FOR ALL THE GHOSTS THAT ARE NEVER GONNA CATCH ME

just outrun the demons, could you?

[ncjongin]

+ shaking fists, trembling teeth

[ncjongin]

nclisa:

“does it matter?” she grits out through clenched teeth. “i’m here, and that’s all there is to it.”

lisa lets her cigarette fall to the earth, crushes it under her foot. reaches into her back pocket to pull out another one before realizing he’s got the lighter. he got his answer, so maybe he’ll let it go now.

yet somewhere in the back of her mind, lisa knows he won’t.

when jongin looks at her behind a veil of spiderweb thin smoke, she is a ball of ill-concealed anger. stiff jaw, balled fists and clenched teeth; she’s on defensive and offensive all at the same time. she speaks again and it’s full of vagueness--- she’s dodging the subject as if she were dodging figurative bullets, even if just barely. 

jongin scoffs, not satisfied with the answer. it is like an implied end of the discussion.

(an honest question: does it really matter?)

he takes a drag of his cigarette, the cherry burning at the near end of its life.

(perhaps not. probably not enough. whatever the case, it’s not like he’s letting it go just because lisa deems it to be irrelevant. but do not mistake this for caring--- there is destruction in showing such emotion so he distances himself from it but he’s slipping.)

“that’s all?” it would seem a genuine question if it weren’t for the incredulity that laces his words. knows he’s treading on dangerous waters but keeps on going anyway. this is them, palpable tension and poorly suppressed emotions, anger a smoldering spark in their veins ready to ignite and spread like a wildfire. resembles more a minefield: just one misstep and everything will blow up, only destruction remains. “you’re here, that’s great.” the cigarette is tossed away, crushed beneath the toe of his boot. he exhales the remnants of smoke. 

“didn’t answer my question, though.”

[ncbogum]

mess on our hands

[ncjongin]

ncbogum:

before jongin can protest, bogum pivots on his heel and heads back for the car, parked just a few meters away. “come on, help me grab the bags.” he opens the trunk and rummages through the scattered contents (blowdryer? clothes hangers?) for the gloves, masks, and bodysuits. he tosses one of the clear plastic suits to jongin. “suit up. don’t want to ruin that nice cologne you’ve got on tonight.” fortunately, they’re just here to collect their dead—no need to cut up the rest of the bodies to send off to the deep sea.

bogum zips up his own suit and snaps on the latex gloves perhaps a little too cheerfully. it looks as if he’s ready for his first day of school.

there is this one thing bogum doesn’t seem to quite grasp, or so it seems, and that is the concept of personal space. he comes and he goes, invading the area around him that is mostly an off-limits zone, pushes himself past the invisible walls and breathes into his ear. the basic instinct is to immediately pull away, to get further from the unwanted intrusion but then again--- this he is used to. so he stands where he is, head slightly tilted to the side, rolling his eyes but there is a ghost of a something that in some language could be described as a smile, pulling at the very edge of his lips.

“great. how thrilling.” this is feigned enthusiasm: the way his mouth curves into a humourless smirk, covering whatever residue of genuineness that could have reached his expression. he walks past the corpses; past the blood and gore painted bed they’re laying on. past this mess of a graveyard. catches the bundle of plastic thrown his way, giving bogum a look for his comment but doesn’t find the need to comment anything back, instead putting on the bodysuit, zipped all the way up. 

“you seem awfully cheerful about this.” jongin observes, raised eyebrows and ill-covered disbelief. needless to say, he doesn’t share the sentiment. “sure you didn’t choose a wrong career? you look like you were born to be a cleaning lady. pretty.” he puts on his gloves, sans the enthusiasm bogum possessed, and reaches for the bodybags, dropping them unceremoniously at their feet. mask forgotten, dangling between his fingers. 

well, the mess is not going to get cleaned by itself, unfortunately. jongin crouches next to a body, a young boy looking barely eighteen, two bulletholes decorating a lifeless chest. fucking idiots. should’ve known better than to play with things they cannot even understand. 

