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Interviewing an Asshole [ft. Choi Yeonjun]

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Interviewing an Asshole [ft. Choi Yeonjun]

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“What’s your favorite animal?”

An odd question, sure, but probably not the weirdest first question in an AMA for a public figure. Yeonjun supposed he should be grateful for small favors.

“I have two favorite animals, actually. Growing up, I loved birds. I could spend hours bird watching in the park, and I did spend hours waiting for pigeons to eat from my hands. But as a teenager, I developed a fondness for foxes after I started being compared to them visually.”

He stills, not so much out of nicety as habit, aware of the camera that zooms in to capture those so-called foxy features. After a moment, humming, he continues. “As of now, they’re both in the top spot, but which one I favor for the day depends on…a number of different factors, really. Today…. I think it would have to be the fox.” His lips twist, just a touch wry and a little bit cunning. “I’m feeling sly like a fox.”

“Which animal do you dislike the most?”

“That’s kind of an ugly question, isn’t it?”

Yeonjun can’t help the way his mouth curls at the corners, an edge of petulance creeping into his tone. “That presumes I dislike an animal.”

And it is presumptuous – Yeonjun likes animals more than he likes most people, especially considering the company he keeps. But this is an AMA, and he doesn’t have control over the questions asked, even if he wishes he did. It’s foolish to become upset over something so petty.

“I don’t dislike animals,” he starts before pausing, reconsidering his approach, “but growing up, there was one cat I really disliked, I guess.” Yeonjun leans back in his seat, expression shifting.

“I was young, seven, maybe eight and there was this bird that nested in the tree right outside my bedroom window. I loved that bird. I got to spend my summers watching it raise chicks there. ….and there was a neighborhood cat, a fat tom that chased squirrels and mice, and—and anything smaller than it. It was the only cat in the neighborhood that had ever caught any birds, and—”

Grief is sour on his tongue, but not sour enough to overtake the bitterness of hate. “I noticed one day that the bird wasn’t in its nest. I never saw it in its nest again.”

It’s not a lie. Yeonjun does not admit he’d named the bird, or that he’d been devastated when he found the broken, battered body on the sidewalk the morning after noting the empty nest. It’s not hard to put two and two together.

He clears his throat after a moment, the sound like gravel underfoot, and tries to put the image of an empty nest and bloodied feathers from his mind. “Let’s move on to the next question.”

“What place would you most like to visit?”

This is the sort of question Yeonjun had expected, and it’s so surprising that he feels the tiniest bit put off by it. Where does he most want to visit? “A few years ago, I would have told you Paris.” There’s a wry twist to Yeonjun’s lips, something between genuine honesty and dry humor. “I went to Paris a two years ago for fashion week It wasn’t as exciting as I was expecting, honestly.” The Parisians had been polite, but wrapped in an elegant disdain that felt like sandpaper against the skin. It had been like meeting a hero; it hadn’t lived up to his expectations.

“I think I’d like to visit California now,” Yeonjun admits after another long moment of consideration, expression creased. “Los Angeles, specifically. The city of angels, a city of beauty.” And a city of sin. “I’ve always wanted to learn to surf, and there’s this beach in California, Sea Glass Beach. It’s-- well, it’s exactly what it sounds like.” He huffs a laugh, flustered now, though he can’t begin to explain why. “It’s a lot further north than LA, and it’s not completely covered in sea glass, but I’d still love to see it at sunrise when the sun hits everything just right, and it glows with light. I bet it’s beautiful.” It exists in his head as a thing of beauty, at least, and he really would love to see it.

But that’s also such a personal response, so genuine and intimate, that for a moment Yeonjun is shaken. He’d never intended to be so intimate, so sincere and upfront with his emotions. He grapples with his recovery, searching for a way to divert attention. “But I-- I think LA would still be my focus, you know? The beaches, boardwalks, and surfing. All those pretty people. And the wings...” The smile that slides into place is shaky, Yeonjun himself is shaking, even as he cocks his head and offers the camera coy glance. “Wouldn’t it be fitting for an angel to visit the City of Angels and find his wings?”

