bnghnsl

[bnghnsl]

thaera​.

[ ... ]

the road before them was shared with a couple other cars but it didn’t feel as stifling as driving during the rush hour. for the first time throughout the entire day, she finds herself relaxing. giving him a quick sidelong glance, she huffs. “i know.” vanity is truly one of her strongest suits. “i was thinking of incheon just because i want to drive through the bridge but if you want to go anywhere else, that’s fine too so shoot. you have until the light turns green—” she says, pointing up at the stop light on top. “to tell me where you want to go. if not, then, i guess we’ll just go with my choice.”

her hands rest on the steering wheel as though there’s no other place that they belong, fingers drumming against it to the beat of whatever song she has imprinted onto her mind that night, the semi-permanent frown on her mouth forming once he immediately begins to make her life difficult because that’s what he always does.  it’s a routine like clockwork. he watches her with a particular air of fondness, leaning forwards to turn the dials of her car (by this point he’s learned that her hisses of don’t touch my car, hansol! and smack of his hand are more bark than bite) until he settles the radio on some quiet, lazy song. 

his head rolls back against the headrest of the car seat, the soreness in his shoulders and ache of his head washed away by the city lights, low hum of the radio, roar of the wind that makes its way through the small crack of space she’s left as she rolls the window down, the way aera throws him a glance with the endearment that she insists she doesn’t have. hansol can count on one hand the amount of times he’s been able to run away since the beginning of the week, the dizzying feeling that comes with a busy life impeding on everything else. his ability to spend time with those he wants to, to take a break, to breathe. 

she’s a breath of fresh air for him. he wonders if she knows that.

“incheon is fine,” he says, ever the helpful location decider and assistant to the navigator that is shin aera, mouth turned up by how she huffs at that answer. the stop light turns green, the next song plays on the radio, his hand in his pocket fiddles with the engraving on the side of his lighter’s metal case. “i haven’t been since you took me there a month before, actually.”

it’s a nice feeling to say before. before implies there’s going to be a next time, and a next time after that, and so on. it’s the regularity that he needs, that he wants. “chimaek is on me by the way. we can order when we get there.” a pause as they’re both basked in the orange glow of the street lights, and then tentatively, testing the waters, “or anything else you want to have. you look like you’ve lost weight.”

translation: have you been eating and resting well?

[bnghnsl]

thsang.

[ ... ]

He is staring at him, genuinely now, if he didn’t before. The angular shift of his zygomatic bone. The width of his eyes and the makeup underneath it that becomes more evident the more he watches. The redness, appearing again. The virulence which disseminate from Hansol’s being. He does not favor the resurgence of memory, nor the discomfort following shortly thereafter —— not when he is the one being endowed with the thorned, throed crown. “I was looking at the blonde chick approximately twenty meters to the East. I don’t recognize her —— think she had surgery?”

poorly concealed irritation – like he had bothered being respectful enough to conceal it in the first place – flickering in his eyes, eyebrows drawn together, digits fiddling with the lollipop that sits unwrapped between his thumb and index finger all comprise the reason he shifts in his seat: hansol’s unsettled. more unsettled than angry anyways, by the other’s newfound interest in his face, the down turn of his mouth when he sets his gaze onto sang like an anthropomorphic version of a dog baring its teeth in a fruitless attempt to look more threatening than he actually is. he wonders when he’ll stop feeling like he needs to build walls outside of walls outside of walls to hold up defences against the other. 

“you’re so mean to me,” he then says gently, lowering defence from a level 10 to a level 7, a sense of frosty softness coalesced into his words where it had been obviously sharpened knives and cutting edges just seconds before. hansol’s not bothered enough to feign hurt especially where there isn’t any, as if he would be hurt by sang’s flippancy to begin with (or so he tells himself), but there’s still the jutting out of his bottom lip, almost petulant. he sets the lollipop down on the table. “it’s not like you come to the reunions every year for peace and quiet.”

it’s with bright eyes that he uncrosses his legs, chin resting on the open palm of his hand as he fixes sang with a look that’s part sweet and part acidic, biting his tongue to hold himself back from the executing the first step of his defence: a snarky comment. it’s then that his fingers itch to reach out for the alternative, a cigarette, the familiar shape of his lighter, but he knows it’s nestled somewhere inside sunan’s pockets and he chooses the first option instead.

“i’m surprised that you recognise anybody, actually.” like this they’re almost evocative of what they used to be, a game of tug and war with a clear winner – it’s the same thing, just with hostility turned up and fondness turned down. a beat passes. defence is lowers to a 6 and he sighs, mouth pursed. “i’m pretty sure she was in your korean history class. don’t you remember? you had to ask her for notes because you missed that one lesson.”

because you were with me, is left unsaid.

