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hi sexys it is i, gemma ( s/h, 21+ ), bringing u the fuckboy ur mother warned u ab, park jaehyun!! he’s a fallen national soccer player who escaped to maehwa after a match fixing scandal ( all true teehee ) bc he’s sick of the bad press n dirty looks from ppl in seoul 😘 as always, u can find more info of him under the cut ( j a caution that it is the length of an essay or ten.. .. . . ) but pls LIKE this post to plot! im also available on d*scord so lmk if u want it!!

( s/n: im also the mun for rue @blvelagoon ( intro inc ) so if u wanna plot w her pls lmk!! )

#† 𝚟 𝚘 𝚕 𝚒 𝚝 𝚒 𝚘 𝚗 . ┊ out of character.#awhqsintro

tbd: sry 2 everyone waiting on a dm / reply from me! i am 100% not ignoring you i promise,, i plan on getting to it by the end of this week!! work is just insane rn and it's not really gna let up until 10/6 😔

#† 𝚟 𝚘 𝚕 𝚒 𝚝 𝚒 𝚘 𝚗 . ┊ out of character.

@kickflipped

there’s this story about a man who wrestles with god.

it’s a lifetime ago when he last hears of it, but he imagines the sheer brutality of it all—the growls, the fists, and the blood, all in the middle of a fucking sandstorm. at some point, he imagines the man will start nursing his dominant side—be it throbbing hip or throbbing knee—starts to scream from the sweat that feels like a sizzle as it drips into some open wound, dirt and coarse sand to follow— yet for all that fucking hoo-ha, it’s a pity he can’t seem to remember how that story ends.

it’s odd, really, especially for a man like him—that is, a man so hellbent on winning all the fucking time—to forget something as decisive as who wins and who loses. some will say it’s the body’s means of protecting itself, like how some memories are forcibly removed because the person can hardly cope when it’s fucking there all the time.

and what he means is this: the last time jaehyun scrubs a floor is when he’s eighteen and grandmother’s tasked him with cleaning the bathroom. he’s working with a slab of cement, and it’s the kinds of gritty that has him subconsciously walking on the balls of his feet. nine years later and he’s back here, scrubbing this cockroach of a stain in some piss-off mansion, and he feels like that man. bruised and battered from being sucker punched by the divine, and the end of that story starts feeling a lot like a death sentence. so he furiously scrubs, does the up-down, wiping motion at two-times speed until his hands are cracked and raw, because he’s convinced himself that the brawl doesn’t end as long as he doesn’t concede.

( it’s fucking pathetic, really. )

a shadow by the doorway pulls his attention, and realising that it’s kit signals the end of the round. so he takes a final glance at the stain, notices its outline beneath the white lather of soap, and he’s been let down enough to know that it’ll look exactly like it did underneath all the froth. the revelation has him sitting dejectedly by the floor, back against the wall as he reaches for the remainder of his six pack. and it’s wordless, the way he slides a bottle half-heartedly towards his visitor, grabs another bottle for himself and pops the cap open with his teeth.

“come to gloat?” the question falls gruffly, half-finished before he takes a gulp of his now-lukewarm beer.

#† 𝚍 𝚒 𝚌 𝚝 𝚞 𝚖 . ┊ writing.#w. kit leung 001.#kickflipped