midnightdiddle: (zelda down)
[personal profile] midnightdiddle
Five minutes ago, I posted an angry rant about race and stuff. Then deleted it, because it was an angry rant.

So instead, have snippets of my current WIPs. lj cuts are the file names, which says a lot about the fics, haha.

cloud's mom

It is one morning in late April that the Turk knocks on her door. The runoff has been bad for the past few days, and the village is more sludge than not. When Iulia forces the door open against the thick mud, she looks up, and the Turk looks down, and she feels her heart hammer in her chest. The cold morning air comes in around her legs, makes her heavy nightgown balloon like a bell around her legs, and she’s not so stupid as to try to shut the door.

“What do you want?” she asks, and the Turk pushes in past her. She turns to watch him, and when he steps toward the bed, she swallows, crosses her arms beneath her milk-heavy breasts.

“The President sent me,” the Turk says, and Iulia doesn’t bother trying to act brave, because the Turks, all the Turks, hate bravado more than they hate fear.

cloud downloads zack

It is on the edge between Sector Seven and Sector Six that Cloud’s eyes pass over Aerith, and Zack feels his thoughts spin to a mad stop. She looks older, more beautiful, a woman instead of a girl, and when she turns, he remembers

she had laughed at first, but when he kissed her neck, she’d only smiled and lifted up her heavy braid, and he’d kissed her again, and again, and again, and again

everything. Cloud doesn’t recognize her, though, doesn’t see the memories of Aerith that Zack is still holding onto, and his eyes pass over her the same way they pass over the passersby, the shops, the garbage piled on the edges of the streets.

Even if Cloud can’t see her, though, he can still hear her.

“Zack?” Aerith’s voice says, but Cloud doesn’t look toward her until she moves around into his sight. “Zack?”

Katekyou Hitman Reborn
boys watch porn

"Takeshi!" a voice bellows from downstairs, and Tsuna feels his heart plummet into his feet. He lunges for the TV at the same time as Gokudera, their heads cracking, and he's trying to fumble for the power-button, but his fingers are all sweaty, and Gokudera's hands are sweaty on top of his, and Gokudera's cursing doesn't sound all that threatening when his panting is taken into account.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Gokudera's snarling at Yamamoto, "your dad's fucking downstairs, you fucking baseball idiot."

Yamamoto's laughing, though, saying, "no, it's fine, it's his--" and while Tsuna's trying to wrap his head around that, around that they were watching Yamamoto's dad's porn, Yamamoto's slamming out the door, yelling back, "yeah, Dad?"

bullet world

The Tenth had praised his hands once, said that Hayato’s hands were the strongest hands, the most talented hands. The Tenth had said he depended on those hands. Hayato had said he’d cut them off, anything for the Tenth, and now he uses his hands, quick and nimble, to make the men scream, and bleed, and die, one by one.

He cuts their skin, peels it back, slowly, bit by bit, and at the end, when they're more dead than alive anyway, dull eyed and slack jawed, he slits their throats like they slit the Tenth's, sprays their blood on the concrete walls.

He wishes, when his hands are slick and wet, stinking of iron, that he could touch Tsuna again.

dino and mafia

A blowjob gets a handful of agreements. Sex gets twice as much. Dino learns, with his feet hanging from his father’s chair, that being pretty is a good thing in the mafia, if you’re young and willing and desperate enough to give the world for your men. The town gets a little stronger, and Dino fucks men, great and small, in their leather-back chairs, trousers and guns in a pile on the floor. His shoes, when he arches his back, brush the floor, and in time, the hands of the mafia no longer span his waist. He grows, little by little, and his hair dangles in his eyes as he fucks the men.

The Cavallone Family grows a little stronger, and Dino gets fucked in beds now, twisting on the sheets with the right moans and groans and names panted into the right ears.

eiko's (note: hayato's mom) dream

“They’re Italian,” he says needlessly. “A nouveau riche family, you could say. Money only goes back a few generations. They’re powerful, but they’re not high class. Do you understand what I’m saying?” He looks at her sharply, expectantly, and it takes her a moment to understand.


