Rating: Teen
Warnings: No Archives Warning Apply
Relationships: Ki Dong Chan/Kim Soo Hyun, Ki Dong Chan & Kim Soo Hyun
Additional Tags: Episode 8, Missing Scene, Panic Attack, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gift Fic
Summary:
“Come on, Ahjumma. Breathe. It’s okay, everything is fine. Saet Byul is safe.” His voice is a sudden lighthouse, alarmed yet soft like a caress in her ears. “Just… breathe, please.”
After Dong Chan saves Soo Hyun and he takes her home, the drive is longer than initially planned.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Life (Korea TV 2018), Life (라이프)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Gu Seung-hyo/Ye Seon-woo
Characters: Gu Seung-hyo, Ye Seon-woo, Choi Seo-hyun, Ye Jin-woo, Original Character
Additional Tags: Romance, Physical Disability
Series: Part 2 of Where Your Treasure Is
Summary:
It takes six years, or three minutes, depending which way you looked at it.
Either way, he’s screwed.
Or: Gu Seung-hyo finds that love isn’t a bed of roses.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Life (Korea TV 2018), Life (라이프), JTBC Life
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Gu Seung-hyo/ Ye Seon-woo
Characters: Lee No Eul (Life), Ye Seon-woo, Ye Jin-woo, Gu Seung-hyo
Additional Tags: Post canon, Slice of Life, fixing canon fuckery, spite writing, Epilogue
Summary:
Lee No-eul pays her friends a visit, and gains some new information.
It is a very close tie between don’t grow tired of me and and I’ll only need to hold you. One because it took me by surprise and the story almost wrote itself and it is one of the longest fic I have written that I’m actually very proud of. The other because it’s a multi-chapter fic I actually finished and because it contained challenges (for instance : a smut scene which I had never done in english before). I also wrote it at a time I wasn’t exactly feeling great and I poured some of my feelings into it, especially for one particular chapter and it kinda help in a way.
The rest under the cut because it gets long haha
5. What is an image/set of images that you’re particularly proud of?
There’s this one scene in Rhythm of Paris I really like :
He’s been there for five months, now, they’ve been cruising in Ligue 1 and managed their way out of the group stage of the Champion’s. They have a nice group, he likes them. He sees all the little ones coming up to challenge the elders and all this mix blends pretty well. Some reminds him of how long he’s been out there on the grass, like Timothy – he was his age when he clashed with his father, crazy. Some reminds him why he loves turning his back to the goal, like Alphonse. God, does he love that kid. He is of great talent and he is soft-spoken. They talk almost every day, the young man confides in a lot to him. It is difficult sometimes, seeing his only presence in the club challenges his place but it never goes between them : this is a conversation between Alphonse and the board and he perfectly knows it. Gigi appreciates that and likes him even more for it.
“Stop that.” Marco tells him but he’s smiling nonetheless.
“Stop what?” He answers with a smile of his own, glancing at him before taking another look at his teammates on the pitch.
“You have your sappy uncle face.”
“My what?”
“That face you have when you look at us younglings and you think you obviously need to protect us.”
And then there’s also this from don’t grow tired of me :
It keeps him up at night, turning and tossing in his bed, the soft purring of the fan - which barely does any good - his only companion. Most mornings, he wakes up in sweat, sheets thrown on the floor and an aching in his muscles more and more present each day. Where has the time when he was young and unbreakable gone? Some nights he hears a sputtering car in the wee hours of the morning, probably one of the neighbours’ kid. He dreads it. Every time. He can’t help it but he always connect the sound to his (dying) career and with each breath he takes, he fears he has made a mistake by coming here; he fears he will never be prepared to let go. He fears goodbyes might not be his forte, in everything, people and football alike.
There’s this bit in Espoirs Déchus (Fallen Hope) (intergalactic football coaches were gays ALPHANIM!!!)
Artegor ne riait plus.
Le regard d'Aarch était fuyant, son visage semblait avoir pris dix ans rien qu'en prononçant ces mots. Un visage marqué. Hanté. Voilà plus de dix ans qu'ils n'avaient plus parlé de la catastrophe ensemble. Voilà plus de dix ans qu'il n'en avait pas parlé tout court. Des souvenirs qu’il préférait enfouir au plus profond de lui chaque fois qu’ils refaisaient surface. Des marques indélébiles, cicatrices physiques et psychologiques d’un jeune homme qu’il s’était efforcé d’oublier.
