Disclaimer: Gravitation is the brainchild and property Maki Murakami. By her grace, Iím just playing in the sandbox.
Summary: What if Yuki kept a diary of the fateful events, just for his therapist? Manga-based.
Warnings: Language. Really bad, Yuki at his worst, language. And probably graphic sex. Yukiís uncensored VP all the way, so Iím making no guesses how that will go!
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My GDF Diary
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Hey, there, Diary. I still hate you. I donít care what my therapist says, this isnít doing squat for my screwed up head. Headaches continue and the medication still makes my stomach heave, so piss on you both.
Shit, what a weird day. Writing sucked. Damned characters just sat there and stared at one another. Hate it when they do that. The bastards sat until two in the fucking morning. So I chucked the dayís so-called work and went for a walk.
I should have stayed the fuck at home.
A fucking-fan-wannabe invaded my park.
Or maybe it was an alien from the planet Odd.
There I was, walking along, soothing my shattered nerves with one of the godsí own wonder drugs (thatís nicotine, Di! Damn right Iím still smoking. Hell if I care about the ulcers or cancer. I donít intend to survive long enough for it to matter, cuz Iím going to LIVE exactly how I want! So...ptl-ptl-ptl.)
(Fuck. How juvenile. Knew Iíd been infected with stupid the moment I touched that paper.)
As I was saying, walking, minding my own business, listening to the wind in the trees, and damned if the characters werenít right there with me, ready to spill their gutsó
And then this alien sneezed. I mean, shit. How dare he invade my precious communion with my characters? Sneezed, and then his damned snot-filled kleenex attacked me.
Aw, yígot me, Di. It wasnít his kleenex, it was worse. Worse I tell you. Heís a damned stalker, out to get my input on some damned poem heíd written.
I hate poetry.
And this thing was worse than usual. Worse because damned if it didnít have a line or two worth the waste of paper.
At least I think, maybe they were. The writing was damned near illegible. But I read it. I mean, Iím compulsive, right? I fucking hate to shop because I get mesmerized into reading the damned labels on everything I pick up.
Thank the gods for home delivery.
Where was I? Oh, yes, the alien. And his shit poetry.
At least, I think it was a him. It might have been a really weird broad. Skinny runt in a hoody and shorts. Choppy mop of hair, and eyes ...shit, those eyes glowed in the dark. Big eyes. PrettyóARGH! Did I say pretty? No, they werenít pretty. Big. Bulgy, like a damned frog. Glowing space-alien eyes.
Except, they werenít green. They were dark. Kinda purple. Shit. Who has purple eyes? Definitely an alien. íSpecially the way they seemed to pierce right through you and stab you in your soul. íSpecially when the wuss started to cry.
Oh, yeah, I forgot. I told him exactly what I thought of his shit poem. Lyrics he called that crap. Told him he wrote like a lovesick third grader. That he should get a real job.
And he started to cry. Worse, he wailed. Gods, that voice was piercing. Screeched something about how I could be so mean?
Hell, itís easy.
Hey, there, Di. Miss me? Well, fuck you. Nothingís been happening...except the characters have been talking, and you, damn you, will never, ever steal time from them.
Besides...the bookís taken a really odd turn. I think...I think both the lovers are actually going to survive. Possibly even together. And happy.
Shit. Happy. Where the hell did a happy ending come from?
The bad news is, the alien appeared again. Bang! Right in front of my damned car. Out for a peaceful dinner, and that idiot just appeared out of the rain and if I werenít such a superb driver, heíd have made a mess all over the front of the Merc.
I brought him home...I mean, what the hell was I supposed to do? He jumps out in front of my car, screeches at me to stop and wonít moveóhell if I know why. Damned brat. Insisted he wasnít trying to commit suicide, but I have my doubts. Said he just wanted to see me again.
See me. Hah.
Idiot. Wannabe. And a damned fairy.
Oh, yeah...he is a he, no question. How do I know? The wet tee-shirt look sorta gave it away. Nice little bodyó
Dammit! No. I mean: skinny body. And male. Definitely male. Not nice. Not nice at all.
(Fuck. I hate this no-erase program. Fuck you, sensei!)
Well, I nipped his bedroom fantasies in the bud. Sent him packing with another blistering assessment. God, Iím good. If they can be discouraged, they should be. Damn right. Writing of any sortís no place for self-delusional whiners.
TBC (if yíall show an interest.)
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I donít know where this came from. Started rereading the manga for Between the Lines inspiration, and this silliness just started happening. Have no idea how frequent the updates will be...Iím really deep into original work at the moment...but let me know if youíre interested in more.