[archivedobliviting]

                 life is oblivion erupting, for a brief moment,

                         into non-oblivion in order so that oblivion may proclaim, “i am”.                             the assumption being, that living things are aware enough                                            to make such a proclamation. (cont.)                             abelard richter ; independent ; semi-selective ; multi-verse

[archivedobliviting]

What are you wearing right now...?

Half-dead or something of the like, slung over his torn leather sofa like an old, useless, waste of semen. The record player’s needle is caught in one of the grooves, I guess, and it’s bouncing this unpleasantly shrill sound off the walls of these tiny confines. It’s supposed to be a song from Houses of the Holy but it sounds more like Houses of Hell. Abel’s House of Hell. Our orphan would have spaced out for a good ten minutes more if it weren’t for the vibrations coming from his ass. His ass is vibrating. When will he ever get used to that. He’s almost too weak to pull the casket personified that’s his sleep-deprived self up, and when he does, the fine text he reads has a little glint of amusement tickling dry lips. A shaky thumb replies, slowly replies “not much of anything” and he returns to his meditative state. If you can even call it that.

[archivedobliviting]

okay,,, i guess i’m going to revamp abel and try and be active here again...?! which also means i’m going to be changing my tags to everything and prodding at his bio a little bit so just. disregard everything before this post. please anticipate his arrival. :-)

[archivedobliviting]

/ / Drunken conversations.

[cir]

God, the stench of alcohol was too much. He could feel a whole pint of vomit stirring up in the pits of his stomach. He gulped immediately to keep it down and low, inside of him instead of outside — somewhere like the floor beneath his feet. He had some new kicks he wasn’t willing to ruin. ”Thanks…?” He can’t help but to snort at his words. His own nose is shoved into his arms for a moment — he remembers he’s wearing that cologne he bought yesterday. 

"And you smell like erm… a field of…" He wonders how he can put this in a more poetic way. He finds that he doesn’t have that kind of ability, even as a lyricist. "Well… a field of gruesome alcoholic beverages… and I’ll pass living there." The man’s body is completely flush against him now. He’s pretty heavy for his type of figure — he wonders if it’s muscles. He can feel his warm breath right up against his ear. He absolutely despises company parties. His eyes are directed then to the bottle trapped between the man’s thighs. And Chanyeol’s off laughing again — the man had humor, he had to give him that much. “I’ll pass that drink too… or anything between your legs for that matter.”

[archivedobliviting]

Abelard's watching the other with seemingly earnest eyes (he has a way of naturally looking like a wounded animal) (he tends to think of it as not such a good thing) (to appear so outwardly broken, I mean) (feeble), the golden flecks littering his iris sparkling when they hit the lights a certain kinda way. You can barely tell, though. His bangs are too out-of-hand.   Gruesome alcoholic beverages. The orphan's lips teeter into a smile—into a knowing look. "Not much of a drinker, are y'?" He's coiling his arm back into himself now, straightening his posture. "Don't start, 'kay? Drinking's like falling in love. It's a blast until you're left feeling like absolute trash. Sooner or later it makes you out to be a mess. A fool. Crumbled bits of decayed matter..." Eyebrows furrowed. Shaking head as if to dismiss the words that so clumsily spew from the depths of his throat. "Something like that."  Here's where, out of no where, it's dawned upon him that it would be probably the greatest fucking idea!!! to hands-free pick up the bottle. Clearly, his focus isn't quite as nimble as he once thought it was (like five seconds into the past where alcohol wasn't shed all over his jeans, for example) He's gasping—in trauma at both the stark contrast in temperate and the fact that he's wasted a perfectly good drink. The bottle rolls under the sofa. "Shit—" In English, it is. Accented with something foreign. He's up and out of his seat, worried gaze boring into the other as if he's his answer-filled-mum. "What do we do?" Notice how he says we as if his label-mate's an actual part of this situation now.

[archivedobliviting]

What's up, the name's Kayden. (` he bowed his head slightly in a form of politeness before he reached out his hand ) And you must be?

