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restlessmaknae · 7 years

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Heartbreak Hotel; Wonpil

Take an aspiring song writer, a rebellious high schooler, a sassy English teacher, a passionate painter and an adventurous tour guide. What’s the same in all of them? They’ve all just had their heart broken.

Heartbreak Hotel is a DAY6 angst one-shot collection with 5 members & 5 songs & 5 stories.

Sungjin | Dowoon | Young K | Wonpil | Jae

IV. Wonpil + Colours

Painter!Wonpil x OC’s story in 2288 words. Angst & drama. Triggers: depression. Colours is a beautiful and heart-wrenching song and it deserves more recognition.

Living was pitch-black for me.

Every day was the same; every day was like a repetition, a never-ending cycle. Every day was of that unfathomable and hollow darkness. It wrapped its blanket around me yet I couldn’t see it, nor could I touch it. Nonetheless, it was all I could feel and that feeling was anything but comfortable. Instead of starry nights, I only looked at starless skies. Instead of giggling kids, I only heard cries of babies. Instead of the beautiful pureness of the freshly fallen snow, I only saw the bare trees without all their colourful leaves. Instead of the winter tranquillity, I could only feel its loneliness.

My paintings were all the same. They portrayed different symbols, different seasons and different scenarios yet all of them represented that tremendous darkness that I knew of. I couldn’t bring myself to use any other colour, except pitch-black. The colour of my heart.

Seeing you for the first time was mahogany-red.

It was still close to black but it was more of that colour that you could see at the break of dawn when it wasn’t night but it wasn’t even day yet. You sat down at that old bench in front of my house, the one that I stared at when I looked for inspiration. Considering that it was always abandoned and I haven’t seen anyone using it since I had been living there, I was quite taken aback when you appeared. You wore an elegant buttermilk-like coat with Persian-blue jeans and pecan-brown boots. You were a striking painting amidst the dull city centre, stealing everyone’s attention who passed by, including mine.

The painting that I had been working on for hours suddenly seemed so neutral compared to your colourful appearance. The sudden idea of adding more shades crossed my mind but I shrugged it off. I liked the dark misery on the canvas, it was my life after all. It showed the deepest parts of my soul, the one that I wanted to hide yet it wanted so hard to be seen.

Meeting you for the first time was raisin-like.

I didn’t even know when was the last time that I stepped out of my house before I stormed out of my room to help you get up from the ground. While I was working on a new painting, I saw from the corner of my eyes that someone tried to approach the bench in front of my house. No one wanted to sit down there, except you. Yet, I also noticed that you were reluctant to sit down and it finally dawned on me that you were afraid because the road was slippery and as you were reaching the end of the bench, you suddenly slipped and fell down.

No one was there to help you, everyone was busy in their own greyish worlds, living their own black and white lives, minding their own business. Something in my guts motioned me to assist you because who would if I didn’t? I couldn’t even be bothered to put on a jacket when I went outside – for the first time since God knows how long. It felt like forever.

It must have been one of the most peculiar sights; a man coming out of the house in black sweatpants, black house shoes and a black knitted jumper to help a young lady to get up from the ground. There was a time when I cared about things like reputation but that time was long forgotten, so I couldn’t care less, neither could you.

Holding your hand was crimson-red.

It was alarming yet reassuring at the same time. It was only an innocent brush, you holding onto my hand while I helped you to regain your composure but it lit up a fire inside of me. It wasn’t a life-threating flame, it was more like one that was about to grow stronger and stronger.

You looked at me with your carob eyes, a colour that I had long forgotten existed. I’ve never seen such eyes or I was merely too blind to notice that particular shade before. I wasn’t always this insensitive to the colours of the world but the loss of my brother painted my skies all black and you were the first who seemed to change the scenery.

“Thank you so much,” you directed a genuine smile at me, one that was like watching the sunrise above the rooftops. “I’m so clumsy these days, so thank you for being there for me!” you chatted beamingly, the radiant smile never leaving your face.

I wondered how strangers looked at our scene, how could they see us – the definition of darkness and the epitome of all the colours in the world. Because that’s what we were; two sides of the same coin, the opposites of a magnet and the two poles.

