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Okay, okay, fine, here. wednesday january 07 12:00pm feel the mood << oh Christ feel the music << Crowded House - Fall at Your Feet // let your tears rain down on me I know enough now to judge you somehow a first impression that always leaves me second-guessing I'm not the kind of guy screw hello, you had me at goodbye When the bruises stop, the drinking starts. That's the way it's always been; history repeating itself. You look at all of the girls who've had abusive fathers and then go out looking for boyfriends and husbands who will treat them the same way. You think of all of those tragic stories of kids who grow up in broken homes and some day start families of their own, and if you learn by example, and that was the only example those kids ever had... And you think, this isn't any different, is it? When you were kids, a friend looked at your brother's bruises and asked, "Why don't you two just leave? Just run away." That young and naive, it seemed easy enough, and for a moment you entertained the thought. You pictured your own scars and bruises and memories, pictured them fading away one by one as you left home, just walked away, a backpack over your shoulder and your brother at your side and the whole world stretched out in front of you. ( Benji said, ''Why would we want to do that?'' ) -kino baby baby please << 1 bruise

...i'm so tired. and sick... saturday august 23 03:25pm feel the mood << artistic feel the music << "Fist" by Deftones hello memory lover you are mine i gave everything i need you and someday i'll be with you the first time you were ever raped, it wasn't pretty. all you can remember is how much it hurt, how much blood you shed, this nameless cowboy, and he's tugging at your hair, tugging so hard from behind, his other hand at your throat with his knife. you can remember your pants and boxers all the way down to your ankles because he had told you to just shove them down. you can remember burying your face into yours arms, shoved against this brick wall in the back of some alley, shoved so hard you'll have bruises on your ribs for a week, and you can remember never being able to see this guy, this cowboy, but hearing his voice whispering in your ear, all these vile things, these expletives and insults, and, oh, your tears. all you can remember is how many tears you cried. this time. this time there is no alley and no nameless cowboy. this time there's no knife and no voice in your ear. this time you know you see his face, you see his eyes, and you see his smile. this time you know who it is. aaron finds you crumpled in the shower stall when he comes home. the water on full blast, scalding hot to the touch, but you can't even feel it. you're so numb, scrunched down on the tile with your knees drawn up to your chest, and you can't feel anything, your skin red and scrubbed raw, your eyes and your nose, your fucking hands and it's like they're dripping with blood, like you can't get clean. aaron freaks out, yeah, turns off the water and hands you a towel, even though you're fully clothed and soaked to the bone, but it's not like you know, just take it mutely, wrap it around yourself but stay in the shower stall. you scream when he tries to touch you. "benji," and his voice is so soft, you think he's afraid to say anthing louder for fear you'll break. you think you just might. "benj, please." he's your boyfriend, your friend, and you're not sure why you're not letting him touch you, you just know that if he does, you might never be able to stop crying. you're twenty, okay, you're twenty years old and you've been raped and, yeah, it's the second time, you and you're the victim here, the biggest victim of them all, you and your shaking hands, your watery brown eyes and runny nose, you and your inability to fucking feel anything, and you're the victim. but aaron's treating you like a child. and, maybe you are, maybe you're broken now, and maybe you can't be fixed. maybe you should give up. the sound of a gun clicking against your head, and maybe you are broken, sitting in here in this shower stall with these images in your head, memories, but they're as clear as anything else. you on your bed, your own fucking bed, and there's this gun and you're trying to struggle, but, fuck, you don't wanna die. what's the price of a piece of your body if you can save your life? this gun, and these fingers, here on your waistband, and there on the skin under your shirt. you pressed against a pillow so your screams won't be heard. you, and this gun, this gun against your temple. this gun, ohgodohjesus, and you fucking know it's loaded, ohpleaseohpleaseohplease, fucking know there's bullets in the chamber, pleasedon'tkillmeidon'twannadie, because, hey. tony never does anything half-assed. shannon baby baby please << 2 bruises

