hope i'm not erasing myself

wintery

Tue, 09 Dec 2008 15:22:19 GMT

more poetry, whether you read it or not:

under the stars
we’re moving on up
to nothing at all
and at night
beneath spilled milk
that spreads miraculously
through weightless air
we’ll talk about immortality
this is not a love poem
but let it be said
that under the brilliant
shining dead stars
echoes of lives and worlds
that do not belong to us
you were everything
I ever wanted.

In that moment, each moment
so lost
so irretrievable
you said to me
under and over every
long dead ancestor
every long dead thought
to live forever-

every life ends in tragedy,
you said
how unbearably sad
how empty an existence
being without time
if each moment was
not lost forever
but stayed, held onto you.

and you will live as if within a frame
and you will live as if dead
if you lived forever
in the end you, arm in arm with Time
could do nothing
nothing at all!

You said,
under the stars:

I would rather spend a single, paltry human life
with you than carry
everyone’s lives
forever.

You kissed me but,
on that night under
stars and secret galaxies
under the balmy air
no longer clean and pure

(although we could pretend)
We were not a love story.
We were a beginning.

no title yet

We get high off nail polish remover
and in the winter we forget what love is
and remember being selfish
just so we can survive it all.

Bloodless amorality
no matter what we accomplish
knee deep in snow colder that
what we imagine death to be.

A sunset spilled like salvation
if beauty can exist
surely there is room enough for us too
as long as that purple sky remembers.

This is what we were given
so this is what we keep
we invent names for every colour
and we cannot see the others.
We are all made up of tiny universes
and we cannot see the worlds that surround us
not because we are blind,
but because we don’t know.
We hold each other
in the absence of God
we hold each other
in pain, in pleasure.

It is all we know.

for M.

I avoid confrontation
so we’ll be okay
All my smiles are for you,
I think, as stupid as it sounds
all my laughter is for you
and I’m not even lying
This headlong rush
into something
somewhere
not dark, but bright
You can have me,
I thought about it.

this makes me laugh harder than most things

Mon, 17 Nov 2008 21:32:24 GMT

http://news.ninemsn.com.au/article.aspx?id=665847

some poetry

Sat, 08 Nov 2008 00:54:53 GMT

lately, i can't stop writing poetry. i thought i'd post a couple here :)

If Hades should answer

You were Persephone lost
That Grecian redhead
With a black eye and flaming skirts
So what if you caught me-
I never loved you.

Being in time
Time without being
What was it?
Six months underground
Making love to death
Pressing cold flesh to searing mouth
You loved him in the end.

Are you still there?
Tell me,
Does death speak to you?
Has it made a name for you?

Did I stutter?
Was I not profound enough?
I thought life was simple
when you live forever.
Was it the cloak?
or the eyes

for Hades is grey and wreathed in flame
I had nothing but smiles for you
you princess, you of the spring
tell me,
has death taken you yet?

---------

The modern age
farewell to the visionaries
I’ll miss the words, I think
beauty replaced by shock
wit by ugliness
damned be guns and drugs
and agents of murder
who go to dance clubs and
smoke cigarettes the wrong way
farewell to death by sword
or hemlock or
bow and arrow.
I’ll miss the blood, I think
Now it is no more than gasoline
self defense without murder
some people won’t live past thirty
but not because of the plague
and prison is nothing but
another school.

------
xxxo

AMERICA! BABY!!

Wed, 05 Nov 2008 04:04:40 GMT

YOU DID IT ♥♥♥

this is out of character

Tue, 04 Nov 2008 05:06:17 GMT

I never talk politics, and I'm also Canadian. But that really doesn't matter.

This is my own opinion. I'm not looking to start a debate. If you disagree with me, fine. That's great, I don't need to hear about it.

This is it, this election is important. Not just for the states, but for the whole world. This could be a new beginning, or the beginning of the end. Please, please vote for the man who could save not only the United States and North America, but the world also. We desperately need this new beginning. Please, vote for choice and freedom. This is our future. All of our future.

Obama. '08.

some stuff:)

Sun, 02 Nov 2008 01:07:03 GMT

Here-a little Konan/Kakuzu moment-
-----------------
She braids her hair while it is still wet, hair that is longer than he thought it was. The water drips between her fingers and also, down her neck in a way that makes it look like her skin is paper and the water is oil.

“I’m sorry?” She says to him as if she did not notice him there, as if she does not care. “I’m sorry,” she says again and her voice breaks his-no, never mind.

He sits on the bed and she looks at him and says, “I did not tell you you could sit,” patient and profound, as if he is a child and she is imparting some great lesson upon him.

“You are not the queen of this place,” he murmurs and she ties the end of her braid with a white ribbon and says to him,

“Suit yourself, my Prince.” And he laughs. And just because their laughter is soulless does not mean that they are, even though they are locked underground to follow the orders of a God who would make love to them just as soon as order their heads on a platter.

“What did you want to say?” She asks him, not because she is curious but because she knows what he wants to hear. He is silent as she brushes gold-real gold-onto her eyelids and watches him in the mirror.

“I don’t know,” he says and watches her. Her lips are pale pink; she hasn’t painted them yet.

“You want to say-“ a smile plays across her features, a ripple across a white mask “Oh, Konan, it’s all this living forever, all this immortality. I am so very tired.” Kakuzu laughs.

“Not quite, but I suppose we never really know what is going on in our heads.”

“Hm,” Konan paints her mouth on, “Did it ever occur to you that if we were not killers we would probably be artists?”

“No,” and here Kakuzu smiles, even though Konan cannot see it, “We would be dead.”

-------------------->

Coconut Records
Jason Schwarztman. I love him.

HOUSE

Wed, 29 Oct 2008 03:11:52 GMT

OH NO THEY DID NOT.

I'm sorry!

Tue, 28 Oct 2008 03:15:14 GMT

It took so long. School is crazy-last year, so the pressure's building. And I got a job! I'm doing cash at a gourmet food store near my house, so that's pretty sweet. What else-lots of riding fortunately, friends. And I'm still dating Marcus. He's pretty perfect, I must say.

But enough about that. Despite having not read any of the new Naruto chapters I've written a little something. Hidan. That's right, I'm kicking it old school.

