oneshot, maneater
They tell you very early, during the first meeting: you don’t form intracompany relationships. It was of no importance to you, the words passed through your ears and slid off your shoulders because it’s always been bros over hoes and no one’s changing that now.
Even when you meet SM’s most femininely prized possession, Girls’ Generation, your eyes don’t linger on any of them and there’s no hitch in your breath. (They’re dressed in track suits and loose t-shirts, so maybe that’s why but you’ve never been the superficial type so case closed.)
Unfortunately, no one tells you that you’ve only met eight, not nine.
When you do meet the ninth, it’s in front of a drinking fountain outside the dance studio. She’s in some uniform, tight blazer, tight shorts, legs for miles. She drinks, so unlike the way you’re used to seeing (four boys pushing and shoving, slobbering and slurping); it occurs to you that you haven’t spent more than five minutes with a girl in the last couple of months. When she’s done she leaves without a single glance at you or anywhere even remotely towards you.
You stare and end up getting slapped in the back of head by Jinki for your tardiness.
*
The next time you see her, she’s surrounded by people-members, paparazzi, fans that look ready to give an organ just to touch-and the looks she gives out are everything but generous causing boys, men and even some girls to clutch their chest in heartbreak.
It’s then you hear a distinct ringing in your head, bells and whistles signaling a warning-ACHTUNG, VERBOTEN-while somewhere in the back of your throat you hum, “oh here she comes, watch out boy, she’ll chew you up.”
Naturally you don’t listen to anything your brain protests or the sting each time she blatantly ignores you because you’ve always heeded to your more aesthetic, poetic side (i.e. unrequited love, heartbreak). It doesn’t discourage, it motivates, you try to explain to Jinki and Key who just shake their heads and pat your back like you’re going off to war or something.
“You’re going for the impossible,” Minho brashly tells you when Jinki’s hand starts hurting from all the slaps he’s given you.
But to you Minho’s words sound attractive. You smile and nod (it appeases them somewhat so you play along) while keeping her name on the tip of your tongue, just enough to keep away suspicion.
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Even when you meet SM’s most femininely prized possession, Girls’ Generation, your eyes don’t linger on any of them and there’s no hitch in your breath. (They’re dressed in track suits and loose t-shirts, so maybe that’s why but you’ve never been the superficial type so case closed.)
Unfortunately, no one tells you that you’ve only met eight, not nine.
When you do meet the ninth, it’s in front of a drinking fountain outside the dance studio. She’s in some uniform, tight blazer, tight shorts, legs for miles. She drinks, so unlike the way you’re used to seeing (four boys pushing and shoving, slobbering and slurping); it occurs to you that you haven’t spent more than five minutes with a girl in the last couple of months. When she’s done she leaves without a single glance at you or anywhere even remotely towards you.
You stare and end up getting slapped in the back of head by Jinki for your tardiness.
*
The next time you see her, she’s surrounded by people-members, paparazzi, fans that look ready to give an organ just to touch-and the looks she gives out are everything but generous causing boys, men and even some girls to clutch their chest in heartbreak.
It’s then you hear a distinct ringing in your head, bells and whistles signaling a warning-ACHTUNG, VERBOTEN-while somewhere in the back of your throat you hum, “oh here she comes, watch out boy, she’ll chew you up.”
Naturally you don’t listen to anything your brain protests or the sting each time she blatantly ignores you because you’ve always heeded to your more aesthetic, poetic side (i.e. unrequited love, heartbreak). It doesn’t discourage, it motivates, you try to explain to Jinki and Key who just shake their heads and pat your back like you’re going off to war or something.
“You’re going for the impossible,” Minho brashly tells you when Jinki’s hand starts hurting from all the slaps he’s given you.
But to you Minho’s words sound attractive. You smile and nod (it appeases them somewhat so you play along) while keeping her name on the tip of your tongue, just enough to keep away suspicion.
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