And I called it, "HOLYSHITMANWTF". [a hell lot of drabbleage, non-porny side.]
NOT FOR THE 69 CHALLENGE
Chaos Rising. Old Ghosts.
Inspired by the 31_days theme for September 16, 2005.
There was something familiar in the way they crossed swords: a spark, a particular light in those brilliant green eyes that stirred up the old shadows in Tsukasa’s head, drawing the shrouds from them before he could hold them tight across his vision. When they had broken apart to stand on separate ends of the ruined battlefield between them, there had been something in the way the man’s lips had curled that told Tsukasa that he wanted to speak, yet in the end there was nothing but silence between them.
The vision returned unbidden, when he came back to Christoph in Nargythe and his master undressed him and took him to bed; the First Blade’s touch suddenly felt like poison, as though everywhere he touched he tore another shadow in half and released its secrets. Tsukasa surprised himself with the feel of his own tears rolling down his cheeks unchecked, even as he and his master reached the highest peak of their pleasure. Suffice to say it concerned Christoph: the man immediately took the boy into his arms and drew him close to his chest, murmuring questions that Tsukasa could no longer understand, or hear. The green eyes of that man burned across his mind; he recalled those lips, poised on the brink of breaking twenty-five thousand years of silence, lips whose feel he somehow remembered, even though he was certain that they had never kissed. His body felt cold and heavy in Christoph’s arms, as though their union was suddenly a sin. He pushed his master away with an apology and left the bed chamber, for the peace of his own room.
It had been years since he had slept alone and Tsukasa realized this, but in his solitude he could better search what he remember of the face of his strange opponent for some sort of sign, a clue to the magnitude of everything he had lost.
Endtimes: Shadowsong. Cat.
Inspired by the 31_days theme for September 2, 2005.
Zangyaku’s hunters had found Kalika in kitten form, hiding in the corpses they had piled up against the side of a renegade laboratory they had dismantled near Osaka. Four hunters were injured in attempting to retrieve her, for whenever they would get close to the kitten she would transform into a fully grown jaguar and threaten to gouge their brains or guts out. Feränen had done the trick in the end, and it might have been partly due to the fact that projecting herself that way tired Kalika out.
So it was that they brought the kitten over to their leader wrapped in a towel, and Hikaru proceeded to take her home with him. She was a black ball of spitfire again the moment she was dry enough, forcing Hikaru to drop her in one corner of the sitting room lest she tear several new holes into his arm. There she remained for a good five hours with no one daring to enter and check on her until Hikaru returned, properly dressed down and armed with two tall glasses of milk and a huge platter of chocolate chip cookies.
Kalika eyed the Bladian from one end of the chamber with suspicion rooted deep in her eyes, but Hikaru appeared oblivious to it; the nineteen-year-old merely set the food and drinks down in the middle of the room before taking up his spot in the other end. He sat down, opened up his book and began to read. Every now and then he would get up and take a cookie.
Hunger and thirst eventually got the better of Kalika, and she would move closer at ten-page intervals. By page 72 she was nibbling on the cookies, occasionally darting a gaze up to check whether Hikaru was watching and assured that he wasn’t (although he actually was when she wasn’t looking). Then, on page 169 Hikaru was pulled out of his reverie by a small hand tugging at his sleeve. The kitten was now a girl, peering up at him, eyebrows knitted in the effort of looking like she didn’t really care. She had moved the glasses of milk over to them. The platter was in her other hand.
“…It’ll be easier for you this way.”
Hikaru smiled.
“Thank you.”
He returned to his reading, and by page 200 she was leaning against him, drinking milk, eating cookies, asking small questions.
Bloodsport. Kingdom of the mad.
Inspired by the 31_days theme for August 16, 2005. Dedicated to archangel_dream.
For as long as Hoshi could remember, the Elders of Enosh fed him on tales of their peoples’ glory. His favorite tales were that of the heads who had come before him, the other men and women who had carried the revered title of ‘Tengu’. To a boy’s mind they were holy saints, spirits of divine justice, warrior-angels, figures larger than he could ever hope to comprehend. He swore, at the tender age of six, that he would live up to their name, and later come to surpass them in their greatness.
As he became more aware of his surroundings, the superficiality of his dream soon became evident, along with how nearly everything the Elders had told him ended up being sweet lies meant to bind him fast and keep him cocooned in the illusion that he was loved, he was worshipped, and that ruling Enosh and conquering all the world was his right. As a child he used to see outsiders to the Inokuma as peons, and the people of the Topside as accursed sinners. He had wrapped himself up in his arrogance, insisting that he was the Tengu, and as such his will was supreme and his word was law. As a young man he quickly realized how much he and his family were hated, even by their own people. This too he was able to ignore, by the grace of the old laws and customs that he clung on to with a vengeance.