Sans Temps

At first, time was heavy as chains. Time was pewter; digging into his wrists that were so pale, skin so thin it always burned in the sun. Time was always dragging, always murmuring behind him, whispering at his heels in a tongue silky and sultry. Time was his mistress, her lips against his ear.

There is a way, the young priest had told him, so long ago while he choked on his own blood, the sun blinding him. There is a way to leave time, leave her on the roadside. And as Hidan grasped the bleeding, gaping wound that spread across his chest like a flower, such a dark red against skin blue-tinged, the priest said there is a way to walk ahead of her.

So that she may never reach you.

But at first, at first he could still smell her bitter perfume, her perfume like alcohol and flowers. Perfume that held him fast like shackles and her taste was in his mouth like blood. And at night she would whisper to him-tell me, does death speak to you? Has it made a name for you? Tell me, her fingers pulling him back, against the wind that flavoured the air with freedom, freedom that was not his, Tell me, has death taken you?

And he learned to curse her.

At first, death was heavy as chains. At first death cut into his shoulders and bit at his ears, death (in a coat of sables!) so sharp tongued. At first, death watched over him like carrion. Death will not touch you, the Priest had said, the priest with the face of a young God, a face so pure, that white, virgin puer aeturnus with the sharp teeth and bloodstained robes. But that did not stop Death from watching, eyes hot as sun over Hidan’s shoulder as Hidan’s skin bleached itself into bone-white and his eyes darkened into fear itself.

It could not last forever.

It was the first kill. Blood on metal, so shining and beautiful in the cold morning sunlight. Blood in snow, that grotesque mire of gore and his victim’s face white and frozen in fear, white lips parted to reveal a tongue still pink and wet. It was not the blood, blood that tasted like salt and gold. No, he had seen his reflection in the man’s eyes, him, rising cloaked from the snow like a demon or a ghost, so white and eyes so dark and crimson. He had seen the flash of his scythe, his red tongue lapping at the man’s blood as if he were the devil. He had seen his fear reflected in the man’s eyes, eyes grey as dusk. He had seen himself, and he was death.

I will give you power, the priest had said, let me give you the world.

He was death. He was invincible. He wasn’t real, could not be real. Nothing but a myth and a shadow, a ghost story of death with eyes like fire and skin like white stone. Death carried a scythe.

And time that once hung onto him like a harlot, with painted mouth and promises sweet and sticky as melted sugar. Time, that cloying lady, shackling him with white bony fingers and nails like talons. Time passed him at the roadside her face haughty and proud and she said nothing to him. And he left her there, waist deep in snow, her heart and fingers frozen and her eyes torn from his face.

Now he knew how to deal death as if it was gold, as if it was bread. Now he could stop time, forget time because what was time to him? Him, eternally young with that angel face and the voice that could savage or seduce, he did not need time. Let her grieve at the roadside. Let her freeze and let her die. What use could she be, tugging at the hem of his cloak like a spurned mistress? He was death and death was time, time taking back what was hers.

Oh, it would end.

He was Jashin’s messenger, the angel with fire on his tongue and jewels for eyes. It would end with him in his God’s hands, hearing those black lips murmur praise, those gloved hands pulling him finally from his place on this static earth, while those around him burned and writhed. It would end.

It would end, but he would not. How could Time take him? He was time; he knew how to stop her. And Jashin would save him, Jashin with the eyes of a demon, the voice of a God.

In the end, he would still be Death. And time would be nothing.

end

Hope you all enjoyed ♥
it's nice to be back :)

Sat, 16 Aug 2008 04:35:34 GMT

STILL ALIVE STILL ALIVE STILL ALIVE.

major update when i get back (again) from the crazy. august 27th. there will be fic.

♥

i love you all.

Sun, 29 Jun 2008 18:21:17 GMT

lilydescend!!! I just got your gift! you are too amazing-thank you so much! i'm super excited to read Watermark, it looks great-and, omg, the japanese garden book is stunning! Thank you so much my dear, it means the world to me ♥♥♥

new layout AND-

Mon, 23 Jun 2008 15:43:51 GMT

since I always say one thing and do another: a fic starring Kakuzu and Hidan, because I missed these guys. For lilydescend because I miss you too ♥

It's definitely more light hearted than my previous outings with these two. Can be read as gen, pretty much, there's no sex or anything just a bit (okay a lot) of blood. Very short, but definitely fun to write. I'll be returning to these two now. Absence makes the heart grow fonder ♥

“Aren’t you going to ask me?” Day two, and Kakuzu’s patience was gone. Day two, and he could not kill this partner this infallible, beautiful monster at his side.

“Ask you what?”

“What death is like,” Hidan laughed, a ray of energy bursting from the lips of the dead.

“I don’t care,” Kakuzu ground out, “I will never know death.”

Hidan turns away, “I wouldn’t have told you anyway.”

Sometimes Hidan acted like a child.

Kakuzu does not want to die, because when you die nothing matters anymore. Not money, not blood, not power. And Kakuzu needs things to matter. He weighs himself down with the effects of the living as he watches Hidan shrug them off every day. He sees Hidan with blood dripping from his mouth, collecting in the cracks of his white sharp smile, that angel’s smile. Hidan comes in with his stomach ripped open and a carcass over one shoulder-a carcass, not a body. Carcass because it’s been so butchered that it is unrecognizable, man or woman or child or demon. Hidan returns pale and sweating, bleeding and laughing.

And sometimes, Hidan is a lot of work. And sometimes, Hidan is a madman.

Hidan ripped out one of Kakuzu’s hearts once, just once. Once when he got Kakuzu’s blood on his tongue and he lay in his circle and he reached into his chest and tore the skin with nothing but his fingernails. Kakuzu staggered and watched his heart (not his heart) drop out of him, slippery and shiny to the ground. Hidan released him.

