![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
awoken.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
dbsk_flashficTitle: A Moment of Clarity
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
traumerei__x
Word count: 1710
Concrit?: Yes please. Feel free to be brutal, if you're so inclined.
Pairing: JaeMin
Rating: PG-15; Nothing too graphic, but it might be safe to assume this isn't appropriate for at work! in school! or around small children!reading.
Summary: Why do things that the matter most never end up being our choice?
Author's Notes: Um. I started this story with the second-to-last paragraph, and sort of.. built backwards from there. This came out weird, even for me. I'm still not sure if I like it (and if I do, why.) Written while listening to Ginny Owens' If You Want Me To on repeat, which would explain the schmoop in the end, and possibly the overall weirdness.
Much thanks tothexholyxdark for an awesomely quick beta-job. ♥
...and will be cross-posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
0shutupandsmile shortly.
Apples are there for eating. Eve didn't resist what was red and ripe and shining. Who would, unless they had a stick up their ass? It must have been delicious. You can picture it now: The sticky juice running down Eve's chin, her naked body. Knowledge: The taste alone must have been like heaven.
You know what it is like to be hungry for knowledge.
So say Eve was responsible for original sin. So what. The world would be boring without it, right? If no one craved for what they couldn't have, how would anything ever get accomplished? You never would have gone to that audition, and right now could be stuck in a math class instead of preparing for a concert tour.
Sometimes it's more fun, to do the wrong thing. You should know.
You haven't been sleeping much since you moved away from home. Home-sickness was never something you had believed in. Now you aren't so sure, plagued with memories of things you have always taken for granted: The creaking floorboard just outside your bedroom door when your mother would peer inside to make sure that you're still peacefully sleeping; your baby sister's high, delighted screeches of laughter when your father would tickle her sides, the soles of her feet and toes; the way your other sister would comb her fingers through your hair when you had a headache, singing the same lullabies your mother would sing to you softly when you were small; your father's snorting laughter and bitter resentment when it came to politics; your mother's quiet, serene voice, and the delicious smell of her cooking.
You are half-asleep, dozing in the sunlight shining through the window in the car. Pleasantly warm and comfortable, completely at ease with yourself. You are thinking of nothing, echoes of laughter and voices then blissfully silent.
The soft press of lips against yours is unexpected, and you purse your lips entirely out of reflex. Your eyes slide open just as the boy pulls away, cheeks painted a pale pink, lips quirked in a nervous smile. The longer you stare, the more the smile falters, until he only looks nervous and can no longer meet your blank gaze.
Your first kiss has been stolen away from you, taken without your permission. Kim Jaejoong does not understand why you are upset, as you flee from the car the instant it pulls to a halt. Kim Jaejoong does not understand why, as you scrub at your mouth in the bathroom with a handful of damp paper towel.
"You were there, too!" he says frustratedly, as if that makes it okay. "You kissed me back!"
Somehow, this knowledge doesn't make you feel any less violated.
You wish you could forget it, ignore it, pretend it never happened. It has become something of a joke, now; you can't remember who brought it up, or in which interview, but now it's common knowledge. Everyone knows that Kim Jaejoong stole your first kiss while you slept.
You joke, and say it wasn't even any good.
Sometimes, you wish you could say that you wanted him to try it again.
You can't get clean. The water is scalding; the intense heat turning your skin bright, lobster red. You scrub and scrub, the abrasive friction of the sponge rough against your skin. Still, the dirty, perverted feeling won't wash away, won't rinse off, won't swirl down the drain, no matter how hard you try.
When you climb out of the shower, you stare at the fogged-up mirror and etch the characters for HOMOSEXUAL in the mist. You don't know if it's because you think you are, or if it's just to see the word, spelled out and bold, underlined. You can see your reflection, distorted, and you wipe the word away angrily with the heel of your hand.
You used to value the idea of growing up, of how it seemed that once you turned a certain age, something magic was supposed to happen, a fairy tale was scheduled to occur, a biblical miracle destined to unfold. It would be sacred, ceremonial.
You are a sixteen year old kid who don't know who he is. Who doesn't know who he wants to be.
You know now that there is nothing sacred about growing up.
Kim Jaejoong. For a time, he treats you like you're glass; some fragile thing that will break if he pushes too hard. For a time, you have shut and locked the door on him, and he does not try to find a window back inside.
He confuses you. You are built for explosions and collisions and collapsing, but also for putting it all back together, everything in its place, starting over. Rebirth. Like a phoenix.
You are alone with your faultlines and the potential for earthquakes, and you know that if it's there underneath the surface, waiting to rise, the longer you wait, the longer you hold out, the worse it will be.
Adversity blows through your life like a tornado, uprooting everything, creating chaos. You wait for the dust to settle, and then you choose. You can live in the wreckage and pretend it's still the apartment you remember. Or you can crawl from the rubble and slowly rebuild. Because after disaster strikes, the important thing is that you move on.
