#jo`hyuk

[everchaste]

@splendidpolitics

                                   “ the traffic was  getting on my nerves  so                                       i  fucking  ditched  the  car  and  walked. ”                                                             ( for half an hour. in the pouring rain, that’s right. )

                    "You know where the towels are.                     Go and change or you'll get sick.”

[everchaste]

“ you need to leave now. ” ( jo )

@splendidpolitics

The shot glass tilted backwards as her head did, the amber gold liquid disappearing past nude-tinted lips. Jo was never one to drown anything with liquor but the fight she had with a colleague had sent her running to the nearest bar where she could be insensible for once and not take responsibility. 

She was tired of everything, which was quite an understatement. She was tired of having to explain how she came up with these brilliant pieces which she honestly could not take credit for. She was tired of having to hide her source because the very moment she exposed his identity will be the moment of his downfall, and she knew that if he burned, he’d bring her along.

So instead of bickering any longer, here she was, ordering shot after shot of that God-forsaken drink. She hated the taste of it, found it strange how people could be dependent to it, yet she downed them all all the same as if there was no tomorrow. 

Before long, her head felt heavier than it normally is, and her smile was shaky and lopsided. Even her words tumbled carelessly past her lips, slurred as if her tongue had been denervated and lost all ability to move and formulate coherent sentences. Fumbling for her purse, she pulled out a few notes, smoothed them out on the counter, and handed them to the bartender. Of course, she did have to bring them close to her nose to make sure that they were the right amount and not just one-dollar bills.

The upside to working at the Metro was that it made her wear sensible clothes: no pointy heels and short skirts that hike up her thighs with every movement. Instead, she wore these loose-fitting pants, a sorry-looking blouse, and a pair of sneakers; she was a reporter, not the weathergirl. She didn’t have to flash her breasts to the whole nation just to get a good rating – which reminded her…

It was obvious that she couldn’t drive in this state, but she did have a place in mind. So she flagged down a cab by the roadside, almost tripping over her undone shoelace as she climbed into the back seat of the vehicle. 

She reeked of alcohol. 

Pressing her face against the glass dividing her from the driver, she gave him the address of her destination, giggles bubbling beneath her breath. If he was disturbed by her drunken state, he didn’t let on. Maybe he had come across too many party girls at this time of night. When the car began to move, she leaned back in her seat, resting her cheek against her window. A hand lifted then, and she began tracing shapes onto the fogged up glass. Just how wasted can she be?

“We’re here,” came a low voice from the front, breaking her reverie. 

Shoving her hand into her back pocket, she pulled out a twenty and gave it to the driver. “Keep the change,” she managed to say as she open the door and stumbled onto the pavement.

Would he be happy to see her? Surely, he would. She was an attractive, young lady after all under all of this bad choice of clothing. 

As per usual, a man stood guard outside the door, eyes sharp, posture straight.

“Are you going to frisk me?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at him as she ascended the steps. “I know you want–” 

But he brushed her aside before she could even say more. Holding her at an arm’s length, he pressed the doorbell and waited for an answer. 

( She waited for it too. )

“Didn’t I specifically tell you not to–” The disgruntled voice that answered the door stopped mid-sentence when his eyes fell on the sight before him. “Oh, God.” He grabbed her jacket and pulled her inside before she could make a much bigger scene outside his residence.

“What did I say about coming here?” 

There was a hostility to his voice which Jo waved off casually with a flick of her wrist. Perhaps the alcohol buzzing in her veins had given her some sort of false invincibility, a stupid bravado that would actually bring her more harm than security.

“Shhhhhhhhh,” she responded with a finger to his lips. The warmth of his soft tiers against her digit made her smile, and prompted her to be much bolder. Whatever distance that had kept them separated in the first place had now been dissolved between them with her small frame pressed against his.

“Aren’t you happy to see me?” She grabbed his jaw roughly and peered into his eyes. His gaze was hard, unreadable as usual, though there a slight twitch of his lips that went unnoticed by the drunk reporter. This kind of dominant behaviour came as a surprise to both of them but the congressman didn’t so much as show it; he was always so good in concealing his true emotions. Jo often wondered how he does it. 

“Is the missus home?” she inquired and when she didn’t get a response, her eyes widened as an idea crept into mind. “Hello! It’s me again! I–”

A hard shove backed her up against the wall, a hand pressed over her mouth. Meeting her gaze was a piercing one– one that was filled with anger. 

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” A sharp intake of breath. Maybe he was about to hit her, so Jo braced herself for what was to come. But when he didn’t, she slid her hand down his chest, moving south until he grabbed it and held it away in a death grip.

“You need to leave now,” he muttered under his breath as he slowly released her. 

This wasn’t what she had expected.

“But I…”

“Next time,” and he silenced her with a crash of his lips against hers. Maybe this would do for now. Maybe it wouldn’t. Either way, it left a much bigger longing in her heart. She didn’t come all the way here for nothing. She had a purpose. She wanted something. She wanted him.

But before she could respond, he was already pushing her towards his guard through the open door.

“Get her a cab. Make sure she gets home.”

With those words, he shut the door, and shut her out. 

She didn’t even know when tears began to fill her eyes, only moments from falling down her cheeks. Hell, she never pegged herself as a crier when drunk. Hugging her jacket tighter around herself, the bitter taste of embarrassment started settling within the pits of her stomach. She felt like an idiot for coming here in the first place. She didn’t even resist when the guard helped her into the taxi and sent her off. All she wanted to do now was sleep and maybe erase the whole incident from her mind. 

[everchaste]

 @splendidpolitics 

                      “ for someone who used to commit six different fashion faux pas                          at once  on a daily basis,  you have certainly  come a long way. ”

there he is, standing in the doorway of her apartment, with his arms folded across his chest and his body leaned sideways against the metal frame, punctual as ever. given the teasing smirk which tugs on his lips, it is easy to recognize the playful attitude he is exhibiting, and that plenty of exaggeration is involved in his statement, because whereas she could fail to mix and match her clothes without too many bad combinations at times, thus prompting people to question her choices, those occasions did not happen as frequently as he claims.

“One more word and I won’t dress up for you again -- or dress down.”

She mirrors his playful expression, corners of her lips tugged heavenwards. Whatever they have going on between them is too complicated to be put down into plain words; they share both professional and intimate relationships. And though Jo admires him greatly, there is a darker, much sinister yet carefully hidden fear she holds for him -- he is one of the most powerful and influential men of the moment.

“Are we staying in as always?” 

There is a slight coyness to her tone, deliberate with just a nice amount of allure, as she stands up and smoothens the creases on her skirt, the fabric of her dress clinging tightly to her form. She never could read the congressman -- whether he’d want to be seen in public with her, what his next words would be, the list goes on -- and she doubts that she would ever learn how to. His mind is a masterpiece, an intricate clockwork that she isn’t equipped nor skilled enough to pull apart and piece back together into a much simpler form, but she wouldn't change it for anything else, anything less brilliant.