anaelau

Tue, 06 May 2008 14:43:10 GMT

Title: Equilibrium
Author: icefalcon
Rating: M
Fandom: Mirage of Blaze (anime, as I only know bits and pieces about the books)
Pairing: Naoe/Kagetora, Naoe/Takaya
Warnings: Pseudo-threesome, emotional torture, non-graphic actual torture... arg, Naoe/Kagetora-ness!
Disclaimer: Not mine
Notes: Written for ulfhedhnar during Yuletide 2007. Prompt was 'Romance', and I did my best at interpreting that along the lines of Naoe and Kagetora... Thus, it is a bloody and twisted love affair (a little bit more so than I was anticipating) that I had far too much fun writing. I was somewhat iffy at words like exorcist and reincarnation, because I don't think the English terms really do MoB justice, but I felt more awkward using Japanese terms.

- balance -

'It must be done.' Kagetora's voice echoed through the chamber, filling the space with hints of steel and bronze.

Naoe knelt at his feet, silent.

'It is dangerous, even for one of us,' Kagetora continued more slowly.

'I will go, my lord.' Naoe had to. He had to pay his debt back. He had to find a way to restore the balance between them, to get back what he had once found in Kagetora's eyes.

'Good.' Kagetora hesitated, glance fixed on Naoe.

'Your first death, Naoe – and you choose to give it to me. Do you think it will go some of the way towards repaying me for my first death?'

Naoe's silence was his answer.

'Don't forget, Naoe. You belong to me in your next life as well.' Kagetora's laughter, edged with rich amusement.

'Yes, my lord.'

Kagetora only smiled at him, and the smile was the howl of winter wolves among wastes of snow.

Yes, always yes.

- - counterbalance -

The patently false whimpers of the whore beneath Kagetora sent blood-deep shards of anger surging under Naoe's skin.

'Stand guard, Naoe,' Kagetora had said mockingly, ignoring the blatant invitation written across Naoe's body, a demand and a promise that never left Naoe's eyes.

Whatever... relief Kagetora had sought to find here, coupling with a piece of filth in exchange for something as insignificant as money, he was not finding it. Naoe spitefully noticed - without looking, not watching – that at least his Lord did not seem to be gaining much enjoyment from the cheap theatrics on offer.

Naoe wouldn't look, wasn't watching. He stepped back, needing the solid weight of the wall behind him to anchor his fury into controllable bounds.

'Naoe.'

His head jerked up involuntarily, body ever obedient to Kagetora's command even if the mind was not.

'Naoe,' Kagetora breathed out again, a demand curled around a snarl, coated with a desire that should only ever be for him, heard by him.

The sight of those pale limbs dampening with sweat should only be for him, that hair down and falling over the shoulders should be only Naoe's to touch. Only his.

The whore will have to die.

Winter-dark glare trailing over Kagetora's body, over all that should be his, his, Naoe raised his eyes to meet his owner's, murderous intent entwining with hopeless need, blazing clear.

'Naoe...' Kagetora slowly unhooded his eyes, lustfully golden with his war-rage, head aslant, the gleam of the firelight spreading a searing reflection in his eyes. 'Is that what you want me to say, Naoe?'

The whore whimpered again, into the crackling silence.

Kagetora clamped a hand over her mouth. 'Quiet.' he snapped, not breaking the heat of their locked gazes. His breathing was now finally quickening to something approaching excitement, eyes darkening with something approaching arousal...

Naoe did not look away. His breathing quickened in time, the painful electric shock of need in his abdomen building higher.

The expression on Kagetora's face was something he would not share. He would tear the memory from the whore's flesh, and take it for his own.

Kagetora. Two sets of loud, heavy breathing were dancing through the air. An occasional whimper from the whore emerged, and was ignored.

'Feel free to indulge, Naoe,' Kagetora murmured, and brought his mouth down on the whore's in a parody of a gentle kiss, before yanking her head savagely back and leaving a trail of teeth marks along her neck.

Kagetora's eyes flickered back up.

Naoe's hand had already flown instinctively to his own throat. He could feel Kagetora's teeth, feel the fingers that were ghosting across the skin of a woman who would be dead by sunrise.

No. No, he wouldn't.

He glared at Kagetora, and clenched his fists by his side, forcing down his lust, feeding into resentment, into fury, into the fire.

He wouldn't lose this one.

Kagetora would not have this one thing from him, no.

No.

- balance -

'Naoe, there's no time! We have to go! Naoe!'

Fire, fire burning.

Despite Nagahide attempting to hold him back, Naoe could not stop his body from struggling.

'Kagetora can take care of himself, if the worst comes, he'll just reincarnate! We'll lose a few years, but we've done it before! Come on, let's get out and finish the fucking mission!'

Naoe began to snarl, an animal noise of pure fury overpowering all words.

'Naoe, you idiot! We can't afford to lose both of you at once! He'll need you later-'

'I won't - leave him - now,' Naoe ground out, lashing at Nagahide.

'Fine! Be it on your head!' Nagahide gave up in disgust. 'He won't thank you for it, we need to complete the mission!'

'It can all burn if it means he's safe,' Naoe hissed, and turned and ran, ran into fire, smoke, burning, pain.

'Kagetora!'

Pushing through flame, breaking through glass.

Naoe, consumed: he's not there, he's not THERE. He has to be, he can't leave again, Kagetora can't leave him, not after what they'd... not after.

'Kagetora!'

Raging fear, black and deep, burning and desperate. Shaking, he was shaking, fire and blood, all around him.

'Kagetora!'

At least he'd die with his lord, this time.

A deep breath, and another. Flame and ether, burning through his veins.

A last, no more air to breathe, only smoke, no Kagetora.

Nothing.

A foolish hope, that he could have saved Kagetora, this time. That another of Kagetora's deaths wouldn't be on his hands. That a little of what lay between them could be squared. That he could do something that would make Kagetora look at him, only him.

Nothing, and trapped – by fire, at that. Nothing new, there. He would die as he had lived this life, but next time, then, next life with Kagetora, there would be another chance.

He closed his eyes, sank into himself, and began preparations to transfer his soul.

Then – 'You idiot,' a whisper barely audible through the roar of the fire burning around them.

Naoe, hazily unconscious, struggling back towards life, could only feel hands holding him tight, tighter and – a kiss?

Safe.

Yes.

- counterbalance -

'Did you really just try to leave me, Naoe?'

Naoe struggled to breathe, lungs gasping in shallow, painful breaths as he huddled on the floor.

'Minako doesn't like you very much, you know. You were very rude to her, Naoe.'

'If she's so important to you,' Naoe managed to gasp out, 'Why are you here with me?'

Even with his eyes closed, he could feel Kagetora's golden gaze gutting him.

'Discipline is very important, Naoe.'

Naoe laughed, a broken sound that tore through his broken ribs.

The taste of blood in his mouth, his body on fire. Always, on fire, with Kagetora. Two men, burning each other alive. Naoe didn't care, as long as it was the two of them.

He spat the blood onto Kagetora's feet. 'More important than her. Good.'

It had happened before. Kagetora occasionally became enamoured with another. But what lay between them came first, the push, the pull, the burning, the fire. The other left, the two of them remained.

Even if Kagetora beat him again... as long as he stayed. Kagetora had to burn with him, otherwise Naoe would be lost.

'Do you really think you can leave me?'

