red fantasy.

there's something in the dark. son jiyong of imperial.

[idjiyong]

don’t steal my shit. 

[idjiyong]

skins.

envy has a particular look on him that doesn’t suit the contours sculpting his face. it makes everything look asymmetrical — more exhausted. as if his beauty has long since peaked and is now disintegrating by the seconds. it makes him look too mortal. no make-up or management to smooth over the uneven tones scattered across his face. nothing of the idol allure that furnishes his look, disguising the flaws cratered into his personality. sometimes the circadian routine of it all makes him forget that he’s real. a vessel pumping blood and ideas the same as the charmed masses that await each comeback and fill each audience. 

it’s on a thursday that they meet again. in the dead of night with dusk melting away as stars grow prevalent in the midnight passing above. they taunt his steps in the reflection of rainwater littering the pavement as he makes his way. they reflect his shadow — thin and gangly like a monstrous entity, poked through with holes; his entire mirage slipping. 

he could blame it on coincidence, but they both know that this — them, is on purpose. he knows where she’ll be, and she knows where he’s watching. they know how to approach, how the seconds count down before they start. how it always falls just before one and not on one when he leans in and begins his part; becomes what she wishes he really was. he never has the intention of repeating this, but this happens on its own. it’s not like jiyong’s ever had much control over his actions anyway. he’s part impulse as he is part angry as he is part many things. part of her hopes, of her motives, of the fantasies she fills him with too.

they’re a metamorphosis of a vicious cycle, running on a perennial timeline. but at least it’s easy. he’s given carte blanche with her; naked self-expression disguised in the silhouette of who she wishes he’d be. it’s the art of deceit. it’s of their taste — what they’re the best at. so it’s what they do every time they meet, and it’s what they submit to tonight. 

jowi stands across the hallway from him. a couple feet away at max. 

they’re at what was supposed to be a small celebration for the birthday of their friend from grade school. but things like this escalate as they always do, and the walls reverberate with loud music, pulsing through his muscles as he leans into it. “miss me?” he challenges, the tone light-hearted, dotted with mischief and a little something else. jiyong can sense something pervading the charming nonchalance he normally portrays. it boils in his stomach — the spoiled feelings of jealousy — as if he wants to devastate her entirely. consume the joy that paints onto her lips. only him and only her. 

“you look good, honestly,” he then adds. but it only sounds like a misplaced after-thought. 

july, with jowi. ( @idjowi )

[idjiyong]

phantom.

when he crawls back, he comes in pieces. there’s son jiyong, the musician. the poet that clings to sadness, scared that losing it would mean losing his affinity for words. there’s son jiyong, again, but this time as the lover — or the half-lover. the boy trying to be a man, trying to take charge over an intangible concept that can’t be swallowed then spat out, only felt. there’s him — hers. the property that’ll always be owned, that’ll never return to him even if she tried. they don’t fit with who he is now, yet who he is standing before her is still the same silhouette that blankets her at night. the same shadow that taunts her when she’s alone in her bedroom and jaundice lights shift across her walls. the ones that make her wonder — is it you? are you here?

it’s like he doesn’t know how any better — and it’s true, he doesn’t. it’s between the potential chance of moving on and the certainty of consuming her again. so he goes with the latter. it’s not as if he’s ever considered a different option. they exist, sure, but only in theory. in reality, with them, what was will always take over what can be, and ghosts of their past are to never leave their post. they remain, haunting them as they haunt one another. plaguing them with shame when they’re face-to-face, fingertips tingling, stares anticipating.

this is them. the amalgamation of immoral decisions. weak chances stretched sheer, translucent, past their limits. a love they continue to consume when it’s long since expired. a taste they chase through kisses, hoping to recover the full effect. the midnights. the kind of season that unfurls between them when they’re together. the dawns left empty, barren of magic. only for them to realize that this isn’t a fantasy. magic isn’t real. he just knows where to touch, he just knows how to feel. 

snippets of a boy take shape. they approach her door, they buzz the doorbell. they wait in the agonizing stretch of silence that weighs like hours but only passes as seconds. he is painted into every corner of her doorway, and there’s more of him decorating the space inside. jiyong’s sure of that. the linen sheets wrinkled in the contour of their bodies. the pillows pressed in a vision of the couple that’d spent mere moments there prior. maybe even the kitchen, though he never really went in there much. not when they were ending, tearing apart at their seams, threadbare edges caught in the loop of bed, sex, sleep.

when she opens the door, he smiles. it’s charming, reminiscent of the way he’d always been with her. it doesn’t feel like a mask has veiled the person he’d come here as. it’s a reflex, an automatic response to something threatening, and god, she is the most lethal thing in this hallway. at least to him. with her steely gaze. the unwavering attention. how she bites into every word he says and swallows it hard, digesting every bit, every intention hidden away in the blend of flavors. how she holds all the decisions between the scintilla dotting her eyes.

she has a way with emotions that he can’t express in words.

