"How much do you know about this neighborhood, boy?"
Jueon shrugged. "I grew up here. I can show you around, if y'want. Probably know more than you do."
Donghyuk barked out a laugh. "Maybe. Hey, do you know that convenience store three blocks down?"
"Kim's Convenience? Yeah -- it's local, but nothing special. Every fifth store in the city center probably looks exactly like it."
"Ha! Nothing special? Sounds exactly like him." Donghyuk gave Jueon a look, like he was an old friend and knew an inside secret, before taking a long sip of his scotch. "Fucking bastard, that Kang Garam. Know that name, boy?"
"No. He extended family?"
"Maybe before. He used to be at the top, before you were born. Ruthless fuck. Always acted like he was smarter, better than us."
"Used to be?"
Donghyuk scowled. "That bastard fucking retired like he was an office worker who'd get a damn pension! He just walked away, kid -- you don't just walk away, in this business. But he did. He walked away, scot-free, while the rest of us had to pay for all the shit he had done."
Donghyuk shoved his hand into Jueon's face, showing off the mangled remains from where his last two fingers used to be. "I had my fucking fingers cut off by one of his enemies, while he's probably living the good life. You think someone like that deserves to just walk away?"
"Not really."
Donghyuk scoffed, leaning back into his armchair. He downed his scotch, and smiled, the shine in his eyes vaguely maniacal. "Well, I found him. He thought he could get away and leave the rest of us to burn. Well, you don't betray family like that, Yury. He runs that little grocery store you mentioned. Don't you think we should go down there and make him pay? Not just for my fucking fingers, but for Changbin's leg, for Kiwoo's cash, fuck, for Jinseok's life. And all the other hundred people who had to have a shitty boss." Donghyuk leaned over, smirking. "Don't you like death, Yury? I know how many people you've killed. I'll let you come with me to get another one."
Jueon didn't respond. Donghyuk suspected nothing -- he wasn't the most talkative person, anyway -- and beckoned Jueon to pour him another glass.
Jueon's fingers felt numb on the cold bottle. He couldn't tell himself that he never suspected a thing; where else would his father get the connections he had? The protection they had, before Kim Jun had to step in to maintain it? Where else would Han Yisak get the material for the tales of his valiant youth he regaled Jueon with under the light of a flickering, battery-charged lantern? Jueon was not at all surprised about his father's former occupation. But he was completely blindsided by his cruelty -- and perhaps that was most ignorant of him.
Jueon couldn't deny it. Couldn't deny Donghyuk's stories and wrath. Han Yisak was likely a very bad man.
"So you coming or what?" Donghyuk asked again, sounding almost bored. "Take it or leave it, boy. I rarely offer this kind of excitement to anyone."
Jueon set the bottle down, the weight of the revolver in his gun holster heavier than anything he had ever felt before. "Sure. I can shoot a man."
After all, you don't just betray family like that.
ascension
A call was made. Afterwards, Han Jueon sat on the mahogany floor, watching dark blood pool from the head of a corpse.
Ten minutes later, Jueon let Elvis into the apartment.
"What the hell is this?"
Jueon smiled wryly, before heading to where he knew Gu Donghyuk's hidden safe was. He didn't have to answer.
He spared the body one long, last glance. The decision was simple -- in this world, they were all bad men. What a shame, that Han Jueon had to take up his father's sins.
For with much wisdom comes much sorrow; the more knowledge, the more grief. Ecclesiastes 1:18.
The two of them booked the next train to Seoul. In the station, Jueon took out his wallet, pulling out a slip of paper that was given to him when Kim Jun had been born. Initially, he had kept it out of forgetfulness, but forgetfulness turn to habit, and habit nearly turned to sentiment.
Jueonie, I have tried to protect you. But I'm sorry to say that there are many things I cannot prevent, and most all of them are struggles. You're a strong boy. Keep your chin up and you will do more than survive. John 16:33.
"I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world."
Jueon folded the note up and reached for a lighter. He walked over to the tracks. The station was overwhelmingly full; no one would take notice of him.
The paper burned orange, lighting aflame for a single second before falling to the tracks as ash. Jueon walked back, sat on the bench, and lit himself a cigarette.
misc.
