30 day drabbles 1-5
one: beginning
jongyu, pg
two: accusation
2min, nc17
three: restless
taekey, pg13
four: snowflake
jongkey, pg15
five: haze
minkey, r
- day one: beginning
jongyu; 2100 words; comedy; pg
Jinki had carefully made a list of intentions for his first day on the job and stuck it on the mirror in his bathroom the night before (along with his positive messages and smiley faces that always partially covered the reflective surface).
Getting stuck in a supply closet with someone he wasn’t even sure was his co-worker was definitely not on that list.
Jinki had a minor case of claustrophobia; that added to his first-day jitters made him feel mostly like he was going to pass out.
Who even made doors that lock only from the outside these days? Especially in an office building?
God, he must be making the worst first impression on his boss. He was already forty-three seconds late that morning, and now here he was. Trapped in a damn closet all because he was trying to be helpful by offering to get that skyscraper-esque man at the front desk to get a refill of staples when he’d noticed he was out.
Being a good samaritan got him nowhere, obviously.
The man in the room with him was probably a higher-up, considering his attire of a slate gray pressed suit and silk tie. Jinki didn’t know why he was in the room, as he’d been in there since before Jinki found it.
One rogue bump of a trashcan against the corner of an automatically-locking door landed them in the whole mess together.
Jinki didn’t have any hope of retaining his dignity from his place sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest, forehead rested on his kneecaps. It was just his luck. A new beginning was all he’d been looking forward with this new job, and things were already going downhill.
“Are you okay?”
Jinki whipped his head up and had to push his outgrown hair away from his eyes.
The man in the suit was looking at him oddly (fair enough), leaning against the wall as if he was so used to this happening, as if it was just another day on the job for him.
“I’m all right, just a little… nervous,” Jinki cleared his throat when he heard how croaky he was.
“Why nervous?” The man cocked his head to the side, slick dark hair falling sideways with the movement. Hair away from his eyes, Jinki could see that they were large and round, brows strong and furrowed in concern.
“It’s my first day,” Jinki admitted sheepishly, relaxing his hold on his legs so not to seem too uptight.
The man’s brows rose but then his expression relaxed into an empathetic (and quite charming) half-smile. “You don’t need to be nervous. Everyone here is pretty friendly.”
“My boss is probably so mad at me. I was already late. This doesn’t help.”
“Late? How late?”
“Forty-three seconds,” he grumbled, ashamed of his misdoing on his very first day. He blamed the fact that his tie-tying skills had gotten quite rusty since high school and he had to look up online tutorials just to make sure he was doing it correctly. The knot still looked messy and crooked, to his great dismay, the thin side longer than the thick side. He wasn’t even sure if it was appropriate to wear such a loud-colored tie on his very first day, but yellow was his favorite color and everyone he’d ever talked to said it suited him. Now, he resented it. Just a little bit.
The man laughed aloud. “Forty-three seconds?”
He nodded solemnly, not seeing the humor in the situation. Unless this man was being intentionally cruel to him. “It was because of my tie. I can’t tie it right anymore,” he picked up the length of fabric and flicked it grudgingly.
“I can help,” the man said, eyes going rounder than before.
Jinki could feel his face light up at his offer. “Really?”
He nodded-okay, he looked a lot less suave now and more like a puppy-and beckoned for him to stand up.
Jinki tried to comply as smoothly as he could, but really. They were stuck in a tiny two-meter-by-two-meter supply closet and there was barely room to breathe between the two shelves stuffed in there.
He ended up shuffling to his feet and knocking down a few reams of printer paper and a box of ink pens on the way up.
Once he was upright, he noticed that he was taller than the man in the suit by a fair amount; other than that, he noted pointedly that they were incredibly close to each other, too close for a professional work environment.
The other man didn’t seem to notice, and if he did, he wasn’t bothered by it. His eyes were right at Jinki’s tie, hands reaching up in the minute space to untie it for him.
Jinki watched him carefully, body rigid, but the man’s intentions seemed pure enough. He didn’t seem like he was going to tie it into a strangulation weapon or yank him in for a kiss or anything of the like.
“What’s your name?” the man asked, eyes flicking up briefly to meet his.
