if you're so set on running, shouldn't you be off?

more drabbles - gotta love 'em!

Tue, 11 Mar 2008 03:13:02 GMT

More drabbles, can be seen as a continuation to the weird little thing I put up before. Comments always appreciated!

The first time they meet, the world doesn’t shake and neither one realises how irrevocably their lives have just changed, but really, they still don’t.

---

He is fascinated by her and she is mildly amused by him, and neither one is sure what to do with the other. They keep testing the waters, waiting for traps, not willing to take the first step (just in case there’s no one there to catch them when they fall).

---

His laughter skims over her skin and she shivers, a jolt of fear racing down her spine (this is wrong this is wrong this is wrong).

Twenty minutes later she snaps something harsh, and his face falls. Her chest twinges with just a hint of regret, but the fear slithering through her gut overrides it (she ignores his stricken look as she walks away from him for the first time).

---

She boomerangs back to him the next day, and they laugh it off (she can still see the wound in his eyes, raw and bleeding and just beginning to heal). Their words are tentative, hesitant, and they both secretly hate themselves for the smoke and mirrors that surround their hearts.

---

Another fight later she is standing in her shower, her forehead against the cool tile as she thinks this isn’t going to work.

---

She idly wonders whose temper burns hotter, and she’s willing to bet it’s his (hers is too cold, too frozen – her words are icy daggers aimed to kill).

His expression twists with her latest insult and before either one realizes what’s happening, he’s pinned her against the wall. She smirks and stares up at him and he releases her like her skin burns, unable to tear his eyes from the sardonic tilt of her lips.

“I knew you didn’t have the balls,” She comments.

It’s only after he runs away that she looks down at the purple bands around her wrists and wonders just how fucked up she’s allowed to get.

---

The next day she wears a short-sleeved shirt and deflects every question about the bruises, wondering who she’s trying to punish when he looks at her like the guilt’s going to kill him and the silence already has.

---

By the time he shows up at her door to apologize, she’s piss-drunk and drowning in her own despair.

He stares at her when she wrenches open the door, a half-empty bottle clenched in one hand. She snorts and turns away from him, but leaves the door open as she stumbles back up the stairs. Her knees give up on her halfway and she tries to collapse but his arms wrap around her from behind (she snarls but he doesn’t let go, and the mirror in front of them isn’t sure whether to reflect love or hate).

His arms gently lower her to the ground and she closes her eyes to hide the tears that are threatening to spill over onto her flushed cheeks.

“Why do you keep coming after me?” She asks, and her voice breaks before she can stop it.

“I don’t know,” He answers, and it’s so real and honest that she buries her face in the carpet to try to hide from it.

The sex is rough and needy because she won’t let him make it tender and loving, and when it’s over she drags herself from his trembling body and wraps her arms around herself, thinking it’s some kind of blasphemy that it’s this easy to make something so ugly out of something so beautiful.

---

He won’t look at her the next day and she starts talking mental bets as to whether it’s guilt or fear that glues his eyes to the floor.

---

It doesn’t stop him from coming back to her that night, and she can’t help but laugh when she opens the door. Her fingers tremble as she rakes them though her hair, but are steady when she offers them to him, coupled with a wry smile.

He takes them and follows her to her room, but pulls her to him and tucks her head under his chin before she can say anything. Her arms remain limp at her sides and she won’t look at him, but there are tears on her cheeks and she thinks she hasn’t cried this much since he stumbled into her life.

The sex this time is slow and gentle because he won’t let her make it otherwise, even as she strains against him and scratches blunt nails down his back.

It’s tragic, because she doesn’t want to be loved and that’s all he’s ever wanted, and she loves him but won’t admit it and he might know anyway but can’t help but feel every barb she’s ever tried to protect herself with.

“We’re a mess,” She whispers into his bare shoulder, lips chapped and rough.

“I know,” He answers, and holds her tighter.

this is a pretty good way to go, i guess

Tue, 04 Mar 2008 00:33:54 GMT

So...very odd drabble-ish sort of thing. It's the type of thing I've wanted to write for a while but didn't manage to write until last night, all hyped up on self-pity and lack of sleep. Thoughts are appreciated, as this is something I've never done before. The formatting got a little screwy, so bear with me.

she is fascinated by cards and mirrors and reflections, by fate and choice and the off-chance that none of this matters anyway. her fingers trace over computer keys and cameras and she’s never managed to find anything but frustration, all wrapped up in anger.

this is life, she thinks, this is life and this is it and this is everything and nothing and fuck it all anyway.

her pen runs out of ink and she idly wonders if she could keep writing – you know, use her blood as ink instead.

it’s already my life, she thinks, it’s already taking everything and what’s a little more? give it everything and never expect anything in return.

