“can’t believe you named your coffee machine seongwoon” “can’t believe you named your pen but not your coffee machine”
@cxyuna
🪼
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Love Begins

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Misplaced Lens Cap

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★
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@cxjsj-blog
“can’t believe you named your coffee machine seongwoon” “can’t believe you named your pen but not your coffee machine”
@cxyuna
⚠ @cxjsj ft. @cxnara
addictingkdrama:
How to Not be Salty: A Guide by Ji Wook
Send me a ‘🎨’ for an aesthetic or mood collage for our muses.
If applicable, send a verse too!
…and I feel as though I am waiting for something new and strange which will burn the unburnt side of my soul.
Kahlil Gibran, in a letter to Mary Haskell, from Beloved Prophet: The Love Letters of Kahlil Gibran and Mary Haskell, and her private journal (via weltenwellen)
✱ baby steps
cxnara:
she walks in like the summer breeze, a pop of pastel pink, smile soft like honeysuckles, the click of heels against tiles announcing her arrival. unbidden - her gaze falls on him first, seeing how the sign of sleep left his eyes, how he straightened up before glancing at her. “sleeping on the job, darling? dreaming of me?” she walks around to lean against his desk, tone full of amusement paired with a certain bite sungjoon is all too familiar with.
the day had passed with the blink of an eye, hours spent on her feet rushing until the meeting at complex. she shifts her weight, half sitting on the desk ( short reprieve ) as the familiar ache of heels appears again, patiently waiting for him to finish gathering his things. there’s a hint of a grimace on her features as her gaze settles on his tie ( what a hideous sight to behold, and at complex no less ). she reaches down to fix it - & perhaps to others it looks nothing more than a wife doting on her husband, but nara has half a mind to take the chance and strangle him right then & there. she leaves it tight around his neck ( perhaps uncomfortably so ), smug as she clasps her hand with his, pulling him from the seat.
her stride adopts a lively gait as they walk out of the glass office, bright and lively, ignoring the pain in her feet before the elevator doors close, leaving the two alone again. she lets go of his hand instantly ( nothing more than necessary ), leaning against metal as the day’s exhaustion settles in. “dong’s already downstairs,” she tells him before glancing at her phone for the time ( wallpaper a sickly sweet photo of them during the honeymoon ). “looks like we’ll get there early after all… get it over and done with.”
it’s second nature by now––the way they greet each other with hidden meanings embedded within words. the honey in her voice is alluring and deceivingly so; for the briefest moment, he’s almost mistaken her tone for something softer and endearing in his drowsy state.
“if this is that dream you speak of, now would be a great time to wake up.” a smile in response as he lifts his gaze from the desk, habit falling back into place, the fleeting moment of disorientation from before is no longer. this is what he’s always known, with her––like two unfitting gears forcibly pieced together, all teeth and snide remarks and a tenderness that’s bound to bruise.
smaller hands grab ahold of his tie, yanking him down to her eye level and he stills. the transparency of his office leaves him with little privacy and absolutely no room for him to drop his act yet. she’s fully aware of the position it puts them both in, and it seems she’s hell bent on making use of this fact.
two can play at this game––an arm settling around lithe waist, he draws himself closer, gaze unwavered. to the unsuspecting onlookers, it’s nothing short of an ( overly ) affectionate gesture between husband and wife. what they don’t see, is the way the tie tightens uncomfortably around his neck and the way her hand squeezes all too firmly around his own. ( that aggravating smugness she bears, how she takes lead as though she’s in-charge. ) his smile falters slightly as he falls in step behind her, free hand raised to loosen the knot of his tie so he can at least fucking breathe.
privacy’s offered within the confines of the lift. after all, a show is unnecessary without its audience. it’s stark silence and physical distance that replace any traces of tenderness from earlier. hands tucked into pockets, the absentminded hum that follows is half in acknowledgment and half in dismissal. that is, until she mentions–– “dong? we were supposed to take my car.” it dawns upon him then that it’s likely she barely listens to anything he says, unsurprisingly.
the ( his ) original plan remains: to take his car so they can drag this out for as long as possible and hopefully arrive just in time for dessert. save the questions, save the trouble. the delay begins in the car, with sungjoon waiting one moment too long for nara to settle in. wordlessly shifting the car into gear, what’s initially a vague idea starts to take roots in his mind, presenting to himself the prospects of a different trajectory for the night––preferably one that’s slow and serene and far from the chitter chatter that he’s been dreading all day.
some fifteen minutes into the drive, he lifts the silence. “dinner at the moms’: yay or nay?”
