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... dude, yes, I'm still working on these! :D;;;;;; I sincerely and terribly apologize for the delay, since I sort of got sucked into the daily grind of tests and exams and such--but they're over for now! I've got time to work again! So, uh, lookit, go me! XD
So, anyway--today is a bunch of older (and in one particular case, REALLY REALLY OMGWTF WHY AM I STILL TRYING THIS old XD) fandoms, but hopefully I still know what I'm doing. [grins] Am working on the others, and will hopefully have those done by the end of the week. ♥♥♥
Hope folks enjoy!
***********************************
The Ordinary [requested by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
daringu; Vimes and Sybil, spoilers for Night Watch]
*****
Theirs is not an ideal marriage, she knows. He is not good husband material, nor is she the best of wives--she realized this after keeping company with him for several months. After marrying him, she is reminded of this every time he comes home late, or with new injuries, or both.
Regardless, there was a comfort and fit to him in her life that pleased her immensely.
Tonight he comes home tired, with a pronounced limp to his walk. She puts young Sam in his arms and draws him in with a kiss to his cheek. When he sits, it's with a groan and an audible creak in his knees; there is street grime on his shoes and lines of black dirt under his nails; there has never been a man more out of place in her house, or more at welcome.
She asks what he wants to eat, and he makes some mumbled noises that sound vaguely like *toast* and *soldiers*. On his lap, young Sam coos, as though in agreement.
When she brings it out, with the toast burned and the yolk runny (as he likes it), he's fallen asleep. Young Sam blinks at her with his eyes--their milky blue color has faded into a steely gray, and it pleases to see his eyes and her nose in the same face.
"Let's leave your old dad alone, my love," she says to him, and he only regards her solemnly. She picks him up, and his father makes a grinding noise in his throat before settling deeper in his chair. She lays a hand atop his head, on the grizzled and coarse hair, counting heartbeats. Young Sam shoves a finger in his own mouth and gums it.
Under her hand, her husband moves his head, and in his sleep says her name. It doesn't surprise her, nor is the way he shifts and keeps on snoring faintly, as though she wasn't there at all. Her Sam may not be clever as Havelock, but he knows who's there to his right when he sleeps.
In her arms, young Sam gurgles something that may, in years to come, be a question. She smiles at him and bounces him once, twice, on her arm, and carries him off to bed. Later, she comes back with a blanket, and this she puts around her husband's shoulders, tucking the corners in so that they will not fall if he moves, but will not constrict him otherwise.
"Good night," she says, and does not call him *darling* or *love* or anything like that. Sleep is a time for being honest, and those words are too fancy and elaborate for what is calm and settled, warm in her breast. He does not stir, and that in itself is trust.
Briefly, she ducks to kiss his temple, then leaves him to rest.
--end--
-----
Waiting For [requested bytheresesaga; Rail/Kane, series spoilers]
*****
He knows where the planet is, small and unremarkable in its little corner of the galaxy. He knows where the house is, too, where one should land the ship so that it's only a short walk until it comes into view. It's not too far away, and he has vacation time saved up; the universe has been saved, and now he has all the time in the world. All he has to do is arrange for transportation, and he can be there within three days.
Rail thinks this, sometimes, at his desk and putting off paperwork. He's a lauded hero now, with his old job and full honors--though he suspects that's more of Nina's work and influence than anything he really did to deserve it. The crew of Swordbreaker has been pardoned, but the only person who's ever answered his calls is a blue-eyed woman who doesn't quite see him, even when she meets his gaze.
Millennium Ferria Nocturne is waiting, and cannot afford to be distracted from her post. Rail has not spoken to her in weeks.
If he went to that planet, found the elegant old white house nestled in a serene lush valley, he does not know what he expects to find. Millie, of course, in red and white (and does she realize, he wonders, how she echoes Canal's dress in her new clothes?)--but would there be anyone else? Does the house echo with her footsteps and her lone voice, singing as she works? Is there--
But even if Kane was there, Rail does not think the meeting will go well. Kane would not yell, not at the risk of annoying Canal and Millie--but he would be cold, and not recognize the touch of Rail's hand.
