The Egg Factory

holy crap i haven't written anything in FOREVER. much less abyss.

2009-11-12T18:57:05Z

Title: Coats in Grand Chokmah
Fandom: Tales of the Abyss
Characters: Guy and cameos from the party. About Luke. Uhhh Guy/Luke if you want it to be.
Genre: EMOOOOOOOOO
Rating: G D|
Summary: The day after it all ended.

Natalia had gone with him, of course; dear, noble Natalia, with more chivalry than half the men in Kimlasca and more honor than the other half. She'd insisted on going with him to tell the Fabres and he'd easily obliged, not that she'd have listened if he hadn't.

Together, they walked into Fabre manor and told a mother and father that their sons were gone.

Guy had made himself absolutely clear that he believed Luke was still alive and would be returning; he and Natalia had almost had a fight then and there, simply because she was doing her best to let them down gently and Guy was stubbornly refusing to admit what she called the truth. She had asked him politely -firmly- to leave the room, and as he wasn't family Guy found himself unable to disobey. He wanted to leave anyhow; they'd been staring at him. Whether or not they were truly accusatory was up for debate, but Guy felt that with each moment their eyes lingered they were asking, "why didn't you protect them? Why are you here instead of Luke and Asch?"

Guy didn't know.

...no, that was a lie. He knew. It just...wasn't fair.

It wasn't fair at all.

Natalia had left the room with red eyes and rumpled clothes; Guy refrained from comment and escorted her to the castle. When they reached the steps leading to the hall, he bowed and told her that he needed to head back to Grand Chokmah with Jade and report to Emperor Peony. Natalia nodded, then smiled and grasped his hand and thanked him before heading inside.

Guy realized halfway to the docks that he hadn't flinched away.

The Albiore was in surprisingly good shape, though the same couldn't be said for the pilot. Noelle was tired, depressed and painfully quiet. The trip to the capital of Malkuth was a lonely one, and Guy let his forehead fall against the glass window pane as they raced the clouds across the sky.

Luke, Luke, Luke.

Guy hadn't cried in over ten years, and he wasn't about to start now.

Jade was quiet as well, though whether or not that was due to his own musing, a mercy on behalf of Guy's feelings -since he knew that Guy would indulge in his efforts to converse whether he wanted to or not- or simply because that was who he was, Guy didn't know. In the end, it didn't really matter; conversation wasn't needed or wanted on his behalf, and as awkward as the silence was, it was preferable to forced cheer.

The walk to the palace was very much the same. Even the report to Emperor Peony was very much the same; Jade did most of the talking and Guy found his mind wandering as the topic left matters directly related to him. He was so distracted that it took a nudge and a prompt from Jade for him to realize that they had been dismissed. Peony told him to get some rest. Jade walked him to his manor.

At the gate, Jade hesitated before saying -abruptly, with that same flat, matter-of-fact tone- "Perhaps you should take the time to visit General Cecille. She's your family, yes?" In other words, Jade didn't think Guy should be alone. It was...heartwarming. And weird.

Guy just offered Jade a tight smile, one of those "I know what you mean but I don't agree" expressions, and waved goodbye as he crossed his front walk into the mansion. The maids greeted him and he nodded their way before making a beeline for his sleeping quarters. His bed was waiting for him, and he fell atop it without removing his shoes.

At some point he fell asleep; his dreams involved children with red hair, smiling and teaching a ten-year-old how to walk. He woke with a stiff neck and an upset stomach; a bath cured the neck, a breakfast cured the stomach ache. Neither cured the restlessness.

Guy came across one of Luke's coats; there had been a night when they'd stayed in Grand Chokmah, and instead of sleeping at an inn Guy had invited them all to his manor. They'd marveled at the new House Gardios and Guy proudly gave them a tour, pointed out his favorite rooms. Showed them his workshop with a great deal of pride, even as Luke sighed and rolled his eyes and loudly proclaimed it as "boring." Guy had acted affronted, but he really wasn't.

The coat was clean. One of the maids had washed it.

Guy took it to the door. Despite the fact that giant manors with several maids and butlers in employ did not have coat racks beside the door, Guy's did. He insisted that it made it feel more like home, and the maids had agreed. It was rarely used, but Guy kept it anyway.

So he kept his coat by the door.

And one day, Luke would pass through the door to get it back.

eggcentric @ 2009-05-30T00:00:00

2009-05-30T03:55:30Z

Title: The Between Spaces
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: Cloud
Genre: Drama, Angst
Rating: Fff PG
Summary: How the man became the mess.

Somewhere in that smokey haze, beneath the fog of sickness but above the whispers of mako, someone existed, and mourned and screamed. Someone was alive, and he watched the patrons pass on their way to the train, feeling their curious stares but unable to follow them, to respond. Slumped against the lamppost like a propped up doll, the weight of the Buster heavy against his palm. It was all right. Nobody would take it because they couldn't even lift it. Only a SOLDIER could do that.

That...does that make me one after all?

Occasionally something would tap against his head or his arm; a stone, a piece of trash. It never registered as pain, that contact, and even the hissed curses that followed it were muted beneath the dull roar of Lifestream in his ears. Someone else was whispering...why were there so many voices? Well, it is a crowded train station.

...who said that?

In that in between, that little pocket of knowing, someone came to understand, realized what had happened. It had been years...right? Years since Midgar. Longer since his childhood. He'd lost something, gained something, lost someone, gained someone. Then he'd lost someone again. Lost them to rain and cold and little red rivers that changed pink and brown when the water churned up dirt and made mud. Was that what had happened? Had the ground swallowed him up? Taken them both?

You're at a train station. You're okay.

You'll never be good enough.

He flinched; that one had hurt. A mother pulled her child away; the boy had been peering right into his face, wondering whether or not touching him would be all right. Of course it wouldn't be all right. Didn't he know? He was cursed; everything that mattered to him died, or burned or bled. The ground swallowed what mattered to him, the smoke took it to the skies. The rain washed it away. The Lifestream ate it. Nothing was safe.

That's not true...

"Zack," Cloud whispered suddenly, and only knew he was speaking because of the scratchy feeling in his throat. It burned and his lips hurt; he licked them and tried to swallow. People passed, and didn't notice him, or didn't bother him. It didn't matter; all that mattered was the train behind him, the Buster heavy in his hands, and the burning in his throat. He needed a drink. He needed something.

If he died, right now...nobody in the world would care. Nobody. There wasn't a single soul in the entire universe that needed him. He truly was worthless.

Cloud hiccuped and something fierce and cold clamped down on his chest, held his breath to the point where he hyperventilated; his vision blurred and he clutched the Buster, drawing it up to his chest in a near-hug. Nobody would care. He'd just be another body on the street. Nothing would change, nothing would matter.

If I'd been a SOLDIER-!

None of this would have happened.

Cloud doubled over and clutched at his head with his free hand, the other scrabbling at the flat of the Buster, fingers curving into claws. The invisible bubble that separated he and the people milling about grew, and their hushed whispers mixed with the ones in his head, and he heard all of it, heard everything. About how weak he was- a freak, useless, pointless, worthless. How he should die, how none would be the wiser. How everyone he ever loved died because of him.

Zack- Mom- Tifa-! Cloud curled in on himself and shuddered, and the force of the memories of Nibelheim threatened to crush him. Behind it all was a silky whisper, impossible to ignore, about how if only he'd been a little stronger he'd have been able to save everyone. How it was his fault. Worthless. "I'm not worthless," he sobbed breathlessly; somehow the station had become empty. His voice -quiet as it was- rang and he was alone, more alone than before. If he died, there wouldn't even be anyone to witness his death. Truly worthless. "I'm not worthless!" he spat, and sucked in air through his teeth. "I'm-"

Cloud!

Cloud shook his head- no no, he wasn't. Who was Cloud? If he was worthless- if he was useless- Nobody cared. Were you still a person when nobody cared about you? If nobody knew your name...did you still have one? What was a sense of self if only you were aware of it?

puppet...

Stay away!

There had to be someone- there had to be anyone he could tell his name. Someone who could acknowledge him, see that he was alive, that he wasn't worthless. Someone- Please-!

"...Tifa...?"

...she turned. It was Tifa. It was her.

"Cloud, is that- oh, wow! It's been so long, how are you?" It was Tifa; she was alive. She hadn't died. She was there, she knew his name, and she hadn't died. He hadn't- But he had, it had happened, but if she was standing here-

Is...it a lie? That was it. It was a lie. Of course he'd succeeded...Tifa alive was proof. He wasn't worthless. Cloud slowly stood as she approached, rubbed his face; it might have looked like he was wiping away sleep. He was wiping away sleep. Why would Cloud Strife have a reason to cry? "Tifa, hey. It has been forever. What, five years?" Since Nibelheim. But it was all right, he wasn't a failure. He didn't have to hide from her; he had nothing to hide.

A strange look crossed her face, and she reached out to touch his arm. "...Cloud? Are you all right?"

"Huh?" He cocked his head, a hand going to his hip. SOLDIER pose. Buster over his shoulder. Only a SOLDIER could carry those. "I'm fine, why?"

"You...just looked strange." She paused, searched his eyes; gave a muted gasp. "Your eyes- They're glowing! You made it into SOLDIER!"

No, no no, don't do this to him... You don't know what you're doing-

Cloud grinned easily. "Of course I did. Did you ever doubt me?"

eggcentric @ 2009-04-18T09:49:00

2009-04-18T13:47:16Z

Title: (no title yet)
Fandom: Infinite Undiscovery
Characters: Edward, mention of Capell, Eugene, Aya and obviously Sigmund. You can't have an Ed piece without at least mentioning him.
Genre: Drama, Angst
Rating: PG?
Summary: Edward finds a new purpose, for better or for worse. VESPLUME SPOILERS.

He'd never felt so hopelessly lost in his life. He'd said he would continue; he knew that was what his Lord would have wished of him, what would be expected of him. It was the right thing to do. It was the just thing to do.

What does justice matter? He's dead. Edward berated himself for even thinking it, though it was true; they'd had days to grow accustomed to the idea that Sigmund was never coming back. Eugene had fallen into an uncharacteristic silence, only speaking when necessary and always in those soft, hurt tones. Edward would have pitied him if he wasn't so busy pitying himself.

Aya had come to him the night after Sigmund's death, as they had just escaped Vesplume. It had been sudden and accidental; he'd volunteered to fetch firewood, if only to escape the sight of Eugene going through Sigmund's belongings to fit that imposter with his Lord's clothes. Edward could see the practicality of the situation, and even as angry as he was he could see the worry and uncertainty on Capell's face.

But that didn't make it any better.

So he'd taken to the woods as an escape, let himself rage and scrape the skin of his knuckles raw against a rock face, let himself clutch and claw and sink to his knees in tears, shaking and feeling younger and smaller than he had when he'd cowered before that Gigas, more pitiful than when he'd hunkered down on the floor beside his father's corpse. More alone than he had in his life.

What was the use? Sigmund was dead. Edward had nearly turned right then, nearly turned from the camp and wandered off aimlessly through the highlands, not knowing whether he would go back to Burgusstadt or just let himself walk until he collapsed and found either Sigmund or his own death. He didn't know; he just knew that if he left, he'd be no worse off than if he stayed.

And then Aya found him.

He'd scrambled to his feet then, scrubbed furiously at his cheeks and snapped out a hateful response, knowing she didn't deserve it. He didn't care. He'd wanted everyone to hurt as much as he hurt at that moment, he wanted everyone to be in agony. No one should be allowed any shred of happiness while Sigmund was dead, least of all those he held dear to him. Those who should have protected him, Edward himself included.

Then he realized that she was crying.

She'd hiccupped at the comment, and Edward wasn't quite sure if she'd even heard it; her lips were trembling, her hands almost clasped at her chest, hovering but not quite reaching, as if unsure whether or not to complete the gesture. She was standing there like a saint or a priestess in the moonlight and in a dark fit of anger that Edward later felt shame for, he wanted to destroy her for still being beautiful when Sigmund was dead. "Edward," she choked out, and trembled again. She didn't move, didn't even take a step towards him, but it was almost as if she was holding out her arms for him to fall into. He was torn between turning and leaving and never coming back, and collapsing against her. He noticed vaguely that he'd begun to cry again, but didn't bother wiping the tears away, only glaring and sucking in a stuttering breath whenever his chest burned too much to bear.

"Edward-" And this time Aya came to him, a few cautious steps at first, as if he were a wild animal, before closing the distance with a frantic dash, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling his chin to her shoulder with a sob. Edward hadn't moved; he'd expected denials of Sigmund's death, a plead for reassurance, maybe nothing at all; just sobs.

What he got surprised him: she apologized.

"Edward, I'm sorry; I'm so, so sorry-" She didn't elaborate, and he didn't ask her too. Her fingers curled in his hair and he remembered lifting his arms to wrap around her then; she was so very small, she really was. And Edward knew that all he had to do was twist and he'd break her spine, but at that moment the stronger between the two of them was Aya, and she carefully held him together so he wouldn't break apart.

He shuddered, buried his face against her shoulder and fiercely swallowed a whimper, though he couldn't completely choke the sob that followed. And she apologized again, and Edward thought that she knew everything at that moment, that all the stars had spoken to her and whispered and told her how much he hurt. She wasn't apologizing for his loss, not like mourners always do when they don't understand. She wasn't even really apologizing; but the words didn't matter, he knew what she meant and she knew that he knew and that just make the tears come hotter. He sank to his knees, arms around her waist, face against her stomach and let himself weep, and she held his head, stroked his hair and he'd never felt more grateful towards the girl he considered his sister in his life.

Now, nearly a week later, isolated and alone in a room that she'd insisted he have in the palace, he paced. The imposter had come and gone; he'd had the gall to walk into the room with those clothes and that armor and that face, had the nerve to give Edward the hope that maybe, just maybe, Sigmund hadn't died. That he'd caught up with them, that he was there to either scold Edward for behaving so shamefully or praise him for continuing in his duty.

But he'd ruined it with that stupid smile. Lord Sigmund would never have made a face like that. Or ducked his head at a reprimand. Edward gritted his teeth at the thought and his hands clutched the edge of the table as he contemplated heaving it across the room. He knew he'd be banished from the palace for it and that Aya would catch the flak, but he thought for a moment that it would be worth it.

No, no. No. Lord Sigmund would never have approved of such behavior.

Edward forced himself to relax, and instead moved to sit on the edge of his bed. His hands rested on his knees, then moved to the bed, back to his knees, and he balled them into fists atop his legs when he couldn't decide where to put them. Why, why why?!

"Lord Sigmund..." Edward dropped his chin and whispered, and his eyes burned again. He blinked, twice and three times, and his inhale shuddered and he couldn't help himself. "What do I do...?"

Sigmund would have told him to continue the mission. He would have said that the world was depending on his strength; Edward liked to think he knew enough about his Lord to say that with confidence, but somewhere he only wished that Sigmund would once, just once speak to him with the same concern and- and love he'd shown that double, that worthless lookalike. If he was Capell...if he was as dear to Sigmund as Capell was, what would Sigmund have said?

It hurt. Veros above, it hurt to think something like that, but Edward couldn't stop himself. Sigmund would give Edward those gentle eyes, his tone would soften, his words would drop less clipped but more cryptically affectionate, and he'd say, "Do what you think is right."

Would he have said that? Edward wanted to die, if only to ask Sigmund if he would.

"Wh-what do I do...?" Edward covered his face, hands shaking, and he sobbed with the intensity of someone beyond caring. His breath was hot and wet in his hands and he felt like a mess, like something puffed up but he couldn't stop crying, and everything pushed in his voice hard enough to make it break and choke and tumble over itself like a rockslide. That's what Edward was; he was a rockslide. He was a ruin of what he once was, the tops of mountains cracked and tumbling down in a steep collapse. He was nothing. He was a hindrance. He was worse than nothing, worth nothing, and nobody would treasure him as he'd treasured Sigmund. How could they? Edward's pillar had collapsed and left him a ruin of a castle, left him bereft of support, left him worse than drifting. He was stagnant. He was still. "Wh-what-" He couldn't even complete the sentence, and choked on it until he coughed, feeling the tears and salt and mucus in the back of his throat and swallowing in disgust.

Turning and throwing himself onto the bed, he snatched up a pillow to muffle his misery, not even motivated enough to stand and lock the door. If anyone in the palace had any decency they would leave him the hell alone. Clearly such a concept was lost on Capell, and the memory of that fake Lord Sigmund with that pathetic expression made Edward physically curl up in agony, clutching at the pillow so tightly that had it bones, they would break.

Edward knew at that moment that he would never be whole again.

The thought was so horrifying that Edward briefly -for just a moment- contemplated finding the highest balcony and flinging himself off of it. He would certainly not be permitted to the same afterlife Sigmund had been blessed with, but at least he'd be rid of the sudden fear that clutched and clawed at his insides, stole his breath and his sight and left him feeling wrung out.

But no, no. No. He wasn't that weak. Lord Sigmund had entrusted the Force with the task of breaking the chains, and he couldn't let loss -however great- interfere with that. He couldn't. He had to complete what Sigmund started, complete it in his name, spread the word of Sigmund's glory and...what?

What then?

Wither away, alone?

...it didn't matter. So long as their task was complete.

If Edward couldn't fulfill his Lord's wishes as he'd lived, he would use his every last breath to fulfill them after his death. Sigmund would accomplish what he set out to do, what he'd be prepared to give his life for, what he had given his life for. The Order would not triumph over Sigmund; Edward would slaughter every last soldier in his memory, especially the Dreadknight.

The mere thought of Leonid squeezed Edward's jaw shut so tight that his teeth ground, and when he released them they ached. He hated...hated the Dreadknight, more than anything, more than anyone. He would kill the Dreadknight; he would make Leonid suffer for what he took, he would rob Leonid of everything precious to him and then slowly, slowly introduce him to a death he would find no solace in, no peace. Edward would send him to a hell ten times more painful than anything he could experience in the afterlife before ending him.

Leonid would beg for mercy, and Edward would show him none.

His fist clenched in resolve; he had a goal. Yes, he would fulfill Sigmund's wishes, yes, they would break the chains and free the moon. Of course they would do these things. But Edward's goal, Edward's purpose...was to torment the Dreadknight to his dying breath. It was dark, perhaps, but it was justified. Sigmund probably wouldn't have approved; he'd have encouraged a quick, clean death, always the knight of white, always the purest and surest. Always the best.

Sigmund.

The Liberator.

Edward would be what Sigmund couldn't be; he would help destroy the chains with the Force, and Sigmund's name and legacy would carry on with them and bask in that glory and reverence, and everyone would praise him. But Edward...Edward didn't care if he sank into a world of immorality, twisted and dark, so long as he took the Dreadknight with him. His goal, his purpose, the meaning of Edward's life -now that his Lord, whom he'd pledged his life to, was gone- was to end the life of his Lord's killer. It wasn't noble, it wasn't self-sacrificial and it wasn't in any way clean and righteous.

But it was his.

"Forgive me," Edward whispered, and he felt tired. "Forgive me, Lord Sigmund."

His hand throbbed.

I seriously need another FF7 icon up in here. THIS IS NOT A SADFIC.

2009-04-08T06:51:25Z

Title: Catching Up
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: Cloud, some OCs and stuff.
Genre: General
Rating: PG-13 for Tony's mouth. :|
Summary: Cloud is delivering stuff and meets up with someone unexpected.

Cloud knew once the door opened that today wasn't going to be a very good one.

"...Cloud? Cloud Strife?" The man's voice was incredulous and there was a grin on his face born of its parents anxiety and awe; Cloud could tell without even a look. Sometimes he would get these reactions, but thankfully they were few or far between; most people either didn't know him, didn't care, or checked themselves so they wouldn't be a hassle. Something he was grateful for, since he really just didn't want to deal with the social complications of being known by a stranger.

"That's the name," Cloud replied in a bored monotone, the line obviously thrown out in an effort to be polite while still remaining indifferent.

"Cloud, it's me. Remember me?" ...now that was a deviation from the usual. Cloud paused in filling out the information on the delivery receipt and raised his eyes to take a better look. The face was...familiar, but Cloud couldn't place him. Luckily, the man was more than willing to job his memory, smile wavering with nervousness. "It's Tony. Tony Schwann. Remember?"

"All the boys are leaving town nowadays..." Recognition dawned and Cloud's brows drew slightly together. Oh. One of Tifa's friends. He quite suddenly wished he was anywhere but here, and returned his attention to filling out the receipt as quickly as possible after giving Tony a brief nod. "Yeah."

Tony carried onward, catching Cloud's less-than-enthusiastic response but determined to spark some kind of conversation. "Oh man, I- Well, my wife made the delivery order and she said someone famous would be coming, but I didn't think- She doesn't know about me being from Nibelheim, after all, I mean, I don't really tell that many people. I never thought I'd see you again, though, but- Well, I mean, of course I knew you were still alive, and everyone knows what happened with- that, and in Edge a month ago. But-..." He trailed off, discouraged by Cloud's silence and the sharper-than-necessary pen scratches. Sifting through his hair awkwardly, he abruptly switched tracks. "Er...how's Tifa doing? Have you seen her lately?"

"Tifa's fine. Sign here, please." Cloud held the clipboard out and it took Tony a second to realize what was expected of him, but he started and signed with a hurried apology before handing it back sheepishly. Cloud tore the pink customer copy from the bottom of the form stack, shoved the board into his bag -he'd hated the damn thing ever since Barret laughed and called it a "man purse," but it had its uses- and held out the box, eager to leave.

Tony took it, but stopped Cloud with an inviting gesture that seemed almost pleading. "Cloud, won't you come inside, have some coffee or something? I can introduce you to my wife, we can catch up a little-"

"I gotta get back home," Cloud cut him off coldly, turning back to Fenrir with every intent of doing just that.

"Cloud, I'm sorry. Look- we were kids, you know? People do stupid things when they're kids, and I'm sorry for it, I am. You didn't deserve it."

Cloud looked at him and folded his arms, unimpressed. "Are you apologizing because you mean it?" Or because I'm famous now?

Tony heard the unspoken continuation in Cloud's tone and winced; it was a fair question, after all. "Because I mean it. I meant it years ago, I mean it now." Cloud didn't move but he didn't leave either, eyes drifting off to the side. "...just for a minute? It's cold as Shiva's tits out here, just for a cup of coffee and to warm up. Would you?"

