RIGHT MY WRONGS

dean kwon / 8teen / slytherin

[slytherdean]

( text → ky ) bro ( text → ky ) bro ( text → ky ) what’re you up to man ( text → ky ) this dinner party sucks ass

[clubeskimo]

[najaaozixxjsiaaiaiia]

Visit Original Link

[dazzlingkai]

130 Mood: TRBL

[anotherrpmemeblog]

My muse has just taken a Truth Potion, send “Spill it” plus a question and they will answer.

My muse cannot give half truths, partial truths or bend the truth. They will have to spit out everything then and there!

[fuckyeahvvd]

Visit Original Link

[slytherdean]

*holds out mic* Excuse me, how does it feel to know that Dean went to MAMA 2016 dressed as PPAP man?

[dotmob]

Visit Original Link

[slytherdean]

RETRACE YOUR STEPS

surely this isn’t a coincidence.

memory is rewound, replayed but never in a set order, never quite colored in sepia tones, never really fuzzed out by the touches of nostalgia. it returns to him in pieces.

piece one: the breakfast table had brought a recount of recent conversation with his mother (“busan?” “busan.” “busan?” “baby, it’s been years, come on.” “and there’s a reason why it’s been years, mom.”), neatly scrawled in delicate calligraphy: “three against one, kwon hyuk. busan for christmas break, and that’s that.” dean looks far from amused at this arrangement.

piece two: “you want one?” chin resting in palm, he turns slightly. “what?” the lecture up front is rendered into a single monotonous drone—in one ear and out the other.

“bertie botts—”

his eyes are back on the board. “no.”

“there’s no earwax flavored ones i pr—”

“no.”

piece three comes in a present tense dilemma: the very last set of classes come to a close and the halls burst into life in an instant, filling up the space with students hurrying their way out and about to things that are seemingly better than being stuck inside a common classroom. conversation is aplenty as they all move in packs, in a multitude of directions. dean and a few others have already settled into an already crowded corridor, backs against the windows. vague snippets of dialogue are all that he hears, one flies by mid-sentence:

“—yeah dean, you’re fucked—”

(right then and there, from the group of fifth years walking right past them: “hey, kim sejeong—”) 

he pauses, caught open-mouthed, like he’s been struck by lightning. words are lost to him. no. this is the most surprised he’s visibly looked in his entire life. wait a minute—glances up just to make sure and we’re back, in full circle:   

surely this isn’t a coincidence because seriously,

there’s no fucking way that it’s her.

[slytherdean]

ONE TOO MANY

( * morning sun filters through in blinding rays but he’s still seeing shadow, the murky black that comes with a kind of slumber that feels more like crushing dead weight than beauty sleep ) ( * his eyes are slow to open at first, resisting against the deafening ache that pounds against his temple bones, but when it grows to something quite unbearable, they’re pried open at once ) ( * lo and behold, the aftermath of last night: body slack against the hard floor, the entirety of the common room, scarlet and gold, in complete disarray—wait a minute, scarlet and go—? ) ( * immediately dean shuts his eyes, presses down the wave of nausea that begins to rise; made aware of the sour taste of whiskey breath in the process, completely unaware of the clock that reads only ten minutes until care of magical creatures is in session. ) ( * too much. it’s all too much. he groans. ) fuck. 

[im-in-trbl]