[47] fic crumbs
author's note: salutations. still in hiatus land. but seeing as how it's been nearly a month since I've written anything, I tried tackling a fic challenge. definitely not like riding a bicycle. and I've always been the type of person who picks at scabs before they're ripe
still, maybe after another month of wordsworth and coleridge and dickens and thackeray and plato and aristotle and shakespeare I'll be further on my way to getting my groove back. in the meantime, here are some WIPs/scraps (all untitled, all rated no higher than PG-13)
Big Bang
relationship: GTOP
note: wanted to write a different/better glasses!kink fill
Jiyong rolls his eyes when he hears Bom lilt ‘Seunghyun, Dr Yongie is ready for you’ from the other room. If he’s told his receptionist to not flirt with the patients (especially not Seunghyun, he’s obnoxious and younger than she is, but mostly obnoxious) and to not refer to him by that ridiculous nickname once, he’s told her twenty-one times. And if he’s told Seunghyun to stop bothering him by scheduling appointments despite having perfect vision just so he can borrow frames that match some new jacket or pair of shoes for a few days and fruitlessly beg for discounts on name-brand sunglasses once, he’s told him twenty-one billion times.
Dragging his fingers through his already on-end hair, Jiyong swivels around when he hears the door of the examination room click open.
“You little shit, how many times-”
Except the Seunghyun standing halfway through the door, hand still on the doorknob, isn’t Jiyong’s flippant and moocher friend Seunghyun. For one thing, the man in the doorway isn’t a big-headed (literal or figurative, doesn’t matter, both apply to Lee Seunghyun), panda-faced, stunted thing. No, the man in the doorway has a normal-sized head, just-above-average height, and exceeds-expectations face.
“Uh, Dr Kwon?”
“Shit, yeah, sorry-”
Jiyong makes to stand and exchange proper and professional greetings, but finds he can’t, what with him not realizing he’d been stepping on the hem of his lab coat. So instead, he stumbles a bit and sends his ergonomically-designed-for-hours-of-comfort chair toppling over a lot.
The new, different Seunghyun strides into the room, crouching down to right the slain chair. When Jiyong extends a trembling hand, the taller man shakes it amicably, though not before dusting off both Jiyong’s shoulders gently and unnecessarily.
“Choi Seunghyun. I was referred to you for a cheap corrective prescription.”
This Seunghyun plops down into the examination chair
----------
relationship: G-ri
note: another kink fill; wanted to try writing this ship (obviously didn't get very far)
It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
The taste of skin after hours of drinking and dancing, of falling under the ceaseless fire of strobe lights. The torturously slow pull of sweat-soaked fabric understandably unwilling to part company with a taut belly. The exponential erasure of the riotous multi-bodied organism feeding off alcohol and electronica and friction until the nightclub is reduced to two men in a single restroom stall. But the pulse, the appetite of the crowd remains, shaking the already wobbly stall dividers, thrumming through the gin-and-piss-coated tiles and up through bony knees.
‘Should we assign a safe-word?’
‘Gonna leave something unfinished, hyung?’
----------
SHINee
relationship: 2min
note: so old I forget what I meant to do with it. about dancing. tentative title was 'Love Pain: It Takes Two'
“Aren’t you supposed to be graceful or something?”
Minho offers Taemin his hand, the younger boy having landed on the dance studio floor for the umpteenth time that afternoon. Taemin takes it, gripping perhaps harder than he needs to, and hoists himself up with the taller boy’s help.
“It’s hard to be graceful,” he mumbles, “when it seems like you’re trying to throw me down, hyung.”
“Well, I’m not,” Minho says mildly. Then, “Again?”
For the briefest second, Minho swears he catches Taemin shooting him the most venomous glare in one of the many mirrors lining the studio walls, but the younger boy is cheery-faced when he turns to him once more and nods.
“Of course.”
So Taemin says, but this time Minho is sure when the boy heaves a shaky, long-drawn sigh before holding out both hands. Minho looks guardedly into the boy's face. Is Taemin (actually) upset with him? But the boy in question just blinks curiously, just flexes ever so slightly.
“Hyung?”
Minho shakes himself inwardly.
“Oh, right.”
----------
relationship: jongyu
note: intended shawol_haven submission; wrote something shorter but didn't submit that either
Jinki is, right now, equal parts lost and hungry. All he ate was a clichéd croissant for breakfast. Now, some eighteen hours later, he’s wandering around an unexpectedly unglamorous part of Paris, feet sore, belly empty, and very very lost. He can see the Eiffel Tower in the distant distant distance. He knows his hostel is relatively near the landmark, but the illuminated, iron beacon never seems to get any closer.