Naoe only laughed again, a laugh that broke down into heaving coughs.

Kagetora hissed, and yanked Naoe's head up in a movement that sent burning stabs of pain through him.

Once, before the beginning, he had not been able to face what was in Kagetora's gaze.

Once, when there had been more of him. Now, all that was left belonged to Kagetora, and the fire within, and it was the fire allowed him to withstand the fury in Kagetora's eyes.

'Then again, what use would I have for a disobedient dog?'

Kagetora let him go, and stood.

'I don't really care anymore, Naoe.' Kagetora, slow and clear, eyes fixed obsessively on Naoe's face.

Naoe slumped back onto the floor. Kagetora wouldn't leave him. He couldn't. He wouldn't. He was bound as much as Naoe.

Yet - Kagetora left him there, walking out the door with a deliberate smile thrown like a knife over his shoulder, walking to fight alone, walking away from Naoe's scream, from the sound of their desperate need given voice, their need that had festered deep over a long, long time, a need that was finally destroying him.

No matter what he thought, Kagetora couldn't walk away, he wasn't walking away, he felt it too, the fire that was theirs alone, he couldn't be walking away -

No, no, no!

- balancecounterbalancebalance see-saw margery daw johnny shall have a new master -

'Hey Naoe - how come we don't have cool outfits like that?' Takaya pointed at the television.

He had been lazily ensconced on Naoe's couch for the last few hours, drinking and watching a terrible historical drama, in an effort to convince Naoe that he should make more of an attempt to relax.

Relaxation was not happening, however, because Takaya kept on sliding in sly questions about what they had been doing when this battle or that war happened, and egging him on when Naoe started criticising the accuracy of the locations or even, yes, the costuming.

'I wonder what I'd look like in one of those outfits,' Takaya said, speculatively eyeing a rather bizarre leather concoction.

'I'm afraid I can't let you do that, Kagetora.' Naoe's instinctive response.

The flinch that followed was equally instinctive. Kagetora would have looked at him, angry arrogance written across every inch of him, and struck back at him, tightening his leash.

Takaya only snorted, and threw his empty can at Naoe.

Strange, the little pieces that added up to a soul. Takaya was Kagetora, capable in so many ways of everything that Kagetora was. Yet – without Kagetora's memories, Naoe could see, clearer than from the first, all that Kagetora felt...

The burning, all-consuming love had been first, but so quickly entwined with hate and anger and jealousy and fear. Takaya was Kagetora without the weight of both their hatred tying his love down, and for that, Naoe would, however selfishly, carry the memories alone for as long as he could.

'Naoe! Are you listening? If I'm going to be stuck doing this, I need some kind of cool uniform. Maybe like an idol...'

'I really can't let you do that.' Automatic, a hand grasping at Takaya's arm. Casual and not so casual touches had been another luxury Kagetora had never permitted him – but a luxury Takaya had adjusted to all but unconsciously.

'I'll do it if I want to!'

'Kagetora –'

'Takaya, idiot. When is it going to sink in?'

'Only a prostitute would have worn something that impractical. We wore clothing that was much longer. And looser. For ease of movement.' Naoe said quickly.

'You just made that up.' Takaya narrowed his eyes, a golden flicker of Kagetora's flame.

Naoe flinched again, in a wary anticipation.

Takaya rolled his eyes, fire melting away. 'Naoe, sometimes... you're kind of stupid.'

When Kagetora said that, it was a precursor to something far worse.

When Takaya said it...

Naoe waited.

Takaya only rolled his eyes again, and brought Naoe's fingers to his mouth in an unselfconscious kiss.

Of course, he then bit them, and pushed Naoe off the couch but it was -

- equilibrium.

Tue, 06 May 2008 14:40:43 GMT

Title: Jiraiya Has An Awesome Christmas (And Orochimaru Ends Up In Drag).
Author: icefalcon
Rating: PG-13
Pairing(s): Jiraiya/Yondaime
Warning(s): No spoilers, bar Yondaime's name. Set during the narrow window before the war, where Orochimaru is still in Konoha, Yondaime isn't Yondaime and doesn't have a team yet (although I subscribe to the theory that Yondaime was teaching Kakashi before Team Yondaime), and Jiraiya is hot (last part always true). Avoids depiction of Orochimaru in drag.
Summary: What's more fun than gift wrapping while drunk?
Author's notes: Written for shigeruhiko in the 2007 Santa No Jutsu Christmas fic exchange (since then I have fixed up a couple of little inconsistencies as well as a few other little misc. things that I noticed after it had been posted).

--

In hindsight, looking back through his hangover-flavoured memories and combing through the 'What did I do, who did I do, where is my underwear, why can't I feel my knee' details of the night, Jiraiya decided that his Christmas Eve had been awesome largely because Orochimaru was an asshole.

Of course, he hadn't been grateful to Orochimaru at the time, but he was an asshole and didn't deserve to be thanked anyway.

Bastard was cocky enough.

--

'Stupid Orochimaru. Sarutobi always favours him,' Jiraiya grumbled, shifting uncomfortably in the snow.

If it wasn't for Orochimaru, he wouldn't be pulling out his White Snow Genjutsu Disguise Surprise (which he'd carefully created after a particularly bad mission while reading a book about a country where women ran naked into the snow after a sauna), no, he'd be nice and warm in bed, still sleeping.

His day had started with a rat-tat-tat-tat and an ANBU summons to Sarutobi's office, where a suitably important S-Class mission involving a princess awaited, a mission that required the best of the best, a shinobi capable of the utmost levels of deception, discretion and duplicity.

It was a good start to the day, but it only went downhill from there.

For starters, five minutes into his briefing one of Sarutobi’s aides materialised, and whispered something into Sarutobi's ear.

The old man sighed in relief - 'Oh thank god, Orochimaru's back, have a good Christmas, get some of the sleep you desperately need, dismissed!'

Five minutes into Jiraiya's loud justification of his superior skills, Orochimaru knocked politely on the door, and smirked Jiraiya out of the room with a 'Merry Christmas Jiraiya. I’ll bring you back a present.'

Bastard. Jiraiya was certainly going to return the present he'd gotten Orochimaru.

Or, he'd meant to, but he had ended up getting sidetracked by the thoughts of people who'd actually get him real presents, and not just some 'Here's some famous frog spear that you've never heard of, you barbarian, take it so you're not so weak next time' kind of present, like Orochimaru had given him their first year as teammates. Bah, Orochimaru had only wanted to show him up, because back then the only person Jiraiya would seriously train with was him anyway.

Arg, he was a bastard!

Oh well. Orochimaru being a mission-stealing bastard meant there was more time for peeking, and utilising his unparalleled peeking skills to collect important present-related data.

Of course, it'd been a great idea, like all of his ideas, but the increasingly heavy snow was getting annoying and cold! Sure, he was a fabulous ninja, able to take anything the power of the elements threw at him, but unlike a few of the stoics that surrounded him, Jiraiya was smart enough to avoid it when he didn’t have to, and not make a seemingly quiet yet annoyingly 'look at me!' loud display of his own endurance.

It wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't been trying to peek through Minato's windows though, because he was really paranoid and Jiraiya was totally getting a stick up his ass trying to peer through his windows at a decent angle. He wasn't entirely sure if it was some kind of trap he was sitting on, but it was certainly uncomfortable.

