B O Y T O Y

hullo, hullo! i’m autumn ( s/h, 21+ ) & this is park beomseok, a 26 y/o orphan turned swindler / sugar baby! he’s heavily based on finnick odair in thg’s catching fire. i’ve got his about and background here if you’d like to give it a read, but i’ve also summarised most of it under the cut! please give this post a like if you’d like to plot ♡ thanks guys!

…so he’ll admit, he lost his cool a little there.

it falls off his person like the kinds of spare change to slither past the broken seam of his trousers pocket, makes a little cling noise when it hits the floor and lands in the most precise angle so it rolls like a wheel towards the staircase, hops down each step to defy the laws of physics and even then, rolls further along and away from him. maybe they’ll say he chased, but he’ll tell you now that he barely realised he lost it, only that he happened to be running in the direction it ran off to. but the point to all of this is that beomseok… well, he doesn’t quite know if he’s picked it up yet.

that’s the thing about whiplash. the thing that really gets you is the aftershock. that moment that drags on from quarter-a-second to ten full minutes, where you still feel the hurt and the fear and the hopelessness of it all like a phantom touch, too apparent to shake off and pretend like it was nothing. that moment when you sit, just before you realise you’re breathing.

he’s here.

fuck this.

clearly he’s been playing a little too nice, readily latched the chafing handcuffs over his wrists and played by the academy’s great rules, no matter how nettlesome and nonsensical he may find them to be. even went against all his beliefs and values because they promised that it would all make sense by the end of it. that their way would be better.

and where has their way led them to now?

ah, yes, not to be fucking obvious, but the answer is a fucking tornado the size of a million fucking dicks charging at them.

fuck it all.

yes, forgive him if he’s a non-believer, has lost faith in this whole trust the process sitch, but here’s the thing: park beomseok has never been any good at following rules, so isn’t it odd? that things always work out for him. yet the one time he plays nice, he’s caught like a sitting duck on death row. yes, he sees the situation is quite clearly. the only thing all this restraint has taught him is regret.

so forgive him, really, but he’s done playing by the rules. scoffs at the vice-chancellor’s shaky directive to retreat to the bunker. no, unlike these idiots, he’s got a brother to save. he grabs jihyun’s hand to get her attention, and through the chaos of the fear and the noise and the fucking tornado, he bellows into her ear, “i’m leaving!”

it’s giving day! pity park beomseok doesn’t have a lot to give.

…nope. he’s most definitely a taker, yet people still mistake the way his palms curl into fists as petty violence. tsk. violence, with this pretty face? they’ll certainly have to try better that that.

but it’s giving day, and though beomseok most definitely takes, he’s all for playing along with the spirit of festivities, and he boasts an act like no other. so ho ho ho, giftbag in tow, he sleds his way up the driveway of his residence in the east.

“come one, come all!” the merry call booms, threatens to set off a mini avalanche from the snow caught in the rain gutter of his roof. his prance is a hop, skip, and a jump, and suppose it’s this posture he adopts that gets him looking naturally up, because he swears he catches a smear of blue in the left corner of his very obviously white rooftop, courtesy of the snow. beomseok slows in his prance, angles his head further to the left for a better view, but it’s gone. huh. perhaps it’s all those unchecked concussions he’s received from his training in the academy.

“hyung!” the greeting pulls him from his daze, sets ease to the furrow in his brow, and he grins. spreads his arms as he awaits the brotherly embrace. “thanks for keeping my driveway clean, you dog,” the sarcastic comment falls like a whisper in kitae’s ear, and there’s a certain redness powdering his cheeks, but for the sake of kitae’s dignity, he’ll pretend it’s from the cold. as he pulls away from the hug, he catches it again, that smear of blue this time on the right corner of his rooftop, and it coaxes the chuckle to fall like a sigh. looks like everyone’s lining up to give to the great park kitae, aren’t they?