“you should go say hi. i’m sure she’d be thrilled.”

[bnghnsl]

@bnghnsl: feels like winter

[bnghnsl]

sunanth.

[ ... ]

“Anyway, let’s eat! I brought these today. You liked them, right?” He pauses once more, nostrils flared as he leans in, nose burrowed maybe too closely, breathing in the other’s scent like it were something he could saturate the core essence of his being with. “Aw, no way! Did you smoke already?”

he’s photosynthesising.

figuratively, obviously – to be honest, he’s just about as stationary as a blade of grass wedged and rooted into the soil beneath it, the splinters of the wooden bench digging into his back as he continues to lie down on it like he had been for the past fifteen minutes, an arm thrown over his eyes to block out the glare of the sun that washes over his face but that doesn’t mean he’s a plant just yet. grass takes in carbon dioxide and gives out oxygen. he takes in the silence of the rooftop and gives out to hannam momentary respite, the gift being his absence from the rest of the student body.

his ears perk up at the familiar stretch of his name, legs swinging off the bench to sit off as he watches the way sunan strides across the expanse of the rooftop with the éclat and panache of someone who owned the entire school, sliding into the empty seat besides him like he had no other place to be. “oh right, sorry,” he says, a little sheepishly, his foot sliding the pack of cigarettes on the floor underneath the bench and safely out of sight. “i didn’t want any lunch so i just came up by myself.” he pauses, and as though it’s an afterthought to sunan’s speech, “you don’t need to apologise to them. meeting you was probably the most interesting thing that’s happened to them all week.”

he’s photosynthesising again but this time, the source of sunlight is from the way sunan beams at him, hushed and erratic “hi, hi, hi’s” like he was worried there wasn’t enough hours in the day to greet hansol. as though hansol wouldn’t be perched on the rooftop like usual, either waiting for him, waiting for him or waiting for him. he’s sort of pathetic. he thinks he could count on both hands the hours he’s spent waiting.

“i don’t think we should go bungee jumping,” he comments tentatively, flipping through the manual with a blink, peering back at sunan with a careful smile. “maybe next time. it’s true though. all your muscles do relax at the moment of death.”

it’s been like that since they first met. sunan runs at a hundred miles an hour and he struggles to catch up. “you like the lime ones, right?” he phrases it like a question when he knows it’s a fact, ignoring the way sunan dives into him with his nose crinkled (he’s become a professional at this; an expert in accepting that forming a relationship with sunan hiranchai is signing yourself up to a lack of personal space. not that hansol minds, to be fair) like he can smell the remnants of the cigarettes hansol has already stamped out with the heel of his shoe. he probably can. instead he avoids the question like he always does, fingers reaching out to pluck away the lemon sweets, leaving a sea of green in sunan’s hand and nudging his hand back towards him. “keep the rest to eat during pre-calc.”

then, suddenly – “i saw your art the other day. in the classroom.” he unwraps the sweet encapsulated in the crinkled yellow wrapper, popping it into his mouth absentmindedly like it’ll wash out the nicotine aftertaste in his mouth. maybe it does. he tells sunan it does, anyways. “your newest painting. it was super pretty, i heard people saying they wish they could be as talented as you.” he rolls the sweet in his mouth, tongue traversing over the surface as he clicks his tongue, a pinch of humour in his words. “i’m jealous. when are you painting me?”

[bnghnsl]

gwyneirath​.

[ ... ]

           gweneira steps backwards again, one more subtle step away and she thinks she sees him mimic it. had he? had she also imagined the way he tensed slightly at her touch when she had hugged him, uncomfortable almost, or had that been real too? even if it was, she knows nothing is meant to be anyone’s fault but her own. it was something she had been learnt in passing, from another patient in rehab. how disappointing now that there’s no one to blame but herself.

there’s only so much that you can forget, and unsurprisingly enough hansol doesn’t think a year is enough to erase the dizzying memories that have already burned into the back of his mind. welded into place, constantly there.

it’s even harder when the burden of reality is one he carries with him day-to-day like a souvenir he never wanted in the first place but is stuck with anyways, pieces of her wedged in between the gaps of his life like an echoing reminder of what had happened. what he had done. one of her first trophies sits on the top shelf of his bedroom desk proudly as though it’s his, a photo of them at her first recital stuck haphazardly on the wall, a sticky note with her signature chaotically scrawled across next to it. you can sell it when i’m famous, so i’m giving this to you in advance, okay? she had said to him, mouth turned up in that grin she always had when she was around him, the one that said ‘everything will be fine, everything will be great’, rolling her eyes when he had asked whether she wanted his in case he embarked on an upwards journey to fame too.

it had been easier back then, when there hadn’t been a weight pressing down onto his shoulders and he didn’t feel like his tongue was tied in knots, words uncharacteristically formal, stepping on eggshells around the one person he thought he’d never have to. it only takes one look at her to know that she feels the same way, but it’s never easy to go from family to strangers.

