#runest

[SMS: joel hyung] nice to know a hot lady cares about me… I feel appreciated! damn! [SMS] also I still have ur adidas training jerseys. what do u want me to do with them? i suppose you can answer me in another two weeks [SMS] ✓↓  

skins starter sentences

status : accepting

Trying to keep his mouth shut around Jack is like holding in a breath of air for hours upon hours; it’s doable(not really) but if he could ever truly be honest, it’s a chore and not something he wants to continue doing. Although Alec isn’t the type to admit it aloud, he...does miss their seemingly endless conversations about who knows what. In Alec’s seemingly dreary life that’s devoid of the natural and overwhelmed by the supernatural, his relationship with Jack brings him back to the middle. Weird, definitely very weird, but the connection is there. It feels genuine. He’s curious as to whether or not Jack feels the same. 

And so he finally opens his mouth. He’d lasted half an hour. Something in him says ‘kudos’ but good god would that be embarrassing to reiterate. 

@runest

men dangle money like bait. like an angler fish at the bottom of the ocean, like a bottom feeder scrambling for bits. women dangle money like bait as well but this isn’t about women this is about men. this is about men and how their dirty money is still respected money. this is about men and how all money is good money because it’s their money. this is about how money is a window to the soul. money that sees broken souls cracked under the pressure of life, strained souls drained of their virtue and cleansed souls that are the fortunate and the few.

men dangle their money so easily now that a penny for thoughts has become a dollop of character. this isn’t judgement day and mina isn’t exactly a saint but she could place herself in whatever category she wished. she could be the head atop the pedestal or the hand chopping it down.

in her line of work she sees it all. she’s seen money dangled before her for primal indulgence. that’s what she did, she catered to vices. she could be a devil’s dealer. she sang siren songs and let men drown in their desires. it wasn’t intentional. the money she gets is just as dirty as but mina has a way of wearing it without weight. see she lets the men teeter right towards the edge before she finally refuses the push. she’d rather be the temptress than the dealer playful rather than responsible.

jack? the sins of his money don’t stick to him. she smells it on him sometimes and sees it on him in other times. she lets it rub off on her fingers when she’s paying careful attention but it never sticks to him. there’s something about those boys with a touch of angel in them. mina thinks that sometimes he wants it to stick, not like battle armor but more like badges. the difference is one is for war one is for show.

“no one who comes in here has good money jacky boy.” she says it with amusement on her smile, she says it fondly instead of bitterly and she says it with acceptance. 

song starters / accepting! / @runest 

前前前世 - cover by kobasolo & lefty hand cream / original artist: RADWIMPS 

midnight arrives with a bang. she is all bright hues and dazzling grins, ringlets of plum-coloured hair bouncing in time with the flurry of her steps. slender fingers reach heavenward, the tips of her finely manicured nails glittering with comets and constellations, and her sapphire skirt billows flirtatiously as she twirls on her toes, sidelong glances flitting every which way to invite strangers to dance. seoul is stirring beneath the layers of mesh and silk, roiling with the conspiratorial whispers that leap among tangled wires and restless fingers. tension continues to rise in the streets, as palpable as cotton lining sweat-stained skin, and decades-old dissension is the binding glue. midnight basks in the flying sparks and revels in the embers of scorched spirits, her wild eyes alight with the inherent plague of progress. from the dredges of her lungs, she sings to the tune of haphazard promises and ephemeral joy. she doesn’t want the party to end.

two o’clock stumbles in with a hop in her step and a tune on her thick tongue, heavy-lidded eyes haloed in smudges of mascara. she tries to tell a story, a tale of hedonistic nights while swaddled in her coat of bravado, but the syllables hitch in the grooves of ivory teeth, forgotten. the crowd humours her with a chuckle and a toast, flutes of champagne clicking like sparks at the end of a gunpowder trail, one after another after another after another and the building blows. starving flames gnash at the hem of a skirt, clawing their way up to wine-stained lips and flyaway tresses, all while screams scramble through the haze of smoke and discontent as old as the city itself. two o’clock plunges into a mass of frenzied bodies, with throats sore and toes blistered from practised protest, and her trembling fingers clutch at the first hand she finds, a hasty decision amongst the chaos which clogs the city’s streets. 