He’s caught marveling over the way lively gold embers reduce themselves to nothing more than a dull, sullen grey with a simple inhale and flick of his finger. His eyes are all bleary with fascination, clouded even—are they——bloodshot? Of course they are. Of course he’s high. He’s always smoking something. Drinking something. Fucking himself over!!! The approach of a stranger doesn’t seem to catch him off guard, much. He’s just going to talk to them as if they’ve been at his side all along."Kayden. You a foreigner, too?" A brief pause for an attempt to collect his thoughts. "—’m Abel." He’ll take the other’s significantly smaller, more dainty hand into his own now, bony fingers tucking around the boy’s palm fondly. A shake or two. Release. He can’t remember the last time someone actually offered him a handshake for a greeting. "What made you wanna come over here? H—m? Were y’ naturally drawn to me?”

[archivedobliviting]

— Replying to (Δ)

  "Yeah, well. We do—so learn about it." Slurred words tumble from dry lips with his signature shoulder-shaking laugh. The poor boy's become so weak the past couple of months that laughter is like a stab in the heart. Laughing is so, so painful. Alcohol has a way of numbing that, though. He's an addict, he's terrible but the numbing is—oh, it's so sweet. It's so—alleviating. Why do you think he's always piss drunk??   The freckled boy's practically laying on the other male now, too-long gone to care in the slightest; to give a fraction of a fuck! He's got a bottle of Hite in his hand (which he's nursed so tenderly—it's near empty), condensation tinkering down the shaft and staining his corduroys. The other arm remains coiled around the other, giving his shoulder an awkward pat. Or two. Or three. It's following the beat of the song so obnoxiously infiltrating their young brains.   "You're warm. 'n smell like...uh, a field of...sweet-smelling things. I'd like to live there." Now he's just speaking pure nonsense, capturing the bottle between his knobby knees to free up his hand. From there, bony digits twist through his own disheveled nest of brown curls, raking his bangs back only to have them return to their duty of  almost completely sheathing his eyes. "You want the rest of this?" He's referring to his drink. The one between his legs. Charming, Abel.

[archivedobliviting]

☾☾☾— [ft. novacaineshymn]

[novocaineshymn]

She honestly has no idea why she frequents this bar. The drinks are okay at best, the regulars were sleazeballs who constantly hit on her, and their open mic nights could easily drive anyone to the brink of insanity. Then again, this was the closest place that had not been affect by smoking laws. She was certain that as soon as they completely banned smoking indoors, her visits would become far less frequent. But, there were some perks to this place. Like the bartender who could pull some nice conversations or the other who always gave her a free drink or two.

One thing she enjoyed doing was people watching. There was always a small handful for eye candy purposes, like the chick a few seats down and the guy next to her, Then there were the people who were drunk off their rockers. Also fun to watch when they were about to do some stupid things, especially if the designated driver was doing their best to stop them. The regular drinkers and people who already knocked out from consuming way too much alcohol weren’t exactly all that entertaining.

The man to her right caught her eye, even if he seemed to fit the latter, more uneventful pool of patrons. She swore she knew him from somewhere, possibly STC since this wasn’t that far from the company building. Yin could easily remember people as long as they worked with her at least once, or you were a subject to her hazing. Thus he had to be a newbie or had less than a year under his belt. It dawns upon her a minute later. Abel.. something. There was definitely another syllable in there. Best to check. She reaches over a gives him a light poke on his side. “Abel, right?”

[archivedobliviting]

   He has his fingers loosely coiled around a glass of Bourbon, nearly untouched—the ice cubes having melted already. A chilled layer of condensation coats the glass as well as his palm, but he barely notices. He doesn't quite have the energy to bring the beverage to his lips and admittedly, he knows it's not going to end well if he does. For now, he'll simply hold it. Provide it with some sense of false hope.    The counter top might actually be a good spot for a nap, he thinks. Or maybe, half-thinks as he's already letting his consciousness slip away into a state of slumber. The previously gut-wrenching sound of the stranger with the mic has faded into white noise and it's actually become oddly relaxing. Yeah, he's completely relaxed and on the brink of sleep—until a finger prods at his side, that is.   It has his body flinching, shifting away a fraction. Thank god he didn't knock his drink over (the counter's sticky enough) or even fall off his stool (he doesn't need attention drawn to him). He keeps his gaze trained upon the empty space before him as he raises his glass to pay the French Bourbon Dynasty his respects. It hurts his throat.  Mid-swig, fatigue ridden eyes wander to his left and from beneath his messy nest of hair, his eyebrows raise. The female's bloody gorgeous. This, of course, has him sitting up straight, maybe trying to look a little less dead.   "...That's right—" His voice falters—cracks. He hasn't spoken in a while. To fix that, he'll clear his throat. "Abelard Richter." Now he's just testing her, seeing if she'll repeat it just like that. It's always interesting to see how non-English speakers pronounce his name.     "You're..." Shades of amber narrow, calloused thumb idly traces the rim of his glass.  "...'m sorry, I can't seem to recall where I've seen your face before."

