83
The Difference Between
DBSK (JaeHo)
332 words. Second person. PG. Written for Nhaca, in response my drabble request challenge ♥
You’re in the shower when he gets home, but you hear him calling you.
“I’m in the bathroom,” you yell, and you wait for the door to open, cold air swirling in, steam floating into the hallway. You rinse the rest of the shampoo from your hair and turn off the water, opening the fogged glass sliding door and reaching for your towel. Jaejoong is watching you when you turn to him, propped up on top of the counter next to the sink. You wrap your towel tightly around your waist and note the tightness in the corners of his mouth, the darkness under his eyes.
“Long day?” you ask, approaching until your fingers brush over his knees, taking in the texture of worn denim. He almost flinches when you touch him, but relaxes, sighing deeply and wrapping his hand around the back of your head, fingers threading into your short hair.
“You could say that,” he says, which mean yes, but you’re going to have to prod me to get me to talk about it, and you can’t help but smile. Always secretive, this one.
“What does that mean, exactly?” you ask, leaning into the thumb stroking over the side of your face. A smile ghosts over his face, and you know he knows you’ve caught him.
“You know me and my aversion to PT,” he says softly, but he’s looking into your eyes, daring you to call him weak, to call him broken, to tell him to be careful, to watch his health. You wouldn’t dare, even if you thought any of it - he’d never forgive you, and nothing is worth that.
Instead, you smile at him, and you kiss him, his fingers clenching into your hair, his tongue sliding along your bottom lip.
“Yeah,” you say, pulling back, “I know.” Broken he may be, but weak he is not, could never be. He may forget the difference sometimes, but you never will. And it’s your job to remind him.
Possibilites
Super Junior (CinTeuk)
290 words. Second person. R-ish. Written for Kou, for my drabble request challenge ♥!
Spider webs of frost across the glass window, tenuous and fragile like cracks in a porcelain glaze, and you press your palm flat against it, heat seeping from your fingers, gathering in the perspiration outlining your skin on glass. He’s on the bed, knees pulled up to his chest, gaze pointed at the ceiling. He won’t look at you, pale skin in the half light, and you turn back to window.
You stabbed him with your sharply jagged brokenness, pushed and pierced until he thought he liked it, but the bite marks on your neck are not his, the scratches on the inside of your thighs aren’t either, and you’re left wondering what you wanted, what you thought you were getting.
“Fuck you,” he says, and they’re the first words from his mouth since he stormed from the living room, first acknowledgement of your presence since he found you on your knees. He turns eyes cold and hard on you, and your jagged edges rub together, spark and grind and groan under the pressure of what you had and what you did.
“I never promised you happily ever after,” you say, and it’s not what you mean, but it’s you, and you never do. You might mean I’m sorry, but you’ll never say it.
“No,” he says, “but you made me think it was possible. And you made me want it.”
Your fingertips are numb from the cold, and you turn from the window and walk away. You half expect him to call after you, but he doesn’t, he is silent and still as your bare feet against the carpeted floor. You rub your fingers together, chilled skin almost unfeeling, and you don’t look back.
You are used to failure.
Domestic Disturbance
Super Junior (SiBum)
529 words. Second person. R. Written for mimei, for the drabble request challenge. I hope that this pairing works for you! ♥
He’s late.
He walks through the door thirty-eight minutes late, and you look up from the couch, peering over the back of the sofa, mug of coffee in hand, as he shakes his umbrella out into the hallway and leans it against the wall. You watch the water trickle down and puddle on the floor, and you think about a time when you didn’t count the minutes, adding them silently to yourself. When you didn’t have to.
His collar is unbuttoned, his tie loosened, and he slides his suit jacket off, folding it neatly over the chair by the doorway. Only after he’s finished this does he turn to look at you. You sip your coffee and you smile like you mean it. If he’d bothered to pay attention, he would have noticed how fake your smile looks, but he hadn’t. He doesn’t ever really pay attention to you anymore.
“Have a nice day at work?” you ask, and you leave off the dear at the end, because the sarcasm might cause him look up, might jolt him from wherever his brain goes when you’re in the room. Part of you wonders if annoyance isn’t better than indifference, anyway.
He grunts at you, putting his briefcase on the floor near the door, and you know that if he’d let unbutton his shirt you’d find scratches and bites on his pretty white skin, and you wonder when that became normal. You think of his cute secretary, stumbling charmingly over his words at the interview, sweet soft smile and finely manicured fingernails. You imagine them having sex at the office, none too discreetly, fucking against the desk. You think of coy smiles, tittering laughs, at the Christmas party - oh, that poor boy, doesn’t he even know?. You think about cliché, and how it has its roots in truth.
“Wow, that sounds oh so very interesting,” you say, voice falsely cheerful, and you imagine yourself a robot, phony smile painted red over a metal body, pink frilly apron. He glances up at that, and you almost wince because you know that you’re provoking him, and you’d told yourself after the last time that it wouldn’t happen again, but you just can’t help it. Not when you might as well not exist. Instead, though, you smile. You smile, because there is nothing else.
“Don’t, Kibum,” he warns, stepping out of his shoes, black socks on the white carpet.
“Don’t what, Siwon?” you ask, sugary sweet coating giving your words more bite than you mean, but it’s too late.
“Don’t patronize me. If I don’t feel like talking, then I don’t feel like talking. I just walked through the front door, stay off of my case for a few minutes.” And you’d thought that sex was supposed to be relaxing. You laugh softly and you sip your coffee. He stands just inside the bounds of the living room, wary and far away like you’re going to bite him. But no, that’s not your job anymore.
“There are leftovers in the fridge if you haven’t eaten,” you say, and it means I didn’t wait. I’m not waiting much longer. You doubt he’ll get it.