[kieraknightley]

             What do you want?

[auxkky]

&. kryptonite

[ncjongin]

ncwonho:

And then it clicks.

“No shit! Jonginnie hyung?” He bursts into laughter, doubling over himself and trying to find his balance when he stands up straight – the smile he has on makes his bruise hurt but he couldn’t care less, not when looking at the person in front of him.

these are the three things jongin has learned during his time working at the club: 1) alcohol truly brings out the animals within humans; 2) people seem to think they have the right to let their hands roam around others’ bodies as if they were their own; and 3) he absolutely hates most of their drunken asses. 

on good days, they are all just noises in the background, faces in the crowd. they do not matter as long as they behave and abide by certain regulations; if they do not mind him, he will return the sentiment. but on bad days, they got his patience running thin and he has to restrain himself from doing something he would certainly regret later.

the radio resting on his hip erupts to life with loud static, then followed by a woman’s voice, coming off slightly annoyed, “hey jongin! there’s a fight at the bar, please go and take care of it!” the words are met with a sigh and a roll of eyes, a curt on it muttered into the radio before he’s on his way— it had been a little too peaceful for such a busy night. at least he gets to throw someone out even if there probably won’t be need for further violence. 

there is a circle of people around the bar; they shun the men who speak in the language of violence, with fists, knuckles against bone. quite a mess they have made, spilled drinks and small splatters of blood adorning the counter, shrapnels of glass on the floor. he is pleased when people give him enough leeway to approach the scene, just in time to catch the other man’s wrist in a tight grip before fist could meet cheekbone. there’s no struggle when he pulls him away from the other guy, his hold only tightening as he escorts him outside. behind them, the ambiance returns back to normal as the tension slowly melts away, the scene soon a forgotten image in their drunken hazed minds.

jongin releases the man once outside, letting him stumble with his feet. the cool breeze of night air is a pleasant change to the heat of the club and for a moment he lingers there in the doorway, breathing in and out, eyes then falling to the approaching figure. there is something painfully familiar about the man, he observes, something about him that makes him think way back, of home in that poor, shitty neighbourhood when he was just a boy, of mother, and—

no. it can’t be.

jonginnie hyung?

he freezes, tension building on his shoulders. inside him, there is a turmoil of emotions; a deluge of suppressed memories threatening to surface. hoseok laughs and it sounds all so familiar and foreign at the same time. and then he smiles, fuck, he smiles and it reminds jongin of the time when they were kids, of quiet moments and shared dreams. hoseok smiles, and he cannot bring himself to mirror the gesture. 

he opens his mouth but no words come out— he is at a loss and he hates it. he hates that all it takes is a face from the past for the walls he has spent years building, to tremble and crumble. (knows he was trained to be better than this.) 

instead, he reaches for his pocket, tosses hoseok the lighter he asked for. considers silence but speaks anyway. nearly surprises himself with the steadiness and impassivity of his voice. “quite a scene you made back there.”

(that’s not exactly what he wanted to say but for the moment, it’s all he can.)

[krjiyong]

[past] ‘tiny wildfires’

[ncjongin]

ncxjiyong:

Keep reading

this is how they talk--- or, how they just don’t: they speak in silences, in vague gestures and unspoken words, in poor attempts that never reach the other so both stop trying. they fall into a routine of quiet (mis)communication and prolonged, flat stares.

jongin looks at him and he looks right back; expression unreadable, withdrawn. he sees his own, faint reflection in those similar, dark irises, but he is not quite sure what it is that he really sees. a boy, a son, a spitting image of the man in front of him. something familiar, something dark; something distant that seems like it’s dead.

the imaginary glass wall sitting between them cracks under the tension; crevices running across the surface before it shatters into pieces. something twists in father’s eyes, dark and guarded, before the eye connection breaks like the invisible glass. he turns his back, but jongin’s gaze doesn’t budge. silence sticks to them like glue, strong and swallowing every sound that threatens to escape.

