walk on pluto,

[B.A.P; yongguk/himchan] drabbles

walkonpluto — Fri, 24 Aug 2012 13:16:48 GMT

title: miss the forest for the trees
pairing: yongguk/himchan
rating: pg-13
1325w. / pre-debut
summary: there's himchan and music until there's himchan and music and yongguk.

a/n: himchan plays other instruments, too, but i kinda fell in love with the janggu so:) inspired by this: "the janggu is usually classified as an accompanying instrument because of its flexible nature and its agility with complex rhythms."

Music is everything to Himchan. When there’s nothing left to say, no words to carry him forward, he relies on music; counts on the melody to express his emotions, thoughts, and sometimes even his deepest secrets get laid out for everyone to see if only they knew how to look.

He joined the agency on an impulse because he’s Kim Himchan (a little reckless but knows his limits, likes to take risks but never gets himself hurt, never that). TS Entertainment might not be one of the biggest managements in the country but it gets the job done. People there are so very nice to him right from day one. Everyone’s courteous and friendly, and he doesn’t question their sincerity until he overhears a few trainees expressing their dissatisfaction after his first few months there.

“They never yell at him or tell him to do anything! What is he even here for?”

“Well you know, a pretty face gets you far…” The other boy Himchan recognizes faintly says with a click of his tongue.

“I bet his role is to stand still and look pretty for the cameras.”

It hurts more than it should because Himchan doesn’t know those guys and frankly, they know nothing about him either. He shouldn’t care yet those words, they haunt him for the rest of the night and the sun rises before he manages to shoo away hideous nightmares and fears.

Afterwards, he starts to question everything and everyone around him. A pat on the back might not be an encouragement or praise but a deliberate deceptiveness in behavior to make him believe otherwise—and words, well, words tend to never be what they appear to be, he knew that already.

After another tiring day of practice (dance, singing, dance, variety, dance, dance), he pulls out his worn gig bag with straps that are a faded black and molded to softness on his shoulder. The weight of the janggu against his back is comforting and familiar, even if the environment he’s now in is nothing if not new. The hallway’s lighting is crucially bright and it makes Himchan feel like he’s a guinea pig in a laboratory running on an endless circle, though, he knows it’s for the sake of the trainees staying awake and alert at all times. In this building, it didn’t matter if the sun had risen outside or if it was the moon that colored the sky dark blue, dinner was when they were offered food, not at six pm, and rest did not mean closing your eyes for seven, six, five hours.

Rest is for ones that have earned their places in the business, Himchan was told.

Lucky for Himchan, people have always found him likable. It’s another outcome of years of practicing and then finally mastering the art itself; being nice is kind of like playing instruments and creating music: you can only become good with practice and hard work. Only a few are born with so-called natural talent.

His vocal teacher was one of those who grew fond of him right from their first meeting. The man was nice enough to sneak a spare key for the empty practice room into Himchan’s pocket and thus offering him a chance to go back to his roots, back to his high-school days of abandon and mellowness. It’d been a few weeks too long since the last time his hands had met the even surface of the soft hide, fingers traced the wooden body of the janggu. For the first time, Himchan finally understood the role music played in his life.

The practice room was tiny and it looked unused, like it wasn’t spacious enough for use.

It was just perfect for him.

Himchan settled on the floor, his legs folded, as he pulled the gig bag off his shoulder and unzipped it. The zipper ran smoothly across and over the thick material and he couldn’t help a smile at something so familiar. Putting the bag away, he lifted the janggu into his lap, hands smoothing the round edges and running across the hourglass-shaped wood. Himchan was just about to grab the yeolchae with his hand when a quiet, yet loud enough to draw his attention, cough interrupted him.

“Uh, sorry, am I not supposed to be here?” There was a male close to his age in one corner of the room whom he didn’t notice past the excitement that clouded his mind. The face was unfamiliar to him, all wide mouth and straight nose and a voice too low for a kid that age, or face, should he add.

“I thought they weren’t using this room anymore…” The boy continued on and woke Himchan up from his daze as he dropped his drumstick while trying to find words that got stuck in his throat somehow.

“They’re not. Using this room, I mean.” Himchan’s awkward when caught off-guard and only social when there’s no music to swallow up conversations made out of meaningless words.

“Oh. Well then, can I stay here?” He asked Himchan, eyes cautious yet never losing the aura of confidence glowing around him. Himchan was a little jealous, maybe.

“Sure, I guess.” He shrugged off the doubt eating up his insides by shifting his gaze from the boy to the floor and the janggu. It’s oddly calming to have an audience made of one man so Himchan picked up the yeolchae with his right hand, fingers curling around the wooden stick.

When his janggu comes alive, it makes the most beautiful sounds, quiet enough to blend into the background but still there and essential in its own way. The sounds are deep and full like the smell of a thick forest breathing on you, when Himchan strikes the center of the buk with his left hand. The bass tone is like a growl trees breathe out when their leaves get caught by the wind.

Himchan gets lost in the moment in which there’s just the janggu and him becoming one. They say the flow’s the most important thing you need to master when it comes to playing the janggu; you need to breathe life into the instrument, feel its sounds with your heart as each beat blend together and become the music.

Fifteen minutes turned into hours but Himchan was still there, on the floor, with his janggu like it was an old friend he hadn’t seen in years yet it felt the same, so familiar, safe and soothing, like they were never apart to begin with.

“Wow. That was good,” Himchan was startled by the boy’s voice. He managed to close his eyes somehow, playing the janggu, and forgot about his audience altogether (which is something that should never, never happen to an artist, Himchan was told).

“You’re still here.” He blurted out before he could think to stop himself.

“Yeah, I never left since you said I could stay. And to be honest, I was here first, so…” The boy grinned and all Himchan could see was teeth and gums that made his brain mushy and useless for a second too long.

Sorry,” It came out awfully timid and weak and Himchan beat himself up mentally. He avoided eye contact, shoving the instrument back into the bag and gathering his stuff as quickly as possible. The room felt so stuffy and tiny, which basically summed up everything Himchan hated about public places. He was on his feet and ready to flee the scene before the boy interrupted his intentions with a hand flailing in mid-air.

“Hey, wait up! You didn’t even tell me your name,” It’s said in an oddly accusing tone that Himchan didn’t get. They didn’t know each other and truthfully, weren’t they supposed to hate on each other by default?

“Himchan. It’s Kim Himchan.”

“Well, nice to meet you too, Kim Himchan. I’m Bang Yongguk.”

And that was how Himchan made a friend out of a once-supposed-to-be enemy.

title: mess me up, write on my skin
pairing: yongguk/himchan
rating: pg-13
555w.
summary: himchan and yongguk recording.

himchan's sitting on the floor with his legs crossed. they’re in one of those tiny studios with sheets of lyrics spread on the floor black and white, messy with scribbles. it's another night followed by a long day and he's exhausted. the tiny room feels stuffy and way too warm from the recording equipment running on a low buzz. he puffs out a frustrated breath of recycled air and brings a hand to rub the side of his face, fingers pressing into the temple.

"you're tired boneless, go to sleep." yongguk says, sitting on a chair a few feet from him. yongguk's got his back to him, head hanging a little from the lack of sleep and voice stern, stretched tight around the edges. he doesn’t need to look to know sleep is tugging at the corners of himchan’s eyes. they share everything from cheap ramen cups and imported german beer to late nights and early mornings spent in the depths of the studio, limbs sprawled across the tiny space on the floor, messy and tangled from exhaustion -- so telepathy comes with everything, naturally.

"we need to finish editing the song, don't we?” himchan tries to hide a yawn, covering his mouth sheepishly with a hand, “now speak less and work more," he says, trying to sound stern and serious but fails miserably at that. he mutters a few curses under his breath and shifts, tearing his gaze away from yongguk's back. unwilling or not, no one’s here to witness it.

yongguk heaves a sigh at himchan’s words, sets the pen on the desk and wills his chair to spin around.

“you’re not exactly doing much, kim himchan.” it’s droopy eyes and dark blueish circles underneath but himchan finds it enchanting all the same. he pouts, lower lip jutting out and brows furrowing. yongguk hates how there isn’t even a fight before himchan wins the war or whatever this is; is stupid, pointless really.

“stop that.” yongguk hisses and blinks, eyelashes landing and departing like those aeroplanes himchan sees on the busy sky of seoul.

“stop what?” himchan grins, eyes glistening like there’s raindrops in them and yongguk wants to find out, wants to touch the delicate skin of the outer corner of himchan’s eye with his thumb, smooth out crinkles that aren’t supposed to be there.

“do not tempt me.” yongguk speaks, each word tense and rough. the man’s almost as scary as a teddy bear, himchan reckons and smiles wider. it’s no surprise to find yongguk getting up seconds later, hands pushing the chair back against the desk, furniture meeting with a dull thud. himchan shifts on the floor, papers ruffling underneath his hands as he backs away to the wall.

“you’ll mess up the papers.” himchan tells him, using his last bit of self-control to make the words coherent.

“i don’t care.” yongguk spits, limbs bending as he meets the floor on his fours.

“the song won’t be finished tonight.” himchan threatens but his breath hitches and yongguk grins, victorious and sneaky like the bastard that he is behind cameras.

“i don’t care.” comes out as a growl from yongguk.

“so you say.” himchan smirks and yongguk thinks this is hell, whatever this is, before he closes his eyes and meets himchan’s lips.

[2PM; chansung/junho] slips and tangles

walkonpluto — Wed, 22 Aug 2012 11:32:50 GMT

title: slips and tangles
pairing: chansung/junho
rating: nc-17
1,845 w. / pwp / underage shenanigans
summary: chansung and junho are in high school and they’re archenemies who happen to also lust after each other because they’re hot like that. takes place in the locker room rawr
a/n: the title's from the weakerthans song by the same name. this is for c, who i think wants to stay anonymous! thanks ongew for the beta♥

Coach had made the two of them run a few extra rounds after practice for the sadistic bastard that he was. Sure, maybe Junho did challenge Chansung to a match, running straight towards the other boy even though they were playing on the same team, and tackled him to the ground, the back of their shirts covered in dirt and wet grass as they wrestled but that wasn’t the point.

The point was their coach being a sadistic bastard.

So yeah, maybe a few curses were exchanged between the two of them, an elbow jabbed into the stomach, a knee straight in for the gold and whatnot, but coach didn’t have to choose this practice to show them some discipline and decide to teach their little sorry asses some respect, did he?

It was so unfair.

Now there was just the two of them left in the locker room with everyone already gone home, their breathing and the rustle of fabric the only noise. Junho could feel the burn in his thighs and tomorrow was surely going to be such a bitch, he could feel it through his bones as he cursed Chansung under his breath. This was all the other guy's fault, what with him being the cocky little bastard, Mr.team captain playing for the team and bringing it home. Fuck that shit, Junho knew better. He knew he could do so much better than the other fucker could ever dream of accomplishing.

“Next time I won’t go so easy on you, Lee,” Chansung growled, peeling the wet shirt off his back. His muscles flexed as his back expanded, tan skin wide and spread like an empty canvas.

Junho turned around, a disbelieving look on his face, “Oh fuck you, Hwang.”

He couldn’t believe the shit he was getting today. It seemed like everyone just couldn’t wait lining up to make his life miserable, one fucker at a time.

“You do know you’re just a good-for-nothing team captain, right?” Junho continued, cocking his head to the side, smirking at Chansung. “All those cheerleaders sucking your cock? They’re just doing it for the team, man,” he said, and turned back to pull his shirt over his head. Junho couldn’t wait to hit the showers and get the hell out of here.

As he bent down, midway pulling his shorts off, someone came behind him and pushed him face first against the cold metal of the locker. Junho’s breath caught in his throat as he groaned at the pain that shot through his head.

He tried to push back but the hand on his back was strong. “Told you I won’t go easy on you next time,” Chansung said through gritted teeth, fingers sinking into Junho’s bare shoulder.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” Junho yelled, turning his head to the side for air as he tried to fight back. “Get the fuck off me, Hwang!”

“What did I just tell you,” Chansung half-whispered into Junho’s ear, his breath wet and hot against the skin there. “You’re not a fast learner, are you? Which is why I’m the team captain and you’re just nobody.” He mocked, laughing as he pushed Junho harder against the locker. Junho could feel Chansung’s chest against his back, bare skin warm and almost inviting, safe for the situation they were in right now. It wasn’t something he was supposed to be thinking of anyway.

Junho groaned, frustrated. “Just get off me, idiot.”

“No.” Chansung death banned. “Not until you’ve learned your lesson.”

Junho didn’t know what kind of lesson Chansung was talking about but was this really the best moment for that? Was him naked, safe for the shorts bundled and sticking to the skin of his calves -- his bare cock against the cold metal of the locker and his ass against Chansung’s groin if he’d just, just push back a little -- really, really necessary?

He came to the conclusion that this was just another average day in the miserable life of one Lee Junho whose cock was about to get alarmingly responsive. Who knew, huh. Fuck.

Chansung used the hand he had on Junho’s shoulder to turn the guy around facing each other while his other one pinned Junho’s wrists above his head, pushing their torsos flush against each other. He smirked devilishly shoving his thigh between Junho’s wobbly legs.

“Guess you’re in for the team as well, huh, Lee.” He said knowingly, definitely picking up on Junho’s cock that was saluting between their bodies at the moment. It couldn’t possibly get any worse now, Junho thought, biting his lower lip to keep from moaning.

“Fuck,” he groaned, teeth sinking way too hard into the flesh that’d swell without doubt. Chansung hissed at him, pressing him harder against the lockers, thigh inching dangerously close to Junho’s crotch.

“Do you,” Chansung started, sounding surprisingly breathless as he moved his lips to Junho’s neck, “want to suck my cock, too, Lee?”

Maybe it was the haze he was in -- trying to hold in the building need to come or just lean forward and bite at Chansung’s lips, tug them hard enough until he’d cry out -- but Junho swore it was a moan he’d heard coming from Chansung.

“Fuck you,” Junho growled, ignoring the chills running down his back. He could feel Chansung’s hot breath on his neck, teeth crazing the skin there lightly as if he’s holding back.

Junho inhaled sharply as Chansung sunk his teeth into the skin, biting hard enough to leave a vicious mark before lapping over the area with his tongue. He sucked the tiny patch of marked skin, moaning around it as if deliberately trying to draw out embarrassing noises from Junho. They would both deny this ever happened between them, so Junho didn’t see reason to hold back as he whined helplessly, hips bucking forward for any friction to ease the burn in his body.

