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KNOW THY AUTHOR - serene ♡ | 21. she/her. black. f1 rpf. main.

🗒️: thinking about how the boys dedicated their wins to their families :)

💌 REQUESTS OPEN !

glossary index works in progress table of contents join general taglist

HOT OFF THE PRESS !

grip | ln. 4

blue hyacinths | cl. 16

it's us against the world | ln4. & op.81

#nav.#main.#glossary.#index.#table of contents.#portrait.

HUNTER. she/her. xxi. never shuts up about tokyo revengers. fan art blog + random rambles.

+ doodles.

#index.#dnrb.

eunsol.lollie / hihi, let’s all meet again soon.

ft. @idjiyeon, @idrubi

featured comment / 제발 ........결혼하자 eunsol.lollie / ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ 응

#wicked.#insta.public #i should have made this 40 years ago #also ik jiyeons not blonde but w/e she can be wearing a wig its f i n e #index.

make a static, aesthetic moodboard speaking to your character’s image as presented by the company.

san is golden, that was the image cultivated for him from the start. one labored over so arduously that it eventually morphed into a title that he wears like shackles. fluttering shy and sweet alongside his members. san is angelic. an airy thing, laced through with breathy laughter and sunshine-dipped smiles. he’s pretty, pushed into androgyny with hair grown too long when midas gets their way. he’s maintained the veneer of perfection for going on nine years and it builds him up higher. brighter. he’s stuffed full of glitter and gold, and is choking on it. strung up on high wires, pretending he can fly. he can’t. midas knows, but when have they ever cared with the reality? this is san according to midas, this is san according to olympians. this is san to nearly everyone but himself, and this is the iteration of san that matters.

#gilded.#index.#i feel like the writeup is e x t r a but oh well its done #also i hate this but i don't want to make another so here we g o o o

NAVIGATION

CATALOGUE

SUGGESTIONS

#reader’s rambles. | general conversation with readers | #serene’s monologue｡｡｡||. | author’s unrelated yapping | #serene’s dreams｡｡｡▹. | author’s recommendations | #ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ·˚ any questions? ask the librarian for help. | helping readers find what they're looking for |

EVENTS

REQUESTS

MISCELLANEOUS

#serene's pen pals. | conversations with mutuals | #serene's reviews. | responding to feedback | anon list: send an ask to be added. tag list: send an ask to be added.

#nav.#index.

part 8. entangled.

solo, detail your parent’s initial and current thoughts on your career choice ( development prompt, +5 exp )

san’s relationship with his parents, with that added element of fame is somewhat complicated. his father? well, truthfully his father has never played a large part in san’s life. stoic, traditional. he’d let his mother take the reigns of san’s life and pull him wherever she’d wanted to. she was like that. all bigger than life, and he was content to work his way into obscurity. they clashed, he thinks. but there had never been room for arguments. san got turned into her hobby, a pet project, and it occupied her time. he was left to his own devices, and his own devices didn’t include san. the man feels like a stranger to him, but he can’t bring himself to mind.

san’s mother though? her thoughts haven’t changed. they’ve remained constant throughout the course of his life. from when he was still a trainee, to debut, to becoming a veteran. she’d always wanted it more than he did. he’s not even sure she’d ever really wanted a son. she just wanted a body to toss residual dreams on top of. that idealization of fame, of having something she could point to, declare was hears. stir up jealousy, or wonder. capitalize off of it. there’s a cafe in seoul, now. inSANiTEA, and it’s something she markets toward the fans. overpriced teas and espressos. memorabilia of olympus strung across the walls, his own signature scratched across the majority of it. pins and travel mugs for sale lining the shelves.

she was the one who turned him into the person that he is. she was the one who forced him into taking dance, acting, piano, singing lessons. she was the one dragging him along to photoshoots as a child. barely five and getting tucked into toddler-sized outfits for clothing shops and campaigns. he had a pretty face, he always had, and she’d taken advantage of that. was hell bent on turning him into a package deal. was hell bent on getting his name strung up in lights, and it didn’t matter how. san, as a child, did what she wanted. of course he did. he wanted his mother to love him. he wanted her to pay attention to him. and that really only happened when he did a good job. when he sat still, when he didn’t whine and cry about itchy fabrics or clips poking into his back. when he wasn’t being dragged off into a hallway, fingers curled tight around his arm and half-stumbling on over-sized shoes shoved onto his feet so that she could lecture him away from the staff. you’re humiliating me. you’re being embarrassing. at four, five, six, seven, he felt bad about that sort of thing, would squirm underneath the pressure of her fingers against his bicep. would blink in a harried fashion when she would get even angrier at the threat of tears. you still have pictures to take. what are you doing. are you a baby? he’d shake his head no. but he sort of was. was at least young enough to be overwhelmed by everything she expected out of him.

