When the devil comes a callin'

One more day to go!

finite_farfalla — Wed, 25 Jun 2014 22:35:22 GMT

Ninth day's prompt is song.

Punchline

Saline sweat falls into his eyes, Rick blinks them away. His fingers hurt, but all that euphoric scream, the sheer heat, and the endorphin rushing in his vein, it'll all be worth it. Encore is the best part of any performance.

Mikey screams encouragement for the audience to shouts louder. It's a cue for Chris to crank up a few beat on his drum. Rick plays a few hook lines with his guitar. The audience screams impossibly louder.

::

They've been on Warped for a couple of months now. Rick is so exhausted. His joints crack like an old man's these days.

"Gross," Chris throwed at him as Rick yawned and wiped the drool from his face.

He ignores Chris. He's been up all night writing a song with Mikey after their performance yesterday. He had groaned when Mikey approached him with a twinkle in his eye.

"Rick, catch!" Lana warns him just briefly before something sails toward Mikey.

Rick, with years of footbal training during highschool, catches the ball of paper Lana throws him more out of reflect than anything.

"What?" Rick says.

"Just something funny," Lana tells him, a crooked smile stretches her lips.

Rick examines the crumpled paper in his hand. It looks like a cut out of a newspaper. He smooths it out of the ball shape. His eyes widen when he sees the picture front and center.

"Ugh," he groans. "How drunk again were we?"

Lana snickers.

::

How close was too close before? Had Mikey always rests his head in Rick’s lap to play his Gameboy? Rick knows for-fucking-sure that he’s never paid so much attention to the way his friend's fingers deftly manipulate the buttons, the rapid tap of his thumb on B, even though he has an inventory full of great balls and they both know button-mashing doesn’t do shit to increase your catch rate.

He plays with Mikey's hair anyway. The strands are dry and coarse after so many bathroom dye jobs, and so far, red is Rick's favorite color on Mikey.

"Hey, Rick," Mikey starts. "Do you think we can play the song we make yesterday tonight?"

Rick watches Lana out of the corner of his eyes. The girl is looking amused – too fucking gleeful and that indicates more than anything that bets have been placed.

"If everyone adds their part into the song sometime before tonight's performance, I suppose," Rick says.

He wants to ask Mikey, but Rick is too chicken to do something about it. There's just no way to make it not awkward. How do you approach your best friend and ask question like, did you kiss me last night?

Ugh. Except that Mikey had as the photographic evidence has shown.

"Guys, what do you think?" Mikey puts down his Gameboy and asks the room at large. He surpresses a yawn then turns to circle his hands around Rick's stomach, nuzzling his face into Rick's shirt.

Rick tenses a little bit. It's normal occurence, Mikey and him have always been a tad bit touchy feely.

Lana honest to God bursts out laughing. Rick gives her the stink eye.

::

Rick is drunk. He slurs most of his words as he babbles nonsense to Mikey.

Mikey wraps his arms around Rick to help him walk back to their bus. His hands are surprisingly gentle around Rick's waist.

"Hmmm," Rick comments. He's about one second away to launch into a poetic tirade about Mikey's arms when Mikey suddenly slams him against the side of the bus.

Rick has a fleeting thought about how it must not be fun to kiss someone as drunk as him, but Mikey does it anyway. He mashes his lips on Rick's and Rick can taste the alcohol and ciggarette they have been indulging the better part of the night.

Rick tries to kiss back. It is sloppy as hell; saliva wets the lower half of both their faces when they separate. Mikey laughs at him.

::

Rick doesn't remember anything about that kiss. Someone must have been lounging in hiding at the bushes, to catch the member of the band doing things stupid enough to make it into media. Well, it hasn't blown out of proportion yet as far as stupid things go (their agents, for one, would have burned their ears with their phonecalls for indication).

And, Rick and Mikey, have been known to be close. All those fanfictions... there is no flame without smoke. Ugh.

"Tonight," Mikey shouts to the crowd. "We'd like to play a new song. I wrote the song just last night and my buddies add their parts into it ASAP so we could play it tonight. I'd really want to dedicate this song for someone."

That last statement perks Rick's ear. He doesn't remember Mikey saying anything about writing song for someone.

"Some of you may have seen the newspaper this morning?" Mikey continues.

Dread creeps along Rick's spine. He always has this intuition when Mikey is seconds away from doing stupid things, like that one time Mikey tried to do coke for example.

"Well," Mikey says. "If you haven't you should read it."

Rick nearly cringes when Mikey turns to face him. Mikey gives him a dopey smile and walks over to him. He doesn't give Rick any chance to deflect.

The crowd screams as Mikey lands a soft kiss on his lips.

"It's for you Rick," Mikey whispers, just for him.

Rick hears Lana's guffaw somewhere on his right.

Ha!

finite_farfalla — Wed, 25 Jun 2014 03:30:12 GMT

Eight day's prompt is Films.

baby you're my favorite high

"Sloan," Marcus shouts, the sound nearly carried off by the strong gust. "Life or death?"

"What?" Sloan says. He eyes the drop in front of them, water crashing against rock on the bottom. Someone has to be really lucky to survive a fall from this cliff. "Are you insane?"

Marcus flashes him a smile. Dimples form in the creases of his cheek. Sloan isn't a soft heart, not by a long shot, but he feels his heart beat just a little faster. Marcus's eyes are beautiful. Damn him.

"Leap of faith, Sloan," Marcus says and he jumps off the cliff before Sloan can do anything to stop him.

Behind them, a cacophony of the soldiers who are looking for them sounds nearer and nearer.

"Fuck! We better survive this Marc. You owe me a drink for this!" Sloan shouts to the air. He hears an exhilarated laugh from Marcus, sailing in the air as he is.

Sloan jumps.

Leap of faith, indeed.

::

"And cut," the director says as they land safely on the net below the cliff.

People mills around them, helping them getting off the net. Adrien crings when his foot enters the water. The water is biting cold this early in January.

"Are you okay, kiddo?" Mike, the actor who plays Sloan's partner, Marcus, says.

"Been better," Adrien mutters.

Mike laughs, landing an encouraging punch on his shoulder. "Come on. Let's get you to dry place."

Adrien follows Mike, wading through the water currents and crews milling around them. Adrien isn't a short guy, but compares to Mike, he might as well be a wilting flower. Mike eats the short distance between their set in the middle of the lagoon and the shore in half the step Adrien needs. He waits by the shore for Adrien to catch up.

"To my trailer, come on," he tells Adrien.

Their trailers are sitting side by side not far from the set. He knows what to expect now after nearly three months working with Mike. The moment he enters the trailer, he is greeted by a burst of colors from what has to be hundreds of photographs double-taped to various surfaces in Mike's trailer.

Adrien sits on the stool in the small built in pantry, and examines one of the newer ones. The director and Adrien, talking during the barbeque night they held just two days ago. The built a camp-fire just for the fun of it. The light of that fire paints everything in the picture a dim orange.

"Here," Mike says. Adrien catches the towel he throws just in time.

Adrien brings it under his nose, surreptitiously catching a whiff of laundry soap, before he brings the towel to dry the hem of his jeans.

Mike has changes to a board short. He is pouring a mug of black sludge from the coffee maker. "Do you want any?" he offers Adrien.

"Sure," Adrien says.

Mike gives him the one he's poured and rummages a drawer for more mug. "Thanks," Adrien tells him. He takes a sip. The coffee is crappy as usual. The sour-bitterness makes him cringe. "I'm going to miss this," Adrien says.
Mike leans his hips on the counter beside Adrien's hands cradling the warm mug. Mike now holds a cup of his own. "Just two more scenes, huh?"

Adrien nods. Mike has been a wonderful co-actor so far. This is Adrien's first big budgeted movie. His name is going to be known across the world following it's success. He doesn't know if he's prepared for that. Mike has coaches him on many things. The man has only two years above him in age, but miles between them in experience.

He hears the clink of Mike putting down his mug. "Hey kiddo," Mike says. "Look at me."

Adrien lifts his face. His heart rate picks up when he registers the proximity of Mike's face on his own. "What?" he whispers.

Mike gives him one of the dimpled smiles that must have broken so many hearts. "I really want to kiss you," he says.

"Oh," Adrien says intelligently. He has been dreaming of this happening in various different scenario. It takes nearly all of Adrien to prevent himself from pinching his own hand, making sure that this is real.

Mike dips in closer, ghosts his lips just above Adrien's. Adrien grips tighten around the mug in his hands, grounding himself. "I-is this a one time thing?" Adrien says, and chides himself for asking stupid questions.

Mike laughs and brings his hand to craddle the crook of Adrien's jaw. He kisses Adrien's brow. "It's leap of faith, kid," he says. "I've wanted you, so, bad, from the first day."

Adrien's throat contracts. "Oh," he says again, and adds in a whispers, "You may kiss me if you want."

Mike surges forward and do just that.

D.Gray-man fanfiction. Lavi/Neah.

finite_farfalla — Tue, 24 Jun 2014 00:57:46 GMT

Seventh day's prompt is Books.

This is a snippet set in the same universe as Stranger on the Shore.

Somber layer of thick grey clouds had hovered above the city all day, and when night came, the condensed clouds let up drifts of powdery snow.

Lavi tracked the slow increasing layer of snow on the outer part of the window sill as he sat on the chair by the window. The chill had seeped in through the thin wall of the shack.

He used to hate snowy night, the silence of it, of how it drowned out sounds like black holes, gobling up the space around them. On nights like these, he distracted himself with books, seeking comfort by immersing himself in dead people's thoughts -- given life again in yellowed pages and faded ink blots.

Some nights, Panda played a game with him. He would recite the entirety of a book, each line, and each precise word. Lavi rarely made mistakes. He had his memory to his name if nothing else. Photographic memory, Panda said, once, it certainly gives you advantage, but doesn't make you smart. Don't slack off!

"It is a beautiful and delightful sight to behold the body of the Moon," he whispered.

"What is it?" came a voice from the bed. Walker's.

Lavi turned his head to look at him, a lump under the cover in the dark of their shared lodging. "I'm sorry to wake you," he said.

"You don't," Walker's reply was faint, mumbled by his blanket. "It's cold."

"Ah, yeah, it's snowing," Lavi said. He got up to check on the fireplace, throwing more logs into the heap already inside, disturbing the careful structure he made earlier that day. He stayed a moment to make sure they caught fire.

The room was brighter and warmer when they did.

"Thanks," Walker said.

Lavi walked to his own bed and sat. He saw Walker shift under the blanket. "It's Galileo Galilei," he told Walker, answering his earlier question.

"The mad scientist?" Walker snorted.

