random dump
i seem to have hit a writing block. orz
anyway, dumping fic that i've written over the year - some complete, some not, some...waiting for godot, or something, i guess. (WARNING: ALL OF THEM TERRIBLE)
humidity. (assassins creed; altair x malik; AU)
There a few things Altair ibn La-Ahad likes.
He likes the moment between dawn and morning, he likes winning, he likes lazing around on sunny days, and he likes the way Malik’s neck curves in the moonlight.
Altair thinks that curve will one day drive him mad; he had committed the angle of Malik’s neck to memory, and on long nights, far away from Masyaf, he replays the ways he has memorised the curve of Malik’s neck, under his fingers, or from a distance for the longest time, while Malik thrummed with anger and Altair remembered being willing to sacrifice his life ten times over, if that would return Malik’s arm and Kadar.
Altair also really likes sleeping on Malik’s leg.
“Altair,” A nudge, at his back, “stop pretending to be asleep. You are heavy. Get off.”
“But Malik,” Altair bites back a smile, “you are warm and comfortable.”
A snort, before Malik nudges Altair again, this time digging a kneecap into his spine - the T9 and T10 vertebrate, Altair thinks.
“Get warm and comfortable somewhere else, you’re making my leg fall asleep,” Malik says with no small amount of annoyance and this time, the nudge feels sharper, an unspoken threat of move, or I will break your back.
“I knew you should never have taken that medical doctorate,” Altair mutters as he rolls off Malik’s leg.
for everything that i lack (i have something that you have). (teen wolf; derek x stiles)
The problem is, humans are not born to run with wolves.
Derek knows this, of course, he knows how frail human bodies can be, with their skin and breakable bones. He knows how easy it is to kill someone - a swipe of claws against the throat, a spray of red, the jingle of the death rattle.
Derek knows all of this and yet he can’t bring himself to push Stiles away because Stiles smells like everything he needs even when he’s not because Stiles is human and humans were never born to run with the wolves.
time of our lives. (slamdunk; fukuda)
When Fukuda grows up, he will work for one of Japan’s biggest eco-manufacturers.
He’ll get hired by 24, three weeks fresh out of Meiji University where he went on a basketball scholarship, and he’ll put a small plastic figurine of Michael Jordan to the left of his computer. He keeps his coffee mug on his right, and his files in a drawer that’s been left by a previous employee.
He will work hard, and he will rise through the ranks steadily.
Fukuda will move to Tokyo, and live in a small six-mat apartment 14 minutes away from Asakusa station. Everyday, he walks past a taiyaki store to get to the station. He will buy one azuki taiyaki every Friday morning, when the owner, an elderly woman with missing front teeth, mans the front.
He will meet Sendoh every first Friday of the month.
Fukuda will not date - it’s not that he doesn’t want to, but because he doesn’t like women who smell heavily of perfume and cigarettes, he's also stranglely opposed to the thought of actually dating. Sometimes, Sendoh asks him, why don’t you try a dating website, Fukuda?, and smiles a sad twisted smile when he says, it’s all right, sempai.
It really is, thinks Fukuda.
Occasionally, he wonders how Jin is, wherever he is.
They will lose contact once Fukuda graduates - it’s unintentional; they slowly drifted apart - Jin is busy with university, and Fukuda is trying hard not to fail his courses. They stop talking when Fukuda is in his second year; their emails get sparser - Jin is trying to change courses, Fukuda is trying to write his thesis; by the fourth, Fukuda isn't sure where Jin is anymore.
Jin doesn’t answer his emails either.
Every month, Fukuda stops by the big red gates of Senso-ji and buys warm dango rolled in finely ground soybean powder. He makes sure to offer 500 yen for incense as well, and always, always, a prayer for his family, his friends. Jin. Wherever he is.
Fukuda says please and thank you in the same sentence, before he claps twice, and bows once.
obon. (mononoke/XMFC; erik x charles; idek some modern AU???)
The Medicine Seller meets them in an old hotel in Toyama.
It’s raining and it’s two days to O-bon, before the spirits come home. The weather is muggy and oppressive, and the hotel is grumpy; its walls creaking throughout the days, like an old man complaining of tired joints.