hey there baby, long time no see. thursday august 21 04:21am feel the mood << holy holy shit. feel the music << Crowded House - Together Alone // earth and sky, moon and sea together alone, above and beneath we were as close as anyone can be now you are gone, far away from me Benji dreams of him sometimes, but doesn't consciously realize who it is. Doesn't admit to it, anyway. The dreams are more feelings than visions, more about the soft touch of warmth from large, calloused hands, the dull throb of a new baby bruise, skin against skin, the tickle of eyelashes fluttering like butterfly wings against his cheek. The dreams are more memories than anything. He dreams of texture, but he dreams in color, of yellow and brown and green, and pinks and reds here and there. He dreams in blue, this kind of sharp, clear ice that gives him chills and makes him feel warm all at once. Of angel eyes and soft blonde hair and a perfect, shy smile, but he never sees the entire face. And if the true identity is never revealed, never for sure, Benji can go ahead telling himself that it's no one in particular. Just an image his mind has built up, just a misty apparition of nothing significant. This way, when he sees the eyes and the hair and the mouth, but misses out on the sharp, high cheekbones, the wide jaw, Benji doesn't have to believe what he knows is the truth. This way, Benji can ignore the voice that whispers a name he's tried so hard to forget. It's not a real person to begin with, let alone that person, certainly not the one who used him and beat him and broke him, who loved him, who fucking left him, and this way Benji doesn't have to come to terms with the fact that now it's the person who's haunting him in his dreams night after night with that smile and those hands and oh, God, those eyes. And Benji knows. As often as he tells himself otherwise, he knows who it is in his dreams, the voice that visits him while he sleeps and whispers old promises in his ear. I love you and I need you and I'll never leave. Benji can't lie to himself for long, because the touch, he can ignore, and the voice, he can deny. But the eyes are the truth, and when he closes his own they stare right at him. He dreams in blue, and it's a blue he never saw before and will never see again. Most importantly, it's a blue he'll never forget, no matter how hard he tries. Aaron made sure of that. -kino baby baby please << 1 bruise

i guess the joke's on me, she said. friday may 23 03:44pm feel the mood << i have no idea what this is. feel the music << Nine Inch Nails - Down In It // i used to be somebody. and everything i never liked about you is kind of seeping into me i try to laugh about it now but isn't it funny how everything works out? Another night spent licking his wounds, and Benji thinks that, just once, he'd like to see what fear looks like on Aaron. Just once, he'd like to see those angel eyes go wide in terror or pain or the uncertainty of what comes next. Just once-- just once-- he'd like to see Aaron rubbing at his wrists with numb fingers or flexing his jaw and talking to himself just to see if his voice is still there, because after three hours of being bound and gagged, he's not sure if anything even works anymore. Benji thinks that he'd like to be the one on top, the one in charge, just once. To look down on Aaron and see him frightened, restrained, helpless. Aaron puts up a constant front to appear invulnerable, and just once, Benji wants to tear down that facade until Aaron feels the cold hands of fear wrap around his throat. Just once, Benji would like to taste Aaron's blood instead of his own. Bent low over the bed where Aaron would be lying, tied down and struggling, bruises on his throat from Benji trying to press his fingerprints into the skin. Just once, Benji wants Aaron to be the one arching up off the bed, eyes squeezed shut, teeth bared and gleaming pink in the dim light. Just once, Aaron should have to live through the torment and the pain and the blood and the bruises. Just once, Aaron should have to be the one trying to scream past the bandanas or the duct tape, trying to breathe through the cushions and the pillows, trying to bite at the hand even though all it ever gets him is more pain. Just once, Aaron should have to go through what Benji goes through every single night. Just once. -kino baby baby please << 3 bruises

