" killers "

now if we're talking body— you've got a perfect one, so put it on me. swear it won't take you long. if you love me right, we fuck for life— jung jaewon. 19. third year. cr.!!

[yfjaewon]

yfkrystal:

SUGAR, WE’RE GOING DOWN

jung jaewon smelt of mint and fruit, yet krystal finds it hard to shake off the stench of soju emitting off him. as always.

“what is it? you don’t come by at this hour unless you want something—and if you really want something, i believe your best chance at getting it is a few doors down.” 

admittedly, the icy tone that curbs her words, sharp and cool like she’s always been, is slightly tinged with a harshness that can’t be ignored. and had krystal been more herself, been less aggravated, she might have been able to reel it in a notch. 

but what was the point in hiding anything when it came to jaewon?

he’d know she was off just as well as how he’s always known that she was selfish. they were all fucking selfish.

that’s life, isn’t it?

there are no expectations. no midnight magic to save his soul; no matter how much he’s always thought of her as his saving grace.

jaewon’s never been religious, in any case—h y p o c r I s y stared him in the face for far too many years as a child. . .

an adulterous husband on tuesday and faithful father on ash wednesday; a devout mother and an angry, curled fist in the same sunday.

and while he has no taste for these rituals, he indulges in this simple act—coming to her door.

from time to time.

a little hungry for warmth and the sight of a familiar face among the oddities of sunhwa. ( and of course, he’s one of those strange things; lurking in the dark, intoxicated and jaded and fractured into a thousand tiny pieces. )

he’s a simple boy tonight, though.

a simple soul, possessed of simple desires. jaewon doesn’t give a second thought to her tone; lingering instead on the words that flow so easily from parted, pink lips. the third year watches her, catching the glimmer of a distant light in her eye; the furrow of her brow that betrays her ( and the faintest of shadows lining the undersides of her eyes ).

soft fingertips lift, almost as if to smooth away the expression before he thinks better of it and slips past her. jaewon s l i t h e r s inside, “i want to sit down.”

. . . and nevermind that he could do that in his own room—that he could do far better to rest his weary mind and body. it’s a thin excuse; translucent under even the slightest examination.

not that he cares.

“how long have you been studying?” because it’s never a matter of what jung soojung is doing, but rather how long she’s been ignoring the world to do it. his body turns as he steps inside; a smooth but loose movement that sends him swaying on his left foot and tipping into the edge of her bed.

things are in his favor when he finds himself actually sitting, he supposes.

“or maybe I should just ask how much you’ve got left?”

@yfkrystal

[chimingsky]

Visit Original Link

[yfxjun]

[txt - Jae￦] on my way [txt - Jae￦] some shit hppnd [txt - Jae￦] like actual shit. under my shoes. [txt - Jae￦] listen, there’s no party until I walk in

[yfjaewon]

[ ✉ → ㅋ ] are you sure because i found heaven [ ✉ → ㅋ ] there’s a table [ ✉ → ㅋ ] sweet looking girl and a six pack of soju come on hrry

@yfxjun

[jdgifs]

[yfjaewon]

since i was (cough) peer pressured into writing a starter, that was all i did before i collapsed in a bacteria ridden pile of flesh and bone last night it’s only now that i’m re-opening myself for plots ! ! ! and i’m here, so like this post and i’ll shoot you a message. i’m at school at present and will get to it when i get home :’D <3

[yfjaewon]

SUGAR, WE’RE GOING DOWN for @yfkrystal​

for the millionth time, jung jaewon finds himself lost.

. . . and what was the point, really? of trying to find his way back into the light?

the truth--ugly, bitter; so much so that it a s p h y x i a t e s--is that he enjoys living in the dark, leaping from shadow to shadow as the hours pass and the lips and fingers colliding with his face grow ever stranger; ever more unfamiliar.

he thrives on the pounding of his heart; half terrified and yet longing for each warm touch as if the next--even if it wasn’t this one, or that one--will finally reach beneath the surface and pull him up;

out of the depths to which he’s found himself, drowning in the bottom of a bottle.

but no hand grasps him; no kiss revives him.

and at the end of the night, even the most adrift soul must find a place to sleep. he stumbles, headlong into the warm, hazy lights of a campus gone dark for the night--headed for the certain heat of his room; his shower; his bed. the prospect of a lonely night stops him short, however, dripping wet in ill-fitting pajamas--

he’s clean but e m p t y; smelling of pear body wash and spearmint toothpaste.

there, he makes an abrupt turn for the door and starts the short journey to the next building over; unmindful of the hour, or what exactly he intends to do in his less-than-sober state.

instead of thinking it over, he takes care to find the right number and knocks--this time around--a gentle rapping of worn knuckles against the door, “soojung-ah, it’s me.”

. . . and he works his hardest not to slur her name, treating it with as much care as a careless boy like him can possibly muster.

she had always deserved at least that much.

[yfjaewon]

WE HAVE LOST OUR MINDS open ( to anyone with jaewon’s phone # )

[ ✉ →  ㅋ ] CHEERS ❤❤❤ [ ✉ →  ㅋ ] where are u [ ✉ →  ㅋ ] getting started without u 

[yfjaewon]

( ✰ DRINKS ON ME ) #2015

[pcejaebum-blog]

He didn’t know why he was awake either.