Almost... there! The perfect position to peer in and see -

- Minato standing near the window, giving him the finger and holding out a cup of hot chocolate with a blinding grin.

'Asshole,' Jiraiya grumbled, opening the window and swinging inside. In manly, ninja fashion. While muttering about show-off geniuses who got the best of everything, and stupidly alert apprentices who had the nerve to be aware and ninja-like at all times.

'Hah, Orochimaru took the princess mission then?' Minato handed Jiraiya his cup, grinning even wider.

Only further mutterings of 'asshole' and 'pretty princess mission suits him' greeted Minato’s question, as he took a sulky gulp of hot chocolate.

'Jiraiya, were you paying attention in the mission briefing? Orochimaru’s going to spend Christmas Eve in drag.'

Jiraiya changed his mind.

Life was wonderful.

Even if he was choking on hot chocolate. Hah! Take that, pretty bastard. Sarutobi was right, after all. Jiraiya shouldn’t have doubted his wisdom. Orochimaru was perfect for any mission that needed a princess.

'I think you would have made a much sexier princess though, sensei!' Minato batted his eyes at him.

'... Asshole! Ahh, I feel much better now -'

'- You'll feel even better when you wipe that hot chocolate off your face -'

'- and am now ready to be showered with Christmas gifts.' Jiraiya took a judicious scan through scene of gift-wrapping carnage, half-wrapped gifts strewn amongst wrapping paper and cards.

'Hey - is that ribbon?'

'Yes.'

'You're such a girl.'

'Says the person who was five minutes away from being one tonight.'

Jiraiya snorted. 'I refuse to listen to such slanderous accusations! Which one is my present?' He began to poke suspiciously through the piles.

'I wrapped it first. You always come around peeking when I'm wrapping!'

'My ninja skills are without parallel! No one can detect my peeking!'

'You taught me all your peeking skills, sensei, I recognise them when I see them.'

Curses. The brat was right. Deflection time - 'Anyway, it’s Christmas Eve, let’s get drunk!'

'Jiraiya!' Minato threw the scissors he'd been using at Jiraiya's head. 'It’s one in the afternoon!'

'So? It's after twelve. Time for sake!'

Minato’s stern face made an appearance. 'No, no sake. Aren't you recovering from your mission? Besides, I know Tsunade is your teammate, but she’s a medic-nin, Jiraiya. She's capable of doing strange things to her liver to fix her constant drinking! You are not, so don't destroy your liver trying to keep up with her.'

'You're no fun.'

'Besides, I made eggnog.' The smile came back.

'Ho ho ho!'

After invading Minato's kitchen and swiping the majority of the booze, Jiraiya settled down onto the couch to watch the wrapping.

'How many people did you buy for anyway?'

'Only a few people, here and there, Kakashi, Sandaime, ANBU teammates-'

'You're the only person I know who buys Christmas presents for their ANBU teammates, Minato.'

'I think it’s important,' Minato said firmly, and Jiraiya forwent the snippy response. After all, it was Minato's ninja way - and who was he to say anything, when his genin team were still so ridiculously close-knit?

Still, it didn’t mean he had to stop drinking to wrap ridiculous amounts of presents for everyone he'd ever met.

'Minaaaatoooo, why aren’t you drinking?'

Jiraiya hoped the brat never became Hokage – he’d go mad trying to find Christmas presents for every ninja in the village.

'I still have Kakashi’s present to wrap tonight. I’ll drink once I finish.'

Jiraiya carefully prodded at a crumbling pile of paper on the floor next to him.

'What the hell kind of present is this one anyway? It's falling apart.'

'It's something I picked up in Cloud a month or two ago, a treatise on external chakra manipulation and its influence on mood.'

Not looking at Jiraiya, Minato began curling the final pieces of ribbon on Kakashi's present. (Minato had said last year that it had to have five as much as on any of the other presents, just for the disgusted-yet-bemused-to-be-getting-a-present-at-all look on Kakashi's face. Jiraiya was so proud to see his teaching traditions of torment being handed down.)

Ugh. The only person who'd want something like that would be - 'Ah.'

Minato only smiled, and didn't say anything. He didn't get along particularly well with Orochimaru. If they hadn't summoned frogs and snakes respectively, Jiraiya would have said they were like two cats in a small space, all dignified fur and sidelong glances. On most occasions he found it hilarious, but occasionally it troubled him, in a way he wasn't quite prepared to admit.

Still, it gave him what Orochimaru himself had called 'soft, weak feelings' inside that he'd get Orochimaru a present, for Jiraiya's sake. Even if Orochimaru was a bastard who didn't deserve any presents.

'Thanks, brat.'

It only took about ten or so glasses of the surreptitiously extra-fortified eggnog to get Minato to stop his wrapping, and start on the real drinking as was proper on Christmas Eve. Or Christmas Eve-afternoon. And it only took twenty glasses to loosen him up (Jiraiya thought it was twenty, he'd had enough for numbers to all start sounding the same) enough to start talking about Jiraiya's Christmas present.

'Do you want to see your Christmas present after all? Or can you guess what it is?' A teasing grin.

'You got me porn.'

'I got you something better than porn.'

'What, really? I need it now!'

'I need more alcohol to give it to you.'

'Fuck! I’ve drunk it all.'

Minato staggered to his feet. 'I have a great idea!' He disappeared into the kitchen, and Jiraiya listened fuzzily to a prolonged series of crashing and sloshings, until Minato re-appeared holding a – bucket?

'Huh?'

'What, you want me to use a bowl? I only have small bowls. A bucket fits more alcohol.'

'You’re a genius.'

'I know!'

'So, brat -'

'What did you get me for Christmas, Jiraiya?'

'That's my question!'

'I've already received one present,' Minato said, ignoring Jiraiya. 'Sandaime has given me a team.'

He hesitated, and filled another cup from the bucket, downing it in one motion.

Taking a judicious swig from his own cup, Jiraiya acknowledged, 'You're a very good ninja.'

Jiraiya waited. The dumb blond was going to ask it, despite being more than enough, despite being all but Jiraiya's equal, despite the potential that said he'd be more one day, despite the warmth he balanced with a weapon's edge, despite being the brightest thing in Jiraiya's life, he was going to ask it.

Minato remained distinctly silent for another moment. 'Am I going to be good enough?'

Jiraiya snorted. Dumbass, his eyebrow clearly said.

'You did fine with that Kakashi brat, didn't you? He's not any more fucked up than he was when you first got him. Sometimes that's all you can do.'

Minato's turn to snort.

'Thanks. One student is one thing, but a team...'

'Is something worth fighting for.'

'Yes.'

Jiraiya handed Minato another cup. 'Let's drink to your future team then, brat.'

'We've drunk to everything else, why not?'

Clink.

'Speaking of teams, I hope Orochimaru is having fun in his princess outfit, the bastard.' Jiraiya burped loudly, and fumbled to put his glass on the table.

'Jiraiya.' Very, very quietly. 'You know that Sarutobi only-'

'Sent Orochimaru because I was so exhausted from the Dalesian mission? Yeah.' Jiraiya sighed, and flopped down onto the pile of wrapping paper Minato had thrown on the floor next to the couch.

'How are you going anyway, Jiraiya?' A roll of the head and sharp eyed glare told him that he'd better answer quickly, or it'd be No Alcohol For Jiraiya Time Again.

'Pretty tired, brat.'