“Mafia,” he corrects, and he says it lightly but softly, and he lets go of her hand to place a finger over her mouth like a caution. “It’s not a danger, not for you, but you should be careful of what you say, what you hear.”

He looks at her then away, and his hand, when Eiko grabs it, feels clammy.

“I wouldn’t have had you come,” he says, soft under the rattle of the trains, “but they’ve been asking everyone for you. Saying they want their daughter to play like the Japanese woman.”

dino mukuro hibari

He can’t sleep. It feels like there are wires spreading through his limbs, snaking through his blood, and he lies awake, staring at the ceiling as the feeling grows and grows. He stares at his arms, expects to see the skin jump and quiver, because that’s what it feels like, like his muscles are scrambling over his bones. He clenches his left hand into a fist, and watches as the fingers of his right hand flick up and down, like a delicate wave. He closes his eyes, feels his hands rest on his cheek, trail down to curl around his throat, and swallows against the tickle in the back of his throat.

“Boss,” Romario says in the morning, and Dino pops the collar of his shirt so the bruises are hidden by the fabric’s shadows. He turns his head gingerly, hisses as his neck burns.

“Haha,” his mouth says, and he watches himself in the mirror. “Clumsy,” his tongue says, fat and heavy, and it feels like there are wires trailing down his throat.

crippled hibari

Steel-tipped cement; staircase.

He falls like this:

A tumble in the air. Rag doll wrong, bending too slow. His hand snaps when he tries to catch himself on the railing, and then he’s over the edge. Twenty feet, turned to the right. His hips hit first, then his shoulders and head.


Like this:

He doesn’t scream. Groans, tries to grip his tonfa. He lost one, snapped hand empty. There’s blood on his mouth, harlot red; he tries to push himself up.

hibari period (note: girl!hibari universe)

By the time Kusakabe returns, a bottle of juice and a slim packet in his hands, Kyouya’s thrown most of Kusakabe’s things to the floor, and tossed the rest back into the bag. He’s sitting on the edge of the couch, bent over the table, and he doesn’t bother to look up when Kusakabe says his name. Kusakabe sets the bottle of juice on the table, half an arm’s reach from Kyouya’s hand, and holds out the packet.

“Hibari-san,” Kusakabe prompts, and Kyouya takes the packet, a tearing of paper and a swallow of juice. The pills still feel dry as they slide down his throat, and he takes another swallow, licks his lip. He doesn’t say thank you, because he never has to, not really, with Kusakabe, but when Kusakabe’s gathering up his things, Kyouya picks up one of the pens, holds it out to him.

hibari and gokudera skirt

“Gokudera Haruka,” he says, “your skirt isn’t long enough.”

The transfer student is glaring up at him, gray-blue eyes and hair too pale to ever fit in, and says, “what the fuck?”

“Your skirt,” he says again, slowly, because maybe she doesn’t understand Japanese, or maybe she just doesn’t understand Namimori’s rules, “isn’t long enough.”

“Fuck you,” the transfer says, and she’s turning away, sharp movements, when Kyouya reaches out, grabs her waist. She’s fighting him the next moment, a fist grazing his jaw, and he grabs at her wrists. They’re tussling, her trying to hit him, scratch him, bite him, and Kyouya twists her wrists behind her back, pins her arms until they look like they’re to break. “Shit,” the transfer says, and her voice sounds like it’s breaking, too.

Kyouya grabs the edge of her skirt with his free hand, and yanks down, until her hem is long enough to be within the school rules. The transfer’s breath jumps when his hand brushes her knee, and then he’s letting go of her wrists, stepping back before she can scratch his eyes.

gokudera girl piano

It takes a long time for him to start to forget Gokudera Hayato. For the first few months, he expects Hayato each time he turns around. When he drinks his coffee in the morning, he waits for the door to slam open, for Hayato to say Tenth, good morning, and when he doesn’t-- when the door doesn’t open--

Tsuna waits for a lot of things, and watches the days on the calendar go by in fat lines, slashes of red felt-tip pens. He didn’t ever think he would miss Gokudera Hayato.