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Interviewing an Idiot (ft. Shim Youngjoon)

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Interviewing an Idiot (ft. Shim Youngjoon)

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What’s your favorite movie?

Dating profiles always ask the strangest question, but Youngjoon supposes that he can imagine why. He’s not a particularly attractive person, and in the best case scenario that someone might actually give him a pass, his interests are meant to reel them in. But that’s a joke, too: he’s about as interesting as he is attractive. The furthest he ever travels is to the airport, to watch the arrivals and glean ideas from the more joyous or devastating reunions…and to watch the departures and wish for the best for all parties. He’s never gone out to see the world, sought his destiny in far off lands, or even traveled just to travel. He’s never chased an elusive man in search of a photograph or hunted the essential quintessence of life.

Maybe that’s why it’s his favorite.

“The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.” Youngjoon tries to smile, but somehow it feels like it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I liked the music they used, too. But it was the story, this man existing in a boring, ordinary life, living in flashes of daydreams and figments. I related to that.” It was one of the many reasons he’d decided to pursue writing as a career while growing up. “I think, in some ways, we all relate to that.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue.”

Blue, the color of the sky at night, the color of the ocean reflecting back the noon sky.

Blue like butterfly wings, the eyes of newborn babies, robin’s eggs, dart frogs, whales, sharks, turquoise, sapphires.

Blue like the peace of lying in a grassy field, fingers intertwined and laughter breathless; blue like cloud-watching on the roof and sharing lunches, dreading the return to stifling classrooms and stagnant air; blue like holding hands at the aquarium, staring down towering behemoths and marveling at cheeky aquatic life, feeling so, so small but not alone, never alone.

Blue like cornflowers, iris, hydrangeas, delphiniums, periwinkles, clematis, blue bells, morning glories, lupine, flax, forget-me-nots; secret messages passed between shaking hands.

Life, fertility; faith, trust, wisdom, hope, valor; gratitude of understanding; big hearted; faith, trust, everlasting love, mental beauty; humility; affection; imagination, admiration, happiness, sensitivity; domestication; don’t forget me, don’t forget me, don’t forget me.

Blue like the rose Youngjoon had pain stakingly cultivated and dyed, to give to Yunho on his birthday their final year together.

Mystery, pride--

Blue, like the color of Yunho’s hair soon after, depthless and serene, almost the dark blue of midnight sky, a shade darker than the rose, looking soft, like crushed velvet, like Youngjoon might find the stars in them if he waits long enough, patient and hopeful.

Always so hopeful.

--unrequited love.

Blue, like Youngjoon had predicted his own destruction.

“It used to be purple and black.” Youngjoon’s smile is brittle and so very fragile. “In high school, it changed. Not sure how or when. It just...did.”

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» ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: ʜᴀᴇᴠɴ - ᴛʜᴇ sᴇᴀ, sᴋʏʟᴀʀ ɢʀᴇʏ - ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪ ɴᴇᴇᴅ, ʙʀᴜɴᴜʜᴠɪʟʟᴇ - ɢʜᴏsᴛ sʜɪᴘ

There’s always work to do in the wake of a battle. Cannons to check and clean, ammunition to restock, the general area of the cannons and weaponry to check for damages and potential hazards, his team to check over. Yeonjun has a laundry list of duties that need revised, and he works through them dutifully alongside his team.

Despite the title of master gunner, given to him for his years of service to Captain Alistair and the Scarlet Lady and to the years he’d served before on the Blue Hour, Yeonjun treats himself like any other member of the crew. Outside of his additional duties with the weapons and ammunition, he slogs through the same bullshit they do and throws himself into their work all the same.

In spite of her circumstances, Yeonjun’s mother had done the best she could for her young son. It was just her luck that as she finally found a way to make an honest woman of herself, stepping from the life of a wench living in a cramped, floating brothel to that of a wealthy man’s mistress, her son had fled and returned to the sea. Still, she’d done right by Yeonjun, raising him to be thoughtful and observant, to remain humble despite windfalls, and to never lord his power over others.