Minato continued to glare, but didn't call him on it. They shared more than most ninja, more than most teacher and students, more than most friends, true... but there was one area they didn't press. Sometimes they needed to unburden, to talk themselves down from war-edged sharpness, but if they didn't, there was no pressing.

He'd tell Minato eventually, the details that he could, and Minato would hear the stories soon enough, another legend added to the Sannin's name.

His answer was true enough, regardless. He certainly felt tired. Normally after having drunk so much he'd be gigglier than a twelve year old kunoichi, but he only felt very sleepy and very heavy.

He knew how to solve that one though – fuck 'em all and have another drink while he was still alive!

'I wonder, surely some genius ninja has worked out some way to summon alcohol right into their glass... Standing up isn;t an efficient use of my bodily resources at this current point of the evening.'

'It's still the afternoon. I think. I can't tell! Your presence is far too intoxicating, naturally.' A wistful smile was sent in Jiraiya's direction – no one else could use smiles as a weapon like he did. Yet, still. He wouldn't press, for Jiraiya's sake.

'Also, we're ninjas. We can totally get that bucket over here with our ninja skills.'

Thunkthunkthunkthunkthunkthunk.

The sound of good alcohol dribbling out of what had been Minato’s bucket but was now a bucket corpse riddled with kunai was easily drowned out by Jiraiya's cry of 'Oh no, we killed the bucket Kage!'

'You're an idiot, sensei.'

Minato kicked the bucket remains to the side and rolled them out of the spreading puddle.

'You're an idiot,' he repeated, and kissed Jiraiya very sweetly, his own tempered gentleness cut through with sharpness of the alcohol. Strange how that much alcohol was overpowering in someone else's mouth - but he never thought that kissing his lover was meant to be about them tasting good, it was about kissing them because you prefer that taste to any other taste in the world.

And he did.

'We were all really worried, you know. Not just me.'

Minato slumped over, planting his face onto Jiraiya's stomach, his breath sending tendrils of warmth rippling along Jiraiya's spine.

'Well, mainly me. Stay?' A very light, very quiet kiss against Jiraiya's skin.

Jiraiya curled his fingers through the golden tangle of hair in silent assent.

'What could possibly make me leave?'

And they stayed there, heartbeat after heartbeat, letting the world spin around them.

--

(The next morning, he woke up with the worst hangover ever - and although he'd like to find out why he was naked and inexplicably half-covered in wrapping paper, there was one far more pressing matter that he was desperate to have addressed.

'Minato?'

'If I move I'm going to throw up.'

'What did you get me for Christmas?'

'Porn. Go to sleep.')

The somewhat completer story.

Sun, 25 Mar 2007 14:54:22 GMT

Title: Brightly Burning
Author: icefalcon
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Bleach
Pairing: Noooonne
Warnings: Spoilers for Isshin's backstory.
Disclaimer: Not mine.

FORR ERIIIINN as always.

1.

Shiba Isshin had always intended to join the fourth division, and he’d beat up anyone who said different.

He wanted to heal, dammit, no matter what muscle brained morons thought of the Fourth division. Anyway, he was THE Shiba Isshin! He’d shape up the few pansy assed weaklings, and he’d be the best healer and the best fighter the Gotei-13 had ever seen!

Yes, Shiba Isshin had always intended to join the fourth division - until the moment his zanpakuto imperiously woke.

He’d known the right words to wake it, of course. Isshin always had. They’d never worked, but he could feel the distinctly unimpressed arrogance sitting at the back of his head, refusing to obey.

He’d sat there for hours at the Academy, shouting them over and over, getting more and more frustrated at both the lack of response, and the growing heavy amusement inside him.

And then one day, it worked.

He’d snuck out to spend the day nosing through the Fourth division headquarters. Unohana-taichou had even smiled at him, which was good, because it meant she liked him and that was important because he’d be vice captain soon.

Isshin had been stomping back to the Academy, howling out the release command of his shikai (he’d made a little song), thinking about how he’d kick Akane-fukutaichou’s ass and other important things.

“REEEEEEJOICCCE IN THEEEEEE -”

No.

‘Horizon, A – huh?’

We will NOT answer your call while you direct yourself so.

Isshin groaned, overwhelmed by the force of the presence manifesting itself in his head.

Heal? his zanpakuto said, increasing in power.

Isshin fell to the ground.

Serve? his zanpakuto hissed, burning, burning brightly.

He struggled to breath through the shining blaze around him.

We will not serve, his zanpakuto said.

In. Out.

We must rule, his zanpakuto demanded.

The light was unbearable.

We have a different path to walk, his zanpakuto said.

And the radiance of his zanpakuto’s sun tore through the misty clouds of his planned future.

2.

An old name, they said, patching up his burns.

An old power, they said, while informing him that his blindness would subside in a month.

They did not say, this one is too strong for you to master, but Isshin heard it anyway.

3.

There were several theories behind why zanpakuto were as they were. Where they shaped by the soul that wielded them? Did they exist separately, choosing to serve where and when they wished? Why did a zanpakuto take a particular form?

At first, Isshin thought that his zanpakuto was a separate entity, which had obviously chosen him because of his brilliance as a shinigami.

Slowly, as he gained more control, he assumed his growing mastery and abilities were because they were learning to get along.

The sniping comments injected into his mind at any random point of the day grew to be more amusing, and less of a burden, and the brilliant heaviness that lurked within him began to feel more natural, his stubbornness leashing it down under his rule.

Despite the burns, the near constant blindness, the time that he spent in the Fourth Division (most likely more than he would have if he’d actually ended up in the Division), a fierce burning pride was glowing.

He was getting stronger.

Isshin did not stop to think that he too, was changing.

4

The day Isshin tied on the insignia of a Vice Captain was the day he began to question whether or not his zanpakuto was an entity coming to a compromise with his genius.

His control was so much stronger, so much firmer, than his zanpakuto had occasionally begun to defer (or at least not argue, which was really the same) to him.

Surely, Isshin rationalised, the zanpakuto was a being shaped by its master - which meant that he wasn’t testing himself against a sword, he was testing himself, right?

Then, mastering his zanpakuto was the same as mastering himself! And he was Shiba Isshin – no challenge would ever be too great.

He would decide the path to walk from here on, not some stupid-assed piece of steel!

This thought, more than anything, drove him to his first attempt at Bankai.

The thought did him little good.

His zanpakuto contemptuously shattered him - a Vice Captain! – hammering him down to his knees, just like on the first occasion.

What path are we walking, Shiba Isshin?

Not this one.

Bright, bright burning.

4.

It was sixty years before Isshin tried for Bankai again.

By that time, they fought so seamlessly that Isshin had given up philosophical questions of what a zanpakuto was. It worked, that was what mattered.

Isshin never told Urahara that he’d technically achieved Bankai a whole lot faster that the stupid new Twelfth Division captain had. Firstly, because Urahara would have brought up the first attempt and laughed at him a lot, and secondly because it was so easy it was dumb.

Isshin had simply ordered him. Commanded that they both grow stronger, and that he would tell Isshin what his bankai was, or Isshin would know why.

His zanpakuto laughed, and laughed again, tauntingly unfurled words of fire in his mind, a whiplash of power matched this time with a surge of Isshin’s own reiatsu.

It was only as Isshin shrugged on his captain’s robe, to the sound of golden chimes of triumph curling through his head, that he recognised his zanpakuto for what it was - a perfect reflection of himself.