« Je- »
Artegor était à court de mot, la gorge nouée tandis que sous ses lunettes sombres, malgré tous ses efforts, ce match se rejouait inexorablement, incapable d’arrêter le film dans sa tête. Aarch devant lui, ce ballon tombant sur sa nuque, son pied qui repousse la balle… La faute… Le coup-franc… Les espoirs fous avant la tragédie cruelle.
(Translation :
Artegor stopped laughing.
Aarch’s gaze was fleeting, his face looked as if it had aged ten years by just uttering the words. A face traced by time. Haunted. It had been ten years since they had last talked of the tragedy together. It had been ten years since they had talked about it to anyone, in fact. Memories he’d rather bury deep inside him whenever they surfaced. Permanent marks, physical and mental scars of a young man who had tried to forget.
“I-”
Artegor was short for words, his throat in a knot. Under his dark glasses, and despite all his efforts, the game kept playing inexorably. He was unable to stop the movie in his mind... Aarch ahead of him... Controlling the ball with his neck... His foot pushing the ball forward... The foul... The free-kick.... Desperate crazy hopes before the cruel tragedy.)
10. Favorite line or lines of dialogue that you’ve written
OBVIOUSLY, from don’t grow tired of me :
(“What does it feel like, Macca?”
“What feels like what?”
“Retiring.”
…
…
“I s’ppose it’s like dying in a way. Not that I know what that actually feels like, thank god. But it feels like how I imagine it to be.”
“Were you scared?”
“Not really.”
“I’m fucking terrified.”)
That bit in Le Blues de Perceval (Percival’s Blues)
« Ecoutez…
— Non mais c’est bon j’ai compris. Je sers à rien, j’fais tout d’travers. J’ferais mieux d’rentrer chez moi au Pays d’Galles.
— Dîtes pas ça.
— Non mais c’est vrai. J’veux tout faire bien pour vous, mais j’y arrive jamais.
— Mais non, vous arrivez quand même à faire des choses.
— Oui, une. A chaque fois j’me débrouille pour que vous me détestiez encore plus qu’avant. »
[...]
« J’vous déteste pas. Je pourrais jamais vous détester, vous êtes trop naïf pour ça. J’pourrais jamais vous détester et c’est ça le problème, parce que j’vous passe tout. Mais j’m’en fiche. Parce que j’vous aime et j’suis désolé de vous avoir crié dessus. Vous êtes pas un nul. Vous faites des efforts, vous êtes important. »
(Translation
“Listen...”
“No, it’s okay, I get it. I’m useless, I always do things the wrong way. I’d better go back home in Wales.”
“Don’t say that.”
“But it’s true. I want to do everything perfectly for you but I always fail.”
“It’s not true, you do manage to do things well.”
“Yes, just one. Everytime I manage to make you hate me even more.”
“I don’t hate you. I could never hate you, you’re too naive. I could never hate and that’s the problem because I always forgive you. But I don’t care. ‘Cause I love you and I’m sorry I yelled. you’re not a zero. You make efforts, you’re important.”)
And then this bit from the prompt you send me :
“You wish, N.eville.” His eyes are glinting with the same brightness as usual and something lifts in Gary’s chest. “So… Missing me, still?”
Gary withdraws his hand, as if burnt, and pokes Jamie’s shoulder.
“Getting used to one Scouser is more than enough, I’m not doing this again. So whatever you do in the future just don’t die.” He says, indignant.
There are other tiny pieces but I’d just end up quoting the same fics lmao.
So reblog this if I can pop into your box and ask you questions about writing (You can probably make a version for art, too). And you can ask them to me if you really want to.
Specify fandom if you want for any of the questions.
