FFXII, xxxHOLiC, TotA, and a meme.
Oct. 18th, 2008 04:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
midnightdiddleFirst:
Comment with a character and I'll give you three facts about them from my personal canon.
Second:
...do you remember this post? Yeah... So six months later, I'm trying to get some more prompts done. Because, uh, in the scale of life, fandom > college.
Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
saave:
Final Fantasy XII - BalthierxFran.Perhaps with hints at BalthierxVaan. &prompt being something about dinner etiquette
Sometime post-game, no spoilers. Balthier's a dandy, Fran's-- not.
Dandy
For all the years spent flying through the sky, Balthier's still very much a son of Archadia. He fixes his cuffs with the same foppish attention of the politicians, and preens in front of mirrors, or anything with a reflective surface, touching his face and fixing his hair with slender, well-cared for fingers. He is, Fran thinks, something of a dandy, where dinner etiquette clashed with piracy, and won. He sorts through treasure with the quickness of a pirate, and the eye of a connoisseur, and he gossips like a coquette, the light, airy words that have been humming all the years Fran has known him.
"And he didn't know the differences between the forks, can you imagine," Balthier says, and Fran can only say, dryly, "barely." Balthier laughs, sounding delighted, and Fran watches him lift a heavy ring, and discard it with barely a glance. "Plated," he says, mostly unnecessarily. "I asked him what, exactly, Penelo sees in him. I haven't the slightest."
"Neither have I," Fran says, and this must be the right response, because Balthier's laughter gets brighter, and he leans over to dangle a bracelet into her hand, delicate links of gold crusted with leaf-green gems.
"Charming, isn't it?" Balthier asks idly, and he twists it around her wrist, hooks the clasp with a pinch of his fingers. Fran lifts her hand, inspects the bracelet more closely, and wonders how many gil they'll be able to sell it for. Enough, she thinks, to fix the shake in the Strahl's left wing.
"It's pretty enough," Fran says slowly, and when Balthier looks at her sharply, she says, "I don't care for hume jewelry."
"Your tastes." He sounds a little accusing, and Fran smiles, says, "I find other things charming."
"Indeed?" Balthier's preening now, a cocksure smile and a jaunty tilt to his body, and when Fran nods, he prods, hungry eyes. "What do you find quite so charming?"
Fran lets him fit himself against her, an arm about her waist, another arm on her neck. She wonders if he'll dip her, some dance he's never stepped out of, and she lets him pull her face close to his, her mouth next to his cheek. His skin is cool, smooth, and she presses her lips to his check, then the curve of his jaw, near his ear. When he hums questioningly, she smiles, then whispers, "liverspots."
He drops her in the middle of the dip, an entirely shocked expression on his face, and she reaches out, grabs his arm as she falls. They go down in a tumble, arms and legs entwined, and when her elbow is in his stomach, and his legs are spread over hers, he asks, horrified, "liverspots?"
They're tangled tight together, but she turns her head, kisses the back of his hand, and says, "it's one of your qualities."
"I see," Balthier says with an edge to his voice, but he takes her kiss without fuss, gives one in return with little thought. She kisses him again, and once more, and when she's pressing her lips against his bare shoulder, he twines his fingers with hers, and pulls her wrist close so he can kiss the skin around the bracelet.
"It is charming," he says, stubborn to the end. "Pretty little things are always charming. It's the nature of the thing."
"Like Vaan?" Fran asks, and Balthier's shoulder shakes beneath her mouth, laughter that's wild in its rules.
"Exactly like Vaan."
Written forjoanaseta:
Haruka and Shizuka, prompt: Watanuki
Uh, pre-series. As in, Haruka's time. He knows his grandson will be more broken, so he marries a fox.
Blood
His grandson is more broken.
He knows it, or he thinks he knows it. He dreams at night, sees existence in the body of a boy, and he knows his grandson is at the side of existence. He dreams it, his blood in another body and another life, and he sees everything spin, slow, stop, pause at a footstep. Spin again. And his grandson, he dreams, stands, fires arrows. Bleeds.