Kakuzu could have thought of lots of things to do to Hidan at that point but he didn’t. He bent over and retrieved the traitorous heart, still beating and cringing, a mass of muscle, nothing but blood, veins ventricles. Here-the left atrium, the left ventricle, Superior Vena Cava and the pulmonary artery had been severed so cleanly. Kakuzu wasn’t angry, not at that moment. He could never be angry holding a heart in his hand, this banal human life force that throbbed and groaned, wet and hot in his hand. There was dirt in the right ventricle. Kakuzu pushed the heart back into his chest and performed that stupid, easy forbidden jutsu. Hidan was behind him, grinning and bleeding.

Kakuzu stitched him up. Kakuzu said nothing. Hidan said Sorry but you should have seen your face. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Sometimes Hidan was fun to torment.

The next time Hidan was in the worst pain ever, his hands bloody, holding his small intestine in (the duodenum was nearly severed; Kakuzu could have been a doctor). Kakuzu said, heal by yourself. Kakuzu walked away and this time, instead of laughing, Hidan cried. (If Kakuzu had been a doctor he would be dead by now, but maybe happier.)

Kakuzu and Hidan had a secret, a ritual you could say. But they would never ever ever tell anyone.

After they killed someone, after they completed a mission they would go to a grove, near enough to Headquarters to not arouse suspicion and far enough to not have to think about Akatsuki.

They would go to a grove and they would sit in the moonlight and Kakuzu would drink Sake and count his gold and Hidan would always bring ridiculous amounts of food, dumplings or shrimp or teriyaki. They would eat and Kakuzu would drink and sometimes, if they felt like it they would talk. And sometimes, if they felt like it they might laugh about the poor bastard they just whacked.

Sometimes, in the moonlight, Hidan was perfect. Sometimes, in the moonlight, Hidan was beautiful.

Sometimes, in the moonlight, Kakuzu was happy.

end

NO. that was not fluff...shutuppp. :P
thanks for reading ♥

EDIT: I just realized this new layout doesn't allow for capitalization. Is that a problem? Personally, I don't mind. ..hmm.

another edit: I'm outta here until the weekend! time to start working ..i'll be living at my coach's house and working at the barn in exchange for room/board and riding, so i'm super excited! i'll try to get some pictures by the end of the 5 weeks :P but anyway, i'm home on weekends so i'll update then! <3
ilu-
t.

happy birthday to me :)

Sun, 22 Jun 2008 15:55:50 GMT

So, I'm writing this entry from my brand new Macbook. SDfkjgnfkjag :D:D

I know i've been completely absent from LJ...I miss you all!!! Even the ones who've forgotten who I am. I'm going to be putting some fic up...a Roy/Winry and the rest of that NejiTen ridiculousness.. but I need to install Word on this computer and then email my writing over or something. I'm leaving tomorrow for a working student position at the barn I ride at, which is going to be AWESOME. But I'm home on weekend so I'll still be around.

ILU♥ How have you all been??

Mon, 26 May 2008 23:21:34 GMT

I am one assignment away from a full blown panic attack.

Two more weeks. Two more fucking weeks.

house season finale

Thu, 22 May 2008 23:16:19 GMT

finally got around to watching it-I've been so damn sick I haven't even been able to muster the energy to go downstairs :(

BUT ANYWAY:

Holy shit. I cried like a baby. I sobbed. Seriously, no movie, tv show, book, what have you has ever made me cry this much. I can't wait til next season!

Mon, 19 May 2008 22:43:34 GMT

had a great weekend, lots and lots of partying and horseback riding.
unfortunately i'm paying for it now.
epicly sick guys, epicly sick D:

did anyone watch?

Tue, 13 May 2008 23:11:01 GMT

Holy shit, House. Crazy, crazy, crazy. I cannot wait for next week.

Tue, 06 May 2008 20:48:54 GMT

school:omgkillmenow.

this shit needs to end.

more importantly: Happy birthday disbelieves!!!! I know it was yesterday, but I'm super lame and hardly ever check LJ anymore :(

Came Into This Strange World

The first thing Madara told Kakuzu was that he was expendable.
“You are an asset,” said Madara, eyes narrow in a shadowed face, “But you are not a necessity.” Kakuzu had never heard truth like that before. He had only know truth screamed out in pain, truth at the hands of torture, truth that was forced. He had never known truth that left him speechless.

“I could leave,” Kakuzu growled, looking away from the Uchiha’s steady gaze, “I could kill you.” And Madara laughed into the darkness and then he was gone.

Kakuzu never saw him. Not as Madara anyway. He saw Tobi, he saw the mask, heard that sycophantic voice, and slowly he forgot the deepness of Madara’s voice, the darkness of his eyes and the scars that lined his pale skin. He forgot his words, the only ones he had ever spoken to him directly, without filtering them through Pein, Pein who veiled the truth with dispassionate deception.

But he knew that Madara had never spoken to Hidan or anyone else, as far as he knew. Hidan refered to Tobi as that fucking moron, that shit-head kid. Hidan didn’t know the truth, no one did except for Pein and Konan, Madara himself, possibly Itachi and now Kakuzu.

He forgot. The memory of Madara’s face, his rusty, dangerous voice slipped away. But the strange desire lingered, a desire borne by Madara’s disinterest. He wanted to tear the mask off, and he wanted to break that porcelain-fine face, gouge at the deep, secretive eyes, and wind his thread around those white arms until they tore off. He wanted to know why Madara revealed himself to him, not to Hidan, not to Kisame, not to Deidara, not to any of the others. He knew Madara was the final and deadliest weapon, but he also knew that Madara was using them all, even Pein with all his ideals, all his lofty truths.

He wanted Madara’s heart. He wanted to steal it while Madara still breathed. He wanted it fighting in his chest, wanted to feel that fresh surge of new life within him once more. He hadn’t desired anything like this in too long. He wanted Madara’s blood flowing within his own veins. But that was only when he remembered, lying still in the dark, remembering the silky graze of Madara’s words against his throat, whispering curses against his lips, invisible fingers sliding under his stitches, pulling his body apart, spilling his dark blood, flavouring the air with his pain. This was only before he dropped into sleep, a sleep filled with the glitter of gold beneath dirt, the murmurs of murderers, and of victims. A sleep filled with the memories of those dark crimson eyes, that white face, that beating heart so close, so filled with power.

end

Enjoy ♥ Hope your birthday was wonderful.

pein on death

Sat, 12 Apr 2008 01:59:21 GMT

Pein knows how they will end. He knows their deaths. He can see them one by one. Hidan, who will laugh and weep in the end, blood spilt into the earth that will refuse to claim his broken body, unholy in the end. Kakuzu will see his own blood drained, his own heart, still beating, crushed and ruined before his eyes. Kakuzu will be defeated, he will know that his end was empty of victory; his end was as empty as the cold gold coins he counts out with barely a flicker in his lifeless eyes. He does not laugh when he thinks of these deaths, they are nothing but tragedies, playing out fruitlessly. Deidara will kill himself, he will go with a bang, his flesh scorched and torn from the inside out, and whether he has won or not he will die knowing he has, with a grin.

