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1895.

monitorscreen — Mon, 16 Dec 2019 06:48:10 GMT

Here, though the world explode, these two survive,
And it is always eighteen ninety-five.

-- 221B, Vincent Starrett, 1942

This is beautiful.

monitorscreen — Tue, 22 Jan 2013 08:31:13 GMT

Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind by tomoyofanel, with song For Blue Skies by Strays Don't Sleep.
(Avengers. Steve/Tony. AU. No superpowers.)

"A couple undergo a procedure to erase each other from their memories when their relationship turns sour, but it is only through the process of loss that they discover what they had to begin with."

[Fic] Original. G. Shadows

monitorscreen — Fri, 11 Feb 2011 20:34:13 GMT

Sequel to Passive.

Shadows
by monitor screen

The potted plant on the windowsill casts a shadow on the floor. It dances across the space depending on the time of day, but the one constant is that it is never the same as the real thing.

You watch the shadows stretch along the span of the hall, until they fade into occasional flickers of whenever there is a vehicle rounding the corner. The sounds from upstairs have long since stopped, and you shift, the silence hanging heavy in the air.

Eventually a door cracks, and light spills down the narrow staircase. Her hair is mussed, and She sighs when She sees you. But after a moment She flicks on the hall light, and pats you on her way down to resume evening business.

Two days later, He comes back.

They have long, tense conversations behind closed doors you are not allowed through. And then everything more or less returns to normal. They spend amicable times around the table, in the kitchen and on the couch; Their bedroom upstairs is quiet through the night.

The place settles, gradually, into a comfortable lull.

But you start to notice something different. They do not seem to go out together anymore. And in the evening when He takes you for a stroll, the two of you walk long and far, through fields and woods unrecognisable in the dark. And He would sit on some rock or stub of wall, staring into the night. And you wait, but He only speaks to you in gentle tones and trace slow fingers over your head. When you return, the house would be dark and silent.

In the morning, you watch from outside the doorway how They avoid each other's eyes as they talk softly over breakfast. You try to be good and walk him around the room; He pats you distractedly before taking his coat and heading out the door. You sit, listening to the engine roars and moves away, and remember another time.

You watch the potted plant's shadow dances with the breeze, and you know.

It is never the same.

[Fic] FFVII AC. Reeve/Tseng. R. Corporate Decisions

monitorscreen — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 09:08:32 GMT

Title: Corporate Decisions
Author: monitorscreen
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII Advent Children
Pairing: Reeve/Tseng
Rating: R
Word count: 392
Disclaimer: Final Fatasy VII and its compilations are the creations of Square Enix, not mine.
Summary: Theirs was a working relationship.

Corporate Decisions
by monitor screen

Facade

When Tseng went missing, Reeve filed an unpaid leave for him.

After all, in a transparent organisation like the WRO, you could not have personnel unaccounted for. Not like in Shinra.

Or in the Turks; though he supposed "MIA" was an account all by itself. Still, new group, new rules. And Tseng was not even on a mission, he was just... on leave. His job would be waiting when he returned.

What employees did on leave was definitely not the company's business.

--
For Services Rendered

They were very clear about what was past and what was present.

Tseng was not hired for his position with the Turks. Tseng was hired because he was a talent looking for a job and the WRO needed its talents. It would have been the same for... anybody, anybody at all, looking for a job in the wreckage left behind by the Meteor.

And, well, Shinra.

That Tseng had connections was not part of the equation. Everybody had connections - it was part of being in a society. That Tseng's connections were perhaps more than purely social had no bearing at all in his joining the WRO.

We need all the talent we can get, was Reeve's argument whenever someone raised the topic, with an unspoken, and all the resources.

It was only fair to let Rufus play his game for all his sponsorship.

And Tseng's afterhours visits to his office were of course, only social and completely irrelevant.

--
Just Because I Fall From Grace

When another catastrophe was averted, and Tseng came back, Reeve let him in and turned off the surveillance camera.

He let Tseng kneel between his knees and welcome himself back with tongue on Reeve's cock, reassuring the Wutaian of their standing agreement with fingers in the soft dark hair. He had missed this; missed letting the mask slip and not having to be nice and honourable all the time.

Tseng understood him. They were survivors of Shinra and they did not do business with their hearts. Anything was fair trade.

When Tseng asked to lead the clean-up in Midgar, Reeve sanctioned it with a lingering kiss. He imagined he could see Mission accomplished in the other man's eyes.

He added his recommendations to the memo as the door shut softly after Tseng, pretending that the gratefulness was for his embrace.

(Comments and critiques welcomed.)

[Fic] Original. PG. Autumn

monitorscreen — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 21:50:38 GMT

Written December 7, 2007. The final assignment for my Reading Short Stories class... Just figure I may as well post it.

Autumn
by monitor screen

The budding of rose hips marked the end of summer. He squinted for a moment at the lush, crimson globes, wishing he could touch them through the glass planes.

Had the windows be opened, he might have smelt the rich scent of earth, felt the crisp, cool wind on his face. As it was, the air was still, stale, the afternoon sunlight revealing dust motes on its descent. It shined warm on his coat, and he stretched.

It had been quiet for the last few days. Abnormally quiet. He had not seen her rise since the morning three days past, and she had been unnaturally still thence. He was worried about her - she had been in bed for longer before, but during those times she had not been always sleeping like this. He remembered fondly of the days they had spent together amidst the quilts, idly watching the play of light on the leaves outside. Her body had been warm then, the fingers on his back gentle.

He approached her bedroom now with trepidation, the silence ringing loud in his ears. She was not moving at all, and the room smelled like decay. He nudged her hand timidly, wincing at the coldness of her flesh. She did not respond.

He retreated to the kitchen downstairs. He did not understand it. But whatever happened, he instinctively knew that it was ominous.