His grandson will be an archer.
He marries a fox, because existence is a tricky thing, for mortals and immortals alike. The fox is a beautiful thing, quick and sly and talented at hiding between humans. There's something in her smile, feral, and he marries her, surrounded by family and friends. Her eyes are bigger, blacker, than his childhood sweetheart's, and his mother sighs over her, murmurs, "such a beauty." And the fox is a beauty, the way she spins their shrine against the world. A twist to the lines of existence (in the body of a boy not born yet, who his grandson will stand beside), and she makes a cocoon, her trappings in the human world.
She has a son, a daughter. He kisses her mouth, feral, and thanks her, mortal, and when she licks his cheek, he feels her nails dig into his flesh. But foxes are powerful, quick and sly and beautiful, some spinning between mortal and immortal, and his grandson will have the blood of a fox.
She leaves him before their children are grown, and he watches her go, hiding between humans on a sunny day. Her hair is long, is the last thing through the gate, and when she leaves the shrine, he feels the cocoon weaken, the threads of existence (not yet born, not yet standing, not yet-- a pause, a step--) loosen. He dreams, and he feels the shape of the bow, the snap of the string. The burn of the world.
His grandson is born on a rainy day. His grandson is more broken.
It goes quickly then, a spin, a pause, a step. The fox waits for him beyond the shrine's gates, impatient and beautiful, and when Shizuka is seven, nearly eight, Haruka feels the lines of the shrine slowly fall apart. He spends his nights in the library, slips of parchment and lines of ink, and when Shizuka comes home from school, he teaches him how to set the wards, how to smooth his thumb over the cracks of the shrine. How, with his hands on Shizuka's shoulders, to hold a bow.
He dies on an empty day, between one festival and another. His son is in the library, and his daughter is in the yard. His grandson is playing in the street. He's sitting in the sun, folding a crane, and the fox is standing in front of him, quick and sly and more beautiful than before. Time spins in strange ways.
"Such a beauty," he says, because her eyes are bigger, blacker, than others'. She smiles for him, licks his cheek, and her nails dig into his shoulder.
"You dreamt too much," she says, and she lowers him to the wood of the porch, smoothing out his skin. She sits beside him, her kimono falling over the edge, her hair spilling over his chest. "I've been waiting."
"Our grandson," he says, tries to explain. She laughs at him like windchimes, and he knows, he thinks he knows, that she'll never understand, because she's different. She's young, beautiful, and she'll be so still when Shizuka's grandsons are grown, and their grandsons are grown. Her spin is slower than theirs, a graceful fall of silk and hair while theirs is a tumble. She's a fox, and he's a man, and his grandson is more broken.
"I tried," he turns his face against the wood, tries to see the street past the gates, "to help him." Her laughter is brighter, and when he touches her hair, she turns her face, lies her tongue against his wrist.
"You can't change it," she tells him. "It was supposed to be this way. You shouldn't have dreamt so long. I wasn't meant to wait."
He wants to ask why, but it's an empty day, and old men are empty men, left to dream in the sunshine, paper cranes half-folded around them. Existence is unfolding around him, a step and a pause and stand upright, draw your bow to yourself. He can hear his grandson laughing, and his daughter singing in the yard, with eyes like her mother's. Eyes like the fox's. His grandson is more broken.
"It," the fox murmurs, and she's cradling his face, kissing him with feral mouth, "is hitsuzen."
Written foroverlimits:
Jade/Nephry - overworked
Pre-game, small spoilers for Jade's past. It-- sorta became more Jade->Nebilim than Jade/Nephry. Oops. D:
The Replica Song
Another replica died during the night, spitting blood from its mouth. He turns it over with the edge of a scalpel, lies the edge of the blade against the throat, then down the stomach. The rat's body splits open smoothly, and he holds back skin with the dull edge of the scalpel, pulls the cut further open with a thumb and forefinger. The organs slip, feel slimy through his gloves, and he finds the heart.