1. Which is your favorite of the fics you’ve written for X fandom?
2. Favorite piece overall?
3. Which was the hardest to write, in terms of plot?
4. Which has the most “you” in it, however you’d define that?
5. What is an image/set of images that you’re particularly proud of?
6. Idea that you always wanted to write but could never make work?
7. Least favorite plot point/chapter/moment?
8. Favorite plot point/chapter/moment?
9. Favorite character to write?
10. Favorite line or lines of dialogue that you’ve written
11. If I’m showing off just one of your pieces to someone, which one should it be?
12. What WIPs do you have going now? Are you excited about them?
13. Are there any things that might have happened in any of your stories, but you changed them at the last minute? (So-and-so dies, they don’t actually kiss, main character has long extended ballet-based dream sequence, etc.)
14. Would you want to write canon for any of your fandoms (like be hired by showrunner to do an episode)? Which one?
15. Does font matter to you when you’re writing a draft?
16. 3 favorite comments ever received on fanfic.
17. Any mean comments? How’d you deal with it? Who laid the smackdown?
18. If you could go back and revise one of your older stories, which would it be?
19. Do you make up scenes at work/on the bus/at the gym? Who are the characters that pop up the most? Do you write them down?
20. Go nuts, and talk about writing. Or write me a little ficlet-whatsit using a character/image/line I shall now specify:
So after this WIPs game, @blindbatalex asked for snippets of the WIP called “After”.
Context: started for a footballkinkmemes monthly prompt named “After” I imagined a sort of dystopian AU. Basing myself on comments made by several presidents (cc Agn*lli and Eyraud), FIFA slowly passes regulations that allows more infiltration substances that enhances physical abilities. But these tests are not without risks and little by little, some players suffer gravely from this. Your favourite duo is on the case to discover the truth and when they find themselves trapped, they will try to do anything to survive.
Some snippets below :
It’s so weird that out of all the places left untouched ever since this madness all began, this is one of them.
Gary looks on at the horizon, catching his breath. The sun is setting slowly leaving warm spots on his skin. He almost wonders if it’s his real skin. He ghosts his fingertips over it, feeling the drops of moist sweat. He dries it with his thumb, rubs his fingers together with a sort of sacred reverence. The black-haired man watches the drops glisten in the sun before they disappear, leaving his skin rough. He loves it, revels in the feeling.
He had never let them touch his hands. He had never let them change that. Gary might have been talking with his feet for more than half of his life but he lived and felt with his hands.
He shudders at the thought. He shudders remembering what they did to him. What they did to them. All of them.
**********************
It was so easy to paint that poor boy’s fate as an accident, as a newfound fame gone wrong. But they kept coming, sporadically. A boy, not older than nineteen and every medical files all in order, having a heart attack right on the pitch and barely surviving it : the lack of oxygen had damaged his brain so much that he could barely talk and walk now. People had merely asked questions for two days before the media took their lists of football tragedies out of their drawers, like vultures not even waiting for bodies to cool down before they made morbid profit out of these poor boys.
Minutes of silence could be counted in hours at the end of the year. But still, nobody really said anything.
************************
Legal doping, that’s what it was. And they apparently were set on playing crazy chemists rather than an unscrupulous club owner wanting to cheat. They were literally testing substances. Kids had died, and all for what ? What grand scheme was FIFA even playing at ?
His living room was silent, heavy with the revelations they had learnt over the course of their research. He was immobile, on his couch, his hands over his nose and mouth.
He wanted to scream, he wanted to punch all of them, cowards in suits. He was shaking with rage.
“They’re just kids…” Even the words were too much as he choked on them in a whisper.
[...]
Jamie squeezed his hand hard and stopped his train of thoughts.
“We’ll bring them to justice. We will honour these kids. I promise, Gary, you hear me ? I promise you we’ll make them pay.”
He squeezed Jamie’s hand back.
**********************
Going on MNF leaves them wearier and wearier each episode. They try to keep the pretence, try to keep the banter and good spirit up but all these names that they know by heart now are heavy on their mind. [...] Gary and Jamie almost wait, with an ache in their stomach, for the next victims and it horrifies them. For every new name added to the list, they feel the crushing power of guilt growing on their shoulders.