Useless, useless, useless.

the camera lens focuses and the picture sears itself into her retinas, a real-life canvas that she created and she’s trying to capture something here, grasping at ideas and trails of truth.

“thanks,” she tells her models (her friends? her comrades companions on a quest to try to find something real out of reality?) “we’re done here.”

she spends the next three hours with a case of cheap beer ($1.27 a can, but what they don’t tell you is you’re paying with your soul, ripping off chunks of it with every fucking swallow) and a deck of cards she’d used in her pictures (in her search, in her adventure, in her fucking failed attempt to make-find-use something real). the kings and queens and jacks stare up at her like she’s some poor creature deserving of pity, and maybe this is her own personal method of suicide.

“how anticlimactic,” she comments to the cards, because this a fucking pathetic way to die, drunk and alone and high on self-pity.

this is her life and it’s all it’s ever been, chasing after elusive meaning that’s going to rip her to shreds when she finds it.

“like that man who tried to catch the wind in a bottle,” she explains to the cards, “like that guy who knew everything but died anyway.”

a two-pair of twos and how the hell did that happen? aw, fuck it, reshuffle the cards (redo, redo, redo, how many times can you fuck up before you can’t rewind anymore?) and open another beer, it won’t matter soon anyway.

“you’re writing is beautiful,” someone exclaims. yeah, she wants to respond, and look at it long enough and it’ll swallow you too.

better to just keep drinking, don’t think don’t think don’t think, it’s not worth it. the mirror on the wall is gleaming and this is despair, reflected in dull glass and complete with beer and a half-drunk artist-soldier-corpse.

“already dead anyway,” she tells the mirror, “one more won’t matter.”

it should hurt but she stopped caring a while back (no, it was long before the first beer, maybe back when she was all wrapped up in mother’s arms or hell, before she was born. maybe she was born a hopeless-cynical-wry-desperate son-of-a-bitch and who cares anyway? she doesn’t she doesn’t doesn’t matter never has) because this is life.

this is her meaning. black and white photos and black and white words, never color because that’s too unpredictable and maybe something could bleed in through color (like hope or love or peace, like a warm hug that means something or sex that is more than just a fuck). can’t risk that and so she doesn’t, snaps her photos in scales of gray and writes her stories in black ink on white paper (black on white, maybe red on white? does blood make for good ink? it’s her life force anyway, she’s bleeding her life out onto the paper with every word she writes).

“perfect,” she breathes, and stares down at the cards.

(onetwothreefourfive i win)

this is going to kill us both one day

Sat, 01 Mar 2008 22:07:12 GMT

More drabbles, and some of them are downright depressing. The first cut is a continuation of the other drabbles, the series type thing I've gone and started, and the second cut will be the random ones that I just write down when they strike my fancy. Heads up, none of these are in any sort of understandable order, so bear with me.

“You know,” Kaeden begins, her eyes fixed on the relaxed Arcana slouched against the tree, her hands cradling a set of cards that tingle with restrained alchemy, “If you just sit back and wait you won’t be able to complain about what happens.”

Genesis contemplates the cards in her hands, her sightless eyes somehow still knowing the array before her. The blindfold tilts slightly and Kaeden eyes her own cards warily, the current of magic sparking along her skin, strange but not unpleasant. In the next instant Genesis grins and slaps down a royal flush, ignoring Kaeden’s scandalized protest.

“I suppose that’s true,” The High Arcana agrees, “But I think I’ll manage to have a good time no matter how things play out. Always have.”

And Kaeden watches with a wry smile as Genesis gathers the cards into a pile to begin again.

---*

It is a strange alliance, this, and stranger still is the fact that Kaeden feels absolutely no regret as the Imperial capital disappears into the horizon. Beside her in the pilot’s chair Genesis chews thoughtfully on the end of a flower stem, the same determined flower she’d plucked from beside their newly appropriated ship. It had been the only one there, stubbornly growing through a crack in the concrete.

“Regretting your decision, soldier?” Genesis asks, those blind-not-sightless eyes turned towards her.