sunday may 18 11:20am bang bang, on the bathroom door you say you can't take it anymore i say let's even up the score w*f//unsweetsixteen There are times when everything just does a complete three-sixty and he needs to feel fists against his skin, nails down his chest and hips and back, see you leave a wake of purpling, sore skin across his flesh. Feel you inside him. Those are unbelievably rare, of course. But they happen. They have happened. You are nowhere nearly as strong as him, but you are strong enough. And he’s solid, completely fucking solid and cut to perfection and you’ve busted your knuckles raw and bloody because of it—from cracking your fist into his chest, against the bone underneath skin and knocked the wind out of him and crashed him to the floor. Unbelievably rare, they are, of course. But they happen. And you understand the power trip he gets all those other times, the control that surges through your veins and takes over your mind. Seeing soft, pained blue eyes—holy fuck. Holy. Fuck. And you understand that power trip he gets all those other times, when he’s the one at your feet and staring up at you with these huge fucking set of eyes and he knows he’s started this three-sixty chain of events. Oops. His fault. Especially when you crack after fist, this time well aimed against that pretty, perfect cheek and send him downdowndown, and doesn’t that serve him right, the bastard. He’s on your side of it all this time and he’s getting a first hand fucking experience. And doesn’t that serve him right, the bastard. Holy fuck. You likes these three-sixties. xanpet baby baby please << 2 bruises

and i've just fallen back to earth, still you know i'll try again thursday may 15 06:37pm feel the mood << goddamn, that took forever. feel the music << Third Eye Blind - Blinded // still staring down the sun take the moment of hope and let it run and never look back at all the damage we have done now to each other The first time was the night you finished shooting Little Things. All you had was two little rooms in a shitty hotel and a fucked up excuse for a tour bus, but you felt like celebrating. And, okay, maybe some of you were a few years away from legal drinking age, and poor Billy couldn't hold his alcohol for shit, but everyone was still young and innocent, as innocent as you could have been, all things considered, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. It was Paul who came up with the champagne and tequila, and it was you and Benji who volunteered to find beer when the champagne and tequila ran out. And you were just stupid kids, so who knew how you thought you were going to get the beer, but you were already drunk and celebrating the completion of your first music video as a signed band, so that didn't seem to matter right then. All that really mattered was the feeling of accomplishment, that you had started something, gotten somewhere, the memory of the smile on Benji's face when Mandy kissed his cheek, the happiness radiating from the twins that night because everything seemed to be turning up. And you have to remind yourself that this was way back when, before everything came tumbling down-- when you could still look your own brother in the eye without thinking of those two. Back when the five of you were still happy and uncorrupted. Still the five of you. And who could have known how everything would turn out? It was still barely anything more than a dream; before everything fell apart. Before gentle kisses turned into love bites turned into bruises and scars, before you started hating Ryan for some unreal connection he couldn't give you, before you got kicked out of your own band because of course Joel found the bruises, and of course Benji couldn't lie to him. Before all of that. All that mattered was right then. Just that one moment in time, walking down the street with Benji at your side. The liquor store is still a few blocks down, and right now all you have to see him by is the glassy orange light of the street lamps and the dull glow of the moon. He's tucked into your jacket, damn near drowning in it, because this is when he's still as small as his twin and you worry, sometimes, because he's maybe just a bit too small. Later, when you're pushing him down against the bed in the hotel room, you won't mind so much, the way his thin wrists fit perfectly in the circle of your fingers and feel sharp, snappable in your hands. Right now, his eyeliner is smudged, and the white of his skin and the cotton candy pink in his hair stand out like neon in the darkness. In that moment, that one moment in time, walking down the street away from your shitty little hotel and towards a shitty little liquor store, he told you, "I don't know if I love you, but I really want to kiss you right now." And maybe any other time you would have pushed him away, but the alcohol made you a little dizzy, a little restless, a little horny, and through the buzzing in your head, you thought you wanted to kiss him, too. Still young and innocent, as innocent as you could have been, all things considered, and it seemed easy enough to walk back to the hotel empty-handed and come up with some stupid excuse on the spot, to fake yawns and escape to the other room where you spent the night sharing kisses and hickeys and woke up in the morning still wearing most of your clothes. Nothing more, because you were still innocent, right, and all the tequila made you clumsy and fuck if just getting rid of jackets and shirts and belts didn't wear you out. There would be time later for everything else, and eventually you could do anything you wanted with a lot more alcohol in your system than that, and eventually it would happen so often you would just learn to keep the damn bottle of lube on the nightstand, and eventually little kisses would turn into big bruises and innocence would turn into something jaded and rough, sharp around the edges, and eventually it would be hard just to remember that first time, that first night you kissed him and held his wrists in your hands and fell asleep with him on top of the sheets. And after all this time, you still don't know if he loved you, but you never stopped wanting to kiss him. And after everything you've done, he never stopped kissing back. me, i'm a fool, spent from defiance yeah, you got me but i didn't give up on you -kino baby baby please << 2 bruises

