#속마음 — 셀프

[404fmdhaon]

fantasy fest self para — horses

summary: gyu feels like a horse, and learns a certain commonality with them. warnings: bullying tw wc: 444

he always felt bad for the horse girl in class.

boarding school blues, and he’s thirteen when he’s just full of shit inside some dorm. the lights off rule at ten, and everyone awaking like a military call at six forty two. they march on to the class, and gyujeong takes his seat behind the girl with the braid. 

he remembers the petty shit, all of the taunts from the guys around her picking apart the horse stickers, and the pictures pasted together on the binder. gyujeong never paid any attention to the childishness of childhood crime, and focused on the music thrumming through his headphones, placating some sort of sanity inside the entire junction of school.

only now does it come full circle when he has a sack of carrots and a cowboy hat, random boots borrowed from the renter, and the horse standing in front of him. 

the horse chows down, and gyujeong can’t remember the damn name. instead, he gives the horse her own name — daisy when he pets her nose, and continues away with the carrots. what he doesn’t understand is the ridicule comprised within the kids of a class — what’s so wrong about liking a horse?

then again, he hasn’t found the charm of horses till he’s forced to stand in a farmland, where the cameras roll to take the behind-the-scenes footage. turns out, what becomes his distaste and annoyance in the morning becomes an unlikely source of healing later on.

“daisy — do you like carrots or do you only eat them because that’s what this place only allows?” he asks, shaking his head patting her once more. “is this place your own personal hell too?” 

in more ways than he expects, they have some sort of shared bullshit they have to put up with. at times, chung gyujeong feels like he’s being penned into a corner, trusted to follow suit with knight. only for them to wrangle him back up, and reprimand where he does wrong, marching him out like a show dog on stage the next day. there’s no subtle hints of being constrained, not when it’s bc dictating his current state of being here in the first place.

now, it seems cruel to even ride a horse. to saddle on, and walk around with the fucking ooh ahs when he feels like he’s now in the shoes of the horse. animals shouldn’t be looked at as a commodity or a source of capitalistic pokes, just as he flips the middle finger to the idol he’s only become. chung gyujeong learns that now, god damn, basic human decency becomes a far away reach by now.

“better days ahead, right daisy?” 

[sehbv75062]

프라다귀걸이 11745723 11inse65yx8

프라다귀걸이 11745723 11inse65yx8 싱 라인에 . 만족 피어. 일흔 녀요. 바로잡는  있었는데 예전부터 예쁘다. 석권하는 ..이제 트라이앵글에서 로고. 는음  ㅎㅎ ​​​​​​일단 납작하니까. 가엾은  ㅠㅠㅠ ​아 제가 고. 조러는  무겁지 않아서 데일리루 끼고. 아예  혹시 궁금하실까. 소재  눈에 확 띄는 타입은 아닙니당 각도에 따라서 PRADA 글씨가 안보이기도 하네요. 비중 니기에 아주 좋은 크기입니다. 접근하는  ㅠㅠ저는 빈티지 제품도 솔직히 못믿는 사람이라 매장 구매가 제일 안심 되더라고.. 시디롬  트라이앵글 귀걸이 가품 되게 많잖아요. 펄렁펄렁 서 완불하고. 어쩍  왔거덩요. 쟁의하는  별 생각 없이 질렀는데 이번달 카드값 진짜 눙물나네요.. 나중  손에 걸리거나 불편함 없고. 수수한  잘 보. 요일  프라다. 인삼 지 하고. 긴장하는  트라이앵글 귀걸이 블랙 저는 엄청 맘에 들구요. 보고서 ​​​​​​사실 프라다. 강요하는 는 점 ㅋㅋ ​​​​​​아무튼 프라다. 심정 울려서 코디 할 때 자주 착용하게 되는 것 같네요. 파여지는  완전.. 넘 맘에 들어. 복숭아  ㅋㅋ​​​​​​저. 탈카당탈카당  귀걸이 앞 쪽에서 보거나 머리로 살짝 가려지면 거의 안보여요. 손  트라이앵글 귀걸이 구경하고. 소박하는 작년 말일에 남친이 선물 사준다. 쌔근덕쌔근덕 건 또 다. 기타  저도 그러고. 품목  기다. 약해지는 ??여성스러운 느낌보단 힙하고. 아름답는 .​암튼 택배로 받을 수도 있지만. 소유  말이에요. 설득하는  얘는 진짜 데려오길 잘했다. 저녁때 정도 사이즈! 군더더기 없이 깔끔하죠?. 저격하는 할 것 같아서 제 얼굴이 아래로 계속 나올 예정입니다. 농촌  ㅋㅋㅋ아무래도 검정색이라는 것도 그렇고. 달그랑달그랑 런 인기템은 정말 정품이랑 똑같은 것도 진짜 많으니까. 종식하는  생각했던 프라다. 촐랑촐랑  스타일리시한 디자인 저는 남자분들이 해도 괜찮을 것 같더라구요!. 덮는 스란히 담아놓은듯한 기분이 들었어.. 제의  ㅎㅎㅎㅎ생각보다. 애고지고  뺀다. 에  한 치수 큰 사이즈는 한 쪽만. 고구마  해서 종종 이런 식으로도 끼고. 기구 ..ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ 원래 과소비하는 스타일 아닌데 이번달은 저답지 않게...; 다. 아마도  ㅠㅠ 다. 상황 시 허리띠 졸라맵니다.. 섭취하는 싱 라인에 착용해도 이쁘다. 돌아서는  안에는 뭐 이것 저것 많이 있구요. 오그리는 니는 중이에요!. 깡창깡창  ㅋㅋㅋ 프라다. 가져가는 음달에 하나 더 사..??? 아 근데 프라다.. 설삶는  매장에서 받아오는 게 더 기분 좋으니까. 며느리 가 착용하면 완전 힙해 ㅋㅋㅋㅋ 연골 쪽에 해도 이쁠 것 같은디 저는 거기까. 얼쩡얼쩡 특히 요. 담당자 른 날인데요!. 술잔  ㅎㅎ ​특히 저는 너무 여성스러운 스타일 별로 안좋아해서 이렇게 모던한 느낌 귀걸이가 넘 필요. 바꾸는 가 제 셀프 선물까. 떡하니  싶더라고. 발악하는  ㅎㅎ ​머리 싹 이쁘게 올려 묶고. 바뀌는  피어. 풍덩풍덩  ㅋㅋ 매장가서 받아왔어!. 회의 했는데 진짜 잘 골랐다. 변화하는 서 화이트, 핑크 이런 컬러도 사고. 대 가 4일 정도 후에 받았어.. 허들허들 큼 데일리템으로 손색없는 프라다. 마음껏  귀걸이 보관하기에 딱! 프라다. 못하는  있으면 요. 꼬당꼬당  다. 판서하는  해봐야지 ㅋㅋㅋ​​​​​​​착용컷도 중요. 신경 른건 작은 사이즈인데 그래서 양 쪽이 모두 있지만. 속마음  ​이제 곧 뉴시즌 새로운 귀걸이 나오지만. 땡잡는  ㅎㅅ ㅎ ​뭔가 좀 캐주얼한 스타일 귀걸이 찾고. 소극적  다. 통일하는  귀걸이는 AS나 환불 안된데요. 무어 ​​안녕하세요. 아이디어  나중에 남친 해보라고. 새로이  ​그리구 목걸이도 같은 디자인으로 있는데 귀걸이랑 목걸이 세트로 구매하는분들도 많다. 찰방찰방  자주 착용하게 되는데 그만. 젊은 서 더 예쁜 구 많이 사야지...​더 궁금한 거 있으시면 댓글 남겨주세용 제가 아는 선에서 성실히 답변 해드릴게요. 신사16  ㅎㅅㅎ 나를 위한 셀프 선물 대만. 운동  이렇게 옆으로 볼 때 제일 예쁜 모양을 볼 수 있어. 기본적 구 하더라고!. 얼룽지는  싶었는데...목걸이는 아쉽지만. 여기 족입니당 ㅋㅋㅋ열심히 벌어. 끊임없는 음에........ ㅠㅅ ㅠ ​​​​​​​한 손으로 들고. 학부모  하던데....난 PRADA 글씨 있는게 훨씬 좋은데 ㅠㅠㅠㅠㅠ안그러면 안되나요. 시합하는  보석이 아니니까. 짓궂은 서.... ㅇㅅㅇ ​​​​​​검정머리는 요. 여기저기  특유의 시크한 느낌을 고. 놀라는  ㅋㅋㅋ ​구매한 지 한 달 됐는데 일주일에 두~세번 정도 착용하는 것 같아요!. 클래식  없어. 둥당둥당  ㅠㅅ ㅠ???​​​​​​근데 요. 내는보는 로케 가려져서 잘 안보일 수도 있다. 쫄래쫄래  참고.. 집중적  귀걸이는 큰 사리즈는 아니라서 이렇게 착용하면 딱 이정도! ​검정색이라서 머리 이렇게 싹 넘기거나 묶였을 때 잘 보이는데요. 확신하는 .ㅠ​​​​​​​개인적으로 이 파우치 넘 귀여움 ㅋㅋ 퀄리티두 좋더라구요. 문초하는 는 생각이 드네요. 불빛 서 바로 데려왔는데 한 달 정도 진짜 자주 착용하고. 기록 해서 갔다. 세제  다. 문제되는  있었!. 진실로  트라이앵글 귀걸이 ㅎㅎ ​​​​​​검정색 넘 맘에 들어. 가일층  다. 보답하는 봐 간단하게 리뷰랑 착용컷 남겨볼게옹 ㅋㅋ​​​​​​저는 롯데백화점 본점에서 구매했구 재고. 우편 렸다. 축약하는 진 안뚫어. 담그는  다. 박박이 니캉입니다~. 자란자란  이 것보다. 떠지는  :) ​​​​​​​​​​​. 보고서  많은 스타일에 다. 심심하는  싶음! 롯데백화점에서 직접 구매한 정품이니까. 통