It wasn’t until Chansung gripped the base of his cock that Junho’s eyes shot open and he realized he’d kept them closed the whole time, and felt something like regret in the pit of his stomach for missing the look on Chansung’s face, the eyes that were determined and full of lust and the swell of his lips, bitten red and wet. Junho tried to buck into Chansung’s fist, holding his gaze as if they could communicate through telepathy. For what’s worth, the message was quite simple: Move your hand. Let me come.

“Nu-uh,” Chansung clicked his tongue, shaking his head, “you have to suck my cock first.”
He grinned, tightening his hold around Junho’s cock to watch him squirm and whine, sweat beads falling down his neck to his narrow chest. Chansung leaned in to catch one on his tongue, sliding the wet muscle against the sharp edge of Junho’s collar bone.

Junho threw his head back and moaned even louder as his whole body trembled. “Please,” he breathed, voice heavy with want. “Please.”

“Fuck,” Chansung muttered, nosing at Junho’s neck, “stop begging, dammit!”

Whatever it was that Junho did seemed to make Chansung change his mind as he started to move his fist up and down the length of Junho’s cock, smearing pre-come all over to make it slicker and the friction that much more satisfying. Junho’s hands scrambled for something to hold and the grip Chansung had on his wrists was getting useless, it wasn’t like Junho was going anywhere, so he let go only to intertwine their hands, holding them up against the lockers. Junho’s other hand fell down, almost boneless, before he brought it up to pull at the hair on Chansung’s nape, yanking them back. Chansung growled, biting down harshly on the junction between Junho’s neck and shoulder.

“You want to be fucked, don’t you, Lee?” He asked, licking his way to Junho’s earlobe, swirling hot breath all over. “I won’t give it to you that easily,” he continued, leaning in until Junho could feel the hard cock against his thigh, tip leaking wet.

“Fucking bastard,” Junho gritted, tugging the hair on Chansung’s nape roughly. Chansung growled, his eyes focused on Junho as he nudged their cocks together, dragging a pull long enough for Junho to whimper. “Fuck,” he groaned, voice breaking.

Chansung released Junho’s cock, letting it spring upwards with an obnoxious wet sound as it hit Junho’s stomach and smeared some of the pre-come on the trail of hair there. Junho was working up a complain deep down his throat but Chansung managed to smother every word crashing their lips together, shoving his tongue down Junho’s throat.

It was forceful and desperate as Junho tried to gasp for air by pulling at a fistful of Chansung’s hair back. Chansung growled, louder this time, shoving Junho against the lockers with a hand around his cock, rocking their hips together at the same time.

“Please,” Junho begged, fighting to keep his eyes open. He glanced down between their bodies and saw Chansung’s cock, swollen and leaking, as he jerked off messily against Junho’s body. Chansung hissed, head falling onto Junho’s shoulder.

“I said,” he growled, teeth sinking into Junho’s shoulder, “no begging, goddammit, Lee.”

Maybe it was the haze again, but Junho found himself turning his head to the side enough for his lips to touch Chansung’s cheek without really thinking about it. He panted against the skin there, tongue sneaking out to taste a hint of sweat and something musky as his hand brushed Chansung’s hair out of the way.

And suddenly they were kissing again, lips hard and swollen against each other, nipping enough to draw out a bit of blood. The shock of pain running through Junho’s body made him feel high as he recognized the orgasm closing on in him, building inside his body. He opened his mouth for Chansung to shove his tongue right in, sliding it against teeth and gums and drawing out little whimpers and breathless moans. Their hands clenched more tightly together, knuckles white against the metal as Chansung gripped both their cocks and fisted them together, jerking off in a haste.

Expectedly, it didn’t take long for the both of them to come violently, bodies trembling as their hips jerked forward. Junho arched into Chansung’s touch, mouth gasping for air as Chansung nuzzled his way to Junho’s neck, panting against the skin there.

“Fu-ck,” Chansung grunted, body going slack against Junho’s.

They stayed there like that, bodies spent and muscles sore, breathing for a while. Growing aware of the sticky mess between their bodies, Junho finally groaned and shifted his body, finding his legs less jelly-like than before and trusting them to keep him up.

“I’m just gonna shower to get the mess off,” he murmured, feeling awkward after everything they’d done only minutes ago. Chansung didn’t say anything, only groaned when Junho untangled himself and moved away.

When Junho came back from the showers, Chansung was already gone, leaving nothing behind as evidence for what’d happened between the two of them earlier. It was their secret and Junho was planning to keeping it that way.

[2PM; ot6] for it's the moon they are after

walkonpluto — Mon, 16 Jul 2012 05:25:25 GMT

title: for it's the moon they are after
pairing: ot6
rating: pg-13
~2,9k

a/n: idk what to do with this anymore. thank you ongew and emmyxogast. i love you.

You have to be afraid in order to be called brave; have to hold something you’re scared of losing in your palms with weak, bony fingers desperate not to let anything slip away between cracks and bones, to say you’ve seen it all. Braveness is a lot of things but it’s not dry cheeks and lips pressed into a tight line with your head held high.

Junsu is a patient today. There’s a light-blue hospital gown on the bed, neatly folded, waiting for him to put it on; to trace his fingers along the fabric, smooth out creases with his hands, blue veins barely visible underneath skin. A clear glass of water is waiting for him next to the bed but the clock on the wall is impatient, always ticking away. If time were to ever stop, though, he thinks this would be it, this moment tucked away from the rest of the world with four crisp white walls towering over him. Junsu likes to call it “routine maintenance” for the word’s lack of subtlety but almost cruel frankness, because this is nothing if not that. They will fix him, keep him going –hide tiny scratches with a layer of wax, change the oil so he’ll run more smoothly– because this is a hospital and they are doctors and doctors fix people who are broken, people like Junsu. This time it’s his knee but the last time was his face, and the next will be his heart.

“Did you come here alone, Kim Junsu-sshi?” It’s the nurse standing at the doorjamb asking, dressed in a light-blue uniform with her hair pulled back to a neat bun. She looks so young, Junsu thinks, and puts on his nicest and warmest smile just to watch her get flustered, pink tinting the high of her cheeks.

“Yes,” he answers, “I came here alone.” And the nurse bows at that, juts something down on her chart and mutters an excuse to flee the scene to give Junsu some privacy. He watches the way she carries herself, footsteps a bit uncertain yet light and blithe somehow.

He digs out his phone and sees an unread text message from one of the guys.

we’ll come around later tonight

Junsu sighs as he texts back an “okay”, and goes through the hospital protocol; he puts on the gown and tries not to look too dead.

;;

Junsu is a singer today as he lets his voice vibrate in the air, deep and warm, hitting every note. The hand holding the mic is clammy and everything feels real, like it’s supposed to, on this small stage downtown Daegu. At the age of sixteen, Junsu’s singing about love and heartbreak knowing nothing about either one because this isn’t Seoul with its beautiful people to fall in love with madly, deeply and recklessly -- this is Daegu.

He ends up winning the competition because people love his voice.

“Congratulations! Our company would like to train you to become a real singer. We can make your dream happen.”

And Junsu thinks finally, finally.

;;

It’s their debut stage and this is what he’s been waiting for all his life; what they’ve been waiting for since they greeted each other with an awkward hello, hi, annyeonghaseyo, let’s get along. There are the seven of them standing in line, shaking with limbs that have turned too long and numb from excitement (that grows with every intake of air), and fear, anticipation as a thin layer of cold sweat on pale skin. Junho says he feels like throwing up any minute now and Jay has a hand on his back whispering something along the lines of “It’s okay, Junho-yah. We’re gonna rock the stage, we’re gonna become the best” and Junsu thinks that yes, yes.

They will make everyone remember their names by the end of this broadcast.

And later that night, when the lights are turned off and there are only broken souls wandering on the streets, the seven of them will sneak out of their dorm in old, worn soft sneakers and pajama bottoms and baggy tees. They’ll go to a food stall down the street and order a few dishes of spicy chicken to celebrate life, and pay the ahjumma using an awkward dance (right there in the middle of the street) along with wrinkled 5,000 won bills. Junsu will feel happiness bubbling over and he’ll try to hold a hand on his mouth to stop laughter from escaping but it’s kind of useless because that right there, is everything he’s ever dreamed of.

;;

Junsu is a composer today as he pushes back his glasses with a precise movement. There are many blank sheets of paper crowding the desk and then a few with small waves sketched on them, grey curves against white.

“I’ve never seen the sea before.” Junsu speaks with a shaky voice, because it feels like the wind might just take them away to the sea if he’s not cautious enough. He hugs himself a little tighter staring at big waves hitting the rocky shore.

“I grew up by the sea,” Wooyoung says and smiles like it’s not this black night-sky he’s seeing, but the bright sun and pretty, fluffy clouds and children playing in the sand and fishermen taking their boats back to shore, coming home after a long day. Junsu thinks he could imagine it play out in front of his eyes: a younger, much more naive Wooyoung with dreams that even Busan couldn’t hold back.

“Can you tell me what it was like?” Junsu nudges his scarf with his jaw, pulling thick fabric to cover sore skin and bruises, traces of Seoul (and maybe his dreams, too).

Wooyoung’s smile stretches. “I could write a song about it,” he says, and Junsu reckons someday, one day.

There’s a song about love by the ocean, about going and coming back time after time to the person you love.

;;

There’s a message from his parents on his phone waiting to be read but he’s busy -he’s trying to record a song, everything needs to be perfect- he can’t right now. Later, he tells himself. Later. Later.

Later, he will read it and reply them that yes, he’s well and yes, he’s eating three meals a day and getting enough sleep to keep going. The boys are getting along just fine, they don’t need to worry about him; he’s invincible, they’re invincible.

Later, he will make them proud and bring home a golden record framed in an extravagant yet tasteful manner. “I’m finally a real artist, finally,” he will beam at them, smiling so hard it hurts more than it should because the doctor screwed his jaw too tight.

“Let’s try it again, hyung. I can take it higher than that.” Junsu speaks, fingers skimming the music sheets. The glass separating two rooms isn’t thick enough to mute out quiet pleas coming from five grown men standing on the other side. They’re not begging, but it’s close to that.

Later, he’ll think back to all of this and feel regret tugging his hair, scratching his skin red and raw, but there’s no passion there.

;;

It’s close to 1 a.m. when he decides to sneak out through a window of their bedroom. The boys are asleep, everyone tired after another day of recording that sadistic show they like to call entertainment, and Junsu can feel his heartbeat going above hundred. There’s this girl, this beautiful girl with long black hair - that smells like strawberries and vanilla - he’s in love with. She’s an upcoming singer too, trying to weave her way into the business with smiling eyes and pink lips. Junsu’s never felt like this before, so it must be love. It must be, because he’s risking all the hard work he’s poured into this life in Seoul just to be with her for one night, to gaze at the stars and whisper sweet words into her ear.

But when months later their ways split -she goes to the right and crosses the ocean to conquer Japan with other beautiful people to meet and greet and other guys to stargaze with, while he stays behind- Junsu comes out wiser. At least he’d like to think that way as he watches the water boil on their mini stove with fifteen packs -the giants always eat more than 1 pack- of ramen placed next to it.

“Hyuuuung~” It’s Jinwoon, fresh from the shower with dark hair dripping water onto the floor, pouting. “I’m staaaaarving.”

“Dinner’s ready in a bit, Jinwoon-ah.” He says, a hand coming up to ruffle the younger boy’s hair, fingers running through thick, black curls.

In a bit, he tells himself before those words turn into a single, finally, like years before and years later.

;;

Junsu was born to do this; to stand on stage with five other men, to share his dream with them and let them take glimpses of vivid colours and shadows made out of his thirst for recognition. He was born to shine bright on stage, stare at the big lights in the eye and not cower under their malicious stare. He turns to his right and sees sweat-drenched men and women, singers and dancers, with a permanent smile plastered on their faces doing the thing they do best; performing.

“Hyung! Come here!” It’s a shirtless Chansung skipping towards him, skin too pale yet the look on his face so carefree and untroubled. This, Junsu thinks, is what makes Seoul his home when he opens his arms to welcome Chansung, awkward yet right, somehow, at the same time.

;;

Junho says he’s sorry, says he’d come back if he could but there are people who need him here; children that grow happy at the sight of an old football and the man kicking it. But it’s not like I don’t need you here. They say he’s got weird eyes, but it’s okay because his eyes are special; they smile, too, they tell him. He cries during the phone call, tired and breathless sobs breaking through his thin voice, and Junsu finds it hard to understand every word because they’re all twisted by sadness, loose strings everywhere he looks.

“It’s okay,” he says, because even with the six of them together, they cannot beat death. “You sound tired. Try to get some sleep, Junho-yah.”

“But hyung-” Junho half-whines, and Junsu can picture him there, in his tent, gripping the phone like a lost child. “I should be there with you and the guys.”

“It’s okay,” Junsu repeats like a broken record, “It’s okay,” and feels tired boneless.

Nichkhun calls the next day around noon because last night was too soon and no one calls the person whose dad’s just passed away in the morning anyway. Junsu can picture him sleepless, tossing in his bed all night, mind creating incoherent strings of Thai, Korean and English. Yet when spoken, Nichkhun’s words are carefully picked, each with a purpose to console, to share the pain, to make it go away -- he says stuff like “Your dad is in a better place now. Don’t blame yourself. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t see it coming. Hey, hey, hey—ssshh” in awfully perfect Korean, when he really means, “Hey, it’s okay. I’m right here”. Junsu finds himself wanting to break something - may it be Nichkhun’s perfected front, or the vase they keep in the living room - to see them fall apart, shards everywhere to step on.

“Hyung,” Chansung calls for him, and then there are strong arms wrapped around his frame before he can say, No, it’s okay. I’m fine, really am, just, fine. It’s all but quiet tears wetting the shoulder of the t-shirt he’s wearing with arms still too tight around him, and a heart trying to break through ribcage, crack open ivory bones to colour them red. Junsu wants to feel thankful for having someone who’s ready to shed tears for him but he’s not strong enough, so instead, jealousy is all he feels for the years Chansung gets to spend with his family; with his dad, his mom, his older brother, and all the laughs they’ll share together as themselves.

“Let’s give him some privacy, guys.” Taecyeon speaks on the other side of his bedroom door, and Junsu knows he understands the best because he always does out of the six of them.

In fact, Taecyeon understands everyone he’s ever loved because they all leave their imprint in his heart, already holding more that it can take. Junsu smiles, packing his bag as if he’s going on a weekend holiday and not to some funeral, his dad’s funeral, when he hears retreating footsteps and three heartbeats louder than the music they make. If he’s persistent enough, he can almost hear three other ones, miles and miles away, thumping hollow and slow, yet persistently enough, just to reach his heart.

Later on, he’d find Taecyeon standing in the hallway, leaning against the wall next to their front door, a little clueless with words and actions because after all this time, after everything, Taecyeon still manages to hold onto his naivety like a small child clutching his mother’s hand.