(she has a way of possessing his thoughts late into the night too. holding them hostage until all he witnesses is her. his phantom. now he always feels her before he feels someone else.)

jiyong’s tongue ghosts over his lips, the flesh tugged between a set of ivories quickly after. words escape him, and so do the motives that led him here. suddenly, he’s not sure why he’s come to her. he’s just glad that she’s opened the door. that she’s let him in. 

june, with seolhee. ( @idsophia )

[idjiyong]

whats up idolize 3.0!!! these new changes have me so excited and i can’t wait to plot and thread with you guys again! i suck at intros so i’ll keep this short lmao! hi! i’m back again with my problematic muse son jiyong. he’s pretty much the same tbh. still a hypocritical, resentful imperial boy chasing for an impossible solo debut and trying to make it big. some traits: selfish, quick-tempered, petty. i wracked my mind to think of some good ones and ig he’s charming-ish(?). career-wise, i’m working him to become more variety/fashion based, but he’s a songwriter first and foremost! anyway, please hit me up if you’re interested in plotting! i’m still a total snail, but i promise to be more active this time around <33 p.s his plot page lists most of his former connections, so lemme know if you wanna confirm or change them, etc. 

bio / profile / relations 

[paieun]

Visit Original Link

[idjiyong]

sleep on it.

[idjiyong]

idryusan:

“why didn’t you just get a taxi? or a hotel room?” san asks him, the words muttered out. they sound bitter, probably because they are. “no. it’s the same, everything’s the same. you just forgot about it.” you forgot about me. but that would sound pathetic, so san doesn’t speak. just folds his arms across his stomach and grabs at his elbows. he’s not lying. it’s the same long couch, the same boring decorations, the same modern sterility. all from the interior designer his mother hired when he’d first moved in. san wants to ask it again – why are you here? – because it almost seems like jiyong’s answer was a lie as he watches him lounge, foot swaying, a familiar smile stretched across a drunken, dazed expression. san clenches his molars, turns his back on him and pours more into his glass. “call your manager. a taxi. taeho. something. i don’t care who.” 

jiyong was born clutching onto bad habits. robbing the air of its beauty, tormenting the world with his heinous vision. everything looked like a thief, everything was a criminal and a threat, and he couldn’t storm into situations without weapons nearby. his words are carved as daggers, laced with poison as he utters them with cruel purpose. it’s not that he’s a bad boy, it’s that things like hatred come with ease. there are no rebounds or prices to pay. nothing but copious amounts of rage doused in alcohol ignited with coal black glares and seared into sooty remnants of what was and what could’ve been. 

it’s like he’s renting san out as some human blockbuster. indulging the former friendship with popcorn and some perverted sarcasm. it’s interesting san mentions taeho. it’s interesting that he believes they’re that close, that jiyong — fucking jiyong — would get seriously close to anyone. it’s as if san doesn’t see the example jay has made of him. you can’t trust anyone, you can’t rely on anyone, and jiyong lives by it — thrives off of it. there are only a select few he can bring close, but even those interactions are done behind a veil of hypocrisy and something vile to disguise his more hideous nature. the rest are temporary accessories; stepping stones helping him get from one place to the other. 

san brought his gaze into focus, and taeho showed him how to treat it. how to spoil his intentions and indulge and indulge, to drink a bit more, to cuss a little meaner. it was like a snake shedding skin, hues of green brightening the more he fell into the loop of what freedom should taste like. but that’s the thing. that’s all there is to it. and while he calls taeho a friend, swings his arm around his shoulders, draws him near with laughter ringing in their close conversations and mirroring gazes, taeho too, feels like something temporary. 