Lately, a lot of things in his life have been leaving him feeling starved and stranded, and it’s not a combination of feelings he can get used to. Jinki thought wanting to be a singer would give his life direction. It hasn’t. Turned down at another audition, he’d scraped together all the money he could, picked a random destination, and simply ran away. Thinking about it now, picking random destinations is how he wound up here, wherever ‘here’ is. All the street lights, street corners, street signs, and street people look the same.
“Should I just lie down and let the cops take me in?” he mutters. Is it really time for last resorts?
“Erm, hi-”
Jinki is so exhausted, he doesn’t even startle when someone taps his shoulder, doesn’t realize that the strangers are foreigners like him, until the taller of the two speaks warmly.
“Do you maybe want to share a cab?”
Koreans, at that.
Jinki’s so desperate that he hardly thinks before saying, “If you’re headed towards the Tower.”
Risking being murdered by his fellow countrymen while abroad is, right now, a slightly less bleak last resort than sleeping on the sidewalk in hopes of getting thrown in jail for more sleep. But luckily, the strangers nod in an affirmative. Jinki’s so exhausted and desperate, he nearly cries when the taller boy who’d spoken earlier starts prowling the curb, craning his neck in search of a taxi. Nearly. Instead, Jinki takes the time to better study his saviors.
The boy floating carelessly every which way in the road is tall and willowy, hair dyed a brilliant red to contrast his soft-featured face, eyes squinty when he flashes Jinki a quick smile. The other boy, mutely staring across the street pays Jinki no mind, a hood pulled over a hat pulled low over his eyes.
“Hyung! Let’s go!”
The taller boy skips over to his companion’s side when the cab pulls up to curb, linking their arms and getting the door.
“Come on then,” he adds, favoring Jinki with another crescent-eyed smile and a small jerk of his head.
So Jinki does, bonelessly sliding in last then shutting the door.
“Where you headed?” the red-head asks from beside Jinki.
Jinki rattles off the address of his hostel-something he forced himself to memorize as a safety precaution-and the boy’s mouth comically drops open.
“Hey, that’s where we’re staying too,” he laughs brightly. “Is this destiny or coincidence?”
Jinki just hums absently, settling back against the worn vinyl seat. The boy leans farther forward, repeating the address to the driver. Jinki casts the boy seated on the other side of the red-head a brief sidelong glance until his view is obstructed by the boy in the middle leaning back as well.
“I’m Lee Taemin,” he says as the taxi stutters forward. “This is my cousin, Kim Jonghyun.”
Jinki’s eyes dart to Kim Jonghyun’s reflection in the car window, his face now all shadows and streaked lights of the passing Parisian nightscape.
“Lee Jinki, er, thanks for saving me.”
The boy, Taemin, laughs again in answer. But the rest of the ride is silent, which doesn’t really bother Jinki who’s content with staring out his own window. And finally, the Eiffel Tower makes itself less unreachable, Jinki impatiently watching it grow and become less distant.
Jinki offers to contribute for the cab fare, but Taemin insists that he can pay. He can’t fully express it, but Jinki’s grateful-it means one more meager meal during his stay. The cousins link arms once more as they enter the hostel and the three of them take the small, rickety elevator.
“This is me,” Jinki announces lamely when the door opens on the third floor.
Taemin holds it open to give him a final wave. But Jinki doesn’t really notice. Instead, he stares at the other boy Jonghyun’s face in the dim light of the elevator car. The jacket hood and hat visor are still in the way of his eyes, but Jinki thinks, ‘Cheeks.’
“G’night,” Taemin chirps.
Jinki blinks, then returns the gesture. “Night-and thanks again.”
The cousins nod in unison. And the elevator door closes.
“Jinki! Lee Jinki!”
He blinks wearily against the noonday sun before he catches sight of Taemin and Jonghyun across the street from the hostel, sharing a table at the small café. Jinki wonders if it would be rude to join them or rude to carry on with his own business. But then Taemin waves him over. Anyway, if he were to be completely honest with himself, Jinki has no ‘business’ to carry on with.
“Late breakfast or early lunch?” Taemin asks before Jinki even takes the only open chair beside him.
“As long as it’s food,” he says, gaze inexplicably drawn to the ever mute Jonghyun.
