Realistic or Modern 🥨 Kidnapper Van 🥨

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Vas

Toska /ˈtō-skə/.

Full Name

Vasariah Madsen

Nicknames

Vas, Vashka

Gender

Transgender Male

DOB

March 21 (guess why)

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  (n). an immense ache for nothing and everything all at once. a sick yearning.
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  appearance

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  height

  
  
  

  5'5"
  (165cm)

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  weight

  
  
  

  130lbs (59kg)

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  hair c.

  
  
  

  Strawb. Blonde

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  eye c.

  
  
  

  Green

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Hair

  
  
  

  Rose tinted blonde that falls into loose curls and waves. The pattern by which they fall being inconsistent, in some spots you will find loose ringlets, in others large curls, and in some simple beach waves. Persuaded by the throws of high school politics, natural curls are pressed under the height of an iron until hair splays straight across broad shoulders down to his upper-mid back. Strawberry hair framing his face in many layers throughout, a way to add shape to his curls and texture for when he straightens it for school.
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Eyes

  
  
  

  From afar, jade is mistaken for cool grays, like distant storms brewing on a tranquil horizon. Shrouded in an ethereal haze where the light seems to never reach, leaving them perpetually in twilight. Up close, however, they reveal their true nature, a hidden forest of jade hues with a singular brown speckle settled into his right eye.
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Build

  
  
  

  A short stature with a lithe frame to match. Graceful, flexible, and thin, a deceiving appearance of fragility at first glance. Yet broad shoulders and muscles layered under soft skin stray from the illusion of delicacy, showing signs of a passion he has since retired. A small waist paring with long legs and short torso.
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Scars

  
  
  

  His body is littered with countless, albeit small, scars from his youth. The most prominent is a faded bite mark on his left forearm just bellow his inner elbow. Beyond that, he also has faded scars on his knees, in various shapes and sizes, most appearing like a carpet burn that faded but never went away. If you look closely at his hands, you will see dozens of small scars across his skin.
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Modifications

  
  
  

  Earrings, pierced since he was three. Now, long forgotten unless it is a special occasion or necessary for an outfit. It is most common to find ruby wrapped in gold wire when he does remember to wear them.
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Distinguishing

  
  
  

  Strawberry blonde curls framing pale skin littered with subtle freckles where the sun has kissed his skin. Striking green eyes that never blink as much as they should. Prominent cheekbones and chin to match, along with downturned lips that falsely appear as a frown to many. As soon as his face rests from a smiling mask, he is flooded with comments and concern. An air of elegancy and poise that quickly falters when upset or excited. Features that are androgynous, yet are often overlooked as feminine due to his long hair and height.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Face-claim

  
  
  

  
  Adriana Tarábková
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
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  personality

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Traits

  
  
  

  Aloof, Cynical, Defensive, Obsessive, Detached, Mistrustful, Introspective, Fatalistic, Manipulative, Analytical, Observant, Egocentric, Discerning, Hypocritical, Persevering, Patient, Reserved, Devoted, Forgiving, Perfectionist
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  In Detail

  
  
  

  
  Autism Spectrum Disorder DSM-5 Diagnostic Criteria.
  
  A. Persistent deficits in social communication and social interaction across multiple contexts, as manifested by the following, currently or by history (examples are illustrative, not exhaustive, see text):
  
  

  • Deficits in social-emotional reciprocity, ranging, for example, from abnormal social approach and failure of normal back-and-forth conversation; to reduced sharing of interests, emotions, or affect; to failure to initiate or respond to social interactions.

  
  

  • Deficits in nonverbal communicative behaviors used for social interaction, ranging, for example, from poorly integrated verbal and nonverbal communication; to abnormalities in eye contact and body language or deficits in understanding and use of gestures; to a total lack of facial expressions and nonverbal communication.

  
  

  • Deficits in developing, maintaining, and understanding relationships, ranging, for example, from difficulties adjusting behavior to suit various social contexts; to difficulties in sharing imaginative play or in making friends; to absence of interest in peers.

  
  B. Restricted, repetitive patterns of behavior, interests, or activities, as manifested by at least two of the following, currently or by history (examples are illustrative, not exhaustive; see text):
  
  

  • Stereotyped or repetitive motor movements, use of objects, or speech (e.g., simple motor stereotypies, lining up toys or flipping objects, echolalia, idiosyncratic phrases).

  
  

  • Insistence on sameness, inflexible adherence to routines, or ritualized patterns or verbal nonverbal behavior (e.g., extreme distress at small changes, difficulties with transitions, rigid thinking patterns, greeting rituals, need to take same route or eat food every day).

  
  

  • Highly restricted, fixated interests that are abnormal in intensity or focus (e.g, strong attachment to or preoccupation with unusual objects, excessively circumscribed or perseverative interest).

  
  

  • Hyper- or hyporeactivity to sensory input or unusual interests in sensory aspects of the environment (e.g., apparent indifference to pain/temperature, adverse response to specific sounds or textures, excessive smelling or touching of objects, visual fascination with lights or movement).

  
  C. Symptoms must be present in the early developmental period (but may not become fully manifest until social demands exceed limited capacities or may be masked by learned strategies in later life).
  
  D. Symptoms cause clinically significant impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of current functioning.
  
  E. These disturbances are not better explained by intellectual disability (intellectual developmental disorder) or global developmental delay. Intellectual disability and autism spectrum disorder frequently co-occur; to make comorbid diagnoses of autism spectrum disorder and intellectual disability, social communication should be below that expected for general developmental level.
  
  A. Persistent difficulties in the social use of verbal and nonverbal communication as manifested by all of the following:
  
  

  • Deficits in using communication for social purposes, such as greeting and sharing information, in a manner that is appropriate for the social context.

  
  

  • Impairment of the ability to change communication to match context or the needs of the listener, such as speaking differently in a classroom than on the playground, talking differently to a child than to an adult, and avoiding use of overly formal language.

  
  

  • Difficulties following rules for conversation and storytelling, such as taking turns in conversation, rephrasing when misunderstood, and knowing how to use verbal and nonverbal signals to regulate interaction.

  
  

  • Difficulties understanding what is not explicitly stated (e.g., making inferences) and nonliteral or ambiguous meanings of language (e.g., idioms, humor, metaphors, multiple meanings that depend on the context for interpretation).

  
  B. The deficits result in functional limitations in effective communication, social participation, social relationships, academic achievement, or occupational performance, individually or in combination.
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Habits

  
  
  

  Staring problem.
  
  He tends to pick at the skin on his fingers when he is in thought, anxious, or overwhelmed. Picking at his skin has become an unhealthy self-soothing tactic.
  
  Never knows when it is his turn to speak. Will consequently speak up at the most inopportune times, or accidentally speak over someone else.
  
  Runs by "vampire rules" in social situations. if he wasn't explicitly invited, or given an exact day and time, he will assume it is not happening or he isn't allowed to go.
  
  If he is caught unaware with a dialogue he had not planned for, or unaware in general during conversation, he will begin slipping into his speech impediment and stutter over his words.
  
  He will sometimes walk away in the middle of a conversation if he is caught off guard too many times, as it is overwhelming and incredibly stress inducing to reply on the dime. He will try to leave politely, but it's not unheard of for him to just silently pick up and leave.
  
  Unintentionally, or intentionally, stalking people right after meeting them. Hey did you know your great aunt's niece just got into a fight at school? No? Okay.
  
  Has an inclination to repeat many things, but especially sounds. Hears a phrase that scratches his brain just right? He's repeating it at least 10 times.
  
  Fiddling with his hands. Cracking his knuckles, tapping his nail against his finger pad, flicking his thumbnail against his middle finger, intertwining his fingers together in weird ways.
  