My apologies, the Medicine Seller says quietly, I have no cures for buildings.
He sees them in the lobby.
The year is 2010, and foreigners are no longer a strange sight in Japan. And the two men sitting in the lobby playing a game of chess, certainly do not look strange. But they are - their existence sets his teeth on edge. The Medicine Seller ignores it, and instead, sits in a corner and waits.
“Erik,” Charles says, “don’t stare now, but there’s a strangely-dressed individual sitting by the door.”
Erik, nods and turns as Charles mutters, “I told you not to stare.”
“Cosplayer?” Erik asks, because they’ve been in Japan for almost two weeks, and they were in Harajuku last weekend, and it was filled with teenagers who more or less looked like that flamboyantly dressed man in the corner.
“All the way up in the mountains?” Charles laughs quietly, “I would think cosplayers prefer the crowds of Harajuku.”
“But he is strange,” Charles continues, frowning slightly as he raises two fingers to his temple, “doesn’t...feel rght.”
“A mutant?” Erik’s eyes are sharp as he reassess the man again, “dressed like that?”
The hotel is complaining again.
The rain, is too heavy, says the roof, the humidity, too thick, grumbles the walls. The humans within the hotel don’t notice, of course, but he does. The Medicine Seller’s wooden box rattles quietly; it’s coming, he thinks, once this mountain storm blows over, it will arrive.
A shadow falls over him.
“You have a fascinating outfit,” Charles tells the man with the bright kimono, in slow English, and punctuates his sentence with a smile.
The man looks at Charles, and Charles dimly wonders if Erik's theory of a cosplay may be right because those markings on his face definitely look out of place, on top of a mountain in Toyama.
“Thank you,” the strangely-coloured man says, and his English is oddly neutral, accented with the slight hint of Japanese, “I’m a medicine seller. Dressed like this, my wares have a better chance of selling.”
“A quack doctor?” Erik mutters as Charles elbows him in his ribs.
“No,” and there it was, that fascinating lilt to his English, as the man smiles, sharp as the curve of a moon, “just an ordinary medicine seller.”
anyway, dumping fic that i've written over the year - some complete, some not, some...waiting for godot, or something, i guess. (WARNING: ALL OF THEM TERRIBLE)
humidity. (assassins creed; altair x malik; AU)
There a few things Altair ibn La-Ahad likes.
He likes the moment between dawn and morning, he likes winning, he likes lazing around on sunny days, and he likes the way Malik’s neck curves in the moonlight.
Altair thinks that curve will one day drive him mad; he had committed the angle of Malik’s neck to memory, and on long nights, far away from Masyaf, he replays the ways he has memorised the curve of Malik’s neck, under his fingers, or from a distance for the longest time, while Malik thrummed with anger and Altair remembered being willing to sacrifice his life ten times over, if that would return Malik’s arm and Kadar.
Altair also really likes sleeping on Malik’s leg.
“Altair,” A nudge, at his back, “stop pretending to be asleep. You are heavy. Get off.”
“But Malik,” Altair bites back a smile, “you are warm and comfortable.”
A snort, before Malik nudges Altair again, this time digging a kneecap into his spine - the T9 and T10 vertebrate, Altair thinks.
“Get warm and comfortable somewhere else, you’re making my leg fall asleep,” Malik says with no small amount of annoyance and this time, the nudge feels sharper, an unspoken threat of move, or I will break your back.
“I knew you should never have taken that medical doctorate,” Altair mutters as he rolls off Malik’s leg.
for everything that i lack (i have something that you have). (teen wolf; derek x stiles)
The problem is, humans are not born to run with wolves.
Derek knows this, of course, he knows how frail human bodies can be, with their skin and breakable bones. He knows how easy it is to kill someone - a swipe of claws against the throat, a spray of red, the jingle of the death rattle.
Derek knows all of this and yet he can’t bring himself to push Stiles away because Stiles smells like everything he needs even when he’s not because Stiles is human and humans were never born to run with the wolves.
time of our lives. (slamdunk; fukuda)
When Fukuda grows up, he will work for one of Japan’s biggest eco-manufacturers.
