tiny cities made of a s h e s

i had this dream.

Mon, 27 Oct 2008 07:28:58 GMT

So like.

I had this dream where I was living in my old house in Arlington again and Jamie (skycatcher) and Caleb (precto) came to visit. They brought this huge fucking catfish in a bucket and I didn't think too much of it at first 'cause it was a dream. And it's in Texas. Fishing's pretty big here.

But then they take the goddamn catfish out of the bucket and put it on my tile in the kitchen and I'm like "okay, they can gut it here, I guess." They aren't gutting it. These fucking assholes are teaching this catfish how to walk. And you know what? It's learning pretty well. I ask Caleb about it and he's like "We decided to push it into evolving into a land animal. It can already survive out of water."

Which it could.

This is all bad enough and I'm getting pretty pissed off because it's making a mess in my kitchen with its catfish slime, but then. THEN. Jamie reaches into its gill and fucks with something inside it and it pisses all over the place. I couldn't get them to stop and they just kept making it pee. It didn't stop peeing. So I got fed up and went to bed because I had to work the next morning, but my brother was in my room playing video games. My sister came in and left me a Mos Def cd and made my brother agree to take me to work.

And then I woke up to go to work, only my brother-in-law took me.

In short? Fuck you, Jamie and Caleb. You guys are douchebags.

EDIT: Hey, Haku (hakuren), I'm ready to start iconing again I'm so sorry I didn't for so long please don't hate me I love you.

yes.

Mon, 12 May 2008 09:32:30 GMT

Some of you know this about me, but I like to play this game. It's called the Google Game and I made it up myself. It's very amusing.

REQUIREMENTS:
-Loose morals
-A computer
-A lack of people looking over your shoulder
-Desensitization
-A chat window; more people, the better

1. Have a conversation where the subject matter goes from bad to worse.

Ex.:
Start out discussing abortions.
End with placentas.

2. Pick the worst noun out of the entire conversation and google it.

3. Pick the most disgusting pictures you can find.

4. Post the links to them in the chat window with an "LOL" or "XD" or "OIERJAOWIERJAWOR".

For every person who clicks the link and has an adverse reaction, you get one point. For every LOL, you lose a point.

Have fun, stay safe, and remember to turn off the safe search.

Fri, 25 Apr 2008 08:59:46 GMT

...Yeah. Totally hooked to Vampire Knight. It's too sexy.

My first final is tomorrow. May the Gods guide my knife through the starchy flesh of potatoes.

Juno was alright. I guess since everyone pumped it up, I was expecting more. Instead, I found myself wanting to punch her at one point. Did I talk like that when I was sixteen? Was I that annoying? Some of you might know better than I do. At least Michael Cera was a doll, as he always is. He's very good at playing the same character over and over again.

Juno (not Ellen Page. Juno.) should take notes on being endearingly sarcastic from Zooey Dechanel. Especially in Tinman. Kinda lame, but I really like her character. Or maybe I just like Zooey. I don't know.

I need to make icons.

...END.

OH YEAH.

Fri, 11 Apr 2008 06:26:53 GMT

UH, THOSE AREN'T MINE.

BUT I KICKED YOUR ASS, BATONNETS.

manga recs.

Sun, 06 Apr 2008 13:09:11 GMT

Okay. I need some manga recommendations. You know, other than Reborn. I swear I'll get around to reading it, but I need some shoujo. Mix it up. I'm working on Fruits Basket, I finished Full Moon, and I want something along those same lines. YOU KNOW, YEARNING ROMANCE LOL.

Also, laptop to be repaired soon. Icon making will once again be in full swing. Anyone interested in making a community? I figure if there are people constantly bitching, I'll actually make enough for a decent post.

does this turn you on? </3

Mon, 24 Mar 2008 08:20:33 GMT

DEAR JOURNAL,

LOL OMG!!! KEVIN IS SOOOO COOL. AND HE'S SO CUTE TO!!!1 MAYBE HE LIEKS ME IDK! TEEHEEHEEHEE!

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
EMMY!!!

GRAB BAG.

Fri, 21 Mar 2008 03:55:43 GMT

For polychromatic obviously. Chumps.

Ichimaru Gin

Day 1: Days of Our Young & Restless Passions
Bring on the melodrama, the evil twins, the surprise pregnancies, and the dark family secrets, for today the citizens' life is like an open-script soap opera. They're the main protagonists, antagonists, and everything in between. Extreme plot twists abound, many boxes of Kleenex will be on reserve, and everyone is wondering just what will happen next. Make sure to ham it all up, only high emotion will get you ratings.
Gin/Tomoyo. Lolwhut?

Day 2: Age Reversal Day
The young become old and the old become young. Fast forward to adulthood or rewind to the glorious days of youth.
Gin becomes a little boy. A corrupt little boy.

