#jikein

Send me a url and I'll answer the following;;

Opinion on;

Character in general: Hm, I like the fact that he didn't just push calvin out of the way? And he sorta just seems to be a witty guy, despite him maybe not being it? o3o but in the convo with him and calvin, i just really found him even more interesting and have been wanting to roleplay with them ever since - but im sure they're busy, so no pushing from my side!How they play them: Excellent! did you see that flawless writing, like jesus christ, i'm feeling like a 5 year old, trying to learn english all over again. go to him if you seek some interesting conversations, i think he's quite creative!The Mun: Haven't spoken.. i only think once when i asked about smth lol. But seems nice! ^^

Do I:

RP with them: Yes.Want to RP with them: I'd wish we could more, so yeeeeeeeeeeah.

What is my;

Overall Opinion: A great person, mun or muse - funny to be roleplaying with and i'm only hoping for some more interaction between our characters.

Written for you

Air burned him in his lungs, big intakes and outtakes of oxygen filled the air as he tried to stand up still. The world coming back on his view again, as if he was just waking up from a dream, or a nightmare, anyway, he didn't remember. The only thing he knew is that it was dark night, thin fog danced on the floor in a white stream that surrounded the street, alley, to be exact.

Swallowing and breathing became almost an impossible mission, finding himself breathing harder once his mouth was dry. His lips, chapped and cold trembled, and so did his hands. His hands. When his eyes found them a loud gasp escaped from the very inside of his being. There was so much blood. Not that it scared him, or made him want to faint. But it was shocking, what had happened?

James checked himself for injuries, a test that didn't last too long since nothing really hurt beside his head, and arms. It was soreness more than ache, as if he had been exercising. Next thing, he stepped away from where he was, turned around, trying to find a body from which the blood came from.

There was none. 

Rubbing her eyes out of drowsiness as well as sleepiness, she then wiped the corner of her lips with the back of her hand, talk about being the prim and proper lady she had never been. Sinking her teeth down onto her bottom to make sure she wasn't merely hallucinating, she filled her cheeks with air and let out a soft huff. "Seriously, don't take the role of superhero and disappear in the blink of an eye. The Flash, is it? Is that what's he's called? Don't I get breakfast in bed even though it's eleven at night?" The girl let out a laugh with the corner of her lips curled into a playful grin. 

     Holden knew going out and purchasing a new television by himself would most likely be problematic. But because of the severe lack of activities he had at home, his TV was what kept him busy and entertained on most days. The fact that it had broken down just a few days before his birthday, upset him to an extent. But eventually he reasoned with himself, deciding he would purchase a new one as an early present to himself. Walking from the store back to his home with the large TV however, was the one thing he hadn't thought through. What an idiot. He thought to himself, tugging the large box along with all the strength he could muster. Then releasing an sharp sigh of exhaustion, Holden supposed this wasn't exactly a one-man job. Allowing his eyes to wander, he called over the closet person to him-- Hoping they wouldn't mind assisting him with his ordeal.   

Gikwang discovers Natalya's terrible secret.

''It's--It's not what it looks like...'' she swallowed loudly unsure how was she supposed to react and what was she supposed to say. It was a first for someone to find out about this part of her life, the part that she herself would deny.

She was sure that for now she looked like some kind of crazy person, but there was a reason behind why she had been talking to herself. With a heavy sigh, Natalya looked down at the ground, having him think of her as just crazy seemed like such a good escape, a good lie to protect herself from the actual reality that has been haunting her since the day she was born.

{ + jikein }

        She noticed it all. How distant he slowly started to become, but she didn’t think much of it originally. The text messages sent became vague, uninterested, and detached. His smile didn’t reach his eyes around her anymore. He was always making use of that excuse. ‘It’s just work, Sojin.’ He told her, countless times he told her, but she never believed it was just work. When she was around him, she never felt the pressure of having to be an idol, and it was a feeling she wanted to hold on to for as long as she possibly could. Within his profession, she always came up with these scenarios as to him being in love with a co-worker, falling for his or her looks and would eventually forget all about the girl he knew as "Nala". 

       He is a porn star.

       She knew this, had known from the beginning, and she could have attempted to push that wretched feeling into the back of her mind, suppressing any type of anger or hurt over what was going on. It wasn’t her place to be upset, that’s what she always told herself, but she couldn’t help but feel possessive over him. Then again, he wasn’t hers anyway, so why was she throwing a fit about it now. Truthfully, she felt silly for it, but would that green little monster inside of her ever show it? Of course not.

       That was why, instead of responding in any reasonable manner, she resulted to a petty argument. 

