LET HER SLEEP WELL, YEAH

myo suran / 21 / baby baby

[hpjsuranbaby-blog]

( LOFTICRIES )

@hpjevan

IN DEATH, SHE FINDS PENANCE. bring forth the holy day, marked by death, it carries a comforting scent of decaying vanilla—as grandmother always did, even as her body laid embalmed in its velvet bed, displayed for all to see. figures, the old bat would be up for one last hoorah of attention seeking.

( our lovely bastard cannot speak too loudly, however, clad in black lace and tight leather, a dress that screamed more of grieving widow to millions than estranged granddaughter. )

but in the case of her family, she, as the resident black sheep, is used to stares. to being stripped bare to the bleached bone under judgmental eyes. see, it didn’t matter then, how she’d dress herself—they’d strip her bare to her rotted insides regardless.

and had it not been the promise of riches, the possibility of being passed millions (and at the request of the family lawyer), she wouldn’t even be caught dead here.

her family certainly had nothing to do with a band of stuck ups like her mother’s family.

this, easily proven by the fact that her mother isn’t even here (be it her being uninvited or simply uninterested) at her own mother’s wedding.

( though she cannot deny that it stands to ease some of the pressure off her chest. )

still, our little bastard was reasonably unsettled in front of this motley crew. this human cesspool of vultures—again, she cannot complain, is she not cut from the same cloth?—who could do nothing but stare at her existence (her aunts and cousins hold their husbands and boyfriends closer, noses upturned and eyes narrowed, as if scandalized by her appearance).

and her cheeks would have burned, shamed, had she not been used to staring—had she not had enough of it when mother would bring her to these events in her youth, when mother, soft around the edges, still found comfort in family. 

regrettably, they found nothing but disappointment in her.

so she stands now by her lonesome, glass in hand and a sardonic curve on pink lips. wakes were boring, depressing even, and suran hated it more to be here of all places.

and maybe, just maybe, if her aunt looks over at her like that one more time—maybe she’ll fuck her husband stupid tonight.

[koreantunes]

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매드클라운 (Mad Clown) - 사랑은 지옥에서 온 개 (Love Is a Dog From Hell) (Feat. Suran)

[hpjminho-blog]

1. five letters, across: spectre

answer: G H O S T

once upon a time, a man almost loved a woman. he was almost addicted to the thrill of her. she was almost comfortable in the constant that is him. they were almost spectacular. they almost made sense. and when she finally left, he almost asked her to stay.

(and he likes to think, by some twist of fate, she almost would’ve.)

theirs is a story of almost, but never enough.

and now here she is, lying on a hospital bed worse for wear, just hours after he forcefully removed liquid courage from her stomach. it is hardly the reunion he desires, but then again, he’s never quite entertained the idea of crossing her path once again.

he sits in the visitor’s chair located beside her bed and watches her carefully as she sleeps, and his heart is a paradox of heavy and empty all at once. heavy, because he feels partially responsible for her present situation, as though if they were still together—if he just tried harder—none of this would’ve happened. and as for the emptiness, it is in part because the sudden unwinding of her from his life, in which they were once so tightly intertwined, has left behind a substantial amount of scar tissue. all he knows is this: there are days when the taste of strawberry gelato, the scent of the ocean, or the dotted stars in the night sky has his tongue curling to form the beginnings of her name.

she stirs then, long lashes placing feather-like kisses on the chubby cheeks he once found adorable, and it washes away his current bout of nostalgia.

“you’re up.” he states the obvious, and the corner of his lips twitches into half a smile, but relaxes just as quickly. “i didn’t expect to see you again; certainly not like this.”

the bite in his tone isn’t quite portrayed the way he longs it to. instead, the slight crack in his voice hints at his ever melancholic state of mind. he clears his throat once, twice.

“i’d ask how you’re feeling, but stomach pumping doesn’t usually get good reviews. i’m sure you’ll surprise me, though.”

after all, she always does.

