Description
若い god.
BAE JOOHYUN
april 29, 1991
street fighter of sorts
PANUAL
AND WE FALL —
joohyun wears utter depravity on her skin in mottling, purple hues: amulets of gold against her chest, rings of glimmering bloodshed around her fingers. they're her prizes for showing, rewards for the noses she breaks, the beatings she takes, because she's another damn, "pretty little thing," and tucked away between the puddles that sleep in the tarmac during the ungodly hours of the morning and the excessive sums they ink into her shoulders, fists — that's what the people like. and joohyun is very good at giving them what they want.
the tattoos — numbers 463 on the inside of her wrist, 96864 between her shoulder blades — they ink into her flesh when she starts racking up the number of times her knuckles sink deep enough into someone's skin to rattle bone are her only reminders, physical mnemonics at her side that taunt her every move, keeping her at bay with the constant that she was (and still is) dolefully bound to an unrestricted sport where normalcy came in the form of blood stained on skin and the merits of fighting taught and nicked deep down into bone.
a girl brought up from nothing but pastoral fields and the kick up of dirt against worn soles — that's as much as joohyun wants to remember, as much as she'll mark across the pages when someone feels like asking. she's got a storybook childhood; a warm bed to crawl in after dusk sets in, a place for her at the table. a mother and father, a younger brother. nothing more, nothing less. that's when the ink-smeared pages of her life she tries to rewrite over and over again are tedious, boring, and she saves herself the trouble by tearing them up and letting them fall, jagged strips of paper, ripped up words at her shoes. sometimes she leaves the pages where ever she finds them, for the frustration or the particularly deep burn in her chest, and sometimes she takes them, shuffles them into her book and hopes they'll mend at the jagged seams. but that's how she is; she builds up, tears down: word by word, letter by letter. she creates decoupages she doesn't like and doesn't think twice before the shreds are in her palms, littered across the floor. she tries until she like what she has, but she knows she won't make it. joohyun was never much of a writer anyway.
because at the end of the day, no one cares how a small town girl finds herself in alleyways, hands coated in thick crimson and the fight in her ears — no one bothers unless it's how fast she can pinpoint the hollows of her opponent's neck, how far she wants to take it before she's bowed over and dead. it's always the same thing with them, and she doesn't care too much as long as it puts the crumpled bills in her pockets.
[ will edit + continue later. ]
WE'RE RUNNING, RUNNING — AGAIN.
don't let the proper air of conventionality or skin of porcelain fool you — joohyun isn't the alice doll who lives mornings with a cute skirt spread across her knees and night as a wanderer in a world that isn't quite like her own. (though, that'd be one hell of a life, maybe a bit more interesting than the one she plays out now).
save the fairy tale adventures for the movies — DEGENERACY runs thick through her blood and the fight etched across her canvas of skin are only up to show for those who work up the nerve to ask. a soldier who fights the battles she knows she can't win. she's good at what she has, what she does — a face that parallels one of a type A, good samaritan youngster, the ability to charm her way into people's hearts with nothing but a smile or two and a bona fide, butter-spread personality that spoke nothing short of charismatic, and the lack of hesitance when it comes to digging her knuckles deep into the skin of whoever wants to best her next. but people don't know, don't ask — she's assumed to be some crime hungry, kicking suitor for rebellion with eyes on what's wrong and never right the whole time. but she lives just like everyone else, heart tender with nothing but good purpose if someone stayed around long enough to notice.
there's ambition up her sleeves and and she's merely trying to survive — a girl scraped up from the countryside with hefty bets littered across her skin at dusk, bloody winnings stuffed in her back pockets by dawn ever since she's stepped foot in the big city. the world purely a palette of black and white; there are good people and bad people, good fighters and bad fighters — it's only a shame she dabbles in mischief and wears her war paint of varying shades of grey. not quite good nor not quite bad. sometimes the punches have a drive, a reason that makes her stay, and sometimes they don't, when all she can see is red — the splitting inferno that rips at the seams of her otherwise steely comportment, her slack hands when the deed's done and over with, the fire that consumes her whole by the end of the day — and her fists are heavier than the guilt that gnaws at her heart. they don't look past the blows she takes to the abdomen, the money she keeps safe under her bed only to be wired to her family next morning; underneath all that personality, calloused hands, and an attempt for a smile, there's a girl with a heart of pure gold who just wants to make it out alive.
OOC TIDBITS
— gmt -5 / est. replies are sporadic.
— third pov preferred. strictly multi-para to novella.
— PLEASE PLOT WITH ME FIRST.
— FLEXIBLE WITH ANY GENRE EXCEPT OR ANYTHING OF THAT SORT.
— NO WITHOUT A PROPER, WELL-THOUGHT OUT PLOT. PWP ISN'T MY THING.