( beomseok, of course, comes first. see, it’s fairer this way, giving tree, for nothing your hunk of wood can provide is going to be greater than anything beomseok’s given to kitae. no, giving tree, you wait. )

“your gift, from me,” and this gift comes wrapped with a pretty red bow. never mind that it’s stolen—for what it’s worth, beomseok wasn’t even sure it was on sale. a piece of ice dragon horn he’s plucked off some shelf at the academy, perfect for kitae’s beastly collection and his—frankly—obsession of the beasts in the wild. what do you think was the other reason that got him so heartbroken about failing to pass the pre-enrolment assessment? yes, this gift will do nicely.

“and…” beomseok wraps his palms around kitae’s shoulders and pivots him, points a finger towards the blue bud swaying in the wind, “…from the giving tree.” kitae turns to look at his brother, eyes widened with excitement, and beomseok grins back in content.

“hyung, that’s yours!”—wait, what?—“that’s your gift!”

kitae scuttles through the main door, takes only a second then reappears, an item in each hand. on the left, a ladder balanced between torso and arm, and on the right, a little plant, bright red and already bloomed.

( fuck. always need to win, don’t you, giving tree? )

kitae’s too quick, or maybe beomseok’s just a little slow. either way, he somehow ends up here, dumbfounded with a since-bloomed red flower balanced carefully in both palms while kitae’s setting the ladder up so close to the blue bud, it’s foolproof. “come on, hyung! you’re gonna miss your flower again, then try to steal mine?”

– 🔱 –

but things never really work out the way kinam wants them to. the question he was so desperately trying to avoid floating through the air merely seconds later. kinam just about manages to stifle a groan, brows shooting together at the sound of the familiar voice. 

“park beomseok,” one would assume kinam would sound a little merrier running into an old friend in a place where he feels so out of place, “you son of a bitch. we all thought you were dead.” again, maybe kinam could have sounded a little more devastated at the thought of his friend lying dead in a ditch somewhere. “seriously dude, why didn’t you tell anyone?”

oh, whatever will they put on his obituary?

park beomseok… ? ( that’s right. )

there’s so little of him they know for sure, so little text to fill that concrete slab of gravestone. it is surely a tragedy to most, to not have anyone truly know him, from all the things that define him to all the things that make him tick. but he almost likes it like this— scratch that, he loves it like this. to wear mystery like a thick, fur coat, so large, it swallows his form. to be so enigmatic that no one can confidently capitalise on some cheap docuseries they make of him. park beomseok is a kaleidoscope of speculations moulded into the shape of a man.

you may wonder why he’s like this. and sure, perhaps the answer may lie in this… let’s say business, where having a narrative with the consistency of playdough, to twist and fit according to a benefactor’s wants and desires can multiply his worth tenfold, so they may empty their pockets straight into his cup. or mayhap the answer is buried deeper, in the timeworn pages of his childhood— no, even before that, when mommy dearest abandoned her little boy and left him with little more than a name and a string of mommy issues. it is convincing, the logic of having a changeable narrative making him feel like a god in control of his own fate.

point is, it’s all speculation, isn’t it? after all, the truth breaks the illusion. point is, park beomseok just likes being unknown. why? well… who knows?

point is, there’s nothing like hearing a false narrative repeated back to him to make him feel oh, so… stimulated. park beomseok, dead? ah, it wouldn’t be the first time someone wished him so. “didn’t think you could get rid of me so easily, did you?” the rhetoric falls thick as nectar, arrogant smirk dominating his features and it’s all reserved for kinam, even when he opts to keep his eyes on his friend’s belongings, instead.

the way he offers his help is wordless, natural, as he moves to grab the first of the few of kinam’s boxes. steadies his grip along the bottom edges of the box when he hears the latter’s further prodding, “didn’t i?” the question is muttered nonchalantly as he lifts the box easily to rest within his arms. he turns to regard his old friend, nothing like a cheeky grin to confess he’s got his hands caught in the cookie jar, “must’ve slipped my mind.”