✱ the escalation
the circumstances are rather self-explanatory: ten minutes to the morning meeting and it’s barely enough time if he includes the mandatory stop by the coffee machine first. it’s the same routine, except a traffic jam this particular morning has delayed his plans by at least half an hour. patience grating thin, the last thing he needs is to be stuck dealing with the unresponsive lift in their office building.
it works just fine, aside from the fact that the executions lag and the operations are too slow for his short fuse, especially so when he’s running short of time. there’s little to no hesitance in jabbing at the close button with a thumb, fiercely almost, despite clearly having locked gazes with an incoming figure several steps away from the lift lobby. it’s nothing personal––he doesn’t even know who it is ( yet ), he’s just on a tight schedule. not to mention the coffee his dearest wife has so kindly offered him this morning turns out to be plain ol’ water. this morning is beginning to show potential for topping his personal list of worst mornings.
it’s a series of loud clicking of heels against tiles before the lift doors are wedged open again. with brows in a tight furrow and lips pressed in an evident display of frustration, there’s an exasperated exhale through the nose as he lifts his left hand to double check the time yet again––eight minutes left.
damn this thing.
cxkikwang:
it follows @cxjsj
“Police are searching for a Yonsei professor suspected of murder—he’s considered to be armed and dangerous. Seoul officers say Professor Jeon is wanted in connection for the stabbing and death of a 23 year old along with 5 others…”
He lets out a breath. “Christ.”
The glow of the flat-screen casts pale 11 o’ clock hues, blue and sickly, and he’s alone. It’s another of these late nights, taking advantage of the quiet hours found in an empty office. There’s nothing but the pitch-dark of the hall and the loud roar of the downpour that’s outside, and normally that doesn’t bother him, but he’s starting to feel something creep in, a sick sort of premonition.
From where he sits on the sofa, he has the sight of the doorway at the corner of his eye, which frames only an impression of the hall. For a second, the thunder subsides. A beat.
One, two.
He hears it. The creaking. Faint and awful, deadweight on plywood. Then it stops. He leaves the television untouched as he slowly stands. There’s no real weapons on him. In the little bit of light he’s got, his hands manage to find the next best thing—a potted plant. He moves closer to the doorway, waits.
And it starts again.
One, two—
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.
artistictae:
🖤
But you ask nothing of me. All & nothing. All at once.
Chelsea Dingman, from “Late Night Cartography,” published in Foundry (via weltenwellen)
✱ baby steps
rays dimmed into a soft glow, the residual warmth sticks around within the confines of his office and the coziness is lulling. slouching snugly back into his chair, he finds himself drifting, drifting, drifting –– and twenty minutes later he jolts awake with a sore ache in his stiffened neck and an unvoiced groan.
the rest of the afternoon rolls in gradually, at a painfully slow pace.
come over early if you can, she says; it'll just be us few, she says; of course!! you two can leave early, just at least have dinner here, it won’t take long i promise, she says. if there's anything he’s absolutely certain about his mother, it’s her inability to resist company. once, twice and thrice even, it’s all on him. but some time after the nth time of him showing up to a dinner-turned-party with a handful of unfamiliar middle-aged ladies swarmed around him with questions like he’s five, he reckons he needs to stop obliging every single time. to be fair, it’s been a while; though in his defence, thrice consecutively is beginning to push it –– even for him. perhaps his only consolation is the fact that the spotlight has been solely concentrated on nara for now.
