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@cxkikwang
Send me a color and I’ll write a drabble with our muses with that color as the theme.
⚠ @cxkikwang
petrichor.
cxyuna:
the smile on her lips at the sudden call of her name is automatic, only for her to drop it a moment later when her eyes meet a familiar dark brown. “oh, it’s you.” her fingers relax from the handle of her coffee mug and this time her lips twitch to something less sharp, more genuine. “kikwang-ssi.”
her eyes follow his as they scan across the room, and when they return to her—to her face—yuna simply gestures back to her desk. “you’re acting as if you’ve never stayed the night here before.” she tilts her head and stares him down with her full height ( with heels she was just a smidgen taller than he was ), “when was the last time you did, hmm? last week?”
she tutts, “you’re getting complacent, kikwang-ssi.”
that’s what she says, at least, but honestly? she’s relieved.
a couple months ago and she might’ve gone with the reason of seeing him as an office threat for something as arbitrary as employee-of-the-month and meant it. now though, having spent multiple of those nights staying back with him ( and others ), usually on different projects, but sometimes, on an occasion, the same one, it lifts a bit of the weight on her shoulders knowing that kikwang hasn’t needed to sacrifice some sleep lately.
it’s not intentional, not really, the concern she has for his well-being. but perhaps it’s because his patterns hit a little too close to home that she’s extra attuned to her colleague’s work habits.
in any case, the dark circles under his eyes have seen worse days. and the ones now—well—they seem more like a trick of the light than anything. ( she hopes. )
at the beat of silence, yuna’s gaze, momentarily distracted, drops to the the umbrella in his hand, though it quickly returns to his face. she inclines her head towards the exit and continues, as though it never happened, “be careful walking back.”
Between managing deadlines and damage control, it’s become a quaint sort of companionship, one built on the grounds of shared habits and self-preservation. Not exactly like two peas in a pod, but it’s worked just fine. A functional, mutually extended constant that’s there for just in case.
The change in expression is subtle, the furrow of his brows more contemplative instead of an annoyed frown, and he thinks.
“Last Monday?” He leans against the table. “I can’t remember.”
Maybe she’s right, he has become complacent. Or worse: too comfortable. If one thing’s for sure, it’s that Kwon Yuna has a knack for precision, able to hit dead-center even with a blind shot. So he doesn’t dispute the claim, and simply matches her, question for question.
“And when was the last time you’ve given the interns a piece of your mind?” He shifts his weight, crossing his arms. “Jung was being a total piece of shit today, you know.” Which, had been handled, but that goes unspoken. What one can’t take care of, the other does.
It’s then the sound of rain grows louder, now pounding hard against the glass instead of the quiet patter. He glances where she’d looked: the umbrella in his hand, and it’s back to her desk.
It’s a familiar sight laid out: The papers shuffled into stacked files, the calendar marked up in X’s and O’s and the coffee gone cold. By now the novelty of being kept busy has long worn off. The exhaustion has come to blend right in, rather than sticking like glue, for the both of them. Whether that makes much of a difference, or if it really matters, he’s not all too sure.
What does matter though, is that it’s been a shitty week. And he feels almost obligated to not let her be the only one stuck here for the weekend.
Cautiously (careful to not appear overbearing) then, he adds: “I can walk you home.” He catches himself, don’t push, don’t overstep. “If you want, of course.”
♔ ♠ ☢ ✿ ✘ √
text meme ft. kang nara
send ♔ for an (past) angry text
( KKT—Kang Nara ) Stop babying him. He’s a thirty fucking year old man and needs to learn how to grow up. And so should you. ( KKT—Kang Nara ) He’s not the same Kiyong you pathetically followed around like some stupid lovesick puppy. Wake up.
send ♠ for a drunk text
( KKT—Kang Nara ) Bang bnag( KKT—Kang Nara ) drunkkikwang_gashinagunchoreo.wmv
send ☢ for a (past) desperate text
( KKT—Kang Nara ) Did my package get to you on time?
send ✿ for a suggestive text
( KKT—Kang Nara ) You want more, don’t you?
send ✘ for a (past) text that should never have been sent
( KKT—Kang Nara ) He relapsed.