  Cracks his knuckles incredibly weird, he’ll start with just bending them sharply then will bring in his other hand and press each joint before popping them. Sometimes he will just bend his finger quickly and it will pop that way, no other hand needed.
  
  Constantly massaging his wrists and fingers. They constantly crack and pop while he does it, even doing the smallest movement.
  
  Stands exactly 2 feet away from people when talking with them, consequence of him being hyper aware of his personal space.
  
  Asks you to repeat a question then answers it before you repeat it. Also asks you to repeat something multiple times, his ears only process half the time.
  
  Lying on his floor staring at the ceiling. Floor time is important to this man. He has never gotten over anything in is life.
  
  Cannot understand when someone is being sarcastic then turns around and says the most sarcastic things in a completely monotone voice.
  
  Gets incredibly fixated on various things. TV shows? Characters? Books? Movies? People? He will not rest until he's met a daily quota of engaging with that thing.
  
  When he is incredibly focused, he will stick out his tongue subconsciously.
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Skills

  
  
  

  A golden child with the ability to succeed in most all skills within his first try. Touching his nose with his tongue. Classically trained singing. Ballet. Gymnastics. Gathering information. Can write an A+ 10-page APA format essay within a matter of hours. Incredibly fast learner, especially so when it comes to learning other languages. Lying. Anything to do with art and writing, really. Perfect pitch. Picking up instruments. Clairvoyant. Reading tarot.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Fears

  
  
  

  Illnesses/Getting sick. Specifically heart related issues. Heights. Elevators. Failure. Rejection. Abandonment. Being unwanted. Being unloveable. Being vulnerable. Intimacy. Intimacy again that's a big one. That the sickness (depression) inside of him will never go away. Death. Forgetting. Losing his mind.
  
  (He may have a little (a lot) of OCD and Anxiety so he fears many things).
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  likes

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  Ren. Music. Drawing of any kind. The color red. Lanterns and lighting. Warm lighting specifically. The dark. The stars and moon. Fruits and pastries. Strawberries. Strawberries. Strawberries. Poetry. Books and comics. The smell of old books. Studying human features, especially noses. Learning. Fall and Winter. Rain. Snow. Thunderstorms. Nostalgic media. TV and Movies. Weighted blankets. His baby blanket. Dreary weather. Heart-crushing media. Mythology. Unconventional religions and practices like Withcraft and Demonology.
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  dislikes

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  Ren. Addictions of any kind. Smoking. Vaping. Especially Vaping. Drugs. His anxiety. Intrusive thoughts. Overtly nice or heroic people. Summer. The heat. The sun. Sweating. Certain textures, especially within food. The term "celebrity crush" (he doesn't understand it). When people don't text back. Studying. Bad work ethics. Being touched by most people. Being hit on. Crowded rooms. Public places. Churches. Organized religion. Unexpected changes. Being late. Pop music. Flying insects. Standing within 4 feet of a railing.
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
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  history

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  VOL. ONE:

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  TW: Mentions of suicide throughout. Mentions of SA in VOL. TWO.
  
  You were born under the light of God.
  
  Bible in your hand each night, sitting on your parents bed as you read through words you don’t understand. They are supposed to mean something to you. Your parents cry when they read what’s on thin pages, yet all you see is words on paper. You don’t know how it makes you feel, but you can feel it burning under your skin. Church every Sunday, gatherings every Wednesday. Every lesson being told what is good and what is bad under the law of God. Prayers are never answered. You lie and say you can feel the holy spirit within you, whispering sweet nothings that get you through the day. You are the bishop’s daughter, there are expectations you will never fill, lies that must be told to save yourself. The feeling of eyes never leaving you keeps you up at night. You sing hymns to yourself to keep the demons at bay. It only invites them in.
  
  At one point, there was a warmth within your family. At some point, that light was snuffed out. Your sister, 3 years older, spent more time pretending like you didn’t exist than she ever did pretending to be your family. You don’t know why you kept trying to help her. Asked about why she spent all night crying. Why she sounded like she was choking on something awful. She doesn’t like your prodding. She tries to stop your curiosity by wrapping small hands around an equally small neck. You learn what it’s like to stop breathing because of something other than your lungs failing. Your parents run to her side, not yours. You learn how to nurse a wound on your own. Your family begins to feel less like yours, and more like hers alone.
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  VOL. TWO:

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  The first move you can remember happens when you are 6. You know there have been many before that.
  
  You sit alone with your Bible at night, flipping through pages that hold promises you can’t feel, seeking comfort in words that feel as empty as the house you live in. The Church shifts into something else. Where smiles are masks and sermons feel like judgment. Where everyone seems to have answers but you. You start pretending you are ill. When your parents start to worry, your sister learns what sticking fingers down a throat can do. She earns a doctor’s appointment every week. Something must be wrong, surely. Your parents, their focus singular and unwavering, pour all their energy into her. Their attention wrapped tightly around her struggles, leaving you adrift in a sea of confusion and loneliness. The nights are long and silent, and the demons of loneliness are your only companions. In the silence, you find books placed on dusty shelves. You read every one you can, and imagine yourself as anyone but you.
  
  Tangled hair and matts underneath a perfect top layer. Cavities rotting behind pearly teeth.. Dry skin that flakes and peels hidden by sleeves strategically placed. Expired inhaler that you still cling to as if it is going to save you. You learned how to put on clothes by yourself. You hated every outfit you tried. Dresses and skirts, leotards and tights. Things that will reflect well on the family. Things that don’t fit right in your soul, but you can’t describe the feeling inside of you. You learned how to walk home from school after one too many “I’m sorry I forgot, your sister had something come up.” You learned how to walk to the studio where you could distract the pain you felt inside by putting your all into the sports you loved so much. You sit in the waiting lounge and do your homework. Your dance instructor teaches you how to brush your hair and put it into a proper bun, she still helps if you ask. Your coach starts making snacks and bringing them for you to eat after lessons. She tells you she sees a bright future for you, you want to believe her.
  
  You befriend a girl from the Church. When you play house, she lets you be the husband. You don’t know why it feels so important to you. When someone else joins and tries to win her over, she still chooses you. She’s pushy, mean to you, but she chooses you and you can’t let go of that. She invites you to her house, just down the block. Your parents let you go, her family is faithful, they are good people. She sits you down on her bed and kisses you. You tell her you don’t like it, but she doesn’t seem to care. She tells you about things neither of you should know about at your age. You throw up outside of her house when she’s done. You try to tell your parents what happened, but you are met with screams about how unholy you are. How you will burn in hell. The first counselor is called over, both his hands and your father’s are placed on your head with sacred oil, muttering prayers for your soul, to take away these demons that have infested you. They take your cries as the evil leaving your body.
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  VOL. THREE:

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  You move for the second time when you are 8.
  
  You have embarrassed your family. They had to move to a place where they wouldn’t be burdened by what *you* did that day. You begin to believe it is your fault. Your sister cries and screams at you. You ruined her life. They would have been able to stay if it wasn’t for you. You start listening to music in your bed all day long. A sickness grows within you. You start pretending to be someone you are not. You’ve learned by now how to mold yourself to fit into each new place you visit. You are popular, people like you, even if they find you a little weird. You have many friends at school, but no one to call a friend at home. You find it tiring. You keep throwing yourself into academics and the sports you love, a way to distract from the decay inside of you, hollowing you.
  
  You are smart. This is a fact. You are sent to advanced classes, learning math grades above you, reading at college levels. Parent teacher meetings are met with only praise from the teachers, but there are some things of concern. You are quiet, hard to understand when you speak, and you take too long to process. They recommend speech therapy. Another, you get overwhelmed by the other students easily, to the point that you cry in class, or zone out to the point you barely breathe. Your parents are shocked at how well you are doing. They sign the forms to move you up a grade. It will make them look good when they gossip with their friends.
  
