at eight in the morning, kyungsoo smells like diced melons and freshly-tilled soil. in the quail feathers stuck in his hair, he carries the humid rainforests of ecuador, but the feathers of the crested fireback clinging to the hem of his shirt boast of the humming river banks in borneo. come noon, he’s caught in a medley of odeng and a complementary melonpan from the food vendor at the corner of toegye-ro and dasan-ro. every tuesday and friday, he gets to tote the aroma of takeaway kimchi jjigae with him to his next shift; otherwise, he is lost among the anonymity of the city in rush hour. from six in the evening to two in the morning, kyungsoo smells like well-worn leather and cheap nacho cheese. alkaline and synthetic citrus burrow into his nailbeds and trudge their way to his wrists, while a hint of polished polyester stains his fingertips. at three a.m. kyungsoo carries the scent of soap from the bottom shelf at the corner store. (the travel-size bottles, because he can’t afford the fancy kind.) crisp cucumber dances through the half-dry locks of his hair, down the column of his neck, and across the narrow slope of his shoulders. within three hours, the plumes of smoke from the ahjussi one storey below will take over. they will steal dance partners for a waltz, then abandon them in the grooves of the rusting fire escape. at seven in the morning, kyungsoo is swallowed whole by the reticulum of seoul’s streets, swathed in car exhaust and the familiarity of strangers.
2. how often does your muse bathe? any bathing habits?
kyungsoo bathes when he can afford to do so–which, these days, turns out to be nearly every day. after his shift at the bowling alley, he drags his skeleton to the nearest public bathhouse and has his wash in silence. every other wednesday is when the panic settles in. those days, he shuts himself in the bathroom of his flat and scrubs at every inch of his body ‘til his skin sings red. hot water will scorch his shoulders and nip at the soles of his feet, all while steam swaddles his trembling body. those days, kyungsoo doesn’t leave the bathroom for hours.
3. does your muse have any tattoos or piercings?
he has neither. some nights, though, he takes a pen and scrawls in the best handwriting he can muster across the inside of his wrist: it’s okay. then he will recite those three syllables again and again, re-tracing with his pen each character over and over and over and over, until he believes them.
4. any body movement quirks (e.g. leg shaking)?
when kyungsoo’s cheeks are tinged with pink, his index finger scratches at the back of an ear. when they flush red, his whole hand finds the back of his neck. in the middle of a conversation, you can find his fingers picking at the label on a water bottle, blunt nails itching at cheap adhesive and cheaper slogans. only after the label tears free from the plastic will he relax–then his fingers will reach for his shoelaces, the zipper of his bag, the hole in his shirt…
5. what do they sleep in?
a t-shirt, jeans, and a jacket two sizes too big. if he doesn’t have work in four hours, he might take off his shoes.
6. what is their favorite piece of clothing?
7. what do they do when they wake up?
kyungsoo always wakes with a start. adrenaline straining against threadbare vessels, his muscles haul a skeleton to its feet. his eyes dart every which way, ricocheting from point a to point b, to point c, d, e… by point m, he remembers how to breathe, lungs trembling with apprehension and fingers tangled in the holes which mottle the hem of his shirt. once his heart stops clawing at his rib cage, he inspects the lines etched across his palms and the gossamer grooves in his fingertips. when he swipes a hand across his cheek and comes away with nothing but quickly cooling sweat, kyungsoo sighs with relief and takes a step back to quell the reeling sensation. the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet is a good sign; the cacophony of the city even better. (that’s how he knows he’s awake.)
8. how do they sleep?
he rests beneath a veil of moonlight, tightly swaddled in the evening breeze. his head lies against the cradle of his history, every bit crammed up to the seams in a secondhand backpack when the pram of his skull is already overflowing. as a parade of rabbits marches across the moon, he weaves in and out of consciousness and wonders if the silverfish gathered around the balcony are trying to send a message. dash dot dash dot, dash dash dot dash, stop. as moonbeams ricochet off opalescent scales, kyungsoo nestles into himself and embraces knobby knees. curled up like this, his body occupies as little space as possible, only half-hidden in the shadow of twilight despite his efforts to dodge the moon’s over-affectionate gaze. then there are nights when kyungsoo doesn’t sleep, nights when he passes the hours mapping constellations out of the city’s twinkling lights. on those nights, he’s ready to run. fingers flex around the coquettish wind, and blunt nails etch reflections of the moon into the flesh of his palm. on those nights, kyungsoo counts the seconds to dawn.
9. what do their hands feel like?
his palms are soft, guarded against frigid winters and merciless summers by a citadel of fingers and too-long sleeves. to the south, the valleys of his palm lines empty into the narrow basin of his wrist, punctuated by meandering creeks for veins. northbound travelers will come across a collection of slender mountains, capped with rings of red where they’ve been weathered by toothy thunderclouds. (this planet is dying.) the travel to each peak is no simple feat, marked by gradual calcification and exponential distress, and only few will reach the summits. but those victories are short-lived, clipped by intermittent tremors before the devastating sweep of deep-seated unease. kyungsoo’s hands may cradle the cosmos, but what good is an ark without the ocean?
10. if you kissed them, what would they usually taste like?
the first kiss is barely that–more mere contact than anything else. at the tip of his tongue sits a trace of mint, vestiges of last night’s hasty preparation for a two-hour semi-coma of a nap. the second kiss comes with a clumsy eagerness, endearing and earnest and entirely too inelegant, but he’s trying his best. catch him off-guard and you will taste islets of artificial sweetener and the summer solstice, apple orchards in full bloom and tangy citrus just over the amber horizon. but unlike the seasons or the sun’s outstretched rays, this flavour will never fade.
this lovely human was high af on wisdom teeth meds and forgot to hit anon 😂😂 so i am keeping their identity a secret (per their request haha) but i hope this is kind of what you’re looking for, my friend!! rest up and take care! 💜💜
as yall may have seen, @the-vampire-inside-me and i had a discussion about who would win in a fight between Mob Boss Bendy and Able the Angel and…. i got inspired
i feel like they’re both so stubborn that they’ll just keep going until they’re both so tired so they end up just calling it a draw and then they go to either Toon Palace or Moon Man’s bar and have a few drinks and cigars
in case you haven’t noticed, i’m straight. i’m a straight man. i don’t ‘bang dudes’ and i don’t wanna ‘bang dudes’. have you ever seen me without this stupid internalised homophobia which causes me to repeatedly seduce women i don’t have any emotional connection with to maintain my precarious self-image while vehemently denying that i feel anything more than friendship for my best friend / roommate / life partner of the last 25 years despite the fact that i once publicly serenaded him with a love song at one of our monthly dinner dates until i flee the city in panic shortly after he comes out for fear of my own big feelings? THAT’S straight.
This is the episode right after Chuck discovers the crushing revelation that Blair is pregnant with Louis’ child. It’s this discovery that finally awakens him from the bubble of self-destructive lack of emotion that he put himself into in order to cope with the pain of his breakup with Blair and everything that followed. Still, when Chuck and Blair run into each other on the street the next day, they fall back into talking like they always do. Chuck literally stops her in the street to seriously ask if she’s okay. Even though he was shaken by the news, he’s more concerned about Blair’s well-being. How she is and whether she’s okay is always what’s most important to him. I think that’s a big theme for them throughout the series. Even when they’re not together or they’re at their lows, they’re always there for each other and concerned about one another. There’s also an ease to their relationship that shows how comfortable they are with each other. I love this little scene because it demonstrates the support and comfort they always find in each other, whether they’re together or not.