Something was keeping him up, to the extent of peeling his third orange of the night (courtesy of Taemin stealing them from the cafeteria) and binge watching Brooklyn 99. He let out the occasional laugh, gave a strange expression to the overly sour tang, and this went on for about two hours.

It’s deep into the night, of which he never stays awake for ( all for reasons too obvious ).

Keep reading

[yfjaewon]

a haze doesn’t begin to describe what he finds himself in when he wakes.

waking, itself, is a loose term that hardly applies to the passing moments in which he opens his eyes and finds himself faced with too-bright lights and wandering hands. ( not the kind he likes, either. ) stale liquor lingers on his tongue, alongside the pungent taste of bile. that’s where the familiarity lies, where his attention is drawn when those fleeting breaths of consciousness stretch on long enough for him to get a look around.

his eyes hurt.

red-rimmed, glassy; they wander the seafoam walls until his focus ( dull as it is ) lands on an open door. already, his pounding heart has him reaching for the iv taped neatly to the inside of his elbow, prepared to pull it out before he thinks too deeply on the sting of punctured skin.

the odd suction of his body begging for more sedation; more drugs in his system.

though the bag hanging over his bed reeks more of saline than anything else.

he hates hospitals. the only upside of visiting is the quiet--but this time, jaewon’s head is roaring. his thoughts drowned out by vague flashes and the heavy beating of his own heart. “hello?” the teen rasps out the word, fingers curling around plastic tubing and tugging; his other grips the bedsheets-

rough and unwelcoming, they grate on sensitive skin.

before he manages another call, his vision swims.

[minkwons]

Jaewon is so rude…

[yfjaewon]

A FAREWELL TO ARMS - - - @yfxjang​

heartbreak.

a feeling more familiar than that of air filling his lungs; than the feeling of grass between his toes or the smell of rainwater in the spring. it’s a dull ache; an old friend that visits nightly to remind him of how dearly he’s paid for his own shortcomings.

it’s never been anyone’s fault but his own.

jaewon revisits the alleyways that became home last year--carves perfectly shaped spaces for himself to reside in, until his heart stops collapsing in on itself. and of course, he has help--he has old vices to warm his blood; make him feel like something wanted. as if he hadn’t been left behind again.

damn her.

he didn’t need this.

soju. vodka. whisky and rum. the syllables tumble from glistened lips; slender fingers grip the bars. he has the taste of lip-gloss on his tongue and no idea where it came from--a taste of cherry to hide the bitterness; the burn of reddened shoulders rubbing the inside of his t-shirt, marred with drag marks;

artificial nails, artificial love.

jaewon makes his order and checks his phone again, already knee-deep in the warm, hazy tide of alcohol. his thoughts swim, clouded with a slow burn that drives away the anxiety. his stomach stopped sinking after the third sip, his heart slowed after the fifth--by the eleventh, the third year is comfortably numb.

able to smile. able to laugh.

after stringing a few clumsy texts together to one certain jung soojung ( old, reminiscing things that belie a longing for things long departed, more than anything ), he looks around again--hoping to catch sight of the statuesque figure that is his date for the night, “goddamn, jongsuk. where are you?”

pale fingers run the length of his jaw, fingernails catching on the first hint of stubble to appear at his cheek.

any longer and he’d have to find different company for the remainder of the night.

[yfjaewon]

( ✰ ONLY FOOLS )

[vsdionysus-blog]

why was he here? 

   “ because i like you. aren’t you totally touched? you can cry. i’ll find your tissues for you. ”

 his excuse pairs with a chuckle. he doesn’t have a real explanation in all honestly. it just happened to be one of those nights, one of those moments dictated by just becauses. wasn’t that the grandeur of the free spirit? 

   “ you weren’t dreaming of a nice set of of d cups right? should i use those tissues elsewhere to make up for it? ” 

jongsuk questions whilst jokingly looking down his own shirt as if to scope out how to fill it out.

[yfjaewon]

“you’ve got a little too much chest hair to be my type.”

he’s heard the words enough times; not necessarily aimed at him and his narrow frame—his compressed height—but the humor comes in hearing jongsuk slur in his impression, whine as if he’s some sixteen-year-old.

and he’d know what those sounded like.

“mmm, you can depend on me.”

though jaewon feels as if he’s the least dependable person in his equation; incapable of handling his own heart carefully—let alone jongsuk’s. he bites back the frown threatening to overtake him, however, and reaches out to clap the other male firmly on the back, “lay the fuck down.”

and he’s rough, yes; but his treatment comes with a degree of care for the drunken other. in murmured curses spoken as he buries his face in his pillow and releases a sigh heavier than the weight pressed sloppily against his sides, “I don’t need any tissues, jang—“ and a laugh filters out, dry and tired, “I’m touched, though. just keep your drink down and I’ll be extra grateful.”

he could use the company, if he’s not lying to himself.

dark eyes flick over as he shifts, moving to peer down the other male’s shirt as well; “you’re in luck. I don’t care about d cups. but you’ve got no ass, it’s so sad.” teasingly, he offers a smile and turns onto his side; facing away. slender fingers fiddle with the light he’d turned on at some point, flipping a small switch—

and engulfing the room in darkness.

