ignite
idaein:
“you’re a train, too. it can just be mutually assured destruction.” he teases back, noses brushing, cheek dimpling. “hurt me back.” he whispers it out, a rather fucked up way to word ‘give us a chance’ but that’s where they’re at, that’s what he chooses to go with. he smiles, something genuine. something he feels running wild, rampant through his chest. something that fuels him, those words. he bridges the gap between them, kisses her. it’s soft, one hand moving up to fit against her jaw. “i know i love you,” it’s mumbled back, a laugh that’s muffled when he kisses her again.
it is perhaps ironic how eager they both are to push the power to the other party, to mentally construct some narrative that centers themselves as the one doomed to pain. maybe that’s what brings them together in the first place, this mutually assured destruction. ryan has always existed in this industry as an aberration, as a success story against the odds. the ugly duckling turned nation’s first love, forever trapped in the amber trappings of some retro, idealized, nostalgic first love. doomed to a lifetime of romantic comedies and tennis skirts and school uniforms no matter how enthusiastically her company pushes the sexually explicit stick it to the man image on her group. as if nothing can overcome the youthfulness of her face. it doesn’t help that she is resolute in her insistence on short cut hair and a personal style that resembles more “i stole this from my boyfriend’s closet and i guess it fits” than it does “ i stole your boyfriend because i’m a super seductress.” the world creates the image they want to see from her and then crucifies her when she falls short or when she actively challenges the narrative, a catch 22 that leaves her lodged in an impossible situation.
daein in many ways feels like a breath of fresh air, a lifting of burdens. daein, being so odd in his own right, doesn’t care that they met on the snowy set of a show where she spent most of her lines crying or bleeding out. daein doesn’t care that her personal image straddles the line of the virgin and the whore with reckless abandon, paired with a tightrope proficiency to put the cirque du soleil to shame. daein doesn’t care that she likes out of style clothes and doesn’t wear the right, trendy kind of makeup. he doesn’t mind her as she is, the package that is ryan, a girl existing between worlds and between moments. not quite an idol and not quite an actress and not quite a soloist and not quite korean enough and not quite foreign enough and what is she, anyway? is she cute or is she sexy? is she a bear or is she a fox? does she even know? she wrote those lyrics at twenty three and two years later she’s still not sure she’s any closer to having an idea of who she is. maybe she never will. and maybe that will be okay.
looking at him now, feeling the heat of him so close to her, with her hands coming up to wind around broad shoulders, fingertips buried in soft hair, it feels like it could be alright. like it might be worth it to lose herself in this and in him, to let herself be swept away. “you’re just greedy. you want me to give you everything i have,” she accuses, but can she blame him for it, when she demands the same with less promise of return? she’s lucky he’s stuck around this long in the first place. how long had it even taken her not to run from the barest hint that he might refer to her as his girlfriend, when so many would die for that opportunity with this man.
maybe she’s the greedy one, or spoiled, maybe she’s been the fool all along. maybe loving isn’t foolish but necessary. hadn’t it given her her voice back? hadn’t he given her that, for all she tried to hold it back, to hold him back? she sighs against his lips, a laugh half breathless. “i want to hurt you. i want you to hurt me.” she admits, a twisted expression that means well and rings too true. his lips burn against hers and she melts against him, drags a hand over his shoulder, down his chest to fist around a handful of fabric, as if to anchor herself in place or to hold him there with her. “say that again,” she demands of him, a smile against his lips. “even though i have short hair? and i’m not… curvy or...or tall or poised or graceful or sexy or trendy?” she adds insistent between kisses, nips light at his lips, because sometimes a girl needs a little reassurance. “even though i’m not im sooyeon or bae soho or ahn jowi and why did you fuck all the prettiest girls in this industry i mean i know you’re handsome but you’re really stressing me out here.” she breaks back slightly to pout at him, brows furrowing, the expression more playful than not but disguising a kernel of truth.