***********************
They get warnings. When they meet clubs officials or doctors in deserted corridors, away from any prying eyes. Threats lurking in the shadows, walls have eyes and ears, and all that jazz; the refrain is the same and repeats itself regularly. If the situation wasn’t so alarming, the two men would think they were starring in a very bad action movie, mistimed punchlines and buddy-cops-like dynamic included.
rules: post the names of all the files in your wip folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. send me an ask with the title that most intrigues you, and i’ll post a little snippet of it or tell you something about it! and then tag as many people as you have wips.
Some of them are long abandonned some looks recent but only because I renamed them à couple days ago to avoid 10 different "untitled.doc" files lmao.
I don't know this many people to tag though lmao so I'll go with this :
“N.eville? N.eville. We gotta get a move on.” G.errard’s voice seems distant, far; Gary doesn’t register his words.
He looks through a window into a room with several beds. He watches as, beside one of them, a man is rearranging the blankets on another man, asleep. He can faintly hear the beeping sound of the machine, a steady companion in the otherwise silent room. He doesn’t miss the hand stroking the stranger’s forehead, his cheek. The other covering the patient’s limp one.
“You’re a downright twat, C.arragher.” Gary blurts out.
His arms are crossed, the leather of his jacket almost squeaking from the tight position. He faces a window, looking at little dots hurrying to their everyday life, deformed by the glass tiles. They go on as if nothing has happened. Gary is not naive to believe people can ever truly be safe at all times- he was a detective after all, he knew monstrosity and danger could take many shapes and forms- but today, people below continue their errands, their chat with a loved ones, with one weight less hovering above them.
It had taken them time to gather evidence and piece the puzzle together, working endless days and nights looking at the board in their shared office. Photographs, spidery writing and links covered the whole surface in an intricate, logical, enigma. A sad tale of a swindle gone wrong. It wasn’t the culprits’ first attempt, they were real pros- the reason why the investigation took so long.
“Your behaviour was unprofessional and reckless. Can’t say I’m surprised though… You lot are all the same.” He goes on, still looking through the windows.
He sighs, as he glances at Jamie.
They had hopped in their car- an old unmarked Ford Sierra that had seen better days. A lead, finally. In their precipitation, Jamie had raced him to the driver seat and Gary had spent the whole drive clutching the handle above the window.
(“Oi, don’t be such a drama queen, N.eville. I’m not that bad.” He’d said with a grin induced by adrenaline.
“No.” Gary had answered, his grip on the handle softening. “No, you’re not.”
Something that Jamie never heard as he had put on the siren to cut through the traffic.)
Gary sighs again. The heel of his shoes echoes on the cold marble floor as he abandons the window. He looks up at the ceiling, not sure what to say next- he considers Jamie, right in front of him and gulps.
They had called for backups on their way, as was the procedure in a case like this. In hindsight, they should have waited for them.
(“C’me on N.eville they’re leaving, we can’t wait.”
“Should I remind you we’re outnumbered?”
“We can take them! Just like the burglary in Salford.”
Silence had reigned in their car.
“Look, Gary. I am not throwing away all of these months of work because backup’s too damn slow.”)
They were armed- simple as that. And as Gary’s gun got sent flying in the air, he only had time to hear his name called out before he hit the concrete. And then the screeching sounds of braking tyres, shouts. And the siren blaring.
And Jamie, crawling a bloodied hand towards him.
And the sirens blaring.
Gary jumps, shaking the memory away. The sirens are replaced by the regular beep from the machine near the bed. It’s slow and steady, just like Jamie’s chest rising and falling. He sits on the old plastic chair next to the bed. It’s so strange, too weird. His partner is usually so… full of life, so vibrant and loud. It’s not right. Unconsciously, Gary passes a hand over the cut on his cheek.
“Come on, you’ve fooled around enough, you muppet.”
He looks at Jamie’s peaceful face, looking even younger than he already is. His eyes travel from his closed eyelids to his broad shoulders, shielded by a crumpled gown. Gary’s eyes land on the Scouser’s limp hand. The doctors told him it wasn’t as bad as it looked, that he’d wake up soon and that he’d be up and running in no time. But still, his stomach twists and turn and he reaches tentatively for Jamie’s hand.
The skin is rough, hardened. But the blood is gone at least- damn knives… Gary somberly muses about the interrogations with their newly arrested culprits.