*I am not looking for your forgiveness, Kane, just your safety,* he thinks, and signs his name automatically. This is the last document of the night, and he is tired. Nina is lurking somewhere outside, waiting to say good-night, and for a moment, he considers inviting her along. She is a sweet girl who has done a lot for him, and he is genuinely fond of her.
But that is not fair of him, not when he is waiting to hear from someone else, and know that Kane is safely home, rather than out wandering the universe, searching for a method to restore a computer's memory.
A Lost Ship is not merely a computer, and though he has always known Canal was special, he has proof of that now. Kane has never needed that proof, though, and so he has gone to look for the true pieces of her--if, indeed, he survived that final explosion. Rail believes he has, if only because the alternative is too strange to contemplate.
Heroes are not supposed to die; this is the one golden rule that Rail still keeps from his childhood, when he believed all the stories his mother read for him. Good people may be hurt and abused, bad people may get away with horrible deeds--but true heroes, blessed by the hands of the gods, do not die. Especially not at the last minute, on the cusp of triumph, as the darkness is buried in light.
And old lovers are meant to stay in the past, he thinks dryly, then gets to his feet. There is no point in remembering memories they have both put aside long ago, even if a small part of him considers again the idea of getting a ship, and going to wait until he sees that white ship in the blue sky.
In his chest, his heart thuds loudly. Sharpness rises in his throat--he wants to take the ship and go now, to be there and watch as Kane descends the walkway, and put his hand on warm skin to see if Kane will smile for him, like long ago.
Then he puts that thought aside and goes outside. When Nina says good night to him, he smiles at her, and tells himself that tomorrow, he will ask her to dinner.
--end--
-----
For an Eye [requested bythe_tower; Heimdall/Loki and bitterness]
*****
It was hate at first sight.
That's what Heimdall tells himself, with the heel of his hand pressed over his missing eye, as though the pressure can massage away the constant, lingering headache. Hate at first sight, which is an emotion as powerful and malleable as love--you don't have to *like* someone to be drawn to the easy arrogance of their smile, or the careless grace of their movements.
Hate, certainly, because Loki is an evil god and takes great pleasure in that; if he loves any, it would be his monstrous children, or the giantess he took as his mistress. If he loves, it is not for poor Sigyn, who weeps for the abandonment of her husband.
It is hate, because then Heimdall understands.
Then he knows why Loki allowed him to catch him after months of coy glances and mysterious smiles; knows why, in cool white-shaded darkness, he was allowed a single kiss, which began sweetly and left an aftertaste of poison.
This way, he knows why Loki remained pliant in his arms, despite his reputation as a demanding lover. And most importantly of all, he knows why, when he was distracted, Loki smiled and tore his eye out, why there was sudden pain and pressure that left him screaming as he fell back, and felt blood pulse hotly against his fingers--
Memory makes the pain rise again, stabbing-hot, and Heimdall closes his one remaining eye until it subsides. All the while, he keeps pressing down upon the empty socket, hidden under the fall of his hair.
It was hate at first sight, and it was only the strength of that feeling that confused Heimdall, and made him think it was desire. To comfort himself, he imagines a second kiss, where the blood on his hands will be Loki's, and the trickster-god will not be smiling at him then; those cool eyes will be darkened, *seeing* him, and the blood will be so very striking, on his elegant red coat.
Not even Thor, not even the Norns, will be able to argue with him on this. This is fairness, equality stripped to its basest level. An eye for an eye, as the quaint saying goes--once he has that, he thinks, the pain will finally stop.
Heimdall licks his lips and smiles.
--end--
-----
dragon/dreams [requested byrondaview; Hiei and Kurama--not quite fluff, but contemplation]
*****
He does not dream often or regularly; in sleep, his world is drawn in shades of violet and black, always a tangle of images that he cannot fully separate out. Sometimes he sees his sister's face, sometimes his mother's; sometimes he remembers the soft hands of the woman who dropped him.
(This is not right. He tries to move, and there is a hand on his forehead, keeping the Jagan shut. When he pushes back, a voice tells him to hush, and he is too tired to do more than snarl and acquiesce.)