by the time he hit eight he had gotten better at sitting pointedly patient between takes. curling fingers in against the underside of his chair and playing boring games by himself. counting cameras, or floor tiles. if he was good enough, she’d buy him a mocha and let him take big gulps in between pictures, lick whip cream off the end of the straw. it’s probably twisted that san considers those moments, of her hand hovering just in front of him, leaning in to suck at a neon colored straw to be some of his favorites. a mother’s love, and she always showed hers through chocolate and caffeine. even now, when he realizes what she’d been doing. keeping him awake, he still can’t manage to paint over those days in a bad light. even now, it’s something he indulges in if he wants to feel better, even if he’s moved on to americanos. but that’s the thing about it, their relationship is odd. it’s cloying, and at times overwhelming. she was a force, one that shoved him toward his future. but without her and san isn’t sure who he would be. he hates her and he loves her all at once.

by the time he was eleven, twelve it was apparent he was skilled in dance. that was where he shone. mediocre in singing, alright at piano, abysmal at playing the part of an actor. but dancing? he could do that. it was decided he’d walk the path to becoming an idol when his instructor imparted this fact onto his mother. and that was how it began. when midas decided that they’d take him, his mother had been overjoyed. san took to trainee life better than most. he was used to the constant criticism, the verbal abuse that got hurled around and masqueraded as advice. was used to working himself to the bone, and used to failing to meet expectations set too high. thirteen, fourteen year old’s probably shouldn’t be. but maybe that was why he succeeded. maybe that was why they stuck him in olympus before his voice even finished maturing. they figured he could take it. and he could. his mother made sure he could. she’d tied a red string of a fate around his neck and forcefully dragged him, choking and struggling toward the checkpoints of his life.

he didn’t like his concept within the group, but she would chastise him if he brought it up. don’t be ungrateful. midas is a big company. do what you’re told, san. do you know how much money they’ve spent on you? and he has, hasn’t he? always done what he was told. at times it feels like his body is covered in hives. that he wants to itch his way out of it. he’s never constructed anything by himself, not entirely, but part of him feels grateful for that. he’s never been given the tools, and at this point he doesn’t even know how. where to begin. he’s been conditioned into depending too much on everyone around him, and it’s left him in a vulnerable position he doesn’t quite understand he’s in. doesn’t quite realize that it’s overwhelmingly difficult, at this point, not to turn and look at someone else. wait for them to make the end-point decision for him. asking for permission on a grand scale.

she’s here for his name value. she’s here to try and push him toward more. suggests acting, suggest chasing after higher acclaim. moves into his apartment for months at a time when he finally has one. pretends it’s like bonding, but it usually consists of more lectures. she has a way about her, a way of making him feel like he’s a child all over again, doing everything wrong. not living up to expectations. san might be hard now, indifferent, angry and stony to the world around him. but all she has to do is level him with a look and it all crumbles away. he’s ashamed, lacking once again. he’s not working hard enough. not listening well enough. wasting space, wasting his life, wasting everything all at once. he’s not sure how anymore, it feels like he’s given every single piece of himself away. what’s left of there to waste? but when she sits him down on the couch and starts in on one of her tirades he believes it. lets his mood sink down deep until all that self-hatred bubbles back up to the surface. everything ends in apologies from his own mouth, mumbled out, nearly apologetic sounding i love you’s before he leaves for a schedule. words that he means. genuinely.

he feels pathetic, sometimes.