“Lee Jinki,” he answered, still trying to press himself as close to the shelves as possible so not to be right on top of the other man.
“Who are you working for again?”
“Kim Jonghyun,” Jinki said, the name memorized long before. “And he’s probably going to be furious at me. How am I supposed to explain to my new boss that I got locked in a supply closet when I was getting a stapler?” he asked miserably, mostly for his own sake.
The man’s eyes widened and a smile twitched at the corners of his lips. “I’m sure he won’t mind if you explained. And what did you do to this tie?” he asked, chuckling as he struggled with undoing Jinki’s dismal knot.
“I tried to tie it,” he said, crestfallen.
“I like the color.”
“It’s my favorite color,” his voice held the opposite of enthusiasm. His hands hung defeatedly by his sides.
The man nodded and smoothed the sides of the tie down on either side of his collar. “Stay still.”
Jinki complied. He was curious as to this man’s name and position in the company, but he wasn’t sure how to ask without sounding disrespectful. He was still on extremely thin ice as far as he was concerned, it being his first day and all. No one (besides the big-eyed man at the front desk and the human resources director that interviewed him) yet knew he existed, so he didn’t want to rub anyone in the wrong way.
He was already close enough to rubbing this man in the suit just by their proximity.
“I know Kim Jonghyun, by the way,” the man said, a smile curling the corner of his lips.
His heart jumped and he studied the man. “You do?”
He nodded, fingers still weaving the strip of fabric over itself in slow, measured movements, “He’s friendly. You don’t have to be afraid of him.”
Jinki breathed out a sigh of relief. He wasn’t sure how trustworthy this man was, in all fairness, but at least he was a kind enough person to help out a stranger trapped in a closet with his minor tie fiasco.
In any case, he was reassured.
“He’ll probably like your yellow tie, too,” the man said good-naturedly, tightening the knot into place with a sense of finality.
Jinki smiled lightly, nerves still twisting in his stomach. Now that the man in the suit wasn’t messing with his tie, it was a bit awkward to be standing this close to him, so close that he could smell his spearmint breath when he spoke and could probably count his eyelashes if he were dedicated enough.
The man was unbothered by the fact as always, and he patted either side of Jinki’s chest lightly in reassurance.
Jinki offered a shaky smile in return. “When-uh,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck and successfully knocking down a box of paper labels with his elbow. “When do you think someone’s going to let us out?”
“I called for help as soon as we got locked in. They should be here already,” the man said, nose scrunching up for a moment in frustration. He held his watch up to look at the time, but Jinki didn’t see the numbers. All he saw was how expensive it looked, definitely name-brand.
Jinki sighed unhappily. “I just came here for a stapler,” he said, shoulders sagging.
“For who?”
“The man at the front desk?”
The man let out a chuckle. “You shouldn’t do anything nice for Minho. He doesn’t deserve it.”
Jinki was taken aback. “Why?”
“He’s too tall.”
Jinki burst into laughter, head falling back and banging against the frame of the shelf.
“I’m being serious!”
“That’s not a real reason,” Jinki said through his laughter.
“It is so a reason,” the man said, pouting just slightly. He looked more like a puppy than ever.
Jinki shook his head good-naturedly, amused by this shorter man. He hoped that he would be working close by him. He was entertaining. He could see them getting along well.
Silence settled between them, and Jinki felt quite awkward in the whole situation. He tried not to meet the shorter man’s eyes too often, but really, what else was there to look at in the tiny space? It was either look curiously at the other man (Jinki really wished he’d asked his name when he had the chance) or become more acquainted to the manufacturer’s guarantee printed on the side of a box of staples. He half-considered sitting down again just to put some space between them.
His silent prayers were answered only minutes (minutes that stretched into what seemed like hours of Jinki awkwardly trying to even out his breathing, keep quiet as possible, and not meet the man’s eyes too many times to be natural) later.
The sound of the doorknob rattling was savior in itself. The door opening was something else entirely.
The man from the front desk blinked at them twice.
Jinki was acutely aware of how odd the situation must look, two men crammed in a locked closet-thankfully neither of their hair was mussed, though the shorter man’s lips were full enough to pass for swollen, and Jinki’s face was probably red enough to be suspicious. He hoped that Minho (Minho was his name, right?) wasn’t the type to start office rumors, or else Jinki was doomed.