It rained last night, and the carpet was wet. He tiptoed through the mess, swinging nimbly into the corridor. The phone rang, giving him a jolt, and he stilled to listen if it had managed to awaken her. The ringing echoed into the gloom, a heartbeat, then two, and then he shrugged and went on his way. He was right to not dare hope.

He gave her bedroom door a wide berth as he returned from the bathroom. He had not the courage to enter for a week by now. The stink of wrongness, of rot permeated through the house, the air thick and hard to breathe. But there was no way out, and he resignedly trod back to his perch by the kitchen window, to watch the storm outside.

The sky was dark with overcast, and lightning flashed now and then. He sat up straighter suddenly when he thought he saw something big and solid moving through the distance, the first time in months. He remembered the boxes that followed such a visit last time, and the young man smelling of sunshine and sweat that had carried them in. He thought he recognised the fading paint on the vehicle, the muffled roll of the engine. He watched the giant thing approach, an unknown anticipation rising in him. He shifted, muscles tensing, ready to spring into action.

Ere long the roll of the engine died down. The doorbell rang, startling him with its unfamiliar crackles. He listened avidly, willing her to come down and answer the door, like he had seen her do so many times. But all was still in the house, and he was stringed anew on the edge of despair. Surely--

The ringing turned into banging, and the door rattled in its frame under the force. He watched uneasily for a moment, hesitantly starting towards the door. But just when he was lingering in the middle of the hallway, uncertain of what to do, the thing crashed.

He bolted into a dark corner, crouching, even as he took in the fresh stormy breeze in gulps. There was the same young man, cursing loudly with disgust, but stomping in all the same. He curled tighter in his crouch.

The young man stalked noisily around the house, muttering disagreeably under his breath. Finally he ventured upstairs. There was a yell, yet more cursing, and he saw through the gap between two pieces of furniture that the young man had escaped outside, talking into his phone as he went.

He slowly, carefully edged his way deeper into the shadows. This new development scared him. The visitor was supposed to wake her, not making all these noises, disturbing their home.

But before he could come into terms with the young man's intrusion, more bustle sounded outside the door, and more people came in. The formerly forlorn house was abuzz with movements. People talked, prodded, and stumped around the place. It was too much for him; he fled.

It was days until the commotion finally died down. He made his way into the vacated house carefully, wary of the scents of strangers all over the place. They had opened the windows, and frosty draft swept through the empty house. The sense of decay was still there, almost washed out but present, and he shivered as he made for his old spot in the kitchen.

This was another sort of quiet, hollow but without the constant press of dread as the time she had laid still and cold in her bed. After a while he gathered up enough courage to explore the house, to see what the strangers had done in his absence.

Most of the territory was trodden, ravaged. He danced through the muddy boot prints on the floor, grumbling of the dirt as he went. At last he was at her door; he stood for a moment, steadying himself, then entered.

He managed not to choke at the strong stench of sickness clinging to the room, and stayed long enough to note that the bed - the nest of so many of their wonderful memories - was quite destroyed beyond repair. The sheets were gone, as were the pillows and quilts, and the mattress was so soaked with that disgusting fluid he could not bear to get closer than a yard. There was nothing to be found here. She was gone.

He retreated to the relative peaceful space downstairs, determined to await her return. This was not the first time she had been gone, he told himself, and she would return like she always did. She would not leave him.

He took a drink from the tap, seeking comfort in the familiarity of the action, even as he knew that nothing was ever going to be the same anymore.

He stayed long enough to see the first snow. The house had run out of foodstuff a while ago, and the water to the taps had stopped. He made do with what he could find in the neighbouring woods, but at last the frigid temperature forced him to leave. There was nothing mentionable to be found outside in this weather, and the house was freezing, silent and desolate, like a tomb.

He gave the morning when he woke with frost on his coat, and saw white everywhere outside. With the last of his strengths, he shrugged to warm himself, and padded out with a grumbling stomach.

It was a long time before he reached anything but the endless white, and he sighed in relief as he saw the warm spill of yellow light on the field. He scratched at the foreign door, calling weakly. A moment later somebody came.

"Hello-- What have we here? Come in, kitty, you look like you could use some warmth."

[Fic] Original. G. Passive

monitorscreen — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 21:28:59 GMT

Passive
by monitor screen

You may not know what is going on, but you can sense the changes. You know this is the beginning of the end.

There is another crash upstairs, another bang of the door. You half-get up, but sit down again, just listening. You are not allowed up the stairs.

You can hear Him saying something, too faint and complicated for you to comprehend, but you recognise the distressed tone. You shift once more, helpless to offer any comfort. He sighs.

There is movement upstairs; He is walking further away. Furniture moved, cupboard opened and closed. Things being tossed around. Zips.

He is coming back closer, and He stops and knocks on closed door and says something, low and terse. You cannot hear the reply. And then He is moving, His feet heavy and determined on the steps.

He almost passes you by without a second glance, but in the end pauses at the door to consider you. You pad close, uncertain; He sighs again and pets you on the head.

"Be good."

And then He is out the door, travel bag and all.

You keep your place as engine roars to life outside. You listen to the noise growing distant and disappear, and then you listen to the tense silence of the house.

There is another muffled crash, and you look forlornly at the stairs you are not allowed up. You are not sure what to do, so you go back to the bottom of the staircase and sit down and wait.

This is the beginning of the end.

Because I was looking for it. Again.

monitorscreen — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 19:56:08 GMT

Answering fic_on_demand request: Vincent transforms into Chaos and Cid talks him down.

Standing Still by ponderosa121 - FFVII AC. Cid, Vincent. PG13.
Cid follows Vincent into the ruins of Midgar. He kinda regrets it.