...all you are... wednesday may 14 06:22pm feel the mood << tired feel the music << "Coma White" by Marilyn Manson a pill to make you numb a pill to make you dumb a pill to make you anybody else but all the drugs in this world won't save her from herself you don’t try to hide the drugs anymore. the valium, the vicodin, the fucking prozac, and you leave the bottles on your nightstand, leave pills scattered in your bed or bathroom cabinet, easy reach for a shaky hand or blurred eyes, easy, so when you wake up at night with his voice in your ears and his lips on your body, you can have a quick fix. that’s all it comes down to, anyway, even when joel wraps his arms around you and cries your tears, kisses your cheeks, and whispers words into your ears, even then, even when you think you’re okay without him – without aaron – and you want to realize how much better it is with joel, even when you see him in his new band and new life, get jealous because you can’t even remember the last time you were that innocent and naïve, even when he doesn’t call or write or visit and joel says it’s for the best but you just want to stay in bed all day and cry and cry and cry, even then. even then, it’s all for your fucking fix of the day. shannon baby baby please << 2 bruises

...knock-off of chuck palahniuk... thursday may 08 07:54pm feel the mood << tired feel the music << "A Tree for Trials" by Appleseed Cast this life goes lullaby out of here smile shows filtered sounds of fear He gives you drugs sometimes. When the pressure’s on and it’s too hard to handle and you find yourself looking for the razor in the bathroom for just once, justonetime, and that’s it, you promise, one time, begging, and he says, “One time is all it takes.” You haven’t shaved in weeks and you know he’s only saying he likes you scruffy because he doesn’t want to find you with your wrists slit and open, bleeding on the tile floor. So he gives you drugs instead. Small ones that you swallow, thank god, ‘cause you don’t think you’re up to shoving horse pills up your ass. Like, sex is okay. But putting pills up there? Frankly put, it’s just not the same as a cock. Sorry, Mom. Sorry, God. He puts the pill on his tongue and pulls your mouth towards his, rubbery capsule brushing your tongue as he sweeps your mouth, licks your teeth and gums and helps you swallow. You thank him by biting his lip, nipping at his soft spots, putting his hands on your hips and bucking against him. You’re only aggressive like this. Other times, you’re sure he’ll smack you for even suggesting it. But, this. These times, he goes with it. Plays the bottom, the submissive, softens his blue eyes just for you, so maybe you won’t end up bawling your eyes out like you do every other time you come down from a high. It happens anyway. Sorry, Mom. Sorry, God. It’s always after sex, when he’s got you in his arms above the sheets, and you’re both naked, both vulnerable and exposed. You just start crying. Can’t help it, feel the soft scratchy whisper in your throat, the ache in your heart, the empty void, and the tears just run down your cheeks. He’s used to this, used to you crying, because for serious after every time he’s hit you? He always wraps his arms around you instead of leaving, you have no bruises to kiss or scrapes to bandage, it’s just you and your void. But he holds you anyway, holds you tight and against his chest, loves you with just his touch, and you think why did you ever need the drugs in the first place when you’ve got him? He reminds you, though, just a little smack here and there but it’s enough. Not enough for you to want to kill yourself again, but enough to send you down that spiral. Enough to make you want him, need him, love him more and more each day. Enough for you to take another pill. Enough. Sorry, Mom. Sorry, God. shannon baby baby please << 2 bruises