“I’m coming with you.” It’s a whisper that holds a promise of better times and forevers.

They’re not invincible, Junsu knows this, but with Taecyeon he wants to believe otherwise.

;;

It’s a huge honour to be standing on this stage all by himself. The spotlight is shining only on him, and the audience are sitting in their seats, singing along to the song he’s performing. Some day, Junsu thinks, some day he’ll perform his self-written song like this and people can’t help but stop and watch his performance. Their breath will hitch and get stuck in their throats because he’s just that good. It’s not the song that remains immortal, though; it’s the singer.

And yet, there’s something about taking someone else’s song and making it your own, changing the beat and taking the performance further, that makes Junsu’s fingers itch to hold onto something, a hand with a strong pulse under the thin skin of wrists -- and he realizes something that’d been so obvious right from the start.

That there’s nothing better than watching Nichkhun playing the piano on stage, voice a little shaky because no matter how professional he is, his shell cracks sometimes. (But then backstage, they’re all watching over him, thinking us against the world, maybe.)

That there’s nothing more amazing than a sweaty Wooyoung dancing like it’s his last time to ever follow the beat with his body, fluid movements taking over the stage, and the diamonds on his jacket sparkling, sparkling, sparkling.

That Junho’s place is on stage eyes twinkling under those lights and so happy, he’d burst into a million tiny particles if Chansung wasn’t right there, standing next to him and smiling just like when they were seventeen with longer hair, naïve and nervous to bits.

;;

He’s sipping his black coffee, its bitterness the only thing he’s tasted for days, when Wooyoung comes in and sits down next to him on the bed. Wooyoung’s body radiates warmth even if there are a few inches between their bodies and Junsu feels like this might be enough. They don’t speak for a long moment and only stare out the window, looking at the city’s skyline but not really seeing anything. When Junsu finally puts down his mug that’s turned cold long ago, he says:

“It doesn’t feel real.” His voice is not as controlled as it would normally be, but Wooyoung doesn’t seem to mind it much.

“Does anything ever, anymore.” Wooyoung speaks and Junsu knows he’s acting like this, putting up a pretense of some strong soldier with an armour to fight off enemies, only for him. He wants to tell him it’s okay to cry but who is he to tell anyone anything anymore. He’s the one whose dad has died.

When he finally finds the courage to open his cell phone, its mailbox filled with hundreds of texts long ago, he doesn’t answer anyone but reads each one anyway. It’s the least he can do when no one is expecting anything from him, he thinks, rubbing his eyes. In the bunch, there’s one from an unknown number that says:

Our forever is still valid. Remember that.

And Junsu wants to run across the hall to Wooyoung’s room and tell him that yes; there are things that still feel real, even today.

;;

Junsu’s a friend, above all, as words roll off his tongue: “Congratulations, you two deserve it, really, you do. I wish you all the best,” with a smile stretched tight on his face, happy, excited, if not utmost determined. He can hear Jiyong take a deep, patient breath on the other side of the phone and thinks, he’s going to be a great leader; the best they’ve ever seen, as Youngbae’s quiet whispers in the background make into something like “Tell him we miss him, Jiyong, tell him, tell him, tell him.”

“It’ll be over sooner than you think, Junsu-yah.” Jiyong tells him with the certainty that comes not from practice and training, but charms and this honesty he’ll only come to understand years later when it’s stiff bodies in suits of black and white and tear-stained cheeks and bony fingers reaching and curling around the mass of five men. The stage lights have never been brighter.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou.”

[B.A.P; daehyun/youngjae] drabble

walkonpluto — Mon, 07 May 2012 11:35:55 GMT

title: china doll
pairing: daehyun/youngjae
rating: pg-13
444w.

a/n: this is me studying okay. a quick drabble inspired by exollent's drabble and our lil convo haha. i hope you don't mind! title from lana del rey's song:bb

"that's bad for your liver." youngjae speaks, leaning against the wall with arms folded. the night air is chilly and he curses mentally for not listening to himchan's advice about the jacket (about getting sick since it's kinda cold; about sore throats and runny noses and fever).

daehyun answers him with a snort but what he really means is 'oh please, as if you don't come up here to steal a few swigs from the bottle you've got hidden away when the manager's not looking'. he's got his back to youngjae, the lines of his skinny form under the thin sweater obvious and making youngjae's fingers itch to trace silly, disoriented patterns all over tan skin and nonexistent muscles.

"you plan to stand there for the rest of the night?" daehyun's voice is deep and full as he turns to lock eyes with youngjae. there's a burn from the alcohol in his stare that makes the younger boy squirm in hesitance, resistance, but most of all in eager want. a smirk from daehyun and youngjae spares a few uncertain glances to his left and right before crossing the space between them, hands balled up into fists.

"oh god, how much have you had?" youngjae crinkles his nose and it's not really a question as he makes himself comfortable, sitting down next to the older boy, shoulders bumping into each other.

"enough." daehyun murmurs, the word swallowed up by a sleepy smile. for youngjae, it seems like they're closer to heaven like this, huddled up together on the roof in the middle of the night, when the wind's stronger. if he puts enough imagination into it, he can almost see the two of them caught by the wind and flying across the sky of seoul.

the smell of the alcohol gets stronger when daehyun puts down the bottle in his hand and turns to youngjae, shrinking inches between them. their noses bump into each other as daehyun curls a hand around the back of youngjae's neck and pulls him closer, closer, closer.

youngjae cannot resist it because daehyun's lips are like clouds the black sky is missing tonight; soft against his own but so hard to grasp a hold of and always ready to escape at any minute. the taste of the alcohol is like fuel to his desire hidden away from curious eyes, and youngjae's hands find their way to daehyun's messy hair, fingers tangling and untangling in ash blonde strands.

and when the darkness gives way to stray sunlight, the two of them are already gone. emptied bottles are disposed but the bruises on youngjae's inner thighs are unerasable stains of their white-hot moments.

[2PM; chansung/wooyoung] drabbles

walkonpluto — Fri, 04 May 2012 22:48:43 GMT

title: untitled
pairing: chansung/wooyoung
rating: pg
320w.

Sometimes Wooyoung stops and starts to doubt himself, everybody, this so called job of his and life in general. Being a singer is great; he’s able to do everything he ever dreamed of as that awkward chubby boy from Busan with a trophy in arms, but sometimes time doesn’t move fast enough and then all ends up with him thinking way too much. It’s never a good thing to think, not in this industry that forces people to cut their faces and starve themselves close to death.

“Are you happy?” he asks no one in particular as he sits at their kitchen table sipping orange juice. It’s oddly quiet but then again they’re all getting old, turning into seniors as younger and prettier idols block the backstage of music shows bowing 90 degrees. They don’t need to be as energetic anymore. Wooyoung’s slowly getting used to it, to people’s respect. It only sinks when he starts to think about how and why are they bowing at him.

“Of course I am.” It’s Chansung’s voice, hoarse from sleep with a yawn threatening to blur his words.

“Why?” He doesn’t lift his eyes from the table and the glass of orange that’s bright against the dullness of the white surface. Chansung sits down opposite him, tanned elbows resting lazily on the table.

“I don’t know,” Chansung shrugs, “because I say so?” Wooyoung nods at that. He thinks about taking away those psychology books their professor keeps gifting the maknae. It does no one good, really. Chansung thinks too much to be a proper idol.

“We’re living the dream, aren’t we?” He notices how Chansung keeps sneaking in small questions that suck him in. Chansung’s always so caring it annoys him because he’s everything Wooyoung’s not.

“I guess. Yeah, we are.” He musters a smile, meeting Chansung’s eyes.

“Living the dream or happy?” Chansung grins a little, all sleepy eyes and dry lips.

“Both.”

title: oh baby, you're the snow to my snow leopard!
pairing: chansung/wooyoung
rating: pg
630w.

a/n: chansung's the cutest giant dork, isn't he?>< i had to get rid of the feels somehow orz. stupid title is stupid. it's 2am so any mistakes found are my babies.

“Wooyoung-ah! Come down for a minute,” Chansung shouts from downstairs. It’s after another average day in their lives filled with practice and recording and then more practice.

“What is it?” Wooyoung asks, yawning, as he skips a few steps on his way down the stairs. He’s still wearing the same old grey tee he had on in practice earlier that day, and sweatpants that are well worn-out around the knees. The fabric’s comfortable and soft against his skin, so high fashion or not, Wooyoung doesn’t care that much. He even wears the same jeans for two days in a row, what blasphemy!

“Ta-dah~ It’s for you,” Chansung has that mischievous look he sometimes uses to tease fans with but there’s also a sort of child-like innocence behind it, that makes it so Chansung for Wooyoung. He’s shifting his gaze between the maknae and a huge cardboard box, which has white tape all over it.

“A present?” He asks even if it’s kind of obvious. His birthday was a few days ago and Chansung was stressing over what to give to somebody who already has it all or can buy it if he wanted to, not to mention the fans.

Chansung nods eagerly, lifting Jeonggam into his arms. The cat’s somehow re-appeared at their dorm again even if Taecyeon had been quite clear on how he feels about things with four legs and nine lives, reportedly. Wooyoung thinks cats are quite cute, although he normally wouldn’t care about animals being kept as pets only. It’s not that he doesn’t like animals, it’s just that he sees things more in the practical point of view: you keep a goat for its milk and a dog to guard the house. To his knowledge they do not have mice or rats, and frankly, Jeonggam wouldn’t know anything about capturing living objects, either.

“Open it!” Chansung can’t hold his excitement in any longer as he pets Jeonggam’s head, smoothing down grey hairs. Maybe Wooyoung only likes Jeonggam.

“With what? My teeth?” He asks after having Chansung stare at him for a good two or three minutes.

“Oh, right! You need a knife. Let me get you one, Woodong.” It’s blurted out like it’s the most normal thing to say, call a person by that kind of nickname, yet Wooyoung doesn’t have it in him to complain so he just stands there, still and a little stupid, maybe. Lucky for him, Chansung comes back before the minute is up.

“Here, now open it!” It’s close to screaming now and Nichkhun will be mad, which means a lot of nagging will soon drown them in self-loathing. Wooyoung takes the knife into his hand and starts to cautiously follow the seam underneath one of the many taped lines.

He doesn’t know what he’d expected to see but a life-size snow leopard is not one the many possibilities. The stuffed animal is huge and kind of scary-looking.

“I don’t know what to say, Chansung-ah.” Wooyoung’s staring at the beast, not sure if he’s supposed to laugh or just, just weep on his knees.

“Do you like it??” Chansung beams, big eyes eager and glistening. Jeonggam, on the other hand, is already off to dreamland in which there are plenty of fish and shirts with long sleeves for nesting purposes, of course.

“Y-yeah, I like it a lot. Thanks, Chansung-ah.” He smiles like he hasn’t smiled for days, weeks, because this whole situation is so amusing; Chansung’s so amusing.

“But umm, what am I supposed to do with this?” Wooyoung dares to ask because it’s his birthday present and for him to fully enjoy it, he has to know.

“You ride it, of course.” Chansung states the obvious just as Jeonggam mewls in his sleep.

“You’re such a dummy sometimes, Woodong-ah.”

[B.A.P; yongguk/himchan]

walkonpluto — Sun, 15 Apr 2012 14:54:03 GMT

title: untitled
pairing: yongguk/himchan
rating: pg-13
summary: a stolen moment in bed
600w.

a/n: a drabble since himchan's b-day is coming up and i should start writing for bap. i've got another longer one almost done but but:SS

It’s six am when Himchan, B.A.P’s umma, the derpinator, the one that catches Yongguk reading porn in their bunny-forms (but not irl because, y’know, Yongguk doesn’t need porn mags ahem, ahem) wakes up to a snoring log next to him. He thinks Yongguk the log is quite endearing, actually, when his eyes are closed and his mouth shut so there are no insults spitted to Himchan’s general direction; Yongguk can look rather cute with his red, red plump lips. Himchan decides to throw a leg over Yongguk’s limp body that’s lying well rested, his left arm folded and tucked underneath his head for extra support and his lips forming a subtle smile that makes Himchan’s own ones itch closer for a kiss. Damn Yongguk for being a walking sex bunny, or in this case a lying one, all the better for Himchan, of course.

The clock on the wall ticks away as he listens to the quiet dorm and the humming of the fridge behind the closed bedroom door. It’s been almost three months since their debut yet it still feels kind of surreal, the idea of being in a boy band; being an idol in an idol group doing idol-like stuff. But right now, for once, he’s not in the practice room dancing and rapping and singing and sweating with the members, but just lying still on the bed that he shares with the other male. Yongguk, whose gummy smile is kind of on the cuter side and head size on the bigger, manages to make Himchan’s heart beat furiously (like he’s having a seizure at the age of twenty-o— twenty-two). He moves a sneaky hand underneath Yongguk’s t-shirt, fingers sliding across hard abdomen muscles as the tips press down imaginary notes, playing the softest tune that’s ever been heard.

“Stop it,” Yongguk stirs with a sleepy groan and a hand gripping Himchan’s wrist to halt the movement on his skin.

“It’s ticklish,” he says, breathing out a giggle.

“Sshh, I’m trying to think of the lyrics.” Himchan mutters matter-of-factly, his brows furrowing softly to emphasize the point. Yongguk’s hand is warm around his wrist, the grip not tight enough to hold back fingers dancing on skin.

If asked about his favourite instrument, Himchan would answer, without a beat, that it’s Yongguk; Yongguk’s his favourite instrument to play.

“Stop it already!” The male can actually giggle, who would’ve known. Yongguk might as well audition for the role of some blue, soft and fluffy, teddy bear on kids’ morning shows. He flails around, legs kicking the blanket off their bodies, and Himchan falls in love all over again (as if he’s hasn’t been there and done exactly that).

It goes downhill from there when Yongguk’s eyes suddenly open and focus on Himchan’s face, a bit fiercer than normal and darker, much, much darker. There’s a tingling sensation in the pit of Himchan’s stomach that acts as a natural response to the look sent his way. He shifts a little, the leg placed over Yongguk’s lower body rubbing against sensitive skin, before he lowers himself and catches dry lips and wet tongue. A few soft cries and mewls later Himchan decides that these are the lyrics; a hand sneaking up across pale skin and a pink nipple trapped between two fingers—open mouthed kisses with teeth pulling on lips, swollen flesh and cotton fabric riding up, up, up.

“I want my birthday present now,” Himchan pouts, eyes drooping.

And then they go at it like bunnies on a farm.

[2PM; chansung/wooyoung]

walkonpluto — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 11:17:38 GMT

title: there's a stranger in my bed
pairing: chansung/wooyoung
rating: nc-17
summary: pretty much nothing happens, except for a clean breakup (of a non-relationship)
1,631w.