Kaeden closes her eyes against the glare of memory and thinks how she hasn’t been able to look at herself for years anyway, “It doesn’t matter anyway. No matter what I do I’m always betraying someone.”

Genesis shrugs a shoulder and fiddles with the controls, then leans back and twirls the blossom between her lips, “Then do what you want and screw everybody else.” She advises, her face tipped towards the rising sun, “Who gives a damn anyway, as long as you’re true to yourself.”

The quiet in the cabin is thick and heady and Kaeden almost feels like smiling, though she doesn’t know why.

---*

Kaeden watches as the two thieves run off, her lips curled in resigned amusement, “Why’d you let them go?”

Genesis shrugs a single shoulder and takes a bite of the peach the thief – Gaia, her friend had called her Gaia – had tried to swipe, “She was Arcana.”

Kaeden nods in agreement, the spark of the young Arcana’s latent magic still jumping across her skin. She studies the hand she’d used to grab the girl, not surprised to see bright, irritated skin. Shaking her wrist idly, Kaeden thinks of the man who was with the thief and wonders if it’s normal for Arcana to run around with human partners.

“It’s not,” Genesis answers her unspoken question easily, “But did you see the way he looked at her?”

“No,” Kaeden answers wryly, “But I did see him when he tried to separate my head from my body.”

Genesis’s lips curl and she stares sightlessly after the two thieves, “Who knows, soldier, maybe this world has a shot at peace after all.”

---*

Kaeden will never be sure what it is that drives her to the cell of the condemned Arcana. One hand on her sword, she stops a few feet from the thick metal bars and stares down at the woman, silent. The Arcana looks up at her sightlessly, her eyes still hidden behind her blindfold, and raises her chained wrists in greeting.

“For a corpse, you seem pretty relaxed,” Kaeden comments, unable to bear the silence (or her confusion, or the nagging in the back of her mind that won’t stop saying this isn’t right) any longer.

The Arcana laughs, clear and ringing, “Death is supposed to be the ultimate in relaxation, no? Perhaps I’m just enjoying the benefits a little early.”

The hand around her sword-hilt tightens and Kaeden finds herself glaring at the grinning woman, longing to avenge her men, “Like the men you killed?” She spits out angrily.

The playfulness fades from the Arcana’s face and she leans her head back against the cell wall, her sightless face turned towards Kaeden, “And what of the Arcana you’ve killed, soldier?”

Kaeden cannot answer, the response that the Academy drilled into her on the tip of her tongue (they are evil they are devils they are no good to anyone unless they’re dead). Instead she stares into the blindfold and tries not to recall the slick feel of blood on her hands (Arcana blood, just like human blood, she knows because she’s held her dying comrades and there’s no difference no difference that anyone can find).

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” The Arcana finally sighs, her sightless face tilted towards her chained hands, “The dead are the dead, whether there is still someone to mourn them or not.” She pauses, glances up at Kaeden who stands frozen, her hand on her sword like it’s going to save her from this woman’s too-knowing gaze, “Tell me, soldier, who’s going to mourn when you’re dead?”

“No one,” Kaeden answers automatically, “I’m already a ghost.”

The Arcana smiles and there is something resigned and ironic in the shadows of her lips, “We spend all of our time trying to prove we’re alive, soldier. Maybe in the end we’re all ghosts.”

And through the single, barred window, the sounds of the city drone on.

---*

The gash on Genesis’s back is deep and oozing even as her altered genes knit her back together. Kaeden watches with morbid fascination as the wound closes, her stomach in knots.

“She was Arcana,” Genesis hisses, her voice raspy with pain.

Kaeden doesn’t answer but dabs at the drying blood, feeling oddly disillusioned with the world.

“I’m not invincible,” Genesis breathes softly, her sightless gaze downward (Kaeden wonders how she knows, but she always knows and it’s comforting and frustrating and Kaeden almost screams).

“What if I want you to be?” Kaeden answers, her fingers tracing over the already healed flesh.

The spark of magic along Genesis’ skin startles Kaeden, but the warmth of the Arcana’s hand brings tears to her eyes. She leans her forehead against Genesis’ back and tries to remember what life was like before it revolved around a single person.

---*

The feel of her sword sliding through human flesh is surprisingly similar to the feel of her sword sliding through Arcana flesh, and Kaeden feels oddly cheated. She stares at the prison guard as the light disappears from his eyes, and the only thing she can think about is what a waste it all is.

