here we are! hi hi i’m heli ( s/h, 21+ ) & i’ll be writing jang eunsol, squash extraordinaire & the most ungraceful loser ever. she might introduce herself as olivia, liv, livie, lia, literally anything but her actual name, but it’s more likely everyone & their mothers will know her as eunsol, the poor girl who ran overseas because of one bad acne breakout, or so they say. anyway, she’s back & insanely hot, so everything’s gonna go smoothly now... right?
( stats / bio / plots ) as usual, under the cut is a tldr about her & some potential connections based on it! if you wanna plot, tap the heart & i’ll be in ur ims ♥
tldr!
designated outcast when she was younger, one particularly cruel prank cracked her worldview in half. her parents coddled her & decided to move overseas when she was 13/14, and she’s only just returned to korea after receiving yong’s invitation. she’s been back for about a couple months!
she reinvented herself overseas with the power of money & self-hatred. kicked everyone else off the social hierarchy & turned herself into the imitation queen bee she’s always wanted to be
for the sake of plotting she’s come back to korea sporadically & travelled around as well for family / business occasions!
the jangs aren’t really known for anything, not particularly great at any one industry. they’re sort of the weasleys of high society, but the rich just get richer & they’ve never suffered from their mediocrity financially, though there definitely are whispers & taunts floating around the social circles
currently a professional but not particularly good squash player. parents bought her the position on the team & she’s more popular for her pretty face & flirtatious antics off the court than any of her plays, which she’s perfectly fine with
deals with her anger & envy issues by fucking up her squash racket and/or other people’s lives, hurray!
feminism that never went past the eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man phase. which is to say she’s got a lot of shallow female friendships where she picks her friends apart to make sure she’s better than them in her head
also has a bad case of if someone else has it, i want it. she has & will steal your shit, sleep with your beau, outbid you on the things you wanted just because she can. only wants things that other people have / want, gets satisfaction from ‘winning’ over them
she’s the mean, cruel voice in your head turned up to eleven. directed at you, herself, your mum, her mum, and everyone in between
not to overuse pop culture references, but eunsol’s basically a heather duke who thinks she’s veronica sawyer! also inspired by ruby matthews ( sex ed ), rosalyn rosenfield ( american hustle ) and catherine ( the great )
why was she invited by yong? who knows, and who cares! she’s more interested in the people she can fuck over & the need to prove she’s better than her childhood nightmares. cheers!
possible connections!
the person who played that prank on her when she was younger
childhood popular kids she wanted to be like / with
i haven’t decided where exactly she moved to, so there’s space for connection(s) with other muses who’ve lived overseas!
( tw: cheating ) someone whose relationship got ruined by her, because she always wants someone else’s toys. could be an ex who got cheated on or she was a third party? up for plotting!
a lot of her friendships are bought/circumstantial, so someone like that?
or someone who was there while she was a sad, lame kid, who has or hasn’t stuck around, up to you!
better / more in depth plots can be found under my plots page rip thank you if you read all this rambling ♥
here lies jang eunsol, in a bed of mistakes of her own making, sobriety stirring her to an unwilling wakefulness. that, or taeyi’s soft breaths in his sleep, a disturbance against her cheek. eunsol blinks at the plain, miserable ceiling. what a terrible place to wallow in, now that she’s not drunk or high or sad.
her head tips back, dark hair fanning out against the pillow. polyester sheets lie heavy and tangled up in her legs. not quite sore so much as empty, surrounded by imitation wealth, the only genuine artefacts being herself and the things she’d thrown away into taeyi’s waiting lap. she feels for her phone, squints at the blue light that blinds her for a moment. it’s a little after five in the morning. she could go now, pretend none of this ever happened. and it didn’t, not really; jang eunsol, olivia jang, whoever she has to be—she’s still too good for the likes of hwang taeyi, and they both know it.
he’s only the fool she turns to when something pinches at her confidence, the shoes of who she used to be, who she ought to be, a little too small for who she is, now. isn’t that an undainty metaphor. so she stumbles in bars and the laps of men whose eyes are tinged with that pathetic sadness, so she can pretend what she’s seeing isn’t her reflection. just theirs. kisses them and it tastes like salty, stale longing, and it makes her feel better about herself.
she turns off her phone; the smudged makeup and unpurposeful bed hair in its reflection make her cringe. she’d rather be blind. eunsol leans over the side of the bed, picks up his shirt from the floor with a finger and her thumb. could be cute, borrow it and let him know she’d taken it—but it smells too strongly of heavy duty detergent and fantasies of returning social mobility that lead to nowhere but disappointment. she would know, she’s been in his bed. so she tosses it off to a side and gets up, blanket falling off bare, unblemished skin.
i’m a psychologist, olivia, you don’t have to make a deal with me.
let’s just call it... quid pro quo. you’ve got a job to do, and i want to be done... with this, with you, yeah?
age fifteen, fresh off the luxury superyacht. jang eunsol becomes olivia jang, but nothing really changes. she’s still unsightly, pockmarked and marked out, different from most other kids—and now it’s not just within the cheap, popcorn walls of school. she brings a souvenir of seoul with her, cracked cavity in her chest and watercolour bruises she has to hide with what must look like circus makeup. it makes her expect worse, whispers scratching at her, giftwrapped to the mouths of wolves in shallow ribbons of blood red. she still flinches at hands raised over her head.
but the hands and the other shoe don’t drop. a girl greets her, a hand held out. her eyes are warm, and brown, and kind. a loveliness owned only by the securely loved. eunsol smiles despite herself and the hollow parts of her that have long since been dug out feel a phantom ache. hi, the girl says, you’re new? lets be friends.