Lavi nodded, then remember that Walker couldn't see him, wrapped like a breakfast burrito as he was. "Yes," he said. "Although, I'd prefer to say that he's idealistic rather than mad."

"And executed because of it," Walker replied.

"You know your history," Lavi observed.

"Oh please, one doesn't have to be a Bookman to learn," Walker said, then added, "I used to like Ovid."

Lavi didn't care much for poetry, didn't see the point of it. "Metamorphoses?"

"Omnia mutantur, nihil interit," Walker said.

"Sanctius his animal mentisque capacius altae, deerat adhuc et quod dominari in cetera posset: Natus homo est," Lavi recited.

A snort. "Show off."

"I've read it, once," Lavi said. "I thought it was boring."

Lavi saw the pillow coming his way. He didn't bother to dodge.

"Go to sleep, smart-ass," Walker chided him.

Lavi smiled despite himself.

Vampire Knight. Pre-slash. Kaname/Zero.

finite_farfalla — Mon, 23 Jun 2014 13:55:56 GMT

the boy with broken halo
a Vampire Knight fanfiction

Sixth day's prompt: Food
Warning: blood, implication of violence
This one is written for nherizu. She actually asked for a Merlin fic, but idk, my brain couldn't branch out to that fandom today no matter how I wrangled it to. Then, I remembered that she liked Vampire Knight, once upon a time. I hope you still do, nel.

The night is warm and humid. Chorus of crickets' call fill the air, nearly drowning out the gasp that escapes from Zero's lips as Kaname sinks his claws on the back of Zero's neck, pinning Zero there, with Zero's chest pressed to the side of the building. Kaname stares hard, unblinking, at the silent, shivering creature under his claws, and wishes to smash its brain against the rough brick wall, to taste the red violence of it.

As it was, Kaname's feels his fangs itch with an unslaked thirst.

Zero has never been good at resisting things that scares him, Kaname knows that much, at least. And it has been a while since Zero is afraid of him.

"Hungry, are we?" Kaname sneers.

Zero needs something from him and Kaname sets all the game rules. The other man is nearly insane with bloodlust. The thrum of tension is palpable under the one point of contact between them, Kaname's strong claws gripping Zero in place. He can see the jump of Zero's pulse in the strain of his tendon, and the temptation is too great. Kaname touches the tip of his nose along that vein. Zero smells of Yuuki—clean lavender shampoo—and the musk of Zero's sweat, dripping now from his hairline.

"Stop that," Zero grits out.

Kaname controls his impulse. It isn't about him, this time, as much as he enjoys humiliating the other guy. Red eyes glow and he says, "You drank Yuuki's blood recently. Despite what I've given you?"

He hears Zero's breath catches. "It's… none of your business," he says.

"It's my business if you hurt her, trash," Kaname spits out.

"It’s hard… harder… to control myself when I… when," Zero's teeth elongate as Kaname pushes his claw in. Blood trickles from the back of Zero's neck. It takes all Kaname's might not to taste that blood, smelling faintly of Yuuki's.

"Two weeks," Kaname says. "Go to me once every two weeks. Save your pride, Kiryuu."

He knows the scenario: Zero's pride keeping him from calling on Kaname until he is on the verge of insanity, shivering with bloodlust fever.

"I'm not… one of your… pets," Zero hisses.

Kaname snarls. "Zero Kiryuu, my pet would be more obedient."

"I'm not asking you for this," Zero says.

"I'm not doing this for you. Yuuki implored me to keep you alive," Kaname replies. "And I will as long as you stay away from Yuuki."

Ignoring Zero's snarling, Kaname lifts his free hand, offering the soft inside to Zero. The lines of his vein stark blue on pale skin. He sees the red bleeds into Zero's eyes, the hesitation and hunger, warring as the other man licks at sharp fangs.

Kaname's own fangs pierce the skin of his lips as he grits his teeth at the same time Zero's fangs break skin. So much for not wanting to drink his blood, Kaname thinks bitterly.

"Stop," he says, drawing his wrist away after Zero takes two mouthful of blood. The skin heals almost instantly, leaving only a red smear as evidence. It was still warm from the sensation of Zero's mouth, a remote part of his brain notes.

Kaname takes a step back, releasing Zero from his dead hold. He meets Zero's eyes as the man turns to face him. Blood mars the lower half of Zero's face, and those eyes are staring at him cold as two chips of ice.

"Remember my words," Kaname says and walks away, not waiting for answer.

D.Gray-man fanfic. Kanda/Allen.

finite_farfalla — Sun, 22 Jun 2014 09:56:31 GMT

Fourth day's prompt: Places to go.

A little bit of liberty is taken on my part, as this is a reincarnation fic. Places to go after you die. This is for a1y_puff who, I hope, is still struggling with today's prompt. lol.

At one o'clock in the afternoon May 1, 1945, Yuu Kanda died.

Before he died, he met someone.

"I've found you," the stranger said, standing in the midst of cacophony.

Yuu felt his breathing catch. The young man, child, whoever he was, he did not look a day older than fifteen. His voice resounded clearly in Yuu's mind despite the sound of gunfire and exploding mortars around them.

The pause cost Yuu greatly. He was in the line of fire. Distracted by the stranger, he never saw the rounds that pierced his torso coming.

Hot metal cleaved through skin and right into his lungs. Yuu fell to his knees, cursing even as he scanned the trees, looking among the muzzle flashes for the one that had hit him. Blood gurgled up past his lips. He gripped his rifle and returned his one last fire before everything became too dark, and his body too heavy.

He collapsed face first to the ground. From his side, he could hear Sgt. Tanabe shouting for his name.

Hearing is the last sensory-perception to fade. He knew he was going to die.

"Nononono, I've finally found you," the kid pleaded. His voice was very near that he must be speaking right beside Yuu's ear.

It was the last thing he remembered of this life.

::

Allen Walker had only one family member left. It was always Mana and him against the world. When Mana died of sickness, he was left all alone. The only option was to go into foster care system, but no family could stand him long enough. He went through family faster than a child went through clothes growing up. He was cursed, some whispered. The kinder ones said, "He's special, that kid." But all the same, he ended up at an orphanage.

Yuu met Allen Walker when he was seventeen. Allen Walker was fifteen.

::

Seventeen was a little bit old. No one looked at Kanda twice during visitation days. The couples saw his hard eyes and turned to coo over the little ones, chatting with Komui over the possibilities of adoption.

It didn't matter. One more year and he would be on his own. He could get a job then, finding a place to stay might be tough, but he would manage.

Patience and planning, he told himself, no one would take care of you. You can only rely on yourselves.

::

Yuu dreamt, sometimes, flashes of gunfire and frantic shout, the rush of adrenaline that felt painfully real. He always woke with a start, the beginning of a scream died in his throat.

He told matron of it when he was younger. When he was six and trembling around the safe circle of her arms.

"Shhh," she said. "Shhh. It's just a dream, sugar."

He clung to the front of her blouse, knuckles almost white around the orange fabric, and believed. He hung on her words and seek comfort from her warmht.

::

When Yuu met Allen for the first time. It felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to his head. He doubled over and nausea hit him like a wave.

He took a good look again at the new kid's face. Sounds of gunfire and the taste of ash in his mouth.

Yuu ran.

::

Allen found him down by the beach. Yuu was sitting on the rocks where he had often fallen alseep with his hands around his knees when he was younger, staring into the fjord.

"Matron is looking for you," Allen said, crossing his arms. He stood behind Yuu, looking at the top of Yuu's head.

Yuu was silent.

In the evening mist, the sun was but a paler shade of itself. The tide was low and slow coming; wave after wave of water lazily impaled themselves against rocks. The air smelt of oil and seaweed.

He heard a sigh, and an impishly said, "Am I so scary that the sight of my face make you run as if the devil himself is chasing you?"

The acrid taste was still strong in his tongue. Yuu saw that lurid scar in Allen's face and it overlapped with the same scar that belonged to someone in his dreams. It had felt, now that he had calm himself, nostalgic.

Yuu tilted his face to face the kid. "I've seen you," he started, "In my dreams."

Allen smiled then. A small, twisted thing, an expression too old in the face of someone so young. And young they were, Yuu was seventeen. This kid, was, what? Fifteen? But sometimes... sometimes Yuu felt like he was one hundred and fifty, remembering the sight of men in uniforms.

"Yeah," Allen said, "And this time you didn't die upon seeing me. Which is an improvement, I suppose."

Yuu deciphered and processed the words. It was a long time before he moved. "Let's go back," he said. He brushed his pants as he stood. The sun had arched lower on the sky, angling just enough to shine right into their eyes.

Turning his back to the sun, Yuu met Allen's gaze squarely. Allen's face was severe, painted orange by the setting sun. His shoulder bumped Yuu's when he walked pass Yuu to jump down the outcropping of rocks back to the path that would take them to the orphanage; a move that was too calculated to be accidental.

Yuu closed his eyes, counting to three before following Allen back.

There would be time to talk, he mused, given that he wasn't shot again in his immediate future.

::

I'm not going to lose, yo

finite_farfalla — Sat, 21 Jun 2014 15:04:58 GMT

Okay. Fourth day's theme is Want. Another lazy writing. I wrote and well, posted it smack-dab... just don't expect anything high quality.

Warning: non-con. mature. ~~oops.~~
This is another glimpse of that thing I wrote two days ago about the king and poor, poor Lionel.

{C}

It was hot. The heated pressure pressed down on him, threatening to suffocate him. The lack of air, the high temperature, the friction, they drove him to the brink of insanity. He needed more. He wanted more. But what was more? What was it that he need?

He clawed at skin, drawing blood, leaving marks, receiving his own marks as the result, and pain.

The remote part of his mind knew there was something wrong with this, that he shouldn’t be here, naked, with every inches of his skin burning with need for someone else, degrading him down to the basest of his raw desire, leaving only instinct to make his decision for him. But thinking straight right now was like him trying to grab hold of an armful of sand with sieve. Not when that friction focused his mind to only thought about down, down there.

He tried to surge closer, to create more of that wonderful friction, but the other wouldn’t let him, pushing him down, restraining his hands, blocking his every move. He wanted to curse, loudly, vulgarly, but his mind was unable to locate the right word. It was hazy, and muddled, and raving as only a person driven to insanity could.

“Say it,” he heard someone said, the voice so far away, as if coming from another dimension. “Say you want me, Lionel.”

Lionel, yes, his name... He was Lionel.

He opened the eyes he didn’t realize he had closed. He could see a blurred face of someone with very, very beautiful green eyes. At first, he couldn't place who the person was, but then… those eyes reminded him of lizard… of… a <em>dragon</em>.