He checks his partner’s vitals, trying to make sure everything looks normal based on what little he knows about EEGs. He reports his gaze back to Jamie. He is still, apart from when he breathes. Gary’s thumb slowly goes up and down Jamie’s hand, his eyes solely fixed on his partner’s face.
“C’me on, wake up now. You’ve rested enough.” Again, he’s not sure why his stomach hurts despite the doctors’ reassurances.
…
“I miss you.”
...
Three little words. Uttered, murmured, yet it feels he has just screamed. Gary gasps and has trouble breathing, shocked at his own admission. Panic rises through his veins and he looks everywhere around the room, making sure no uninvited guest has heard him.
“What N.eville, missing me already?” A voice croaks, coughing a little.
Gary looks up, almost cracking his neck. He’s not dreaming: Jamie C.arragher is giving him a funny look, his lips curved in a lopsided cocky grin.
“I wasn’t out for that long anyway.” He croaks some more.
“Actually it’s been two years. Too bad, you missed United winning back to back Champions League.”
Jamie laughs then, but it soon turns into a coughing fit as he clutches his left side. Gary bends to reach for water but Jamie stops him with a hand.
“You wish, N.eville.” His eyes are glinting with the same brightness as usual and something lifts in Gary’s chest. “So… Missing me, still?”
Gary withdraws his hand, as if burnt, and pokes Jamie’s shoulder.
“Getting used to one Scouser is more than enough, I’m not doing this again. So whatever you do in the future just don’t die.” He says, indignant.
Jamie chuckles again, clutching his side again.
“I think it’s a bit more complicated than that, N.eville. Is that what they tell you lot in Manchester?”
And it’s easy to fall back on the banter, to go back to their routine. Words don’t fail them for this, they have plenty of lines in store. Still, Gary’s smile is a bit longer and he feels lighter.
He seems to call him.
N.eville
...
Gary
...
Gary
...
“Gary! Come on.” Gary jolts again, looking away from the couple on the other side of the window.
He looks haphazardly around him, feeling dizzy. A man grabs his arm.
“N.eville, are ya daft? We gotta move, there’s been a new breakout on the case.”
G.errard. Steven G.errard. That’s right, they’re investigating together. It’s not the nineties, it’s here, the present. The bleak, hollow, present.
Gary nods and gives one final look to the window, the two men’s hands clasped together. He follows the younger detective outside of the hospital.
“N.eville? N.eville. We gotta get a move on.” G.errard’s voice seems distant, far; Gary doesn’t register his words.
He looks through a window into a room with several beds. He watches as, beside one of them, a man is rearranging the blankets on another man, asleep. He can faintly hear the beeping sound of the machine, a steady companion in the otherwise silent room. He doesn’t miss the hand stroking the stranger’s forehead, his cheek. The other covering the patient’s limp one.
“You’re a downright twat, C.arragher.” Gary blurts out.
His arms are crossed, the leather of his jacket almost squeaking from the tight position. He faces a window, looking at little dots hurrying to their everyday life, deformed by the glass tiles. They go on as if nothing has happened. Gary is not naive to believe people can ever truly be safe at all times- he was a detective after all, he knew monstrosity and danger could take many shapes and forms- but today, people below continue their errands, their chat with a loved ones, with one weight less hovering above them.
It had taken them time to gather evidence and piece the puzzle together, working endless days and nights looking at the board in their shared office. Photographs, spidery writing and links covered the whole surface in an intricate, logical, enigma. A sad tale of a swindle gone wrong. It wasn’t the culprits’ first attempt, they were real pros- the reason why the investigation took so long.
“Your behaviour was unprofessional and reckless. Can’t say I’m surprised though… You lot are all the same.” He goes on, still looking through the windows.
He sighs, as he glances at Jamie.
They had hopped in their car- an old unmarked Ford Sierra that had seen better days. A lead, finally. In their precipitation, Jamie had raced him to the driver seat and Gary had spent the whole drive clutching the handle above the window.
(“Oi, don’t be such a drama queen, N.eville. I’m not that bad.” He’d said with a grin induced by adrenaline.
“No.” Gary had answered, his grip on the handle softening. “No, you’re not.”
Something that Jamie never heard as he had put on the siren to cut through the traffic.)