[Fic] FFVII AC. Cloud, Vincent. G. As I was waiting for the day to break

monitorscreen — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 21:58:23 GMT

Title: As I was waiting for the day to break
Author: monitorscreen
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII Advent Children
Characters: Cloud, Vincent
Rating: G
Word count: 461
Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII and its compilation are the creations of Square Enix, not mine.
Summary: After the hero retired.

As I was waiting for the day to break
by monitor screen

Well, I'm going to try. I'll let you know how it goes.

Life without world-threatening crisis was not easy. It was simple, too simple, to slip into an aimless lull, to just let one day bled into another, the long drone of nothingness.

It was not every day you got to save the world single-handed.

Somewhere along the way he moved out of the bar, out of the weird mimicry of intimacy he shared with Tifa. Not that he was running away anymore, no. He just needed the space.

And somehow they settled around these new parameters. For the first time in years, perhaps the first time ever, they were talking and enjoying each other's company - really enjoying themselves, not staying together out of some sort of necessity.

Maybe it was what a normal life should be like.

But it did not stop the feeling that this was just some kind of rare long sleep he was waiting to wake up from, that this normal life he was having was just another dismissible interlude between the important events.

That this might be all there was left for him was almost unthinkable.

A quiet knocking broke him out of his reverie. Before he even knew it, he had his sword in his hand, all his senses straining to the sharpest, ready to spring at the slightest alarm. He could not help the trace of thrill that swarmed up at the scent of blood. Even if it meant more fighting...

But it was just Vincent. And though the other was rather battered, there was no urgency to the gunman's calm.

"I ran into a monster nest. Didn't have potion with me," Vincent said by way of greeting.

He could not quite shake the taste of disappointment off his tongue, so he simply nodded and let Vincent in. As per their usual taciturnity, offer of accommodation was made and accepted without much fuss. Just a friendly visiting, for all intent and purpose.

As Vincent was cleaning up, he replaced First Tsurugi into its holder on the wall. The steel was cool in the night air, and he could practically feel the strength dancing on its edge. Almost like electricity waiting to be discharged.

But it was all another life now.

He dug out a spare blanket for the couch, then set the water boiling. Idly he browsed through deliveries to be made the next day again, mentally calculating if he could clear an evening to catch up with Vincent.

He was not expecting anything. Running into monster nests was pretty normal for travellers. Vincent did not implicate anything was amiss. They were at peace now.

He wondered if there would ever be a day when he'd stop anticipating the word of doom.

Trying.

Comments and critiques welcomed.

A random story.

monitorscreen — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 15:31:54 GMT

The Rear Guard

There lived a dream between us
But it died along the way
It died when you're no longer Icarus
It died when you leave the fray

So go, I'll fight until the gates are closed
Go, walk away and don't regret
Your dream will flourish in another land
Where you'll fly, and with the wind ascend

... It is my honour to guard your end.

Because all dreams end.

monitorscreen — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 12:21:31 GMT

Finished NHK Drama Shinsengumi!.

It's a beautiful story.

いとしき友はいずこに
この身は露と消えても
忘れはせぬ　熱き思い
誠の名に集いし遠い日を
あの旗に託した夢を

Wherever my beloved friends are
Even as my body fades with the dew
We will never forget the blazing thought
Of distant days gathering in the name of honour
Of the dream we have entrusted to that flag

[Fic] FFVII. Cloud/Vincent. R. Escapism

monitorscreen — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 11:35:13 GMT

Title: Escapism
Author: monitorscreen
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII, post Dirge of Cerberus
Pairing: Cloud/Vincent, one-sided Cloud/Aeris
Rating: R
Word count: 427
Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII and its compilation are the creations of Square Enix, not mine.
Summary: This was the tacit agreement between Vincent Valentine the Turk and Cloud Strife the SOLDIER.
Author's notes: ... I have two essays due Friday. And I was in the mood.

Escapism
by monitor screen

They had developed some kind of ritual.

The motions were mindless, reflexive and mechanical. Not unlike the trance they slipped into in the heat of battle.

They never talked about this. There was no need to, and talking would ruin the point.

Since they both had a new life now.

*
He thought of Tifa as he walked up the narrow, rickety stairs. He thought of her brave, sad smile as he let himself into that flimsy door, of her strength and hope as he put down his sword in the now familiar corner. He thought of her bar, her house, persistent and consistent and waiting, always waiting, as he registered the silent click of a gun being put together and the near inaudible shuffle of its being put away.

Then he thought no more. Then there was only touch, and heat, and need and memories.

*
Her fingers smelled of soil. Her hair, the leaves.

He worried his teeth over taut muscles, tongue mapping out the ugly remnant of bad stitches.

She danced in the rare slant of sunlight, her light dress swirling, fresh as a flower herself.

He rocked faster, burying his hand into the wild, tangled hair for purchase.

Her skin looked soft and warm, so lively and welcoming by the trim of her dress.

His movements were almost frantic now, harsh panting and blood rushing the only distinguishable senses. Completion was near; he could feel it.

Her lips when she smiled, sweet and so perfectly de...li...cious...

He pushed one last time, squeezing his eyes tight against the other's throat. Just in time for the hard jerks of the body beneath him, the climax he knew in the form of a remembered gun-shot wound.

There was only silence afterwards.

*
When the first hint of dawn leaked through the curtains, he got up and climbed back into his clothes.

Crimson eyes tracked his progress. They followed him across the room and watched him pause at the bedroom door, until he turned and met them and shared a nod of acknowledgement.

Until next time.

No word was spoken; no word was needed. This was the tacit agreement between Vincent Valentine the Turk and Cloud Strife the SOLDIER.

*
He passed Shelke by the window on his way out. They did not greet each other, though she did uncurl from her perch to see him out.