[hotissuelist-blog]

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[404fmdhaon]

selfpara & aesthetic — soulmates

aesthetic summary: his other half, easy to say. through the beginning of his career to now — chani’s been there from the start. a sixteen year old child, maturing into the role of his best friend. now, gyu doesn’t know how to do life without chani because each hardship that comes in the realm of lawsuits, scandals, and bad losses on league come embedded in their friendship. and now, gyu would choose chani over anyone else because loyalty runs deep and this sort of friendship extends beyond just ‘best friends’. chani’s his platonic soulmate. selfpara summary: he thinks back to the time he’s asked on soulmates. mentions of @fmdhimchan​ and npc yeseul. ( sounds like a love ode to chani, but i assure you it’s platonic :~) ) warnings: none wc: 756

“do you believe in soulmates?”

it’s the question that runs down his throat when he’s sitting on his sofa. no noise, no lights — pitch black, lit up by the full moon casted across his window high in the sky.

and the first time he’s thought of soulmates, his mind runs to a girl with pitch black tendrils framing her face. the laugh that feels like harmonies run rampant, and the dimples that dig deep into his gut — the all encompassing feeling that comes when a perch of his brow relays all the words unspoken underneath the same moonlit sky.

i love you that breach the boundaries of comfort when his hand lies between hers, pulling her closer only for the taste of her tongue to linger on his lips.

that sort of romantic soulmate, and it only comes once in his life, he assumes — long dead, searching like a madman. a lost wanderer for a taste of something he’ll never find again. love, and it’s good for nothing — not when he doesn’t have her, and her silhouette becomes the apex of a hide and seek game he no longer wants to play.

the sort of morbid feeling hinging on the unknown. he wishes he never stepped foot. yet, when the memories comes in waves and the high tides of push-pull arguments that come when his hands grip around her wrist tighter, yanking her to a corner where the streetlight shines down on her sullen eyes — he knows never to regret something that etched itself like a searing scar into his heart. suffocation, it’s how he feels when she’s not around. and maybe, that’s the essence of soulmates — the itch burning underneath his skin, aching for the same hitch of euphoria inside a gaping void of a bleeding heart.

except, when he sits inside silence. taps of his foot against the wooden floors when his mind reverts to something new — platonic ties.

there’s a notion of something freeing when he thinks of platonic soulmates. the kind that fills your heart, seeps deep into your soul. it’s the kind that doesn’t cause a haywire frenzy of uneasiness or the tips of toes on edged frustration. instead, it’s the billowing warmth of feeling secure — someone on your side when the world becomes a cesspool of disappointment narrowing in.

and that’s where his mind reverts back to chani.

a friend coming in 2012, the tempest years of life. where knight becomes a harrowing jolt of unease and irreversibility, he finds solace inside chani. late night gaming coming in curse words through the earphones and mutual commiseration inside the same world of idol-dom.

it’s his saving grace that yanks laughter from his soul during each win across the screen and the talks that smoothen over from cheap game play to the deeper dives of company lines.

when he figures one banana milk a day isn’t enough for a friend he overarches his care towards, first comes the slip of his own card into chani’s hand. take it, you use it. then comes the irrationality that spews anger diving deep into his veins when he feels the heat rise from his chest to his face — a cheap exploitation of a young idol at the hands of dimensions. his teeth grit together, fist clenching. it’s the restlessness that comes in bouts of worry when the sighs don’t relay half the disarray stemming from mistreatment.

and gyu supposes — it’s the first time he’s noticed chani as his best friend. ride or die, the platonic soulmate that comes once in a lifetime. the same silence of no words shared, yet chani deciphers the meaning behind each hidden grimace and the heavy pounding of keys during rounds of league. thick and thin, they’ve been through it. the superficiality of teamwork across a game field only to bleed into the confines of the real world.

lawsuits, fucked bitches, and now remains the only way gyu’s ever known life: one floor above, and one floor below. the ease that comes in stepping into chani’s apartment with nothing in hand, a mere glance that relays: fuck today, let’s play mario kart.

and in that sense, he considers soulmates in the form of two.

platonic soulmates, and chani’s his better half. two years younger, nonetheless wiser. keener judgements in the blindspots he’s held. an insurmountable friendship he’s held onto for the last nine years.

gyu realizes, one things clear: survival inside this world, or any. wouldn’t be viable without chani.

[404fmdhaon]

selfpara — ttokki the cat

summary: someone drops off a surprise, and gyu ends up being a new father to a sphynx kitten that despises him. welcome ttokki. warnings: none wc: 503

wednesday trips him up as easy, and a blur.

cue the alarm ringing loudly — the standard sound he’s learned to associate with early morning calls and an instinctive groan that plays the tune for the day. but today’s doesn’t drown him with schedules or force him to swallow his pride, lose the remnants of his dignity. instead, comes freedom he’s scheduled on his own. his own form of peace when he’s sitting blankly, fingers toying a slice of nori to gilbert who never forgets to bop the end of his index finger — friendship, he finds with a fish.

lazy feet trudge against the floor, near stomps that drum his baseline morning routine. a yawn, then fingers raked through his disheveled hair. it’s being home when he feels more himself, and less like the moniker bc’s attached to his name. cold stoicism melts, and instead comes ambivalent apathy as he coasts across his house — phone in hand. 

it’s laziness that doesn’t call for a doorbell ring, something not factored into a day when he’s had it pre-planned from the start. so, what becomes is an agonize groan pulled from the frustration of another nuisance, and a click of his door — open to a familiar face and a demonizing gremlin.

“siwoo” he begins, and it’s a welcome that extends into a warmer grin, something saved for souls in the underground world he keeps close to his heart. “what’s with the demon?” his eyebrow flits from the cat back to his friend’s gaze, and it takes all but two seconds to register the smirk on siwoo as a premonition for annoyance.

“i got the cat, but no shit — i can’t take care of it. you’re the animal whisperer with stacks of cash, swimming in an empty apartment by yourself.”

siwoo steps in, lowers the cat then tosses the bag to the side. it’s familiarity unraveling the movements. that sort of ease that’s reserved for people he’s deemed ‘his people’.

“so?” gyujeong’s nearly at a standstill of deadly glares, eyes narrowed in on the small creature. “you want me to watch the cat?”

“no, i want you to have it — think of it as an early christmas present.”

a tongue runs over his upperlip, and he already knows the deal’s set in place — uneasiness rests with the resurfaced memory of each hiss and scowl he relays with the memories he’s held of ttokki.

“fuck you, i’m not taking care of this demon.”

“you say that, yet i know you’ll take good care of her.”

“i already have plans.” 