Once again, he notes the other man’s prominent cheeks. But this time, he also notices the dusky tinge to Jonghyun’s hair, the lush curves of his mouth, the sharp and quantifiable jut of his jaw. It isn’t until Taemin clears his throat that Jinki shakes himself mentally and drops his eyes.
“Let’s eat.”
And they do, though mostly in silence save for Taemin’s occasional small talk (with his mouth full, no less). Still, both Jinki’s and Jonghyun’s absent-minded hums and ‘yeah’s seem satisfactory enough for the chatty red-head. Chewing and swallowing feels rote and laborious, Jinki too busy wondering if Jonghyun is staring at him through his large, oil slick-tinted sunglasses. He supposes it would only be fair, the amount of staring Jinki did.
“So, what brings you to Paris?”
Jinki blinks several times before realizing the question came from his own dry mouth.
----------
relationship: taekey
note: for challenge mentioned in a/n
“I’m surprised Tae could even lift that rock, his hands are so small.”
The banquet hall ripples with a collective, appreciative chuckle. Kibum feels his grin brighten in playfulness, a contortion of muscles at odds with the tightening of his fingers round the stem of his raised champagne flute, the tightening of the coils of regret in his gut. But Taemin at his elbow casts him the sweetest look of exasperation, and Kibum forces down the upsurge of bile.
He’s lived half his life as a performer. Proudly and happily delivering a best-man’s speech should be a piece of cake.
And once he’s started and started trying, he finds it’s easier to keep his voice and facial expression light--relating stories about the younger man as Kibum knew him in SHINee, after SHINee, before growing up and deciding he was ready to spend the rest of his life with the woman he loves, the woman who loves him.
Who could’ve foreseen that the maknae of shining SHINee would be the first to get married. Kibum certainly hadn’t.
What he had foreseen, though, were the feelings of being abandoned by Taemin, of being the one to give away someone precious. He just hadn’t prepared himself.
----------
relationship: jongyu
note: same challenge (and plot) as previous crumb, different ship. and even more pathetic shorter
“Jjong used to call himself the King of Skinship.”
Jinki watches as the champagne jumps dangerously against the lip of the flute when Jonghyun elbows his thigh. It almost feels natural, the way his eyes narrow and his grin widens. But mostly, it feels tight, reflexive. His facial muscles know he ought to be smiling, celebrating. Now, if only he could get his cardiac muscle to follow suit.
----------
a/n2: remains to be seen if/when I finish these. hope you're all well T3T
still, maybe after another month of wordsworth and coleridge and dickens and thackeray and plato and aristotle and shakespeare I'll be further on my way to getting my groove back. in the meantime, here are some WIPs/scraps (all untitled, all rated no higher than PG-13)
Big Bang
relationship: GTOP
note: wanted to write a different/better glasses!kink fill
Jiyong rolls his eyes when he hears Bom lilt ‘Seunghyun, Dr Yongie is ready for you’ from the other room. If he’s told his receptionist to not flirt with the patients (especially not Seunghyun, he’s obnoxious and younger than she is, but mostly obnoxious) and to not refer to him by that ridiculous nickname once, he’s told her twenty-one times. And if he’s told Seunghyun to stop bothering him by scheduling appointments despite having perfect vision just so he can borrow frames that match some new jacket or pair of shoes for a few days and fruitlessly beg for discounts on name-brand sunglasses once, he’s told him twenty-one billion times.
Dragging his fingers through his already on-end hair, Jiyong swivels around when he hears the door of the examination room click open.
“You little shit, how many times-”
Except the Seunghyun standing halfway through the door, hand still on the doorknob, isn’t Jiyong’s flippant and moocher friend Seunghyun. For one thing, the man in the doorway isn’t a big-headed (literal or figurative, doesn’t matter, both apply to Lee Seunghyun), panda-faced, stunted thing. No, the man in the doorway has a normal-sized head, just-above-average height, and exceeds-expectations face.
“Uh, Dr Kwon?”
“Shit, yeah, sorry-”
Jiyong makes to stand and exchange proper and professional greetings, but finds he can’t, what with him not realizing he’d been stepping on the hem of his lab coat. So instead, he stumbles a bit and sends his ergonomically-designed-for-hours-of-comfort chair toppling over a lot.
The new, different Seunghyun strides into the room, crouching down to right the slain chair. When Jiyong extends a trembling hand, the taller man shakes it amicably, though not before dusting off both Jiyong’s shoulders gently and unnecessarily.
“Choi Seunghyun. I was referred to you for a cheap corrective prescription.”
