Drabble Batch 20
Here, have a really random batch of drabbles... AU and non.
Yamapi/Jin - R (written for ryogrande as a thank you for being awesome.) Warning: sacrilegious-ness. Non-AU
Yamashita's surprise visit started off with a tour of one of the most popular monasteries in Budapest, where he tagged along with Jin and some of the crew. It's not exactly what he'd expected the first thing they'd do would be, and now he was yawning his way through and trying to feign interest. The only really interesting thing, though, was how Jin let him shove him up against a stall in the very modern bathroom and kiss him breathless.
"Tomo," Jin breathed, trying not to make too much noise as they unbuttoned each other, shoving hands past waistbands and gripping each other's cocks. Their tongues slid together noiselessly except for the way it made them pant harder, Jin's free hand tangled in Yamashita's hair and Yamashita's wrapped around the back of Jin's neck. They rocked together in near silence, the rustle of clothing too loud in their ears as they toppled closer to completion.
"Tomo," Jin repeated, unable to help himself, even as Yamashita 'sh'd him hoarsely.
"Come on, Jin," Yamashita encouraged, but what did it was the way Yamashita's lips found Jin's neck, sucking lightly at the skin before grazing his teeth across the wet skin, and he threw his head back against the stall door with a loud bang, trying to hold in his cries.
Yamashita himself, despite his prodding, took a bit longer to finish, Jin getting more and more nervous that one of his coworkers would walk in on them jerking each other off in a fucking church.
"God," Jin giggled as they cleaned up, "that was the most sacrilegious thing I've ever done. And they say I'm the bad boy." He followed it with a kiss. He wasn't totally serious, though flinging his homosexual tendencies in the face of whatever deity was occupying the building was daring even for him. It was kind of really hot after the fact.
"Nah," Yamashita told him with a grin and a wink, unlocking the stall and going to wash his hands. He finished drying them before looking over at Jin with a smirk. "I was just loving my neighbor like myself."
These next three are all lemonadetea's fault.
Koyama/Yamapi - PG (inspired by whatever the hell Pi was wearing in that SC perf of Tokyo Sinfonietta…) Non-AU
"You looked hot on stage," Koyama tells Yamashita, pulling at the younger man's coat and sliding it off when Yamashita raises his arms obligingly.
"I know," he replies with a smirk and a heated look.
Koyama starts giggling. "No, I mean… really. You looked really warm." He unwinds Yamashita's skull-print scarf slowly, leaning forward and placing light kisses against Yamashita's cheek, jaw, lips, as he does so.
His scowl does nothing but make Koyama laugh harder, and Yamashita can't help letting the frown fade and a sly smile take its place. "It was just because I know how you love to undress me."
"Yeah," Koyama just agrees, grinning back and tugging at Yamashita's waistband playfully. "Yeah."
Massu-centric - PG (for swearing) Non-AU
Just once won't hurt, Massu thinks, staring longingly into his closet and its selection of clothing he hasn't been able to bring himself to wear. He slowly reaches toward a butter-yellow t-shirt, runs his fingers longingly down the soft fabric, and then pulls it carefully off the hanger. Eyeing the carefully folded jeans, he selects a pair that's an indigo so dark it's almost black. They're still a bit stiff, the fabric seeming thicker between his fingers because he'd only been able to wear (and subsequently wash) them once.
Once he's dressed, he spends a while in front of the mirror, noting the way the shirt clings to the muscles in his arms, how it's tight across his pecs but drapes across his abdomen in a way that just hints at the muscles hidden underneath. The light yellow picks up the dark blonde highlights he just had touched up, makes his skin look a little more bronzed. The pants curve tantalizingly over his ass, gently cup the bulge at the front, hug his thighs before falling straight to the tops of his feet.
He smiles at his reflection, stands tall and then walks to the front door to slip into his shoes and walk outside.
Less than five minutes later he's tearing through the front door and slamming it behind him, leaning back against it, breathless and panting.
God damnit. Not again.
Shige-centric - PG (for swearing) Non-AU
When Shige is seven, his best friend in the whole world does a terrible thing. While Shige trustingly falls asleep during one of their weekly sleepovers, snuggled peacefully in a cocoon of blankets, cheek pillowed by his arm, Shige's best friend in the whole world shaves off his left eyebrow.
---
When Shige is eleven, one of the other juniors convinces him that his left eyebrow is bushier than the right.
"My sister says that when you shave, the hair grows back different! So," the kid says, looking like he's thinking hard, "if you shave the other eyebrow, they'll be the same again!"