Pein knows they will fail. He knows he is no God, he never has been and he never will be. He can see his own death.

Itachi’s death will be poignant. Itachi’s death will be messy and heavy and meaningful. Itachi will die wasted, a shell but he will not be forgotten. Kisame’s death will be perfect, bloody and brutal. Kisame will pass with no poetry, no hidden magic. Kisame will die exhausted and exhilarated. Kisame will fade away into myth; he will be lost forever. Samehada will rust beneath waves that do not care what they destroy.

Zetsu will not die, not with the rest of them. Zetsu will drift off, when this organization, this insignificant, fleeting organization has ended and he will disappear into nothing but a lost soul among the dense foliage, alone, friendless to the end. He will go into the earth, down into the rich soil and he will be silent. He will never break, not like the others, nothing but discarded bodies in the end.

Pein will let himself be killed. He will see the weapon and he will know that it will be the one to kill him. He will pass with a sigh, eyes shutting and lips parting. He will die knowing there was nothing left for him anyway. He will follow her.

Konan will die like the angel she is. She will dissolve into nothing but bloodstained paper that will linger long after her spirit has dispersed. She will die without a word, only a knowing smile and she will die for him. And he will whisper her name, rather than scream it as he watches the glossy indigo of her hair bleed into paper dry and white as bone, the scarlet of her lips fade into the air, her little smile so feeble and mortal after all.

He cannot see Madara’s death, because he knows that he will die long before the Uchiha. He thinks he will probably be killed by Madara’s own hand but he is silent about that because he knows that means that Konan will too.

update!

Mon, 07 Apr 2008 19:39:50 GMT

So it's been a while since I've talked about my life...remember that guy I was totally hung up on? Well we finally got around to dating, which is so fun :D Having a boyfriend seems to make everything better, probably because we're in that super happy beginning stage though, we'll see how things go.

Hmm school is going okay I guess. I'm doing pretty shitty in math and bio, which sucks. Ughhh I can't wait until next year, no math or science...But yeah, I've been super busy...mostly with social stuff, but there's been a little bit of homework in there too, I like to think.

Also: YAY for Feist winning 5 Junos. She's incredible.

more hidan fic

Fri, 04 Apr 2008 01:07:24 GMT

Short chapter this time, because I like how it ended.

Life Incarcerated
destruction is all that matters, rated R

“Destruction is all that matters, something complete and vicious. Something you feel, something that rips through your being in a state of perfect agony.” The man’s eyes were reverent beneath his hood, his grin showing perfect, pointed white teeth. Hidan liked him, liked the way his frenetic energy put him on edge. The man was beautiful, his face ageless and flawless as if it was painted. Blood stained the hem of his cloak, and his smile was fixed and fierce. Hidan wanted to be him.

“Destruction, seriously?” Hidan asked, “That’s all?”

The man shook his head, “There’s more. It takes hundreds of years to learn the teachings of Jashin.”

“I’m not sure if I have hundreds of years.”

“You will,” another perfect, pointed smile, “Trust me.”

The first one had been a Zen Buddhist priest. Hidan didn’t know exactly what drove him to it but he had been starving and the man’s slow words had frustrated him. The monk must have seen him, a young, thin boy as aching for some sort of spiritual fulfillment. An urchin he could take in and clothe and feed and teach. But Hidan was determined not to be that wayward boy. Something-he still couldn’t decide what-flooded his mind and he found himself thinking about how wonderful it would be to see this man’s blood, hear his last feeble gasp of life. He leaned forward, small hands coming up to grip the monk’s throat. The man’s eyes widened but there was no fear, not yet, he would not be frightened of a half-starved twelve year old with lonely, desperate eyes. So Hidan had dropped his hands and the man’s mouth quirked into a half smile and Hidan pulled out a hidden knife and drove it through the man’s throat before his smile could disappear.

The second had been a bandit. Nothing special, a sickly, half-crazed bandit who had snuck up behind Hidan and wrapped a filthy hand around his throat, pressing the cool silver of a knife against the jugular. Hidan froze; “Far from home, runt?” The bandit’s whisper was low and desperate and Hidan ducked out of his grasp, knocking him backwards and drawing his katana with deadly efficiency, pressing the tip to the man’s chest wordlessly. The bandit’s mouth fell open and he made to scramble back but in an instant Hidan stabbed down swiftly, slicing his chest open, watching the rich crimson spread across the man’s tattered robe. It wasn’t just strength and it wasn’t just power, it was something else altogether, something dizzying and meaningful and something he couldn’t understand for the life of him. The bandit didn’t die right away. He gasped and writhed on the ground, eyes rolling in pain. It was knowledge, the knowledge that he had just destroyed everything the bandit had ever had, ever worked for. He had taken a man’s life into his hands and he had decided to end it, to nullify his entire existence in one slice.

“What was it you wanted, asshole?” Hidan had said roughly, in his still childish voice, “What was it you were going to kill me for?” The man was opening his mouth, but only a groan escaped and his eyes slid shut, the last breath bursting from his lips.

The wild-eyed monk would have been the third. He stopped Hidan on the street saying, “You, boy, you look hungry.” And Hidan had lunged at him, too bloodthirsty to think. But the monk grabbed his wrist and Hidan froze as if he had been burned. Fear had gripped him, for the first time in years because the man’s strength was not tough and malleable, but hard and cold as ice, sharp and painful.

“Let me go,” Hidan hissed, but the man only laughed and the sound rushed down Hidan’s spine.

