I can't look to those eyes anymore; I know them too well. Those eyes know me better though. They are not to be trusted. They know my faults, fears, and failures just as well as my beauties, hopes, and successes. I'm vulnerable in those eyes, and I am(more) so terrified of being that.(less)
a bill to pay. an appointment to make with the doctor who talks to you about your stomach and intestines in that building you dont know what to call because it definitely is not a hospital. lunch with a childhood acquaintance; shes getting married soon! and then divorced. a(more) job interview, a conference to register for, planet tickets to buy, fraud alert talk to the credit card people the emails go on and on; each unchecked box blurting out a synopsis of an upcoming anxiety attack. breathe deeply. i cant.
theres a heavy sediment in my blood, though its not coarse enough to scar my veins, i can feel it. the grains of something or other being pulled through my arms, through my legs, along the undersides of my eyes what is it what are they? theres a certain heaviness about being alive and maybe sometimes it becomes grey powdery sand and when we lie in bed it settles to the bottom of the sea.
sounds of skin against skin, i draw lines along myself to try and get out of my head and into my body and avoid those terrifying mental sinkholes; all it takes is one misstep and the next thing you know youve slipped into the water and an 8 ton sea creature has the tips of your toes in its endless mouth and you try your hardest to close your eyes, but you can see that there is no end or beginning and the surface and the floor of the sea are beyond you and time is running out. dragged into the abyss by this enormous hovering creature, its so goddamn cold. those eyes so void of empathy, understanding, sense.
its night outside and the moon is nowhere to be seen. no magic in the air.(less)
Handcuffs were off-limits for a variety of reasons, so Goto had made do with a necktie from Masayoshi's immense closet, delicately looped around wrists and then tied firmly to the headboard. "You're sure this is okay?"
(more) "You've asked me that seven times," Masayoshi said, and there was nothing but patience and fondness in his tone. "This is okay, I'm okay, and you're wonderful."
Goto ducked his head in a futile attempt to hide his blush. He was jealous of the way Masayoshi could say things like that as though it was nothing at all. He made one last tug on the necktie's knot, then slid down to pull Masayoshi's lips into a deep kiss, just to give himself something else to think about.
The strategy was successful, as usual; it was so easy to lose himself completely in Masayoshi like this, one hand tangling in tussled hair, the other tracing erratic nonsense patterns on Masayoshi's chest and sides and back. It was different like this, without a complimentary set of hands roaming over his skin as well, to the point that it was nearly distracting. Masayoshi was squirming under him, and the friction was incredible but couldn't compare to nails and tongue and teeth.
Goto was about to lose his nerve completely, but just as he pulled away and opened his mouth to speak, Masayoshi made a low whining noise deep in his throat that shot through Goto like a firecracker. Masayoshi's eyes fluttered open and Goto found himself ensnared for a long moment, the two of them staring into each other as though an eternity wouldn't be enough.
"You're wonderful," Masayoshi repeated, blue-grey eyes following Goto as he kissed a path down Masayoshi's body, wrapped a hand around his cock, took the tip into his mouth. "Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful..."(less)
In those eyes I see the friendly fire. I see the egg on the face, the mud and the tar, all the little ugly bits that tear relationships to shreds.
It's in those eyes that she first saw the volcanoes. The anguish, the angry, skin striking skin lik(more)e a dark symphony. She slept through the pain, awoke with purple flesh, bruises that healed and then re-appeared in new places. Her skin was the canvas. He was the mad painter, equal parts genius and agony.
Surely there were words that could convey how the pain seeped and grew in her, how it flowered and bloomed and blew it's way into her crevice. Surely those words exist and in some parallel universe she has discovered them and she is writing of poem about skin as canvas and the abstract masterpiece her body became.
But in this world, in this time, in this iteration of herself, surely one of millions and billions across the cosmic and temporal landscape she was here. Standing behind him. Newspaper splayed in his hands. A bottle of whiskey. A half-empty glasses filled up with that ugly amber, the stench so vivid to her she could almost feel the welts blooming across her.
In this timeline she is tired. She is tired of rationalizing her hurt. She is tired of whatever world it is that has brought her to this place, so very helpless. Her purple cheek, the gun shaking in her hand. The scent of whiskey. His half-drunk stirrings.
So many nights like this. Nights that were almost indistinguishable. A blur of booze and screams and his anger flowing out of him like galloons of red rage.
Tonight is different. Tonight she feels the gun in her hand, her fingers clutching, the eerie silence of his final moan. (less)