[ sms; Moonha ] When you stand still enough so I can get your measurements. [ sms; Moonha ] We want it to look perfect. [ sms; Moonha ] But of course it’ll look perfect on you~ [ sms; Moonha ] When do you have the time for me to get my hands on you?
[SMS: 걸크러쉬온니♡] it’s not my fault taking measurements is a ticklish thing!!! [SMS] mmmmmmm let me check! [SMS] oop it says here on my schedule any time jungunni has time > <
( ... )
(because he doesn’t want to forget.)
“So that’s it then.” he says, arms crossing and he can’t fight the disappointment building inside his chest. Now isn’t the time to fight, not when Xavier is waiting for him to overlook the stage dynamics and Blythe is waiting for Moonah to go over new tricks of the trade and costume fitting for their next show.
“We go on like nothing ever happened then?”
She isn’t in love with him. (At least, not yet.) And so perhaps, it’s almost enough. “That’s it.” But almost is never enough.
“That’s the show, Jongin. Were you expecting more applause? A bigger audience? An encore? No regrets. As you always say, Jongin.” She looks once to him, and once at Xavier, and at Blythe besides him. (Mistake.) She swallows something bladed down her throat and pulls on a smile, the one reserved for on stage (--and heartbreak.)
“The show must go on.”
She needs something to dig her nails into, and Jongin’s the one somehow always too close, when she needs someone the most. “Come help me pick out the best fitting costume?” She hates who she is, this part of her. “I wouldn’t want to ask anyone else.” She’s terrible to him and yet his eyes are too soft and it’s what she’s grasping onto. “Please, Jongin.”
「 ✉ ➤ little 🌙 」 ✖ alright. you got me there, I GUESS. you win this time. ✖ this image hurt me with its cuteness. but guess who got motivated and is officially out of bed 💪🏻 ✖ you can pick the second movie, but if you pick some corny animated movie, i will suffer immensely. please think of your brother in these trying times. ✖ moonah, this is the cutest thing i’ve ever seen. how am i supposed to eat this? and i never go out, what are you thinking? ㅋ ✖ you know me so well, i hate it. and it’s only twenty-six days until a certain someone’s birthday! any idea what you want yet? (since you know i suck with gifts :/)
[SMS: big ☾] I always win. heh [SMS] I’m so proud of you!!!! look at my big moon doing things!!! out to conquer the world!!! one spook at a time!!! [SMS] I wanted to watch howl’s moving castle. is that too corny and animated for you. hmph. but calcifer is so cute!!!! [SMS] I thought today might be the day oppa gets to see the sun... sighs. I am in deep worry for your skin. you don’t even eat the vitamin d supplements I leave on your work desk every night. [SMS] what happens if I already have everything I want! I have big moon. [SMS] actually. heheheheheh there is something I want ㅎㅍㅎ
( ... )
To my little moon: thank you for being the reason the stars stay in my sky. Thank you for being you and loving me, even when I’m the most unlovable person alive. Perfection was finally crafted the day you were born and I’m honored to have you in my life.
Love you always, Big Moon
“Have dinner with me tonight?” he rushed out, not really wanting to experience the sentimental embrace that was sure to come.
It was something he’d have to deal with eventually. And for her, he’d do anything.
Sometimes he’ll reach out in love, but hands are guns, his good intentions completely lethal. It’s simple, he doesn’t know how to love gently because he’s never been loved the same. Always being shut out, doors closing and curtains drawn -- never once let in, never opening with windows wide and ajar.
But he’s learning, and more importantly, he’s trying -- and it's something worth holding onto.
“Really.” The word barely escapes her, voice hushed like it’ll be taken away from her if she’s too loud. She looks up at him then back down at the book, and repeats the exchange a few times until she’s got enough courage to actually place her hands at the cover. “Really...” When she looks up at him this time, she’s got the sun in her eyes, the smile saying everything she’s ever wanted to tell him.
“Thank you.”
She doesn’t wait for a response and instead she embraces him, getting all too close in the spaces he’s always kept himself hollow. “You’ve always been the best and that’s never going to change.” The smile still keeps as she nuzzles her face into his chest, before her arms are around his waist, clearly buzzed from the past five minutes. “Who else would I have dinner with, hm?”
#please stream the best girl group of all time >
joy voice silly oppa. you’re right! let me change it to “best GROUP of all time”! that’s more fitting, huh. dreamcatcher can just be the best girl group. >
[SMS: 걸크러쉬온니♡] when are you going to let me model one of your designs!!! [SMS] you promised!!!!