@hpjsuran

[hpjsuranbaby-blog]

NO GOOD COMES OUT OF LOVE. we can say this because myo suran exists, because a babe bore out of the selfishness of two is a wretched beauty set to pass on her mother’s legacy, because she hasn’t known love to be in any way other than this way. 

i’m saying the way of taking what she wants when she wants it (she gets that from her mother). i’m saying the way of tossing aside whatever ceases to be of us to her (she gets that from her father). i’m saying the way of wanting recklessly, of living shamelessly (she is the result of that unity).

are you still following? i’m saying she doesn’t know how to love.

but never mind that, our story isn’t about that. (decidedly, it is not about the story of love, of how she is both the father and the sun. definitely not the story of how she, an ambitious fledging, would break her own wings before she even gets remotely close to the sun). our story today is of another chapter of textbook recklessness, one of more severe and real consequences she can’t seem to ignore. 

today, we start with myo suran on a hospital gurney. yet another example of the suran brand of self destructiveness—in that it isn’t self destruction if you wholly enjoy the flames you spiral down in. but there’s no need to dwell on the hows of alcohol poisoning (of how much alcohol ingested to actually reach this point), not when there was something far more pressing to dwell on within the hospital room.

here, evidently, she hadn’t imagined the worried features of one choi minho in her drunken haze when she first arrived at the hospital earlier.

(and she’d be more ashamed of the disappointment she can feel radiating off him in waves, had she not already done the one that he abhorred the most by leaving with bits of his heart wedged between her molars.)

but man, was it one of the worser circumstances to run into a former lover again.

suran could feel her cheeks pink with his words. “mm.” she speaks makes a noise around the discomfort in her throat, pink tongue flicking out to wet her lips absently while the gears in her mind races to catch up, to figure out the best course of motion here. (had it been up to her to orchestra this little “reunion”, she’d at least throw some blush onto her cheeks).

but what better way to show how fucking great she’s doing by easing back into the demeanor she knows best?

“you know, not too bad, considering...” suran starts, inhaling slow as her chest rises, filled to the brim with oxygen before she exhales, ending with a small cough. “the fact that you’re the attending and all,” her head turns to face him, eyes holding a certain charming gleam that’s hard to miss, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. 

“will i survive, doctor? will you stay by my side till i recover?”

and if it hurts, if the sight of choi minho burns raw like how her lungs feel, she doesn’t show it. she can’t afford to. 

[hraera-deactivated20191020]

       a rare day off leads her to text a familiar name that she knows will be free right at the moment to go out with her on a little escapade. her first thought had been to relax and spend the day in bed, but the slips of golden which leak from her window coax her into the outside world before the heat comes to take over and completely nullify whatever interest she had. so here she was deciding what to do, mind mentally scrolling through a phantom list until she remembers that she desperately needed to go shopping for some summer wear. at least, if she intended to survive the unusual heat that would soon take over seoul.

       the train ride is a quiet bustle, hands clinging to a metal bar tightly while her mind drifts between the good and the bad of her life. there isn’t much of a debate going on in her mind for once, but perhaps she’s barring things off for the sake of easing herself up a little. she needed it.

       pouring out with everyone else, haein quickly dashes off station grounds away from the gathering crowds. having run some errands before heading over, she’s agreed to meet the girl at the site. cognac eyes sparkle at the sight of her familiar friend, a hand quick to lift and wave in greeting as she goes dashing over. the faster the better.

❝ su! did you wait long? ❞

ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏ ғᴏʀ @hpjsuran

[hpjsuranbaby-blog]

AT THE END OF THE DAY, GIRLS LOVE NOTHING MORE THAN TO SHOP. it is a birthright, in the case of our lovely bastard, bore with a silver spoon tucked under honey tongue, myo suran had never been denied a thing in her life.