“Come along, little one, I can tell you a story,” The man’s eyes were hungry, but not in the same way as Hidan’s were. Hidan’s was a feeble hunger, born of need and weakness. This man had everything he could ever want; his hunger was simply greed for more.

“Get away from me, fucker,” Hidan said coldly even though he didn’t want the man to get away, he wanted him to stay with his strength and his greedy, dark eyes.

“What are you looking for?” The man hadn’t let go of him, his fingers tightened and Hidan hissed, “I can show you everything you need,” He grinned and Hidan was fixated, riveted. “I can make you just as strong as me.” His voice was a whisper now and Hidan nodded slowly.

“How can I trust you?” He said, fighting to keep his voice steady. The man shook his head.

“You can’t. But if you do, you could live forever. Everyone wants that, don’t they?” The man’s whisper was a growl and Hidan turned to stare into his eyes. They were dark, shot with crimson and though they were bright they looked static, dead.

“Show me,” Hidan said, feeling like a child again, his voice slipping into anxious silence. The man’s face broke into a wide grin, wolf-like.

“My pleasure.”

Hidan would always remember the blood. There was blood everywhere, in his eyes, in his mouth, sticky and hot between his fingers, salty and thick on his tongue. The pain was nothing; it had been blurred and forgotten, diminished by the greater pain that came later. But Hidan had never seen so much blood, enough wet scarlet to blind him, so unbearably hot. The blood weighed him down; it anchored him to that one excruciating moment, the last moment of consciousness when he signed his life over to a God who had never spoken to him.

The man was speaking, or chanting or something but Hidan could not understand the words he was saying, although something in his mind was telling him that it was probably important. But all he felt was a hot explosion of power, bursting through the boundaries of his body and spilling into the heated air like light. All he saw was red, even as the power tightened around him and he felt the parameters of his being once more, unbearably condensed. And then he was nothing but himself, bleeding and shaking on the laughing ground and his power had collected into a smooth, burning stone pressed deep into his heart. He didn’t know which was beating, his heart or this stone, this jagged, holy power that seemed to reside in his chest now, expanding and contracting with his every gasp. It squeezed his heart, surrounding the organ, smoldering steel wrapping around the fleshy helplessness of his heart, it suffocated his heart until he was sure it had replaced it altogether. Each beat seemed to shake him, every contraction made him grit his teeth, hands clenching into fists he could no longer see.

Finally he heard the voice, the torrid voice of the being that had become his god. “You can do nothing,” the voice was smooth and sharp at once, throbbing in his brain and overtaking his senses, “Nothing but serve me, and destroy in my name. Beauty can only be found in death. Beauty and death, in a glorious, burning blaze of blood and heat, the cries of women and children. The taste of blood on your tongue, bodies rotting in the sun, steel through flesh.”

Stop, thought Hidan but he knew it was far too late, he could feels Jashin’s claws sinking through the weak flesh of his brain, his sharp white teeth whispering curses and prayers, pulsing through his veins in a dizzying new power.

“You want this,” Jashin’s voice is too low to be a hiss, but too refined to be a growl, “Choose, child, my love or your death, my power or your death. Our power. Your power.”

Give it to me, Hidan’s want was too large for his chest, it billowed through him, a wish too vast to be uncontained, make me a legend, make me all there is between life and death. Make me fucking great. And Jashin was silent. All Hidan felt was the steady, painful beat of the stone within his empty chest, cooling now. He could not feel his heart, that perishable organ, so precious and so easily punctured. He did not think, he did not move. He shut his eyes against the crimson and prayed to his new God.

/end part two

link to part one
more to come!

silliness

Tue, 25 Mar 2008 22:42:36 GMT

“Oh,” added Tenten, staring into the pile of dead leaves directly beneath her head, “By the way, I think I might be in love with you. Just a thought-if you’re into that sort of thing.”

Neji was silent and she felt a giddy sort of panic. His voice was unreadable when he spoke, but that really wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.

“What sort of thing?”

“You know. Love. Girls. Me.” She might have laughed, but it was really only to keep herself from puking, which would have been disastrous-or, rather absolutely disgusting- due to their predicament.

Again he didn’t speak, choosing instead to struggle some more, injecting chakra into their bindings-this resulted in nothing but sending them swinging violently. Tenten giggled again.

“Are you feeling alright?” Neji sounded worried, if not a little dizzy and disoriented himself.

“Eh. I would imagine there’s a dangerous amount of blood rushing to my head but other than that, peachy. You?”

“Fine.” Neji was using his thinking voice and Tenten knew he was desperately trying to find their way out of this simple, but rather powerful trap. “Someone has incredible chakra control,” he murmured to himself and then they fell once more into a comfortable sort of silence that involved both of them trying to figure out how to get the hell out of this terrible situation.

“Hey,” Tenten said after a couple minutes during which what felt like another gallon of blood had started to flood her cranial area. She knew her face was beet red. “Remember how I just told you I loved you?”

“Hn.”

“It’s crazy but I think I actually meant it. But seriously, I mean, when I think about it, I’ve always loved you and I really don’t see myself ever not loving you, in fact, if we ever get out of this I think we should fuck. Oh, sorry,” Neji had made a sort of choking noise-“Make love. I dunno. It wouldn’t be too bad, I mean; I’ve heard I’m kinda good at it. And I’m sure you’re not too shabby yourself, at least, if those Byakugan rumours are true.” Shit, the forest was spinning now and Tenten was pretty sure her speech was slurring. Out of all the traps for her to get caught in. She wasn’t even sure what she was saying anymore.

“Okay, Tenten,” Neji’s voice sounded strangled, “Cut down the tree.”

“Wha-?”

“We are going to pass out if this lasts any longer.”

“Cut down the tree?”

“Don’t you have something for that?”

“It’s a pretty…pretty fucking big tree Neji.”

“That’s a pretty fucking big scroll.” He was getting frustrated now so Tenten swung her arms down and grasped her scroll, rolling it open while still fighting the urge to pass out or vomit, or perhaps declare more undying love to Neji which seemed to be working out great for her so far.

But even her barrage of weapons didn’t do much. They all got stuck in the tree and Neji groaned. “Plan B?” Tenten asked, a little pleased to know that she could still use her jutsu while hanging upside down.

