selfcontrol
multific: 001 - ??? gdragon+idol!reader warning: swearing, run-on sentences, addiction to prepositions maybe. stained with the tears of my efforts. stench of potential angst and probable sexual tension. more ugly grammar usage. sorry!!!
Bite of the lip, a thick swallow down to the throat followed by the strange, burning sweetness of the alcohol. a grip to your shot glass and a single raised eyebrow because when you recognize that tell-tale mismatch of tattoos– oh wow –there it is. There he is, Kwon Jiyong, sunbae, admiration, and a one-time fling that you couldn’t be desperate enough to forget about. You feel like a full mess, as if ocean waves would pull you down into a salty undertow of strong emotion. Weakness, it’s all you can feel with fingers desperate for the hold onto shot glass, condensation slipping the glass underneath pads and dripping onto your foot.
It’s official. You’re nothing more than a weakness.
Who knew weaknesses were dressed in half-priced accessories and irritatingly snug outfits? Like all you ever needed was a bow to top it off. There you are-- here you are-- one in the crowd and not even of the crowd, not with the crowd. It’s as though something holds you back, apart from them all. And it’s him, it has to be him. The feeling of Jiyong puts you on the spot. Of Jiyong, not from seeing him; you could swear he’s seeping into your bloodstream and clogging up spaces needed to give you life. The bastard. He’s already ruined your breathing, your life, your focus for everything else.
The feeling puts you on the spot. Unseen spotlight with voices around you, bodies dripping sweat and emanating desperation with their cheers, screams, and cries for moremoremore by the DJ. You, standing with your heels dug into your will, like it was cement. You weren’t to be moved; no, you were glued by sudden fear and stubbornness. In a place where the air was sucked in. The building breathed alongside partygoers and each inhale was just one more step to close brick walls onto you. Weakness; like a sore spot with a green spotlight. How so green? You figured the color of envy was befitting.
God, it felt as if his eyes would find you soon and ohmy, you could see the neon green bathing you in color. You were greengreengreen. A weakness, hadn’t he once said so? Green tasted like sour milk, copper wires, salty crackers, bitter perfume by Chanel. Green, dark and emerald yet bright and coruscating. Contrasting enough to cause the dizziness that came from the pit of your stomach-- or was it nausea? Better not be butterflies, you would chug enough pesticide to drown and kill them all. Fuck butterflies. You’d rather it just be gas from dinner earlier.
Pah-pang to the heart; a shock of the chest that reverberates and has you clutching the edge of the booth’s table. Wearing a fake, plastered smile on your mouth like Balmain’s most envied accessory, you struggled to swallow down the dizziness and rush of blood to your head. This, the first time you had spotted him in a full four months, which was one damn miracle given occupation and circle of friends you both had found yourselves sharing. Social circles were easy to come by in the entertainment life but a circle you could trust with your secrets? Your frustrations? To share the gossip of oh-what’s-his-face was hooking up with hyung-over-there and unnie-from-here is cheating on her company’s approved boyfriend with rival-trainee-so-and-so? You weren’t apt to create a new one just because that one night had happened between you and the man of a thousand-and-one-ways-to-tease.
Your social circle had never fully grown past a few close friends from trainee days and the few foreigners that paid no care or mind to the going-ons of Korean idollites. Could they be trustworthy? A select few, perhaps. Often times, they were useful as an enjoyable distraction, a welcome escape from the pressures and responsibilities. Millionaires, designers, stylists, artists alike could mix and match but few would ever fully gain the trust of the golden high class of Seoul that you were apart of. Long-standing, the high class was, names which held weighted reverence; the dongsaengs that had been part of the growing generation who influenced the sounds and trainees of today.
“i want to be like her.” “i tried out for an idol because of her.” “sunbae was the reason i wanted to sing.” “have you ever seen unnie dance and sing onstage? i want to be like that.” “she inspires me.”
You were one. A name worth knowing, a name people wanted to keep in their contacts, that which was thrown around when someone wished to become impressive. Anyone could claim to know you but oh, the few that did would admit you had a fair share of shit endured. No squeaky clean image, no scandal withstanding, not without dirty laundry that was hush-hush’d about. What had happened those months ago was still a scandal waiting to happen-- and bless the company president for lining pockets of reporters. But now, this. Sickness was threatening to dredge itself back up the back of your throat. Haneul, a labelmate, caught onto your hollow conversational effort. With a gentle squeeze to your hand, she whispered your name as if to pull you from distraction, then following the full of your gaze to its end. The grip around your hand tightened, her mouth dropped open because–
Because, oh shit, there Jiyong is with a care-free smirk and hair slicked back and sleeves rolled up and tattoos near gleaming under the red neon lights from his sweat, the wetness of a night well spent dancing and gathering up the heat. He’s here, you’re there. You’re right there with your back pressed up to a man that’s just a head taller and a size bigger with muscles to push you to his chest and his breath: hot, stuffy, up against your ear. He was going on about a dance which you had promised, Haneul’s hand falling from yours. You can’t hear him, you can’t focus on these syllables falling out clumsily with his slurring, thick tongue. You feel the effects of alcohol dizzying you, his hands on your elbows when hips match to the drum of bass which seems to only echo throughout your bones.
It’s ten seconds before Jiyong somehow manages to first catch sight of you in the club. The first time in four months and he’s finally seen you in the same space, your presence suddenly filling up the club like lungs filling with air. A pink hue to everything; it all fades, something’s soft, and he’s unable to take upon the sight of you in that dress, with that tattoo peeking right out under the strap, the gloss of your lips, the way strands of hair stick to your neck, the way your hips are movi– The way you’re being held. The man behind you. His hands on you.
Jiyong doesn’t smile, he doesn’t spend another second staring until your eyes manage to catch his at the last second. Like the world stops– Pause, for a second. The breath you can’t catch comes in full, bringing his name past your lips in exhale and he, full of a sudden emotion, complies with one soft inhale of your own. Beats coming to an end, the crowd never thinning and only your eyes managing to stay still whilst the rest of your body moves.
Auto-pilot, the man behind you being no more of a thought which is holds the mere weight of a feather. Auto-pilot, Jiyong’s eyes narrowing when he sees that mouth near your ear. Auto-pilot, your weakness of the knees when Jiyong turns around with bottle in hand and a sense of pure annoyance that causes another sudden lurch of your stomach. You don’t know what he’s thinking, across the club with the sea of people between you both.
Because it’s been four months since that one night and you’ve had too many nights then since to think of what-ifs and what-could-have-beens.