Lionel pushed the man away, trashed with all his might. The attempt was futile. He was no wilted flower. Even as the third prince of his country, one who was assigned to be a diplomat, to look pretty and make war with words instead of swords, he was no less trained in martial arts than his brothers.

The man in front of him though, was a monster. The grip on his hands was painful, and he could feel now the trickle of blood obscuring his eyes. The torn skin on his forehead stung. He couldn't even remember how he had hurt himself. And thinking… it was so hard to think.

"What have you done to me?" Lionel hissed.

The king's lips parted in a toothy smile. "Sobering up are we?" he mocked.

"Fuck you," Lionel said, spitting the king's face. It spattered back to his own cheek due to gravity, but a few drops landed, Lionel noted with satisfaction.

The king was dazed for a moment in surprise. And then, "Ah, should've seen that one coming," he laughed in mirth.

"Let me up," Lionel said.

"I can," the king said. "But then, it wouldn't be fun, would it?"

Lionel trashed again. It was still very like pushing on an unmoving wall.

"Since you so keen on it," the king said in annoyance. "I'll leave you alone."

Lionel felt something clicked around his wrists. The king had reached for the chains that he saw earlier and fastened them on him. Lionel cursed in his mind. He immediately tested the restraint and felt it wouldn't give. The bed creaked as the king got off.

"Your brother, Mathiu, is it? He arrived in court just this morning to plead your release. What do you think stop me from asking my general to severe his head?" the king told him.

Fuck. Fuck it. Lionel cursed. He gritted his teeth and swallowed down the humiliation of what he was about to say. "Please…" he said.

A smile. "Please what, my dear Lionel?"

"Please fuck me, your majesty."

D.Gray-man. Lavi/Allen.

finite_farfalla — Fri, 20 Jun 2014 16:28:39 GMT

So I am too lazy to write properly but still want to tell a story. Here it is. I call it lazy writing, you may call it some butchered incarnation of 1sentence fic, whatever. These numbered themes I use, are in fact, stolen from 1sentence comm, and I write them for the third day's overall prompt, which is Fear. I know it's cheating, I knoooooowww.

Now enjoy some Laven eloping into the setting sun in a post-apocalyptic world.

#32 – Farewells

When the world ends, it doesn’t end with a fanfare. It stutters and… halts. Everyone drops, one by one, lifeless on the dirt. Some of them don’t even have a single drop of blood marring their skin. Lavi says akuma sucks the life out of them. Allen doesn’t quite believe him.

#48 – Unknown

The first few days after the end, they just sit and wait. For surely, this mysterious illness, it will come after them, too. The echoes of their own breaths hollow the space between the two of them.

#05 – Run

But it doesn’t come for them. They stay at the headquarter until food runs out and the corpses rot; the smell so bad that they can sense it four stories away in the attic where they hide so they don’t see. Allen imagines he can hear flies buzzing around the dead things. (He doesn’t call them “them”, can’t deal with them being “them”).

#44 – Hope

On the second day after their food runs out, Lavi speaks up, “We should get out of here. Somewhere, there must be someone somewhere.”

It sounds too much like wistful thinking. But, if there's one thing Allen knows, is it's better to keep hoping. He has walked this far, he can keep going.

#23 – Fire

They start a fire sometime after the sun sets. They don’t speak, letting shadows dance over them. There's no one. They passed through two towns today and found nothing alive. The taste of smoke from the fire is acrid in Allen's tongue. He wishes he had time to burn all those bodies. Give them proper burial, like the one they did for their comrades back in Black Order's HQ.

At some point, Lavi breaks the silence, quoting a phrase he recognized from one of his favorite book, "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."

Allen tips his head to face the constellation of stars above their head. There's no one anymore, no civilization, and those stars shine so bright in the lack of artificial lighting marring the night sky.

#03 – Memory

Lavi writes when they have enough fire going to be able to see clearly at night. He tells Allen it's not because old habits die hard. Lavi writes in case there’s someone he can pass this memory to.

#22 – Journey

They walk and walk and walk, passing forests, farms, and towns.

#08 – Cold

They settle in an empty hut for a day. Blizzard hits hard outside, painting the world in white. Allen watches Lavi’s breaths puff out white wisps every time he breathes out.

“Enjoy the view?” Lavi asks. Uneven grin tugs his mouth.

Allen swats the back of Lavi’s head.

Lavi laughs. “Here,” he says, opening his arms wide. “I won’t let you die of cold on my watch."

Allen scuttles closer to Lavi, his back against Lavi’s chest and let the man drapes a thick blanket over the both of them. Lavi’s arms are a reassuring weight on him.

#27 – Fall

Their first kiss happened rather abruptly, but not unexpected; the latter, at least, on Allen's part. Allen caught Lavi on the ruin of the stairs of an old church in a nameless town.

"Don't run," Allen told him. "This is scary, but don't run."

He put as much conviction into his voice and his eyes as he could, standing inches apart from Lavi, pressing the other's back against the stone wall.

Cold draft was coming in through the arrow slits high above their heads. Allen shivered, but not because of the chill. He was afraid; he was <em>bloody</em> afraid.

"See?" he showed Lavi his trembling hands, plaintive now. "I'm scared too."

Lavi's eye widened. Allen could almost see that clever mind grounded to a halt. "I--" Lavi said.

Allen decided yanked him down, a hand behind his neck, and kissed him.

orific?

finite_farfalla — Thu, 19 Jun 2014 14:27:52 GMT

Second day's prompt is Love.
IDEK. A king and his spoil of war.

They dressed Lionel like a painted whore. The strings of beads hanging from his bedlah belt clacking as he walked down the hallways of this palace of stone, as he walked to the king.

The king, he seethed, that demanded him as spoil of war.

The two maids that accompanied him ushered him through the heavy wooden door that led to his majesty's bed chamber. He ignored the sneer that the armored soldier stationed to guard the door all night gave him. It couldn't be obvious enough the reason he was escorted to the king's private quarter at night, cleaned up and perfumed, dressed as he was.

The maids left him at the threshold; the door closed behind him with finality. He stood in the shadow, unsure of his welcome. The king's bed chamber was huge, darkness lurking where the lanterns' light couldn't touch. It reminded him a little of a dragon's den in story books he used to read as a young prince.

There was no flame from the hearth, not yet, this early in June. As it was, he hardly noticed the presence of a man sitting in an armchair in front of that unlit hearth.

The man, the king, he supposed, stood. The king's feature, comprised of light and shadows dancing to the sway of the lanterns' fire, was severe. Strong jaw and straight nose, a profile that should belong in a coin.

"Remind me of your name," the king commanded.

He drew himself up to his full height, shoulder tense. He was many things, but a coward wasn't one of them. He was first and foremost, the third prince of his country, now ruined and ravaged by this man's soldiers.

"I am Lionel Inglis of Rhendas," he said, deliberately leaving the reverential denomination such as my lord, or your majesty. This man was not his king.

"Do you know why you are here?"

"I have been given to you as part of my father's term of surrender," he tried to make his voice as flat as possible.

The king's eyes glinted in the dark, like that of... a dragon, yes, a dragon. Green, almost black in the diminished light. How fitting, he mused.

"And why have you been given to me?" the king asked again, slower this time as if anticipating his answer.

Lionel's jaw clenched and unclenched before he said, "You asked for something my father loved the most."

The king smiled. His teeth were white, even row under lips as red as blood. "Yes," he said. "And here you are."

Lionel shivered despite himself.

in medias res. and ah, good ol' eye fucking.

finite_farfalla — Wed, 18 Jun 2014 13:41:21 GMT

Secret
A Generation Kill fanfiction.
Summary: FYI Nate is a photojournalist attached to Brad's team.

This is part of ten days challenge that IDK even HOW was born during group messaging session with a1y_puff and nherizu earlier today. First day's prompt is secret.

Marines awaken in their holes to find the rain had worn itself out overnight, leaving behind a slightly overcast morning. The din of men mounting their sleeping bags and e-tools back to the Humvees filled the air.

Nate watched Team Two from afar, five men and an open top Humvee, no more than shillouettes limned by orange against the backdrop of rising sun. It was a slightly disconcerting view, like watching a scene from a movie where they were the last men to walk on earth. Five men dwarfed by vast, unforgiving desert. The endless sky promised yet another scorching, hot day.

He clicked the camera shutter twice.

"Out of the freezer and into the frying pan," Corporal Person observed at Nate's nine.

Nate let a smile tugged his lips. He lowered his camera and moved his eyes to meet Sgt. Colbert's at his one.

Nate raised his camera again, looking, now, at Colbert through his viewfinder. His blue eyes was stark, ringed by the hollow of those sunken eyelids. Nate pressed the shutter. The image would come out like one of those that made the cover of National Geographic, beautiful eyes amid the chaos of war. Except, maybe he would keep this one.

"How many of those will you take?" Colbert said. The sand had turned all their hair indeterminate gray, leeching out Nate's bronze and darkening Colbert's blond until they might all be emaciated, soot-faced, dark-mopped siblings.

Nate licked his lips, chapped by last night's bone-chilling wind. "As many as I want, Sergeant," he said.
It might be only Nate's imagination, but he could have sworn he saw Colbert's dark pupils dilate even from this distance. Nate's heart rate picked up.

Those eyes, he knew, would look almost black under the cover of the night; the sweep of blond lashes soft as Colbert blinked, kissing Nate slowly, savoring.

"Get a room you two," Person told them.

"I believe, Corporal Person, that you need to get your ass moving," Colbert said.

"Dude, sorry if I don't wet my panty at the prospect of marinating my ass in that tin can. I think I sweat so much I can fuck a Marine without lube any day."

"That's fucking disgusting," Lance Corporal Trombley threw from somewhere behind them.

Nate held Colbert's gaze even as the exchange of words occurred. When Colbert raised his brows, Nate shrugged, breaking eye contact as he spotted something moving in the distance.

Nate saw Gunnery Sgt. Wynn stepping out from the tangle of shadows forming the Team Two. The Gunny was walking determinately towards their direction.

"We're clearing through a town on our way north. The battalion is looking for a way around that town up ahead, so we can link up with RCT-1 on the other side," Wynn drawled as he unfurled a map on the hood of the Humvee and pointed to a small circle drawn on the map.

"Copy that, Gunny. Is there any intel on hostiles we might encounter in the town?" Colbert asked. He'd come to stand beside Wynn. His stance was relaxed, but Nate could hear something had changed in his voice.

"Nope. Satellite image showed nothing, but expect the worst," Wynn replied.

"Solid copy," Brad nodded.

Dusting off the spider webs and dust bunnies of this place with fic

finite_farfalla — Sat, 10 Aug 2013 14:53:39 GMT

Fandom: Teen Wolf, Sterek :P
Word count: short

A what if AU, in which Sherrif Stilinski dies.