“Okay,” Neji said, “Okay, we’re going to swing back and forth until we can get close enough to the tree and then I’ll take care of it.”

“Okay. I apologize in advance for hurling all over you,” Tenten said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Neji said bracingly and begun to swing. Tenten felt her stomach lurch and her head spin and she shut her eyes tight against the blur of the ground, her hair brushing the leaves.

Surprisingly enough, it worked. Neji cut through the tree with one punch and with a scream the tree toppled, trapping Neji and Tenten beneath on of the huge branches.

Tenten had never felt so relieved in her life. Seriously. Sure, she was trapped under a massive branch and she was pretty sure a couple of her ribs were broken and Neji’s face seemed to be squashed against her breasts which she really didn’t mind except for that it was making the intense pain a whole lot worse. But suddenly her blood returned to where it was all supposed to be, and she could see and breathe and swallow and the panic was gone. It was beautiful. She could have cried.

“Are you okay?” Neji’s voice was muffled and he reached out to move the branch away, slicing it with his chakra like he had done to the tree.

“Ribs,” She gasped, not daring to sit up, even though Neji was already sitting, tugging fruitlessly at the glowing bonds that were still tight around their ankles. Painfully she felt around her ribcage, “Two. Shit, that hurts. You okay?”

“Fine,” he said tensely, “Except for the fact that we’re still tied to this tree.”

-----

because, you know Neji and Tenten are such mediocre shinobis that they would get caught in a trap like that. ...anyway they're already wildly out of character so it's okay.

memememememleleem.

Sun, 23 Mar 2008 22:45:58 GMT

tagged by senri.

Each player of this game starts off with ten weird things or habits or little known facts about yourself. People who get tagged must write in a blog of their own ten weird things or habits or little known facts as well as state this rule clearly. At the end you must choose six people to be tagged and list their names. No tagbacks!

1. i'm a little OCD in that I need things even. But to an extreme, like if I scrunch my eyebrows down I have to raise them so it evens out :S Or if I puff my cheeks out I have to suck them back in.

2. I wish I could be a perfectionist, and I try so hard but for some reason I just cannot be neat. At all.

3. I have a major weakness for blonde guys. And skinny guys (not too skinny, but like, toned skinny). That's probably not a surprise.

4. My perfect night would include drinking and then crazy, crazy dancing. I like going to pop/thrash/dance rock shows because you can seriously lose your mind at those. Hordes of people flailing on the dance floor is heaven to me.

5. I have a complete phobia of earthworms. I can't even look at pictures, and if I think I've seen one on the ground my heart actually speeds up and I feel sick. It's terrible D:

6. Reading back over my own stuff right after writing it makes me freak out and hate it, so usually I don't proofread too much. But then i'll go back and read my stuff a while later and there'll be all these mistakes and it also sucks.

7. I think I might be in love and I'm scared its with the wrong person.

8. My greatest passion is horses. And it makes me feel so much better to think that no matter what, I know what's most important to me and I'll always have it.

9. I bite my nails and I am so so envious of people with nice, perfect nails. Sometimes I'm good and they grow and I can shape them and I'm so happy but I always end up biting one and then having to cliip the others to match. It sucks.

10. I have about 6 beginnings to novels lying around on my hard drive. Sometimes I work on one but I always lose steam. It's one of my biggest goals to finish a novel at some point in my life, and have it actually be good.

These are more like facts about myself than weird facts...but that's okay, right? I tag- disbelieves, 3_jane, cyclicality, ronsard, yappatan, and sayaka_sama.

naruto 393

Fri, 14 Mar 2008 23:43:55 GMT

ajkngkjfansdgkjng.

so, so beautiful.

cause we all heart hidan

Thu, 13 Mar 2008 01:49:23 GMT

some hidan backstory for y'all.

Life Incarcarated
he hadn't always been like that, but he had to change you see.

Hidan was born into hatred. He learned the language early on, the fine art of tension and the brutal oeuvre of violence. You are nothing, his mother spat out when she was drunk, and her slap rang out like a scream in the house where the air felt as close and thick as oil. His mother was a storm and his father was the deadly calm before it, his wordless eyes searching his son’s body for something that was never there. You are a ghost, his father told him, Disappear. Disappear.

Nothing existed, nothing was real, he told himself, hanging on to those words in the deadly nights, when the darkness threatened to swallow him whole and he heard nothing, the silence concealing too many secrets. Sometimes he wandered through the empty halls of his house, each room so taut and dark that they seemed to be guarded by invisible sentries. He peered into his parent’s room, his mother with her thin arms flung over her face and his father, lying on his side still and silent. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t handle retreating into the thicket of his dreams where he never knew how to escape.

His father’s anger was quiet and sad as the shadows. “Do you know,” He asked in a voice that spoke of hollow, echoing hallways, “How easy it is to kill a man?” He shook his head slowly, eyes peering forward into nothing. “Too easy. Humans are made to break, to disappear. Nothing lasts. We decay.”

Hidan hadn’t said a word, just stared at his father with wide, wanting eyes. But his father had no love to give him, just the fear and grief of his words. “Breakable. You see how tender flesh is? No man is made of armor. Our hearts are fragile, beating tenderly as the wings of a sparrow. We are nothing really, clever bits of compost.”

“Ideas,” Hidan had whispered, and his father gave no indication that he had heard, “Couldn’t ideas last, or stories?” His father laughed, a harsh, monosyllabic sound and raked a hand through his colourless hair.

“Only to those who believe in them.” He touched Hidan then, grazed his shoulder with his wide, long fingered hand. “Smart boy,” he said softly and at that moment, to Hidan, it meant the world.

His mother was the tempest to his father’s fathomless blue. Her hair was the colour of the sun but her eyes were dark as shadows, navy and purple, like a perfect bruise bleeding into white skin. She called him her darling when she was pleased, her voice soft and hoarse from the cigarettes she never promised to quit. “Come here, my darling boy, my sweet,” she murmured, voice quiet, treacherous, “Come to your tired old mama,”

Hidan came every time, drinking in the scent of her smoke and perfume, burying his face in the softness of her stomach and wrapping his arms around her thin waist. Her embrace was strong, hands gripping his small shoulders as if she were drowning. I can save you, Hidan wanted to tell her so, so badly but the words never came. He just a child and she was the queen his world revolved around.