– 🔱 –

beomseok is sitting right there, all she would really have to do is swivel her chair just slightly and get those feelings off of her chest…which is always easier said than done. moon yeongsuk needed to give herself a pep talk just to ask her family for some space. yeah, way easier. and so she sits there for another five or so minutes, as the anxious feeling reaches her ears like an incessant ringing. when the feelings nearly drown out everything else in the room, she decides its better for everyone around her if she just talks.

pushing the bag of chips in his direction, she starts, “would you…happen to know anything about the north?”

tick, tick, tick.

there’s something crawling about in his brain. nestled comfortably in its cushy crevices, peeking over and under its minor bumps—no matter where it goes, it makes the most mind-numbing, chittering sound. how the fuck does he get it out?

he bolsters his heavy head in his palms, lets all the air fall out of his lungs. kitae said he’s fine. a palm darts out to snatch his phone, but it curls into a fist just an inch away from it. kitae said he’s fine. then why the fuck can’t he let it go?

beomseok, are you there? over.

the way he moves is disjointed, lacking its smooth flow. whatever happened to park beomseok, the fairy who’d once had it all under control? even his voice comes out hoarse, grating against the sandpaper of his throat. and words are spoken, words are exchanged, words skydive out of his mouth and then there’s static, and he can’t remember a single thing he said. eyes dart towards his phone, and he reaches for it now, rids himself of that impulse control he’d strenuously sustained prior.

zero notifications. tick, tick, tick.

kitae said he’s fine.

“huh?” he darts his head towards yeongsuk as confusion settles at his brow. tries to recall what she’s just said, shuts his eyes and shakes himself from this stupor. the north, right. he catches sight of the snack she offers him and there’s hesitation, like he’s close to throwing up but he needs something to do with his hands.

“no,” it’s curt, the kind of curtness she doesn’t deserve, not when she’s been so kind to him. and beomseok’s typically immune to the sorts of kindness that expects something back, but hers is… different. and it’s precisely why it speaks to that bleeding heart that tattoos an anxious beat within his chest. he clears his throat, drops his shoulders, and he tries to be present. tries to ignore the dizzying ticks. if only for her. “why? do you… do you have family there?”

– 🔱 –

her partner’s request for a status update comes somewhere between the first and second peak. jihyun doesn’t even know if beomseok’ll be able to hear her, but she calls out a sheepish “sorry!”, and when she deems that to be too weak, tacks on a thumbs up, with what she hopes is a reassuring “we’re both doing a really good job!” 

whether that is, or will be true, remains to be seen. 

jihyun’s landing is a little better this time, cushioned by a roll her flying instructor’d taught her, and she takes off the minute she’s upright. that was good, she thinks. she is doing a really good job! manifestation really works! they’re gonna ace this! 

and the snowy wasteland gives way to an oasis.

join the academy, kitae says. it’ll be fun, kitae says.

yeah… so apparently, that’s going to have to be over his dead body. frankly speaking, he’s almost impressed it’s still working at this point, though the intensifying throbbing in his left deltoid muscle seems to have… other ideas. and it’s like he’s gone mad, the way he’s speaking to it under his laboured breath, almost reasoning with it like he’s a desperate, about-to-be-jilted lover, from the “we’ll get there soon, love, i promise” mumbles, to the “stop being a fucking baby” rasps as he works his way from head to tail. and fine, call him crazy if you must, but he argues that it’s natural that one gets a little… delusional when left in a precarious situation, all alone. ever seen castaway?

in other words, beomseok knows when he’s been abandoned. call it… experience, if you will. he can still hear her ghost calling to him, a delusional we’re both doing a good job! tickling his left ear like a phantom’s caress.

