#id.isac

[idolizerp]

PLEASE NOTE: the event is officially over, and no more points should be collected. You are welcome to finish your threads however and we thank you for all the effort you’ve put forth and your continued activity!! ^^

[idolizenews]

I felt bad for laughing because he looked so pissed off after and disappeared, but f*ck it was so funny… I’m sorry oppa…

I’ll cheer you on harder in bowling later… please don’t slip down the lane there too ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ

Edit: You idiots think I’d laugh if he was injured??? Don’t worry, he’s okay he just scratched his hand

POST RESPONSE | [ + 349 ] [ - 22 ]

1. [ ㅇㅇ ] I’m glad he’s okay but f*ck this is why ISAC should be cancelled, someone always gets injured at these stupid events  2. [ 사랑(서요)한다고 ] Hey Seo Yohan, did you do this on purpose ㅡㅡ;  Ah... I really wanted to see you jump... 3. [ ㅇㅇ ] Hul.... but OP why are you laughing?? Did he get hurt????     -- Probably just his pride ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ

[idryusan]

atmosphere.

@idyohan, isac arena later in the day.

they’re already hours into recording. enough for san to be annoyed with the entire ordeal. he hates isac more than most things he’s forced to do. it’s exhausting, the filming goes on for far too long, and he’s expected to play perfectly into his role the entire time. a handful of hours on a music show? on a variety? that’s manageable. but isac drags on and on. and he has to remain the bright, peppy, happy go lucky package they market him as. is expected to wander along after olympus members and smile sweet, cheery and excited when they roll into their events.

and san could give a fuck.

he doesn’t want to run. he doesn’t want to watch his group mates running. he doesn’t want to sit in the hot sun and pretend he isn’t going to be annoyed when he gets a tan and his stylist tuts at him like it might be his goddamned fault. he doesn’t want to smile until his cheeks hurt and crave a cigarette so goddamn bad that it sparks him up angry, muttering a severe string of curses under his breath if someone so much trips in front of him. 

he doesn’t try in the dash, and he doesn’t try in archery. he hits the grass twice when they actually shove the weapon in his hands. he pouts, because that’s what san does. and his fans all coo from the stands. he throws them hearts with his fingers like it might not all be fantastically demeaning. as least watching yohan eat dirt had been an entertaining break in the monotony. and when he spots him again later he figures he must have at least had some kind of a run in with jowi. he wouldn’t look so sour around the face if he hadn’t.

if he were anyone else, he might’ve left him to his thoughts. but he’s not. so san sidles up next to him wearing his olympus-curated smile, sickly sweet and bubbly to talk to him. starts off the whole conversation with, “did you have a nice trip?” because he’s pissed off and has nothing to do with it. besides, despite their half-baked friendship san does sometimes get defensively protective on jowi’s behalf, even if she’s never asked for it from him.

[idjiyeon-blog]

undisclosed desires.

@idpuck​

idol star athletic championship

jiyeon does what she is told, she helps her team with the sports she’s designed to and cheers them on when she’s not. on the time between shootings she talks to her friends and uses the free time to network a bit. it’s good to be seen being a social butterfly, and it’s even better when she can see with her tv husband, roman. they are on different, teams, but that doesn’t stop jiyeon to stay close to him, using the new nature of their relationship to her advantage, and being with roman keeps her from doing anything stupid.

because there are lines that are better not to cross.

like the one she walks as far as paris gao is concerned.

she watches him from afar, how he flirts with everyone, fans the girls and give them water. he’s being himself, jiyeon knows, she can’t expect something else. she is the one who shouldn’t be looking at it, it’s easy to ignore if she looks away, if she pretends with all her might that she is not jealous, she is just sleepy and grumpy and the heat is not helping. it’s easier to blame the weather than to admit to herself that she is jealous, that she wishes that was her, that what she feels for paris goes beyond friendship. jiyeon has done this before, she knows how it ends, and it’s never good for her.

there are things that are better left unsaid.

like what she is about to say, because jiyeon is foolish and two years in the industry hasn’t taught her anything, and she doesn’t care. she is not a good girl, she won’t just stare there and say nothing, do nothing. so jiyeon gets up from the place she is sitting and walks towards paris; she goes slow and steady, pretending she is looking for a better place to watch whatever competition is happening, until she is sitting besides paris, enough space in between them to no draw attention to their conversation.