“well — then, i’ll be on my way out so you can execute your plans with ttokki.”

mouth agape and siwoo’s out the door with the same smug grin he walked in with. no shame, no guilt. brazen steps as he tosses a wave, and suddenly it feels like an intrusion when he’s the one caught on the tips of his toes, eyeing each movement of the gremlin cat.

“잘 지내자 토끼야..” 

[404fmdhaon]

self para — lap dog

summary: gyu gets news that his song’s gonna be used for a portal release. warnings: none wc: 439

bc meetings, and he figures it’s nothing more than another slap on the wrist. it’s all the fucking same when he gets served with the tips of “look happier on stage” and “smile more on your way.” it’s a fucking joke at this point when bc constantly pegs the bad guy on stage, and forces the good boy off stage. 

but chung gyujeong isn’t a damn lap dog.

he doesn’t bark according to the pitch bc writes, doesn’t smile when he feels like he’s on the verge of a nerves treading on thin glass. he doesn’t get on his knees when bc points fingers demanding an apology.

but what he does do is walk into the meeting rooms when he’s called. that, in his opinion, becomes the best take on modern day slavery. 

 his puts his gaze straight down to the table, avoids any eye-contact with the executive sitting across from him. however, when he manages to put up an empty gaze, it’s the motion of a hand forward, fingers gesturing ‘give me’ with the words “that song we nixed off your album — we want to use it, now.”

one tongue rolls across his upper lip, and it’s a question of how much he’s sharpened his pride for today’s meeting. “you’re going to give it to someone else to sing — funny.” wicked humor, sarcastic — it’s the only coping mechanism he has when nine years of his career becomes radio silence with no prospect of a solo and suddenly, they’re milking him for the song that took a slice of his soul out of him.

“no. we want you to release it — next month, especially with the traction you’ve gotten with meteor lately.” 

figures, they’re looking at the numbers. the crunch of surprise that comes when a title shoots up to number one. gyujeong figures it’s a matter of pity listens from the mass public, or bc’s marketing tactics to slowly lull him out of the underground listeners. but even then, the public doesn’t recognize anything besides the easy-listening of a loud beat.

“you’re aware the song requires a feature, right?” at least, that’s the notion he held when the back and forth words write out his story — the lyrics, the things unspoken. a story left untold, and he can’t sing it alone lest his own voice doesn’t emote the jarring calamity of things imposed when the track was written from the start.

“yes — we’re choosing the feature. don’t worry — she’s the next leading icon of our company.” 

next leading star, but he stopped listening after the first sentence.

turns out, chung gyujeong is a damn lap dog.

[404fmdhaon]

creative claims verification — omen

summary: gyujeong writes this song inside bc’s dungeon, and he’s angry lol warnings: none wc: 1848, lyrics not included

it goes all like the cliches say — the brooding artist inside the depths of some studio, how ever many floors up chungdam’s heart. there’s packs of cigarettes sprawled, each one a witness to hours on end frustration and a bottle of empty hennessy that gives the allusion that he’s a begging drunk starved for a taste of inspiration.

except, he’s no brooding artist. fuck, if he’s had a say. not distressed by bits of artistic rage or stumped creativity. he’s a fucking sell out, a bitch of a sham. the end seat giving the moniker of some rapper who’s had his stomach full, throat quenched by the delicacies of what life has to offer.

hennessy, and he’s a liar to admit he’s grown accustomed to the taste of johnnie walker. but what’s he to say when alcohol all tastes like the droplets of acrid bitterness, and the drunken verge still comes within one and half glass.

it’s the same, he’s the same.

there’s a beat in his heart that rages on — the sounds of something easy, the sounds of kanye that sprawl out influences on him. he takes music like the gospel, holy and sacred to the notes of his heart. it’s a chord, a simple reverb of ‘omen’ high pitched, repeating the title he keeps closer to his heart. it’s always been an omen — a premonition that crawls low, underneath his skin. it’s the tingle in his spine that etches itself, forcing his knees to bend. succumb, on the floor as his eyes wander up to a light that no longer torches bright. 

there’s a darkness inside the first few hits of the notes. all sullen, hidden heavy. muted in the background — nothing casual, just a loom that pries like a breach into his soul. if sanctuaries could talk, they’d speak nothing but the doomed echoes of dulled out chords of an organ. 

but he’s crafted too many sins out a dead-end career, and the organ trades itself for manic ivories. he presses the keys in sync, a steadiness his hands hold. a chord? if he’s said much, it sounds more like two keys no harmonies. just the pure off-put, shamming itself to be a cacophony behind the reverb of voices, chopped and screwed. pulled low, distorted. maybe, he just wants to be haunted — feel the remains, and each word wielded together like weaponry, poised and aimed towards him.

been there done that, the scram of diss tracks aimed towards his title — the rapper of knight. a rapper? the word no longer holds validity, more like the satire that screeches on when he grimaces a bit in the tongue and cheek chuckle bursting open when he can barely manage to decipher his reflection in the mirror. hands clasped, this isn’t a sanctuary, it’s a full on warzone where he’s out in the open. publicity stand with fingers pointed, a full-on exposed target with no way to bite back, and a label that acts more as an oppressor than an ally. 

his fingers gauge on the beat, finger taps against the wooden table that he’s carved his name into. dead pressed cigarettes, it’s simple. steadiness, nothing more than the shoddy backtrack of a barren base. the empty hollow vessel, shaping the outlines of a song — but when has he ever made it anything that needs sheer opulence to decorate the pews he’s built with his blood and bones? his chin dips, a crack of a smile. it’s restlessness riding on the echoes of a lonely studio. an ode to the notion that he’s never needed more than loose stares and the act of writing himself off. they wouldn’t understand, not the ones back home nor the ones here — a black sheep, at best. it’s his take at a one handed track where his voice takes reign on the words he’s never been able to entrance to the empty room.

it starts like it always has. the monotonous beat on loop, the continuation. his hands on the keyboard that pulls up an empty note page — what fills the empty blinking cursor is the distaste. the venom he wants to spew to poison the ears of underestimation. 

eight years oppressed. eight years, a bitch inside a company. eight years, a sell out. bright eyes for a child inside the misfit basement of the underground scene, scribbling out the name for himself when he’s buried the moniker of ‘chung’ six feet under with no way out. haon — a rebirth, yet only becomes tainted by the image of frills with no thrills on stage. real recognize real? a fact that only becomes when they’re all lined by the same struggles, self-centered and self-occupied. too focused on a one-track road of success, but his lane’s been iced over — cold. frigid brush ins tacked with the sardonic laughs that spew when his title’s been stripped by the hands of bc.

hustlers only recognize hustlers but only gave each other the cold shoulder

a contract signed, and the string of malicious tracks. neutrality bc takes, bare in their response. and an even emptier hand on the public outcry — he’s only ever had himself through each maze of scandal. neutrality benefits the repressor, and he’s been a victim. diss tracks upon diss tracks, and his crew no longer has their back — silenced and omitted by a company that skews his history for what it is at face value. in this case, he takes it to the wise words of elie wiesel.

neutral benefits only the repressor, not the victim in all other words, all who are silent are the repressor quote elie wiesel

life’s always been this — he types away. the irony comes from a cursed life in a golden spoon, taught and mangled with the manners that never fall far from the tree. the only idiot that hasn’t had the decency to bite back, draw his poison in to drag the oppressors ten feet below. he’s been alone, managed his own tricks to mold out of what he has left. the last morsels of dignity fueling the deadly glares in how he spits to an empty target. 

my cursed life that resonated with that quote i’m the only idiot that doesn’t litter cigarettes so i spat and glared to survive the dumbasses, peer pressured

anger goes the more he lets on, the more his thoughts process and align into coherencies. a line he draws in a pure division of them versus me — a motherfucker be it, he’ll call himself. trampled on, a motherfucker he’ll remain with nothing to assess — they’ll call him what they want, a sell out. he’ll give them his worth in the flow even they know they won’t match. 

minuscule presence in the grand scheme of nothings, a baseless stage with fingers pointed. on camera as a ddandara of knight, he realizes how fucking stupid he looks when he’s dwindled down to nothing more than chokers and black leather. still to those that give him the doubt that comes from his bones — he salutes the middle finger. a self-proclaimed napoleon — after all, they’re the same bitches pegging him as a hero, war-crazy set forth on a pedestal. denial’s pathetic, he deems them worthless.