guns on display on the table, the man disassembles them with learned precision, handles them with skill. sometimes he looks through the scope of his sniper rifle, straight at jongin and pulls the trigger; there is no hesitation there. but nothing ever happens; he looks at the boy, his eyes locked with him and he sees nothing but pure boredom and disinterest anyone else would find to be creepy. however this time the back stays turned on him, silently disregarding him and his presence.

when jongin finally relents and wills himself to look elsewhere, a movement in his peripheral catches his attention, brows knitting together until he recognises that bush of hair, those eyes peeking inside. snaps his head to the other side where his father is cleaning his guns, showing no indication, no signs of awareness of another’s presence--- but he doesn’t really know that man; how he functions and what sets him off, so he jumps off the bed, worn-out sneakers padding against the floor as he swiftly makes his way to the door. the only sound is of a door opening and slamming shut, separating him from the stagnant silence that prevails inside.

he looks between jiyong and the window, approaching the older boy and pulling him further away from the house by his arm. “what are you doing?”

[lifeinpoetry]

If I am anything, it is violence.

Alejandra Pizarnik, from “[…] of the Silence,” Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962 - 1972 (via lifeinpoetry)

[prnatsume]

nostalgia.

[ncjongin]

ncxiurong:

but she’s drilled the importance of punctuality into jongin’s head, among other necessary social habits, and she is not one to play a bad influence in front of her former protégé. besides, she’d like to see if he manages a simple requirement like this, before she deems him a disappointment in a few minutes time. 

some things stay with you like grime, ingrained into your skin the way that doesn’t ever seem to completely come off. there are secrets under his skin, bruising and haunting. memories too, their edges grown as sharp as knives. his body is a temple of violence, of reigning chaos; his mind a wasteland, a holding cell for the demons he has been trying to outrun his whole life. in the middle, there are these memories that his body remembers but his mind doesn’t quite recall, that incise his skin but he refuses to bleed.

(they say time heals wounds but in truth time is cruel and unforgiving, and never stopping for anyone.)

jongin strides between tables, waiters and waitresses, avoids making any kinds of contacts with anyone. this is how he has always been: finding discomfort in large crowds and closed spaces— which is why he is absolutely delighted that xiurong had wanted to meet here, but he allows nothing to seep into his expression. he reaches the private room and steps inside unceremoniously, gaze falling to the figure sitting by the table. beside her is her boduguard, stiff as a stick but no doubt ready to protect her if needed. it has been a good while since he saw her last yet she has barely changed. her hair, still ebony black and her lips, covered in war paint. she is exactly the same as he remembers her: oozing elegance, holding her head high. she is beauty and she is powerful, and she bows down to no man. 

the clock strikes; it’s the finish line for the race against time and here, he is the winner. he may be quite a handful, but he has always been a good student. “i see you haven’t gotten rid of that habit,” he comments easily in lieu of a greeting, giving the room a cursory glance.

[ncjongin]

I. HERE’S TO A WINTER BOY AND HIS COLD-KISSED BONES.

“The mind is its own place,  and in itself can make a heaven of hell,  a hell of heaven.” —— John Milton, Paradise Lost.

[ncjongin]

+ (past) too foreign for home

[ncjongin]

ncwonho:

The knob of his door rolls easily and Hoseok pushes the door open, looking around the apartment quietly before turning to his friend with a nod and a smile – pushing the door wider and stepping in; closing it with a hushed ‘click’ and toeing off his worn-out sneakers. “Let’s go to my room, okay?” He knows Jongin understands the reason behind his whispering – Hoseok is simply happy to see a familiar face, having the other come to him first.

time passes by in a blur of motion around him; few people going out and about, wind caressing skin, blowing at his hair. the door in front of him seems more interesting that the rest of the world, with all its ragged planes and grime stuck on it, beaten up in time. the railing is squeaky and shaky underneath him, old and rusty. it sways along with his movements, vibrating through the entirety of its length.

