ғʟɪᴇs ᵗᵒ ʜᴏɴᴇʏ

         “Interesting speculation.” A pause. “And a popular misconception.” Pretty big words for such a pea-brained boy. 

         Dark eyes lift, surveying the boy sitting beside him. There’s strange familiarity in that face. Not laying within the features, no, not tucked inside the crevices of their skin. Minjae knows exactly who Jitsui is. At least, all that he needs to know. He’s been acquainted with their eyes already before, and their mouth. Their throat in particular. No sexual innuendo intended though, because Jitsui is a singer and that’s all the maggot knows. 

         There’s familiarity in their naivety.

@leefall; tumblr text posts starters

         “Space, huh?” His head topples back to study the night sky, his black fringe parting from his forehead and piling up in the space before his ears. Fingers flick the strands forward again, to cover up the bare spaces above his brows. Can’t have his hair parted, right? That’s a feminine thing. Yes, this is something he’s consciously concerned about. He’d rather be dead than have a stroke of femininity. What can I say? He’s insecure! 

         But life continues. And he’s crinkling a chip bag in his fist, his gaze flickering from star to star. Studying them with knowing eyes, despite not knowing jack shit about astronomy. But he looks like he does.

         Calloused fingers dive into the bag, and a moment later all you can hear is crunching. Way to ruin the moment. But Minjae thinks, he deserves a few chips. After all, he paid full price for them (imagine that) as a reward system for knocking a statue over and successfully stealing the head that’d broken off. 

         Now, here he sits with Gaeul. On a park bench. Dressed in all black. With a limestone head in his lap. He smiles acquiescently, and the head does too. “Fucks me up real bad too, man.” A short nod, and he’s shifting his attention toward his apparent doppelgänger. “I mean, it goes on forever.” Right? He thinks this sounds true. “And y’know... Aliens!”

@elkiec; movie quote starters

         After disbandment from WISC, Minjae soared right into schooling with hopes of becoming a therapist. Or counselor. Or something of that nature. He ain’t picky. He’ll take whatever! But in a hopeful attempt to hurl himself closer to his dreams, he took up a temporary internship in which he councils idols. And hell knows, he’s got butt-load of experience with the woes of musical artists.

        It hasn’t been even a year since Minjae’s band retired from the music industry, but old connections have yet to have stopped showing their faces. Through volcanic eruptions, or the plague. Through the apocalypses, or the outbreak of a nuclear war. Through world-wide famine, or lethal floods, these old associates never fail to rear their nostalgic mugs.

          Minjae had known Elkie before she’d debuted, and often helped her with vocal training here and there. Free of charge. From one industry pal to another, And he’d never asked for a favor in exchange. You see, the way this sick bastard thinks is, ‘if I just rack up points, she’ll be too in-debt to say no to whatever I ask in the future.’ Can you believe his ass? Do you hate him? Well, welcome to the club. 

         Now you’ve got this maggot all gussied up in slacks and a grey dress shirt, with a tie as red as the blood of his victims — just kidding! (This is a murder-free environment). He tightens his tie around his neck, as though he’s preparing himself for the noose. Then he clears his throat with a few guttural coughs. 

         “What is this nonsense?” He’s got poor Elkie confused and she’s not afraid to state it. He exchanges a few glances between her face and the paper he’s holding. It looks as though it’s got ink splattered against it, black blobs forming what’s supposed to be images. But it’s all in the mind’s eye.

         the best thing one can do is teach the daughters and sisters of south korea to set themselves on fire, before he sets a flame inside them. he can’t stand how pathetic they look.

[ . . . ]

he’s not sure if he’s ever been on a pedestal, or if he even has anything to put on a pedestal. skills, traits, trades? if he did then he’d be too conscious to put it on anyway. that’s exploitation. that’s his family. so he settles for a piss-poor job that looks perfect under his eyes.

