@hpjevan

IN DEATH, SHE FINDS PENANCE. bring forth the holy day, marked by death, it carries a comforting scent of decaying vanilla—as grandmother always did, even as her body laid embalmed in its velvet bed, displayed for all to see. figures, the old bat would be up for one last hoorah of attention seeking.

( our lovely bastard cannot speak too loudly, however, clad in black lace and tight leather, a dress that screamed more of grieving widow to millions than estranged granddaughter. )

but in the case of her family, she, as the resident black sheep, is used to stares. to being stripped bare to the bleached bone under judgmental eyes. see, it didn’t matter then, how she’d dress herself—they’d strip her bare to her rotted insides regardless.

and had it not been the promise of riches, the possibility of being passed millions (and at the request of the family lawyer), she wouldn’t even be caught dead here.

her family certainly had nothing to do with a band of stuck ups like her mother’s family.

this, easily proven by the fact that her mother isn’t even here (be it her being uninvited or simply uninterested) at her own mother’s wedding.

( though she cannot deny that it stands to ease some of the pressure off her chest. )

still, our little bastard was reasonably unsettled in front of this motley crew. this human cesspool of vultures—again, she cannot complain, is she not cut from the same cloth?—who could do nothing but stare at her existence (her aunts and cousins hold their husbands and boyfriends closer, noses upturned and eyes narrowed, as if scandalized by her appearance).

and her cheeks would have burned, shamed, had she not been used to staring—had she not had enough of it when mother would bring her to these events in her youth, when mother, soft around the edges, still found comfort in family. 

regrettably, they found nothing but disappointment in her.

so she stands now by her lonesome, glass in hand and a sardonic curve on pink lips. wakes were boring, depressing even, and suran hated it more to be here of all places.

sentence meme for @hpjevan​ // not accepting

“bro, you hit a blunt. not like you just tried to murder someone.” he lets the joint rest in between his lips. breathes in, breathes out, coughs, then looks back up at evan. “unless, this is about something else?”

one by one, jongin begins to crack his knuckles — partially out of habit, but more so just to clear the air. it’s quiet for a bit, save for the faint strum of a guitar solo in the background from inside the bar, then jongin speaks up again.

@hpjevan

The leisurely musk forms a warm but foreign embrace.

Tartness and languid huskiness permeates, waxes and wanes like a poet’s full moon; before it settles upon treasures yet undiscovered, and mayhaps never will. Perhaps that is the allure; that such rare gifts, more fulfilling than riches are reserved for the hunter alone, should you sharpen your ears like you would your fangs, and dare to consume something much more substantial than mere food.

The smell is intimate, yet not. Nostalgic, yet alien all the same.

Yes; Sojin doesn’t know what kind of otherworldly force possessed her to step foot into a run-down record store like this one, but for this act of miracle Sojin would gladly convert to it, and not a single question will be asked.

As she walks through the aisles, wraith-like fingertips tracing the sharp edges of records like Sleeping Beauty would her spindle, searching for a remnant of her teenage-hood as if she had lost it in the first place, Sojin supposes she thought she would find solace here in Hapjeong; in an old record store filled with the heavy soul of wise musicians, hoping to find her own.

But alas, it was never meant to be. Sojin had been too far to tell before, but now she sees it as light as day: the boy behind the counter with model-like cheekbones was undoubtedly Park Jaehyung. His hair may be rocker-esque blonde now, but there was really no way to hide good genetics.

(At this point Sojin wonders why she even bothers to hire private investigators, when she’s apparently quite adapt at finding her clients herself.)

Unbidden, Sojin thinks back onto the case file on her desk, and dwells upon the greying, weary smile that accompanied it. Oh, the resemblance is astonishingly uncanny: blood is indeed thicker than the distance that separates it, that much is always true. Children always catch themselves acting like their parents one day.

She approaches the counter with a random trot record in her hand, and as she nears, Sojin wonders how one would feel to see your progeny once again; to gaze into eyes that are so achingly similar to that of yours? Yes, how would it feel to see the eyes of a stranger’s staring back? Or worse, looking away at some distant thing you can’t even fathom?

But no, there was unmistakable youth in the softness of Jaehyung’s features, and upon seeing that, Sojin forgets to wonder if Jaehyung’s father ever considered the possibility of seeing a stranger again. She forgets to wonder if Jaehyung’s mother had a reason for leaving, having perhaps caught a glimpse of her husband’s inner demons. She forgets to wonder if Jaehyung’s mother brought Jaehyung to America just to cover his eyes with wool, but Sojin did remember to ponder this: Would Jaehyung want to take the wool off instead?

(Either way, Sojin hardens her heart, and forcibly distances herself from all the aimless wondering: the age-old custody dispute was filed for Jaehyung’s mother. There was no need to waste time pondering about the young, yet perplexingly tired features of Park Jaehyung.)

“Hello.” Sojin settles for the tried-and-true, universal greeting, smoothly placing the record on top of the counter. “Pardon my boldness, but could your name be Park Jaehyung?”