These days, however, his dreams are couched in fires, which pulse and burn in the dark coils of a black dragon. The first time, it swung its burning white eyes to him and opened its jaws to swallow him whole. Now, it simply acknowledges him with a nod of its sleek head and passes him over. Around the length of his arm, the tattoo writhes in languid rolls.
He closes his fist and opens his eyes.
This is not the Makai, he knows; the bed is too flat and ordinary. Beside him, sitting cross-legged and with an open textbook, is the fox.
"Good morning," the fox said. "I hope you're not going to make a habit of this. Three times in a month--someone's bound to notice."
He sits up and pauses briefly when pain shoots down his arm, which is heavily bandaged. Even his fingers are wrapped, so that it looks like he's wearing some strange white glove.
"You're healing fast," the fox says, "but it'll still be a week or two before you can properly use it again. I know border patrol must be boring, but there are better ways of training yourself. The Kokuryuuha is still draining a great deal of energy from you."
"Shut up," he says, and gets to his feet. The fox turns to watch him as he crosses from the window.
"If the exhaustion doesn't kill you," says the fox, "Mukuro just might. If you need a sparring partner, I'm sure Yuusuke would be happy to oblige."
He swings on his cloak and opens the window.
"Next time," the fox adds, and there is a deeper edge to his voice, a smoothness that would match well with golden eyes, "please pay me for my services."
"... I have not burned this place down," he says, standing with his face to the breeze. "Are you satisfied?"
Before the fox can answer him, or laugh, he's gone.
--end--
So, anyway--today is a bunch of older (and in one particular case, REALLY REALLY OMGWTF WHY AM I STILL TRYING THIS old XD) fandoms, but hopefully I still know what I'm doing. [grins] Am working on the others, and will hopefully have those done by the end of the week. ♥♥♥
Hope folks enjoy!
***********************************
The Ordinary [requested by
daringu; Vimes and Sybil, spoilers for Night Watch]*****
Theirs is not an ideal marriage, she knows. He is not good husband material, nor is she the best of wives--she realized this after keeping company with him for several months. After marrying him, she is reminded of this every time he comes home late, or with new injuries, or both.
Regardless, there was a comfort and fit to him in her life that pleased her immensely.
Tonight he comes home tired, with a pronounced limp to his walk. She puts young Sam in his arms and draws him in with a kiss to his cheek. When he sits, it's with a groan and an audible creak in his knees; there is street grime on his shoes and lines of black dirt under his nails; there has never been a man more out of place in her house, or more at welcome.
She asks what he wants to eat, and he makes some mumbled noises that sound vaguely like *toast* and *soldiers*. On his lap, young Sam coos, as though in agreement.
When she brings it out, with the toast burned and the yolk runny (as he likes it), he's fallen asleep. Young Sam blinks at her with his eyes--their milky blue color has faded into a steely gray, and it pleases to see his eyes and her nose in the same face.
"Let's leave your old dad alone, my love," she says to him, and he only regards her solemnly. She picks him up, and his father makes a grinding noise in his throat before settling deeper in his chair. She lays a hand atop his head, on the grizzled and coarse hair, counting heartbeats. Young Sam shoves a finger in his own mouth and gums it.
Under her hand, her husband moves his head, and in his sleep says her name. It doesn't surprise her, nor is the way he shifts and keeps on snoring faintly, as though she wasn't there at all. Her Sam may not be clever as Havelock, but he knows who's there to his right when he sleeps.
In her arms, young Sam gurgles something that may, in years to come, be a question. She smiles at him and bounces him once, twice, on her arm, and carries him off to bed. Later, she comes back with a blanket, and this she puts around her husband's shoulders, tucking the corners in so that they will not fall if he moves, but will not constrict him otherwise.
"Good night," she says, and does not call him *darling* or *love* or anything like that. Sleep is a time for being honest, and those words are too fancy and elaborate for what is calm and settled, warm in her breast. He does not stir, and that in itself is trust.
Briefly, she ducks to kiss his temple, then leaves him to rest.
--end--
-----
Waiting For [requested by
theresesaga; Rail/Kane, series spoilers]*****
He knows where the planet is, small and unremarkable in its little corner of the galaxy. He knows where the house is, too, where one should land the ship so that it's only a short walk until it comes into view. It's not too far away, and he has vacation time saved up; the universe has been saved, and now he has all the time in the world. All he has to do is arrange for transportation, and he can be there within three days.