No Service
22:58
Friday, 24th December
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han Yisak
are you coming home tonight?
-
A man of much wisdom and much mystery, Han Yisak possesses many identities and a muddled past. Jueon has him to credit for much of the good in his life, though he has come to the unsettling realization that he knows very little about his father.
are you coming home tonight? -
elvis
ha
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haThey possess a rather unusual relationship; you could say, Jueon and Mingyu are the closest you can be in a world that functions off of mistrust.shut up -
hwang myohee
hi ju, can u tell ur boy toy to shut his trap plz <3 luv u
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hi ju, can u tell ur boy toy to shut his trap plz <3 luv uThough the two of them couldn't be more different, Jueon thinks that they have an easy friendship. After all, he is rather easy to be around, and Myohee is rather easy to befriend. Maybe they just aren't close enough for their differences to be grating, but they have enough a bond.who ? -
yoo saerin
(///β½///) thank you jueon-ssi!!!!
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(///β½///) thank you jueon-ssi!!!!She's nice enough. A bit quiet though, much like himself. Too new for Jueon to really have an opinion.yeah no problem -
han juhye
eonnie~~ can you pick me up from school
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eonnie~~ can you pick me up from schoolγ _γ not eonnieThey grew up close -- after all, shared adversity brings people together. After the incident that they don't like to speak of, Jueon made the choice to distance himself from Juhye as he began to get more involved in illegal happenings. They still have a strong bond, but it's unspoken and complicated. The newfound adversity has iced it over, rather than making it warmer.i'll be there in five
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βblood on the walls, blood in my palms, blood that is not mine. a bullet sits in the skull of a dead man. glassy-eyed. gaping. gone. i laugh; where is your halo, good sir? the night is brief, the day unripened. there is no time to await the sleeping sun. farewell
his
skeletons
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basc.
psy.
hist.
misc.
Last edited:
reveriee
ββ(β§β½Β° )
queen of hearts
when the flowers bloom beautifully and turn red
play
by Yuju
basc.
1
name
Hwang Myohee
(ν©λ¬ν¬ | ι»ε¦ε§¬)
2
born as
Jeon Myohee
(μ λ¬ν¬ | η°ε¦ε§¬)
3
viet n.
HoΓ ng Thα» Diα»u CΖ‘ [ι»ζ°ε¦ε§¬]
4
n. names
Mia (λ―Έμ; alias) / MΓ¨o / Momo (λͺ¨λͺ¨)
5
age
nineteen
6
gender
demifemme (she/they)
7
sexuality
greysexual lesbian
8
d.o.b.
July 19
9
p.o.b.
Pocheon, S. Korea
10
ethnicity
Kinh Vietnamese
ν©λ¬ν¬
psy.
their
persona
Hwang Myohee is not so much the queen of hearts as she is the gullible subject.
At her best, she is like the heartbeat of one who never wavers and never dies. Dependable and unrivaled in her empathy, Myohee adopts a plethora of forms depending on the needs of others. She is a strong-armed advocate for the wronged, an unmoving voice of comfort for the hurt, and a loyal friend for the loved.
At her worst, Myohee can turn from campfire to inferno. Her heart bleeds easily; cross her once and she'll never forget it, and the wound in her chest will never close. She turns bitter against the world -- jealous of the good fortunes she was never able to possess. She outfits herself with an immovable grudge against the universe -- a weapon fashioned from rage, envy, and grief. And with every injury she inflicts on the world she despises so, the lesion in her heart only grows and deepens. For Hwang Myohee's heart is her greatest strength and weakness; she both abhors and runs to those who have wronged her, rightfully detesting those who have slashed open her bleeding heart yet repeatedly allowing them to do so.
She's no doormat though, she tells herself -- because she would not hesitate to burn the world down if it means sending her demons to hell.