Inspired by this gifs set.

—-

They fight. Sometimes.

Both of them are a little broken at the seams. Derek, with the many trauma and losses he has accumulated in his life is never quite right from the start. And Stiles, he’s never quite got over the guilt of losing his father.

Often, the trigger is something mundane. Derek’s forgotten to put the milk carton back into the fridge this time.

Derek storms out of the house just before it can escalate into a shouting match —an inevitability really, because Derek’s patience is hair trigger at best and Stiles will compromise but never ever back down, not unless there are lives in danger.

When Derek comes back eventually, because Derek is many things, but he always comes back for Stiles, they don’t touch and they don’t talk about it. Stiles puts on a movie instead.

They watch men and women eviscerate each other in overly dramatic splashes of blood on the ground; they watch quest of glory paid in blood and a cathartic kiss between the two protagonists that happens just before the credit rolls.

Only after the movie ends and the DVD winds back into the starting menu, only then Stiles touches him. He tentatively twines his fingers with Derek and pulls the man with him to their bedroom.

Derek goes willingly when Stiles urges him to lay on the bed. Stiles places his own body above Derek, leaning his head on Derek’s chest, arms tight around Derek’s waist.

He doesn’t say anything, but Derek can feel the wetness when Stiles burrows his head between the junction of Derek’s neck and shoulder. Something in Derek clenches tight.

He places his hand gently on Stiles back.

"It’s okay. I’m here," Derek whispers. "I’m here. I’ll never leave you."

War Big Bang Art Post

finite_farfalla — Thu, 15 Nov 2012 06:10:46 GMT

I had the pleasure of working with impala_chick for this round. She has written a wonderful AU set in The Tudors universe, which you can find here. :D

Given the time frame, I realize I could've done more. Nevertheless, these are what I have.

Cover:

Divider:

The End Banner:

Icons:

FST, D.Gray-man, Lavi/Neah

finite_farfalla — Sun, 30 Sep 2012 11:25:26 GMT

I made a mix awhile back. Never got around to post it here as well. Just in case anyone need some new songs on their playlist. Enjoy. Don't forget to support the artist if you like them! :D

Medium: FST
Subject: Lavi/Neah, Lavi/Allen Walker
Title: Black Coral on the Sand

This is a fanmix made to accompany a fanfic I've written, Stranger on the Shore (AO3|FFnet).

>>DOWNLOAD HERE<<

finite_farfalla — Tue, 14 Aug 2012 15:53:17 GMT

Reason to watch Teen Wolf #1: Colton Haynes

Watching Teen Wolf makes me feel like a pedophile. Ugh, I'm old.

Bulleted entry #1

finite_farfalla — Sun, 27 May 2012 14:21:49 GMT

Lady Gaga's concert in Indonesia bites the dust. Not that I'm a big fan or anything, but ... the reason for the cancellation makes me want to claw at something. Scream really hard. Extremists are bad, but uninformed drones who do not even bother to listen grab the medal.
I am moving to Bali for a job opening there. This is the happiest I feel since January. (Forever big thanks to halfmoon_smile who vouched for me, by the way.) The salary is nicer than I ever had in Jakarta, but considering the living cost and rent... the state of my bank account will probably be not at all different from when I was working in Jakarta.
Moving is hard. Especially if you've spent many years collecting massive amount of ~~junks~~ books.
My friends turn me into a weepy sod. su8aru and no_v11 made a pretty scrapbook spread, framed and all, containing our photos and collages of things I love (and used to love). I love you guys, I really do. Goodbyes are hard.

EDITED TO ADD: GOOD LORD THIS POST AT TUMBLR. IS THIS SCENE EVEN REAL? ANYONE WATCH TRUE BLOOD? TELL ME. TELL ME.

Stranger on the Shore. D.Gray-man. PG13. 6100 words.

finite_farfalla — Mon, 09 Apr 2012 10:46:29 GMT

D.Gray-man. Lavi/Fourteenth Noah. Lavi/Allen Walker. PG13.

Warnings: Sacrilege, language
Beta: nherizu. She has worked hard for her own gift. :P
Summary: Following someone is not easy.

Read on AO3.

For nherizu and sheilaluv. Thank you, guys, for being fab friends.

This is a pain to write. The first sentence was put to paper back in 2009, when D.Gray-man was not as complicated and as plagued by subplots as now, therefore, some explanations are not canon accurate.

Stranger on the Shore

"The road to the City of Emeralds is paved with yellow brick," said the Witch, "so you cannot miss it.”
– The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, L. Frank Baum.

In Amsterdam, Walker led Lavi through a red light district within the heart of the city, where painted signs advertised sexual aids and live sex shows that left nothing for the imagination. They walked down a smaller alley, until they reached an open door of a dilapidated apartment. Through the door and up a narrow staircase, they came to a small landing, where an Asian man sat on a wooden chair in front of another doorway.

The man stood up as he noticed their approach. He talked with a heavily accented Dutch, “What business do you have here?”

Walker slunk up to the man’s side to whisper something in his ear. The man showed immediate reaction. His feature visibly became several shades paler as he took a faltering step back.

“W-wait here, I’ll inform Da Sao about your visit,” he stuttered out before scurrying off, vanishing behind laced curtain that substituted a door.

Walker followed him, paying no heed to the man’s words. Lavi, left alone and uncertain of what to do, decided to trace Walker’s steps. He parted the curtain and walked inside.

He looked past Walker’s shoulder. There were about a dozen men and women in the small, gloomy room; most of them lying on cots and the rest sitting sprawled on the floor. The air was pungent with strangely saccharine smell coming from the long pipes they were smoking. None of them paid attention to the newcomers, lost in their haze.

Walker turned his head a fraction to address Lavi.

“Lavi, wait here,” he said, before ambling to the back of the room, avoiding some people sprawling along the wall, and disappearing behind a door.

Lavi stood stupefied by the lethargic activities around him. It was an opium den. He had heard of, read of places like this, but never would he imagine finding one under the daylight. How come Walker had contacts in here, would be a mystery he wanted to solve.

As the swirling wisp of smoke began to affect him, tugging at the base of his mood, trying to pull him into the lethargic haze as well, Walker came out from the door; behind him, was an old lady. They spoke softly, too quiet to carry across the room, yet somehow distinct enough for Lavi to catch the end of each word, although, they made no sense to him.

Their conversation ceased as they reached Lavi. Walker flicked a glance in the old lady’s direction, and began again, in perfect Dutch (a language Lavi never associated with Allen), “He is the Bookman Junior.”

The old lady settled her eyes on Lavi. She had a pair of disturbingly clear, jet black eyes, incongruous in the sea of wilted skin of her face. Her long hair, although in the same color as Walker who was standing beside her, was lusterless and dull; the vibrant red Chinese robe that she wore contrasted with her aged skin.

“Oh yes,” she exclaimed. “I’ve heard of Yao taking an apprentice again! Never imagined I would meet said apprentice one day.”

Lavi was more than a little disturbed at the direct reference to Bookman by a name he never heard of, nevertheless, he offered the old lady a smile.

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

She returned his smile, the wrinkles across her face creasing deeper. “How is Yao? It’s been so long since the last time I saw him, perhaps,” she paused. “Perhaps twenty years, I’m not sure, maybe longer.”

“My master is fine,” Lavi replied. “I’ll tell him a beautiful lady is asking after him.”

“Oh my,” the woman laughed, the humor clear in her ageless eyes. “I might be beautiful in my younger days, with fair share of handsome and capable men asking for my hand, but now, as you see, time is inescapable. Although, it’d be nice if you could tell Yao that I’ve been missing him all these years.”

All this she told him with a raspy voice that betrayed her age, but also hinting in it the vitality of a loquacious girl. Lavi could only imagine the kind of past Panda had had with her.

“I think we should go,” Walker interrupted.

“Yeah, let’s.” Lavi nodded.

After bidding their goodbyes to the lady (Ming, she had insisted), they clambered back out and down the stairs.

“Cross will come to this city,” Walker said once they were outside, tracing back their steps to the alley, “I’m going to stay here.”

Lavi paid his companion a lingering glance that spoke far more than he let on. “I’ll stay too,” he said.

***

It was an overcast, windy afternoon, the second month of their travel, when Lavi first set foot on the island; a long sliver of land artificially created by dumping sand and earth between dock and quays that could only be reached by crossing draw-bridges. The houses, overshadowed by tall warehouses along the quays on the main land, were badly rundown. They were made of stones and woods, cramped so close together that the occupants must share the limited space of their lawns with their neighbors.

The alleys were gloomy even in the afternoon, with the sun blocked by corrugated iron roofs protruding hazardously, overlaying each other. Through one of the alleys, Walker led him to a tiny shack tucked away between two larger, equally rundown buildings.

Earlier, after visiting the old lady down at the red light district, Walker had miraculously procured a key from another one of his contact; this time, an old sailor who lived by the Zuiderzee bay. Lavi tried not to think too much of these contacts of Walker’s and how they came to, but he made a mental note of them nonetheless. The information might be necessary in the future. (Now, that, was an understatement. He made a mental note of everything).

They stood before a door with two windows flanking it -- so grimy that they could not see through the glass pane from outside.

It went without saying: this was where they would stay.

***

It scared the hell out of him, the first time it happened.

It was a quiet night at the beginning of winter. The recreation room was almost empty, save the last three who were sleeping soundly at one corner of the room, while the fire was dimming down to the last ember in the fireplace.

Link was in deep slumber, sprawled across a sofa, too tired to even maintain his usual light sleep after a long mission. Adjacent to him, separated by a low coffee table, was another sofa with the two occupants snoring lightly. On the table was a deck of cards, scattered across in a poker game; three set of hands laid open, one indicating a royal flush.

In the course of the night, after receiving news of Lenalee’s condition, who had been pummeled by a level three in the mission she had gone to with the three of them, they were washed by relief, and immediately relaxed, falling asleep on the couch as their exhaustion suddenly bearing down on them.

It was Lavi who stirred first as the temperature began to drop; the load on his shoulder was an anchor, which slowly chained him back into the waking world. It took him several minutes to clear the web of sleep from his mind; the image of his dream still hovered behind his eyes. It had not been a pleasant dream at all.

And then, Allen stirred. He lifted his head from Lavi’s shoulder, slowly unraveling his own web of sleep.

“Hey, Allen,” Lavi mumbled groggily. He shifted a little to the side, rolled his shoulder to work the circulation back. “You should go back to your room.”

He glanced at the white haired boy. The light from a chandelier at the middle of the room, the last one that had not been turned off, cast dim illumination over them.

Allen turned his face slowly. A sudden chill ran down Lavi’s spine as Allen locked eyes with him.