send √ for a long-winded confession text
( KKT—Kang Nara ) You’re right. ( KKT—Kang Nara ) I shouldn’t have been that hard on him. ( KKT—Kang Nara ) I wish I had the patience and faith that you have when it comes to everything. But I don’t. And I’m sorry this whole thing a lot harder than it should’ve been. ( KKT—Kang Nara ) I’m glad you’re here with me. With us. ( KKT—Kang Nara ) Thank you.
cxjsj:
honestly, what are the god-damned odds that he will be in this situation.
the evening is as per every other, pressing deadlines looming above his head and the perfectionist part of him is ticking away like a time bomb in his head. the last thing he needs is to run out of coffee beans in his own office. cup dangling from a hand, the hallway leading to the pantry has its lights dimmed––for conservation purposes probably. some fifteen minutes later, he’s back in his office, cup filled to the brim with piping hot coffee and now he can finally work in peace.
perhaps it’s the general lack of brightness in the office at this hour that heightens the other four senses, but he could’ve sworn he’s heard something. the thought is chucked away to the back burner along with a reasoning that it’s probably the movement from something that’s been misplaced. it’s the only logical explanation.
thud, thud thud.
here it is again, the same sounds that are distant and soft yet apparent. the beats follow right after a clang of thunder, and his gaze shoots up from the screen in front of him, all too wary. he tells himself it’s the thunder, or whatever it is the weather and the damn skies are doing. the heart’s racing with his own thoughts and he’s reaching for a sip of the coffee to calm the nerves. a mistake.
thud thud, thud.
okay this time he’s heard it loud and clear. his mind has so very kindly fished from his memory of the news he’s mindlessly scrolled past just several hours ago––something about a professor on the run and how he’s likely armed and dangerous. the rest of the scenes that play out in his head are a tactful combination of cliche horror movie scenes. gathering courage from god knows where ( and clearly he’s learnt nothing from those horror movies he’s seen ), sungjoon moves from his seat ( this is how he dies ). if it comes down to it, he needs to at least put up a fight.
except his limbs aren’t as agile as his mind is. one slip-up, and his pen holder’s knocked over and onto the ground. as far as his luck goes, it just has to land on the part of the ground that’s not carpeted. oh for fuck’s sake. he stills, and the absolute silence that lapses in after grates his nerves further. he crouches, grabbing the fountain pen that’s landed on top of the mess of stationeries, and he’s back to his alert stance in record time.
the footsteps resume with the creaking and shuffling, and sungjoon decides he needs to move to the nearest exit if anything. he cracks his door open––just enough to slip himself out of his office before he’s moving with stealthy ( or so he thinks ) steps down the hallway, a palm to the wall.
Funny how everything is louder in the dark. The thunder. The quiet. Heartbeat pounding so hard he feels it right at his temple bones. Denial goes down just as easily as a mouthful of stones, so he opts against it, already possessed by the most primal hold of fear. There's no turning a blind eye when it's omnipresent and unavoidable.
In this very room,
At this hour,
He’s not alone.
Kikwang stands flat, head angled just enough to stare. The hallway stares back. It's sudden, the sound echos sharp with a clang, metal on metal, and he nearly jumps out of his own skin. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. He keeps creeping along, a deadman's pace that drags across the floor and he hates, hates each groan that creaks out beneath the weight of his toes.
He moves until he can't.
At the corner, he catches it all too quick: the shadow that sliding out from the doorway and into the other end. Then like a flash of camera shutters before his eyes, click, click, click: Tall. Medium build. Armed and dangerous. The minute details turn to seconds of panic, and his grip on the pot tightens with the realization. It's him.
A free hand extends, and begins moving, palm smoothing across the wall in hopes to feel for something. It’s bumps, thumbtacks, papers and bumps until––wait. The shape of the toggle registers as a light switch. The question looms with the same heaviness as dread. The sound of breathing is faint, close, too close, then it’s gone. He raises the pot, like he’s about to throw it.
Do or don’t?
A minute passes, as the room suddenly stills, a pin-drop silence that holds like a knife's edge over one’s neck. He thinks he’s going to be sick.
Like the tick of the clock: one, two––
And he flicks it on.
me a shorty with power
And I no longer ask for all the solitude in the world, but for time.