Larger than life, shining like the sun.

5.

A reflection, however, does not pick and choose which aspects to mirror, and when the order to exterminate the Quincy tribe came, they both reluctantly obeyed, aware of the danger the Quincy methods of Hollow eradication posed to their worlds.

“Bankai: Final Form.”

Isshin withdrew into the embrace of his zanpakuto.

“Royal Judgment of Benu!”

And nothing happened.

The final form of his Bankai was judgment in its purest form, shearing soul from body, sending Hollows and those tainted by the darkness into the next life, to be purified and cleansed.

If it failed, then the target was found innocent by whatever higher powers Isshin and his zanpakuto drew upon.

Nothing happened.

At least, nothing happened that bloody night that Isshin and his other half caused.

They burned brightly, but this kind of slaughter this was as foreign to his zanpakuto was it was to him. They ruled, they commanded, they blazed.

What path are we walking?

The kind of petty organization that ordered its captains out, tight faced with disgust at the task they were given, unhappily wading through the blood of innocent, innocent, people was not where he belonged.

None of the captains deserved this, that Yama-ji with his stoniest face on, doing his duty to Soul Society, Kyouraku with a disconcerting lack of expression at his back (Ukitake had flatly excused himself on the grounds of ill-health), Aizen fastidiously moving as fast as possible, granting the mercy of a quick death where he could – no one deserved this.

None of the Quincy deserved this.

This was not his path.

Isshin closed his eyes, squared his shoulders, and set his feet on a different one, one that brought him the door of an old friend.

“Urahara.”

Urahara with his Crimson Princess, equally as stuck up as Isshin’s own zanpakuto (Isshin sometimes thought they gossiped about their plebian wielders while they slept) understood the places that they were both driven, and the places that they could not go.

“Help us disappear.”

6.

The droning of the first year med lecturer and the scrape of chalk against blackboard was still unique enough to hold Shiba Isshin’s attention.

Or would have been, if not for the presence of a Hollow outside the building.

Isshin returned his gaze to the front of the lecture hall.

The Eighth Division patrolled this part of Tokyo. It was not his concern.

The growl at the back of his head said it was.

Wake me.

‘No.’

Wake me! He commanded.

The moment of stillness before Isshin’s reply seemed infinite.

‘No. I won’t do it again.’

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” The pretty girl seated next to him snuck a swift glance at him underneath her bangs.

“Ah, nothing!”

“Are you sure? You looked very grim there for a moment! I was almost scared! Although, you know, you look kind of cool like that, I bet if you had a cigarette you’d look like a regular yakuza! I’m Kurosaki Masaki! What’s your name?”

7.

Twenty years later, Kurosaki Isshin ate all his fine promises of withdrawal, of turning his back on shinigami and Soul Society alike, the isolation and anonymity that he had maintained despite the cost.

Grandfisher.

He had been too weak to save the Quincy.

He had been too late to save Masaki.

Grandfisher.

He had been too slow to prevent Ichigo from being drawn into the world he’d turned his back on.

Too lost to remember what path he should be walking.

Grandfisher.

He could feel the reiatsu pressing down.

“Rejoice -” Isshin faltered.

He would not be too weak, too late, too slow. Yet -

A weighty stirring in the back of the head, indolent incandescence uncoiling with increasing rapidity.

We walk our path.

Isshin breathed out, smiled. Bared his teeth in a grin like the howl of a winter wolf, one that would savage anyone who dared stand against them, and murmured -

‘Quiet, asshole. Breaking my concentration.’

Idiot.

“Rejoice in the horizon –“

The manifesting power coiling through him, rising in blinding brightness, carried the same deadly radiance as it had from the very, very first.

“… Akhenaten!”

And Kurosaki Isshin and the mirror to his soul, perfectly matched in brilliance, both shone again.

Wed, 14 Feb 2007 04:31:04 GMT

Title: Brightly Burning
Author: icefalcon
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Bleach
Pairing: Noooonne
Warnings: Spoilers for Isshin's backstory.
Disclaimer: Not mine.

1.

Shiba Isshin had always intended to join the fourth division, and he’d beat up anyone who said different.

He wanted to heal, dammit, no matter what muscle brained morons thought of the Fourth division. Anyway, he was THE Shiba Isshin! He’d shape up the few pansy assed weaklings, and he’d be the best healer and the best fighter the Gotei-13 had ever seen!

Yes, Shiba Isshin had always intended to join the fourth division - until the moment his zanpakuto imperiously woke.

He’d known the right words to wake it, of course. Isshin always had. They’d never worked, but he could feel the distinctly unimpressed arrogance sitting at the back of his head, refusing to obey.

He’d sat there for hours at the Academy, shouting them over and over, getting more and more frustrated at both the lack of response, and the growing heavy amusement inside him.

And then one day, it worked.

He’d snuck out to spend the day nosing through the Fourth division headquarters. Unohana-taichou had even smiled at him, which was good, because it meant she liked him and that was important because he’d be vice captain soon.

Isshin had been stomping back to the Academy, howling out the release command of his shikai (he’d made a little song), thinking about how he’d kick Akane-fukutaichou’s ass and other important things.

“REEEEEEJOICCCE IN THEEEEEE -”

No.

‘Horizon, A – huh?’

We will NOT answer your call while you direct yourself so.

Isshin groaned, overwhelmed by the force of the presence manifesting itself in his head.

Heal? his zanpakuto said, increasing in power.

Isshin fell to the ground.

Serve? his zanpakuto hissed, burning, burning brightly.

He struggled to breath through the shining blaze around him.

We will not serve, his zanpakuto said.

In. Out.

We must rule, his zanpakuto demanded.

The light was unbearable.

We have a different path to walk, his zanpakuto said.

And the radiance of his zanpakuto’s sun tore through the misty clouds of his planned future.

Fri, 22 Sep 2006 11:04:12 GMT

Meine Liebe Claim Table

01.	Fool	02.	Magician	03.	High Priestess	04.	Empress
05.	Emperor	06.	Lovers	07.	Chariot	08.	Strength
09.	Hermit	10.	Wheel	11.	Justice	12.	Hanged Man
13.	Death	14.	Temperance	15.	Devil	16.	Tower
17.	Star	18.	Moon	19.	Sun	20.	Judgement
21.	World	22.	Hierophant	23.	Ace of Wands	24.	Ace of Cups
25.	Ace of Swords	26.	Ace of Pentacles	27.	Two of Wands	28.	Two of Cups
29.	Two of Swords	30.	Two of Pentacles	31.	Three of Of Wands	32.	Three of Cups
33.	Three of Swords	34.	Three of Pentacles	35.	Four of Wands	36.	Four of Cups
37.	Four of Swords	38.	Four of Pentacles	39.	Five of Wands	40.	Five of Cups
41.	Five of Swords	42.	Five of Pentacles	43.	Six of Wands	44.	Six of Cups
45.	Six of Swords	46.	Six of Pentacles	47.	Seven of Wands	48.	Seven of Cups
49.	Seven of Swords	50.	Seven of Pentacles	51.	Eight of Wands	52.	Eight of Cups
53.	Eight of Swords	54.	Eight of Pentacles	55.	Nine of Wands	56.	Nine of Cups
57.	Nine of Swords	58.	Nine of Pentacles	59.	Ten of Wands	60.	Ten of Cups
61.	Ten of Swords	62.	Ten of Pentacles	63.	Page of Wands	64.	Page of Cups
65.	Page of Swords	66.	Page of Pentacles	67.	Knight of Wands	68.	Knight of Cups
69.	Knight of Swords	70.	Knight of Pentacles	71.	Queen of Wands	72.	Queen of Cups
73.	Queen of Swords	74.	Queen of Pentacles	75.	King of Wands	76.	King of Cups
77.	King of Swords	78.	King of Pentacles

sensus tactilis

Fri, 17 Mar 2006 12:48:40 GMT

Title: sensus tactilis
Author: icefalcon
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Naruto
Pairing: Sasuke/Itachi.
Warnings: Incest-ish. Kisame POV. This is the obligatory Episode 85/Volume 17 fic that I promised myself I'd one day write. (QUITE POSSIBLY FOR 20_inkspots but it's not like anyone reads this anyway. XD)
Disclaimer: Not mine.