It's still intact. It should be beating. A touch of the scalpel has the heart cut free, and he lifts it out, smaller than his thumbnail. He holds it cupped in his hand, and when he opens it wide, the valves are clear, and what blood was left in it is clean, a rich red that pearls on his hand.
It should be beating.
He'll try again tomorrow.
x
The next time, both the replica and the original die, blood in the replica's mouth and whiskers, a rattle and sigh from the original. Their hearts aren't broken, nor are their stomachs, their lungs, their liver and brain and intestines. Kidneys, gallbladders, everything is clean. He opens them all, takes notes and draws sketches, quick slashes of ink on the paper. There's no reason for a rattle and blood in whiskers, and he wonders if it'd be the same with humans. If Professor Nebilim will have blood on her mouth.
There's something missing, something he can't think of, on the haze of his mind, and he doesn't know what it is, what could be missing that leads to a rattle of blood. He turns over the bodies, cuts them open with tiny movements, bodies the length of his hand, and deaths the size of his thumb. He empties the rats, then fills them back up, and wonders why they die.
"You should stop," Nephry says, and she lays her hands on his shoulders, rests her chin on the top of his head. He would reach and touch her, pat the back of her hands, but his gloves are slick and wet. He hums instead, flips the scalpel in his hand, and pushes a liver, looks for something he can't find.
"There's something missing," he says, and Nephry's hands are loose. He wonders if she'll step back, if she'll step closer. He wants to touch her hand, but she hates it when he touches her with bloody gloves. She hates it when he touches her.
The hearts should be beating.
"What is it?" she asks, and he frowns, leans closer, trying to find something in the way the blood is smeared across the tray. Words, maybe, or a picture. Some kind of hint of what he's missing, what Professor Nebilim tried to teach him. Tries to teach him.
"They should be beating," he says, and he cuts open a heart, shows it to her. Her face is pale, but she looks at the valves, at the clean blood, watches him smear it between thumb and finger. When he catches her wrist, she shudders, but she doesn't step away. She doesn't step closer.
"Don't work too hard." She kisses the top of his head, like their mother used to, and then she walks away swiftly, sensible heels on a sensible floor, where the blood is easy to wipe up. Where the ashes don't stay for long. He wonders why her heart was beating so hard, blood heavy in her wrist.
x
The original is lying in the bottom of the cage, listless and faint-breathed, but the replica's still alive. Three days, the longest so far. It's throwing itself at the cage, baring its teeth at him, but it's alive. Its heart, lungs, brain are all beating, quick and strong, and he reaches in the cage, grabs the base of its tail. It twists as he pulls it out of the cage, trying to bite him, and he jostles it.
He pins the rat to the tray, thumb and forefinger pressing at the base of the neck, and the rat's limbs scrabble at the smooth metal, nails scrittering. He flips his scalpel with his other hand, lies the edge against the side of the rat, and when the rat lies still, chest heaving for breath, he cuts. It's smooth, clean, deep, and the thrashing smears blood, like words spelled out in the dregs of tea.
It's easy to flip the rat over, its jaws weak and flimsy when it tries to bite him, and he presses his thumb inside, finds the heart, pitter-patter-fast like Nephry's footsteps, sensible shoes on sensible floors when she runs away, face pale and eyes wet. He wonders if Professor Nebilim will wear sensible shoes again, if her mouth will be bloody.
The heart's beating against the underside of his thumb, faster than his heart, and he presses his other thumb against the rat's head, the underside of its jaw, turning it up. He can see the throat move, shallow breathing, and he wonders if Professor Nebilim will be able talk. If her lungs will be clean, her brain and kidney and liver. Her heart.
The heart's not beating.
He wonders what he's missing.
