Hi, my name is Kom. Or Lee. Or Ryan. Or whatever you'd like. My favourite words are saturnine, exsanguination, and illicit. Sometimes, I write.
I write stupid things.
This is a stupid blog for the stupid things I write.
This is a sub-blog, so apologies in advance for being unable to follow back with it.
I do have multiple roleplay accounts, and the things that I reblog on here, unless otherwise specified, are from said accounts.
My personal blog is here.
theme by Conkers
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antithesism:
“Mother is god in the eyes of a child,” he says through smoked lungs, split lips. “Heard that in a movie once. If mother is god, then what does that make daddy~? The devil?”
The corner is as good of a place as any to loiter, easier to watch the herds of metal beasts, high on gasoline, transport the forlorn pariah to the places they think they need to go. It’s loud, like it always is, burrowing into his skull, and when he glances up, he remembers that he can’t see the sky.
“Maybe,” says his counterpart after a pause, words fall to rest. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a flash of blue. Smoke seeps from his nostrils like aerial snot, and he thinks he might be hungry. It’s followed by a breath of air sucked in like a vacuum, makes him wonder if there’s a wall of tar in those lungs yet, too. The meaning isn’t lost on him, he fucking gets it and it never bothers him because it feeds his falsified ego, and so he laughs. He laughs until the marrow in his bones is shaking and the goth kids across the street think he’s on acid. He might be.
—That laugh is the only thing with a pulse in this city.
antithesism:
She’s got a beautiful smile, something that seems far too alive for anything in this world, his or otherwise. She wears it well like she wears those heels well, walks the way she shouldn’t, stands out because she’s not dead. She’s cold like she’s dead, but there’s a ticking inside of her- a time bomb and he never could find the detonator- that echoes in his ears every time she’s around. Oh, he thinks she’s pretty, but mostly under her skin; it’s like a glow he can see in every pore, blood like neon, fireworks in the marrow of her bones, lightning in each iris and he can trace her optic nerve- heart isn’t a muscle, it’s a supernova, and he wonders if the entropy of nuclear fusion and gravitational collapse makes her itch at all.
But everything ends, every particle dissipates, even if he can see the remnant for years to come— it’s already burned into the back of his eyelid. With her lips slit pretty, he knows she’ll at least always have that smile, that afterglow; ghost. She’s electric and particles of galaxy-dust sinking to the bottom, light up the seabed and guide every lost sailor. He watches her sink to the depths, light up, illuminate, enliven the water with every particle of that stellar explosion, wrists bound in chains because he’s too dramatic for his own good, and he decides that’s the closest he’ll ever get to love.
He’s a leather jacket, a crooked smile, blonde, depletes the ozone with all of that hair spray. He’s The Clash and spiked collars, and he has a politician’s charm. He speaks in rhythm-rhyme, a poet, his accent is something she can’t focus on, can’t place. He’s cigarettes and cheap cologne, masculine and woodwork, everything she’s been warned against, everything she’s fought for, she can’t look away.
She’s long sleeves and blue tennis shoes, raven-haired, no makeup. She’s plaid and scarves, rings-on-fingers, she reads Bret Easton Ellis in secret. She’s puppies and kittens and wide-eyed and wonder. She has two piercings- he has six and she can’t see a single one- blue jeans, and watches the history channel like it’s her creed.
They talk into the night, in that little coffee shop where all of the sad people go, and she’s captivated by him.
Three hours, fifty-six minutes later, she still hasn’t asked him his name.
Clock. Tick tick tock; don’t stop the clock.
Time was an unrelenting force. It pulled and clawed at him. It scratched until he was raw. And he was raw, raw and festering, but unwavering.
And it hurts— it hurts— it hurts and he doesn’t quite know if he can take it any longer. There’s something so vile that swims through his veins, something so unnaturally pure that it burns and it hurts and it’s everywhere. It’s everywhere and nowhere and he can see that the sun is no longer there. In retrospect, it hadn’t risen for years; but Kingdom Hearts would gladly lie to him with her disappearing acts of retribution. And he can’t think— can’t speak— can’t hear—
And it hurts— it hurts— it hurts; this is what it was like, dying. He can’t hold still. It burns, but he can’t feel a thing. It stings, but he could beg to differ. There was nothing in between.
There were ancient seas that rose within him, and maybe he was that fucking pirate that they claimed he was. Bastard. And maybe this was a ship, they were his crewmates, and Xehanort had been the captain.
He could laugh humourlessly, effortlessly. It was too simple, but maybe that’s why it was right.
He remembers the darkness. That poor little wolf and even then, he wished it wouldn’t suffer. Everything; everything suffers. Nothing was safe; but that wasn’t true, because they invited everything into their lives. They deserved the consequences fully, and even now, he figured he could accept it.
He remembers the light and how it burned; even now, he found it ironic, that light from the darkness. And it was bad bad bad and he wretched and wretched until the acid burned his throat. Its eyes were so hollow— hollow— hollow and he could see himself reflected in them, but it was never Braig that was staring back. He’d slipped through his breakfast, and was the weakest one, of course he was; he always had been. But the beast was there, and it was dead, and they all left him behind.
He understood it, bleakly; or he thought he had. He was not the brightest one, fuck that. It was dark, dangerous; dank. and when it moved he scream— scream— screamed and when it jumped on him he could feel its claws ripping like knives through silk. It was heavy— so heavy— so heavy
And when it was done, he was none the wiser.
The highest cost; and it meant nothing— nothing— nothing.
ooc; your favorite words are wonderful, though if you say that you or your writing is stupid I will beat you upside the head with various blunt objects until you're a vegetable and you can no longer say that they're stupid. Capiche? <3
I… oh. But then I wouldn’t be able to write anymore…
… and then we couldn’t have sex…
… unless you’re into that, I mean.
Can you write fanfiction for fanfiction? <_>
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Death is strange, and death is horrible and death is everything. Everything and nothing- yet it quenches the thirst of balance and equality. Without death, life would be a mirage of an endless tirade, and with nothing to challenge you, would you like to live? And demons. Demons fade. Demons fade and cry into the shadows that vomited them up in the very beginning. Angels fade. Angels burst into flames until their flesh peels away, leaving nothing but the skeleton of a charred radiance in wake of a ravenous tirade.
There is nothing in between.
And from that nothing, he exists. The monster-marionette and his pretty-horrible toys and his broken-wing children. And he screams and he screams and he screams and he screams- Why do I live when death steals my children? Why am I nothing more than a scale for the things that are?
“My father-monster,” breathed the Black Tango, his voice dripping with hatred and poison and breaking the silence into little shards of glass to prick the molecules in the air, “You sit and you wonder and you pretend that you do not take and expect to give nothing. You sit and you wonder and you do not regret… my father-monster. I am the devil’s heir.”
The Black Tango spoke and it broke the silence and it broke the vitality, and it left everything cold. “Count on, monster-of-a-father. For every day that you do, every second and every minute- you die on the inside and you can feel every dropping bit. That is my gift to you.”
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