(no subject)
phone drabbles
a scene from public enemies, g-dragon/top.
note: warm-up (of sorts) for jesse james au.
They killed Seunghyun first, months before Jiyong.
It was a bad way to go, gunshot wound in the flare of his ribcage, blood so thick it looked black, and aggravated by the run through the woods: he’d fallen twice, and both times Jiyong had said, “Get up, goddamnit,” holding onto his hand. Jiyong was still holding his hand when they slipped, silent as a whisper, into the safehouse, the instant commotion culled short at the sight of Seunghyun. The walls were thin, everyone quiet, sombre, trying not to listen to the two of them in the next room.
“Leave me alone,” Seunghyun was saying, over Jiyong talking wildly about bandages, a compress, the sound of his boots tracking his pacing. And then, softly: “Come here.”
“Don’t,” Jiyong said, a moment later, sounding choked. A shuffle of movement.
“I know,” Seunghyun said. He sounded tired, then, heavy with conviction. The conversation wasn’t making sense: Seungri looked at Daesung, but he was looking down, his hands clenched in a cleaning rag.
wouldn't it be nice, baekhyun/chanyeol.
note: dead wip.
"You're such an idiot," Baekhyun says as he squats down with a cotton swab, unscrewing the bottle of iodine.
Chanyeol hisses as Baekhyun swipes efficiently along the scraped, bloody mess of his knee. "Easy, will you?" He leans forward to reassess the damage, his skateboard rolling forward into Baekhyun's when he pushes off it.
Baekhyun rolls his eyes, handing Chanyeol a bandage. "Do it yourself, then." He chucks the iodine back in his backpack and watches Chanyeol wince as he applies the bandage and rolls his trouser leg back down.
The fall air is crisp, the early breeze still chill. Baekhyun pulls his sleeves down absentmindedly, and Chanyeol puts one of his earphones back in, handing the other to Baekhyun.
"Kind of early, isn't it?" Baekhyun had only been half awake when Chanyeol called, asking if he had a first aid kit. Chet Faker drawls in his ear as he stifles a yawn with the back of his hand.
"School's starting soon," Chanyeol shrugs. "I wanted to, you know, make the most of it." Baekhyun nods, in time with the music. Summer had been mostly uneventful, two weeks in Busan with family and the occasional party or beach bonfire. Chanyeol working the bottle cap of his beer off on the hard cement edge of their fire pit, and then later: laughing breathlessly into Chanyeol's skin when Chanyeol hit his head on the roof of the car, his fingers, salty with seawater and sand, tangled in Baekhyun's hair.
red vs. blue, kai/lu han.
note: originally part of an au written for v.
"I told you it was bad luck," Lu Han says cheerfully, corralling the ball with him to the sidelines. He's up 5-0, cheeks flushed and hair wind-combed.
"It's not," Jongin insists, too winded for a proper comeback. His hand comes to rest on his jersey, as if to personally reassure Fernando Torres of his belief in him. Every week, Lu Han copies down the time on the counter on hastorresscoredforchelsea.com onto a post-it and sticks it in the most irritating place he can think of: on Jongin's pillow, the handle of Jongin's toothbrush, and once, on Jongin's forehead when he fell asleep at his desk.
He takes the Yakult Lu Han hands him, sipping sulkily at the straw. "I have the worst roommate ever," Jongin writes to Soojung later that night, who signs her e-mails as "Krystal" ever since she moved to the States. Before she'd left, she'd said, "Write me," in the bored, offhand kind of way that meant she meant it. "I'm going to shred his Rooney jersey into confetti. I'm going to draw all over his RVP poster with permanent marker."
"Can we talk about something else, Jongin," Krystal responds, a few days later. "This is boring."
a scene from public enemies, g-dragon/top.
note: warm-up (of sorts) for jesse james au.
They killed Seunghyun first, months before Jiyong.
It was a bad way to go, gunshot wound in the flare of his ribcage, blood so thick it looked black, and aggravated by the run through the woods: he’d fallen twice, and both times Jiyong had said, “Get up, goddamnit,” holding onto his hand. Jiyong was still holding his hand when they slipped, silent as a whisper, into the safehouse, the instant commotion culled short at the sight of Seunghyun. The walls were thin, everyone quiet, sombre, trying not to listen to the two of them in the next room.
“Leave me alone,” Seunghyun was saying, over Jiyong talking wildly about bandages, a compress, the sound of his boots tracking his pacing. And then, softly: “Come here.”
“Don’t,” Jiyong said, a moment later, sounding choked. A shuffle of movement.
“I know,” Seunghyun said. He sounded tired, then, heavy with conviction. The conversation wasn’t making sense: Seungri looked at Daesung, but he was looking down, his hands clenched in a cleaning rag.
wouldn't it be nice, baekhyun/chanyeol.
note: dead wip.
"You're such an idiot," Baekhyun says as he squats down with a cotton swab, unscrewing the bottle of iodine.
Chanyeol hisses as Baekhyun swipes efficiently along the scraped, bloody mess of his knee. "Easy, will you?" He leans forward to reassess the damage, his skateboard rolling forward into Baekhyun's when he pushes off it.
Baekhyun rolls his eyes, handing Chanyeol a bandage. "Do it yourself, then." He chucks the iodine back in his backpack and watches Chanyeol wince as he applies the bandage and rolls his trouser leg back down.
The fall air is crisp, the early breeze still chill. Baekhyun pulls his sleeves down absentmindedly, and Chanyeol puts one of his earphones back in, handing the other to Baekhyun.
"Kind of early, isn't it?" Baekhyun had only been half awake when Chanyeol called, asking if he had a first aid kit. Chet Faker drawls in his ear as he stifles a yawn with the back of his hand.
"School's starting soon," Chanyeol shrugs. "I wanted to, you know, make the most of it." Baekhyun nods, in time with the music. Summer had been mostly uneventful, two weeks in Busan with family and the occasional party or beach bonfire. Chanyeol working the bottle cap of his beer off on the hard cement edge of their fire pit, and then later: laughing breathlessly into Chanyeol's skin when Chanyeol hit his head on the roof of the car, his fingers, salty with seawater and sand, tangled in Baekhyun's hair.
red vs. blue, kai/lu han.
note: originally part of an au written for v.
"I told you it was bad luck," Lu Han says cheerfully, corralling the ball with him to the sidelines. He's up 5-0, cheeks flushed and hair wind-combed.
"It's not," Jongin insists, too winded for a proper comeback. His hand comes to rest on his jersey, as if to personally reassure Fernando Torres of his belief in him. Every week, Lu Han copies down the time on the counter on hastorresscoredforchelsea.com onto a post-it and sticks it in the most irritating place he can think of: on Jongin's pillow, the handle of Jongin's toothbrush, and once, on Jongin's forehead when he fell asleep at his desk.
He takes the Yakult Lu Han hands him, sipping sulkily at the straw. "I have the worst roommate ever," Jongin writes to Soojung later that night, who signs her e-mails as "Krystal" ever since she moved to the States. Before she'd left, she'd said, "Write me," in the bored, offhand kind of way that meant she meant it. "I'm going to shred his Rooney jersey into confetti. I'm going to draw all over his RVP poster with permanent marker."
"Can we talk about something else, Jongin," Krystal responds, a few days later. "This is boring."