Hoshi’s first bitter taste of the truth came during the Black Christmas War, when he was called upon to defend the lands of his family and returned triumphant only to find out that one of his most loyal servants and closest friends had lived and breathed and bled each and every death that had attempted to fell him that day, on the battlefield. The rest of the blows followed quickly: the truth behind the title of Tengu, the real reasons for the Inokuma’s vehement hatred of the world, their humiliation and exile beneath the waves. In those moments, apathy joined arrogance, weaving itself into his armor. It made it all the more easier for Hoshi to remain the Tengu and leader of a people whose rulers fancied themselves gods and were burned, time and again, for their insolence.
Sometimes, Hoshi would overhear the Elders speaking to the children, having them eat off the same plate of illusion and deceit that he had dined from so heartily, in his youth. He was older now, capable of seeing the Elders for what they really were: withered husks parading around as human beings, ill-tempered, snapping up any opportunity to mold a world that refused to bend to them in their own image and kept alive by their own insanity.
Hoshi would laugh at the sight, and then turn and walk away.
Gankutsuou. Who would take us to be women?
Inspired by the 31_days theme for August 21, 2005. Tis slightly gh3i because you can't remover the gh3i from Gankutsuou!!!111oneone
It had become a Sunday habit of theirs to celebrate the holy Mass first thing in the morning in each other’s company, and then meet with Franz at their favorite café for brunch. The Count was a most charming gentleman, beguiling others with sweet words and gentle eyes in spite of his fearsome, almost unnatural appearance. In the whirlwind of his conversation with Franz, Albert would often find himself utterly lost and sometimes felt inadequate at failing to match neither Franz’s wit nor the Count’s intelligence.
Sunday was when the Count was his most relaxed, and as such Albert was able to discover small, important details about a man who did not make a habit out of revealing anything about himself. He had, for one, discovered the Count’s more carnal tastes in people, and although he knew he should have been alarmed that they did not direct themselves particularly towards women, it was the Count, and Albert could forgive the Count anything.
By their third rendezvous, Albert felt a most uncomfortable constricting in his throat and chest whenever he would see the Count’s eyes stray towards another long-limbed figure in the blossom of youth, and promptly attempted all the more to enjoin the Count in conversation, to hold the man to pay attention to him and look only at him. Franz would be a little surprised at his vehemence. The Count, on the other hand, would smile in a way that brought two of his teeth out like fangs and indulge him, most graciously, with delicate words and sweet temperament.
Black Lagoon. Long lost fables.
Inspired by the 31_days theme for February 1, 2006. Dedicated to sindapa, because in Soviet Russia Balaloli joins the Olympics.
The Sergeant hadn’t realized at first, why his Capitan suddenly inquired over matters regarding the broken television set in the sala and how it was necessary for them to fix it immediately; she had never cared for the thing in the past. It was a conversation between two of his men on the odds of Russia beating the United States or even Africa in the marathon that year that revealed the reasons. The Sergeant did not call her on it.
Three days later, the Capitan did the unthinkable: she abandoned her post with her paperwork in the main office and descended to the sala of Hotel Mosco’s headquarters, joining her men in watching the opening of the Olympics. Her soldiers scrambled to give her the best seat, which she refused. The Sergeant opted to stand beside her, in place at the doorway. He watched the light in her eyes change from something monstrous to something more like a child’s, a little girl’s, and kept his peace.
Full Metal Alchemist. Racism in among future kings can only lead to no good.
Inspired by the 31_days theme for July 7, 2006 and this picture.
“Honestly,” muttered the Colonel as they tripped down the stairs, “I sometimes wonder why I let you get your way sometimes.”
“Don’t complain! At least we’re not getting wet!”
“I’m quite capable of holding this up for the both of us. I won’t step all over you, I swear.”
The Full Metal Alchemist turned to glare at the man, nearly whipping him in the face with his braid.
“ARE YOU IMPLYING THAT I’M SHORT?”
The Colonel paused to rub out his ear with his finger.
“…That depends. Will you let me hold the umbrella if I say yes?”
Bloodsport. Candlelight under the waters.
Inspired by the 31_days theme for February 24, 2006. Dedicated to archangel_dream.
Yasu’s prize for tolerating her partner’s public groping of her breasts, her terrible temper, her habitual lack of patience for all people (especially members of the opposite sex) and her general, overall disregard for the needs of others (even her partner at times) was the occasional picnic in the sunken garden, amidst the glow of night flowers. At those times, Seiya would act her age and be the cutest individual, and Yasu would then remember what exactly it was that had made her fall in love with the woman, beyond the mind-blowing sex.