The Arcana glances up at her as she approaches the cell, her bloody sword gleaming in the dull light. Something flickers across her face but is gone in the next moment, replaced by quirked lips and sightless eyes.

Kaeden stares at the Arcana, her hands slick but steady, always steady, “Why am I willing to die for you?” She asks this smiling, breathing corpse.

The Arcana is silent so long that Kaeden almost wants to scream, but then she says, very quietly and very honestly, “You’re simply willing to die, soldier. It’s got nothing to do with me.”

And the sound of the chains falling to the floor is thunderous in Kaeden’s ears, and it seems so anticlimactic after all the blood that has been shed for this one woman.

Their escape is loud and dangerous, but the voices screaming at her through their stolen ship’s radio suddenly mean nothing to Kaeden.

“I once heard a story about a dog that bit the hand of its master,” The Arcana begins. When Kaeden doesn’t speak, she smiles humorlessly and continues, “It was killed for its betrayal.”

Kaeden looks at her hands and the scars that have become part of her flesh and answers, “You can’t kill what’s already dead.”
They do not speak, but the silence is loud enough to deafen them both.

And these are just random.

Comments always appreciated!

It’s a toss-up between who is angrier, and she stands at the door like he’ll have to step over her dead body to get inside and he stands inches away like she’s going to have to toss his corpse onto the grass to get him to leave. Neither is sure why they do this, why they break each other only to rebuild each other later. Secretly, they think they might be trying to make each other better in their own ways.

“Go away,” She finally snaps, and then she’s walking away from him again and he can’t stand it.

He’s through the not-yet-closed door in a matter of split seconds, and he spins her around to face him, only knowing one thing – that if she walks away again, they are going to lose everything.

“No,” He whispers lowly, because he won’t-can’t let it happen. She would throw it all away because she’s afraid, because no one has ever quite managed to be there for her and she’s not willing to let anyone try now. He’s just as bad, he knows, and she does too, but they are both too deep into it to stop now.

She tears herself from his grasp but doesn’t try to walk away, awed and somewhat terrified that he keeps coming after her. Instead her hand clutches at her hip like she’s trying to meld the two, her knuckles stretched and white. They glare at each other like if they look long enough they’re going to see past the smoke and mirrors that they’ve each surrounded their hearts with, and they’re so imperfect for each other that they’ve already failed.

They hate each other, because neither one knows what to do with honest affection and true, blunt love, and they’re so afraid of what could be that they jump at shadows with the intent to kill.

“Why do we keep doing this?” He finally asks, and there might be something like defeat buried deep, deep in his words.

“Because we’ve already lost,” She answers, and her words are as frank and honest as the love they won’t let themselves accept.

They stare at each other like there’s an answer in the lines of their faces, in the tragedies that life has etched into their skin. They stare at each other like they don’t see red when they see each other, like the quickening of their hearts is fight and not flight. What neither one sees is desperation or hope or love, because their masks are far too permanent and far too thick, and they’re such good liars that they’ve managed to fool themselves too.

His arms open at the same time that she steps into them, and they know that this will not last even as she buries her head in his shirt and pretends.

---

They are good at this, when they want to be, good at pretending that they’re fine and they’re perfect and they’re meant for each other, but they both know that the hands she wraps around his neck to hold him could just as easily choke the life out of him.

It’s unusual that this is where they are honest with each other, when they are alone and angry and naked. He stares at his hands as they wrap around her hips, hyperaware of the fact that he could snap her in two (she’s so small she’s so tiny but she’s never, never delicate). Her skin is sensitive in a way that she will never allow herself to be, and he wishes that the bright red of her flesh could tell him all the things she won’t, would tell him all the things that she hides behind a mask that’s too perfect and too beautiful for him to ever crack. But it won’t and she’s far too cynical and much too afraid to ever willingly reveal herself, so instead they stare at each other like they’re trying to find a map of their own failures in the other’s face.

She claws at his shoulders with her short nails and he bites into her arched neck, and both welcome the pain because pleasure is much too foreign to them and neither one would know what to do with it.

This isn’t love; it’s an addiction and a drug and one day it’s going to swallow them whole. She stares sightlessly at the wall as he collapses on top of her and wishes it would hurry up.