DBSK (JaeHo)
332 words. Second person. PG. Written for Nhaca, in response my drabble request challenge ♥
You’re in the shower when he gets home, but you hear him calling you.
“I’m in the bathroom,” you yell, and you wait for the door to open, cold air swirling in, steam floating into the hallway. You rinse the rest of the shampoo from your hair and turn off the water, opening the fogged glass sliding door and reaching for your towel. Jaejoong is watching you when you turn to him, propped up on top of the counter next to the sink. You wrap your towel tightly around your waist and note the tightness in the corners of his mouth, the darkness under his eyes.
“Long day?” you ask, approaching until your fingers brush over his knees, taking in the texture of worn denim. He almost flinches when you touch him, but relaxes, sighing deeply and wrapping his hand around the back of your head, fingers threading into your short hair.
“You could say that,” he says, which mean yes, but you’re going to have to prod me to get me to talk about it, and you can’t help but smile. Always secretive, this one.
“What does that mean, exactly?” you ask, leaning into the thumb stroking over the side of your face. A smile ghosts over his face, and you know he knows you’ve caught him.
“You know me and my aversion to PT,” he says softly, but he’s looking into your eyes, daring you to call him weak, to call him broken, to tell him to be careful, to watch his health. You wouldn’t dare, even if you thought any of it - he’d never forgive you, and nothing is worth that.
Instead, you smile at him, and you kiss him, his fingers clenching into your hair, his tongue sliding along your bottom lip.
“Yeah,” you say, pulling back, “I know.” Broken he may be, but weak he is not, could never be. He may forget the difference sometimes, but you never will. And it’s your job to remind him.
Possibilites
Super Junior (CinTeuk)
290 words. Second person. R-ish. Written for Kou, for my drabble request challenge ♥!
Spider webs of frost across the glass window, tenuous and fragile like cracks in a porcelain glaze, and you press your palm flat against it, heat seeping from your fingers, gathering in the perspiration outlining your skin on glass. He’s on the bed, knees pulled up to his chest, gaze pointed at the ceiling. He won’t look at you, pale skin in the half light, and you turn back to window.
You stabbed him with your sharply jagged brokenness, pushed and pierced until he thought he liked it, but the bite marks on your neck are not his, the scratches on the inside of your thighs aren’t either, and you’re left wondering what you wanted, what you thought you were getting.
“Fuck you,” he says, and they’re the first words from his mouth since he stormed from the living room, first acknowledgement of your presence since he found you on your knees. He turns eyes cold and hard on you, and your jagged edges rub together, spark and grind and groan under the pressure of what you had and what you did.
“I never promised you happily ever after,” you say, and it’s not what you mean, but it’s you, and you never do. You might mean I’m sorry, but you’ll never say it.
“No,” he says, “but you made me think it was possible. And you made me want it.”
Your fingertips are numb from the cold, and you turn from the window and walk away. You half expect him to call after you, but he doesn’t, he is silent and still as your bare feet against the carpeted floor. You rub your fingers together, chilled skin almost unfeeling, and you don’t look back.
You are used to failure.
Domestic Disturbance
Super Junior (SiBum)
529 words. Second person. R. Written for mimei, for the drabble request challenge. I hope that this pairing works for you! ♥
He’s late.
He walks through the door thirty-eight minutes late, and you look up from the couch, peering over the back of the sofa, mug of coffee in hand, as he shakes his umbrella out into the hallway and leans it against the wall. You watch the water trickle down and puddle on the floor, and you think about a time when you didn’t count the minutes, adding them silently to yourself. When you didn’t have to.
His collar is unbuttoned, his tie loosened, and he slides his suit jacket off, folding it neatly over the chair by the doorway. Only after he’s finished this does he turn to look at you. You sip your coffee and you smile like you mean it. If he’d bothered to pay attention, he would have noticed how fake your smile looks, but he hadn’t. He doesn’t ever really pay attention to you anymore.
“Have a nice day at work?” you ask, and you leave off the dear at the end, because the sarcasm might cause him look up, might jolt him from wherever his brain goes when you’re in the room. Part of you wonders if annoyance isn’t better than indifference, anyway.
He grunts at you, putting his briefcase on the floor near the door, and you know that if he’d let unbutton his shirt you’d find scratches and bites on his pretty white skin, and you wonder when that became normal. You think of his cute secretary, stumbling charmingly over his words at the interview, sweet soft smile and finely manicured fingernails. You imagine them having sex at the office, none too discreetly, fucking against the desk. You think of coy smiles, tittering laughs, at the Christmas party - oh, that poor boy, doesn’t he even know?. You think about cliché, and how it has its roots in truth.
“Wow, that sounds oh so very interesting,” you say, voice falsely cheerful, and you imagine yourself a robot, phony smile painted red over a metal body, pink frilly apron. He glances up at that, and you almost wince because you know that you’re provoking him, and you’d told yourself after the last time that it wouldn’t happen again, but you just can’t help it. Not when you might as well not exist. Instead, though, you smile. You smile, because there is nothing else.
“Don’t, Kibum,” he warns, stepping out of his shoes, black socks on the white carpet.
“Don’t what, Siwon?” you ask, sugary sweet coating giving your words more bite than you mean, but it’s too late.
“Don’t patronize me. If I don’t feel like talking, then I don’t feel like talking. I just walked through the front door, stay off of my case for a few minutes.” And you’d thought that sex was supposed to be relaxing. You laugh softly and you sip your coffee. He stands just inside the bounds of the living room, wary and far away like you’re going to bite him. But no, that’s not your job anymore.
“There are leftovers in the fridge if you haven’t eaten,” you say, and it means I didn’t wait. I’m not waiting much longer. You doubt he’ll get it.