roulette.

  — the moral of the story is, i will gut you if I need to. i will carve my way out with only my teeth.  

[idjowi-blog]

smoke.

[idjowi-blog]

idtaeho‌:

“don’t sell yourself so short, babe,” he teases, mockery all over his voice. of course it wasn’t. he never turns to jowi when he’s fine, never turns to her when things are good. he turnst her for one thing and one thing only. “you know it’s not thanks that i want from you,” he says, looks back and finds her eyes. this is the thing about jowi that always catches him off guard, the way she can look blurred sometimes, out of this world. something about her lips. something about the sharpness of her features. something about that angry fire in her eyes. “you can thank me at my place, don’t worry about it,” he scoffs, looks back to the road. 

the world is a blur outside the window. the fuzzing edges of the lights are blurring, fraying at the edges, leaving her head spinning as she presses her cheek to the cold, cold glass of the window. he has the airconditioning on and it paints her cheeks in cool air. she lets her legs stretch out and her gaze roll to the side to examine the shoreline, as the imported, expensive car streaks its way back over the river to the gleaming towers of gangnam, shining and cold against the edges of the river. 

jowi doesn’t like this part of seoul. there isn’t any character to it. just concrete and steel and glass and delicately designed impeccably instagrammable spots. and off the beaten path, dirt and grime. it’s like the industry itself she figures, gleaming on the outside and rotted at the core. a thousand clubs with shining exteriors and horrible secrets. jowi exhales a cloud of smoke out of the thin strip of space between the window and the frame of the door. it dissipates in an instant, and she slides down, slouched in the leather chair. “then build me back up, sweetheart,” she returns back to him, a drawl on her lips. if he wants her complimenting herself he can do it for her. she’s not interested in the work of that. 

there’s no reason to be with taeho. she doesn’t particularly like him, she doesn’t really enjoy his company. but she likes the pain he brings with him- she’d be a liar to say she didn’t. maybe part of her thinks she deserves it. maybe she finds it freeing in the abstract, to be able to unleash some of that fire on him, on someone who doesn’t back down, on someone who will stand toe to toe with her. it can be a reprieve from simpering and sweetness, from affected charms and the perception of the genuine and witty, carefully constructed. 

with taeho she doesn’t have to be anything or anyone. not jowi, not AJ, nothing special. just a girl. sometimes angry and sometimes sweet and always unpredictable, perhaps. smoky and bitter, crisp mint and spice, velvet to the touch. she rolls her eyes, “yeah i get it, we’re gonna fuck. you don’t have to keep talking about it, you’ll make my stomach turn and i’ll bail.” she drawls back at him, takes another drag. blows the smoke into his face. there’s no real reason for it. 

[idjowi-blog]

mauve.

[idjowi-blog]

idryusan‌:

“dunno.” san answers her back. it’s mostly honest. there are schedules, and then there’s history. baggage. san’s not so sure he wants to keep carrying it. “i think they hate me more and more, every time msg says i have solo prep to do.” san admits. he keeps his tone neutral. a skill buried into him at this point. he blinks again. “or at least milo does.” san corrects, and milo’s always played a big part in his life. for better or worse. “you’ll have better luck asking him, if you wanna know.” san admits, shifts a bit to stretch out stiff limbs. “what about you - anything exciting with…” san trails off from saying prism, changes it instead to “anyone?”

jowi likes math. 

she likes answers that make sense. that are unchanging and static. she likes the secure certainty of it. sometimes she runs simple problems to help herself fall asleep, squaring numbers until her head hurts or she drifts off. she likes the rules. she likes the certainty. there isn’t enough of that in her life anymore. just clawing desperately to try and bring herself up to the height of things and then clambering to stay on top, there. she struggles with this. with the certainty of her impermanence in the industry, with the knowledge that every day that passes ages her out of this. female idols have an expiration date that men don’t. an unfair and sexist cruelty. it’s worse still, for people like her and san. performers, who rely on their youth and their bodies, on musculature and ligaments, on fragile bone to earn their keep. how long before time and stress degrade them, render them useless? 