  Nothing fills the void within you. At a classmate’s birthday party late in the evening when the sun has begun to set, you sit alongside the pool’s edge. You were never taught how to swim. You want to go in the water anyway. Your friends are waiting for you to join them. You jumped in, and for a while, you managed to swim. But you grew tired. Your joints ached, and your lungs burned. You slipped under, and for a moment, after the panic had settled, it was the most peaceful, beautiful sight you have ever seen. For a moment, you felt happy looking up at the stars through distorted water. You were pulled out by your friend’s mother, and spent the rest of the night alone.
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  VOL. FOUR:

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  You move again just before you are 10.
  
  Your sister’s mental health has degraded. She had seen every therapist in town, and wasn’t getting better. So, you had to move once more. It didn’t get better, for either of you. You were too far from the school, too far from the gym to walk. You relied on the bus, and when your parents were able, they would drive you. You were doing well, excelling in both school and sports. You’ve finally made your way into the competitive side. You earn gold medals that are stored away in your closet. You’re not allowed to hang anything on your walls.
  
  During one practice, you injure your back. Not broken, just sprained. You need physical therapy, otherwise the damage could be permanent. Your parents tell you they can only afford your sister’s treatment. “Your injury isn’t that serious, you got up and walked away.” When your back hit the ground, you couldn’t breathe for 7 minutes. Your lips had turned blue, and your consciousness was fading. You wish you had slipped away. They tell you God will keep you safe. You tell them you don’t believe in God. They laugh and tell you they don’t believe you.
  
  You learned where your sister failed. Don’t leave marks. Don’t cry aloud. Don’t make a mess. There was no one around when you woke in the morning. Each time, it was only you. To clean up after yourself, to steady your own shaking hands and throbbing head. You were never determined enough. Never took enough. You knew deep down you didn’t want to die. Some part of you, however small, still believed. You tell yourself you will hold on until you are 13.
  
  At 12, a friend from the past tells you they are trans.
  
  You don’t know what that means. She explains it to you kindly, how she felt, what made her realize she was a girl. You get excited. Some part of you understands her in a way you’ve never known before. You don’t realize it yet. You tell your mom how excited you are for your friend. That night you are sent to pray over hundreds of times. To repent. You want to believe God wouldn’t be this cruel, but you know better. You have read enough to know better.
  
  Your steal a notebook from the corner store. If God won’t answer your pleas, you will find a way to answer them yourself. You find it comforting. You write about all you have seen, all the people you have been. You write about what it felt like to drown. You write about the day your sister attempted in front of you. You write about how she’s been sent to an in patient facility, and how you feel like a horrible person for believing she deserves the mistreatment she faces. Or how you won’t miss her when she dies.
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  VOL. FIVE:

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  You move again when you are 13, Freshman Year.
  
  You are a freshman now. Your body is changing in ways you can’t stand. You’re starting to figure out why, but you bury it deep within your chest. School truly matters now, you have to start planning for college, for the life you want. You don’t know what you want yet. You decide to hold on until you are 15, maybe you will know better than. You start exploring other passions. Art, writing, singing. You join your school’s choir, and become section lead. You are a leader among your peers, the top within your grade.
  
  Your sister comes home, you haven’t seen her in many years. She never let you see her after that day. She wasn’t better, anyone could tell. You wished she would leave again. You couldn’t stand her threatening her life over every little thing, or snooping through your things.
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  VOL. SIX:

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  You move the very next year, Sophomore Year.
  
  It is sophomore year. Your sister outs you to your parents. This was your last year doing the sports you love. You don’t like to remember this time.
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  VOL. SEVEN:

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  You move for Junior year.
  
  Tensions have cooled. You have reached acceptance, but not support. Your sister is 18 now, going to college. She tells your parents of her sexuality. You don’t mention the unfairness of her being welcomed with open arms.
  
  You quit your sports. No more dancing, no more floor routines, no more competitions. The gold medals you’ve won never unpacked from the box in storage. It was a gendered sport, you would have never been able to compete again. You decided being you was better than any competition you could have been in. It saved your life.
  
  You don’t have many friends, coming into a new school this late. You have decided you are alright with that. You have outgrown the masks you once wore, you’ve seen that they are not all that you are.
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  VOL. EIGHT:

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  You stay right where you are for Senior Year.
  
  Your sister drops out of college, and marries someone she’s just met on your birthday. You don’t mind. You are just happy she is gone.
  
  For once, you are excited for your future. You know the hole inside of you hasn’t gone away, but you’ve learned how to accept it and continue on with your life.
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
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  MISC

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Headcanons

  
  
  

  ➢ RIP Vasariah you would have loved an autism diagnosis
  
  ➢ Bullies people in tiktok comments.
  
  ➢ Has an entire arsenal of fake accounts to stalk and gather information on people without getting caught or looking weird. Accidental likes are real and he is making sure they cannot be traced back to him.
  
  ➢ Welcome to only learned about love from fairytales in stolen books. Very skewed view of romantic gestures and relationships. One date? Dating? Committed relationship. Holding hands? Married. Kissing? That’s basically fucking.
  
  ➢ You’ve never seen someone love strawberries until you’ve seen Vasariah inhale a pound of them in 5 seconds, leaves and all. He’s not wasteful.
  
  ➢ No one loves yappers more than he does. You want to yap? He’s sat. If you’re important to him or he likes you? Sat with a his notes app open writing everything down so he doesn’t forget what you like or what’s important to you.
  
  ➢ He’s a little freak who genuinely keeps notes on everyone. Also has a folder filled with sketches of people. If you mean more to him than an acquaintance or a stranger, you may get a lot more than just sketches in his journal. You may even get rants on how he feels about you (oblivious to his own feelings)
  
  ➢ Hypochondriac. He will actively avoid hearing or reading about any sort of medical condition. He will also completely avoid anyone who is sick.
  
  ➢ Has an involuntary reaction to anything sweet or loving. I’m talking face scrunching, eye rolling, gagging, glaring. Really he’s just embarrassed and doesn’t know how to react
  
  ➢ Horrible with affection. Both giving and receiving. He’ll give you a shiny rock he found and stare at you then call it a day. Maybe leave you a text about how much he appreciates you and then not respond for a few hours.
  
  ➢ Similarly prefers small actions over words, but needs some sort of explicit confirmation in the beginning of whatever is going on or he may speculate some wild theories
  
  ➢ Becomes a normal functioning member of society when he's drunk. Absolutely terrifying sight to anyone who knows him well enough. Overtly social, holding rapid fire conversations without thinking through responses. Befriending people he despised before. Revealing his own secret affections for people by practically purring as he curls into them. Gets dangerously closer to peoples' necks the sleepier he gets.
  
  ➢ People always think he’s going to kiss them because he hits them with the eye to eye to mouth triangle in his staring. He is not. He is counting in his head exactly how long to hold eye contact. 5 seconds for each eye, one second glance away to the mouth, then repeat.
  
  ➢ Chances are he did NOT fully hear what you said because he’s too busy keeping track of appropriate eye contact times
  
  ➢ Blue eyed stare without the blue eyes. He’s cooked.
  
  > Ever ask a man questions about himself and he never asks those questions back? Yeah. He forgot he’s supposed to do that.
  
  ➢ He’s the type to hit you with the most diabolical lore in the most casual situations then immediately switch to a normal topic.
  
  ➢ Secretly wants to paint on someone's skin, would never get the courage to ask.
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Extra

  
  
  

  pinterest....
  spototitffy,.
  hi gaogao...what if they like...madeout....passioantely...or whateva
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  now playing...

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  dazies

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  yeule

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

/* WOOOOOOO OK HI MORCE HERE IS. THAT LITTLE SPEECH BUBBLE NEXT TO THE MAIN IMAGE ON THE LEFT. ONE FA ICON IS THE SPEECH BUBBLE AND THE OTHER IS THE ANGRY EMOJI. U CAN CHANGE THE ANGRY EMOJI IF U WANT. U CAN ASK IF UR UNSURE HOW */

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

if there's any duplicates of habits/headcanons no there is not be quiet look away​

click!