     ( let us not count the many a times decaying rot within denied her and everyone else                      anything more than a moment’s comfort; a tease of sweet love, a lifetime of biting bitter.                                she certainly doesn’t. )

it is that haunting sense of vainglory that spells her ruin in her later years of youth, when the green monster lets itself in and tears apart all her mother has worked to build over the years (a family, the monster denies them that—declares them unfit of the right, declares her husband to be hers and no one else’s). it is the monster that tears her wings from her back and hurls her from the highs of seoul’s upperclass society into the welcoming arms of hell. (purgatory, where our little bastard with her honey tongue, battered hubris, and decaying heart claws her way through to sit perched pretty on the devil’s bone throne. queen.)

it is hauteur engraved into bone that has her adamant on keeping such a lifestyle, has her selling smiles and betraying youth, has her bent and contorted in ways wicked (ways in which she would no longer recognize herself later). but a wretched living is still a living, especially if it had been one set on the path of silk and pearls.

see, whoever said money couldn’t buy happiness had never really had money before.

and suran is living life lavish even if it is life wretched, life cursed.

but enough of the bleak reality—the future that threatens to befall on our fallen bastard, the downfalls of living a life this broken—enough pitying, enough judgement; we stand to watch our lovely bastard enjoy her youth yet, the body and face in which she’s been blessed, the card in which she’s been gifted—the only thing that seemed to be missing is the friend who brought her out here to begin with.

    ( but suran doesn’t mind waiting, if only for the fact that the world could make do with                   laying eyes on such a prize for a while longer. 

    and kwon haein was a precious unnie for a reason. )

perched against a wall, suran is lax in her wait, iced tea in one hand and mobile in another while she busies herself with browsing through social media. to her credit, she had only barely arrived before haein announced her presence, drawing the younger’s attention easily as her head lips, grin armed. 

“no—you’re fine, unnie.” she laughs, pushing her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. “i just got here.” the younger pauses, taking a quick moment to look her over. “you didn’t have to run, your hair’s a mess—” her hand lifts, making quick work in smoothing out the other’s hair.

“there. y’ready?”

[hpjsehun-blog]

—graffiti hearts

@hpjsuran​ ,

➝ 2 am, and sehun finally gets off his shift. the music fest has him beat, working for five hours straight at a packed bar. but he can’t complain about $200 in tips for one night. first things first: three soju shots and a cigarette. second: text someone to chill. he’s tired but it’s the weekend for christ’s sake. question is, who should be text? he scrolls through his contact list. seungjae… songyi… suran. a good time always follows close on suran’s heels and he hasn’t seen her in forever, so he sends her a message. thinking of painting the town red, want in?

sehun tells her to meet him in front of Ark in half an hour if she’s down. he stops at home first and changes into darker clothes. from the back of the coat closet, he digs out his duffle bag of graffiti cans, unfortunately abandoned about for the past month or so. on the way out, he grabs his skateboard and heads for the bar. when he gets there, there’s still a relatively large crowded spilling out of its doors, indie pop music leaking out into the street and mixing with the chatter of a drunken crowd. he waits to the side, smoking and waiting for the troublemaker to show.

[hpjsuranbaby-blog]

IT ISN’T OFTEN SHE STAYS OUT LATE. don’t misunderstand our little bastard’s frivolousness with irresponsibility. no, there is no merit in staying out late—at least, not at places people her age tend to frequent (the keyword here is her age, meaning struggling students her age, meaning too poor to rub two cents together her age)—not when better things can be achieved in bed on dating apps or posing for half naked selfies as a treat to her many “boyfriends”.

but it wasn’t as if she scarcely frequented—for she did, despite popular opinion, have friends her age—just that it hadn’t been particularly her thing anymore.

of course, special occasions like music festivals and what not—she’s bound to attend.

for nomadic, especially, she had left the house around 10pm and hopped from venue to venue till 2 in the morning. by now, she would have left, had she not promised to meet someone shortly after. (and little would willingly give up the chance to meet with oh sehun, asshole extraordinaire—well, beyond those who can’t handle his larger personality traits anyway.)

still, suran bides her time at the bar, exchange meaningless smiles with boys too nice to look at but too empty in the pockets for her tastes and occasionally entertaining the few. by the time it was 2:05am, she was on her way out with a bottle in hand.

and nearly misses oh sehun.

“yah.” suran greets the taller with a laugh, eyes flicking over his attire. “i think you and i have different definitions of “painting the night red”, sehun.” not that they weren’t equally dressed in dark clothing, but there’s something distinctly different about suran’s ripped jeans and red laced camisole. 

