[Fic] WIP dump
This morning while taking a shower, I noticed that the showerhead was embossed with the words "MIRACLE ORIFICE," no joke! Sans-serif, caps and all. Uh, yeah, I got nothing.
I'm heading into exam season so who knows when these will be done; posting them now, hopefully, will be a guilty reminder to myself later.
Dino, learning to kill
It's not difficult to snap a neck, cleanly, with the right kind of leverage, a convenient span of height, the element of surprise. The ultimate tensile strength of an average human limb is barely 130 mPa; individual vertebrae, slotted together and loosely associated, can hardly compare.
Dino is fifteen when Reborn begins to tutor him. At seventeen he has grown by 20cm, mastered the art of civil negotiation, settled into his role as boss. He inherits a loyal family and a brown leather chair, age-worn and cracked along the sides, enormous against the papery span of Dino's shoulders. This is your kingdom, says Romario. Be a rock, says Bono.
Shamal, for cedef
25. Roots
Italy is a beautiful woman, Shamal's father used to say. She's the arms of Europe arced out low, warm hands cupped to welcome you from the sea. He sat on a grass mat beside Shamal, knees shoulder-width apart as he peeled an orange - Valencia, from the slopes of Sicily.
Listen, son, he'd said, gesturing broadly with a wedge of orange. The pith was brittle and dry, cracking away from slick flesh as Shamal watched, four years old and perfectly entranced. Listen to me. Any woman can be beautiful; do right by her and she will give you the world.
26. Gravity
Shamal is seven when an earthquake hits Palermo, sweeping across town and under his spine in his sleep.
He is dreaming of the sea crossing to Sicily, deck against his back and salt air stinging his throat as the boat tosses, bucks, rolls under him like a - like a - (like a woman, he will think when he is older). Shamal opens his eyes to a shower of dust from the ceiling of his uncle's spare room, rattling cabinets and windowframes, thinks: we've been swept off the coast; we're caught in a storm out at sea.
In the other room his aunt wails, Earthquake, and Shamal hurtles off his cot in a blur. The ceiling buckles with a crack, rafters and crossbeams groaning and aching to meet the ground. He grabs his cousin by the scruff and leaps the stairs barefoot, and, remembering stories of quakes followed by colossal waves from the sea, runs uphill until the ground's tremor matches his rolling gait and the dry burn of breath in his chest.
When he turns around, the tenements on the bluffs are crumbling into the water one after another to the tune of his crying cousin. So Shamal shushes and soothes, hope from a mouthful of ash, a mantra: don't worry, I see them now, it won't be long, God bless.
Later when the dust settles and survivors bury their lives with their dead, the handful of surviving nonnas will claim crows fouling the drinking water, cracked plumbing and the neighborhood cats on edge: a month's spate of suspiciously bad luck, and the dense, hot weight of inevitability.
16. Gesture
At 11 PM on a Monday, Iemitsu shows up on his doorstep in scuffed shoes and singed hair, left arm in a sling and Reborn perched on his shoulder. A gash across his ribs clots sluggishly, scabs pulling open on the inhale to drip blood on Shamal's doormat.
"I don't treat men," Shamal warns him before offering a cigarette and lighter.
It's been ten years since they last met; Sawada has always had a penchant for selective amnesia.
Iemitsu laughs, shaking his head. "Tea for an old war buddy?"
Kyoko, TYL snippet The funny thing is, Kyoko talks to Tsuna all the time now, every day in the morning and evening and a dozen times in between under brushed-chrome archways or over pancakes and tea. She knows he's nervous and shy and incredibly, unbelievably important in this time, how he takes his tea and fiddles with flatware and utensils between bites, and how worry laces every word he's said to Gokudera or Yamamoto for four straight days, and yet when the dishes are cleared, dishrag drying by the sink, she walks away not knowing - anything.
It's the sharp edge of determination that cuts her loose; she's floating lost in a smile even while they are face to face: Don't worry, don't worry. I'll keep you safe.
Kyoko has always been a social girl: small warm hand on your shoulder with her hair tucked back from a smile; she can tap a lifeline on your palm and read the heart it leads to by osmosis, breathe in your fear and tie it close to herself until it clears. And, maybe more than anyone else but aniki at this moment, it's Tsuna with whom Kyoko wants to bridge the distance of words, butterfly her fingertips and know what's knitting up that small, small brow today.
No-good Tsuna, the more you get to know him, the more you realize how really, actually good he is, more courage and drive than any self-aware person should have. There's a tension thrumming in his every step now, and sometimes Kyoko catches his shadow in the hallway, long and lanky with a wild head of hair - startles for a moment taking him for someone else entirely until she rounds the corner behind him. It's the future, she realizes, draped over his shoulders and trailing down, bubbling and welling in his footsteps.