Minho pursed his lips and shook his head in lighthearted disappointment. “I should’ve gotten my own stapler.”
Jinki let out a stressed laugh and all-but scampered out of the closet. He gasped in lungfuls of fresh, not-stuffy air, nerves dissipating slowly.
“Minho, you’re fired,” the man in the suit said.
Jinki whipped around; his stomach fell. “Oh no, don’t-”
The pair were laughing when he looked at them.
Oh good. So he wasn't actually getting fired over something as stupid as inadvertently getting the new guy trapped in a closet.
“Get back to work, Minho. I have a new guy starting today, I don’t have time for this,” the man in the suit brushed past the much taller man and made a beeline for the nearest elevator.
Jinki was left a bit disoriented as they parted ways around him.
He made sure that Minho had a new stapler in his hand before he made way for his new boss’s office.
His hands started shaking just slightly as he stepped out of the elevator and in front of the door marked with “Kim Jonghyun” as the name-plate.
A deep breath in and then back out, and he gathered the strength to knock on the door.
“Come in,” a voice called from inside.
Jinki swallowed thickly and turned the doorknob.
His eyes landed on a man sitting behind a desk with his feet propped up, dressed in a gray suit.
Jinki stopped dead.
The man, Kim Jonghyun, stood and extended a hand to shake, an easy smile across full lips.
“Hi, I’m Kim Jonghyun. I like your yellow tie.”
“Thanks. Sorry I’m late, I was stuck in a closet because-” Jinki joked, a knot still in his throat as he grasped Jonghyun’s hand in a shake.
“Minho is too lazy to get his own stapler?”
He chuckled, “Yeah.”
Jonghyun laughed, eyes squinting up and mouth opening wide.
Jinki smiled the same shaky smile as before.
He could see him liking this job. Especially after such a strange beginning.
It was exactly the new start he’d been looking for.
- day two: accusation
2min; 1169 words; angst, smut; nc17
“Hey, are you on the way?”
“On the way where?” Taemin asked, breathing labored. A large hand dropped to his waist, thumb dragging over the sharp bone of his hip.
“Home?” Minho’s worry was clear in his voice. “It’s getting late, do you want me to pick you up?”
Taemin’s back arched into the touch of the man standing behind him, free hand reaching behind him to pull those impossibly plush lips back to his bared neck. “No, I can catch the bus. Don’t worry,” his breathing quickened even further when he felt a tongue slide over the junction of his neck and shoulder, hot against his skin.
“You sound tired, baby, are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure, hyung. I just got finished in practice, that’s why I sound tired,” he gritted his teeth to hold in a sharp cry when a hand pressed flat on his back and pushed him against the tiled wall of the shower. “But I’ll be okay. Jongin is with me.”
He bowed his head against the tiles and held his free hand up to cover the mouthpiece of the phone; he felt blunt fingers raking over the base of his spine and he arched instinctively in response.
“Get off the phone,” Jongin growled into his ear, leaning over his back and bracing dark-skinned hands on either side of Taemin’s head.
“Trying,” Taemin choked out, hand beginning to tremble when he brought the phone back up to his ear.
“Hurry,” Jongin’s hand skated along Taemin’s thin arm, lips touching his earlobe, “or else he’ll hear.”
Taemin could feel the threat in his words, the same one Jongin had tortured him with since the very first time they did this. After so long, the dread of the threat had faded and been replaced with pure exhiliration, a twist of guilt and pleasure in his gut that made all of this so much worse, so much better at the same time.
“I’ll see you at home, okay?” Taemin tried to steady his voice, fingers gripping the cellphone tightly, rivaling the grip of Jongin’s hand on his bare hip under his clothes.
“Okay, I’ll see you,” Minho said, crestfallen.
Taemin’s face screwed up as he felt Jongin’s hand trail down his spine again, this time pulling down his sweatpants and underwear, cock springing into the air. “Bye.”
“Love you.”
Taemin didn’t have a chance to return the sentiment, as Jongin took the phone out of his hand and turned it off, stuffing it in his own pocket.
“You should’ve let him pick you up this time.”
Taemin looked back and saw a mischievous smirk on Jongin’s lips, sweaty hair sticking to his face in all the right places.