I couldn’t muster a single word, my mouth was dry and it had been so long since I talked to someone, it was a challenge – similar to riding a bike after years of not sitting on it.

“Oh my gosh, you must be freezing!” your eyes widened in fear as you caught sight of my light clothing. You didn’t know that the cold could never bother me anymore. I was freezing no matter the temperature, the weather or the season. My heart was kept in ice and you were the first who started melting it, even without making an attempt to do so. “Please, hurry back into your house before you catch a cold! I’m so sorry, you shouldn’t have come out in such clothes,” you pointed at my knitted jumper which must have been convenient during autumn but not during winter.

“You shouldn’t be sorry. It was my choice,” I heard the words coming from my mouth, sounding raspy and brittle.

Unbeknownst to you, my words hid the most dreadful parts of my life. I had been living like I wasn’t the one in control and I wasn’t the one who made choices because life chose instead of me. I merely got my cards but after that, I had no choice but to play with them. I didn’t deserve a say in the rules. I was standing in the desert, waiting for the hurricane to come and spin me around until there was nothing left of me. Yet, you came and the hurricane suddenly stopped coming closer. The disaster was still far away.

The painting that I started that day was a mess. I wanted to experiment with crimson but the outcome turned out to be pretty disturbing. I couldn’t bear the sight, the sudden change was odd, even for me. I tore the painting apart as soon as I saw the result.

Talking with you was navy-blue.

You showed up at my door the day after and brought a cup of latte macchiato as a thank you gift. I was never more dumbfounded my whole life. I assumed that my mother would be the one who shows up because she wants to barge in and reprimand me for not moving out for months, filling my empty fridge with food, so I was more than surprised to see you there.

“Hey!” your face lit up like a candle on the Christmas tree as soon as I opened the door, still in the same clothes that I wore the day before. “Sorry for disturbing you but I saw yesterday that you came back here and I wanted to thank you for helping me, so I brought you something!” you handed me the cup which was as hot as the fire that you lit up in my heart.

“Ah, you shouldn’t have,” I let out a weary sigh, staring at the cup in my hands. I couldn’t care about the hot content since I was still as cold as ice. Yet, deep inside the ice slowly started melting away and I couldn’t help but let it melt away. After all, no one can control their hearts, can they?

“You deserve it,” you shrugged as a loving smile was forming on your lips. “I know it sounds crazy but would you like to drink something together? I know it’s totally out of the blue but you seem like you would need some company,” you admitted a bit coyly, looking down at your intertwined fingers. If anyone else had told me the same, I would have left on the spot after snorting at them because they exactly knew what I had been through.

However, it was different with you. It was always different with you.

So I stayed silent and stood still like a stone. Not until you started babbling about nonsense again, did I actually give in. I had no idea what I was doing but the words had already left my mouth when I realised what was ahead of me.

As soon as you left and I went back to my paintings, my current canvas seemed so dull and boring. I gave some colour to it and my heart suddenly skipped a beat.

It was beautiful; that kind of new sensation that you get when you experience something for the first time. Seeing blue on my canvas after a long time was just like that. And maybe I was actually experiencing something else for the first time.

Getting to know you was sandstone-orange.

The thought that I was meeting you somehow forced me to get back on track. Even though I couldn’t bring myself to have a haircut, I still shaved, washed my hair and even wore decent clothes to our first café rendezvous. I opted for a sky blue shirt with an obsidian-black coat, coal-black jeans and midnight-blue boots, not caring much about fashion but you still complimented me. You stated that you liked my baby blue shirt and that’s how we started arguing about colours and that’s how you got to know that I was a painter. At least, I used to be. After my brother’s death, I wasn’t able to finish any of my paintings. I lacked inspiration as much as I lacked life.

We started getting to know each other and the more we met, the less nervous I felt. I had to admit that I was very reluctant at first but the angelic smile on your face always set me at ease. You didn’t force me to do anything, you didn’t broach up sensitive topics, you were as patient as ever. You let me open up like a blossoming flower and eventually I started trusting you. And with trust comes care and with care comes love and with love comes pain.

