all the texts please! ( p.s. ily ♡ )
text meme: still accepting
✆ for a MORNING text.
( kkt: 여왕 님 ) i woke up and u werent here( kkt ) kind of sad about it( kkt ) whered you run off to this time? bring me a nice souvenir
text meme: still accepting
✆ for a MORNING text.
( kkt: insana ) its like four in the morning, yeah? i havent slept for two days i think( kkt ) i see god and he is bathed i n neon lightsssss( kkt ) eating a donut. looks jelly filled. ( kkt ) think i can fight him and win?
$ for an ACCIDENTAL text.
( kkt: insana ) i told you before i dont have the money so fuck off i will call you when i do, dick sniffer( kkt ) fuck ( kkt ) FUCK sana holy shit im an idiot( kkt ) ignore that i pressed the wrong shit
estrnged reblogged
sometimes, when hanbyul looks at chanyeol, he’s reminded of himself.
a younger self. another self. the self of a different life. one so vividly intertwined with his current life that the line blurries between who he is and who he once was. and sometimes, when chanyeol doesn’t look at him but instead at the clouds, the sky, the stars or the rain, hanbyul wonders if he sees the same when he gazes into the mirror.
the thing is, he doesn’t want to say that broken equals beautiful. there’s nothing beautiful about trying to pick up the shards of your life and gluing them back together. it hurts to cut yourself on the sharp edges and once your hands are bloodied and bruised, you’ll find there’s little beauty left to be looking forward to anymore. it drains you the same way that betrayal does, the way you love without being loved in return. it hurts and it’s bullshit and a cliché and hanbyul doesn’t want to bring it up, so he never does in front of others.
not even when he’s awake at night and contemplating the meaning of life.
“you don’t look good.”
the worry is sincere, he thinks. yet it doesn’t suit the boyish features of chanyeol who represent a stark contrast to hanbyul’s own tiredness. still, he thinks. this decision was the right one. he wouldn’t have lasted without it, that he knows. even if he doesn’t say it.
“it’s therapy. i’m not supposed to be lookin’ good.”
chanyeol grins and subsconsiously, hanbyul does too.
he still remembers the first time the other came to visit. so very obviously uncomfortable being trapped within the four white walls of the rehabiliation center that hanbyul checked himself in earlier this year. to treat his own demons, he thinks. still, he dropped by once or twice every two weeks, checking in on the younger like they’re brothers.
even hanbyul’s own brother hasn’t visited him as often.
chanyeol didn’t know back then, but hanbyul’s always assumed that somehow, he knew. perhaps because the signs have always been a dead giveaway: the constant fatigue hollowing out his features, the irritation, the need to snap at everyone when things have gone particularly bad for a couple of days. the good thing is that, if he’s noticed, he’s never spoken up about it. not during the visits, not even when they meet up now.
to strangers, they’re just two boys, two friends who pull ridiculous pranks on each other and toss out stupid remarks to make the other laugh. like brothers, some would say. in an ideal world, perhaps they could be. except, they’re stuck dealing with the world they’ve got and for his part, hanbyul plans to handle this as best as he can.
so he sends the messages, hoping to offer some kind of comfort. even if just for one fleeting moment, things are going fine.
( sms: 박찬열 ) i think i remember someone’s birthday… what’s his name again? ( sms: 박찬열 ) wishing you all the best, mate. talk soon, yeah?
just like they’re supposed to be.
“Rule number one, is that you gotta have fun.”
he’s had a shit day. shit week. shit year. in his mind, that was reason enough to be chasing his pills with another shot of whiskey. he lets out a soft sigh as he empties his glass, trying hard not to wince at the blazing trail it leaves down his throat. as of now, he was coasting on his sorrows and muddles thoughts, but what he really wanted was the welcoming numbness his vices brought him. the fact that he could still coherently understand tae was a sign that he was not drunk enough to be having this conversation.
but what the other said did not disappoint, and a smile immediately blossoms. “and that, my friend, is where you’re absolutely right!” he signals the bartender for another shot and slings his free arm around the other’s shoulders.
“that’s the golden rule, my dude. it can also be summed up in two words: fuck it. or, really, just keep the fuck and add whatever else you want after it. fuck life, fuck school, fuck work, fuck this, fuck that! fuck it all!” at this point it seemed like he were bordering on hysteria, but the chemicals were beginning to take effect and he could feel each each nerve rewire itself into something much bigger than what he was. “so that’s my fatherly advice to you. have fun. ‘cause life is shit, and it will continue to get worse from here on out. cheers to that, yeah?”
