THE NEW BOOK IS OUT. Don’t talk to me, don’t look at me.
You can look at the book, though. It’s up here.
Most insane and honest synopsis I can come up with: It’s self-indulgent and includes boys who smell like milk swathed in lace. the ML is mean as shit and also coddled by his sisters <3 the MC is a tsundere brat pining over his dad/brother/boyfriend (these are all the same person; no, they are not related). One of them is an incubus but I’m not telling you who.
This is making me scream today, so now it can make you scream too~
So this is, like, a thing they’re doing now. Fucking around on Minjae, behind his back.
Chaeyong never asks Jisoo if it’s ok, if he feels okay about it. He thinks about it, but frankly he just… doesn’t have the nerve, and it’s not because he’s afraid of Minjae. Chaeyong’s actually never been afraid of him, or at least… not like that.
He knows who Minjae’s family is, and unlike the others, he’s actually seen some of Minjae’s violence. He knows what Minjae’s capable of.
It’s more like… not wanting to disturb something that’s so precariously balanced, like a snowglobe on a shelf, a dewdrop that’s not quite falling.
It would be easier if it was just sex, but it’s not.
“Hey, you wanna go see a movie later?”
All the others are out at work, and Harin took Lambchop to the groomer.
Jisoo snorts. “A movie? What are you, eighty?” But he flicks the cover of his magazine shut, so he’s clearly interested.
Chaeyong rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m an old man. You wanna humor gramps and go see something?”
Jisoo crosses his arms. “What movie?”
“Reaper Haunting.”
Jisoo perks up at that. The trailers for that movie all looked massively bloody, and Jisoo is a gross little gore porn hound at heart. He loves scary movies, the more twisted and bloody, the better.
“Don’t tell Minjae?” Jisoo says, already getting up to get his jacket, and Chaeyong gets a lump in his throat.
“Yeah, I won’t tell him.”
Chaeyong is surprised, actually, that Jisoo feels ok going outside again. He doesn’t seem skittish or twitchy while they walk the half a mile to the theater, although Chaeyong had offered to spring for a cab.
“If you all keep me inside all the time, I’m going to get fat like veal.”
Jisoo has put on weight, but it looks good on him. Healthy, like it’s making him less brittle. Although he’d still felt light when he was climbing atop Chaeyong, putting his weight on him and pinning him down as he’d slid his pussy down on Chaeyong’s cock.
Chaeyong turns red and stops talking for long enough that Jisoo gives him a weird look. Shit, he doesn’t know what Jisoo was saying. He hopes it doesn’t show on his face, what he was just thinking about.
The movie theater itself is just another kind of torture. Chaeyong really had wanted to see the movie with Jisoo. He hadn’t just been fucking around, but he’s now intimately aware of how close Jisoo is to him. Jisoo’s long, slender arm is slung over the arm rest, close enough to brush Chaeyong’s when he leans over to get more popcorn out of the bucket on Chaeyong’s lap.
You are either going to love this new chapter I’m working on, or you’re gonna throw me off a bridge
Worst threesome ever, aka the first draft of this chapter title was called “fuckin robitussin” after the cover of “under the influence” that ate my brain for several solid months.
(the singer looks exactly how I imagine He Yu from Case File Compendium and you can’t convince me otherwise)
Jisoo chews on the side of his already-chewed down nails. “What’s Chaeyong-hyung doing here?” he murmurs around his fingers.
He looks like some kind of doll sitting up in bed, with frothy covers tucked around him and his slim legs disappearing beneath them.
If Chaeyong-hyung doesn’t leave soon, Jisoo is gonna start pulling at his own hair.
“Nothing. Just came to hang out.”
“At 1am.”
Jisoo’s voice is flat, and Chaeyong huffs. “Yeah, weird timing, huh?”
Do you wanna know what the good good bad things all feel like?
I’ve been wanting to sit down and write a real blog post for a while now, but the blog post I thought I would write yesterday is probably different than the one I’ll actually end up writing today, food poisoning and all (ick).
I’m always fighting between the impulse to keep work to myself, where it’s safe and only mine, and the very real, sometimes achingly urgent desire to share it with others.
I’ve been working on a couple of new stories. The one that feels most exciting to me is about running away from home, or maybe just about running.
I was thinking the other day that I often write about the aftermath. The Thing happened, and now you live, to quote Coleman Barks, “in the wake of a new life.” You are stumbling through the wreckage, trying to assemble pieces of yourself.
(And here, a friend reminded me that what is grief but the aftermath of loss?)
Part of the interesting part of writing, to me, is figuring out what that Thing even was. What was the hit that caused the pain? Can you reconstruct the blast by the shape of its crater?
Jisoo feels like that kind of wreckage. Soft and fragile and sharp. Cringing and traumatized, loved and hurting and willing to hurt others.
Or else maybe the hurt is accidental.
I am still looking for the incident that made a hole of this size.