You chase the storm. And Jaejoong. Jaejoong. He is a storm in his own right. He's thunder and lightning. He's a hurricane whirlwind. He's a summer sunrise. He's a cloudy grey sky. He turns you upside-down and inside-out with a single glance, a single smile.
You wonder what he's done to you, wonder if he did this on purpose when he kissed you. You long for something, someone to blame for how you feel.
"Stop staring at me," he snaps, waving a hand in your general direction. "You're staring at me and I don't like it, so stop it right now."
"Why," you question, a single huffed syllable.
"Because I'm oldest and you should do what I say," he says, and nudges you off the couch with his feet, eyes never leaving the television screen.
You don't resist, and land on the floor with a loud thump. You reach up and catch hold of his ankle, thumb rubbing absent circles over the protruding bones there. "You're knobby," you say.
"I'm what?" he asks incredulously, leaning over, off the couch so he can meet your eyes. "Did you just say that I'm knobby? That's not even a word."
"Yes it is," you reply, and lift the bottom hem of his pajama bottoms up, revealing his ankle so he can see, too. You slide your thumb over the bone. "See," you say, "knobby."
He jerks his foot out of your hands and settles back on the couch. "You're so weird," he says, but he's smiling a little as he says it.
You smile too, put your hands behind your head, and think that maybe you're okay with it.
You come into his bed that night, deathly silent and creeping like a thief. You lean over him, unsure of what to do, and his eyes blink open sleepily, and he smiles. That's all you need.
He moves to close the distance between you, and you meet awkwardly in the middle, lips bumping and catching, overshot and missing. His fingers curl in your hair and then, then it's right, then it fits. Lips part, and you whine into his mouth, hands scrabbling for some sort of purchase, fingers settling at the base of his throat, half-splayed over his shoulder.
You laugh breathlessly against his skin as he nibbles the space just below your ear. It tickles, and his chest shakes with his own laughter, the delight he takes in making you writhe, making you squirm and buck your hips, helpless and shaking like a newborn.
He has a condom and you watch as he slides it on clumsily, hands shaking. His fingers, slick with a strange-smelling lubricant, are sure and gentle as they slide inside, preparing for something much larger. He knows what he's doing; he's done this before, and he asks almost every three seconds if you're okay.
You laugh and nod and say you're fine. You are.
And then he's there, sliding your legs into a wishbone around his waist.
The sex itself is short, anticlimactic, even. He rocks into you, making low noises, and it doesn't last long. You think, So, this is what everybody's talking about, and start thinking about the next time, and the time after, about how you'll be more sure of yourself, and maybe more in charge, of how you'll relax and enjoy it more. Not that it was bad or anything. It feels good, and somewhat not-good, but the good is enough to want to try it again, and again.
Maybe this is a stupid thing to do, but you're allowed to be stupid and a sixteen. Maybe it's okay to enjoy the sex, to feel good.
It isn't perfect, it isn't amazing. It isn't a declaration of eternal, undying love. It isn't a promise. It felt completely ordinary, like nothing in your life has changed because of it. Your arms stay around his neck, legs around his waist, even after — and maybe this is all that you needed.
He lays flush against you, naked, skin against skin. His hold is loose around your body, and he kisses you, soft, chaste pressure against your face and neck that lulls you to sleep. Your last thought, before you drop off, is that you got what you wished for.
A moment of clarity: Months ago, you wrote that stereotype, harsh and glaring on a mirror, and felt ashamed. You are who you are, you've done what you've done, and you don't feel dirty, you don't feel wrong because of it.
You wouldn't say you're falling in love with Jaejoong. This is falling, yes, a crazy, free-falling, cart-wheeling feeling, but love is a word both overused and misunderstood, and the only thing you truly have is understanding.
It won't be easy. It can't be. It will hurt. It will change you. It is work. But there is something good that can come out of it, you think, if you're willing.
(You are.)
Extra notes:
"…blows through your life like a tornado, uprooting everything, creating chaos. You wait for the dust to settle, and then you choose. You can live in the wreckage and pretend it's still the apartment you remember. Or you can crawl from the rubble and slowly rebuild. Because after disaster strikes, the important thing is that you move on."
is from the end of a Veronica Mars episode (1.03)
Summary and cut-text is from The Hell Song by Sum 41.
Author:
traumerei__xWord count: 1710
Concrit?: Yes please. Feel free to be brutal, if you're so inclined.
Pairing: JaeMin
Rating: PG-15; Nothing too graphic, but it might be safe to assume this isn't appropriate for at work! in school! or around small children!reading.
Summary: Why do things that the matter most never end up being our choice?