“Got a hole inside of me.”
today he has a lollipop in his mouth in favor of his usual cigarette, they always say it helps you wean off the stuff. it was always the perpetual “they” who says these things, they who know better, they who knows best. they who dictate and propose but seldom hold themselves accountable of anything. if he weren’t too broke to buy himself another carton, he’d blow smoke in their faces and block out whatever nonsense they had to say about the repercussions of secondhand smoke.
“my friend, technically speaking, all of us got holes.” he’s grinning because he’s an immature prick and knows it, but that’s his whole schtick. he’s the peter pan that never grew up, and everyone thinks its charming (in a pathetic way, he assumes.) “but if you aren’t talking about the holes i’m thinking of, then i suppose i can relate. i get it. the hole is there and it sucks because what used to be there isn’t there anymore, right? and you’re hurting because you’re thinking you’re gonna spend the rest of your life looking for the thing you’ve lost and it’ll be nothing but a void eating you alive, right? holes can be filled. with passions or love or even bad habits.” he wishes he had a cig to further prove his point. really, he needs one to take the edge off but he’d like to act like a noble person and say its to be an example. he’s both an immature and a hypocritical prick at this point, because as much as he hates others for harping on about knowing everything, his bouts of wisdom are as common sense as they come.
“so tell me, what caused that hole inside of you, anyway? or did i just stick my foot in my mouth by asking that?
whomstdve wants a short starter smash that mf like its gonna be pre-est though
“It’s been too long since you’ve really smiled.”
The observance has him frozen mid-sip, a splash of the chilled beer hitting his lips once before pooling at the bottom of the can. It was a visceral reaction he meant to swallow (like his pride) but he was so oblivious to his own well being that it struck him when someone acknowledged his existence. He sets down the glass bottle on the coaster, turning away from the other, needing a moment to compose himself before giving an answer. Too many bodies were present in such a small space, the usually half-empty bar now filled with all sorts of people looking for some solace at the bottom of their glasses. He, too, fit in that category as well most of the time. Today he needed a place with a comfortable ambiance that filled in the spaces he couldn’t with idle conversation.
“Since when have you started paying attention to me?” It wasn’t an accusation. He was everyone’s favorite vice, the one that slips to the shadows when no one needed him anymore; An easy friend who didn’t need much watering to keep the relationship thriving. A man of many acquaintances, but always with those who never made any comments about his lifestyle or any other blatant fault.
“What about you? You’re the opposite of me, aren’t you? Always smiling through the bullshit like nothings wrong. I’d say it’s admirable but that’s just as pathetic as not smiling,” he turned to the other in the eye. “Right?”
“I’ll let you down. I will always let you down. I’m not enough for you to be satisfied.”
Weary eyes lift to her dimly lit countenance. It took him a moment to process that the words left her lips, not his. He was more than certain he had said the same thing to another person at one point in his life, for this was his own philosophy refined through the passage of time. Being on the receiving end was new to him, an experience he was currently processing through his muddled mind. Images of the faces whom he reiterated the same concept to flashes in his thoughts and he is hit with an unnamable force. The closest thing he can associate it with was mild guilt. Did it hurt the others when he did this? Did he mean to hurt them? His intention was always set on saving them a world of agony and melancholy. Exposure to his world meant the infections it festered. No person deserved that. He didn’t deserve anyone.
Yet he remains mildly pained at how she so blatantly held him at arms length. It roused something within him.
“That’s my fuckin’ line,” he says in between a genuine laugh. Oh, how the tables have turned. He turns back to the quiet city life below them, muted by their distance from the chaos. Neon lights flicker on and cars zip by with their destinations in mind. He rubs his eyes and thinks about an excuse he can tell her to go slip away and smoke a joint for a minute or two. A sigh escapes his form and he takes a moment to gather his thoughts, and he does what none of the people who heard these words did to him: he was going to fight.
“And I’ll let you down too. I can’t even satisfy myself, so I sure as hell can’t manage to do so to another person. So why don’t you stick around for a bit, let us disappoint each other before you decide to walk out and say the same thing to next person you meet?
she
she always said that he had lots of potential brimming at his fingertips. it was always there, always waiting. manifested from the withheld frustrations of acknowledging the possibilities, never pursuing them. she always said that he could become something great, a figure, a spokesperson, a revolution in the guise of a lanky vagabond.
“baby, get that cigarette out your mouth. baby, ignore those pills.”
she always tried to get him to stop with his vices. she only ever liked him when he drank. he was much more fun when intoxicated, more out there. sober, he was so unbearably himself that it drove her mad. so quiet, so thoughtful, always brooding. You’re in your head, baby, she’d say. Come out and talk to me.
it was a process, as most things are. one timid step in and he’d trade his cigarette box for coffee dates. their conversations were often mundane, never reaching a peak or a conclusion. he thought that maybe all this small talk was to get to know each other. a leap and he traded his adderall for her kisses. every touch was enough to sent a jolt of energy to his heart. he started doing things he never did before: waking up when the birds were still chirping (so he could meet her before work,) sprucing up his meek apartment (so she wouldn’t make those faces whenever she came over,) and getting a second job (so he can buy her the things that brighten her eyes whenever she walks past them.) He thought he was getting better, that she was all the drugs he needed. A jump and he told her he loved her. he used all the analogies pertaining to the sun and the moon and the stars and all the celestial beings he loved so much. he thought his affection for her was as infinite as the universe itself. she thought it was sweet.