“bedtime, jongsuk-ah.”

[extrasad]

“I love you” doesn’t mean a fucking thing if you spit it down the throat of every girl who makes you feel less dead

(via extrasad)

[asasiluminadas]

TOVE LO - HABITS (STAY HIGH)

[melodramatic-dad]

[yfjaewon]

( ✰ CLOSE ) #2015

[opheire-blog]

he’s a ticking time bomb, the countdown well into the negatives, a drop of blood in a pool of sharks. absolute power corrupts absolutely, and he’s all too willing to put himself at their mercy. they say that miracles are binary in nature: that he hasn’t come undone already, that in fighting monsters, he hasn’t become one himself. though it’s debatable, the way he’s looking at her now—like something meant to be eaten alive. 

he leverages between them the sheerest space, and surely it’s meant to be a reminder; who’s bigger, who’s stronger, who could press the issue if he so desired. she doesn’t fight him when he takes the book from her, mindful of when to choose her battles. her hold loosens, impassive to the deliberate sweep of his fingers, light against the fabric of her skirt. the tension in her spine, the pace of her pulse, these are all tells that have nothing to show.

he doesn’t step back, but that comes as no surprise. he’s done running, and he thinks she’s easier prey.

   —you can leave instead, right?

she scoffs, eyes sliding dismissively to the left before settling upon him again. this close, his mouth falls directly in her line of sight. the rupture there must come from the end of a fist, but it’s as easy to imagine other causes. a bite, for example. teeth and a different set of intentions. she lingers long enough to be noticed, one for one, his little stunt impossible to leave unanswered.

“why should i? you’re the one who came storming in here.” she inclines her head, mock innocence, hands setting his collar back into place. her voice is soft enough to be mistaken as gentle, but she has nothing soft to give him that hasn’t gone to flame, palms stained from sweeping the ashes. 

 “you’re in a library, and if i scream, who are they going to believe?”

[yfjaewon]

her intentions are crystal clear. or at the very least, that’s what jaewon tells himself when he catches her—a loose term, because he’s certain it’s only because she wants him to—with dark eyes fixed on his lips. purposeful. every single move she makes seems to be calculated, while he remains a victim of his own whims.

already, he’s contemplating what it means—what would happen if he were to take her up on her bold offer.

“because i have no interest in being fair.” he hisses in answer, tensed beneath the soft touch of her fingers. his collar folds, his back straightens; weight shifting to tighten his physical control over her,

even as she chips away at his control over himself.

their proximity fails to help him. the warmth of a body pressed against his own is certainly more tempting than finding some poor soul to sink his fist into. it’s only then that his fingers unfurl, having set the reclaimed book back upon its shelf. his tongue, eager, presses to the inside of his cheek; trapped between pearly white teeth just as he traps her. a hand moves to cradle the edge of the bookcase at her back, on either side of her hips.

she is easy prey—if only because she’s also willing.

“i think it depends.” her idle tone is matched, mimicked with effort—because it takes so much; too much to sound as if he’s sane. thoroughly finished with simply watching her, jaewon settles heavy hands on her. a promise of dark things hides in his words, hinted at with the slide of his leg between hers. his knee flirts with the hem of her skirt, his fingers play with her shirt, teasing buttons half-undone, “there’s a few different ways I could make you scream.”

and just like that, his intentions have changed; aligned so seamlessly with hers that he isn’t sure when it happened.

not that he has any problems with it.

“do you want to try me, aegi?”

[onejaewon]

Team AOMG, this is what a winning team looks like

[yfjaewon]

( ✰ BARFLIES )

@yfxtaehyun

"what the fuck did you just say?”  — “you heard me. why? wanna fight me, kid?”

truthfully, he doesn’t care.

the exchange remains on the outskirts of his already dwindling focus, as a distant echo of familiar voices. jaewon stares dismally into the bottom of his bottle until there’s nothing there; no glimmering liquid to assuage his pain—his worries.

what he does get for his troubles, however, is a body shoved into the table he sits at; knocking over a perfectly good, untouched bottle of soju. it shatters when it collides with the polished floors, and all of his peace shatters with it. a bubble popped, a mosquito suddenly buzzing in his ear.

nuisances.

cheong ryong hadn’t gotten any worse, but it sure as hell hadn’t gotten better. in the dim, warm light, he steps around his table and into the mess of rowdy seniors aching for a fight. ( and he sympathizes, perhaps. deep down where his reservoir of rage ripples beneath the surface. ) before he takes two steps, the first punch whizzes past his ear; a body stumbling to the floor—

bitching about a bloody nose.

his voice raises above the rest, firm hands already grabbing for tensed biceps and dragging, “get it together; you want to be tossed out on your ass?”

out of the bar. out of cheong ryong. out of sunhwa.

it hardly matters.