“sorry baby doll,” she laughs out at the other, quiet and breathy, as she examines him. her eyes flicker over him, up to his eyes, and her finger traces the tip of his nose. to anyone observing it might seem intimate, the two of them like this. they’ve often been misunderstood as such. but despite the odds she’s never crossed that line and has never had the desire to do so, not really. they’re kindred spirits, soul siblings. they’re all but connected at the hip. intimate, yes, but not in the way that so people seem to think is required of a man and a woman. 

jowi sighs heavy on her lips as the other continues, slides her hands down her legs, reaches up to lace them behind her head as she stares up at the ceiling. “milo will understand. they’ll get over it. someday. you’re just...the most marketable, on paper. that’s all. milo takes it all too seriously, too...personally. he always has.” she lets out a quiet sigh, rubs her hand beneath her eye.  “i got drunk and went to ruwon’s. i got drunk and got stood up by gun in chile.” she frowns, pauses, “i think i have a drinking problem.” clicks her tongue, exhales. “or a boy problem.” there’s a moment of contemplation before she determines, “yeah, boy problem.”

[idjowi-blog]

smoke.

@idtaeho itaewon, alleyway.

smoke curls around her temples. sinks into her pores. 

it’s an off hour on a low traffic night and even the distant sound of cars on the main hill is muffled, a slow crawl. it’s the twilight hour inn between, when the buses aren’t running yet and the last train is long gone and you’re left relying on kakao taxis to get you home. kakao taxis that are, notoriously, hard to get ahold of around itaewon, given the reputation of the area. 

it almost feels planned. 

her lips feel bruised, her head spins, cheeks flushed. she’s taken his hoodie and pulled the hood up around her head, her ears, the rest of it hanging down long. it obscures everything about her that could be identifying, unless someone is going to take a look at her legs and make a play to recognize her from that. 

she shouldn’t be here, and she shouldn’t be here with him. 

but what better way to fuel that twist in her chest, that aching chasm of self-loathing, than to follow after him, slide into his car. the silence is tense, cut it with a knife. she takes his phone and fiddles with his playlist to kill the quiet. pulls a cigarette from the pack she’s found in his pocket and lights up, prompts the window half cracked down. it’s not often they spend time together in this suspended limbo state. liminal, tenuous, and she pulls a long drag of the cigarette, smoke filling her lungs acrid, still a poor match for the burn in her marrow. 

she exhales out the window. 

“you don’t mind me smoking in here, right?” she drawls, clearly not intent to give half a fuck if he does, perhaps goading him towards a more familiar anger, ill content in a quiet moment. she doesn’t want to think of him as a person, as dynamic and variable. she wants him angry or hungry and desires only the constant grasping and clawing at her skin, at her senses. “thanks for the ride.” she pushes the hood of his sweatshirt back down now, as the car zips over the mostly empty highway, rocketing back over the river towards gangnam. he looks almost soft, serpentine features rounded out in the honeyed street lights, soft golds that paint his skin in flashes between the inky dark of the river, of the waves, of the sky.  “must be rough going tonight if you’re headed home with me,” she drawls, at her own expense, a knife that cuts two ways.

[idjowi-blog]

steel blue.

[idjowi-blog]

ruwonid‌:

“oh, you know. i’ll have to push aside my…” his eyes drift up and over toward a clock hanging near a wall. more decoration than anything, but his phone’s back in his room. “three am appointment. and i’ve got pre-breakfast scheduled. but i can always make a little room.” this is how ruwon works. humor first, and himself second. but it’s easier this way, he thinks. for other people. maybe himself too. he lifts a hand, tries to scrub the sleep from his face as jowi comes inside. “no, i mean. make yourself at home.” the thing is, he doesn’t want her to leave. the problem is, he should want her to leave. a conundrum, one not easily dealt with. maybe if ruwon had more sense to him. but he never has. 

“should i make coffee?”

the first thing he does is smile at her.

she knows it’s just his first reaction to almost anything, but something in her heart soars towards the site. for all that she knows its not a genuine reaction to her presence, to her wit, to her at all, there is a part of her thing sings to think she could bring that expression to his features. a part of her that thrives on the idea she could have been the one to make him happy. 

she had been once. or at least her hubris had allowed her the luxury to believe that. it had started small and simple, when he guested on a show she was present on, when their featuring together had borne them a love line in the eyes of fans, laughter and amusement at the interactions the two shared. had she been flirting in return? yes. had it all been for variety? perhaps at first it had been for the positive reinforcement earned her, but it had grown. there had been something so easy about the way he’d looked at him. there’d been such a brightness to him, and such a sadness behind it. being with him had been easy and comforting and then... 