“here, take a shot first.” she thrusts him the bottle, grinning from ear to ear. “then we can go get in trouble.”

[gansaey]

[hpjsuranbaby-blog]

( BODYACHE )

[hpjsuranbaby-blog]

hpjongin:

christ, she’s rude. “a thanks for giving me a ride would’ve been nice. or, you know, a hello.”

although, to be fair, all jongin himself has to offer is a roll of his eyes. and maybe a little bit of pity for the goosebumps that surely must be rising on her skin; his car did have the unfortunate flaw of a faulty heater.

still yet, he takes no offense at her comment, and in fact chooses willfully to ignore it — it is, after all, a hunk of junk, as suran so gracefully puts it. but it’s his dark green, faulty heater, two-door hunk of junk. “fancy a song?” jongin can’t seem to stifle a chuckle: she probably doesn’t, but he starts anyway, just to keep her mouth shut for as maximal of an amount of time as possible. and, perhaps, just to annoy her. following a loud, rather obnoxious yawn, he switches the gear out of park and into drive, right hand rested leisurely on the wheel, left elbow atop the center compartment.

“what do you like? trashy pop? you seem the type.” he shuffles around for a cassette and slips it into the player: the steady four-beat pluck of a guitar. “rhiannon, fleetwood mac. 1975. my dad made this tape for me when i was, uh, like nine or ten. he was really into old american music.” the crack of a smile, then he throws a glance her way. “suppose that’s what being the son of a general does to you.”

a cough. seoul’s lights, however late, seemed relentless in shining on their faces. “anyway, i wouldn’t really be surprised if you weren’t headed home. maybe you’ve got another dick to please — i wouldn’t know. that’s why i asked.”

THERE’S NO SAYING WHEN IT STARTED. suran herself couldn’t be too sure as to when the relationship (or lack thereof) between her and kim jongin turned out to be like this. for one, she first met him similar to a situation like this, when the lawyer he interned under introduced the two and promptly ordered the boy to run errands. but nevertheless had not had a chance to speak much to the other till later on—and as suran would later find out, kim jongin is an absolute asshole in each and every sense.

why should she then, be held responsible in being civil and polite? 

what was the point in that?

“i did greet and thank you, i’m sure you just didn’t hear me over the horn.” she didn’t. but to be fair suran would’ve, had jongin not gone the extra mile into making an enemy out of her for yet another day. still, she flashes the boy a million dollar smile and buckles herself in, biting down the slightest shiver at the passing chill. jesus. 

“when are you going to get the heat in this thing fixed? winter’s coming you know, it won’t even run then.” she speaks with a mouth full of complaints and a tiny frown, armed and ready at the drop of a pin. not that jongin would have cared, just as he didn’t exactly pose his question expecting an actual answer.

and in that moment, suran wasn’t sure of what she should comment (read: complain) on then, his cheap manners or how similar he looked to a fucking gator with that big mouth of his.

“trashy pop? yah—” her eyes narrow, lower lip jutting out in annoyance. “you don’t need to concern yourself with what i listen to, it’s not like i’ll be in this car often anyway.” suran offers a small affronted noise, only half listening to the explanation of the track as she procures her vape pen, pressing it to her bottom lip. “you mind?” he probably does. but she had only asked to be annoying, deliberately disregarding whatever answer he may or may not give as she bites down on the mouthpiece, presses the button and inhales deep.

exhales slow.

“can’t say i’m not surprised a general’s son decided to be a law intern though.” suran comments absently, twisting her body his way as one leg crosses over another, smoke slipping through smiling lips. “but you don’t look much like one anyway—a general’s son i mean.”

another shiver. she almost wants to swear.

“it’d be sending the wrong signals if i drop by unannounced with no underwear on—which, by the way, your mentor stole from me—so no, i don’t have any other dick to please tonight.” she hardly bothers to suppress the eye roll. 

“besides, i already have my hands full right now dealing with you and your shitty no heater car.”

by that, she did mean, yes, he was a dick.