---

She thinks she understands him some days, and other days he’s a locked book written in a language she’s never seen. It is on those days that she hides from him, confused and a little bit afraid (of losing him, of hurting him, of finding out that her world is a whimsical illusion).

“Look at me,” He finally snaps one day, his fingers like iron around her wrist.

She glances up at him and he hates both of them in that instant for the two-way mirrors that surround their hearts.

wet!naked!Basch and a very confused Ashe

Tue, 26 Feb 2008 18:53:09 GMT

Hey, all! This little drabble-ish thingy was written for the wet!naked!Basch challenge by logistika_nyx and sarsa_cat. Pretty much just silliness, hope you enjoy!

Title: Someday
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Rating: PG-13
Author: eienryu
Prompt: wet!naked!Basch
Characters: Basch/Ashe
Words: 541
Summary: You open the door and promptly decide that you were a horrible person in a former life.
Note: Written in second-person, heads-up.

You open the door and promptly decide that you were a horrible person in a former life - possibly a murderer of kittens or a kicker of puppies – because that is the only way karma would have seen fit to have you walk in on your protector who’s wearing nothing but water droplets.

Both of you freeze, and it should be comic but it’s not really because why isn’t he covering himself up and hell, why aren’t you turning away? And apparently both of you are just idiots or maybe it’s just that neither one of you have ever been trained to deal with this (maybe this was a lesson Vossler skipped, you think dazedly, and damnit, it would be a useful skill to have). Basch just keeps looking at you like he’s been caught with his pants down, though you suppose that’s not technically true, because he’s not even wearing pants.

“My lady!” Basch finally chokes out, his face almost as red as his scar.

“I came here to apologize for my comment earlier,” You squeak out, and something in you winces at the timid way your voice sounds.

You feel a burst of pity for Basch, because the poor man’s options are really more limited than yours, and he looks so at a loss for what to do but really, you don’t know what to do either and both of you are in the same awkward boat. The silence stretches on and you are frantically trying to think up something to say, but your focus has gotten caught on the water sliding over his stomach and down, and you are not allowed to think about that!

He really is quite the catch, some part of you thinks distractedly, with all those lean muscles and ragged scars (each one tells a story and some part of you suddenly yearns to hear them all), and something dormant in you suddenly yawns awake.

Before either of you can really register what’s happening, your hands are sliding across the smooth muscles of his stomach and you suppose you probably should have given the poor man some warning, but the look of absolute surprise on his face is worth it. You kiss him before he can stutter out a response (something about duty and honor and you can almost hear it playing in your head, like a recording or a speech you had to memorize for your studies).

“What do you want?” You breathe against his lips, and you can tell from the spark in his eye that he knows what you’re talking about.

Instead of an answer, he captures your lips again and his arms wind about your waist, pulling you flush against his still-wet skin. That thought is lost soon enough, chased away by Basch’s hands and Basch’s tongue and then you really can’t think at all (except that you do think one last thing, and thinking about it later will bring a blush to your cheeks, something about for being chained up for so long, he sure hasn’t forgotten much).

The next day, as the party gathers in the inn’s small lobby, Balthier grins knowingly and Ashe blushes, but reaches behind her to intertwine her fingers in Basch’s comforting grip anyway.

Comments appreciated!

out through the curtain

Mon, 25 Feb 2008 04:25:32 GMT

So this is another series of drabbles, but one that I think is going to be turning into a full-fledged drabble-story. Comments appreciated!

This is a story of a beginning…

Kaeden listens intently as the Academy Instructor tells them about the Arcana and alchemy, about altered cells and no-longer-humans. She listens as the instructor, wrapped in knowledge and steeped in wisdom, explains the thin line between good and evil, and how easy it is to fall.

“The Arcana, seduced by their power, turned it on the good people who had harbored them,” The melodic, persuasive voice explains, “And that is why we hunt them.”

There is silence in the classroom then, but Kaeden can feel the tinge of excitement in the air she breathes, can see it in her fellow soldier’s eyes. The Arcana are the enemy, lawless and barbaric, and it is their job as soldiers of the Empire to destroy the threat they pose.

Kaeden’s fingers tighten around the edge of her desk, imagining the hilt of a sword.

---

Kaeden meets her first Arcana three months later on a filthy street in some godforsaken village, and as the blade of her sword arcs downward towards the boy, the only thing she can think of is that the terror in his eyes seems surprisingly human.