The roar of Fenrir was loud in the cold morning street. He shrugged off the observing eyes from behind familiar curtains, and kicked off for the way home.

Until then.

Comments and critiques welcomed.

[Fic] HP. Bellatrix. PG. Prism

monitorscreen — Sun, 19 Apr 2009 20:30:31 GMT

Title: Prism
Author: monitorscreen
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Bellatrix, Snape, Lucius, Voldemort
Rating: PG
Word count: 345
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the creation of J.K. Rowling, not mine.
Summary: Sanity is overrated. They don't understand.
Author's notes: Written for fic_on_demand, request: Madness by chiave_trust. What can I say? It's Animal Biology lab exam tomorrow...

Prism
by monitor screen

Sanity is overrated.

"Crucio."

Such an unreliable concept, subjective at best. Who is to judge if a person has crossed the line of rationality, into the realm of delusions?

The sound of her cackles blends into waves of agony. He thinks about what she may really be seeing as he thrashes at her feet.

Somehow his vision narrows down to her drawn lips, the lines of single-minded desperation - it is no different from that of a child trying to please.

Or a sinner trying to earn penance.

If building a life on knife's edge is not insanity, then neither is she.

---
How the mighty has fallen, he would have loved to say... If the irony is not so bitter.

"Ooh, can't the baby take it anymore?"

At times he does wonder if it is all just a front, dramatics designed to warn them off. Years of marriage has taught him to never underestimate a Black.

But that glint in her eyes is fervent, her superficial malice all-consuming. This is no mere game to her - her entire life is this farce. Everything else was stripped away by the Dementors long ago.

Such a waste, really. She had been quite something.

Yet as he watches her basks in the attention of their master, it occurs to him perhaps this is what it takes to survive the whole mess intact.

---
They do not understand.

"That's enough, my pet."

He knows what they think of her, of his regard for her. They think it is nostalgia, maybe affection even, that keeps her in his court. Or that he has lost enough grasp of reality to not have noticed her eccentricities.

The more fool they.

What constitute of reality anyway? The fragile existence that bows to his every will. Like the fever in her dark eyes, easily swept away with a single glance.

She steps back, smiling sweet and pure.

They do not understand the world shone in her gleaming eyes. The very world that belongs to him, and him alone.

That is the real world.

Comments and critiques welcomed.

[Fic] Original. G. Routine

monitorscreen — Thu, 27 Nov 2008 14:20:33 GMT

Routine
by monitor screen

It is the same every day.

You will return to the apartment building, keying in password at the gate if it is late, smiling to the doorman if it is early. The echo of your heels will follow you, steady and rhythmic, as you cross the lobby to the elevator.

You will look into the mailbox as you pass, paying heart when it is seemingly vacant, even as you open it to check for mail anyway.

You will wait in front of the elevator quietly, gaze resting simply on the number panel. You will not listen for the swing of the gate behind you. You will give a small smile when the doors open, to the empty space or distant faces alike.

You will press the button for your own floor, stepping back to make room should there be other people coming in. You will keep a polite smile, and will not look at their faces. You will not search for familiarity.

You will exit at your floor, turning straight to your door. You will test the doorknob, merely for the sake of having something to do, as your other hand fishes for the keys. You will stop at the entrance to turn on the light, and you only glance on the floor to make sure you do not trip. Even if you habitually do not leave anything around the entrance for you to trip over.

You will change out of your work clothes, and cook up some food, and go over your evening routine. You will not scan over the room, or glance at the entrance, every time you come out of the kitchen or bathroom or bedroom. Through the quiet of the night, you will not pay attention when the beep of the elevator is heard through your solid wooden door.

Eventually you will decide to call it a day and go to bed. You will not limit yourself to only one side of it, and you will cuddle up all the covers. You will lay and listen to your own breathing, until exhaustion drag you down into oblivion.

You will wake up to see the outside lighting up, and will sigh in content for the warm weight settling around your waist in the form of your blanket. You will freshen up, and dress, and prepare for the day.

You will carefully lock your door as you leave, and smile at the mirror as you give yourself a last once-over in the moments waiting for the elevator to arrive. You will head straight for the bus stop, shrugging in the crisp cool wind.

Because every day is the same.

[Fic] FFVII CC. Zack, Sephiroth. PG. Condolences

monitorscreen — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 21:25:10 GMT

Title: Condolences
Author: monitorscreen
Fandom: Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: Zack, Sephiroth, mentions of Genesis
Rating: PG
Word count: 529
Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII and its compilation are the creations of Square Enix, not mine.
Summary: "Tell me about Genesis."
Author's notes: ... Because the way Zack reacted every time Genesis got brought up in front of Sephiroth must mean something.

Condolences
by monitor screen

"Tell me about Genesis."

Sephiroth turned to him calmly, unsurprised and nonchalant, but Zack had caught that particular blink at the name. And even if the other SOLDIER was perfectly composed, he was almost certain of the lurking something in those lurid green eyes, when Sephiroth asked, plainly, "Why?"

"Because I never get to know him. See, I know Angeal, I know you - a bit, anyway, but I've never get to know Genesis more than what's on the files," Zack searched for something more to say, but gave up quickly on 'I'm curious'. "So, tell me about him."

Sephiroth was silent for a long time, turning his gaze to the rare sight of Midgar in sunlight. And then those lashes lowered, and he spoke, low and quiet, "You know LOVELESS?"

"The play? Yeah, sure. Saw it last month wi- too." Zack was thrown off for a moment, until the memories of everything other than Aerith's smile that night caught up with him. "Oh. So those quote stuffs were LOVELESS?"

There was a hint of fondness lurking somewhere at Sephiroth's lips, "He never stops."

"Yeah, I get that," Zack grinned, glad to come onto lighter matters. "In, like, the first three minutes I met the guy."