It would be so easy to just hop on his bike with a curt "no" and drive straight back to Edge. He had a jacket, he wasn't cold and he did not want to talk about Nibelheim or his childhood. But...this man was also a paying customer, and possibly one that would continue to give them business. The delivery service wasn't exactly lucrative, and he and Tifa would have to start saving some serious money with Denzel growing as fast as he was; their savings was almost gone, after all. "...all right." He didn't miss Tony's relieved smile but didn't return the gesture, just following him inside, stomping his boots on the welcome mat to rid them of snow and leaving his jacket on the coat rack when Tony directed his attention to it.

"Cloud, just have a seat at the table, I'll call my wife down- Angelina!" Tony left the package on the countertop, leaning over to shout up the stairwell as he banged about in the cupboards for the coffee tin. "Angie, geddown here! I want you to meet someone!"

Cloud didn't sit, feeling awkward and out of place in the surprisingly cozy home; most of the shops in Kalm operated that way, with the stores on the upper level near the stone walk and the homes below, accessible from behind. If Cloud had his bearings right, Tony ran a patchwork business; the shoe and clothing repair shop.

Tony dumped the coffee and filter into the cup, pushed it into place and flicked the coffee maker on, glancing over his shoulder to check on Cloud's progress. "Sit down, go ahead! I know it's not the most welcoming- I'd offer you the couch, but the supports busted and until I can sit down to take a look at it it's really just not a good idea." Cloud nodded again and hesitantly slid into a chair with the poise of one clearly uncomfortable. "You like cream, sugar?"

"Uh- just sugar. Thanks." Cloud's tone had softened now that the situation had evolved into something far out of his comfort zone and he slowly worked his gloves loose, just to give his hands something to do.

There was a thud of feet stomping down the stairs and a woman in her late twenties rushed into the room, brown hair caught up in a messy bun with wayward wisps giving her something of a crazed appearance. "Tony I swear if you yell for me like I'm some kinda dog one more t-" She cut herself off with a muted gasp when she spotted Cloud, though, and stared as if he'd grown a second head. Cloud recognized her accent as that of a Kalm native, thick and deceivingly slow.

There was a moment of silence -brief, thankfully- before Tony cleared his throat. "Angie, this is-ow, woman, what the hell's the matter with you?!" Angie had flung her hand out and swatted him soundly across the arm, expression furious.

"Tony, you- you tell me when we got company, you stupid man!" Angie smacked him again for good measure and started to pat down her hair, face red with embarrassment. "He probably thinks I'm crazy now!"

"I told you I had someone I wanted you to meet, it's not my fault you came tearing down here like a goddamn banshee-ow!" Angie had swatted him over the head with an oven mitt this time, and he fended her off with a wave of his hands, backing away. "Woman! Stop that!"

"Don't call me woman! And watch your language when we have a guest!" Angie huffed and flung the oven mitt onto the counter before crossing out of the kitchen and over to Cloud's side, holding out her hand and giving him a robust smile. "I'm Angie, nice to meet you. 'Course I already know your name, I don't suppose you can blame me for that, can you?"

Cloud hurried to his feet and shook her hand carefully, feeling more shy than put out at this point. ...although he was a little irritated that she appeared to be an inch or two taller than he. "No, not really. Thank you for your business, Mrs. Schwann."

"Oh, you charmer you." Angie reddened and -much to Cloud's surprise- swatted his arm too, though not with the vehemence and indignation she had her husband's (who was now grumbling to himself as he pulled down three mugs and refilled the sugar bowl). "You call me Angie, sweetheart, I'm not that much older n' you."

"Angie, don't flirt with me standin' right here, woman. I hear you." Tony's voice had started taking on a bit of a twang now that he was relaxed, and Cloud recognized it with a pang of sadness and nostalgia as the accent of those who grew up in Nibelheim. Briefly, he wondered when he'd lost his.

"You call me woman again Tony and I'm gonna kick you out and have coffee with Cloud all by myself." When Tony didn't answer with anything more substantial than a grumble and a slam of the fridge door after retrieving the cream, she gave a huff of satisfaction and took a seat across from Cloud, which he assumed was his cue to sit back down. "You didn't gotta indulge my husband like that Cloud, though that's mighty sweet of you to. He sometimes gets too excited for his own good."

"Oh...uh, no, it's not that." Cloud hesitated, wondering if he should mention Nibelheim, but finished lamely, "We grew up in the same town. I know him."

"Well, I'll be!" Angie thumped the tabletop with an open palm and twisted to reprimand Tony soundly. "You didn't tell me you grew up with Cloud Strife, Tony!"

"I didn't think it relative information for our marriage, Angie." Tony's tone was defensive, but Angie only laughed, seeming to have caught on to his teasing.

"You don't think about a lot of 'relative information' about a lot uh different things, Tony, but I guess I can let this one go." Tony shot her a look and she laughed again as he brought the small pitcher of cream and the sugar bowl to the table. "So where's this town at? Somewhere north?"

"...it's, um-"

"Nibelheim, Angie, little mountain town." Tony's voice was soft, and Cloud knew that he knew. Nibelheim wasn't the same Nibelheim anymore. He shot Cloud a glance and Cloud nodded, Angie having missed the exchange in favor of stirring the coffee her husband plunked down before her.

"That's a strange name, isn't it? Never heard of it though." Angie sipped her coffee and watched the two men as Tony slid into a chair with his own mug and offered Cloud the sugar bowl, which he politely took. "So Tony, you left town when you were fifteen, didn't ya? I'll guess you left sometime since your business is in Edge, huh Cloud?"

"Ah...yeah. I left when I was fourteen." Cloud sipped his coffee; not the best he'd ever had, but good. Good enough for the conversation and to warm up.

"You two're friends?"

Tony suddenly looked uneasy and hurried to correct her. "Ah, Angie, tha's not quite-"

"We knew each other," Cloud interjected, wanting to avoid the story all together. "Both friends with Tifa Lockhart, but we didn't really hang around together too much." It wasn't quite a lie, just...the "friends with Tifa" part. At least, on his behalf. Nobody needed to know that he was a creepy stalker even at seven years old, it was bad enough that one other person at this table already did.

"Oh, I see." Angie's tone was understanding, but her face clearly showed that she wasn't fooled. She thankfully didn't press him for answers, though, and Cloud heaved an inward sigh. "Well, that's still nice. Tony, you didn't tell me you knew Tifa Lockhart neither. How come you wanna keep all these celebrities to yourself?"

"Angie, they're not chocobos at a bird show-"

"Oh you know I'm foolin'. Shaddup already." Angie swirled her coffee in the cup and -much to Cloud's great relief- changed the subject onto herself. "Me an' Tony met almost a year after he left town, then. I ran this shop with my papa and he was fresh from Midgar; said he hated it there."

"I can tell him myself what I said, woman."

Angie raised a brow and inclined her head, a gesture for him to continue where she left off. Tony coughed and sipped his coffee, clearly not expecting such an easy victory. "...yeah, I hated it there. I mean, you know how most of us were leaving to go find work?" At Cloud's nod, he continued. "I went to Midgar, but the only jobs available for an uneducated minor like myself were grunt work and the Shinra army." Tony's eyes met Cloud's and he knew he was looking for the glow, because he glanced back down at his mug once he'd found it. "No offense, that's just not my type of career."

"None taken. Wasn't mine, either."

Angie and Tony's glances were curious, but when Cloud refused to look up and only sipped his coffee, Tony began again. "Well, since I couldn't find decent work in Midgar, I headed over here to Kalm in hopes that something would be available. Angie's father gave me a job as a clerk, and I've been here ever since. We got married once I turned eighteen, and I don't regret it." Cloud was glad they didn't coo or hold hands or something mushy like that; he wasn't sure he could gracefully hide an eye roll.

"So what about you, Cloud?" Angie had decided to revisit the topic after all, and Cloud scoured his brain for a good excuse before just settling on the vague approach.

"...I left Nibelheim, joined the Shinra army. That...didn't work out well, so once my contract was up I...found work elsewhere." Tony and Angie were obviously puzzled, having spotted the glow and probably having heard the story that Cloud was an ex-SOLDIER from someone or another, but seemed to understand his reluctance to speak and didn't press for details on that.

"How'd you get in the army? I mean, you weren't that tall -no offense, Cloud- there's no way they've believed you were sixteen." Tony tapped his fingers on the table curiously.

Cloud flushed. "...I picketed the lobby entrance."

Tony choked back a laugh and Angie didn't bother, smacking the table with her palm again and making their mugs rattle as she roared. "Little fourteen-year-old thing picketing the great Shinra Inc., and you won?! That's rich, that's so rich. How'd you do it, what'd you do?"

"I uh...I slept outside the doors and...harassed the employees. Security tried to put me in jail, but since I was a minor they couldn't keep me there. ...and since my family was in Nibelheim, all they could do was throw me on a train to the slums; I just snuck off out the window before the train departed and went back." Now that they were off the subject of his supposed stint with SOLDIER, Cloud was feeling more relaxed in telling the story. After all, it was a little funny, a tiny kid bullying the mighty Shinra into giving him a job.

"Oh Shiva, Cloud, I didn't know you had it in you! You were always so quiet, didn't think you'd do something that crazy." Tony wiped his eyes and rubbed Angie's back as she laughed, grinning sincerely.

Cloud warmed up a bit and managed a small smile in return, but the moment was interrupted when his phone gave a shrill wark! and proceeded to play a midi version of the theme song from the children's cartoon Chicobo Steve. Flushing red at their snickers, Cloud fumbled for it in his back, hastily trying to explain his choice in ring tones. "Marlene -a little girl we look after- she likes the show, she must've- hang on-" Thankful for the distraction and ignoring the couple as they muffled their laughter with their mugs, Cloud answered. "Hello?"

"Cloud? Are you almost done with the deliveries?"

"Yeah, I'm almost done, I should be home in a few hours if I rush."

"I hate to rush you, but Barret said he's going to be in tonight instead of tomorrow. I was going to get the guest room ready myself, but the bar's slammed -I think there was a party down the street- and the kids are bouncing off the walls-" Tifa sounded haggard and tired, and Cloud felt guilty for sitting around and enjoying coffee with someone he hardly knew instead of rushing back to help.

"Sorry, I'm sorry Tifa; I'll leave right now. I uh..." Cloud paused.

"...Cloud? Hello?"

"I'm still here. I'll tell you when I get back." Tifa made a small noise and Cloud hurried to reassure her. "It's nothing bad, everything's fine. It's good news, but a long story and a long talk. I'll tell you when I come home."

Tifa didn't hesitate with her answer, voice warm again. "All right. Thank you Cloud, I'll see you soon."

Cloud waited for the click on her end of the phone before hanging up and standing. "I'm sorry, but I have to go. It was very nice meet you, Angie, Tony."

The couple rose with him, and Angie shook his hand again with sparkling eyes. "Nice to meet you too, honey. I hope we can do this again, you're nice company to have."

Cloud was a little taken aback at the thought, but nodded a bit as Tony circled around to lead him to the door. He shrugged into jacket and slipped his gloves back on, yanking on the leather to make sure they were on tightly enough. "Look, Cloud...don't be a stranger, okay? I know we're not friends and never were, but-"

Cloud cut him off as he opened the door with a hand to the shoulder- a quick touch, but enough to get his attention. "It's fine. I'm not much of a talker, but you have my number. Call me if you want."

Tony considered this thoughtfully and gave him a slow nod, expression grateful. "...all right. I'll do that; maybe talk to Tifa, too."

"Yeah." Cloud gave a short, jerky wave, heading back over to where Fenrir was parked and digging the key out of his jacket pocket. He wasn't particularly fond of the idea of returning to a packed bar to fish the children out of the crowd, but maybe he could convince them to help with the guest room. Marlene, at least, since she'd want to lay a mattress down so she could sleep in the same room as her father.

It wasn't until he'd hit the highway that it occurred to Cloud that maybe just forgiving himself wasn't enough; maybe he had others he still needed to forgive. Tony was right though, they were just kids. Cloud had wanted to ask him why he and his friend hadn't tried to stick up for him when the adults blamed him for Tifa's fall, but if he were honest for himself, he didn't care anymore. They'd been kids, they'd all made mistakes, and they felt guilty for them.

...somehow, that made him feel just a little bit better.

eggcentric @ 2009-04-03T13:17:00

2009-04-03T17:54:23Z

Title: Small Victories
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: Zack, Hojo, Cloud
Genre: Dark humor,
Rating: PG? idk.
Summary: Zack celebrates his birthday the only way he could; Hojo is not amused.

Zack hummed as he came to; so he was on the operating table today. Good. One less day for the kid to be on it. His limbs felt like jello and he knew he wouldn't be able to break the metal cuffs around his wrists, arms, legs and ankles, let alone the restraints at his waist and the other at his chest, but he could at least annoy Hojo as much as possible. You had to learn to appreciate the smaller victories in this place. "Hey Hojo."

Predictably, he didn't answer.

"Hojo." Zack was insistent, and when he was ignored once again he continued, knowing that Hojo was listening. He always was. "It's my birthday today; I can see the date on your readouts. Guess how old I am."

Silence.

"I'm twenty-one! Legal drinking age. Are you gonna take me out for drinks? I promise I won't slip any to Spike, he probably can't stomach his liquor anyhow. And you can get totally shitfaced, I don't mind."

Hojo's brow twitched and Zack didn't even bother suppressing his grin.

"Ah, you like the idea! I knew you would. You've always struck me as the down and out, hopelessly lonely and pathetic drunk. The one that nurses his drink at the bar and mutters about people not appreciating what he does for the world, etc. etc. The bums."

His brow twitched again.

"Aren't you gonna sing me happy birthday? I bet you didn't get me anything, so you should at least do that." There was, again, no answer, and Zack shrugged as best he could in his restraints. "Okay, if you're gonna be like that. I'll just have to sing it to myself." And sing he did; he took a deep breath and bellowed the verses at the top of his lungs, tapping the beat with bruised fingertips against the table.

"Happy birthdaaaaay toooo meeeee!" Hojo's expression was dark by the time Zack finished, and he mimicked the sounds of a madly cheering audience with his mouth. "Ah, thank you, you're too kind. I was going to go into a career in theater, but my calling has always been to be a sword-swinging barbarian. Sad, but true."

Hojo readied a syringe.

"I thought about comedy too, but it's just not exciting enough! And besides, I hear that comedians are always these sad, miserable people with no friends. And drunks. They're always drunks." Zack turned his head to the side with a light thunk, feigning concerned interest. "Actually, that sounds a lot like you, Hojo; are you a comedian?"

Hojo flicked the tube of the syringe to eliminate any air bubbles.

Zack scoffed, staring back up at the ceiling again. "I can see it. Totally. You in a nice oxford shirt, or maybe something ridiculous like plaid with a polka-dot tie. In some seedy bar, smoke for atmosphere, sitting on the stage and feeding one-liners to the audience. Don't worry, keep it up. You'll make your big- tch-" He was cut off when Hojo jabbed the needle into his arm none too gently, pressing the syringe and rubbing the spot on his arm to get whatever chemical he'd just injected circulating properly. Zack openly cringed away from the touch and shuddered.

"Shit-! Warm those up, would you? Fucking Holy, you're no sexy nurse, you could at least make your hands tolerable. It's bad enough I have to deal with your less-than-sparkling company- and-..." Zack blinked as his vision swam and a wave of nausea took over him. "Ugh...you...got me drunk after all..."

There was the soft scuff of Hojo's shoes against the floor, a whisper of papers gathered and then the door to the basement clanged shut, bolts sliding into place.

Zack trembled, and sweat beaded on his brow.

He wasn't sure how long he lay there, shaking and fighting down the urge to vomit, but he managed to drag himself to coherency long enough to register a faint tapping noise. Very, very faint; a weary gaze settled on the blond in the tank to the side of the operation table.

They were so close.

Cloud was awake; it was something becoming more and more of a miracle as time dragged on and the mako glowed so brightly in his eyes that it nearly burned them up. Zack hated it. But Cloud was awake and for him, Zack would muster forth a shaky smile. "S...Spike. Hey." He swallowed back a lump and it tasted like bile. "Nice to see you up..."

With the oxygen mask over Cloud's mouth and the thick glass between them -Hojo had reinforced both their pods when Cloud had caused a crack the length of his arm to crawl along the side in one of his fits- Zack couldn't even hope to hear him, but he watched in confusion as Cloud's finger dragged along the glass.

His brow furrowed. "...Spike, I don't..." And then the picture came together and Zack actually chuckled aloud, though the sound was weak and sick.

A birthday cake. Cloud had "drawn" a birthday cake with candles on the glass.

Zack grinned, even as darkness crept in along the corners of his vision and he mimed blowing the candles out. "I'll...tell you my wish if it comes true."

I wish I could get you out of here.

Title: (no title)
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: Cloud, Zack
Genre: Drama
Rating: PG
Summary: A slightly different account of that famous clifftop scene, from a rather different POV.

He could hear it; he wasn't that far away, after all. He was safe, but not that far away. A couple soldiers had happened upon him, but they'd left him for dead. Kicked his leg a few times, but gave up when there was no response and ran to help. The renegade SOLDIER was tearing through them like tissue paper, apparently.

Cloud cheered in his mind, screamed for Zack to go, go, go, take them all out and get back behind the rock where he'd set him, where it was safe. Hurry up and end things so they could go to Midgar, see his girl, become mercenaries. Earn an honest living. Well, somewhat honest.

Be safe. Away from Hojo. Away from Shinra.

But the guns just kept shooting. And as seconds dragged into minutes, and even into hours, the shooting didn't stop. There were explosions; they were firing missiles, using grenades, and it was Zack they were hurting. Zack, who was facing them to keep him safe.

Cloud wanted to scream, he was so frustrated.

He heard a sharp sound and somewhere in the haze inside his head he froze; that was Zack. He was hurt, badly, he was hurt and they would close in on him. Screams of dying soldiers drifted past the rocks and Cloud's fists slowly clenched. He wasn't able to move much more than that.

Get up- help him, you worthless- get up! But he couldn't. And Zack was still in pain, still hurt, and still being hurt. And Cloud couldn't move. Cold dropped onto his bare skin, and he realized it was raining. No, the terrain would get muddy and slippery, Zack wouldn't be able to fight as well, the soldiers with their visors and grenades and guns would have the advantage-

The gunfire tapered off, but then Zack screamed and Cloud wrenched himself so hard that he dropped on his side.

He had to go- Zack was hurt- Zack-

Zack-!

There was more silence, and a dull, wet thump. Crunching footsteps, more gunshots, and Zack made a choked-off gargle.

No Holy no please-

The footsteps crunched closer and boots stopped in front of his face. Cloud couldn't move even if he wanted to; mako burned green behind his eyes and he imagined leaping up and strangling the soldiers with his bare hands. They said something -everything was garbled- and one of them nudged him in the ribs. Cloud wanted to tear his foot off and shove it down his throat. They'd shot Zack.

He wasn't sure when they'd left, but when he woke from the green it was still raining. Zack was still over there; he needed help. Cloud rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself up on his elbows; the rain was cool against his neck and he shifted his legs. That didn't work out so well. So he clutched at the rocks and dragged himself instead, which worked out much better.

Zack was still there. He was far, but-

Cloud shuddered and his arm gave out, but he pushed himself back up. Crawled. Zack was breathing still; it looked as if it was taking all his concentration to do so, and his eyes were glassy. Cloud felt his own eyes burn again but there was no green behind them this time, and he swallowed hard.

"Z-Zack."

eggcentric @ 2009-03-25T01:37:00

2009-03-25T05:35:23Z

Title: In Loving Memory Of
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: Cloud, mention of Zack, Tifa and Aerith, Jenna the random slum kid
Genre: General
Rating: ff G.
Summary: Cloud is chilling out in the church and some random kid comes by. A short talk ensues.

He'd always liked that sound; heavy boots on a wood floor. It was such a peculiar preference to have, the clomp clomp his footfalls made as he walked into the church but he couldn't help himself. It was...melodic? No. Sure? Steady?

Hell, he didn't know. You can like something just to like it, and he agreed. It had already been several weeks, but the flower petals had yet to rot, and the water in the pool had yet to dirty even though the commotion when the diseased had jumped in should have kicked up enough dirt to turn it into a mud hole. It was still clear, sparkling, pure, the soft white and yellow spots dotting the crystal surface and drifting lazily. Perfect tranquility.

Cloud pulled in a breath before letting it out, and sat at the edge to remove his boots and socks, stuffing the latter into the former and rolling his pant legs up. Gingerly -expecting cold- he slipped his feet into the water and sat at the edge, but just as it had been when he'd first woken up floating in the water, it was perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect. Leaning back on his hands, Cloud let himself enjoy the silence, kicking his legs briefly and watching as the ensuing ripples disturbed the petals further along. If he was very quiet, he could almost hear a faint voice humming, as if someone was hiding nearby and murmuring a tone beneath her breath. A quick glance revealed -as usual- nothing.

She's here. Cloud smiled softly at that, tipped his head back and closed his eyes. The bunches of tension in his shoulders slowly released and he lay back, feet and legs in the water up to his knees, flat against the wooden planks otherwise and arms spread-eagle. Nothing could go wrong at this moment, and Cloud let himself pretend that Aerith was only a few steps away, tending her flowers. Maybe Zack would be lounging on a pew nearby, smiling like he was, taking it easy after all the hard work he'd had to do. What would it be like if they'd lived?

Would they be here, in this church, just like he pictured it? Would Zack laugh and point out when he was being broody, would Aerith giggle and agree?

Of course we would. "Of course they would," Cloud whispered, not opening his eyes or moving in the slightest. After a moment of deliberation he sat up, removed his shoulder guard, slipped his knitted shirt over his head and edged into the water. The earth beneath his feet was firm, almost as if it were rock even though Cloud knew it wasn't. Absently he wondered why he even bothered taking off his shirt if he was going to get his pants soaking wet, and chalked it up to those silly impulses people would have. The less clothing you have soaked through, the less cold the drive back home would be. As if that really mattered.