then it had been harder. harder to see him. harder to hide from the growing affection she had for him. harder to work past schedules, harder to overlook the countless other men and women in his life, just as drawn to that bright grin of his as she was, just as eager for his attention. and he just as scarce as ever, a slow spreading rot. she’d always thought that the excuse of busy schedules was a weak one at best, but dating a member of olympus had proven it to be as true a beast as any to face. insurmountable. 

which is why she shouldn’t be here again. 

they’d tried it and it hadn’t worked. so she shouldn’t be here. she shouldn’t be stealing the smiles he offers her because he can’t help it. but she’s greedy and she wants that light for herself, so she takes it, returns it in a wry, warped mirror image as she takes a step closer. “you didn’t miss me?” she goads softly, as he skates over her statement in favor of a joke. the masochistic urge to press down on an old wound, a healing bruise. “as long as your three am appointment doesn’t mind it, i’d love some coffee.” she agrees, pauses, “or like, wine.” she mumbles, takes another step closer, and another, until she can tangle her fingertips in the drawstring of his sweats, tugs at it idly. it’s not a sexual movement so much as a bid to draw him closer. “i really have though,” she tells him, “missed you.”  she nips at the edge of her lip. “have things been good?” 

[idjowi-blog]

mauve.

[idjowi-blog]

idryusan‌:

he knows he loves jowi though. she’s the only person he really has a firm handle on with that. it’s hard to tell her though, explicitly. but he thinks she knows.

“it’s on my playlist.” he promises as he stares up at the ceiling.

“team kill?” she snorts, uncouth, laughter on her lips, “we could totally take you guys.” it’s probably not true. it’s almost unarguably inaccurate, but she makes the statement anyway. it would be nice though, to promote together. if only co-ed groups weren’t so controversial, if only fans wouldn’t have been liable to rip them to shreds, it would have been nice to dream of debuting with san, with her best friend, with her other half. perhaps not a better half, but neither of them were that great. 

the cool breeze of the air conditioner is as refreshing as it is manufactured and the sweat soaked pair of them bask in it. it’s always clear when they are struggling, which is in fairness more often than not, when they find themselves caught up together, tangled in endless hours of practice. no one else has the stamina or patience to deal with her obsessive compulsive drive to exhaust herself of the nervous energy that boils in her veins, frothy and acidic as they break down her defenses against anxiety. only san can match her pace, toe to toe, until they both collapse exhausted, muscles heaving, bones splintering, against the well worn floor. 

“how many hours have we spent here?” she muses out loud, a fragment of thought thrown like a javelin through the lazy rumble of conversation, an interruption in the summer afternoon’s murky silence. “hundreds, clearly. thousands for sure,”  jowi likes math, always has. the clearly defined yes and no answers, the black and white of it. either this formula or that. even when answers are in a set the boundaries can be stated and defined, wrapped up in little brackets and neatly displayed on the page. “ i guess as trainees alone we would have averaged roughly 100 hours a month of practice as a conservative estimate. that’s nearly 9k just in the five years i trained, and then in all the years after that...” the thought boggles the mind. “fuck.”

she tilts her head to the side, slides her fingers between his own, grins widely. “good. keep streaming it until they give me another comeback.” she instructs brightly, rolls over onto her side and props her head on her hand. reaches out to slide a fingertip over the slope of his nose. the filler is wearing off, with him outside of promotions at the moment, and it’s returned to the former beaky hooked glory she’d always appreciated. “how are the boys?” she questions, idle conversation. 

[idjowi-blog]

steel blue.