[archivedobliviting]

☂ ☂ ☂ — [ft. metavasi]

[metavasi]

Jimin doesn’t mean to linger—doesn’t mean to slim his eyes into a stare and just stand there, gawking—but, this guy has a really nice guitar. Really nice; much better than his old Stella Harmony that hasn’t seen any good days for probably quite a few years now. (It’s ancient—used to be his dad’s before the man passed it onto his elder brother, who left it in pretty bad shape.) (But Jimin is too attached to the thing to ever even think about giving the instrument up.) And, the boy can’t help but to notice that this guy has pretty nice fingers—long, bony ones that almost seem crafted just for playing guitar.

Which irritates him, just a bit. Jimin has little fingers.

Now, he’s generally not the type to go out of his way and engage in conversation. No, he’s much too soft-spoken—and admittedly, skeleton-quaveringly shy. However, he found himself not able to ignore this little craving of conversation. “Hey,” he says, his eyes still trained onto the other’s guitar—his own fingers are curled into his guitar case. Which is more than half his size, gawkily hanging onto his back.

With confidence he wasn’t aware he possessed, Jimin steals a seat on the same exact sofa as the other—but can it really be considered stealing? After all, this man doesn’t own the couch.

Clearing his throat (the only real sign that he’s feeling just a tad bit out of place, like the single lock of inky hair peeking out from underneath his hat), he curls his legs up, twisting them crisscross-apple-sauce style. “So, what are you playing?” He lets his chin rest in a palm, letting the elbow dig into his thigh.

[archivedobliviting]

   Focus adhered to the unique tone of the stranger's voice. Curiosity quick to ignite dim eyes. A subtle flick of his head and curly, tangled bangs cease (and desist) their job of swallowing him with their shadows. Now that he's openly soaking up the presence of the stranger, they can maybe see the array of freckles littering the bridge of the orphan's nose. According to that guitar case in their grasp, he's discovered yet another guitarist at the company. Neat.   This kid looks fairly young. He hasn't seen him around before. Must be a trainee.    —Who am I kidding? Abel hardly recognizes anyone in their company aside from his band mates. He's generally too distracted by the little things around him—be it a potted ivy on the window sill in the office or the peculiar texture of the hand soap in the men's room. What a boob.    "It's—incredibly out of tune, I know." He murmurs with that awkwardly hoarse voice of his. He'll then make an attempt to solve this issue by carefully tweaking the pegs with rough thumbs, giving each corresponding string a test strum. But tuning a guitar isn't the easiest thing to do without a tuner, so he'll leave it be until he gets home. Whenever that is.     Then he'll scooch over because it looks like he's going to have some company for the evening and, in perfect English (though it does have some sort of weird accent attached to it—no one knows where that came from), he'll answer with the song title.     "Free Bird by Lynyrd Skynyrd. 'Ever heard of it? It's'a classic." A pause for him to laugh a shoulder-shaking laugh, eyes forming wrinkles. Laughter adds about ten years to his face. What a shame. "Or maybe my awful singing ruined it. Sorry."    Guitar-boy sits with his legs all folded up neatly next to him. Sure is tiny! If Abel tried that, his knobby knees would take up the whole sofa.

[archivedobliviting]

"Yo, Abel right? I'm not too good with names," Jiyong grinned a little. "Good to see ya."