“you’re always so sad. aren’t you happy being with me? why can’t you lighten up?” she doesn’t understand and he doesn’t expect her to. not when the sun has always shone for her and her alone, not when he sat on the moon singing his lonely tunes. she cannot fathom why he’s chasing that fleeting spark, the light that grows dimmer with every match lit, every pill crushed, toxins dissolved. it’s common sense that he’ll never achieve his peak again, it was all downhill from here, but all he wanted was to feel something -- was that why he was so in love with this pain? this profound ache in the depths of his bones, the infused melancholy and terror that came with apathetic resolve, all it gave was the something he needed in this void, the abyss that he once lingered in he has now become. so he begged her to hold him until he felt something again. to kiss him until the pain retreated and was replaced with love -- for her, for himself, for life.
it worked for a while. things were fine. he was different. but flowers wilt and their petals crush into the ashes of a fiery passion that has long since died.
she always knew her own worth, she simply reevaluated his. she doesn’t see the improvements, she’s only thinking why can’t you be better? he doesn’t know if this is as good as he will ever get, but knows that their time has come. he couldn’t convince her to stay if he begged on his own bruised knees. so he watched her leave, with her angel wings and devlish smile. he misses her, but knows this is for the best. any longer and he would have ruined her.
he returns to his mistress, with her arms that never let go of his anguish or self deprecation. she shoved the pills in his hand, watched as he washed them down with alcohol. she was the one who lit his joint and laughed while she took his consciousness to a place where he didn’t have to feel a fraction of his self infliction. he will never be nothing without his vices, he thinks. without it he is but a man and right now he felt like a God.
estrnged reblogged
Questions, questions. Ones she surely has no answers to. Even if she did, Soojung would take too great of a pleasure in not giving them away. She likes it when people figure their things out by themselves. There’s no fun in giving them the right answer, the right path, the easy way out. If you’ve put yourself there, surely you’d know how to come out of it, like a big guy. But she has no answers right now, none that would fit what would satisfy him at least. She thinks.
The statement was not meant for him to change anything, she says just as much, “Do you need to try? I was just saying it because I was seeing it.” Not because she wanted him to grow antsy in his skin about her catching up on it. Or her sounding as if she’s reprimanding. Who is she to reprimand? When under her skin is still the lit buzz of the need to grab a drink and drown the feelings she can’t comprehend. She wakes up in sweat, with memories of events she hasn’t lived, or has forgotten. Then during the day, they’re gone as if nothing ever was. Life goes on as it is, and she’s just Soojung, bright, chatty, charismatic Soojung.
“You should reach the sky first before you think about destroying what you’ve built, don’t you think? I would like to reach the highest of my insanity in order to look down and tell them that I’ve won this war.” If the insanity turns into an infinity of castles that go past the clouds, then rejoice and drink in the kingdom that is yours only. It’s what’s important, isn’t it? You, yours, me, my. See it’s these things, these little details that are hers, but not her. Those ones that slip in her tone, turn it dry and heavy with experience. Make her gaze narrow in thought and her mind swirl around the possibilities. They also bring heavy headache during the nights. It’s these ones that the alcohol makes easier to let go of.
“Reach the sky?” it’s a half sigh, half question that leaves his mouth. Getting high enough to play in the clouds was never enough for him. He wanted to caress the stars, watch them burn cold flesh until aching bones disintegrated into fine dust. This was no analogy for death, it never was. Chanyeol doesn’t want to die, he wants to kill what is killing him. Or perhaps it should be more noble to reclaim a rebirth, one where disinclined sins melt away because he has always been wholly honest when he needed to be, mindful of his conscious and always reluctant in being bad. He’d kill a man to convince them he was a nice guy.
But there was no way of knowing his own peak because he is drowning, falling into a seamless void with the notion of uncertainty crushing and suffocating mercilessly. He wonders how could he possibly reach for the sky when he can’t even break the surface, wonders what it is like to delve into your own self to the extent of eccentricity when he can only find a ghost in himself, wonders why when he should be thinking how. How can he change the situation, how can he better himself, how can he fix it. Because that’s what his life is, a real fixer upper.
She doesn’t wholly understand because they’re different degrees of the same spectrum, his more gradual, hers mastered under her own will, but there’s some common ground that he appreciates. It’s always comforting to know you’re not the only one hurting.