Day 3: ???
Maybe A Road Not Taken.

Zell Dincht

Day 1: I'm a Professional
Citizens claim to be some sort of expert in a particular field. Whether this is true or not is yet to be determined, probably by trial and error.
Zell decides he's a neurosurgeon. And that everyone needs a lobotomy stat.

Day 2: Handcuff Day
Although deathnotes will not be handed out, citizens will find themselves waking up cuffed to another; either a lover, a stranger, an ally, or an enemy. Cuffs will not have any working keys and a chain of only 3ft/1m in length.
Cuffed with Otae. Merger of dirty names.

Day 3: ???
Possibilities include No Inner Monologue Day and Morality Reversal Day.

yeah.

Thu, 13 Mar 2008 10:57:02 GMT

I'm tempted to start a writing journal, since sometimes when I post things on here, I friend-lock them by reflex. I don't want that to discourage people from reading my writing, but I'm worried that if I do it, it'll just sit there...unused. My poor icon journal.

I don't know. I guess I'll just do it. Why not.

more!

Thu, 13 Mar 2008 07:49:30 GMT

I wrote a Gin/Rukia drabble! Dedicated to hakuren. Also, I have some KakaSaku drabbles up at kakasaku, if you guys is interested.

Most of the time, he leaves quickly afterward, sometimes with some unnecessary, polite explanation and sometimes not. He leaves her curled on the floor, throbbing with a recent guilty, explosive, terrible, wonderful release. On occasion, he'll even leave before the finale - just to hear the soft sound of protest when he pulls away. Rukia can never quite stop herself from making that pitiful, pouty whimper; she always catches herself too late. It's not like he doesn't know.

It's not like he doesn't know that when she hears his voice down the hallway, calling a cheerful hello or goodbye, her knees start to tremble. Or that when she clamps her teeth and nails down on his shoulders, it's not so much to hurt him as to just hold on. That when he turns that feral, tight-lipped smile on her, she's already wet. He knows that when he leaves before they're done, she waits until she can no longer feel any traces of reiatsu before letting her fingers do the rest of the work.

Rukia still tries to justify things to herself. No one would believe her. Her brother would disown her. The last time she'd tried to run him through with her sword, he had simply run her through with his. The hilt, actually. And he hadn't exactly run her through, but it had definitely been inside her. He never let her finish a kidou incantation. Her physical resistance was ineffectual. There was nothing she could do.

These are the things she repeats to herself as he touches her, drawing her thin fingers up and down her front before replacing fingers with lips. These are the things she repeats to herself as his smiling mouth touches the most intimate parts of her and then she can't think anymore. Self-deception isn't something she likes to practice, but she has no choice. There was nothing she could do.

a fic.

Mon, 10 Mar 2008 10:46:10 GMT

I'm eighteen, so I can write dirty stuff. Cirucci/Gin drabble. Dedicated to stormcoming, the Cirucci-mun over at polychromatic for inspiring me with her characterization.

Untitled #3 -- 3-10-08

In the job description for Privaron Espada - female Privaron Espada - it says nowhere that anyone is to be fucktoy to superiors. It's more of an understood rule, one that Cirucci Thunderwitch is well acquainted with. It's usually not such a terrible arrangement. She readily caters to the most twisted of whims because those whims are her own. Sometimes, it's nice to remember that bleeding can be pleasurable, that submission isn't always humiliating, and that domination isn't entirely out of her reach. She can identify most of the heterosexual male arrancar chiefly by their kinks. None of them disturb her.

None but his.

He kisses her softly and touches her in the same way, thin lips following her curves with a perfect smile. He is always slow. Considerate, even. They don't speak of what they do often, but when they do, he doesn't call it 'fucking' or even just 'having sex'. 'Makin' love' is his euphemism of choice, and everytime she hears it, it's enough to make her gag. He's good at what he does, and when her mouth screams pleasure but her eyes spell mutiny, he chuckles low in his throat and places his hands over both. But she can't imagine him to be anyone else, not with his scent and his reiatsu bearing over her. When she actually manages to picture another face, he speaks to her in soft, sing-song tones, words that make her burn with shame and dizzy with want.

It's the worst sort of abuse she can imagine.

He never breathes hard or moans or even changes his expression. Fucking her is a walk in the park. Nothing worth exertion. And he never comes unless it's on her, warm and terrible. When it's over, he holds her close for as long as he can before she can think up an excuse that's not too trite. This bothers her most of all. One day, she dares to ask him whether or not he has more important things to do than to just lay with her. In return, he asks her what's wrong with a little 'cuddlin'. She sweetly replies nothing, but has to stop herself from recoiling.