he has memories of her watching his rehearsals as a trainee. throwing out barbs of criticism. of her catching him sneaking out of practice early to swallow down ice cream with his friends before he debuted. of getting berated about it for so long, so brutally until he cried. and san had already given up on the concept of crying at that point. he has memories of her ignoring him for three weeks after midas gave him bad feedback to a showcase she’d sat in on. he’d been fifteen, would come home after practice to their shared apartment and sit himself down on his mat. pick at his fingers and occasionally glance up at her profile as she read. hopeful questions, quiet and uncertain that would tumble from the tip of his tongue. do you want tea? or else, i did better today, i worked hard. that would go unacknowledged. until he got thrown into a dance project rehearsal and had wrung compliments out of the evaluators. then she’d decided to stroke his hair back from his face, lay compliments over a tired body, take him out. buy him sugar-laden coffee. tell him she was proud to have him for a son. hot and cold, and san had always been in a shocked state of trying to figure out how to handle that. trying to figure out what constituted as love. he’s learned it’s conditional. if he does well, he’s allowed to have it.

she doesn’t want to hear about his hardships. she doesn’t want to be witness to moments of defeat. doesn’t want to hear about how he collapsed after a concert. just says it was a smart decision when san admits that the article midas put out about him having anemia is fake. not to worry. a silly notion, she doesn’t worry. not about that. she knows san. she knows how strong he is, how far he can go. or that’s what he believes. because what is there left to, if he can’t believe the best of her? if he can’t believe that one day he might hit a point where all that judgement disappears? eight years into a group and it feels like he’s constantly running toward the end of a rainbow, something that’s gone by the time he makes it there.

but one day. one day he’ll find that gold. paint himself with it, a reflection of what midas wants to make him into.

golden. perfect.

it’s warped, what they have. she’s happy to pat at his back, his hair, when she appears on a variety show, in front of a camera. he’s all of seventeen and sobs when he sees her, for the first time in a year after a string of debut schedules, a constant flurry of activity. he’s embarrassed and choking back sobs and crouches in the corner upon the surprise visit of olympus’ relatives. she swipes away the tears on his cheeks, heartwarming captions appear underneath the screen. genuine. and it had been. he’d hugged her, and he can’t remember ever doing it before. ever doing it again after. there’s a discomfort found in physical affection for him sometimes. it feels wrong. he’s not sure why. but it does. maybe because he’s never really had it offered to him.

so san loves her. he does. and there’s a part of him that hates her, too. hates being an idol. hates being apart of olympus. hates having his entire life robbed from him. hates what people have turned him into, have done to him. what would have become of him if she had been just as placid as his father? he can’t even picture it. he was never allowed to opportunity to come up with pipe dreams. he was always in a race to impress. to reach those prescribed milestones.

so his mother says she loves him back. but sometime’s he’s not so sure if she loves him, or the concept of him. the image of san that gets plastered on billboards, the name value of olympus propping him up. shiny, manufactured. known.

maybe she just loves the fame. but it’s hard for san to bring himself to blame her. he’s not sure what else there could be left in him to love. if there was ever anything much to begin with.

#index.#solo.#solo.8 #oops this is long

part 1. drifting.

solo, midas workshop ( schedule prompt, +5exp, +5 skill free-choice )

san really doesn’t understand. genuinely, the concept is lost on him. he’s eight years into debut, and he’s standing shoulder-to-shoulder with fresh-faced girls still trying to prove themselves to the world. trying to claw their way toward infamy. standing next to boys that are the same age and new enough to the scene that they aren’t shackled in place. that they’re still rattling off olympus’ name as an inspiration in the middle of interviews. and yet. they’re all crammed together in the building. sectioned off based on discipline. what they have in common? they’re all signed to midas, and the studio is paying an arm and a leg for this workshop deal.

san wants to drink himself into oblivion, sleep for three days, and pretend the world doesn’t exist. maybe if they need to replace his liver he’ll at least get a week-long break. it’d be a longer break than he’s ever had in the entirety of his career.

the room’s crowded with people hoping to snag their attention, borrow their talent. half of them probably came just to meet their idols with no real interest in their skillsets. they manage to sneak their way in no matter how many qualifications they throw up to gain entry. there will always be someone at this point. san’s only half paying attention to the introduction speech the owner of the studio is giving. he doesn’t really give a fuck. he knows his role. when it’s his turn for a demonstration he’ll drag himself up, loop his way through whatever choreography they ask from olympus’ long, long list. then he’ll have to give a workshop on creating choreography. he doesn’t want to. he’d been informed in the van on the way over, however, that he would. his manager is essentially god at this point, and how pathetic is that? he’s a grown man.

