primroseshows: made by me (Default)
[personal profile] primroseshows
Obviously that New Year's resolution I made needs a little more effort. Posting WIPs took a lot more effort than I expected because they are all still long things and long things need to be organized, and that takes time. It felt good to share, but it was also frustrating to me, like, "if this is never getting finished, why am I putting so much effort to post the damn thing at all? It would be easier to just let it gather dust in the back of your own mind." But I don't want that either.

I think the reason that it's taking me so long to write fics these days is that I no longer seem to have the capability to write a "simple" fic. "Simple" meaning a story with one central point to it. Nowadays, I've got to wrap that one central point in this frayed wreck of a plot, layers upon layers of fluff and linked threads and while this is actually what I like doing with a story, I realize that I'm getting pulled down by all of the process and I've still got nothing to show for it. Lack of time is not a good excuse anymore, because I should have learned how to manage my schedule by now (though I haven't, fmlll). I'm not productive, I'm not prolific, and it's driving me crazy that I'm not posting at all anymore. I don't like submitting unfinished fics and I don't like submitting fics I've written that I think are boring, but I feel like by holding myself so strictly, I'm degenerating as a fic writer. I feel like this journal is rotting, and I want it to be fun again. Cast off the shackles of past formality! Experiment! Don't like what you're reading? Tell me about it or click the shit out of that back button, I'm cool with both!

Anyway, all this to say that I'm now adopting a "Hey, why the hell did you write this? -- BECAUSE FUCK YOU, THAT'S WHY" mindset. Still going to post WIPs when I feel like it, but I'm also going to write more new stuff too. Will probably be crap to the nth degree, but hey, maybe I'll finally learn how to write a real drabble.



Show business being what it is, networking at the occasional well-attended party is actually part of 2PM’s job description. Sometimes it’s fun; often it’s tiresome when all they want to do is find a flat surface to lie on and close their eyes for as long as it takes to die. Wooyoung can tell today’s going to be a bad idea as soon as the van slides open and Khun slides inside, still in full commercial make-up, lips pursed, brows dark. He says hello to Minjae hyung only and immerses himself in his iPhone for the rest of the drive back home. Wooyoung should probably say something, but Khun angry – really angry – is like a sticking your hand in a block of freshly sharpened knives. All the members had learned this the hard way.

They pick up Junho and Junsu and Chansung from the dorm and Junho surreptitiously tilts his head at Khun while looking at Wooyoung and Taec in the backseat for an explanation. Wooyoung shrugs, Taec shakes his head. Khun taps viciously on his phone.

At the club, Khun pours three shots down his throat before Chansung’s finished his second; this means something, and Wooyoung’s not sure he likes it. Taec and Junsu move off to chat with some older looking women who probably choreograph for half a dozen girl groups between them. Chansung and Junho head to the dance floor because they’ve had no schedules today and actually have energy to move. Wooyoung is caught wondering if he should join them, but Khun is pouring himself a fourth drink so Wooyoung decides to stay.

“Hyung,” Wooyoung says ten minutes later, when Khun has yet to say a single word to him.

“I’m just tired,” Nichkhun replies immediately, lips curling downwards a bit. He stares at his glass like it’s lecturing him about something distasteful.

“Okay,” Wooyoung says.

The night’s wasted.

Junho and Chansung collapse drunkenly on the couch bed as soon as they return home, so after Wooyoung’s brushed his teeth and washed off his day’s sweat, he grabs his blanket and pillow from under Junho’s comatose body and heads to Khun’s room.

Khun’s still up, sitting in his bed with his back to the door. Coming into the room, Wooyoung can clearly see what is displayed on his laptop screen.

Lines of text underscore pictures of Jay’s recent face, back in Korea and smiling, at the airport being greeted by a sea of fans, posing for a magazine. Nichkhun’s only looking at the pictures; Wooyoung’s not surprised. Even if Khun could easily read the articles, that sort of information causes more harm than good.

It’s not that they think Jay should have stayed in America. Wooyoung loves Jay, resents him underneath that love, but still loves him. He wants Jay to be okay, whatever he’s doing. But 2PM had cut him off, like an arm at the shoulder, and him coming back... it’s hard, that’s all. It’s hard to deal with. It hadn’t been a clean cut, though they’d tried their best.

“The interviewer today asked about him,” Nichkhun murmurs, after turning around to glance at Wooyoung. “Close the door, please.”

Wooyoung closes the door. “Sounds gross. Was it very bad?”

“She was kind of persistent, yeah.”

“Hm,” Wooyoung says, as sits on the edge of Khun’s bed.

“When’s it going to finally get better, do you think?” Khun asks him, pushing his palms across his face.

“No clue,” Wooyoung blows air into a cheek. He thinks about how hard it is for messy wounds to heal, and how they leave ugly scars.