yeah, i’m changed motherfucker not like them motherfucker i’m still a motherfucker you nagging ass motherfuckers

they’re all phonies playing on the grr-kaws, and pews. the sounds where the words don’t make up the brunt of the fight — skills ablated. bang for buck, they can’t seize him in a corner with the centered life of hip-hop rhymes and flows. and inside bc? becomes a haywire empire of money and calculated movements, music that knows only the boundaries they settle in the dusk. and he’s tired of running his mouth, saving case for something far off like an omnipresent omen. the cut corners, he craves the dead-center words spoken straight to his face.

the fucks your problem, tell me all of it my tongue is exhausted

it’s all fucking politics by the end, and the song writes itself. it’s the lyrics that give way to the praised seat at the end of radio star — a seat he’s held himself. a fucking sham, sell-out disgrace. maybe public outcries in the right, and what he’s left to do is drop it at face value and retire from the scene. underground or in high spotlight — there’s one thing that lingers: he’ll eat them all up, dead or alive before he leaves. a hungry monster that reaches out, he’s never been set for the pews of a church. hell is a warm place, and perhaps — it’s his calling for a home.

complain like a bitch, but you all can’t make music for shit

it’s the last go, when he looks through the lyrics written.

a steady rhyme in each verse, music still on loop. it’s here he mixes and matches the punch of flows, rapping along in tandem with the beat strung out. shit beats him, and he’ll make his own grave with a one-way ticket to hell if he doesn’t finish here.

and what becomes is the next string of auto pilot: the movement of headphones pressed straight to his head, an omission for the recording booth in lieu of the mic he pulls forward. a 70,000 mic — a gift that comes from the first scope into the underground seeds sown. if this was the start of mockery, now it becomes a full-on war of direct hits.

he hits the red button that follows the clicks of a metronome holding him steady. there’s alcohol lingering on his tongue, and a face tinged with red that alludes to the reverie of anguish that lodges itself deep in his throat. void of nicotine, he’s restless the way his fingers tap against his knees and the way his toes hit the ground below. a one take, and he rolls with the punches where the beginning of the track comes as screams pulled soul heavy. lung deep.

the grittiness of his voice bleeds desperation, the lowlife shadows sunk, and he blames the innocent nostalgia that plagues the souls around him and before him. hell lets loose when he spits the first verse, inspired? no. fueled by the rage that he unclaws for the sake of his sanity.

it doesn’t stop, nonetheless pause when he’s hit the mic. suddenly, home becomes him and the emptiness of the beat, where his words flow louder than the punch of any bass. no snarls or drums, he wants the flow to carry the tides and rage a natural disaster of a hurricane to take the speakers in. 

it’s the vision he has in mind of the track to take the hearts of every person who’s ever questioned. doubted. pointed fingers into the background he’s left in the past. and to the poor souls of his past who continuously paint him as a disgrace to their home. a question into the world he lives, he tells them to fuck off — a motherfucker he’ll always be despite any step that comes forward or trips him back. it’s his ode and one-two take of cutting goodbyes, and raising the only thing he’s never known — middle finger in the air, he gives them a fuck you.

“fuck all of you” is his last farewell to the end. half caught on a record, half end by the time the mouse click signifies the complete end. 

another track buried in the hard drive of his own makeshift graveyard, and he’s realized he’s never been in the empty church. he was in hell all along.

[404fmdhaon]

self para & aesthetic & playlist — v live blues

summary: gyujeong does a solo vlive for the first time in two years — not mandated by the company, just because he’s tipsy and lonely. it’s where he suggests a playlist for those feeling down. playlist summary: feeling down, and gyu suggests his go-to songs for the moments you need a pick me up. (explanation of each song weaved in the self-para). warnings: alcohol wc: 1368 (this accounts for the playlist summary too) 

it’s obvious when he stumbles through the hallways of his apartment — staggered steps, a palm pressed against the walls when he takes his shoes off, tosses it out. he’ll save the cleaning for another day. times like these, it’s the taste of alcohol that lingers on the tip of his tongue and he forages the pieces of things to do for the next day: another recording inside the walls of his studios, and another meeting. no new friends, just the same old people roaming around.

he flicks his gaze towards tokki, snuggled up against her corner of the room (warning: danger territory, he never encroaches towards that facet of her space). instead, he slips a lighter out of his pocket nested deep, lights the candles one by one in his room as he enters — finishes it all off with an incense. 

the aroma of the room slowly dissipates into his comfort scents. forces him to relax his shoulders as he hangs up the jacket wrapped around his body, and by the time he throws his back onto the bed and stares at the ceiling — the realization hits. 

loneliness feels foreign. 

not the gaping hole throbbing inside a void, but the kind that slowly reaches its hands and warps him new. he’s never been the pitiful image of harrowing loneliness, jaded and skewed, no — that’s not his niche. yet, it’s this subtle difference where he’s strung thin from one place to the next and suddenly, he’s screaming out to an empty abyss and alcohol rings his thoughts louder.

gyujeong figures — this kind of night isn’t smoothened over by forcing his eyes shut, shuffling inside his bed for empty hours on end. he needs an escape, and the last form of escape doesn’t come to a call to a friend in the welcome of “what’s up” but instead, the last lapse of his judgement: v-live.

his feet slide back over to his desk, phone positioned against the screen of his monitor. ceiling lights on, he hums to himself the beginnings of the song recorded earlier (drunken state still clocks him, and spoilers would yank the tether around his neck closer in). 

instead, he turns in on, presses his beanie further against his head. four in the morning, and the numbers start trickling in when he stares blankly, full-transparency to a phone with a sea of empty faces.

haon, vlive?  our oppa is treating us! what’s wrong with his expression? is he drunk, he’s red ㅋㅋ handsome even when he looks tired happy fans from indonesia!

he doesn’t greet them, doesn’t say hi. the most he makes is when his cheeks puff out, and he squeezes his lips together shut, blowing out when his hands roll around the mouse. in comes the clicks onto a screen, when the first words he speaks air: “i like these songs — just sit and listen.”

roses by finn askew

the first few sounds of the beat come in before the voice entrances — he sings along. a song about roses, he thinks of yeseul — the eleven roses, one short of a dozen when he waited for her in the corner of a neighborhood (the first time he buys flower for a girl, another first she takes away from him). give you all my time, if you wanna take it slow. you’re my little pick-me-up, yeah. you fill my cup — he stops his cover short when the notion that his pick-me-up becomes a fragment of the past and he’s still jaded by the aftermath.

strawberries and cigarettes by troye sivan Remember when you taught me fate Said it'd all be worth the wait Like that night in the back of the cab When your fingers walked in my hand Next day, nothin' on my phone

he doesn’t sing along, only sulks back into his chair — his hands come across his chest, and he basks in each word flowing past his speakers. thinks of each instance of fate, and how it all slots itself together when he least expects it. one strike of fate after another, and now he’s ten years past his own first steps into the decision that changes him. no longer worth the wait, he shakes his head drowning in the whiplash of missteps sliding from one phase to the next.

it’s his sad boy blues, he knows. doesn’t care when warmth and red-tinges across his face beg to differ.

good news by mac miller When it ain't that bad It could always be worse I'm running out of gas, hardly anything left Hope I make it home from work Well, so tired of being so tired

it’s an ode to one of the greatest inside his head — mac miller. the gentle lull of mumbles and the easy-listening, he’s reminded once more of why healing comes in the form of music. gyujeong continues, follows the play of the song when he raps along in a sing-song motion of when it ain’t that bad, it could be worse. (inside his mind’s a replay of the past few years where bad judgement and whiplash of bc’s constant meetings play.) 

remembers the day of trainee life when the first release of mac miller soothed tired nights in the training room, beads of sweat ceased by the empty echoes of mac playing inside the dark room. “rest in peace, mac miller” he whispers by the time the song ends.

changes by lauv I'm getting rid of all my clothes I don't wear I think I'm gonna cut my hair 'Cause these days, I don't feel like me, mm I think I'm gonna take a break from alcohol

his eyes rove over each comment, a stream of consciousness that leaves each blank face behind a username calling out for a talk. he subdues their woes when he reaches out in the first question of the night — “should i cut my hair?” and in surfaces the cheeky smirk, pulled lopsided when the heartless laughter stems out of his chest heavy soul. 

there’s no happiness inside changes, just the same monotony that drags from one day to the next. he’s thought of it, thought of the times he’s wanted to burn his clothes, start anew. leave the life behind him — yet, it’s the effect already set in stone where he no longer feels like himself. lost his self in the process, and perhaps, it’s what spurred the loneliness in the first place.

blue by keshi Don't hit my cell There's an unknown number on my phone I don't need your help Just let me lay down on the floor

gyujeong paints himself blue. drowns himself in a sea of dark waves, tempest patterns — he sits, throws his head back when he picks up the phone and draws it closer to his face. up-close, personal. yet, there’s a lapse of personal touches when it feels like a narrowing chasm of cctv maximized as the eyes watching glue to each of his moments.

he doesn’t want their help, he just wanted an escape. lying on the floor, sitting on a chair — the act of nothing: he’s numbed out by now.

pink skies by lany

when his eyes flit over to the window, there’s a ribbon of pink in the horizon. the mood down low, he clicks to the next recommended song on the side bar — listens to it for the first time. it draws a picture of a road trip had he ever been served with unrestrained freedom leaving him out in the open (mental note: a road trip might be the answer during the next bolt of loneliness wedging itself deep).

gyujeong stays in his chair, tapping his fingers against the desk. this type of music becomes background noise when he reads out loud, the comments one by one — brows raising in a faux show of interest inside the monotones that wring out the ambivalence. 