“hey there stranger,” jiyeon nudges his foot with hers, smiling. “i swear i can’t stand being here anymore.” she brushes a strand of hair off her shoulder. “the heat is killing me. i saw you fanning the cherry bomb girls, you could do the same to me.” jiyeon smiles, pretending she is not jealous and everything is fine. she is a great actress, after all.

[idjaekyu-blog]

rhythm ta.

isac event / @idsuran

jaekyu, like many of the boys scattered around the field, has situated himself close enough to the roped off area for rhythm gymnastics so that he can inconspicuously watch the girls’ routines without coming across like he might be checking them all out. which, don’t get him wrong, he definitely is. he thinks it’s a bit silly to assume he’d do anything but. that a lot of them would do anything but. who wouldn’t want to watch a bunch of pretty girls get a little bendy, or twirl around a ribbon, or whatever the hell it is they get up to in those outfits. admittedly, jaekyu doesn’t know all too much about gymnastics.

but he does know that suran is performing, and he’d wanted to watch. he at least knew she’d probably look cute as hell doing it. and he had been right. did his best to keep the stupid looking grin from tilting across his face, an odd mix of proud and lewd. luckily milo had managed to spot it, distracted him away long enough where it looked like jaekyu might’ve been laughing at a joke. there’s no reason for it, really. they’re not together right now. and he knows, deep down he knows that they’ll never really work out. that if they settle, if they push themselves together, it will probably fall apart. turn bland and tasteless.

but there’s still a part of him that’s somehow puppy-dog hopeful. there’s still a part of him that loves her. there’s still a large part of him that really likes seeing her in a skintight, bedazzled bathing suit. leotard, dumbass (an informative comment from yohan after jaekyu had announced just how much he’d liked them).

he catches up to her after. when the fake jewels are gone and replaced by the color-blocked sports attire. he’d been banking on them being on the same team. it would’ve given them an excuse to mingle more. but he makes sure to keep a safe distance, hopes his fans can write it off as him being sweet, welcoming her into their company. like they haven’t been close for ages. “i liked your...dance thing.” he waves at arm as he says it, imitates an elegant move she had whipped out earlier, if only because he knows his fans will like it. maybe they’ll tolerate him talking to girls if he looks like a full on idiot in the process. “real pretty,” he tacks on, this time more genuine, slips in a smile.

[idjinwoo-blog]

refresher.

isac ; @idjiyeon.

if he has to smile any longer, fear strikes his face might permanently appear delighted, and he loathes that consequence, knows it’s rather juvenile to foster such playground tactics parents utilized to scare children, yet jinwoo drops the expression when the camera man passes, finding a new target to attach himself to. the breath jinwoo holds on to escapes as a relieved sigh, and he dabs a sponsored face towel on the outskirts of his mien where jewels of perspiration lingered. it’s hot, he’s burning, and all he wants to do is lock himself in an air-conditioned van. 

futsal left him battered, panting and side cramping. he hates running but his calves wobble and burn as he searches for a seat in the shade under a large canopy because jinwoo gave it his all and then some. hopefully, for his parents’ peace of mind, he appears enough in the edited version airing whenever. he doesn’t know, doesn’t care to know. someone will tell him eventually. a manager, a parent, both. 

draping the same face towel over his head, jinwoo picks up a water bottle moist with condensation from a cooler full of more or less the same. he needs the refresher, needs to survive until high jump. maybe then he can rest. 

this is overkill. 

a surprise comeback to prepare for plus this. jinwoo doesn’t know what this is, exactly. a sports festival or a circus, where they put on a show, sacrifice their health in the heat for ratings. but they signed contracts. this is obligation: providing entertainment while exhausting themselves, running on less than four hours of asleep a day and occasional meals when there was time to be a human with needs. if he can storm off the field, he will, but he’s too obedient, too loyal, can’t walk the walk or talk the talk. pathetic, actually. 

mid derisive monologue, he spots jiyeon and the empty plastic chair next to her. 

jiyeon comes with familiarity and comfort. jinwoo doesn’t have to grin until his cheeks are aching. he’s free to be himself. “hey, what’s up” he drops his weight on the chair. it groans in protest, and he takes a swig of water. “enjoying the festival?” there’s almost travesty in his tone and smile. 