“why that, when i’ve got this,” he drawls. when i’ve got you. and that isn’t thought with nice intent or a sweet lilt, it’s hissed with the venom of a snake, a sort of blood-lusty vibe to it only akin to vampires. jiyong’s out with a motive even he doesn’t understand. all that exists is this disgusting and insatiable thirst to drain san clean and leave him just as a carcass; a mockery made of the olympus performer. after all, san’s just a skeleton with layers of muscle and bone, the property of many things, many people, but never his own. 

the questions lend a chuckle from jiyong’s parted lips, their interrogation instigating a new curiosity. “i’m aware of your anxieties, i didn’t think i’d end up as one of them. do i make you nervous, san?”

[idjiyong]

stand still.

[idjiyong]

idsophia: 

“too loud.” she doesn’t know where to go from here. thinks this is the part where she should apologize for intruding, turn around, and leave. she’s always been good at that — running away. and yet, with him so close, she can’t bring herself to leave. can’t bring herself to lie. despite everything, she still cares. always has. “too much?” it’s whisper soft, her voice; almost outweighed by the concern that seeps right out. “why are you hiding here?” who — or what — are you hiding from?

in moments almost quiet, like these, he’s tempted to hold his breath. it can be hard to find pockets of catharsis littered around at events so grandiloquent in style. in the upper echelons of the idol industry, their world is smeared in incarnadine shades. it’s pretty, but it’s stifling, and the flowers unfurl rapidly, blossoming in the cavities of his chest until there’s no space left to breathe. nothing but a still moment that feels dragged on forever when really, it’s just a split-second of reality turned into a lengthened daydream. the beautiful parts of their days are just this, and he knows he’s not the only one aware of it. 

jiyong peels his gaze from the glimmers in her eyes and the familiar bow of her lips. he’s toured those curves before with a set of his own; pink against pink, breathes rising and falling, quickening before the kiss until alas they’re caught between the rosy flesh. his mouth nestled firmly against hers with the entire world held still in their romantic reign. these memories pool quickly in the pit of his stomach, and the flutters he feels aren’t shallow despite the months they’ve spent apart. they’re visceral, deeply entangled within his organs, a grasp clenched around his heart. 

it’s so easy with seolhee, and that’s what makes this so hard. 

his tongue skims his lip, then he relents a sigh and shifts his shoulder against the wood; the ache felt more prominently under the study of her gaze. he doesn’t know how to answer her, and frankly, this sight isn’t uncommon for them. jiyong, the writer, the boy chased by words and phrases, haunted with so much to say, to write — found empty, with nothing left to be uttered. it’s like all certainty has left him, just like his morals, and just like his self-restraint. they never talked much anyway. 

“yeah,” he curtly responds, but he traces over more to mention, “it doesn’t seem like your scene.” not without me, but they both already know how that goes. “i’m — uh... i’m — yeah, it’s just, too much, you know? too loud for me too,” jiyong laughs. it’s not what he means to say, but he isn’t sure how honest he’s allowed to be. would she even understand? that he’s hiding here because he feels like some love-sick fool, and that with her, it all just gets worse — more confusing, more overwhelming. god, it’s so suffocating. 

he looks at her again. swallows. “sorry.” something else is supposed to follow, but his mouth clamps shut. 

jiyong tugs at his collar. he needs air. 

[idtaeho-deactivated20190714]

breaking point

[idjiyong]

idtaeho:

“so all i need right now, jiyong, is a good friend. a good fucking friend. someone to go out with me and allow me to get wasted out of my mind and not get caught by stupid crazy ass fans,” he says as he gets closer to him, hands him the clothes he just caught. taeho smiles. he should’ve asked jaeyul. that’s on him for trying to be a good friend to jiyong and get him something for his birthday. obviously, he’s not doing anything to deserve. “so you can be a good friend, right? i’m sure you can. get up. get dressed. and let’s go.”

jiyong tilts his neck, the base of his jaw held by his palm, elbow digging into his knee as he stares at taeho sideways. a good friend, the gentle smirk is automatic, multi-faceted. it could mean anything, but he doesn’t delve into it like he should. maybe if they both did once in a while they’d understand the underlying messages that precede such grins and such glares — the ones decorated with ominous hues. you can be a good friend, right? jiyong bursts into a smile. “of course man, ‘course — you got it.” 