Rail thinks this, sometimes, at his desk and putting off paperwork. He's a lauded hero now, with his old job and full honors--though he suspects that's more of Nina's work and influence than anything he really did to deserve it. The crew of Swordbreaker has been pardoned, but the only person who's ever answered his calls is a blue-eyed woman who doesn't quite see him, even when she meets his gaze.
Millennium Ferria Nocturne is waiting, and cannot afford to be distracted from her post. Rail has not spoken to her in weeks.
If he went to that planet, found the elegant old white house nestled in a serene lush valley, he does not know what he expects to find. Millie, of course, in red and white (and does she realize, he wonders, how she echoes Canal's dress in her new clothes?)--but would there be anyone else? Does the house echo with her footsteps and her lone voice, singing as she works? Is there--
But even if Kane was there, Rail does not think the meeting will go well. Kane would not yell, not at the risk of annoying Canal and Millie--but he would be cold, and not recognize the touch of Rail's hand.
*I am not looking for your forgiveness, Kane, just your safety,* he thinks, and signs his name automatically. This is the last document of the night, and he is tired. Nina is lurking somewhere outside, waiting to say good-night, and for a moment, he considers inviting her along. She is a sweet girl who has done a lot for him, and he is genuinely fond of her.
But that is not fair of him, not when he is waiting to hear from someone else, and know that Kane is safely home, rather than out wandering the universe, searching for a method to restore a computer's memory.
A Lost Ship is not merely a computer, and though he has always known Canal was special, he has proof of that now. Kane has never needed that proof, though, and so he has gone to look for the true pieces of her--if, indeed, he survived that final explosion. Rail believes he has, if only because the alternative is too strange to contemplate.
Heroes are not supposed to die; this is the one golden rule that Rail still keeps from his childhood, when he believed all the stories his mother read for him. Good people may be hurt and abused, bad people may get away with horrible deeds--but true heroes, blessed by the hands of the gods, do not die. Especially not at the last minute, on the cusp of triumph, as the darkness is buried in light.
And old lovers are meant to stay in the past, he thinks dryly, then gets to his feet. There is no point in remembering memories they have both put aside long ago, even if a small part of him considers again the idea of getting a ship, and going to wait until he sees that white ship in the blue sky.
In his chest, his heart thuds loudly. Sharpness rises in his throat--he wants to take the ship and go now, to be there and watch as Kane descends the walkway, and put his hand on warm skin to see if Kane will smile for him, like long ago.
Then he puts that thought aside and goes outside. When Nina says good night to him, he smiles at her, and tells himself that tomorrow, he will ask her to dinner.
--end--
-----
For an Eye [requested by
the_tower; Heimdall/Loki and bitterness]*****
It was hate at first sight.
That's what Heimdall tells himself, with the heel of his hand pressed over his missing eye, as though the pressure can massage away the constant, lingering headache. Hate at first sight, which is an emotion as powerful and malleable as love--you don't have to *like* someone to be drawn to the easy arrogance of their smile, or the careless grace of their movements.
Hate, certainly, because Loki is an evil god and takes great pleasure in that; if he loves any, it would be his monstrous children, or the giantess he took as his mistress. If he loves, it is not for poor Sigyn, who weeps for the abandonment of her husband.
It is hate, because then Heimdall understands.
Then he knows why Loki allowed him to catch him after months of coy glances and mysterious smiles; knows why, in cool white-shaded darkness, he was allowed a single kiss, which began sweetly and left an aftertaste of poison.
This way, he knows why Loki remained pliant in his arms, despite his reputation as a demanding lover. And most importantly of all, he knows why, when he was distracted, Loki smiled and tore his eye out, why there was sudden pain and pressure that left him screaming as he fell back, and felt blood pulse hotly against his fingers--
Memory makes the pain rise again, stabbing-hot, and Heimdall closes his one remaining eye until it subsides. All the while, he keeps pressing down upon the empty socket, hidden under the fall of his hair.