At eleven, Shige's more interested in the fitting-in sort of standing-out, and the logic isn't entirely unfeasible.
In Shige's bathroom, they unwrap their disposable razor and squirt some swiped shaving cream into their palms and get to work.
---
When Shige is fifteen, his lab partner does something horribly wrong and the world disappears in a flare of fire and smoke. Only when Shige finally gets into the bathroom after his visit to the nurse's office does he realize that both his eyebrows had suffered collateral damage.
---
At seventeen, Shige has come to have a love/hate relationship with his eyebrows. He wields tweezers like a pro, but is sometimes a little overenthusiastic. He realizes he has a problem when his mother hides all the tweezers in the house and begins to monitor his purchases. Luckily, he's got a friend in Koyama who keeps him supplied, even if he does tut his tongue at him while he sits on the edge of his own bathtub and watches Shige work.
---
At twenty-three, he can afford to get other people to do it for him. Even if he still gets scolded for his ever-thinning eyebrow line, at least it's always straight, now. And the rest of his group has mostly given up on him, at least in the body hair department. Except Ryo, who seems to take all of Shige's hair issues as a personal affront.
"Shige," Ryo finally sighs at him, "I don’t think it's any hair on your head you've got to worry about. Maybe you should start waxing your stupid hairy arms and forget about your damn eyebrows, for a change."
He might have a point. Musingly, he considers whether Koyama would hold his hand or not. He's heard that shit burns.
Koyama/Shige - PG "suspenders" AU
Koyama paces the room, long legs encased in dark pinstripe taking only three strides to reach one end before turning around and starting over again, narrowly avoiding his desk with each pass. He shoves at the rolled up sleeves of his white button-down, tugs nervously at the fronts of his suspenders, muttering as he goes, until Shige steps into his path and curls his hands around Koyama's shoulders.
"Kei, calm down."
The older man visibly relaxes, arms dropping to his sides as he takes a deep breath. Another. "Okay. You're right. Pi will be fine. I don't know why I'm so worried."
Shige's lips tilt up and he lowers his lashes coyly. "I think," he says, slipping his thumbs under the suspenders curving over Koyama's shoulders, "you need to take your mind off things for a while." And slowly pulls the elastic down Koyama's arms.
A slow smile blossoms across Koyama's face; he's always liked the way Shige thinks.
Shige, Masuda - PG (Warnings: dark, insanity, near-death experiences and the seeking of), inspired by Ani DiFranco's "Grey" AU
He sits in the sand, curled up in the grey just before dawn, knees pulled to his chest and arms wrapped loosely around them. There's just enough light to see the form and existence of things, but not their colors, and he feels… muted. Like if he pinched himself maybe he'd wake up, and maybe he wouldn't. Everything he wants.
When he sits here like this, the days flow together, and he can't remember how long he's been out here. Searching for himself in the dullness of this place like it can ever do anything for him but drop him further into a subdued acceptance. His pen sits abandoned next to pristine white pages, his laptop gathers dust in a corner, and he stays. Watches color seep slowly into the world until his stomach forces him inside. Can never get away from that.
Another pre-dawn and he crouches at the edge of the water, lets it lap at his bare toes and bury them slowly while he gazes blindly across the sea. So he's there when the man washes gently against the shore, the scrape of cloth and skin against the sand completely covered by the cyclical waves. But driftwood doesn't usually come in sizes that large, so he turns his head in idle curiosity that turns to panic.
Pain bursts white across his vision when he slips tender feet across sharp shells as he runs, blood-red spots against the grey, and the man is so cold when he gets there, his face as grey as the sand that surrounds him. His own body flushes with fear and exertion as he presses, presses, presses against the man's chest with both hands, his lips tingle with the cold when he opens his lips wide over the man's mouth and breathes warm life into him until the stranger heaves under him and he turns the man over and lets him spew seawater to mix with the rest. Limp as a kitten, the man lolls against his chest as he carries him inside.
The sun slants more and more across the man's face, ashen features slowly turning to pale gold as he rubs his hands in circles on the man's flesh. He comes to life under his hands, finally opening confused, brown eyes and turning them on him. The resurrected man tries to speak, hoarse voice slipping across syllables unintelligibly and Shige hushes him with a finger to his lips.
His name is Masuda and he doesn't know where he's from, or maybe he does and he doesn't want to say. Who is Shige to judge, if the man isn't searching for himself, he's still searching for someone to be, and it's all the same to him. They're alone together in the monochrome that slowly brightens day by day.