“Fuck off, he’s my boyfriend,” the older of the two breathed, but it was hard to get his point across when he felt a saliva-slicked finger push into him agonizingly slowly. His shoulders tensed and his arms braced on the wall in front of him, tiles fogging with heat against cold.
“I don’t want him-” he broke off in a low groan as another finger joined the first, moving so deeply inside him that his knees started to buckle. “To find out about-”
“About me?” Jongin cut him off with a hoarse whisper, fingers thrusting quick and rough, hitting a spot that made him see stars.
Taemin cried out and his back bent harshly into the movement. Adrenaline coursed through him, blood rushing out of his head and to his dick. He was hard, so hard that it hurt, and he couldn’t breathe anymore.
“I hate you,” he panted, rutting into his fingers, body hot all over. “Just get in me, fuck-”
____
“I’m home!” Taemin called into the dark apartment, dropping his keys on the table by the door. “Minho-hyung?”
No reply.
Taemin furrowed his brows and ventured further into the kitchen, hitching his duffel bag up on his shoulder.
“Hyung, what’s wrong?” Panic hit when he saw Minho at the table, staring straight forward with glassy eyes.
“Are you sleeping with Jongin?”
“What?” he fought not to stutter, guilt dropping into his stomach like a hunk of pure ice.
“You come home late every time you have dance,” Minho clenched his fists on the tabletop, still not looking at Taemin. “You always shower and change your clothes before you get home now. You have bruises and marks that I know I didn’t leave. You never want me to come up to the studio anymore, like you don’t want me to know what goes on up there. You-”
“Hyung,” Taemin said softly, trying to mask the panic inside that Minho, after how many months?, had finally begun to notice something off about him. He let his duffel bag drop to the ground and stepped towards him, measured and careful.
“You’re sleeping with him, aren’t you Taemin?” Minho finally looked up, and the expression in his eyes made Taemin stop dead in his tracks.
He’d never seen Minho look so vulnerable, so afraid, so /hurt/.
“Baby,” he barely spoke above a whisper, heart so heavy it felt like it was dragging him down, the last few steps toward Minho sluggish.
Up close, Taemin could see unshed tears shining in Minho’s eyes.
He felt lower than dirt.
He coaxed Minho’s arm away from the table so he could fold himself onto his lap, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers combing through his hair.
Minho was stiff, not reciprocating the embrace.
Taemin was grateful that Minho couldn’t see the pained expression that crossed his features, a sharp twinge going through his back when he sat down; Jongin was never one to be gentle with him.
“Answer me, Taemin.” Minho’s voice didn’t break, but Taemin could hear that it was close.
Taemin turned his head and lightly kissed Minho’s neck. “Of course I’m not cheating, baby,” he lied flawlessly, voice quiet and emotive. He felt like such shit, doing this to his boyfriend, the man who’d loved him since they were in high school, since they were childish and immature and didn’t even know what love was.
Tears gathered in his eyes as well, a perfect ploy and an honest emotion all at once. He pulled back to look Minho in the eye, close enough that their eyes crossed slightly to look at each other.
Minho had never looked more insecure than he did in that moment.
“I wouldn’t do that to you, hyung,” he whispered another lie and moved in for a kiss before he could tell if Minho was convinced or not.
I need to stop this, Taemin thought.
But to be fair, that was the same thing he’d thought after the first time. And the second. And the thirtieth. And every subsequent time after when Minho would smile at him or touch him or kiss him in his sweet way.
And just the same, the decision would be shot when he got to dance and met eyes with Kim Jongin.
- day three: restless
taekey; 868 words; angst; pg13
Kibum’s hand grazed the thin thigh of the boy beside him in concern.
The reaction was delayed one or two beats, leg bouncing erratically in the meantime, but Kibum was used to that.
“How’d you sleep last night?” he asked gently, meeting the glazed eyes of the younger boy, his seatmate on the bus.
“Didn’t,” Taemin said bluntly, blinking in the slow, labored way he always did.
Kibum’s brows furrowed as his eyes traced Taemin’s features, his droopy lids over dull eyes, dark circles a shock of navy and purple against pallid skin. His lips were chapped, scabbed, slack.