---

She has lost count of the Arcana that have fallen to her blade when she stands before the high court, her head bowed as one judge comes forward to drape a medal around her neck.

“For your dedication to peace,” The judge proclaims, and the hall, filled with imperial citizens and imperial soldiers alike, erupts into cheers.

Kaeden contemplates the feel of the heavy metal against her chest, thinking it ironic that they’re awarding her for peace when the only thing she’s brought about is death.

---

“Your record is impressive,” Her new commander comments, studying the open file in his hands.

“Thank you, sir,” She responds, her hands clasped behind her back, the image of the perfect soldier.

Her commander’s dark eyes flick to hers and he smiles lazily, closing her folder with a snap, “I know that you’ll continue to serve the Empire well.”

“Yes, sir,” She answers, and his eyes flash with satisfaction.

“Kill them all,” He orders, “Don’t let their existence taint this world anymore.”

Kaeden bows and exits, the image of that first felled Arcana filling her mind until she can see nothing else.

---

Kaeden stands in the middle of destruction, her armor dented and her skin slick with blood, but her sword is steady against the neck of her target. They are surrounded by dead imperial soldiers, all member’s of Kaeden’s unit, all killed by the Arcana she now holds at her mercy. Her fingers tighten around the hilt of the blade and some voice inside her whispers for blood.

The woman is on her knees, her lance thrown to the side, the cards she’d used to activate her alchemy scattered around their feet. Her eyes are covered by a black blindfold, but there is no fear in the twist of her mouth, only something that Kaeden cannot decipher.

“Tell me,” The Arcana asks, her voice soft and hard and impossibly smooth, “Why haven’t you killed me yet?”

And Kaeden cannot answer her, surrounded by death and hate and sightless eyes. The tip of her sword trembles slightly, nicking the Arcana’s neck, and she watches in fascination as a trickle of crimson blood swells from the wound.

The Arcana’s lips quirk up and she almost smiles, saying, “It’s surprising, isn’t it, that we Arcana bleed the same as you humans.”

---

Kaeden stands to the side as her commander backhands the sightless Arcana, knocking her to the unforgiving ground. The woman’s bound hands prevent her from catching herself, and she skids slightly before looking up at the angry, flashing eyes of the dark man above her.

“Were it my choice, I would leave you here to die,” Her commander hisses, hands balled into fists.

“Then why not do so?” The woman counters, taunting her death.

Kaeden’s commander kneels and grabs a handful of the Arcana’s hair, jerking her sightless face upwards until he can stare into the black fabric hiding her from them, “Because I’ve been ordered to bring you to the Emperor.”

The Arcana smiles as he releases her, “Such a good dog, refusing to bite the hand that feeds you.”

Kaeden freezes when her commander’s sword plunges into the stomach of the woman, and her eyes widen when the Arcana does nothing but smile. Both her and her commander watch with horror as the wound knits closed around the sword, and suddenly the trainings and techniques drilled into their heads as cadets make sense.

“Your Academy does teach one thing correctly,” The Arcana agrees, sword still buried deep in her body, “We are not human.”

And the sound of sharp metal sliding from flesh is far more sickening than Kaeden can ever remember.

oh, livejournal

Mon, 18 Feb 2008 01:02:59 GMT

So, as pathetic as this post is, will somebody take some pity on me and lend me a hand? Or some knowledge?

I've tried everything I can think of to get my lj cuts to work, but they don't feel like cooperating. I've followed the instructions on the FAQ, tried it in both rich text and HTML, gotten to the point where it LOOKS like it should work...and then it just doesn't.

Anyone have this problem? Anyone know how to fix it?

Thanks,
eienryu

my first icon, whoo!

Sat, 09 Feb 2008 02:33:46 GMT

Hey look, it's my first icon! Yay!

holy shit final fantasy 13

Thu, 07 Feb 2008 03:36:18 GMT

Looks absolutely fucking amazing. I CANNOT wait until it comes out. SEXY!!!

And Kingdom Hearts 3? Bad. Ass.

Why do the good games always take so damn long to COME OUT?!?!?!?!

ridiculously short post

Wed, 06 Feb 2008 14:12:18 GMT

In response to - 2008 is the Year of the Rat. What Year were You Born In?

~~~

"You're a rat?" She comments, glancing over at his paper, then back at hers, "I'm a Dragon. Huh. It says here that I'm supposed to love you."

~~~

Just because I can.

{ ei • en • ryu }