Chaos Rising. Old Ghosts.
Inspired by the 31_days theme for September 16, 2005.
There was something familiar in the way they crossed swords: a spark, a particular light in those brilliant green eyes that stirred up the old shadows in Tsukasa’s head, drawing the shrouds from them before he could hold them tight across his vision. When they had broken apart to stand on separate ends of the ruined battlefield between them, there had been something in the way the man’s lips had curled that told Tsukasa that he wanted to speak, yet in the end there was nothing but silence between them.
The vision returned unbidden, when he came back to Christoph in Nargythe and his master undressed him and took him to bed; the First Blade’s touch suddenly felt like poison, as though everywhere he touched he tore another shadow in half and released its secrets. Tsukasa surprised himself with the feel of his own tears rolling down his cheeks unchecked, even as he and his master reached the highest peak of their pleasure. Suffice to say it concerned Christoph: the man immediately took the boy into his arms and drew him close to his chest, murmuring questions that Tsukasa could no longer understand, or hear. The green eyes of that man burned across his mind; he recalled those lips, poised on the brink of breaking twenty-five thousand years of silence, lips whose feel he somehow remembered, even though he was certain that they had never kissed. His body felt cold and heavy in Christoph’s arms, as though their union was suddenly a sin. He pushed his master away with an apology and left the bed chamber, for the peace of his own room.
It had been years since he had slept alone and Tsukasa realized this, but in his solitude he could better search what he remember of the face of his strange opponent for some sort of sign, a clue to the magnitude of everything he had lost.
Endtimes: Shadowsong. Cat.
Inspired by the 31_days theme for September 2, 2005.
Zangyaku’s hunters had found Kalika in kitten form, hiding in the corpses they had piled up against the side of a renegade laboratory they had dismantled near Osaka. Four hunters were injured in attempting to retrieve her, for whenever they would get close to the kitten she would transform into a fully grown jaguar and threaten to gouge their brains or guts out. Feränen had done the trick in the end, and it might have been partly due to the fact that projecting herself that way tired Kalika out.
So it was that they brought the kitten over to their leader wrapped in a towel, and Hikaru proceeded to take her home with him. She was a black ball of spitfire again the moment she was dry enough, forcing Hikaru to drop her in one corner of the sitting room lest she tear several new holes into his arm. There she remained for a good five hours with no one daring to enter and check on her until Hikaru returned, properly dressed down and armed with two tall glasses of milk and a huge platter of chocolate chip cookies.
Kalika eyed the Bladian from one end of the chamber with suspicion rooted deep in her eyes, but Hikaru appeared oblivious to it; the nineteen-year-old merely set the food and drinks down in the middle of the room before taking up his spot in the other end. He sat down, opened up his book and began to read. Every now and then he would get up and take a cookie.
Hunger and thirst eventually got the better of Kalika, and she would move closer at ten-page intervals. By page 72 she was nibbling on the cookies, occasionally darting a gaze up to check whether Hikaru was watching and assured that he wasn’t (although he actually was when she wasn’t looking). Then, on page 169 Hikaru was pulled out of his reverie by a small hand tugging at his sleeve. The kitten was now a girl, peering up at him, eyebrows knitted in the effort of looking like she didn’t really care. She had moved the glasses of milk over to them. The platter was in her other hand.
“…It’ll be easier for you this way.”
Hikaru smiled.
“Thank you.”
He returned to his reading, and by page 200 she was leaning against him, drinking milk, eating cookies, asking small questions.
Bloodsport. Kingdom of the mad.
Inspired by the 31_days theme for August 16, 2005. Dedicated to archangel_dream.
For as long as Hoshi could remember, the Elders of Enosh fed him on tales of their peoples’ glory. His favorite tales were that of the heads who had come before him, the other men and women who had carried the revered title of ‘Tengu’. To a boy’s mind they were holy saints, spirits of divine justice, warrior-angels, figures larger than he could ever hope to comprehend. He swore, at the tender age of six, that he would live up to their name, and later come to surpass them in their greatness.
As he became more aware of his surroundings, the superficiality of his dream soon became evident, along with how nearly everything the Elders had told him ended up being sweet lies meant to bind him fast and keep him cocooned in the illusion that he was loved, he was worshipped, and that ruling Enosh and conquering all the world was his right. As a child he used to see outsiders to the Inokuma as peons, and the people of the Topside as accursed sinners. He had wrapped himself up in his arrogance, insisting that he was the Tengu, and as such his will was supreme and his word was law. As a young man he quickly realized how much he and his family were hated, even by their own people. This too he was able to ignore, by the grace of the old laws and customs that he clung on to with a vengeance.
