sordidlilthing

Nothing Kills Us Anymore
Author: Mushroom
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Sequel to The Games of Men, which you have to read first to understand this completely. I really wanted to write porn with fucked-up characters. Story went to a really filthy, creepy direction. Also, I am going to hell.
Warnings: Cheating, the two main characters are misogynistic assholes, phonesex while watching crazy porn, etc.
Summary: Anton pushed his best friend Luigi away, in a fit of panic. Months later, Luigi proves that absence makes the game dirtier.

( I want to watch you touching them. )

Filipino: Wika Para sa Atin, o Wika Para sa Iilan Lamang?
Language: Filipino

( Isang Reaksiyon sa Papel ni Monico M. Atienza na 'Kuro-Kurong Madla sa Wikang Pambansa' )

Karaoke
Rating: R
Language: Filipino
Summary: First date ni Claire at ang kaniyang kustomer na si Ken sa Tokyo. Kahit ano pang sabihin ni Robert, kahit ano pa ang tingin ng ibang kasama ni Claire sa trabaho, wala naman talagang halaga ang gabing ito.

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Feb 13th

When I'm facing the window and watching the running concrete
head angled in such a way that my cheek is pressed against my shoulder
I think about death.

I think about how you two are so comfortable, finishing
each other's sentences, trailing after each other's scented tracks
kissing with wide-open eyes

That brutal happiness that one only gets when they least expect it
so I live through the day putting on an uneager face
I'm patient, so very patient

When you tell me how she slammed the door in your face, tears and frustration
in your trembling lip, can't you see how it's an act of passion,
not an act of hate?

I ignore the traffic and think about death because I would gladly die
for a sliver of that contained intensity
trapped within your ribcage.

Because tomorrow there will be some attempt at stitching the void
Then there will be a collective sigh of relief
and the world will make itself right.

I will find myself turning my back from the window, afraid
and wondering what I can do by myself
for the next fifty years.

What Happens Next

“What should we do?” I asked Papa.
I was seven back then. An injured bird flew
inside the house, repeatedly rushing and banging
towards the glass windows and doors, until it
fell like a heap on the floor, its wings stained
with blood. I wanted to scoop the little bird
up in my palms but Papa said to leave it
alone; it was about to die anyway.

I watched Polly as it struggled to live.
Its tiny chest heaved, its eyes blinked rapidly.
I tried singing to it, so that it wouldn’t feel so alone.

When Polly finally died I asked, “Papa,
Where do we go when we die?”
“If you’re a good kid you’ll go to heaven.”
He said, taking Polly with gloved hands and
gently placing her in a plastic bag.
“And if I’m bad?” I asked, following Papa as
he walked to the door.
“You will be born again so you can fix your mistakes.”
“What if they can’t be fixed?”
Papa's footsteps were solid and sure, compared to mine;
my shoes squeaked against the floorboards,
loud and unwelcome.

“Mistakes can always be fixed.”

We buried Polly in the garden, and I placed a
big, mossy rock to mark her grave.
Two fat tears rolled down my cheek.
My heart was quiet, but I had to make sure:
“Do we always get one more chance, Papa?”

“You get more than that.” He said, and
when I looked at his smile I knew
that Polly would be okay.

The clouds rumbled overhead and Papa took my hand
as we both ran back towards the house, laughing
as the rain gained momentum,
our wet, muddy shoes making marks
on the dark, wooden floor.

Cavity


You hate love. Don’t know why it makes you feel
like when you were seven, and your
father had tied a string around your aching tooth,
attached the other end to a doorknob and
then viciously slammed the door shut. You
cried out in pain, screamed a lot, then stuck a finger in
your mouth, soothing the pain.

At nights you sobbed over the incident while
watching old commercials; you
found yourself groping the gap with your tongue;
fascinated with the soft, fleshy gums,
that sensitive hollow between tooth and tooth,
the salty taste of blood. It was swollen
so it stung, but you liked how it felt.

Several years later the swelling’s gone, the void’s
filled up with a brand new tooth, bigger and
stronger than it was before.
Your mother’s kept all your old teeth in a jar;
they’re all yellow and cracked and
completely disgusting now, so you don’t
hesitate to throw them out.

Sometimes though, when you’re alone
you slide your tongue around the insides of your
own mouth, reaching backwards to your tonsils and throat,
along the supple walls wet with saliva, then
over a set of perfect, lined teeth; like you’re
looking for that shallow dip between sharp bones,
missing that empty spot.

Taj/Shams (Suikoden Tierkreis) for factorielle
Prompt: "Things you'll never know"

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Kunzite/Zoisite (Sailormoon) for kirke_novak
Prompt: Zoisite decides that being evil is boring, dangerous and pays less (and no one really likes you D:), so he becomes a Sailor Senshi. Kunzite tags along because, oh, why the hell not!

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Phoenix/Edgeworth (Phoenix Wright) for tea_drinker
Prompt: Nick's bad coffee versus Mile's good tea and why tea is so much better.

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Seven Mornings
Rating: R
Author's note: And old story that was workshopped during one of my Creative Writing classes. Features homosexual content, but you knew that already.

( Learn how to live again, in seven easy steps! )