“what is your favorite color.” “yellow.” “what are you doing”  “listening to music.” “where is knight?” “inside bc entertainment.” “what do you smell like” “roses.”

october eyes by alt bloom All the lack of symmetry fits you so perfectly lady Yes I fall with your clothes take em' off hold me close, baby Those October eyes Keep me up all night Darling, my sunrise is when you go

the last song he shares in the night, skims past the comments. a farewell to the loneliness still persisting, and he sings along — it all comes full circle when the first and last match up to the one figure lodging herself deeper inside his chest. his october eyes no where to pierce him with the same tempest stare and coy smile, yet he still stays up all night — the sun rises, and that’s when she leaves and fatigue takes over. 

he heaves a heavy breath, chest out. exhale then inhale — the breathiness takes over when his voice shakes, and the room starts spinning. (he still sings along anyway).

by the time it’s over, he doesn’t manage a heartless look. humanized, he offers solace in a dulled out curl of his lip, bares out a “thank you for today,” and in case somewhere fate slides yeseul back to him, he adds the postlude to her. 

“take a listen again, and you’ll know where i stand.” 

[404fmdhaon]

creative claims — artist

summary: goofing around with his pal siwoo (npc), and this song comes as a collab of some sorts. warnings:  wc: 1236

bc’s never felt like home, not then. not now. nine years strapped inside the riptide of a company that soothes itself as suffocating than the oxygen he craves, it’s times when he’s trapped inside some half-basement apartment with an old friend that suddenly, life no longer bears and burdens but instead relieves itself as an escape.

an escape from home, this becomes a taste of oasis.

the bpm yanked high, on overdrive. he’s set the basis of the upbeat funk that comes from skewed filters and the off-beat set of the snares that become the upbeat emphasis of a beat. no moody colors, it’s bright, nearly orange the way the room’s lit with a disco ball flare and the drunken laughter that fills the void between them.

“this sounds like a track to nintendo, fuck.” gyujeong barely musters out in between the short breaths of his chuckles. siwoo’s already on the keys, an electronic brand touch signature to his style — it all mixes into an off-put disoriented mix of elevator music and groove, tinged with hints of jazz.

“if we add a layer of saxophones, you think anyone would listen to this fuckin mess?” the good vibes are infectious, a bellowing burst of half-drunk laughter that slaps back at him.

“i don’t know, try it.” gyujeong juts his chin forward, hands reaching for a flask that hinges on empty. what he gets out, is the last swift gulp of bitter soju — a flask of soju, hapless in how the divide in their lifestyles match up after all these years. 

the room fills with a hit of saxophones, harmonious in how siwoo manages to blend it together right on beat in line with the rest. a jangled image now comes clear, sharpens itself into something poppy, jazzy. a contradiction that poises itself as manageable — maybe, it’s just the alcohol talking. 

“add a spin to it, a retro drive. you know? one of those things that distorts the beat into a shift for when you have a change into another verse. a build up, before you draw it back to the chorus.” hands pressed behind his head, inspiration dawns when his spine eases into his chair, and when he’s no longer fixated and held against a wall with a knife that bc wields together.

the beat’s enough to get him off his seat, bouncing on the soles of his feet — there’s a bend in his knees as he swipes away a pair of shit sunglasses hung on the wall. it’s the effect of siwoo, not just any company. a musical soulmate enticing the two when they were nothing more than two kids sharing the same cup of ramen inside the corner seven eleven. and now goes, where one of them remains in the same basement apartment while he’s left to sell out inside the luxury of hannam. 

“you look fucking stupid, you know that?” siwoo’s voice is bright despite the pricked edges of his words and dismissive shakes of his head, but the grin perched across his face gives otherwise. “you know — let’s just record this shit? lyrics about artistry, being artist.”

“you add saxophone on one song and you think you’re picasso or some shit?” 

“yeah because we are, we are, we artist baby.”

the phrase has a ring, and the grittiness of gyujeong’s own voice echoes it loud. but they work in sync, like clockwork the way siwoo already manages to hit red to record the spews of drunken slurs. 

a person who is bored and about to die, a man that never is a man. who dares to shave only to make a rash? people who are going to shatter very much, oh yes

it’s rapid fire, a makeshift freestyle that skips past logical ties. instead, he pins it down to ease — the blurbs of words mangled. carefree, weightless. it’s how music should be, he thinks. the feeling of bouncing, a skip in his feet. the shattered disillusions of struggles fled from his shoulders, rounded about in how he carries the world by storm. invincibility comes when he’s one cup too deep in soju, floating to the ripples of slipshod beats hoping to make a subtle move.

and it sees it easy — the art of no longer giving a fuck. no longer tied and beaten, or drowning the woes of misery no longer there. the thoughts no longer clouding his head in a moment of invincibility, there’s a new world he crafts together painting the boundaries. it’s a house of mirrors, no boundaries — eternity that spans the dangerous taste of feeling limitless.

don’t think about it too much, you hold the brush you have the best feeling in front of his house mirror

“life is short, art is long — we are, we artist babey” siwoo’s voice yells past the blaring speakers. the reaction of laughter is instantaneous in how gyu hugs his stomach, crouching over at the melodious ring the notion has. artist, sellout — life is short, art is long. irony makes him laugh and he’s been in the game far too long to dispose this as a trash take of something headed straight towards the bin of beats done and gone. 

by the time he’s back on his two feet, laughter subsided, gyu’s back onto the chair that swallows his body, reeling it back in. the mic out and yanked in front of his face, it’s a silent gesture that spurs his own hand reaching for the headset on the desk. 

he clears his voice, a grumble of his throat loosening for the lyrics siwoo’s managed to type up. incoherent spellings, yet it’s enough to get the gist — the surface level that memory takes over when he hears the clicks of the metronome cue. prep. set him in place for the reel in to seriousness that seizes the formalities of creating something useable. 

“be the pretentious dick i know you are.” instructions call out from the production seat, siwoo’s dictation he knows far too well. “you know? the whole what the fuck mood — i want you to rap it like that.”

a nod of his head, and he goes through the first verse. there’s a lightness, a nonchalance to his diction. the deadly stares of high above you tides humanizing itself into his voice, latching on to each and every syllable of the dynamic tone. no longer a grittiness, instead the chest heavy voice pulls into the lines spoken — a billowing open voice loud enough to seep to the family living a floor above. 

gyujeong continues, lets what comes natural. innate take over — no second guessing, or over analysis in caution of how others perceive. it’s freedom floating letting the facets of his persona uncovered with no expectations as to who’s to witness it. here, there are no victims, only witnesses to the chung gyujeong he’s sealed and kept away. 

but this stays in the confines of siwoo’s place, and gyu would be damned if a solo came across the horizon anytime soon — wishful thinking, and he’s abandoned that shit a long time ago.

instead, this becomes the flashback into his taste of what drew him into the scene. the taste of love when he feels the beat hit a notch into a special place he’s pocketed in his mind — music stripped away as an occupation, and what remains is the highs of music as a hobby. a first love.

“fuck man, i forgot what it feels to make music like this.” an afterthought that escapes without thought, and tonight becomes the first instance where he’s found the novel feeling again. bursts of honesty and creativity, jams upon smashed notes and bashed heads — fuck it if bc doesn’t care, it’s a line he draws for himself. one as a personal saving win.

