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writing tag is #solaris

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intro

done (intro room)

kitae song

dms, to reply

bitna

ramyeon by the river — to reply

hyewon

come what may — replied

ahri

cats and dogs — starter posted
private thread #1 — to reply

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— 21+
— either address me as tsugumi (ooc) or by my muse’s name!
— open to romance, smut, and psychological plots (as well as for ones on the lighter side of things).
— slow replies bcs of uni and other irl responsibilities. quality over quantity, always.
— ask for my discord whenever, i’ll be happy to provide!
— writing style is detailed third, mostly novella (you don’t have to mirror).
— please be respectful.

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Seojoon comes from a wealthy family whose name has been established in the medical world, the Moon family of doctors. As such, it is only appropriate and well expected from him to pursue and continue his family’s heritage. However, upon growing up, the man has always been partial to the stars, to mathematical equations, and the nascent universe; to explain the cosmos and its very fabric with the use of physics. After all, math is a quantity easier to explain than his own emotions, more so than the qualitative debriefing of patient-care.

It drains him out more than he cares to admit.

But as always, Seojoon has yielded to his family’s wishes, his topmost priority — a sequence eclipsed by being a consistent top student from middle school to high school. He loves his family, however, he does sometimes wish things had not been so absolute and definite as they are now.

Seojoon can frequently be seen doing his rounds at the health center or studying in the café at irregular intervals. Whether or not resultant from a caffeine rush, he also can be found driving around the city and lying down on the wide pasture of grass just outside the university to watch the stars and collect himself.

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Just promise me one thing. When we’re older, and you’re a famous SOLDIER...If I'm ever trapped or in trouble... Promise you’ll come and save me. – Tifa Lockhart to Cloud Strife

“I wonder how far the smoke rises up to,” starts Wonyoung, voice faltering and eyes gleaming, words ringing hollow in Yujin’s ears. The smoke has begun to thin out before Yujin can even muster a reply, and truthfully, she doesn’t even know if she wants to.

The sky has taken on an unusual gray, the clouds seemingly tufted from the dregs of ashfall. Each drag of Yujin’s breath feels like she’s inhaling fire, with Wonyoung’s face reflecting off the last of its embers.

Wonyoung and Yujin are both sixteen, milk teeth knocked over, and the freshness of pubescence already fluttering from their limbs that when Wonyoung flashes a smile, there’s an unfamiliar ache in Yujin’s chest.

Yujin’s leaving soon, and it’s taking everything in her to stand her ground.

“Hm?” Wonyoung pushes, an expectant stare boring holes into the other girl’s false resolution. Yujin begins to pull away, sighing, “There’s nothing— maybe the sky will come back to, in a few days.”

“Maybe,” Wonyoung reaffirms, letting the threadbare of their conversation fall and fly away much like the smoke that has dissipated into the atmosphere. Gone, and invisible — the distance already starting to form between them, bubbling and sinking the final embers of that January ashfall.

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make sure to stop by at the health center and drop in to say a quick hello to moon seojoon!

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who is he exactly?

Moon Seojoon, 25 — medical student and a physics nerd. He gambles his time away doing his rounds at the health center, studying, or lying under the deep night sky somewhere on a concealed ravine, looking at constellations from far and wide.

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faceclaim: jeon wonwoo of svt

nicknames: seoj, seo, joon, joonie (by close friends)

age: 25

birthdate: july 17, 1998

currently studying medicine

sexual orientation: bisexual

premedical program: bachelor of science in pharmacy

height: 1.82 m

body type: lean and muscular

disposition: quiet and introverted at first, warm to the people he loves and is close with. generally calm and cool

hobbies: studying, exercising, reading, learning about photography, looking at the stars

likes: kids, math, taking photos, sci-fi and high fantasy books and games, going to the gym, doing his rounds at the health center, being able to talk about the universe and physics freely, etc.

dislikes: rude people, questions about his family, anatomy

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sexual habits?

ask him (he likes it rough and loud). not many people know, nor does he care to express it, but seojoon expels the stress from his body by fulfilling his needs.. more than likely. keep it a secret between you two, okay?

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disclaimer: both muses and muns must be 21+ to engage with seojoon sexually.

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Artificial lights swarm overhead, hanging like a canopy and blurring the topography of Hyeju’s face, her eyes boring into Bryl’s scowled expression.

The man’s fingertips are swiftly leafing through the money she has brought him, the sound of paper on skin ringing in the deluge of raindrops, rippling like distant ocean waves. His eyes shift to hers, brows knotting more and more each second.

“This is all you got?” The drug dealer’s accent is thick with disbelief and suspicion. He has finished counting, and the amount totaled by the money Hyeju has given him has lessened even more than the past few weeks.