It starts with flashing lights and bodies against one another, hands gripping and pulling, hips shaking and feet moving to the beat. It’s strange, how you feel lonely in such a crowd.

They’re lying in bed.

“Stay the night?” Chansung immediately regrets the words as they stain the moment and Wooyoung shifts uncomfortably next to him. His skin is burning but it’s not from an upcoming fever, it’s Wooyoung.

“I can’t. He’s waiting for me at home,” Wooyoung’s voice is soft yet he doesn’t hesitate, not even for a second, as his arms tense around Chansung’s upper body.

Chansung would like to ask him where’s home. “Maybe another time.”

“Yeah.” Weird, how it doesn’t even anger him anymore; Wooyoung’s blunt responses, that used to cut deep and leave his skin torn and punctured, are now only a dull twinge under his skin.

“Let’s take a shower, shall we?” Wooyoung asks, a finger dragging circles across Chansung’s chest while his tongue paints desire apparent onto the skin. He untangles himself from Chansung and there’s so much skin exposed, Chansung dies a little. The quiet moment turns deafening in a blink as Wooyoung gets up and heads towards the bathroom. (And Chansung follows suit, he always does.)

It’s really just ugly and nothing else, nothing more. How could it be anything, when the screams and moans are like that, sinful and swimming in lust? The water tries its hardest to wash down the dirt that’s stuck to their skin like a second layer, like something that’s alive, like something that has a say in this relationship, in this everything.

It always starts with something small until it grows bigger and stronger.

It’s another night, as the loneliness gets unbearable for him, when there’s suddenly a ghost in the middle of the living room. It’s standing on two feet, black running down its legs, ruining the carpet underneath its feet, and Chansung can’t help but stare, amazed but not scared. The ghost has eyes made out of glass, he notices, that don’t reflect light but sucks you into the depth of their darkness and might as well just hold you there forever. It’s ugly, Chansung decides, yet he’s intrigued; why is it here? What does it want from him? It’s a stranger in his living room but gives off no signs of hesitation or doubt as it stands there, still and lifeless, like it belongs there and has always been there.

He slides off the bed and shivers as his feet hit the cold surface of the floor. Spring is behind his window bright and fresh, so alive, it makes him hold his breath and cower under its malicious stare. The bed sheets are crumbled and messily spread on the bed spilling his secret out to the world: he’s a man who can’t take the spare space on the left side of the bed, cold and emptyemptyempty, so he makes it a habit to stretch his tired limbs across the space; an arm thrown over the pillow that’s missing a snore, a leg missing a thin waist to drape over—a heart without a beat to follow. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he promised to Wooyoung (but maybe not to himself, never to himself).

A quiet hum fills the kitchenette as the coffee maker comes alive. Chansung eases a yawn, drags his feet towards the fridge and yanks it open; of course, there’s nothing in there except for a lonely banana and some leftover Chinese take-out. He opts for the fruit with a groan and a hand running through his hair.

“I’ll come over tomorrow,” Wooyoung whispers against the sheets. It’s an empty promise but Chansung can’t help the child-like impatience of his that threatens to bubble over and dirty their bodies furthermore.

When Wooyoung arrives, he pushes Chansung against the wall right next to the coat rack where a few jackets hang from, and grasps the front of the other’s shirt attacking the lips. Chansung hesitates like he always does, but he doesn’t resist, he never does that. Instead, he responds to the kiss as Wooyoung draws his tongue out with his own, sucks on the soft muscle and bites back a moan trying to escape. He can feel Wooyoung’s smirk against his lips and he might just hate himself a little bit more than he did ten minutes ago.

On his knees, Wooyoung traces Chansung’s hipbone with his tongue and bites on the skin there.

They take it to the bedroom, (to Chansung’s bedroom, not Wooyoung’s, and never theirs,) as Wooyoung once again pushes him onto the bed and climbs on after, straddling the other’s hips. A moan breaks through but Chansung’s in too deep to grasp to whom, exactly, it belongs, so he settles for pushing his hips off the mattress, meeting Wooyoung’s hard length. This time, it’s definitely Wooyoung who moans as he throws his head back, his Adam’s apple glistening with sweat. His hands are on Chansung’s chest pressing the male down as he grinds his hips some more and rubs their cocks against each other. With their jeans still on, restricting the contact yet creating maddening friction, Wooyoung pants heavy and low as the sound waves travel straight to Chansung’s groin. Chansung closes his eyes and lets his walls crumble down, shooting colourful rockets behind his eyelids. Defenseless and weak, he moans and Wooyoung doesn’t miss the chance to slip his tongue into the heat.

The next time Chansung opens his eyes he’s towering over Wooyoung’s body that’s lying bare against the whiteness of the bed sheets. Wooyoung’s fisting the pillows, squeezing the puffiness away, and there are absurd pleas that escape his mouth, sneaky and dirty, driving Chansung mad. Their bodies slick and skin moist, he can taste the guilt and crime on Wooyoung’s body, sickening in their addictive ways. And as reality threatens to slip off his palms, he holds onto Wooyoung tighter; nails scratching the perfect skin as hands move in desperation with a tongue pressed hot and hard, tasting everything that’s Wooyoung.

It’s way too tight and the heat, the heat is unbearable, painful, yet he can’t stop kissing the shape of Wooyoung’s neck; trace the thick vein with the tip of his tongue, and tickle the skin with his eyelashes. He pushes in deeper as the noises Wooyoung’s making ring in his ears and drown him, eat him away after he’s cut into pieces and well chewed.

Wooyoung is shameless, he thinks. Wooyoung moans like it’s his first time, like he’s an amateur, like he doesn’t want it, but Chansung knows better; he knows just how much Wooyoung wants this, when he begs in a broken voice with fingers digging into skin and flesh. So he thrusts in harder, takes Wooyoung like a whore that he is, and forgets about emotions and affection and stuff that rip his chest open. He shoves his cock deeper, follows the noises Wooyoung make and finds the right spot without difficulty, hitting it time after time.

“Pl-please,” Wooyoung mutters into Chansung’s shoulder. And then he’s lifted off the bed and into the other’s lap, his cock trapped between their bodies. Chansung slides further in, deeper if possible, and it’s too much; Chansung filling him and the way his length rubs against their stomachs, Wooyoung is so, so close. He’s breathless and unraveled as he opens his eyes just enough to see Chansung caught on fire.

When Wooyoung comes, he does it in an extravagant manner with hands pulling on Chansung’s hair and fingers tangling in a mess, body shaking and mind blank from euphoria.

When Chansung comes, he grips Wooyoung’s hips harder and tries to bruise the skin there, just so Wooyoung will remember him better.

“It’s so bitter!” Wooyoung shrieks, his face scrunched up and teeth biting down on his tongue as if the action would take the bitterness away. Chansung’s reminded of the time when they first met a few springs ago (when there was no- no Junho). A chuckle escapes as he tilts his head to the side.

“What did you do? Did you add enough water?” he asks, amused at Wooyoung’s innocent look.

“Um, I don’t know? The coffee you made was so delicious, though,” he bites down on his lower lip and Chansung might just love him a bit more than he did five minutes ago (and a lot more than a few springs ago).

“I’ll make you a new cup,” Chansung smiles and can’t help the warmth that engulfs him as Wooyoung’s face lights up at his words. It’s moments like this when Chansung thinks they’re just two lost boys playing house in his apartment on the other side of Seoul, in the middle of a concrete jungle. (But then he smells the strange scent on Wooyoung’s skin, Junho's smell, that’s maybe not so unfamiliar anymore but almost- almost too familiar.) The room feels cold all of a sudden and his skin feels raw and his chest- there’s not enough space in there to hold his heart.

When Wooyoung leaves, he does it soundlessly without an ounce of regret. There’s nothing left (for Chansung there’s everything left; a mess) when he makes his way to the door and doesn’t glance back. Chansung stands still yet the room spins, spins so viciously, he feels like throwing up. But he doesn’t die. This time he won’t die, this time Chansung will stand as tall as he did at eighteen (before Wooyoung, before l o v e) with seawater in his hair and a dream to reach the sky or dive into the depth of an ocean.

이젠 멀리 돌아선 너를 찾지 않기 now I’ll no longer search for you who’s turned far away 

[2PM; chansung/junho]

walkonpluto — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 19:46:24 GMT

title: time doesn't heal, it wears you down
pairing: chansung/junho
rating: pg-13
warning: character death
summary: war!au
2,040w.

a/n: based on ongew's drabble (#1) which can be found here. this fic is so messy, god, i'm sorry.

It’s strange, how your life for over three years - but what feels like forever - can fit into a backpack swung effortlessly across your back. A couple of t-shirts, a pair of pants, a water bottle, some canned food and you’re ready to go; ready to take over the world—or technically you’re just taking back control of your life.

Chansung would lie if he said he wasn’t scared; he was scared shitless. In the early morning, he’d checked their weapons, made sure they had enough ammo, and paced around their tiny man-made shack to check that they hadn’t forgotten about anything. It was still dark outside, but he reckoned it’d be safer to move now than ever. Junho was packing his bag, his eyes avoiding Chansung’s but it’s not like the said male didn’t know. They needed no words to speak for what they felt which was a sense of relief and fear, that everything would finally be over, yet the finality in that truth made them lose their appetite and sleep. After years of fighting against Black Dragons, BDs, Chansung realized he didn’t know what he was fighting for anymore. It used to be friendship that he’d fought for, for all those lives that were lost on the battlefield that smelled of bodies and the thick smoke coming from hell itself. It used to be for the sake of his country, their country: home. But now that Chansung looked back, he realized how big of a fool he’d been: this war was never going to end; people were going to kill each other until there’s no last man standing, until the Earth lets out a sigh in relief for the day that its freedom of polluted mankind has finally come. Chansung released a breath he wasn’t aware of holding.

BDs were an army of men with no past. Their gazes were empty, sharp, and their bodies built, strong legs and firm arms underneath the thick black uniform. After using a bunch of POWs as guinea pigs, the government’s statement regarding the matter was terse: “We don’t know who they are; they refuse to talk, eat, sleep or do anything for that matter. We don’t know what we’re facing, and as a nation under these difficult times, we need everyone to stick together as one.”

Stick together as one, they say

The first encounter happened years ago, probably when Chansung was still in high school, his arm slung around some cute girl's shoulders and a basketball tucked under his other arm, as a marching troop crossed the border sending soldiers to the ground. Chansung remembers in detail the distressed look on his father’s face, as the old man surrendered with a tired sigh escaping his chapped lips. His father was never a man with many words, but sending his two sons away to war had made him bite back remarks that threatened to spill otherwise. Chansung was only seventeen when he joined forces, his older brother a little over twenty but too young to die nonetheless. His brother beside him, Chansung turned to steal one last glance at their house’s front porch, his mother’s lilac petunias, and the old, wooden rocking chair where he used to sit and read her her favorite poems. The sky was red, clear from any clouds, while the smell of raw flesh and oxidized iron hovered in the air. It was the first time Chansung smelled death.

Lying in the bottom bunk, sleep reluctant to come to him, Chansung listens to the whispers the walls make, and counts the day’s passing touches and stolen glances. He can hear Junho shifting warily on the top bunk and holds his breath at twenty-seven; their hands brushing against each other in the cafeteria.

“I love you.”

"Let's run away," Chansung whispers, and Junho knows it in his heart he wants to do it. "Let's cross the sea and find a better place."

Sometimes it’s not the things you say out loud that matter, but the things left unsaid, stuck in your throat, making breathing harder that counts. Like how Junho could only nod in answer to Chansung's proposition when in reality it had meant so much more, and they both knew it. Everything was in that one slight movement of his head that spoke more than a million words would; it spoke of the certainty Junho had on Chansung, had on their building relationship, that started way before neither of them could even think to resist.

One for all,

but-

The pull was there right from the beginning. Chansung, eighteen around that time, had already gotten used to getting treated as the youngest of the group; the hyungs would share food with him, add a few more spoonful of rice into his bowl as he rewarded them all with a bright smile that made his lips curl around the edges. In return, Chansung played his role as the carefree maknae dutifully, always doing his best, his everything, to keep the mood up. He never mentioned the guys that didn’t come back from mission even if the hyungs sometimes found him staring at the front-gate like he was using pure will power to make those heavy metal doors slide open and reveal dirtied, shaken up soldiers he called his brothers. Junho was always there though, standing a few feet away, his eyes on Chansung's back. And maybe they both knew then. Both being trained to fight, destroy, kill, and survive, there was no way Chansung didn’t register the sound of Junho's footsteps or his even breathing with a hint of sorrow and restraint tugging; they were in love, hopelessly, like a pair of teenagers on the verge of finding out what life’s really about.

Junho felt tired on most days. What once used to be their base filled with laughter and pranks pulled on each other, had now become eerily silent. Transfer after transfer, he found himself left behind with Chansung as the two youngest of their group. They both had reached the point of not wanting to build new friendships long ago; it was too cruel to watch your friends leave and never come back. Junho knew there was the possibility that the hyungs weren’t dead: maybe they got transferred to another base or maybe they were still fighting, but that was an option he didn’t even want to think about let along hope for. Soon it’d be him and Chansung packing up their stuff and getting ready to open fire at the enemy. It was hard to imagine Chansung going so far as to taking lives but then again, that’s what he’s trained for and Junho'd seen the boy in practice when his eyes turned dark, almost black as coal.

The political milieu in South Korea was disorganized. The government kept blaming North Korea for recruiting Black Dragons using the fact that the troop had crossed over MDL. This accusation only added fuel to the fire, causing both parties to cut all ties and treaties ensuring peace between nations. Chansung and Junho were sent on a mission, and just like many other men, or boys rather, who left before the two, nobody expected them to come back.

Sacrifices need to be made for a greater cause, they say

It wasn’t supposed to be like this; Chansung and Junho were supposed to die. Their destiny was to fall down fighting, taking your last breath as the gun in your hand fired toward the enemy, the act of indignity that is running away was never part of anything planned. Chansung felt sick to the stomach as the shame washed over him, the firearms weighing heavy on his shoulders as he glanced over at Junho.

“Will you regret this?” He asked in a low voice, not because the enemy might hear them but because his chest tightened uncomfortably as he waited for Junho's reply.

“I don’t know,” Junho's eyes met his as their moving halted. At least he’s being honest, Chansung thought, and tried to force a weak smile that came out rather crooked and not that credible.

Your eyes were so bright,

Couldn’t they see it?

How could they take away something so

precious?

Chansung's smile was washed away quickly as he turned to his right, spotting movement behind dense bushes.

“We’re being ambushed.”