All this affection is such a lie that it makes her own pale in comparison. She can do fake, but not this kind of fake - the kind that borders on mockery and pity. When it's over, she takes the longest baths she can imagine, scrubbing every part of her drops of him landed. It's like screwing a fox. She's not really into beastiality, but she can't say no. And some nights, when he treats her like porcelain but talks to her like the nothing she is, when she's whispering his name like it's the only one she knows, she forgets what the word even means.

to those ancient fans of fics of mine....

Sun, 09 Mar 2008 23:49:08 GMT

I reread the epilogue of Comfort today. It's one of my favourite things I've ever written. I was about fifteen at the time, but I feel like that chapter is more mature than anything else I have out there (besides The Dark and Perfection, my top two). The rest of Comfort is kind of throwaway. Kid's shit, the typical "Kakashi and Sakura get it on, Kakashi feels guilty, etc...." with a rape scene to make it a little more sassy, but the epilogue still speaks to me.

So yeah, I'm rethinking an idea I had back then to rewrite it with more sex scenes (as if it needed more) and changing some of the plot lines. Maybe adding more. Adding depth. I think my writing was better then, but it'd be interesting to see Comfort in my current perspective.

It's sad - so many of the people I knew back then and the people I dedicated it to I don't speak to anymore. Well. I don't know. I'm just thinking it all over.

happy birthday to self.

Fri, 17 Aug 2007 11:41:16 GMT

Okay. As a birthday gift from myself to all of you, I have an unfinished piece of original work I'd like to share. I got too lazy to keep going, and I doubt I will later. So, here you go.

DISMANTLING

First, he gripped either side of his head, palms braced against his temples, and tugged, alternately turning it left and right. The tears on either side of his mouth were small, hardly noticeable at first, but with his continued motions, they widened turning his face into a caricature smile. The sound was loud, abrasive, the same noise a bandage made when torn off skin. His teeth, shining and wet, were now visible from the sides of his cheshire cat grin. With a click and a sharp twist, his skull dislodged itself from his hanging jaw. Nerves ripped, muscle unraveled. Then, securing one hand beneath his upper teeth, he disconnected his backbone from his now hanging skull, a skillful one-hand unclasping that would make bra-frustrated college boys green with envy.

His brain had never been very well-attached to his skull. Only the roof of his mouth kept it inside the upper half of his head, which he was now setting down on a tall shelf gently, scalp side down. His own eyes watched him with scorn, rolling in their sockets - Oh gosh,this again. - but he continued diligently. The eyes had to admit, the way the exposed tongue glistened in the light was almost pretty. But that was short-lived; his massive hand had wrapped around the said tongue and was now pulling it out, wrapping it around his fist to prevent tangling. That tended to happen often and the eyes were relieved that he had finally decided to take its advice.

He laid the coil of tongue on the shelf beside the head, where it joined the eyes as a spectator. The tongue personally found the coiling unpleasant, but it had to admit that being tangled was much more uncomfortable. Both the eyes and the tongue were exasperated with how he next removed his jaw. It was one of the more breakable parts of him, but he treated it rather irreverently, jerking it upwards where it should have been gently prised out. The skin and flesh wrapped around it were worthy cushions, but they were not invincible. He was not so young as he once was, after all. But he was set in his ways and ignored their disapproval as he set the jaw beside them, where it complained of its rough treatment.

The neck was next to go. This time, the shelf's occupants had no complaints as it was twisted off, though the skin that hung from it was a little longer than it should have been. They decided to cut him a little slack, however, and remained silent as the neck was placed on the shelf below. This was where it got tricky and he would need the utmost concentration.

Digging his fingers beneath the upraised, frayed skin on his chest, he peeled it down. It detached in a long strip, baring his pliable muscle. He used his nails to unstick it from his ribcage - this was the part he hated the most, as flesh inevitably remained in his nailbeds for days after. The meat came off after a few tries though, and he was able to remove his abdominals without much trouble. He allowed them to rest on the middle shelf, as they had requested. It got a little messy after that. Some of the organs occupying the bottom half of his torso - specifically, the liver, the small intestines, large intestines, kidneys, bladder and stomach - fell out onto the floor with a wet slap and a small shriek from each. The liver was already bruised and it was perhaps the least pleased. Shrugging in apology, he secured the liver on the middle shelf first, then his stomach (which was deflated and pitiful) and kidneys and bladder (which were stony and soggy). They were not in much better condition than the liver, but they were much better sports. He gave the small intestines and large intestines the same treatment as the tongue, but they took much longer and much more of his arm. They did not particularly care about being wound in such a manner, as they were used to contorting themselves into weird, space-saving positions. Those went on the shelf as well.