But even when she works with vice, Myohee's care for others is unceasing. Her controlling personality can be almost suffocating in its nature, but only because she believes she's protecting those around her from a harsher fate. Her penchant for dishonesty is something she's unashamed of and committed to, as she would never subject someone she cares about to harm -- even if its perpetrator is reality. In her world, Myohee's heart -- bleeding, blackened, bruised, yet still beating -- is a lost cause. But there are many hearts that have gone unrotten, and to Myohee, preserving their purity is a duty of the highest importance.
we walk on hell
scroll
the
details
virtues.
loyalcourageouspassionatedeterminedempatheticprotectiveoutgoingresponsible
vices.
jealousdishonestcontrollingvindictivesensitiveclose-mindedirrationalstubborn
likes.
korean pearsidong galbi (short ribs)red meatBÑnh Xèospicy fooddrinkingamerican poptaylor swiftsummer-autumn cuspbig citiesredpoetry, esp haikuscleaning
dislikes.
perilla leavesthe countrysidefarmsbeerjeon mansikslushy snowraininsectscatsbeing in the sunice creammath examsbluefilth & stenchchangemidsummermidwinter
fears.
being deceived by those she cares aboutabandonmentlarge moths
things to noted
is an esfjlactose intoleranthas cptsdhas really good memoryspeaks fluent korean and vietnamese, with a decent grasp of englishis very well-read, usually reading poetry and philosophy; never reads fiction unless itβs a classicfavorite poet is Hα» XuΓ’n HΖ°Ζ‘ngused to be teased about her name because it sounds old-fashionednicknamed MΓ¨o by her mother because she resembled a cat; dislikes it nowgoes drinking often with jueonuses romantic pet names for her friends
gazing at flowers
hist.
her
story
home sweet home
In the midst of a hot, heavy summer, on a particularly and unbearably muggy day, a little girl named Jeon Myohee was born. It was a rather standard occasion; the mother had given birth three times before, and seemed almost bored with the process by the fourth. Thus, two days after one became two, Nguyα» n Thα» BΓch Thuα»· left the hospital with a new child in hand; and that was that.
Myohee's family was never as normal as her birth, thought, and certainly not as dull. Her father owned a decently large barley farm in the outskirts of the city, passed down from his father and so on. He was, however, around twenty-five years older than Myohee's mother, who had sold herself off to the slimy creature at the ripe age of seventeen, hoping to be able to send money back to her family in rural Vietnam -- and, if God is kind, bring them along with her and make them Korean citizens.
[TW: DOMESTIC ABUSE]
Though her wish of funds was granted, it came at a rather hefty price. After all, no man who buys a foreign wife half his age is a good one. Jeon Mansik was a raging misogynist and narcissist with an unquenchable temper. Myohee's mother didn't even have to do anything wrong; she could simply exist, and Jeon Mansik, high off of his ego and high off of his fucking horse, would sit back in his armchair and degrade her. Call her bitch, whore, tell her to clean the fucking house, you useless woman, yell at her for the shitty-ass food she made as if he could do any better, all with a twisted smirk on his lips and a glow in his eyes like being an ass was the light of his life. He would beat her if he was in a mood, and since Jeon Mansik was the human embodiment of an overactive volcano, that happened all too often. He hated being disrespected, and loathed criticism even more. Myohee remembers getting her hair yanked and being slapped across the face and having muddled purple bruises on her torso from when she was young and stupid enough to complain.
It was Jeon Mansik's household, and he was a raging dictator.
A few times, Myohee had tried to run away. Every time, she was returned by the police, who turned a blind eye to the local barley king Jeon Mansik's wrongdoings. He would smile, thank the officers, before closing the door and beating Myohee with his belt, smiling as he did it. Afterwards, he would kneel down and put his hands on her shoulders, speaking in dulcet tones about how he loved her, and that he was a flawed man but he really did, and that she had gone too far and acted too ungrateful for the home she was given.
Myohee had enough of her home. Had enough of it for a while. Not like she could do anything about it, though.
the power of love
In her last days of primary school, Myohee was pulled out of class by the principal and told that her mother had come to pick her up early.
Nguyα» n Thα» BΓch Thuα»· put up a good act, like always. She thanked the principal kindly, and guided her daughter to the family car, Myohee's hand grasped in hers. She told Myohee that one of her father's partners had had a discussion with him (something she did not elaborate on), and now they all had to get DNA testing.