Wading more toward the center of the pool, Cloud held his breath and dunked his head beneath the water briefly, scrubbing his fingers through his hair before surfacing again and shaking his head like a dog. Even the water didn't have much affect on the spikes and he tugged at one before his eyes in irritation. Freak hair.

The doors shuddered at the entrance to the church and Cloud turned sharply; not many people came this far from Edge, but Aerith's church had become something of a tourist spot, almost. But it was late, and Cloud hadn't expected anyone to come by.

The face that poked between the doors was unfamiliar; a girl, younger than Cloud, probably in her mid teens. She flushed and stammered out an apology, which Cloud waved away easily. "It's fine. I'm just hanging out." He did wade back to the side of the pool and scoop up his shirt to tug it back on, though. He considered leaving for a moment, but something tugged and a soft feeling, like a soundless whisper, insisted he stay.

The girl lingered by the door for a moment before she slipped inside; there were a bunch of flowers, not as vibrant as Aerith's had been but still pretty, clutched in her hands. Her face red and her eyes fixed on her somewhat ratty sneakers, she quietly padded over to the side of the water -a ways away from Cloud- and slowly unwrapped the bouquet.

Cloud watched this with interest, pushing himself up out of the water and sitting at the edge again, rolling up his pant legs and wringing them out a bit simultaneously. The girl glanced at him before looking away again, picking the flowers apart with too-thin, too-pale fingers. She had probably been a slummer when Midgar was still habitable. Cloud couldn't help but ask: "Are those for Aerith?"

The girl started so badly she dropped one of the blossoms and shook her head at his apology, though she answered in the affirmative. "Y-yes. I...didn't know her very well when I was living here, but she was always nice to the other children of the slums. She'd help us." There was a length of silence and the girl began to lay the flowers out beside the water, having arranged them to her satisfaction. Cloud didn't see much of a difference, but declined to comment and instead finished wringing out his pant legs, reaching for his socks and boots.

"...Um...I know you probably get this a lot, but...but..." The girl stammered, fingers running over and back and over again the crinkled tissue paper as she wrapped it around the new arrangement, "thank...thank you. For saving us again."

Cloud pursed his lips, although he felt his own cheeks burn. This never got any easier. "...you don't have to thank me. I..." 'I did it for myself' does sound pretty selfish. "...it's fine." That would have to do.

The girl nodded quickly, still not meeting his eyes, and she laid the bouquet carefully at the waterside. Cloud felt a pang of pity; she wore a skirt that fell about her knees, but even from what he could see of her legs he could tell she was terribly thin. It wasn't too surprising, considering the poverty rate at the outskirts of Edge, but it still made him feel like he wasn't doing enough. He could save the world, sure, kill the madman who wanted to turn it into a galactic cruise ship for himself, but people still starved to death and died of other diseases. It...cheapened things, somehow. He wasn't much of a hero...Aerith had been more that than he had, just by living in the slums and caring for the people in them.

"...what's your name?" Cloud sat comfortably, shifted his weight.

The girl finally looked at him and he saw that her eyes were brown and large. She might be pretty if she could eat as much as she needed to, in that plain sort of way. Cloud felt a little ashamed of that thought but it was too late to take it back, after all. "I...I'm Jenna. Jenna Tabathy."

"Jenna. I'm Cloud." Cloud knew she was already aware of this, but didn't want to assume. That'd look pretty arrogant. That, and it was only polite. He leaned over and offered his hand, and it took her a moment to realize she was supposed to shake it, which she did with a squeak of surprise. Her hand felt brittle in his, and he frowned inwardly. "...are you gonna be here for a while? I was going to get something to eat and bring it back here, but if you plan on staying I can get something for you too."

"N-no, no, you don't have to do something like that-" She waved her hands a bit wildly before her, but Cloud was already standing and dusting himself off as best as possible, searching for where he'd set his wallet down. "Really- Mr. Cloud-"

"Just Cloud," he said, wondering where this remarkable social grace was coming from. Well, okay, so this wasn't the smoothest conversation, but definitely above his standard. Maybe Aerith was helping him.

...maybe Zack. It was more possible than one would think.

"C-Cloud. Please, you don't have to go to that trouble." Jenna clenched her hands in her lap, and suddenly her eyes took on a light that Cloud could recognize as scraps of shattered pride. "I was about to head home...I really don't need anything."

"Do you have a job?"

Jenna blinked, thrown. "I- what?"

"You're what, sixteen? Fifteen?"

"...s...sixteen, M- um, Cloud."

Cloud glanced back over at her. "Most kids your age have jobs by the time they're fourteen, it's just how things are around here. Do you have one?"

Jenna was silent, and her gaze drifted to the side. Her bony fingers wrenched around the material of her skirt, and Cloud gave her a moment before speaking again, tone softer than before. "Do you live in Edge?"

She pinked, but nodded.

"My friend Tifa, she needs help at her bar, the Seventh Heaven. She was going to put a sign in the window tomorrow, but I think she'd like to hear what you have to say about Aerith. She lived in the slums for a while herself, y'know."

Jenna colored further. "I...yes. I...I know. I remember hearing about her."

"...do you want to come with me? Talk to her about the position?" The light sparked again, and Cloud shook his head, collecting his phone, wallet and wayward Restore materia to slip them into his pockets. "It's not charity if she genuinely needs the help." Jenna froze, caught in what little pride she had left and cast her eyes down to her lap. "...it's not charity at all." Cloud watched her until she met his eyes, and to his surprise she held them. "We're all human beings trying to get by. It's not charity." He knew he couldn't explain what he was trying to say, not properly, but Jenna seemed to understand.

"Do you have to stop by home and tell your parents first?"

"I...I said I would be gone for a while." Jenna stood.

"I can give you a ride to the bar, and a ride home." Cloud's lips quirked when she nodded again and he returned it, holding out his hand in a gesture for her to move to the exit first. She straightened her skirt and hesitated, but passed him by and made for the door. Cloud turned to follow but paused, watching the water for just a moment. The petals drifted along the surface in an undefined pattern, and the whisper ghosted along with them.

Thank you.

eggcentric @ 2009-03-24T01:12:00

2009-03-24T05:13:52Z

Title: Because He's the Goddamn Liberator
Fandom: Infinite Undiscovery
Characters/Pairings: Sigmund/Edward
Genre: General, Drama, ...ah, what the hell. Nearly porn.
Rating: Uh...R, just to be safe. Not like it matters.
Summary: -WARNING- Spoilers, but that's pretty much a standard with my stuff. ...pretty much someone's lusting after someone, but it's not from the POV you'd think. Also, the title has nothing to do with the story.

It was not often that Edward made himself scarce without alerting Sigmund first. So when the Liberator lifted his head and discovered that Edward was nowhere to be seen about camp, the light panic bubbling up in his chest was perfectly understandable. Eugene reported Edward offering to fetch firewood, and Sigmund relaxed marginally.

That is, until he heard it had been nearly an hour ago.

Balbagan offered to go drag Ed back to camp, but Sigmund silenced him with a sharp shake of his head and told him flatly that he would retrieve Edward. With his back turned, he didn't see the exasperated glances exchanged between he, Genma and Eugene.

It didn't take much searching to Edward, but it did take a fair amount of skill to keep himself from being noticed when he nearly stumbled upon a scene which he was most certainly not intended to bear witness. It had been instinctual; duck, turn, press his back against his tree before the moonlight could flash off of his armor. Somewhere behind him, Edward let out a low moan.

Sigmund twitched.

There was hushed movement; the soft, muffled crush of leaves beneath a boot, the scrape of armor against the bark of a tree and then another one of those moans, choked off at the end and stuttering breath following shortly there after. If Sigmund closed his eyes, he could almost see it. Edward with a hand down his pants, fingers curled and clutching at tree bark, head thrown back, dark hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead -it was unbearably humid out this night- lips trembling as he panted. His stomach and chest would rise and fall, rise and fall, unsteady like the beat an amateur drum.

...Veros.

Sigmund shuddered when Edward moaned again, louder this time, his voice rougher and lower than before. It was nearly a sound of pain, but even having never heard Edward make these sounds before Sigmund knows that he's close, that he's slowing down so that he can relish it. The whisper of movement stops behind him and there's only harsh panting, the occasional whimper. Edward's dragging it out.

Sigmund moves his lips in a soundless curse, fingers twitching, and he presses his hands against the bark to keep himself from moving. Why he had such a powerful urge to do so...he didn't know. But sooner or later he would have to. Should he wait until Edward leaves? But surely he'd be distraught, knowing that Sigmund wasn't there upon his return. Should he circle about and make some noise, pretending to search for Edward? No, Edward wasn't stupid, he'd know Sigmund would never tromp through the woods like that. Not to mention he had a little...problem.

Edward's breath stuttered and Sigmund's did the same, and the hiss of movement began again and Sigmund arched; his armor scraped barely against the tree bark and he froze, holding his breath. Edward continued; he had not heard.

Sigmund bit down on the inside of his cheek as Edward's whimpers became groans, and from there morphed into nearly a continuous sound. He screwed his eyes shut, cursing himself; this was- perverse, childish of him, undignified, behavior disgraceful for man of his status and nature and...dear Veros and moon and everything above the world and below it was the most arousing thing he'd ever done.

One of Edward's whispers sounded odd; like a word. Sigmund strained to hear. "L-nnnnh- Lord Sigmund-" Edward gasped again, the sound staccato.

Sigmund felt his heart drop into his stomach; was he discovered? Edward had found him, was embarrassed of himself, of Sigmund. He would never look him in the eye again, would slowly distance himself, would raise a professional wall between them until they drifted further and for some reason Sigmund found this unbearable. No, no. No. Edward was always by his side, through thick and thin, he wouldn't-

And then Edward groaned his name....and again, and again until he was chanting it.

Sigmund's eyes widened and his lips pressed together in shock.

Edward was thinking of him as he touched himself.

It- well- Well, in hindsight it wasn't that surprising, but to bear witness to it, to hear it, gods, how...

...flattering.

Edward made a peculiar sound and stammered his name again and this time Sigmund almost shuddered, chin dropping onto his chest. It was nearly painful, and his hand was clutching at his pant leg, shaking. Maybe he wouldn't notice. Maybe...

Before he was fully aware of it, Sigmund was already stroking himself through his pants as Edward behind him, out of sight but so vocal it wasn't even necessary, begged himself to finish it, clutched at the bark and mewled Sigmund's name. And behind another tree, Sigmund screwed his eyes shut, imagined Edward beneath him, making those sounds, his arms around Sigmund's neck and gods what was he doing-

Edward let out a choked scream and Sigmund's fingers tightened before he whipped them away, panting, shaking. No no no no, he couldn't be caught, he couldn't-

There was nothing but Edward's gasps and Sigmund puffing through his nose, panicked, desperately hoping Edward hadn't heard. It was an agonizing moment, but soon Edward adjusted his clothes, sighed, moved through the leaves -gathering his firewood, by the sounds of it- and slowly moved away through the woods. Sigmund waited until all sound around faded back to the background ambiance of the forest.

He would return to camp much later.

------------

It had been difficult to sleep that night; Edward always laid his bedroll near Sigmund's, ever since a surprise attack by some knights of the Order of Chain in the middle of the night and Sigmund had managed to get himself clubbed over the head. From that day onward, Edward insisted on laying his roll outward of Sigmund's, pushing him further into the camp and thus less likely to be surprised. Sigmund had given up the fight without much difficulty; it was easier to let Edward had his way when he was adamant about these things, although he didn't doubt that Edward would have backed down if given an order to do so.

Not that he wanted to do such a thing in the first place.

Regardless, with Edward nearby and Balbagan volunteering for first watch, Sigmund laid himself down to sleep, armor set aside and his heavier clothing folded neatly atop it in favor of something lighter. Everyone had stripped down to the bare minimum tonight, to avoid becoming too drenched with sweat. There really wasn't time to find a settlement and take baths, and no one was particularly fond of bathing in ice-cold rivers and lakes.

Edward had even opted to go shirtless before slipping into bed, and he laid on his stomach, facing outward of the camp. Ever vigilant, even in sleep; Sigmund smiled to himself at the thought. "Good night, Lord Sigmund," Edward told him, voice filled with the same warmth and care, dedication and admiration it always did when he addressed him.

Sigmund imagined him moaning. "Good night, Edward."

Twenty minutes later, Sigmund wasn't even close to rest; the moon was full tonight, so bright and huge in the sky that everything was lit silver-white, not at bright as day but twice as ethereal. Sigmund could clearly see every line of muscle in Edward's powerful back, the curve of his biceps as he pillowed his head on his arms. He was asleep.

Sigmund closed his eyes and suppressed a shiver, rolling onto his side. It didn't help, and everything felt too warm so he discarded his blankets and, a moment after that, his shirt as well. Eugene mumbled something about tossing and turning from across the camp, close to sleep, and Sigmund replied with a cross, "it is too warm to be comfortable." Eugene laughed, made a wayward comment about Sigmund being spoiled before falling silent again, breath evening out.

"I'm not spoiled," Sigmund muttered under his breath, realizing how childish it sounded and thankful that no one had been awake to hear that. Eugene would get his comeuppance soon.

Perhaps he was spoiled. He couldn't keep his eyes from drifting over to Edward, memorizing how the dip of his spine curved down to beneath the blankets at his waist. Sigmund's breath caught at the thought of Edward reaching beneath them, hand shaking, rolling onto his back and clutching his pillow, panting as he touched himself, whispering Sigmund's name and-

Sigmund dropped his face into his pillow -a rolled up blanket- to muffle a quiet groan. This was ridiculous. He was the Liberator, son to the Empress of Halgita, brought up with the finest tutors and the best swordsmen for masters; he'd mastered his art at the age of fourteen, for the sake of Veros. He had discipline, grace, honor, dignity- everything that was expected of him.

You're still seventeen, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind, and Sigmund stubbornly squashed it. Age didn't matter when it came to the tasks set before them, the mission he had to complete. A darker voice murmured that he was an Unblessed, and that if Edward knew he would think twice about following him. Darker still hissed the one about the blood he'd coughed up several weeks before and Eugene's warning with it.

"Be silent," Sigmund snarled under his breath, and buried his face into his pillow again. Thankfully, his mind troubled him no further and after a moment Sigmund lifted his head to breathe again. Idly he reached up to comb his fingers through his hair, halted by his headband before carefully removing it and setting it aside. His bangs fell into his eyes and Sigmund shook his head, laying on his side and facing Edward. Even if he knew...even if he knew, Edward wouldn't leave. Edward's loyalty was boundless. He'd never leave Sigmund's side, never.

Sigmund was counting on that.

He wasn't sure when he'd closed his eyes, but when he opened them again he was not alone in his bed. There was a hand on his hip, and another body close to his. Edward's body close to his.

Sigmund swallowed, eyes wide. What to do? What should course of action should he take? If he moved away Edward would surely wake, and- no. It was not an option. He could feign sleep, and once Edward awoke he would move away of his own accord and they would both pretend that nothing had happened. That was the wisest course of action.

Edward's breath ghosted over his neck and Sigmund shivered, screwing his eyes shut. He could do this. He would-

Oh dear Veros Edward shifted, and now his thigh was between Sigmund's legs. This couldn't stand, Edward would be able to tell. Sigmund had to move away; very, very slowly he inched back. Edward's fingers tightened slightly atop Sigmund's hip and he made a sleepy, displeased sound and Sigmund froze. Was he waking? After a few breathless minutes, Sigmund began to move again-

Only to be thwarted when Edward sighed in his sleep, reached out, wrapped both arms around his waist and drew Sigmund flush against him.

Oh Veros.

Oh moon. Oh kingdoms and skies and earth and whatever else was listening. This was a problem.

Sigmund could wriggle out of Edward's grasp without much trouble, but the force required would certainly wake him. Not to mention that if he moved certain things would become...agitated and apparent and Edward had tucked his face against Sigmund's neck. His breath was puffing over his collarbone, and Sigmund was almost shaking. This was too much, too much, and he had to do something before Edward woke. They could not fall into an awkward place; not as leader and follower, not as comrades in battle, not as...friends.

Yes...Edward was his friend. Wasn't he? The "yes my lord"s didn't mean anything, because they both knew that Edward could choose at any time not to follow an order and that Sigmund would think no less of him. Well, Sigmund knew this...it was another matter entirely if Edward did or not. Sigmund's arm moved beneath him, rising, and his fingers brushed over Edward's hair hesitantly. The swordsman against him made a quiet sound of content and snuggled closer.

Oh damn it.

Edward's skin was warm and smooth and just a bit slick, and Sigmund needed to move very, very quickly. Edward shifted in his sleep -always so restless, even in slumber- and Sigmund stifled a gasp. This was wrong, and...and foul and lords but it felt good. But they didn't have time for this, for indulging themselves in hormone-driven fantasies, didn't have time for...for sex and carnal pleasures and damn it Sigmund had more self-control than this.

Edward had to be woken. Before Sigmund did something he would regret later.

His hand hovered over Edward's shoulder when a thought occurred to him; why would Edward have a problem with it at all? It was an idle thought and Sigmund almost scoffed and discarded it before it struck him again, insistently. Why? Edward had been chanting his name just earlier this evening as he pleasured himself. Why would he be ashamed of Sigmund, disturbed to find that Sigmund was so close to doing the same?

Because it would ruin his image of me, as a powerful leader, Sigmund argued with himself.

Perhaps it was time he became something other than simply that.

Sigmund blinked; he hadn't thought of that. It had been that way for nearly a year; Sigmund was the Liberator, the leader, and his band of followers, protectors, helpers. Friends? Yes, that. Eugene certainly, at least. Genma was more his retainer than anything, Balbagan his "rival," -he was hoping they wouldn't have to fight again, that hammer was a horrible thing to be struck by- and Edward his...what? Right-hand man? Trusted companion?

Perhaps Edward could be something else, too.

"...Lord Sigmund?"

His heart stopped.

"...I..." Edward was drawing away, looking mortified; eyes wide and dark, a deep indigo, their color barely discernible in the moonlight. "Lord Sigmund- I- my apologies-" His voice lifted in volume, panicking when Sigmund didn't respond. "My lord, I was asleep, I had no intention of-"

"Shush," Sigmund told him quickly, touching his fingers to Edward's lips and glancing over his shoulder. Genma and Eugene were still asleep. Balbagan was far off enough to not have heard their whispers. Edward fell silent, whether from shock or simply to obey an order, Sigmund didn't know. By the look on his face, both. After a moment, after listening for the silence of sleep, Sigmund lowered his hand and turned back to Edward, whispering. "It's all right."

Edward sank back in relief at that, though it did not occur to him to move further away. "My apologies. I- I am not sure why I did such a thing. I was asleep."

"I know. It's all right." Sigmund prayed that Edward wouldn't shift his leg.

Apparently Veros abandons the Unblessed in every form possible, because Edward shifted his leg and froze still, eyes widening impossibly further. Goodness but his eyes were large, Sigmund noted vaguely through his mortification. He cleared his throat, awkwardly, and carefully shifted away from Edward's leg. "Good night," he said, and Edward snapped to attention.

"G-Good night, my lord!" Rolling over and flopping back onto his blankets, turned away from Sigmund, Edward committed himself to sleep as if it were an order. Which, technically, it was, and Sigmund was grateful that Edward had taken it as such.

Even if the night was much colder than he remembered it being.

eggcentric @ 2008-12-23T00:49:00

2008-12-23T06:55:16Z

Title: An Inkling of Truth
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Characters/Pairings: Cloud
Genre: Drama, psychological horror I guess?
Rating: PG
Summary: I'm really getting too much into luceti if I'm writing FANFIC for it. Of course, considering this is the first thing I've posted since August I guess it's better than nothing.

Like a tiny shard of glass caught against the skin; not a wound, merely an irritation. Not grievous enough to constitute as an injury, but with the potential of becoming one. Left untreated, ignored to heal itself, sitting and trod upon and brushed and only making itself known with the faintest hints, all the while burrowing deeper. Pushing beneath the skin, to muscle, to bone. Moving inside, becoming invisible to the naked eye, not without painful digging.

That was what the memory of her voice was like.

He didn't want to think about it; "Don't think about it," Zack had told him, and Cloud took it literally. He forced himself to forget, to block out her voice with noise and movement and task after task after task. He refrained from sleeping, so that when he would at last collapse from exhaustion the rest would be dreamless, senseless. So she wouldn't have enough of his energy to remind him of her.

Her words hissed in the back of his mind like a hand on a hot burner, stank and reeked of malice and promise and temptation. He hated her...but couldn't stop remembering.

You have power, Cloud. You can show them what you can do; I can help you. Cloud told himself that she had said that in the basement...but now he was beginning to think that she'd somehow made herself a home permanently in his head. Whenever she became too loud, he would make himself another pot of coffee and go to patrol the town, visit the shops, stare down into the tunnels and contemplate returning.

She wouldn't be quiet. He would think thoughts that couldn't be his, but couldn't be hers because she wasn't there. He remembered what Leto had told him about spice, how it could unlock ancestral memory. Had he opened up Jenova inside of him, unlocked a voice her cells contained, given her life once again? Was he going to go insane like Sephiroth did, driven mad by the knowledge of his birth and her voice drilling into his head?

No. No, no no no no. He couldn't. He couldn't, couldn't. He didn't want to hurt anyone, the family he'd pieced together, the friends he'd made. The home away from home he'd forged inside of Luceti, the village of people who -for the most part- only wanted to help, and only wanted to get home. A village of good people, of decent people, and victims just like him. He couldn't hurt them...he wanted to protect them.

Would he have to protect them from himself?

He would.

He thought of Tifa, of Aerith, of Reeve and Barret and Yuffie. Of Reno, of even Kadaj. Some of them his enemies, most of them his friends, and all of them a part of his dysfunctional, makeshift family.

He thought of Zack. His best friend, his brother, his savior.

He thought of Simon and Denzel. His boys. His light.

He thought of Stella, Senel, Jenny, Leto, Mark, Albert, Sigmund, Raine, Emil, of all the men and women and children who'd accepted him, who trusted him. And then he heard -felt, saw- Jenova's memory uncurl in the back of his mind, like a snake wrapped around his mind, wriggling where she wanted, shoving aside his memories of his companions and reminding him that in the end, they would chose themselves over him. That if it came down to it, Senel and Stella would trample over him towards an escape back home. That if he wasn't there, Barret, Yuffie, everyone would simply leave him behind, trust that he would take care of himself.