Third:
Lexi's baby shower was today. And-- I found out why she had to go the hospital last week. The baby broke some of Lexi's ribs. As in, hairline fractures. Down her right side. as;fkj OW. And she's on Lortab for all the pain. Like, the kidney, which got horribly squashed, and her fractured ribs. asd;fkjl The sooner the baby's born, the better. Come on, baby. We're just waiting for you~ ♥
Comment with a character and I'll give you three facts about them from my personal canon.
Second:
...do you remember this post? Yeah... So six months later, I'm trying to get some more prompts done. Because, uh, in the scale of life, fandom > college.
Written for
saave:Final Fantasy XII - BalthierxFran.
Sometime post-game, no spoilers. Balthier's a dandy, Fran's-- not.
Dandy
For all the years spent flying through the sky, Balthier's still very much a son of Archadia. He fixes his cuffs with the same foppish attention of the politicians, and preens in front of mirrors, or anything with a reflective surface, touching his face and fixing his hair with slender, well-cared for fingers. He is, Fran thinks, something of a dandy, where dinner etiquette clashed with piracy, and won. He sorts through treasure with the quickness of a pirate, and the eye of a connoisseur, and he gossips like a coquette, the light, airy words that have been humming all the years Fran has known him.
"And he didn't know the differences between the forks, can you imagine," Balthier says, and Fran can only say, dryly, "barely." Balthier laughs, sounding delighted, and Fran watches him lift a heavy ring, and discard it with barely a glance. "Plated," he says, mostly unnecessarily. "I asked him what, exactly, Penelo sees in him. I haven't the slightest."
"Neither have I," Fran says, and this must be the right response, because Balthier's laughter gets brighter, and he leans over to dangle a bracelet into her hand, delicate links of gold crusted with leaf-green gems.
"Charming, isn't it?" Balthier asks idly, and he twists it around her wrist, hooks the clasp with a pinch of his fingers. Fran lifts her hand, inspects the bracelet more closely, and wonders how many gil they'll be able to sell it for. Enough, she thinks, to fix the shake in the Strahl's left wing.
"It's pretty enough," Fran says slowly, and when Balthier looks at her sharply, she says, "I don't care for hume jewelry."
"Your tastes." He sounds a little accusing, and Fran smiles, says, "I find other things charming."
"Indeed?" Balthier's preening now, a cocksure smile and a jaunty tilt to his body, and when Fran nods, he prods, hungry eyes. "What do you find quite so charming?"
Fran lets him fit himself against her, an arm about her waist, another arm on her neck. She wonders if he'll dip her, some dance he's never stepped out of, and she lets him pull her face close to his, her mouth next to his cheek. His skin is cool, smooth, and she presses her lips to his check, then the curve of his jaw, near his ear. When he hums questioningly, she smiles, then whispers, "liverspots."
He drops her in the middle of the dip, an entirely shocked expression on his face, and she reaches out, grabs his arm as she falls. They go down in a tumble, arms and legs entwined, and when her elbow is in his stomach, and his legs are spread over hers, he asks, horrified, "liverspots?"
They're tangled tight together, but she turns her head, kisses the back of his hand, and says, "it's one of your qualities."
"I see," Balthier says with an edge to his voice, but he takes her kiss without fuss, gives one in return with little thought. She kisses him again, and once more, and when she's pressing her lips against his bare shoulder, he twines his fingers with hers, and pulls her wrist close so he can kiss the skin around the bracelet.
"It is charming," he says, stubborn to the end. "Pretty little things are always charming. It's the nature of the thing."
"Like Vaan?" Fran asks, and Balthier's shoulder shakes beneath her mouth, laughter that's wild in its rules.
"Exactly like Vaan."
Written for
joanaseta:Haruka and Shizuka, prompt: Watanuki
Uh, pre-series. As in, Haruka's time. He knows his grandson will be more broken, so he marries a fox.
Blood
His grandson is more broken.
He knows it, or he thinks he knows it. He dreams at night, sees existence in the body of a boy, and he knows his grandson is at the side of existence. He dreams it, his blood in another body and another life, and he sees everything spin, slow, stop, pause at a footstep. Spin again. And his grandson, he dreams, stands, fires arrows. Bleeds.