The person who faced him was not Allen at all.

***

Lavi had a hard time imagining how he would pass his days here, in the small room, with Walker. It had been a mere whim that prompted him to follow the Noah. He was chasing a pipe dream, and it would later get back at him for choosing this over his future, his responsibility, and Panda (from whom he owed all his knowledge, his life).

But it was not a mere Noah he was following. It was Allen.

Lavi waited for the question. Why are you following me? Why are you so persistent? He imagined Walker would ask.

He had stocked an answer -- answers, really, as transient as the question itself. Because you are using Allen’s body, he’d say.

Nevertheless, even he knew that it was not enough answer. He was not fluent in interpreting his own feeling -- so new at it. All this time, he thought himself better than the fools who obsessed over each other and died in the name of something as crazy as love.

He looked over to the Noah from his perch at the window.

Walker was sitting on his own bed; eyes closed and shoulder slumped. Timcampy was resting on his lap. The Noah was not sleeping, Lavi could tell, because he’d seen Walker do this a lot. Sitting with his eyes closed, for a long time, as if trying to meditate, or thinking over something, or maybe, and this sounded the most plausible for Lavi, remembering. The Noah often got a far off look in his eyes in their travel, stopping his track over something trivial: a gable stone depicting an obscure image in someone’s door, a fruit stand at the road side market, two children playing tags. The look -- pensive and deep set -- left a strong imprint in his perfect memory.

Perhaps, the reason why he followed Walker, Lavi tested again, was the unvoiced wish within him that strongly wanted Allen to show up, however small the chance was.

Grey eyes opened to fix right at his. The simple movement took Lavi off guard. He was caught staring at Walker openly. Lavi flickered his eye to the open sea beyond the window.

Reality reared its head every time he looked into Walker’s eyes. The grey eyes were the same shape, the same color as Allen’s, but it weren’t Allen’s. They were dead and empty.

“What are we going to do from here on?” Lavi asked, simply just to break the silence before it got unbearable.

The Noah’s eyes were still on him. “We wait.”

Wind lapped against Lavi’s face, playing with his red locks. “Huh. That’s boring.”

“You can take a look around the town.”

“I guess I will,” Lavi licked his lips. They were dry and salty.

***

There was a small window in the one room shack they shared. It opened to the ocean. Glittering blue surface stretched far into the horizon, dotted by the swells of boats and ships. If there was something that could lift the curse off this woebegone old shack, it was the vast sky over the water all around, the palpable wind, the salty air, the tang of rust hinting it.

Lavi spent most of the time inside by this window. He drew a chair -- rotten wood, likewise with the rest of the furniture -- and sat beside it. He read by daylight, recorded his travel and random event (an old habit that he couldn’t quite get rid of, even though he knew Panda would most likely beat him to a bloody pulp and leave him rot on the road side if he ever met him again), and sometimes, he simply stared out into the ocean, watching the dock workers loading barrels of coffee, chocolate, butter, sugar, and various things into multiple-masted ships, as a seagull dove down to snatch a fish, or as the cloud gathered into a big mass of rain cloud.

By day, Walker was rarely there. The Noah would leave with Timcampy as soon as the sun was up, and would be back right before the twilight set in. Lavi had no idea where the man had gone off during the day, and he never asked.

By night, they slept separately on the two available beds, each at one side of the wall, the window in between them. He’d been having problems sleeping at night, not because the bed was creaky and the wood supporting it threatened to collapse every time he moved, not because the stain in the ceiling looked like an eye, and not because the sound of crashing waves, nor the wind rattling the shack. It was because of his dreams. Ever since he arrived here, he had dreamt of many things, none of them was pleasant.

He stayed awake, mostly -- recalling in his mind Mark Twain’s description of the children of Western America lying in bed and counting the whistle of transcontinental train going by the night. He counted the crash of waves, one by one as they hit the shores, until he could not count anymore and sleep washed over him, too tired to dream, feeling like a child all over again.

***

Walker seemed to know his way very well in the city. He led Lavi around with determined and knowing steps, taking him around to meet his contacts, explaining to him the rough outline of the city, where to find what, which area he should not visit to avoid Black Order’s spies.

Once, as he walked around the city, too bored to stay inside all day, Lavi nearly bumped into Toma, the Finder. It was fortunate that Black Order’s disciples were required to wear distinct and eye catching attire on. Otherwise, he would not have found Toma before the man found him.

He quickly rounded a corner, darting out of the other man’s line of sight, and disappeared into a door of a nearby café.

“Hey! You, eye-patch over there,” someone called him from one corner of the café.

Looking up for the source, he could see a bald middle aged man waved him over to his table. The tiny place was packed full of patron, with every table occupied by three or four men, pursuing card games, or simply enjoying their midday meal.

Lavi pointed to himself.

The man grunted an affirmation. “Needin’ a seat, yeah? Come ‘ere before someone nabs it.”

He walked down the aisle and slid to the indicated chair beside the man, thanking him in the process. There were two others sitting at the table, making him the fourth man.

“Nice number for a nice game, don’t you say?” a younger man at the end of the table said, his hair was the color of rust brown, his chin unshaved.

Lavi eyed the table in front of him. Above the carpetry that covered the table -- many here seemed to do this a lot, a carpet over the table, instead of cloth -- was a deck of card, untouched in the middle of the flat surface. He hitched an eyebrow in doubt, taking care to show the expression.

The first man that had invited him over to their table laughed. His large hand, bulky and hairy which somewhat reminded Lavi of a gorilla’s, patted Lavi hard on the back; he said, “Don’t scare the young un’, you hooligans.”

“No joke? I think you are the one who scares him, Jan,” said another young man adjacent to Lavi. He was preoccupied with polishing a pocket watch. He gave Lavi a once over. “I’m Alvin. The brute over there is Jan. This one is Walter,” -- the one dubbed Walter, the man with unshaved chin, flashed a lopsided grin -- “Never seen you around before. Are you new here?”

“I’m Doug,” Lavi replied offhandedly. “Yeah, you could put it that way.”

Jan slammed his hand against the table, rattling it all around. “Good! That beckons for even greater calls of conviviality. Are ya’ American coming here to work too young un’? There seems to be increasin’ of them in number.”

“Nah, I’m a traveler,” he paused. And added in a moment of inspiration, “A circus traveler.”

“A traveler?” echoed Walter. “Circus traveler?” He eyed Lavi’s eye-patch. “A freak show?”

“Walter!” Jan chastised his companion.

Lavi had nearly forgotten the anonymity that casual attire could give. He snaked a hand to touch his covered eye. “Close. But this eye is not ugly enough to fit a freak show,” he grinned ruefully. “I’m a clown’s assistant.”

“Now that’s interestin’,” said Jan. “Ya’ come ‘ere to work after all! Where and when is the show? We’ll close our shops and move our bums to see.”

“Nah, we don’t come here to work. We’re on vacation, you see,” Lavi waved his hand.

The bulky Jan looked a bit crestfallen. It’s a funny look. Like someone just told big papa bear his toy was not up for grasp.

“So, what it’ll be, Doug?” Alvin spoke up again. He had finished polishing the watch. The polishing kit, back in its tin box, now lay under the table. His watch was nowhere to be seen.

“Pardon?” Lavi questioned.

“Card game,” Walter supplied with a grin.

Lavi shook his head. “Gee, you guys are insistent huh? I don’t really play cards.”

“Bullshit,” Alvin contradicted. “Clowns are card sharks.”

“I’m only an assistant,” Lavi said.

“That’s as good for me. We can teach ya’. Ya’ don’t look like havin’ anythin’ to do.” Jan nudged him by the elbow.

He could see no way out of the situation. Maybe Crowley was caught by this kind of persuasion too that one time on the train.

“Alright,” said Lavi. The least he could do was humor them. “Bring it on.”

***

By the end of the day, as the sun started to spread red and orange over the sky, tainting the cityscape in the color of rust, Lavi walked out of the café.

He had learned later that Jan owned the place. It had once been a dilapidated old tavern, given a new chance of life after he bought it. The establishment had come to be known simply by the name of its proprietor over the years, becoming somewhat a neighborhood gathering place.

He checked the road for the sign of the Finder before lopping back the way he came, to the dock worker’s island where he stayed.

Walking along the bay where many shop fronts and stalls lined the street, unexpectedly, his eyes caught a familiar back among many people milling about the market. He quickened his pace, stepping right and left through the crowds, trying to catch up with Walker.

“Walker,” he called out.

“Hey, watch it young man,” a lady bumped into him.

“Sorry ma’am,” -- he slunk off the lady without looking back -- “Walker!”

The Noah’s back sank further, and further away.

“Walker!” he shouted.

Walker didn’t appear to hear him. The noise level was nearly deafening with conversations buzzing all around them. It almost looked like half the people of the neighborhood poured out from their homes for an evening at the market place.

He was about to give up, and kept back to his initial pace, when he saw something reflecting golden light drifted over the sea of heads. It was the golden Golem, Timcampy, wafting over to him happily under the lengthening shadows. Its tiny wings beat the air fervently, catching some people’s attention, evoking minor ruckus at its wake.

There was a chance Toma -- and God knew who else -- was among the bustling crowd. It would do no good for their laying low state, attracting curiosities like this. He shoved the people aside, wading his way to Tim as fast as he can.

He caught the golem between his hands and nearly fell face first against the gravel when he was suddenly out of the crowd. He caught himself right before he lost his balance, grasping Tim hard in his hands.

“Aw, that was close,” Lavi uttered. He shifted his attention to the Golem, opening his hands. “Hey, Tim, you okay? Sorry.”

Tim wiggled his wings, a bit rumpled at both ends where he had grabbed a bit too tight, looking, as much as its nonexistent face could convey, very much angry. It bit Lavi’s thumb vengefully.

“Ouch, Tim, I’m sorry!”

The teeth that sank into his skin were razor sharp. And it would have bitten off a small chunk if not for Walker’s timely interruption.

“Tim, he didn’t mean it.”

Hearing its master’s words, the Golem let his thumb off dejectedly. It bared its ugly small teeth, glittering in the color of his blood, before flying off of his hand.

“You alright?” the Noah asked.

Lavi tilted his head and he almost lost his balance again as he saw the amused smile in the other man’s face, the glow of nearby street lamps illuminating the distinct lines of his cursed mark.

“I-I’m fine,” he replied.

“We’ll see to that once we’re home. Come on.”

Lavi held his breath and wondered at the other’s choice of word -- home? Walker turned around, starting a leisure pace with both his hands disappearing into his pockets.

Lavi blinked once and shook his head. His shadow cut across the cobbles between them as he flanked the man, strolling away into the last glimmer of sunset.