“All done, look how gorgeous you look. now stop humping the wall you didn’t even ask it out yet you pervert”

      Minjae isn’t sure he’s succeeding in getting high off the paint, but he can sure as hell try. And it sure as hell makes sense in his drunken state. However, it seems all the more successful when he’s not inhaling osmeterium secretion and wet mud, but instead chemicals and toxins. Much like himself, a rather mild poison. And he coughs, turning his head to face away from where the paint sprays against brick.

      He stumbles back to admire the work, palms propped on his hips. “Couldn’t help it.” Minjae wasn’t actually humping the wall, but he’ll surely take credit for it so as long as that’s what is believed of him. Because, he is still young, and builds himself around what others believe of him. So he confirms Daehyun’s suspicions, in fear of some kind of disappointment, even if he regrets it later. Or maybe the alcohol just weakens him.

@sosurimrp​

Question(s):

* What made you seek interest in taking pottery? Don’t be afraid to be honest! * What is your favorite method of shaping the clay? * How would you decorate your pieces to stand out from others and/or represent you?

Requirements:

* The response must be at least 150 words. Feel free to exceed the limit.

[ . . . ]

“up yours.” he could’ve said something along the lines of ‘stick it up my ass’ but he knows the other won’t hesitate. there’s the ugly in this beauty too, the raw reality of rebels. well, minjae can’t really claim the word rebel can he? he ca chew it up, digest parts of it but it’ll never reach all that he is. daehyun’s the same, probably can’t swallow as much as his friend. so he refrains from the comment, refrains from sticking his ass out to test the male because he’d rather not explain to the campus nurse why he’s got spray paint up his ass. or why he’s drunk as shit on campus. the spray is effective in shutting him up and diverting his attention so when daehyun steps back his hand instinctively reaches out to trace the outline. “now now, let’s not make promises we can’t keep.” that’s a little too deep so he switches.

“is this what I meant when I said I would leave my mark on the world.” he says it a little too loud, actually he’s yelling it but he’s reaching for the can now, hand out and eyes shining. 

      Are you familiar with the way that men breathe in deeply when admiring something, holding their breath at the peak of an inhale, and then letting it all go as they nod their head in contentment? This is exactly what Minjae does, gaze heavy on his company. Cheeks are flushed with intoxication. Eyelids hooded by his same intemperance in alcohol. With that intake of air, he consumes the scent of wet grass and the chill of midnight breeze cools his throat. When he exhales, he’s passing his youthful recklessness on to the world. Nothing more.

      Life is pretty okay, according to Minjae. Pretty okay, because he had his arm hooked around his schoolmate’s shoulders as they stumbled out of a bar, his book-bag from the day still slumping against his back. Real infantile. The men were a drunken mess of fumbling feet, and unwarranted bouts of laughter. And life is pretty okay, because they dithered behind the Rosette Pub, and the weight of Minjae’s bag fell to the ground. With the rest of his daily taxes.

      Now, an hour later, Minjae is sprawled out on the floor, staring up at the sky. His palm smooths over the ground, a mix of gravel and dirt. He’s accessing his surroundings. ”You think God’s watchin’ us right now?” He’s clearing his throat with a guttural projection. “They say he’s always watching. Y’know, I don’t believe in God or anything but... he’s a real sore ass if he watches me whack off all the time. And shower.” There’s a brief lull in the conversation, and he’s slurring out, “know what I mean, man?”

      Then he’s folding over his lap, rough fingers reach to drag his backpack near to his bent knees. He dives for his pack, pops a cigarette between his lips. He used to never smoke (he used to hate it), he’d only grasped the habit within recent months. He’d blame Akira, a Japanese boy he once knew. That is, to say, if anyone cared enough about his health to ask. Lights the cigarette up. “I probably shouldn’t do this.” Inhale. “But what can I say? Love smelling like torched asshole.” Then he’s got a moan of realization pressing past the smoke, seeping out of his cracked lips. Hand dives in again, he’s pulling out a canister. Gives it a good shake. Spray paint. Then he’s going to the grimy wall behind the bar. His hands follow the motions of a rather immature depiction of a dick. Under it, he scribbles in ‘KMJ.’ Then, he calls over his shoulder. “Come here, hyung. Let me show you somethin’ sick!”