he feels helpless.

he’s making close to nothing being here. the kids from galaxy are probably making more than him. it does nothing but infuriate him despite the fact that he has racked up an impressive amount in his bank account due to tours. but it’s the principle of it. the fact that they’re so readily screwing him over. the fact that after he’s done coaching people through the steps of a dance he has to be rushed off to film a commercial, and then a performance at a university once dusk hits. he’s going to be exhausted. he’s already exhausted. it’s like a state of being at this point.

nirvana’s fucked up cousin.

he grinds his molars together as the little speech winds itself down. it’s not something olympus’ san should be doing. he should be smiling wide by now, readying his hands to clap. an excited hop to his walk. all action, excited to share his supposed skill with everyone around him. but he’s not. he’s just angry. it’s like everyone wants to steal away parts of him. borrow his talent, wear the skills he’s spent years upon years cultivating. until all that’s left is a bare-bones mannequin that will jerkily stumble through doing what it’s told. he’s close to being there.

he remembers to clap when everyone else starts up around him. plasters on a smile that’s one hundred percent fake. if you know him well enough, it’s easy to spot. but hardly anyone does. just waves hello to the portion of people that are clustered around him, trainers from the studio, another member of his own group. lets his body move mechanical when they give a demo of tell me’s dance. it’s like breathing, only even more innate at this point. it’s like he can turn his lungs off to keep himself going if he really needs to. remembers all the steps to living only after he’s a useless pile of limbs and sweat backstage.

but he’d swallowed down a couple bites of a pre-packaged meal on his ride over in the van, so he should be more than energized. or at least, san’s pretty sure that’s his managers natural state of belief. that san best runs on fumes, caffeine, and ill-suppressed anger. he’s certainly adapted into making it work. he keeps a smile pressed into place, laughs at a joke that winds it’s way from someone's mouth. takes pictures with people over a brief water break. same face, same pose, same small sphere of small talk. everything’s the same. always the same. stuck in place.

midas wants to make sure he won’t go anywhere. won’t travel his way up and out of their clutches.

jokes on them, he’s not hopeful enough to believe there will ever be a place for him outside of the company anyway. not anymore. he’ll while his time, he’ll probably stay, try to barter his way into more favorable conditions when it’s time to re-up. call himself pathetic. keep working towards the unattainable. retire unsatisfied. a practical five year plan. his mother wants him to act. he’d wanted to laugh in her face at the proposal. he’d rather re-sign another ten year promise to the devil before he ventured into that.

but who knows, she’s always had a knack for pushing him into things he doesn’t want to do.

teaching choreography takes up more concentration than shifting his way through dances and staring expectantly at the crowd like they should be able to flawlessly mimic every move. san expects too much. maybe because everyone always expects too much from him. he’s forced himself into picking up that repetition. memorizing movements fast, because they only have a week to learn it all along with transitions and lines. a nitpick-y thing, and he has to bite at his tongue when people ask for advice. he’s cruel in the studio, to his own members when they slip up.

they’re a reflection of each other, and san wants to be perfect.

he lectures, coaxes bodies into movement. tries to slow himself down, lets his group mate pick up the slack when san gives up on trying to explain a concept. too much effort, too much frustration. and they know what san’s like underneath the facade, enough to know that he’s pissed. a simmering anger that’s rubbing him raw from the inside out. that he’ll be in a foul mood for the rest of the day, the same way he is when they throw olympus into guerrilla concerts along with a handful of newly-debuted groups and nobody else.

by the time his block is finished, he’s drained.

his manager shoves a large americano into his hand as soon as they’re out of the building, and san chases it with a couple of caffeine pills he fishes out of his backpack. there’s no time to stop for a meal. he swallows down a protein bar and jerks an elbow into the side of one of his members when they accidentally shift too close into his personal space, a snarl of anger before his manager catches his eye and san mutes himself. turns himself off, lets his head thump against the window, rattles a headache into place for their next schedule.

he’s living the dream.

who wouldn’t be jealous?

+05 exp / +05 skill ( +03 dance, +02 vocal )

#index.#solo.#solo.1