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July 2011



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Jul. 30th, 2011


midnight thunder

posting old stuff. S80 drabble from January '10.


It is raining outside.

Yamamoto watches droplets hit the windowpane, scattering golden in the streetlight. He can see the rise of his chest, washed pale in the semi-darkness, and the long fall, ribs trailing out of sight like silent waves. He sighs and rolls over. Long fingers stretch into the air, ghosting along the spine of the body beside him. Squalo grunts in his sleep and shivers, drawing away from Yamamoto's questing touch.

He pulls his hand away and holds it up, watching the twist of knuckles beneath his own pearly skin. Something dark like blood is still crusted around his nails. He feels sick, dirty. A heady scent lingers in the air, clinging to the sheets. Yamamoto inhales the sharpness and rises, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to cradle his head in his hands.

Behind him Squalo stirs, and he glances back with a faltering smile. Squinting through rivers of quicksilver hair, Squalo murmurs something, breathlessly, brows knotting as he drifts back towards oblivion. Even in rest, his muscles twitch and stretch with every passing dream, and Yamamoto can't help but wonder what lurks behind those fluttering eyelids. Wonders, but doesn't want to know.

Instead he grips his arms, digging into the skin until it burns and flushes red in the cuts as he soon as he relaxes. He slides his fingers and clenches again, and again, until his forearms are a mosaic of purple welts and beads of blood and his breath comes a little ragged in his throat. He feels Squalo squirm and tug the sheets, but there is no one there to stop him.

Yamamoto chokes suddenly, and he almost doesn't realize it is a sob and stuffs a fist in his mouth to fight back the onslaught wracking his body. He can feel the draft from the crooked window on his back and can feel the biting pain in his skin. He remembers the feeling of Squalo inside him, remembers the rough hands on his hips and the itch of bedsheets on his thighs and the smell of sweat, can hear moans and the ringing of swords. But he can no longer remember how to feel. All he has left is a shell full of nerves and reactions, and Yamamoto is very cold and falling fast, when a hand snakes around his waist from behind and dry lips caress the small of his back.

Squalo remembers feeling the numbness, and he remembers waking up, but now he is on the outside looking in. He can only whisper little promises against Yamamoto's spine and wait out the storm.

Oct. 12th, 2010


just btw

this lj is basically a community journal. when i actually post entries, i tend to delete them or hide them. i'm now turning it into a diary with maybe occasional writing open to all. so, yeah. don't expect to see anything here; i use lj strictly for burning time lurking.

Nov. 16th, 2009


i am always skipping class these days

my skin is crawling
up my legs, as though
it could grow one
hundred legs and escape
this cage. i'm starting
to think i'm going crazy.
i want to run away, i am
nervous like wild dogs
in a classroom.
i know these people,
but they don't know me.
i love the feel of rough
asphalt on my heels,
splinters of glass in my
toes as i run into the
wind. i don't want to
go to school.

i like to pretend to leave to go to the restroom during class, just to see the open sky.


Jun. 28th, 2009



i was happy today
even though i wanted to
take a butcher knife
to my hips.