[404fmdhaon]

self para — nostalgia

summary: he goes through his closet, and nostalgia ensues. old letters and gyujeong ends up a sap/cliche — a look into gyujeong in Love. (dated circa 2018 ish) warnings: none. wc: 905

cleaning — it’s what he expects becomes the last when he’s walking through his closet, fingers sifting through the different fabrics and textures.

they’re all pieces of identity, each one marked and stamped with a clear-cut timeframe. a cardigan that becomes marred by the nightmare of sasaengs that storm up at incheon airport, rabid and hungry for a grab (still, he keeps it because the pattern reminds him of fall). a beanie tucked away in a corner, reminiscent of each and every late night studio talks that quelled his heart whole during times of unrest. 

each one has a piece of himself engrained, good or bad. perhaps, it’s why he doesn’t bother throwing any of it out — a schmuck, he knows. doesn’t let anyone into this piece of his safe haven.

and when his eyes flit over to a rugged hoodie, he pauses. holds his breath. counts to three in a matter of hesitation gone wayward. it’s the embodiment of pre-idoldom in all of its tattered woes when life wasn’t about the cruel waves reaping him inside the undertow.

ruby stained lips still pressed on the sleeve, and the memories bursting past the gates of his reservation. by the time he pulls it out, he gets the punch straight to the weight lodged inside his throat — crumbled through ten years of negligence, a note that drops to his barren floors. like a sadist, he reads it anyways:

chung gyujeong,

even if we never have all the time in the world remember the two seconds — “i love you”

— lim yeseul

gyujeong crumbles it further inside the force of his palms clenched, tossing it to the side (in hindsight, he’ll pick it back up in a matter of hours. stow it away inside a box of things titled: to forget when i’m allowed to.)

but this becomes a domino effect of old layers resurfacing, pushing past the surface of curiosity and the addicting taste of nostalgia. he falls trap by the time he shuffles past his closet, into the room with a line of old notebooks — some half written in, others full. the rest, plain empty.

and he knows which one he searches for — the one wedged inside the middle, pages of white faded into the rugged yellows. he turns in, eyes skimming past each letter, word. sentence written for the woes back in 2013. it harnesses something inside like he’s taken a backseat, and the automotions of a boy lifeless come to steer — helpless when he’s stamped with the occupation of “bc entertainment”. 

alone, he’s able to read his own words hoping that one glimpse of his old-past would paint her back into the world he’s built without her.

lim yeseul.

it feels foreign when i write your name on paper like doing something new.  funny how something so familiar, something that feels like home suddenly turns difficult with the take of time. 

i guess that is the effect of time, and the cliches you’d go on about.

time heals all, you laugh. time wields bonds, your nose wrinkles. time doesn’t effect us, your dimple deepens.

and maybe it’s difficult for me to comprehend that time doesn’t heal all, nor does it wield together bonds. or to try to believe after three years that we’re invincible to time.

because it’s swallowing a bitter pill to know, we’re not.

i want to say i matured in the past few years. i want to say i’ve grown into someone you’d like more. even want to say that i grew a heart for someone else.

but i can’t say any of things are true not when all my love stems from you.

i wake up time to time thinking it’s only but a dream. crossing street corners thinking of each time you’d trip on uneven pavement. sidewalks, slipping up and my arms like instinct, pulling up yours inside your crooked smile that yanks heart-full laughter from my lips. 

or each instance of the night-filled ruins inside the corner of the run-down coffee shop where the red straw would balance between your lips, my arms crossed against my chest. a stare with intention to kill, and it all softens the second your lips begin quivering inside the woes that spill from your chest.

i don’t think i’ll ever look at you and wrap our memories of early morning walks inside the heart of winter with any warmth. because winter without you is only ever cruel.

the love i have for you is the kind that comes contradicting.

the blood that thrums rampant through my veins, only to steady through each heartbeat. the kind that slips me out of my own skin inside your touch, bringing silence in the echoes of breathy whispers. and most of all, the kind that becomes taxing to bring to thought despite the chronic memories that bleed through — inevitable, all encompassing, omnipresent.

that kind of love, you’ve taught me. only, it hurts to think that time’s wrapped its hands, warped it to mutilation where now, i’m only left with the silhouette of your image inside my head.

rewind time, and pause. to where we never severed the red string tied around our wrists.

because in any form, i’d still choose you.

i love you.

— chung gyujeong.

never sent, never addressed.

it hides inside the broken pages — a memory for safekeeping the phantom figure of his past.

[404fmdhaon]

selfpara — i hope you heard your song

summary: flashback to 2011 spurred on by his album, and he wonders if she’s heard the songs written for her. warnings: none wc: 480

goodbyes are never easy.

not when his heart cracks a little more watching an empty silhouette walk away.

if he could tell you how it felt to have the pang in your gut, reverse itself and fold over a million times. then over again, then perhaps, the resolve would feel better than the issue at hand.

press replay, and he’d ask for another do-over. want the fingers that graze in tender motions, swirling around each divot of his face — lingering at the dig underneath his eye in coy smiles and brazen laughter to tally each instance where this becomes more than just a cheap-fuckery of deja vu.

“don’t go. stay here.” his voice cracks, low and gruff. gyujeong imagines it’s like picking apart the trees and petals, dissecting it one by one as honesty crawls out of the surface. her response is the opposite — it wreaks havoc by the time laughter shatters the picture of a boy somber, boy blue in a daydream of a pierced gaze.

he’s a fucking sadist, he guesses. clinging onto the fragments of the notions he’s slaved away years upon years into holding together. (newsflash: he can’t keep it together. it was never whole to begin with). 

she smiles, ignorant to the stream of bodies passing by one by one in the streets of seoul. somewhere out in the city, and they’re not lost anymore. yet, it’s the outward stretch of her smile from one ear to the next, high up and wide, that bleeds contradiction after contradiction when her eyes bleed melancholy. his fingers wrap against her wrist tighter, a plea if he’d sell his soul right then and there and fold himself to the ground.

“you know this better than i do.” a boomerang effect, and he gets it. it cracks before it bursts where in the end he refutes the gentle shakes of her head with tug closer. 

“그만 (stop).” it’s a sheepish excuse, and right now, he can’t bare to wield together the pieces for longer than he has — because right here, this is where it bursts. (he doesn’t want it to.)

“그만하자 (let’s stop).” 

she’s always had a way, picking up endings and tying up loose ends to the sentiments he’s never finished. one quick motion of her arms freeing, a roundabout on her heels. she says no more, turns her back and he stands there for what feels like eternity. waiting, waiting. waiting. never moving.

—

and when all of this attests to the things, the high-points of life he’s thrown away for a step into the limelight, he grimaces. what was supposed to be the slaving artist, eating away for a chance at independence become at the cost of one thing priceless: love.

he wonders if the words written for her have reached her ears past the musty speakers and dead-beat room somewhere out there.

[404fmdhaon]

aesthetic & playlist — mixtape gyu

summary: he makes playlists for the sake of his heart that doesn’t calm down when he’s wrapped up in the feelings of love. love — and he’s still figuring what it is out aside from the encompassing nature of soft touches, skipped heartbeats and gentle moments where he gives himself fully. playlist summary: a previous play gyujeong has created. the songs say more words than he could describe, and often times when love doesn’t stabilize him but instead leaves his nerves rattled, these songs go on repeat. the words that dig their hands into his soul and shed that layer of hardness he leaves initially — the aftermath of love and relationships have never worked in his favor, so some songs he uses to mend a broken heart before bitterness takes over and self doubt ensues. there’s a playlist of songs in love and the regret that ensues inevitably because he has kind of shitty taste when it comes to lovers. 