Hyeju only shrugs, fishing her hands in her pockets and eyes darting downwards. “Slow day, huh?” An inflection of dry humor in her voice, her stance as nonchalant as she can pretend to be. She’s been doing this for a few weeks; it should be easy to feign nonchalance by now.

“You fucking—!” Bryl suddenly starts, hands moving as if to grab her and face splotched with the redness of anger, unforeseen, surprising even Hyeju.

The desk between them posed as a momentary barrier, and the girl is able to sidestep, reflexes agile through the years hardened by deception, scamming, and pickpocketing.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Her own voice roaring atop the sound of downpour outside, fingers taking hold of the obsidian daggers hidden in the waistband of her jeans. The lightweight shift of the blade brushes against her thighs, bringing her immense comfort.

The man looks at her, dead in the eye, veins visibly bulging under the horrible whorls of tattoo marring his skin from the neck up to down. “Have you been wasting my supply away, you stupid girl?”

Hyeju is quick to deny, defiance soliloquized into the contours of her face. “No! It’s been a busy day, man! Cut me some slack; it isn’t my fault your stock’s been stale!”

Bryl belts out a deep, low laugh, growing in volume as his body resigns into the chair behind him that Hyeju cannot even begin to separate the rumble of his laugh from the rumble of the rain outside.

“You stupid, stupid girl,” the man smiles at her, not quite reaching the eyes glazed with an opulent anger. The glow overhead catches onto his features, smile widening even more, baring his teeth and casting the shadows on his face an eerie type of calm predisposed to a barely holding dam.

“I’m gonna do you a favor by counting 1 to 10. By the time I count to 10, and I still see you anywhere near this street, I’ll shoot you. Fairly easy right?” Bryl settles into the back of his chair, self-satisfied with a glum expression on his face, eyes gleaming with a murderous glee and portly hands reaching under his desk. It’s unmistakable to Hyeju to misplace the sound of his shotgun cocking.

Bryl is not bluffing this time: he actually intends to kill her.

“1,” the dealer starts, a smile clinging to his voice as his fingers toy with the shotgun trigger.

The girl does not have to be told twice, her initial reflexes kicking in for the second time, feet planting into the ground and making for a run as Bryl continues his countdown, voice growing distant, “2”.

Her footsteps, feather-light, are quick to be drowned by the sound of the rainfall outside, doors pushed back by the sheer force of adrenaline in her body, yellow fluorescence spilling onto the sidewalk, and raindrops dancing across, making it a point to dance with the shadows of her fleeing body.

Hyeju is long gone before Bryl can even count to the fourth number.

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If there is something Seojoon is deeply acclimated to, it’s the stars hanging above and pulling him in like an unequaled gravitational force; the night sky unfurling around the wide expanse and blooming as if a never-ending tapestry of physics. Everywhere around him is a testament to physics.

Yeah, granted that medicine provides him a shelf of medical problems related to it, but it’s different; it will never be related to this. Seojoon fails to give recognition where it must have been due: to the application of physics tangential with the patient’s blood flow, the casting glow of sound waves on broken bones and neural firing.

But the thing Seojoon feels most tethered to is up above, the reticent face of the moon casting down an almost benevolent glow, urging him. Urging him to explore the world under its watchful eye, waiting to be discovered on flung out papers with haphazardly written equations weighing it down.

If only.

And despite all odds, despite everything, here Seojoon finds himself, almost as if in confession, lying on a pasture coated with the several stalks of grass that feel like phantom needles on his skin, prickling his body forward. Only forward. But Seojoon remains pinned down, the broad shadow of his body covering his part of the grass the same way that the stars are looming upon him up above, almost as though a force even greater than his own is detaining him from moving.

And somewhere, in a calculated series of steps, Seojoon’s motorcycle is left reverberating; keyed up and engines whirring on the cold asphalt of the sidewalk. When Seojoon rises up to, helmet still in his grip, the luminosity of the moon remains gleaming on its smooth exterior.

And the man cannot help but to look back almost as if imparting a farewell to his lone lover. Never to be seen again, and imprinting, in exchange, into his mind’s eye the deserted terrain, stalks of grass pasted onto the back of his shirt.

But Seojoon could not give a damn, settling into the motorcycle seat once more and willing the engine to rumble into life, sending clouds of dust to billow and blend with the smoke dissipating upwards into the sky.

His figure then starts receding, getting smaller in size until, finally, his figure can no longer be separated from the motes of dust he sent flying.

But, however still, the moon remains gleaming, keeping its watchful eye, transfixed onto the back of its lone believer. Forever.