Roberto Bolaño, from “Never Alone Again,” Antwerp, trans. Natasha Wimmer (New Directions, 2010)
cxgo:
( waves her hand dismissively at kikwang’s remarks ) i’m good, no need to pay me back alright? just, ( pauses, looking for the right way to phrase ‘you lowkey look like shit today and i’m kinda scared tbh’ ) you seemed kind of…out this morning? consider this as a little pick-me-up! ( she brightens, suddenly struck with an idea ) hey, we never actually hang out right? why don’t we go for a drink after work? ( it wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment offer - she’s been meaning to personally talk to the writers so she won’t feel bad about pestering them about work and/or screaming to them hours before the deadline. besides, she always needs to blow off some steam at the end of the day. this is just one of her many excuses to spend money. ) my treat!
out...of it... ( ‘ had he been that obvious? ) ( ‘ he opts not to ask that, staying within the lines of the rhetorical. lee kikwang with his heart on his sleeve, his notorious lack of discrepancy and now with a deepening bout of bafflement ) ( ‘ there's one way to put it: he's just not used to consideration, not of this selfless sort. actually, scratch that: he'd rather that people be less than kind. it draws distance, sets boundaries that are impossible to misconstrue ) pick-me-up... ( ‘ his words drag unevenly, processing as he reiterates, like it's some puzzle he's meant to put together ) ( ‘ but goeun is quicker at these things than he is, offer already on the table, sunshine yellow smile stretching ear-to-ear ) ( ‘ goddamnit. now he can't say no without feeling like a total asshole ) sure, yeah, if you want to. thank you. ( ‘ interposes with, because really, he can't sit easy with: ) but i should at least pay for half
—unlikely twist
cxmina:
There were many reasons as to why having a dog was the best decision she ever made. Dragging her tired body home after a long day, finding someone eagerly awaiting her return was one. Taking the beloved canine out for a walk which could double up as an exercise was another. In many ways, Mina was appreciative of her dog’s company in the bustling metropolis, where one’s existence can feel insignificant and despondent at times.
Under the lush foliage in all its summer glory, Mina perched on a bench, her loyal companion Caramel sat on the grass next to her feet, both immersed in the brisk breeze blowing by. Much needed after all that walk through the labyrinth-like park paths. Flicking on the phone clutched in her hand, trying to select a soundtrack befitting the tranquil afternoon. A sharp barking diverted her attention, the Pembroke Welsh Corgi now stood on four legs, ears forward, tail straightened out, appeared to be alerted by something.
“Shh…be quiet.” Mina softly stroked Caramel’s head to calm her down but to no avail. Her eyebrows knitted in confusion at the dog’s sudden outburst. “Caramel, stop.” She ordered, though it sounded more like a plead.
A pair of shoes came into her line of sight. Tilting her head, she moved her gazes up curiously, locking eyes with a poker-faced guy. Recognition sank in right away. A colleague at Complex. Oh, what’s his name? Kikyung? Kikwang?
“Ah. Hello. Kikwang, right?”
With the heat subsiding, Kikwang finds himself more inclined to be out than shut in, the last of August winding down lazily in softly spun hazes. For today, his run ends at the intersection of paths in the park, under the thick shade of green. His pace slows considerably, falling into a less arduous jog-walk, on beat with the music streaming through from his phone.
Now, a confession: he's never been a dog person. But frankly, the one sitting up ahead in the grass, ears perked up and tail wagging (along with his own rare good mood), has him thinking for a second: hey, maybe that can change. Toweling off the sweat from his forehead, he moves forward, easy and unsuspecting. But even through his earbuds, he sense the immediate unease on beat, and backs off cautiously when the dog starts barking.
Change of plans: nevermind.
His eyes shift to the owner, who to his surprise, is already studying him—the question of friend or foe weighing for a second before it strikes him, he knows this person.
There's the slight cant of his head in greeting, and he straightens, pulling out both plugs as he does.
"Yes, and you're...Mina-ssi? Nice to see you here."
The heavy drawl of his tenor lightens to a casual lilt. Caramel is still in his peripheral, looking as dubious as ever. Surprisingly, he's more amused if anything than blatantly offended.