His hand rubbed the younger’s leg over his jeans in an attempt at comfort. “What was it this time?”
Taemin dropped his head against the headrest, body bumping along with the road, lids shutting halfway. “Same thing.”
“Again?” It wasn’t the best thing he could have said, but Kibum was at a loss. He didn’t know what else he could say anymore. Taemin’s nightmares had been here for years now, unending torture for the younger.
He nodded, closing his eyes the rest of the way and licking his lips, bringing a bit of life to the abused skin in the moment, two moments, before the shine died away. His fingers tapped on his leg restlessly, his nervous habits keeping him conscious after days without sleep.
Kibum looked forward to the bus driver, gauging how long they had to their next stop. He tapped Taemin’s leg lightly. “Do you want to sleep over tonight?”
Taemin’s head lolled to the side and he looked at Kibum again, eyes dark, a bitter humor in his chuckle before he said, “I’d love to sleep tonight, hyung.”
Kibum’s heart squeezed with sympathy and he exhaled to keep his composure.
He wished he could be a better help. He wished he could doanythingto help his insomniac best friend.
___
“You can go to bed, you know,” Taemin murmured, staring lifelessly at the television.
Kibum started, not even realizing his eyes were drooping until Taemin spoke. “What?”
“Go to bed,” the younger’s voice was muffled, as his cheek was pressed into his elbow on the arm of Kibum’s couch.
“No, not until you fall asleep,” Kibum said stubbornly.
Taemin scoffed humorlessly, not looking away from the infomercial on the screen.
Kibum rubbed his burning eyes; it was dark in his apartment, the only light coming from the glaringly bright television. It was far past midnight by now, and he was so tired he felt like he was melting onto the sofa cushions.
But he couldn’t fall asleep and leave Taemin here like this, sleepless for the second, third, maybe even fourth night in a row.
“Taemin, come here,” he beckoned, voice quiet behind barely-moving lips.
Taemin looked up, eyes going a bit rounder than usual, still as subdued as ever. He shifted towards Kibum, movements gradual and mechanical.
Kibum coaxed him to lay down on his lap, hands gentle on his shoulders.
The younger made himself comfortable without reserve, hands in fists in front of his small frame, legs curled up on the free cushion beside him.
Kibum brushed his outgrown red hair away from his face so he could watch his expressions, continuing the motion down his head, his neck, his shoulder, and then back up.
“What are you so afraid of that keeps you up, Taemin-ah?” he asked into the open air, rhetorical and laden with every bit of vulnerability that Taemin was an expert at not showing.
Taemin breathed deeply, chest expanding and contracting where Kibum could see it. His eyes shut again, but his brow was still tense with consciousness.
At least now he wasn’t tapping his fingers, wasn’t shaking his leg or wiggling his toes in an attempt to keep awake for fear of whatever he saw in his sleep.
“Keep them away, Kibum-hyung,” he murmured, nestling more comfortably into Kibum’s lap, hair fanning over his leg, “Don’t let them…” He sighed, voice going softer, as if in shame. “Don’t let them hurt me.”
Kibum itched to ask what he was talking about, what was hurting him, what was causing him so much pain that days of fidgeting to keep awake were worth not wasting a few hours on sleep. He wanted to know; he wanted to help.
But instead, he combed his fingers through Taemin’s hair, curling the wavy strands around his fingers and raking his fingernails gently over his scalp. “I’m here, Taemin-ah,” he murmured soothingly. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here.”
__
Kibum wasn’t sure when his fingers stopped moving through Taemin’s hair, or when his eyes shut and his breathing evened out. He wasn’t sure who fell asleep first-probably himself-, but when he woke up, a crick in his neck, spine feeling stiff, Taemin was sound asleep, knees at his chest, hand resting flat against Kibum’s leg.
He resumed petting the younger’s hair, affection choking in his throat. This was as peaceful as he’d seen him in weeks, months even.
It was already late into the afternoon, and they’d both already skived off more than a few daily responsibilities. But that didn’t matter, not to Kibum.
He let Taemin sleep as long as he possibly could.
- day four: snowflake
jongkey; 732 words; domestic fluff; pg
Jonghyun’s brow furrowed as he tried to force the scissors to cut through the layers of folded construction paper. This was tougher than it seemed, definitely harder than he remembered it being when he was a kid.