He misses her sometimes, fiercely so. But the life of a classy, groomed aristocrat had never been in Yeonjun’s cards. Suits chafed, and the thought of all those rules… No, Yeonjun had too much fire in his heart and spite in his veins. The lawless life of a pirate, ruled only by their virtues and values, suited him just fine.

Still, he does miss her.

Sighing, Yeonjun drags a hand through his hair, squinting through the dim at the cannon he’d been cleaning. Despite the hour and all the brilliant light outside, the space beneath deck is gloomy, brightened only by the oil-burning lamps and what little light streams through the still-open shutters to pool on the worn wood of the floor. And even with that much, he must take care --- gunpowder had been spilled in their fight, and it still dusts the floor in some places. A spark could set the room ablaze. Even so, all considered, the damage here had been minimal, especially for the vessel they’d taken on. But there was still a new hole in the side, and at least one railing above deck that had been shattered by cannon fire.

“—jun?”

Half in the cannon as he is, Yeonjun doesn’t hear his name until there’s a body almost literally on top of him.

Captain Alistair knows better than to ask Yeonjun what he’s doing, aware of the standards Yeonjun adheres to. And in Yeonjun’s defense, they are good standards — they haven’t lost crew to misfiring cannons since shortly after Yeonjun was promoted into the master gunner role — but he does make a sharp noise of what might be impatience.

How telling.

Yeonjun tries not to smile as he continues to run his fingers over the interior in search of cracks and weakness. “Good day, captain. Lovely weather we’re having,” Yeonjun says by way of greeting. “Let me guess: there’s a meeting and I’m invited.” The captain’s silence is telling enough, if not also some version of exhausted, and Yeonjun attempts to continue smothering his smile. It would not do to be seen or heard laughing at his captain’s irritation. Title or not, Yeonjun has no desire to be locked in the brig for insolence.

“I’ll finish this inspection and head there.” Then, knowing that he’d likely been the first, because it would afford him the time to finish any task he might be midway through, Yeonjun offers, “I believe Crow is still treating the wounded. And I saw Thorn on deck as I was heading down to begin my checks.”

There’s another noise that sounds more like assent than annoyance, and then he can feel more than hear the heavy footfalls as the captain takes his leave.

It takes Yeonjun another couple minutes to finish, though it kills him to leave the overall job unfinished. With a nod to the other gunners that had lingered to clean and restock at his instruction, Yeonjun grabs his tools and moves for the stairs.

Most of the post-battle meetings happened in the navigation room. Often enough, it was to plot a course to sell their new material wealth. But today would likely be another reason. The Scarlet Lady needed repairs, and their carpenter wouldn’t be able to salvage from the vessel they’d battled, not when it had been left in splinters and fragments.

Yeonjun isn’t the first to arrive, but he isn’t the last, either, which means he’s not late. Nodding to Crow, Yeonjun peers over the map on the table as he moves past, eyeing the gilded lettering and the land masses. Despite having picked up just enough skill in map reading to be useful, there’s nothing to indicate the path they’re set on, and he moves back to wait, mulling over what he’s seen.

Atith…

He’s familiar with the name, as most pirates are, because the land is a rich but lawless one – a pirate’s presumed paradise. But in all his time on the Scarlet Lady, Yeonjun doesn’t recall ever docking at an Atith port. He’d assumed then that it was due to a history the captain wasn’t obligated to share with his crew.

Yeonjun’s musing is cut short as the captain and his first mate enter, with Alistair’s heavy bootfalls preceding them and Thorn a study of light and dark, a silent step behind him.

His eyes linger for a long moment, taking in the way the first mate studies the map, before they skitter away. His mother’s words return to him, as they always do when Yeonjun’s attention lingers a little too long in places it shouldn’t.

There’s a danger in beauty, and beauty in danger, and Thorn is both. To look for too long feels like Yeonjun is staring down a beast waiting to strike, and he’s never enjoyed feeling like prey. But even with his eyes cast away, Yeonjun can feel it, the moment a shark is seen in still waters, the moment a lion is seen through the grass. The lull before the storm, the silence before cannon fire.