"I don't want them to worry about me," Cloud muttered aloud; a moment later, he wasn't even sure he had.

They wouldn't. What hurt was that Cloud couldn't even be sure if that was true or not. Who was saying these things? Was it Jenova, or himself? Jenova wasn't here, she shouldn't be able to speak to him, not at all but if that wasn't her voice telling him these horrible things...

Then it must have been himself.

...and if he was thinking these terrible things...then there had to be an inkling of truth to them. Or perhaps not.

But he wasn't going crazy. No.

He wasn't not insane. "I'm not crazy," Cloud murmured, and for a moment his eyes burned a brighter green, so green it nearly swallowed their natural blue. "I'm not crazy."

You aren't crazy.

PORN AT LAST, PORN AT LAST, THANK GOD ALMIGHTY THERE'S PORN AT LAST

2008-08-07T08:00:31Z

Title: Two Heads Are Better Than One
Fandom: Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann
Characters/Pairings: Garlock/Simon
Genre: Porn, kind of musey drama.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Written for a kink meme. Garlock has decided to tell Simon like it is, and secks him up in the meantime.

Simon had fallen asleep atop his paperwork...again. Who could honestly blame him? Signature after signature with his cute little drill pen -God, he loved that stupid thing- on form after form after form of the same old diplomatic bullshit that no one had even considered in Jiha because hell, there were far more important things to do. Like actually surviving. As he'd skimmed another article noting complaints from the citizens about the dirt on the streets, Simon wondered how many of them remembered digging in a filthy tunnel for hours a day, knowing that with one little twitch the entire thing could crush you before you could even scream. Shrugging, he'd scribbled his name at the bottom and passed it on. With dull work like that, it was no surprise that he'd simply slumped over into the bliss of a dream world where he was sleeping on a stone ground with a warm, strong arm around his shoulders.

Or he had been. Because quite suddenly, his collar was grabbed, he was hefted to his feet and before he could even blink blearily at his assaulter he was-

He was-

Holy hell, he was pressed against the glass window and being thoroughly ravaged by himself. "This is the weirdest dream ever," he said aloud, and his look-alike lifted his face briefly to smirk at him. Was it wrong to think that was hot? Was it narcissism? What did he even call him?

"Just call me Garlock," his-face-but-not-his-face purred, and Simon swallowed. Garlock's deft hands had already untied the sash at his waist and, instead of tossing it aside like he'd expected, flung it around his neck like some kind of trophy. It hung like a scarf, but Simon was reminded briefly of blue tattoos and gold clasps and before he knew it, his hands were clutching the collar of...well, of a damn fine jacket, actually. Finally taking a step back -or as much as one could, with that glass behind them- Simon examined the alternate version of himself. Was that a corset? Whatever it was it looked pretty good, not to mention the belts and the boots and wow, those were very, very tight pants. "You can take them off," Garlock offered, "considering I'm liable to do the same in a minute anyhow."

Sex with himself?

Simon glanced at the nearby desk and pondered for all of three seconds. It took even less than that to have Garlock pinned against it by hips and palms flat on the wood, arms caging him in and rough rocking motions rubbing them together in a way that Simon didn't think he'd ever experienced. It was pretty nice.

"Just pretty nice?" Garlock panted, and his hands were already down the back of Simon's pants like they were supposed to be there. Simon let him know that this was not the case by unbuckling the belts and just dropping Garlock's trousers, tugging down the rough material and in a move that impressed even himself, managed to wrench off the boots and the last of the pants in one fluid motion. It was art, a masterpiece. Garlock gave a whistle of appreciation at the technique, but that didn't get far because Simon had already pushed one of those knees into the chest and was probing a finger downwards and inside.

"You seem to think you're in charge here," growled Garlock, and a hand fisted in Simon's hair and tugged. "You think a couple signatures make you a man? You think that little hologram and that 'stop resisting the government' bit is going to convince anyone? Aniki would've had you flat on your back and whimpering like a baby ten minutes ago." Simon scowled, and thrust his finger inside particularly hard to shut him up. "You could t-talk like a normal person," Garlock managed to stutter out, even as his chest rose -the corset and neck brace and jacket were staying on, hell yes they were- with his quickened breaths. "You could open up your mouth and say something. If you want to start small, go down to the Chief's and deck him for using you and Aniki as promotional pieces. Tell everyone that the only way you got steak was if you worked a twelve hour day at the age of ten. Tell them that he beat Aniki all the time, tell them that."

Simon faltered, and Garlock shoved his knee against his gut to dislodge him and flipped them around, coat turning in a way that was so cool as he shoved Simon against the desk instead, and wrenched his loose cotton bottoms down to his ankles. "You want me to do it for you?"

"Who are you?" Simon gasped; the maneuver had knocked the wind out of him and he needed to catch it.

"Someone you wish you were," Garlock muttered. "Someone I wish you were." He looked disappointed and released Simon, backing up a few steps to let the digger-turned-politician push himself upright and give him a confused stare. "Your back isn't nearly as straight as it was when we faced Guame. You've bent over for everyone; you always did. You always do. He's not there to act as your buffer anymore, you know." Garlock didn't need to say who.

Simon clenched his fist, looked down at it.

The silence was deafening; a breeze from somewhere -the AC vents, possibly- lifted the hem of Garlock's coat, flapped it against his calves. Simon's sash moved against Garlock’s neck, and Simon was reminded of sunrises and sunsets, sitting inside his tiny, unimpressive Lagann and exchanging words and philosophical ideas -as philosophical as two uneducated teenagers living in a cave could get- before passing out next to each other. Nails bit into his palm; Simon realized belatedly that they were his, and he uncurled his fist. "I'm not Aniki. I'm Simon the Digger."

"You're Simon the Lapdog," Garlock shot back, and once again Simon found himself against the desk, only this time the knob from his drawer was digging into his stomach and he could see a couple inches from his nose a request to plant some trees along main street. Kamina's statue was blocking out the sun to their front yard; ridiculous. Kamina's statue wasn't that big. Wasn't big enough. Simon was only vaguely aware of an intruding sensation as he let his eyes wander among the papers. Tax reforms, not enough schools, construction too noisy, expansion projects, food shortages...

Ow. That stung. Garlock was already buried inside of him and had his fist in his hair, yanking his head back. "Don't look at that shit," he muttered into Simon's ear. "Stop reading it. Stop it. You think you're good at this kind of thing? You should've known better." A hard thrust sent the point home -in multiple ways- and even though it hurt, Simon couldn't help a groan. What was the phrase? Hurts so good? Obviously the person who'd thought it up had been getting rammed in the ass, because it was a mighty fine description. Taking his advice, Simon pushed the papers from his desk, getting a grim sort of satisfaction out of watching them flutter to the floor in disarray. Not even a second later, he realized with a spot of dread that Rossiu would probably get very upset at him for doing that.

"Since when did you start taking orders from him?" Garlock demanded, and ground down inside of him. A crackle behind his ear alerted Simon that Garlock was gritting his teeth, which was all good considering he was clutching hard at the edge of the desk with one hand and muffling his screams with the other. Who'd taught him to fuck like this? Even though it was just a dream and Simon was a virgin, he was pretty sure it was familiar. A little bit, anyways. Then Garlock shifted and stars exploded in front of his eyes, and he scrabbled at the desk in an effort to keep from falling off before demanding that whatever Garlock had done, he had damn well better do it again, or there would be hell to pay. "That's a start," Garlock chuckled, but did it again anyways. And again, and again, and thank you merciful deity he did it again.

After a few more "agains," Simon felt something twist hard inside of him and he was lost for a moment. A hand, large and calloused, stroked his hair back from his sweaty forehead and Simon wished he'd had the sense to take off his own shirt so he could feel warm skin against his back. The weight on him wasn't heavy in a bad way, and lips were against his ear and his cheek feather light and Simon had to wonder if he was dead. Death by fucking. What better way to go?

But no. When Simon came to, he was bent over his desk, his hand on his softening length and his own release trickling down his fingers. His sash was around his neck, and his papers were strewn across the floor. Damn. Simon rummaged in a drawer and produced a tissue, wiping his hand and the side of his desk before discreetly stowing it away in the bottom of his trash can. Pulling up his pants and tying his sash again around his waist, Simon moved to collect the papers on the ground. He stacked them neatly; signed here, unsigned here, pending here. Just how it was supposed to be. Then he took his pen -Goddamn, it was just so novel- and scribbled out a little note, leaving it atop the forms as he strode for the door, his fingers already touching the core drill hanging at his neck. The papers would be there in the morning.

But the sunset wouldn't wait.

Title: Decisions, Decisions
Fandom: Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann
Characters/Pairings: Simon/Kamina/Simon/Simon/Simon/Simon/Simon/Simon (yes that is correct)
Genre: Blatent porn.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Written for kink meme. Kamina has himself a Simon harem.

There comes a time in a man’s life where he has to make a very, very careful decision. Most men mark this as their proposal, or the night before a battle or something equally dramatic. Some men considered it a day of an exam to get into that prestigious college, or standing at the edge of a cliff with only a rubber rope tied around their ankle to keep their heads from cracking open on the stone below like an egg over a skillet. Regardless of the situation, any man could understand that feeling, that pumping of adrenaline and the tightness along their frames that accompanies the need to make that important decision. Kamina faced such a circumstance today.

Because he was looking at seven different Simons.

And he wanted all of them.

There were four little ones –he says little as if they were toddlers, but Simon was just a runt- and three larger ones. Very nice larger ones. There was the Simon he remembered, with the smile and the drill but the haze of doubt in his eyes that Kamina wished he’d been able to erase. Beside him was the same Simon, but empty eyes and dark circles beneath them, a bitter scowl turning his lips down. He hunched over and gave his doppelgangers a dark look, as if they weren’t supposed to be there. Maybe they weren’t; or maybe he wasn’t.

There was another Simon, content but seemingly not all there, in a strange, light-blue buttoned down shirt and missing his drill. He swayed a little bit, and Kamina watched as a larger Simon put his hand on his shoulder to steady him, receiving a vacant smile for thanks. Odd. The last small Simon, though, made Kamina burst with pride; he was in regular attire, but he was filthy. His face was lined with weariness, but his shoulders were squared and his grin was devilish and strong and he had a fire in his gaze that Kamina had tried to hard to light in all the years he’d known him. When had this Simon come along? He’d have to ask him.

The three taller Simons –Kamina noted with a bit of sourness that they appeared to be a few inches taller than him even- stood and talked amongst themselves, occasionally looking after the smaller Simons if one of them chose to wander off. The meekest of the three was dressed in white with a red sash at his waist, a blue and gold coat with a star on the back that Kamina didn’t recognize at all. He was easy with his smiles, but he reminded Kamina too much of the quiet meekness Simon assumed in Jiha for him to be comfortable. The other two, though…

Well. They both each wore a long coat and a long cape respectively and had their arms folded over their chests in a gesture that Kamina recognized as his own; this gave him a bit of smug satisfaction to know that Simon would imitate him like that. One had goggles on his head, what looked like a metal corset at his waist and one on his neck, tight pants –very, very nice- with even tighter boots. The back of the jacket boldly displayed the Gurren logo, and the bottom was fringed with flame. Kamina liked.

The second was dressed somewhat similarly, but lacked the goggles and the armor and substitute the two white belts for a tie with a skull buckle in the center. The grin on his face was one Kamina never expected to see on Simon, but he found that he liked it a lot anyways, especially when his gaze shifted to look over at Kamina and he gave him a look that sent a chill down his spine. A good kind of chill. The “I’m going to strip you naked and fuck you mercilessly,” kind. Always welcome.

So now comes the decision. Which first? He had seven Simons, and who knew for how long; he had eternity for all he knew, but then again he may only have an hour, so whichever one he chose would have to be the one he wanted the most. Almost as if sensing the intensity of the situation the Simons shifted to stare at him, watching him carefully. Some of the younger Simons gave him a pleading look, and Kamina felt his resolve sway just a little until two of the three older Simons gave him that “you’d better come here,” look and he found he just couldn’t ignore a request like that. But then the Simons that needed him, and the Simons that looked downtrodden and tired and could use his support…

It was a horrible decision to make.

It was also apparently not his decision to make at all, because once the two dangerous-looking Simons nodded at the starred older one, they ushered the four younger Simons forward in a stampede of dark blue hair and, “Aniki!” and soon Kamina found himself buried in the most blissful pile he’d ever encountered. Could this beat being hugged to the breasts of a beautiful woman?

Hands down. Yes it did. Especially when the skull-buckled Simon reached across to grab the starred Simon’s chin and wrench him in for a searing kiss right above Kamina. He was content to simply watch the show, face heating up at the sounds the older Simons were making and wishing he had something else to capture the moment with besides just his memory. There were quite a few hands touching his chest, legs and-

“S-Simon!” He wasn’t sure which one, but someone had found the crotch of his pants. Judging by the size of the hands, it was probably a teenage Simon. Who the hell cared which one, though, especially when another –the confident, smaller Simon- was wrenching at his belt and untying the knot in an effort to tug his pants down? Simon with the corset had decided to take it upon himself to start raising a bruise on his neck and Kamina stuttered out something that could have been, “holy shit,” when someone’s lips from somewhere touched his erection. Reaching out blindly, Kamina found a head of hair and curled his fingers in it, skull smacking back against the ground as he panted.

“You’re so fucking hot like that,” murmured a larger Simon –one without goggles, the dangerous one with the skull buckle- as he broke off from the blushing starred Simon to duck his head and trail his tongue across Kamina’s chest. The dark, depressed Simon protested at being shoved aside and glared sourly, moving instead to massage Kamina’s stomach, thigh and hip. He writhed, and teeth lightly scraped over his length in a way that made his world go white. Every muscle tightened like a steel cable and he was only vaguely aware of being lifted up against someone’s chest, his back against a mixture of cool metal and bare skin and his knees being pressed up. The warmth left his groin and he groaned, arching helplessly.

“That’s mean,” chuckled the confident teenage Simon, and he gave the digger Simon a chiding smack to the head. “Don’t do that to him.”

“I need to catch my breath,” he protested, and rubbed at his jaw.

“That’s fine anyways, because you two were in my way,” no-goggles-but-dangerous Simon informed them- when the hell did he get down there? And he sucked on a couple fingers before wriggling one inside of Kamina.

“H-hey,” Kamina protested, and was about to push himself up when the mouth returned to the back of his neck and nibbled, and Simon-with-the-oxford-shirt decided to take it upon himself to duck over his stomach and give his cock a little squeeze. Coherency took second place to voicing the overall feeling of, “hell yes,” and Kamina settled for a loud moan, eyes rolling into the back of his head. He lifted his hips into the motion and a second finger joined the first before finding something that made him lose his sense of place again. When he came back, there was a chorus of Simon laughter, deep and high and rough and smooth alike, and he wondered what he’d done to get something like that.

“Do it again!” one of the younger Simons encouraged, and Kamina let out a muted cry, arching when fire shot straight to his gut and someone’s mouth was on his erection again, yes it was. Hands stroked his chest and stomach, his thighs and his shoulders, and two mouths were at either side of his neck and one on his nipple. Good God. He was going to explode.

Then someone pushed inside of him and he was sure he was going to explode; an older Simon –dangerous-no-goggles- was above him and soon was thrusting inside of him and even though Kamina was sure he’d have hated it, he found with every movement that he…did not. At all. And the Simons closed in on him, touching him and stroking him and sucking and licking and biting and it wasn’t very long at all before he was lost, clutching at someone’s hair and biting a hoarse scream behind clenched teeth. A couple more movements jarred him, and something hot rushed inside and he stiffened, eyes open and blankly staring up before he caught his breath and his sense of self. A Simon edged into his vision.

“Aniki?” There were a few echoes of this, and Kamina sighed, closing his eyes, laying spread-eagle (or the best he could, with that dangerously sexy Simon still buried inside of him recovering from his own climax).

“…you’ve made me proud, Simons,” he told them plainly, and a few of them laughed. Grinning back, he prepared himself to sleep when a large hand shook him awake and he saw himself looking up at a rather indignant set of older Simons.

“You’re not done yet, Aniki.” Then six of the seven Simons exchanged looks before turning back down to look at him. “We’re next.”

eggcentric @ 2008-08-05T10:06:00

2008-08-05T14:23:08Z

Title: 26
Fandom: Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann
Characters/Pairings: Simon and Kamina, Kamishimo if you feel like it.
Genre: Drama yo.
Rating: G
Summary: Simon's reflections during the infamous episode 26.

Simon knew he has something very, very important to get to. He knew that he was wasting time here, and that the something he had to do was ridiculously urgent and that if he didn't get a move on soon enough he would lose his window of opportunity and something close to him would be lost forever. He knew this, just as he knew how to breathe.

But Kamina.

It had been years -years, God, entire years!- since he'd seen Kamina. All he'd had to go by were pictures drawn by artists, a few videos here and there of when Kamina was inside Gurren's cockpit. He'd watched those endlessly. Memorized his features, the cocky little laughs that he already knew so well. The way his hair flipped into his eye sometimes, until he directed a puff of air at it to send it away only for a second. Simon had touched the screen when Kamina had moved forward to fiddle with something on the display panel, and it was almost like touching his hand. He'd cried that night; Nia arrived in the morning to find him curled up on the couch and clutching a red blanket to his chest.

Nia!

But...Kamina...!

He watched as Kamina turned to him, spoke, explained his universe; of course, it made perfect sense. He couldn't believe he'd bought into that fake version of his beloved Aniki, that cowardly shadow. He hated it now, loathed the lie it was and represented. How dare the Anti-Spirals use Kamina's memory like that? They would pay.

Kamina's fingertip poked his chest, and the feeling was so nostalgic and yet so new that all Simon could say was, "Aniki." Aniki, Aniki, Aniki. His Aniki.

His Aniki.

The hand withdrew and Simon fought the urge to grab it back, to grab at Kamina, to drag him against him and know that it wasn't a dream, or a screen or a video inside of Gurren's cockpit or a cartoon or a lie, this time. Just this time. Simon needed it. Needed Kamina. Needed Aniki. They watched the sky together, and Simon soaked in all that was Kamina, feeling so safe, and loved and warm and more than he'd felt in the past seven years. It was so strange; technically, Simon was older than Kamina, as his memory ended at seventeen. He was taller, older, wiser, and here he was clinging to his presence with all the pretense of a toddler, drinking in Kamina and begging him with his eyes and his stance to never, ever ever leave. Please stay, Aniki.

Or let me stay. "I need to go," he found himself saying instead, and felt immediate betrayal. His body wasn't listening to him. Didn't it understand? He needed to stay!

"This is our final goodbye. Get going, kyoudai." Kamina's grin was infectious, and Simon couldn't help but grin back, even as his eyes stung and his voice shook inside of him.

"Not a goodbye. We're still together." I'd rot in this dreamworld for you. It would disappoint Aniki if he did. I love you, Aniki. He turned, gave Kamina his back. Looked at the beams of light holding his memories, and concentrated.

Knowing he was leaving the most precious memory of all right behind him.

eggcentric @ 2008-07-15T03:49:00

2008-07-15T08:00:32Z

Title: Eulogy
Fandom: Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann
Characters: Simon, Kamina and Kittan references.
Genre: Angst. So fucking angst.
Rating: PG
Summary: Spoilers for ep. 8, if they can even be called that anymore. *was spoiled*

He couldn’t look; he knew it would end, that he couldn’t delude himself once he did. So his fingers dug into the mud, drew it out even when it slumped in again. A man never quits, no matter the odds; a man finished what he began.

Simon coughed and choked on a sob.

They’d tried to take him away before, tried to drag him out and put him somewhere that Simon couldn’t see. There was a flash of green and suddenly Kittan was on his back, stunned but uninjured, and Simon was clinging to the cold, slick arm, screaming at him, at all of them, and they only stared. They didn’t understand. How could they? Who could?

The only one who could was gone.

Simon’s fist squelched the mud, splattered it against his cheek as his forehead met the ground and his teeth clenched, tasting grit. The rain pitter-pattered on his jacket; it was heavy, but Simon couldn’t take it off. Never, never never. He needed it now, needed it. Like air. Like water. Like sunlight and breath and belief.

All of that was gone, gone. He couldn’t breathe. So instead…Simon dug. The mud fell back in, but he dug. A nail broke off on a rogue stone; his finger started to bleed, and mud and water stung the wound. Simon dug. The water swirled with beige foam in the hole, filthy and thick. Simon dug.

Simon dug. And dug. And dug.

And it wasn’t until the hole was gone, the lake beneath the muck and the stone with his nail and his blood buried with his brother that Simon let himself scream again.

eggcentric @ 2008-06-19T21:43:00

2008-06-20T01:47:58Z

Short, yes. But I think that's the best place to end it, considering what I have coming afterwards.

Title: Inconsistency
Chapter: 13
Fandom: Tales of the Abyss
Chapter Genre: Unabashed drama and angst, maybe horror if you tilt your head and cross your eyes.
Chapter Rating: PG-13
Major Pairings/Characters: AschxNatalia, GuyxLuke
Chapter Summary: Shit hits the fan, fellas.

“So what the hell was that?” Guy didn’t bother masking the tremor in his voice, or the shaking of his hands. His suit hung in tatters around his chest, freshly-healed skin pink and tender to the touch. As he stepped closer to Asch his shadow was cast over the slumped figure, making him appear smaller. “Huh? Was that part of your plan? Let Luke take the fall and we all go home?”

Asch lifted his face from his hands at that, voice low and calm. “I didn’t tell the replica to-“

There was an almost audible snap as Guy reached down, none-to-gently wrenching Asch to his feet by the collar of his uniform. “He has a name!”

“He has my name,” Asch hissed, defiant. Guy’s eyes narrowed and hardened, jaw locking. “Let me go, Guy.” Asch’s voice was dangerous, and his sword-hand twitched.

“Hey, the both of you, calm down,” Anise interjected, taking a step forward and reaching out as if she could diffuse the tension with a touch.