“you’ve gotten shorter, eunha,” he comments with a muffled laugh, neck bent as he allows her the liberty of patting his head like they were eight again and not pushing into adulthood. she feels frail against him, her arms around his neck, his own encapsulating her like a tiny wooden figure swallowed, hair spilling onto the front of his shirt whilst his finger draws a pattern on her back. when she somehow manages to extract herself from his grasp, he knows it’s difficult for her to miss the way he had tensed under her touch, and her tenuous step away from him tells him she had felt it too.

he hates how it’s almost nauseating to see her again, the sort of nausea associated with the bile that rises at the back of your throat one when you drink too much, the sort of nausea that he had felt every time he had passed her studio, the ghost of her presence prickling away at his brain, the sort of nausea that had washed over him whenever had had seen the jeons in the last year, their gentle hands on him and kind smiles no different from sharpened daggers and concealed resentment. he hadn’t apologised to them at the gala back then, or the one after that, or the one after that. he thinks he should (he knows he should), but he also knows eira enough to understand that she’d never let him apologise to them in the first place, or even let them know.

it’s not your fault, she would say, it’s never your fault. he doesn’t know who else’s it would be if not his.

he bites the inside of his mouth. there’s the literal gap between them and then there’s the figurative gap, as though they’re both chasing at shadows of the people they used to be. at the relationship they used to have. “you look – ” better than the last time i had seen you? step one of fixing a cracked relationship is ignoring the past like it had never happened to begin with. he’s doing a shit job. “you look like you cut your hair. did you? it suits you, you look pretty.”

compliments are a metaphorical step forwards. to him, anyways, because he doesn’t know what else to say that wouldn’t leave an acidic aftertaste on both of their tongues. his mouth is running miles ahead of his brain, as though he’s trying to fill up every second of silence that passes with something. anything.

“i knew i’d have to pick you up,” he laughs, pushing the hood of his jacket down, fixing her with an entertained look. he wonders whether she’d loop her arm around his like she always did when they’d walk together, bumping into him every few seconds and grinning at him sheepishly, mouthing sorry. he wonders if she’d even remember that at all. “you’ve always been like that. how many times have you been to mine, hm?”

[bnghnsl]

new drug / @thsang​

"you can take a picture if you want, it’ll last longer.”

he doesn’t quite know what to make of himself when he’s alone like this, dressed head to toe in some suit worth five figures that he can’t pronounce the name of, perched away in a seat at the corner of the room with more of his mind focused on the music from piano tiles ringing from his phone than actually participating in the reunion.

see, it’s not really a reunion when nobody wants to see each other again and he’s tuned down most of the conversation to white noise, but he’s not so socially inept that the gaze that lingers on the side of his face goes unmissed.

he glances next to him, offers up an unusually wry smile, not like the ones he used to greet him with when they were younger and stupider and wasted time on the rooftop like they had nothing better to do and nowhere better to be. he blames the location. trying to find a method to erase the three years he was at hannam from his memory is always a stab in the dark when he comes back annually to overpriced wine and shallow conversations, like a routine, like clockwork. it’s something he can’t rub off his skin no matter how many times he douses himself in soap. 

sang is a living reminder of what it feels like to want and be wanted back for a fleeting moment. he’s also a reminder of what it feels like to not be wanted at all.

“i know you haven’t forgotten me already,” he says, the game on his phone put on pause out of respect (or maybe as a way for him to load up his defences, get ready to attack), his wry smile turning even more wry, head turned so he can fixate his gaze on the elder's features. the chatter around them continues, and hansol has half a mind to join in before he says something he doesn’t mean. before he makes a big deal out of something that wasn’t a big deal at all, just because he feels cranky and out of place, like an ill-fitting puzzle piece crammed forcefully to form a picturesque photo. “didn’t your parents ever tell you it was rude to stare?”