***

“I know you,” the Noah said.

Lavi, supposedly calmer now after the repeat of the same incident several times, responded with a hitched breath. Suddenly not calm at all, because this time, instead of staring off at nothing and emitting ominous aura before subsiding back into Allen, the ‘creature’ had spoken.

The Noah smiled -- a cordial smile that was perfectly, wrongly Allen. Fuck, his mind supplied.

Lavi wondered, really, really wondered. Whywhywhy did the Noah choose to appear before him? Never when Link was around (the inspector was, in fact, twenty feet down the chasm, probably suffering from concussion and fractures and lost of consciousness after a long fall and quite a sack from the Akuma). Not when Lenalee, or Kanda, or the others were with them.

“You are Lavi.”

“What of it?” A hint of challenge in his question, but it was mostly for show; his mind was screaming fuckfuckfuck, only a short distance away from hyperventilating. His hand snaked to the holster at his hip, seeking the cold and sleek black metal that for once, failed to give him comfort.

The Noah -- he could not bear to call the thing Allen; Walker maybe, not Allen, never Allen -- flickered his eyes to follow the movement of Lavi’s hand. “I won’t kill you.”

“Like I’ll believe you.”

“I won’t kill an Exorcist.”

Lavi grasped the handle of his hammer a bit tighter. “Leave Allen alone.”

“Ah well, unless they are being unnecessarily... stubborn,” Walker amended sweetly. “Although, Lavi, really I betrayed the Earl, remember? You, Bookman Junior, of all people, should know that.”

How could he remember, when his mind was reeling along the line of fuck will Allen ever come back again? Can I take down the Fourteenth by my own? But he’s using Allen’s body!

“…Fuck you. Give Allen back.”

“That’s terribly vulgar,” the Noah paused. A frown marred his face. “I’m Allen Walker, you know. The original one who gave your Allen life.”

Lavi was tongue-tied. He had rehearsed this kind of possibility in his mind countless times, but none of the scenarios fit this.

And fuck, his side hurt like hell. Blood had started to pool under the sole of his feet, seeping into the snow. It bled from where at some point in the battle that took place just scant fifteen minutes ago. One of the level fours had flung him over, crashing him hard against protruding rocks, breaking several ribs at once, tearing his skin where it had met sharper surfaces.

Allen was in no better shape, but he had his cape to protect him, at least.

Walker closed the distance between them in four easy steps, the Crown Clown still materialized from the last fight. Lavi freed his hammer from its holster.

***

"At least the wound is clean," Walker muttered as he inspected the gash in Lavi's hand.

Lavi slouched back in his chair. He watched the play of colors in Walker's hair, almost copper in the last light of the sun, feeling like a voyeur. The Noah was hovering over his hand. Their meager medical supplies and warm water ready on the nightstand.

It was too much.

"I've been stabbed, sliced, and hurt in many imaginative ways. Timcampy can hardly harm me," Lavi supplied.

Walker eyed him in askance. "Once, when Cross and I were in India, Timcampy killed a man by inflicting tetanus on him. So, stuff that manly pride of yours and let me take care of it."

"I'm not--" Lavi's reply was cut off by pain as Walker applied iodine on the cut. He cringed.

"There, all done."

***

Lavi was not sure if he should bring it up. He wondered if Allen knew, if he ever questioned the gap in his memory, if he asked himself why his shoulders and back were bleeding, not from the impact against rocks or the Akuma's claws, but from something blunt, something suspiciously resembling Lavi's innocence.

He tried one night.

They were alone. The two who hadn't been released by matron. Of the five people that went out for the mission, Lavi and Allen came back with the worst injuries.

"How much do you remember of our last sojourn with the Akuma?" Lavi asked. He was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling as darkness settled over them. Allen was on his own bed, not far from Lavi’s. The only illumination came from a candle that sat between them on the nightstand.

At first, Allen was silent. He dragged it so long that Lavi was beginning to think the boy was asleep.

"Enough," came the reply. It was sufficiently vague that Lavi was clear on the meaning.

Darkness dragged words out of someone. Sometimes, things that couldn't be said in daylight came out under the blanket of the night.

"I wish--" Lavi said and then halted, thinking of the words over before he spoke again, “I wish it wasn't me."

"It couldn't be anyone else," Allen said, his voice barely a whisper. Allen might have just as well punched Lavi in the gut.

A muscle tightened in Lavi's face as he sensed Allen moved away from his own bed to climb into Lavi's. The mattress dipped under their combined weight.

"Don't worry, Lavi," Allen started again with the slightest shake of his head. He seemed to contemplate Lavi's expression before he continued. "If there's someone it wouldn't hurt, it is you."

***

The day was well past noon, and the sickly light of the overcast sky spilled over the windless water below the quay. Lavi was filling his journal. His fingers smudged by dark ink.

He wrote about the woman he saw yesterday. She was a net weaver, making small talk with him as the nets knotted over her hands like silver rings. He inserted the part where he met Jan again. The food was surprisingly good at Jan’s and the card game killed the time.

He paused over the part where Walker stepped into the café to join them. He wrote ‘Walker’ and changed his mind, crossing the name three times.

His hand ached where the wound was not quite healing yet. Lavi closed his journal. He was finished for the day.

***

Lavi woke up on the floor. It was storming hard outside. Wind and rain battered their tiny shack. The thin wall elicited worrisome rattles.

He did not remember sleeping on the floor, so he must have fallen sometime during his nightmare; the remnant of his dream was still vivid in his mind. In it, he was fastened to the earth with golden chains around his limbs. Bookman was hovering upside down over him, dead, hanging by his feet chained to the ceiling.

It took him a second to remember how to breathe. It always did after he woke up from such a dream.

It took him another ten seconds to realize Walker was awake, sitting on his bed. Lavi climbed back into his own bed. His back was hurt from the fall, protesting as he clawed his way up.

“Can’t sleep?” Lavi asked.

He couldn’t be sure of the expression on Walker’s face, especially when the candlelight swayed as it was, creating moving shadows on Walker’s skin -- but it looked like he was smiling. The shadows painted a sad and melancholic impression of upturned lips on his face -- beautiful in his borrowed body.

“We used to work together,” he said simply, like he knew Lavi would get it.

Lavi didn’t ask for confirmation of who Walker was talking about. He’d been calling for Panda in his dream, his lips spilling the words into waking world without his consent. Lavi shuddered almost invisibly, the slight twitch of his shoulders. Like it was sacrilege for anyone to mention Bookman, enough to make him uncomfortable. His tone was intentionally dry when he replied, “Really? Did he use to boss you around too?”

Walker snorted. “Not me. A friend,” he said vaguely.

“And you tell me now, why?”

“Ever heard of making a conversation?” Walker shrugged. Avoidant, Lavi observed.

“Hardly a small talk, and at this hour,” Lavi told him. He really wished he could ask more, but Walker had put a lid to that question even before he asked it.

“Go back to sleep,” Walker said. There was definitely a smile on his face this time.

***

“Where are you going?” Lavi shouted, a little out of breath from his run.

Allen stopped in his track.

“Go back, Lavi,” he hissed without turning his back.

Lavi swallowed hard and clenched his hands. He was so angry that his eye was stinging. He didn’t sign up for this -- wait, fuck, what was he saying? He signed up for this, all of this, when he discarded his name and took up the Bookman apprentice’s cloak. This came with the pseudo-omniscient mojo the Bookmans wrapped around their persons, came with enlisting themselves to fight in a war to save humanity. He needed to decide -- choose, now, or keep his peace forever.

“No. No, you’re not going, unless I’m going with you,” Lavi said, final.

Something inside his chest was breaking, like an iceberg tipping down from a tall mountain, and he was powerless to stop it.

And that was how it began.

***

Emma had finished her day’s netting; a pile of silver nets had risen up neatly beside her, the knots tight and small, catching light as she dropped the last trail of her rope on the pile.

“Done for today,” she announced, quite pleased at her result, anticipating the coins that the Foreman would press into her hands.

Lavi looked down at his own meager pile, grey and tangled beside his foot.

Emma favored him with a pitying look. “Young man, don’t look so gloom. Ya’ did well for a first try.”

Lavi shrugged and dismissed his task. In the end, the Foreman paid him two copper coins, mumbling about wasting good ropes. He probably would not be allowed to touch any rope the next day.

He walked with Emma, passing a line of stalls selling dried herrings. Sailors perambulated about the street, carrying heavy crates, or standing around and chatting boisterously. The smell of the sea was weaker here, eclipsed by putrid odor of fish and unwashed body.

“Thank ya’ for sitting with me today. Would be lonely and boring, otherwise,” Emma told him.

In his own boredom, Lavi had sought solace in talking and telling several folk-stories to her, watching the play of expression on her face. She loved stories, but words on paper eluded her, she had said to him.

“Anytime,” Lavi replied, and paused in his step.

Walker was standing at the far side of the street, hanging out with a burly man, casually talking with the stranger with a smile. Lavi automatically catalogued the distance between the two men. Not sure why it was important, or, why he cared.

He averted his eye to the side, only to be accosted with Emma’s stare, whose loose brown hair curled tightly around a face plump and red with sun. There was a question in her eyes.

Lavi turned away, resuming his steps, veering off at an intersection to avoid Walker. Coward. Coward and stupid, a small voice in his mind mocked him.

Emma was right at his side, still following him. They barely knew each other; only three days since he made acquaintance with her, so when she asked -- “Ya’ look sad just now. Is it ‘cause of that lad with white hair?” -- he was not so inclined to answer. Discussing Walker, with anyone, under the daylight was the last thing he had in his agenda today.

It’s not helping that he was sorely tempted to walk over to Walker and the sailor, to punch that big man in the face. Anger simmered under his skin, barely contained.

“Are ya’ okay?”

“Shut up,” Lavi hissed in a knee-jerk fashion, before realizing what he’d said. Emma deserved better than his childish tantrum. “Sorry. That was. That -- I know him.”

“Obviously,” Emma replied, nonplussed.

Lavi tamped down the urge to clear his throat. “He did something to someone I care about. Seeing him again makes me angry, that’s all.”

A not lie. His stomach clenched uncomfortably, telling someone, even in half-truth was painful.

***

“We envy you,” said Walker out of the blue.

The ‘we’ was something pointed -- something that indicated a whole race. He lowered his book to his lap. He’d felt Walker’s eyes on him ever since Lavi came home to find Walker already there, burning two holes in his back all evening.

He waited, prompting Walker to say more by his silence.

“God loved us, at first, chose us. But, all the same, He crushed our souls when He cursed us. We envy you of what you still have,” Walker continued.

Lavi arched his eyebrows, his mind running over many responds. Wryly, he settled with, “What is this? You want to compare notes?”