His lungs were too ill to be moved. Black and porous, they glared as his hand reached beneath the ribcage and refused to be coerced, despite his persuasive gestures. The heart was fine though, despite feeling a bit under the weather that day. It had been a long time since it last spoke to the brain, as it had been very busy as of late.

uh.

Mon, 02 Jul 2007 19:07:18 GMT

man.

i'm tired of smelling like gasoline.

also, i'm in vietnam.

might be making new icon community soon with nyaa if i can get my shit together. stay tuned if you like my icons and jumbo enemas.

a few entries ago, i made a comment on my fickleness and how i'm unable to rp on both boards and livejournal on the same time. well, i'm sick of boards for the time being, so guess what i'm coming back to? i need a better hobby. maybe a job. a garden. some drugs. whatever.

that said, i'm feeling some pretty deep antipathy.

LEAVING PT 2 -- 2/13/2007

Tue, 13 Feb 2007 09:19:40 GMT

Part two of Leaving, but the two can be read separately. It's just a look into an adventure our protagonist has after abandoning his wife and kids. Dedicated to anotherstraycat.

The bar closes at two o'clock as city law mandates. He leaves slowly, people before him and behind him in twos, threes, and fives, murmuring and laughing. There's desperation in the air and even though he is drunk, he can sense it. Between the slurs and the giggles, he can hear the abandoned innuendos and uncaught suggestions. He wonders how many people will end up pregnant tonight.

He is probably the oldest man in the area. These people, these kids, are in their early twenties, fresh from college or still in it, pretending at adulthood. He's been an adult and he can't understand why anyone would want to play such a silly game. Reflexively, he reaches into his pocket to check the time on his cell phone when he realises that he threw that out a week ago. He draws a hand across his chin only to realise that it has been four days since he last shaved. He doesn't even know where his car is.

Freedom is as glamorous as he had imagined. Countless dalliances with girls half his age, endless walks to nowhere, stars above and concrete beneath. He's left suburbia for the city and he drinks every night to remind himself that he likes it.

He wanders into an alley, destination unknown. His kindred are here; the ne'er-do-wells and left-behinds sleeping and shitting and eating and drinking in their shanties. He passes them and they pay him no notice. Just like his old family, they know to ignore each other. When he breaches the other side in a halo of light, he cannot differentiate this street from the last. Everything is the same - meandering twenty-somethings, clubs, bars, graffiti. He sweeps his head from side to side and his sight takes a moment to follow.

He finally sees one difference. Alone and away from the crowd sits a girl with her back against a streetlamp. She's shrouded in a black trench, knees to her chest, a span of white skin evident before it disappears into black shin-high PVC boots. Her nails are black and some sort of spiderweb pattern covers what little of her forearms can be seen. His middle daughter liked black nail polish too. Without rhyme or reason, he goes to her, pulled by something or nothing.

Now, he can see a collection of something beneath her that looks like motor oil but smells like blood. Her hair, he can see, is a bright red with blonde peeking from the roots. He stops, his shadow interrupting the light, and she finally looks up. Her skin is so pale that the streetlamp colours it yellow and the bags beneath her eyes are so stark that they dull the green of her eyes. The trench falls open a tad and he can see cleavage dipping into a netted black top. She is thin and lithe, he can tell; he is too drunk to know not to look. His gaze pans out and his attention falls to her palms. The spiderweb pattern on her arms isn't a pattern at all, he realises. Someone has carved the tree-branch design of her veins into her wrists.

"Got a light?" She asks, voice hoarse. Her speech is slow, every syllable stretched into two. This is how children talk. He tries to emulate it.

"Yeah."

"Got a cigarette?"

He gives her both, watching as she saturates the Camel filter with blood as she places it between thin, cracked lips. The lighter flicks to life and for a moment, she looks like a skeleton as the flame throws light across her face.

"You're bleeding."

"You're observant. I like that."

"Should I call someone? You're...dying."

He reaches for his cell phone again and it's still not there.

"No, don't call anyone. I did this to myself."

I did this to myself. He agrees.

"Sit down." She says. So he does.

He sits beside her and immediately, he can feel the droplets of blood seeping into his slacks. Or maybe he's imagining it, but it's there in some way or another. He shifts to sit as she does, knees to his chest, arms limp at his sides, knuckles against the pavement. She presses the cigarette to his lips and he inhales, tasting fruity lip gloss and blood.

"How old are you?" He asks after exhaling.

"I'm nineteen. How old are you?"

"I'm twenty-five."

"I'm sixteen."

"I'm thirty-seven."

She leans forward and turns to look at him, smiling gently. Her teeth are uneven, but he likes that. They stare at each other for minutes that feel like hours that feel like days. This is probably comfortable silence. But he's tired of silence because he's been living in it for twenty years.

"Why did you do it? Slit your wrists, I mean."