“I’m calm,” Asch told her, though his eyes remained fixed on Guy’s. “Guy is the one out of control. Ever since he started screwing my replica-“ Asch didn’t finish the sentence as Guy’s fist slammed into his cheek, sending him crashing to the ground.

“Guy!” Tear put herself between he and Asch and Guy immediately stepped back, although the crease between his brows didn’t lessen, and his eyes didn’t leave the redhead slowly sitting up behind her.

“No, it’s all right.” Asch pushed himself up to a knee and rubbed a line of red from his lip. “He’s obviously channeling the replica, with all the yelling and punch-throwing-“

“Luke is not dead!”

“No, he isn’t.” Heads turned to regard Jade, who was staring thoughtfully at the center of the floor where Luke had disappeared. Without acknowledging their questioning stares, Jade continued, “Otherwise, his clothes would be lying where he vanished.”

“His…clothes?” Guy struggled to suppress worry, panic and fear long enough to make sense of an already confusing situation.

“Clothes are not composed of seventh fonons, and thus would be much more difficult for this shard to break down and transport. Why bother go to such trouble for a simple meal? This shard has uses for Luke, and does not want it to be apparent that he is being used.”

Something hard formed somewhere within Guy’s throat, and he swallowed hard against it. “So…So Luke isn’t…”

“Dead? No. I can say that I am almost certain he is not. Of course, whether or not the situation we now face is an improvement, I am not sure.” Jade frowned, cradling his chin delicately between a knuckle and his thumb. “It’s obvious that either before or during the joining –forced merging, it should be called- with Luke, this shard has gained sentience. It has obviously realized Luke’s value is greater alive rather than as food, and it is more than likely planning to use Luke’s body as a convenient little vessel for itself.”

“Colonel, what’s the point in that? This shard can move around through the channels in the crust and the core,” Anise pointed out. “It’s gotta be a lot of work to break him down and rebuild him again and again.”

“Oh, I agree wholeheartedly. Therefore we can imagine that Luke must be of great importance to be handled with such meticulous care.”

Asch stiffened, eyes widening before he charged for the luminescent staircase spiraling upwards. Startled, the others following, Tear called after him for an explanation.

“Luke’s the director of the Replica Relief Organization,” Asch shouted over the sound of pounding feet. “He has a list of every registered replica’s current residence!”

Guy’s heart lurched and he sucked in a breath; with that sort of information, it would be as nothing to locate each and every replica on the planet. He could methodically travel from town to town and devour them all one by one; hunting them would be child’s play. “We have to get to Grand Chokmah! Luke took the information with him to my place to work on it there!”

If the shard didn’t destroy Luke, the knowledge that he’d killed hundreds of innocent people -again- would.

-----

There were no screaming masses or panicked crowds scrambling about Grand Chokmah upon their arrival at the docks, but that didn’t exactly tell them much; the shard could have sense enough not to cause problems before obtaining the information it desired. Guy dashed through the streets of the more privileged citizens of Grand Chokmah, his manor residing on the far corner closer to the palace. The footsteps behind him faded slightly as he ran, and he could taste the salt of the ocean on his tongue as he sucked in breath after breath.

Luke wasn’t dead. But he wasn’t alive, either.

Guy reached his mansion, reaching out to snag the shoulder of the first guard at his gate. “Did Luke come here?!”

The guard, startled, shook his head and opened his mouth to respond properly to his master but Guy only darted off again, weaving through the elegant architecture reminiscent of Hod and up the stairs to the office he’d had remodled for Luke when they’d first begun the odd arrangement of living at each other’s estates. The redwood desk stood in the corner, scattered with the paper mess that had become familiar as Luke assumed his duties and he dug frantically, documents falling to the floor.

With a relieved sigh, Guy closed his fingers around a pale folder and lifted it from the flurry of papers, flipping it open and examining the contents to assure himself that yes, it was all there. Thank Lorelei.

A commotion in the hallway informed him of the others’ arrival before the door actually swung open. Asch, Tear, Jade and Anise filed into the room, the last throwing herself onto the floor and gasping. “Guy, you’re too fast. What did you do, fly here?”

“Do you have it?” Asch asked sharply, striding to his side and peering over the blonde’s shoulder. At Guy’s answering nod and a confirming glance of his own, Asch let himself relax, shoulders dropping and a hand raking through disheveled red hair. “If we have this, the shard’ll come after us. Everyone should be ready.” It was unspoken that what they needed to be ready for wasn’t Luke’s arrival, but the possibility that they may have to fight him.

“Should we burn it?” Anise asked suddenly, but was immediately shot down by Jade.

“No. Not only is that important information for the RRO, but if need be we can send word to provide forewarning. In fact, I do believe that is exactly what we should do. I’ll bring this to the Emperor and have letters sent immediately.” Jade held his hand out for the papers and Guy reluctantly handed the folder over. “I am reluctant to have us split up, however-“

“I have to get back to Natalia,” Asch snapped suddenly. “If this thing is as dangerous in the replica’s body as it usually is on its own-“

“I doubt it would attack Natalia unless she provoked it,” Jade murmured, eyes darting over the lines of names and locations on the papers in his hands. “It’s somewhat focused, you see. No, I imagine it would search out the most abundant food source first, or namely, wherever Luke knows there would be a large amount of replicas.”

Asch stiffened, along with Guy. “The manor,” he hissed, and Jade jerked his calculatory gaze to regard him before the five of them rushed from the room. Urgency dogged their heels and caused a near pile-up at the foot of the staircase, which Guy wisely abandoned in favor of leaping directly from the second floor to the foyer (much to the shock and terror of his servants). Salt air greeted him once again as he threw open the door and burst into the sunlight.

It was as if the only thing he’d been doing lately was chasing after Luke. And as booted soles slapped against the ground and the footsteps of his companions faded once again behind him Guy felt a sickened lurch tug at his stomach. When had he started to follow Luke, as opposed to Luke trailing behind him as he often did? When had the roles changed so much? Was it when Luke had sacrificed himself to destroy Eldrant?

…or had it been when Guy had closed his fist around him, holding him too close and too tight? Maybe the only way to keep Luke near was to let the gravitation happen, if it was there…instead of forcing a ball and chain that Luke was only too happy to bear. Maybe it was time for Guy to let Luke look after himself.

Lorelei be damned if Guy would lag too far behind, though.

Immediately upon approaching the docks, Guy knew something was wrong; the Albiore was emitting a plume of smoke, and Noelle was crouched on the pier, her face in her hands. A few guards and a whole crowd of people swarmed around it, shouting, pointing and talking amongst themselves and Guy elbowed his way to her side, a hand lighting on her back before he could even be aware of his fear. It seemed silly, now. “Noelle!”

“G-Guy,” she hiccuped, and latched onto his hand with her own, not standing. “Luke- no, it was…it was here, and told me to move-”

Guy felt cold. It knew. It followed them. “What happened?”

“It…it destroyed the flightstone…!”

“Shit!” Asch’s exclamation startled both blonds and they jumped in unison, Guy suddenly remembering and hastily edging away from Noelle as she rose to her feet. “There’s no way…! Is it aware of everything that’s going on?”

“I imagine so, seeing as how the Fon Belt is quite the vantage point.” Jade didn’t even sound winded, but the hardness in his eyes as he examined the Albiore betrayed his worry. “We’ll have to sail to Baticul.”

“We can’t wait that long!” Asch exploded.

“Do you have a better idea?” Jade’s icy response cut off Asch’s tirade before it could truly begin, and when there was no answer, he gestured to the ship. “Noelle, can you still pilot?” The girl squared her shoulders and nodded, eyes red but mouth set in a firm line. “Good. Then we leave immediately.”

Six Days Later

“Father?” The creak of the door was too loud, and Asch wondered if it ever did that before. There was no answer, predictably, and rather abruptly Asch was reminded of when he was three. Padding quietly into the room, Asch noted that the curtains were drawn along the canopy bed. Natalia was asleep in an overstuffed chair in the corner. Some of the tension that had knotted Asch’s shoulders released at the sight of her unharmed –but apparently exhausted, judging by the bruises beneath her eyes. His gaze was drawn to the curtains, and something pinched in his chest, struck by an inexplicable fear.

No. It was easy to explain.

Hands shook and slowly the cloth parted with a soft rustle. Asch swallowed hard, and his lungs burned before he realized that he was holding his breath. The whoosh of the exhale was so loud he nearly missed the rasping of Crimson Fabre’s breathing.

He was alive. He was alive and breathing, although in fairly poor shape judging by the pallor of his skin. The bandages around his torso were nearly pristine white save for a spot of red here and there, and Asch knew why Natalia was so exhausted. Bless her. Slowly sinking into a kneel, the king pushed the curtain behind himself and with the barrier became a son again, hand searching out his father’s upon the coverlet. “Father,” he whispered; his thumb brushed over calloused knuckles. “Thank you for living.” In his heart of hearts, he knew that his father would continue to live. Fabres were fighters, after all, and Asch didn’t get his stubborn nature from his mother (although he was sure that if he’d voiced that aloud, his father would give him that incredulous look that made him feel like a complete fool).

The barrier behind him moved, and a soft hand –whether soft for comfort or from weariness, Asch didn’t know and didn’t think it best to ask- lit upon his back. “He’ll be fine,” his queen assured him, and the hand rubbed gently at the bunched muscles as one would smooth the ruffled fur of a frightened dog.

Asch set his face down on the mattress. His shoulders shook beneath Natalia’s hand, and she knelt beside him to drape her arms across him, petting his hair, cheek to temple. The cloth barrier swung back into place, and they were family once again.

eggcentric @ 2008-05-29T05:01:00

2008-05-29T09:03:30Z

Whew! Finished my Axel/Adell challenge for 1sentence, finally. Alpha set, yo. REPRESENT. Now I can finally start on my Ken/Ryu set.

Fandom: Disgaea 2
Pairing: Axel(Akutare)/Adell
Theme set: Alpha
Rating: Um...anywhere from R-ish to G.
Notes: This is totally and completely fanon. Axel/Adell is ridiculous, but good God I love it.

1. Comfort

There wasn’t much that could be done but as Adell sat with his arms around his knees and rocked, Axel crouched beside him and put a hand on his back.

2. Kiss

It was chapped, clumsy and not at all sexy, but Adell thought it was the smartest thing that Axel had ever done.

3. Soft

“That’s so weird,” Adell exclaimed as he brushed his fingers through Axel’s hair, following up with, “it sticks up like crazy, so I never thought it’d feel so nice.”

4. Pain

There was pain and there was what Axel felt when Adell snapped his answer and turned away, furious and hurt.

5. Potatoes

Despite complaining about the dinner spread not being nearly as ‘high-class’ as a celebrity was used to, Axel had to admit that Adell really knew how to prepare potatoes just like Ma.

6. Rain

It wasn’t so much the rain that was bothering him…it was more the fact that Adell wouldn’t stop standing in it with his head tilted to the sky, as if he wished he could drown.

7. Chocolate

The chocolate was good enough, but it tasted better if he got it from Axel’s lips.

8. Happiness

He’d lived two thousand years and yet none of the money, fame, adventure and what-have-you made him nearly as happy as he was when Adell chose to sit beside him around the campfire.

9. Telephone

Adell used to complain about Axel constantly being on his cell phone until he looked at the call history and saw it was his family.

10. Ears

“Axel, I told you not to say that around my sister,” Adell growled, blushing darkly and slapping his hands over Hanako’s ears as his lover grinned cheekily back.

11. Name

It wasn’t so much that they were on a first-name basis as it was the fact that they were on a name basis at all; it had always been, “hey you,” before.

12. Sensual

Sex was great, but for some reason Adell thought Axel lying naked beside him the morning after, sunlight and covers spilling over his sides, legs, neck and face, was the best part of it all.

13. Death

His hands were white and clutching Adell’s shoulders, lips pursed and pale, and while the redhead patted his back and assured him that he was still alive he realized that he didn’t ever want Axel to shut up after all.

14. Sex

“It’s not so much the next step as it is the bridge of a song,” Axel pointed out, and Adell paused to wonder before blinking in amazement that Axel had said something shockingly wise.

15. Touch

When Axel spoke, he sounded like a brash, young idiot, but when Axel touched, it was like time moving over your skin.

16. Weakness

Adell had tried to keep it a secret, but couldn’t help a squirm when Axel playfully poked his ribs.

17. Tears

They looked so wrong, because Axel was still smiling even with his mother’s cold hand clenched firmly in his.

18. Speed

Axel didn’t know what Adell was on, but it had to be good if he could make five silhouettes of himself using just his reflexes and body.

19. Wind

Usually Adell hated the wind, having long hair, but he liked it because Axel liked it and always smiled when it came.

20. Freedom

The answer was surprising; of all the answers he could have given to the question, “what have you accomplished over the last two thousand years of your life,” the only response he’d given was a simple, single word and a thought of a single person.

21. Life

Axel thought Adell was young, but he didn’t know that Adell had been watching when Axel threw the checkerboard across the yard and stomped away from a laughing Taro.

22. Jealousy

It had taken Adell nearly four months to realize that burning sensation in his back whenever he hugged Rozalin in front of the group was Axel glaring, but it only took him a week after that to know that it wasn’t meant for him.

23. Hands

They weren’t nearly as calloused as they should have been, wrapped up in leather, and Axel couldn’t decide whether that was good or not as they touched his chest and stomach.

24. Taste

Adell had pinched his nose to take a taste, but blinked in surprised when he realized it was actually good.

25. Devotion

It wasn’t so much the fact that he was being watched that proved it, but more the fact that he was being watched over.

26. Forever

“It’s north of forever, on the south side of never,” were Adell’s favorite lyrics from Axel’s new song, but he’d never tell him that the lines reminded him of them.

27. Blood

It took longer to get the sight of Axel’s blood out of his memories than it did his shirt.

28. Sickness

It wasn’t very often that he got sick, but when Adell’s temperature skyrocketed Axel found himself dozing next to Adell’s bed as if it were natural.

29. Melody

Rock star maybe, but Adell could carry a nice tune himself and Axel liked it when they hummed together as they walked side by side.

30. Star

“No way,” Adell deadpanned; Axel was out of his mind to think he’d actually want to be his bodyguard.

31. Home

Adell had been embarrassed to bring Axel home until he saw the rock star’s own house…and then he was only ashamed of himself.

32. Confusion

Let it be said that Axel isn’t the brightest crayon in the box; usually when someone abruptly kisses you out of nowhere, you aren’t supposed to just kiss them back.

33. Fear

Adell is rarely afraid…but when Axel didn’t move, he was terrified.

34. Lightning/Thunder

Axel might have been weak, but all it took was one power chord and the vision of the charred corpses shortly thereafter for Adell to remember that he was a god of lightning and thunder.

35. Bonds

They were enemies before they were allies, allies before they were friends, friends before they were lovers.

36. Market

It didn’t help that Axel didn’t even pay for the wristwatch before walking off with it, but Adell was a little flattered all the same by the gift.

37. Technology

Normal guitars don’t shoot lightning, and Axel told him that was why he never went acoustic.

38. Gift

Thousands of letters, stuffed animals, flowers, jewelry and the millions of dollars paled in comparison to the card with Adell’s neat print on it and an invite to his house for dinner.

39. Smile

It was bright and beaming but not in that stupid “movie star” sense, and maybe that’s what made it precious to Axel.

40. Innocence

There wasn’t much that could beat the hilarity of Adell blushing when Axel explained the finer points of sex as they sat half-naked on his bed.

41. Completion

Adell couldn’t write a haiku to save his life, but he was always the first one Axel brought his new songs to.

42.Clouds

It took a full afternoon and even a couple smacks to convince Axel that no, that cloud did not look like a threesome between Adell, Axel and Rozalin.

43. Sky

Axel loved the storm clouds more than a blue sky, but only because they matched Adell’s eyes when he was angry.

44. Heaven

Exasperated, Adell told Axel that he would just take his word for it when he wouldn’t shut up about how angels were a bunch of sissies.

45. Hell

Maybe they were in hell –or one of them- but Adell would endure eternal torment if it meant that Axel would move against him just like that again.

46. Sun

Sunlight be damned; being caught in the rain and seeing Adell soaking wet was so much better.

47. Moon

Little beams shot down like silver pillars through the leaves, but Adell didn’t need to see to find Axel’s belt buckle.

48. Waves

Adell soon learned that Axel touched like the tide; approaching, crashing, and then ebbing away and leaving him breathless.

49. Hair

Over two-thousand years of life had taught him that there was only one constant in life; redheads were absolute animals in bed.

50. Supernova

It was easy to admit that they had their problems, their squabbles and their little clashes of will, but whether it was dark outside or dark inside, there was nobody else Adell wanted beside him, holding him and whispering him back into a light so bright it was practically a supernova.

eggcentric @ 2008-05-21T05:30:00

2008-05-21T09:33:46Z

Title: Repetition
Fandom: Tales of the Abyss
Characters: Guy-centric, ridiculously faint Guy/Luke if you feel like it.
Genre: Musey drama.
Rating: PG
Summary: Super short drabble tiem. Guy's bordering on neurotic.

There was a sort of surrealness to a habit on the cusp of formation. The repeated motions; move, swift, forward and backward were so familiar and yet when you tried to twist your hand that way the damn thing always fell through. Wet tissue paper, a run in an old woman’s stocking. Just a small slice of disaster that did little more than annoy, but was still enough to stress over.

Guy picked up the sword and tried again.

Still, of course, he’d usually have a chorus of sounds that accompanied him when he’d first tried to form this habit. There would be the clanks and bangs of camp being set behind him, soft laughter, protests, whispered words. Smells and feelings and the knowledge of something moving at his back that he didn’t need to watch. He’d never fumbled then. He’d never stooped to scoop up his mistakes then.

Guy tried again.

Of course, now he had a few new sounds, but nothing with that whisper of comfort. There was rushing water, in the distance. Birds, unfamiliar voices, bustling movement that kept him looking over his shoulder with startled expressions. Sometimes he scared the maids.

Guy tried again.

It was nothing like a wall or a block; it was a buzzing distraction, a singer muttering a melody behind you as you tried to hum a different tune. A poet reciting work as you tried to write a letter. It wasn’t so much an irritation as it was infuriating beyond words, and his temper was frayed and withered as much as his hope was getting to be.

Guy tried again.

He would come back. He’d promised. Another mantra, another line of reiteration that kept Guy pushing onto the next day, the next week, month. How long had it been? Sometimes the days blurred, and sometimes they crawled by in isolated eternity. He wished they’d pick a pace and stick to it, so he could at least keep track. Damn inconsiderate, that’s what it was.

Guy tried again. And again. And again.

eggcentric @ 2008-04-03T06:41:00

2008-04-03T11:08:38Z

Title: Erhabenheit (Superiority)
Fandom: Megaman
Characters: Bass, unconscious!bby!Zero
Genre: Is angry a genre? Drama, General
Rating: R. God Bass has a mouth on him.
Summary: Playing Bass at luceti really has influenced my muse.

Goddamn girly bot.

Just one little motion, that's all it would take; I could blow apart that pretty little head with just one thought, one shot from my Buster. I could go into the computer, delete all that meticulous programming, hunt down the extra hard-copy backups, crush them in my hands. That fucking old bastard thinks he's so clever; acts like I can't see him hiding them, can't see him plotting and planning and working on this fucking- This-

Great. Now the table's dented. I'll blame it on someone else.

Why the hell would he even go to the trouble to make it fucking pretty? I mean- I can see why he would with me, I'm perfect. You hear that, you Goddamn Barbie doll? I am perfection. Me. Not you, not you!

Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch! So what if I haven't killed Megaman yet?! Neither has anyone else! Besides, it's all luck; he has luck on his side. I'll get him- I probably already would have if those fucking other Masters weren't such insufferable fuck-ups-!

God DAMN it!

...I'm being replaced. I'm obsolete. Ha ha, ironic isn't it? These stupid, shallow humans...they create something, praise it as perfection, label it the peak of technology...and toss it aside for an upgrade a few years later. Rumor has it that Dr. Santa-The-Fucking-Saint has his own little side project. Wonder if he's told that blue eyesore? Maybe I should do him a favor and inform him, or better yet; I could tell Protoman. That'd be a nice surprise, not that it's anything new to him.

Hey, there's an idea; I could always just leave, just pack up and go. Might be rough, but it's not like I'm some teenage runaway. I'm a fucking bioroid for Chrissake, I'm pretty sure I can manage. This idea's looking better and better; I'll grab Treble, disable our homing devices, and we can disappear into the night. Maybe get a scarf, ha ha! No, I'd look just as retarded as him.

...It's nice to dream, anyways. I suppose I've got it better than the others; I at least know that I'm shackled. They don't even realize it, the thought never enters their painfully simplistic minds. Although...I wonder if that makes them the fortunate ones? Doesn't matter. They aren't complex enough to matter.

I'll do it someday. I'll find a loophole, just one little slip in coding is all I need...one little glitch. Maybe I'll mess with the lines and tell him I have a problem- he can repair it and fuck up, as always, and I'll have my reason. It doesn't take much, not nearly as much as some people might think. I'll just...no. It won't work. He has it on file, and he'll know I did it and take away more of me.

I'll just sit here. And rust. And wait for the end to wake up.

eggcentric @ 2008-03-06T15:45:00

2008-03-06T21:14:40Z

Title: Introductions
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Characters/Pairing: Cloud, Denzel, musing about Zack and flashbacks.
Genre: Musey general, drama.
Rating: PG
Summary: Cloud introduces Denzel to someone very important to him.

Fenrir kicked up bits of sand and flung them against his face, little pinpricks of stinging sensation that barely registered on Cloud's scale of tolerable pain. The arms were secure around his waist -Cloud found himself subconsciously checking to make sure his passenger had a good grip every so often- and he neared the outcrop, braking slowly. Fenrir rumbled to a dissatisfied stop and Cloud killed the engine, the arms slipping from his waist as Denzel hopped down from the bike.

"This is it?" he asked, small voice even smaller in the vast space the wastelands surrounding Edge provided.

Cloud nodded, pinching the nosepiece of his sunglasses and leaving them to hang around his neck. With a sort of silent reverence, Cloud approached the sword jutting from the ground, slightly askew. With a firm hand he corrected it before taking to a knee before the monument. Denzel glanced at him before following his example, kneeling. "Why'd you want to show me this, Cloud?"