Junho didn’t hesitate because they’d done it many times before. He bent down and moved to the left, thankful once again for his flexibility that allowed him to move effortlessly, almost gracefully, as he located a small group of Black Dragons. He set his rifle on the ground and positioned himself, finger on the trigger and eyes hard. He looked up to see Chansung signing him to shoot before switching on his sniper mode. The rifle supported on the ground is his power as Junho plays a superhero for a short while, bullets landing perfectly between the men’s eyes as they fall back.

They had done it way too many times for mistakes to take place yet one glance over at Chansung, and Junho knew something was wrong. The smoke burned his eyes as he struggled to see a few feet ahead. Chansung was trained for close combat fights not distance, which is why they worked together so seamlessly; Junho would shoot down enemies from afar with his sharp eyes and quick movement, while Chansung readied the grenades. The setup wasn’t perfect but it worked, until now.

“Get down!” Junho screamed, reaching for his grenade launcher and attaching it to the rifle. He still couldn’t see the other but only hoped Chansung heard him over the gunshots that echoed in the forest.

There was a possibility that a few of BDs were still lurking behind bushes, alive, but Junho was done with being rational as he still couldn’t hear a response of any sort coming from Chansung’s side after a minute of launching grenades and successfully killing off at least most if not all of their enemies. Ties came with a great cost, and losing Chansung would cost him his everything, Junho knew that much.

“Chansung!” He screamed, hands flailing to keep the smoke away.

“Chansung! Goddammit answer me, or I swear I’ll shoot you myself!” A weak laugh came along a dry cough a little to his right as Junho struggled to stay up, his knees suddenly growing weak with fear for the worst.

“Chansung?” Junho could make out the soft lines of the other soldier lying on the ground, his back pressed up against a large tree trunk with his eyes closed.

“You’re not getting rid of me just yet, Junho-ah,” Chansung’s voice was barely there as he hissed in pain after another cough.

“Stop talking. You’re hurt, you idiot.” Junho bit down on his lip to keep from panicking at the sight of deep red mixed with dirt running down Chansung’s left arm. They had to be quick in case another group of BDs had heard the shooting and would be on their way there. Junho ripped the sleeve of his shirt, and tied the fabric tightly around the wound, ignoring Chansung’s grunts that tugged on his heart just a little bit (yet enough to hurt).

“Come on, we have to move fast.” He said, hand brushing Chansung’s hair away from his face. Junho’s calloused fingertips could still feel the softness of the jet-black strands stuck to the forehead, dirty with soil, before he found it in himself to pull Chansung up as they moved like shadows they’d become in time.

I never said “I love you”

Years later, he will go back and look at his past as something that never happened. It’s easier to deny the war’s existence, the government’s betrayal, the blood spill—and Chansung. The man, whose mere existence had kept him alive, was like a gentle pure spring breeze, sweeping across his heart, making it swell impossibly. Junho makes songs about Chansung because the man can only exist in lyrics and melody. Meaningless scribbles come to life as Chansung’s face appears on the sheet smilingsmilingsmiling. He's able to breathe again, for a little while.

One for all, and all for one

But don’t they know,

Nothing will ever compare to you

[2PM, B1A4, MBLAQ] kpopvalentines' fills

walkonpluto — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 09:11:16 GMT

I've never tried writing any of these pairings before. it was fun hohoho.

title: fate is so cruel to them
pairing: wooyoung/iu
rating: pg-13
summary: jieun's first time.

Jieun watches her breath curl upwards before disappearing into cold air. It’s winter, and it’s close to minus twenty outside, but her heart- her heart is on fire, she figures.

Wooyoung’s kind of obnoxious, really. He’s nothing like Jieun who’s a little awkward, but in a cute, girly, lovable way, and she’s not sure if she’s ever going to get used to it, to Wooyoung’s personality. He’s like a card you haven’t flipped over: unpredictable and thrilling, making Jieun’s heart skip its important beats; or like a random page from a book you’ve just started reading, and you’re not even near the end of the first chapter.

Jieun’s only eighteen so this isn’t it, or is it?

--

They meet after filming, and it’s too damn cold for January so Jieun’s lips are kind of purple-ish, and it’s not attractive, not at all. Wooyoung asks if she’d like his jacket because he could give it to her to wear, you know, being a gentleman he is. But Jieun’s a big girl, and big girls don’t accept guys’ jackets just like that, so she naturally refuses with a smile that reaches her eyes, hurting her cheeks and lips on its way and everything else of her, too. Jieun’s a big girl, but do big girls feel like this when they’re with- with-

with Wooyoung?

--

It’s 4:28AM when Jieun gets a text. She notices it right away because instead of sleeping, Jieun’s practicing her new song. There are way too many high notes in the song resulting in her throat hurting, but she has to learn it, has to get used to it, has to succeed, has to make it through-

The text is from Wooyoung.

Are you sleeping?

No, she isn’t. But she wishes she were.

I’ll come pick you up then.

Jieun wants to tell him no, but she’s too damn scared of the consequences her heart would suffer.

--

And when they meet, Wooyoung’s hands will wander on her body, burn her skin and limbs on their way: make her gasp for air.

[Wooyoung tries to control himself, tries to go slow, but goddamn, Jieun feels so good underneath him. She breathes out a ‘Wooyoung--’, and he’s sure he’ll explode if he doesn’t get to touch her soft, soft skin. The way Jieun’s mouth is slightly ajar is so inviting, Wooyoung leans down and traces the line of her lower lip with his tongue; it’s too sweet, too fucking sweet. --]

Jieun will find herself in a mess that’s made of him, and him only. She starts to consider different alternatives, different realities of what could’ve been and would’ve been, if only- if only they weren’t idols.

Because right now, Jieun and Wooyoung are in his car, parked somewhere remote, where there are no curious eyes and demanding mouths. Where instead of burning candles lighting the room, and rose petals on the bed forming the shape of a heart, Jieun’s first time happens, takes place, in the backseat of some domestic brand car.

Perhaps this is what they call love.

title: the fragility of a paper heart
pairing: cnu/gongchan
rating: pg
summary: paper hearts and obstinacy of a young love.

chanshik starts with a square piece of paper. he folds it in half, a corner to the opposite one, and then unfolds, and then repeats the steps with the other two left.

top corner to the center. bottom corner all the way to the top edge. fold. left edge to the center crease. right edge to the center crease.
top corners, side corners, fold back.

now he has got himself a paper heart, one that is a little too fragile, too damp from his sweaty hands, too weak, too wrinkly. it is not perfect, they never are. so he makes more, and piles the ones he has labeled as second quality in the top-right corner of his wooden desk; watches as the stack grows and overshadows everything else.

the sun is setting behind his window, but chanshik is busy, too busy for dinner. his stomach growls as if on cue. fold, unfold, fold, unfold, fold.

“channie? dinner’s ready,” dongwoo’s head popped into the room after a few knocks on the door.

“i’m not hungry.” chanshik mumbles, lips pressed into a tight line, concentrated. unfold, fold, unfold, fold.

dongwoo stares at chanshik’s back, sees the pile that is trying to reach the ceiling, and frowns.

“okay, we’ll leave some for you then.” chanshik can hear a strained smile through dongwoo’s voice.

stupid shaky fingers. stupid heart. stupid, stupid.

why can’t chanshik make a perfect heart? why can’t he perfect his own heart?
because maybe then will dongwoo see him, see chanshik standing on the side, when his eyes are not on jinyoung for a change. and then dongwoo would love chanshik the way he yearns to be loved; love him like he is second to none, like he is the only boy in the world, like his heart is perfectly folded, not an extra crease in sight and just- just flawless.

--

but chanshik did not notice the hand that was hesitating, gripping the door handle a little too hard as its owner wore a pained look on his face. dongwoo is not heartless, he is quite the opposite actually; he has got a heart too big for his own good. dongwoo’s heart is made out of metal that has been hammered into shape, polished to looks its best and shines brighter than all the stars in the galaxy. his heart has been through heating and is created with concerted effort, so that no boy like chanshik would ever pierce it.

and then dongwoo returned back to jinyoung’s side and entwined their fingers and smiled, smiled brighter than he ever had.

and chanshik folds and unfolds, folds and unfolds; folds until his fingers are sore, unfolds until his heart is creaseless.

title: hot cocoa
pairing: joon/cheongdoong
rating: pg
summary: valentine's day with joondoong.

Joon plays arrogant; they all do. But when the stage lights go off, and the makeup is washed down the drain with lukewarm water, what is left is nothing more but a mere adult, a boy, with dreams that could color the sky bright yellow and orange and red and green and violet-

Joon is just a duckling playing in the water when the sky turns black. And this is why Sanghyun loves him the way he does.

“Hyung, why are still up?” Sanghyun asks, and Joon looks up with a grin that makes him look a little too ridiculous for Sanghyun’s heart to take. They’re in the kitchen; Joon’s sitting at the table, crouching over something secretive, which is nothing like him.

“I’m writing a card,” he says, and Sanghyun puts the puzzle pieces together. It’s three am but Sanghyun’s mind works fast, it always does, and he’s sure Joon’s talking about a Valentine’s card. It might hurt just a little, the realization, like a splinter in your finger or a dry throat when you’re desperate to speak, but Sanghyun’s strong; he’s always been the strong one out of the five.

“What do think of hot chocolate?” Comes a question that manages to interrupt Sanghyun’s building misery.

“I like hot chocolate?” Sanghyun asks instead of stating his preference. He doesn’t miss the bright smile that spreads over Joon’s face, gummy and kind of gorgeous, nor the warm fuzziness that takes over his own beating organ.

“Good.” Joon turns back to the card.

“Now go back to sleep, Sanghyun.” He orders, and weirdly enough there’s something in his voice that makes Sanghyun turn around and shuffle back to his bedroom without a grumble.

--

Their alarm hasn’t gone off yet but Sanghyun’s already awake, and as he opens his eyes, he’s got this weird feeling that someone was just in the room; as if it was the quiet sound of the door closing that had awoken him. He fumbles for his phone under the pillow and taps it to see the time: it’s 5:45. Sanghyun gets up and groans as he stretches his back muscles. He eyes the still asleep member on the other side of the room before noticing a package on the floor, right next to his left foot.

‘♥♥♥Happy Valentine’s Day, Sanghyun!♥♥♥’

Sanghyun’s eyes widen just so as he recognizes the writing on the paper, sees the effort the other put into making it neat and readable. Sanghyun picks the package up and settles onto the bed, grinning like an idiot.

After carefully studying every little detail on the card (there were hearts and balloons and teddy stickers, okay), Sanghyun finally puts it down and grabs the envelope he found slipped under it. With shaky fingers, he opens the envelope and subconsciously readies his heart for the content.

There are little colorful coupons cut out of paperboard that say stuff like back massage, foot massage, bubble bath, candlelight dinner, warm woolen socks delivery, breakfast in bed, hot chocolate in the middle of the night etc. Sanghyun’s speechless and he’s sure this is the stupidest gift he’s ever gotten for Valentine’s Day, but his heart is just about to explode and he doesn’t really have time for thoughts other than ones that’ll ensure his survival.

--

During breakfast, Joon wears a sheepish grin on his face as he stuffs a toast into his mouth. It doesn’t take long for Seungho to groan, annoyed at Joon and his happy mood so early in the morning. Watching the two, Sanghyun just couldn’t keep it in anymore and lets his laughter break through, spitting multivitamin juice all over Cheolong’s face.

--

“You know, those coupons are valid only for a limited time.” Joon whispers in Sanghyun’s ear backstage just before their turn to perform. Not many know it, but Sanghyun’s the master when it comes to perverted grins.

[MBLAQ; 87line]

walkonpluto — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 21:08:14 GMT

title: legs wide open and jajangmyun
pairing: seungho/byunghee
rating: r
1,357w.

a/n: my very first mblaq story. it's crack-ish. please don't shoot me. i just love seungho ;___; that is all. and and this is for lame-m. that bish wouldn't leave me alone until i finished this.

People talk about love like it’s the greatest wonder on earth, but Seungho’s skeptic, and he thinks love’s nothing more than an overrated feeling whose existence you can’t even prove.

It goes like this:

On one early morning, Seungho walks into a tiny ‘Open 24 hours’, and falls in love. It’s stupid and reckless, completely and utterly laughable, that he can’t find words to describe this bizarre sensation, this odd feeling inside his rib cage, but thinks it’s supposedly called love.

It gets weirder than that, when Seungho starts to ponder if this really is it, you know, it as in love. Isn’t it supposed to be all grand and magnificent, life changing and time stopping? Seungho doesn’t think he felt any of those but only the bizarre feeling he now likes to refer to as intestinal gas. Maybe he swallowed air while smoking his last joint. But then Seungho scratches his head and breathes out a ‘Fuck, how do you even swallow air?’ before giving up on deep thoughts, and gets up from the floor where he’d somehow landed. Life keeps surprising you when you’re high, which is why Seungho loves pot so much.

The next thing Seungho knows, he’s lurking behind an aisle packed with ramen noodles and microwave dinners. Crouched low, he steals glances at the boy behind the counter with curious eyes and an easy smile. Maybe it’s the high, but damn, he is everything Seungho wants.

“Hi there,” there goes the easy smile that makes his heart go a little off,”can I help you with something, maybe?”

It’s definitely the boy who’s making Seungho suffer a cardiac arrest, not the pot.

His chest tightens and the last thing he sees is the boy’s eyes blinking rapidly before he’s out of the door, and ignoring desperate shouts from lips he’s now grown to desire. His legs take him behind the corner of the store as he slowly slumps onto the asphalt out of breath, and with a heart of a teenage boy.

‘Shit.’

Definitely the best high he’s ever gotten in his life. Seungho makes a mental note to thank Sanghyun, his dealer, later.

-

The second time they meet Seungho’s not high, but you wouldn’t call the state he’s in representable either. God knows when was the last time he’d showered or eaten a decent meal or looked into the mirror. His hair now sticking up and the shirt he’d thrown on in haste, half-buttoned with burned holes in the front, Seungho has looked better okay.

“Get the fuck out.” Comes a voice he recognizes faintly.

“Sorry?” Seungho asks, because he’s not sure if it’s the lack of weed that’s making him hear things, or if the boy behind the counter really did tell him to fuck off.

“I said, get the fuck out. You’re not going to buy anything anyway, and you’ll just rob me like you did last time. So, yeah. Get. the. fuck. out.“ And this is where Seungho, who’s not high at the moment, gives thought to the possibility that maybe, just maybe, dope might not be his thing.

“Look, if I really did- rob you, then I’m really sorry. I wasn’t at my best- I’ll pay for whatever I took.”