“Dad, are you okay?” A tiny concerned pout on the mouth of his little girl brought his frustration down a bit.
He un-pursed his lips to speak. “Yeah, kiddo, this is just… difficult.”
“Difficult,” she repeated under her breath a few times, memorizing the word.
Jonghyun smiled to himself. She was too cute like this.
“Jjong?”
“Yeah?” he called through the house without looking up from his arts and crafts table.
“What are you doing?” Kibum’s voice was closer this time, his body appearing at the doorway of their daughter’s room.
“Dad is letting me use big-girl scissors!” She held them up proudly, fist around the closed blades like Jonghyun taught her so she didn’t drop them and hurt herself.
Jonghyun challenged Kibum’s immediate disapproving glare with an “I-know-what-I’m-doing” expression.
“What are you making, sweetie?” Kibum crossed to the mini table in the middle of her frilly pink bedroom and crossed his legs underneath him, picking up one of the trial-and-error snowflakes with a confused look.
“Paper snowflakes,” she replied happily. “Dad is really good at them!”
Jonghyun met Kibum’s amused expression with a humble one of his own. “I’m good at them,” he said weakly.
Kibum held back laughter and held out his hands for the quickly-going-downhill piece of construction paper in his hands. “Can I try?” he asked, looking down at their daughter, who was no less than a spitting image of him, all high cheekbones and pouty lips.
“Okay!” she looked up at Jonghyun hopefully, and he gave the craft over with a sigh of relief.
In hindsight, it would probably be best to know how to make a paper snowflake before he offered to teach his daughter, who’d seen them hanging up in her classroom as decorations for the season, how to make them.
Or he could, like most things craft-or-otherwise-daughter-related, leave it up to Kibum.
Jonghyun watched on fondly as Kibum made a few methodical snips, their daughter’s eyes intensely focused on his every move.
“You ready?” he asked with a grin, building suspense before he unfolded the triangle of paper to show the design.
She nodded enthusiastically, pigtails (Jonghyun’s handiwork, thank you very much) bouncing.
Kibum’s eyes glanced to Jonghyun’s for a moment, smile in place.
Jonghyun’s heart melted and he gave a weak smile in return. He loved moments like this, when it was just the three of them, doing something simple and fun together. He loved watching Kibum interact with their pride and joy, so gentle with her, like she was made of porcelain, such pure adoration in his eyes as he watched her.
Kibum slowly unfolded the paper to reveal the design, and unlike Jonghyun’s past attempts, it turned out perfect, little shapes cut into the center; it looked like it was supposed to, not like someone had messed up trying to create it.
But hey, Jonghyun tried.
And that’s what Kibum was there for anyway.
Their daughter’s face lit up in a smile, and she let out an “Ooh!” as she looked at it.
Kibum looked briefly at Jonghyun, his grin wide and genuine.
Jonghyun sighed lightly and rested his cheek in his palm, smile going soft. “I think you’re better at it than I am, Kibum.”
The little girl turned quickly to Jonghyun, distress on her face. “No, Dad, you’re really good at them!” She picked up one of his minor monstrosities and held it up for proof. “See?!”
He hid his grin behind his hand.
“You and Daddy are both really good at it,” she assured him, patting his leg like she’d seen Kibum do when Jonghyun was upset before.
He ran his fingers through her puffy black bangs. “Thanks, kiddo.”
She was beaming as she turned to her own flat, blank sheet of light yellow (she’d refused to use anything other than her favorite color, even after Jonghyun told her that snowflakes were white). “Can I try now?”
Jonghyun saw Kibum melt a little bit, and it had the same effect on him.
“Go ahead, sweetie,” he said, petting her hair again.
He and Kibum shared a smile as she started to clumsily fold the paper.
Their daughter was so adorable.
- day five: haze
minkey; 937 words; angst, drug use; r
Kibum didn’t imagine that things would ever turn out like this.