   ——Oh. Yes, he’d forgotten about the social norms within the company. When you see someone you haven’t yet talked to, it’s not unusual to make yourself known. Abel doesn’t do that, though. He’s more of a don’t speak unless spoken to sorta character. Even so, he’ll offer the shorter male a smile of his own, hand raising to flick messy, curly bangs out of his eyes.   ”Hi, yeah. It’s Abel. You’re—hm.” A beat for him to cock his head to the side. Maybe suck his teeth a little.  “I’ve seen your face before but I can’t seem t’ put a name to it. Mind helping me out? I apologize.” 

[archivedobliviting]

☂ ☂ ☂ — [ft. metavasi]

   If he'd known it was going to rain, he wouldn't have chosen today to walk home. The setting sun accompanied by rain clouds bathes the sky in sullen shades of deep purple, orange, and yellow. It's pretty. Fascinating, even. It's rare to see the weather like this. Reminds him of that one song by Creedence Clearwater Revival—a group from the late sixties. Abel's kind of music. Come to think of it, he can't even name one other song by them.    He's sitting by himself in the lobby, his bony form sunken right into one of the sofas. Calloused fingers pick idly at strings on his guitar as he watches water droplets race to the bottom of the window pane through amber-flecked hues. He feels like singing. He'll maybe just mumble a few lines of a song while he strums because his voice is pretty terrible. From all the smoking, I mean. Hell, from all sorts of different toxins tearing down his throat. It's not even just his singing—his speaking voice has been weakened since he'd started aggressively drinking. He's one tragic, pitiful mess of a boy.  And he'll continue on with this half-hearted singing of his until he's met with the presence of a stranger. His voice'll fade out. Pretend like he wasn't singing just then.

[archivedobliviting]

☼☼☼ — [ft. munoire]

   It's so ridiculously hot out and he may or may not have previously sucked the life from a joint twenty-minutes prior. Unruly curls of brown stick to the back of the boy's neck with the assistance of sweat, and the stretched-out collar of his t-shirt hangs loose around his neck. The two are sitting on the floor with their backs up against the old leather sofa in his apartment. He'd made an attempt to get some air flowing in the room earlier, but ended up terribly fascinated by the way the window screeching somewhat resembled the bray of a donkey. Stood by the window for at least a minute.    But the wind ended up being humid so he'd decided the fan would be their best bet. The air conditioning's down for maintenance. Of course he tried communicating with her through "alien-speak", which was him simply talking into the osculating fan. Oh, he has too much fun when he's high.   He's settled down a little now, more intrigued by the paranormal-esque stories spewing from her lips with enthusiasm. She's telling him things she probably wouldn't if it weren't for his intoxicated state. If it weren't for her intoxicated state. Wait—he can't even remember if she'd gotten high or not. This doesn't seem to trouble him too much.    "So——you're saying, you're not a vampire, but—something else, right?"    

[archivedobliviting]

☆ ☆ ☆ — [ft. xjiseop]

   He doesn't really eat a lot.  He'd much rather treat himself to a drink of the alcoholic variety or even a drag on the ol' cancer stick. A joint if he's feeling scandalous. But his mother's noticed how skinny he's been getting and she's worried about his health. Says he needs more meat on his bones. If only the poor woman had a clue.    So here he is, his bony ass perched upon one of the leather booth-seats of his company's cafeteria. He's weaving his chopsticks between pasta noodles—a German dish made by his mother—watching them slither between narrow gaps and settle back into the container. More importantly, he's watching how his hands shake as he does it. It's subtle—maybe only noticeable if you lean in real close, perhaps narrow your eyes a lil' bit. It's usually worse than this, but the orphan's trying his best to keep his jitters under control. He dislikes being asked about it by strangers. I'm an addict going through withdrawals is never a good first impression.    The place is nearly empty. Most of his label-mates are busy with schedules at this hour and luckily for him, Toy Train doesn't have schedules to attend. Being an indie group, they're pretty free-spirited, boundless—which he prefers. His heart aches for the trainees who have to take on dance practice, vocal practice, acting, and languages all in one day. And a lot of them do.    That's it—he can't eat this. There's a boy at the end of his table. He'll ask him if he wants his food. Tell him that he hasn't touched it.