---

Itachi didn't touch people.

Itachi was touching this kid. With his hands.

Itachi didn't touch people.

Yet here he was, beating the kid with his hands.

This was the most fun Kisame had had in months, because -

Itachi was touching the kid.

Itachi was torturing his physical body.

Oh, Itachi was cruel, but his cruelties lay within the Mangekyou. His tortures were mental, and Itachi was sparse with his physical movements. Always weapons providing distance - a kick, here and there, very occasionally an elbow jab to get them away from Itachi. Never anything with the hands, if he could avoid it.

Itachi just didn't touch people.

The language of his fists was the most intimate one he would - could - ever speak.

Itachi rarely took the time to draw blood, draw physical pain from a person like that.

Kisame said once that Itachi must have had his fill of blood the night of the Uchiha massacre. When he woke up a week later, he learned not to suggest things like that again – to Itachi's face, anyway.

Who was this kid, this kid who was looking at Itachi like nothing else in the world existed, with eyes so similar to Itachi's?

Kisame hadn't been partnered with Itachi in the beginning, but he had heard that on his first few missions Itachi had precisely arranged his time in order to wipe out whatever traces of the Uchiha that had not been in Konoha that night.

Itachi would hardly have missed his own brother, so why was he alive?

Itachi had withdrawn so far into quiet and coiled blankness that Kisame knew he was enjoying this, and Itachi was still touching the kid.

Nothing Kisame had seen had ever affected Itachi like that, and it was vastly amusing.

In fact, this was Itachi's version of being all over someone. Touching the kid with his hands. Forcing him up against a wall. Kisame was fairly sure that was the closest Itachi had been to sex, because -

He'd never seen Itachi move that close to anyone by choice. He was indifferent to the Akatsuki, indifferent to their prey, indifferent to Kisame.

Yet something, some feeling, was driving Itachi into responding to that kid.

What could he be to Itachi?

Kisame shouldn’t be finding this as interesting as he did, but the idea of anyone having an influence over Itachi amused him. It was a good thing that Itachi's attention was directed elsewhere as his delight at the entertainment would have been obvious.

He wasn't even sure what was more entertaining: the poor kid, having Itachi fixated on him, or Itachi, for having fixated the poor kid on him in return. Delicious. Itachi's brand of mind fuck was the reason that Kisame was Itachi's partner - no one else could relish it, or even put up with it like he did.

The kid screamed. That was something familiar, but it told Kisame more that he would ever get out of Itachi. Itachi only made them scream when he thought they were – not worthy, but worth the time.

The screaming also spoke of a mental strength that he wouldn't expect of a kid that age. Most fell comatose instantaneously, unable to retain enough of themselves even to scream.

Then again, whoever he was, he was related to Itachi, so perhaps it was a given. Diverting, though, to see a face so like Itachi's overcome with emotion, a voice so like Itachi's filled with passion.

Interesting – the kid was still screaming, which meant that Itachi must be using Tsukiyomi and not one of the other nasty tricks he had up his sleeve.

A waste of resources, and the first real step out of line he had seen Itachi make. Using Tsukiyomi in a situation they would most likely have to fight their way out of was a dangerous draining of his chakra.

He must be really enjoying this, to disregard that – and who was Kisame to stop Itachi's pursuits, when Itachi was so generous in letting him indulge in his own?

Itachi still held the boy pinned to the wall.

The screaming stopped, but Itachi kept the boy where he was. Kisame narrowed his eyes - Itachi's face would be entertaining to see, but he was sure that Itachi had his back to him deliberately -

- and the kyuubi kid didn't understand how to savor this moment, charging off instead of studying the weakness of one of the greatest living ninjas, instead of reveling in the sight of Itachi in less than complete control.

The Toad Sannin didn't seem to understand either, and pulled one of Kisame’s greatest moments of special fun away from Itachi with a wall of offensive meat, swallowing the kid in a slow movement.

Itachi did not try to keep him.

Kisame had time to spare a glare at the boring Sannin and his boring meat - meat that smelled wrong, meat he couldn't even eat - before he fled after Itachi.

Fleeing instead of fighting – most unlike Itachi. These Leaf-nin had a somewhat unsettling, but mostly amusing effect on Itachi.

That kid in particular.

He opened his mouth to point this out to Itachi, but the black fury of Amatersu closed it, tearing a hole through the nasty meat.

Amatersu. Itachi was deeply unsettled. This was hilarious.

Still, he kept his mouth shut as they raced north. Itachi was barely human after using Amatersu, and one dead Akatsuki member’s corpse had told Kisame not to press Itachi until Itachi was ready.

Kisame kept the laughter inside - Itachi’s recovery from where Amatersu took him would last longer than normal, if he was any judge.

So, Uchiha Sasuke, was it? In the Akatsuki, this kind of knowledge, this kind of hold over one’s partner, was highly coveted.

Sasuke. He wondered if Itachi had noticed the flash of one of Orochimaru’s seals on his shoulder. Kisame had always thought that Itachi would be the jealous type, if he ever cared about anything enough to be possessive over.

Another observation he kept to himself - Sasori always liked to hear them, though.

He hoped he'd get to see more of this Sasuke. His effect on Itachi was well worth the punishment they'd get for not completing their retrieval.

'We’ll head straight back to headquarters.' Itachi, abruptly. The idea of punishment must have weighed in somewhere in his mind as well.

'Why must we retreat? You could have -' continued the source of my amusement. Finished the mission, if it came to that.

‘There’s no need to hurry with Naruto at his current level.’

Itachi’s cold control had almost finished reasserting itself. Only the weariness that often accompanied the use of his higher level doujutsu was showing.

Kisame let his own face mimic Itachi’s impassive mask, hiding his slight irritation, and larger amusement.

'Also, I must rest myself somewhere for a while.'

'Tsukiyomi and Amatersu often exhaust you – a shame that Amatersu was necessary.'

'Don’t make it necessary twice in one day, Kisame.'

Kisame did not bother to respond with more than a grunt.

After a pause, he asked in a different, lazier voice: ‘Do you want me to go back for the boy?'

'We know where he is, there’s no need to hurry -'

'The other kid.'

Itachi was silent, and for a moment the amusement vanished as Kisame became suddenly and uncomfortably aware of just how small Itachi was, and just how young.

The moment passed, and they did not stop.

Most of my writing appears to be dedicated to Erin, this is nothing different.

