Genre: Waff. Sprinkles of angst.
Pairings: Kyo/Kaoru, Die/Shinya [Dir en grey]
Rating: Pg-13
Warnings: M/M. Language.
Summary: He knew him as Sunday, sometimes Monday, this day was Tuesday, so he put their love in his pocket, leaned back and reached for his notebook...
Author's blurb: UN-BETA'D. Gay, gay, GAY! Setting is November 10th, 2009 in NYC. Based loosely on real events (and because I wanted to play off of some peoples' "omg what prompted Kyo's change of character," which IMO wasn't really a change deep down, at heart, at all)! My first stab at D/S, I just...jumped into it with my eyes closed and felt around, which is not usually what I do, so forgive me if my grasp is weak. Written in response to a challenge/promise for melinen. ♥ You've just the kind of cork I'd break my teeth to dislodge.

Genre: Angst. Drama. Psychological. AU?
Pairings: Kyo/Kaoru, Kaoru/OFC [Dir en grey]
Rating: Pg-13
Warnings: M/M. Language. Violence/abuse.
Summary: The mirror shouldn't have tempted him...
Author's blurb: UN-BETA'D. Hints to Kaoru's past, doesn't go into overwhelming depth, will not until approx. chapter 3. I wanted to torture him a little moreーthe ambiguities make his torment seem more yummy cruelーbefore I got to the detailed flashbacks that will hopefully fill in the blanks, tie up all loose ends.

You're looking at a 2007-ish setting (inside one of the few free days when I assume they were putting the finishing touches on DOZING GREEN). Their album and tour schedules, plus a few historical details, are pretty much the only truths this story intends to honor.

& Kyo aka meteor (LOL) slept in, sadly, he will not make it until the next installment. Also, don't mind the flowering of words-so-vague @ the start, it's this wannabe poet's force of habit. Also wanted my readers to have some sense of confusion, so it's like you're channeling Kaoru & his fuddled mind. ha Should get more coherent when you read on, I promise.

The pendulum drift of their extremes kinetically fused them in yin yang balance. Poet & musician. Swinging from psychic cities--breaking branches of vanity, shaking money from trees; love is currency, raked up, resonating electric particles of pleasure into brown bags colored on by the waxes of unity, carried over by the jazzing stereophonic stream, growing inward as they breathe & add many stones to one wall; a neon waltz of light along sky scraped borders of conscience, windows collecting smudges, alleys collecting shadows, yesterdays whisperings, zeitgeist whisk, dropping cultured eons between pavement cracks, sticking 2 shoe bottoms--saying: scrape them off, but don't throw them away, one day will be the day you saved them for.

& that day is here. Is ours. & will always be...more.

Genre: Angst. Drama. Psychological. AU?
Pairings: Kyo/Kaoru [Dir en grey]
Rating: Pg-13
Warnings: M/M. Language.
Summary: He'd been lying to himself from the start.
Author's blurb: UN-BETA'D. An experiment. Vague as fuck, says everything and nothing, because well, it's a taste of what's to come. An appetizer, if you would. Should begin to make sense when we get to the chapy-entrée. ;) Oh whim, you devil! Oh muse, you witch!

( We were the Kings and Queens of promise. )

* * *

Next Chapter 01

Likewise is condensing one's artistic binges into ONE enormous telling text block... but I'll try, anyway! ;)

What I am basically trying to get at: my horrible procrastinating & counter distinctive perfectionist habits, can sometimes keep me detained--stuck with a particular unfinished project. Such that it interferes with the frequency of updates. That's a fancy way of saying I am a long-winded whore, who fucks her way through literary passions unbearably slow, but just at the right speed for expression. Whatever I do, I am consumed. Oh wait, fancy again. Ahem. Laymen terms: my fics are many and LONG. I am not sure when I will finish each. The plan was to reach their entirety before posting chapters in succession! But seeing as I edit & rewrite like I am schizophrenic, srsly,... this makes for [most of the] delays. And I hate to see a serious drought here--that I am sure has caused you to doubt my production capability--so I will be posting PREVIEWS, if you would, of fic-projects respectively.