This Seunghyun plops down into the examination chair
----------
relationship: G-ri
note: another kink fill; wanted to try writing this ship (obviously didn't get very far)
It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
The taste of skin after hours of drinking and dancing, of falling under the ceaseless fire of strobe lights. The torturously slow pull of sweat-soaked fabric understandably unwilling to part company with a taut belly. The exponential erasure of the riotous multi-bodied organism feeding off alcohol and electronica and friction until the nightclub is reduced to two men in a single restroom stall. But the pulse, the appetite of the crowd remains, shaking the already wobbly stall dividers, thrumming through the gin-and-piss-coated tiles and up through bony knees.
‘Should we assign a safe-word?’
‘Gonna leave something unfinished, hyung?’
----------
SHINee
relationship: 2min
note: so old I forget what I meant to do with it. about dancing. tentative title was 'Love Pain: It Takes Two'
“Aren’t you supposed to be graceful or something?”
Minho offers Taemin his hand, the younger boy having landed on the dance studio floor for the umpteenth time that afternoon. Taemin takes it, gripping perhaps harder than he needs to, and hoists himself up with the taller boy’s help.
“It’s hard to be graceful,” he mumbles, “when it seems like you’re trying to throw me down, hyung.”
“Well, I’m not,” Minho says mildly. Then, “Again?”
For the briefest second, Minho swears he catches Taemin shooting him the most venomous glare in one of the many mirrors lining the studio walls, but the younger boy is cheery-faced when he turns to him once more and nods.
“Of course.”
So Taemin says, but this time Minho is sure when the boy heaves a shaky, long-drawn sigh before holding out both hands. Minho looks guardedly into the boy's face. Is Taemin (actually) upset with him? But the boy in question just blinks curiously, just flexes ever so slightly.
“Hyung?”
Minho shakes himself inwardly.
“Oh, right.”
----------
relationship: jongyu
note: intended shawol_haven submission; wrote something shorter but didn't submit that either
Jinki is, right now, equal parts lost and hungry. All he ate was a clichéd croissant for breakfast. Now, some eighteen hours later, he’s wandering around an unexpectedly unglamorous part of Paris, feet sore, belly empty, and very very lost. He can see the Eiffel Tower in the distant distant distance. He knows his hostel is relatively near the landmark, but the illuminated, iron beacon never seems to get any closer.
Lately, a lot of things in his life have been leaving him feeling starved and stranded, and it’s not a combination of feelings he can get used to. Jinki thought wanting to be a singer would give his life direction. It hasn’t. Turned down at another audition, he’d scraped together all the money he could, picked a random destination, and simply ran away. Thinking about it now, picking random destinations is how he wound up here, wherever ‘here’ is. All the street lights, street corners, street signs, and street people look the same.
“Should I just lie down and let the cops take me in?” he mutters. Is it really time for last resorts?
“Erm, hi-”
Jinki is so exhausted, he doesn’t even startle when someone taps his shoulder, doesn’t realize that the strangers are foreigners like him, until the taller of the two speaks warmly.
“Do you maybe want to share a cab?”
Koreans, at that.
Jinki’s so desperate that he hardly thinks before saying, “If you’re headed towards the Tower.”
Risking being murdered by his fellow countrymen while abroad is, right now, a slightly less bleak last resort than sleeping on the sidewalk in hopes of getting thrown in jail for more sleep. But luckily, the strangers nod in an affirmative. Jinki’s so exhausted and desperate, he nearly cries when the taller boy who’d spoken earlier starts prowling the curb, craning his neck in search of a taxi. Nearly. Instead, Jinki takes the time to better study his saviors.
The boy floating carelessly every which way in the road is tall and willowy, hair dyed a brilliant red to contrast his soft-featured face, eyes squinty when he flashes Jinki a quick smile. The other boy, mutely staring across the street pays Jinki no mind, a hood pulled over a hat pulled low over his eyes.
“Hyung! Let’s go!”
The taller boy skips over to his companion’s side when the cab pulls up to curb, linking their arms and getting the door.
“Come on then,” he adds, favoring Jinki with another crescent-eyed smile and a small jerk of his head.
So Jinki does, bonelessly sliding in last then shutting the door.
“Where you headed?” the red-head asks from beside Jinki.
Jinki rattles off the address of his hostel-something he forced himself to memorize as a safety precaution-and the boy’s mouth comically drops open.
“Hey, that’s where we’re staying too,” he laughs brightly. “Is this destiny or coincidence?”