( she’s the darling. )
sweet voice with an alluring smile –– to them, her presence is much like the warmth of april nested within fully bloomed flowers, gentle and so very full of life. his mother’s absolutely in love with nara’s soft-hearted ways and how she’s practically living art, but he’s convinced otherwise, especially after she’s so kindly offered her two cents regarding his choice of tie today ( read, as quoted: which bin did you pick that up from ). finger-tips prodding at his nose bridge where the brows are furrowed, he closes his eyes again.
the second time he jolts awake, it’s from the clicking of heels against tiles. his blurred vision gradually focuses on a familiar outfit. where has he seen this before? with that particular perfume scent? it’s definitely recent, and recent like… this morning recent –– oh. a sharp inhale, and he’s shifting to sit up right, hands beginning to busy themselves with grabbing a few things to bring along before lifting his gaze in her direction.
“thought you were going to end later,” an exasperated sigh under his breath, “let’s go.”
✱ a fragile thing
( dec, 2015. )
remember: eyes in half crescents and lavender; always lavender.
it’s strange how associations change. she’s told him that as a fun fact once, something about the senses linking up with events and something about it being the human body’s way of remembering; all he remembers though, are bright smiles and that faint scent of lavender she always carries with her. on hindsight, perhaps that’s what she’s talking about back then.
ten years later, he’s sitting alone in his car, bouquet of lavender in the passenger seat filling the space with what he’s hoped would be reminiscence, warmth, comfort. ( a selfish act for some semblance of familiarity; as though she’s never left, perhaps. ) disappointingly, the scent churns a sickly feeling at the pit of his gut instead, and for once he hates how right she was.
( what would you have done? if you were me? )
there are no words yet, just the urge to speak swelling in his chest with strings of half-formed thoughts. it’s a series of languidness that follows –– dazed eyes watch as cars come and go, muted anguish, crowds of monochrome blending into one another and before long, the sun’s beginning to set. he works on the button on his jacket, only to pause briefly at the cruel irony of how this suit is initially prepared for an occasion of an entirely different purpose ( re: wedding, reunion –– anything but this ).
the background fades into white noise, sparing him from having to listen to the perfunctory words of condolences, whispered with a solemn dip of the head and a cup of soju. the line moves, and he moves with it involuntarily, gaze avoiding the altar as he nears it.
this is all it takes: a familiar pair of hands, a familiar voice. it's more of a drone that matches the general tone of his incoherent thoughts. he stands there, cup filled and heavy and chest hollowed out. he parts his lips, but the name doesn’t come easily.
( summer; bunk beds in a musky room filled with hot blooded young men. the lights are out and taejoon’s in the bottom bunk across. they're barely twenty and his simple question only raises more questions for sungjoon; he’s on his side, back to the younger, hands balled into loose fists, brows knitted and heart pounding, pounding, pounding––
“hyung, do you like sooyoung noona?”
————
“i guess you’ll be alright.”
here’s the thing: his logic back then makes sense to himself –– he thinks he might’ve been okay with the ambiguity and the idea of them being friends forever. but apparently forever isn’t long enough for them in this lifetime and ambiguity becomes a double-edged sword lodged firmly in his chest by himself, twisting, taking things apart. )
“taejoon-ah...” eventually he speaks, voice unused and quiet.
✆ ♔ ♠ ☏ ⁇ ♣ ✺ ✿ √ ☠ ☢ ☼ ✘ xoxo
send ✆ for a morning text
7:15am
↻ 2 missed calls ( kkt ⇢ probably wife ) rise and shine ( kkt ⇢ probably wife ) it’s a beautiful sunday morning, you’re missing out 🙂✌🏻
cute gender neutral things to call ur partner
henrychenq:
significant annoyance
☠️
send ☠ for a misguided advice text
( kkt ⇢ taehyung ) btw about that freckles problem( kkt ⇢ taehyung ) if you can’t get rid of ‘em, try going under the sun for more freckles, eventually they’ll join together and it’ll just be a tan( kkt ⇢ taehyung ) tan’s a good look too y’know
ALL
send ✆ for a morning text
8:20am
( kkt ⇢ kikwang ) how am i supposed to survive the day knowing we’re down to the last two finale episodes… ( kkt ⇢ kikwang ) this is like game of thrones but mini version…
all the things~ 👀👀
send ✆ for a morning text
6:20am
( kkt ⇢ 태준이 ) ik it’s early but apparently it’s too early for coffee smith to start serving bagels ( kkt ⇢ 태준이 ) whatever that even means 😪