[bnghnsl]

late as always but hellllooo again it’s hye (she/her, 19) coming back with everyone’s biggest nightmare bang “here for neither a good time nor a long time” hansol!! p much nothing has changed about him except for the fact that he’s two years younger (so a med student instead of an intern) and a pinch more insufferable than before so i’ll link his previous intro here but just wanted to drop an embarrassingly long new one with some extra details! as usual, lmk if youd like to plot or like this post :^)

bang hansol aka current med student at snu, born in ‘98, class of 2016, the ‘igneous’ skeleton aka the high strung kid that everyone (yes .... even that kid in algebra who sat behind u and kicked ur ass every pop quiz) went to for drugs. adderall, coke, you name it

what can he say he likes to make a fleeting but majestic impression

if you remember him it’s probably because he either dealt to you or you hated how he tapped his foot and pen at 50mph every class

the prescription drugs he sold were ones he stole from his parents’ pharmacies to maintain this side hustle (they own a huge chain of pharmacies across seoul) but doesn’t really have any moral qualms about that because he thinks they had an abundance of drugs anyways and should have guarded them better

also doesn’t really have any moral apprehension (or so he thinks .. he’s buried the guilt pretty well) about the number of people who later grew reliant on/addicted to said drugs because in his head he’s just the medium between a person and drugs and definitely not someone who exacerbated people’s already poor health. runs away from responsibility so if you bring this up to him he’ll pretend like he has no idea what you’re talking about

regarding what he was like in high school, he pretty much always stayed within the shadows of hannam, was more intimidating than anything else, didn’t say much but almost always said something unnecessarily confrontational when he did, looked annoyed for all 3 years of high school, also looked constantly on edge/jittery, still fell asleep in classes and pulled through impressively in exams, smoked on the school rooftops a lot, etc. 

his personality hasn’t actually changed that much since getting into snu for med (note: he’s only studying to please his family and has no real passion for medicine ... he has no real passion for anything, actually. he’s not an anti-capitalist he’s just extremely indifferent) except for the fact that he’s a lot less on edge/high strung only as a result of his own drug use

read: karma bites hard because as if high school wasn’t bad enough, he now suffers from addiction and isn’t really looking to go to rehab any time soon because he thinks it’ll sort it self out (it won’t). doesn’t tap his foot or pen as much though. still doesn’t sleep.

slightly unrelated but randomly decided to pick up the bass guitar in the last few years and now it sits perched next to his study desk. he’s not really looking to go anywhere serious with it but playing it is a source of comfort/relaxation for him

a bit aimless despite being a med student and basically having his life mapped out for him by his parents (i.e: doctor), not sure about whether he even has a direction in life or not but on the flip side at he knows what colour he’s dying his hair next!

he doesn’t. send your suggestions in @thbh-

[bnghnsl]

Euphoria Special (2020)

[bnghnsl]

heaven or las vegas / @aerachr​

there’s a flash of orange across the cracked led screen of the run down bus stop, strikingly bright against the dimly lit sky as the colours morph into ‘2:54AM - NO BUSES AVAILABLE’. he’s hit with déjà vu like the last few times he had found himself seated underneath the cracked wooden roof of the stop, completely useless when it’s raining and completely useless when it isn’t raining either, caught in ceaseless repetition of running from everything once a month only to be rescued by a princess in shining armour.

it’s a routine. one embedded into his system like something he had needed all along but hadn’t realised so until he met her, so unlike and like him all at once. he watches the familiar car pull up in front of him, pushes the hood of his jacket down and taps on the driver side window with his fingers.

“wow, what time do you call this?” he complains as soon as the window is rolled down, nose crinkled as though he’s actually perturbed by the late hours in which him and aera seem to find solace. hansol’s tempted to slide over the bonnet and into the car, but she already looks like she’s bursting with things to say (or hiss, more fittingly) and he doesn’t feel like putting his life on the line for a few seconds of amusement. he treks over to the other side of the vehicle, slipping into the passenger's seat with a scoff, words pointed like the knife of accusation. “you said 3am. you’re late, you liar. i could’ve been kidnapped. or worse, i could’ve had to take a bus.”

the led screen outside reads 2:56AM. it still says NO BUSES AVAILABLE. he flashes her a smile – flattery is step one of getting into aera’s good books and making sure she doesn’t kick him out in the middle of the highway because he’s being too annoying. he doesn’t know what step two is. “you look pretty. anyways, where are we going?”

[bnghnsl]

sunanchr​.