[idsuran-blog]

misstep.

ft. @idjinwoo //  isac. 

there’s an overlarge mirror in the makeshift dressing rooms that have been outfitted for each team, segregated by gender, of course. ( as if they aren’t about to turn them all loose on each other. at least then, of course, they’ll have the fans to be their eyes. to find any transgression, any mistakes. with fans like that, who needs enemies, right? ) in this mirror she faces her new role with stark and uncomfortable clarity. there is no way around this. 

the thin paper reads it out clearly, adhered to front and back alike. 

suran. 

jawbreaker. 

she remembers last year, with the girls. she remembers cheering yujin on with embarrassing vigor. she remembers sneaking away with jaekyu, remembers, stolen moments of fun between the endless hours of filming. she remembers the exhaustion and the heat, of course. 

and she remembers the name on the tag. 

suran. 

her.oine.

it still doesn’t feel real. it still seems like a joke, a trick, some kind of bizarre lie that would turn out to be the world’s worst hidden camera prank. but it’s not, and each moment makes that more and more true, more and more solid. somehow this feels like the nail in the coffin. 

her.oine is dead. 

it casts a strange pall over the beginning of her day, leaves her distracted as she adjusts her training set. she looks good in white, at least. she’s still adjusting to the whole thing, the atmosphere of the stadium, the crush of people, the distant sound of fans. 

so she doesn’t notice him, right away. 

she doesn’t notice him at all, actually, until she’s stepping on his foot, ducking her head in an awkward apology and then - she blinks hard, clears her throat. awkward. “ah - yeah  - uhh, hey.” she clears her throat, finds now they’ve ended up alone in this stupid little hallway, while she’s in the middle of a freak out about her future, and that’s not the ideal time for her to be running into him again, when she’s been pointedly avoiding him for so long, mostly out of shame for the way she handled things. or more specifically, did not handle them and instead disappeared without warning. really classy. “long time no see.”

[archiveidjowi-blog]

fishbowl.

@idyohan​ // isac competitions. jamsil stadium. 

six hours. 

she makes it six hours under the sun, under the weight of hundreds of eyes. six hours fixed in the cross-hairs of cameras heavier than her skull, six hours of smiles. the only respite in all that time is the futsal game, which is mercifully filmed earlier in the day, and the rhythmic gymnastics that follow after. but without that to focus on she finds herself restless. 

six hours. 

and how many are left - four, five, if they’re lucky? 

five more hours under observation, trapped like a lab rat in a glass cage. observed, monitored, criticized. the slightest misstep at this point will destroy her. she’s on uneven footing. while chamisul and the variety castings are being well received, anything she does to put her foot in her mouth at this point will send her rocketing to rock bottom, crashign down from her highest of heights to the lowest lows. they’ll rake her over the coals and remind each other that it was only marco that got her here in the first place. the comments will change from dismay and surprise at an age gap like that to a criticism of her, kkot baem they’ll call her, sponsorship they’ll say, and they’ll be right, and she’ll never bounce back from that. she’ll never recover. it’s make or break time and jowi isn’t prepared to break. not when she’s come this far. not when she’s sacrificed this much. 

sacrificed herself, for one thing. her dignity, her self respect. her physical body, too, and god. she’s got to get out of the fishbowl of this place. she feels like she’s swimming in circles, endlessly, relentlessly seeking stimulation in an empty tank. she heads for the indoors. they’re supposed to stay out there as much as they can, out in the sun, in observation, where eyes burn into them brighter than the star in the sky, and hotter, and more deadly.  but she can’t. not right now. not with the tightening in her chest and the trembling of her fingers and her vision begins to fade at the edges. its an unsteady stumble that carries her past the bathrooms and down empty, echoing halls, until she finds an innocuous door, wrenches it open and slams it shut behind her just in time for the tears to start, the unsteady gasp out of her lips, collapses to a folding chair and puts her head between her knees and tries to count her breathes one two three four five six seven hold two three four five six seven out two three four five six seven the way her therapist taught her.  and then she hears it, his voice, cursing, disbelieving, and she wants to believe it’s a hallucination but then there are hands on her shoulders, and she recognizes them, and jerks away, even as her fingers reach out to knot instinctively into his shirt. a body at war with itself, a mind equally disconnected when she hiccups out a cruel, “get the fuck away from me,” on a water logged gasp.