Sephiroth smirked. And then he was quiet again, reserved and distant, his green eyes tracing something over the horizon. "He did a lot of studies on LOVELESS. Even published some essays. He used to be a significant figure in the literary discussions on LOVELESS; one of the main contributors to the most comprehensive theory regarding the missing last scene. He... Maybe he's still working on that." Those eyes turned to Zack, curiously open and solemn, "He believes all answers in life can be found in the epic."

"Well..." Zack did not know what to say. "I guess I wouldn't know. But," Thinking of the fresh scent of new leaves in a city of steel and mako, he added, "I'd say some mystifying poetry can't contain everything."

The reply he got was little more than a mere breath, faint and pensive, "Perhaps." But it was enough to convey the sense of lost and longing, emotions that a perfect instrument of war, the flawless hero of legend, was not supposed to have.

Zack responded without even registering his action; the searing emptiness in that voice simply compelled him to soothe. A thumb gently brushed over pale, soft skin, the touch almost timid, before he leaned in to try seal the draining void with his lips.

The contact was brief, just a chaste press of flesh, but the several heartbeats seemed to have suspended in time. And then Zack was pulling back, meeting those bizarre eyes with their slits for pupils, and whispered, "I'm sorry."

It was not an apology.

He watched as shock faded into understanding, and Sephiroth gave a small smile, mirthless and resigned. "Don't be." He watched as this trace of weakness re-submerged within the flit of an eyelid, the detachment more pronounced than a physical barrier.

Zack left his companion to his contemplation of the outside view, forever the untouchable SOLDIER. There would be time enough for him to reach Sephiroth, someday.

Comments and critiques welcomed.

Just thought I'd mark this down.

monitorscreen — Sat, 09 Aug 2008 14:00:49 GMT

Final Fantasy VII Crisis Core: SOLDIERs by destinette, with song Locking up the Sun by Poets of the Fall.

Wouldn't say this vid is exactly brilliantly executed, but I really like the song, and it does fit so very well with the SOLDIERs theme...

[ETA August 15: Okay, on repeated view I take back my prior comment about execution. The connections are intriguing to see. Hmm.]

Just for my easy reference.

monitorscreen — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 06:26:07 GMT

'M in the middle of ditching. Don't expect me around.

FFVII CC. Nesa series by megpie71:

Opportunity Knocks You Over - Nesa, Lazard. G.
Occasionally, being knocked over can open whole new doors.

Rule One - Nesa, OC, Lazard, Sephiroth. PG.
In any large organisation, there are rules. A new SOLDIER has to start by learning Rule One.

Friends Help Friends - Nesa, Zack, Angeal. R. [*mention of sexual abuse]
Another story from the SOLDIER admin office - Nesa pulls Zack's chestnuts out of the fire, and Zack learns something surprising about the clerk.

Straightening the Record - Nesa, Zack. G.
A quiet drink, a quiet truth or two. Zack and Nesa bonding.

Homecoming - Nesa/OC. NC17.
Another working week over. Time to vent off some of the stresses of the day.

Planning the Perfect Party - Nesa, various OC. G.
Planning any party is annoying, but when ShinRa Personnel decide everyone has to attend this year's corporate celebration, the job rises to a new level of complicated.

Shooting Fish in a Barrel - Nesa, Sephiroth, Zack. G.
Somebody is playing silly buggers. Fortunately for the General, Nesa knows all the rules.

Sod This For A Game of Soldiers - Nesa, Sephiroth, Zack. R.
A secretary to a board-level person is supposed to be able to act as their bodyguard. While nobody really thinks to enforce the rule for General Sephiroth's secretary, she doesn't see any reason to let this stand in her way.

[Fic] POT. Kamio/An, implied An/Kippei. PG. Role Model

monitorscreen — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 02:59:57 GMT

Title: Role Model
Author: monitorscreen
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairing: Kamio/An, implied An/Kippei
Rating: PG
Word count: 144
Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis is the creation of Konomi Takeshi, not mine.
Summary: How can he compete?
Warning: Implied incest
Author's notes: Fic #18 for fic_on_demand's Fic a Day June Challenge. Request: Hopeless by trixie_chick. I'm not going to make the challenge this year; but well, I've had fun *smiles*

Role Model
by monitor screen

They were all a little in love with her, in those years of dreams and passion. If Tachibana Kippei was their unshakable core, then his sister was the epitome of what he represented. She was their star, their heart.

Akira should have counted himself lucky, that he is the one whom the princess has chosen, that he is found worthy of such a goddess. He should have been proud.

But in truth, Akira only feels non-existent, as he stands there watching her walks down the aisle on her brother's arm, watching the loving smile on her lips, watching the way her eyes sparkles - as her gaze lingers on the one beside her. He has to close his eyes from the glare of her white dress.

Because he does not want to witness how her glow dims when her eyes eventually turn onto him.

Comments and critiques welcomed.

[Fic] ASoIaF. Jaime's troop. G. Corps

monitorscreen — Thu, 26 Jun 2008 09:56:54 GMT

Title: Corps
Author: monitorscreen
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Characters: Jaime's troop in the Whispering Wood
Rating: G
Word count: 466 (126 quoted)
Disclaimer: A Song of Ice and Fire is the creation of George R.R. Martin, not mine.
Summary: There was no turning back now.
Author's notes: Fic #17 for fic_on_demand's Fic a Day June Challenge. Request: Incorporate a Chinese poem by xelloss_poo. Poem used: An Old War-Song by Li Qi (I did not follow the quoted version strictly, because some of it is mistranslated.) ... Phew, fifth one finally finished ^_^ This is something I've said to myself I'd try: one same prompt for five different fandom :-)

Corps
by monitor screen

They had taken the Riverlands. There was nothing to do but wait now.