It’s almost a year before he finally tells Takeshi to sell Hayato’s car, two years before he cancels the payments on Hayato’s apartment. By four years, he doesn’t wait for the door to open, and in the seventh year, there’s nothing left except a dusty piano in the compound, the keys still open to the room.

coffee or tea cont

Everyone knows because I-Pin looks too thin and Hibari never stops smiling.

"I--" she starts, stops. Turns her cup three-quarters around. "We're trying, but I think--"

When she cries, she cries like all the men in the mafia do. She shoves her chin out, stares over Lambo's shoulder. When Lambo reaches out, tries to touch her hand, I-Pin pulls away, jaw clenched.

"It's not working anymore."

five ways reborn bianchi

Romeo dies in the gutter, blood on the corner of his mouth and splattered across his shirt. His jacket is still draped over her shoulders, from when they stepped outside of the restaurant, and Bianchi pulls it closer, feels her fingers smear blood across the lapels.

"Bianchi--" Bernardo is grabbing her elbow, yanking her up, and Romeo's head rolls to the side, blood slipping down his cheek to his ear. There's blood in his hair. "Bianchi, you have to move--"

"I have her," someone says, a baby's voice, and when she looks down, Reborn is reaching up for her hand. "Bianchi," Reborn says, and his hand is tiny, can only grab her finger, "we need to run now."

seventeen gunshots

Lal Mirch still wears Colonello's dogtags with the devotion of the damned. Hayato watches as she bends over a table, hands spread over a map of the compound, and listens to the dogtags fall, jangle harshly in the quiet room. He's jealous, he knows, wishes there was something of the Tenth's that he could keep, other than the feel of blood slick on his hands. He hates the way she's composed, silent rage and brisk competence, when he just feels the world screaming in his ears, pain and anger and hate alive in his body. He hates how she makes a better devotee than him.

He hates that he wonders if she loves the dead more dearly than him, because he always thought he loved the Tenth. He knows he loved the Tenth. But the way Lal Mirch loved Colonello was different, is different, and Hayato hates the way he wonders if he was wrong. If he is wrong.

takeshi tsuna cocoa

Yamamoto's still pulling his stitches, bandage twisting every time he frowns. He frowns a lot now.

"Do you want cocoa?" Tsuna asks when he runs into Yamamoto just outside the kitchen. His mom always made him cocoa when he had a bad day, and right now, Tsuna's pretty sure Yamamoto's having the third worst day of his life, because his dad died two days ago, and when you can't find all the pieces of your dad, when he's scattered across your house and restaurant like confetti blown out of a kid's hand--

Yamamoto doesn't smile, but he stops frowning, and Tsuna thinks that might be a plus. Except maybe you're not supposed to have pluses when one of your parents gets torn apart. But Tsuna's never had a parent die. Tsuna has a dad who comes and goes like a flake, and a mom who's always sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of cocoa for the bad days, and if one of them-- Confetti blown out of a hand, and Tsuna thinks he might throw up again. He's thrown up a lot in the past few days.

Kyou Kara Maou
the high school alternate universe with vampires cont

And, as it turns out, Wolfram has the same lunch period. He’s in front of Yuuri, and the line around him is all turned towards him, voices asking him all kinds of questions. Where he lived, what he ate, if he liked Idaho…

“It’s very hot,” Wolfram says laboriously, trying to grab a tray.

“Then why,” someone asks, “are you wearing long sleeves?” Yuuri looks at Wolfram and realizes, with a start, that Wolfram’s wearing long sleeves that hang past the first row of knuckles, the cuffs lying across his fingers. Just looking at Wolfram makes Yuuri feel uncomfortably hot, and he grimaces. Wolfram, though, just shrugs and makes his way through the line.

“He’s kinda weird,” a boy behind Yuuri says, and a girl giggles nervously. Yuuri thinks he agrees with them, ‘cause the German kid is kinda weird-- but still, Yuuri knows that his family is viewed as “weird”, even after all these years, so he can’t help but feel a little bad for Wolfram.

wolfram yuuri ken

"Do you miss him?" Wolfram asks quickly, throwing the words out before he can second-guess himself. The Great Sage chuckles, and it's not a sound Wolfram expects. He remembers how Conrart had looked when Julia had left, and how Conrart still looks strangely lost whenever Julia's name is mentioned.