She shrugs enigmatically and laughs; it sounds like nails across a chalkboard. This, he feels, is a good answer. He says so aloud: "That's a good answer."

"There's not always a reason, you know." She shivers. "Man, it's cold."

Suddenly, he doesn't want to be here anymore. He doesn't want to be in this city he doesn't like with this girl he doesn't know. This girl he will never know. He takes off his coat and drapes it around her and stands. He wasn't imagining the blood on his pants. She is waiting for him to say something and he's waiting to say something too. He's looking for some sort of epiphany to pull from the ether. Instead, all he can think about is that he can still taste the lip gloss and blood. It's a very potent cocktail.

"Good luck with dying." He says, thinking to himself that he probably sounds very cool.

"Good luck with...whatever." She gestures "whatever" with her hands, grabbing and waving at the air. And he leaves.

***

For the next week, he spends most of his time looking over his shoulder, expecting to see her ghostly face. Or a cop. He can't decide which is worse.

Closure, he thinks. He needs closure because, even though he doesn't know her name, he thinks about her and her shiny boots and crooked teeth. He thinks about how he tasted her lip gloss and her blood on the cigarette; which flavour is more intimate? They shared something and, he decides, she's probably not dead. Even though he didn't call the ambulance, someone else did.

He sees her face in the obituaries. The picture blurs when he focuses too long, but he can recognise the smile and the eyes. At the time of the picture's inception, she was blonde. Sixteen. Abbie West. Sixteen. Tragically took her own life, etc., memorial service will be held at x time at x place.

When he goes to x place, he is startled to see people there. So many people crying, holding each other, staring into space as if they might see her there looking down, staring at the ground as if they might see her there lookking up. No one knows him and everyone watches him suspiciously - who is this stranger intruding on their mourning? - but they accept him anyway. They hold his hand during the prayers, they cry on his shoulder. They mistake his expression for grief.

He is not sad; no, she did that to herself. And sometimes there's not always a reason. But he is surprised. Not because she's dead.

Simply because she existed before him. She had a life before their first meeting. He cannot understand this because the same cannot be said for him.

LEAVING -- 2/12/2007

Mon, 12 Feb 2007 09:51:30 GMT

An original short story by yours truly.

He is thirty-seven and married. Three-point-five children, manicured lawn, doting wife. Office job. Forty-thousand a year. Coffee maker. Two living rooms. Family-friendly sedan. Golden retriever. When he wakes up, the first thing he steps in is his youngest daughter/son's play-doh.

This is not what he wanted out of life. When he was younger, he had ideas, plans. Astronaut. Firefighter. Rock star. Poet. Artist. Doctor. Veterinarian. The sort of occupation that couldn't be carried out within an 8x8 cubicle that gets smaller every day, no matter how nice the view. When he was younger, his parents led the life that he leads now and he couldn't imagine living the same way. Staying in one place. Eating at one table. Speaking in monosyllabic sentences, usually in statements made questions like the unique speech of foreign English speakers.

History repeats itself. How his parents looked at each other and touched each other is how he and his wife touch each other now. When their hands brush, it's accidental and he is usually the one to jerk his hand away. When they drive together, they stare straight ahead, trusting the hum of the climate control to fill the pauses between their awkward murmurs. When they sleep together, his back faces hers and she holds a pillow instead of him. Neither of them move in the night and in the morning, when she has risen earlier than him, he is just as alone as he was when she was there. At dinner, they sit at opposite sides of the table, smiling at their children but never at each other. He has avoided her stares for so long that he has forgotten what her face looks like. They don't have sex.

He used to call this quiet between them a comfortable silence. A mark of maturity in their twenty year relationship, seventeen year marriage. The fact that they no longer felt the urge to voice every thought and opinion or discuss every event of the day meant, back then, that they had finally grown to the point where such inane conversation was unneccessary. He knows now that the reason for the abrupt pause in conversation is because they've run out of things to say. Every thought and opinion is one that they've had before. Every discussion topic has been picked over until its a carcass not even the golden retriever would look at.

Sometimes, he thinks about leaving. It's always a fleeting thought, but over time, it starts burrowing into his head. Everytime he shoves creamed whatever into his daughter's mouth, he wonders if there's a dimension outside the nine to five. When he looks at his wife in the mirror of their bathroom, he wonders if there are other women. Women who would openly accept his kisses and part their thighs when he lays his hand upon them. He stares out his window at work, wondering if the scenery is real or if it's just a cardboard front. If he were to walk into the world, would he crash into a wall? Or would the road open for him? Was there anything beautiful, mysterious, or exotic behind those rolling hills? He will never know. He has to know. He wants to know.