Author's Notes: Um. I started this story with the second-to-last paragraph, and sort of.. built backwards from there. This came out weird, even for me. I'm still not sure if I like it (and if I do, why.) Written while listening to Ginny Owens' If You Want Me To on repeat, which would explain the schmoop in the end, and possibly the overall weirdness.
Much thanks to
thexholyxdark for an awesomely quick beta-job. ♥...and will be cross-posted to
0shutupandsmile shortly.Apples are there for eating. Eve didn't resist what was red and ripe and shining. Who would, unless they had a stick up their ass? It must have been delicious. You can picture it now: The sticky juice running down Eve's chin, her naked body. Knowledge: The taste alone must have been like heaven.
You know what it is like to be hungry for knowledge.
So say Eve was responsible for original sin. So what. The world would be boring without it, right? If no one craved for what they couldn't have, how would anything ever get accomplished? You never would have gone to that audition, and right now could be stuck in a math class instead of preparing for a concert tour.
Sometimes it's more fun, to do the wrong thing. You should know.
You haven't been sleeping much since you moved away from home. Home-sickness was never something you had believed in. Now you aren't so sure, plagued with memories of things you have always taken for granted: The creaking floorboard just outside your bedroom door when your mother would peer inside to make sure that you're still peacefully sleeping; your baby sister's high, delighted screeches of laughter when your father would tickle her sides, the soles of her feet and toes; the way your other sister would comb her fingers through your hair when you had a headache, singing the same lullabies your mother would sing to you softly when you were small; your father's snorting laughter and bitter resentment when it came to politics; your mother's quiet, serene voice, and the delicious smell of her cooking.
You are half-asleep, dozing in the sunlight shining through the window in the car. Pleasantly warm and comfortable, completely at ease with yourself. You are thinking of nothing, echoes of laughter and voices then blissfully silent.
The soft press of lips against yours is unexpected, and you purse your lips entirely out of reflex. Your eyes slide open just as the boy pulls away, cheeks painted a pale pink, lips quirked in a nervous smile. The longer you stare, the more the smile falters, until he only looks nervous and can no longer meet your blank gaze.
Your first kiss has been stolen away from you, taken without your permission. Kim Jaejoong does not understand why you are upset, as you flee from the car the instant it pulls to a halt. Kim Jaejoong does not understand why, as you scrub at your mouth in the bathroom with a handful of damp paper towel.
"You were there, too!" he says frustratedly, as if that makes it okay. "You kissed me back!"
Somehow, this knowledge doesn't make you feel any less violated.
You wish you could forget it, ignore it, pretend it never happened. It has become something of a joke, now; you can't remember who brought it up, or in which interview, but now it's common knowledge. Everyone knows that Kim Jaejoong stole your first kiss while you slept.
You joke, and say it wasn't even any good.
Sometimes, you wish you could say that you wanted him to try it again.
You can't get clean. The water is scalding; the intense heat turning your skin bright, lobster red. You scrub and scrub, the abrasive friction of the sponge rough against your skin. Still, the dirty, perverted feeling won't wash away, won't rinse off, won't swirl down the drain, no matter how hard you try.
When you climb out of the shower, you stare at the fogged-up mirror and etch the characters for HOMOSEXUAL in the mist. You don't know if it's because you think you are, or if it's just to see the word, spelled out and bold, underlined. You can see your reflection, distorted, and you wipe the word away angrily with the heel of your hand.
You used to value the idea of growing up, of how it seemed that once you turned a certain age, something magic was supposed to happen, a fairy tale was scheduled to occur, a biblical miracle destined to unfold. It would be sacred, ceremonial.
You are a sixteen year old kid who don't know who he is. Who doesn't know who he wants to be.
You know now that there is nothing sacred about growing up.
Kim Jaejoong. For a time, he treats you like you're glass; some fragile thing that will break if he pushes too hard. For a time, you have shut and locked the door on him, and he does not try to find a window back inside.
He confuses you. You are built for explosions and collisions and collapsing, but also for putting it all back together, everything in its place, starting over. Rebirth. Like a phoenix.
You are alone with your faultlines and the potential for earthquakes, and you know that if it's there underneath the surface, waiting to rise, the longer you wait, the longer you hold out, the worse it will be.
Adversity blows through your life like a tornado, uprooting everything, creating chaos. You wait for the dust to settle, and then you choose. You can live in the wreckage and pretend it's still the apartment you remember. Or you can crawl from the rubble and slowly rebuild. Because after disaster strikes, the important thing is that you move on.
You chase the storm. And Jaejoong. Jaejoong. He is a storm in his own right. He's thunder and lightning. He's a hurricane whirlwind. He's a summer sunrise. He's a cloudy grey sky. He turns you upside-down and inside-out with a single glance, a single smile.
You wonder what he's done to you, wonder if he did this on purpose when he kissed you. You long for something, someone to blame for how you feel.
"Stop staring at me," he snaps, waving a hand in your general direction. "You're staring at me and I don't like it, so stop it right now."