@pullstrings
The Show 🏆
「 ✉ ➤ little 🌙 」 ✖ when will you learn that “good” and “morning” should never be used together? ✖ yes, i woke up just for YOU. i hope you’re happy ㅠㅠ i can actually see the sun pouring into my apartment, i can’t believe you would torture your brother like this, ahn moonah. ✖ i guess my day is gonna be pretty damn cute then! i might suffocate under it all! ✖ i won’t, i promise! hey now. i’m a busy guy sometimes, i can’t help it. we’ll watch double the movies tonight to make up for it, okay? ✖ i’ll always have a good day as long as you’re around. you better have a good day too! and i can’t wait to see you later, most beautiful girl i’ve ever laid eyes on 🖤🖤🖤
[SMS: my ☼, my ☆, my ☾] when will oppa learn that every day is a good morning when the two moons are together!!!! [SMS] think of the sun as me. i am pouring into your room, hugging you all over and giving you warmth~ [SMS] ok! so I’m assuming the first movie is shining and what’s our second movie? * u * [SMS] also I packed you a supplemental lunch! it’s by the fridge so don’t forget to take it with you when you go out!!! [SMS] if you need a reason to smile remember there’s only 84 more days till spooky day! 'ㅅ'
@crookedflesh
[SMS: my ☼, my ☆, my ☾] pst... [SMS] good morning! i hope i didn’t wake you. actually i hope i did. kekekekeke [SMS] i just wanted to tell you that today is going to be great! you are going to have as cute as a day as i am! and as evil is! and as we are! [SMS] also don’t forget our movie date tonight!!! i’m still upset you forgot last time, hmph. [SMS] have a good day, the most handsome person in the universe 💕💕💕
☀ for moonah!!!
( @runest / source: here / status: not accepting! )
SEPTEMBER 03, 2002:
19:46:07
At nine years old, he wore the weariness of an old man. Bags drooped under his eyes, insomnia more of a friend than any fellow schoolchildren. Recently having been diagnosed with conduct disorder, the atmosphere of the mansion had darkened substantially. Knowing that something simmered within Moonsik’s skin, itching to crawl to the surface, his parents ignored him further. Gazes were no longer met at the dinner table, all possible questions about the day directed to the other child.
Her.
His nemesis, the burden on his already weighted life, his sister. A word he dared not speak aloud, willing it to never become fruition. They were merely connected by name (how dare his parents hand her his treasured Moon moniker) and blood, which to him meant absolutely nothing. If those who had created him could look upon him with nothing but regret staining their eyes, who was he to love her because they demanded him to do so?
He had never been good at listening.
He abhorred Moonah, could never stand the sight of her rosy cheeks and plump lips, always curled up into a sincere smile. How his parents curled their fingers into silky locks, beaming at her the way they should have beamed at him. They cooed her praises, lifted her off the ground into caring arms, allowed her to sleep in their bed when she had nightmares. While he laid off the to side, discarded like unworthy trash.
It was her birthday. Five rotten, filthy years he had to put up with her presence. Jealous-induced rage coursed through his veins at the sight of the gaudy tiara sitting on her head. The entire place had been done up in nauseous pink, except for his room, where only darkness touched. There was nothing more he wanted to do, than slam his fists into her face, until she saw nothing but black and blue. The same black and blue he felt on the inside.
But even at his youthful age, Moonsik was aware of repercussions. Murder, while a welcome concept in his beloved horror films, was not taken lightly in the real world.
That evening, when the family was sitting in the living room, gorging themselves on ice cream and children’s cartoons (both of which he couldn’t stand), he tiptoed up the stairs. His brain was wired to twitch during times like these, requiring him to become acquainted with chaos. Destroy, destroy, destroy.
Presents scattered across the floor of his sister’s room, a few only halfway opened, before abandoned for the next one. Not so subtly, he kicked each one out of the way, seeking out a very certain item in the pile. When his gaze met a doll, blond and effortlessly beautiful, he picked it up. For a moment, he stared, as if willing it to talk. Then the unmistakable urge settled in, smashing the doll to the floor repeatedly.
Cotton stuffing seeped out, aided by his own hands, until he became tired of the strenuous activity and ripped the entire thing off. Picking on those weaker than himself always left him with sunshine trickling in his stomach. He grinned, utterly pleased when he heard the door creak open more.
Turning around, he found Moonah, grinning that stupid grin of hers. Cake and ice cream smudged her expression. Moonsik sneered at the disgusting sight.
“Oppa― I know you don’t like sweet things, but I was wondering, if you wanted to―”
Her eyes widened, once she finally noticed the remains of her new doll settled at her brother’s feet, the mangled corpse still clutched in his hands. Swallowing the rest of her words, she looked down, frame stiffening.
He threw the toy to the ground, then purposefully bumped into Moonah on his way out.
“His head fell off,” Moonsik hissed under his breath, knowing she’d cover for him no matter what, out of some ignorant sibling loyalty. Later that night when sleep eluded him once again, he could hear her crying through the walls. He smiled, as he finally began to doze off.