Still percolating:
- swim team!Akame for absenceofmind
- SSBB short and sweet challenge
- erectile dysfunction!Heechul for ME.
I'm heading into exam season so who knows when these will be done; posting them now, hopefully, will be a guilty reminder to myself later.
Dino, learning to kill
It's not difficult to snap a neck, cleanly, with the right kind of leverage, a convenient span of height, the element of surprise. The ultimate tensile strength of an average human limb is barely 130 mPa; individual vertebrae, slotted together and loosely associated, can hardly compare.
Dino is fifteen when Reborn begins to tutor him. At seventeen he has grown by 20cm, mastered the art of civil negotiation, settled into his role as boss. He inherits a loyal family and a brown leather chair, age-worn and cracked along the sides, enormous against the papery span of Dino's shoulders. This is your kingdom, says Romario. Be a rock, says Bono.
Shamal, for cedef
25. Roots
Italy is a beautiful woman, Shamal's father used to say. She's the arms of Europe arced out low, warm hands cupped to welcome you from the sea. He sat on a grass mat beside Shamal, knees shoulder-width apart as he peeled an orange - Valencia, from the slopes of Sicily.
Listen, son, he'd said, gesturing broadly with a wedge of orange. The pith was brittle and dry, cracking away from slick flesh as Shamal watched, four years old and perfectly entranced. Listen to me. Any woman can be beautiful; do right by her and she will give you the world.
26. Gravity
Shamal is seven when an earthquake hits Palermo, sweeping across town and under his spine in his sleep.
He is dreaming of the sea crossing to Sicily, deck against his back and salt air stinging his throat as the boat tosses, bucks, rolls under him like a - like a - (like a woman, he will think when he is older). Shamal opens his eyes to a shower of dust from the ceiling of his uncle's spare room, rattling cabinets and windowframes, thinks: we've been swept off the coast; we're caught in a storm out at sea.
In the other room his aunt wails, Earthquake, and Shamal hurtles off his cot in a blur. The ceiling buckles with a crack, rafters and crossbeams groaning and aching to meet the ground. He grabs his cousin by the scruff and leaps the stairs barefoot, and, remembering stories of quakes followed by colossal waves from the sea, runs uphill until the ground's tremor matches his rolling gait and the dry burn of breath in his chest.
When he turns around, the tenements on the bluffs are crumbling into the water one after another to the tune of his crying cousin. So Shamal shushes and soothes, hope from a mouthful of ash, a mantra: don't worry, I see them now, it won't be long, God bless.
Later when the dust settles and survivors bury their lives with their dead, the handful of surviving nonnas will claim crows fouling the drinking water, cracked plumbing and the neighborhood cats on edge: a month's spate of suspiciously bad luck, and the dense, hot weight of inevitability.
16. Gesture
At 11 PM on a Monday, Iemitsu shows up on his doorstep in scuffed shoes and singed hair, left arm in a sling and Reborn perched on his shoulder. A gash across his ribs clots sluggishly, scabs pulling open on the inhale to drip blood on Shamal's doormat.
"I don't treat men," Shamal warns him before offering a cigarette and lighter.
It's been ten years since they last met; Sawada has always had a penchant for selective amnesia.
Iemitsu laughs, shaking his head. "Tea for an old war buddy?"
Kyoko, TYL snippet The funny thing is, Kyoko talks to Tsuna all the time now, every day in the morning and evening and a dozen times in between under brushed-chrome archways or over pancakes and tea. She knows he's nervous and shy and incredibly, unbelievably important in this time, how he takes his tea and fiddles with flatware and utensils between bites, and how worry laces every word he's said to Gokudera or Yamamoto for four straight days, and yet when the dishes are cleared, dishrag drying by the sink, she walks away not knowing - anything.
It's the sharp edge of determination that cuts her loose; she's floating lost in a smile even while they are face to face: Don't worry, don't worry. I'll keep you safe.
Kyoko has always been a social girl: small warm hand on your shoulder with her hair tucked back from a smile; she can tap a lifeline on your palm and read the heart it leads to by osmosis, breathe in your fear and tie it close to herself until it clears. And, maybe more than anyone else but aniki at this moment, it's Tsuna with whom Kyoko wants to bridge the distance of words, butterfly her fingertips and know what's knitting up that small, small brow today.
No-good Tsuna, the more you get to know him, the more you realize how really, actually good he is, more courage and drive than any self-aware person should have. There's a tension thrumming in his every step now, and sometimes Kyoko catches his shadow in the hallway, long and lanky with a wild head of hair - startles for a moment taking him for someone else entirely until she rounds the corner behind him. It's the future, she realizes, draped over his shoulders and trailing down, bubbling and welling in his footsteps.
Still percolating:
- swim team!Akame for absenceofmind
- SSBB short and sweet challenge
- erectile dysfunction!Heechul for ME.