“You’re not exactly at your best now, either.” Seungho bit his tongue. Now’s not the right time to comment on the customer service of the store—or stare at the boy’s delicious lips for that matter.

“Just pay for the dish brush,” he continued, running his tongue over his upper lip.

“What dish brush?” Seungho’s staring at the boy blankly, soft looking lips long forgotten (or so he wishes).

“You know, the one you took that morning. It beats me how someone would think to steal a dish brush at four am,” the boy shakes his head with a sour look on his face.

“—And that he’d have the guts to come back, and act oblivious. I’m the victim here, okay. That dish brush was taken from my pay, the one that’s barely a three-digit number to begin with.” He mumbles the rest, so Seungho’s not sure if he’s hearing right.

“Fucking mingy bosses. Fucking a-hole customers.” He’s still not sure.

“Are you gonna pay or what?” The boy snaps at Seungho, and the latter thinks he’s kind of intimidating, but nothing to worry about.

“What the fuck are you staring?” The boy asks, and shoots Seungho a look of disgust before glancing down at his own chest, which apparently had occupied Seungho’s eyes only seconds ago.

“Fucking creep,” he mumbles. If looks could kill, Seungho would already be dead by now. Those shiny eyes that glisten even in this harsh, white lighting-

“You don’t have a name tag,” Seungho states before he can think to stop himself. Fuck economy, fuck the feds; Seungho can’t wait to roll his next joint of pure bliss.

“The fuck has it anything to do with you?” Seungho shrugs in response:

“Go out with me.”

-

Turns out, the boy with glistening eyes and an easy smile, has a name: Byunghee. Byunghee’s the same age as Seungho and goes to university, from which he’ll hopefully graduate with a degree in theater. Someday, Byunghee’s going to be an awarded actor, he dreams at night (and sometimes during daytime, too). Seungho thinks this is why the other can be so feisty at times; drama majors, emotions, you get the gist.

Their relationship is stormy. When Seungho and Byunghee decide to fight, they fight with all they’ve got: random objects will grow wings but then end up on the floor in tiny particles. It’s never quiet in Seungho’s apartment, which he now shares with Byunghee. There’s always either loud yelling or breathless moans or constant thuds as their bed hits the wall behind it. Sometimes it’s all of those at the same time that makes their neighbors pull hair.

Apart from their fights, Seungho just really, really enjoys having sex, and sex with Byunghee is even better than any quality weed.

It gets kind of messy because Seungho is one, who loves food, (especially greasy, black noodles) and the way Byunghee sucks those noodles, fuck, the way he sucks the noodle into his sweet, sweet mouth—Seungho can’t help but feel that that mouth has a greater purpose than sucking noodles.

And then Seungho tackles Byunghee onto the floor, noodle bowls flying in the air, captures that sweet mouth and sauce-stained lips, and- and-

“Swear to god, if you keep eating noodles like that, I’m going to have to fuck you into the floor each time.” Seungho murmurs, gritting his teeth while Byunghee laughs, his voice ringing in the other’s ears.

“You old perv,” Byunghee manages between chuckles, “you’re always horny when full and high.”

Seungho says nothing, but yanks off the t-shirt Byunghee’s wearing and tugs on his jeans all the while kissing his way down the other’s collarbones and chest and nipples and oh fuck, those abs, those hard, chocolate abs.

“Too sexy…” he mumbles against Byunghee’s hot skin, tongue flicking and teeth nibbling.

It’s too crowded on the couch what with Byunghee’s schoolbooks and Seungho’s- Seungho’s zipper bag of weed, so they stay on the floor. It’s not like they’d make it to the bedroom anyway. So they fuck right there on the hardwood floor. Seungho knows Byunghee will complain about back pain later on; he’ll whine until it’s Seungho with massage oil and those weird hot stones under his arm (not literally, they wouldn’t fit) and ready to jump on Byunghee’s back (literally).

“You know, don’t you think it’s funny?”

“What is?” Byunghee groans under his weight, content as Seungho’s hands unravel his tense muscles.

“That we met in a ‘Open 24 hours’-store,” Seungho’s voice is so calming. Or maybe it’s the oil that smells like almond.

“Hmm? Why’s that?”

“Cos you’re like that: open 24 hours, but only for me though-“ Seungho gasps, before he breaks into a fit of laughter as Byunghee turns them over and aims punches at his chest.

Theater majors, Seungho thinks, and kisses Byunghee until their neighbors turn bald.

The end

?

[2PM; chansung/junho]

walkonpluto — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 12:59:07 GMT

title: the sea in their hearts
pairing: chansung/junho
rating: r
1,270w.
last part of smoker!chanho (uno, dos)

a/nthis was supposed to be ongew's b-day present but it changed to her christmas present. and then became her "x years+1month"-gift.

one word:

ninja.

It’d been months filled with sleepless nights, and an uneasiness that kept him tossing and turning, tangled up in bed sheets. The irony of life had finally caught him. Chansung kept going back to that old motel on the side of the unknown highway, and the hard bed, and the warm body next to him. It was true that you never learned to cherish anything until you’d already lost it.

Seoul hadn’t changed at all. The bright city lights were still standing on the sides of those busy streets as people rushed to their destinations with snowflakes caught in their hair, just like how Chansung had imagined they would be. The crisp cold air tickled his nose tip as he made his way to his own destination, hands tucked inside the pockets of his thick winter coat.

The earlier conversation playing in his head, Chansung couldn’t help shaking his head softly, a faint smile creeping across his face.\

“Junho’s living in Seoul now.” Junho’s father spoke through the phone, his voice tired but stern, as Chansung goes back to the decaying boat anchored in the harbor, the sleeping sea, and Junho.

“Go find him, son.” he’d whispered the last word like it’s the biggest secret in the universe. And maybe it was, still is—and forever will be.

Chansung took his time walking around Seoul, wandering in the sea of people, trying not to get lost. The city was a little too hectic and too cold, but he kept convincing himself that it was bearable. That behind all that, was something he truly wanted, and needed to have, no matter what. So, the snow wasn’t annoying, even when it got into his eye, and the icy pavement was okay if he took his time, steadying every step he made. It was all very tolerable, and he could almost see himself becoming one of those people, with their bags on their shoulders, and their steps heading to work, grocery shopping, and home.

-

After lighting up a cigarette, Junho watched as the smoke curled skyward. It had rained earlier so the air outside was still damp, and slowly making its way through his thin shirt. He leaned against the balcony railing as he closed his eyes and brought the joint to his lips; it hurt, but it’s a good kind of hurt, he snorted at the comical setting.

Junho had moved on with his life. During the first few months, he’d learned that it was possible to survive without a heart. It was weird, to say the least, when the inside of your chest was empty, and screaming for something, anything, to fill its emptiness. He learned to deal with that feeling. Waking up in the middle of the night, a layer of sweat covering his body, and his throat sore like he’d been screaming, Junho learned to cope with this, too. It seemed like all he did during that time was try to cope; try to hold it together, and be whole. But every time he breathed in the tobacco smoke that ate its way to his lungs and the hollow place where his heart was supposed to be, Junho felt his body parts stick back together as blood rushed through his veins—he was more alive than ever.

Of course there was hatred and resentment, bitterness, that wanted Junho to forget about Chansung, and deny his very existence; convince himself that it was nothing but a mere crush, one that you’ll learn to get over, and completely forget in time. Life was good in Junho’s mind, and going through one day at a time was easy, but to forget was something that didn’t fit this reality.

-

It’s weird, Junho thinks, how he can’t bring himself to hate Chansung, not in the past or now, never. After going around in circles with endless steps that took them far from each other, and then back here, Junho’s mind still does these stupid tricks that make his judgment a little shaky and unsure. As he stares at the man sprawled on the floor outside his apartment door, he’s certain he must be crazy: how can Chansung be more perfect than in his dreams? Maybe no dream could ever do justice to the male’s features; his lips now slightly ajar, his eyes closed, with lashes creating shadows under his eyes, Junho’s going mad for sure.

Chansung’s not wearing the leather jacket anymore, and Junho thinks he looks weird like that, but in a good way. He notices an old backpack next to Chansung that reminds him of those days they spent on the beach years ago. Junho smiles involuntarily as he carefully takes a seat right next to the other, making sure not to touch him at any point.

They stay there until time becomes irrelevant, until Junho’s eyes fall close, until Chansung’s head rests on Junho’s shoulder, until a hand finds a hand and holds it tight, until the other hand responds with an assuring squeeze.

-

Junho has sand in his pockets and it smells like the beach, like salt water, like the sea. It weighs a lot, as much as two pocketfuls weigh, so he decides it’s time to let go, empty those pockets. It’s easy, once he gets to it; walking out to the balcony, and turning his jacket upside down, and just watches as the sand flies, caught up in the wind.

-

Junho kisses Chansung, and tangles his fingers into the male’s hair. He sucks on Chansung’s lower lip as the need builds inside him and bursts out as moans and wordless whispers against the other’s lips. The inside of his chest makes weird noises, and Junho chokes on a breath, panic rising, as the beats get louder.

Chansung whispers incoherent words as his back is pushed against the wall with Junho’s hands gripping his shoulders. They go along the lines of “I’m sorry” and “I love you” and “I need you, I want y—“, but Junho’s quick to swallow each syllable with his lips and tongue so, so skillfully, Chansung forgets his point. And then the rest is nothing but a pointless war of nimble fingers unbuttoning jeans, pulling shirts; fingertips tracing raw scars, not exactly healing them, but then again, they’re not there to be healed in the first place.

-

Junho reaches sixty-eight before Chansung tells him one night that he’s quit smoking, and shoves a pack of nicotine patches into the other’s chest. He smiles, and tells Junho that he should try them too, that they actually work quite well if you ignore the itchy fingers, and the constant twitching of your lips. Chansung says that Junho needs to gain a few more pounds anyway, so really, it’s okay to quit smoking, and that they’d do it together.

He stares at his lover in awe before a smile breaks onto his face, his eyes mimicking the shape of a certain celestial body. Junho decides to give up on counting the days because Chansung just proved that he’ll stay around longer this time, and that maybe, just maybe, this means forever.

-

The sea is serene for two lovers who dip their toes in the water. It’s too early to say if today’s going to be sunny or if it’ll rain heavily and chase away the beach’s possible visitors. Chansung complains about the water’s temperature, whining how it’s too cold and that he can’t feel his toes anymore. Junho laughs, but grabs Chansung’s hand and turns the water warmer with his lips and fingertips tracing Chansung’s jawline, and tongue brushing over the plump lower lip.

the end.

[personal; photography]

walkonpluto — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 12:09:57 GMT

[2PM; junsu/taecyeon]

walkonpluto — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 15:18:27 GMT

title: the 15th of January
pairing: junsu/taecyeon
rating: mildly nc-17

a/n: panda-oppa's birthday present.

Junsu doesn’t like sweet things. He doesn’t care about cakes and candies, cream frostings and chocolate; they’re simply too sweet and sugary, sticking to his teeth nastily. Junsu likes all things sour; he loves how the taste shoots up from his tongue and mouth all the way to his head, brain, and mind.

-

It gets a little bitterer with every word the other spits out in between groans of annoyance and vexation. He’s yelling at Junsu for being ignorant, for not being careful enough, for being accident-prone, for being everything that annoys the hell out of him. Now Junsu’s not one to take all this –shit- thrown at his face, so he raises his voice and snaps at the male for being the biggest moron he’s ever known. The words taste like plain black coffee, bitter and harsh on his tongue; Junsu can’t help a frown on his face—no one wins in this fight, he realizes.

-

Taecyeon’s skin taste salty as Junsu runs his tongue along the trail of sweat that starts from the other’s left nipple, and ends at the waistband of his boxers. Taecyeon squirms, his hands gripping the bed sheets, as he tries to grind his hips to create more friction. Junsu thinks it’s fun when Taecyeon begs: desperate, and moaning, sweating and panting, just like how Junsu likes him.

And when Taecyeon’s finally on his fours, hands shaking in anticipation, Junsu grips his hips, and pushes in until Taecyeon sees white. It’s uncomfortable at first, the heat around his cock too tight as Junsu finds it hard to control himself from pounding into the other. But then he rolls his hips, first slowly, and then adding more speed, earning moans that make their heads spin faster and minds hazier. The savory taste explodes in his mouth, when Taecyeon screams his name as it echoes from the walls into his rapidly beating, lousy excuse of a heart.

-

The birthday cake with 25 candles balanced in his hands, Taecyeon sings Happy Birthday. Maybe it’s stupid, but all Junsu can see is Taecyeon’s eyes glistening like how stars up in the north tend to, where there are no skyscrapers and neon lights but just the black sky. The light from the burning candles enhancing those handsome features; Junsu doesn’t even notice how the other’s voice cracks at the end of the song.

-

Junsu doesn’t like sweet things, but they balance the bitter taste in his mouth.So it’s Taecyeon and his hands that make the throbbing pain in Junsu’s knee go away; it’s Taecyeon’s lips, Taecyeon’s mouth, tracing the skin there all the way to Junsu’s inner thigh, that makes him see stars (that don’t stand a chance, when there’s Taecyeon and Taecyeon’s eyes staring at him).

“Happy birthday, Junsu-ah” Taecyeon whispers against his skin, and the sweet taste travels from his mouth all the way to his heart, into his lungs, before it spreads through his blood, and heats up his whole body. Junsu thinks it’s okay to get older; he thinks it’s actually quite nice to age when there’s someone lying next to you in bed, and you fight for the blanket every single night, but neither bothers to get another one because it’s warmer that way with your legs intertwined—and heartbeats mimicking each other.

[2PM; chansung/junho]

walkonpluto — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 22:25:48 GMT

title: the calm
pairing: chansung/junho
rating: pg-13
drabble; 340w.

a/n: it's already past midnight, so happy 2nd day of 2012^^;;

“I trace my fingers in patterns along your skin and if ever there was a moment to be able to freeze time god, this would be it, this would be it.”

-unknown

There’s something beautiful in the way their bodies are tangled up with limbs against limbs, limbs on limbs, and hands gripping and fingers tracing and brushing the skin underneath them. It’s the disorder and the uncertainty, the turmoil, that surrounds them; makes it harder to breathe, makes it harder to see clearly, makes it harder to utter words, that is horrifying. The thin, invisible line that used to be there is now nowhere to be seen, and Chansung doesn’t know whether or not this is the calm before the storm or just, just right.

Junho knows how much his friend hates failing. Chansung hates the way things fall ugly and turn to shit only because he fucked up once. Failure eats him in a repulsive manner, and takes the sureness away in a blink of an eye. It’s fucking messed up, and he can’t shake it off. So when Junho leans in and crashes their lips together, taking Chansung by surprise, he knows then that this all is a huge mistake, a fuck-up they can’t cover.