His grandson will be an archer.
He marries a fox, because existence is a tricky thing, for mortals and immortals alike. The fox is a beautiful thing, quick and sly and talented at hiding between humans. There's something in her smile, feral, and he marries her, surrounded by family and friends. Her eyes are bigger, blacker, than his childhood sweetheart's, and his mother sighs over her, murmurs, "such a beauty." And the fox is a beauty, the way she spins their shrine against the world. A twist to the lines of existence (in the body of a boy not born yet, who his grandson will stand beside), and she makes a cocoon, her trappings in the human world.
She has a son, a daughter. He kisses her mouth, feral, and thanks her, mortal, and when she licks his cheek, he feels her nails dig into his flesh. But foxes are powerful, quick and sly and beautiful, some spinning between mortal and immortal, and his grandson will have the blood of a fox.
She leaves him before their children are grown, and he watches her go, hiding between humans on a sunny day. Her hair is long, is the last thing through the gate, and when she leaves the shrine, he feels the cocoon weaken, the threads of existence (not yet born, not yet standing, not yet-- a pause, a step--) loosen. He dreams, and he feels the shape of the bow, the snap of the string. The burn of the world.
His grandson is born on a rainy day. His grandson is more broken.
It goes quickly then, a spin, a pause, a step. The fox waits for him beyond the shrine's gates, impatient and beautiful, and when Shizuka is seven, nearly eight, Haruka feels the lines of the shrine slowly fall apart. He spends his nights in the library, slips of parchment and lines of ink, and when Shizuka comes home from school, he teaches him how to set the wards, how to smooth his thumb over the cracks of the shrine. How, with his hands on Shizuka's shoulders, to hold a bow.
He dies on an empty day, between one festival and another. His son is in the library, and his daughter is in the yard. His grandson is playing in the street. He's sitting in the sun, folding a crane, and the fox is standing in front of him, quick and sly and more beautiful than before. Time spins in strange ways.
"Such a beauty," he says, because her eyes are bigger, blacker, than others'. She smiles for him, licks his cheek, and her nails dig into his shoulder.
"You dreamt too much," she says, and she lowers him to the wood of the porch, smoothing out his skin. She sits beside him, her kimono falling over the edge, her hair spilling over his chest. "I've been waiting."
"Our grandson," he says, tries to explain. She laughs at him like windchimes, and he knows, he thinks he knows, that she'll never understand, because she's different. She's young, beautiful, and she'll be so still when Shizuka's grandsons are grown, and their grandsons are grown. Her spin is slower than theirs, a graceful fall of silk and hair while theirs is a tumble. She's a fox, and he's a man, and his grandson is more broken.
"I tried," he turns his face against the wood, tries to see the street past the gates, "to help him." Her laughter is brighter, and when he touches her hair, she turns her face, lies her tongue against his wrist.
"You can't change it," she tells him. "It was supposed to be this way. You shouldn't have dreamt so long. I wasn't meant to wait."
He wants to ask why, but it's an empty day, and old men are empty men, left to dream in the sunshine, paper cranes half-folded around them. Existence is unfolding around him, a step and a pause and stand upright, draw your bow to yourself. He can hear his grandson laughing, and his daughter singing in the yard, with eyes like her mother's. Eyes like the fox's. His grandson is more broken.
"It," the fox murmurs, and she's cradling his face, kissing him with feral mouth, "is hitsuzen."
Written for
overlimits:Jade/Nephry - overworked
Pre-game, small spoilers for Jade's past. It-- sorta became more Jade->Nebilim than Jade/Nephry. Oops. D:
The Replica Song
Another replica died during the night, spitting blood from its mouth. He turns it over with the edge of a scalpel, lies the edge of the blade against the throat, then down the stomach. The rat's body splits open smoothly, and he holds back skin with the dull edge of the scalpel, pulls the cut further open with a thumb and forefinger. The organs slip, feel slimy through his gloves, and he finds the heart.