monday may 05 04:04pm breakin' with you was the best-- the best time of my life motioncitysoundtrack There comes a time where you can't just lie in a corner anymore. Where being backed up against it, crying into the drywall and peeling the wallpaper all become unsafe to you, when it stops being your savior, your therapy, your thing to focus on. You burnt so easily in those times. Not that physical burn but that kind where it tears at your insides and attacks your heart until it is dust, and it burns, oddly, until he returns and your forced out of that corner, back into that purgatory, that somesort of punishment that is seemingly better than being alone in your aftermath. And it burns, until he crushes a hand to your flesh and turns the pale skin black and blue and purple. And that's when it's that physical burn, and you can handle that better then the others. It's easier to deal with. And it burns, until he comes back and kisses your battered skin he caused and you accept his endless lies that you honestly, utterly wish were true, were real. And it burns, but it's okay then, because Aaron is that burn. xanpet baby baby please << 1 bruise

all the songs that make you shake will be by me saturday may 03 08:17pm feel the mood << actually writing something! feel the music << Stroke 9 - Letters // stay and listen to my voice i love to see you cry i love that it's hard to say goodbye i love a little pain as long as i can see you smile again   - flying blind // love to see you cry And in the end, all it comes down to is that maybe leaving him will be easier if he doesn't love you so much. It's hard at first, because you've never hit him before and can't imagine that there has to be a first time for everything. It's hard at first, looking down at him on the floor where he stumbled after you first hit him. Rubbing his bruising jaw and looking up at you through surprised, frightened eyes, voice low when he asks, "What are you doing?" And for that one moment, all you want to do is fall to your knees beside him and let him hold you, to kiss the imprint of your knuckles on his jaw and to cry apologies for things you haven't yet done into his shirt. You hit him again instead, and when he screams you only hit harder. It's hard at first, but with every cry for you to stop, it becomes a little bit easier. Every time he asks you with tears in his eyes what he did, it becomes a little less difficult to push him down. In the beginning he just stands there and takes it, but after a while he starts to fight back, and with every night that he claws at your shoulders and tries to kick you away, you become a little more numb to what you're doing to him. As much as you love him, there is something to be said about the beauty in his tears. He fights for all he's worth, but in the end you overpower him, and with every declaration of hate that he screams into the pillows as he shakes beneath you, it becomes that much easier to break him. That much easier to leave him. The morning you finally leave, he stays in bed and watches you pack. Curled there in the white sheets, skin marked by tattoo ink and bruises and old eyeliner smudged around his eyes, he watches you gather your things and doesn't say a word. His face is twisted into an expression of thoughtful hatred, the way his lips purse together and his eyebrows hang low over his dark, hollow eyes. You wonder what he's thinking, and then you decide that you don't want to know. He still lies there when you stand at the bedside, and you think that maybe you've killed him, until he finally blinks and looks up at you. He stays silent, but you don't need a goodbye. Don't honestly expect one. You lean over the bed to curl one hand in his hair, and it's gotten so easy that you don't even have to think about tightening your fist in the soft strands until you're pulling his head back for a kiss. He doesn't fight you; kisses back, even, and it's something beautiful and painful all at once. "I love you," you say, and he doesn't answer, just moves back against the pillows to watch you go. You had your doubts, but it's easier this way, and it's too late to turn back now. It was hard, at first, for you to take something this pure and twist it back until the pieces broke off and realigned into something misfit and ugly, but it was easier than waiting to see what would have happened if you hadn't. You have to leave. At least this way it will hurt a little less. At least this way he won't miss you as much. As you reach for the doorknob to let yourself out and leave all of this behind, his voice calls you back. Broken and hoarse and nothing of what it used to be, but it's still his, and it still makes you stop everything to look back at him. "I hate you," he says. It's easier this way. -kino baby baby please << 2 bruises