Fond of color and shiny things, Masuda was never meant to be of this place. Colored pebbles and coral-pink shells find their way into their tiny home, bright blue thread wrapped in a solid spiral around the barrel of one of Shige's pens, a faded yellow rubber ducky tucked next to the dish soap, a pair of fire-engine red eyeglass frames missing their lenses sitting on the table with bunches of tiny purple wildflowers sitting in the open spaces. Masuda's white teeth framed by dark pink lips and surrounded by bronzed skin. It's all a little overwhelming, and Shige's life is no longer so simple.
Fingers wrapped finally around the blue thread encasing his pen, he slides it across the white paper, watching in fascination as he stains it with words, and Masuda quirks his lips and tucks a couple wildflowers in Shige's hair, humming all the while. Anything Masuda touches comes to life, and Shige finds that strange since he was the one who had raised the dead, but he follows along in Masuda's wake, running his eyes across his world's blooming. He has everything he wants… but still he wants more.
He doesn't know why Masuda stays there with him, finding bits of color and fusing them, a visual cacophony that mostly frustrates Shige because he can't seem to do it on his own, depending on Masuda for splashes of insight and inspiration. He hates being dependent, despondent, sunk in this murk alone, because the gulf between them widens all the time, and there's only one choice, really, because Masuda won't stay here forever, and Shige can't leave yet.
Grey dawn, just before the sunrise, and he can't wait for the colors to unfold across the sky. Cold water licks at his bare feet, splashes against his clothed legs, the waves crashing against him as he wades forward. Finally his feet lift from the sea floor and he swims, arms swinging in smooth arcs as they chop through the water. The chill is seeping through his skin and numbing his insides, and still he goes until he's tired, and he stops, treads water with breathing labored by the cold though his lungs are on fire, waits for the peek of gold.
Frosted, sluggish movements are suddenly no longer enough to keep him above water, now, and his head dips below the surface, a surge of adrenaline making him shoot up, sputtering, panic sharpening his vision as he sinks again, arms splashing for purchase he'll never find. The cold invades his lungs in a salty burst, and he hears a shout, and the crashing of waves getting louder. His vision fades closer to black, edged by that gold he so wants, and he goes under.
He'll be reborn.
Yamapi/Jin - R (written for ryogrande as a thank you for being awesome.) Warning: sacrilegious-ness. Non-AU
Yamashita's surprise visit started off with a tour of one of the most popular monasteries in Budapest, where he tagged along with Jin and some of the crew. It's not exactly what he'd expected the first thing they'd do would be, and now he was yawning his way through and trying to feign interest. The only really interesting thing, though, was how Jin let him shove him up against a stall in the very modern bathroom and kiss him breathless.
"Tomo," Jin breathed, trying not to make too much noise as they unbuttoned each other, shoving hands past waistbands and gripping each other's cocks. Their tongues slid together noiselessly except for the way it made them pant harder, Jin's free hand tangled in Yamashita's hair and Yamashita's wrapped around the back of Jin's neck. They rocked together in near silence, the rustle of clothing too loud in their ears as they toppled closer to completion.
"Tomo," Jin repeated, unable to help himself, even as Yamashita 'sh'd him hoarsely.
"Come on, Jin," Yamashita encouraged, but what did it was the way Yamashita's lips found Jin's neck, sucking lightly at the skin before grazing his teeth across the wet skin, and he threw his head back against the stall door with a loud bang, trying to hold in his cries.
Yamashita himself, despite his prodding, took a bit longer to finish, Jin getting more and more nervous that one of his coworkers would walk in on them jerking each other off in a fucking church.
"God," Jin giggled as they cleaned up, "that was the most sacrilegious thing I've ever done. And they say I'm the bad boy." He followed it with a kiss. He wasn't totally serious, though flinging his homosexual tendencies in the face of whatever deity was occupying the building was daring even for him. It was kind of really hot after the fact.
"Nah," Yamashita told him with a grin and a wink, unlocking the stall and going to wash his hands. He finished drying them before looking over at Jin with a smirk. "I was just loving my neighbor like myself."
These next three are all lemonadetea's fault.
Koyama/Yamapi - PG (inspired by whatever the hell Pi was wearing in that SC perf of Tokyo Sinfonietta…) Non-AU
"You looked hot on stage," Koyama tells Yamashita, pulling at the younger man's coat and sliding it off when Yamashita raises his arms obligingly.