It's still intact. It should be beating. A touch of the scalpel has the heart cut free, and he lifts it out, smaller than his thumbnail. He holds it cupped in his hand, and when he opens it wide, the valves are clear, and what blood was left in it is clean, a rich red that pearls on his hand.
It should be beating.
He'll try again tomorrow.
x
The next time, both the replica and the original die, blood in the replica's mouth and whiskers, a rattle and sigh from the original. Their hearts aren't broken, nor are their stomachs, their lungs, their liver and brain and intestines. Kidneys, gallbladders, everything is clean. He opens them all, takes notes and draws sketches, quick slashes of ink on the paper. There's no reason for a rattle and blood in whiskers, and he wonders if it'd be the same with humans. If Professor Nebilim will have blood on her mouth.
There's something missing, something he can't think of, on the haze of his mind, and he doesn't know what it is, what could be missing that leads to a rattle of blood. He turns over the bodies, cuts them open with tiny movements, bodies the length of his hand, and deaths the size of his thumb. He empties the rats, then fills them back up, and wonders why they die.
"You should stop," Nephry says, and she lays her hands on his shoulders, rests her chin on the top of his head. He would reach and touch her, pat the back of her hands, but his gloves are slick and wet. He hums instead, flips the scalpel in his hand, and pushes a liver, looks for something he can't find.
"There's something missing," he says, and Nephry's hands are loose. He wonders if she'll step back, if she'll step closer. He wants to touch her hand, but she hates it when he touches her with bloody gloves. She hates it when he touches her.
The hearts should be beating.
"What is it?" she asks, and he frowns, leans closer, trying to find something in the way the blood is smeared across the tray. Words, maybe, or a picture. Some kind of hint of what he's missing, what Professor Nebilim tried to teach him. Tries to teach him.
"They should be beating," he says, and he cuts open a heart, shows it to her. Her face is pale, but she looks at the valves, at the clean blood, watches him smear it between thumb and finger. When he catches her wrist, she shudders, but she doesn't step away. She doesn't step closer.
"Don't work too hard." She kisses the top of his head, like their mother used to, and then she walks away swiftly, sensible heels on a sensible floor, where the blood is easy to wipe up. Where the ashes don't stay for long. He wonders why her heart was beating so hard, blood heavy in her wrist.
x
The original is lying in the bottom of the cage, listless and faint-breathed, but the replica's still alive. Three days, the longest so far. It's throwing itself at the cage, baring its teeth at him, but it's alive. Its heart, lungs, brain are all beating, quick and strong, and he reaches in the cage, grabs the base of its tail. It twists as he pulls it out of the cage, trying to bite him, and he jostles it.
He pins the rat to the tray, thumb and forefinger pressing at the base of the neck, and the rat's limbs scrabble at the smooth metal, nails scrittering. He flips his scalpel with his other hand, lies the edge against the side of the rat, and when the rat lies still, chest heaving for breath, he cuts. It's smooth, clean, deep, and the thrashing smears blood, like words spelled out in the dregs of tea.
It's easy to flip the rat over, its jaws weak and flimsy when it tries to bite him, and he presses his thumb inside, finds the heart, pitter-patter-fast like Nephry's footsteps, sensible shoes on sensible floors when she runs away, face pale and eyes wet. He wonders if Professor Nebilim will wear sensible shoes again, if her mouth will be bloody.
The heart's beating against the underside of his thumb, faster than his heart, and he presses his other thumb against the rat's head, the underside of its jaw, turning it up. He can see the throat move, shallow breathing, and he wonders if Professor Nebilim will be able talk. If her lungs will be clean, her brain and kidney and liver. Her heart.
The heart's not beating.
He wonders what he's missing.