forget the freak, you're just nature tuesday april 22 06:56pm feel the music << omega - stone sour just you and him And it’s just you and him, sitting in mud and dirt and under dozens of unaware high school teenager’s butts. The bleachers offer some sort of privacy as he had run off during halftime, and then it’s just you and him. Sitting in mud and dirt and together. You don’t mind the filth that is cakes into your knees as you two end up curled against the deepest of the bleachers, just to be safe, making out and you keep accidentally hitting his helmet he had taken off. He’s careful when touching your shirt or face, his hands dirty. You push back his sweaty blonde hair from his face as he pulls away and pants for air, still short of breath from the plays on the football field he had performed. “You came,” he grins into the dim light, patches of his face lit-up by what light could get between people and the cracks of the bleachers. You roll your eyes. “Obviously.” “I didn’t expect you to. The whole…jock. Thing, and them maybe seeing. You. Or, er…” he shrugs, and you prod his dirty La Plata High football jersey that adorns his last name in the back. “You’re a jock, dork,” You raise an eyebrow. “Or did you just forget that?” He snorts softly, and you thread fingers through his hair again. There’s thudding of feet near by and he’s quick to get up, stealing another kiss from you. “Fuck, I think they’re about to go back on the field. Bye.” Another kiss and you watch him dash through the dirt and out from underneath the bleachers to relocate with his teammates. You leave a little while later; standing by the same bleachers to watch him do his thing and. It’s just you and him and you ignore the ‘preppy’ people watching along with you, and you feel that sort of ego-boost of fuckers. he’s with me. neya. And it’s just you and him and in our sixteen year-old minds, nothing else matters. No one else matters. xanpet baby baby please << 1 bruise

it doesn't matter you've got all that you need wednesday april 16 07:41pm feel the music << wake up - megan!version Tragic Does Aaron ever think about you? When he’s all alone and he’s got nothing left for him that day, does he remember you? Does he remember your kisses? The touch of your skin? The salty taste of your tears, the way you were just so fucking beautiful when you bled? Does he think of you when it’s Ryan under him, instead? Your love was just so fucking tragic, wasn’t it? But there were good times, too, right? You think about those all the fucking time—does he? Does he think about you and he and before, when love was just love and it didn’t mean all these secret, hidden things that you still believe in? Does he care? You can’t just forget all of that—six years of history and love. Fucked up love, yes, but love nonetheless. So fucking tragic. xanpet baby baby please << 1 bruise

why do you close your eyes so tight when you're kissin' him at night wednesday april 16 07:34pm feel the music << wake up - megan!version Alive Blurb Number One Benji thinks he’s made for this. For being broken and shattered, like the mirror he smashes his fist into. Just not as pretty when he falls to the ground. For being some punching bag, someone’s little toy—ready to be beaten and bruised and used. The hallow shell of someone he used to be, before agony and terror. It makes him sound pathetic, lifeless. But it’s what he is; down the road when his younger twin thinks he’s gotten rid of all of Benji’s demons. No more certain ulky blonde blue-eyed drummer. Which is why Benji leaves. Makes the trek to Maryland to sit on Aaron’s doorstep until the blonde comes home, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. He got the directions from Ryan, despite his glares and bitter scowl, grudges he can’t get over since Aaron was with Benji, and not him. And you know what? Despite the terror, Benji felt alive. Every collision of a fist against his face or a bruising kiss—Benji. Felt. Alive. Which is so much better than other options. xanpet baby baby please << 1 bruise