船井 蓮

THE KLEPTO.

Full Name

Funai Ren

Nicknames

Just Ren

Gender

A guy... (suspicious)

DOB

OCTOBER 28TH

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  I CAN'T MANSPLAIN MANIPULATE MANWHORE MY WAY OUT OF THIS.

  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  appearance

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  height

  
  

  5'10"
  (177cm)

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  weight

  
  

  185lbs (84kg)

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  hair c.

  
  

  Dark Brown

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  eye c.

  
  

  Dark brown

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  Hair

  
  

  Splayed loose like a cat o’ nine tails, leather black and insidious as they come; Ren’s hair heeds not convenience nor efficiency. Garnished androgyny coats shoulders to fringe ribcage, and those with an appeal to touch will be met with a snobby slap on the wrist to warn, Paws off.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  Eyes

  
  

  Molten amber beneath the sun, irises don a shade of Cimmerian ink. Almost impenetrable by light, there is a quality of ravine-deep opia to his stare: invasive and impassive. Oil pools emulate that which glitters in his grasp, but the lack of any complex thought behind those lashes is a short-lived secret.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  Build

  
  

  A consort of the sun with warm beige skin and soot-black eyes, Ren cuts a broad-shouldered and lean figure at 5’10”. Sturdier than height may first suggest and unyielding in both personality and stature, characteristics encapsulate that height is mindset and not a limitation to the volume of one's voice.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  Scars

  
  

  Consequences of childhood delight and trying to pat something he shouldn’t: Grandmother's cruel Bichon Frise located an ankle and delivered the shallow blow.
  
  A bottle of liquor as brutal collateral for a mouthy remark. Blood tasting lager, vertical lip scar stands testament to combative habits. [X]
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  Distinguishing

  
  

  Cutting a silhouette of scrappy ink, his disavowing gaze is as icy as northern wind. A natural expression that strips warmth and emits short-tempered disinterest, strangers are prone to assuming Ren must have a bad attitude. A threatening appearance with intentions that are usually harmless.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  Face-claim

  
  

  It's babygirl it's 90's Atsushi Sakurai
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
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  personality

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  Traits

  
  

  Greedy, brash, dishonest, demanding, victimizing, rowdy, scrappy, noncommittal, melodramatic, pedantic, bold, determined, excitable, materialistic, foodie, plucky, spontaneous, charming, giving, sacrificial & independent.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  In Detail

  
  

  Paper tiger.
  
  With sabre veneers of soft mâché that cast intimidating shadows and ink stripes to lacerate him in blades of black, Ren’s surfeit of confidence is a purposeful tool for social strategy. Be it abrasive spur or lewd charm, they are chainmail scales to coat the tender flaws missing within his own and have become the only flavor of self preservation where he can hold someone’s gaze until it hurts, till he can speak without tremor climbing the rungs of his ribs, till he can make others nervous under the smug silence of his own. This impulse, his armour, naught but a cage that moves with him.
  
  If not for this performative characteristic, he knows all the doors of the universe would be locked to him. And if not for this performative confidence, he knows he’d be easier to tolerate.
  
  There is droll charisma to his antics, gestures and mischief that errs on affection. Sauternes sweetness uncharacteristic for a man of his own self-interest, spontaneity blurs the dissection of what he wishes to keep fact or fiction, and in that dissonance lies the unspoken gravitation for company. A lucky charm, a nefarious tupperware meal, the larger portion of a halved fruit placed into a friend’s hand; he is a cat that drops birds at the front porch to beat with tufted paws, hoping to keep one fed despite what unconventional means he must undertake.
  
  But with a brash nature, Ren; 蓮 Water Lily, is carved not from lotus but petals of rough asphalt; forgetting that survival is no longer surging forward on instinct or hunger, not an incising hollow unable to be cinched; that living is no longer desperation or clawing hands through bins. Childhood seeps habit in distilled dregs, incapable of lying dormant.
  
  A nervous dog is reactive, and he never wanted a temper, wasn’t inherited nor born as such, only housed with the fond sentiment of a stray animal. Guttered the virtues of adolescent ignorance fresh and raw from his body to make room for it, let it stay longer than anyone else did. No accident that he wants to be cinder and gunpowder, a splash of cardinal red, the tongue slicing edges of sanguine ruby to scare anyone from ever rivalling his lies or dauntless image. For when pared open ribs and delved hands into the sickly soft viscera, there is cuprite melted to byzantine with a sorrowed regolith of lapis. He is cerulean, bruised wet with melancholic indigo, a meek and lonely son of Vulcan with nobody to blame but himself.
  
  It is easier to be cruel than humiliated, and with a child’s loneliness and an adult’s anger, he still feels it logical to proudly parade his paper teeth. When one knows the taste of struggle, has it ingrained like sacrilegious ink to the tongue, they tend to forget that life is no longer a constant war and self-imposed medication of acting tough brings only collateral ruin. After extracting the bold and the brash, what remains is this:
  
  A brave coward, a caring egoist, and a lonely introvert. Layers of contradiction at war with who he was, is, and ever could be, he is a knitted lip scar and knuckles of pestled sapphires, a habit for behaving red yet born blue knowing that it's melancholy shade drips from the cuff of his sleeves and leaves an indigo comet trail ribboning through each temporary home. Plagued by massacred eulogy of abandoned connections, even now with a mantle of matador red so purposeful in its promise and décor, he knows those of his ilk aren’t easy to keep around.
  
  He screams vacancy like a red light district, prefers cheapened intimacy without engaging in meaningful conversations and is rendered voiceless when it comes to talk of emotions. A floozy who desires company only to have a place to melt when tired of being cold— if just for a moment. Known to crack and recoil when attachment grows molasses and sticks tar to skin, he dares not be viewed as a burden, save relationships are left as nothing more than scoured veins. Plagued by fear of being owned, by God, King, partner or place, by anyone or anything but himself, Ren has only ever wanted to bite down hard on anything offered to his hothouse mouth. No hand, not even those that feed him, are safe from his wilderness.
  
  Family blueprint leaking salience, a mother's trust issues and father's fear of commitment sinking into arctic marrow depths. Intimacy is frightening, sentimentality is a weakness, and affection is an iron shackle shaped for the thick of the throat; an attractive leash with only so much to give before it chokes.
  
  He has curled himself to the shape of people he once knew, pieces of them he carries in his voice, his mannerisms, humour. The need to imbue fractures with others is to acknowledge there are absences, but it’s his stubbornness speaking, perhaps pride, that thinks he is above needing anyone at all.
  
  An insecure narcissist who cares not for politesse daggers, a non-committal caregiver, a brash yet smooth-talking stray who collects blood in his palm by biting moons from anxious fingernails, a fussy boy born with nothing and acting like he has everything, it’s a paradox of wanting both unconditional loyalty yet unequivocal freedom that becomes his fatal, fearful garotte.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  Habits

  
  

  Androgynous attributes sometimes provoke whispers of tall woman or feminine man? Ren settles the unwanted attention by bluntly lifting his shirt to flash his chest at them. For those he mistakes as being invasive rather than zoned out or finding his face familiar, this is a very alarming reaction to receive.
  
  “This is how I win” and then he loses. A man who has lost so much and continues to do so every single day: “I never lose.”
  
  Getting into trouble is probably his enrichment time. Starts fights he can't win then pulls a power move of calling them a coward while running away.
  
  Fixation on hands when nervous. Digging nails into palm, tapping, picking or chewing at the skin around them.
  
  "I never did that." but he very much Did That. Will be in the middle of Doing that. Will have irrefutable evidence that he Did That. Will deny it because he never Did That.
  