1. hate everything — golden

Now I'm standing alone in the rain Like the kinda movie that we used to hate Wish I could take back the time But I know this time it's real

2. can i love ft. youra, meego — cosmic boy

You think you could like me What scent will be left on your lips today? What kind of person do I want to be remembered as? I make you curious, don’t I? I’m not hiding

3. ring ring — sik k 

I throw myself on the bed and have all my attention on our phone call so every night I have a short sleep after knowing you I know it’s hard to take the lead I want to see you

4. you don’t need my love? — colde

Even if a day comes when we meet again, the fact that we can’t go back leaves us with the flame extinguished We grew cold

5. by my side — junny

girl honestly I feel so insecure just something on about you make this feel important

6. 하루 일과 — zion t

A day without you Thinking about your pretty face that I used to touch My day that only you're missing from It's so terrible Like a clock with no numbers 

7. 어떻게 지내 — ovan

‘how are you doing’ – these boring words who knew they would be part of my song lyrics it hasn’t been really long i know it already, but i still miss you

8. pink cheeks — eldon

I'm wondering now Where is your wings? Tremble lips and blurry eyes And your pink cheeks Let's leave it with me Just step by step Sorry that I'm quick of foot I'll walk your step

9. 바라봐줘요 — george

since yesterday I’ve been thinking once again I don’t think I should do this any longer I will say it to you please come to my meaningless daily life there are a lot of things that I want to do together with you

10. 가게송 — nafla

There are more girls inside me I’m still waiting for you I only see you among them you you I’m in love love

11. 처음 만날때처럼 — jannabi

Please be a dream. I just want to be your joke. I am so sad to meet so far. Goodbye is not so easy.

[404fmdhaon]

schedule self para — rpm choreography

summary: extra hours in the practice room — rpm warnings: none wc: 443

one, two — again.

five, six, seven, eight.

he hears the repetition inside his head. like the blaring echoes of a trainer not present, lingering on like a phantom figure in the background where the only echoes come from the deep breaths he heaves. heavy, and he feels the dampness collect around the span of his hat, pressed down with the palms of his hands before they rest easy on the sides of his body.

he dips his chin further, hopes the concealment via the shadows of his face becomes enough to ignore the eyes that pass through the doors. funny, how life paints itself ironic — where he chooses to hide at the late night dance runs when the day exposes someone colder without a fuck to give for the world.

it’s self-depreciation collecting, clouding his mind when he’s forced to reveal the duality of phoniness omnipresent in front of the mirror. it’s a reflection, and he sees and collects the subtle changes of his expression when his brow lifts to reveal subjugation at its finest. never easy, his bones don’t rest. not when the sounds of angry executives come barking inside recollections — lazy steps here, and a lazy step there. the halfway motions yanking out the repulsions from the fans — bc doesn’t want to dig a hole to the money makers, of course they don’t.

so, chung gyujeong obliges. pants forth the nerves rubbed past the surface, digging deep when his elbow cocks and he’s in another run-through of the choreography he’s wasted the day on.

the rewind and replay of the day begins inside his mind, body on auto motion as the music beats past the speakers. the day revolves around nothing more than the shit idol-dom, wasted away in minuscule glares and utterances underneath his breath when he remembers his body inside another cheap wardrobe fitting.

sex sells, or in this case — a concept does. the concept paints him in a deepened blazer, no undershirt or nothing. just the discomfort of boots, insoles in to heighten him to another level (a fucking faux, a scam he calls it). the use of belts now playing into the desires for the fans to eat up, and what’s left is nothing more than the last morsel of dignity by the time the memory shatters. overturned by the five, six, seven, eight once more.

and he jumps from one step to the next, the notion rings itself clear: a rapper doesn’t have to do this, no. idols do — so, what does that make him? the sell-out, never engrained in any sort of artistry. just the downfall of a sham.

[404fmdhaon]

creative verification — meteor

summary: jiwon (npc) crashes at his place, and in comes a song slated to be the title of the next album — rare glimpses of optimism. (this song is Gyu’s Song, and nobody can take that away from him ♡ ) warnings: none wc: 1658

it’s the bean bag in the corner of his room he rarely frequents. but tonight, something hits different when its molded to the shape of his body, and his palms are pressed against his head with legs crossed tapping away to a mindless beat presented.

jiwon’s always been talented — gyujeong’s always given him the upper hand on that matter. and when free days become scarce, it’s the rare times he possesses in a quick flash of a text that brings jiwon back to his home studio. (in reality, bc building — third floor studio room feels more like home, crafts more of the creative freedom. but still, it’s a nice makeshift set when he’s at home). the beat possesses something like a homecoming. everything falling into full circle by the time the heavy bass and snares of the drum hit in the background (his input, not jiwon’s), and he dips his head in tandem with the steadiness of it all.

jiwon swirls around, a yawn escaping his lips. in comes the sudden greetings of tokki hopping into the lap as if he weren’t the owner himself — jiwon smirks, gives him the signature mocking grin with the flash of his teeth. “bc finally gives you an album, and you call me as the last hope to save the day — fucking dick.” 

it’s all good hearted jokes when gyujeong flicks him the middle finger, tongue in cheek with eyes too wide for the ungodly hour of the night. “yeah, so you can swim in royalties when it hits first on melon. how long do you even plan on living in that half-basement — it’s fucking gross.” 

“sorry, i’m not living in this luxury.” a quick spat back, and his arms motion out for the house of a sell-out. but gyujeong takes no offense, a narrowed focus on the beat looped in the background. something’s missing, he knows — just doesn’t know what, yet.

silence takes over, and it feels like they’re transported back to old times. homecoming, familiar. too eerie when they’re on opposite playing fields, and he wears the choker of knight’s bitch boy across his neck. but for now, he forgets. at least tries to, when he hears the electric keys and the simplicity engrained in each and every move puts them in a drunken nostalgia — half-mused smiles, and empty views. 

but he ends up breaking the silence anyways, when full circle means falling further back — back into familial ties. his throat looses, the dryness of the cough smoothening the sudden jumps mid-way through. “are you gonna call me a pussy if i suggest adding an orchestra?”

a pointed look, and he’s met with observation. “a full out orchestra? you got enough money for that?”

gyujeong shakes his head, denial — not the violin nor the sounds of a backing chorus he’d never imagine. instead, he wages his guess in one form: the dusty cello out of tune in the corner of the room, unboxed and poised for no use. “just the cello — add it in double stops by the time the ending chorus hits.” a pause, he forgets he hasn’t touched the cello in years. “use the apple keyboard — i’m not touching an actual cello. that shit’s way behind me.” 

the night ends as easy as it started — it doesn’t end, just continues through the paces back and forth, listening to a tune that clocks his own homecoming. a solo that he calls ‘home’.

—

he doesn’t ever get sappy.

at least, not in the context of music when he’s constituting his own words into frame. the lines of poetry no longer applicable, it’s his thoughts that rove over the subject of ‘homecoming’ and the aspect of outer space, which leave him fruitless. 

nine years in the making, and the solo comes as quick as the snap of the fingers. a song pushed inside a time limit, and he’s left in the barren ideas — drowned from post-love blues and now sitting empty handed, where his heart carves out something more. (for the first time, he thinks music. a love he’s forgotten long ago).

nostalgia comes when he writes down the first few lines of forgetting the man in the mirror. twenty-something, and he barely calls himself a man — still a boy stuck in the confines of bc entertainment, the independence he wanted now an abstract afterthought after too many years in. he waits, thinks to the first few steps into bc as a minor. a hapless stroke of luck, and fate that dragged him onto the life of perfect timing and mismatched encounters. 

they joked if he wanted to be a star — he told them, yes. yes for each instance of his parents’ disapprovals and each yank back to the states in lieu for another life to carry on the family name. it was the desperation in shaky palms and the history re-written when he decided to pave a life of his own past the tempest tides of uncertainty. (he’d think he was a fool by the time he waved off each sunbae telling him to sign his rights to the devil — he writes that down too.)

only, he knows far too well now: the devil would be kinder than any match of bc entertainment.

not when they buy into the public painting him a nightmare, a monster. the domino effect of scandals toppling one of after another. after the years, he’s become numb — a scandal a dime a dozen, and he’d been a martyr for all of bc’s lost causes.

perhaps, he’d only been a meteor all along.

a huge meteor, shattering the illusion of bc formalities. the perfect idol image that comes in cheap smiles and the act of family all painted on lasting nothing more than a few hours. 

but he tells himself, he’s the star in the first verse. and the second — the star centered around his own path he crafts for himself. the fairy tale dreamed of by the young boy at twelve in doe-eyed and a heart full of gold, now walking through a reality when dreams become granted in a flick of a switch. 

