Title: It Feels Good To Know, Because It Hurts
Rating: PG-15 [T] for implied sex
Pairing: YunJae
Disclaimers: I don't own them.
It Feels Good To Know, Because It Hurts
You squeeze my neck so dearly, your fingers close into a tight embrace that swallows every square inch of my skin, while I, hitching and gasping hopefully, look at you with swirling black pools for eyes, whisper sinful things to your ears: "Tighter, Yunnie, tighter… and kill me while you're at it…"
You stare at me. You are always staring at me, at my lustful and cutting words with those eyes of yours, do you ever know that they tear me apart so harshly, they tear apart my soul, unlike your hardened sword that rips me, all blood and sticky substance from behind. You hurt me both ways and oh why you are so good at pulling me together that it is like an everyday joke, smashed and broken pieces of jigsaw that will never fit it again, you succeed every time, you make me fit so nicely with you, two pieces of glass shard that actually form an unbreakable bond.
You say I am a masochist, that I probably should have stayed at that asylum, you curse yourself for defending me against the doctors, for letting me get what I want, and what do I want, I am asking you. A liar, pathetic liar, you are, you do not have the gal to say that it is you I have always wanted, your hands, your fingers, even as perversely as your manhood. Then you go and say how come my wants are so superficial and purely physical, sex-related, but I am not answering, I keep quiet against your scrutinizing question, because only fools question about love, Yunnie, you sadly belong to those fools, fortunately I am able to keep you from crossing the line, you've long ago fallen into my entangling web.
My silence apparently sets you off; you scream at me, so loud I try to cover my ears with cuffed hands, that Kim Jaejoong is nothing but a despicable hypocrite, that it is entirely my fault you're deeply involved in this emotional mess. I am glad you did not say "my emotional mess", that means you do know it is partially your mess, too, and try to be responsible for it. Your fingers loosen, I do not even have a chance to protest about the sudden loss of intimate contact when you slap me, hard, on the right side of my face. You have turned into a monster, your eyes reek of blood; excruciating pain accumulates between my thighs as you impale me, using all those muscles of yours, your skin laps loudly against mine, till I feel my own streams of warm crimson liquid turn cold and am no longer able to scream out. Is that a new way to make me speak, Yunnie? I am reduced to nothing but a writing mess of shred flesh and tainted blood in front of you. My screams, my moans, my pleads belong to you and only to you, or do you ask for more? Do you want more? My brain? My intestines? My kidney? I will gladly give them to you, I will willingly live on with staples around my belly and chest after removing them, because I do not know how to stitch a wound closed.
Yunnie, you deserve to die the most horrible death, for doing this to me, to my body, to my heart. You have eaten me from the inside like an acidic snail and now you're blaming me. I do not know who the despicable hypocrite it anymore, Kim Jaejoong or Jung Yunho. The line has become so blurry, the line between sanity and insanity, freedom and imprisonment, reality and distortion, love and hatred.
Now I look at you with my eyes fully open, I see light, and I see darkness. You are not aware of how much you are worth, or you just assume that a masochist does not know how to cherish. My hands have been uncuffed and are suffering from angry crimson marks. There is nothing to bind me now, and with my miraculously remaining feeble strength, I cling to your ankle as you start to walk away. You yelp uncharacteristiscally and try to shake me off, you do not seem to care if your kicks might strike me in the head, you feign coldness towards me who is becoming a dog at your beck and call.
"Kim Jaejoong! Get away from me! Don't you dare touch me, you dirty whore!"
Whore? You do know well that I am not a whore, I give my body to no one but you and only you, you just curse me to let out the stress. But that is no way to treat your dog, Yunnie. You are supposed to love it, to stroke its fur everyday, to feed it enough, to respond to its needs. You do not discard it like trash. Because it forsakes everything for you, you could at least give it some of you superficial love.
You eventually close the door and I am left all alone again. It is alright, it is fine, I am used to your cold shoulders. But I find myself wondering, as blood cannot seem to dry but keeps streaming down my thighs and stains the sheets, what I lack to not being able to make you stay. Is it because sex with me is not satisfying? Is it because my threshold of pain is not enough? Is it because I did not scream loud enough, or my anal muscles have began to loosen? I do not have anything else to offer you beside my flesh and blood. I am drowned; how vast the wasteland where you left me alone becomes, everything is azure sky, constricted between invisible walls, a fake kind of freedom, a poor impersonation. And you know what is worst, Yunnie? I can see only you in the middle of all, you are the core of this hallucination, your whip and lashes and slaps seem so feeble and weak. You do not love me enough, do you, even if the kind of love I need is not all tender loving care like some cheap romance everybody can afford to stand.
No, you do not love me. You do not love me at all.
It feels good to know, because it hurts.
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A/N: Please read and review.