“Something like that.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes, go on, okay. Start.” Lavi shrugged, feeling like an asshole, but hardly care enough to dial down his more sarcastic side at this point. No one to see him but Walker. No pretense there.

Walker smiled, like he had expected this behavior from Lavi, like he could fucking read Lavi’s mind -- maybe Walker really could, for all Lavi fucking knew, being cursed semi-human and all that jazz. “We are empty. We are unwanted children who only know how to rail against their existence after He cursed us. We can exist even without human vessels, like Rhode has. Nevertheless, we reside in humans because we like to remember how it is to be a human.”

“And still you kill us. It must be quite a blast as far as revenge go.”

Walker stood from his perch and walked over to Lavi, insinuating himself beside him, sitting on Lavi’s bed. Outside, Lavi could hear the crash of waves, and recalled a folk-story he told Emma, that waves were a tempest of thousands of souls making their useless attempt to climb over rocks, to come back to human domain.

He felt a little like those souls, lost and desperate.

“You, humans, are beautiful,” Walker whispered sweetly. “Your souls are so fragile, so black, so damned.”

Lavi instinctively jerked out of reach when Walker lifted a hand to touch his face.

“Shh. It’s alright,” Walker assured him. “I won’t hurt you.”

No, Walker wouldn’t hurt him. He’d painfully known that. It was not fear that made him flinch.

“Stop it.”

“Why?”

“You... Your mixed signal is horrible. Stop it. Stop pretending you’re human, and then revert back again to say something creepy and do something like this.”

“I am a human, Lavi, as long as Allen is. He loves you, so do I. Seeing you torturing yourself over him pains me.”

Walker tried again, closing in to trail the back of his hand along Lavi’s jaw line. This time, Lavi didn’t move away.

The touch burned, like something forbidden, something sinful, something he absolutely wanted.

Lavi closed his eyes and breathed out.

He didn't feel like falling anymore. He already had, and hard.

***

Neah, you little shit, meet me at Ming’s.

C.M.

FIN

Title, what title?

finite_farfalla — Sat, 24 Mar 2012 04:45:42 GMT

I'm visiting nherizu in Bali from the 22nd to 26th. Bali is... My impression of Bali is if you don't like the weather, wait half an hour.

Pictures soon. :)

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

Alphabet drabble

finite_farfalla — Sun, 19 Feb 2012 12:23:48 GMT

The alphabet fairy's still taking prompts here if you're interested.

C
Culmination for rizuka
Viewfinder. Asami/Akihito. PG13.

At the taste of Asami's kiss, Akihito felt the fight flooded out of him. The older man licked his lips with the flat of his tongue. He coaxed Akihito's tongue out of the confine of his lips, not even bothering to seal their mouths together.

"Don't," he told Akihito after they broke the kiss.

Akihito laughed, or sobbed. He didn't know which. It didn't matter. It wouldn't change the fact that this was it. The culmination of all the catch me if you can that he'd played for years. He was never able to escape, even the brief time he thought he had was nothing but an illusion Asami allowed him to have.

"You've ruined me for better things," Akihito spat.

Asami held him close, closer than before; arms encasing Akihito's torso almost painfully. "Good," he said. "Good."

D
Desecrate for nherizu
Vampire Knight. Zero/Kaname. PG13. Warning: blood

Darkness slid into his heart; it settled there like a child into its mother's arms. Every time he did this, it lingered, ever longer, whispering sweet promises laced with pin pricks of guilt.

"Trash," Kaname called him. His prim persona shed beautifully around him behind closed door. Every word a barb. Every touch intending to hurt. Though Kaname was the one giving, Zero felt empty each time he emerged from the room.

Zero licked salty skin, fangs sinking in one perfect push. Rust flooded his mouth. It should taste vile, not warm and brimming with sunlight; it should not taste like the tender kisses of life and sustenance. But it was. And he hardly could stop. Every mouthful a gift.

"Stop." Kaname never let him past fourth mouthfuls. His hand clenched painfully around Zero's shoulder, drawing blood even as he pushed Zero away.

Zero panted, licking spilt blood from his lips, savoring. He took two steps back and leaned against the cracks and tatters on the wall. And after Kaname closed the door behind his back, every time, as he slid down to the floor, he wondered what had become of that boy who once patrolled the night dormitory with anger in his eyes.

---

/stares dejectedly at the hours
I don't want the weekend to end! /crai

future imperfect. land of the blindfolded. PG13

finite_farfalla — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 14:17:06 GMT

Birthday present for isumi_ilde. Ilu, bb.

Land of the Blindfolded. Aro Naito/Masahiro Namiki. PG13. UST.

future imperfect.

aro.

They might have drinked one too many that night.

Aro popped the cap of another beer bottle, uncaring where it landed. It made faint clang against the floor.

"Dammit. Pick that up. The mutt is in the phase to swallow anything smaller than shoes," Namiki said, voice unerringly steady, considering the five empties sitting beside his foot.

Aro hated that about him --Namiki's ability to be last man standing on the rare occasion they drink together. He grunted something inaudible, but bent down to pick the offending object nonetheless. The dog in question was rightfully on track, sniffing Aro's hand as he curled his fingers around the cap.

"Go away. Sleep or something," Namiki supplied to the dog, his foot nudging the back of the dog's head, strangely fond.

Aro raised his eyebrows. He put the cap on the coffee table and carefully refrained to make any comment. That expression he saw on Namiki's face was one he saw only once before. One the man made in front of Kanade, unaware of anyone else who might be watching. Namiki might be less sober than he let on.

"What do you call it again?"

"Heh. Maro. Should've named it little demon instead. 'cause that's what it is in reality," Namiki replied. His foot still on the dog, spanning the lenght of its small back.

"Hmmm," Aro said. He saw Namiki bathing the little mutt when he touched Namiki earlier. An accidental bump as he handed the plastic bag containing the beer bottles to Namiki.

Namiki shifted a little beside him, foot leaving the dog to join his other one on the couch. A fissure of heat seeped through clothes where they were pressed together at the thighs.

The couch was too small for two adults to sit comfortably, leaving far too less space between them. It was one of the grand total of five pieces of furnitures Namiki had in his spacious apartment.

There was noticeable lack of mess and personal knick-knack for a bachelor pad. Aro's mind flashed to his own room --littered with take away boxes and band posters.

"So," Namiki started. "You haven't told me why the visit. I'd surmise you come to tell me off Kanade, but you already know it won't work."

Aro shrugged. It was a whim. It's not like he made it a custom to show up uninvited to Namiki's doorstep bringing two packs of beers. Although, it's not the first time either. "Need someone to drink with. It's a sad thing being drunk alone," Aro replied truthfully. And he absolutely refused to stand around unhibited in a bar surrounded by strangers.

Between that and Namiki. Well. No choice at all. The man--despite his infuriating personality--was something akin to friend to him. Earned, somewhat, after all this time.

"Problem in paradise?" Namiki tutted, amusement curled around his words.

Aro took a swig of beer and didn't answer.

"Ha!" Namiki said winningly. "Your loss is my gain. I'd comfort Kanade come morning, tell her to forget about sad bastards like you."

Aro turned his head and glared at Namiki. The fucker was grinning --wicked upturn of mouth, showing just a bit of overbite he'd never noticed before.

"What do you see?" Aro asked bitingly.

Namiki put down the empty beer in his hand to the floor, then stood up. The loss of body heat beside him was somewhat jarring. "Want more?" Namiki questioned, indicating the nearly empty bottle in Aro's hand.

Aro drinked from the bottle without breaking eye contact with Namiki. His mouth closing around the head. It felt numb. In fact, half his face felt numb and tingly. He was nearly past the point of tipsy, crossing into the phase of drunk. But, damn. He could read a challenge when he saw one.

Aro made a show of putting his empty down, joining the others on the floor. "Sure," he replied.

The grin was back on Namiki's face. He turned to walk to the kitchen, the mutt following his steps.

masahiro.

Masahiro's absense was a short one. His trip to the fridge took only thirty seconds. But halfway back, he hesitated. He stood unsure, observing the man currently invading his couch.

Aro had found the TV remote. He was watching something animated on mute --a program with flashes of boobs and lifted skirts, not uncommon this late in the evening. The TV light spilled colors on Aro's face. Calm again now, lacking the minor outburst that painted all over Aro's visage earlier.

What do you see?

Well... He'd seen something indeed.

"What took you so long?" Aro asked when Masahiro finally handed the beer to him.

Instead of answering, Masahiro kicked one of Aro's leg that had strayed to his part of the couch in his absence. "Leg down," he said.

Aro grunted but obeyed. He put his leg down and corrected his position, back to something Masahiro left him in. Masahiro sat and divested his own beer of its cap without preamble.

He drank a long pull. It took him more than this lot to get him drunk. Years of practice in his adolescence ensured that.

"Careful," Aro observed.

Masahiro licked his lips when he lowered the bottle again. Aro was watching him closely. His eyes lit with strange colors of whatever was shown on the TV.

What he saw reminded him that it's been so long since the last time he got laid. Masahiro was strictly professional on the occasion his manager showed up now. But it wasn't always like that.

Everything that was him now was not always like that. His life, however sappy it sounded, could be divided in two parts, before Kanade and after Kanade.

And also, it reinforced the fact that lust was very different from love. He lusted for men. He'd known that since he was thirteen. Simply one more reason for his mother to hate him.

"You asked me what did I see," Masahiro began. Tongue still tasting his lips for traces of the beer and peeling skin. He broke eye contact with Aro, fingers playing with the seam of the beer's label.

"Did you," Aro said. "See something?"

aro.

Namiki was distracted. His thumb flicked the condensation off the neck of bottle he's holding. Eyes trained to the TV, though somewhat unseeing.

"I think you should leave," Namiki told him.

"What?" Aro let out, surprised.

"You asked me what did I see and I think you should leave," Namiki reiterated, slowing down his words as if he was speaking to a mentally challenged child.

Aro ignored the tone. Namiki was trying to get a raise out of him. And now he must know why. "Why? What did you see?" he pressed.

"Something you might regret."

Aro snorted. Damn. This was getting on his nerve quick. "I didn't know suspense would be part of the agenda when I called on you today. I wouldn't have bothered if I did."

"That might be wiser," Namiki said.

He moved in --his free hand slithering, quicksilver fast up the side of Aro's neck. Namiki used his weight to press Aro to the couch, climbing on the man's lap. His mouth was quick to follow, settling against Aro's and licking in.

It lit something fierce in Aro. But Namiki leaned back before Aro could do something. Either shoving the man or pulling him in.

"Change your mind yet?" Namiki grinned.