"Though your dog seems to think otherwise."
petrichor.
cxyuna:
in california, she learns not to take the rain for granted. the drought rips color from fields and lawns, leaving behind a wilting brown where there used to be rich expanses of green. there are puddles left of lakes and rivers. any drop of rain was welcomed with open arms.
it’s nearing her fifth year in korea now, and the rain has, admittedly, lost its novelty for her. with it being a normal ( enough ) occurrence, the drip drip drip d r i p of water hitting glass fills her not with relief and awe like it used to, but with dread.
old habits die hard, they say.
and sure enough, yuna still reaches for her purse underneath her desk, fingers blindly searching for an umbrella that she knew wasn’t there. ( was never there. ) instead, she retrieves a travel-sized bag of toiletries which…. says a great deal about her priorities, really. it ends up on her desk, next to a mug of coffee that’s regrettably gone lukewarm, and for a moment, she just stares. and considers.
the bag. the mug. the stack of papers she has separated in piles according to increasing importance.
then, finally, a sigh. yuna closes her eyes and only sees deadlines. when she opens them, to an empty office now that everyone else has filed out, umbrellas at the ready, the decision is already made for her.
she was due for another late night, anyway. might as well get some work done while waiting out the weather.
Days go slow, and the evenings even slower, but by now he's well suited to the trials of the waiting game, even if on the surface it seems otherwise.
Tall glass walls give way to night changes: clouds loom heavy and streets darkening from the downpour. He does a double-take over his progress for today—a chronology of first and second drafts, then the final revisions—and decides he's satisfied. The screen goes black. He leans back in the swivel chair.
Overhead, a single minute hand ticks, and the quietude only grows, pools over the room, into the rest of the building, as though everyone was holding their breath, waiting, waiting for the final seconds till the day was a declared finish.
Three, two, one—
And the spell's broken.
In multiples, the floor clears out, as people shrug on coats and bags, toss over a last farewell as they head into the weekend. Kikwang too, despite his own workaholic tendencies, feels for once that home is where he'd rather be for the rest of his Friday, and decides as so.
Backpack fit snug, umbrella in hand, he starts to make his way towards the exit. But it's the sight of a lone figure in the shadows that has him stopping short, and returning to a familiar corner of the office.
"Yuna-ssi?"
He takes another step, looks at his left, then right; a full sweep of the room to confirm what he already knows.
"Why are you still here? Everyone’s already gone home.”
Words are like that. They deceive, they pile up, it seems they do not know where to go, and, suddenly, because of two or three or four that suddenly come out, simple in themselves, a personal pronoun, an adverb, an adjective, we have the excitement of seeing them coming irresistibly to the surface through the skin and the eyes and upsetting the composure of our feelings.
José Saramago, Blindness (via larmoyante)
cxnat:
there’s a painful domesticity about the scene.
the loud clacking of the keyboard falls in rhythm with the boiling of the pot, and the faint sound of music playing from the apartment next door adds a pleasant ambiance. it’s a perfectly good show of how she imagined life would be five years ago, or at least how she hoped how life would end up.
the irony doesn’t escape her.
in another world if she were more responsible and he were more attentive, this painfully dull moment of everyday life might’ve been a more feasible reality. it’s a relief, she tells herself, that she doesn’t have to suffer through the mundane parts of dating anymore. there’s no cooking or cleaning or taking care of someone else, she only has herself to focus on. she’s a selfish girl who prides herself on such a terrible trait if only to help her sleep more soundly at night.
it’s an effort three years too late, and still more than likely painfully unnoticed. officially, she’s here to celebrate two months worth of sobriety— a pathetic victory that only serves to make her a general bore to be around— and she celebrates by relegating herself to someone else’s kitchen while being ignored, mirroring the roles in a relationship that feels like a lifetime ago. in the end, the old saying proves true; misery loves company and she’ll take what she can get even if it’s kikwang and his beloved laptop.
the stove clicks off and carefully, always carefully, natalie makes her way over to the center of the room, balancing bowls and placing them carefully onto the coffee table. it’s moments like these she pities her mother, exerting an impressive amount of effort for no fanfare or applause, she’s certain she could never abide by it. especially when practice has taught her how to easily achieve attention.
“hey asshole,” she calls with more affection than aggression, “come eat dinner. i didn’t take time out of my day to make jjigae for you to ignore me for fucking prose.”
she brings a spoon too her lips and looks carefully at the back of his head. “you know i really hope you don’t treat prospective romantic interests like this still. you’ll end up dying alone like that.”
Within the enclosure of his small apartment, they have somehow managed to step into two very different worlds. In the living room is his solitude, confined by the measure of his desk, shrinking—arms on the desk, hands at the keys. Natalie on the other end manages—like always—something a little more vivid, larger than the preexisting space that serves to separate.
The typing continues almost monotonously, with the natural, predictable breaks that cut into the stream of white noise, and it’s enough to make her think that he doesn’t see her. And in a way, that’s not far from the truth: from where he sits there’s the mirror on the opposite wall, a reflection of her back turned, making her way around the table.