While there are many reasons Yeonjun had willingly chosen to return to the sea after his mother managed to pull them both away, the first and foremost is that despite Yeonjun’s relative intelligence compared to many of his peers, he’d hated the restrictions of learning from books. Papers and books and lectures and being prim and proper — that hadn’t been the life Yeonjun wanted. But while he’s far from the most learned individual on the ship, he’s skilled enough at reading his peers and learning from their body language. He must be as a pirate. It’s a trick of survival, to be able to see the tell-tale twitch of a hand before it goes to a pistol, to note the tension of muscles and shifting of weight so he knows when to draw his sword and block or when to strike home and end the duel without fanfare.

Yeonjun’s eyes fix on Thorn, hand itching for his blade even though he knows no one in this room will hurt him. It’s instinctive, a need for defense when encountering a bigger predator than oneself.

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Thorn is the only possible the threat Yeonjun might be feeling.

Hand stuffed into the pocket of his breeches to resist the urge to check his weapon, Yeonjun watches the three go back and forth, putting the pieces together.

Thorn’s reluctance to go to Atith, his reaction to Praiya. There’s something there, and Thorn had been the one steering them clear of these waters. But Thorn had always been tight-lipped about his history, the who and what before the Scarlet Lady. Even Yeonjun had opened up during one rowdy celebration following a hard-won battle. It had taken the other gunners plying him with rum and exotic spirits, but eventually Yeonjun had told of growing up in the floating brothel and his fascination with the visiting vessels, of his mother getting them out and his returning to the sea because it felt more like home than the manor his mother’s patron had taken them to, of begging the captain of the Blue Hour to take him on board and give him a chance to prove himself.

There’s something there. Yeonjun just doesn’t know what.

“What do you have against Praiya?”

For the first time in the entire conversation, Yeonjun draws attention to himself, carefully watching Thorn and methodically working to keep the tension from his body. He picks his next words with more caution. “The hole in our hull needs repair sooner rather than later. The railing is an annoyance, but negligible compared to the fact that one rogue wave could sink us.” And though Yeonjun won’t voice it, unlike Thorn, who seems like a strong swimmer, some of their crew would drown in moments. There’s more than just sharks in those waters, and Yeonjun isn’t foolish enough to delude himself into believing otherwise.

“We could pursue another vessel,” Yeonjun starts, stepping forward until he’s at the map, better able to see more of Thorn’s tells, though his eyes remain fixed for the moment on Thorn’s face. “We could take from it what we need for repairs. But we’re not in top shape, and it runs more risk to both the Scarlet Lady and our crew. And that’s just our ship. We need ammunition soon, too, and who knows what else.”

Yeonjun’s not doing this just to pick a fight with Thorn. Not this time at least. Any other time, any other day, any situation other than the one they’re tiptoeing around now, and he might be, just to go boot to toe with one of the best fighters that Yeonjun has ever had the privilege to study in motion. Any other day, and Yeonjun would selfishly relish the opportunity to see Thorn in graceful, deadly flight, a selfishness he can’t bear admitting aloud to anyone else because of the implications of the act.

He's tried so hard not to be selfish.

But today he must think of the crew first, putting their safety and needs before his own desires, and that makes the choice easy, if only this once.

Yeonjun glances from Thorn down to the map, then to the captain, and finally back to Thorn, brow arched. “What other options do we have?”

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» ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ.: sᴀᴍ ᴛɪɴɴᴇsᴢ - ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪғ ɪᴛ ʜᴜʀᴛs (ᴀᴄᴏᴜsᴛɪᴄ)

The kingdom glows golden under a starless sky, radiant and ethereal. The white stucco of the buildings, once a show of opulent wealth in the city center, now reflects the light back upon itself, multiplying until the horizon glows with it. As far as the eye can see, the city is awash with light, shadows thrown up in stark relief as they dance and flicker in the wind.