Through the bright day up the mountain, we scan the sky for a war-torch;
At yellow dusk we water our horses in the Boundary River;

In a way this was worse than before they won; at least then they had been the ones attacking. Having to peek over their shoulders at every turn, straining their senses to see if there might be an ambush - this was more trying than marching all the way over from the West.

And when the throb of watch-drums hangs in the sandy wind,
We hear the guitar of the Chinese Princess telling her endless woe....

And these Riverlands were creepy. Many claimed to have heard voices in the woods... No one would dare to say it out loud, but they all wondered about the origin of the name Whispering Wood.

Ten thousand miles without a town, nothing but camps,
Till the heavy sky joins the wide desert in snow.
With their plaintive calls, barbarian wild-geese fly from night to night,
And children of the Tartars have many tears to shed;

The Riverlands were nothing like the rocky hills and open grounds they had trained in, which made it that much more difficult to know what to look out for. And failures would be fatal; it was a dangerous game the high lords played, with lives as their stakes. Their lives.

Most of them did not ask for this. But then again most of them never thought there would be a war. They had expected bloodshed when they joined the troop, but the casualties were not them, never them. To think that any of them might die with the slightest inattention...

But we hear that the Jade Pass is still impassable,
So we should stake our lives following the light-chariot general.

But there was no turning back now, no way out of this mess unless they had fought and won. There was no way to steer clear of danger, to be smart and leave warfare alone. They had lost their chance the day they joined.

At least they were under Ser Jaime. He was not any better than the other high lords, but boy, could Ser Jaime fight. At least the Kingslayer would never be one of those who ruined everything before the battle even began. At least they could stand a fair chance.

-- Not that any of this was fair in the first place. None of them forgot that Jaime was a Lannister, through and through. They simply cherished what advantage they could have.

There was a clash of steel in the woods; the horn sounded.

Each year we bury in the desert bones unnumbered,
Yet we only watch for grape-vines coming into China.

They charged.

Comments and critiques welcomed.

[Fic] Narnia. Susan. G. Facts and Fantasies

monitorscreen — Thu, 26 Jun 2008 09:54:17 GMT

Title: Facts and Fantasies
Author: monitorscreen
Fandom: The Chronicles of Narnia
Character: Susan Pevensie
Rating: G
Word count: 284 (64 quoted)
Disclaimer: The Chronicles of Narnia is the creation of C.S. Lewis, not mine.
Summary: Susan had never forgotten.
Author's notes: Fic #16 for fic_on_demand's Fic a Day June Challenge. Request: Incorporate a Chinese poem by xelloss_poo. Poem used: The Brocade Zither by Li Shangyin.

Facts and Fantasies
by monitor screen

Despite what the others might have said, Susan had never forgotten. The golden days of adventures and romances were fresh in her mind, tangible as the creams and rayon she kept as company nowadays.

For no reason the brocade zither has fifty strings.
Each bridge, each fret, recalls a flowering year.

There were fond memories. And not because she had been queen, with prestige and resources at the tips of her fingers. No, she was not that fickle.

Those were the days when she had believed in bravery and inner strength, in justice and freedom. Queen Susan the Gentle was real.

Or rather, had been real. In another time, another place.

Dawn dreams of a butterfly dazed Master Zhuang.
Prince Wang to the nightjar entrusted spring longings.

Here and now, she was only Susan Pevensie. Young, ordinary, Susan nobody. Grandeur or visions of heroism had no part in her life.

People should be practical. No matter how charming the other side of the mirror might be.

Through sapphire seas a moonlit pearl sheds a tear.
From indigo fields jade makes smoke in warm sun.

So Susan preened; so she flirted. In this reality in England, these were the important things. Destinies or legends, they were the fickle things here. Life was what one made of it, and by Aslan, was Susan going to come out of the scuffle on top.

Bills could not be paid with Narnian gold; dreams and fancies should remain that, immaterial, beyond the challenge of everyday living. A gem hidden in safekeeping...

A mood, in time, awaiting recollection?
Yet even then already lost and done.

... only to be revisited if she could spare a moment. Pragmatism was the rule.

Comments and critiques welcomed.

[Fic] Tactics. Haruka. G. Heartland

monitorscreen — Thu, 26 Jun 2008 09:52:20 GMT

Title: Heartland
Author: monitorscreen
Fandom: Tactics
Character: Haruka
Rating: G
Word count: 325 (102 quoted)
Disclaimer: Tactics is the creation of Kinoshita Sakura and Higashiyama Kazuko, not mine.
Summary: They were going to develop the area.
Author's notes: Fic #15 for fic_on_demand's Fic a Day June Challenge. Request: Incorporate a Chinese poem by xelloss_poo. Poem used: To the Tune of Riverside City - A Record of My Dream on the 20th Day of the First Month of Year Yiyou by Su Shi.

Heartland
by monitor screen

For ten years here I wander and there you lie.
I don't think about you often, yet how can I forget you.

Haruka did not bother with the affairs of humans these days, so it was a while before he got the news: They were going to develop the area.

They were going to develop the area. The grounds where Kantarou rested, eternally.

With your grave a thousand miles away, where can I confide my loneliness?

It was hard not to snarl. But Haruka had learned a little more about restraint after all these years. It was not like there would be any physical remains of the exorcist left by now, in all honesty.

Even if we met, could you recognize me,
With dust all over my face, and hair like frost?

But these grounds were still different. They would always be, no matter what change others might bring. These grounds bore the memories of them.

Last night I had a dream in which I returned home.
By the window, you were combing your hair.

They had worked and played and shouted and fought and lived together, once. For Haruka, it was difficult to fathom how everything could be gone so soon, impossible to grasp the fragility and transience of human lives.

We looked at each other silently, with tears streaming down our cheeks.