Gary sighs again. The heel of his shoes echoes on the cold marble floor as he abandons the window. He looks up at the ceiling, not sure what to say next- he considers Jamie, right in front of him and gulps.
They had called for backups on their way, as was the procedure in a case like this. In hindsight, they should have waited for them.
(“C’me on N.eville they’re leaving, we can’t wait.”
“Should I remind you we’re outnumbered?”
“We can take them! Just like the burglary in Salford.”
Silence had reigned in their car.
“Look, Gary. I am not throwing away all of these months of work because backup’s too damn slow.”)
They were armed- simple as that. And as Gary’s gun got sent flying in the air, he only had time to hear his name called out before he hit the concrete. And then the screeching sounds of braking tyres, shouts. And the siren blaring.
And Jamie, crawling a bloodied hand towards him.
And the sirens blaring.
Gary jumps, shaking the memory away. The sirens are replaced by the regular beep from the machine near the bed. It’s slow and steady, just like Jamie’s chest rising and falling. He sits on the old plastic chair next to the bed. It’s so strange, too weird. His partner is usually so… full of life, so vibrant and loud. It’s not right. Unconsciously, Gary passes a hand over the cut on his cheek.
“Come on, you’ve fooled around enough, you muppet.”
He looks at Jamie’s peaceful face, looking even younger than he already is. His eyes travel from his closed eyelids to his broad shoulders, shielded by a crumpled gown. Gary’s eyes land on the Scouser’s limp hand. The doctors told him it wasn’t as bad as it looked, that he’d wake up soon and that he’d be up and running in no time. But still, his stomach twists and turn and he reaches tentatively for Jamie’s hand.
The skin is rough, hardened. But the blood is gone at least- damn knives… Gary somberly muses about the interrogations with their newly arrested culprits.
He checks his partner’s vitals, trying to make sure everything looks normal based on what little he knows about EEGs. He reports his gaze back to Jamie. He is still, apart from when he breathes. Gary’s thumb slowly goes up and down Jamie’s hand, his eyes solely fixed on his partner’s face.
“C’me on, wake up now. You’ve rested enough.” Again, he’s not sure why his stomach hurts despite the doctors’ reassurances.
…
“I miss you.”
...
Three little words. Uttered, murmured, yet it feels he has just screamed. Gary gasps and has trouble breathing, shocked at his own admission. Panic rises through his veins and he looks everywhere around the room, making sure no uninvited guest has heard him.
“What N.eville, missing me already?” A voice croaks, coughing a little.
Gary looks up, almost cracking his neck. He’s not dreaming: Jamie C.arragher is giving him a funny look, his lips curved in a lopsided cocky grin.
“I wasn’t out for that long anyway.” He croaks some more.
“Actually it’s been two years. Too bad, you missed United winning back to back Champions League.”
Jamie laughs then, but it soon turns into a coughing fit as he clutches his left side. Gary bends to reach for water but Jamie stops him with a hand.
“You wish, N.eville.” His eyes are glinting with the same brightness as usual and something lifts in Gary’s chest. “So… Missing me, still?”
Gary withdraws his hand, as if burnt, and pokes Jamie’s shoulder.
“Getting used to one Scouser is more than enough, I’m not doing this again. So whatever you do in the future just don’t die.” He says, indignant.
Jamie chuckles again, clutching his side again.
“I think it’s a bit more complicated than that, N.eville. Is that what they tell you lot in Manchester?”
And it’s easy to fall back on the banter, to go back to their routine. Words don’t fail them for this, they have plenty of lines in store. Still, Gary’s smile is a bit longer and he feels lighter.
He seems to call him.
N.eville
...
Gary
...
Gary
...
“Gary! Come on.” Gary jolts again, looking away from the couple on the other side of the window.
He looks haphazardly around him, feeling dizzy. A man grabs his arm.
“N.eville, are ya daft? We gotta move, there’s been a new breakout on the case.”
G.errard. Steven G.errard. That’s right, they’re investigating together. It’s not the nineties, it’s here, the present. The bleak, hollow, present.
Gary nods and gives one final look to the window, the two men’s hands clasped together. He follows the younger detective outside of the hospital.
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