One night, he leaves to go buy milk. He kisses his toddler daughter and pinches her cheeks, promising her the world though she can't understand him. He ruffles his oldest son's hair, smiling at how he ducks away from his hand as he tries to concentrate on his video game. On his way out the door, his fingers wrap slowly around his keys and he thinks:

This is the last time I'm ever going to buy milk.

This is the last time I'm ever going to see them.

This is the last time I'm ever going to look back.

Drabble #2.

Mon, 22 Jan 2007 05:19:10 GMT

MayuNemu is my number one crack pairing. It's so deliciously evil. I originally wrote this for the kids at KU with no intention of posting it on my real journal, but, here it is anyway for the people at metrocardcity.

He tells her that this is what all fathers do with their daughters. They just don't discuss it.

And she has tried never to dispute this. If he has been one thing with her, she thinks, it's honest. And if he has ever lied, it's in her best interest. Fathers always work in the best interest of their daughters. So when his hands find her thighs, prying them apart with fingers so cold, no matter what the temperature outside and kisses her so hard their teeth meet, she doesn't say no. Because she's never said no to him.

But when she's left alone and shivering, her blood slowly finding its way back along its normal path, she wonders. Because when she leaves his room unable to properly walk, she draws attention. Because when he lightly touches her hair, people notice. Because when she sees fathers with their children in the street, holding hands and laughing, she can't imagine them doing what he does to her.

But maybe this is because other families just aren't as open about it as they are. Or maybe she lets herself believe what he says. Maybe she lets herself believe it because sometimes, she's the one who pries his thighs apart and she's the one who kisses him so hard that their teeth meet. Sometimes, he's the one who doesn't say no.

Drabble.

Sat, 20 Jan 2007 10:07:50 GMT

I've noticed that in my fiction, I really like using parallel structure. I think that's the right term for it. It's kind of annoying to me, but...eh.

Beneath the cut is a limey ByaRuki drabble I wrote for magicalcow. I kind of like it. I'll probably hate it by tomorrow though, since I hate everything I write eventually.

Even in situations such as these, he is in perfect control. Every deft stroke of his tongue, every sweep of his hand. Only the cadence of his breath is erratic, speeding and slowing at intervals Rukia cannot calculate. His fingers are everywhere and what his hands cannot reach, his hair does, tickling over the coldest edges of her figure, following the slight curve of her waist as his head travels lower, lower.

In these moments, Rukia does her best not to think. In these moments, he is not her brother. He is someone else entirely; a hulking monster dragging nails and lips across the previously untraveled terrain of her body, exploring the places where she herself never dares to visit. In these moments, she tries her best not to speak. Because to open her mouth would be to utter incoherencies, broken syllables of affirmatives and negatives. He has specifically told her never to speak when they are together like this and she never disobeys his orders.

When he tells her to turn, she does. When he tells her to rise, she does. And in the morning, when he tells her to leave, she does.

[04:14] EMMY LIKES CRACK PAIRINGS LOLOL: Man. I think I may be the only one in the world who thinks Isshin is hot though.
[04:15] Britt: I think he's hot
[04:15] EMMY LIKES CRACK PAIRINGS LOLOL: Thank god I'm not alone.
[04:15] EMMY LIKES CRACK PAIRINGS LOLOL: He has such a Jew nose.
[04:15] Britt: but I think it's sort of a byproduct of him being completely awesome
[04:15] Karlie: \OMG
[04:15] Karlie: EMMY
[04:15] EMMY LIKES CRACK PAIRINGS LOLOL: =D?
[04:15] Karlie: Isshin is blatantly a shiba bastard child right?
[04:15] Karlie: GANJUU
[04:15] Karlie: GANJEW

KYLARA.

Tue, 07 Nov 2006 08:08:55 GMT

Oh man. Kylara. Where do I even begin?

I remember some two or three years ago when we accepted her as Sasuke. I knew that Rio needed a nice little brother to bone and she was a good RPer and accepted. I remember hoping, "Oh JESUS, I hope this doesn't get to the point where I choke on my own vomit from my inordinate fear of anal sex." And what happened? Well, if you were apart of the glory days of rp_no_jutsu you know. I began to like the ItaSasu pairing, though I had never liked any boy-on-boy pairing before. I give Kylara and Riomi credit for that.

I was a little intimidated of Ky in the beginning. She was older than me, smarter than me, sexier than me, wittier than me, and definitely a better writer than me. And plus, I was a little jealous that she and Riomi were so close (RIO IS MINE). At some point during all this, though, I thought, "If I were to ever RP yaoi, it would probably be with her." Anyone who knows me knows this is a huge deal. I still hate yaoi, but if it has anything to do with Ky's Sasuke, I will read it.