Keep reading

introversion is unbecoming on a person like sunan but he makes it work alongside his desperation, a meek pink flush bestrewed across his cheeks, tongue traversing over the digit between his lips, mouth stretched prettily around his thumb. it’s everlastingly all in or all out with sunan, both the devil and angel that sits on his shoulders, voice sweet one second and coquettish the next like he knows he’ll get what he wants in the end. and he does, hansol the metaphorical lamb being led to slaughter, slaughter being sunan’s claws, sunan’s claws being his nails that dig into the surface of his skin. 

somehow he manages a laugh, a quiet jingle that dissipates into the air around them as he pulls his thumb out from the abyss. it leaves a trail on sunan’s cheek when he drags it across, a silent promise for things to come, but he knows taking care to not leave a mess is the last thing on either of their minds.

“you have, baby,” he feels the familiar weight dancing over the skin of his throat, heartbeat an inconsistent thudding flittering underneath the hand. his gaze follows sunan’s hand wrapped around his own cock, the hitch of his breath. “and you’ve always taken my cock so well, even when you were begging because you were embarrassed at how much you cried. how much you kept crying,” his digits curl inside him, “i liked it, baby. i liked watching you cry because you kept coming, and coming, and you didn’t stop. you couldn’t stop."

he pulls his fingers out, watching the way sunan’s hole flutters around nothing, thumb of his free hand drawing a gentle circle underneath his eye as he lines up his cock with the entrance. “do you want me to tell you a secret, nani?” his mouth is turned up, sweet smile betrayed by the contents of his speech and actions, hips stuttering as he pushes in. the curve of sunan’s back is one that he’s memorised over the past eight years, a picture perfect definition of pleasure when hansol circles his hips, testing the feeling of sunan clenching around him like he’s not used to it. like he’s never done it before.

“i did think about it. always. remember christmas that one year, baby? i thought about leaving the car outside your house and just crawling into your room instead. thought about fucking you so hard you wouldn’t be able to walk. wouldn’t be able to look at your parents for a week out of shame because of how you sounded.” he’s wrapped up in sunan’s heat, body tensing underneath him as he slowly begins to drive in, out, fingers digging into the curves of his hip, right next to the roses sunan has permanently marked in ink. “i thought about how you’d moan my name. how you’d cry out, ‘hansol, hansol’, covering your mouth even though the whole street had already heard what a whore you were being.”

it’s a languid pace, too languid, even – he knows it won’t last for long. “you like this, don’t you, baby?” he asks, pressing a chaste kiss to sunan’s upper thigh, his own cock throbbing inside with the familiar burn of want. “like it when i take care of you, like it when i treat you like you’re made of glass.”

he smiles, leans forwards, hot breath fanning over sunan’s ear. “but you love it when i fuck you like you’re a whore, right, baby?”

[bnghnsl]

act i: disturbance / @suranchr​ 

“y’know, if you keep frowning like that, you’ll have wrinkles by the time you’re twenty five.”

even over the keys of the piano and the strings of the violin his voice is one that pierces through the music, permeated with something halfway between mocking and amusement, rich with i’m-here-to-fuck-up-any-plans-you-had-for-tonight. his presence is an unwelcome one, hovering around the doorway like a vampire waiting to be invited in, but he supposes he can’t really take offense when he knows that to her, he’s no different to anyone else that would have the impertinence disturb her this late at night. he takes a step inside (clearly not a vampire then), grinning at her reflection as he holds up the bags in his hands. one clinks as he lifts it up, the other doesn’t but there’s already the stench of ddeokbokki covering the room and a tell tale shape of bungeoppangs pressed against the plastic. she’s not a genius – he thinks she isn’t one, anyways – but he knows she’ll figure out the contents.

if not by deduction, by her memory. he can count on his hand (one finger, actually) the amount of times he’s brought something other than the few items he currently holds. and that had only been because he had arrived too late to shamelessly beg the already closed stalls to open up again. he remembers her telling him to leave if he wasn’t going to bring her anything to eat – he threw her a bottle of water, and she threw him out the room.

classic myo suran.

he strides across the room with éclat of someone who belongs there, as though the world’s mistaken and he’s the only professional dancer in the room, as though he can’t see the way she looks like she’s about to kick his ass for the sixth time that week. he’s been counting.

“shit, sorry, i forgot you turned twenty five this year.” he taps the space between his eyebrows, back against the mirror as he slides down into his typical cross legged position. the front right corner of the room, directly across the studio’s sound system and more importantly, the perfect location to kick up suran’s blood pressure. “maybe that’s why i’m already seeing wrinkles there. damn. is it too early to call for your retirement?”

[bnghnsl]

sunanchr​.