Myohee asked why, and her mother paused, hesitating for a long moment before saying, "to prove his paternity."
At the red light, her mother turned her head and locked gazes with her daughter, reaching out to cup her cheek. She did that until the car behind her honked his horn, before turning back to the wheel, ever-composed.
Even before they reached the hospital, Myohee knew she was not Jeon Mansik's daughter.
But she took the test without a word. Went home like nothing happened. Closed her eyes and covered her ears when her father started yelling again. Stood up and charged into the other room, screaming and swinging at her father even though her heart was about to beat out of her chest in fear, becauseifsince she was illegitimate, things were going to get worse when the results came back, and fuck! Did it really matter anymore?
The day the results came back was a quiet one. Mansik summoned his wife and Myohee to his office. He stared at the two of them, before getting up to slap BΓch Thuα»· in the face. He then turned to Myohee, sneering, "you are not my daughter," and Myohee, feeling a storm of emotions (anger, fear, anxiety, guilt, anger, anger, anger) bit her tongue and stopped herself from saying "good."
But then he said, "I don't want to see you for as long as I'm on this cursed earth, bastard," and Myohee felt a sudden wave of fear. She saw something like this coming, but all of a sudden, she wanted to get on her knees and beg her father to take her back. Because for all of his abuse, he had moments where he would hug his wife, hug his children, telling them all about how he loved him so after he had finished unleashing his rage at them, and that he was a flawed man, so please forgive him. He had moments where he went to watch Taewoong's soccer games or Yuran's choir performances -- and if he was feeling particularly kind, he had moments where he got over his pretentious standards of masculinity and took Myeongho to his art classes. He had those rare, rare moments where he hugged Myohee and told her "good job", and though she always felt her stomach twist whenever he did so, part of her wanted to believe it. Jeon Mansik was an abusive son of a bitch, but sometimes he told his wife "I love you," and sometimes he gave his children gifts. And those deeds would never be enough to make up for his sins, but Myohee sometimes wished it was. Don't we all want a good father? Haven't we all been loved by someone who did bad things?
And coldly, rationally, with the drive of survival, Myohee understood that Jeon Mansik was her only sense of stability. In the Jeon household, she may have been walking on fire, but being burned alive in familiar terrain was preferable to having nothing beneath her feet at all. But the look in her father's eyes was final, and Myohee only had her mother to cling to. Her mother, who always accepted her fate. Her mother, who was like a still figure at the foot of exploding Pompeii, who simply sighed when she knew her death would come. If Myohee was caught in a river of lava, would her mother run to save her? Or would she stand there, and accept her fate? Part of Myohee wanted Mansik to take her back, but part of her also wanted her mother to stand up to him, because that's the power of love, right? Would her mother cast her away too?
Little Myohee held her breath, turning to her mother with expectant eyes. Turned to her mother, whose head was downcast, whose eyes were hollow, whose lips opened briefly to say the word "okay." And suddenly, Myohee, who was holding her breath underwater, waiting to be saved by the lifeguard who stood at the part of shore where water met sand, was neglected and pushed further into the deep. She was drowning, drowning, and the one person she relied on to save her had turned her away.
Myohee started crying, screaming, pleading. Why are you doing this to me I thought I was your daughter I thought you loved me where am I supposed to go are you just going to leave me alone aren't you my family don't you love me --
don't you love me?
migration
Myohee was woken up from her last night of sleep in the Jeon household the next morning, so early that the sky was still black. Her mother allowed her to pack her things briefly; Myohee took everything she owned. Then, as the sky yellowed and blued, Myohee's mother drove her away from the home, away from the house that had an oak fence and a rusted weathercock perched on the roof, and towards the edge of the farm. Dirtied white structures came into view, and Myohee vaguely recognized them as the migrant farmer dormitories, built out of shipping container and plastic.
Wordlessly, her mother led her out of the car, going into the structure and knocking on the fourth door. A man about Myohee's mother's age answered the door; he was heavily tanned, with grown out hair and a worn striped shirt.