[ ... ]
Jongin crosses his arms, and tilts his head away from Blythe to avoid listening to him breathing in his ear and to better observe the performance. He tries to allow himself to watch Xavier not from a critical leader point of view, but to watch him from Moonah’s perspective — it’s nearly easy to see why she adores him so. It’s nearly easy to see why Blythe adores him so, why everyone but Jongin seems to adore him.
But the tang of bitter jealousy has never been one of his favourite flavors. And he shuts the laptop as Xavier finishes his performance. Blythe removes his chin and stares at him curiously, but Jongin doesn’t give him the opportunity to ask any questions, and shoves the laptop into his hands instead.
He runs into Moonah in the hallway of the apartment that they’re all currently staying in.
Everything about her is an art. From the way she moves to the way she smiles is like putting on a suit of strong armor that no matter how hard or how much he tries he’ll never be able to pierce. And she’s lovely even in passing by him in the hall way. “Moonah.” He calls for her, hoping that she’ll stop. And It’s strange, since he was the one who had asked for permission to kiss her and yet he didn’t mean like this. Never like this. His cheek still burns.
“I’m sorry… about earlier.” And truly, he is. because Moonah you are my only love. And also, my only true friend.
She knows.
She may not be the most experienced, but for sure, she is not oblivious, even if she puts on the act. She’s known since Jongin’s stares have lingered on her a second longer than it should, and ever since he’s looked for her in places he shouldn’t.
She knows because Jongin watches her like she’s some form of religion; like she’s magic itself.
She knows because Jongin looks like she looks, and they are both brilliantly terrible at hiding secrets beyond the stage.
Her knowledge means that she’s tried -- to make something else of Jongin, someone else of him. Dismantle the very fiber of his being, and rebuild him into another. But it is cruel to ask him to change for the discourse of romance, and Jongin is just, Jongin -- and she loves him as just, Jongin. No less -- no more.
“Jongin.” She calls back to him, playfully so, (cruelly so). “What do you mean? Oh, you mean... silly. It’s not like I haven’t stumbled with my words on stage before too. No need to apologize.” A smile lifts onto her face as she becomes another lie.
(She hates how easy it all is.)
@lnglorious
[SMS: dimple boy] you still owe me a date? and you never gave me back my notebook. [SMS] you don’t need it as an excuse to see me you know, I’d love to see you again even without the book.
[ ... ]
You asked me for honesty and I will give you nothing but. The girl was me – is me. Still me.
You asked me how I dealt with my sexuality and I will tell you that I was never able to deal with it, never able to come to terms with it. Almost embracing, but not quite accepting. Almost fearing, but not quite rejecting.
Because here’s the thing with girls loving girls: every kiss, every touch, every fuck is a sin in the eyes of the conservative public. They don’t tell you that girls loving girls is a disease, an addiction. They don’t tell you anything because nobody is supposed to know. Because girls loving other girls is a secret, a dirty thing.
Here’s the thing with loving girls, starshine: they don’t tell you that behind every i love you whispered is a shotgun held behind your head and someone whispering, shame, shame, shame.
To: █████@gmail.com Cc: hangsangjoy@gmail.com Subject: No Subject
Hi there Clover,
Maybe this is weird for you, but it’s also very weird on my end too, so hear me out. I don’t really like emails all that much, and I might regret typing this out, and maybe, I won’t even ever send it. But at this very moment, it’s what I’m doing and I’m going to see what comes out of it.
I sent in that ask you replied to on Monday, last Monday. The one about sexuality. I wanted to thank you, first, for replying to me. I think I was almost half asleep when I sent it, but I have been a big fan of your blog for a while and... it was a question I had more than just once. I always love your posts and pieces about you coming into realization about something, and when I read somewhere when you wrote with a passing thought that you weren’t, well, just straight, immediately I grew curious. And I had to ask. And so I did.
I’m not exactly sure what I feel about girls yet. I just know that I like boys and that’s what I’ve always thought myself to feel. But one of my friends, a close friend, around this time last year, left for a better place because of one reason, and that was because he liked boys when every other boy liked a girl. He didn’t mean to, but he came out on accident and then our whole high school knew about it the next day. And then the following day, he didn’t come to class.
I hope he’s reading your piece up wherever he is, in a better place. I hope he’s reading your piece and if there’s something I know, it’s that he thanks you. And so I thank you too. On behalf of all the dead, or alive, boys, girls, and whatever in between and outside of those two genders that struggle with what you struggled through.
This is getting long, so I don’t want to waste your busy blogging time... and I’ll end it here.