( pray tell, in which fucking universe are either of them doing a good job? she’s fucked off to nowhere and he’s got one foot caught in the beast’s moulting scales and it’s like quicksand, pulling him deeper into the ugly fucker’s— wait, okay. okay, he’s fine, he’s cut himself free. thank fuck. )

he’s here, on his hands and knees when he looks around, and realises he’s here. as in here, as in made it, to the back of the fucker’s ugly head with his trusty, recently sharpened trident all in one piece. and what was it the instructor said? something about the back of its head?

beomseok heaves, takes a moment to catch his breath—yes, a moment, jihyun, not a fucking decade, make sure you’re taking fucking notes—before he stands atop the beast’s back, palms out to balance himself while he’s atop the moving monster truck of a vehicle. he’s got this, he tells himself, and the pep-talk apparently works, because there’s a grin plastered on his lips and he doesn’t have to force it. it start with a grunt in his throat as he raises his trident and stabs it into the beast’s back, then it starts to build rhythm, turns into a roar, the way he’s stabbing the beast’s seemingly impenetrable scales over and over again. the trident ricochets off the scales nine times, ten, then miraculously, it gives way.

beomseok cackles, steps back in a moment’s reprieve but it only lasts a fraction of a second, because here comes the ice serpent’s deafening roar to rumble the snow mountains. except it’s more than that, because the fucker trembles beneath him so violently, he loses his balance and falls to his knees atop the beast’s back. and it’s just his luck, he supposes in hindsight, because the serpent starts to fucking stand on its belly, starts to move at a vertical fucking angle as it attempts to shake beomseok off. fuck off, it can do that? “ji… jihyun!” the specialist bellows as he grips onto the puncture in the beast’s icy scales, courtesy of his trident, just as the beast flies upwards, “fuck!”

he hangs on tightly but he feels it, the pull of gravity and his fingers slipping from the perforation. and try as he might, there’s no more cards up his sleeves, no more talking his way out of it. simply put, park beomseok is… done for. for once, there’s real fear in his eyes, a tremble in his tone, and he yells, “ji— wait— fuck! fuckfuck—”

– 🔱 –

well, if she can’t do it, she’ll bet the other guy won’t be able to either. so no harm done to her pride if she lets him at it, right? seulki plucks out the remaining few bobby pins—jeez, she went through a whole lot of them for this impenetrable door—and her hair falls out of their double buns, curling at the ends. goodbye, froggy costume. now she’s just a really cute fairy in a really cute dress. “ gu seulki, ” she announces, handing her name and her bobby pins out with a flourish. she’s still backed against the door, straining her poor neck to avoid an eyeful of nipple. “ you can tell me yours if you manage to figure— ”

“ hey, what are you guys doing? ”

ooh, a new challenger arrives! …or the actual owner of the room?

they say alcohol is just another term for truth serum, and with the way his eyes are glazed over—vestiges of the little dress-up party he’s ditched, he’s sure—it appears our specialist has a dirty little confession to make. and here it comes: park beomseok has an addiction. oh yes, you heard it here first: there is simply nothing like the allure of betting against all odds and being proven right. see, it makes him feel exhilarated, perhaps a little in control of fate, that very thing that saw to his abandonment by mommy dearest.

yes, in short, park beomseok is addicted to the rudimentary gambling. well, more particularly, park beomseok is addicted to winning. it is in this way that he bets against her, lets the little fairy with the most spectacular vocal chords do whatever she pleases as he smugly watches her—admittedly—juvenile technique of breaking and entering. a skill like hers is learnt on faetube, he’s sure— nothing like learning the tricks of the trade on the fly, a precarious life-or-death situation as the ever effective mentor.

she turns, and he grins. see? he plucks the bobby pins out of her hands, squeezes them between thumb and side of palm as he raises his hands in the surrender of a white flag, and saunters ever-so-slowly towards the lock, all while she’s warming up her little loser’s speech. victory is as sickly sweet as white bread dipped in viscous honey.