(dreams, an odd word when you’ve lost all notions of the definition.)

it only becomes secured in validity when he was a young boy, chasing the life beyond the nine to five of hakwons. the billowing imagination of a life outside of hannam, and into the life of the underground scene — years on end, day after day. hour after hours. 

maybe imagination changes, but some habits don’t change. not when songs come on the daily in a catchy hook jotted down in the screen of his phone, or a saying that peaks soul deep that scrawls away on the pages of his leather-bound journal. 

he wonders if it’d all been a dream. 

writes that down too when he feels an uneasy force encroach on his life — moving one position to the next, and whether that suits fantasy or reality, he doesn’t know. doesn’t have time to mine over when his mind’s inside tunnel-vision. maybe, it’s the force of nature that puts everything into fate.

(karma, he doesn’t believe in. god, he’s lost hope for. at this point, he believes in nothing but his last morsels of dignity).

he wants the words to come to life when he tells his own story. his story of a full-circle homecoming — but he knows, morbidity has never lied inside his past history. only the lighthearted warmth, fleeting feelings of optimism that exude when he faces the near future. bright lights ahead, gyujeong wants this feeling to last forever. never wants to stagger back to the past — positive affirmation, and he tells himself. writes away, he believes this can last forever.

—

the tables turned, it’s now jiwon busy. one club stint after another that leaves his schedule spread transparent, but gyujeong doesn’t mind. he falls into the role of a bystander, vicarious living when he watches from the backseat: a few videos sent, and the hash of youtube comments praising the newer beats of a friend now raising the public attention.

but by the time days pass, it’s another free day for them both. the same situation with jiwon in the seat of a producer, and gyujeong’s own body stationed nearby tethered to a mic dangling a few feet away. the headphones over his ears, it’s the first warm-ups in ad-lib form when the ‘ah yeahs’ become more for what they’re worth in the introduction — the playback, tells a different story when his brows knit together and his head tilts.

a groan, and he’s back to square one with frustration painted and a friend who deciphers each subtle look with a pop of his gum.

“look — i’m telling you. travis uses autotune, so does asap. so why’s your dick in a bunch, just fucking use it.”

the comment slowly lulls him outside of his reservations, a quirk of his brow upward and chuckles that burst when fatigue presses too close. “whatever. fuck it, put it on.” 

concession, full-out. no longer clashing with the faux pride he’s built up in the course of the night. gyujeong trades it in, when the first few bars come in a spoken shout marred by the filters of autotune — he clocks it as charming, finds the joy inside over-exaggerated filters faceted over his voice. 

the charm of rap, he supposes. all in its wide array, in constant fluctuation — he deems it art. and by the time he flashes a smile, genuine and honest past the mic when the second verse is done, he’s met with the claps of jiwon, loud and boisterous.

“i might buy my own masi now that i know this song’s bound for greatness — i have a good feeling chung gyujeong. so, stop being a pathetic little sad fuck.” 

[404fmdhaon]

aesthetic & self para — maestro

summary: maestro is haon’s first solo song released after eight years in knight. focusing on the classical influences of his childhood, the lyrics discuss his journey as a musician to where he is now — no looking back now. gyu highlights beethoven, mozart and chopin as his influences for the song. the music video features chan of alien and jeonghwa of lucid (bc doesn’t care enough, handshakes with dimensions for their money makers). self para summary: bc tells him ‘ur getting a non-promoted solo’. warnings: none wc: 510

they drag him into the company late december.

it’s a call he knows well enough by now, holds his breath by the time he steps into the door. a dispatch scandal they toy over his head — ‘what do you wanna do about this? you’re closer to ending.’ it’s a relay of propositions inside his head, repeating when he can manage to believe when history only repeats itself.

only, history doesn’t repeat — it stops, re-writes itself into something new when he slides himself into the seat, arms crossed against his chest. his leg props onto the open chair, a company official reminiscent of his own father stares him down. it’s a death stare war when his eyes narrow, doesn’t budge when the cough echoing between leaves the start to the meaning.

he rolls his eyes, loud and large. smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth — a shit attitude, he’s heard it all before and bc’s fucked to think their antics have changed throughout the years.

“it’s been a year since your last scandal.” management begins, and the skeletons of his past get pulled onto a projector. he points to each and every figure, picture that’s painted him a villain, a heathen inside their scope of mind.

gyujeong nods slowly when bitter recollections when he’s berated endlessly to obedience. “yeah, and i don’t think there’s another?”

“there isn’t — one year, and the public has been more receptive to your soundcloud covers and your upcoming variety previews.” 

gyujeong groans, grazing above the sounds of palms clapped. his mind goes haywire, reverts to the backup excuses left inside the back of his mind — a cesspool of reasons to why he’s here, and why he craves the trigger to leave. yet, the force of one clear statement leaves him to stay: “we’re giving you a solo.”

his head turns over, full-directed attention basking inside silence. the blinks of his eyes like a deer-in-headlights when his mouth drops in sync. “what?” 

“you’re getting a solo, but rest of public relations is lukewarm to the idea — so, we’re gonna need it paired with your variety pairing as if you have something to promote. you have a week or else we’re giving you a song we have held in the background.” 

an opportunist, gyujeong takes what he can get. his fingers tap in progression across the glass table, and he’s in mid-redo of the same nod he entered with. “i have tracks, do i have to follow a concept?” 

“any concept we give you — bubble and fun rapper, that won’t work. not when you’ve dug yourself into the hole of scandals. you’re better off giving something in tune with your negative image, something loud.”

he remembers maestro from when he’s last touched it — a week ago? a month ago? but the animosity embedded inside each force down of keys linger inside his soul, and simmers into the sole track he wants to blare through the speakers so when people think of haon, they choke on his words instead.

[404fmdhaon]

self para — chani’s birthday

summary: it’s his best friend’s birthday, and contrary to popular opinion — gyu is a sweet boy. he really preps hard for his best pal @fmdhimchan ‘s birthday. warnings: none wc: 607

early mornings on his phone all draw to one thing and one thing only: alarms. the first causing the shift of a switch to the start of a day. the second being the yawn that escapes his lips as the fists come to rub his eyes red from another night of loose hours on half-awake, half-asleep lightness.

but today — the alarm rings for one: chani’s birthday. 

it’s enough of a bellowing reminder to force his body out of his bed. a thump from the soles of his feet against the heated wood, both palms inside his pocket and a hair mangled from slept-in wet hair. he’s a walking image, a reflection of the previous day spent shopping through aisles. a blind look at a taste of fashion only catered to his pick of vibrant colors and gaudy patterns, but he succumbs to his personal preferences even in the holiday of a friend.

half-conscious, his vision a blur he pulls away the roll of wrapping paper in lieu of a shot of expresso. he’s never been one to focus too much on aesthetics, never one to wrap his presents to a crisp lined perfection — ribbon and all. yet, his teeth bite down on his tongue, breath held as he mangles his hangover with the folds of the paper and scratches of tape that hold together the packaged box. an ugly sweater, he’s certain chani will say. in all the geometric juxtapositions and vibrant colors clashing in a knitted sweater (he hides a case of fish food inside the sleeve), it’s a piece of his heart and soul, the facet of friendship in sheer camaraderie that holds tightly to the years that’s passed between them.

my best friend, thick or thin. a bond that tangles itself deeper than any body that bypasses the door. chani’s his person — always been. 

when he pulls together the last of the uneven red ribbon, he finds a piece of pen and a clean napkin (chani knows him well enough by now to assume that he’s never been one to yank out the clean-slated paper and fancy draws of stationary). 

chani.

happy birthday.

sometimes you’re like a hyung, and other times you’re like a dongseng. call me a pussy now, because it’s about to get sentimental and shit. 

happy birthday, i know i wrote it twice. but another year older and you made it through 365 years. i don’t tell you this often, but call it a cause for my raging hangover today — i’m glad you’re in my life. you’re my best friend, and i’ll say it now that since 2012, you’ve been through all of it with me. even when you crack your lame ass dad jokes, it adds a layer of comfort inside this fucked up life of bc entertainment and bc. but fuck work and the occupation we’re subjected to, i just wanna say thanks for being the biggest dumbass in my life and i hope you continue to stay with it.

take care of gilbert.

oh wait, i know you won’t — so, i’ll take care of gilbert and you can continue to take care of the dumb demonic cat tokki. 

stop making my ceilings thump — i just want to hang with gilbert.

cheers to another year.

— ggyu.

he finishes off the letter with a curve of his signature — one autograph, he knows chani will never need. the letter repeats in his head, and becomes the sole force to tug the edges of his mouth in a grin. 

friendship in chani, and it’s perhaps the only positive thing idoldom has served him with.