The two adults had a stiff conversation, speaking in Vietnamese too rapid for Myohee to understand. Finally, the man turned to her with an expression of stark disbelief.
"Mèo, this is your new father," her mother addressed her suddenly. "His name is Hoà ng Anh Dũng, and he works on the Jeon farm. He is from the North and he can't speak any Korean. He works long hours and his home is much less comfortable than what you're used to, but he will take good care of you."
With that, Myohee's mother stood back up, hesitating for a few moments before walking back to the car.
Myohee was aghast. She whipped around and yelled, "is that it?! You hand me off to a stranger and just walk away from me? What the hell, do I mean that little to you? I thought you were my mother, I thought you loved me! WHY are you abandoning me?"
Myohee kept screaming until she couldn't register the words coming from her mouth. Around her, other tanned, hunched-over people ignored the screaming girl, too concerned with how much they could afford to eat.
"Hey." The man Myohee was handed off to tapped her shoulder. She turned around. "Your mother ... she has three other children. Right? She has family back home too. She is in a bad marriage. She needs to stay for her other children. Her other family, too."
Nothing the man (her father) said comforted Myohee; instead, it only made her angrier. "So I'm just worth less than anything else, huh? I'm so worthless that she can go back home without me and pretend like I never existed?"
"Her choice is not a right one. Not a good one, either." The man paused for a moment, glancing around at the sea of people around him, people who spoke a myriad of languages and came from a myriad of different places but all suffered the same struggle. "Life is difficult. Rarely is anything good or right. What choice do we have?"
The look the migrant worker gave her made Myohee's face flush with shame, as it was all-so-clear that in his world, she was the choice he could never make.
Myohee turned back to stare at her mother's retreating car -- little puffs of smoke from the exhaust pipe evanescing into the gray sky -- and understood, bitterly, that her mother and the man she had an affair with were not too different at all.
the power of love ii
What choice do we have?
That mantra was one that Myohee begrudgingly adopted. She existed in a firestorm of emotions (anger, sadness, rejection, abandonment, rage, desolation, grief), but those words her new father uttered were the one measure of solemnity she could tend to within the flames. For the first few months, she oscillated between her firestorm and a sort of numbed, hysterical shock. Her old life had a few stable comforts; homemade food, after-school activities, vacations, a nice house. People she could talk to and understand without having to relearn a language she neglected. Money -- not too much, but more than enough. Her new life -- one she was thrust into without any kindness -- became difficult in all the ways it was easy before, and kinder in the one way it was cruel.
HoΓ ng Anh DΕ©ng worked long hours; he was up before the sun and returned after midnight, because after he did his work in the fields, he went into the city to work as a garbage man. Myohee had to live in a single room apartment with water leaking through the thin walls, no AC making for too-cold winters and too-hot summers. She hated it, hated her new home -- it was dilapidated and smelly and lonely. Myohee began to cling onto her friends, making close ones in the middle school she was transferred to (so she could avoid the Jeon family). She did homework with the ones who couldn't afford cram school, and usually stayed at their homes to eat dinner. She would return to her new home late at night, usually to a wrapped bowl of homemade food. If her father was asleep, Myohee would lay on her futon and steep in her guilt. If he was still working, she would lay on her futon and cry.
Sixth months after her new life began, a cheque arrived in the mail. It was from Myohee's mother, and was enough for them to move out of the shabbily-built dormitories into a slightly less shabby apartment on the edge of the farm. The payments began to come regularly, and Anh DΕ©ng was able to quit his night job. The two of them subsisted off of the money from the cheques, while the rest of Anh DΕ©ng's earnings were sent back to Vietnam to support his family. They began to have enough time to play games together, or for Myohee's real father to tell her stories of his old life.
Sometimes, in between the self-pitying and the anger and the grief and the painful, painful memories, it would strike Myohee how much kindness she had been given by a stranger who accepted his fate and chose not to turn her away.
Once, her father surprised her by taking her out to eat Korean BBQ -- a meal that was rather out of their budget, but he had insisted, as he had saved up when she told him her favorite food was short ribs. It was a joyous day -- not too hold, not too cold, with glazed ribs and spicy noodles and sweet juicy pears. For a moment, Myohee could've forgotten about everything.