…what is not as sweet, but that which he unfortunately has a lot of experience with, is being caught cheating. the accusatory tone of their newest contender diverges beomseok from his path, and it’s like muscle memory, really, the way he slams his palms on the door, one to the left of her waist and the other over her wrist, and he leans so closely to her ear, he almost kisses it. “play along, gu seulki,” he instructs, slides the palm up to interlock their fingers before he pushes himself off the door to face the newcomer, “this your room, bud?” the question is paired with a free thumb gesturing towards the door, “my girl and i were just having some fun, and we got a little carried away. i’m—” he lets go of her hand, wraps it instead around her waist and pulls her close, “—sure you understand… but hey, thanks for letting us use your room.”

beomseok pulls her away and as he turns, his eyes briefly dart to the obstructed keyhole, and the grin that pulls at his lips somehow feels more like a frown. fuck. he hears it then, the set of keys jiggling in what he assumes is the latter removing it from his pocket, and beomseok squeezes the palm he’s left hanging around seulki’s waist as he ducks slightly to her level, “you know, sweetheart, you’ve got amazing vibrato, but how good are you with your wings?” he whispers and reaches for her hand, just in time for the “what the— hey!” that’s echoed from behind them.

there are moments when a man is brought to his knees. he’s not speaking of the crude sort, be it glinting blade or careless whisper. no, these moments… detail the same impulses that call sinner to holy ground, to fall to his knees before maruhan’s sacred likeness and beg, all in the name of repentance. and what this means for a man like park beomseok is despite the impression he gives off—like he’s embraced that carnal nature within him so intimately, one can pick up its distinct scent from his skin like the smell of sex—there are moments when even he falls to his knees in regret.

why, sinner’s prayer on the tip of his tongue, here he stands now, in a class where winx and specialists meet to pair off and giddy up into the fucking sunset. and he’s not like this—as in he’s not usually so present, usually seen instead with eyes glazed over because park beomseok doesn’t do academia. but he’s here, and he’s here because she is here. because jihwan is here.

and call it a twist of fate, if you will, that the instructor’s paired them off together. beomseok doesn’t complain, doesn’t try to shimmy his way out of it—it encompassing a myriad of things, from a boring partner to the boring classwork—simply walks over to jihwan’s side like a child who’s been caught with his hands deep in the cookie jar. and suppose the metaphor is awfully fitting, given that he’d been nothing short of an adolescent when he’d wronged her, vandalised her pretty heart in the regretful days documenting his teen angst. in this way, beomseok displays his bleeding heart, that compassion he still battles to perceive as character strength rather than crippling weakness.

(  `  ♡  han jihyun loves attention. revels in it, in fact, and is of the opinion she should always be in the center of it. today is a day for eating her words, though. finds herself all too uncomfortable— a very foreign feeling!– with the stares directed at her.  )  beomseok.  (  `  ♡  at an uncharacteristic loss of words, as the crowd of students splits into an unwilling red sea around them, mutters of ‘seriously? here?’ amongst the annoyed dissent of voices. jihyun gets it, because, well, seriously. here?  )  bro.  (  `  ♡  it’s like this she remembers. they’re bros. well, buddies, and she’s willing to bet she knows park beomseok better than anyone else at the academy, and beomseok doesn’t do this unless there’s something going on.  )  y’know what, let’s move to the side.  (  `  ♡  tugs him to the side, where they’re less of a bother for those boarding the hovercraft, and bitna gives her a look from where she’s already seated and saved one for jihyun.  )  what’s going on, dude? 

Ψ

jumping on the bandwagon as per usual! under the cut are some plots for bmsk, who is most definitely remaining in the east! please give this a like and i’ll come to you for plots! thanks fam ♡

where the fuck is park kitae?

– 🔱 –

     so when kahi goes back to his room after a quick visit to the library to get a book, he doesn't expect to see the window open and pieces of food on it like it's a perfect trap for— "rin, no." he scolds the fire ferret who seemed more than to ready to jump to get that food until she hear the voice of her owner, still looking a little torn between the food and kahi like she can't decide which one she wants to go to even after he said no. "c'mere." he orders and the fire ferret takes one last look at the food before obediently going to kahi and resting on his shoulders.