You showed me all the colours of the world. You made me realise how blind I was and how many times I passed by state-of-the-art places, missed vulnerable moments and forgot to see the beauty in everything. You were an art enthusiast, so you dragged me from one exhibition to another, one park to another and one bench to another.

I started to see the real colours of the morning sunrise, hear the cheerful screaming at the playgrounds and feel the warmth of spring. You didn’t do anything extraordinary, except staying beside me and showing me the world. You didn’t blame me for my brother’s death – unlike all my relatives and friends −, therefore you didn’t abandon me.

My house was cleaned weekly, my fridge was always full and my paintings were livelier than ever. I used all the colours you showed me and the inspiration hit me so many times that I began to wake up in the middle of the night, feeling completely restless and finished a painting within mere hours.

I felt like I found myself again and I set myself free from all that self-hatred and guilt that accompanied since that accident with my brother – when I was driving my brother home from work and a drunk driver crashed into our car. My brother and the driver died and I was the only one who survived.

Thanks to you, I was finally living again, living with all the colours.

Losing you was grey like ash.

As I’ve said, we were two sides of the same coin. However, the distance between us was growing too wide. You didn’t understand why I wouldn’t like to get myself a decent job or at least sell my paintings and I didn’t understand why you were still beside me when you were promoted and you had an opportunity to move to Incheon. The arguments were more and more intense and we just didn’t seem to come to a halt. We always found another reason to fight, even though we hadn’t even confessed anything. I started to get depressed again and you didn’t notice the symptoms – because I never told you −, so you assumed that I pushed you away on purpose.

I had no choice. You were too special to this world and I was lucky to see all the colours once again but you didn’t deserve to be chained to me all your life. You said that you wouldn’t like me to become that wreck that I used to be but that’s exactly where we were heading to. I had to push you away and ask you to go and move to Incheon because you deserved it.

I wasn’t honest at all, I told you silly fibs and I knew that you knew that I was making them up but I couldn’t help. I wanted you to be happy and if that meant that you weren’t beside me, I had to let you go.

So I did and with you, all my colourful paintings vanished again.

Living was pitch-black for me. Again.

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femmelieutenant-a-blog · 7 years

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REALLY LONG CHARACTER SURVEY. RULES. repost , don’t reblog ! tag 10 ! good luck ! TAGGED. @judgmentcast TAGGING. Guys, this one is HELLA LONG. Have fun if you want, but I don’t blame you if you don’t. It’s open to all.

BASICS.

FULL NAME : First Lieutenant Helga Katrina Sinclair NICKNAME : Lieutenant, Sinclair, Blondie, H. K. Sinclair, H. K. AGE : Twenty-nine BIRTHDAY : October 24, 1884 ETHNIC GROUP : Caucasian. NATIONALITY : American (Identifies as German-American) LANGUAGE / S : German, English, Japanese, Korean, Italian, French SEXUAL ORIENTATION : Closeted Bisexual ROMANTIC ORIENTATION : Closeted Biromantic RELATIONSHIP STATUS : Widowed/Single (But technically verse dependent) CLASS : Working class. HOME TOWN / AREA : Stuttgart, Germany. Also will answer with Washington D.C., USA. CURRENT HOME : Verse dependent, but mostly she just moves around and does not stay in one area. PROFESSION : Verse dependent; Army lieutenant, spy, bounty hunter, assassin, mercenary