"I know," he replies with a smirk and a heated look.
Koyama starts giggling. "No, I mean… really. You looked really warm." He unwinds Yamashita's skull-print scarf slowly, leaning forward and placing light kisses against Yamashita's cheek, jaw, lips, as he does so.
His scowl does nothing but make Koyama laugh harder, and Yamashita can't help letting the frown fade and a sly smile take its place. "It was just because I know how you love to undress me."
"Yeah," Koyama just agrees, grinning back and tugging at Yamashita's waistband playfully. "Yeah."
Massu-centric - PG (for swearing) Non-AU
Just once won't hurt, Massu thinks, staring longingly into his closet and its selection of clothing he hasn't been able to bring himself to wear. He slowly reaches toward a butter-yellow t-shirt, runs his fingers longingly down the soft fabric, and then pulls it carefully off the hanger. Eyeing the carefully folded jeans, he selects a pair that's an indigo so dark it's almost black. They're still a bit stiff, the fabric seeming thicker between his fingers because he'd only been able to wear (and subsequently wash) them once.
Once he's dressed, he spends a while in front of the mirror, noting the way the shirt clings to the muscles in his arms, how it's tight across his pecs but drapes across his abdomen in a way that just hints at the muscles hidden underneath. The light yellow picks up the dark blonde highlights he just had touched up, makes his skin look a little more bronzed. The pants curve tantalizingly over his ass, gently cup the bulge at the front, hug his thighs before falling straight to the tops of his feet.
He smiles at his reflection, stands tall and then walks to the front door to slip into his shoes and walk outside.
Less than five minutes later he's tearing through the front door and slamming it behind him, leaning back against it, breathless and panting.
God damnit. Not again.
Shige-centric - PG (for swearing) Non-AU
When Shige is seven, his best friend in the whole world does a terrible thing. While Shige trustingly falls asleep during one of their weekly sleepovers, snuggled peacefully in a cocoon of blankets, cheek pillowed by his arm, Shige's best friend in the whole world shaves off his left eyebrow.
---
When Shige is eleven, one of the other juniors convinces him that his left eyebrow is bushier than the right.
"My sister says that when you shave, the hair grows back different! So," the kid says, looking like he's thinking hard, "if you shave the other eyebrow, they'll be the same again!"
At eleven, Shige's more interested in the fitting-in sort of standing-out, and the logic isn't entirely unfeasible.
In Shige's bathroom, they unwrap their disposable razor and squirt some swiped shaving cream into their palms and get to work.
---
When Shige is fifteen, his lab partner does something horribly wrong and the world disappears in a flare of fire and smoke. Only when Shige finally gets into the bathroom after his visit to the nurse's office does he realize that both his eyebrows had suffered collateral damage.
---
At seventeen, Shige has come to have a love/hate relationship with his eyebrows. He wields tweezers like a pro, but is sometimes a little overenthusiastic. He realizes he has a problem when his mother hides all the tweezers in the house and begins to monitor his purchases. Luckily, he's got a friend in Koyama who keeps him supplied, even if he does tut his tongue at him while he sits on the edge of his own bathtub and watches Shige work.
---
At twenty-three, he can afford to get other people to do it for him. Even if he still gets scolded for his ever-thinning eyebrow line, at least it's always straight, now. And the rest of his group has mostly given up on him, at least in the body hair department. Except Ryo, who seems to take all of Shige's hair issues as a personal affront.
"Shige," Ryo finally sighs at him, "I don’t think it's any hair on your head you've got to worry about. Maybe you should start waxing your stupid hairy arms and forget about your damn eyebrows, for a change."
He might have a point. Musingly, he considers whether Koyama would hold his hand or not. He's heard that shit burns.
Koyama/Shige - PG "suspenders" AU
Koyama paces the room, long legs encased in dark pinstripe taking only three strides to reach one end before turning around and starting over again, narrowly avoiding his desk with each pass. He shoves at the rolled up sleeves of his white button-down, tugs nervously at the fronts of his suspenders, muttering as he goes, until Shige steps into his path and curls his hands around Koyama's shoulders.
"Kei, calm down."
The older man visibly relaxes, arms dropping to his sides as he takes a deep breath. Another. "Okay. You're right. Pi will be fine. I don't know why I'm so worried."
Shige's lips tilt up and he lowers his lashes coyly. "I think," he says, slipping his thumbs under the suspenders curving over Koyama's shoulders, "you need to take your mind off things for a while." And slowly pulls the elastic down Koyama's arms.