“what you really need is to get laid," he teases. it’s not his problem. the scandal isn’t his. sometimes jiyong is wary about engaging someone like taeho and indulging him in all his appetite and all his biases. sometimes jiyong ponders if it’s worth being affiliated with someone like him — if this ‘friendship’ is deserving of the risky gambling that comes with associating oneself with the scandalous oh taeho. 

regardless, he revels, he opens his jaw and drinks in the demands and satisfies them, not because taeho wants it, but because it’s convenient, and because jiyong wants it too. as the lethargy wanes, his figure snaps into shape, gaze narrowing into its typical glower, the honey crescents crowned by the dip of his brows and the strands of hair that hang in a tangled mess on his head. 

he’s intrigued to ask. what the fuck even happened, but then he realizes he’s not actually that curious. san has always been cunning. there’s a reason taeho picks on him, jostles him around and bares his hatred threateningly in the others face. besides the obvious rivalry and discrimination, they’re alike in shrewd manners, and people of a comparable kind don’t always mesh well together. 

unlike san though, taeho is upfront about his nefarious attitude. he’s transparent, while the other is shrouded in a riddle. genuinely, san is a born performer. jiyong’s got to give him credit. he was really molded to be an idol. 

moments like this, jiyong feels glad he cut things off with san, glad that he was so vindictive that he left physically unscathed. the emotional cost doesn’t matter. at least san didn’t take a hit at his career like he constantly does with taeho, but then another thought follows immediately, and see, jiyong hates this. he despises how quickly one chases after the next and how inevitable the truth is, how harsh the guilt nails him in the gut. i fucked up, it was me.

when he’s showered and ready, he stares expectantly at the enraged figure stalking his room. “ready to vent that anger with booze and music?”

[idjiyong]

skyscape.

[idjiyong]

idmilo:

“and how have you been then? besides despairing of my ravishing company. ” he drawls, all faux-eloquent, as if he might have stepped from the pages of a novel, his brow quirking upwards in an amused flick at his own expense. 

jiyong doesn’t learn things easily. they need to be repeated, berating against his skull and whispered angrily into his ears before it makes any sense. he’s intuitive, but picking up on the mood of things is without the addition of deliberate contemplation isn’t easy for him. tonight he’s come empty handed with a simple logic in mind: to self-destruct under the influence of alcohol and the prevailing night with a long-time companion by his side, their shit-faced adventures rolling out onto the pavement and their laughter echoing down the streets. 

“then why do you look so out of it,” the words rush out over the cadence of his debilitated tone, like he’s being dragged to the ground, heavy as he steps, heavy as the pull magnetizes his stare to the ground. two poles tugged near; it’s between the height of his ego and the dirt scuffed under his shoes and sometimes it feels too difficult to lift his gaze, but milo makes those burdens easier to bear. he dissolves the ravaging chaos in his life, reminding him life isn’t a titanomachy that’ll trail him to a bloodied end, and jiyong likes to think he’s just as useful. the lazy curl of his fingers shoving him headfirst into wild ideas he’s too worried to take alone, guiding the route to a life with the reigns let loose. they need that sometimes. 

“cleary not-fucking-well,” he grins, sheepish. “but i’m still doing better than you, it seems. you should stay away from mirrors for a while, those dark circles are really damaging your entire aesthetic,” jiyong teases. “stressed?” the musing is hardly appropriate, insinuating a life where that emotion doesn’t linger as the mocking insecurity which comes with their success. the question enables an automatic response: duh. 

his gaze is drawn onto the designs bordering the wall and then falls to the amber tones littering milo’s glass. “started without me, such a shame,” he pouts in fake dismay. 

he abhors the kind of anxieties that wait for them with the stages, and the distress manifests itself clearly as jiyong tugs at his hoodie, inky strands of his hair disarrayed as they rest on his head. although it takes him a while to digest the habits and routines of certain things, there's a chafed innocent to this that he recognizes. the tensions don’t hinder the teasing grins or the sarcastic quips that litter his mouth and the moments following, even if they exist painstakingly obvious. it’s something he doesn’t realize he needs but is found regardless in every interaction that awaits with milo; a kindred sentiment that ruptures towards the sky with an open palm.  