In any other setting, any other situation, it might have been beautiful.

But smoke rides on the same wind that rustles the trees and screams echo in the distance, carried like the ash that drifts from the sky like lazy, midsummer snowflakes.

The kingdom is burning and Yeosang only has himself to blame.

A gust of wind pushes the heat of the flames against Yeosang's face, ruffling the sweat-soaked strands that curl at his temples. Yeosang closes his eyes to it, grieving, reminding himself, silent and devastated, that this is his fault, his greatest, most grievous fault—

Yeosang opens his eyes to the dark canopy of his bed and predawn pooling like liquid silver across his floor. Despite the window remaining shut, Yeosang's throat is dry and his eyes itch as if he'd been breathing in polluted air, and he is reminded of the nightmare that must have woken him.

It seems ominous, to have had such a dream, and Yeosang hopes it's not a prelude for what's to come.

˗ˏˋ ☼ ˎˊ˗

“The village of Covia has been burned to the ground, your majesty. No survivors have been recovered.”

“The corn fields east of Sellkirt were burned. Preliminary reports suggest we’ve lost the entire crop. The villagers won’t have the necessary foodstuffs to survive the winter without assistance from the crown.”

“Falcons from the fisherfolk at Lake Evendim have reported unusual figures on the edges of the lake. They haven’t attempted to cross the waters yet, but the fisherfolk have reported a decline in the fish being caught. We might want to consider the possibility that the lake might be poisoned.”

“Your majesty! New reports are coming in of what appears to be an army south of the capital. Descriptions match those sent to us by the Evendim fisherfolk.”

“They don’t even appear to be human. Humanoid, maybe, but far from human. Bulbous heads, additional limbs, unnatural joints. Even many of the smallest reported are taller than an adult man. What are these things?”

“Majesty, the army has been put on alert, and guards posted along the exterior wall to the city. If those things try to breach the wall, we’ll be ready for them.”

“I’m sorry, your majesty, but the council has forbidden us from letting you leave. What would we do if you were to go out there and fall to the invaders? The people need their king, and the kingdom needs its ruler.”

˗ˏˋ ☼ ˎˊ˗

The people need their king.

The kingdom needs its ruler.

Yeosang stares out over the kingdom, eyes fixed on a distant point of the horizon. Distantly, beyond the wall meant to protect the city and its people, Yeosang can see the glow of fires. Hours of lessons hammered into his head tell him they’re campfires, and not the livelihoods of his people burning – no, those fires would be bigger, brighter, and far more noticeable – but Yeosang also can’t help but note that the merchant village on the great road leading out of the city, the one Yeosang can usually see from the falconry tower on a clear night, is dark. The entire horizon, usually pecked with glows of distant fires and life, is dark, save the fires of the enemy camp.

Yeosang wants to hope the merchants had fled, that all of the citizens in the horde’s path had fled….but reports from the smaller towns and villages between the capital and the border had stopped coming in just before dusk as new reports of the enemy camp had begun coming in, and–

…and on the air, as Yeosang squares his shoulders and breathes deep, desperate to maintain that facsimile of strength his council swears he needs to present, he can taste acrid smoke and ash.

It comes to him then, oppressive and terrible, the awareness that this is the end.

If Yeosang does nothing, this will be the end of him.

If Yeosang doesn’t find a way to level the field, his kingdom, and all of the people under his protection, will burn.

The memory of the dream that had woken him returns. Yeosang can almost see it again now, the fire a white-hot brilliance against the stucco, reflecting light that illuminates their attackers and casts menacing shadows three times the size of the creatures that made them.

In that moment, Yeosang knows exactly what he must do.

The palace is quiet as Yeosang scrambles through the hall, a quiet that is haunting and altogether too ominous, reminding Yeosang of what’s at stake should he fail.