Keep reading. 

he’s quick to decide that he likes hyun.

he can’t tell from here whether he likes the way he looks, or the way he talks but all he knows is that he can’t rule out the way he kisses, heavy on hansol’s tongue like he’s weighed down with secrecy and what ifs. the possibilities of what if i touched you here, what if someone walks in right now, what if this becomes a regular thing. it’s a sort of kick in his chest, heart skipping a beat, something akin to heat waves buzzing in his veins type of sensation that takes over. forces him to damper the excitement that twitches inside him. hyun makes him feel like he’s running out of oxygen and receiving it in abundance all at the same time, choking on something that’s half-air half-human.

like this, he’s a ragdoll, here one second, there the next, shirt on, shirt off, it doesn’t make a difference either way when there’s still goosebumps that skitter across his skin. it doesn’t take a genius to figure out whether that’s from the heat or the way he sees hyun watch sunan, predator and prey but the roles left unassigned to either person. it just depends on who makes the move first, and he knows he’s the most impatient of the lot. always yearning to do something, to do someone. even with the mattress digging into his bare back, hyun’s fingers nimbly undoing the button of his jeans, he itches for movement, locking eyes with the welcome intruder, a hand reached out to splay itself across hyun’s bare torso. he mouths wow like he means it, because he means it, eyes crinkling with interest. 

“can you handle both of us?” he asks, not because he knows hyun can’t but because he knows he can. “i wish there was two of you so we could have one each. just so you could fuck us at the same time.”

he’s seen impatience on sunan before, mouthy beyond reason, noises making up for his lack of intelligible speech but this is different. the mere thought makes his mouth curl upwards, preening as he listens to sunan’s babbles, words imbued with a sense of desperation or desire. maybe it’s both. “he’s right,” he tells hyun, neck turning to the side as sunan leaves a trail of kisses in his wake, tongue flat against his ear. “when he starts coming, he never stops. you can barely hold all of it in your mouth. maybe the two of us could, though,” he tacks on as an afterthought, head tilted even more backwards as sunan attacks his throat. “you have, baby. for longer than i can remember. fucked me so well. taken it so well when i fucked you, too.”

he sucks the tab off sunan’s tongue, hard and long enough that he hiccups when they finally break free, a brief punishment for a sin he’ll never stop committing. the fingers that curl around his neck feel like a reward, thumb pressing into the column of his throat until he sees stars and it goes straight to the growing pit at the bottom of his stomach. when he talks it’s devoid of air, raspy, just the way he wants it to be. “i want you to fuck his mouth,” he chokes out to sunan, his hand ghosting over the one on his neck, “whilst you fuck mine,” he tells hyun this time, his pretty smile growing pointed, tongue running over his teeth. 

shifting, he waits for sunan’s grasp over his neck to weaken, sitting up onto his knees as he pulls hyun closer than necessary. he fumbles with hyun’s jeans, somehow manages to pull it down most of the way. he spits into the palm of his hand and reaches behind him, taking sunan into his grasp at an agonizingly slow pace, fingernail digging into the slit of the tip just because he can. just because he wants to. “you’re just like us,” he comments in a daze. he abruptly leans forwards, gathering hyun in his mouth through the fabric, licking a stripe against his cock as he sucks a wet patch onto the front of his boxers. 

he’s relentless, coming as close to sucking cock as he can without actually doing it properly, tongue folding over left and right to taste as much as possible. he drags upwards, over the waistband, up hyun’s abdomen before he pulls back, mouth more red than before and a new glimmer in his eyes. he pushes hyun’s shoulder down, mouth resting on his ear. another secret. 

“i wonder how you’ll taste without the 100,000 won boxers.”

[bnghnsl]

minuchr​.

[ ... ]

from the corner of his eyes, he can see men in black approaching, betraying hands pointing to the direction of their booth. men can’t deal with their shit without someone stepping in nowadays … if only they were dealing with it like men, and not like sixteen year old testosterone bursting teenagers. minwoo sighs. and while hansol’s grip on him increases, he puts his pained hand, the same one which violated him before, on his own wrist; this time, gently. “no. we’re both disappearing, unless you want to make friends with the police. you’re getting fucking sober.”

sometimes, hansol wishes he could dig his fingers into minwoo’s skull and pry it open to get answers to questions he’s been asking since the disintegration of civilisation. civilisation being their little trio that had seemed inseparable, of course – it’s foolish to think about old promises made in high school, talking for eternity about everlasting friendships, especially now he has the hindsight to know that the oath would be broken when he least expected it, but he can’t help it when minwoo’s talking at him rather than talking to him like he’s someone who needs constant scolding instead of a normal fucking person. 

he inhales sharply, wonders what minwoo would say and do if hansol tells him he resents god to the point where he can feel it stirring in his bones for keeping him alive. maybe he’d laugh, like he was pulling one of the old pranks they used to pull. maybe he’d say hansol deserves the suffering.