...okay, after this, i swear i'll shut-up for awhile. no, really... sunday april 13 06:45pm feel the mood << embarrassed feel the music << "Good Morning Beautiful" by The The but remember that nothing in the world can kill you inside for he is thinking of you Flash of a nightmare and you wake up curled against the passenger door of his beat-up Ford. You feel heavy and drugged, your forehead pressed against the cold glass of the window and your panicked breath making fog. Try swallowing and your throat aches dryly, and it’s the same with licking your lips, but this time you taste blood. Anything below your neck you can’t feel at all, so you look down to see your hands tied together with rope, bruised and shaking. Flash. And it’s him, whispering in your ear, Bad boy, bad bad boy, and Don’t think about it, and We’re going to have to take a little ride. Flash. Back in the car it’s too windy to be real, must be the air-conditioning blasting you right in the face, turning your sweat cold. You feel worse than coming down from a high. You feel violated. You feel abused. Flash. Good morning Beautiful, and a hand that creeps up your thigh. Good morning, and a sharp sting of teeth on your neck. Good morning, and you’re penetrated, blood and sweat and semen and lies, and the last of your will is gone, and your heart is racing, Good morning Beautiful. Flash. The car’s pulling over, you can feel the bumpbumpbump of the road beneath the tires, the change from gravel to stone, and you blink slowly. Flash. You had exactly two drinks the night before, both had left your sight, stupid careless idiotic thing to do, but you were dancing. And in a club like that, dressed in clothes like that, sandwiched between him and Billy, dancing is like sex standing up. Flash. Hands are unbuckling your seatbelt, and your head lolls to the side uselessly, neck exposed and vulnerable, beautiful, and you moan when you feel lips. Flash. He was the last one to touch the drinks, hand curled around the stem, devil smile and wicked blue eyes, Drink up, Benj. Flash. You’re being pulled up, dragged out through the driver’s door, and there’s the stick shift, ow, but that doesn’t compare to being thrown on the stones covering the ground below. Flash. Being thrown on a bed, pillowed and bouncy, you’re always a bottom, strong legs between your thighs and, hello, right there. Yeah, oh, yeah. Right fucking there. Flash. You wonder if this is the dumpsite. The place where all the serial killers dump their victims after they’re done, but, no, there’s hands on your chest, too gentle to just leave you here, caress the buttons of your shirt, and you try opening your eyes. Flash. Him. Himhimhim, and you scream, climax, release, let go. Him. Flash. You smile with cracked lips, start bleeding again, drugged and delirious, but don’t protest when he leans down to kiss you. One name on the tip of your tongue, a breathy moan that makes him chuckle. Flash. Aaron. shannon baby baby please << 1 bruise

...and this... monday april 07 04:07pm feel the mood << accomplished feel the music << "Signal" by Appleseed Cast someday the sun will fall down this, this is your power. nights like these, and this, this is control. this is what you yearn for every time he lays his hand upon you. this is what you hope wish dream die for when he pushes you onto the bed and tells you to be quiet as he unbuckles his belt. this, this powertrip, this command authority ability, this greedy shit you crave, this is what your wet dreams are made of. and when it's dark, that kind of warm suffocating twilight where you're wrapped up in his arms beneath the covers and his legs are inbetween your thighs and his mouth is breathing moist air on the back of your neck in a sloppy kiss and the split ends of his blonde hair are tickling your chin – this fucking cuddle – this is what you love most about Aaron. shannon baby baby please << 1 bruise

...in moments like these... thursday april 03 07:28pm feel the mood << nervous feel the music << "The Royal Crown vs. Blue Duchess" by From Autumn to Ashes and i would be the one to hold you down kiss you so hard i'll take your breath away and after i wipe away the tears just close your eyes dear possession -- sarah mclachlan In moments like these, moments where Aaron wraps his arms around you and holds you to him, your face pressed against his chest suffocating, your hands scrabbling along his broad shoulders, short nails biting into skin, tears clinging to clumping eyelashes, washing through eyeliner and hope and strength, moments where ache spreads through your body like fire, blood dries caked on your thighs, moments where you feel used and cast away, sex crime victim, underwear inside out and bound with electrical tape, moments where you feel like his whore, in moments like these you think of your twin and a little piece of you dies each time. And when you think about, think real long and hard and cry forever and ever afterwards, you realize...a lot of you has died. In moments like these. shannon baby baby please << 1 bruise