My name is... well, let me call myself Sunflower, or something. I want a cool alias like you too. Again, I’m a big fan and I hope you continue to do what you do. And that’s inspire both girls and boys, and whatever in between and outside of those two genders.
Thank you, Clover. As always.
- Sunflower
Hello starshine,
First question of the day and you literally don’t pull your punches!! Jokes aside, I want to tell you a story first and then I’ll answer you honestly.
You’re fifteen–young, rebellious, a chip on your shoulder and a bone to pick with the world–when you meet this girl. Charming, genuine, bright eyes and a nice smile. It’s the smile that gets you. Gets you real good.
This is classic high school: a local sweetheart, the cliche first love, doe-eyed and beautiful. Then there’s you: cat-eyed, a loner, and a sight for sore eyes; all red lips and eye liner, and sad, sad eyes.
This isn’t a movie, though. Falling in love was never supposed to happen – but that’s what they all say, right? Well, it isn’t love. Not exactly.
(Because girls aren’t supposed to love girls. Aren’t supposed to kiss them tender, kiss them sweet, and love them soft, love them raw, love them whole, shattered, or in pieces.
Girls aren’t supposed to love girls. Just because.)
Three months in, and you watch her lie to her mother, calling you friends. Even though, ten minutes ago you kissed her so hard, you thought you felt her heart burst beneath your palm, beneath your fingers. You’re still friends, after dinner when you’re saying goodbye and can’t kiss her lips in front of her father with his shotgun mounted on the wall and her mother with the Bible in her hands. So you settle for a kiss on the cheek and a brush of fingertips – a mockery of holding hands.
(There’s no reason to say something. No reason to get defensive. No reason to hold her close in front of people because girls aren’t supposed to love girls.)
Two weeks later, you’re lying in bed walking your fingers up her spine, mapping each ridge, each curve, each little indent and dip. She asks you what you’re doing and you kiss her quiet and tell her you’re memorizing, just memorizing, when she falls asleep with her head against your chest, her palm pressed over your heart.
You try not to cry when she mouths mine in her sleep and tell yourself you’re only friends.
Six days later, you kiss her with your fingers between her thighs, in the bathroom stall in the fifth floor gym. You tell her between kisses that words don’t hurt, that you won’t lose to skank, dyke, whore written in permanent marker on your locker. You don’t tell her that’s why you let her kiss you in the dark. Let her fuck you with the curtains closed, doors locked, with a hand covering your mouth.
(You pretend you don’t notice her always with her head turned, checking to see if anyone’s watching. You pretend it doesn’t hurt.)
Ten weeks later, and she still touches you (kisses you, fucks you) with the lights off, the Bible under her mattress, and the portrait of the Virgin Mary and Jesus watching. Judging. Always judging.
Seven months now and she’s only ever called you beautiful once. In public. With her fingers in your hair and a smile on her face. Her eyes are elsewhere, though. Lingering on the quarterback with the square jaw and the killer smile.
You can’t kiss her here, in front of a stadium full of high school kids.
You can’t kiss her anywhere at all.
(Because girls aren’t supposed to kiss girls. Girls aren’t supposed to love girls.)
Eight months and you’ve had enough.
You’re done with the lies, the skirting touches, the passing glances.
You could’ve let her press you against the mattress after school, five days a week, her lips against your throat and your heart aching in her hands. You could’ve let her call you beautiful again (in the dead of the night. when her parents are asleep, Bibles tucked away, shotgun hidden in the closet) with a hand on your breast and i love you whispered against your lips.
You could’ve remained her dirty little secret. A kind of fear she keeps locked behind closed doors, kept sheltered, away from prying eyes and loose lips. You could’ve loved her quietly and kept her quiet little moans and gentle little quakes of her body all to yourself, housed in the caverns of your bleeding heart, locked behind a gilded cage of bone.
But eight months and you’re tired of it all. Tired of pretending, tired of lying, tired of fearing. Tired.
You break it to her softly, mouthing i’ll love you always along the curve of her spine, lips kissing, loving, memorizing. over and over again.
You tell her you love her and never come back.
(Because girls aren’t supposed to love girls.)
You asked me for honesty and I will give you nothing but. The girl was me – is me. Still me.
You asked me how I dealt with my sexuality and I will tell you that I was never able to deal with it, never able to come to terms with it. Almost embracing, but not quite accepting. Almost fearing, but not quite rejecting.
Because here’s the thing with girls loving girls: every kiss, every touch, every fuck is a sin in the eyes of the conservative public. They don’t tell you that girls loving girls is a disease, an addiction. They don’t tell you anything because nobody is supposed to know. Because girls loving other girls is a secret, a dirty thing.
Here’s the thing with loving girls, starshine: they don’t tell you that behind every i love you whispered is a shotgun held behind your head and someone whispering, shame, shame, shame.