"It's not quite so simple as missing," the Sage says, and he's standing in front of Wolfram, looking at Wolfram closely. Wolfram stumbles back before he can help himself, flinching as his back hits the cold wall. The Great Sage's glasses glimmer oddly in the torchlight, and the Sage's mouth is twisted up.

"You do," the Sage repeats, "look quite like him."

Let the Right One In
eli and oskar

“Where did you stay before?” he asks. He closes the book on his finger, looks up at Eli. Looks at the egg.

“In the ground.” Eli’s smiling at his hand, head tilted like he’s curious about something. He touches a fingertip to the gold slivers, lifts it. A sliver is clinging to his skin, crooked, and he leans forward, sets the sliver to an edge of his broken egg. “I dig a hole, usually.”

Oskar looks at the cover of his book, then takes his finger out, sets it down. Stands up to go into the kitchen. “Like a grave?” he asks, and Eli says, louder, because Eli remembers that Oskar can’t hear as well, can’t hear the heartbeats of everything around them, “yes.”

unrequited arthur merlin

Freya holds him after Leon’s boat burns. Her arms are cold and white as she lifts them out of the water, and when they wrap around Merlin’s body, they feel like stone. Merlin sinks into her, lets her hold him. The water rises around his face, slips into his mouth.

“You give too much, Merlin,” Freya whispers, and her mouth is as cold and white as her arms. She kisses him gently, too gently, but her lips move like granite, as slowly as the earth that murmurs through Merlin’s veins.

“I want,” Merlin says, “to sleep.” He is tired, so tired, and his body feels like stone, dragging him down into the water. Freya’s arms are strong around him, and he can feel her breast beneath his head. He hasn’t been held like this, by a woman, since-- He can remember, he thinks, being a boy. Little, when he still lived in Ealdor, when his mother would rock him in the winters. When everything was ice.

“Merlin,” Freya says, and she pulls him down into the lake, until he can’t see the fire of Leon’s boat. Until everything is the murky green of the water. “Merlin,” she says again, and she kisses him air, breathes him life. “Merlin,” she says, and he closes his eyes, and he sleeps.

iruka standing

He comes home in the early fall, when the grass is drying to yellow and the leaves are tinting red. The Academy has just starting full-day classes again, and he watches the kids walk to school in the mornings, and watches them walk home at night. The chair next to his window is blue, worn and old and comfortable, and he can’t stand from it, can’t look away from the window.

Sakura stops by every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and every other Sunday. She’s grown, become beautiful and fast and so much a woman it makes him want to cry. He remembers when she was little, a girl with friends and not-so-much-friends, when her greatest worry was her hair ribbon and her forehead. She smiles at him, her pink hair falling over her cheeks, and he can’t stand for her.

Ocean's Eleven
danny and linus in china

It’s nearly two hours later that Danny smiles, twines his fingers around the neck of his beer like it’s a lover. Linus has probably had three too many drinks for this, so it takes him a long moment to understand.

Then Danny’s mouth is on his, the sour, bitter taste of the night’s drinks, and Linus isn’t drunk enough for this. It’s only the pinch on the inside of his wrist that pushes him into Danny, kissing him like an old lover. His mother always said he was a good actor.

“Behind us,” Danny says against Linus’s mouth before pulling back, and Linus carefully turns his head toward the tinted mirror behind the bar before licking Danny’s taste from his lips.

danny ocean dies

Rusty is old enough to be Linus’s father, if Rusty had ever had the yearning to have kids in his very early twenties. And that means that Rusty is really actually in the same generation as Linus’s parents, which explains why Rusty likes to listen to seventies music during the early afternoon lunch breaks Sophie forces him on. It sends a shiver (something too illicit, like when Linus used to touch Abigail on the small of her back, his little finger too low for anything except that pool of lust, heavy and dark, in his stomach) through Linus, because this entire thing is turning into a game that seems, in a way (and it’s only the sorta, the kinda, that keeps Linus grounded, because this is all fuck all too much) sexual.