— QUALITY POSTS TAKE TIME. I DON'T CONDEMN A POKE OR TWO IF I'M TAKING TOO LONG, BUT PLEASE DON'T CONSTANTLY GO AT MY THROAT ABOUT IT.
joohyun wears utter depravity on her skin in mottling, purple hues: amulets of gold against her chest, rings of glimmering bloodshed around her fingers. they're her prizes for showing, rewards for the noses she breaks, the beatings she takes, because she's another damn, "pretty little thing," and tucked away between the puddles that sleep in the tarmac during the ungodly hours of the morning and the excessive sums they ink into her shoulders, fists — that's what the people like. and joohyun is very good at giving them what they want.
the tattoos — numbers 463 on the inside of her wrist, 96864 between her shoulder blades — they ink into her flesh when she starts racking up the number of times her knuckles sink deep enough into someone's skin to rattle bone are her only reminders, physical mnemonics at her side that taunt her every move, keeping her at bay with the constant that she was (and still is) dolefully bound to an unrestricted sport where normalcy came in the form of blood stained on skin and the merits of fighting taught and nicked deep down into bone.
a girl brought up from nothing but pastoral fields and the kick up of dirt against worn soles — that's as much as joohyun wants to remember, as much as she'll mark across the pages when someone feels like asking. she's got a storybook childhood; a warm bed to crawl in after dusk sets in, a place for her at the table. a mother and father, a younger brother. nothing more, nothing less. that's when the ink-smeared pages of her life she tries to rewrite over and over again are tedious, boring, and she saves herself the trouble by tearing them up and letting them fall, jagged strips of paper, ripped up words at her shoes. sometimes she leaves the pages where ever she finds them, for the frustration or the particularly deep burn in her chest, and sometimes she takes them, shuffles them into her book and hopes they'll mend at the jagged seams. but that's how she is; she builds up, tears down: word by word, letter by letter. she creates decoupages she doesn't like and doesn't think twice before the shreds are in her palms, littered across the floor. she tries until she like what she has, but she knows she won't make it. joohyun was never much of a writer anyway.
because at the end of the day, no one cares how a small town girl finds herself in alleyways, hands coated in thick crimson and the fight in her ears — no one bothers unless it's how fast she can pinpoint the hollows of her opponent's neck, how far she wants to take it before she's bowed over and dead. it's always the same thing with them, and she doesn't care too much as long as it puts the crumpled bills in her pockets.
[ will edit + continue later. ]
WE'RE RUNNING, RUNNING — AGAIN.
don't let the proper air of conventionality or skin of porcelain fool you — joohyun isn't the alice doll who lives mornings with a cute skirt spread across her knees and night as a wanderer in a world that isn't quite like her own. (though, that'd be one hell of a life, maybe a bit more interesting than the one she plays out now).
save the fairy tale adventures for the movies — DEGENERACY runs thick through her blood and the fight etched across her canvas of skin are only up to show for those who work up the nerve to ask. a soldier who fights the battles she knows she can't win. she's good at what she has, what she does — a face that parallels one of a type A, good samaritan youngster, the ability to charm her way into people's hearts with nothing but a smile or two and a bona fide, butter-spread personality that spoke nothing short of charismatic, and the lack of hesitance when it comes to digging her knuckles deep into the skin of whoever wants to best her next. but people don't know, don't ask — she's assumed to be some crime hungry, kicking suitor for rebellion with eyes on what's wrong and never right the whole time. but she lives just like everyone else, heart tender with nothing but good purpose if someone stayed around long enough to notice.
there's ambition up her sleeves and and she's merely trying to survive — a girl scraped up from the countryside with hefty bets littered across her skin at dusk, bloody winnings stuffed in her back pockets by dawn ever since she's stepped foot in the big city. the world purely a palette of black and white; there are good people and bad people, good fighters and bad fighters — it's only a shame she dabbles in mischief and wears her war paint of varying shades of grey. not quite good nor not quite bad. sometimes the punches have a drive, a reason that makes her stay, and sometimes they don't, when all she can see is red — the splitting inferno that rips at the seams of her otherwise steely comportment, her slack hands when the deed's done and over with, the fire that consumes her whole by the end of the day — and her fists are heavier than the guilt that gnaws at her heart. they don't look past the blows she takes to the abdomen, the money she keeps safe under her bed only to be wired to her family next morning; underneath all that personality, calloused hands, and an attempt for a smile, there's a girl with a heart of pure gold who just wants to make it out alive.
OOC TIDBITS
— gmt -5 / est. replies are sporadic.
— third pov preferred. strictly multi-para to novella.
— PLEASE PLOT WITH ME FIRST.
— FLEXIBLE WITH ANY GENRE EXCEPT OR ANYTHING OF THAT SORT.
— NO WITHOUT A PROPER, WELL-THOUGHT OUT PLOT. PWP ISN'T MY THING.
— QUALITY POSTS TAKE TIME. I DON'T CONDEMN A POKE OR TWO IF I'M TAKING TOO LONG, BUT PLEASE DON'T CONSTANTLY GO AT MY THROAT ABOUT IT.
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