He’ll get hired by 24, three weeks fresh out of Meiji University where he went on a basketball scholarship, and he’ll put a small plastic figurine of Michael Jordan to the left of his computer. He keeps his coffee mug on his right, and his files in a drawer that’s been left by a previous employee.
He will work hard, and he will rise through the ranks steadily.
Fukuda will move to Tokyo, and live in a small six-mat apartment 14 minutes away from Asakusa station. Everyday, he walks past a taiyaki store to get to the station. He will buy one azuki taiyaki every Friday morning, when the owner, an elderly woman with missing front teeth, mans the front.
He will meet Sendoh every first Friday of the month.
Fukuda will not date - it’s not that he doesn’t want to, but because he doesn’t like women who smell heavily of perfume and cigarettes, he's also stranglely opposed to the thought of actually dating. Sometimes, Sendoh asks him, why don’t you try a dating website, Fukuda?, and smiles a sad twisted smile when he says, it’s all right, sempai.
It really is, thinks Fukuda.
Occasionally, he wonders how Jin is, wherever he is.
They will lose contact once Fukuda graduates - it’s unintentional; they slowly drifted apart - Jin is busy with university, and Fukuda is trying hard not to fail his courses. They stop talking when Fukuda is in his second year; their emails get sparser - Jin is trying to change courses, Fukuda is trying to write his thesis; by the fourth, Fukuda isn't sure where Jin is anymore.
Jin doesn’t answer his emails either.
Every month, Fukuda stops by the big red gates of Senso-ji and buys warm dango rolled in finely ground soybean powder. He makes sure to offer 500 yen for incense as well, and always, always, a prayer for his family, his friends. Jin. Wherever he is.
Fukuda says please and thank you in the same sentence, before he claps twice, and bows once.
obon. (mononoke/XMFC; erik x charles; idek some modern AU???)
The Medicine Seller meets them in an old hotel in Toyama.
It’s raining and it’s two days to O-bon, before the spirits come home. The weather is muggy and oppressive, and the hotel is grumpy; its walls creaking throughout the days, like an old man complaining of tired joints.
My apologies, the Medicine Seller says quietly, I have no cures for buildings.
He sees them in the lobby.
The year is 2010, and foreigners are no longer a strange sight in Japan. And the two men sitting in the lobby playing a game of chess, certainly do not look strange. But they are - their existence sets his teeth on edge. The Medicine Seller ignores it, and instead, sits in a corner and waits.
“Erik,” Charles says, “don’t stare now, but there’s a strangely-dressed individual sitting by the door.”
Erik, nods and turns as Charles mutters, “I told you not to stare.”
“Cosplayer?” Erik asks, because they’ve been in Japan for almost two weeks, and they were in Harajuku last weekend, and it was filled with teenagers who more or less looked like that flamboyantly dressed man in the corner.
“All the way up in the mountains?” Charles laughs quietly, “I would think cosplayers prefer the crowds of Harajuku.”
“But he is strange,” Charles continues, frowning slightly as he raises two fingers to his temple, “doesn’t...feel rght.”
“A mutant?” Erik’s eyes are sharp as he reassess the man again, “dressed like that?”
The hotel is complaining again.
The rain, is too heavy, says the roof, the humidity, too thick, grumbles the walls. The humans within the hotel don’t notice, of course, but he does. The Medicine Seller’s wooden box rattles quietly; it’s coming, he thinks, once this mountain storm blows over, it will arrive.
A shadow falls over him.
“You have a fascinating outfit,” Charles tells the man with the bright kimono, in slow English, and punctuates his sentence with a smile.
The man looks at Charles, and Charles dimly wonders if Erik's theory of a cosplay may be right because those markings on his face definitely look out of place, on top of a mountain in Toyama.
“Thank you,” the strangely-coloured man says, and his English is oddly neutral, accented with the slight hint of Japanese, “I’m a medicine seller. Dressed like this, my wares have a better chance of selling.”
“A quack doctor?” Erik mutters as Charles elbows him in his ribs.
“No,” and there it was, that fascinating lilt to his English, as the man smiles, sharp as the curve of a moon, “just an ordinary medicine seller.”