[Holy crap. The first one wrenched my insides very very subtly. Subtly, but oh, painfully like never. This is all my fault for giving prompts from which nothing good will come out of. The second one is love. :D really. It made my day. Because I honestly worship your writing, I offer up my own writing (which is admittedly lousy and of dubious quality) in exchange for more. Not exactly fair, but.]
One day when you're saner you'll go through the dregs of your memory and trawl the bottom of that bottomless pit. It's futile, but that doesn't stop you; not when your mind is as convoluted as the hallways that make up the labrinth of memories that you live in. Mai-to. Gai. Mai. To. THe syllables on your tongue like honey, sugared poison that you loll around your mouth; smooth as gumdrop candy, twice as sweet. The name's at the tip of your tongue, waiting to slip out, quietly, devastatingly: it'll be your downfall, one day, it will.
When he comes in from the rain, all tousled and subdued and damp, with the spring fresh over his shoes and hair you don't even look up from the book cradled between your hands, pages long neglected. After checking discretely to see that Icha Icha Paradise isn't upside down like the last time, you look up and allow yourself to bestow the object of your obsession (love? annoyance?) a grunt of acknowledgement and a bland, rain-water thin smile. Later when you've pressed him up against the bookcase with his legs parted and your pants pooled at your knees you don't think about obssesion, because admitting obsession is a weakness, and you abhor admitting weakness. There's soil on his clothes and the damp grassy scent on his skin; he smells of soap, manly strength, and rain-soaked earth. He thrusts a little too yieldingly, too softly, too gently. His coal black hair is limp on your back. The fan is spinning overhead, like the pit of our stomach as it is now, delirious with the weight of dread. He frowns, and you think: maybe it's pity (or rage) in those clouded eyes.
[.......this drabble thing has spawned a huge fic in my head. This, would be just the beginning. XD]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Re: Second Guy/Kakashi
Date: 2008-04-17 07:49 am (UTC)One day when you're saner you'll go through the dregs of your memory and trawl the bottom of that bottomless pit. It's futile, but that doesn't stop you; not when your mind is as convoluted as the hallways that make up the labrinth of memories that you live in. Mai-to. Gai. Mai. To. THe syllables on your tongue like honey, sugared poison that you loll around your mouth; smooth as gumdrop candy, twice as sweet. The name's at the tip of your tongue, waiting to slip out, quietly, devastatingly: it'll be your downfall, one day, it will.
When he comes in from the rain, all tousled and subdued and damp, with the spring fresh over his shoes and hair you don't even look up from the book cradled between your hands, pages long neglected. After checking discretely to see that Icha Icha Paradise isn't upside down like the last time, you look up and allow yourself to bestow the object of your obsession (love? annoyance?) a grunt of acknowledgement and a bland, rain-water thin smile. Later when you've pressed him up against the bookcase with his legs parted and your pants pooled at your knees you don't think about obssesion, because admitting obsession is a weakness, and you abhor admitting weakness. There's soil on his clothes and the damp grassy scent on his skin; he smells of soap, manly strength, and rain-soaked earth. He thrusts a little too yieldingly, too softly, too gently. His coal black hair is limp on your back. The fan is spinning overhead, like the pit of our stomach as it is now, delirious with the weight of dread. He frowns, and you think: maybe it's pity (or rage) in those clouded eyes.
[.......this drabble thing has spawned a huge fic in my head. This, would be just the beginning. XD]