The wind whistled in the distance, hissing through the many crags surrounding the outcrop, flowing around the bouldiers like an intangible river before Cloud murmured an answer. "This is where the man who gave his life to save mine died." He could feel rather than see Denzel tense behind him, and he filtered gentleness into his tone. "It's all right. I think...I've come to terms with it."

Denzel was silent once again before, shifting his weight into a more comfortable cross-legged position, he asked, "What was his name?"

"...Zack Fair." Cloud's fingers reached out and he traced the designs on the hilt of the massive blade. "He was a First Class SOLDIER, but more than that he was the best friend anyone could have. I was lucky to know him."

"He sounds really important."

Cloud chuckled, the sound surprising him and Denzel both. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Zack, do you have any missions, or do you really have all this time to goof off with me?"

"What're you talkin' about, Spike? You're like a mission in itself. 'Teach serious kid to have a life, First-Class difficulty level.' You're practically a full-time job."

"I was a weak, dumb little kid, and Zack made time for me."

Denzel cast Cloud a doubtful look. "I can't picture you weak, Cloud."

"Well, I was. I still am, in a way." Cloud moved to sit beside Denzel, propping himself up with his hands behind himself. "A lot of the strength I have now, though, I learned from him. He taught me to fight, and keep fighting. Somewhere along the line, I lost sight of that...but I think I got it back again."

Denzel took it in with a nod, eyes moving to gaze at the sword before he murmured, "Can I say something to him."

Cloud blinked, glancing down at the boy before tilting his head in an inviting gesture. Denzel didn't bother standing, crawling over to the sword and clasping his hands in prayer. "Dear Mr. Zack, thank you for saving Cloud. He's really important to me and a lot of people, and if it weren't for you, we'd all be a lot sadder." And Denzel leaned forward, wrapping his arms around the Buster Sword in a warm hug.

"Augh, Cloud, you need to stop being such a cute little kid! You make me wanna just hug the life out of you."

"S-stop saying such weird stuff, Zack! Geez, in public..."

Cloud pursed his lips, and he stood with Denzel, taking the boy's hand to lead him back to Fenrir. Denzel paused, however, his eyes fixed on the sword over his shoulder. "What's wrong?" Cloud asked, glancing over and seeing nothing.

"...nothing, I guess. I thought I saw a wolf."

"No wolves out here, Denzel. They can't live in the wasteland." Cloud ruffled Denzel's hair before they climbed back atop Fenrir.

"Wow, that's some hair! Okay, then I'll call you Spike. That's a good name."

"...I'm Spike...? Have you looked at your own hair lately? Uh, sir?"

"Ha ha! Yeah, I know, but I get to give you a nickname since I outrank you, so Spike it is!"

Fenrir rumbled and Cloud left the sword behind him in the dying sunlight, and the wind whipped around his hair and it was so familiar that Cloud had to lift a hand to his head to check for any etheral fingers.

"Thanks, Spike."

eggcentric @ 2008-02-12T21:47:00

2008-02-13T03:25:07Z

All them drabbles I wroted for TotA a while back.

Title: TotA Drabblefest
Fandom: WTF, I said TotA D:<
Rating: Anywhere from G to NC-17
Genre: Everything in existance
Summary: ....uh, no. >_>

He wasn’t going to argue the observation; he was most certainly taking advantage of the boy. He was taking advantage of the naiveté, the sheer blind trust and faith the child would put into anyone who paid him the least amount of attention. It was only natural for him to be looked upon with such adoration from such very young eyes, and he didn’t have a single qualm with twisting that love in his favor.

The creature was made to be used, after all.

So he plastered on the dazzling smile, showered the child in praise and gentle admonitions, both of which he seemed to take to exceptionally well. Begrudgingly, Van even had Duke Fabre to thank for the smoothness of his plans; his absolute refusal to have any part in raising the child only pushed the replica away and into Van’s arms. He couldn’t have asked for a greater favor from that soulless murderer.

When the replica began to blush and stammer around him, the opportunities couldn’t have been more golden; he had a crush. There were easy ways to lead the boy on without giving him too much hope. It was nearly effortless to seal the child’s devotion, ensure it, strengthen the boy’s trust into something unbreakable. A simple phrase here, a touch there, a stroke of his hair or a pat on his hand; it was effortless.

It was almost enough to make him feel guilty. After all, this pitiful being was only created to save someone far worthier than he, and here Van was, taking advantage of his feelings and playing him as a violin. We’re the child anything more than a replacement, a Score-satisfying doll, Van might have questioned his actions as he bent over the lithe body beneath him, touched the sweat-slicked skin. He might have been a little gentler, might have murmured a comfort as the boy writhed and mewled his name, clutched at his shoulders and hair.

He might have been honest…but the boy really only had himself to blame.

“What’s that one?” Luke thrust his finger up at a particular cluster, ignoring the urge to sneeze as Guy’s hair tickled his nose when the man leaned closer to follow his gaze.

“Luke, you gotta be blind. That’s Undine; you can tell by the blue star at the crown of her head.” Guy moved back, his fingers laced together and resting comfortably atop his stomach, grass poking up to frame his hair like a patch of dandelions.

Luke scowled, squinting up at the constellation before announcing loudly, “That doesn’t look anything like Undine.”

“And how would you know what Undine looks like?” Guy’s voice was distinctly amused.

“Because she’d look like something. That doesn’t look like anything.” Guy’s chuckle rang through the darkness, and Luke studied the sky once more before gesturing again. “What about that one?”

“…Luke, that’s the Fon Belt.”

“What?!” Closer inspection revealed that yes, it was in fact not a star Luke’s attentions were upon, but instead a small chip of a fonstone floating lazily in its course around the planet. “Damn things look exactly like stars at night.” A curious sound caught his ear and he turned to Guy to see him on his side, his back to Luke and his shoulders shaking. “…Guy, are you crying?”

“You not exactly the brightest star in the sky, are you Luke?” Guy made a very un-Guylike guffaw before rolling onto his back and laughing. Even as Luke growled and pounced atop the swordsman, sending them tumbling down the grassy hill, Guy chuckled, turning to pin Luke quite soundly at the bottom. “Gotcha.”

“Cheater,” Luke mumbled. “You can’t see the sky from there, you know.”

Guy snorted in doubt, but leaned down and pressed a satisfied kiss to Luke’s lips all the same. “That’s all right.” When he pulled back, his smile was gentle and cheeky, all at the same time. “They’re brighter when I can see them in your eyes, anyways.”

Briefly, Guy wondered if this was such a good idea after all.

Being the heir to the Gardios fortune, Guy naturally had plenty of gald to hire a contractor for himself, but since this room was going to be special he’d wanted to build it with his own two hands. Therefore, he and Luke had set about gathering the necessary tools to make Guy’s ambition a reality, and prepared to build what was going to be Guy’s fontech workshop.

That is…they would build it if Luke would stop hitting himself on the hand with the hammer.

“Ow!” Luke tossed the tool down and Guy winced at the loud clang it made, hurrying to his side and taking his hand away from where Luke was pressing it against his chest, his other hand curled protectively over it. “Ow, Guy, leave it alone!”

“Are you doing this on purpose?” Guy asked, exasperated as he digs yet another apple gel out of his pocket.

“That’s right, Guy, I’m slamming a hammer onto my fingers on purpose.”

“You’re gonna lose your nails,” Guy muttered, tearing the plastic of the gel off with his teeth and gently squeezing it onto Luke’s bleeding thumb, the sweet scent of apples wafting through the air.

“Well maybe I shouldn’t be on hammer detail,” Luke sniffed. There was a moment of silence before Luke asked curiously, “does it taste like apples?”

Guy blinked up at him, a little surprised, before smirking and leaning forward, a bit of apple gel from the plastic on his lips, and kissed Luke square on the lips. The redhead shuddered and his tongue darted out to taste, and Guy pulled back to lick his lips clean. “…tastes like apples to me.”

There was a flash of movement and suddenly Guy’s back was against the sawdust-covered floor, Luke’s teeth and lips at his neck and his fingers in Guy’s hair. “I guess we aren’t getting this room done today,” Guy laughed, the sound a little strained. His only response was a low growl.

Perhaps this was a good idea after all.

Countless little golden trinkets jangled as Asch stalked down the marble hallway and it took all of his willpower to keep from ripping them straight out of his hair. He wasn’t a damn doll; why did they insist on dressing him up like one? Regardless of his attire –he’d just returned from an audience with the Holy Ones, so naturally he’d have to be painted up like a cheap harlot- he had a Council meeting to crash.

Not even bothering to throw the doors open manually, Asch’s eyes flashed a furious gold and the doors vanished in a burst of light, the councilmen inside crying out in surprise. Fisting his hips and taking a moment to allow the men to compose themselves, his eyes searched the room until they fixed on Luke in the corner, silent and looking a bit cowed. “So what’s this?” he asked, his voice too light and jovial to match the fury in his eyes. “I see my brother here…I must have missed the invitation.”

“My Lord.” It was Atemi, the slimiest and oldest of the bunch, and he offered a bow to Asch, his hands folded inside the flowing sleeves of his robes. “We knew you were meeting with the Holy Ones, so we asked Lord Luke to stand in your stead.”

“Except that I’m not a total fool. I know you are aware that Luke would understand half of what you say in this room, and that’s why you rescheduled the meeting in the first place.” Asch snarled, and this time he did tear an ornament from one of his many long tresses, the tiny gold item disappearing in his palm like sand lifting into the breeze. “If I ever hear of you doing something like this again, I won’t hesitate to take my brother’s place and send you all to hell.”

A snap of his fingers summoned Luke to his side and Asch stormed from the room, leaving the men in their terrified silence and Luke trailing beside him, cowering as if he were at fault. “…I’m sorry, Asch,” Luke whispered, and when Asch’s hand rose he flinched, fearing a strike. Much to his surprise, Asch’s hand lit gently atop Luke’s head and, the older twin not even sparing him a glance, stroked his hair once before quickening his pace to leave him behind.

Luke stood, blinking at the retreating form of his brother, before pulling his own bangle free from his hair and glancing down at the glinting gold in his palm. His eyes met Asch’s back once more, and the charm dropped to the ground as he hurried after him.

“Luke…no.”

“Guy!”

Guy pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to ignore the cooing of the girls and Jade’s chuckling behind him. “You’ve gotta be out of your mind. We’re traveling. We can’t take a kitten with us.”

“He was in the rain, Guy!” Luke protested, the sopping kitten mewling pitifully from it’s place wrapped up inside of Luke’s jacket. A tiny, damp head popped out, all big green eyes, and Guy had to look away from the formidable pair his best friend and the kitten made.

“How are we going to travel around with a kitten? What happens if we get attacked, are you just gonna fight with him on your shoulder, or is that kitten a Seventh fonist?”

Luke’s expression was sullen with a tone to match. “He could be.” The kitten mewled.

Guy sent a pleading expression to Jade, who took pity on the blonde and rounded up the girls to shoo them away. Approaching Luke and snagging a towel from a nearby rack, Guy gently took the jacket with the kitten into the crook of his arm. “I know you want to keep him, Luke, but it’s just not practical, and it’s not safe.” Plopping the towel atop Luke’s soggy hair and scrubbing until the replica batted his hands away and took the towel from himself, Guy pet the kitten with a fingertip. “Tomorrow we’ll go out and try to find a home for him. There’s tons of kids in St. Binah; I know one of them will make a good owner, okay?”

“…okay.” Luke’s voice was muffled, his head hidden by the towel.

Guy’s expression softened and he placed the dozing kitten atop the bed with Luke’s jacket, reaching out to pull Luke into his arms. “What’s wrong?”

“It…was just a baby, all alone in big St. Binah, with no family…” Luke’s voice dropped to a whisper, and his fingers clutched at Guy’s vest. “Like you were.”

Guy stiffened, and rested his chin atop Luke’s head. He was right; when he’d arrived at St. Binah, all he had was Pere to look after him, the memories of his family’s death fresh in his mind and haunting his dreams. Even as he worked at the Fabre Manor for the first few years, his soul dark and his will bent for revenge, Luke still came to him, still clung to him and still trusted him with anything and everything. He had thought he was looking after Luke, watching over him and taking care of him.

But it was Luke who had brought him out of the storm.

“Damn.” Luxanne turned to the side, her hands on her hips as she surveyed her figure in the large mirror propped against the wall.

“What is it?” Guy asked, sipping at his tea as he glanced at their projected path sprawled over the weathered map on the table.

“My boobs…they’re huge.” Ignoring the sputtering sounds of Guy choking on his tea, Luxanne leaned forward and pressed her breasts together. “Yowza! Look at those melons! I swear they’re bigger than Tear’s!”

“Why are you playing with yourself in the same room as a man,” Guy stammered faintly, dabbing at the map with a wad of napkins and pointedly ignoring glancing in her direction as she experimented with several provocative poses.

“Well, you’re afraid of girls anyhow.” Luxanne giggled and gave an experimental jump, apparently satisfied with the resulting motion as she gave a low whistle. “I’d totally jump me. I’m pretty hot stuff.”

“Luke-”

“Luxanne.”

Guy rolled his eyes and tossed the soggy napkins into the wicker basket that served as a garbage receptacle. “Luxanne, stop doing that. At least wait for me to leave the room.”

“Are you sure?” Her voice decidedly sing-song, Luxanne swayed closer to Guy, who gave a little cry of fear and pressed himself up against the door, shaking. She laughed, pausing a mere three feet away as she slowly lifted her shirt from her belly. “You can look at them if you want.”

“I don’t want to look at them,” Guy told her faintly, his eyes expressive otherwise as he stared rather pointedly at the shirt inching upward.

With a shrug, Luxanne dropped her clothing and made her way back to the mirror. “Okay, your loss.” Suppressing a smile at Guy’s shocked silence and following curse, she leaned back towards the mirror, taking a peek down the collar of her shirt.

Yep. Definitely bigger than Tear.

Guy leaned back, grinning at his masterpiece and wiping the sweat from his brow. It had taken three nights and four days, plus a considerable amount of money to piece it together, but now that it was finished he knew that its recipient was going to love it. Because everyone loved fontech, didn’t they?

“Guy?” At the sound of Asch’s voice, Guy quickly grabbed a nearby cloth and tossed it over the project, shoving it aside to rest among his other half-finished works and pieces and standing to hide the pile. Red hair fluttered past the doorway until Asch backtracked and glanced inside, the hint of a smile in his eyes only apparent to those closest to him. “There you are. I was looking for you.”

“I could tell by the way you were calling for me.” Guy grinned at Asch’s disgruntled huff and shifted his weight, a hand on his hip purely out of habit. “What can I do for you?”

“I was just…” Asch trailed off, his eye catching the corner of the cloth and gave a squawk of surprise. “My tabard! There it is! I was looking for that, y’know.” A frown flitted across his features and Asch crossed his arms. “What was it doing in here?”

Guy coughed pointedly.

“Oh. Yeah, I remember.” His cheeks matching his hair, Asch strode forward to retrieve it, only to have his wrist grabbed by Guy. “Guy, let go. I need to put that away already; I don’t want anyone to find it and draw any conclusions.”

“Ah, you can’t.” Guy’s eyes drifted to the side, searching desperately for an excuse, but eventually sighed. “…your present is underneath that.”

Asch blinked. “For my birthday? But this-” Suddenly his face darkened, and the temperature seemed to plummet ten degrees. “You did not make me fontech for my birthday.”

“I did!” Guy chirped, glowing. As Asch pressed his fingers to his temple, fighting an outburst, Guy reached over and flicked the tabard aside, grasping the object beneath it and holding it up for Asch to see.

Asch gaped at the item in Guy’s hand before blushing a brilliant red. “Th-that’s not-!”

“Yes.” Guy smirked.

“You made one?!”

“Well, I sure as hell wasn’t going to buy one. That’s embarassing.” Guy slowly began to remove his work gloves his with teeth. “Lay down.”

“W-wait a second!” Asch pushed against Guy’s chest as the blonde shoved him against his work bench, pressing him back. “Hey! It’s not my birthday yet!

Guy hadn’t even been doing anything special. He was just eating an apple and chatting with Anise, feet meeting the path as surely as they ever did, hair sitting happy as sunshine atop his head as it always did. Occasionally he would pause to run his tongue over his teeth, remove a piece of apple that lodged itself in the creases, but return promptly to the spirited debate Anise was putting forth over the practicality of the switches in Sheridan.

It hadn’t happened that one time, when he and Guy were wrestling and Guy had pinned him with their hips pressed together, their faces close and Guy’s breath washing over him in gasping pants. Luke told himself that the fluttering of his heart was from the exercise.

It hadn’t happened when Guy was preparing dinner and required a taste-tester, and even though he and Luke had squabbled earlier that day, he’d asked Luke too. It was delicious, because Guy was an excellent cook, and when Luke told him so he’d beamed. Luke told himself that the heat on his face was from the cooking fire.

It hadn’t happened even when Luke was shivering in his sleeping bag, the screams of the dying –of those he’d killed- echoing in his head, and no matter how loud he hummed or how hard he pressed his hands over his ears he couldn’t block out their wails…until Guy sat by his side and stroked his hair. The soothing gesture, the care Luke could feel saturating the very action washed over him and Luke felt loved, felt safe, here with Guy beside him. Not even then, and Luke told himself that the overwhelming feeling and the need to cry were just because of his exhaustion and his relief.

Now, as he stares at the spot between Guy’s shoulder blades, the travel bag swinging over his shoulder from Guy’s strong hand, the katana bouncing against Guy’s hip and keeping time with his step…it was then, and only then that Luke realized that his heart was fluttering, his face was hot and he desperately needed to cry.

He was in love with Guy Cecil.

“Your Majesty, somehow I don’t think this is -uunhh!- included in my duties as a n-noble of the court.” Guy’s neck arched, slicked with sweat and honey-hued, and Peony latched onto it eagerly with a demented little cackle. “D-don’t laugh like that, you s-sound like Jade.”

“You’d be surprised; he’s an animal in bed.”

Guy’s eyes flared open, both from the motion of Peony inside of him and from the statement from his mouth. “You’ve slept with Jade?!”

“Of course. Have you seen him without his glasses? He’s positively radiant.” Peony’s tongue pressed to the curve of Guy’s clavicle, pulling a whimper from pink and trembling lips. “Of course, you’re quite a catch yourself, so here we are.”

“You’re joking,” Guy gasped. “Are you keeping a tally or something?”

“You could call it that,” Peony sing-songed, and twisted in a way that brought Guy to a screaming release, his nails scrabbling at Peony’s back as he writhed beneath the monarch. Peony drove inside of him once, twice before he too met his peak, moaning low and loud, shuddering with the strength of his own climax. Breaths wheezed between the blondes as they struggled to compose themselves, catch themselves, find each other among the lingering ecstasy and speak.

“…I am so executed.”

“Nonsense! I would never let them execute you.” Peony laughed as he removed himself from Guy, reaching up to smooth the younger man’s hair in an oddly affectionate gesture. “But rest assured, I will not rape you again.”

Guy winced. “Score, don’t call it that.”

“Then what would you call it?”

“Another tally mark."

"...You're so cold to me, Gailardia."

Their eyes met across the room, just once, and Susanne knew in her heart of hearts that he was the one. He wasn’t particularly talented or charming, but he was most certainly handsome with his beautiful, long red hair braided with a soft navy ribbon at the bottom. And when he finally caught her staring, he stammered and blushed and sloshed his drink all down the front of his expensive tunic.

How absolutely adorable.

She’d quickly handed off her punch to Ingobert –she was only sixteen, after all, and not old enough to drink- and efficiently slipped her way through the mingling crowds, somehow managing to dodge other boastful suitors eager to marry the King’s daughter, and quietly approached the young man speaking with his higher officers on advanced military tactics and the state of Belkend’s mineral deposits. It was then that she learned his name. Crimson fon Fabre. Son and only child to Duke Kyne Fabre, owner and proprietor of the entire district of Belkend.

So he was a distant descendant to the royal line. That would explain the red hair and green eyes, despite the fact that his father had black hair and coal eyes; Susanne had seen Duke Fabre before at her father’s financial summons. …Thank Yulia Crimson did not take after his father in that aspect.

It was only a tap to the shoulder, but he’d jumped as if shocked, and nearly dropped his glass before hurriedly handing it off to a passing servant and bowing low to her. “P-Princess. A pleasure to see you, milady.”

So cute.

Susanne giggled and offered her own little curtsy. “The feeling is reciprocated; may I ask your name?” Of course, she had already heard his name before, but that did not stop her desire to hear more of his voice.

The blush returned full-force and Crimson stammered through a painful introduction, growing more and more flustered as the time passed, and it was all Susanne could do not to throw her arms around his neck with a shriek. As he finished with an obvious sigh of relief, Susanne offered him a sweet smile.

“I am sure you already know my name…but please. Call me Susanne.”

The first time I saw you, the real you without the mask and the empty laughter, was in Daath when you remembered how your sister Mary died. Your lips were trembling and your face was white, but your eyes were clearer than I’d ever seen before. It was almost like the difference between waves and still waters. I could see to the bottom, from the surface to the center of you and everything in between. It -you were beautiful and haunting, and I wanted to keep you safe this time, keep you well.

It was gone in an instant; you were gone. Again was the happy smile, the churning seas of your eyes and that distant feeling, that slightly barbed, ‘don’t ask me about myself,’ feeling, foreboding like waves against jagged rocks. I began to hate it, once I recognized it for what it was. I didn’t want to look at that fake you anymore; I wanted to know everything about you, every minute detail, good and bad. I wanted to know when you were sad or upset or remembering. I wanted to know when you weren’t all right, when you didn’t think you could move just yet.

I wanted to see you again. You.

You gave me another glimpse of you, many months later, in Daath. Jade suggested my death; you suggested bodily harm if he said another word on it. I saw your eyes flash, clear as ice and just as frigid, and even if it scared me I still knew it was you. And when I asked you what you thought, when you told me plainly that you wouldn’t accept it. When you raised your voice and shouted at me, was angry at me and frustrated and upset and furious…I saw you again. I saw the you that lost so much and couldn’t stand losing more. I saw the you that was selfish and needy and wanted to keep what was yours, and it took all of my willpower not to give in and let you have your way.