We became close after my first "disappearance". I reentered the jutsu crack chats and, for some reason, started making up this elaborate story about how I set this squirrel on fire for shits and giggles. Of course, it was all fake (I would never do that), but with all the detail I was putting into it, it seemed real. One by one, everyone left except for Ky, who was enthralled. It was then that I knew that she was someone special. We started talking one on one soon after and I found that maybe she wasn't so intimidating. Maybe she was pure awesome.

Since then, Ky and I have been tighter than a conservative's asshole. I remember New Year's when I was about to cry my little drunken eyes out and calling her and somehow, she made everything better. Not too much better since I barfed four times the next day, but somewhat better. She even called me on my birthday. She is one of my favourite people on the internet, a damn good mod, and so meticulous it hurts. I adore her to pieces.

MINA

Mon, 06 Nov 2006 07:35:17 GMT

Okay. So. This is going to be short. D: So sorry.

Honestly, after something like two or three years of knowing and RPing with Mina, I still don't know much about her. Not sure whose fault this is. From what I know of her, Mina's a great girl. Smart, funny, witty, and all the things I generally look for in a good snarking companion. I remember reading her Neji application so many years ago and thinking: "AH. YES. THIS IS IT." Since then, I've played with quite a few Nejis here and there, but since Mina took my Neji virginity, I can't really see him played by anyone else. And oh, the crack chats. Special Hyuuga shampoo, "special powder" taken through the optic nerves, various attacks on my cradle-robbing Kakashi, buttfucking Sasuke until his asshole is a bloody pulp.... Maybe the last one isn't so fond a memory, but everything else is.

SO. YAY MINA!!!

----

Want a day? Too bad because LJ is fucking up and I can't find the link.

ZIRI.

Tue, 17 Oct 2006 00:16:49 GMT

Let me give you all a run-down.
Over the past two years I have:
∙Written five lemon oneshots (four Naruto, one Bleach)
∙Written two limes
∙Written countless oneshots and songfics
∙Finished one multi-chapter fic
∙Founded three roleplay communities
∙Played four Kakashis (RNJ, KHS, Ziri, NA)
∙Played six Ankos (LS, NA, Broderick, Paixao and others I can't remember)
∙Played two Renjis (LS, SG)
∙Played three Rukias (SHS, OOC!Rukia, IC!Rukia)
∙Played two Hitsugayas (Crack Bleach and elsewhere)
∙Used four different graphics programs (Fireworks, GIMP, PSP, different PS programs)
∙Used 549684984984984 AIM sns
∙Used four MSN sns
∙Been in four different HP RPs
∙Seven LJ layouts (srsly)

I also quit smoking. Not by any choice of mine. My brother moved in, you see. I know many people will be happy with my un-decision.

wolfieziri and I met roughtly two years ago. According to her, we met after she found my LJ through my AFF account. And then she spammed me with some of the greatest, sexiest fanart ever and came to me with the idea of turning one of my fics into a doujin. That never happened, but you know what did? A lot of crack. A lot of love. A lot of indiscriminate sex.

She joined RNJ, the first RP I'd ever created, as my Sakura and I was her Kakashi. It was beautiful. Together, we RPed multiple scenes of depravity. Though the settings and universes changed, I was always Kakashi and she was always Sakura - the best Sakura I could ever ask for, really (sorry for other Sakuras I've RPed with). There was no shortage of crack between us - in fact, I am very surprised that I didn't die from overdose during those times. We even managed a Naruto/Hinata/Kiba (with me as Naruto and Kiba). You should see the art she has from those RPs. I mean, wow.

During my first disappearance, aka the time I got grounded over a year ago, Ziri was there. She was the first to send me a letter and I still have it. And she was the first I replied to. I still remember our late-night phone calls when I had no other means of entertainment. I would walk around the house, cleaning whatever could be cleaned because I was so bored, and she would be yapping into my ear about something or another and it was fantastic. To this day, every time we chat with one another, I can hear her voice.

I'm convinced Ziri and I will be together forever. For. Ever. Whether or not that's a good thing, I'm not sure. Ziri, you complete me. ♥x10

----

Want a day?

JANNA.

Mon, 16 Oct 2006 06:15:06 GMT

I'm supposed to wait before posting this, but I got impatient.

Ohmigod. anotherstraycat. I'm not sure where to begin, so I guess I'll start at the very beginning.

Once upon a time, I had a story called Comfort. It was my second lemon ever, the first I ever completed, and my first Naruto fanfiction. This was even before I had an LJ, mind you. I joined a yahoo club to see if other people shared my KakaSaku obsession and if anyone would beta read. Turns out that there was a yes to both. Janna rose to the task and I admit, I was afraid. She intimidated me because she seemed so mature and she was such a good writer.