For a tengu, the years floated away as quickly as seconds.

And now they were going to obliterate the last remembrance of his master. Going to turn this place into some random, impersonal, foreign constructions.

Haruka drank in the sight of ancient trees and open sky, and then turned away, spreading his wings. There would be no looking back - he had no need to, anymore.

The scene lived in his heart now - where it would be out of reach for tarnish.

There's a place which every year will be my misery:
The moonlit night, the hill of short pines.

Comments and critiques welcomed.

[Fic] Gokusen 2. Ryu. G. The Chill

monitorscreen — Thu, 26 Jun 2008 09:48:17 GMT

Title: The Chill
Author: monitorscreen
Fandom: Gokusen 2
Character: Odagiri Ryu
Rating: G
Word count: 281 (50 quoted)
Disclaimer: Gokusen 2 is the creation of Nippon Television, Gokusen that of Morimoto Kozueko; neither is mine.
Summary: Snow in Japan had nothing on snow in North America.
Author's notes: Fic #14 for fic_on_demand's Fic a Day June Challenge. Request: Incorporate a Chinese poem by xelloss_poo. Poem used: Sent North on a Rainy Night by Li Shangyin.

The Chill
by monitor screen

Gosh, it was not like he had never seen snow before - Ryu had had his fair share of snowball fights, what with Hayato getting excitable every time white had covered the ground. The weather should not faze him this much.

But snow in Japan had nothing on snow in North America. And by god, was Ryu freezing in his dorm in the desolate campus. He would like to see Hayato pick a game in this blizzard. Ryu did not even know where all the snow could have come from; the storm had been going on for hours.

He curled tighter under his blanket, and tried to focus on his literature readings... Wasn't it enough that it was a raging hurricane outside? Did he have to read about storms too? Their professor sure had a sadistic streak.

Granted, on the paper it was only a rainstorm, and it said nothing of freezing temperatures. But the forlorn atmosphere more than made up for it:

You ask me what time I'll return, but I cannot give a time,
The rain in the hills of Ba at night overflows the autumn pools.
When can we trim the candle together by the western window,
And talk together of the rain in the hills of Ba at night?

It annoyed Ryu that the words had ringed a bell. It annoyed him even more that he had automatically slotted himself into the situation, already thinking about how to describe this snow to that baka. He was not poetic or something.

But yes, one day he would have Hayato know of storms like this. And stuff a snowball down the baka's shirt while he was at it, too.

Comments and critiques welcomed.

[Fic] HnG. Hikaru. G. Relics

monitorscreen — Thu, 26 Jun 2008 09:45:45 GMT

Title: Relics
Author: monitorscreen
Fandom: Hikaru no Go
Character: Shindo Hikaru
Rating: G
Word count: 267 (40 quoted)
Disclaimer: Hikaru no Go is the creation of Hotta Yumi, not mine.
Summary: Years later, Hikaru revisited Innoshima.
Author's notes: Fic #13 for fic_on_demand's Fic a Day June Challenge. Request: Incorporate a Chinese poem by xelloss_poo. Poem used: To Han Chuo, Magistrate of Yangzhou by Du Mu. I posted this to the comm in the morning; haven't time to post here till now ^_^;;

Relics
by monitor screen

Years later, the coast of Innoshima was still pristine and sunny, the wind gentle, the lap of the waves soft.

Hikaru stretched, and reviewed the board of solitary game he had laid out. If he placed a hand to the upper right corner... no, it would not work out. He might have played himself into a bind here.

It was easy to get lost in the environment, so native and different from hectic city streets he was used to, once he let his focus drift. Hikaru could hear the shrubs around rustling in the sea breeze, the faint cries of gulls in the distance. Suddenly he perked up, attention drawn, to the trill of instrument amid the sounds. Seemed like someone was feeling musical on this fine summer day. Hikaru closed his eyes, trying to pick out the tune.

The melody wafted in and out of range, forever elusive. Randomly, Hikaru remembered a poem Touya once told him. Something involving flutes...

Green mountains in the mist, streams far off
Autumn's finished, but in Jiangnan the grasses still haven't wilted.
On the Twenty-Four Bridges, under the bright moon tonight,
Where is that jade white girl you are teaching to play the flute?

Touya had said that the poet was picturing autumn in his hometown, where his friend had been. On this island, where Kojirou had played... Hikaru scanned his surroundings, wondering how the landscape had been like hundreds of years ago. If the sun had been as bright, the wind as refreshing.

He wondered if a boy had sat alone in his spot, playing a game of two.

Comments and critiques welcomed.

[Fic] HnG. Nase/Iijima. G. Normal Boys

monitorscreen — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 07:59:04 GMT

Title: Normal Boys
Author: monitorscreen
Fandom: Hikaru no Go
Pairing: Nase/Iijima
Rating: G
Word count: 433
Disclaimer: Hikaru no Go is the creation of Hotta Yumi, not mine.
Summary: It was difficult for Nase to date normal boys.
Author's notes: Fic #12 for fic_on_demand's Fic a Day June Challenge. Request: Best friends by shanaqui. I hope this isn't too scrambled; it's difficult to write when I can't decide if I want gen or 'ship... And now I have to run *sighs*

Normal Boys
by monitor screen

Nase did not give it a second thought the first time Iijima took her to dinner after another of their sessions at the Go club. She was starved, and it would be another hour before she could be home. Eating nearby seemed like a logical solution. All the better if she could have it with company.

It was the third week of this when she started to take notice. And even then she simply accepted the change of routine. Iijima was going to leave soon, after all; he probably wanted to savour the time they still had together. It was not like he was unpleasant company.

-- The two of them shared certain bonds, both unable to pass the professional exam yet, both more likely than not never would. Nase knew one day she would have to make Iijima's choice; but for now she would enjoy herself while she was still here, and made sure he did too.