Oh & if there is any piece that flirts with you that you have a particular liking to & would like to see more of--let me know! You just might convince me of what to concentrate on completing all the faster, if you twist my arm! SO TWIST THE BURN OF URGENCY ON MY SKIN, BBs--I dare you! Motivation = momentum! :D & enjoy!

Moments like rain bleach his mind, at night he curls, hands pressed to his chest, holding the hope that memories may never show through his skin. But secrets told themselves in electric brushes with fabrics, through the years seeping in and stretching out with the movement of history. Dirtied, washed, victimized by impulsive spills, snuggled under the arm like a childhood teddy bear then thrown under feet so they wouldn't be marred bare.

And when he tears at his cloth and throws it away they snatch it up and alight their backs with it. From where their eyes are they cannot see how it perverts their posture, from where he is he thinks he sees spidery dead trees, with their branches pulled down by the roots and raped until bark has fallen and nature's renewing voice goes mute. For there is no water only fire. To realize they wouldn't dare they'd rather have the spark than the entire fire so long as something is there to warm the wear.

They warp themselves for perfect fit but its pieces of him that are solely trimmed. The losses cut, the surfaced roughed; adjustment hurts less when nothing sets in. But he likes it raw. The rawness has the loudest voice but they turn their ears, numbing the truths that have the most strength; a hood over the mind's eye... just another withdrawal from the emotional bank. But who needs petty coins when you can have pretty loins, indulging onanistic fantasy with your name on the reins. The tighter they grip, the deeper it scolds and what a mess it makes. Too disgusting for his taste and so another (security) blanket is weaved. If he'd only not been too volatile for thimbles, the pricks would not have kissed sweet while the heart string tangled in artery currents and pulled itself to a heavy flowing beat. Now particles resonate, rouse fears and sins to stew in a reddening glue, with which he sticks and sews each string to make of the shroud's eternal use.

The threads that dangle on their own are tethers to faceless puppets, he's never touched and yet they move and try to steal his cover. So he lashes at the surface in sacramental fervor, they dip their bread in what is dripped and choke while he laughs further. If he truly laid bare they wouldn't know, if he didn't walk it wouldn't show but if he held his breath he couldn't sing and if he couldn't move the air would sting. And light would catch his breath and he'd be forced to count each. Asphyxia probability, hooked to a leash. But malingering abuse is now like buttons to his coat, psychosomatic illness like crescendos of notes, retreating from life, his hands shake, refuse to button up and shy from the brink... clench, purge and degenerate. It manifests into syndrome.

Run and play with scissors he does, with one hand around his neck and the other flailing above. The mobius ball of yarn ever spins, with the will and advance of his cryptic conscience's hymn. There is no end without new trend. So he ups and throws rusted blades & crooked needles to the crows for a naked slow dance with pens and stones. No shooting star just a ride on the edge of window sill and papers, afar, until he cannot balance. The harder he throws the less strength he truly achieves, the more he writes the blacker the stream, the darker the meaning the thicker the seam, the more he struggles the more the staples grind and cling around his talons. Crooked, he falls underneath the line and the book gapes open for all time. And when calloused fingers plead with ink the tips of stain will morph inside the main-vein and pump narratively until every flow-flurry has a living word. To be swallowed by eye or ear, gobbled down with the sense of false identity and it's poetic liberal hurl. Selling as the next line in a haiku for those love cheats, to read before their kites sail in lonesome sleep. Sweat and tears get bottled, poured on the heads of runners at infatuation's track meet but the dream, not reality, is most deep and the finish line is on a platform too steep.