And that, the way Rusty sometimes looks at him in the morning, when his face has pillow marks and his shirt is wrinkled, scares the fuck out of Linus. Because, if he’s very honest with himself, there’s a spot, right where his stomach drops out every now and then, and he thinks that he’s going to throw up, that says he wants it.

rusty master dr who crossover

"Martha Harkness?" he asks, and she gives him a slow look, and a slower smile.

"Something like that," she says, and she smooths down her jacket, fingers curving over her waist, then her hips. Rusty reaches for the keys the front desk girl's holding out, and when he holds them out to the woman, Martha, she reaches out, takes them with a brush of her fingers against his hand. Her fingers are cold, and she flicks the keys into her hand, moves past him a fraction too close.

"A drink?" he asks quickly, feeling frantic, and she stops midstep, a heel clicking against the tile after a moment of silence. Her bleach-blonde hair falls like so over her shoulder, and her smile is wider, and more frightening.

"Maybe," she says, and Rusty doesn't know if he's relieved or scared out of his mind.


"So you're English?" he asks her. She's spinning a toothpick in her vodka glass, then turning it to glance at the olive. Rusty wants to laugh, because she's drinking her vodka like an old-fashioned girl, her lips barely pressing against the rim, her teeth snapping at the olive when the glass is empty. She drops her toothpick in, it clatters against the glass, and Rusty can't remember what he was saying.

"Something like that," she says, and Rusty feels dizzy. She smiles at him, her teeth white and straight, and Rusty leans back, wiping his hands, sweaty and cold, on his pants.

Phoenix Wright
phoenix miles blackout

"Edgeworth," Wright says, "breathe."

Miles tries to take another breath. The air is heavy and thick, is pressing down on his throat. He swallows on nothing, hears himself gasp. "I can't see--"

"That's because the lights are off," Wright's voice says, irritating and stupid, and Miles would scoff but he's too busy trying to breathe.

"I know--" he says, gasps for breath. Feels a little dizzy. "I know that."

pedro and john

The Prince smiles, and his fingers tighten on Benedick’s shoulders. Claudio watches the Prince’s fingers, the slow whitening of his knuckles. Benedick’s breath becomes ragged. “Yes,” the Prince says, “fairer than me. Have you never seen him?”

“The Count has never been to your court,” Benedick says, voice high, strained. The Prince’s fingers loosen, smooth over Benedick’s shoulder, then tighten again.

“Indeed?” The Prince looks at Claudio sharply, and his face looks like Claudio’s mother’s. Pricing, taking a measure. “After our campaign, then, you will have to accompany. My court, it’s a very fair thing.”

xxxholic brushstrokes

“Like this,” Doumeki says, and Himawari straddles them both, and kisses Kimihiro.

It feels like his heart is going to stop. There is something digging into his chest, his stomach, and he feels like he’s going to be torn apart. He clenches his eyes shut, tells himself that he wants this, and kisses her back. He can feel Doumeki’s arms spasm around his waist, and he clutches at Doumeki’s leg with one hand, fists the other hand in Himawari’s hair.

“Watanuki-kun, Watanuki-kun,” Himawari says against his mouth, and the curls of her hair are knotting around his wrist, sliding down his arm. Desire curls, hot and heavy, in the low of Kimihiro’s stomach, and pain lances up and down his limbs. He can feel himself shaking, and the world dying.

Now I just have to, like, actually finish something.

Anything in particular you'd like to see finished?

Date: 2010-05-21 07:46 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] lizas-lines.livejournal.com
The FFVII, Naruto, and Merlin fics are all heartbreaking and gorgeous and I'd love to see all of them finished. Especially the FFVII one with Cloud's mother.

Date: 2010-05-22 06:01 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] tenoria.livejournal.com
i've missed reading your fic! there's a clarity and gravity to your storybuilding, so heartbreaking. would love to read more of the iruka, gokudera skirt (my men in skirts kink will never end), and tsuna death.

Date: 2010-05-26 08:49 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] aya-kun-rose.livejournal.com


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