It was Iijima's last week when he asked her out for lunch the next Saturday, since you know, I won't be coming on Sunday. Nase checked to make sure her schedule was clear, and then did not hesitate to say yes. It was just another form of those dinners, really.

And so it went on for about seven months before Nase paused and looked back, and realised that while she was not looking, these dates with Iijima had become something more, more than random hanging out with a friend. She now reserved Saturday afternoons for the occasional game of Go, or movies when one caught both of their interests, or sometimes just walking through the parks or streets or malls. They had great times together; it was comfortable, it was nice, and it settled her sporadic cravings to have fun like other girls her age did.

It was still difficult for Nase to date normal boys, who wanted to meet on Sundays to skate or sing karaoke or do other equally inane things, who looked at her blankly when she said she liked to play Go, who peeked up her skirt and stared when she drank from a can. But who needed that, when she could trounce somebody at a Go salon and compare notes afterwards, when she could relate an important match and do not have to explain every little triviality, when she could confidently wear a mini-skirt and know that she would always, always be seen as more than a pair of pretty legs?

Yes, it might be difficult to date normal boys, but when she had Iijima, Nase was contented not to.

Comments and critiques welcomed.

[Fic] Gokusen 2. Hayato/Ryu. PG. Reasoning

monitorscreen — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 04:51:45 GMT

Title: Reasoning
Author: monitorscreen
Fandom: Gokusen 2
Pairing: Hayato/Ryu
Rating: PG
Word count: 188
Disclaimer: Gokusen 2 is the creation of Nippon Television, Gokusen that of Morimoto Kozueko; neither is mine.
Summary: There will always be excuses.
Author's notes: Fic #11 for fic_on_demand's Fic a Day June Challenge. Request: First kiss by nemkess. And Hayato is prejudiced against certain things; I mean no offence.

[ETA Jan 22, 2011: Now with Russian translation by Sweet Whisper.]

Reasoning
by monitor screen

It was an accident. Just one unintended falter after yet another fight. His arm was all bruised, damnit, of course it might buckle.

That he landed on Ryu was accidental. That he planted face-first on the other, lips smacking onto his, was even more accidental.

He was sure Ryu's arm around his shoulder was only meant to steady him. If all it managed was to pull him closer, Hayato was sure it was because Ryu was hurt too - they had all learned that injured limbs were unreliable.

So the only reason he stayed there, sprawled all over Ryu, was because he did not want to fall halfway again and worsen Ryu's bruises.

When Ryu licked across his lower lip, Hayato was sure it was only meant to clean up his split wound. Infections were nasty, after all. And Hayato only drew the tongue in because he thought he had cut his inner cheek too when that bastard from Midoriyama punched him. Better to be safe, and all that jazz.

It was not like they were fags or something. They were no pansy.

Hayato was sure of that.

Comments and critiques welcomed.

[Fic] FFVII. Vincent/Cloud. PG13. Because The Joke Never Gets Old

monitorscreen — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 03:39:13 GMT

Title: Because The Joke Never Gets Old
Author: monitorscreen
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Pairing: Vincent/Cloud
Rating: PG13
Word count: 415
Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII and its compilation are the creations of Square Enix, not mine.
Summary: "I saw you looking at the dress first."
Warning: Cross-dressing
Author's notes: Fic #10 for fic_on_demand's Fic a Day June Challenge. Request: Dressing up by ghost_whisper. This happened because I read somewhere that Cloud has a purple satin dress to lend to Vincent. It was too good to pass up ;p

Because The Joke Never Gets Old
by monitor screen

"Tell me again," Cloud pulled slightly away from sucking his lover's throat, "why are we doing this?"

Vincent took the opportunity to capture his mouth instead."... Because you like it?" His hands shifted on Cloud's waist, claws keeping off so as not to tear the delicate fabric.

The shiny, smooth, purple SATIN.

"I so do not! Why would I..." The protest drained into a moan, as Vincent rocked their bodies together, nibbling on his collarbone just so.

A long while of kissing and touching later, "Don't tell me you're not enjoying yourself."

Cloud could feel a blush creeping on. "Well... Maybe this is a little nice. A little!" He proceeded to swipe away the other's smirk. With his tongue. "But it's so not my idea."

"I saw you looking at the dress first."

"And I was just looking! It wasn't like I was trying it on or something." Vincent's hand had - Cloud distractedly noted - slipped under the skirt when he was busy elsewhere. And it was doing something that made it really difficult to stay indignant. It's not fair.

"I think you would have, if you're sure the shopkeeper wouldn't look at you funny." Vincent, Cloud decided, was having entirely too much fun over this. He sat up on his lover's body, trying to get better leverage. The full skirt pooled around him, covering most of Vincent's torso. The hand underneath was trailing sensually from his left knee up.

He shifted again, trying to dislodge the buzz enough to give a retort - only to realise that he had none. "... So anyway, how'd you come by this thing? In my size, too."

"Oh? I bought it, of course." The hand was now at his hip, tracing mystic patterns that made him bit back exclamations.

Cloud - subtly - cleared his throat. "... And people didn't ask questions?"

"I have all your measurements." To demonstrate his point, Vincent patted Cloud's bottom. "The seamstress thinks I'm sweet, really."

Cloud leaned down to peck his lover's lips, "Yah, you're so sweet." And got some caresses of his own in. "So how'd you get my measurements?"

Vincent's left hand moved to his back, "You think I wouldn't know your body after all this time? Why, I'm hurt." He looked anything but.

Cloud traced a finger along the amused curve, so rarely seen on those lips, and smiled in return, "No you're not." He settled over his lover's body once more. "Come on, give me another kiss."

Comments and critiques welcomed.