Jinki just hums absently, settling back against the worn vinyl seat. The boy leans farther forward, repeating the address to the driver. Jinki casts the boy seated on the other side of the red-head a brief sidelong glance until his view is obstructed by the boy in the middle leaning back as well.
“I’m Lee Taemin,” he says as the taxi stutters forward. “This is my cousin, Kim Jonghyun.”
Jinki’s eyes dart to Kim Jonghyun’s reflection in the car window, his face now all shadows and streaked lights of the passing Parisian nightscape.
“Lee Jinki, er, thanks for saving me.”
The boy, Taemin, laughs again in answer. But the rest of the ride is silent, which doesn’t really bother Jinki who’s content with staring out his own window. And finally, the Eiffel Tower makes itself less unreachable, Jinki impatiently watching it grow and become less distant.
Jinki offers to contribute for the cab fare, but Taemin insists that he can pay. He can’t fully express it, but Jinki’s grateful-it means one more meager meal during his stay. The cousins link arms once more as they enter the hostel and the three of them take the small, rickety elevator.
“This is me,” Jinki announces lamely when the door opens on the third floor.
Taemin holds it open to give him a final wave. But Jinki doesn’t really notice. Instead, he stares at the other boy Jonghyun’s face in the dim light of the elevator car. The jacket hood and hat visor are still in the way of his eyes, but Jinki thinks, ‘Cheeks.’
“G’night,” Taemin chirps.
Jinki blinks, then returns the gesture. “Night-and thanks again.”
The cousins nod in unison. And the elevator door closes.
“Jinki! Lee Jinki!”
He blinks wearily against the noonday sun before he catches sight of Taemin and Jonghyun across the street from the hostel, sharing a table at the small café. Jinki wonders if it would be rude to join them or rude to carry on with his own business. But then Taemin waves him over. Anyway, if he were to be completely honest with himself, Jinki has no ‘business’ to carry on with.
“Late breakfast or early lunch?” Taemin asks before Jinki even takes the only open chair beside him.
“As long as it’s food,” he says, gaze inexplicably drawn to the ever mute Jonghyun.
Once again, he notes the other man’s prominent cheeks. But this time, he also notices the dusky tinge to Jonghyun’s hair, the lush curves of his mouth, the sharp and quantifiable jut of his jaw. It isn’t until Taemin clears his throat that Jinki shakes himself mentally and drops his eyes.
“Let’s eat.”
And they do, though mostly in silence save for Taemin’s occasional small talk (with his mouth full, no less). Still, both Jinki’s and Jonghyun’s absent-minded hums and ‘yeah’s seem satisfactory enough for the chatty red-head. Chewing and swallowing feels rote and laborious, Jinki too busy wondering if Jonghyun is staring at him through his large, oil slick-tinted sunglasses. He supposes it would only be fair, the amount of staring Jinki did.
“So, what brings you to Paris?”
Jinki blinks several times before realizing the question came from his own dry mouth.
----------
relationship: taekey
note: for challenge mentioned in a/n
“I’m surprised Tae could even lift that rock, his hands are so small.”
The banquet hall ripples with a collective, appreciative chuckle. Kibum feels his grin brighten in playfulness, a contortion of muscles at odds with the tightening of his fingers round the stem of his raised champagne flute, the tightening of the coils of regret in his gut. But Taemin at his elbow casts him the sweetest look of exasperation, and Kibum forces down the upsurge of bile.
He’s lived half his life as a performer. Proudly and happily delivering a best-man’s speech should be a piece of cake.
And once he’s started and started trying, he finds it’s easier to keep his voice and facial expression light--relating stories about the younger man as Kibum knew him in SHINee, after SHINee, before growing up and deciding he was ready to spend the rest of his life with the woman he loves, the woman who loves him.
Who could’ve foreseen that the maknae of shining SHINee would be the first to get married. Kibum certainly hadn’t.
What he had foreseen, though, were the feelings of being abandoned by Taemin, of being the one to give away someone precious. He just hadn’t prepared himself.
----------
relationship: jongyu
note: same challenge (and plot) as previous crumb, different ship. and even more pathetic shorter
“Jjong used to call himself the King of Skinship.”
Jinki watches as the champagne jumps dangerously against the lip of the flute when Jonghyun elbows his thigh. It almost feels natural, the way his eyes narrow and his grin widens. But mostly, it feels tight, reflexive. His facial muscles know he ought to be smiling, celebrating. Now, if only he could get his cardiac muscle to follow suit.
----------
a/n2: remains to be seen if/when I finish these. hope you're all well T3T