brows knitting together, he glares ahead with a sudden spike of confusion. wonders what exactly had prompted him into coming here, to reach out to hoseok when it was usually the younger who always seemed to find him. he had barely noticed it, how his feet seemed to automatically lead him to the left instead of right, on hoseok’s footstep. it felt strange, to seek out someone as though he needed them; wanted to fill the void around him with their presence. (perhaps that is the case here. their neighbourhood is filled with the deprived, with people four times their age. loneliness is not an option but more an inevitability.)

he hears steps and thumps and his head snaps to the side, expression softening at the sight of his friend hoseok. jongin flashes him a small almost-smile that is gone a little too soon, flings his feet back and forth, jumping down the railing. he’s like a shadow trailing behind hoseok’s back, voiceless and only visible in the light. a curt nod is all he gives as an answer, stepping out of his shabby shoes and tiptoeing all the way to the next room, no words exhanged. he’s not much of a talker, mostly being a silent presence in hoseok’s life but he seems to be fine with it. most of their time spent together consists of mostly one-sided conversations mixed with jongin’s single-worded responses, or even rarer cases of him actually saying more than few words at a time.

hoseok’s room is bigger than his own that resembles more of a broom closet than an actual bedroom. it’s a lot more homely too. he closes the door behind him, as quietly as he can. “uh, sorry,” he shrugs, awkward. eyes travelling along the walls as if they were something interesting. “if i’m bothering you, i mean.”

[ncjongin]

+ shaking fists, trembling teeth

[ncjongin]

nclisa:

she’s almost sad to see the silence leave when it does.

“the hell are you on about now?” answering a question with a question. “i’m fine. blowing through a pack of cigarettes. slowly freezing my ass off. couldn’t be better.” it’s not a lie though it certainly isn’t the whole truth. not that he needs to know that.

that was not what he meant. but then again, he’s not quite sure what exactly he had meant in the first place.

he shrugs, breaking his scrutiny by looking away. for a short while, he doesn’t answer and the silence returns but with tension.

“that’s not what i meant,” he turns his thoughts into words; understand his earlier question had been clearly vague yet he does nothing to elaborate further.

it had been peaceful until now, good— or as good they can ever be. jongin exhales a puff of smoke, watches it dissipate in the cool air. “what’s with this?” gestures around them, vague again. sighs in irritation, trying to come up with the right words but they are a mess in his mouth. he’s not good at talking--- or at human interactions in general; not like this, not with her. had it been any other situation he would have let it go, let the words turn to dust and die, but this time was different somehow. he was driven by this newly found curiosity that he’s unable to shake off.

(how irritating.)

“what i meant...” another pause, another drag from his cigarette. time feels stilling when you can’t find the words to fill it. “you. this.” it’s a clarification (it tries to be), though it still feels like he’s missing a point. (he probably is.) “are your parents... are they, like, okay with this?”

[ncbogum]

mess on our hands

[ncjongin]

ncbogum:

a low rumble and roar fills his ear, the rising crescendo of a plane’s industrial scream overhead from incheon to better lands. somewhere in the buzz invading his ears, bogum picks up—belatedly—on padded feet against concrete. he turns around a little too late, and gets a face-full of… jongin. he’s visibly annoyed, having been caught off guard, but feigns amicable surprise.

“you got the call too?” he intones brightly, never mind the fact dawn is fast approaching and the world around them is otherwise deathly still. he places a firm grasp on the other man’s stiff shoulder. “couldn’t have asked for a better partner myself.”

just who thought it was a smart idea to give guns to kids who were stupid enough to think they could possibly handle them? this was by no means a playground for children. the weight of taking a human life was never light. in the end it was that foolishness that only got them killed. and if it weren’t for their incompetence, this all could have been avoided and he wouldn’t have to clean up someone else’s fucking mess this late at night (or early in the morning, depending on your point of view).

because a complete mess it certainly is, the sight that greets him upon arrival.

he moves gracefully, steps light— it has become a habit, one his father taught him that was now ingrained into his mind. there is another person on the scene; relief washing over him at recognition for he got himself a decent enough partner— someone who he knows, someone who doesn’t make him want to maim or kill them, to end up like these useless teenagers. 