To be honest, I don't remember when we first started connecting. It may have been when she became Temari. I don't RP Naruto anymore, but she's still the only person I would even begin to consider as Tem. It also may have been when I started quasi-beta-ing Hindsight. I became such a fangirl. But in any case, we did connect and I admit, I got a huge crush on her. I think I still have it. We opened two RPs together, one of which has flopped, the other one I don't know what happened: but hey, we'll always have SHS.

Nothing gave me more pleasure than trading music back and forth with her, RPing with her, or just plain talking with her. She's funny, charming, and she can speak French which is just about the sexiest thing ever. I can share so much of my interests and hobbies with her, including my X-Men obsession. I'm the first person she ever called from the internet, I am proud to say, and she told me something about being soft like butter in French. Then she moved across the country and I moved across town.

I still love her to fucking bitty pieces though. I'm still planning to see her next August. I threw away the sketchbook I was going to send her two Christmases ago because it broke. But it had the beginnings of a drunken letter in it.

So, Janna? Slide, baby doll.

----

Want a day?

KAT.

Mon, 16 Oct 2006 05:56:04 GMT

What can I say about katabulous that hasn't already been said in a dictionary? She is saucy, sexy, and so freaking cute. She has the kind of cheeks you want to kiss and bite.

We first met at leafsociety where I played Anko and she Hayate. What began as an innocent RP involving Anko and Hayate stealing endless amounts of cigarettes from a convenience store became one of my favourite pairings in Naruto RPing: HAYANKO. Yes. In all caps.

Our characters weren't the only ones who fell in love. We did as well. Our whirlwind love affair was filled with all sorts of depravity where we shared all our bizarre fetishes (hair colour, her art, and more) and where I revealed to her my greatest fears. I won't reveal them here, but let me just say that Kisame is scary.

I saw her through her break up and make up with her ex-boyfriend-now-roommate and she saw me through my very awkward relationship with a certain fellow that she screwed up (by accident). Together, we have mocked music and taken the world by storm. I don't speak to her much anymore, but then again, I really don't speak to many people. She is such a good person and such a good friend and I adore her like no other.

----

Want a day?

PSYCHEDELICS SURVEY.

Tue, 28 Mar 2006 06:04:31 GMT

I'm doing a project in psychology on psychedelics, its effects, and how society perceives it. I'm hoping to get at least twenty people to answer this, so please just take a few minutes to answer this. If you've tried psychedelics before and would like to post an experience, please do so in a comment. You can post under anonymous if you don't want your identity to be known.

View Poll: Psychedelics

WARNING: Slightly Racist.

Thu, 16 Feb 2006 14:21:53 GMT

TODAY.

I had to ride the bus. I went to the bus stop and this Mexican guy asked me if I smoked. I said "yes, but my cigarettes are back at the apartment." He then asked me if I smoked weed. I said, "yes. and if I had some, I'd share." He then went on to tell me, "Already."

What does that mean?

When I got on the bus, I was surprised to see that the black people weren't collected at the back, as it was pre-integration. Because for all the bullshit that Rosa Parks went through, black people still sit at the back of the bus. But you know why black people were all over the bus?

Because the entire bus consisted of black kids and a few Mexicans.

I was the only Asian.

TALK ABOUT CULTURE SHOCK.

Emmy likes to rant when it's before noon.

Tue, 10 Jan 2006 16:07:12 GMT

I fucking swear, if I see another asshole with a myspace name like "OMG IT'S MEGAN FROM MYSPACE" or "LOOK, IT'S SHIRLEY," I will stab a pencil through my eye. I'm so fucking sick of it. It's not cute. It's not funny. I think it lost it's humour when the 23875927835th scene kid put that as their myspace name. FUCK. I think I will personally send a message to every person I see with that name and tell them that they are not cool.

I've resolved that everyday, I'm going to tell someone something I don't like about them. Fuck giving someone a compliment daily. That doesn't solve any problems. I think every high school student, including myself, needs a big cockslap because we are all pretentious little bastards. At least, all the ones I know are.

This morning, I woke up to a very loud, high-pitched moan thing. My first thought was, "FUCK. Zombies." And then I went through a mental checklist and I quickly devised a way to block entrance into the apartment. Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean that they're not out there. If I were older, I would purchase a semi-automatic and get some time at a shooting range ASAP.

I had a dream about running away the other day. I was with some guy and we were in a car and as we were going to the airport, the police stopped the car because the stickers were out and found out that the car was stolen. I think that's a sign or something.

School life is so monotonous. I can't help but think if it's this bad now, it'll be ten times worse whenever I reach the working world. That depresses me. These are supposed to be the best days of my life, and yet, every day is spent in the same, horribly boring way. If these are the best days, what will the worst days be like? Should I just kill myself now instead of slowly rotting away in the workplace? I'll become a zombie. Not in the undead, flesh-eating sense, but in the mindless, droning sense.

Middle-eastern people smell strange.

THE END.