Because this time…I wanted you to see me.

“Okay, so when I tell you, Mieu, you’re going to run in there, grab it and then run back out. And don’t let anyone see you have it.”

“Yes, Master!”

“Keep it down, you stupid Thing! Geez.” Luke, crouched with his back against the wall, craned his neck to peer around the corner and survey their prey. “…I think everyone’s distracted. Okay, go!”

Mieu gave an excited little chirrup and scampered about the corner as quickly as his tiny limbs could carry him. Not daring to look, Luke pressed himself against the wall and closed his eyes, counting the seconds. If all went according to plan, Mieu would be returning just about-

“I have it, Master!”

“Great!” Luke managed to keep his enthusiasm down to a whisper, holding out his hands eagerly. “Give it, give it here!” Mieu, chirping happily, placed the cloth into Luke’s waiting grasp, and he scampered back as his master opened the crumpled ball.

Silence.

“You- stupid Thing! This is Guy’s, I wanted Tear’s! How did you even confuse the two?!”

“M-Master-”

“They don’t look anything alike! First of all, Guy’s is- well, it’s Guy’s! Tear’s is soft and frilly and smells nice! This isn’t soft and frilly at all! …Well, I’m kind of glad it isn’t because that would be weird, but still!”

“Master, they-“

“Shut up, Thing, I’m trying to teach you to do it right!” So preoccupied with his anger was Luke that he didn’t even notice four shadows looming over him, -one slightly spaced from the other three- with their arms crossed and their brows furrowed.

Mieu ran.

eggcentric @ 2008-02-01T10:34:00

2008-02-01T15:45:14Z

Title: I Remember
Fandom: Megaman X
Characters: Zero muse
Genre: Wa ha ha, what's Megaman X without the ANGST.
Rating: PG
Summary: Sappy drabblestuff.

When the fight becomes too hard, too repetitive, I remember him. I remember his drive, his pain, what he's suffered through and how he presses onward, trying his hardest despite the fact that the protective shield he assembles for the humans always collapses in on itself like a feeble house of cards. I remember the way he mourns, but climbs to his feet and, from the scraps of shrapnel, blood and tears, starts all over again, never ceasing. How he works so hard and deligently, how he takes joy in the small successes, how he searches vainly for the brightest spot of light in the dark, dreary and hopeless times we live in.

I remember how he looked when I first saw him; bright and happy. Chipper, and eager to please. I remember how his face looked when I was revived...how he looked exactly the same but so much more haggard. How his voice had lost that cheerful lilt, how he sounded older and wiser and sadder than I had left him. How he was always tense, how his eyes flicked about the room searching for threats and dangers. He was a soldier, rather than a savior, and I don't like to remember that.

I remember how the pale blue light would flicker across his face as he gazed up at his creator, his father with adoration, the first time he saw him. I remember how his face fell when, not encouraging words or even a loving message was left, but a piece of armor, to make him stronger, so he could do what he had to do. I remember how he quietly accepted that mockery of a gift, how he seemed even grateful, despite the underlying meaning. I remember him wondering aloud if that was all he was good for in the end. Fighting.

I remember...and damn it, sometimes I wish I could forget.

eggcentric @ 2008-01-18T10:10:00

2008-01-18T15:12:56Z

Whew! First time writing Reborn stuff. >_>;

Title: Those Old Shogun Movies
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman: Reborn!
Characters/Pairing: Yamamoto
Genre: Musey General
Rating: PG
Summary: Warm, drabbley goodness.

Yamamoto was reluctant to say it aloud, because it made him feel just a little silly, but...

Hot damn, did he feel cool with his sword. At first he'd thought it was a little strange, that weird bat the baby had given him. Who gives someone a weapon like that, anyways? Especially in a peaceful town like this one. Sure, there were those incidents with explosives, but those were usually Gokudera's fault, who wasn't so much as dangerous as he was cranky. And of course, there were those beatings and kidnappings happening lately, but that was just a gang war, wasn't it? Thugs disputing over turf, things like that?

Yamamoto practiced behind the shop.

Besides that, babies usually didn't hand out expensive weapons like candy, but it was a gift and the kid had seemed pretty sure, so Yamamoto accepted it graciously. He'd almost taken it to practice one time; it was hard to remember that it was a sword -and a telescope! How cool!- when it looked like some regular aluminum bat. It was pretty heavy, though, so confusing it with a regular bat didn't happen very often. He'd just been in a hurry that day, late for practice, and snatched it up to take with him purely out of instinct. By the time he'd made it to the batter's box, it was almost too late and he'd had to back out nervously on an excuse of a stomachache just to take it back home. It was unusual for him to shirk practice like that, so the coach allowed it, and the trip back home gave Yamamoto the time to wonder incredulously why it was becoming second nature to have that bat with him.

He felt like a rounin, from those old shogun movies he watched with his dad on Saturday nights. So cool.

Somewhere down the line, though, when it blurred between game and reality, fun and seriousness, Yamamoto stopped feeling cool with a sword. Perhaps it was when his father gave him the Shigure Souen sword, or maybe once Squalo had been killed. It wasn't as if it dawned on him, enlightened him or anything stupid like that. He'd just slowly come to accept that games didn't get this serious; that people didn't die in games. That the adults were too intense for this to be a game, and that his blood spattered on the concrete and turning the water pink didn't constitute a game within normal parameters. The idea of bowing out briefly -very briefly- crossed his mind, but the looks on Tsuna and Gokudera's faces squashed that thought quicker than he could have on his own. He was in too deep now, and besides that...

Someone was depending on him.

...Somehow, knowing that, he felt even cooler than the rounin in those old shogun movies.

Title: Torrential Downpour
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman: Reborn!
Characters/Pairing: Gokudera muse, slight 8059
Genre: Angsty-ish
Rating: PG
Summary: Like the difference in freezing sheet rain and sun-kissed summer showers.

Yamamoto was incredibly strong. Gokudera wouldn't ever say it aloud, but it was true, and he couldn't deny it when the baseball idiot used that strength to protect the Tenth.

Gokudera didn't stop to consider that Yamamoto's strength encompassed more than simply fighting power. He couldn't stand the idea that Yamamoto's confidence and happy-go-lucky idiocy was in any way helpful to the Tenth, not when he had Gokudera as his right hand. But sure enough, whenever Yamamoto was singled out in any battles and he would flash that easy, "things will be fine," grin, it was nigh impossible to be pessimistic. That was the only reason why Gokudera's stomach lurched every time Yamamoto spilled blood; because it was bad for the Tenth, because it worried the Tenth. He didn't care if that moron died, but the Tenth obviously did, and whatever the Tenth wanted, Gokudera wanted. That was how a right hand was supposed to think.

That was the only reason why he climbed down into that pit, scrambling and slipping over the drenched and ruined concrete. That was the only reason two fingers pressed to Yamamoto's neck and checked for a pulse, why a sigh of relief puffed past his cigarette, why he grabbed the boy's arm and yanked it over his shoulders to pull him back to safety. It was for the Tenth's benefit.

Even after the battle for the rings was said and done, Yamamoto brushed off his injured eye like it was nothing, and recovered with so much bounce that even Ryohei was impressed, and crowed victories over the power of his companions -"Yamamoto's strong, to the EXTREME!"- much to Gokudera's endless irritation.

It wasn't till around the time that the hunt began that Gokudera began to appreciate that different kind of strength. The Tenth was all nerves, matured but still fretful over his family and friends, and some days Gokudera felt rather useless; mindless comfort wasn't much his game. He was much better at eliminating obstacles, scouting for information- action, he was better at doing. Yamamoto was usually the one to step in and assure the Tenth, somehow, with just an easy grin and an arm around his neck, or a distraction ready-made for their boss, to keep him busy in the empty hours of hiding. Gokudera hated it, that hiding, but it was a necessary evil, and he set himself to work, planning the downfall of the enemies that plagued the Tenth while Yamamoto fussed over the Tenth.

Plans screeched to a halt when Yamamoto's father was killed.

There had been word of suspicious people snooping around the Take Sushi shop, so Yamamoto had asked permission for a brief leave to move his father, which the Tenth naturally granted. As the day crawled onward and still no word from Yamamoto, Gokudera had given him a call to yell at him for worrying the Tenth -he was only antsy because the boss was antsy, after all- and didn't recieve an answer. It was then Gokudera knew that something was wrong. With how dangerous things had become for the Vongola guardians, they were under strict orders to keep their phones operational and with them at all times, so the only excuse for not answering would be a dire one.

Yamamoto called back, and Gokudera had taken a breath to curse at him before stopping cold.

"They killed my dad. I'll be back in a day; I gotta arrange the funeral." Click, dial tone.

It wasn't so much the message that made him stop, but the tone in the man's voice. It wasn't grief-stricken, or despairing or hell, even furious.

It was flat, dead. Emotionless. Yamamoto was not emotionless, it was the last thing he could ever be, and it wasn't until he was truly upset that his voice ever even came close to the unyielding ice Gokudera had just heard. He passed the message onto the Tenth with a sort of detached air, a little shocked, and awkwardly held him in Yamamoto's place as he cried. The next day, right as rain, Yamamoto entered the base, shrugging out of his jacket and offering the Tenth an easy, apologetic smile, as if he had been caught doing something mildly disobedient. As the Tenth clutched Yamamoto's arms, apologizing and sobbing again, Yamamoto comforted him as if he had been the one to lose a father.

"It's all right, Tsuna," Yamamoto murmured, squeezing his shoulder. "He went to see Mom. He's probably having the time of his life now."

There was the issue of compromised security; if the thugs who had killed the previous master of the Shigure Souen style had been their enemies -there was little doubt- then they had new and dangerous information about Yamamoto that could help trap him. Yamamoto solved that problem quickly and efficiently; with all of his possessions along with it, Yamamoto burned his house to the ground. As far as he had been able to tell, his father had managed to kill his attackers, and since it had been fairly recent there hadn't been a follow-up investigation of the missing assassins, so after removing his father's body, Yamamoto doused the shop in gasoline and lit the fire to eat up what was essentially his entire material life.

That kind of strength was almost unreal.

It wasn't until later, when Gokudera finally cornered Yamamoto on his own, that he found that it wasn't quite strength compelling him, or even so much as obligation. "I didn't want a reminder of Dad," Yamamoto had told him, words chilling, and Gokudera longed for that stupid, idiotic, sunny disposition over this frigid, new Yamamoto. It wasn't often that it happened, but as the time passed after the death of his father, Yamamoto was a little colder than before, a little more serious.

Like the difference between rainfall from north to south. Like freezing sheet rain, and sun-kissed day showers. Both were powerful, when the drops smacked against the asphalt in torrential downpours, but Gokudera preferred the latter of the two.

Yamamoto had lost that sun about him, and nothing could bring it back. And Gokudera didn't know if it was strength or what...but he didn't like it in the least.

PS: If you would like to see a sad, depressed Yamamoto in the rain, rendered with absolutely gorgeous and dare I say it, godly artistic prescision, then you should totally go look at xihn's art over here lika rite nao.

eggcentric @ 2008-01-09T15:41:00

2008-01-09T20:52:59Z

Title: Too Bitter to Save
Fandom: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Musey drama angst?
Characters: Mentions of Zelos, from Lloyd's POV. SPOILERZ LAWL

I'd thought that I knew him well. We'd been through a lot together, after all, and you usually can't go through those kinds of life-and-death situations without getting to know a person or, at the very least, appreciating them as a friend or comrade.

How odd that it took something like this to show me how wrong I was. Or...maybe it's not odd, but just...

I don't know anything about him. I didn't know what made him unhappy, I didn't know that deep down he was suffering...I didn't know that he was this selfish, that he was lost, that he felt as if he'd been cornered since he'd been born. Why didn't he ever say anything to me? To anyone? We would have helped him somehow; I don't know how, but we would have! Instead he just kept it to himself, bottled it up, and schemed and planned with Cruxis behind our backs.

I don't know what hurts worse; his death, or the death of my trust in him.

I told him I trusted him. I told him that! And I've put my back to him so often in battle that if he'd wanted, he could have lopped my head right off my shoulders. I know that wasn't his aim to begin with; it was Colette. And it was all to save himself.

That bastard...

Although I suppose he either regretted it in the end...or he regretted it to begin with, telling us where she was being held. It doesn't help much...we're the ones who have to fight through waves of angels and demons to get to her, and somehow we're going to have to free her, but...without this to go by, the chance to get her back in time wouldn't even be present.

...I wonder if Colette ever thought about something like that. No, probably not. She's not the type...and he just seemed far too bitter to save.

To celebrate this!! Woo hoo!!

eggcentric @ 2008-01-07T23:34:00

2008-01-08T04:35:22Z

Title: Sick
Fandom: Tales of the Abyss
Characters: Guy, Luke
Genre: Romance, Drama

Guy did not get sick with worry; that just wasn't the type of person he was. When things got dicey, Guy's solution would be to keep a cool, calm and level head and work out the situation to the best of his ability. If there was no way for him to work out the situation, he'd roll with the punches, plan a comeback.

The destruction of Hod and the death of his family taught him nothing if not that.

Guy supposed that some day, when Duke Fabre was sobbing at his feet, he'd have to thank him for making him a much stronger man than the wimp he undoubtedly would have become had he stayed pampered as he was in that manor. "Thank you, Fabre," he'd sneer, blade to the Duke's throat as he cradled the body of his son, "thank you for making me strong enough to kill you."

Guy was a lot darker, far more sinister than others thought he was. Of course, sunshine colors and a baby face didn't hurt when masking one's true intentions.

But...something about the Duke's son bothered him. Not the fact that he'd be retrieved with nothing more than a body and a blank slate of a mind, no; his...nature was different. It had been five years since that day, and still -while he was just as spoiled and arrogant as before- there was something much gentler in this new Luke.

The old Luke had been just as ruthless as his father, even at ten.

"Guy!" The teenager's chipper voice sounded from just outside his window, and Guy jumped on his bed, nearly dropping the book he'd been pretending to read onto his lap. Slipping a finger between the pages to keep his place, Guy slid from his bed onto his feet and padded quietly over to the window, noting the starry sky outside -if nothing else, Baticul had a magnificent view of the sky- before swinging open the windowpane. Luke beamed at him before promptly climbing right through his window.

"Master Luke-"

Luke shot him a warning glance, attempting to untangle his coat from the sill before he fell flat on his face.

Guy sighed. "Luke, you can't be in here. I'll get into trouble."

"Then I'll hide if someone knocks," Luke answered simply, successfully removing his coat from the snag and closing the window, drawing the curtains.

Guy pinched the bridge of his nose. "You realize that you being here, in a servant's quarters, when you are supposed to be asleep in your own bed is grounds for my dismissal?"

"Oh, if Father throws a fit, I'll just beg Mother and she'll convince him to let you stay," Luke offered breezily, snuggling happily into Guy's bed and making himself rather comfortable with the pillows. Glancing quizzically at Pere's own empty bed, Luke pointed and shot Guy an inquisitive look, a single brow raised.

"He's out," Guy answered tersely, hands on his hips, book forgotten, "as you should be. You can't be here."

"What's got you so grouchy?" Luke complained, tossing a pillow half-heartedly at Guy; it flopped lifelessly at Guy's feet, not reaching its intended target.

"Nothing." Guy sat at the edge of the bed, nailing Luke in the face with the pillow with a chuckle. He laughed at the teenager's muffled curses, snickering when his red and irritated face poked out from behind the weapon. "You started it," he pointed out.

Luke appeared torn between arguing and laughing, and settled on a grin. "I did." And he tackled Guy.

"Whoa!" Guy shouted in surprise, book flying into the air, before he wrapped an arm around Luke's neck and put him into a headlock, mussing up his hair and laughing. "Bad move, kiddo; I'm stronger than you!"

"I'm not a kid!" Luke howled from beneath his arm, and squirmed, attempting to slip from Guy's grip. His attempts were fruitless, however, and he sighed through his nose, going limp in Guy's hold and pouting, crossing his arms over his chest. "Jerk."

"You started this one, too," Guy told him before releasing him. However, this appeared to be a mistake, as Luke simply tackled him again, sending them both over the edge of the bed and onto the floor with a loud WHUMPF that Guy was sure the other servants heard. Caution was thrown to the wayside when Luke poked his ribs -little brat knew he was ticklish there!- and he rolled them over to their sides, fingers racing over Luke's exposed stomach. He, Guy, may be ticklish, but Luke must have had nerve endings in every cell of his body; if someone so much as breathed on him, he'd giggle.

"Augh! Ah ha ha!" Luke shrieked in surprise and laughter, grabbing hold of Guy's arm and pulling, managing to yank Guy atop himself and thus halt his tickling assault. However, this also put him into a very awkward position, and he just noticed that his leg was between Guy's and that Guy's tights most definitely were as thin as they looked. Guy paused when Luke shifted his weight and hurried to scramble off the boy when the aristocrat did something quite surprising.

Luke grabbed Guy's collar and yanked him down to kiss him.

There was a moment when Guy's mind blanked as he mentally balked. The Duke's only child was kissing him.

Immediately upon that realization, Guy pushed back from and off of Luke, scrambling backwards towards his bed until Luke reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him closer to himself. "Come on," Luke muttered, and practically fell on top of Guy, pinning him upright against his bed, kissing him again.

Guy considered punching Luke, as that appeared to be the only way to stop him, but found himself instead yanking his glove from his hands and tangling one of them into Luke's hair, shoving his tongue into Luke's mouth. The teen jumped, startled, before responding with even more fervor than before, moaning and wriggling in Guy's lap in a way that was very distracting.

The fact that he was making out with someone he had vowed to kill occured to Guy, and he gently -but insistantly- pulled back, Luke nibbling on his bottom lip as he did in a way that made him begin to regret it. "Luke," he whispered breathlessly, panting, combing his fingers through that long, luxurious hair all the same, "we can't do something like this."

"Yeah we can," Luke insisted, and ground himself against Guy, elliciting a groan from the older teen. "We can, I won't tell, come on," the words tumbled from the redhead's mouth in a rush, he clutched Guy's collar, tugged on it, pressed his lips clumsily to Guy's jaw and neck.

"Luke," Guy groaned insistantly, and shoved his charge back, breathing heavily. He opened his mouth to ask him what the hell was going on, but paused when Luke bowed his head, leaning forward until his forehead pressed against Guy's shoulder, clinging to his arms and shaking. "Don't...Luke, don't be upset, come on..."

There was no answer except for a strained grunt, and Guy knew that it wasn't emotional pain that gripped him; quickly, he lifted Luke up and onto the bed, where he gasped and curled on his side, clutching at his forehead with a dry sob. "Guy," he mewled piteously, other hand groping the bedsheets and Guy took it, rubbing his knuckles with his thumb.

"It's okay, Luke, I'm here," he murmured, impulsively lifting Luke's hand and kissing the back of it. "It's all right..." His attempt to be soothing felt hollow, empty, because there was nothing he could do to alleviate the pain except to be there with him.

Luke shuddered, opened eyes glazed with pain and quickly screwed them shut again. "Oww..." he whimpered, "ow ow ow..." His fingers curled around Guy's nearly to the point of discomfort, and he managed to scoot closer to the edge of the bed, so that he could grasp Guy's shirt and yank on it weakly.

Guy, catching a hint as well as any other person, pulled Luke against him and tucked his face beneath his chin, lips against Luke's earlobe. "It's gonna be okay," he whispered, and Luke shuddered again, although not from the breath on his ear, Guy was sure.

Guy did not get sick with worry.

But sometimes, he got very damn close.

eggcentric @ 2008-01-07T22:41:00

2008-01-08T03:45:20Z

Title: Trial and Error
Fandom: Tales of the Abyss
Characters: Guy
Genre: Angst, Drama

The second he'd turned twenty, Guy had gone to the nearest, cheapest bar Baticul could offer and gotten so drunk he'd passed out on the way back to the manor. Later, as he suffered through a horrible, vomiting hangover, Pere sitting at his bedside with a soft, wrinkled hand upon his forehead, he'd thrown an arm over his eyes and cried. Drinking himself into a stupor hadn't made him forget a thing, not even for a moment.

He had been hoping it would.

Guy had scared the maids, and Luke as well. While they hadn't seen or heard him crying -only Pere was allowed into his room, as his request, and somehow Madame Fabre had managed to convince the Duke to leave the reprimand and punishment for later, bless her soul- they'd heard him getting sick at an alarming frequency. Luke, while he wasn't permitted to enter Guy and Pere's quarters by command of his father -having fed him the excuse of improper fraternization with the unbefitting of his status, although Guy suspected the Duke saw him as a threat in multiple ways, especially after catching him at Luke's window once before- the young aristocrat contented himself with settling in the hallway, just beside the door, ignoring Ramdas' pleas to move (as sitting on the floor outside a servant's room was rather undignified). When night fell, Luke even went as far as to drag a spare set of blankets and pillows to curl up before the door he'd relentlessly kept vigil on the entire day.

As Guy left in the early hours of the morning to bathe, he'd nearly tripped over the redheaded bundle. The bath was temporarily forgotten as Guy sat beside Luke, gently stroking his hair for nearly an hour, careful not to wake him. Mary's bloodied face faded a little from his mind as he did.

When Luke had confided in him later that day that he'd felt safer sleeping outside of Guy's room, on the floor, than he did inside of his own, Guy's stomach clenched and the realization he'd been subconsciously dreading dawned upon him.

He would never have his revenge.

ILU, fontech~

eggcentric @ 2008-01-07T18:02:00

2008-01-07T23:03:33Z

Title: Just A Little Broken
Pairing/Characters: AschxLuke
Genre: Emo fluff
Rating: PG
Summary: Pitifully short ficlet between Asch and Luke in the middle of the night. Asch muses, Luke annoys him and then makes him feel secretly warm and fuzzy, as usual.

Asch wasn't sure if it was due to the fact that when the sun set, the stars emerged and the world hushed, people had an innate tendency to become far more sentimental, or if it was because it was the one time his mouth was finally shut, but he loved watching his replica sleep.