A slow smile blossoms across Koyama's face; he's always liked the way Shige thinks.
Shige, Masuda - PG (Warnings: dark, insanity, near-death experiences and the seeking of), inspired by Ani DiFranco's "Grey" AU
He sits in the sand, curled up in the grey just before dawn, knees pulled to his chest and arms wrapped loosely around them. There's just enough light to see the form and existence of things, but not their colors, and he feels… muted. Like if he pinched himself maybe he'd wake up, and maybe he wouldn't. Everything he wants.
When he sits here like this, the days flow together, and he can't remember how long he's been out here. Searching for himself in the dullness of this place like it can ever do anything for him but drop him further into a subdued acceptance. His pen sits abandoned next to pristine white pages, his laptop gathers dust in a corner, and he stays. Watches color seep slowly into the world until his stomach forces him inside. Can never get away from that.
Another pre-dawn and he crouches at the edge of the water, lets it lap at his bare toes and bury them slowly while he gazes blindly across the sea. So he's there when the man washes gently against the shore, the scrape of cloth and skin against the sand completely covered by the cyclical waves. But driftwood doesn't usually come in sizes that large, so he turns his head in idle curiosity that turns to panic.
Pain bursts white across his vision when he slips tender feet across sharp shells as he runs, blood-red spots against the grey, and the man is so cold when he gets there, his face as grey as the sand that surrounds him. His own body flushes with fear and exertion as he presses, presses, presses against the man's chest with both hands, his lips tingle with the cold when he opens his lips wide over the man's mouth and breathes warm life into him until the stranger heaves under him and he turns the man over and lets him spew seawater to mix with the rest. Limp as a kitten, the man lolls against his chest as he carries him inside.
The sun slants more and more across the man's face, ashen features slowly turning to pale gold as he rubs his hands in circles on the man's flesh. He comes to life under his hands, finally opening confused, brown eyes and turning them on him. The resurrected man tries to speak, hoarse voice slipping across syllables unintelligibly and Shige hushes him with a finger to his lips.
His name is Masuda and he doesn't know where he's from, or maybe he does and he doesn't want to say. Who is Shige to judge, if the man isn't searching for himself, he's still searching for someone to be, and it's all the same to him. They're alone together in the monochrome that slowly brightens day by day.
Fond of color and shiny things, Masuda was never meant to be of this place. Colored pebbles and coral-pink shells find their way into their tiny home, bright blue thread wrapped in a solid spiral around the barrel of one of Shige's pens, a faded yellow rubber ducky tucked next to the dish soap, a pair of fire-engine red eyeglass frames missing their lenses sitting on the table with bunches of tiny purple wildflowers sitting in the open spaces. Masuda's white teeth framed by dark pink lips and surrounded by bronzed skin. It's all a little overwhelming, and Shige's life is no longer so simple.
Fingers wrapped finally around the blue thread encasing his pen, he slides it across the white paper, watching in fascination as he stains it with words, and Masuda quirks his lips and tucks a couple wildflowers in Shige's hair, humming all the while. Anything Masuda touches comes to life, and Shige finds that strange since he was the one who had raised the dead, but he follows along in Masuda's wake, running his eyes across his world's blooming. He has everything he wants… but still he wants more.
He doesn't know why Masuda stays there with him, finding bits of color and fusing them, a visual cacophony that mostly frustrates Shige because he can't seem to do it on his own, depending on Masuda for splashes of insight and inspiration. He hates being dependent, despondent, sunk in this murk alone, because the gulf between them widens all the time, and there's only one choice, really, because Masuda won't stay here forever, and Shige can't leave yet.
Grey dawn, just before the sunrise, and he can't wait for the colors to unfold across the sky. Cold water licks at his bare feet, splashes against his clothed legs, the waves crashing against him as he wades forward. Finally his feet lift from the sea floor and he swims, arms swinging in smooth arcs as they chop through the water. The chill is seeping through his skin and numbing his insides, and still he goes until he's tired, and he stops, treads water with breathing labored by the cold though his lungs are on fire, waits for the peek of gold.
Frosted, sluggish movements are suddenly no longer enough to keep him above water, now, and his head dips below the surface, a surge of adrenaline making him shoot up, sputtering, panic sharpening his vision as he sinks again, arms splashing for purchase he'll never find. The cold invades his lungs in a salty burst, and he hears a shout, and the crashing of waves getting louder. His vision fades closer to black, edged by that gold he so wants, and he goes under.
He'll be reborn.