everything goes.
it is sick. the latest dilemma gunwoo finds himself in. he isn’t a bad person. doesn’t consider himself the type to dance the lines between good and evil. in fact, gunwoo prefers to remain perfectly neutral. neither good or bad. righteous or evil. yet. yet. yet. he was here. bare from the neck down, nestled in a pastel duvet that neither belonged to him or his longtime girlfriend’s.
yet, and this is far more important, the woman in his arms is not noh hyejin. not his girlfriend of five years.
in fact (and this gunwoo notes with the most uncomfortable twist in his gut), a quick glance over the prominent features peeking out from waves of black tresses revealed who it was exactly. worse than a stranger. worse than his worst enemy.
“minseo—” he cringes, shifting with the protest of his sore muscles and pounding in his head. “wake up—fuck.” his arms retreat from around her, hesitating before grasping a thin shoulder, shaking lightly. “minseo.”
he is sick. that’s all there is to it. noh gunwoo, who lived life a neutral party. noh gunwoo, who pushed for a break at the first sign of instability. noh gunwoo, who valued his solitude, his privacy. noh gunwoo, slave to his inhibitions. more sinner than saint.
sick.
his eyes hover over the bare of skin, noting each and every mark lining up her neck. this is sick.
— for @ripervin