But of course, life is a god high off of its cruel irony, and in the single instance Myohee looked past her father flipping meat on the grill, she saw them. It was her mother. And Taewoong. And Yuran. And Myeongho. And Jeon Mansik, the dictator.
For a moment, time seemed to stop its movements, crawling over to Myohee and gripping her heart as if taunting her with all the painful, painful memories. But in the next moment, her father -- who had not seen the others as his back was to them -- put another rib on her plate as he delved into another story about his beloved second dog. And time released its grip on her, and though Myohee couldn't lie to herself and say she didn't care about them, their cruelty, their abandonment, she could tell herself that there were other things and other people she grew to care more about and who deserved it much more than them.
When she went to bed that night, all of her dreams were pleasant.
choices
The conditions the migrant laborers worked in were atrocious -- long hours, little pay, shabby housing, under the hot sun. Myohee's father and all his colleagues all had a plethora of health conditions, and every year, a few of them would pass. But what choice did they have? They were all poor, with basic Korean at best and no opportunities. What choice did they have?
When her father wouldn't wake up one day, Myohee screamed and cried and cursed the world for never giving any of them a choice. Fuck that some of them were poor and uneducated, fuck that some of them had shitty parents, fuck that some of them were backed into a corner because of shit they couldn't control, fuck that people born into shitty circumstances would most always live shitty lives and meet shitty ends -- fuck everything!! Fuck that Myohee had a shit father who beat them all up and pretended to be their savior all at once, fuck that her mother couldn't say no, fuck that the best person in her life had come and gone too quickly. Fuck her shithole of her life that was a cycle of pain and convincing herself that it was okay.
When her father died, Myohee was seventeen and lost. Where could she go? What could she do about their house, her meals, her schooling? What about money? Myohee had no idea how to be an adult, and she had no one to show her the way.
The next day, Myohee found herself on the porch of the Jeon home. She was desperate, and it had been raining, and she had come all this way, drenching herself in water and metallic stench to be here and pray that someone would help her.
The person who opened the door was her mother, and Myohee immediately started rambling. "He's dead, I have no one, I'm still a minor, I have no one else, no other relatives, you need to take me back --"
A familiar man appeared behind her mother and shoved her aside. Jeon Mansik got up in Myohee face, shooting a ball of phlegm into her eye and spitting, "what did I say to you six years ago, bastard?"
I don't want to see you for as long as I'm on this cursed earth.
BΓch Thuα»· did nothing. Beyond them, Myohee could see Taewoong -- older and uncharacteristically quiet. No one did anything for a few moments, until Mansik sneered and slammed the door in Myohee's face, the force of it blinding her.
For one who had been through so much -- who had faced so much rejection -- Myohee was far too emotional. Not once had she been truly numbed from anything she underwent; she wondered if she could ever be described as resilient, because she never felt it. Every time she was faced with life's cruelty, she felt a blinding rage and a heart-wrenching grief.
So Myohee screamed, kicking at the door and making sure that everyone heard. Then, she ran. Ran away from shitty-ass Pocheon, ran away from the best and worst moments of her life. She dropped out of school and booked a train ticket to Seoul -- Seoul, city of dreams. After a few days of trying to find a part-time job, and being repeatedly turned away due to their nonexistent guardian, Myohee found herself a job in a brothel. She rather liked it; her madam took too big of a share of her earnings, and the sex was never good, but the other girls were kind to her. They taught her about the city and took her out drinking. They protected her from shitty guys and listened when she needed to cry.
Sometimes, after a session with a shitty client, Myohee would laugh and cry and think to herself that she and her mother weren't all too different -- selling themselves to men to pay the bills. Fuck, she hated it.
Eventually, like all the other times in her life, Myohee adjusted. After acting more as a therapist than a sexual partner for her last few clients, she began procuring a particular reputation, and found that she didn't mind at all. Her jobs transitioned from actual demands of sex to maybe a handjob before she comforted and advised those poor men. The other girls thought it was stupid, but Myohee found herself actually caring about her clients and their struggles, wishing them well before falling asleep. Her heart ached for everyone who came to her -- how could it not, when she had felt so much pain and saw her scars reflected in another? How could Myohee leave them behind, like others had done to her?