the morning after out first trip monday march 31 05:41pm feel the mood << cold feel the music << fuck the greyhound bus - mest humanity No one knows the real shit that went down. They know bits and pieces you've let slip out, or have seen scars that were uncovered. You have everything store in your mind. Even the good little bits that kept you going way back when. Oh, humanity. Aaron used to like to sleep next to you, head on the pillow next to yours, his chin resting on your bare shoulder. His chest rising and falling with quiet, deep breaths. One of his legs thrown between yours, little noises he unknowingly makes whilst asleep. It's not fair. In those moments you love him. He's relaxed and all though he's tall and all muscle, he looks like he couldn't hurt anyone. Wouldn't hurt anyone. You know better, of course. Bruises don't lie. Or when he first wakes up in the morning, sleepy light blue eyes and messy blonde hair. He kisses your cheek and chin sleepily before dropping his head back onto the pillow, worming in five more minutes of sleep, his arm throwing itself out and across your chest, snuggling back against you. "Ben," He'd whisper to you, voice foggy. "G'morning, Aar." You'd whisper back to him. He'd move after a moment, detangling himself and sitting up, white sheets spilling down and exposing soft pale flesh to you and the morning. The cool, dropped temperature of the room elicited gooseflesh to roll across his form, his large structure shivering. He was your god. He is your god. He would look around for a moment, then down at you, unpredictable pretty blue eyes. You never looked down, never looked away. He hated when you did that--when you would bow your head and stare at your feet, feeling shameful and little. So you stared back and he'd yawn, teeth gleaming white before shutting his mouth and blinking slowly. You loved him then, the few moments you would think, no, it's not so bad. not bad at all. Those moments you thought you could stick around and live a little longer. Oh, humanity. -- xanpet baby baby please << 2 bruises

it really doesn't matter, when you look at me that way sunday march 30 10:01pm feel the mood << a taste of things to come. feel the music << Bree Sharp - Faster, Faster // you know my heart is paved in stone faster, faster, i'm a trashy motorcycle beauty the road is all i've ever known faster, faster, i'm the star in this disaster movie and in the end i ride alone Benji looks into the sun, and all he sees is white. Aaron takes his arm and says, "Don't." He sighs, his grip loosening, and says, "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to do that?" Benji shrugs him away with a half-assed "Fuck you," and looks off into the vast nothing of the California desert. When he looks away from the sun, instead of white, he sees bright spots of green, blue, and yellow dancing across his vision and through the inky black when he closes his eyes. "Can we just go now?" When he turns to face Aaron, Aaron is already staring back at him, and when he looks into Aaron's eyes he sees those bright spots, instead. Aaron says, "Why are you so upset with me?" "Why do you think? You fucking-- kidnapped me." Behind the spots, Aaron rolls his eyes. "I haven't heard you complaining until now. You know those people, who hire other people to kidnap them and drop them off in duffel bags on the doorsteps of their significant others, because that's what gets them off? It's not really kidnapping if you want it, is it, Benji?" Benji scowls, turning away to lean back against the windshield of Aaron's beat up, piece of shit car that has miraculously gotten them to this point. He closes his eyes against the sun and says, "I didn't fucking pay you to stick me in your car and drive off to the middle of nowhere." "Fair enough," Aaron says. Benji doesn't open his eyes, but he feels the hood shift underneath him as Aaron slips off, hears the gravel crunching as Aaron walks around to the driver's side of the car, until the red against the back of his eyes turns to black and he hears Aaron's voice, right in front of him, "So, do you want to go back? I can turn around right now and take you to Joel's, if that's what you want." Benji thinks that he'd like to stay with Aaron forever, but doesn't answer. Aaron opens the car door and says, "That's what I thought. Get in the car, Benji. We've still got a long way to go." and yesterday is right behind me like a loaded gun so i'm racing toward the horizon -kino baby baby please << 2 bruises

one way or another tuesday february 25 04:46am feel the mood << tired hungry sick feel the music << i'm gonna getcha getcha getcha getcha. Because Benji and Aaron need a place for their love, too. baby baby please << 6 bruises

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