“We’ll see him again one day.” This is said so flatly that Wooyoung can’t tell if Khun sounds sad or not, but he thinks that if he had to guess, he would say yes. Khun is sad. Tired about being sad. Sad about being tired. Someone had prodded at Khun’s thinly covered, barely healing scar and had let out all the blood again. Of course it hurt.

“Maybe,” Wooyoung allows. “You know, the company—”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore, sorry,” Khun mutters, cutting him off and reaching a hand out for Wooyoung’s cheek.

The kiss is not nice. Their lips meet with their mouths open and Khun’s tongue is already lashing, trying to scoop out words that Wooyoung hasn’t yet said. Fuck, Wooyoung thinks. Fuck, yeah. Khun drags him closer so quickly it’s startling, but Wooyoung allows it, wants it badly as if he’s a switch being flipped on: one second he’s feeling bad about everything and the next he’s fucking ecstatic, because Khun like this (pained, uncertain, frustrated), with his long, pale fingers a vice on Wooyoung’s arms, his hot breath liquid in Wooyoung’s throat, is one of the most beautiful things in Wooyoung’s life.

He’s a horrible person, he knows. Wooyoung hates to see Khun unhappy in any way, but he can’t help that deep, dark place inside himself where he covets it, seeing Khun lose control of his sensibility. It’s a rare thing. Usually Khun is so mild-mannered, calm and polite to a fault, his touch on Wooyoung’s skin gentle and patient. But this Khun, now Khun, he wants distraction, he wants to forget about things, and he’s not above being a bit too harsh, a bit too strong with Wooyoung to do it. There is all this fire stored underneath Khun’s white skin and if (when) he lets it out, in moments like this, after a long day and longer night, Wooyoung thinks it’s an amazing thing to experience.

Nichkhun tastes like alcohol and antagonism. Like a delicacy you know is bad for you.

Too fast, Wooyoung wants to gasp, as Khun twists upwards and pushes Wooyoung onto his back on the bed. Then he’s being covered, smothered down by Khun’s chest and arms and legs, his hips pinning down Wooyoung’s, rubbing relentlessly through the fabric of their pyjama pants, all the while biting at Wooyoung’s mouth like Khun’s been starving for years.

“It was supposed to get easier,” Khun whispers, lips scraping Wooyoung’s raw from the outside while his words scrape him raw inside too. Wooyoung imagines being hollow, imagines swallowing Nichkhun’s voice instead of air.

“I know,” Wooyoung replies, clutching Khun tighter to him. “It’s stupid.”

Khun buries his face in Wooyoung’s neck – Wooyoung feels the scrape of teeth against the tense cords of his shoulder, then a tongue lapping up the trail. Wooyoung pushes a hand into Khun’s hair and squeezes his eyes shut, hating himself for how much he’s enjoying this, even though Khun’s hurting and even though Wooyoung would be hurting too, if he let himself think about things. But Wooyoung won’t. Not with Khun heavy and solid on top of him, his erection hot against Wooyoung’s. People who call Khun feminine, they’re idiots, they don’t know a thing. Khun is not soft, not dainty. He knows how to get what he wants, and what’s incredible to Wooyoung is how often Khun holds himself back.

Like now.

Like now, when Wooyoung feels like he’s burning from the inside out, and Khun drops his forehead against Wooyoung’s wrinkled one so they can spread sweat across each other’s skin, pant against each other’s mouths. Their hips are working furiously, hands clenching wrists like lifelines, legs tangled, desperate to reach something that will mark any kind of ending.

Wooyoung is afraid that Khun is looking for some kind of absolution. He won’t find it in Wooyoung.

“We’ll stick through it,” Wooyoung tells him, catching Khun’s ear lobe with his tongue. “We’ll keep going, and so will he, and when we see him again, it’ll be hard, but we don’t die or anything.”

Khun bites his lips as he comes and Wooyoung hears the thick moan that is suppressed within.

Wooyoung bares his throat and Khun presses his teeth against it again, not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to sting, and Wooyoung feels him mouth something, but Wooyoung can’t tell what, but it’s too late, because one of Nichkhun’s hands slide down his wrist to lace their fingers together, and then lights are bursting behind Wooyoung’s eyelids and he’s done.

Afterwards, Khun apologizes for being so rough. There is genuine regret in his voice and he sounds more tired than ever. Wooyoung would be insulted that getting Khun off apparently did nothing for the guy’s mood, but he knows Khun better than that. The anger is gone. The storm’s over.

Until next time.

“One hundred years later, this will all be behind us,” Wooyoung jokes, and Khun smiles absently while he pulls the covers over them both, holding Wooyoung’s hand until he falls asleep.



la la la it's not 12 if i don't look at the clock la la dee da
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primroseshows: made by me (Default)
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