PHYSICAL. HAIR : Blonde EYES : Gunmetal blue NOSE : slender, relatively small, upturned at the end. FACE : High cheekbones, square jaw. There is a beauty mark beneath her left eye (her left, not yours). Moderate sized forehead. LIPS : Full, well-proportioned to her face, often painted red with lipstick without care to the social meaning of it. COMPLEXION : Fair with olive undertones. Not translucent thanks to plenty of healthy sun exposure. Clear and not splotchy. BLEMISHES : The aforementioned beauty mark. SCARS : Scarred knuckles from years of hand-to-hand combat training, a couple superficial ones to the rest of her body (Major scars were healed/rectified by her exposure to Atlantean magick) TATTOOS : None. HEIGHT : 5′7″ WEIGHT : 150 lbs. BUILD : Curvy hourglass built and sculpted through exercise and activity. Tall for her sex (during her era). Otherwise, lean, muscular, slightly angular from aforementioned sculpting. FEATURES : Almost perpetually narrowed eyes, boldly painted lips, the mark beneath her eye. Her constantly-worn gloves. ALLERGIES : None USUAL HAIR STYLE : Worn in a braided plait, the end often partially over her shoulder from it being absently played with. USUAL FACE LOOK : Eyes are hooded, giving her a bored but watchful expression, The pout of her lips is subconscious, but often hidden by an authoritative scowl or scheming smirk. USUAL CLOTHING : (When not in the military uniform of whoever she is working for) black turtleneck/button-up men’s shirt/tank top, pants (Men’s and often tailored until women’s become available), boots. She has an old Army greatcoat that will be worn until it dies of sheer old age, and wears a utility belt and gun holster. (Exception is in Modern verses, where she will dress as per the common fashions to better blend in.)

PSYCHOLOGY. FEAR / S : Failure, abandonment, being alone, being wrong. ASPIRATION / S : To try and find meaning and purpose in independence, to rise from her ashes. POSITIVE TRAITS : Ambitious, observant, proud, intuitive, intelligent, active, eager, clean NEGATIVE TRAITS : Sarcastic, spiteful, manipulative, loner, bossy, follower, dependent, distrustful, cynical, paranoid, fearful, bitter, skeptical MBTI : ESTJ; The Executive (Surprised because I always had her as INTJ...) ZODIAC : Scorpio TEMPERAMENT : Brash. SOUL TYPE / S : Performer/Leader ANIMALS : A cat - a white Persian in the lap of someone pulling strings she merely watches over the actions of. She can be complacent, but beware of her claws. A panther - deadly and sleek with little care as to who gets hurt to get to her end-goal. This is the transformation she has made. VICE HABIT / S : Drinking, the occasional smoking, finding pleasure in the Flesh and material. FAITH : Athiest. GHOSTS ? : No AFTERLIFE ? : None at all REINCARNATION ? : Nope. ALIENS ? : On the fence, purely because she saw some things in Atlantis that just cannot be explained. POLITICAL ALIGNMENT : Doesn’t care about politics or political workings so long as there are people against them willing to give her a job, or the people in power desire her services to take down the rebellious. ECONOMIC PREFERENCE : Luxuriously wealthy SOCIOPOLITICAL POSITION : Part of the working class, but financially sound. EDUCATION LEVEL : Homeschooled as per the norms of a socialite’s daughter, but she benefits from extensive military training both from the American Army and Navy.

FAMILY. FATHER : Major Alexander Sinclair (father) MOTHER : Mrs. Marianne Sinclair (Formerly Stroh) (mother) SIBLINGS : All younger: Johnathan Sinclair, James Sinclair, William Sinclair, Oliver Sinclair, Thomas Sinclair EXTENDED FAMILY : Aunts and uncles from both parents NAME MEANING / S : Helga: Holy or Blessed; Sinclair: Bright, Clear. (I appreciate this irony) HISTORICAL CONNECTION ? : One of the first famous connections is the Princess of Kiev, also known as Olga of Kiev of Saint Olga. Sinclair is of the Clan Sinclair, which helped in the Norman conquest of England and was given the land that is now Roslin, Midlothian in Scotland.

