acdoyeon-blog
calamity physics
so, you teach people how to spread their wings and fly? she said, yes.i said, you're beautiful.
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My Wrist Cannot Be Injured and I Will Never Die
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she can still feel the breeze.
sera brings back memories of childhood. sand between her fingers, specked on her knees and palms; gap-toothed smiles and lilted laughter; her skin stretched and tan from days spent under the sun. it’s like she’s a girl again, freckled and awkward and fleet of limb, gangly where sera’s always been small, roughly hewn where she’s always been dainty. memories of two girls playing pretend wash over her like a faint wind — and even now, far removed from the ocean, she tastes the salt in the air.
it used to be that they could see the horizon and imagine the rest of the world. but for now, taechon’s flower garden seems enough.
“yah, yah, moon sera,”she points out one flower in particular — pink with many petals, “what’s that one called? what’s it mean? it’s so pretty i want to paint it.”
really, she wants to press it down amongst the pages of a book and preserve it for eternity, but she figures that sera wouldn’t like that done unto her precious children.
@acmnsera, 0317.
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( 민석 )
“ you’re old enough to have a boyfriend, aren’t you ? why don’t you ask some guy from your school to go with you ? ”
she should know no shame. it’s all her doing, this trespassing into another person’s private space without regard; she should bear the brunt of consequence like a medal of honour. but she’s still a girl, standing at the precipice of adulthood, and it’s only natural that her skin colour pink at the sight of his dishevelment, sheets bundled strategically for modesty’s sake. she’s determined to shake it off, bringing lenders fingers up to hide her gaze as her cheeks stretch into a wide grin. “ah, my innocence is ruined. i even knocked to warn you!”
it’s a lie, of course — whatever innocence she’s had has shed from her bones a long time ago. it shouldn’t affect her, but her blush remains. odd.
“the problem, oppa,” she stresses every syllable like she’s teaching a lesson to an unruly child, “is that you don’t run on a proper schedule. i’m helping you out! and the day’s so nice too. it’ll be fun! you wouldn’t let a princess roam the streets alone would you?”
“i need you.” the phrase is succinct, matter-of-fact. doyeon’s got no problem looking into his eyes as she says it, head tilted to the side and lips puckered into a small pout. it’s true enough: jinah’s busy with the cafe and her brother’s not the right fit for what she needs. minseok’s the only person that is 1) available, and 2) fitting for companionship. “so stop whining and dress up, okay?”
she steps outside then, humming a tune from a song she’d heard on her aunt’s radio the night prior, waiting for him to heed to her ( just as he always does, he’s far too nice not to ) and join in on her outing.
she doesn’t have to wait long.
he steps outside into the hallway and she’s got an arm looped around his in two heartbeats, tugging him slightly in whatever direction she wishes. “you’re about my dad’s size and i want to get him a present. a ‘hey, the doctor says you’re not dying sooner’ type thing. i was thinking a shirt,” she says. it’s not so much as an effort to start a conversation — minseok’s not much for that — but her attempt to ease him back into the world he’s hellbent on hiding from.
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© SWEET REVOLUTION | Take out with full credits. Do not edit or remove logo.
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dawn gleams golden through her fingers.
one of the errands she runs as part of her job is to do the neighbourhood’s newspaper route a few times a month; today is one of those days. she’s lucky, she supposes, to do it on a morning as clear as this one, all blue sky and snow-less road. the past few weeks had been close to a nightmare outside, so she’s glad for the small blessing of a warm, breezeless sun.
she’s nearly finished her route when she comes across a familiar-looking gate and grins, slowing down her bicycle at the foot of it and disembarking with a light hop. papers in hand, she tucks them neatly into the appropriate mail slot before crouching down by the gate and cupping her hands to her mouth. “강아지!” she whispers into the air, waiting for the tell-tale sound of paws shuffling her away.
doyeon is rewarded for her patience when a sharp yap! comes from the other side of the gate and she sees the tufts of fur hurrying towards her. “cutie 강아지, did you miss me lots? i missed you too,” she sings, reaching past the gate’s bars to pat her friend behind its ears. “ah! i brought you a treat, pup! but you have to sit first, okay? siiiit. siiiit—“ but persistent as she is, the dog won’t listen to her.
@acjunhwan, 0317.
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she calls him in the middle of the night, all pitch black and neon lights.
she’s not normally so rude — though her mannerisms are apt to be eccentric, so doyeon figures that seokbeom won’t mind too much at her disturbance past daylight hours. besides, the struggling artist doesn’t mesh well with an early night, so he’s probably up anyway, creating magic with some instrument or another.
it had only been a few minutes prior that she’d stumbled onto news that an up-and-coming band they both liked was playing at a hongdae club — playing their new material, too. and it was one thing to hear a song produced and perfected, another to hear it in the flesh, raw and real and in her system.
her fingers hadn’t hesitated to dial his number.
the tone cuts off and she’s offering up a flurry of words before seokbeom has the chance to breathe. “oppa,” it’s puckered and purposeful and commands attention, “remember that band we were talking about the other day in the music room? they released a new album recently right? oppa, they’re playing tonight at a club and i’m going to go! you should come too, okay? i’m going with or without you so don’t leave me alone to listen to them! i’ll be at hong-ik station in a few minutes. okay? okay, bye!”
she’s ended the call before she hears his reply, already on her way out the door.