  His credible source is that he made it the fuck up. He knows he is poor at outright lying, so settles for giving half truths. The Majesty of Pedantics when it comes to withholding context or avoiding important details. If he's asked a direct question and responds with a nod or shake of his head, there's a 99% chance he's lying and doesn't want verbalize it because it'll sound suspicious as fuck.
  
  His best skill is just Distract! Where he says some outrageous shit and hopes it stuns people.
  
  “Call the cops. I’ll have sex with them.” LOCK HIM UP.
  
  Can cry on command, uses this to make people look bad. It is poorly executed.
  
  Takes it personally when he can't just charm his way out of problems. Will flirt his way to success. If that doesn't work, bash their skull in with a mallet.
  
  Sometimes uses big words he doesn’t know the meaning of so he can sound smarter. “This food tastes ubiquitous” boy shut up.
  
  Too superstitious. Nervous of the number four. It’s the death number.
  
  Peels fruit for people he likes. Would be more wholesome if it wasn’t just him nudging an apple slice against someone’s mouth until they are forced to eat it.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  Skills

  
  

  Addition & subtraction. Hotwiring old vehicles. Stealing. Nimble footed. Being disarming in conversation. Charming in a "villain's incapable henchman" type way where you know he's up to no good but he's still somehow likeable. His best talent is just Distract! where he says some outrageous shit and hopes it stuns people. Knowing if fruit is ripe. With an encyclopaedic knowledge over gemology which extends to their authenticity and rarity, it’s bewildering to realise a man who can barely spell has the aptitude for all that.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  Fears

  
  

  Drowning, horror films, clowns, too-happy people, ghosts, demons, dead things, unlucky numbers, mimes, dying, public speaking, needles, hospitals, black magic, children, anything or anyone relatively creepy.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  likes

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Money, hot chocolate, bubble-baths, glitter pens, animals, sunlight, phone-charms, milk-pudding, jewellery, naps, martinis, food, markets, heights, cooking shows, compliments, bugs, cars, driving, homemade things.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  dislikes

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Crowds, horror films, blue, liars, apologising, being cold, rain, books, cleaning, deep water, Halloween, commitment, pretentious words, wealthy people, blondes, Elvis (he's scary).
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  history

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  VOL. ONE: BEREAVE

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  CW for poverty in VOL 1 and domestic violence in VOL 2​

  
  Created down at the heel, deprivation raised you.
  
  Rat-nest hair and barefooted, wounds of poverty lather you in a muggy smear of need. A household embellished with wall canvas of stains and holes, the crooked peel of wallpaper draws parallel to curling crêpes or seams of chewed lips. In the throes of crumbling foundations is the emaciated figure of a home, is the down comforter with feather stems that skewer and rake skin in daily rehearsal. With monsters waiting in the dark that are black mould sticking soft and breathing wet in corners of the room, with music as the tendering of men’s hooves sneaking across floorboards to a door splashed in dawn light, one learns not to value art in the world.
  
  Soot-eyed and headstrong, hacking asthma spattered with slush, lips slicked fire and ice, poverty speaks misery. Nibbling like a flea, rice mashed in watered down tuna is cajoled into your fighting mouth by mother’s determined hand. It is a piranha cluster taking from a meat-clung bone, a stomach sieved with slaking emptiness that has you gnaw your knuckles into livid clay. Prayer to famine, you’d glimpsed a dish of cat kibble on a doorstep and imagined it might not be so bad, tried not to measure the size of the pet to that of a plate.
  
  Picking hair from mutton dropped on the living room floor and cutting mould from stale bread, small delights are felt only in shame; poverty is the archeology of despair. Longing for vinegary mint dousing Easter lamb, spiced rice and grapefruit ice instead of broth and animal remnants, you watch your mother boil bones repeatedly till you fall asleep to its salty mirage. Dream a goose-down bed, propped on a pillow with Sencha tea and an ivory bowl of apricots. Owner of a chateau, desires can become cancerous in their vividness. Invading every inch in an ache of conquest, sleep is the foam-soft reprieve from an echoing body where cold drafts inhabit.
  
  Dark asphalt roils like an ocean against weeping footwear, but as you hold your mother’s hand to survey alleys of garbage swill you are honing a skill far different than others of your tender age. Gray stars skinned of their starlight, what you see are pale shells from a seabed that has long receded. Beneath fistfuls of muck and plastic you and your mother collect the immaterial, the debris with inconsequential worth to find fleeting solace from an evening’s hungry plight; steel cans are hard to scratch, are a darker color till they oxide a layer of terracotta, recycle for ¥1.5. Aluminium cans are lighter, form a white oxide layer but do not rust, recycle for ¥1.
  
  Life does not surface above this drowning conflict. Rain coats your neck in a food bank queue as you stare at the backpack in front of you. Aluminium zip, ¥1. Once soothing now seethes this money-minded habit to a slow boil. Hypnotic metal: prospect is endless. Body panels of a car, bike chassis, window-frame, baking sheets, you’d always been waiting and now something has come to you because you were in need, larcenist intrigue. Ensnares you with a growing precision outside of only metal cans, fascination for jewels noosed to the bend of swan-like necks, your fiendish paws begin to reach for anything that gleams and chew on anything that is edible. A young boy must pursue his visions, and your magpie fascination bathes languid in round lagoon eyes that wait and watch your mother’s earrings with doelike interest.
  
  She is cherry-blossom pretty, a matriarch like a film star beauty. Rouge lipped and stashing prison letters in the bottom of her makeup case; your father spoke from behind a partition of manganese steel bars. Written words she’d pore over like an expanse of gold, a cold-eyed Scheherazade with nothing tender for her part-time boyfriends. Relationships were an ingredient, weak, devourable, ¥1.
  
  You look past the emptiness that penned letters and monitored phone calls could not furnish. Ignore where you’d spend nights verging on prayer for him to come home. A hollow each birthday, each rejected parole, each disappointing substitute that would arrive at your mother’s side.
  
  Gentleness is not to be sustained when uprooted from everything you know.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  VOL. TWO: SUSTAIN

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  Evicted from the familiar and dropped into the American unknown, Brooklyn is coated in gentrification gray. Drained of language and the comfort of your childhood, New York offers you another. History is behind you and yet the habits of the past are at the forefront of your mind; the world you knew has not vanished, only fragmented and dispersed itself amongst the dull wet grid you now roam in.
  
  ¥1, bike lock, you indulge that dogwired brain and pocket it.
  
  You have your own room but your mother’s eyes are haunted and ache with something different, for she has traded welfare for a prophecy of harm. Dreamscape now hellscape where she is always drawn to the wrong type of men, never hungry for anything but a pyre; you are the damning brooch of that evidence. There is only one boyfriend that has you quiet as a nail, curled to take up as little space as you can, a wilting thing with no higher calling than to die never leaving the stem.
  
  You fear it lingers, that need to be a passing thought that exists only where it is wanted. Crevices in other’s minds where you can nest yourself unburdensome. You take this semblance of independence, act 20 at age 10, existing divided so that you can be better, be less of yourself and more like nothing and hope your mother will one day forgive the price of your existence.
  
  Beer can, ¥1, ¥1, ¥1. You know not the value of glass till age 13. Your mouth feels packed with lint and your cotton teeth are set alight, coal tongue steeped in red and lip cleaved like the moon. Speaking dribbles blood down the chin, and you want to recoil back towards peeling hallways and rotting floorboards where you at least knew your mother was safe. But you are shattered with amber glass for your flintlock mouth and in the next blink you are looking up at a sterile ceiling with stitches in your lip.
  
  You worry not about the blossoming bruise or eternal fissure carved into skin, but how expensive it is going to cost, in how expensive you are. Your existence is a debt you feel you can never pay back, in every breath, inch of fabric, scrap of food; it is a cost that mounts your shoulders with sisyphus weight. Nothing belongs to you and you take up too much space, and that is the night you pivot towards common misguidance.
  