       She glanced at their surroundings, momentarily, so as to make sure no one would overhear their conversation – but his voice disrupted her reverie, obliging her to look his way once again. That same old excuse spilled from his lips. ‘It’s just work.’ Hurt flashed across her eyes at the thought that he’d been with someone else, but she didn’t speak of it. She was tired of having to hide behind the lies of ‘Don’t worry, I’m fine’ and 'No, it's okay, I understand. Maybe next time.' Sojin always told herself that she would speak up once, let him know how she really felt about his profession; yet, every time the opportunity arose, she chickened out.

It's 3 am, or was 3 am when he last had the opportunity to check a watch, and Ivon is half drunk, half filled with regret, sitting on a broken bench that almost gives out under his weight, with his head thrown back and eyes closed. His cheeks red, after having been bitten constantly by the harsh winter wind outside have gone numb and are splattered with a very bright shade of pink, his lips dry and stinging make him appear almost as broken and conflicted he truly is inside. There's a voice booming into the speakers announcing the train is gonna leave shortly, the few scattered around people standing up along with their bags to go in it;  there's an old and beaten suitcase by the legs of the bench and a man with his hair staying in every direction possible thinking about all the things he shouldn't. The setting is almost as depressing and sad as our dear and loved hero.

The mini-bottle of Jack Daniels tucked safely away in the inner pocket of his coat  makes noises, letting itself know when Ivon brings his head to his forehead to push back the fallen strands of hair. His fingers twitch and shake at the thought of chucking down another good ol' swing of alcohol, but his breath reminds him there's nothing left on the bottom of it and that it has yet to affect him all that much. There's a sight moving past his lips and materializing into steam in front of his mouth, creating unique patterns of smoke and he really wishes he didn't finish the last pack of cigarettes he had on him 10 minutes ago. He really wishes he didn't know how to take large amounts of alcohol so well or have a memory so vivid he can still feel bullets going in and out of his body when he's in the shower and his fingerstips accidentally touch the scars or reamins thereof.  Ivon watches expressionlessly as the train starts moving, the sound the engine is making defeaning him and making him mimic the fanthom of a cringe, eyes barely moving to watch it disappear into nothing and be left with the empty reminder of the fuck up he is and how he's not even good at running away. He doesn't have much to pin the blame onto for his hesitation other than his heavy conscience, other than his mistakes and resulting in the one at fault being nobody else but him, which isn't really a pleasing and satisfying result no matter from what perspective he forces himself to look at the problem.

The train station look abandoned, like a cemetery of steel and metal all piled together to pass as gigants looking over the city of lights from a distance, a forgotten establishment allowed to still be standing to appeal to the lower classes that are in majorite and yet ignored. The kind of trip he had planned on taking couldn't have been taken in any other way for it was a cowardish escape from the consequences of the sin committed and of the blood he has washed with bleach and stil remianed imprinted onto his hands and onto his hands. No other thing that can be done other than walking away makes him stand up with his hands shoved into the pockets of his winter coat he has grabbed in a hurry from the back of his closet, Ivon wiggling his legs to try and make the blood run faster through his veins and warm his body a little bit up with the expectation in the mind that the worry of taking a step or two and falling to the ground because of the lack of energy vanishing because of that. He takes a hand out, wrapping his fingers around the handle of the suitcase and pulling it up, swinging it by his body as he starts walking away slowly from the scene of the murder, the culprit being him and the victim — him. One of those paradoxes one can't avoid in this kind of situation and especially when talking about Ivon.

The only sound scratching at his eardrums is that of his footsteps, echoes of them ringing into the distance like the last breath of life of a harsh wind. He has a destination in mind he connects to the gates of hell and compares it to them, he has a face in mind he will have to kiss and worship and kill for and a taxi he stops at the side of the road and gets into to take him to the grave he will be using starting now, a modern adaptation of the boat on the Styx river. The smell of beer fills his nostrils and burn at the sensitive skin. There's something  moving under bench, something wanting to escape, but his eyes are fixed onto the passing scenaries and he cannot be bothered to check. It's at this time in the night that Seoul shows its true colours and the dirt it's trying to push under the skyscrappers. You just gotta get used to it.

The lamp in front of the apartment has a flickering light, the bulb most likely close to dying out or inclined to making everything seem more dangerous, a sign from the holy figure out there in the horizont that's trying to warn him of the trap he's willingly going into without any hard feelings. The shadows thrown onto the pavement by the building he's entering enforces the omnious feelings creeping into his bones and eating at his morrow bones with tiny sharp teeth, little knives a kid has stolen from the table when he wasn't supervised by the adults, stocking them under the bed and waiting for the right moment to take them out and carve into flesh. The elevator makes painful noises as he takes him past floors with people with so many stories there isn't enought paper, enough trees to write it them on. Ivon thinks the alcohol must have had an effect on the reality he's seeing, turning him into a bloody artist with cheap words to spill onto the walls, covered in vomit and the last thing he had eaten before running out of his own apartment without a second to catch his breath.