Wed, 15 Mar 2006 07:56:37 GMT

Title: Languages
Author: icefalcon
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Saiyuki
Pairing: light Gojyo/Hakkai.
Warnings: None. Also, Saiyuki is hard to write. Also, short, but I can't coax it longer.
Disclaimer: Not mine. This kinda had the thought process behind it of: 'Arr. Stupid Latin, stupid languages. Isn't Erin awesome for keeping me sane on Monday night? STUPID LATIN... arr I know, porn!'

To Hakkai, the real difference between Sanzo and Gojyo was slight.

It had nothing to do with appearances, with gold and red, nothing to do with sutra and youkai, nothing to do with enlightenment or earthy living.

Nothing to do with his love for Gojyo, or his respect for Sanzo that bordered on the same kind of love.

The difference was in the languages they understood.

Sanzo understood people by the words they spoke, tore those words and them apart and knew them better than they knew themselves. From there, Sanzo kicked people to places that they thought they couldn’t reach, and made them stand it.

Gojyo understood people from the ground up – from what they didn’t say and from what their body spoke, in such an instinctive way that he rarely listened to what lay underneath the spoken word. Gojyo was his reason for wanting to stand it.

The difference was in the languages they spoke.

Sanzo hit you in the teeth with the truth you needed, but didn't want to hear.

‘You’re only drowning in your own stupidity’ or a smack with a fan so rarely given to Hakkai.
‘You’re tainted – don’t behave like you’re not’ or an abrupt turning away.
‘That idiot kappa can't always save you’ a slow sneer.

Gojyo gently, softly, slid the silk blade of the lies you needed to hear – didn’twanttoneedagain - into your chest.

A punch on the back of the head and lack of a masking smile or 'You're strong enough for this.’
An arm slung across the shoulders pulling Hakkai closer than he did with anyone else or ‘There’s more to you, to us, than blood.’
A hand like an iron bar on the back of his neck or ‘I'm not going anywhere.’

Some mornings, Hakkai wasn’t sure which language he hated (needed) more – and if there was a difference between the two.

For Erriiin again.

Sat, 19 Nov 2005 14:28:20 GMT

Title: Insomnia
Author: icefalcon
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Bleach
Pairing: Byakuya/Ukitake.
Warnings: Somewhat fluffy! Somewhat angsty! My Byukuya is angsty. Somewhat incoherent
Disclaimer: not mine. Same universe as Distance.

By all rights, curled up in bed with his new lover, Byakuya should be at least mildly content.

It was a frighteningly good feeling to be where he was, listening to steady breathing beside him, even with the unconscious tightening in his arms every time a cough racked Jyuushirou’s deceptively sturdy frame.

However, although the warm and bare skin pressing against his chest was intoxicating, an unselfconscious sharing that was entirely new to Byakuya, but was not entirely enough to make up for the fact that his lover appeared to have some sort of cotton wool excuse for a bed.

Sticky sheets he could deal with, but how did Jyuushirou ever sleep with all these pillows? Horrible fluffy creations, what seemed like hundreds of them piled up and scattered all over the bed.

He discreetly pulled another one out from under his knee. He hadn’t noticed that one previously in his unseemly haste to return an all-but-fainting Jyuushirou to somewhere safe. The coughing and faintness had passed quickly and Jyuushirou had given him another excuse for not noticing the undignified pillows.

Sleep was impossible on these things, but staying near him like this was hardly Soul Society’s worst punishment.

“Mmm? What are you squirming every which way for…’ a deep voice, husky with sleepy amusement murmured into his ear.

Byakuya froze.

In the newness of this, of them, of something he wanted so badly to keep, Jyuushirou could instantly make Byakuya feel young and awkward.

Awkward, and out of his depth in a way he hadn’t been since he was fresh into his first position at Fourth Seat of the Thirteenth Division, and aware of the huge gap that lay between their ages and experience.

If Byakuya had been anyone else, he would have regretted, just a little, wasted years and opportunities. But he wasn’t.

Instead, he would not waste what he had now.

Jyuushirou let out a tired laugh, and pressed a drowsy kiss against his neck.

‘So pensive? Should we have gone back to your bed?’

Back to the bed he had shared with Hisana, and a sterile house full of past memories? No.

Byakuya rolled onto his back – and onto another dozen pillows, letting out what on anyone else would be a sigh.

As long as Kuchiki Byakuya had Ukitake Jyuushirou, until the day Jyuushirou looked at him the same pitying affection that she had, rather than the love that blazed there now, he would stay, pillows and all.

Jyuushirou propped himself up on one elbow, trailing soft strands of hair over Byakuya’s chest as he turned to look blearily at him.

‘Byakuya? What's the matter?’

Jyuushirou broke into a fit of coughing, chest heaving as he was swiftly held up by Byakuya.

Not going to lose him ever his own muscles said, forcing a hand to gently stroke down Jyuushirou’s back and not crush him frantically against him. I need…

After an unhappy face that never truly smiled… Byakuya had learnt to need very little. Jyuushirou had a smile that just for him, and that was enough. That would be enough.

He had forgotten that Jyuushirou had more to give him.

‘You don’t have to worry so much when someone loves you back, Byakuya,’ hoarse words mumbled against his shoulder as they both caught their breath.

And caught their breaths again, as Jyuushirou turned and forced Byakuya into a heady kiss that lingered.

‘Love doesn’t mean you have to stoically put up with things that make you unhappy. Or at least -’ Jyuushirou smiled that smile, for him, and flicked his hair into Byakuya’s face ‘- at least you don’t have to put up with it silently.’

I love you. I love you as you are. I’m not going to leave if you fail. I want you. I want this, said Jyuushirou’s eyes, deep and rich. Eyes that were looking at him, only him, a small frown at his silence marring the smile that belonged only to Byakuya.

Byakuya remained still for a long moment.

‘Are you sure?’ A voice smaller than his own.

‘Yes! Of course -' Jyuushirou broke off with startled laughter as Byakuya scooped him up from the bed and threw him over his shoulder.

‘Good. The pillows go.’

He disposed of the monstrosities with the swiftness only a captain could (in the next room, in case Jyuushirou was attached to them) and tossed the laughing Jyuushirou back down onto the bed, pale limbs and pale hair forming a provocative taunt.

‘You’re still laughing?’ Byakuya pronounced in the best stern captain monotone he could muster with his hair down and the only possible claim to clothing a sheet somewhere around his ankle.

‘You make me happy,’ Jyuushirou said simply, and pulled Byakuya down to him.

Woo. More words on this than on essay.

Sun, 06 Nov 2005 07:19:52 GMT

Title: Distance
Author: icefalcon
Rating: PG
Fandom: Bleach
Pairing: Byakuya/Ukitake. Sort of. Not really. Largely Byakuya centric.
Warnings: angst. spoilers for character deaths. crap.
Disclaimer: not mine. Set just after Ukiake telling Byakuya about Rukia, prior to his fight with Ichigo. Possiiiibbbly might venture a sequel post fight!

‘The execution is tomorrow. That is what they have decided, and I shall honour their decision.”

Byakuya’s father had once told him that happiness was the natural flower of duty. He wondered if this was happiness.

“How can you say such things right now?”

The caring fury in front of him had seemed so very out of place from the cool sterility that defined his world.

“Please be reasonable.”

And cold silence.

After Hisana, Byakuya had simply never cared enough to notice the distance he had enforced between himself and the outside world.

He had pulled up his walls, and left them, withdrawing behind into a silent icy solitude, hardening into a parody of himself.