/“Once upon a time, when the world was still wild with wondrous beasts and magic lived in the very air we breathed, your many-times-great grandfather came into possession of a creature of fire that scorched the very earth it walked upon. The kingdom was still new then, struggling to find its footing and establish itself, and your grandfather was a careful man. Wary of the world and its wilds, and in the best interest of the kingdom, he sealed the creature away in the furthest-most level of the dungeons. Despite its supposed power, locked away in the dark catacombs from both light and the energy of the wilds, the creature was quickly forgotten about.”/

The first time that Yeosang had heard the story, he’d cried. His mother, the queen, had scolded his father, asking why he would dare tell their son such a scary story when everyone knew that such stories were nothing more than just that– stories.

She had not understood that Yeosang had cried at the thought of never seeing the sun again, of being locked away in the dark, damp depths of the dungeons.

In the years that had followed, Yeosang had stopped crying as his father retold the tale, largely maturing past his fear of the dark and never seeing the sun again. But as Yeosang aged, he’d never stopped wondering about the story’s legitimacy, and his father’s dedication to it.

Fictional stories were always elaborated on, details added over the years for flourish and fun. His father had loved such tales, and asked the traveling bards for anything new they might have heard. But the creature that scorched the earth had always remained the same, steadfast and unchanging, more like a legend meant to guide than a story to strike fear.

Yeosang hits the door to the dungeons at a run, and the sound of him hitting the wood and iron door echoes around him, reverberating off into the darkness. He half expects a guard to come for him, seeking the sound of the disturbance, but none come, and Yeosang is reminded they’re all on the city’s walls, preparing to protect the kingdom or die trying.

Grabbing one of the torches from the wall beside him, ignorant of the way his haste leaves the flame guttering, Yeosang opens the door and pushes forward in search of the stairs. If his father’s story is right, he needs to seek out the furthest level of the dungeons, the darkest pit one can be tossed into and still, in theory, survive.

It takes Yeosang several minutes, not just to find, but to descend. The dungeons are vast, leftover from a time when enemies of the kingdom were taken in and held at the palace, then swiftly punished before the public to make a show of force. There had been other kingdoms that tried to invade, allies that were enemies, and enemies that attempted to force their way in. And in theory, at the bottom of it all…

At the bottom of the stairs, far beneath the palace, and with the cold leaching through Yeosang’s tunic and into his skin, he finds a door. It may have been locked once, or even chained, but now those restraints are gone. It appears as if previous wanders had removed them, as if the thought of being left in the dark, abandoned and forgotten about, would have been enough to contain it.

But that’s strange, isn’t it? What do they expect, that the scorched earth creature of old had just been napping down here all these centuries, biding its time? Is that what the darkness did to it, put the creature into a state of sleep due to lack of light?

Yeosang won't complain though, because he has no keys for heavy chains or padlocks, and he has no desire to no desire to ask anyone else for assistance. The council would stop him, certainly, assuming he could find them at all, but the kingdom… Well, the kingdom must survive.

Bracing himself, trying to prepare for whatever he might be faced with, Yeosang unbolts the lock and pushes open the door. The torch Yeosang holds shakes as he steps into the room, but his voice remains steady even as he lifts the torch higher, peering into the gloom.

“Hello?”

Steeling his resolve, Yeosang squares his shoulders and steps in further, pitching his voice in the way his mother had showed him to in order to be heard above a mob in full cry, “Is there somebody down here?”

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Our Happy Marriage
❧ seeking: male preferred
❧ arranged marriage + open to a/b/o, supernatural
❧ available

High in rank and power, Y/C is one of the most eligible bachelors not just in the city, but in the country. But all of their arrangements ends in failure. They’re too cold, too cruel, too demanding, too much. Their spouses-to-be all walk away. In the end, Y/C remains alone.

M/C is a throw away from their family. Their sibling is the favored child, the one set up to take over the family name and continue on their lineage. M/C is meant to be sold off to the highest bidder, but somehow they end up going to Y/C, not because they were bid for, but because the position is open, and how prestegious for their family would it be, to have their eldest become Y/C’s spouse?