“obviously,” comes the reply, simple and monotone, but not unkind. the hand on his shoulder feels more familiar than not, so he finds no reason to shrug it off.  he takes in the scattering of bodies around them, blood and brains. it’s a circus, only all the performers are dead.

jongin’s still not too familiar with the whole partner thing and it still makes him a little uncomfortable but bogum is something like the closest thing to a friend he has right now. (he has barely had those during all the twenty five years of his life.) “so…” he starts, stepping between bodies and looking around before flicks his eyes back to bogum, “you wouldn’t mind doing all the dirty work, would you?”

[dailyexo]

Kai - 161111 L'uomo Vogue magazine

[ncjongin]

+ trial and error

(one step, two step, three step.

around them: emptiness, only footsteps echoing through the walls. otherwise, it is the absence of sounds that reigns.)

it was a mission that brought them here, in an abandoned warehouse in hong kong; after months of attempting to set up a formal meeting, the person in question finally agreed to meet and try to negotiate a deal. while the ideal outcome of this meeting was to successfully attain an agreement regarding the weapons trade, jongin was told to join as an insurance, a fallback.

this is the guy they are supposed to be negotiating with: a bulky man, assumingly on his mid or late fourties, dressed fancy from head to toe, displaying his wealth and power with excessive jewellery, even his front teeth gilded. he has three bodyguards with him, all rightfully armed, their postures stiff and fingers practically resting on triggers. guns on display in holsters near their waistlines--- this is how they demonstrate their authority; this is how they think they have the control over the situation.

jongin stands behind jackson on his right side, hands loosely crossed over his chest. he made sure to check the perimeter upon arrival so there wouldn’t be any unpleasant surprises should the negotiations fail. he was there as jackson’s partner; as a backup plan, to watch his six but also to pull the trigger if necessary. 

the man opens his mouth, gesturing almost wildly with his hands while doing so, syllables rolling off a tongue with pronounced confidence that only makes him come across as nothing but arrogant. jongin’s glad it’s not him negotiating, or this whole mission would have been doomed to fail from the beginning--- the man has barely started talking yet jongin would already like to punch his teeth in. depending how this will go, he may still have a chance.

[ncjongin]

+ heretics

the clearview hotel looks exactly the same it did the last time he set his foot in there; luxurious, lavish and just generally too fancy for jongin’s taste. 

he arrives with a purpose, wanting nothing but to get it done and over with— but some things have a tendency of turning to dust right between his fingers. jongin can feel the vestiges of irritation resurfacing with the appearance of a familiar figure from while back.

when he met her few years past, he was in deep waters; foolishly gotten himself caught by the police at the worst moment possible. a mission just as any gone wrong, with this one instant that turned things upside down and forced him to his knees in the middle of a war zone, and left his back open and vulnerable. he never quite grasped what exactly happened; what had acted as a trigger that had lead to him losing focus of his surroundings— it had happened once before, during that night when death had failed to catch him, only to miss him by the fingertips and settling for another victim.

there hyorin stands, and with her presence surfaces a memory he would rather leave untouched in the dustiest corners of his mind, right where it belonged. he doesn’t like thinking about that raw vulnerability; about his own inability to stay focused that it would have ended… catastrophically, if it weren’t for her saving his ass. 

he sighs, sticks his hands into pockets and gives her a cursory look as he approaches. he's going that way anyway.

“well i haven’t seen you around.” his lips curve into a transient smile that is screaming fake. “can’t say i’m happy to have stumbled upon you now, though.”

@nchyorin

[ncjongin]

+ (past) angel of small death

he’s sharp teeth and balled up fists. face an empty canvas but behind those brown eyes, there is a cacophony of muffled thoughts; a mystery unsolved, completely out of the confines of his understanding. there is a duffel bag lying on the table, its contents unseen from the angle he’s crouching in the corner but he’s smart enough to know it’s packed with weapons. it’s a sign--- father’s about to go away again. he does this sometimes, leaves jongin behind as if he were a burden too heavy to carry, a handful too much to handle.