“that’s not fair, minwoo.” he says, voice shaking, any anger he’s spent the past nine years convincing himself he has stored up in him sweeping through his body like an inferno. he says it like it’s not fair that they’ve spent almost a decade hating each other, like it’s not fair that the first time they’re face to face after everything is on the dance floor of some club chock-full of people. he says it like anything in the world is actually fair in the first place. “you – you out of all people don’t get to – ” a pause, “you don’t get to fucking judge me like that. to tell me what i should and shouldn’t be grateful for.”

you weren’t there even if sunan was, he wants to say, and i needed the both of you.

he doesn’t get an opportunity to. it’s fight or flight in situations like these and he always chooses the latter, letting go of the front of minwoo’s shirt only to grasp the sleeve instead and drag him from behind, the strobe lights a yellow brick road for him to stumble to safety. the nostalgia kicks him, makes him bite the inside of his cheek but he manages to pull him through the swinging doors of the club and into the alley that sits beside it. he takes one look at minwoo and it’s enough to send another wave of nausea over his body. 

it’s too much for one night. sunan. him. everyone.

he slides down the brick wall, promptly dropping to his knees and crouches over. the concrete ground digs into the palms of his hands painfully as he dry heaves, chest burning like it was set aflame, but he thinks there’s nothing quite as nauseating as the ringing in his ears that leaves him deafened to any other noise. nothing comes out of his mouth even if he feels it rising in his throat, and tears prickle at the corner of his eyes at the feeling. the pain. the embarrassment.

“fuck.” he says between chokes, breathlessly laughing like the night’s a comedy and not a tragedy. the concrete bites at his knuckles as he curls his fingers, drawing blood, head still bent over. he feels the gaze on him. “don’t fucking look at m– what, you’ve never seen someone dying before?”

[bnghnsl]

knock on wood / @jamiechr​

“quit movin– ”

like usual, his actions are a contradiction of his own instructions, unskilled fingers fumbling with the dark tips of jamie’s hair as he tries – somewhat pitifully it seems, if her consequent unimpressed snort is anything to go by – to braid the locks. he’s caught his bottom lip between his teeth, eyebrows drawn together with the concentration of someone doing something much more serious than playing hairdresser for the night. 

the right strand pursues the left one. he’s suddenly reminded of the first time he had met her, feet pattering against the ground as he chased after her in the empty room next to the main hall of the gala. they had been younger then – her, quieter, and him louder. hansol remembers going home and telling his parents he liked the ahn’s older daughter.

the world spins on its axis, a constant reminder than everything comes and goes. ahn jamie doesn’t go.

she claps when VICTORY flashes onto the tv screen. DEFEAT might as well be stamped across his forehead as he drops the half completed more-tangles-than-braid braid with disappointment, sliding down the sofa to sit next to her on the floor. 

“it’s ugly because you wouldn’t stay still,” he huffs, pushing the half eaten tray of cheese ddeokbokki from the nearby stall towards her. the food’s been long forgotten on the table, beer warmed and chicken cooled to room temperature, but he opens the drink for her anyways. at the back of his mind, he asks himself when the right time to point out the bags under her eyes and abnormally lethargic tone is. 

he decides promptly that it isn’t now.

he reaches up behind her, swiping his controller from where he’d haphazardly tossed it onto the pillow like an abandoned toy. “you can’t say you carried me this time. i wasn’t even playing for the last ten minutes.”

[bnghnsl]

[bnghnsl]

xinyanchr.

[ ... ]

“Did you know that? How alike we are. We keep our promises, don’t we? You said you’d bring me to the market today.” Her fingers stir as harshly as needed to wiggle his nose. “Oppa, do you remember? I have your outfit.” She liberates his airway, pointing to a pair of shoes and its smaller duplicate. “Wear blue like me. We’ll match today.” 

the inception of their relationship comes to him like a dream.