It’s expected to fail. It’s supposed to fail. M/C is the familiy throw away for a reason. He is sassy and caustic and vicious. He is everything that should never be considered for a good spouse, everything that would fail in a marriage. And yet Y/C and M/C find common ground, and they are determined to succeed.

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angst

fantasy

supernatural

angst

hurt/comfort

action/adventure

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Ludovico Einaudi - I Giorni (Live at the Old Vic Tunnels)

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idol verse (not canon)

Disney inspired (Beauty & the Beast, Little Mermaid, Peter Pan, etc)

hanahaki

a/b/o

gang/mafia/crime

pirates

fantasy (urban, general & high)

sci-fi

zombies

apocalyptic (futuristic, modern)

Greek Myth inspired

gods in general

soulmates

superpowers/heroes & villains

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Hello! I’m Twilight, but you’re welcome to call me Twi! I’m just a dad friend mun with a bad inclination toward dad jokes, bad jokes, and bursting into/quoting random song lyrics. I’m a bit rusty when it comes to interacting with others, so if I come off awkward, it's not you, it's me.

Fast facts

ooc age: 31

nicknames: Twi, Twilight, dad/dad friend, most other nicknames are cool if you tell me they’re for me

timezone: CST/GMT-5 or -6

activity rate: moderate

work schedule:

Friday - Monday, 7:30am - 6pm with ~1 hour of commute on either side

I'm online lurking fairly often while at work, even if I'm not actively participating and commenting or commenting.

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crime

angst

reincarnation

modern/urban fantasy

"i love you and you love me and we're stupid"

best friends to lovers

best friends to enemies to lovers

fake dating

slow burns

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I reply fairly quickly most days, but it also depends on the time of day and what else I might be doing, or if I’m at home vs at work.

Please don’t poke me unless it’s been 1 week without a thread reply or a message about it somewhere. I don’t lose muse easily, but it’s more that I often open things on my phone or at work, and then I just need time to sit and brain it out. I take rping seriously because I love to write, and I want to offer the best response I can.

I prefer dms when I plot because it's easier for me to track. You also don’t have to have a plot specifically in mind when you reach out. I like brainstorming, especially to make a plot that fits both our characters and preferences. And for individual threads (if our plot will take multiple) I prefer to have a general idea as a guideline. Just a general idea of where we're going will help me with keeping the plot going. Beyond that, if you prefer to wing it or have more of a set outline, I'm amenable to both.

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[ pending ]

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A couple of my characters do have other names/preferred nicknames. For those plots, that's what they'll be going by

I prefer to write in 3rd POV descriptive, and I'll generally write in present tense, though I can and will write past tense if you prefer. Just let me know!

My writing length varies, but I usually write a paragraph minimum to a small essay, depending on my writing partner, the plot, and the contents of our posts. If you prefer shorter/quicker responses, please say so and I’ll try to remain brief and not ramble on.

That said, I do NOT expect my partners to mirror length, and I will always try to give something to repond to. I’m usually pretty good about matching length of what I was given, but sometimes I really get into the character and dive into the introspective to build and the words run away from me.

As far as romance goes, I prefer homosexual romance, mostly m/m, and I can occasionally work up the muse for f/f (though I currently have no female muses). I don’t usually have much interest in hetero romances, but a relationship is about chemistry and if the plot and chemistry are good, I'm also good.

I’m picky about smut and when I write it. Right now, I’m open to those threads. I’ll update if that changes. Please ask for more details if you need them.

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did a CC swap; it's midnight and I'm tired and have work in 7 hours, this is a Not Tonight:tm: problem

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Wings of Change
❧ seeking: male
❧ hybrid, supernatural
❧ available

Yeosang never knew his parents. All he did know was the lab, the whitecoats, and the guards. All he knew was that there were others like him...and they were slowly disappearing. So he promised himself he wouldn't go down without a fight. And that’s the thing: when you have a fourteen foot wingspan, you have a little more fight in you than most.

Y/C , for better or worse, finds Yeosang after he manages to escape the lab.

additional notes:

loosely inspired by Maximum Ride and Tokyo Mew Mew

Yeosang is a birdkid. That is, he has wings that sprout from between his shoulder blades and a roughly 14 foot long wingspan from tip to tip, hollow/lightweight bones, and a few other bird-inspired alterations.