[peperomint-deactivated20160104]

im a level 56 emo. I cast 3 shadows and one of them isnt even mine. its an astral projection of pete wentzs shadow from 2008

[idjiyong]

good guy.

this is a foreign sensation: a mix of rage and lust entangled until its bitter taste stings sweet, and it’s bruising grip purples prettily. jowi arouses this feeling from him with ease. just a glance and he finds his jaw tightening and gaze narrowing, an urgency fluttering in his stomach. like he needs to decide and take action immediately. either he’s stepped towards her and fallen prey to the routine he promises to quit, or he’s escaped her entirely. solace found in a different room with his back to a wall and his fingers digging into a pocket for a cigarette; searching for a high so that he won’t be tempted to find one in her. 

this sort of submission is unfriendly, he concurs. yet there’s no choice but to remain loyal to its reign and get swept up in all the hatred and passion that bewitches them both. for as long as jiyong participates, attempting to mascot his insanity in the print of her lips, in the decorating marks nipped into her neck, he, like her, will always be facing the same losses.

so there he is. inglorious. stripped bare of his act like an angel torn of its wings. she crumbles further into his arms with each passing second, breaths ragged and stuttered, grips locked in half-certainty and half-lust. she seems angry, or disgusted, maybe even humiliated that she’s doing this again; indulging in something wicked and immoral as she’s placed between the door and his chest. their discord and their forthcoming hunger are stuck to a corner in an endless hallway of rooms, depicted with her fists on his collar and no ending in sight besides her bed. 

he’s not sure why he does this with her. if she's a way to get into san's head, or there's just a personal vendetta he holds against her and this habit is a way of bringing her down. regardless, he doesn’t like her. she’s too much like him — a combination of things he hates. he’s trying to restrain himself, from shoving her away or pushing his lips to hers, but they remain with their foreheads pressed together and glares leveled, the scent of her perfume hypnotic on his lips. he can taste it when he talks — whispers, actually, reminding her how much he despises her and how much he’ll enjoy ruining her while he steers her closer out of desire and anger.

his lips are left ghosting on hers, tempting, waiting. he’s barely touching her save for the tight grips hooked to her waist, yet it seems as if he can feel her everywhere already. enough so, that “how much do you hate me,” slips out like a tease than it does an irritating inquiry. 

april, with jowi. ( @idjowi )

[antigonick]

But words, words—hmm? They seduce us in darkness, and the mind clothes and fleshes them to fashions of its own.

Sarah Waters, Fingersmith (via antigonick)

[1024km]

SINKING

[idjiyong]

idmona:

An offering: a half-empty bottle of Pinot Grigio and the company of an old friend. She sits besides him, stretches her legs out and leans against him, feels his warmth. “So,” she says, unreasonably bright in the face of his pity-party, “you fucked up. Shit happens. What else did you think was going to come out of what you’ve been doing for the past month?” Mona softens then, pressing her cheek into his shoulder, a poor form of consolation, but the only thing to do. “You’ve got to stop shooting yourself in the foot like this. Don’t you think you deserve to be happy? For once?”

in his chest, there’s a dry ache. it blossoms rough in his lungs, cracking with every breath, breaking under the weight of his voice. he feels it heavy, dragging downwards into the pit of his stomach, unfurling like anxiety, tasting like a cry. nothing about it is unfamiliar, but it is alien regardless. a foreign sensation he doesn’t enjoy, a sort of weakness he refuses to portray. 

jiyong is near tempted to drunkenly cry into mona’s neck and seek out that familiar solace he loves so much. but that was easier to do a long time ago, and such vulnerability no longer comes with the convenience in which it should. instead, it’s hindered; stuttered breaths and choked sighs taking shape of his pain. all cries saved for something more gruesome. as they both know, a lot could always go more wrong than just this.

in reality, he just can’t face this torn reflection of him — won’t ‘cause it’s unlikely and ugly to his features. it’s too weak looking to morph onto his expression and unlock the sorrow painted impatiently between his cherry lips, the same he attempts to drown with the swig of a drink she hands him.

this used to be easier. this used to be just them with a world under their feet. it was nothing complicated or difficult and was addictive in its hopeful allure, not its painstaking truth. once upon a time ago, this would’ve never come so far. but it has now, and there’s little he can do to requite his forlorn reality when she can see him toying with the melancholy before taking a greedy bite. 

jiyong is disgusting — repulsive in how he clings to these things. instead of the smoky trails of a dying cigarette or the bitter taste of an aging rum, he has an emotional addiction to this pathetic state of mind. jiyong makes love with the aches and pains that devour anything until all that swarms his chest and the cavities within are these pockets of sorrow eating away at his decaying carcass.

his head skims the top of hers, and then he rests it there, shifting only to get his arm around her and hook it at the curve of her shoulder. “don't you have something better than babysitting me tonight? you shouldn't waste that pretty dress on my drunken babbling,” he attempts to joke, thumb twitching in a momentary comforting gesture. he doesn’t want to scare her, but it’s probably too late for that. he was born as a terror not too long ago. 