[hwngtae-deactivated20180916]

pink matter ;; @hpjsuran​

he’s scratching at a yellowing love bite left behind by a lover not-lover hidden underneath his zipped-up jacket. it’s hot, but embarrassment is much worse so he endures. in a few days, this love bite will fade and be replaced by another if he picks up his phone or opens up his door. he’s still not sure why he bothers, to be honest, knowing that he is torturing himself into falling to a cycle like his parents.

( she leaves. he waits. she comes back. rinse and repeat. )

stupid, stupid, stupid… seokbeom is still a hopeless romantic at heart no matter how much evidence that love is a waste of time and energy is thrown at his face, not when he had love in the palm of his hands in high school before throwing it away.

well, there’s a lot of things from high school that he can’t seem to shake off.

myo suran has always been a very pretty girl–a pretty girl who wraps men around her fingers and her legs. he has always been a bit, err, envious over how easy guys flock towards her since high school. he was happily in a relationship at the time, mind you. it’s just that she has a natural charm about her he can’t understand, which is partially why he can’t get that upset that they don’t have anything for their group assignment.

“we’re going to fail so bad,” he sighs as he scrawls on a piece of information off the textbook that looks useful. “not everybody can make a career picking up sugar daddies, suran-ah. i thought you’re my friend.” 

[hpjsuranbaby-blog]

HIGH SCHOOL IS BUILT ON FRAILTIES SHE’D SOONER LIKE TO FORGET. suran would sooner like to forget the foundations of friendships forged, of bonding that came out of aching hearts lacked in comfort, in kindred spirits with troubles neither would like to speak about. 

to be clear, she’d like to forget that all of that and herself then too. 

but there’s little success when high school is everywhere she turns (and her demons follow, reminding her of just how fragile, just how small she used to be). she meets kwon jihoon in the bar. she attends the same university as park seokbeom. and just today, she so happens to end up in the same group as him.

seoul might have been a little ways from hapjeong, but suran hasn’t felt like anything has changed since she came.

still, if it was seokbeom—cute, trustworthy seokbeom who had never batted an eye or fluttered a beat in her general vicinity in their youth together—it was still a considerable trade up in comparison to having to deal with jihoon again. at the very least, this man doesn’t look upon her with a sort of sad ire that has her mortal heart heavy, laden with guilt. 

“we’re not going to fail.” she ceases her act of browsing social media to give him a look, head shaking slightly. “we’ll get it done in time! seokbeom-ah, come on, when have i ever failed in class?” the answer was never. but that was also because young suran’s band of white knights included one or two honor students always eager to please. 

“besides,” suran leans forward slightly, as if letting the other in on a secret. “i think you’d do fine in a career of picking up sugar moms, beommie.” she grins, easily reverting to old habits of teasing. “you’re quite cute, you know.”

[fttaewoo-blog]

THE CURE

@hpjsuran 

Her friend and his friend? Making out. Not even the ample bass could cut through the annoyance deepening in his heart. Tonight was supposed to be about getting blasted in the back and people watching while trying to surpass the thought of all responsibilities and the inevitable need to confront someone he’d rather forget about (even though he can’t; that’s what the alcohol is for). Moon couldn’t tell if the ditched girl sitting near him was equally as annoyed, if her face was just a mash of “I want to fucking die” and “actually, I’m twelve”, or if the blue and purple shadows from the distant strobe light just made her seem that way. The empty glass of whatever sitting in front of her and her crossed arms were possibly an answer, or at least a hint.

He leaned down to speak into her ear in hope she’d actually hear – “This fucking blows” – pulled back, hesitated – “Want another drink?” 

The back of his throat didn’t sting enough for this fucking techno music – he was about to get up for himself, anyway, might as well kill two birds with one stone. If he was going to be annoyed and ignored, he might as well be drunk (and maybe make a new friend in the process). 