After a year at the brothel, Myohee left, deciding that the madam was too much of a leech and that she had enough loyal clients to survive on her own. She kept in contact with the girls, but the dynamic was never the same after she was no longer one of them.
Though she was able to subsist on her connections, Myohee felt unsatisfied. After all, she lived a life of solitude, and for a girl like Hwang Myohee, solitude was loneliness. And Myohee never wanted to be alone, ever again.
misc.
No Service
22:58
Friday, 24th December
-
jeon family
You may be your whore mother's daughter, but you're certainly not mine.
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You may be your whore mother's daughter, but you're certainly not mine.Myohee doesn't hate her family (at least that's not how she would choose to phrase it), but she does feel irredeemable anger towards the. If she were to be wholly honest, however, her feelings about them are still more complicated than that, though Myohee bitterly blames that entirely on herself. After all, if she could choose, she wouldn't want to think about them still. If she could choose, she wouldn't have ran to them. If she could choose, she wouldn't remember the way her father would apologize after beating them as if that made him good, or how her mother was a kind woman aside from her complacency. People are complicated, and unfortunately, so are Myohee's feelings.good fucking riddance -
HoΓ ng Anh DΕ©ng
come home soon, i've made bÑnh xèo
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come home soon, i've made bÑnh xèoIt was hard for Myohee to warm up to her biological father, but in her later years, she had grown to appreciate him and all he did for her in its entirety. Sometimes, she still marvels at how good someone would have to be to keep and cherish a child they never wanted. She only wishes she could've appreciated her father more before he lost the war to his health issues.<3 <3 -
yoo saerin
jueon-ssi's so nice tho ^^;;
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jueon-ssi's so nice tho ^^;;sure, but he doesn't deserve ur rose tinted glasses rinniehes just another guyLorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Suspendisse vitae molestie quam. Integer id metus finibus, rhoncus tellus non, faucibus enim. Nullam ac rhoncus ex, sit amet laoreet tortor. Suspendisse sagittis quam ligula. Aliquam vitae mauris ut eros dictum dictum non quis ipsum. Nam felis enim, ullamcorper finibus eros quis, lobortis lacinia elit. Nulla pharetra justo nisl, et fringilla arcu eleifend sit amet. Aliquam at risus lacinia mi scelerisque dignissim. Curabitur feugiat nulla diam, eu tristique magna laoreet non. Nulla lorem urna, faucibus id odio id, molestie molestie dui. Vestibulum in blandit velit. Vestibulum ante ipsum primis in faucibus orci luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia curae; Pellentesque ac interdum purus. Integer sagittis elit quis turpis elementum, non mollis sapien fermentum. Proin quis risus vitae velit tincidunt dignissim.prob not a good one either -
han jueon
let's go out tonight
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let's go out tonightMyohee would definitely consider Jueon a friend, and him existing alongside Mingyu only makes him look better in comparison. He's chill and they've had fun times, but at the same time, Myohee is very aware of the levels Jueon could stoop to, and maybe a little frightened of how unaffected he would be doing so. Could you blame her for feeling a little wary about Saerin's opinion of him?how can u be so passionate abt drinking when u dont even want to get drunk
But we all have our flaws, and at the moment, Jueon is pretty decent. Myohee only wishes he could open up to her more, though. -
lee mingyu
why tf should i
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why tf should iim gonna throttle u u filthy trollMingyu, frankly, infuriates Myohee. He's abrasive, crude, inconsiderate, and he never fucking does his chores (she is not his mother). They're in a situation where all of their past grievances with each other makes even the littlest thing rage-inducing, and Myohee isn't too sure if their relationship will better any time soon.stop being a bratty kid
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βthrowing chasing beating stabbing ripping me open. tearing up my insides. reaching inside my chest cavity, grabbing my heart; tug, squeeze, pull. you burn up my effigy and laugh. maybe you should fear the flames; maybe i'll laugh when you burn. ha!
her
footsteps
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basc.
psy.
hist.
misc.
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