#hpjongin

FOUR IN THE MORNING, OUR FAVORITE BASTARD HANGS BY A THREAD. that is, myo suran stands bare of undergarments in the lobby of hapjeong’s bigger service apartments, clutching a vape pen between lithe fingers (never to touch her lips, though her fingers twitches with ache, suran knows time and place well; a woman bore as a dirty little secret between sinners in “love”) and a smile aimed to weaken men in the knees.

you know, the one filled to the brim of self-assurance, confidence in spades in nearly every aspect.

which, given the evening’s turn of events, is one well deserved. 

(she would ask that you disregard the fact that she stands, naked underneath the floral one piece and still warm between the thighs, waiting for her ride at an ungodly hour of the night. she would ask that you ignore the connotations behind her nightly drop by with her new beau, that the aching warmth between her thighs matters little in the face of being ignored—if only for just a while—when she made the effort to come in the first place. 

she would ask that you disregard all of it, because at the end of the day—pettiness driving our favorite bastard into being a dick tease—she’s the one standing with the ghost of her lover’s tongue between her thighs and his new credit card tucked in her wallet while waiting for the ride he called for her.

she’s the one in control. hasn’t she always been? and her confidence is justified, if only for the fact that she has him eating out of her palm.)

now, if only that kim jongin would hurry up. 

@hpjongin​ ,

➝ the midday summer sun beat on and the boys wandered, staying safe under the shade of the tree-lined street. an inordinate amount of independent art galleries littered the area and sehun squinted at every artist’s name as they passed an exhibition. although sehun made art himself, the whole art world as an institution and industry and history confused the hell out of him. he told jongin he was interested in coming to this area, but he suddenly regretted it when he realized he knew jackshit about how to talk about art.

they entered one gallery and sehun took a cursory glance around the main space. it seemed to be a mixed collection of artists. the art was nice, he guessed. nothing really stood out to him yet. at the tinkling of the bell above the door, the receptionist glanced up at them and smiled as an acknowledgement before returning to her computer. sehun smiled back awkwardly before approaching a random painting near the back. mostly it just looked like a bunch of squares* to him, and he wondered if he was missed something. he stared at it dumbly for a while, before saying, “look, jongin. i could’ve painted this.”

four explanations on the tip of her tongue — poor excuses, all of them — but instead she says: "let's drink!" and doesn't wait for his response. because she doesn't need one, really; not when he's so suited to bending for her, just like she does for him. which is they're both here now, wine-hazy and side-by-side, her head on his shoulder because it's too heavy for her hands. she blinks slow, knocks the rim of her glass on her teeth, and drinks it clean.

"i shouldn't be here, i know." it's a sombre fact, but she's grinning anyway. one of those grins that aren't grins — the ones he's familiar with, because he's kissed them so often. "but the ahjumma that runs that food stall by your place asked me today why we hadn't been there together in a while. i should've told her we weren't together anymore, but instead i told her we'd be there on friday. i couldn't disappoint her like that, you know?" as if she doesn't carry disappointment in her blood; as if she hasn’t left him hungry one too many times.

"but i can leave. if you want me to."

she shifts; tilts her head and looks at him with glass eyes, misty little smile. "should i, jongin?"