[hpjsuranbaby-blog]

LET’S PUT IT THIS WAY: GIRLS LIKE HER DON’T GET IGNORED. it is the advantage of beauty, of the power behind the disarming smile in which suran possesses and utilizes like she’s had it for a few lifetimes, used it to lead countries to ruin. as one would expect, she wasn’t a girl that would likely be ditched or shunned — especially in a club setting. but what can she say in the face of such a turnout? when every guy that has since approached been too awful to stomach or clothed in tattered garments only a delivery boy could afford? 

and let’s not start on her so-called “friend”.

ultimately, this leaves her here, arms and legs crossed in irritation as she watches on with a small frown. even the music is bad. 

but god is merciful in that the deep timbre that rumbles in her ear with a proposition belonged to perhaps the most attractive one in there, saving her at the very least by what might’ve turned out to be quite the dry night.

“mm?” suran flicks her eyes over with a small hum, glossed lips curved into a friendly grin as she reaches out, fingertips brushing over the palm of his hand to slide around his wrist and up, gripping onto the male slightly to pull herself upright. 

“sure. moon oppa, right? lead the way.”

[hpjsuranbaby-blog]

( OBEDEAR  )

[hpjsuranbaby-blog]

jihoonhpj:

for it would be an understatement to say jihoon looks past the (often successful, as unfortunate as it sounds) people that try to cling onto others, smiles and playing a pretense they don’t see the ring of trust that rests on the other’s finger. he looks past those situations because, in his words, ‘not my problem, doesn’t involve me.’  but maybe this time, the first time he makes a move to stop something that he secretly abhors on the inside, it leaves him with a sort of glad feeling that he’s done something right.

it takes all his willpower to not roll his eyes to the ends of seoul and back, lips curled down in a show of clear disapproval when he sees his manager’s face whiten at the mention of his wife. good, you poor bastard, he thinks. you deserve the shame that comes hand in hand with what you just almost fuckin’ did. the words are left unsaid though, and he just nods, pretending like there is a phone call in the first place.

( what? of course there isn’t a phone call. why would his wife call him?— she does believe he’s being faithful at work. )

a hand drives itself to the pocket of his jeans, glancing at his boss as he passes him with a satisfied glance. now all that’s left is the girl, with her coy pretty smile and big eyes that he can finally see now. the features are all too familiar, bring all too lost memories that had been pushed away back to the front of his mind. there’s a lump in his throat, maybe, yet he swallows it down like his pride.

after all, it’s hard to not recognise her. there weren’t many people like myo suran in korea.

he inhales sharply, watches her face flush in surprise too and he knows it for certain. sees her frozen. but all jihoon can feel is pity, glancing over the girl that he had once known. and how pitiful, how — how sad the entire situation is. he glosses over the situation though, letting his surprised expression drop in one of impassivity.

fingers curl into a fist. 

“yeah, i know you damn well do, suran. what.. what the fuck are you doing?”

IT’S MADDENING, THE FIRST TRICKLE OF SHAME. suran is not a stranger to the feeling, carried it on thin shoulders, engraved on white bone, words burned into fair skin. shame is what comes with the moniker of bastard child, what trails behind a woman who willing stays in the dark for a man taken by another in the light—shame is what her mother claims she’ll do in the name of love and what suran does oppose it.

shame, a feeling she’s long learned to snap her jaws around whenever it fluttered in her chest.

to run into kwon jihoon, a boy she’s known another life—when myo suran’s biggest scandal was the sweet kisses she’d collect between the library shelves and kwon jihoon was her closest confidant—in a situation like this (caught, as if he hasn’t always joked about what she would be capable of post high school, as if she wasn’t a vixen placed on the earth to tempt men like her mother). 

the feeling of phantom past reaching in her throat and shaking up her insides would be one accurately described.

humilation, her ears burn with the gaze he regards her with, dripping with enough pity to make her skin crawl (heart pounding against her chest). 

mostly, it drives her mad. kwon jihoon is the last person with the right, the last person with any right in the world, to even look at her. had they not denounced their friendship on the last day of high school? had they not decisively decided they weren’t worth each other’s time? (they hadn’t. she made the decision. but he let her go.)

nevertheless she drops the fawn in headlights expression quick, flipping brown hair over her shoulder as she turns to fully face her old friend with a thin smile, delicate brow arched. 

“since when did anything i do or don’t do concern you?” her lower lip juts out absently. “your manager was kind enough to help me when i slipped and i’m kind enough to offer to buy him a drink in return.”

here, she manages a wider smile, all parts coy and taut.