      "now," and his tone is more tired than anymore, not holding as much accusation as it probably should when he looks at beomseok. "care to explain why i go to the library for ten minutes and when i come back to you trying to kill my ferret, beomseok-ah?"

animals. how… nettlesome.

let’s spare a moment for some honesty for a change, shall we? it’s not like they’ve hurt him particularly, haven’t really gone out of their way to be much of a nuisance either. but there’s something about their doe-eyed simpering, that innocent little stare to solicit time and effort, as though one’s fruits of labour is as easy to give away as low-hanging fruit. to expect it, even, when they offer absolutely nothing in return. how entitled.

suppose in this way, he at least respects rin. somewhat. because at the very least, the fucker works for its fruit, literally reaches its dirty paws out into the open to steal what doesn’t belong to it. what belongs to beomseok. and it’s a pity, really, that the specialist hates animals, because in this way, even with the reluctant respect he has for the ugly ferret, beomseok still wants it gone.

and the students of the academy… well, they’re just a bunch of bleeding hearts, aren’t they? can’t say no to the little critter.

like this, beomseok’s forced to take matters into his own hands. just to make things clear, he doesn’t intend to kill the bird, of course. simply hopes to watch it… disappear into the wild, where it belongs. really, he’s doing the thing a favour. wildlife preservation, or something of the sort. in this way, he stacks pieces of cut banana—the ferret’s favourite snack to steal, he’s paid attention to, as one could say—like dominos leading towards the unobstructed windowsill, ever so curious to learn if ferrets can fly.

the experiment is cut short right before the money shot. of fucking course, because why shouldn’t it?

“kahi,” he tries for civility, though he can’t deny the way his voice tremors in fractions of vexation and—ah, could it be?—sheepishness. what has the little thing done to him? “fancy seeing you here.” he watches the dumb ferret perch atop his dormmate’s shoulders, and the smile he pays the animal is held in mockery. “you’ve mistaken me for someone else. murder isn’t really my M.O.” finger points in disappointment, as though kahi should’ve known better, so he clarifies, “deception is.”

– 🔱 –

“right, well. thank you. i just never knew i was dumb.” hide the pain, jihyun. she reshuffles her papers like that’ll help her with understanding what’s on the board— wait, why’s the professor erasing it all? her head swivels between the board, her empty notes that seemingly have the answer to everything, and finally, falls on her newfound ally. it’s not like her to be meek, but feeling stupid can really do a number on one’s self-esteem.

“are… are we starting a new topic?” when she’s not even understood the introduction?

here’s a poorly kept secret: beomseok’s never really been any good at the academic side of things. see, a skill like that takes concentration and patience—all great virtues, he’s sure—and that’s precisely why he find them such a… bore to cultivate. no, never mind him— he’s never been the sort to listen in class, always seeking the shinier, more stimulating things that call for his attention whenever some old hat wastes centre stage on their tiresome monologue.

like this shiny new fairy he’s getting acquainted to, for instance. her self-deprecating humour invites the much needed reprieve from this class, the way any humour would qualify in a situation as dire as this, and so he keeps his eyes steadily on her. makes the motion of tipping a hat in acknowledgement when she thanks him and keeps his eyes on her even as she looks away. after all, it’s only a matter of time before she comes back.

they always do.

“did you read the class notes?” ah, sweet revenge. as a high schooler, he’d always been on the receiving end of this condescending question, but now, as it leaves his tongue, he realises it tastes as sweet as it once did bitter. see, he gets it now. beomseok doesn’t fight the smirk, simply leans forth though he keeps his head facing the board the way diligent nerds would, and keeps his mutters below breath, “i don’t usually help strangers out. you know, my parents always warned me against stranger danger and all—” the snort, he fights. “but if i knew your name, well… i guess that would make us friends, right?”