"Why," you question, a single huffed syllable.
"Because I'm oldest and you should do what I say," he says, and nudges you off the couch with his feet, eyes never leaving the television screen.
You don't resist, and land on the floor with a loud thump. You reach up and catch hold of his ankle, thumb rubbing absent circles over the protruding bones there. "You're knobby," you say.
"I'm what?" he asks incredulously, leaning over, off the couch so he can meet your eyes. "Did you just say that I'm knobby? That's not even a word."
"Yes it is," you reply, and lift the bottom hem of his pajama bottoms up, revealing his ankle so he can see, too. You slide your thumb over the bone. "See," you say, "knobby."
He jerks his foot out of your hands and settles back on the couch. "You're so weird," he says, but he's smiling a little as he says it.
You smile too, put your hands behind your head, and think that maybe you're okay with it.
You come into his bed that night, deathly silent and creeping like a thief. You lean over him, unsure of what to do, and his eyes blink open sleepily, and he smiles. That's all you need.
He moves to close the distance between you, and you meet awkwardly in the middle, lips bumping and catching, overshot and missing. His fingers curl in your hair and then, then it's right, then it fits. Lips part, and you whine into his mouth, hands scrabbling for some sort of purchase, fingers settling at the base of his throat, half-splayed over his shoulder.
You laugh breathlessly against his skin as he nibbles the space just below your ear. It tickles, and his chest shakes with his own laughter, the delight he takes in making you writhe, making you squirm and buck your hips, helpless and shaking like a newborn.
He has a condom and you watch as he slides it on clumsily, hands shaking. His fingers, slick with a strange-smelling lubricant, are sure and gentle as they slide inside, preparing for something much larger. He knows what he's doing; he's done this before, and he asks almost every three seconds if you're okay.
You laugh and nod and say you're fine. You are.
And then he's there, sliding your legs into a wishbone around his waist.
The sex itself is short, anticlimactic, even. He rocks into you, making low noises, and it doesn't last long. You think, So, this is what everybody's talking about, and start thinking about the next time, and the time after, about how you'll be more sure of yourself, and maybe more in charge, of how you'll relax and enjoy it more. Not that it was bad or anything. It feels good, and somewhat not-good, but the good is enough to want to try it again, and again.
Maybe this is a stupid thing to do, but you're allowed to be stupid and a sixteen. Maybe it's okay to enjoy the sex, to feel good.
It isn't perfect, it isn't amazing. It isn't a declaration of eternal, undying love. It isn't a promise. It felt completely ordinary, like nothing in your life has changed because of it. Your arms stay around his neck, legs around his waist, even after — and maybe this is all that you needed.
He lays flush against you, naked, skin against skin. His hold is loose around your body, and he kisses you, soft, chaste pressure against your face and neck that lulls you to sleep. Your last thought, before you drop off, is that you got what you wished for.
A moment of clarity: Months ago, you wrote that stereotype, harsh and glaring on a mirror, and felt ashamed. You are who you are, you've done what you've done, and you don't feel dirty, you don't feel wrong because of it.
You wouldn't say you're falling in love with Jaejoong. This is falling, yes, a crazy, free-falling, cart-wheeling feeling, but love is a word both overused and misunderstood, and the only thing you truly have is understanding.
It won't be easy. It can't be. It will hurt. It will change you. It is work. But there is something good that can come out of it, you think, if you're willing.
(You are.)
Extra notes:
"…blows through your life like a tornado, uprooting everything, creating chaos. You wait for the dust to settle, and then you choose. You can live in the wreckage and pretend it's still the apartment you remember. Or you can crawl from the rubble and slowly rebuild. Because after disaster strikes, the important thing is that you move on."
is from the end of a Veronica Mars episode (1.03)
Summary and cut-text is from The Hell Song by Sum 41.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-03-10 09:03 am (UTC)In mod-mode, I've also created your author tag, so you can use it for any future responses.
no subject
Date: 2008-03-10 10:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-11 06:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-13 10:44 am (UTC)i was frikkin crazy over veronica mars... O.OThis is falling, yes, a crazy, free-falling, cart-wheeling feeling, but love is a word both overused and misunderstood, and the only thing you truly have is understanding.
i loved that line. *wiggles* and the entire thing was just so easy to read... it all kinda just FLOWED. love love love! aaaaa jaemin. <3
no subject
Date: 2008-03-13 07:24 pm (UTC)oh man, i'm just getting into it now :D rented all of season one and watched it earlier last month, and now i have to wait for season two to get here in the mail and i think i might be going a bit insane BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW WHO WAS AT THE DOOR but i'm really hoping it's Logan and /ramble. VM ftw. XD; sorry.i'm glad you liked it :) i really enjoyed how this story came together, so i'm hoping (withfingerscrossed) i can recreate the style again.