@ruwonid​ apartment, late night.

to [ ☠️] (sent at 2:46 am) buzz me up motherfucker

it takes her a long time to be able to type it out without typos, her face screwed up into a visage of desperate concentration, vision blurring as she attempts the task. her thumbs are clumsy and her legs are jello beneath her. she’s far too drunk to be at his apartment. she’s far too drunk to be sitting here in this empty, cold lobby. she’s got a hat pulled down over her face and a mask slung over her face, the hood pulled up over her ears, hair long and dark falling over her shoulders. she’s a study in black on black on black, from the tips of her toes and all the way up. as if that makes her incognito. maybe it does, with all of the reality of jowi hidden behind layers and layers of fabric, her good sense buried deep under vodka and tequila. 

when he does buzz her into the building she moves quickly. heads for the elevator and up, her footsteps tapping against the marble floors, one arm wrapped around her waist. she makes her way down the winding hall to his apartment and punches in the code, slips inside to toe off her shoes. “you’re up late,” she tells him, as if it isn’t obvious already, as if regularized sleeping hours mean anything in this industry, to either one of them. 

it’s a familiar scene. 

tousled hair and low slung sweatpants speak to the fact that he hadn’t been expecting company. he looks good like this, collarbones stark beneath the line of the thin white shirt, wire rimmed glasses balanced on the tip of his nose, the soft brown of his hair lending a warm quality to the boy in the dim, blue light. like the world around him is washed in something cold and he stands alone as this beacon of something warm and inviting. 

she’s giving him the upperhand. 

maybe he’s always had it, in a sense. in his lazy smirks and boxy grins, in the effortless way they burrow into the marrow of her. he’s so warm it feels like burning and she throws herself into that fire over and over again. trembles, frigid, in his absence. 

“missed you,” she tells him, in a clipped voice, with a wry expression. as if she regrets saying it as soon as it trips from her tongue. “you busy?” she adds, as if that wasn’t something to ask an hour ago, before she begged a ride over here. before she barged unannounced into his building, rang his doorbell. she bites at her lowerlip. “you don’t want me to go, right?” she adds, shoes discarded, mask following, pulling the hat from her head. 

[idjowi-blog]

mauve.

@idryusan​ msg training center. 

there is a widely held theory that suggests parallel universes exist alongside one another, unbound by space or time, and that in those infinite realities exist infinite variations of yourself, and infinite absences. 

sometimes, laying on her back on the cold wooden floor, smooth and scuffed beneath her, she feels as if two universes merge. there is the now; ahn jowi as aj and ryu san as san, oasis and prism, there are dual burdens and exhausted bones. there is the past, two thirteen year olds who stumble into the company with wide eyes and hopeful hearts. who are pushed similarly by their mothers, either in absentia or in overwhelming presence. twin souls, kindled flames stoked up to burning and consumption. 

she rolls her head to the side to look at him. 

sweat plasters raven hair to his temples, tousled above the soft line of his brow. there’s a flush to his cheeks that mirrors her own. they’re disheveled now and exhausted, but she knows in no short measure they’ll be back up again. practicing again. and for what? she’s wrapped her promotions for now, she’s tiptoeing towards the distant promise of a comeback, but for the moment she should be able to rest. at least in theory. 

but neither of them ever slow down, do they? neither of them ever bother to rest. perhaps they can’t. perhaps they shouldn’t. rest leaves time for overactive thoughts to invade her mind, as if the misplaced energy directed usually to her limbs then floods her mind in turn.

she stretches out a hand to tangle their fingers together. 

for a girl who recklessly runs after any scrap of affection shown to her, physical or not, maybe it’s a surprise they’ve never gone beyond this. beyond this perfectly balanced friendship, this desperately dependent thing between them. something that binds them up together, hearts twisted together, malformed trees that grew up too close together, now inextricably entangled. 

“they slotted us back to back this time,” she tells him, with a grin that tilts on her lips. “it’s funny, huh?” they’ve been playing this narrative since jowi was teased for debut. if oasis and prism are sibling groups, jowi is pinned as san’s extension, with admitted qualifiers. but it had been an easy way to pin her name up there in the headlines when they’d needed something to stick. it helped that they were friends, too, explained away predebut pictures of the two of them together before they could become a problem, pitted them as star students who studied together.

[idjowi-blog]

6 v 6 hi my darlings. jowi didn’t change much except for losing some songs from her past solo work and a change in group name, but i did end up moving blogs && clearing up my plots page of things that hadn’t been threaded or muses left and so on because frankly i completely lost track of everything lately. so please please please come take one of my almost 20 open plots okay i love you. jowi is the same, still your favorite snarky, sweet, fiery, impulsive, reckless fool who can’t seem to be truly happy no matter what she tries to do to fill the void, yoikes. plot with me here or on discord at mx#9905 and wait patiently for milo next weekend bc he needed more work lol.