two o’clock finds do kyungsoo prone against snow-capped pavement, knees flushed scarlet from the impact, and all his efforts to escape the confusion are for naught. pop pop pop goes a round of cherry bombs, but they’re nothing more than toys in the responding whirl of punitive batons and citadels of riot shields. voices thick with ire clash in a vicious tempest, dampened only by a fraction when he is dumped in the back of an armoured vehicle, tripping over a row of ice-laden shoes and fiery glares. cramped between two strangers and hands bound behind his back just like everyone else, he casts a desperate glance towards the heavy doors just in time to catch one more body being tossed inside, before the doors slam shut and lock–this time for good. 

( @runest / source: here / status: not accepting! )

SEPTEMBER 03, 2002:

19:46:07

At nine years old, he wore the weariness of an old man. Bags drooped under his eyes, insomnia more of a friend than any fellow schoolchildren. Recently having been diagnosed with conduct disorder, the atmosphere of the mansion had darkened substantially. Knowing that something simmered within Moonsik’s skin, itching to crawl to the surface, his parents ignored him further. Gazes were no longer met at the dinner table, all possible questions about the day directed to the other child.

Her.

His nemesis, the burden on his already weighted life, his sister. A word he dared not speak aloud, willing it to never become fruition. They were merely connected by name (how dare his parents hand her his treasured Moon moniker) and blood, which to him meant absolutely nothing. If those who had created him could look upon him with nothing but regret staining their eyes, who was he to love her because they demanded him to do so?

He had never been good at listening.

He abhorred Moonah, could never stand the sight of her rosy cheeks and plump lips, always curled up into a sincere smile. How his parents curled their fingers into silky locks, beaming at her the way they should have beamed at him. They cooed her praises, lifted her off the ground into caring arms, allowed her to sleep in their bed when she had nightmares. While he laid off the to side, discarded like unworthy trash.

It was her birthday. Five rotten, filthy years he had to put up with her presence. Jealous-induced rage coursed through his veins at the sight of the gaudy tiara sitting on her head. The entire place had been done up in nauseous pink, except for his room, where only darkness touched. There was nothing more he wanted to do, than slam his fists into her face, until she saw nothing but black and blue. The same black and blue he felt on the inside.

But even at his youthful age, Moonsik was aware of repercussions. Murder, while a welcome concept in his beloved horror films, was not taken lightly in the real world.

That evening, when the family was sitting in the living room, gorging themselves on ice cream and children’s cartoons (both of which he couldn’t stand), he tiptoed up the stairs. His brain was wired to twitch during times like these, requiring him to become acquainted with chaos. Destroy, destroy, destroy.

Presents scattered across the floor of his sister’s room, a few only halfway opened, before abandoned for the next one. Not so subtly, he kicked each one out of the way, seeking out a very certain item in the pile. When his gaze met a doll, blond and effortlessly beautiful, he picked it up. For a moment, he stared, as if willing it to talk. Then the unmistakable urge settled in, smashing the doll to the floor repeatedly.

Cotton stuffing seeped out, aided by his own hands, until he became tired of the strenuous activity and ripped the entire thing off. Picking on those weaker than himself always left him with sunshine trickling in his stomach. He grinned, utterly pleased when he heard the door creak open more.

Turning around, he found Moonah, grinning that stupid grin of hers. Cake and ice cream smudged her expression. Moonsik sneered at the disgusting sight.

“Oppa― I know you don’t like sweet things, but I was wondering, if you wanted to―”

Her eyes widened, once she finally noticed the remains of her new doll settled at her brother’s feet, the mangled corpse still clutched in his hands. Swallowing the rest of her words, she looked down, frame stiffening.

He threw the toy to the ground, then purposefully bumped into Moonah on his way out.

dont yall ever get tired of yall gay