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08 April Reblog — boy kings - [prologue/?] Title: boy kings Synopsis: In which Uruha isn’t completely oblivious, just slow on the uptake.
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05 April Reblog — wip. Because all of them were still faceless Peter Pans with fool’s gold glory who could afford to fuck-for-nothing, but couldn’t afford a stereo. They still had splintered drumsticks and thrift shop jeans; Takanori still had to press his lips into the mic so hard, still had tear the skin open and drip red into the feedback, just to make a sound. A couple yellow-blue bruises on their necks was nothing, nothing, just skin-on-skin. – just Akira’s ex-girlfriend on the elder’s lips as he grips Uruha’s shoulder tight, the bar lights sparking his glazed eyes as he slurs into Uruha’s clenched jaw, “I think we’re going to make it, Kou.” It was nothing-nothing, but after looking away for months – keeping his eyes on the elder’s shoulder as the chords warbled and tripped, only ever catching his fleeting silhouette – Aoi was suddenly there. Right here.
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01 March Reblog — dear anon: I’m going to tell you something very important. The amount of comments you receive on your writing does not measure the beauty, the depth, or the strength, of your writing. It’s sometimes hard to hear “write for yourself, first” when you’re just starting out, or if you have always been a little secure with your writing in general. But I can tell you, without any doubts, that while every comment is appreciated a hundredfold, the true gift - the true passion - lies within you creating something from nothing. And isn’t that simply amazing? That you were so enamored with an idea, with the story that unfolded within your mind, that you gave it words, a voice. That’s beautiful, anon. And no amount of comments or reviews or praise will ever compare to that feeling of placing that final period and looking back at all that you’ve done. Please, don’t ever reduce your writing to trivial numbers. Your writing is so much more than that. And if you need a little more convincing, one of my favorite authors in the fandom receives almost no comments at all — and that has never, not once, taken away the simply astounding way she molds her words and creates, the way I have to catch my breath after every drabble. Comments don’t matter. Passion matters. Always. ♥
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01 March Reblog — skelter. Aoi’s hands tremble only slightly, just light shakes of not-yet-right, of Yune’s kiss on his spine – his knees cracking apart as Uruha drags his hips west, mouth on his flesh like a starless wound. Gaping, wide-open. And bar smoke singes his words as Aoi leans down, palms slick against Uruha’s collarbone and ash (and Yune) against his teeth: “This isn’t for you – “ “I don’t want you – ” Aoi watches him arc like a dirtied prayer into his chest. “Not you.” All legs and yellow-burnt hair and five beers and Akira. And his smile sharp as he breathes into Aoi’s quaking lips: “You will.”
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11 December Reblog — sounds like hallelujah. Title: sounds like hallelujah Synopsis: In which Akira’s ragged voice whispered “more” - and it was so wrecked that Kouyou could only touch back and nod: “okay, okay.”
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30 November Reblog — milk teeth. Title: milk teeth Synopsis: But then again, Akira works in a bakery – a fact that is always thrown into any argument with a sly grin, much to Akira’s endless frustration.
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24 October Reblog — clean / break Title: clean / break Synopsis: He’s peeling open, bones bent like prayers, “You need to wake up.” ( their hips crash together; little earthquakes - bone-deep )
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22 September Reblog
i. 2AM has Ruki leaning in close – close enough for Aoi to catch the embers ghosting along his neck, little reminders of how he’s burning up and out until his bones are soot; until he’s nothing but black memories dusting Aoi’s fingertips – and pressing his tongue to the hot-orange flames of Aoi’s cigarette. He stays there, lets the ashes coat his lips and bruise his gums, while Aoi bites down hard and watches Ruki’s garnet eyes flicker through the sighs of smoke. He can barely see him by the fading glow of the streetlamp, both of them sprawled out against the brick wall behind a nameless bar. The buttons on Ruki’s shirt are mismatched and the sleeve is crooked, slipping further off his shoulder with each desperate lick and cinder-filled sigh. Yellow neon sign above them slashes Ruki’s neck in two, slices him open wide – flames so close-close as the scotch gasps inside his chest. And Aoi wants to – needs-needs like a dying wick in his throat – to just move, just rip the cigarette from his gaping mouth, and scorch their lips with a clash of teeth and half-whispered promises. Because fuck, they don’t have time for this – not enough time to splay their legs open to crimson lights on the first breath of morning or swallow cigars or burn holes into their skinny bones. And they’re just a blear – just kindling crackling between their palms – his fingers ripping through ugly flannel sleeves, shoving the flames into his mouth and Ruki desperately tries (and fails miserably-miserably-perfectly) not to scald his heart, but Aoi whispers pleadingly into the heat of his jaw, voice wrecked and lungs black: ii. burn me alive.
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14 September Reblog — sing, little king. raindigo said:
::: “Get naked.” Bare like the bottom of a wine bottle, stripped like the city lights breathing in – out. Translucent like the smoke curling on his lips as he tips back the glass and swallows stars. Like heartbeats between the sheets, feeling lovers sink between his drum-scarred fingers like fading light – sipping in gasping sentences with too little talk. And maybe he’s drunk, maybe they’re both drunk – his patent leather shoes scuffing the cement in sloppy circles as the city’s glow blurs and croons a thousand lullabies into his ashen lungs. “Take it off,” they always whisper, pleading like broken records; scratched, skipping-skipping-repeat. Show me everything-everything-get-naked. They want him to kneel, handlebar their hips and butterfly-stitch their flesh. But Ruki wants to sip on slurred confessions, burn down forever, and bite into the pulse of each light that dares to touch the shadows beneath his eyes. He wants to reach and steal and fuck the notion of never. And so Ruki waits. And waits. Coating his lips with red wine and counting the city lights – waiting for the day when someone presses their chapped lips against his neck, teeth grazing his jugular, and pushes, compels him – “get naked” – – and he ties back his stiff, over-bleached hair, drunk hands shaking and strands falling into face to graze his cheek and lips. And he drags his fingertips across his eyelids, navy-gold dust caking beneath his nails. And he rips out his silver-blue irises and leaves his eyes black behind wired frames. And he folds himself like a prayer across the bed, back bent and crooked beneath their hands, reaching, reaching – for a pen – for paper, paper, skin, anything – and writes.
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01 September Reblog — i’m not a miracle. Title: i’m not a miracle. Synopsis: It’s like purple wine and old cigarettes burning their gums; like Yune slamming open the door and catching Uruha’s heated, half-mast gaze over Aoi’s naked shoulder; like walls against their backs and drumsticks stabbed through their spines. |