Third:
Lexi's baby shower was today. And-- I found out why she had to go the hospital last week. The baby broke some of Lexi's ribs. As in, hairline fractures. Down her right side. as;fkj OW. And she's on Lortab for all the pain. Like, the kidney, which got horribly squashed, and her fractured ribs. asd;fkjl The sooner the baby's born, the better. Come on, baby. We're just waiting for you~ ♥
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-10-18 10:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-19 06:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-19 03:33 am (UTC).....LIKE IN TWILIGHT OH GOD.
no subject
Date: 2008-10-19 06:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-19 04:02 am (UTC)3. HOLY SHIT BABY. c-can i preemptively suggest enrolling him/her in some form of martial art at a young age to errr, train and rein in ~natural talent~? y'all are gonna have your hands full otherwise. O___o and um, in the meantime, i wish the mother all the best. and lots of painkillers. ;;__;;
2. FF12 - FRAN! ♥ so inscrutable, as always - LIVERSPOTS, jeebus. no wonder balthier dropped her. XD and i would say that's MORE THAN JUST A HINT AT BALTHIER/VAAN, OKAY. (omg in FFTA2 vaan WEARS A SHIRT. a button-down, no less; it's all very balthier-inspired, and yet still quintessentially vaan. ajdsf *_*)
Holic - BZUH. I, god, I don't even have words. POOR HARUKA. ;;__;;
1. I... it's so hard to pick just one. ;;__;; TYL!Tsunafish? ♥ ilu long long time bb.
no subject
Date: 2008-10-19 08:09 pm (UTC)2. ♥ ♥ ♥
1. You can pick more than one, if you want!
TYL!Tsunafish
1. He's pretty sure that if he marries anyone, it'll be Haru. It's not because he loves Kyoko, because he does. But he loves Haru, too, and when he sits down, and thinks about it, he's pretty sure Haru will make it alright, married to a mafia boss. Kyoko's too nice, too sweet, and he doesn't think she'd ever make it. Besides, he's heard that there's a guy at Kyoko's university who smiles at her...
2. He carries a gun now, a shoulder holster under his suit jacket. At first, the straps seemed too tight, the gun too bulky, the life too heavy. Now, though, it's a familiar weight, feels comfortable nestled against his ribs. He likes how it makes him feel safe.
3. He knows he needs to have a son. He doesn't want to raise a kid in this kind of life, though, or have a kid who has to go through the same things he had to go through. Have a kid carry a gun when they're only sixteen. It's kinda a shitty life, and by kinda, he's pretty sure he means really. So when Haru's half-dressed on her bed, with the nervous laugh she gets whenever they're about to have sex, he fumbles for the condoms.
4. He can't say "fuck." It still feels too dirty to him, even when Haru's squirming above him, mouth open in a bright o, and his hands are on her breasts. "Fuck" is too dirty, too crude, too cruel and empty and hurtful. Tsuna doesn't want to hurt anyone, doesn't think he really can hurt anyone, not like that. Especially not Haru, who likes holding hands more than kissing, and has a scar on her hip, and wouldn't even think of saying no to him, because she doesn't care that his life is only going to hurt her in the end.
5. He kissed Hayato once. Uh, Gokudera-kun. Hayato. Gokudera. He doesn't even know what to call him, 'cause he kissed him once, and he's pretty sure that if you kiss your best friend, you're close enough to call him by his given name. But then again, you're probably not supposed to kiss your best friend. And Tsuna didn't like it, but he didn't dislike it, either. It was sorta like kissing his elbow, except a little scratchier. And Hayato-- Gokudera-- he had tasted like beer. Tsuna probably shouldn't get drunk again...