He’d gone from the stage, dressed in next to nothing and gyrating his hips on a pole for some extra cash-tasting the stale stage smoke on his tongue as he glided his hands erotically down his stomach-to throwing his head back as he forced two-or-maybe-three capsules down his throat-diet pills, he told everyone who asked, and not something he bought off his friend behind the bar every other week, because dancing wasn’t enough to make his thick thighs slimmer and his pudgy stomach flatter; he wanted to look sexy, wanted to look thin like his dance partner Taemin-to sitting at the bar, alone.
Taemin already hooked up for the night. Some short, bulky guy who Kibum swore he’d seen before came to fetch him from the dressing room and they were probably fucking in the bathroom by now. And later when Taemin found him at the bar and they drove back home-Taemin drove, because last time Kibum drove on his diet pills at night things didn’t turn out so well-, Taemin would crawl into his bed and blow him out of pity. And Kibum would lay back, take it, and fall asleep when Taemin slid out from under his sheets, messy and dazed.
It was always Taemin who got picked up by another guy. Taemin, with the thin thighs and long hair and the full, swollen lips. Never Kibum, with the stocky legs and big hands, with the thick neck and broad shoulders.
Kibum’s place was at the bar, taking shots of whatever the bartender would give him for free, trying not to give in to the haze of alcohol and trying to control the agitation in his muscles, trying to repress his need to crack his knuckles for the seventh time in a row or outwardly twitch.
He was used to this.
“Key, right?”
He blinked glassy eyes as he turned to the person leaning on the bar next to him. He recognized him, too. He came here with the short guy Taemin was with.
“Key, yeah.” He still had his wits about him-he’d only had one beer and was steadily nursing on another, so really only the effects of his diet pills were working yet.
“Can I buy you a drink, Key?” the man asked, voice deep and quiet, the man leaning closer.
He licked his lips slowly-why did his mouth feel dry?-and could feel the chunky glitter from his lipgloss rough against his tongue. “Okay.”
The tall, dark haired man got the bartender’s attention and then turned to an interested Kibum. “What do you like?”
“Tequila,” Kibum answered immediately, lips spreading into a slightly-nasty grin.
The man’s brows rose. “The one that makes you take your clothes off?”
Kibum shrugged, finger circling the neck of his beer bottle. “I take off my clothes sober.”
The man snorted in amusement and paid for two shots of tequila.
“Both for me?”
“One for me,” the man took one shotglass and held it up to his full lips.
“Cheers,” Kibum muttered and then downed the shot; he couldn’t even taste alcohol anymore, barely felt the burn in the back of his throat. He instantly craved more of it. Tonight was a night to get drunk, he decided.
It wasn’t recommended to drink with his diet pills, of course, but really, what could it hurt? What was the worst it could do? Kill him, maybe? Fuck, he’d love to see it try.
“Don’t buy me too many. I get loud when I’m drunk,” he warned the man as he gestured to the bartender to come back.
The man hummed in thought, eyes looking at Kibum in a way he saw so often from far away, but hardly ever this close. “Is that right?”
He nodded, taking a swig of his beer. He couldn’t taste this one either. It wasn’t enough to get him drunk by a long shot.
“I can handle loud,” he decided, and paid for two more shots.
“Why are you drinking too?” he asked before he took the second shot. “Especially ‘the one that makes you take your clothes off’?”
“Maybe I want to take my clothes off,” he cocked a brow and then threw his head back to swallow the drink, double adam’s apple moving up and down as Kibum watched on greedily.
In the bluntest terms, Kibum was easy when was on his pills and had alcohol in his system. It took no more than two shots and that one line to get him into this guy’s backseat, clinging to the overhead bar and the back of the guy’s hair as he fucked him hard and rough, groaning into the side of his neck.
“What’s-your name?” Kibum choked out, head banging against the window.
“Minho,” the man grunted, and it took an extra few moments for it to register in Kibum’s head.
Alcohol, drugs, and mindless pleasure. Kibum didn’t foresee that his life would ever come to this, having to ask someone’s name so he knew what to moan when he came, two drinks to get him naked-he wasn’t even drunk, not even close-, diet pills making everything happen a beat late. He could enjoy this though, at least he could try; enjoy the feeling of being wanted, of someone else’s hands running all over him, teeth biting into sticky lips, a cock moving inside him.
Maybe he would black out when he came; hell, maybe he wouldn’t wake up. It couldn’t be the biggest disappointment he experienced yet.