Follow, a run from self then back around, diverting truth where wisdom would otherwise be abound. A pebble trip into mediocrity; the dust jumping up from under their feet has a name but it has no longer has a face, it's shadowed by shame. The owning boy was buried a long time ago and his locket to go with it. But secretly when the world falls silent the man opens that lock-shaped mouth of silver. And he talks back to himself while the crinkles in the picture flirt with his marrow to hallow thanatotically; he walks with the God of irony hanging around his neck to give pinch when memory shallows. He can't forget what was once inside, there are not enough crevices for soul dust to hide, it stays under his nose and behind his eyes until senses tickle and sneeze pathos wild-wide. It's a pattern not he, nor they, but nature chose and knits in row with the ethotic patches shed like childish prose. Palm up, head down because he knows; they prefer one part over the other though they're one and the same, he's simply covering the old with new clothes...

A priori; solus ipse; tying the belt of reclaim.

Genre: Angst. Psychological. A pinch of fluff.
Pairings: Kyo/Kaoru [Dir en grey]
Rating: Pg-13
Warnings: M/M. Language. Paints a selfish picture of Kyo (THIS IS NOT REALISM). Lengthy as hell. Mind-fuckery. OMG my idealist totally shows by the end of the fic. When in search of reprieve, I tend to ignore what boundaries exist between the realm of make-believe & reality. Hence the embellished angst harnessed from the Kyo of "stage persona", which bleeds into off-stage Kyo; combined, chiseling a wild fictional hybrid. Heh! & beware the transference! My readers also tend to become a thing of background, that's not to say I do not appreciate YOU, I just sometimes forget I am writing for an audience. HA! Don't hold it against me, if there is some wordplay you can't make sense of I'll be happy to try to sensitize youーugh such love for that wordーto it! ;) ♥
Summary: Who says it's an illusion?
Author's blurb: UN-BETA'D. Italics pass as Kyo's thoughts, more often than not, excluding italics that are centered, such = lyrics. Why? Because I've always wondered what it's like looking down from atop, but still feeling caught in between; ah, intimacy is a vast labyrinth! And, ok, fine, there's more. It's a totally neurotic piece. To be quite honest, didn't start off with this in mind, but I think I was subconsciously aware of how serious I can take Kyo, if only to indulge him, and I wanted to somehow illustrate how easy it is to... over exaggerate shit. It comes out most in the dialog. Because his actions are complex, he can come across as a pseudo intellectual malcontent. BUT I think the real Kyo is the one we see, mindfully meditating backstage, keeping thankful thoughts to himself but feeling each intensely, letting them shine through his music and maybe, the secret smiles we miss when we're so busy expecting to see the 'larger than life' extension of him. And let's face it, anything I write about fans is romanticized, I have no illusions about what my place is. ^^;;

drops of rain




( ____ )

Tossed, into the fire, struggle mirrors heart beat; fierce and constant. Every petal of pain and confusion engulfed, falling into a forgettable pit and the hands of those brave enough to feel, brave enough to fall only to get back up again, brave enough to see through smoke, mirror and fire... brave enough to die trying...

We live for love.

We'll swim upward until our souls burn crisp and our flesh melts off...

Heart turned over on it's back again, confusions pooling together like suspended drops of sun tending dust, sneaking into vulnerable corners of existence-wrapped flesh. Burying gifts of insight in veins for the world to tear out later; the gravity of PAIN stirring deities of irony from their sleep, nightly. Straining the body for a kaleidoscope spurt in red. Laying emotions to an immature rest in the pit of a stomach that grows hungry, but never for food. What it craves, pretends to be in the hands of demons, hatching a world from darkness, but not the kind that should be feared, the kind that binds. It rolls off his tongue, languid and oblique like the compassion he knows we lack. He waits for us to sing back but we cut off our own tongues...

I've been tyring to find the answer, trying to grip it but he keeps it to himself, hanging around his neck... as he moves and it with him, can you hear the jingle of revolution? CAN YOU?

A gash to the universe by hate alone; in the arch of pain nestles the waters of wounds and diseases of which he speaks. Or is it love?

Where is the scent of promise, sea salts and fresh sand... the ocean of truth, a 'human' answer to dry land? A taste of hope? All I taste is fucking copper...

Drink it up until it hurts, until it rips through your consciousness and makes itself known-- in stain and peril. The darkness is truly LIGHT...

You kill the pain you feel.
Kill the pain you feel.

Put your God to rest...