“That’s where you and I differ, I suppose.” He settles into his position, eyes still avoiding hers. “Is there a war to win when you’ve been fighting yourself this whole time? Is it still considered valiant to get this far from your own self destruction?” It’s unerringly silent save for the ragged desperation in his voice and it proliferates it’s helplessness.
in-character word association: read the word then type the first word that comes to your character’s mind.
tagged by: @hydriade
Rough: night Hide: drugs Foolish: love Sad: always Hate: everywhere
Light: bright Dark: fear Mother: liar Father: liar Child: liar
Marriage: never Love: despair Soft: dawn Pet: grumpy Dream: void
Divorce: irrelevant Water: drowning Loud: thoughts Announcement: run Power: pilfer
Fight: wounds Smack: down White: sheets Sick: mornings Kiss: strangers
Hug: need Hurt: devastation Happy: when?
"You are the architect of your own unhappiness."
He digs his pinky into his ear, aggressively itching it as he feigned disinterest to her words. Though he appreciated where this all came from – someplace caring, a place where she was somewhat worried for his general well being, there was a sting of agitation underlying his stoic demeanor. Living with this overbearing weight of dissatisfaction, of depression desaturating the world into monotonous gray, he was more than aware of the fact. It was all in his fucking head, wasn’t it? There’s still a piece of him that years to live, that wants nothing more than to pick himself back up and do better.
But some says he wakes up and cannot bring himself to get up even though he has work in ten minutes. He cannot bear the idea of being around other people. He cannot face the world sober and mentally whole. Everything is too loud, too present that it had to be dialed back into something bearable. It was killing him, everyone around him was aware. It was prominent in the dark circles under his eyes, his sluggish movements, detached conversation. Such a poor excuse of a life.
“Then how am I supposed to bulldoze it down?” He humors her, figures if she found herself wise enough to be giving unsolicited advice, then she might hold an answer or two. “I can’t just stop. It’s like all I’ve done my whole life is build this fucking…fort of sadness. Now you’re telling me to stop and do something else. It’s like….you don’t get it. It’s beyond my control. I try, I try really hard and it’s like no one even notices. But it just won’t stop.”
x // @consilian
He opens an eye, puts as much raw exhaustion in the look he gave the other, and released a sigh to complete his general display of exasperation. In most cases he was the one constantly coddled by his friends, whose kind hearts constantly fret over his easy recklessness and bad decisions. Being on the other end was something new to him, and so his favored dry humor seemed to substitute any needed empathy in Kihyun’s situation.
“Your constant sniffling says otherwise,” Chanyeol stifles a yawn, instead raises his arms and stretch weary muscles stiff from his previous position. “What is it that you want? Hot soup? A kiss on the forehead after I tuck you in?” He puckers his lips, makes revolting noises before breaking into abrupt laughter.
“Let me guess, you work today, don’t you?” Chanyeol once again stretches himself over the table, kin to a lazy cat lounging in a patch of sun. “Well call it off, kiddo, I’m playing mom all day. I’ll give you a bath, let you play with your rubber duckie, then tell you bed time stories.” An impish grin blossoms at the thought of the other being babied. What a sight to see a grown man rendered useless as he snuggles into his stuffed bear and stifles a cough.
“Give me your phone. I’m calling in for you. If I do my voice real high do you think they’d actually think I’m your mother?”
"It’s like they say: work hard, play hard. Then work again, work hard more, work harder, keep working hard, have you been working hard enough?, work harder if you want to live! And then, and then, play! Play very, very, very hard."
Where Chanyeol has his otherworldly ambitions, Violet has hers of their own grandeur, a scale that makes his seem minuscule. Initially he had come to purge himself of negativity, ones that have infected his normally apathetic mind set. He thinks it stems from the monotony of it all, the routine that has established itself for the past year with plateaued progress, nothing but regression that sinks into the pits of worthlessness. The pills aren’t helping. The numbness ebbed until everything was hypersensitive, namely his pain. Always his pain.
He had come to rant and figure out his feelings because Violet always seemed to the voice of reason when the overwhelming flood of doubt got too loud. He watches with slight remorse as she progressively grows agitated as she spoke. He figured she’d tire herself out, leave it with a sigh of contempt, but her normally stoic visage has tightened with clenched teeth and furrowed brows. He blinks, tries very hard not to giggle, and instead tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear.
“Shut up before you get a butt hernia or something,” he tries to lighten the mood, fails considerably, but is quick to try and make up for it. “Alright, hey, say I get us some shaved ice, hows that sound? Then you can tell me all about whats bothering you while we stuff our faces. I’m going to take a guess and say you want strawberry. Am I right or am I not?”