He loved the rise and fall of his chest, the gentle shush of his breathing past softly parted lips, his hair tousled, flyaway strands draped helter-skelter over his face and pillow, causing his appearance to be so disheveled that were he the type, Asch might have called it cute. Occasionally, Luke would shift or murmur in his sleep, and all it took from Asch was a brush of his knuckles against Luke's cheek to quiet him again. He wasn't sure if this was because Luke was a heavy sleeper, or if it went so far as Luke somehow sensing his presence, because in the end it didn't really matter.

Another reason to love the times when his replica slept was, for those moments, Asch could let himself smile, admire, be something other than the cold, steel-hardened soldier Van had molded him into. He could brush his lips against Luke's temple, press his face into his hair, hold him simply for the warmth. It was comforting, and sometimes, Asch thought that it was the only thing keeping him from curling up and passing on.

Also, when Luke was asleep, Asch didn't have to see that defeated, self-loathing look in his eyes. Why in the world the stupid replica thought he was so worthless was beyond him; hell, even he was constantly telling him to have more confidence in himself, and Asch had more reason than anyone to believe that Luke truly was useless.

It was almost infuriating enough to debate leaving him behind for good...if Asch didn't know that at this point, it could very well destroy him. He was terrified of being abandoned, and Asch was terrified of being forgotten, replaced or uneeded, so they made a pretty needy and pathetic pair.

...Although in his opinion, he was the far less pathetic half of it.

Luke chose that moment to sigh and roll over onto his side, blinking sleepily at Asch with dark eyes. "...Are you still up?" he whispered.

"Good guess," Asch answered dryly, rolling his eyes.

Luke frowned, and Asch almost kissed him, he was so cute. "Why are you so cranky?" Uncute.

"I just don't have the patience to deal with stupid questions from stupid replicas," Asch snapped back, but much to his surprise, Luke -instead of shouting in retaliation or sulking- only snorted, closing his eyes and snuggling against the ex-god general.

"Whatever."

The silence between them, while not awkward, was so heavy with unspoken challenges, confessions, words, fears and thoughts that Asch felt he would go mad with the anticipation. As reluctant as he was to break down and ask first, it was apparent that Luke was not at all interested in talking, so therefore it was up to the original to jump start a conversation that had all the potential of ending disasterously. "...Luke."

The redhead looked up at that; Asch used his name only when he wanted his attention. "Yeah?"

Shocking even himself, Asch lifted a gentle hand and brushed Luke's bangs from his forehead, delving into those eyes he despised so much (because of the hopelessness that mirrored his own, because of the quiet adoration he didn't deserve) and only staring, silent, stroking Luke's forehead.

The reverent moment was broken when Luke whispered, sadly, "I'm sorry."

Almost at once, anger and exasperation flared within Asch and he threw an arm out to fling the covers from himself, climbing out of bed. A hand closed around his wrist, insistant, and gave a gentle tug back to the bed. "Not because of the usual." That made him pause.

"Then why?"

"Because no matter what I do, I can't take away that horrible look in your eyes."

Asch sucked in a breath; hearing his own deepest regret, said aloud, in his own voice to boot, was almost enough to make it real. "...Luke..."

"And I know it's the same thing you see in mine, the same look that makes you avoid me whenever I try to look at you. And I want to tell you that...it's enough, knowing that you feel the same way, and understand what I mean when I say that I'm nervous." The fingers tightened, almost to the point of becoming painful, and Asch could feel Luke's tremors in his own arm.

"...That's now how it's supposed to work. You're going to stay."

"I don't think so." Luke shook his head, and Asch felt a surge of anger at his defeatist attitude.

"What's wrong with you?! Do you want to die?!"

Luke's voice was hushed, but still struck Asch like a slap to the face. "You seem pretty ready to."

It took a moment for Asch to collect his thoughts and form an excuse that didn't ring pitiful in his mind. "I've resigned myself, replica, and that's just how it is."

"You're giving up awfully easy. Doesn't Kimlasca matter to you? Don't Mother and Father, and Natalia?" Luke, knowing fully aware the tongue-lashing he could receive for treading on forbidden topic ground, ventured further. "Don't I?"

"Dreck," and Luke knew Asch was mad when he adopted that positively sub-zero tone, "you know very well my stance on all those things, and if you made me repeat myself, I will get dressed and leave right now."

It was a very real threat that Asch had no problem upholding as he'd actually done it twice before, but Luke pushed aside his trepidation; this was important. "I just don't get why you're allowed to be so willingly suicidal, but I say one word about it and you just blow up or shut down. It's annoying."

"Not as annoying as your constant nagging."

Luke sighed. "If you'd just come home-"

Asch wrenched his wrist from Luke's grip to throw his hands in the air. "And there's the topic of the conversation, rearing its ugly head! I'm not going home, dreck and that's final! You ask me about it again and I'm leaving for good!"

"I'm not asking, I'm telling you to go back home already!"

"That isn't my home!"

"Yes it is! Mother and Father miss you! Why won't you go back?!"

"Why the hell would I go back and let them watch their son die?!" Asch's breathing came in quick gasps, and he took the newfound silence resulting from Luke's shock to elaborate. "You think that would make them happy?! They have you and they're satisfied with it, so let's just leave it at that!" Quickly gathering his clothes, Asch began to dress himself before a pair of arms wound themselves tightly around his waist and tugged him back to sit on the bed. "Let me go, dreck!"

Luke pressed his face against Asch's back, muttering. "You aren't going to die."

"You don't know a damn thing."

"I'll fix you." Luke was shaking again, and lighting desperate, pleading kisses along Asch's spine. "I'll fix you. I promise. You'll be okay."

Asch sat, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed as Luke clung to him with his forehead to his back, offering his feeble reassurances. It was strange, that he for once he wasn't angry, or sad, or hurt or alone or so very tired and cold, because of the warm hands on his stomach and the lips against his back. And he thought that maybe if Luke would stay there, with him, then perhaps it wasn't so hopeless, perhaps he could be fixed.

Maybe he really was just broken after all.

seki_yumizu drew delicious, gorgeous FANART HOMG!!!!

eggcentric @ 2008-01-07T17:58:00

2008-01-07T23:01:43Z

Title: First Dibs
Genre: PWP, SEMI(tame)non-con
Pairing/Characters: PeonyxLuke
Rating: Undoubtedly NC-17
Summary: What he wants, he gets. Perks of being Emperor.

It probably wasn't the fact that he woke in a dark, unknown place that frightened him. More often than not, he was constantly forgetting where he was falling asleep; half of the time, he relied on Guy to remind him that they had arrived in Keterburg the night before and booked several rooms before turning in. Usually after a bit of a jog to the memory, Luke's sleep-addled brain would recall such occurances, and he would return to slumber, only to rise hours later after much hounding by his best friend.

Only...this time, Guy wasn't there. In fact, no one was there. And judging by the pain in his neck, he'd slept awkwardly, and not on a bed. The room was also much...bluer than he remembered.

And there was a rappig curled up beside him.

Luke gave a little shriek, scrambling away from the beast, who merely flicked an ear and rolled over into the vacated spot, dozing. A hand clutching at a stitch in his chest, Luke swept the room with a fearful gaze. It was familiar...he'd felt he'd been there before, but something seemed out of place. It was nighttime, judging by the lack of light streaming in from the stained glass windows, but there were a few fonon lamps that burned in glass bulbs hanging from the ceiling, casting long shadows across the floor. In the meager light, Luke could make out that the place was a mess.

How odd. If he didn't know any better, Luke could have sworn...

"Ah, you're awake. Nice to see you up and moving." The voice from the doorway confirmed his suspicions, and Luke gaped incredulously at the approaching figure.

"...Emperor Peony?"

The man fisted his hips, chuckling. "Good to see you haven't forgotten me."

Luke hesitated, attempting to find a way to phrase his words politely. "Um...why am I here?"

"I should be asking you that," Peony told him in mock offense, flopping very ungracefully onto a pile of throw pillows, propping his cheek up with his hand. "My guards found you floating in our harbor. It took a life bottle to get you up and running."

Luke's eyes widened; he'd been dead?! "I don't remember getting killed!" he exclaimed, hands shakily dragging through his hair. "Why was I in your harbor?!"

"I just told you that I didn't know." Peony did not sound annoyed, although to his credit, he did endure Jade on a fairly regular basis; even seeming to annoy him instead. "I'm just glad we found you in time."

"Y-yeah..." Luke nodded absently, leaning back on his hands in an attempt to calm down. "Thanks...thank you."

Peony waved a hand.

A thought occured to Luke and he sat up immediately, twisting his hands in worry. "Oh no! The others- they must think something's happened to me!"

"Well, I'd imagine so, considering it's been over a day since we found you." Peony did not sound concerned.

Luke gawked, face draining of color. "A...a day?! Oh no! I have to go find them!" He scrambled to his feet only to trip over a pile of books, sprawling face-down on the floor with a cry.

"Easy." The deep voice above him was gentle but strong, as were the hands that lifted him to his feet. "You can't even walk straight, what makes you think you can find them like this?"

"I can't walk because this place is dark and messy," Luke protested, grateful for the assistance, but eager to reassure everyone of his safety. However, the hands did not release their hold on his shoulders, instead forcibly guiding him to sit down on the abandoned throw pillows. "Hey-!"

"Sit down and calm down," Peony told him sternly, a flicker of irritation finally crossing his face as he folded his arms. "I sent out some letters. You aren't going to be making much better progress just running off on your own, so just take it easy and recover, all right? Jade will give me that haughty little look if he finds out that I let you scamper off just after recovering from death, and just the memory of it makes me ill." He shivered.

Luke chewed on his lip, scowling as he begrudgingly accepted Peony’s explanation, leaning back as he realized that perhaps he was a bit tired after all. So tired that he did not notice Peony above him until the older man had trapped him between his arms, forehead pressed to his.
“Whoa!” he shouted, shoving against Peony’s chest in an effort to throw him off.

“Stay still, I’m checking your temperature,” Peony grumbled.

“Then use your hand like a normal person!” Luke shrieked, kicking his legs. When had Peony become strong enough to hold him down; he was the sword-swinging fighter, for Lorelei’s sake! When Peony neither responded nor moved, Luke groped for a pillow to use as a weapon. “Get off of me!”

“If I get off of you, I can’t kiss you.”

“Wh-“ The word was unable to complete its journey from Luke’s mouth, for at that moment there was another covering his, and to his utter shock and horror, it didn't feel all that unpleasant.

Actually, it felt rather good. So good, in fact, that Luke didn't realize that his jacket was halfway off of his arms until Peony had put his tongue there instead. "Augh!" Hating that his voice cracked, Luke struggled wildly until finally Peony backed away from him, glaring suspiciously at him as if he were a rabid dog. "Wh-what the hell were you doing?!" Luke demanded, feeling quite violated, angrily yanking his jacket back up his bare shoulders.

"That outfit I made for you looks good," Peony commented breezily, running Luke over with an appraising eye.

"S-Stop changing the subject!" Luke could feel the vein lift itself up off of his forehead, pulsing as he jabbed an accusing finger in the emperor's direction. This was apparently also an invitation in a language unknown to him, for Peony laughed and descended upon him, pinning Luke down against the pillows once more. "Hey!! You-" Any further protests were silenced, for Peony's fingers had deftly slipped past his waistband and were now brushing over something that had shivers racing down his spine. "Wh-what are you doing," Luke murmured, his head leaning back against his will.

"Obviously, I'm doing something correctly," Peony purred, and with the other hand he grasped Luke's waistband and nudged it downward, the other playfully stroking him. Luke moaned lightly, fists twisting in the pillows as he wriggled and protested feebly.

"This is rape," he supplied, not sounding particularly victimized as he raised his hips to help Peony edge his pants down.

"And yet you don't sound too traumatized about it," Peony laughed. He turned for just a moment, still stroking Luke, before returning his attention to the redhead, a bottle of lotion now in his hands. Deftly, he flipped open the cap and squeezed a bit onto his fingers, working it around before dipping a hand beneath Luke's legs and easing a finger inside of him.

"Ack!" Luke yelped, and attempted to jerk away until Peony curled his fingers around him and pumped him slowly. "Oh man," he groaned, sinking back down onto the pillows, putting up no resistance even as the cold fingers pushed inside of him intrusively. "I didn't tell you that you could do this," he pointed out weakly.

"You're not exactly putting up a fight."

"I thought- nngh do that again-"

"You thought what?"

"I th-thought you...liked girls-" Luke's breath hitched when Peony brushed his fingers -he'd added two since- against something that shocked him, and his eyes flew open and wide.

"You're pretty like a girl." Peony withdrew his fingers, still petting Luke, and applied lotion to himself before gripping the replica's hips and settling against him, slowly pushing in.

"I'm not pretty!" The discomfort -despite Peony still pumping him- and the comment combined to renew Luke's fighting spirit and he struggled a bit. "And stop-! What the hell-?!"

Peony grunted as he buried himself within Luke, laughing breathlessly down at the not-quite teenager. "Of course you're pretty. And so is Asch, for that matter."

Whether it was his embarassment or anger that was flushing his face, Luke didn't know, and punched at Peony's shoulder, trying to ignore the fact that the emperor of Malkuth was actually inside of him. "Stop that! At least call me -us!- handsome, or sexy or hot! Something manly!"

"But you aren't handsome, you're pretty," teased Peony, and slowly began to establish a thrusting pace that had Luke moaning and mewling beneath him, arms slinking up to clutch at his hair and neck. "Especially now."

"Sh-shut up..." Luke panted and tugged Peony down, clinging tightly to him as his speed increased. "P-promise me something." Oh, how he hated that voice of his, that needy voice; sounded like he was begging.

"Sure." Peony chuckled, sounding a bit strained as he moved. "I figure I owe you."

'Damn straight,' Luke thought, but voiced, "Don't tell Guy about this."

"...I wouldn't dream of it."

Words became unnecessary as the two began to follow the urges of thrust and grind; the air grew hot and damp, and Luke squirmed when Peony hit that perfect spot inside of him, the one that sucked out his breath and sent the good kind of stars to flash before his eyes. Somewhere in that wave, Luke registered Peony shuddering and emptying inside of him and he groaned, tightening his legs around the monarch's waist and gasping for air. Far gentler than Luke had thought he would, Peony stroked his hair back from his sticky, sweaty forhead, and removed himself from inside of him.

"I'll have a bath prepared for you," Peony reassured him quietly as he cleaned himself up and tossed Luke a towel for the same purpose. "Jade and your friends probably won't be arriving for at least a day, if they've even recieved my letter yet."

"...Why?"

Apparently Peony required no clarification and he pondered his answer, head tilting back before smugly answering, "I suppose I just wanted you first."

Luke gaped at him.

"Well, I have many things to do. Go ahead and rest; let the maids know if you need anything." The door was already closed behind him, but Peony still heard the shriek of rage- "BASTARD!"- and the pillow colliding with the door.

eggcentric @ 2008-01-07T17:57:00

2008-01-07T22:58:18Z

Title: Absent-Minded
Fandom: Disgaea 2
Pairing/Characters: AxelxAdell
Genre: General, Romance, Musey-ish
Rating: PG-13 (for suggestiveness later >_>')
Summary: Adell, stop thinking and just SCREW him already. >:\

A date.

Dear God, what had he gotten himself into?

When Axel had begun hanging around him more often, he wasn't particularly annoyed; the blonde was actually a good conversationalist, if you could muscle your way past the ego (something Adell had developed a knack for). The redhead suspected that somewhere deep, deep beneath all that stupidity was at least an inkling of wisdom. One did not live over two thousand years amongst other demons without either being extremely powerful or at least pretty cunning, and while Axel was strong, it was clear that he wasn't a behemoth.

Well. He could just be ridiculously lucky.

When Axel began spending more time around his house, Adell hadn't minded. It was nice to have someone to spar with, and Axel was surprisingly polite around his parents, so even despite the kidnapping fiasco, they'd taken to him pretty well. After everyone was human again and Axel was a demon, though, it did cause a bit of a stir; distrust of their darker counterparts was running a bit high, but not only was Adell there to protect them, Axel was also friendly enough, and was seen often playing (or getting beaten up by) Hanako and Taro in the front yard of their house. It wasn't long before everyone accepted him as a member of the village.

Well...as much as possible. Axel was a major celebrity again, and was sometimes followed by hordes of demonic fangirls, something the villagers did not appreciate.

When Axel invited Adell to his home to meet his mother and siblings, Adell hadn't thought much of it. Axel had met his family, it was only fair. He had to admit, he wasn't expecting a sickly mother bedridden in their comfortable, secluded house, or the cheerful but well-mannered children he was met with. He'd been expecting a house full of divas, spoiled rotten to the core, but understood why this wasn't so when Axel's mother pulled him aside and informed him that while her eldest son could be exasperating, he was really a very sweet boy, and had pulled the family out of poverty when the father had deserted them by performing on the streets. He'd been discovered by a passing talent agent, and jump started a fabulous career that was dazzling, but short-lived. He'd let the fame get to his head, she'd told him, but this time around he seemed to be more humble about things.

Adell had a joke about how he could be considered humble when she'd stopped him short with the cheerful observation that she suspected that he had something to do with it.

Now that was an odd thing to say.

So looking back, perhaps Adell should have paid more attention to the visits, the talks, the meetings; maybe he would have seen it coming.

Not that it would have made a difference. When Axel wanted to kiss someone, Adell quickly discovered that nothing was going to stop him from doing it. And it was...well, it was exciting, but also a bit terrifying. He'd never been around anyone as intense as Axel before, and when he adopted that impassioned look in his eyes, Adell was torn between being turned on, and being anxious.

Even after what he'd learned, Axel was an enigma. He was a rock star, and Adell hadn't even heard him sing. And what had he done for two thousand years? Did he see eras come about, or did time pass differently in the Netherworld?

Perhaps it wasn't his lack of knowledge exactly that turned him away from Axel at the beginning, but more like served as an excuse for himself when he knew the real reason he avoided the blonde was out of fear.

He hated acknowledging fear. That's was why he forever said, 'I don't like girls,' or 'I don't like demons,' when he essentially meant he was afraid of them. Not that he was any longer...Axel, ironically enough, had cured him of that when he'd brought that Succubus into the fight. While it was obvious that his reasons for involving her weren't exactly supportive, Adell was grateful all the same.

Although the reason he feared Axel wasn't because he was a demon. The very idea of being intimitated by the clown was beyond laughable. Axel was as threatening as a day-old kitten, and Adell knew it.

No, it wasn't his physical abilities that frightened Adell (although calling down lightning was rather impressive in its own right). It was his intensity. It was his mystery. It was his passion.

It was Axel, himself, that scared Adell.

But...at the same time, he was so excited that occasionally he could hardly sit still. Today, when Axel arrived at his front door with a proposal to go out somewhere together, his stomach had twisted and his heart had fluttered and it had taken everything for him to not dash off in the opposite direction. Which was a curious reaction, considering that when Axel took his hand and led him from the house, he could think of hardly anything else but getting the blonde alone and ravaging him for a few moments.

Adell was beginning to think that there might be something terribly wrong with him.

-----------

"Hell for your thoughts," Axel mumbled out past a mouthful of chewed pastry, the remainder of their snack in his hand.

"Uh, nothing really." Adell sipped at his soda, pointedly avoiding Axel's gaze. "Just...absent minded today, I guess."

"Yeah, I'm like that sometimes too," Axel agreed, either not noticing the change in Adell's voice, or choosing to ignore it. "You know what I do when I can't think straight?"

"Keep doing it?" It was weak attempt at a joke and they both knew it, but Axel grinned anyways.

"Nah. I write."

Adell blinked, plucking the straw from his mouth. "You...write? What, like in a diary or something?"

"What? No." Axel shoved the last bit of pastry into his mouth, chewing, a fang catching on his lip. "Music. I write music."

Adell sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I can't write music, Axel. That's not gonna help me."

"Well, you like to fight, don't you?" Axel took the oppertunity to steal Adell's soda when his eyes were closed -as if he wouldn't have felt it leave his hand anyways- and took a long swig. "Why don't we fight later?" he offered, wiping his mouth on his sleeve as Adell snatched the cup back with a glare.

"No, I don't think that'll help." After a moment, Adell sent him a wary smile. "But thanks."

Axel shrugged, tucking his arms behind his head with a noncommital hum of acknowledgement. There was a moment of comfortable silence before he suggested, off-handedly, "We could have sex."

Adell coughed, spraying his drink across the pavement and disgusting several passers-by. Angrily, he rubbed his mouth with his wrist and restrained from hurling his cup at Axel, face hot. "Are you insane?!"

"No. Just horny." Axel grinned at Adell, stepping a bit closer to drag nails over his scarred cheek. "Don't tell me you haven't thought about it."

Adell shoved Axel away, putting a hand to his face with a scowl and averting his eyes (as to not give away the fact that he'd thought about it plenty). "Axel, stop. Not in public."

"What, so I have to corner you in some empty room to kiss you?" Axel wrinkled his nose and glared. "Is it the cameras?"

"No-"

"Because I don't care if all the newspapers show me kissing you."

"No, that's not it, but I don't want my face all over the papers either." Adell put a hand to Axel's shoulder and pushed him back. "Just...please? Humor me?"

Axel hesitated before blowing out a breath, shoving his hands into his pockets and continuing down the sidewalk again. "You're lucky. You're the only one I let do this."

"I know." Adell suppressed a laugh; it was amazing how Axel could manage to be so selfless and so spoiled at the same time. "I'll make it up to you later."

"Later, huh?" Axel didn't turn to look at him. "Are we gonna be naked?"

Adell opened his mouth to shout, cheeks burning, but reconsidered, replying slyly, "I'll compromise."

Axel stopped dead in his tracks, spinning on his heel to favor Adell with a mixture of a deer-in-headlights look and bedroom-eyes. "Oh?"

"You can take off one article of clothing. Just one." Adell, wondering what he was doing, slinked closer and hooked a finger around the gold chain hanging from Axel's neck to give it a little tug. "And then I'll kiss whatever I can see."

"You promise?"

Suspicious, Adell tilted his head before answering, "...yeah, I promise. Why?"

Axel grinned, tiny fangs flashing white and sharp, and Adell rethought his reasons for being afraid of him. "I go commando."