“problem?”

[hpjsuranbaby-blog]

"He asked me if I wanted to blow his whistle and proceeded to pull out an actual whistle.”

“well did you?”

the two sat lax on the lush loveseat, legs sprawled on the coffee table in front of them as the hours of the day pass them by. not that it had been a particularly pressing day, seeing as suran had little to do (if you exclude the amount of homework she actually needed done) but shape her nails into more of an “almond” than oval. 

“i mean, an oral fixation is still a fixation—no doubt that’s what gets him off...” she spares a snort. it certainly wouldn’t have been the worst kink she’s encountered. “and if it makes him weak in the knees i don’t see why not...”

her lips quirk, nudging the girl’s side playfully.

“it certainly wouldn’t be the worst thing you put in your mouth, right?”

[hpjsuranbaby-blog]

( BODYACHE )

[hpjsuranbaby-blog]

hpjongin:

four in the morning is when jongin, eyelids heavy as a damn pile of bricks, blindly sweeps his nightstand to shut off that god-awful ringtone. it’s between blurry vision and numb fingertips that he reads the contact name, groans, and clears his throat in some attempt to rid of the inevitable hoarseness that would entail at such an ungodly hour. it takes all of the energy in his god damn body to sit up and answer hello? in a raspy four a.m. voice that surprises even him.

yes sir. the familiar beep of an ended call: his word is final.

god, couldn’t he have just called an uber for her or something? or maybe, the other four interns working alongside him? why me?!

still, he supposes that’s what interns at massive hotshot law firms are for. corporate law really isn’t for me, jongin thinks, but he’s still pulling on a sweatshirt before he knows it — before he’s even awake — and downing the rest of the day-old coffee in the fridge before grabbing his keys and shutting the door behind him.

it’s a quiet ride to the apartment, save for the intermittent word of direction from siri and his own soft, sleepy sighs. when he’s there, he peers in through the glass doors at a girl standing under warm, dim lights — the kind that only rich people can afford.

they catch each other’s eyes, but jongin chooses still to honk his car, if not only to remind her how much of a nuisance her very existence was. alas, chivalry is not dead! or, er, more like his hope of not getting his ass kicked by the guy whose dick she just sucked, is not dead. so he reaches over, opens up the car door for her.

“hurry up. going home? what’s your address?”

KIM JONGIN WAS AN ENTITY UNKNOWN. vaguely, the first impression is of one heard in passing, foreign syllables that’s tickled her ears in passing while she laid lax on eight hundred thread egyptian cotton. of course, then it wasn’t as if she had any particular interest in the interns (lackeys, really) that trailed behind her newfound love (and, she supposes, his intellect and reputation with the written law) like a pack of dogs—aimed to please, poised to tear all and each other apart at the drop of a hat.

but now the entity is the source of her aggravation on better days—the absolute bane of her existence on worst—and though suran can’t quite comment on whether or not her interest in the intern has increased over the sparse days of being around him (all of which ended or started with being picked up and/or dropped off in the heap of junk he likes to call a car), she did particularly like to make things difficult for him.

henceforth now, where she stands waiting at four in the morning and kim jongin sits suffering pulling up to the apartment complex.

(the sight brings the slightest bit of a mischievous grin to her lips, though one easily dissipated by the horn that has her jumping in her skin, startled. asshole.)

lips downturned, she makes her way to the car slowly, biting back shivers as the night chill greets her skin—entirely underdressed for the night weather. 

“where else would i go if not home, huh?” she huffs, locking gazes for a flicker of a second (eyes narrowed, it doesn’t take much to convey her displeasure with the turn of events) slamming the door perhaps a touch too hard. 

“downtown, if this hunk of junk can even go that far.” 

[mitsuki20s]

hey, howdy hi, local admin just putting out a new meme since it’s been a little over a week since our most recent one. Please remember that these don’t count towards activity at all. feel free to reblog it if you want to participate and have fun!