She was hardly ever pleased. Most of the time she was terrifying. Her eyes burned behind the façade of her hatred and her hands twisted and clenched as if trying to strangle someone. “Stupid boy, thoughtless boy,” Her voice became a snarl as she choked over her smoke, “Useless, useless boy,” She was reckless with her words. She never apologized but sometimes she would go to Hidan after he had left, tired of her anger and she would touch his back, his neck, bring her lips to his cheek wordlessly and he would know.

She only hit him when she was drunk, her words reeling and her eyes fiery and unfathomable at the same time. She screamed her hate then and slapped him until his face blazed red. His father would retreat, disappear into the shadows but Hidan would stay until his mother collapsed, either in tears or in faint. He would go to her then and take her hand, brush her hair back from her damp face, his own still throbbing. He would kiss her clumsily, his lips brushing her hot skin, her perfumed hair. She would murmur sometimes, telling him to get away, silly child, she hated him. But he always stayed with her until she went silent, until his father returned hesitantly to put her to bed.

“You should not stay with her,” his father said one evening, returning from his bedroom. Hidan touched his bleeding lip gingerly, peering down at the crimson on his white fingers and wondering why the pain comforted him. “Just leave her, Hidan.”

“I can’t,” he said and his father shook his head.

“Love makes us more fragile, Hidan, do you know that? It peels away our hide until we are nothing but a feeble, beating heart, easily punctured.” His father looked away from him as he spoke.

“You don’t love us?” Hidan’s voice sank to a whisper and his father was silent.

“It was too late for me,” his father said, “Too late and now look at me.” He left, left his tiny ghost of a child alone in the house where the darkness was bigger than anything else.

Hidan’s father hid all day. He had been a shinobi, a good one, until his back was twisted and both his legs broken. He disappeared, hiding from his old friends, hiding from death, the death he imagined behind ever corner. When Hidan told his father he wanted to be a shinobi his father only shook his head and said “Do as you wish, to whatever end.” His mother sneered and told him to try and bring some sort of honour to their broken family. Honour. He was eight years old and he had never heard of honour before, only in storybooks, long lost fables.

He enrolled in the academy, a tiny, pale child who threw with deadly precision but had weak chakra. He was too eager to find something to specialize in, an area where he could push himself. He looked upon the shinobi with bloodline limits with sickening envy. They were special, they were talented. They were honourable. He was nothing but another generic kid, trying desperately to be a ninja. It frustrated him and he was silent at school, speaking less and less at home.

“They’re ruining you,” His mother hissed, “You used to be such a clever little boy, weren’t you?” She touched his hair, stroked his cheek, “Now you’re blind to everything but your own power, I can tell, even if you refuse to speak. Do you really want to kill people, little one? You could sell dango instead or make ramen or lanterns. Wouldn’t you rather do that? Hmm?” Hidan shook his head, buried his face in the crook of her neck and she hugged him close, “Look at you, Hidan, you nothing but a little empty shell.” Her words were sorrowful, at the same time harsh and sardonic. He wondered for the first time whether she loved him at all.

His father feared death. It was only after Hidan learned of the necessity of killing that he realized how heavily his father’s fear weighed on him. It was in every word he spoke, every move he made, that numbing, debilitating fear. “Careful, Hidan, careful or you will see how easily it is we crumble-“ his words were a poison, dense and harsh with his fear.

“I am not afraid, father,” Hidan said, his quiet voice barely used and his father nodded shortly, fleetingly pleased and for a moment he shed his fear, that long lost glint returning to his eyes.

“Then find your voice, find it and use it, Hidan. Conquer with it. Bring your opponents to their knees.” His father nearly laughed, but he caught himself and said solemnly, “If that is the path you choose. Let it be, and pray for a swift death when the time comes.”

“Yes, father.” Hidan nodded, struck by the power in his father, the power that had been all but locked away. He knew the story well, how his father’s injuries had shocked his mother into labour, how he had been born a month early, how he had been born into nothing but anger and tears, pain, fear and regret.

The day he turned nine he decided to specialize in weapons because he liked the certainty of it all, the visceral thrill of wielding a weapon. He liked the feeling of something like a sword or a knife, something you could defend yourself with no matter what. He had no interest in fooling around with chakra and genjutsu. A weapon was the most basic defense and one he intended to use well.

His first real injury was a long, deep gash across his shoulder, courtesy of his frequent sparring partner Osayaka Genji. He had seen the katana come down hard across his shoulder, seen the spur of dark blood and seen Genji’s face whiten, hear his stuttering apologies. But he only looked at the wound with simple fascination, the dark crimson stain spreading down his chest. The pain was sharp and the blood flowed fast but all he saw was the simple beauty of the abundance of the red that bloomed across his shoulder and collar, hot and sticky. Even the pain lessened after a while, as the blood drained from his face and his breathing became shallow. He sunk to his knees and saw nothing but his sensei’s worried face and a haze of scarlet. He held onto the pain, because it seemed like the only real thing at the time.

He woke up in a hospital bed, his mother white and tense beside him. “Jesus, Hidan you had better be more careful.” She said quietly, running her hand over his forehead. “This nearly killed your father.” Her laugh was harsh and made Hidan feel like crying, something he had no memory of ever doing. “You’re just a baby, you shouldn’t be doing this,” She said, “Just my little baby.” And he hated her then. Hated her deliberate condescension.

“I’m not a baby!” He snapped childishly, but she only laughed softly and smoothed his hair back.

“I made umeboshi onigiri,” she said in a gentler voice, “Just for you, darling.” But Hidan didn’t believe her this time-he didn’t believe her darling, or her forced kindness. A couple weeks later when she got drunk and struck him he walked out of the room, not looking back, despite her injured yells. His father was standing at the end of the long hall, shrouded eyes looking over Hidan’s head.