[archivedobliviting]

☾☾☾— [ft. novacaineshymn]

   He's still hungover from the previous night and he has absolutely no reason to be here other than his vaguely obsessive-compulsive desire to sabotage himself. Pathetic. Just because you have a bottle of perfectly aged whiskey in your possession, and you know you can down all of it straight without as much as a glimmer of discomfort, doesn't mean you should do it. With all the alcohol he drinks you think he'd know better. And he——does.    His head is pounding. Both because of the hangover and the sound of a stranger's slurred, drunken attempt to project their wretched vocals into a poor quality karaoke mic. Of all nights to get re-drunk—of all bars he could have chosen—he ended up choosing one with "open mic night".    The light haze of intoxication fogging his mind renders him terribly curious. Makes us wonder how drunk!Abel can be even more knowledge-hungry than sober!Abel. He's always been this way—wanting to know the science of things. Wanting to know why things are they way they are. Sober Abel would probably not think twice to thoroughly analyze the sticky, beer-strained counter top, but drunk Abel does and it goes like this; heavy-head lifting, calloused finger tips tracing over the scratches of varnished wood. Dim eyes observing the various knots etched into it, following their swirls and round-a-bouts. Heart pine, he identifies. It's nice.   Nope. His head hurts too much. He'll lay back down, now.

[archivedobliviting]

// ???¿ weird kid.

[yubdot-archive-deactivated20150]

▌unexpected invite;

Like every night, Yub was stuck out during the night partying. Except for this time, it wasn’t out in the streets of Hongdae. Neither was it in Gangnam. It was merely in the place of a close friend of hers, full house, music blasting and drunk beings all over the place. It was a common sight to see among her group of friends. More specifically for Yoobin, but the stories that tie to that is a unnecessary.

As usual, she let the alcohol fill her system, allowing her to grow drunk as her sense of touch grew fuzzy. Her steps were wobbly and her speech slurred, but that didn’t stop her from having a good time in her life. Ready for a refill in the infamous red plastic cup, she spotted a man alone. Though she didn’t think much of it, she continued to get a refill of the owners special concoction of drinks, Yoobin laughed, unsure if she wanted the strangers attention.

His silence made her curiosity grow. In such a loud atmosphere, there was absolutely no reason for someone to be as quiet as this man was. And the mere fact that no one had approached this being piqued her interest even more. Hell, she wasn’t sure if this man had even originally planned to come here in the first place. Slowly scooting over to the man beside her, Yoobin turns around and presses the small of her back onto the counter, looking up at the stranger. “Did you just randomly show up here?”

[leetaemxn]

The Fallen God ❣ Abel & Taemin

The thrum of live music. Laughter. Glasses clinking upon tabletops. Such was the cadence of a bar and Lee Taemin’s day to day life ever since he moved to South Korea. A rag in one hand and a bottle of scotch in the other, he was talking animatedly with one of the customers and pouring her desired drink. Their conversation was meaningless, one he would forget moments later when he returned to polishing the wooden top of the bar but until then the mischief in his eyes and laughter in his voice remained. It was a part of the job anyway, being friendly with the patrons and interacting with whomever shuffled in and sunk into one of the stools before him, a pseudo forming of ties that broke as easily as they were formed. As she sashayed away, he let the topic fall into the recesses of his memory and moved on to talk with another customer.

It was as he began to pour a set of shots, clear liquid marking them of the vodka variety, that someone new stepped in. Curly dark brown hair atop his head and near amber eyes adorning his face, he was stunningly attractive, quickly acquiring some of the female patron’s attention. Sauntering up toward the bar and collapsing into a seat, he signaled that he wanted to order, prompting Taemin to nod that he saw him. Handing one of the waitresses a tray with drinks once he finished making what was requested — she giggled at him when their hands brushed and he bit back a sigh of annoyance — he approached the male and leaned on the countertop, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. 

"What can I get you this evening?"

[archivedobliviting]

/Whoooa! You're back. I don't think I've seen you on my dash in months--Has it really been that long? It's great to see your muse again! I hope you get back into being super active, like you use to be, I'm completely ready to start stalking your threads again. orz

// oh, gosh. haha. it was around four months, I believe. but even back then I was going through a dry spell inspiration-wise so he wasn’t around as often. I didn’t think he was that admired! i’ll try and be as active as possible and write to the best of my ability so I don’t disappoint you. :’) much love.