[idjiyong]

sleep on it.

[idjiyong]

idryusan:

“hey, really. why the fuck are you here?” san asks it again when he sees jiyong round the corner. “isn’t all this bullshit done? that’s what you wanted, right?” san asks him, because that’s what it had felt like to him. something that had rotted, and then collapsed. their relationship, friendship. what more was left? was there even anything left to scavenge? he leans back against the counter, takes as sip of his drink. 

in his experience there has seldom been a moment where jiyong has taken proper accountability of his faults instead of dancing around the blame, twisting it into a game he refuses to lose. this is just another one of those occurrences, where being held guilty isn’t within his prospects.  

he’s hanging between this odd balance of relevancy and irrelevancy. it’s one that he hates, one that he needs to define in some way. it’s cause the world’s fucked up, that’s why he is as he is and this is as it is. it’s because luck wasn’t in their favor. not because of him, it can’t be. jiyong won’t take the blame, not even if it itches at his mind, reminding him constantly that it can’t be ignored. won’t, because the truth is out there. 

he’s the problem. he’s the reason san and him stand like this. like some sort of strangers, shoulders stiff, and memories faded in the background but there regardless. 

“what do you wanna hear? that i’m here out of old habits — missin’ a friend?” he questions, his tone laced with sincerity before he barks out a laugh. “or i could tell you the truth which is that i’m lost, and needed a place close by to crash at.”

jiyong would tell him to relax. remind that there’s no need to drag shit too far. (it’s not that deep, he’d mutter with a chuckle, arm swinging around his shoulder to give it a gentle shake. lighten up, he’d remind him, as if the darkness hemming san’s stare isn’t a reflection.) but he feels fucked enough already so his words come out as bitter instead, gaze slanting in a menacing angle. he doesn’t want to understand this. it’s too much, and he prefers things neat, uncomplicated, really fucking simple. enough for him to slip through cracks of misfortune and mistakes and to ease by it all with nothing but a shell of human skin and a beaming grin to match. 

“is this a new couch?” he muses, falling back into the plush leather, legs hanging off the armrest as his stare dances across the ceiling. “this place looks so different. did you renovate?” jiyong lets an arm dangle and breeze against the flooring, the tips of his fingers barely touching, just like he’s barely grasping onto reality. 

[idtaeho-deactivated20190714]

breaking point

[idjiyong]

idtaeho:

“dear god, what’s been going on with you? you gotta be kidding that you were going so sleep,” he says, looks at jiyong with a wide, mischievous smile. “i got ticket for us for one of the best clubs here in santiago, and you know that the night scene here is crazy. no one will know our names, who we are. none of these dispatch fuckers to lurk around,” he is opening jiyong’s closet, picks up some clothes. “come on, get dressed. you’re a pretty fucker so you don’t need much. and maybe take a shower. yeah,” he pauses, sniffs. “yeah maybe that’s best you smell like bed and depression. let’s go!”

taeho’s berating is hardly a cacophony but it makes him curl towards the headboard regardless, fingers curved around the mattress, and a grim, displeased response unfolding upon his wakening expression. he’s been having a recurring dream recently, but the timing is always off, and by the time he can attempt to sort through what he’s endured, it’s faded from his memory; the soft palette of colors slipping from his mind as if it’d never been imagined.

“sorry,” he mumbles. “i'm having a dream where i punch you in the face,” jiyong shifts onto his back, face puffy and somewhat swollen but a reflection of his cheeky personality nonetheless. “it’s really nice,” he softly muses, nearly drifting off again until the sound of a closet door haphazardly thrown open catches him off guard. he sighs, stretching his limbs, back popping in the process, and then dully stares ahead at the unfolding scene. “i think it’s time for me to retire,” he teases, gaze skimming the scene before him, adjusting to the light that pools in and taeho’s erratic energy that always sweeps him clean off his feet.

they’re an odd pairing; conflicting, disjointed, thrown together and shoved into a puzzle even though they don’t match. taeho’s a loud and reckless personality, but one that is ill favorable to jiyong’s type. a part of him begs to question how he ever made it in midas, but then again, he’s always been cunning and wicked in sly habits. they’re similar. if you don't look so hard maybe you can ignore the dissipating humanity in taeho’s eyes and the extent of his devilish attributes, but for now, they both can be mistaken for hell-inducing twins bred of chaos and misery. toying with people like they’re subjects in a game, pawns to play and lose, like san, and maybe like jiyong soon too. checkmate.