@acseokbeom, 0317.
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she runs on a combination of patience and benevolence. it’s part of her anatomy like the bones of her ribcage; they hold her up and shape the rest of her, every thought and every word.
it is patience that staves off the sigh that bubbles in her throat when jinah pulls away. it is benevolence that allows for a smile to bloom instead, more fitting on her face than a fine line of tepid dejection. she is tranquillity, ebb and flow — constant and calming. it’s not her place to be terse, to bite back at sharp words from a girl that’s been shredded so that she’s all jagged edges. that’s what jinah is now: jagged like cut glass.
someone has to clean her up; has to take the pieces into their hands and let the blades mar. she doesn’t mind doing it — in fact, she’s used to it.
it’s funny; she’d never thought of herself as someone who could sew other people back together. but here she is, with a father that needs her and a friend that’s hurting, and she thinks that it’s nice to be needed.
she’d forgotten the feeling.
“‘wasting time’ doesn’t sound fun,” she teases, looping an arm through jinah’s unscathed one as they head out the building. “but hongdae does! what do you wanna do? karaoke? eat? both?” it’s rather useless, really, for her to suggest anything in particular; a year in the city and she still finds herself ill-suited to remember the intricacies of the hongdae neighbourhood, save for a few bright spots in the colourful din. “what do you feel like?”
( EPISODE )
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it’s a familiar scene.
a closed door and an empty corridor — though it’s to be expected at the odd hour on a weekend afternoon. she figures that everyone else has something to do, caught up in the throes of a new month; work and business and play and people to attend to. doyeon has a to-do list, too: math problems and dark colours in the laundry, maybe a visit to jinah’s cafe to save her friend from the woes of serving coffee one-handed.
but she’s thrown out the list just as her knuckles clamour on minseok’s door. she finds that she no particular reason to bother minseok this much, especially as he’s told her ( half-heartedly, she thinks ) countless times that he’d rather her leave him alone. but she’s doyeon and it’s unfathomable for her to believe that anyone enjoyed being stuck inside a dark, frigid apartment all day. she’s doing him a favour. “hey, minseok-oppa,” she calls, and her voice rings out in the hallway. “i know you’re in here. stop being a recluse and come out with me!”
the knock is an act of decency; a warning signal that they’re both used to by now. she’s got the door swinging on its hinges a moment later — god forbid he ever locks his door on her — and she’s at the entrance of his apartment like it’s her own, grinning at the mess. “hurry up! the stores aren’t going to be open forever, you know. they don’t run on your schedule.”
@acminseok, 0317.
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whiplash type of love
her blood looks black in the wane of the moon.
He’s just a boy.
‘You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,’ he spits the words out like they’re rotten. Like she’s fed him poison with from her lips. ‘You’re an idiot. You think a boy can go through what I’ve gone through and not become a man? Don’t be stupid. I’m not a boy anymore.’
She wants to say, no. That he’s still a boy, with boyish lines to his boyish face and boyish feeling in his boyish mouth. He’s rough around the edges, and her wounds still bleed from the time his words have hurt more than his fingers ever could, and sometimes he says things so awful she thinks she’s heard the devil, but he’s still a boy. A boy that’s hurting, a boy that’s missing. A boy that’s empty and aching.
She wants to say, I made him.
.
‘You think a boy can make you cry like this? You think a boy can kiss you like this? You think a boy can make you feel like this?’
He says this as his nails dig into the flesh of her neck. Whispers this as he brings his needy mouth down to hers. Shouts this as he leaves her with torn knees and violets on her skin at the shoreline.
Her blood looks black in the wane of the moon. She thinks that his sadness is blacker.
It’s why she stays.
.
It’s a rite of passage. Children come into the world soft and formless and waiting — small things with red cheeks and holes that need filling. Parents come along and gather them into their palms, nurture them with words and actions, pour love to mend the gaps that go hand-in-hand with littleness. It’s trial and error, and not everyone is an expert, and that’s why some children grow up tall and others grow crooked.
But he is neither tall nor crooked. Not formed by hands that aren’t his own, not given love to cover the empty. He’s still waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
Then he decides to make himself on his own.
But the system is in place for a reason. You cannot shape yourself without direction. You cannot occupy the spaces where the love must go when you only have so much yourself.
So if he can’t make, he’ll take.
His first victim: her.
.
Along the way, something goes wrong.
.
She’s only a girl, but she tries. Because she loves him, because he loves her, and even though it’s a vagrant, whiplash type of love it’s still love. So she tries to make him better, tries to shape him how he should be, tries to mould him to fit into her arms like he’s meant to be.