:\ I DON'T KNOW, THEY GREW.
no subject
Date: 2008-10-19 09:36 pm (UTC)I HAVE NO WORDS, ONLY PANICKED BURBLES IN SHEER *TERROR* OF BIOCHEM, AND AMIDST ALL OF THIS INSANITY, LOADS OF LOVE FOR TSUNAFISH AND YOU. ;;___;;
no subject
Date: 2008-10-19 04:03 am (UTC)And I'm never having kids now, too 8Dno subject
Date: 2008-10-19 10:10 pm (UTC)None of it has even fazed Lexi. She's like, "yay, baby!" ads;fklj It's cute, and incredible.no subject
Date: 2008-10-19 09:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-03 03:44 am (UTC)1. She never thought she'd die like this. She thought she'd die in childbirth, like her aunt, or in the river, like her cousin, or in the midst of winter, like the deer that come down from the hills, starving in the snow. She never thought it'd be her village, never thought that her eyes would be too bright, her hair too long, her body too girlish. That she was too alive.
2. She's close to her brother and cousins; too close, maybe. She grew up playing with them in the river, racing with the boys until her mother came and pulled her back into the village. They said they'd protect her; she said she didn't need protecting. When the village kills her, her brother doesn't come. Her cousins don't, either. Her father doesn't save her. Her mother weeps as though she's already dead.
3. When she wakes up, she's alone. There's his horse, and a baby, but she's alone. After that, she's scared of falling asleep, because she's sure that when she wakes up, she'll be alone again, lying on a stone altar, under the dusty sunlight. When she does fall asleep, in the grass on top of the temple, she dreams of her village, and her family. And when she wakes up, she doesn't open her eyes until she hears the baby crying, because she's afraid that everything will be gone again.
4. She never talked to Wander. She knew who he was, vaguely, if only because their village wasn't that large. She knew that he used to play with her cousins, and that he was a few years older. But he grew up before she ever went to play at the river, and then she never thought about talking to him. If she'd known that she'd die-- that he'd die-- she might've spoken to him.
i swear your icon is flickering at me. IS IT? or am i just going crazy? asdf;kljd D:
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Date: 2008-10-19 11:42 pm (UTC)Iruka.
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Date: 2008-11-03 03:52 am (UTC)1. He'd never want to be jounin. He likes being a chuunin, because he likes to teach. And they never let jounin teach in the Academy. And it's not so much that he's ~*~making a difference~*~ or ~*~changing the world~*~. He just likes it. It's easy, and the kids are fun, for the snot-nosed brats that they are. Also, pretty good pay for pretty easy work. If you ignored the whole SMALL CHILDREN ARMED WITH DEADLY WEAPONS angle.
2. He was an entirely tragic teenager. Probably because his parents died, followed in short order by his friends and teacher. But he was the classic tragic, misunderstood hero. Or anti-hero. He was totally an anti-hero. Dark, brooding, broken on the inside. Except when he laughed, he still snorted milk out his nose, and he tripped over his own feet sometimes, and he liked laughing too much to stay dark, brooding, and oh-so-emo. Besides, other people do tragic so much better than him. And he thinks less of them. They've all had loses-- no one's is more important than another's. Or at least, he thinks so.
3. He lives in an apartment smaller than he needs to. He makes a fair amount of money, so he could always live somewhere nicer. Have nicer things, too. But he tries to save as much money as he can. Not so much for a rainy day, though, as for when he dies. He has this dream of ~*~making a difference~*~ after he's dead. Through money, of course, because he knows that money talks. And he's pretty sure he's going to leave the money to Naruto. At least, he will if Naruto lives. If not-- then he'll leave it for Shikamaru. 'cause really, Shikamaru's always been Iruka's favorite.
4. Shikamaru is Iruka's favorite student, but Naruto is the student who always needed Iruka the most. And Iruka doesn't play favorites; Iruka plays needs. And little possessed orphans always trump lazy only children.
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Date: 2008-10-20 02:08 am (UTC)Holy OUCH, Batman. Poor Lexi. Although, after the baby is born this is something she will be able to hold over her head for the rest of her life.
"Don't GIVE ME THAT ATTITUDE. When I was pregnant with you you fractured my ribs and squashed my kidney!! I HAVE PUT UP WITH ENOUGH FROM YOU, MISSY. NOW GO TO YOUR ROOM!!"