Keep reading

[hpjsuranbaby-blog]

( BODYACHE )

FOUR IN THE MORNING, OUR FAVORITE BASTARD HANGS BY A THREAD. that is, myo suran stands bare of undergarments in the lobby of hapjeong’s bigger service apartments, clutching a vape pen between lithe fingers (never to touch her lips, though her fingers twitches with ache, suran knows time and place well; a woman bore as a dirty little secret between sinners in “love”) and a smile aimed to weaken men in the knees.

you know, the one filled to the brim of self-assurance, confidence in spades in nearly every aspect.

which, given the evening’s turn of events, is one well deserved. 

(she would ask that you disregard the fact that she stands, naked underneath the floral one piece and still warm between the thighs, waiting for her ride at an ungodly hour of the night. she would ask that you ignore the connotations behind her nightly drop by with her new beau, that the aching warmth between her thighs matters little in the face of being ignored—if only for just a while—when she made the effort to come in the first place. 

she would ask that you disregard all of it, because at the end of the day—pettiness driving our favorite bastard into being a dick tease—she’s the one standing with the ghost of her lover’s tongue between her thighs and his new credit card tucked in her wallet while waiting for the ride he called for her.

she’s the one in control. hasn’t she always been? and her confidence is justified, if only for the fact that she has him eating out of her palm.)

now, if only that kim jongin would hurry up. 

@hpjongin

[hpjsuranbaby-blog]

also stole one of ur caterpillar falsies for my amazing drunk charlie chaplin impression hope that's ok

“no you asshole those cost more than that rat nest haircut of yours.”

[hpjsuranbaby-blog]

i farted on your pillow btw

“i’m actually not into that kind of kink play?”

[taehpj-blog]

- ̗̀  phone-napped   ̖́-

tae had friends ( he supposed ) at his school that he would speak to in the halls, or in the canteen from time to time, but there was this one person that he found himself closer too than anyone else. she hated him, or at least that what he thought by the way she would act around him – though it wouldn’t be the first time he annoyed someone. though, that didn’t stop him from finding himself going to her on a daily basis to talk. suran was a interesting individual, and it seemed like every thing he said or did offended her in some way. really, there was no pleasing this girl but he suppose that was just her character. who was tae to judge.

so, this one particular day when he decided to sneak up behind the female, he had taken a glance at the other’s phone for a brief second. a second was all it took for him to see what he didn’t like, or didn’t necessarily want to find out about the other. with his brows furrowed he continued to look over his shoulder, and even though they weren’t all too close to each other, tae was the type of person that was just over caring to people. you could say it was somewhat of a flaw since that would get him messed over in the near future not that he would care – that or he was just too oblivious to notice. so, before the other could scroll down more, tae reached over her shoulder and snatched her phone from her hand holding it up so she couldn’t reach.

“ suran, what the hell are you doing? ” he asked, he couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t upset at the fact that she was basically exposing herself to men that was old enough to be her grandpa because he was. 

“ why are you even doing this??? ”

( @hpjsuran )

[hpjsuranbaby-blog]

AT THE END OF THE DAY, IT IS A BUSINESS. a job if you will. though suran would hardly use the term—because to admit to the terms of what she does being a job brought up connotations she’s not quite ready to deal with. (what better way to keep her head above water than to stay on the run from her demons?) but it was, if anything, the easiest thing to do to for money.

men, after all, are simpleminded creatures.

but there is no reward without sacrifice, there is no money without the time spent primping herself, coating sugar onto her fangs and dipping a sharp tongue in devil’s honey till she was as sweet as she looked. (till her insides, raw and rotted, remains hidden under lock and key.) and suran has gotten significantly good at remodeling herself, at discarding the moniker bastard and taking one far more appealing.

(but packaging is packaging, rotten is rotten and a bastard child will always be a bastard—that she is aware of.)

and today stars our favorited bastard and a nosy other, one in the middle of seducing when another interjects, swiping the phone from her pretty manicured hands. “y—” suran starts, pivoting on her heel to face the boy, face hot at the accusation she pointedly ignores.

“what the hell?! give it back!”

she doesn’t wait for him to respond, already taking steps forward to grab at the phone.

“kim taehyung, i’m warning you!”