“They’re making you a shinobi,” he said softly, stooping to lay a large hand over Hidan’s shoulder, where the scar was still tender and sore, “Locking your heart away. Does it hurt?” Hidan looked up at his father who still stared straight ahead. He shook his head. Slowly. Reluctantly. His father said nothing, walking past him to the room where his mother wept. Hidan watched as his father took her into his arms, pressed her sobbing body to his chest. She clung to him and Hidan felt like he was invisible, a faceless voyeur, intruding upon something private. He watched his mother lift her drowsy head and press a kiss to his father’s lips. Their love was painful to watch, more painful than his shoulder, more painful than his mother’s slaps, more painful than anything. It couldn’t be love, because all it did was bind them, chains they both tried to shake off but couldn’t. In horror he wondered if those chains had managed to bind him too.

He was getting good; he could feel it. He could feel the stares on him at the academy, the adults who were impressed and frightened by the ferocity he had, body moving almost too fast to track among his opponents. He became a Genin easily when he was nine and within a year he had been nominated for the Chuunin exams.

“He’s just a child!” His mother had hissed in between fits of coughing, “He’s ten years old! He’s a silly, empty headed little boy, you cannot take him from me.” Hatred roiled in Hidan’s chest, a desperate hatred towards his selfish mother.

“I…” He was acutely aware of how soft and childish his voice sounded as his mother turned her gaze on him, the dark violet of her irises radiating something unreadable and foreboding. “I’m not a child,” His voice sank to a whisper, he frowned and his mother sighed.

“My baby,” she whispered, holding her hand out to him and the hatred flared again, “Come to your sick old mama, don’t do this to her,” her voice softened, lilted and Hidan’s sensei’s face grew uneasy.

All he heard were his father’s words, the ones he hadn’t thought about in months-Conquer with it, bring your opponents to their knees. His voice. He had forgotten he had one. His mother’s eyes were hard again; her incongruous smile did not reach them. What use was he without a voice? No matter how brutally his weapon fell he would be nothing in silence. The silence that seemed to follow him wherever he went, the silence that threatened to take hold, even now in the bright, bustling room of the academy.

“I’m not-“ he struggled with the words, grappled against them, trying to find one that fit, one to throw at her, but nothing came, so he spoke without thinking, spoke unarmed. “I’m not your fucking baby.” He felt the blood drain from his face as he said it, the savage words sounding ridiculous coming from him. His sensei’s eyes widened and his mother’s face was unreadable for a moment before she reached out and slapped him. He didn’t move because her slaps weren’t that hard after all, not as hard as they used to be.

“Shinobu-san!” Hidan’s sensei was next to her in an instant, staying her hand, “Please,”

“It doesn’t matter!” Hidan cried, “I’ll do whatever I want!” And not even the tears that collected, glittering in his mother’s eyes softened him. He turned and walked away, ignoring his mother’s shouts, although everyone else turned their heads. He didn’t feel guilty because he knew now that his mother did not matter. His parents were nothing, broken and weary and thrown together in a life they did not ask for. He didn’t have to be like them, he could reach out and grasp whatever it was that was heading for him. He didn’t need his mother’s love. Love, after all, only made one more fragile.

He knew it would be a bad idea to go home, but he did anyway because he was still just a little boy and had nowhere else. He knew his mother would beat him, he knew her anger would be complete, but rather than dreading it he looked forward to it. He was stronger than her now anyway, with power in his hands and a katana strapped to his back and finally, finally a voice, stronger than any steel.

He went to his room and began packing, without having decided to leave or not. He packed his clothes, his weapons and a toothbrush. He packed some sweets. He wasn’t paying attention to anything but the door, waiting for his mother to come in with a raging storm behind her. In the other room his father was silent, sitting at the window and staring at nothing in particular. It was quiet, silence again, trying to swallow him.

The door slammed and Hidan leapt to his feet as his mother came in a rush into his room.

“Fuck!” She shrieked, “How dare you? How dare you?” Her face was tear streaked, her voice straining and grating in her throat. She darted towards him, her movements quick but predictable. He could have dodged, could have been behind her before she knew it but he didn’t move. He wanted to see, wanted to see what she would do with her anger or rather, what she could do.

Her strikes were slow but vicious, her nails sharp, clawing at his cheeks. He stood and let the pain wash over him, again and again. It came in waves, crashing against him and he did not move. She could do nothing to him, he knew. She was ferocious but feeble and weak while he felt as though his skin was lacquered, protected against her blows.

Her words did not matter now. He could remember a time when he built his world on her words, her simple words. He kept her kisses and her touches as if they were treasure; he hoarded them. It didn’t matter now, did it? It couldn’t.

“Get away from me,” he hissed and she laughed.

“You silly child! Those words aren’t for you!” She fell to her knees coughing and Hidan wiped the blood from his chin and darted over to her, closing his hands around her heaving throat. She looked up at him her eyes wide and hateful.

“I don’t give a shit,” he said, “how stupid I sound. You leave me alone, your heartless bitch.” He looked up briefly and saw his father standing in the door, eyes finally meeting Hidan’s.

“Put her down, boy.” His father said, voice steady and quiet, “Let go of her.”

“No!” Hidan snarled, tightening his hands so his mother gasped for breath, “She deserves to die!”

“I can’t let you,” his father whispered, stepping forward. For a moment Hidan lost sight of him and then he was suddenly flung backwards, his mother falling back with a hollow thud, gasping and writhing. Hidan looked up into his father’s face, the man was breathing heavily, his face strained. “You may have severed your chains, Hidan, but mine will still hold. Now leave, if you must, leave or stay but do not linger.”

All Hidan felt was revulsion; revulsion at his father’s weakness, revulsion at his mother’s uncontrollable anger, her deep gasps and shallow moans. He leapt to his feet and he ran, leaving everything behind.

end part one

I'm working on a part two, and ideally there will be three more. But we'll see how it goes.

Tue, 04 Mar 2008 01:02:18 GMT

BEFORE YOU ALL DE-FRIEND ME ON ACCOUNT OF BEING A TERRIBLE BORE YOU MUST KNOW THAT I AM WRITING. I PROMISE. IT INVOLVES HIDAN OKAY? DON'T LEAVE MEEEEE D: (plus more akatsuki drabbles too!!! come baack my lovelies)