But it feels so good; it feels so, so good. Chansung’s lips are surely the softest ones he’s ever felt—tasted with the tip of his tongue. The way they fit against his is impeccable, not that Junho has a lot of experience (close to none, really), but it’s how Chansung responds to the kiss, takes his breath away and runs with it. Junho’s mind tells him screw it. Screw this fucking messed up world. He doesn’t have time to dwell on some nonexistent dilemma when there are hands pulling him closer, pulling him deeper, but all the while holding him firm.

If they’re lucky, they’ll have an ever after to worry about consequences and their cost. And yet the end result would still win countless haunting could-haves and should-haves, what-ifs and maybes, on any given day.

[2PM; chansung/wooyoung]

walkonpluto — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 22:13:12 GMT

title: instance of meeting
pairing: chansung/wooyoung
rating: r
1,120w.

a/n: my otp's chanho, my otp's chanho, my otp's chanho. em, stop messing with my head. ~~but i think i kinda adore chanwoo.~~ inspired by the time traveller's wife, inspired.

Wooyoung saw him around every corner, beautiful and unchanging, just like in the old days, he thought. This time, Chansung was wearing a dark grey trench coat with a thick scarf wrapped around his neck, and a black fedora on his head. It covered Chansung’s eyes, but left his sharp jawline and full lips that Wooyoung could remember kissing years ago. They tasted like cinnamon shortbreads dipped into a cup of milk.

-

Chansung’s twenty-eight, and it feels different the moment his hands grip Wooyoung’s hips hard enough to leave bruises, that will eventually stay longer than the man himself. Wooyoung tries not to think about it when his lover’s kisses are smothering him, swallowing him whole and ugly, irrational to the point where he loses himself. Chansung’s eyelashes tickle his neck, chest, and stomach, move lower to his left thigh, right thigh—and in between them. His lips leave kisses behind in haste as Wooyoung lets out a tortured moan, and shakes in pleasure. The tip of Chansung’s tongue starts tracing the pulsing vein underneath the thin skin all the way up to the slit; his lips enclosed around the head, barely sucking but teasing, making the other groan in annoyance. Wooyoung knows this isn’t right; this is unhealthy, yet he can’t help his fingers tangling up in Chansung’s hair as he grinds his hips upward and pushes the other’s head lower.

More, more, more.

-

Wooyoung stops for a moment to stare at him. He himself is on the other side as Chansung stands across the street, leaning against a building with nothing but darkness behind him. Wooyoung swears he can almost smell the familiar scent of the other. The scent of the raging sea, wet soil and afternoon sun that imprinted memories through his skin into his organs, now weak and useless from the life he’d lived so far. It only takes a fracture of a second before the want, and the need to feel Chansung against him, Chansung on him, starts building in his system, uncovering his flaws and scars. Then as the second passes, and another follows, Wooyoung sees a smile painted on Chansung’s face. He smiles back, and turns around, going to the opposite direction because there are tears on his cheeks faster than he can whisper Chansung’s name.

-

There are a lot of things his mind can’t seem to remember. Like Chansung’s hair length when they first met in that café or Chansung’s favorite band’s name or Chansung’s shoe size, they are all things that Wooyoung has learned to forget knowingly and unknowingly. It’s not the things that he’s forgotten that matter, but things that he remembers before, right now—and forever, he tells himself.

-

Wooyoung’s twenty-two and a little too fast to live, but too young to die, when he meets Chansung. The boy walks in on a typical Saturday and orders a coffee, black with one sugar. There’s a hint of a smile on his face enough to make girls fall over with a loud thud, but not enough to make Wooyoung love him, not just yet. Wooyoung places a mug in front of the male with a quiet, but polite ‘Here you go”, before he starts to feel funny inside, and reckons it to be a sign of a flu coming. Now thinking back, he wishes it’d been the flu, a bitchy virus that would’ve kept him in bed, and away from Chansung.

-

The first time they do it, Wooyoung’s still twenty-two, and Chansung’s twenty-four. Like everything else in real life, it wasn’t something they’d planned for, anticipated its happening, but just purely given the time and place and the two of them alone in Wooyoung’s cheap run-down apartment, it was something that had crossed their minds. They weren’t just young, horny boys doing dirty things to each other, although Wooyoung admits it did release his pent-up feelings about everyone and everything in life. They were lying on Wooyoung’s bed with the sheets stuck to their sweaty backs before Chansung told him he had to go, and got up, making Wooyoung stare at the scratches on his back. Wooyoung liked to be a bitch sometimes so the deeper the scratch, the better will Chansung remember him, he convinced himself.

Chansung disappears for eight whole weeks straight, and Wooyoung’s already starting to give up on whatever it was that they had going on before the boy finally appears at his front door one night. The thing is, Chansung probably looks ten years older than last time, and his eyes aren’t that bright anymore, just sad like something that used to be, but not, not anymore. He tells Wooyoung that he’s a time traveller, you know, one that moves through time from the future and the past and everything in between. Wooyoung doesn’t think much because his hands start to move on their own, ripping and stripping Chansung from his clothes as his lips kiss Chansung’s like there’s no tomorrow, like he’s forgotten about yesterday, like tonight is all he’s got. Chansung’s lips taste different, bitterer, Wooyoung decides.

-

Before he knows it, Wooyoung has spent three years yearning for Chansung, waiting for Chansung, loving Chansung, and hating him. During those 365, 25 days times three, he learns cold facts about his love, about their love; one being that it doesn’t stand a chance when the rain pours down or the sun burns the grass or the storm rages to the lonely trees, simply because Chansung’s not there, here, but somewhere. Two being that it’s harder to keep a long-distance-relationship when the gap between lovers is not in miles or kilometers, but in years and months—that Chansung’s love makes him feel useless, drains him from life, and makes him want to love someone else, anyone.

-

Wooyoung’s twenty-six when he meets Nichkhun. The man is beautiful and kind and thoughtful and gentle and warm, but Wooyoung thinks he’s too old to fall in love. He learns to love Nichkhun, learns to appreciate little things like leftover dinners and movie nights and morning coffees. Nichkhun’s love doesn’t hurt, doesn’t burn, and doesn’t take his breath away. It’s a good thing, Wooyoung assures himself.

-

The day he turned eighty-eight alone in their (his and Nichkhun’s) house with the other long gone, he opens the door to a smiling twenty-one year old Chansung.

“It’s been a while,” he can hear his own shaky voice, old and ragged, spent, but no signs of bitterness there.

“Yeah, it’s been a while,” Wooyoung loves the young Chansung’s voice, but can’t help to think he would’ve given anything to hear what twenty years, thirty years or forty or fifty, would’ve done to that voice.

“But I still haven’t fallen in love with you yet.”

[2PM; nichkhun/wooyoung]

walkonpluto — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 09:23:22 GMT

title: summer has gone by
pairing: nichkhun/wooyoung
rating: pg-13
864w.
summary: four times Wooyoung didn’t ask for a hug, and one time he did.

a/n: me scared. on the other side of the fence w/ emmyxogast's prompt, kinda♥ Marc, see what i did here♥

4.

“Are you okay?” Khun-hyung asks, his hand rubbing Wooyoung’s back.

“Yeah.”He’s not.

“Okay, then.” Khun-hyung smiles, his eyes big and puppy-like. Wooyoung doesn’t think much of it, because he sees it happen everyday. People become muffled by it all the time. He doesn’t (not anymore).

“If you need anything…”

“Yeah.”

Nothing in life comes for free, Wooyoung thinks, knows. Chasing his dream, he said goodbye to his father’s trust. He bid his farewell to the position of being his father’s favorite son, only son, the minute he told him he wanted to dance, to sing, to entertain people for a living.

‘You should be a doctor instead.’

He doesn’t get the chance to scoff before a pair of arms lock around his body. He’s been training, but these arms; they’re hard, toned, and strong, stronger than his will ever be.

“If you need anything.”

“Mmhm,” he mumbles, head buried in Khun-hyung’s chest.

3.

It’s so fucking cold, Wooyoung curses, hands inside his pockets and face hidden behind a big grey scarf. He hates cold weather, slippery pavements, non-breathable air that stings his lungs.

Breathing through his nose, fucking cold.

Breathing through his mouth, too fucking cold.

Wooyoung tries his best to walk fast, accelerate his pace, and forget the cold.

He recognizes those shoes ahead of him. They stopped. Or rather their owner stopped. He looks up, and there’s him standing there all warm, and fluffy, dressed in red and green, (like a Christmas tree) and mixed prints.

It’s only you my baby,
it’s only you.

He doesn’t get the chance to blink, or smile back, or say hello, before it’s already at least ten times warmer, and ten times harder to breathe. The sting moves from his lungs to his heart.

2.

They told him to act cute, so Wooyoung puffed out his cheeks, (filled with poison) and poked them with his fingers, (careful though, not to let the poison leak out) while blinking and squinting, until he was sure there was a muscle cramp somewhere on his face.

“Excellent job, Wooyoung-ah!” Afterwards, the director gave him a thumbs-up with a grin.

“Thank you, thank you.” He bowed, thinking of slides, and sidesteps, and turns, and flips, and moonwalk.

Five, six, seven, eight.

“Wh-what is it?” He asks, half-hyperventilating, and one-third-suffocated.

“Nothing,” Khun-hyung’s voice brushes his ear, soft and gentle.

“You looked so cute over there.”

He tells himself to keep breathing. Whatever it is that he feels, will go away after a few deep breaths.

One, two, three, four-

1.

Wooyoung doesn’t really enjoy sleeping alone. There’s no Chansung and his rhythmic snoring in his new room, and it gets lonely at times. This is one of those times. The ticking noise carried out by the clock on the wall is driving him mad.

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.

He gets up, and heads to the kitchen. A cup of hot chocolate wouldn’t hurt anyone, he thinks, and acts right away. There’s a smile on his face, his lips pressed into a thin line, but the edges curled upwards, as the digital clock in the living room shows 03:56AM on its screen. He can hear vaguely the soft thumping noise coming from Chansung’s room coupled with even softer, but passionate sighs and muted moans. At least he’s not the only one wide awake at this hour. Wooyoung’s smile grows wider.

“Can’t sleep because of them, too?” Khun-hyung’s voice makes him turn around, his smile dropping.

“No, I just couldn’t sleep.” The other nods at that, his eyes lingering on Wooyoung for a second too long.

“Hot chocolate?” Wooyoung asks him, but then chickens away, his eyes now drilling holes into the water kettle, his back facing Khun-hyung. He ignores the sound of footsteps, and the shuffling noise of pajama bottoms.

“Just for a minute,” Khun-hyung mumbles into his ear, resting his chin on his shoulder.

Wooyoung ignores warm hands snaking around his waist, fingers brushing over his hipbone, hot breaths tickling his neck.

Wooyoung concentrates on the water kettle –better not let the water boil over– he concentrates on the cocoa powder that’s too sweet for his taste, but is Khun-hyung’s favorite.

When nothing is enough, and you want more.

You know those moments that you’ve spent days, weeks, or years, (or even your whole life) waiting for them to happen, and when they do it’s not, it’s not that great. It’s not as glorious as you thought it’d be, and you feel a little disappointed.

Hopelessly, Wooyoung’s stumbles on his words, words that mean the end but also the beginning of an unknown. There’s a quiet ‘please’, and a soft ‘h-hug, me, hug me,’ before he’s sure he’ll fall down, become undone like puzzle pieces.

The greater picture, can you see it?

There are things in life that Wooyoung thinks he’ll never understand.

Like this hug, it’s not exactly soft and comfortable, but a hard, well-toned chest against his own. Or lips touching lips, with the alcohol burning his tongue. It hurts, but it’s a good kind of hurt, Wooyoung thinks, knows, smiles into the kiss.

[2PM; chansung/junho]

walkonpluto — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 14:52:56 GMT

it will rain

you don't remember what color they are. it's all the same, all so very grey and you couldn't care less, really. when did this happen? since when, did you become this pathetic? a living corpse of sort, wasting air, wasting oxygen. but the pills are nice. they make you feel so, so peaceful. like birds singing on a summer day, and the chirping. it's so relaxing.

three yellow pills found their way down your throat.

used for acute and chronic pain, it reads on the label. they give the room its colors. the walls are all so bright, there's the ocean blue, the bleeding red splattered all over, while the violet almost suffocates you as it pushes you down. the ceiling's yellow like the sun as you squint. pretty, you think.

but then you're on your knees, breathing.

--

just like the clouds outside his window, chansung's eyes do the same. and it pours and pours and pours to the end. until there's junho in the shadows, and junho when he closes his eyes.

jar of hearts

junho hesitates when chansung suddenly grabs his hand while he’s in the kitchen, searching for food, and drags him upstairs, to the tiny closet-room where they keep all their promo stuff. the room’s the last one down the hall, where it’s dark, and the smell of leather and plastic is funny, tickling his nose as junho brings his hand up, scratching the tip of his nose. itchy, itchy, itchy.

“what is that?” junho asks chansung whose eyes are excited like a puppy’s.

“a jar of hearts. isn’t it cool, junho? they love me,” chansung beams.

“yeah, cool.” junho ignores the loud bang his heart makes.

--

there are strings attached to its back and they’re like long worms, swirling around relentlessly. it’s so red, and bloody, and ugly, and disgusting, junho wants to vomit. hearts aren’t pretty at all. they’re repulsive, junho thinks as he scrunches his nose.

“here, you can have it.” junho’s palm is wet from sweat and blood.

“your heart?” the other asks, raising his brows in surprise.

“yeah,”

“but, but i already got mine…” chansung answers, his healthy heart still beating inside his chest.

[2PM; chansung/junho]

walkonpluto — Fri, 25 Nov 2011 13:28:32 GMT

title: those who move
pairing: chansung/junho
ratinr: r
1,420w.

a/n: part 2 of this.

The landscape flashed before him as Junho sat quiet, staring into the distance.

It looked as if the sun had gotten punched in the face, with its blood now splattered all over the sky. It was a cloudless day, and the copper sky made it all feel very special, almost unique. Chansung was moving his head to the blaring music from the beaten-up radio, and Junho could see his foot tapping against the brake pedal.

“What song is this?” he asked, his voice cutting the moment into pieces.

Chansung tore his eyes from the road and turned with a smile on his face.

“I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter.” And his gaze was back on the road, leaving Junho puzzled as always.

Chansung was wearing the leather jacket his late father had left him. The elbows were a lighter shade, and they didn’t resist his arms’ movements anymore. The black leather was worn out to the point where it’d become part of the other male, and Junho could see memories on each wrinkle and stain of the jacket.