  Vermin tripping over crumpled bodies of laundry, blunt scissors hacking ink shocks of hair to the kitchen floor; trials of high-school spent speaking the universal language of Go Away and hiding behind classrooms to thumb a knife under tangerine skin.
  
  Having a creature of habit for a son, the well-rehearsed play repeats with every man who made their way into your mother’s life; step-dads never found credence with an intemperate you. Valuing only scattered memories of the original, in a house coated with sepia light and stewing in smokey film. Held by hollow walls and draft swept floorboards, sickness would seep from the door frame to stoke the sting of a replacement father.
  
  You ask your mom to leave them.
  
  She says no.
  
  By the fourth you knew this phenomenon. Grew tired of its pattern, allocating scraps of fondness or fear to watch them walk out the door months later. Reared on detachment, nurtured by discomfort, cells swarmed bitter with venom of acedia. You avoid and only feel safe when at a distance and you don’t know how to stop it.
  
  It sits with you quietly most days, the resentment you’d tend like a well-fed animal.
  
  It sat with you loudly, the day you packed your things and ran away from home for the first time.
  
  It was a lightning phrase capable of uprooting all rationale, her current boyfriend has a job opportunity across the country and you cannot handle another displacement. You roam for six days until dragged back by law enforcement. The following morning you are on a plane.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  VOL. THREE: NOW

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  You have bever been good at poring over textbooks, and a betrothal to trouble is the only thing you find in this new atmosphere. Even after three years in Washington and one summer spent in juvenile detention, you still elude the captivity of being at home and rebuke the surveillance of teachers. Poverty teaches simple sentiments, kneeling to the cheapest: rationing cigarettes and shoplifting.
  
  Skin smeared with ruby red shine, you spend more time dozing in detention than attending your classes. Even now, unwanted things can find places to rest. Parties that are smoke-strewn and streaked in cognac, an unhinged deity flaring glutton lungs with smoke like the bloom of black dahlias. The petulance has seemed to reach its full potential in this place. Not mean but also not kind, each day grows heavier in recognition there is no future for you.
  
  Not here, not anywhere.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  MISC

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  Headcanons

  
  

  Claims to be Vegetarian. Eats meat. Immune to people trying to reason that he is, in fact, not vegetarian because of this. In which he will raise an elegant hand and correct them, it’s a part-time job.
  
  If he calls you Friend or Buddy, you are most definitely not his Friend or Buddy and he probably wants something from you. Is it Buddy [Manipulative] or Buddy [Threat].
  
  Can’t spell or write for shit. He can, however, add and subtract at creepy speeds. Nascar has nothing on his ability to count a stack of bills.
  
  Has “your friend’s 8 year old brother who has a crush on you” vibes cause he’s just kind of weird and yaps a lot. Social anxiety fears this man.
  
  Brought up in a cold house, asthma flare-ups aren't uncommon during winter.
  
  “Would you like me if I was a bee” but genuinely offended if the answer is no. Repeats one week later with "what about if I was a slug".
  
  Surprisingly good with kids once he gets over the “why is it staring at me” stage. Probably because his love language is just sharing food and he will engage in conversations of why frogs are important emotional beings.
  
  Gets mad if you kill a bug because it’s, ahem, “innocent and just trying to live with what it has”. And no he’s not projecting onto a beetle how about you STOP psychoanalysing him.
  
  A mommy's boy but he will never admit this. If an older lady calls him a petname he's climbing into their purse to go home with them. Son of all mothers. He is The Honey, The Darling, and most importantly, The Sweetie.
  
  Loves tacky phone charms. Has a collection, and may give some to friends so they can match.
  
  Calls everyone 'Toots' or a nickname influenced by their appearance or first interaction. Heavy Brooklyn accent which startles most.
  
  “Everyone be fucking QUIET my mom is calling ))):< !!” Will pause horrible bastard deeds just to answer his phone with the most deceitful, “hi mama♡” known to mankind.
  
  After alcohol he is a Karaoke king. Stand aside Mariah.
  
  Once bleached his hair blonde to get someone to like him. It didn’t work. Now hates blondes.
  
  Watches horror films with a strategic hand over his eyes.
  
  Seems dumb, but most of his knowledge is about really obscure things that never come up in conversation. Yes, he can recall every episode of the Great British Bake off. No, he cannot spell thesaurus. Yes, he can speak about the chemical composition and internal crystal structure of any gemstone. No, he doesn’t think salmonella is real.
  
  Can’t cook to save his life, but enjoys trying to make meals for friends. Watches a lot of culinary shows which (unfortunately) inspire him. This may be the reason his food is borderline radioactive to consume since he doesn’t bother to taste it.
  
  Not vaccinated. Not because he's anti-vax but because he's scared of needles. Why is there not edible options.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

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[morcetyx]

THE DEVOUT.

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Vasariah

MADSEN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Holding it together so well

OUTFIT

fit, necklace

LOCATION

Detention

MENTIONS

Ren.

INTERACTS

Ren. Gao

DAZIES — YEULE.

scroll

MISERABLY COUNT HOW MANY

shadows you see right above me
violently biting off the flesh
of your own, of your own body

CHAPTER ONE.

Detention.

A horrid after school program for trouble-makers, vandals, and unbehaved. Three things he is not. Three things the slimy weasel across the room was.

Vasariah sat neatly tucked away in the corner of the room. Plastic chair grinding uncomfortable into his back. Harsh fluorescent lights cast a relentless glare that sliced through fragile cornea, nursing a painful sensitivity that left jade irises searching peeling vinyl oak for some semblance of relief. Yet bright LEDs leave little mercy on susceptible eyes unless they are closed, but to be shut is to be considered sleeping. Sleeping during a punishment is forbidden.

A headache pulsed through Vasariah's temples, the pain exacerbated by the silent room. The only sounds were the persistent yet quiet ticking of a clock, and the quiet whisperings of who he could only presume were the usual troublemakers. He recognized few, and considered himself lucky not to share any classes with them, save for one. It was this one individual who had unjustly dragged him into this treacherous room. He'd been caught up in this mess through no fault of his own, and yet here he was, stuck in this sterile, monotonous environment. Torturous.

A reasonable pile of unfinished homework in front of him, untouched. Incomplete for a reason. The sense of injustice gnawed at Vasariah, a relentless itch he couldn’t scratch. It wasn’t just the detention—it was the sheer unfairness of being punished for someone else’s mistakes. Each tick of the clock seemed to mock him, echoing his irritation with every passing second.

He fought against his thoughts, attempting to prevent his mind from wandering back to the events that led him here. It would only serve to stoke the embers of his frustration. It was best not to dwell. Do not dwell. Do not dwell. Do not dwell.

The silence in the room was thick, pressing in on Vasariah from all sides. Despite his best efforts to remain calm and detached, his thoughts kept drifting back to the other student. Ren—he remembered it was officially his last name. He was observant, having paid attention during roll call in the first few weeks of school. Those early days, before the teacher had learned the students' preferred names and nicknames, had etched the delightful name in his mind.

Vasariah denies any and all allegations stating that he only remembers due to the other student’s beauty. He was above aesthetics and attractive features. The fact he had immortalized every feature on paper with meticulous detail was entirely unrelated to the topic at him.

Thin velvet wine lips, perpetually tinged with a scar of mischief. A wide, inviting smile that brought life to his face through charming smile lines that accentuated the prominence of high, sculpted cheekbones. His face, slim and chiseled, was framed by silky pools of ink-black hair that flowed with a graceful fluidity, each strand personally bathed in a beauty he had never seen before. Darling eyes which mirrored the precious obsidian nestled in his backpack, shimmering with stars even under cruel pale lighting. His favourite feature of course, his nose with its delicate bump and elegant curve, a slope he could trace over and over.