albeit too blurry for him to remember now (it’s a memory tucked away in the corner of his mind – he’s a firm believer that it’s not the start that’s important, it’s what follows), the dream starts like this. she’s perched upon the corner of the street, arms around her knees, fixing him with a look close to insouciance whilst his own gaze says the opposite. been homeless for a while now, he remembers her saying when he had asked, words alien-looking and sounding on her mouth as though she was trialling the word on her tongue for the first time. he believes her as much as a person with two eyes and a somewhat decent brain would, clean nails and cartier necklace, soft hands and a far fetched on her smile betraying any earlier comments about her living situation. 

she ends up at his regardless. not turns up, not plans to move in, just ends up. international student, flew over yesterday, some weird attempt of hannam’s at improving sino-korean relations – he lies through his teeth the same way she does, watches her eyes gleam with something for once, like she’s finally decided he’s interesting enough for her to dig her claws into. barely interesting anyways, when he pales in comparison to his clothes. he’s quick to pick up on the way her eyes linger on his open closet whenever he pulls something out, fingers running over the material of whatever he’s wearing that day, always ready with a question regarding the locations of his purchases. 

he always tells her. she turns up with a matching item the next day.

“you’re a fuckin’ menace.” the dream ends here with his lack of oxygen, fingers scrabbling up her arm as he pulls her wrist away with a noise alarmingly similar to that of a wounded dog’s. this is what he gets, nurturing the wolf in sheep’s clothing, the very same one who sits on the edge of his bed now, her own armchair abandoned behind her despite his tedious accomplishment of having moved it to his own room after months of finding her asleep in it next to his bed anyways. 

he rubs at his nose, shooting her a glare behind his hand as he peers at his designated costume for the day, hand reaching behind him to grasp the pillow that he hurls at her. 

“i’m breaking it. go to gwangjang market by yourself.” he says, peering at the glaring clock on the wall, knowing full well she’d find a way drag him out regardless. he crinkles his nose. “we wore blue last time, too. you’re running out of creativity.”

[bnghnsl]

sunanchr​.

Keep reading

“thank you,” hansol tells him, a dimpled smile thrown at the speaker of the compliment, modesty out of place at a place like this, people like them. he can’t read his character yet, nothing known about him except for the the fact that sunan takes an interest in him, the shape of his mouth when he takes a drag of the ablaze cigarette and throws flattery at them. you two look really good together, he says. it’s the same way someone would compliment an outfit, a painting hung up on a gallery wall. so pretty, it fits well together. 

he racks his memory for a name, lands on a honeyed syllable and tests it out on his tongue, eyes crinkling. “that’s very sweet of you to say, hyun. i think you’ll look good with us too.”

it’s where they belong. this cavern that’s situated under underground, a trap waiting to swallow the three of them up like a wolf with a gaping maw, hyun seamlessly leading the way with slender fingers delicate enough to betray the ravine of his eyes. like this they can sin to their heart’s content, as though there aren’t crowds above them and people outside, as though the morning won’t crack through the slips of night until they’re done.

(it won’t. in the land of the abyss the sun rises only when you go up, and hansol doubts they’ll be finished any time soon.)

time moves much more slowly when there’s palpable tension, thick in the air like it’ll be tangible if he tries to touch hard enough, fingers grasping at whatever surrounds them. the broken clock on the wall ticks. he’s used to sunan moving like this, sluggish movements like they have all the time in the world, and maybe they do. but he wonders whether hyun’s used to it, eyes flickering over to him almost dangerously as sunan stretches out in front of them, silk spread open, an unwrapped present for the two of them to play with.

he moves forwards first because he always does, cigarette abandoned as he crushes it under his heel, hand splayed across sunan’s midriff like it has no other place to be. he moves to kneel on the bed like this, mouth plastering kisses down the other’s neck, before his tongue finally sweeps the powder off one side of sunan’s chest, running it over his gums and the roof of his mouth like he’s done ten, twenty, a hundred times before. it’s dizzying, stirs inside of him, a pooling of something down his body, and it’s with this newfound pleasure that he turns back to the waiting party.

his fingers curl themselves through the buckles of hyun’s jeans, pulling the other towards himself with a sense of urgency that’s unmatched by the other two until they’re inches apart. impatient, like always. “he’s pretty like this, right?” hansol asks him, as though he doesn’t know what the answer will be, breath fanning across hyun’s face, a teasing smile on his lips. “he’s even prettier when he’s stretched out.”

his hand remains on sunan’s abdomen as he presses a chaste kiss to the corner of hyun’s mouth, tongue sweeping out against the other’s bottom lip like he’s trying to taste whatever alcohol he had consumed before. his other hand rests on hyun’s waistband, pinkie nail digging slightly at the bulge he can feel grow underneath his hand. he laughs softly. “it’s your turn to eat, sweetheart.”