“besides, don't you have a san running around to torture?” jiyong sits up and rubs his face, a whine parting from his mouth as the day sinks in. his shoulders are sore, and voice hoarse. in earlier days this would feel more prevalent, and he’d think it’s the worse routine to live by, but by now it’s sunk into his muscle as a habit, and being an idol is hardly the worst part of his job.

[idjiyong]

stand still.

melancholy. he recalls her with vivid clarity. she comes with rounded eyes and an expression too soft, too docile, one that pleads forgiveness, another chance or one more kiss. she’s too pretty, too reminiscent of things he can’t have anymore — and he knows it when he looks upon her that she’ll trail him everywhere he goes. into every dark corner, even in his solidarity or his love. she’ll chase him into the dawn like she’s chased him into dusk. her heart-shaped lips inked to his skin in dotted shades of pink, deceptive in their gentle hues. her name whispered to his thoughts in the nights where he can’t sleep, and the hours when he’s most lonely: seolhee. 

when he sees her, his heart stutters, questioning whether they can return to their convenience. one where he gets to hold her and she gets to imagine a love in him that he can never return. jiyong’s warped sense of reality almost has him leaning in when she nears him, fingers itching to curve around her waist and trace her spine — something he’s nearly memorized. he just needs to feel it once more to be sure, to really have it engraved in his mind forever, but that’s the problem, isn’t it? that he’s asking for something he’s not allowed to get, that he pleads for a touch that’ll only fuck him up further down the road. he doesn’t take the fact of not knowing her well as a blessing, he takes it as a curse instead. but what more can be expected from him? if jiyong can find darkness in someone like seolhee, he can find it anywhere. 

“what are you doing here,” he finally sighs in a defeated sort of attitude that doesn’t suit him. it’s familiar to them, however, how he gives up with ease, barely trying with her, and them. his gaze falls to the floor, avoiding her stare and the memories that haunt the honey pools centered to her pale visage. he doesn’t bother holding onto his curiosities, though they’re barely there, and instead, presses his shoulder into the wall as she steps before him. “the party’s outside.” it’s hardly a whisper — a weak utterance, one that trembles before her judgment. submission. 

april, with seolhee. ( @idsophia )

[idjiyong]

skyscape.

he paces himself quick, a plan at his heels for how the night should proceed. jiyong’s got many things to do tonight, but there’s a certain priority he must fulfill before he begins his hedonistic excursions into the midnight. a type of routine that needs to be kickstarted now that him and milo were in one place together. 

milo, milo. an escape, someone holding similar convictions with the fuck this world, and fuck them all ideology. they’re entangled in these beliefs, in their united perceptions on an industry that feeds them bloodied competition. jiyong feels it resonate somewhere deep. there’s not a proper way to describe this, but he’s never been accustomed to labels anyway; lost somewhere in the grey of in-betweens, like him and soojung. 

they were a pairing dangling in the mix of things; a chaotic world spiraling around them and their conversations as they vented out the strife they held with their current realities. it couldn’t be matched, really. not totally unique, yet special in its own way. it held enough weight that jiyong found himself gravitating towards the other regardless of how far they went or how busy they got. 

lately, he’s been feeling a persistent burden hooked to his shoulders, his posture slumped, neck aching and gaze reflecting hollow exhaustion. it bleeds red into the white, his twin orbs somewhat swollen with darkened half-moons lingering right under. there’s too much to say, and too little time, yet jiyong comes prepared regardless, determined to make the most of what they’ve got before they get swept away into their personal schedules. 

the air nips at his ears and his arms press further to his body, fingers attempting to tug the jacket closer to shelter himself from the wind. it’s a warm night regardless of the settling chill. 

he relieves a shuddered sigh between his lips and steps inside, spotting the male in the lounge. a smile wavers on his lips, not totally there, but he’s never felt a need to uphold an image when with him. there are only so many lies to be sold at a time and among them, it all comes undone. 

“hope i didn’t keep you waiting too long,” he begins, gathering the other’s attention. “my manager was being a total dick — are you texting san?” he perks a teasing brow; the sarcastic inquiry slipping off his tongue with ease. “kidding, kidding,” he mutters, hands raising in mock surrender as a familiar grin takes shape on his lips. “i’ve missed you, it’s been too long. did you forget what a phone is for?”  

april, with milo. ( @idmilo )