Coming Tide. GK AU. PG13

finite_farfalla — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 14:58:31 GMT

I've been falling asleep reading Final Fantasy XII's fanfic these past weeks. Today, I woke up and had an epiphany. kurodo_isaki promised me fanart. I promised her ~~fanfic~~ drabble.

Here it is.

Brad/Nate. FFXII!AU. With Viera!Brad (meaning, Brad with bunny ears! /gleeyay)

coming tide.

"Tide's coming in."

"Is it?"

"Come and look."

Nate got up and kneeled on the bunk. He latched his hand at the base of the windowpane. The Mist was raising up slowly, congealing under thick growth of the rain forest. In a moment, it would cover all surfaces, raising as high as their airship could fly. Impairing what remained of their faulty night visual.

"Shouldn't you go back to the helm?" Nate asked, diverting his eyes from the impressive display, back to Brad.

Nate saw the beginning of a smirk formed in Brad's mouth, a fascinating sight even after all this time --that subtle hint of overbite.

"Ray's a big boy. I believe he can handle landing us safely, for once," Brad replied.

Nate smiled in return --he couldn't help not to. He shrugged. "Better prepare ourselves for bumpy rides then."

As if summoned by words, the ship begun to rock. The airship was flying because of the magic power imbued within the Mist. The scientists of the past found a way to compressed Mist into crystals, called Magycite. Now used as mainpower for airships. But the presence of Mist itself often proved disadvantage for aerospace affair. Such as maintaining visual.

Nate sat back on the bunk, bracing himself for the bumpy landing with a hand on Brad's arm. Brad was sitting sideway with his back to the wall. His breeches and tunic undone. Nate could see faint red marks on Brad's chest, courtesy of their earlier activity. Nate felt a blush forming from the back of his neck. Fuck it. But Brad looked beautiful. And his.

Nate slid down the bunk a bit on a particularly jarring bump. His knee knocked the side of Brad's thigh. They were saved from tumbling over the bunk because of Brad's tight hold on the bunk frame.

"Damnit Ray," Brad hollered. His long ears flattened nearly to the back.

From somewhere on the ship, Nate heard Ray yelled, something with fuck, and shut up, and boyfriend's ass.

Nate laughed, and laughed.

PS Nearly went unnoticed. madnessisreal sent me a v-gift today. yay. Thank you! Happy valentine to you too. :D

to those who celebrate

finite_farfalla — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 05:06:57 GMT

HAPPY CHINESE NEW YEAR, GAIS. :D

Unfortunately, my parents happen to be the oldest among their siblings. As per Chinese custom, family members will swarm to visit us (those who are in Jakarta, at least). So, this marks the beginning of my attempt to dodge various family members I definitely don't want to see until they cease to visit. And a chance to renew connection with those I do want to see.

In the mean time, I'm catching up on Bones. You are so becoming a dad, Booth. *whistles*

small big things

finite_farfalla — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 14:10:46 GMT

I've been browsing youtube for hours today watching short commercial videos. A lot of them are wonderful. They definitely slay many an hour and a half of mediocre blockbuster movies, if anything.

This one here is among my favorites. I feel kinda bad laughing so loud at other's distress. But it is kinda funny.

hello post

finite_farfalla — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 14:22:42 GMT

Hello peeps,

RL is such a cruel mistress. That, we all know. I'm sorry for abandoning this LJ account for so long now. I'll try to be more active from now on. Commenting and such. (Try being the keyword, damn you Homer Simpson).

Anyhow, for some of you who nurse a dreamwidth account, if you feel I haven't annoyed you off yet here, err.... I've made a dreamwidth account: http://finite-farfalla.dreamwidth.org/ ..if you don't mind adding me there too. :)

I'd probably link the two account in the future, though I have no plan to move there entirely.

Better the devil you know, DGM, Kanda/Allen

finite_farfalla — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 17:17:52 GMT

Better the devil you know.
Words count: 1200
Pair: Kanda Yu/Allen Walker
Rating: R, some adult situation, but nothing too bad
Summary: Sometime after they discovered the Ark, Allen began to have nightmares. For Yullen Week's Dec 26th theme, Lies.

This is for a1y_puff and nherizu. Might as well, because I surely wouldn't write this if not for their continuing push. (I still love you guys). a1y_puff corrected the errors for me. I made her work for her fic, yay. ;P

Sometime after they discovered the Ark, Allen began to have nightmares. Bad dreams were old friends to him. After Mana's death, they visited him every night. He was broken, never mended quite right, despite what Cross had tried to do for him. He knew this. But the dreams got less and less frequent after Black Order. Until now.

He woke up in the middle of the night. Sweat damp hair plastered to his temples. His hands clenched around the sheets almost painfully. The image of his dream burned the back of his eyes. He had cried in his sleep.

Allen sat up and tried to control his beating heart --Timcanpy a comforting weight on his lap. The faceless golem was nipping lightly at his stomach. He could feel the sharp ridge of its teeth through the sheet and pajama covering his abdomen.

"Tim, I'm alright," he said. His hand petted Tim, some semblance of comforting gesture for both the golem and himself.

Tim bared its teeth.

"Yeah, probably fucked my sleep again though," Allen sighed, answering Tim.

He scooped Tim with a hand. Going out seemed like a good option yet again. He had been waking up several hours before dawn the past few days, running like a fiend amid the early frost. You're lucky you haven't slipped and broken something, Lenalee huffed to him two days ago in the cafeteria. He smiled cheekily, trying for contrite but knew he failed for the long shot when Lenalee just rolled her eyes.

He ran until his legs ache and every breath burned his lungs. It was hard on the first mile but always became steadily better on the second as his body adjusted to the work out. He ran until everything in his mind fade but the pounding of his boots against the empty street of the sleeping city.

Allen came back from his run drained. He plopped face first to the cool marble at the back entrance of the church. Tim was tittering beside him, trying to imitate Allen.

He laughed a little at the silly antics. "Tim, if you feel even half exhausted as I am, you wouldn't be flapping your wings against the marble like that. You wouldn't have the energy, Tim."

"Damn right he wouldn't," came a too familiar voice.

Allen didn't even lift his head to stare at Kanda. It had become a far too often occurrence to find Kanda first thing in the morning after his run.

Allen mashed his face to the smooth floor. His damp and hot skin felt really good against the cold stone. Someone's shoes had probably stepped on horse manure and walked passed the area sometime within the week, but, no way he gave a damn right now.

"Arrrgh, go away evil imaginary voices," he groaned.

Kanda snorted. "Delusion is the first sign of madness," the swordsman supplied. A swishing sound accompanied his speech. The man was probably in the midst of perfecting his kata --or whatever the hell you called all that posturing and swinging your sword against thin air.

"Ha. Ha. Very funny," Allen replied dryly. Tim was now perched on the back of his neck. The golden golem, despite contradicting assumption, actually had body heat. It was warm on Allen's skin.

He batted on the golem when Tim begun to tease him with its teeth. Not enough to draw blood, but strong enough to leave a row of puncture marks.

Allen got up. Tim was ever the nagging mom he never had. The golden golem was trying to get him back to his bed. Sleep. Sleep. Exhausted. He couldn't hear what it was saying exactly, but he understood all the same.

"Can't, Tim. Don't think I'd have much luck trying to sleep," Allen told his golem.

"You look like someone's old shoes," Kanda commented, the ever helpful. Now that Allen could see him, he let his eyes stayed on the swordsman. Kanda was standing at the lawn. His feet a shoulder width apart, steady on the damp earth. He had forgone his top. A pair of black pants slung low on his hips, showing too much skin in the wrong weather.

Allen was fighting a lost battle of not letting his eyes stray to some parts. The cut of the man's pelvic bone made Allen's mouth watered.

He cleared his throat and said, "Sorry, I can't be like certain someone who's accustomed to wake up before dawn since he learned how to walk."

"Laziness breeds incompetence," Kanda said. He changed the angle of his hold, facing away from Allen.

A sheen of sweat covered Kanda's back. Straight, elegant spine and light muscles worked like clockwork harmony, rippling with every move Kanda made.

"Only old men faithfully stay up instead of getting five more minutes of sleep," Allen replied, then sighed, "But then, that explained nothing on my master. He sleeps until noon every bloody day."

Kanda didn't give any respond on that. He stopped mid swung instead and gave Allen a pointed stare. His downturn mouth--a hard, angry line--conveyed more for him than words ever could.

Allen wanted to bite that pout. In another time, he'd probably read Kanda's sour expression as another sign of aggression. In another time, he'd reacted in far different way. Probably trying to gouge an eye out of the other man.

Kanda shook his head and walked. He moved pass Allen, getting through the arched door.

Allen blushed. He'd had every reason to believe the man had just read what Allen had in mind.

"Follow me," Kanda said.

Allen turned to face the retreating back of Kanda. His mouth opened and closed again, thinking better of his reply.

---

It didn't solve anything. Really. It didn't.

Sex didn't solve anything. If anything, it complicated things.

"Your elbow, ugh, hurts me," Allen rasped out. He was face down against the mattress. Kanda's hand held the back of his neck, a force that made him unable to lift his head more than half an inch from the sheets. One of Kanda's elbow dig into the backside of his ribs.

Kanda grunted. He was sitting astride Allen. A solid weight on the back of Allen's thighs. Allen could feel Kanda's dick. A mass of hot furnace against his ass.

Kanda removed his elbow, but kept his hold on Allen's neck steady. It'd probably left a bruise. Something that Allen could felt for days after.

Allen whined at the thought. He wanted. Wanted. Now.

"And, well, if you will, can you move along? I can take over if you feel inadequate," Allen taunted. He knew how to push Kanda's button. How to make the man do what he wanted.

Allen smirked when he heard Kanda's growl.

---

After, they lay on the sheets, sweaty and exhausted. Allen was halfway back into sleep when Kanda nudged him to move away a little.

"I can't sleep with you clinging to my side like a barnacle," he said, the ever romantic.

Allen snorted and moved away.

He knew closing his eyes would make him go back to his dream. Sex didn't solve anything. Neither did another warm body in his bed. Really. It was him. He was broken inside. For a time, body contact and a family connection with the people in Black Order healed him. But it was no longer enough.

But this sleep, comfortable and warm, lulled by extertion and release, in the breaking dawn was worth a try. If only so that he could look at Lenalee in the eye and said that he overslept that day.

Little human y u so difficult

finite_farfalla — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 12:06:32 GMT

I don't think I will be able to raise one. How do you become a mom and stay sane, really? It's a big mystery to me.

finite_farfalla — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 14:09:02 GMT

Hurraaah.

Happy belated birthday to me. \o/

Thank you for all the wishes. You guys rock. :D

*crawls back to grave*