Vasariah hadn’t noticed his eyes staring in circles around sun-kissed beige skin. Warm. Cruelly inviting. Look away. Look away now. Pale skin littered with beauty marks and freckles grew peach in color, a dusting of blush across fragile skin. He was not some fair maiden who flushed and giggled upon seeing any attractive person. No, rather, he was embarrassed from his own habit of staring. Inappropriate. Invasive. He should know better.

Vasariah's attention drifted to the pile of notebooks on his desk, each one an echo of his meticulous nature. The pages were filled with notes, incomplete in a way that only he could decipher. His handwriting, normally so precise and fluid, had started to deteriorate into shaky, barely legible scrawls. It was as if his hands were turning to crumbling stone, stiff, fragile, and falling apart.

Jade gaze traced over a page, studying the lines at a superficial level. The words were still there, but they felt distant, disconnected from the clarity he usually prided himself on. Maybe he was tired. Maybe he was upset. Overwhelmed. Maybe he felt like crying, but there was nowhere safe here. Suck it up, hold it in, leave it be.

He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. The air was stale, and the fluorescent lights buzzed softly—not softly, now that he had paid attention to it. He could hear the faint rustling of papers from the other students, the occasional stifled laugh, the malicious whispers, and the shuffling of feet under desks. The room felt both too quiet and too noisy.

Vasariah hated this feeling. It was a feeling he couldn’t name, only compare and hope it felt the same. It was something like his thoughts constantly slipping away from him, yet everything blended together at the same time. But no, that wasn’t good enough. It wasn’t right. He just felt…something awful.

He opened his eyes, focusing on the notebook in front of him. The words blurred slightly, the lines wavering, but he forced himself to concentrate. He picked up his pen, trying to steady his hand. The graphite flowed, but the lines were still shaky, the letters uneven. He gritted his teeth, frustration boiling over as he scribbled the eraser over the words, the page becoming a mess of smudge marks and frustration.

Overstimulated and overwhelmed, Vasariah felt the room closing in on him. His vision blurred, the pressure in his temples throbbing painfully as he struggled to focus on the page before him. The overwhelming brightness made it difficult to concentrate, his thoughts scattering like leaves in the fall, and he had not the energy nor the rake to begin collecting them in piles. He felt the pencil slip from his fingers, tumbling to the ground with a clatter that seemed to echo through the room.

That was the final straw. Vasariah buried his face in his hands, the coolness of his palms offering little comfort against the heat of his cheeks. His breath hitched, and he fought to keep the tears at bay, his chest tightening with the effort. He sat there, eyes closed, trying desperately to regain control, to suppress the tears that threatened to spill over.

As Vasariah sat with his face buried in his hands, his thoughts began to spiral out of control. The thought of his parents finding out about the detention sent a cold shiver down his spine. They had always been strict, even if they were never there. He could already imagine their disappointment, the stern lectures, and the inevitable grounding.

Nights spent doing homework and working himself down to the bone, meals skipped because school was more important than basic needs, all of it would be for nothing with a setback like this. Perfect grades and attendance they barely batted an eye at, it was expected, the minimum. Detention? No. I can’t. I can’t. Maybe he could just lie his way out of it somehow after the fact. But no, would they have contacted his parents? On his first offense? Would it be on his record already?

Oh, God. My record. His mind raced to the implications this incident could have on his college applications. He had worked so hard to maintain a spotless academic record, and now this single blot could tarnish everything. He imagined the admissions officers, scrutinizing his record and finding this ugly black mark. Would they question his character, his commitment to his studies? The thought of his future being jeopardized by something out of his control…

Then there was the matter of his current reputation. Vasariah had always been known as a quiet, diligent student, someone who kept to himself and stayed out of trouble. But now, being seen in detention could change that. Would the teachers who once respected him now see him differently? Would they think he was just another troublemaker? Would Mrs. MacDonald still bring him breakfast in the morning so she knows he’ll have eaten something for the day?

Even more distressing was the impact this could have on his few social interactions. Vasariah had never been particularly popular, but he had at least been someone you try to be in good graces with in hopes he will help you with your homework or work with you on a group project where he does all the work. But now, he feared that even those tenuous bonds would fray. If his peers saw him as someone who got into trouble, would they still want to work with him? Would they think he was less intelligent, less capable? He feared being ostracized more than he already was, not even getting a "pity pairing" in group projects because his reputation as a reliable and smart student would be tainted.

Vasariah felt a strange detachment, as if he were floating outside his own body. The room seemed to expand and contract around him, the edges of his vision fading into an indistinct haze. He could see himself sitting there, hunched over, face buried in his hands, but it felt distant, unreal. He was stuck watching himself from a distance, a silent observer to his own distress as he often was.

In this dissociated state, the room around him seemed to vanish, leaving him alone in a void. The other students, the desks, the walls—all faded into nothingness. There was only Vasariah, isolated and adrift. He saw himself sitting there, small and fragile, struggling against the weight of his thoughts and emotions. And yet, it didn’t feel like himself. No. He felt no connection to that thing, he only rationally knew that it was his. His burden. His shell.

Get it together, he whispered to himself, though the words never came out, and the thought itself felt like it was coming from somewhere else, someone else. Let yourself in.

The plea echoed in the emptiness, a desperate call to reconnect, to ground himself back in reality. He wanted to reach out, to comfort himself, to pull himself back from the brink of this dissociative abyss. He wanted to help himself. You can. You can. I know you can.

But the disconnection felt too strong, the divide between his conscious mind and his body too wide. He watched, helpless, as his own form remained motionless, the weight of himself too heavy to lift. The void around him pressing in, suffocating in its silence.

Come on, he urged, voice trembling with a mix of fear and determination. You can do this. Just breathe. Just... go back.

He tried to ground himself, to reconnect with the present moment and push back against the fog that constantly swallowed him. The lights continued to blaze, the room remained harsh and unyielding, and he just wanted to go home, even if home didn’t exist.

Then, suddenly, darling brown eyes were in front of his, and everything felt more real. And oh…they were impossibly beautiful up close. The patterns within the irises were something out of his dreams, resembling a warm summer’s night sky—swirls of deep brown and flecks of gold, shifting and catching the cold light in mesmerizing ways.

The sudden proximity of those eyes made his breath catch. There was a magnetic pull to their gaze, and he was helpless to its siren song, drawing him in until he felt it was only the two of them in that room. The eyes were so close that Vasariah could see the fine details of the lashes, the subtle variations in the color of the iris, the gentle curve of the brow above them.

And then, as quickly as the eyes had appeared, Vasariah's mind registered the intrusion. Eyes should not be this close to him.

“Ren,” he hissed. Vasariah’s face fell on something between annoyed and confused, but he was never good at such expressions. “What are y—”

Before he could finish his question, his gaze darted around the room, searching for the teacher who was supposed to be supervising. To his surprise, the teacher was nowhere to be seen. To his dismay, the other students had begun to take advantage of the newfound freedom. The room was now buzzing with the loud chatter of other students, and briefly, he was shocked they hadn’t found more chaotic activities to participate in.

Vasariah turned to the brunette in front of him, his thumb subconsciously scratching away at the dried, dead skin along his index finger in a poor attempt to curb his anxiety. “What happened?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper—a rule follower even if there was no one to enforce it.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

THE KLEPTO.

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船井 蓮

FUNAI REN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

FWENDSHIP...

OUTFIT

DELINQUENT SERVE

LOCATION

THE DESK

MENTIONS

HELLO BLONDIE

INTERACTS

morcetyx

BLUE AS INDIGO — TIGERCUB.

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ANCIENT AND VICIOUS

luscious as dark velvet it blooms in you,
a poppy made of ink,
you think of nothing else.