It was hate at first sight, and it was only the strength of that feeling that confused Heimdall, and made him think it was desire. To comfort himself, he imagines a second kiss, where the blood on his hands will be Loki's, and the trickster-god will not be smiling at him then; those cool eyes will be darkened, *seeing* him, and the blood will be so very striking, on his elegant red coat.
Not even Thor, not even the Norns, will be able to argue with him on this. This is fairness, equality stripped to its basest level. An eye for an eye, as the quaint saying goes--once he has that, he thinks, the pain will finally stop.
Heimdall licks his lips and smiles.
--end--
-----
dragon/dreams [requested by
rondaview; Hiei and Kurama--not quite fluff, but contemplation]*****
He does not dream often or regularly; in sleep, his world is drawn in shades of violet and black, always a tangle of images that he cannot fully separate out. Sometimes he sees his sister's face, sometimes his mother's; sometimes he remembers the soft hands of the woman who dropped him.
(This is not right. He tries to move, and there is a hand on his forehead, keeping the Jagan shut. When he pushes back, a voice tells him to hush, and he is too tired to do more than snarl and acquiesce.)
These days, however, his dreams are couched in fires, which pulse and burn in the dark coils of a black dragon. The first time, it swung its burning white eyes to him and opened its jaws to swallow him whole. Now, it simply acknowledges him with a nod of its sleek head and passes him over. Around the length of his arm, the tattoo writhes in languid rolls.
He closes his fist and opens his eyes.
This is not the Makai, he knows; the bed is too flat and ordinary. Beside him, sitting cross-legged and with an open textbook, is the fox.
"Good morning," the fox said. "I hope you're not going to make a habit of this. Three times in a month--someone's bound to notice."
He sits up and pauses briefly when pain shoots down his arm, which is heavily bandaged. Even his fingers are wrapped, so that it looks like he's wearing some strange white glove.
"You're healing fast," the fox says, "but it'll still be a week or two before you can properly use it again. I know border patrol must be boring, but there are better ways of training yourself. The Kokuryuuha is still draining a great deal of energy from you."
"Shut up," he says, and gets to his feet. The fox turns to watch him as he crosses from the window.
"If the exhaustion doesn't kill you," says the fox, "Mukuro just might. If you need a sparring partner, I'm sure Yuusuke would be happy to oblige."
He swings on his cloak and opens the window.
"Next time," the fox adds, and there is a deeper edge to his voice, a smoothness that would match well with golden eyes, "please pay me for my services."
"... I have not burned this place down," he says, standing with his face to the breeze. "Are you satisfied?"
Before the fox can answer him, or laugh, he's gone.
--end--
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
From:
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"... I have not burned this place down," he says, standing with his face to the breeze. "Are you satisfied?"
AHAHAHA that's perfect. Thank you and I love you and will you marry me and have my children etc? XDDDDDDD <333333333333333 *spams you with more hearts*
From:
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2: WHOA. ...I need to see Lost Universe now. o.o Damn you for your amazing ability to hook me on new series with your fics-! [...hugs] Translation: SO nicely done. Subtle. Tired. I love it. o.o
3: NICE. It does make SENSE for how Loki might get close enough to take Heimdall's eye, and the *rage* that underlies everythign Heimdall does. Despite the sexuality, the Heimdall you wrote here is totally recognizable as the Heimdall from the show and... wow. [eats your brain for your talent]
4: Wow, there's a return to the past. XD And a fantastic return, I note. It's NOT intimate, because that's not the type of people they are, and it captures their own... personal focusses well, if that makes sense. Hiei's need to train and become stronger and all relating back to the things he remembers but can't/won't do anything about, Kurama's williness to help but still being polite and even distant... it all fits with what *I* remember of the series and... wow. Good job, seriously.
[...eats more of your brains, lovingly.]
From:
<3 <3 <3
(and I will find some time to list the faulty links on your fics page, I will! I haven't forgotten!)
From:
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From:
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The second - aww! For the first time, I am thinking of Rail/Kane as even an acceptable couple. I miss LU, I should watch/read it again.
The fourth - so Hiei in the reaction. ^_^ I don't know too much about Mukuro so I'm a little lost plot-wise (and that's my own fault)..but, so Hiei!
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