But it’s wrong, he’s wrong, they’re wrong. Maybe that’s why he never gets the hang of it. The growing, the loving. Maybe that’s why he can’t stop himself from fighting, maybe that’s why he makes her cry, maybe that’s why her blood looks black in the dark.
Maybe it’s her fault he never learns to stand.
.
Trial, error. Trial, error.
She is both to him. Cure and disease. The knife and the lifeline.
Whiplash type of love.
.
He’s just a boy.
She leaves him like that, still just a boy. He tells her he didn’t need her anyway, clings to her shoulders with shaking hands and tells her not to leave because she’s the only thing he feels rooted to in this world. But he’s just a boy and she can’t love him like he needs to be loved — like he should be loved. So she doesn’t look back.
She wants to say, I unmade him.
She wants to say, with this he’ll be better.
(She doesn’t know the answer, but what she knows is this: it’s a poor excuse for her running away.)
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hi! i realize that i went on hiatus while i was in the middle of plotting for doyeon, so i’m sorry to going m.i.a. on the people i’ve been corresponding with. to make up for it, please like this post if you’d like a random starter with probably a pre-established r/s (doesn’t matter if we’ve plotted anything or not). first 5 only as i am only human, folks! !
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on the way to music bank | 160909
© greenlight forest
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I want the K
0117.
she can’t breathe just yet.
breathing will disrupt the balance - but of what, she finds herself grasping for. the e.r. waiting room is certainly spinning; her knuckles are taut and white against the chair’s arms but she still feels like she’s slipping, moving against her accord. maybe it’s the fengshui she’ll disturb, and her exhale will cause a tidal wave of discordance that wouldn’t bode well for the fragile harmony in the operating rooms.
maybe, if she breathes, she’ll fall apart.
it’s the most likely possibility.
jinah’s mother had called her some minutes ago, voice as tremulous as she felt. we’re almost there, is she okay, is she safe. is she alive, she’s asking between the lines; that answer, the one she needs, doyeon couldn’t give. part of her feels responsible, irrationally so - it’s not her fault jinah’d gone to busan, or crossed without looking, or didn’t slow down when doyeon had told her to stop.
but. there was that thought, endless in her mind, growing like her shadow on the clean, white walls.
could she have done anything else?
jinah would say no; jinah would be adamant. but she’s ahn doyeon, and in the end there’s this: that everything is ahn doyeon’s fault.
it’s the most likely possibility.
she breathes out in 3, 2, 1 - “are you here for a jeon jinah?”
.
jinah is groggy and aching and her heart feels detached from her body, but even she is brought into consciousness by the flurry of a girl that enters her bedroom as soon as she’s allowed to sit up. it’s all she can do to keep herself from falling back by the sheer force.
doyeon’s lips taste like salt and sorrow, cement on her own.
“you’re alive,” she says after.
she didn’t know she needed that answer, too.
5: firm kiss
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chivalrousxhybrid:
1: Hot, Steamy kiss
2: Cheek Kiss
3: Nose Kiss
4: Forehead Kiss
5: Firm Kiss
6: Gentle Peck
7: Romantic Kiss
8: Eyelid Kiss
9: Jawline Kiss
10: Neck Kiss
11: Collarbone Kiss
12: Chest Kiss
13: Stomach Kiss
14: Kiss Along the Hips
15: Kiss in the Rain
16: Upside-Down Kiss
17: Goofy Kiss
18: Underwater Kiss
19: Forceful Kiss
20: Any of the Above
21: Then there’s tongue
Send me 'I want the K' and I'll generate a number
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actaeil:
“they met at a party and it was instant. you know, one of those movie magic moments where they spot each other across a crowded room and everything goes dim other than them? i think that’s what happened. i don’t know what happened to them after this, but i’d like to think they’re happy.” he pauses, squeezes her palm weakly. “it’s a nice sentiment, right?”
looks are deceiving. it’s one of the many lessons her art has taught her — the presence of a distinction between what’s seen and what’s real. the way silk on a painting is carved perfection, like a storm. the way bright ultramarine swirls hid a tumultuous mind. and the way his hand is warm and gentle, when all he’s ever told her is that he’s cold.
she doesn’t know, yet, what’s real when it comes to kang taeil — kang taeil and her fingers tied in his own — but she thinks it’s something close to this.
( but what does she know about the process of coming to love a boy?
nothing — nothing at all. )
hair tucked neatly behind her ear falls out of place as she tilts her neck from side to side, taking in the painting to distract herself from the feel of his hand grasping at her own. it’s easy to almost forget him - but never possible. “it is nice,” she says, “to be happy.”
“but why do you think it was instant? i don’t think so.” she shifts closer then, steps into his space; leans her head on his shoulder and points with her own free hand at the painting’s focal point. “look at their faces; they’re so content. like their love was a slow-burn love, where the feelings came naturally. and that after this they went home and got into bed and kissed each other to sleep. i think he’s the little spoon,” she lifts off from his shoulder then, maneuvering to show him the grin that wrinkles the corners of her eyes, “like you.”
0916.
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