CHAPTER ONE.

Detention.

Ren’s second home.

The morse of the clock is a lullaby wrapping him in the temptation of a forbidden sleep. Once chorded with enough muscle to sit upright, now unwound into sheaves of limb and spools of melancholic hair. Arms folded and chin perched on top, half-lidded eyes watch the student diagonally tangent carve unsavoury words into the desk.

Many are not born equal in the womb, and Ren knows most in this room are just societal wounds left to fester without salve. Those not given time or patience to cater their unmet needs; not that this can be justification for all problem children exiled into the afterschool purgatory.

The same collection that descends into this clockwork habit of earning themselves a detention, Ren is familiar with. The violent and the truant and just plain unmedicated, he affiliates best with those that have given up with school. Gutter grades and skimming by on the luck of his teeth, he currently has no intention of altering what he presently doesn’t feel has a need to be fixed.

So it occurs as it often does, him and his company with trouble. He does not think he actively seeks or causes it, and yet— seems to always be present when it happens.

In the cesspool is the magnet of oddity, someone who has no belonging in an informal environment like this: Ren’s unfortunate collateral. Not entirely proud of involving the diligent pupil into this situation— not that it had been intentional— not that he intends to broker an apology either. But the longer Ren lingers on that scintilla of guilt, he rationalises this might be an enriching experience for Vasariah. The teacher’s pet deserves a glimpse of the teacher’s beloathed.

A clatter surfaces Ren from the drowsy current, room rapidly widening to include the recollection of quiet susurrus in his orbit. Tries to fend the sobering away as he turns his head to the side, ear laid to arm to find himself staring vacantly to the perpetrator. Call it privilege or call it pride, the poor thing is etched with defeat. Face bundled into the barren walls of their own hands, there’s an intolerable level of pity to affix his vision on someone like that— not benefited by being the very source of their presence here.

Ren is also not ignorant enough to not notice pretty people.

Their skin is kneaded with rosewater and the radiance of their curls would bring rivalry to that of Apollo. How easy to forget verging close will sentence an Icarus fate, how easy to forget he does it all the same; does what he does best and defies what he always should do. Finds the habitat over by Vasariah much more pleasant and sits himself in the vacant space in front of them. Leaned forward with both elbows on the blonde’s desk, head in his hands and staring.

The unravelling begins the moment the blonde takes notice, all the melting wax and serrated feathers.

“Ren.” Spoken with the violence of a comet with sea spray hiss, but akin to that of a cozy sparrow, Ren seems to fluff at the sound of his name. Sharp corners of his mouth upturned and eyes crinkled with a smile, there is something smug to see the blonde use it.

“Yes.” Nonchalant as if affirming that it is indeed his name. Hierarchy is determined by an absent teacher, and with students beginning to roam and chat, Ren is not immune to that loosened leash of freedom. The blonde asks what happened as if some urgent treachery is afoot, and the brunette casts a lazy survey over what he can see without turning his head.

“I came over here. It was very far.” He thought it would be obvious, but fair-headed ones aren’t known for their wisdom. “You crying?” Not spoken as a tease, only a curious observation to what was once a pinched form and hidden face.

“Oh,” there is a harrowing pause towards what Ren has noticed. “You know what, I get it. I’d be sad too if my handwriting looked like that.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[morcetyx]

THE DEVOUT.

scroll

Vasariah

MADSEN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Suspicion cured me

OUTFIT

fit, necklace

LOCATION

Ren's eyes I fear

MENTIONS

Ren.

INTERACTS

Ren. Gao

DAZIES — YEULE.

scroll

MISERABLY COUNT HOW MANY

shadows you see right above me
violently biting off the flesh
of your own, of your own body

CHAPTER ONE.

A smile. It is just a smile.

Yet it’s a light that spills into the shadows of his soul, filling the hollow spaces with a warmth he didn’t know he was missing. That smile is a gentle sunrise, spreading across the canvas of his heart, painting everything in red hues of dangerous affection. Vas finds himself captivated by the way the boy’s eyes crinkle at the edges, and he swears he can see every joy Ren has ever known is echoed in that singular expression. And in that instant, all worries melt away, leaving a worrying truth that this boy has become the center of his universe. Even if only for a moment.

Vasariah should not be domesticated this easily.

Ren’s voice slips into Vasariah’s ears, a comforting balm against the tension that knots his thoughts. It’s softer than he’d expect from someone like Ren, whose vibrant personality so often fills the room with lively energy. Yet here, in this moment, his voice is a warm murmur, like the gentle strum of a guitar at twilight, laced with that unmistakable Brooklyn accent. The cadence of it flows over Vasariah like a familiar melody, each word steeped in the rhythms of a life lived in the East.

Vasariah finds himself caught in the current of it, drifting in the undertones of that city’s distant hum, wondering how deeply one must be rooted in a place for its voice to become their own. He muses on how the accent clings to Ren's tongue, if it is as stubborn as the brunette is, and wonders if Ren ever longs for the streets he left behind, for the skyline that once framed his view. Will his voice lose any remnants of his home the longer he is here?

“You crying?”

He is no longer domesticated. He is no longer wistfully replaying that voice in his mind.

The delinquent is quicker to speak than he is, and only rubs salt in the wound.

“What…?” Vasariah’s voice wavers, his gaze shifting to Ren, caught somewhere between hurt and confusion. He glances down at the scattered papers on his desk, the evidence of Ren’s jab sprawled before him. The neat, orderly handwriting that unraveled into chaotic scratches. Ironically it documented perfectly the spiral his mind was taking being locked in this room.

Admittedly, it was bad. And he would have to take precious time out of his day to rewrite the notes. And that thought was enough to make Vasariah’s head hurt once more.

“I’m not crying…” Vasariah murmurs, the words barely more than a whisper, as if saying them too loudly might betray him. Technically, it’s true—no tears spill down his cheeks. His gaze drifts back up, drawn irresistibly to those warm, inky eyes that hold him captive. They’re too close, far too close, and he feels the pull of them like a tide he knows he is going to drown in. His parents had warned him about the dangers of getting too close to boys, but they never prepared him for this—the danger of getting lost in the depths of this boy’s eyes. It’s terrifying.

“Are you…aware that saying things like that is generally seen as rude?” Vasariah tilts his head, leaning forward slightly as his arms cross in front of him. “I’m not upset because of my—well okay. Now I am a little upset that I have to rewrite my notes. But that was not the original problem.” The admission slips out before he can catch it, and already he feels like he’s sharing too much, exposing cracks in the carefully constructed walls he keeps around himself. There’s a vulnerability in revealing even this small frustration

Vasariah stills, his breath catching as his eyes trace the contours of Ren’s face, searching for something—anything—that might reveal the story behind those familiar features. He lingers on every crease and pore, as if they might whisper secrets to him, unravel the mystery of the man to make the playing field even again. But the answers he seeks remain out of his reach, and all he’s left with is the undeniable truth that he’s standing too close to the most beautiful man he’s ever had the unfortunate pleasure of laying his eyes on.

He knows he should be doing anything else, focusing on tasks that don’t involve engaging with Ren, yet he can’t tear himself away. There’s a pull between them, something unspoken and dangerous, and for a moment, Vasariah wonders if Ren feels it too. But he quickly pushes the thought aside, forcing himself to look away, and tells himself he is experiencing an acute psychosis.

“Ren, why are you here?” Vasariah’s voice is calm, but there’s a hint of something unsteady in the tone. He lets the question hang in the air for a moment before clarifying, his gaze narrowing slightly. “Why are you here at my desk…talking to me…?” The words come out more pointed than he intended, attempting to grasp the logic behind Ren’s presence. He’s not used to this, to having his space invaded, to being asked if he is crying or poking at his handwriting. Ren must want something. People only talked to him if they wanted something.

♡coded by uxie♡