FAVOURITES. BOOK : 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne. She loved it as a child. MOVIE : Once films were made, Casablanca. 5 SONGS : Mein Sohn Nur Mut - Carl Maria von Weber; Night on Bald Mountain - Modest Mussorgsky; Por Una Cabeza - Gardel; Killer Queen - Queen; Bat Out Of Hell - Meat Loaf DEITY : She always found Athena and Freya interesting to read on, but is not religious, so holds them in no regards. HOLIDAY : New Years MONTH : It used to be May (until someone had to die). Now it’s September SEASON : Summer PLACE : None WEATHER : The middle of a raging thunderstorm SOUND : Waves lapping against a stone breaker, the crackle of a fire in the hearth, the metallic click of bullets loading into their chambers and a pistol’s hammer being pulled back, heeled boots running on wet cobblestones, a bed-frame’s creaks of protest. SCENT / S : Leather, steel, gunpowder, salt air, vanilla, musk, new rope, old books, whiskey, coffee, canvas. TASTE / S : Rich dark chocolate, red wine, whiskey, umeboshi, black coffee. FEEL / S : Silk against skin, rope against skin, quality leather, a firm grip. ANIMAL / S : Big dogs NUMBER : No preference. COLOUR : Olive green, black, gold, red, steely gray.

EXTRA. TALENTS : Helga is a skilled commander and leader when given the chance to be such. She speaks many languages, and has years of opera training to her name as well. BAD AT : Almost any artistic expression save singing, horseback riding, judging character, resisiting tempation TURN ONS : Power, dominant personalities, charm, intelligence, danger TURN OFFS : Bombast, sexism, weakness HOBBIES : Singing, antique firearms collecting TROPES : (ALL FROM THE TV TROPES SITE) Badass Longcoat, Contralto of Danger, Dark Action Girl, Deadpan Snarker, The Dog Bites Back, The Dragon, Femme Fatale, Flare Gun, Heel-Face Door-Slam (I like to contest this one), Kick Chick, Last Breath Bullet, Nothing Personal, Perpetual Frowner, Right-Hand Cat, Redemption Equals Death, Sexophone, TankTop Tomboy, Thrown From The Zeppelin, Wai-fu AESTHETIC TAGS : Mausers, leather gloves, smoke, WWI, steampunk landscapes, red lipstick, femme fatale GPOY QUOTES : I don’t know what this means...

FC INFO. MAIN FC / S : Rachael Taylor ALT FC / S : N/A. OLDER FC / S : N/A. YOUNGER FC / S : Maddie Hasson (specifically as Jo Masterson) VOICE CLAIM / S : Claudia Christian, Karen Souza (for singing_ GENDERBENT FC / S : N/A.

MUN QUESTIONS. Q1 : if you could write your character your way in their own movie , what would it be called , what style would it be filmed in , and what would it be about ? A1 : Well, technically, she has a film. Though to be fair, I would make the whole thing longer, less PG, way more of a war film with Lovecraftian/Steampunk overtones than what we got.

Q2 : what would their soundtrack / score sound like ? A2 : German opera, steampunk instrumentals... Hans Zimmer. Maybe some prog-rock bits a la Savatage?

Q3 : why did you start writing this character ? A3 : I loved Atlantis and Helga as a kid, so that has always been there. But while I was in the finals days of a fandom that didn’t care if I existed, I watched the film and we just... clicked.

Q4 : what first attracted you to this character ? A4: She was unlike any film heroine that I had seen before then (I was 8). She was sarcastic and kick-ass and not genuinely good. She was active and suffered real consequences in her story. May or may not have also found her hot.

Q5 : describe the biggest thing you dislike about your muse. A5 : As someone who likes to think of themselves as morally upstanding, the fact she tends to give so few shits about others

Q6 : what do you have in common with your muse ? A6 : The snark. that is all.

Q7 : how does your muse feel about you ? A7 : I’m one of those stupid artsy types.

Q8 : what characters does your muse have interesting interactions with ? A8 : Joseph Korso, Gerge Armstrong Custer, Prince Adam (The Beast), Jacob Frye, Haytham Kenway, Judge Claude Frollo, Kent Mansley, Dean McCoppin, Charles Emmerson Winchester III, Prince Hans Westergaard, and there are many more but those stick out the most to me for their dynamics.

Q9 : what gives you inspiration to write your muse ? A9 : Honestly? Her compelling nature as a character. I don’t really have to look to an outside source to be inspired.

Q10 : how long did this take you to complete ? A10 : HOURS

#⚙‖ 𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪 𝕆𝕗 𝕄𝕖 (Headcanon)

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