Moving On
❧ seeking: any
❧ A/B/O
❧ available

The son of a overzealous, protective pack alpha and a picture perfect, demure omega, Yeosang was expected to follow in his father’s footsteps and lead the pack. The only problem with that was Yeosang didn’t want to. Leadership, the responsibility of dozens of lives on his shoulders, that wasn't something Yeosang had ever desired. What did he want? His best friend. Freedom. In the end, he got one of them, and watched the other bleed out before his eyes.

Now as a lone wolf, unwilling and unable to return home, Yeosang wanders the fringes of it all, an outsider looking in and on the verge of losing himself to the change. After all, it’s easy to ignore human needs if you never become human again.

Encoded Within
❧ seeking: any
❧ gang/mafia
❧ available

Part of an undercover unit posing as university students by day, at night, Yeosang helps run operations for the gang he’s part of. Born into the life, Yeosang has never known anything else, so it would make sense that he wouldn’t miss what he’d never hand. But media is good at reminding you of what exists and what you can’t have.

Injured as a child and with his vision far from the best, Yeosang is more of an asset off the field than on. He’s better at hacking and coding, online, and undercover reconnaissance than his peers, which often leads to Yeosang seeking out quiet places to work where he won’t be distracted. Yeosang becomes a regular at a cafe, haunting one particular table in the back of the building

Y/C either works at this cafe, or frequents it just as regularly. For weeks, they watch Yeosang come in, drink his tea, tap away at his laptop or scribble in a sheaf of papers, then leave. One day, all of that changes.

From here, the plot is open to just about anything. Yeosang is normally careful about his work, but he could be in a hurry and leave some behind to be found. He could be sought out by someone that’s watching him as he watches them, leading to Y/C being caught in the cross fire. Y/C could just strike up a conversation, drawing Yeosang from an otherwise lonely existence at his table.

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Farewell, Neverland
❧ seeking: male
❧ urban fantasy, Peter Pan AU
❧ available

“Once upon a time, there was a man named Peter Pan, and he lived in a wonderful place called Neverland. Peter Pan collected young, runaway children and gave them a new home, training them to be thieves and grifters, teaching them how to survive on the streets and defend themselves, teaching them how to make a life for themselves in a world that didn’t want them. He called these children his Lost Boys -- and they were boys, always boys. Peter Pan only once took in a girl, and she didn't survive long enough to make a name for herself.

“But Peter Pan, he wasn’t a good man. He was a bad man, an evil man, and his Lost Boys were being trained to add to his empire. And when the Lost Boys were old enough -- to fight back, to question their orders, to think for themselves -- Peter Pan got rid of them in the most permanent way possible.

“And then, fresh out of kids, he would collect more. Slowly, his empire grew.

“We were just six of many, but when we left, we vowed to never let there by any more. No more Lost Boys, no lost lives.

“Now there’s just me. I’m the only one left, the last Lost Boy.

“But I’m not a Lost Boy any more. I’m a pirate. And pirates, well, we don’t like to give back what we take.

“And I’m telling you right now: I’m going to take his life and destroy the bad, bad man called Peter Pan.”

Yeonjun, ex-Lost Boy, current pirate, leads the rebellion against the illustrious Peter Pan. When he’d first escaped, seventeen and on the verge of being killed for knowing too much, he’d been one of six. Years later, and he’s the last one standing. But he’d been serious in his committment: no more Lost Boys, no more lost lives. He’ll keep fighting until the days he dies, or the day Peter Pan draws his last, gasped breath.

Y/C can be another Lost Boy, one sent out to pursue Yeonjun and drag him back to Neverland, kicking and screaming; or one of the original 5 that Yeonjun had escaped with, recaptured but not killed, and brainwashed into believing in Pan’s cause again; or a completely unrelated individual that just happens to cross the wrong path and get sucked into the nightmare.

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