do not choose sides yet | shut up! flower boy band | woo kyung (/ji hyuk /do il) | 2/2youcallitwinterAugust 19 2013, 13:42:55 UTC
v.
An interlude, then: a period of comfort on the shoulder of the friend. Do not role-cast him yet, he is too silent for the stage, but the movement of his hand is rhythmic as he hits the skin of the drum, and you would like to hit out too, you would like to scream. You think it would be satisfying.
(Whatever you do, do not tell anyone that.)
vi.
Someone tells you a story. It is your mother and she tells you the moral first: be a lady. Be good, men like women who are strong, and silent and ladylike and good. She tells you the moral, but she forgets to tell you the story. She forgets to define goodness. And you sometimes forget to remember. And you are louder each time he pushes you away. Play with the hands you're dealt. Don't cheat. Don't three years mean anything to you?
Then he comes running when you're in trouble, and you cry, and you cry, and his shirt is soaked, but he is still solid under your cheek, the fabric rough against your skin. It itches. And you think this is still that story you ought to know. So what if you never really knew it, you can make it up as you go along, if only he'll take his cues from you. But he's center-stage and he's lost in the limelight, and he has four people up on the stage, and then he has three, and then he is alone. Then he is lost.
Then he is found. Your mistake was you forgot to search and he was found by the princess. You're a princess or you aren't.
vii.
Second iteration of the interlude: this is not about loneliness. Don't make meaning when he looks at you and smiles. Don't make meaning from the bruise on his skin and the insistent brush of his lips. You're allowed to take in the eye candy, but don't taste. Run, if you must. Shut the door and lean against it or fall to the ground; consider the options. Exhale.
viii.
Letting go in three easy steps:
Let go.
Fucking let go.
Fucking let go you fucking moron, he's in love with someone else.
Love someone else.
Don't wait.
Move on.
Let go.
Don't wait.
ix.
His teeth clash against yours, and your skin is stretched taut, heart drumming a staccato beat. He is good with drums. He is good with the pounding and the noise and the rush of blood. The pool table is pushed against the wall and you are pushed against the pool table. Imagine his hair is soft, imagine it is softer than most people's, imagine you know. Imagine you know the cold end of a phone and the salt of grief, imagine you know loneliness, imagine you know love, imagine you know a mirror and it doesn't talk. Imagine it shows you your reflection and it works by physics. There are rules, like you can do anything if you have a pure enough heart and don't fall for the boy with the long hair and the sad eyes and who is the fairest of them all? You are not beautiful. You are not good. The table leaves a mark on your lower back.
His hand under your skirt, then. You've overshot the story. You are pure or you are a whore. You are a princess or you aren't.
x.
Consider: you are in love.
Imagine this is a fairy tale. Spread your legs wider. Now imagine this isn't.
Re: do not choose sides yet | shut up! flower boy band | woo kyung (/ji hyuk /do il) | 2/2cranmersAugust 22 2013, 12:48:35 UTC
Oh my fucking God.
This is... one of my favourite fics ever, I was actualfax tripping on it the whole time, tbh. Just, W-T-F you have a crazyfaced talent for story-telling and it never ever, ever fails to blow my mind.
P.S One of the best last lines EVAAARRRR!!!!
P.P.S Errrmmmm I didn't think it was pretentious? I thought it was 100% faithful to the, sort of, Siken-backbone and was amazing and brilliant and borrowed from two places and fused them perfectly, you know? Then again I used to troll the internetz for Shakespeare fanfiction so IDK what pretentious is.
An interlude, then: a period of comfort on the shoulder of the friend. Do not role-cast him yet, he is too silent for the stage, but the movement of his hand is rhythmic as he hits the skin of the drum, and you would like to hit out too, you would like to scream. You think it would be satisfying.
(Whatever you do, do not tell anyone that.)
vi.
Someone tells you a story. It is your mother and she tells you the moral first: be a lady. Be good, men like women who are strong, and silent and ladylike and good. She tells you the moral, but she forgets to tell you the story. She forgets to define goodness. And you sometimes forget to remember. And you are louder each time he pushes you away. Play with the hands you're dealt. Don't cheat. Don't three years mean anything to you?
Then he comes running when you're in trouble, and you cry, and you cry, and his shirt is soaked, but he is still solid under your cheek, the fabric rough against your skin. It itches. And you think this is still that story you ought to know. So what if you never really knew it, you can make it up as you go along, if only he'll take his cues from you. But he's center-stage and he's lost in the limelight, and he has four people up on the stage, and then he has three, and then he is alone. Then he is lost.
Then he is found. Your mistake was you forgot to search and he was found by the princess. You're a princess or you aren't.
vii.
Second iteration of the interlude: this is not about loneliness. Don't make meaning when he looks at you and smiles. Don't make meaning from the bruise on his skin and the insistent brush of his lips. You're allowed to take in the eye candy, but don't taste. Run, if you must. Shut the door and lean against it or fall to the ground; consider the options. Exhale.
viii.
Letting go in three easy steps:
Let go.
Fucking let go.
Fucking let go you fucking moron, he's in love with someone else.
Love someone else.
Don't wait.
Move on.
Let go.
Don't wait.
ix.
His teeth clash against yours, and your skin is stretched taut, heart drumming a staccato beat. He is good with drums. He is good with the pounding and the noise and the rush of blood. The pool table is pushed against the wall and you are pushed against the pool table. Imagine his hair is soft, imagine it is softer than most people's, imagine you know. Imagine you know the cold end of a phone and the salt of grief, imagine you know loneliness, imagine you know love, imagine you know a mirror and it doesn't talk. Imagine it shows you your reflection and it works by physics. There are rules, like you can do anything if you have a pure enough heart and don't fall for the boy with the long hair and the sad eyes and who is the fairest of them all? You are not beautiful. You are not good. The table leaves a mark on your lower back.
His hand under your skirt, then. You've overshot the story. You are pure or you are a whore. You are a princess or you aren't.
x.
Consider: you are in love.
Imagine this is a fairy tale. Spread your legs wider. Now imagine this isn't.
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This kills me.
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Thankings <3
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Had enough of your bullshit, Zoe.
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This is pretty much revenge for enabling me. Because I am truly an awful person and you egg me on.
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(The comment has been removed)
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This is... one of my favourite fics ever, I was actualfax tripping on it the whole time, tbh. Just, W-T-F you have a crazyfaced talent for story-telling and it never ever, ever fails to blow my mind.
P.S One of the best last lines EVAAARRRR!!!!
P.P.S Errrmmmm I didn't think it was pretentious? I thought it was 100% faithful to the, sort of, Siken-backbone and was amazing and brilliant and borrowed from two places and fused them perfectly, you know? Then again I used to troll the internetz for Shakespeare fanfiction so IDK what pretentious is.
Reply
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