There it is, that slight pull in his chest. The feeling isn’t new. It’s not what it had been years prior.
A moment, then an almost distracted: “Yeah. Hold on.” The laptop shuts with a click, and he scoots out of his chair, and onto the floor, bowl in hand. The steam rises, warm and aromatic.
The snide remark that follows warrants a change of expression: a lofted brow, mouth mused in mocking perplexion. “Like you’re any better."
A pause, as the memory resurfaces, a flash of a second, and he has enough decency to backtrack. "I don’t. At least, I don’t think so. Learned my lessons and all.” Kikwang looks off to the side, but the realization is as palpable, as real as their own shadows.
It’s then that he wonders, briefly, if the bruise-ache of an ending is better than one that knifes itself right at the pulse. It’s in this way that history repeats itself, in the perpetual retracing of old wounds.
As though to hide his momentary embarrassment, he hastily spoons a mouthful of stew. “Hey,” he chews, the taste of chili and kimchi bright red on the tip of his tongue. "This is good.“ And he means it.
"I have some makgeolli in the—wait,” Shit. He winces. “Two months, right. I have soda. You okay with soda?” He props himself up with a single arm as he stands, up from his criss-crossed position on the carpet. “I’ll go get it.”
cxgo:
( knits eyebrows in confusion as she receives the article and looks up to kikwang ) someone’s under the weather today… ( murmurs quietly as she scans the article and finds no major mistakes ) ( cranes her neck to look at any sign of kikwang only to find that he is nowhere in sight ) ( shrugs and reach for her bag, looking for the lipstick that may or may not be there since a few days ago but found the hard candies that she bought this morning. suddenly is struck with an idea, she stood up and head over to kikwang’s desk with the hard candies and a post-it note with ‘good work!!! idk whats with u this morning but #stay strong and carry on my friend:)’ written on it ) i’ve read your article. there’s no major errs in it, but i’ll look through it one more time, yeah? in the meantime ( she puts the candies and smiles at him ) hwaiting!
( ‘ there’s little else to expect as far as the typical exchanges go; here, collaboration is everything, and with more hands to help, the margin of human error naturally shrinks in tandem ) ( ‘ so when goeun walks up to his station, the inevitable first thought is that there’s something that needs to be fixed, or the lack thereof ) yeah, yeah. take your time. ( ‘ but the small gift of sweets and the note that came with it—now that, that’s new ) ( ‘ he’s always been a guy of keeping checks and balances, paying up dues when needed. gestures like these never come without reason. ) oh. ( ‘ brief pause, as he skims over the post-it ) i, uh—thanks? sunbae ( ‘ though his expression is anything but thankful. he shifts his gaze—the look in his eyes undoubtedly questioning. ‘stay strong?’ what’s that supposed to mean? ) ( ‘ he looks around at his desk, mind flitting about at a loss. shoot. ) i don’t, really have anything to give you in turn, though—
♔✺ √
text meme ft. kwon yuna
send ♔ for an angry text
( KKT—Kwon Yuna ) This is the final straw. I’m done. ( KKT—Kwon Yuna ) The moment I see that incompetent piece of shit of an intern I’m going to ACTUALLY push him out of the window.
send √ for a long-winded confession text
( KKT—Kwon Yuna ) Been meaning to tell you this but( KKT—Kwon Yuna ) There is a quicker route to get home( KKT—Kwon Yuna ) Just a straight path through the park and the apartment complex is right there( KKT—Kwon Yuna ) Not that I really minded taking the other way, but you know
send ✺ for a sassy text
( KKT—Kwon Yuna ) She talked back to you? 헐…( KKT—Kwon Yuna ) Someone’s going to be in for a surprise tomorrow morning
all the texts since reception is great @ smart earth 🌝
text meme ft. ji sungjoon
send ✆ for a morning text
( KKT—Ji Sungjoon ) I can’t sleep because of this stupid show( KKT—Ji Sungjoon ) Is the detective Bumgyun or Woojin?
send ♠ for a drunk text / send ✿ for a suggestive text
( KKT—Ji Sungjoon ) Mmmmmmmmmm hyung( KKT—Ji Sungjoon ) yo u need to sin more( KKT—Ji Sungjoon ) *g ( KKT—Ji Sungjoon ) sin*