Nothing but rotten apples lay here, light years from the tree.
I swear to god, after Friday I'll be gone for a week, and during that time I will stop post-whoring you all for FIVE WHOLE DAYS. Merry Xmas flist! \~_~/
I jotted this down last night as I was waiting for Fai. I can't decide whether it's worth pursuing further and actually posting, (even though I get the idea that the Bleach fandom could eat me whole and that's kind of scary), so I thought I'd get a second opinion on it. And a third and fourth...if my loving flist is willing. Of course, I'm so late to the game that there's the possibility that this has been done to death. Which would be good to know too.
Hisagi-senpai had gotten his first, and so that meant that Renji's had to be better.
They hurt of course, but Renji was a soldier goddamnit, and he had received wounds from things much more dangerous than a needle and ink. At least, that's what he told himself as the vibration caused his insides to jiggle unsettlingly and he sucked his breath in as the artist hit a particularly sensitive spot on his abdomen.
To the few people who got to see them in full, they were beautiful. Those whose fingers ghosted over Renji's skin, exploring the lines and trying to divine where they ended and Renji started, but it wasn't as easy as that. With each one Renji felt himself becoming a new person, each line representative of who he had been before. They seperated his life into chapters.
There were the first lines on his forehead that spoke only of Rukia. And there were the lines breaking off from those that represented life after her. The jagged lines across his abdomen had been the places his first lover had touched him and marked him forever. The first marks on his shoulders had been his cross to bear as he strived for a way to surpass Kuchiki-taichou. Each successive addition to a line broke off of it like tree branches towards the sky, or trickles from streams that went off to carve knew paths. All the stories of his life were there, for anyone who cared to look.
And when people asked him what he did it for, what did it mean, he just grunted noncommitally. Why take the time to tell them when it was all there for them to read anyway, mapped out across his skin. The lines were ingrained in his existence for the rest of time, just like the memories that spawned them.
FIN
This is going to be the slowest two work days of my life isn't it? *sigh*
Friendly Hostility is truly, truly amusing in awesome ways.
I jotted this down last night as I was waiting for Fai. I can't decide whether it's worth pursuing further and actually posting, (even though I get the idea that the Bleach fandom could eat me whole and that's kind of scary), so I thought I'd get a second opinion on it. And a third and fourth...if my loving flist is willing. Of course, I'm so late to the game that there's the possibility that this has been done to death. Which would be good to know too.
Hisagi-senpai had gotten his first, and so that meant that Renji's had to be better.
They hurt of course, but Renji was a soldier goddamnit, and he had received wounds from things much more dangerous than a needle and ink. At least, that's what he told himself as the vibration caused his insides to jiggle unsettlingly and he sucked his breath in as the artist hit a particularly sensitive spot on his abdomen.
To the few people who got to see them in full, they were beautiful. Those whose fingers ghosted over Renji's skin, exploring the lines and trying to divine where they ended and Renji started, but it wasn't as easy as that. With each one Renji felt himself becoming a new person, each line representative of who he had been before. They seperated his life into chapters.
There were the first lines on his forehead that spoke only of Rukia. And there were the lines breaking off from those that represented life after her. The jagged lines across his abdomen had been the places his first lover had touched him and marked him forever. The first marks on his shoulders had been his cross to bear as he strived for a way to surpass Kuchiki-taichou. Each successive addition to a line broke off of it like tree branches towards the sky, or trickles from streams that went off to carve knew paths. All the stories of his life were there, for anyone who cared to look.
And when people asked him what he did it for, what did it mean, he just grunted noncommitally. Why take the time to tell them when it was all there for them to read anyway, mapped out across his skin. The lines were ingrained in his existence for the rest of time, just like the memories that spawned them.
FIN
This is going to be the slowest two work days of my life isn't it? *sigh*
Friendly Hostility is truly, truly amusing in awesome ways.