#jongwoo.

@ohcruel gets a jongwoo!

" ..quit staring at me. " you're sitting at the table in the kitchen, diverting your gaze away from him even if it sends a horrid tingle down your spine. your fork swirls around the bowl, stirring the ramen mindlessly, just to act busier than you actually are. " freak. "

@ohcruel gets a jongwoo!

" 'yoon, " you're in his room, shaking him side-to-side as gently as you can (which isn't that gentle but, well, you tried). " yah, wake up. " you're two seconds away from laying on him 'til he wakes up..

" ha, ha.. so funny.. " dry words forced out of blood splattered mouth, feeling the soft washcloth scrub against your skin to get the grimy crimson off your face. you liked violence - in a way, that is. you liked the feeling of your fist against someone's face, you liked to hear them beg or plead or apologize, you liked to put people in their place.. but you did not like the blood that came with it, not when it sprays 'pon your face and clothes in the worst, most revolting manner.

writing violence was almost better in an odd way. you were able to carefully depict a scene that allows you to be as weird as you want within the walls of your room, writing about a murder in vivid, graphic details that most people couldn't stomach at all. that was a breeze! this? well.. it's fine, it just makes your stomach churn and your desire to be sick to skyrocket. " ..thank you. " whispered, so soft that it falls silently against the floor, the letters crash without a single sound. you don't elaborate on what you're thankful for, you're certain she can tell.

there's a bruise blooming underneath your eye, the swelling of skin causes you to hiss from the sensitiveness and stinging pain that lingers as she swipes the cloth 'cross it. you don't say anything, just sighing as you deal with it. you've dealt with worse. what was all that military training for (other than the ptsd it gave you) if you can't handle a little bruise? @bloodstrings

you look at the body. you really don't want to, it's just.. that your eyes are drawn to it. it's vile, the way the blood pools beneath them and the insides are exposed for you to see, the imagery of spewed guts and viscera will forever be etched within your mind. it's something that you'll pluck out of your stack of memories once it's late at night, using the sight for your book as you describe the scene in heavy details, from how the cement looked underneath it to how the moonlight spilled over like a shrine.

in the present, though, it just makes you sick to your stomach. nausea rises dangerously high before you roughly swallow and divert your attention to the person standing near it, reaching out with trembling fingers to grasp the cigarette offered to you. you bring it to lips and inhale as if you'll die without it, the smoke somehow settling your stomach a bit, enough to speak without expelling anything at least. what a miracle that is.

" thanks.. " it's almost embarrassing that, as a horror and crime writer (and a murderer yourself), you're so affected by this but it's likely because all of your assaults or harm towards others happen in a fit of rage. clouded mind and eyes distorting everything enough so that shame doesn't flood mind 'til afterwards, when you look down to see your palms bloody and raw. you wonder how he can stand so casually next to the dead body.. it reminds you of moonjo and kihyuk. the thought makes a shiver go down your spine.

" what are you planning to do with.. that. " back in the goshiwon, a certain someone would simply call the twins and have them clean the mess. do they have that capability? to just call someone up to deal with it for them? @chokeshold

the gore is revolting, it covers you like a second skin, both grossing you out and turning you on in a unsettling manner that has you questioning things again about yourself (that you'll simply end up denying). your face pulls into a grimace at his words, unamused by him right now; you don't really want to hear him talk so sweetly when all you can feel is the blood glide down your back and chest. you shove him away from you as you head towards the sink, swallow cleaning yourself to get the gunk off your arms.

" you're just saying that so i don't kill you for getting blood all over me. " irritated tone smothers words, side-glaring at the other as you scoff. the water below turns a pinkish red. you wonder for a moment if it'll stain the ceramic or not.. only to realize that you don't really care if it does. your frustration soon worsens as the majority of the blood refuses to come off from just water, meaning that you'd need to actually scrub it off properly. what a fucking lovely way to spend the few hours remaining of the evening.

you give up quickly, shutting off the water and turning towards him, looking up with a mean glare. " i want a hot shower. now. " and you clearly wanted him to be the one to set it up. you say it like a demand, as if the control of the situation lies within your hands. " not one with you either. alone. " of course, he's not covered in blood. not the way you are, no. the thought of it makes you grind your teeth together, clenching your jaw before taking a deep breath and rolling your eyes at him. @adflorum

it stains your hands. it's almost as if the red seeps into your skin, becoming a permanent part of you that won't be washed away with soap and water but instead remain stubbornly despite it all. you both adore it and despise it, a violent clashing of emotions as you shake and tremble in her presence, trying to hide bloody palms behind back like her eyes haven't seen it already. " ..it's.. "

something dislodges within your chest, within your soul, within your body. are you any better than the others that occupy the goshiwon? are you truly as different as you paint yourself to be? your breath shutters from lungs and makes you feel hollow, empty - you want to turn around and run away from the judgement she'll surely display towards you.

the one semi-good thing you've had in your life.. jeopardized by your own stupidity and carelessness. you stand there, encompassed by your shame and regret; bloody from the near-death fight you engaged in for what? for fun? to prove a point? because you're unable to control your temper anymore? excuses.. that's what it all feels like.. your gaze settles somewhere else, the lingering pain of your busted knuckles makes you hiss beneath your breath.

" i just.. got mad.. " as you tend to be as of late. always angry, always. you almost want to cry. your lips instead fall into a pout of sorts, disgusted with yourself. you let her see this.. she should've never seen your hands covered in the gore of others or the disarray of your attire, you wanted one person in your life to look at you like you were normal and instead you're forced to watch that be shattered in front of you. " it's, uh, my own blood. " @absentpublic

open: jongwoo.

there's something festering underneath your skin, it feels disgusting. like anger carried around too long, all burning hot and rotting, like liquid metal scolding flesh. you're mad, you know this. you're mad because no one is listening to you, no one is taking you seriously. how much more do you have to endure before someone finally looks at you and thinks, 'yeah, that guy might be telling the truth!'.. it's like the world wants you to go crazy.

you don't mean to run into them and you definitely don't mean for their phone to go sliding 'cross pavement. you wince at the sight and mentally start calculating just how much it'd cost you to offer to fix it.. you can barely afford the shitty goshiwon you're in right now! the anger flares up again and sets itself on fire within your chest, the smoke filling your cavity and the ash tainting tongue. you bow at a 90 degree angle in hopes they don't get too mad. " sorry.. i, uh, didn't.. i didn't see you coming.. " a sincere apology.. on the surface, at least. if the person missteps, you might end up snapping, taut like a pulled rubber band.