age sixteen, she spends it learning how to be sweet. olivia jang can’t quite escape the soft rot of jang eunsol, but she learns to cover up the stench that lingers with saccharine and perfume. learns to smile, with careful words and careful eyes, borrows some of the shine that trickles effortlessly from the girl’s lovely eyes. the girl holds out her hand and lets her in. makes an opening for her in the girl’s heart to steal in, undoing the strings around the thing that beats inside the girl, she cuts them on her teeth, frayed and straining to keep it in her chest. the heart and the people around it, she snatches them away one by one on gifts and honey words.
so she takes it for herself, those lovely eyes and still fresh heart. this is how she learns, reinvents the wheel she’d run away from. now she’s heavy with loveliness, pedal on the wheel, and the girl spins empty on it.
age seventeen, on the cusp of. olivia jang finally discards jang eunsol, but that’s not the only rusted chain she needs to snap away from her life. the girl hangs from her hold, scarred and swollen with hurt, the sort of grief that rises when there’s nothing else to be found at the bottom of her soul. she feels... is it guilt? her new heart protests, to be so like the ones she ran away from, but watercolour fades and she’s left with the stark black outlines of popularity, paint by numbers ready.
she espies the precipice, the exact angle at which the girl begins to fall, and doesn’t hold out her hand. she burns away the evidence, metaphorically, symbolically. literally. but she didn’t mean for it to get so out of hand. who can say she did, when she wasn’t found anywhere near the girl? they interview her, after the fact, when the headlines are screaming about accidents and cruel teens. friends? she says, oh, we were, but we weren’t really close.
age eighteen, and she’s become unstoppable. olivia jang is who she is, queen bee, no longer just regent. her shadow burnt off in the blaze; make way for the ultraviolet teenage riot, don’t try it. the school grounds are repaved for her reign, over the ugliness that still rings a telltale tattoo whenever she smiles. the girl’s heart still beats, buried under the floorboards of her chest. she drowns out the heartbeat with adoring chatter and praise she surrounds herself with. smiles with the eyes that she could call her own, and thinks she has nothing to fear. now, she’s perfect and loved.
( just like the girl had been, but the girl doesn’t exist anymore.
even the loveliest of hearts has a best-by date. )
age twenty five, back on the carousel, carnival ride she can’t get off of. olivia jang returns to jang eunsol, like an old swimsuit she forgot about years ago. too small for comfort, faded and disappointing. has to make herself smaller to squeeze into it, feels lumps where the seams of her old life pinch at her skin. there’s a new heart sitting in her chest—mint for the season, the trendiest new accessory. one to turn heads when she inevitably gets off the spinning horses, magnificent come back moment for the ages. there’s a quick, low, soft sound, muffled by the designer coats she layers over her chest, as she walks into the psychologist’s office.
it’s unwise, but wisdom is a weak master. power and beauty are the ones that matter. she’s got the latter, and a confession lies on the path to the former. so she lets the doctor spread her open, secrets spilling out. her own voice pitches louder, and more, and faster, and so does that terrible sound. louder, and louder, borrowed heartbeats beating an erratic, unsynchronised rhythm. fingers dig into the dips and grooves of her ribcage, pressing in on that transplant heart. pops it out of her, catching on her teeth, and stains the sheets of the doctor’s notes.
you know, i fucked the last guy who tried to psychoanalyse me, too.
did you, now?
yeah. you should put that in your notes.
she’s kissing on some guy. lips coated with something glossy and saccharine, like overripe peaches sitting out for too long on a summer afternoon. sticky sweet and soon to spoil into the sour tang of booze, crackling heat of his hands. the nightclub air shimmers with it, the lines blurred, senses losing their definition. nothing exists but kissed red lips under neon strobe lights, for him. he pulls her in and has his tongue so far down her throat he’s breathing air straight from her lungs, nicotine stained, life gifted. she would laugh, but her lips are occupied. there’s a prayer in her ear, the name taken for her vanity. in vain, at the feet of an unbenevolent god, all muddled up in the masses.
one breaks from the crowd, disillusioned believer. yanks him away from her, what the fuck, dude. hands raised, innocence slipping through her open palms. she doesn’t remember his name, or his, but they know each other’s. they always do, don’t they? she cocks her head at him, like a you deal with this, and i’m yours. he thinks she’s talking to him. innocence balls up in their hands curled tight, and disappears like a magician’s trick.
men are pathetic. they fall apart so easily.
but it’s never her fault.
because she’s his girl, he met her first; because then it’s a mess, positions and places and blame mixed up in the litter of yelling and fists. one goes right by her, bone hard and angry. strikes the cheek of someone he’d told her was a friend. because she’d seen them both, no firsts. turns them into a matching set, split lips and bruised knuckles, spitting trash and fury. there’s still the drag of friendship on their fists, soft on those drunken passion sucker punches, can’t work up enough force to knock teeth or lights out. a furrow mars her features for a second, like a fleeting annoyance. but she’s never in want of another believer.
( kkt : woosung ) pick me up in ten?
( kkt : woosung ) i’m at arena & its boring as fuck
( kkt : woosung ) need you here 💕
I love bad representation. i love evil lesbians. toxic predatory possessive relationships are hot. I love when women fight into a bloody pulp and then make out. I love gay monsters and villains and erotic vampire lesbians. I love when no one grows or learns as a character because they love being rotten psychopaths