‘i’ll need to go and take care of some things. ya know, alone.’ he says, ‘shouldn’t take too long.’ they may have a little different definition of time, as what is father’s idea of what ‘should be a week’s trip, two tops’ often translates to jongin as ‘i’ll see ya in a month or so’. in the beginning, every time jongin watched his father’s back, moving away, there was a small gnawing question of will you be back in the back of his mind that he now finds was stupid but one he couldn’t quite shake off for a while.

this time he leaves him to the care of a woman who he only describes as an old acquaintance, a business partner. says he could learn something from her and hits him in the back with a laugh that sounds more like it’s mockery. discomfort grows with every step he takes until they finally arrive, come face to face with a woman--- beautiful and elegant, her hair as black as ebony.

“here ya go.” another slap, palm against the back of his head barely a quarter of the strength he possesses in his hands. he flashes her a charming smile that vanishes as fast as it had appeared. “i’ll getcha after i’m finished, kid.”

with that, he leaves. jongin steals one last glance after his father’s retreating form, gaze then unhurriedly sweeping around his surroundings before dull eyes focus on her, unconcerned.

@ncxiurong  

[ncjongin]

+ shaking fists, trembling teeth

he’s okay with this, the silence. 

he’s okay with it because in silence he already made his home. and he once shared it with his father, years past, when words failed and silence was a major figure filling in father’s absence.

he’s holding a cigarette, unlit, between his fingers. wonders whether or not to smoke another, ultimately ending up lighting it anyway. the sky is looking down at them and if he were to look back, it would look the same as it did yesterday. he inhales, the heel of his boot colliding with concrete in a cadence of uneven thud, thud, thuds. exhales smoke and he finds his gaze meeting his companion; she’s fire, burning hot--- while he’s a perpetual winter, relentless and unforgiving. 

he’s okay with the silence, but it doesn’t seem to be enough this time, not with her; not when he has too many questions and too little answers. it’s somewhat annoying, the way he finds himself wanting to know more about lisa when he should have gotten so used to not caring about stupid little things like these. he frowns but eventually, it is curiosity that prompts him to open his mouth.

“what’s with you?” a small pause. jongin raises a brow in question, flicks the ashes next to his feet, shifting so he could have a better look at her.

@nclisa

[ncjongin]

hello hello !!! about that intro post ….

well here it is, finally, because guess who forgot ….. yes, me !!! awesome. anyway! you can call me luna, and i’m very !! excited !! to be here with all of you lovely, wonderful writers ; u ; i’ll try to make this short so if you wanna plot and we aren’t already, give this a like and i’ll slide into your ims :> also, a bit more about jongin under the cut!

kim jongin, sometimes goes by kai, 25, a foot soldier for yuripa but also a hitman

mom /allegedly/ died of suicide but yeah, that’s not entirely the case – lil jongin might have had something to do with it but shh, you probably won’t know as he doesn’t really talk about mommy dearest

dad was deeply involved with gang stuff long before jongin was even born. basically grew up amongst crime and that’s how he ended up raising his son the way he did

was taught how to fight and kill since he was around 9-10 yrs so … childhood was all kinds of messed up shit

tbh he’s a bit messed up but who blames him

a skilled fighter; knows martial arts, krav maga, among other things; knows how to kill someone fast and efficiently without using a weapon

is very skilled with weapons as well

works as a bouncer in a night club

a very private person – don’t ask, he won’t tell; ask and he still won’t tell. will probably just dodge around the subject, doesn’t really like to share

trust issues! he has learned to not trust anyone from early on and even though he has tried to not be so sceptical about everything sometimes he just cannot help it

sarcastic asshole or stoic bastard? a bit of both?

still bettering his people skills

is not just a bundle of negativity, may actually have a soft side underneath all the layers 

surprise: he can be nice!!!

(this is actually a revamp of a character i had a bit over a year ago so if he seems a bit familiar that would be why~)