He went back to their first encounter, a-couple-pairs-of-worn-canvas-shoes-thrown-away ago, on a beach where the sand wasn’t white and the sun wasn’t shining. In fact, Junho could only recall the aggressive waves that raped the shore, and the water so cold, his toes turned blue. But that wasn’t relevant. The point was, Junho could remember the way the ocean breeze had blown the smell of that worn leather into his nose. He could almost see the way the wind had caught Chansung’s beanie and was about to make it fly and catch the clouds, before the male had caught a grip of the material and yanked it off his head.

The leather jacket had brought them together, and since then, Junho’d stuck with Chansung. Like instant glue, he attached himself to the other, and if you’d been nosy as a kid, you’d know that instant glue takes a hell lot of work to get off. On your skin, the glue would burn and turn hard, and no matter how untiringly you rubbed, it didn’t help. It only made rash appear on your skin, which is why Junho reasoned that staying together until forever would be better than rash.

“I need a smoke,” Junho spoke, breathing in the familiar scent as he leaned in closer, his hand searching for the pack of cigarettes from the other’s pocket. Chansung smiled at the impatience and handed Junho a lighter with a portrait of a naked woman on it. Her boobs were everywhere, covering almost half of the lighter.

“God, why do people add porn to everything?” Junho frowned, grabbing the lighter forcefully before using his thumb to light up a cigarette.

“Because sex sells, Junho. You of all people should know that,” Chansung chuckled.

“What’s that supposed to mean? I sell sex?” Junho held the cigarette in front of Chansung’s lips, but moved when the other leaned forward.

“No, it’s just that you know exactly how to tease me, and well everyone, with your gaze and flashing your eye-smile everywhere.” Chansung took advantage of Junho’s bewilderment, and grabbed the cigarette.

“Face it, you use sex to get what you want just as much as those women lying naked in front of the camera.” Chansung took a drag, and pushed the stick between Junho’s lips. “It’s just as dirty and low, Junho. No difference.” He smirked.

“Hey! You know I don’t do anything with anyone but you…” Junho mumbled, the cigarette now removed and trapped between his index and middle finger, “that’s not fair, Chansung.”

“Yeah yeah, just don’t pout. We’ve got at least seventy miles ahead before any civilization, and you don’t want to lie face down against the backseat, do you?” Chansung’s voice was teasing, and Junho knew exactly what he meant by the backseat.

“Oh, fuck you.” He spoke, and Chansung’s laugh enveloped them both in that small car of theirs.

--

It was the beginning of his nineteenth summer, and Junho was on the beach, lying on his back, the slightly warm sand scratching him a little. His eyes were closed and his mind travelling somewhere between the setting sun, and those tiny rocks underneath his body.

Junho knew he’d fallen in love. It was the kind of love that almost drowned him, swallowed his heart and mind, and was so compelling, Junho felt dizzy. He knew well enough that his heart wasn’t experienced, that it was still young and naïve, and that this was all nothing but a reckless so called ‘love at first sight’. He knew it wasn’t going to be pretty. He knew that there was a huge probability that this all would fall, and break into pieces. This love along his heart would be shattered. But Junho was stubborn and quite simple, to be honest. Once he’d decided on something, he would go through with it till the end.

And the end with Chansung didn’t sound bad at all.

-

Yet another motel in the middle of nowhere, and a set of sheets that had turned light yellow in time, Junho’s limbs were sore and his mind hazy. He stretched his arm out to search for the warmth next to him, but there was nothing there. The other side of the bed was cool, which told him more than any note on the nightstand would’ve. Chansung was nowhere to be seen, and Junho’d grown used to it. He knew better than anyone that things that were meant to be on the move, moved. They never stopped or stood still, and no matter how tight your grip was, a little yank and free they were. It was part of the deal he’d made to have Chansung, yet Junho knew he’d never have all of the man.

“Already awake?” Chansung’s voice interrupted Junho’s thoughts. He was holding a bag in his left hand while the other one shut the door.

“Yeah. Where did you go?” Junho said with his morning-hoarse voice as he sat up.

“Oh, nowhere.”

“Here, got you breakfast.” He smiled, and Junho ignored the distance he could feel between them. It was pushing him down, almost suffocating him, but Chansung didn’t notice. He never noticed.

“Thanks,” Junho answered, watching the other put the bag down on the side table. “But can I have a smoke, instead?” It wasn’t supposed to sound so harsh.

“Huh?” Chansung looked up, his eyes wide.

“A smoke.” Junho repeated. Chansung stared at him for a while, but he didn’t waver, he was stubborn like that. The other sat down on the side of the bed, his back facing Junho.

“Why are you like this?” he asked.

“Like what?” Honestly, Junho didn’t understand what Chansung meant by that.

“You don’t smoke, Junho.” He spoke after the silence had dragged for way too long for Junho’s likes.

“Yes, I do.” Junho said immediately, and his voice was shaking unintentionally.

“No, you don’t.” Chansung said, his words harsh and impatient. And Junho shivered, pulling the covers over his naked body, preparing himself for the blow.

“You don’t have to change for me. We’ve been through this many times, I thought you understood.” His back was so far away, Junho couldn’t reach him no matter how hard he tried, his arms were too short, too weak.

“O-okay.” Junho’s weak, but all it took was those arms closing around him, rubbing his back and that was it. Chansung’s clothes were stripped off, thrown on the floor, waiting for the dust to get to them (but they never got the chance to). His touch was burning, as always, tracing the lines of Junho’s body, making him squirm in pleasure, Junho’s moans were louder that time. His screams almost deafening with his nails gripping Chansung’s back so desperately, holding on for dear life.

-

When Junho opened his eyes, and reached out his arm, the side of the bed was cold. There was no note on the nightstand, but only a pack of cigarettes and a lighter with its naked woman staring at him. His breakfast had turned cold oh so long ago, but Junho didn’t care. He shifted, reaching for the cigarettes.

As he took a deep drag, Junho felt his muscles relaxing. His body wasn’t as cold as it was a minute ago. Another drag, and Junho smiled. Yet another, and he knew he was addicted. But it’s okay, because that way Chansung would always be with him, and all of him somehow belonged to Junho—just somehow.

>>

[2PM; chansung/junho]

walkonpluto — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 23:14:43 GMT

title: cigarettes
pairing: chansung/junho
rating: r
800w.

a/n: part 1. inspired by a fanart, ~~hot guys smoking isn't hot. no really.~~

After their sweat had dried up on their skin, Chansung rolled over to the side and sat up, scratching his back.

“I need a smoke,” he said, and walked pass a full-sized mirror on the right as he bent down, searching for his jeans that were lying somewhere on the floor in the hotel room. Junho was staring at him and though it was dark, the streetlights seeped their way through thin curtains, making it easier for his gaze to follow Chansung’s movements. “Ah, found it.” Chansung sighed, satisfied.

His naked form leapt towards the window on Junho’s left before he sat down on the bench there. Junho was now still lying on the bed all tangled up in the sheets that smelled of their musky sweat and sex. It was an evidence of things that had happened, and it made Junho feel surer that it, no, that this, was all real and not just a dream.

By the time Chansung had opened the window, the cold air invaded the reasonable spacious hotel room of theirs, making Junho tighten his grip on the bed sheets more. The fabric made of cheap material felt raw against his skin that only a few minutes ago was burning, but now had turned cold.

“Can’t you smoke later?” he asked, his voice hoarse but soft. Maybe Junho was pleading.

“No. Like I said, I need a smoke now.” Chansung’s voice sounded irritated, and Junho didn’t want to admit it but it made him jump a little.

But the sheets were starting to feel more comfortable, and they didn’t rub on his sensitive skin anymore, but soothed his fear away. Junho kind of liked it there in that room, in that hotel that was located nowhere. There their existence didn’t matter, and their roles were simply to play sleepless travellers, dreaming of a soft bed to lay their tired heads on. The guy in the lobby hadn’t even blinked, when Chansung’d requested only one room.

“Single beds?” he asked without even meeting their eyes.

“Double.” Chansung spoke, and the guy nodded before dropping a key into Chansung’s reached out palm. It was that easy to play the role of lovers in this damned forgotten place somewhere outside Seoul.

The smell of tobacco clouded his mind while Junho watched the man sitting there, staring out at the sky. The moon was so bright that night as it glowed, competing with stars that grew meaningless in an instant. Chansung’s body bathed in moonlight, and Junho thought he looked like a supernatural creature with his skin glowing like that, and his arms moving like that.

“If you hate it so much, you should try it, too.” Chansung breathed in the tobacco smoke, and Junho could see his muscles relaxing with his backbones almost relocating themselves.

“I don’t want to speed up the progress of dying,” Junho said, his voice intense and spiced up with a not-so-silent disgust for the other male’s habit. Chansung chuckled.

“You know,” he paused, turning around and locking his eyes with Junho’s, “don’t you think it’s romantic?” a smirk played on his face.

“What is?” Junho asked. Gathering the sheets around his body, and collecting the warmth that threatened to escape as he sat up and pulled his knees against his bare chest.

“Dying together,” Chansung said matter-of-factly. “It’s more romantic than living together, anyways.” He shrugged, and took a drag on his cigarette, expelling the smoke in an exaggeratedly slow manner into Junho’s direction.

-

Junho grimaced as the tobacco smoke tickled his throat, generating a need to cough.

“Do it again.” And Junho took another drag.

“God, you look so sexy,” Chansung moved closer, and it felt excruciating as the male gripped his jaw and held him in place, not allowing him to close the tiny space between them. Junho whined involuntarily as he waited, watching Chansung crush whatever was left of the cigarette against the wooden nightstand, before he threw it away.

-

Chansung’s kiss was rough and desperate, and Junho could recognize the distinct aftertaste of tobacco lingering in their mouths.

Chansung’s grip on his hips was bruising, but Junho didn’t mind new marks layering old ones.

>>

[2PM; chansung/nichkhun; wooyoung/junho]

walkonpluto — Sat, 05 Nov 2011 00:15:40 GMT

title: of water
pairing: chansung/nichkhun
rating: pg-13
drabble

Nickhun thinks he’s finally losing it. It’s not normal to dream about your body caught on fire, untamed, and burning, burning endlessly, is it? Nichkhun’s old enough to know it’s not normal but he can’t go on and tell the world about it.

Chansung is water that puts out the swallowing fire inside Nichkhun. He makes Khun feel less homesick with his stories of missed trains, and dinners left cold. He tells him stories of his life before this, of people unknown to Khun, and silence, and love.

And when Khun listens to that soothing voice before he goes to sleep, the raging fire doesn’t eat him alive. Instead, it only lurks behind big trees, and Nickhun knows someday those trees will burn down and the fire will reach him, like how it did before Chansung came into the picture. But right now Khun doesn’t want to think about that, so instead, he focuses on the head that’s resting in his lap. The messy, jet-black hair all tousled, pointing into endless directions. The way Chansung’s lips move so effortlessly, creating soft, and serene sounds. Nickhun stares at the upper lip that’s craving for his attention by sticking out so obnoxiously. And before he knows it, his lips are crushed onto Chansung’s soft ones, and it’s too late to pull back, too late for regrets, too late for second-guessing, and with nothing left to be done, he leans down some more.

For the first time Chansung kind of burns Nichkhun with his breath as it hits his cheek. But it’s tolerable, so Khun’s lips close tight around Chansung’s upper lip, sucking hard and nipping and Chansung’s breaths are like knives, stabbing him through the sensitive skin of his cheek, but it’s all very tolerable.

And before Chansung knows it, it’s Khun’s fire that’s replaced memories of cold dinners, and people Chansung’s grown to unknow. It’s the fire that’s making Chansung’s insides warm, a little too warm, maybe even burning, but he accepts that because it’s Nichkhun. And because instead of cold suppers, he now enjoys instant noodles that only require hot water and are ought to be served hot, with Nichkhun.

title: grease stains
pairing: wooyoung/junho
rating: pg-13
drabble

Wooyoung hates the way those men stare at him. He hates how their eyes strip him bare so obscenely with looks that tell him they think they own him. He’s not proud to sell his body to satisfy their desires, to fulfill their dirty wet dreams outside their miserably mundane everyday lives.

He can feel grease stains on his skin, left by hundreds of men. They keep on shining even in the dark while Wooyoung’s changing his clothes. It’s so appalling; it makes his stomach turn a hundred and eighty degrees. It doesn’t help when he uses his hand to rub off the stains; they stay there on his skin, like a second layer, ghosting, and water-resistant.

Wooyoung can recognize the pattern of their fingerprints stamped on him, he can feel their fingers wrapped around his wrist, around his arm, pulling him into their lap when he closes his eyes. He keeps his mouth shut even if it hurts when the smoke from their burning cigarettes get into his eyes, when their hands grip hard enough to leave bruises. Wooyoung imagines he’s somewhere else.

He comes home to Junho who’s sitting on the floor with his books on the coffee table, and legs sprawled out on the floor as he leans in, concentrating hard on his homework. Wooyoung smiles before he whispers a hello as he hangs his keys on a nail they’d put there themselves, thinking practical. Junho looks up, and his face beams with a bright smile that makes Wooyoung melt a little. That smile erases almost a third of the stains on his skin, now covered by heavy clothes.

His steps are lighter without his shoes as Wooyoung walks over to the other, his smile never leaving his face.

“You came home early,” Junho speaks and Wooyoung nods. Maybe he’s tired, or maybe he’s occupied, staring into those small eyes. Wooyoung plops down next to Junho, letting his head fall on the boy’s shoulder, snuggling a bit but inhaling deep as Junho’s scent fills his body, limb by limb, muscle by muscle. Wooyoung can count the twenty-three fingerprints that vanished.

“A busy night?” He asks, and Wooyoung almost feels sorry for lying about his job. But he stops himself before careless words form inside his mouth. It would only hurt Junho, so Wooyoung keeps his mouth shut. He’s begun to think he’s exceptionally good at doing exactly that.

“Yeah, the restaurant had a lot of reservations.” He answers with eyes closed. Junho’s scent takes him far away from the apartment, from their lives, far from the polluted air he breathes every day.

“Maybe,” Junho hesitates, dropping his pencil on the table, “maybe I should get a job too, you know. Start waiting tables with you.”

“There’s no need for that, Junho. I can make money for the both of us. You just focus on studying and make your dreams come true, remember?” He lifts his head to face Junho. And Junho nods, although he’d like to say that his dream is to be with Wooyoung, and Wooyoung only. He also doesn’t mention the stink of men’s cologne that the other’s shower gel didn’t wash away. Junho swallows those words with a kiss he plants onto Wooyoung’s lips.

“Okay,” he says in between before Wooyoung’s fingers run through his hair, and pulls him in for another kiss, this time more passionate. And Wooyoung counts the ninety-seven stains that left his skin in a blink of an eye.