Hoshi’s first bitter taste of the truth came during the Black Christmas War, when he was called upon to defend the lands of his family and returned triumphant only to find out that one of his most loyal servants and closest friends had lived and breathed and bled each and every death that had attempted to fell him that day, on the battlefield. The rest of the blows followed quickly: the truth behind the title of Tengu, the real reasons for the Inokuma’s vehement hatred of the world, their humiliation and exile beneath the waves. In those moments, apathy joined arrogance, weaving itself into his armor. It made it all the more easier for Hoshi to remain the Tengu and leader of a people whose rulers fancied themselves gods and were burned, time and again, for their insolence.
Sometimes, Hoshi would overhear the Elders speaking to the children, having them eat off the same plate of illusion and deceit that he had dined from so heartily, in his youth. He was older now, capable of seeing the Elders for what they really were: withered husks parading around as human beings, ill-tempered, snapping up any opportunity to mold a world that refused to bend to them in their own image and kept alive by their own insanity.
Hoshi would laugh at the sight, and then turn and walk away.
Gankutsuou. Who would take us to be women?
Inspired by the 31_days theme for August 21, 2005. Tis slightly gh3i because you can't remover the gh3i from Gankutsuou!!!111oneone
It had become a Sunday habit of theirs to celebrate the holy Mass first thing in the morning in each other’s company, and then meet with Franz at their favorite café for brunch. The Count was a most charming gentleman, beguiling others with sweet words and gentle eyes in spite of his fearsome, almost unnatural appearance. In the whirlwind of his conversation with Franz, Albert would often find himself utterly lost and sometimes felt inadequate at failing to match neither Franz’s wit nor the Count’s intelligence.
Sunday was when the Count was his most relaxed, and as such Albert was able to discover small, important details about a man who did not make a habit out of revealing anything about himself. He had, for one, discovered the Count’s more carnal tastes in people, and although he knew he should have been alarmed that they did not direct themselves particularly towards women, it was the Count, and Albert could forgive the Count anything.
By their third rendezvous, Albert felt a most uncomfortable constricting in his throat and chest whenever he would see the Count’s eyes stray towards another long-limbed figure in the blossom of youth, and promptly attempted all the more to enjoin the Count in conversation, to hold the man to pay attention to him and look only at him. Franz would be a little surprised at his vehemence. The Count, on the other hand, would smile in a way that brought two of his teeth out like fangs and indulge him, most graciously, with delicate words and sweet temperament.
Black Lagoon. Long lost fables.
Inspired by the 31_days theme for February 1, 2006. Dedicated to sindapa, because in Soviet Russia Balaloli joins the Olympics.
The Sergeant hadn’t realized at first, why his Capitan suddenly inquired over matters regarding the broken television set in the sala and how it was necessary for them to fix it immediately; she had never cared for the thing in the past. It was a conversation between two of his men on the odds of Russia beating the United States or even Africa in the marathon that year that revealed the reasons. The Sergeant did not call her on it.
Three days later, the Capitan did the unthinkable: she abandoned her post with her paperwork in the main office and descended to the sala of Hotel Mosco’s headquarters, joining her men in watching the opening of the Olympics. Her soldiers scrambled to give her the best seat, which she refused. The Sergeant opted to stand beside her, in place at the doorway. He watched the light in her eyes change from something monstrous to something more like a child’s, a little girl’s, and kept his peace.
Full Metal Alchemist. Racism in among future kings can only lead to no good.
Inspired by the 31_days theme for July 7, 2006 and this picture.
“Honestly,” muttered the Colonel as they tripped down the stairs, “I sometimes wonder why I let you get your way sometimes.”
“Don’t complain! At least we’re not getting wet!”
“I’m quite capable of holding this up for the both of us. I won’t step all over you, I swear.”
The Full Metal Alchemist turned to glare at the man, nearly whipping him in the face with his braid.
“ARE YOU IMPLYING THAT I’M SHORT?”
The Colonel paused to rub out his ear with his finger.
“…That depends. Will you let me hold the umbrella if I say yes?”
Bloodsport. Candlelight under the waters.
Inspired by the 31_days theme for February 24, 2006. Dedicated to archangel_dream.
Yasu’s prize for tolerating her partner’s public groping of her breasts, her terrible temper, her habitual lack of patience for all people (especially members of the opposite sex) and her general, overall disregard for the needs of others (even her partner at times) was the occasional picnic in the sunken garden, amidst the glow of night flowers. At those times, Seiya would act her age and be the cutest individual, and Yasu would then remember what exactly it was that had made her fall in love with the woman, beyond the mind-blowing sex.