and i loved (like) a capulet
and i loved (like) a capulet
609w; pg-13 (hyemi/b-bomb)
you know he's only waiting for the next best thing.
a/n: major writer's block for the last month, so i'm surprised i finished this and i don't completely hate it? basically all i've been planning these days are hyemi/b-bomb aus. it initially started out as a pair i thought would look good together but now that i've thought about it more, i think they'd be interesting if they interacted (plus, nine muses and block b have several similar promotion periods, i don't understand why we have no interactions between the two groups! ;;). but - i have no idea what this is, really.
it used to be Camels. then, beer, whiskey, vodka. now it’s her - addict teaching other kinds of addicts how to stop their addictions. it’s her - she’s what comes after vodka, she’s like vodka (if vodka came in bottles of summer gingham, skirt long, but short enough to be interesting, with burnt-out cigarette butts covered in coral lipstick stains, kissable and sweet, sticking out from the tops of the bottles like ashy straws) and the resemblance is uncanny when she takes a four o’clock smoke behind the stairwell of the alcohols anonymous seminar.
he wonders if life was meant to be so ironic - so eager to please, and so eager to take away after that. it’s a strange jest that lacks a laugh track.
lee minhyuk. twenty-six years old, sober for seventy-four days.
friday, the seventeenth: she leans over to hand him a pamphlet. her wrists smell like lavenders - smoked and singed, and he’s intoxicated.
(sometimes he gets drunk on her.)
he doesn’t get volatile - bad thing, negative connotation, part of the problem, the alcohol aggravates it. he gets angry (sometimes), but, you know, the controllable kind of angry, the kind that makes his thoughts sour and his patience disintegrate. i don’t see the point of this, he says one day, at her stairwell at four o’clock, her back turned to him, smoke billowing in the wind. all you do is fucking judge us for who we are. how is that supposed to help us?
she doesn’t turn around until she’s done smoking, cigarette butt crushed beneath her heel. i don’t, she replies, face-to-face, her eyes bearing into his. it might be intimidating. i don’t judge you. she’s dead serious.
lee minhyuk. twenty-six years old, sober for eighty-seven days.
thursday, the thirtieth: he thinks they’d be shit for each other, but he wouldn’t mind the falling.
she’s been smoking twice for the past two months, once during each break. she doesn’t face the wall anymore, doesn’t let the smoke billow discreetly. he guesses he gives her this certain kind of look, because she pulls the cigarette out of her mouth and sighs the smoke out, exasperated, before nestling it back between her lips. the plumes blend into the foggy winter evening, dissipate as his eyes follow their tendrils and reappear when he’s not focusing.
i could stop if i wanted to, she tells him before he can say anything, eyes tired, dull. maybe they don’t believe her words, either. i’m not like you guys. i can control myself, you know? she takes another drag, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d say she’s right - except for the fact that she’s like vodka, and the resemblance beneath the canary street lights is uncanny.
i thought about drinking the other day.
(silence) oh?
but i didn’t.
saturday, the eighth: he kisses her on the mouth, leg between hers, his back against her car, hers against the wall of her garage, hands on her waist, hands through his hair. she tastes like lavenders - the whole field smoked and singed, wildfire out of control, caught on dry brush. all that’s left are the ashes.
lee minhyuk. twenty-six years old. sober for one hundred thirty-six days.
he gives her his number.
she never calls.
lee minhyuk. twenty-six years old. sober for one hundred sixty-three days.
one new message. message received at five-thirty P.M.
hey. stop smoking.
message deleted. to listen to new messages press -
wednesday, the twenty-ninth: she starts wearing a nicotine patch on her left arm. it hides beneath her sleeve.
lee minhyuk. twenty-seven years old. sober for three hundred ninety days.
he thinks about her.
(admittedly, sometimes he gets drunk on her.)
609w; pg-13 (hyemi/b-bomb)
you know he's only waiting for the next best thing.
a/n: major writer's block for the last month, so i'm surprised i finished this and i don't completely hate it? basically all i've been planning these days are hyemi/b-bomb aus. it initially started out as a pair i thought would look good together but now that i've thought about it more, i think they'd be interesting if they interacted (plus, nine muses and block b have several similar promotion periods, i don't understand why we have no interactions between the two groups! ;;). but - i have no idea what this is, really.
it used to be Camels. then, beer, whiskey, vodka. now it’s her - addict teaching other kinds of addicts how to stop their addictions. it’s her - she’s what comes after vodka, she’s like vodka (if vodka came in bottles of summer gingham, skirt long, but short enough to be interesting, with burnt-out cigarette butts covered in coral lipstick stains, kissable and sweet, sticking out from the tops of the bottles like ashy straws) and the resemblance is uncanny when she takes a four o’clock smoke behind the stairwell of the alcohols anonymous seminar.
he wonders if life was meant to be so ironic - so eager to please, and so eager to take away after that. it’s a strange jest that lacks a laugh track.
lee minhyuk. twenty-six years old, sober for seventy-four days.
friday, the seventeenth: she leans over to hand him a pamphlet. her wrists smell like lavenders - smoked and singed, and he’s intoxicated.
(sometimes he gets drunk on her.)
he doesn’t get volatile - bad thing, negative connotation, part of the problem, the alcohol aggravates it. he gets angry (sometimes), but, you know, the controllable kind of angry, the kind that makes his thoughts sour and his patience disintegrate. i don’t see the point of this, he says one day, at her stairwell at four o’clock, her back turned to him, smoke billowing in the wind. all you do is fucking judge us for who we are. how is that supposed to help us?
she doesn’t turn around until she’s done smoking, cigarette butt crushed beneath her heel. i don’t, she replies, face-to-face, her eyes bearing into his. it might be intimidating. i don’t judge you. she’s dead serious.
lee minhyuk. twenty-six years old, sober for eighty-seven days.
thursday, the thirtieth: he thinks they’d be shit for each other, but he wouldn’t mind the falling.
she’s been smoking twice for the past two months, once during each break. she doesn’t face the wall anymore, doesn’t let the smoke billow discreetly. he guesses he gives her this certain kind of look, because she pulls the cigarette out of her mouth and sighs the smoke out, exasperated, before nestling it back between her lips. the plumes blend into the foggy winter evening, dissipate as his eyes follow their tendrils and reappear when he’s not focusing.
i could stop if i wanted to, she tells him before he can say anything, eyes tired, dull. maybe they don’t believe her words, either. i’m not like you guys. i can control myself, you know? she takes another drag, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d say she’s right - except for the fact that she’s like vodka, and the resemblance beneath the canary street lights is uncanny.
i thought about drinking the other day.
(silence) oh?
but i didn’t.
saturday, the eighth: he kisses her on the mouth, leg between hers, his back against her car, hers against the wall of her garage, hands on her waist, hands through his hair. she tastes like lavenders - the whole field smoked and singed, wildfire out of control, caught on dry brush. all that’s left are the ashes.
lee minhyuk. twenty-six years old. sober for one hundred thirty-six days.
he gives her his number.
she never calls.
lee minhyuk. twenty-six years old. sober for one hundred sixty-three days.
one new message. message received at five-thirty P.M.
hey. stop smoking.
message deleted. to listen to new messages press -
wednesday, the twenty-ninth: she starts wearing a nicotine patch on her left arm. it hides beneath her sleeve.
lee minhyuk. twenty-seven years old. sober for three hundred ninety days.
he thinks about her.
(admittedly, sometimes he gets drunk on her.)