As Byakuya had sunk further into chilling silence, he told himself that words were never important to a real shinigami. Words created an unbecoming closeness that a captain should not foster in his chain of command.

And after all, silence spoke louder. The hissing silence that sang after blades clashing faded. The absence of a breath after a comrade fell.

Or after a loved one sighed their last.

After that severing silence, that separated him from Hisana, from everything else, what words could possibly heal that gap?

No, ice, distance and silence were the best he could do.

Despite Hisana staring at him whenever he closed his eyes, reaching out for him.

He couldn’t reach back, wouldn’t reach back. To cross the distance again, even for Hisana’s face, would at the same time mean putting her memory away.

It was strange, that people tried to make him reach anyway. Rukia, Rukia.

He knew they were leaving him behind. Growing, living, moving on.

Even though he knew somewhere that the distance between law and justice was too far, the distance between him and what he had once cared about was too much, he still found it hard to imagine a path through it all.

Hardness and control, silence and withdrawal, law and ice, were not enough, no real power lay behind them. He was good, one of the best, but the true strength of a shinigami lay in his heart.

Byakuya’s heart was deeply shadowed.

He found it even stranger that even the one dying was faster, stronger, and more sure-footed than he. More alive than he was. No fleeing into an apathetic chill that she had embraced towards the end, letting others near him despite the risks, despite the pain.

Once, just once, because it was the one dying, dying like Hisana, dying like she would again tomorrow, he could almost bring himself to care.

And so Byakuya sat, and in that peculiarly still moment of dusk, when the sun has gone but the light remains, allowed himself to think of white, and the distance between hard and strong.

Wed, 19 Oct 2005 13:39:01 GMT

Dear Erin as you were going to bed so soon you get a shitty half done poorly edited version! Really, so not coherent. :/

BYAKUYA HAS A COOOOOOLDDD. Just like Laura. I'm sorry this sucks so much!

Title: Nooone yet.
Author: icefalcon
Rating: PG
Fandom: Bleach
Pairing: Byakuya/Ukitake.
Warnings: crap. ooc.
Disclaimer: not mine

Byakuya sniffed, and sneezed into his sakura-patterned handkerchief. He leveled a flat look at Zaraki, who was openly sniggering across the room at him, and not paying the proper courteous respect to Yamamoto.

He was tired and grumpy. He had no voice to speak of, so his presence at a captain’s meeting was ridiculous. But Rukia’s current presence at home and her rejoining the 13th Division despite his strong request to transfer under a more responsible captain meant that he would get no rest there either, with her pleading eyes.

Shinigami shouldn’t get colds, anyway.

He sneezed again. The handkerchief was a joke that he was finding less funny each time he saw it, which was with increasing frequency.

He ignored another snigger from Zaraki, who wasn’t even the first person today to laugh. The effrontery of 4th Division members showing any form of amusement over at captains too proud to ask for healing, or to even stoop to acknowledging that they were ill! It clearly showed the level to which the Gotei 13 had sunk to, in his opinion.

A series of racking coughs, repeated by another across the room, moved Zaraki’s sniggers from irritating to irrelevant. He was dangerously reaching a point where he just didn’t care as long as it all went away, far away from his pounding head.

He focused very carefully on not projecting any sign of the killing force he was about to unleash if one more thing came up that prevented him from returning home to recover from a demeaning illness he’d caught from wading through the sewers of filthy human cities.

Next time, he’d leave his division members to rot.

Yamamoto’s sonorous tones were drawing to a close. Hopefully he hadn’t been given any missions outside the parameters of ‘kill things dead’, as he’d useless. Like the sniggering Zaraki.

Who he wouldn’t give the satisfaction of acknowledging.

Byakuga was so intensely not acknowledging Zaraki that he forgot to avoid the second of the captains that he customarily – and very pointedly - did.

White hair moved into his watery vision, as Ukitake nudged him and ventured a subdued smile.

‘Byakuga?’

He wondered if he put on his stoic face and stared at the wall, it’d all go away.

Ukitake waved a hand in front of Byakuga’s face cautiously. He flashed a smile that an exhausted Byakuya could only blink at, before Byakuga settled a careful look of disdain across a blank face.

The smile disappeared, to a flash of surprising irritation on Byakuga’s part.

He handed Byakuya a small white bottle. ‘It’s good for a chest cough,’ he said quietly.

For once, not sneering an insult towards a captain so weak he had to carry around stuff like that out of necessity, Byakuya took it.

He returned it in person the next morning, made stiff conversation, and left.

He returned the morning after that.

And the one after that.

Ukitake had a stubborn streak that matched his own, and it was only three weeks later that they found themselves in a conversation that two surprisingly similar men should have held a long time ago.

Much later, lying in a warm bed with a handful of moonlight strands in his fingers, Byakuga smiled drowsily.

Still, it didn’t mean he had to like Zaraki.

For Eriiiin. Wow, Saiyuki is hard to write. Absolutely teeny, 300 words or so.

Thu, 25 Aug 2005 09:54:24 GMT

Forgot to post this this morning. Sorrry. ;_;

Title: On the Road Again
Author: icefalcon
Rating: G
Fandom: Saiyuki
Pairing: Hakkai+Gojyo
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Belongs to Minekura Kazuya.

Gojyo was humming again.

It was a nice day, Hakkai thought, as occasional snatches of verse floated past him. The summer stillness had left them all in a fey mood, bouncing along in indolent sun-lethargy.

'Way to go, way to go...'

The downside to Gojyo singing was that it was Gojyo, and he had learnt a few songs from a barmaid several towns back that Hakkai devoutly hoped Goku didn’t know the meaning of yet.

'Forgot you've got so far to go...'

Gojyo did, however, have the best voice out of the four, not that it was something to be proud of in itself. Sanzo was all but tone deaf, Goku sang with too much enthusiasm to be able to tell what his voice sounded like, and Hakkai did not sing.

'I can't believe you showed up... somethingsomething, it's last call, time to go, but before we say goodnight...'

He rather enjoyed the earthy quality of the song that was entirely Gojyo though, swaggering hips, smoker's rasp, occasionally unsteady melody, all unashamedly open for anyone to hear. Entirely Gojyo, he thought, with a wry twist of a grin.

He suspected that the others didn’t mind the singing either, as Sanzo only issued his usual brutal 'Shut up!' and refrained from shooting at him, while Goku only kicked Gojyo in the ribs and not the head.

Of course, it could not last, and one of the kicks ended up in Gojyo’s face, and the lazy song cut off as squabbling in the back seat rose to a more familiar level.

Smiling as much as for the squabbling as for the singing, Hakkai turned his head with a soft ‘Goku… Gojyo…’ a few moments later than he normally would have. A chiding look backwards at them both somehow turned into something entirely different as he locked eyes with Gojyo.

Gojyo flushed faintly red, more than he normally would have, and Hakkai turned back to the road, ignoring Sanzo’s irritated snort.

Five minutes later the humming started again.

Hakkai laughed.

BONUS CRACK FOR LAUREN I HATE YOU

Sun, 21 Aug 2005 14:52:38 GMT

Title: Oh, it's crack it doesn't get a title
Author: icefalcon
Rating: PG
Fandom: Naruto
Pairing: Gaara/Shikamaru, Shikamaru/Temari
Warnings: I DON'T KNOW EITHER WHAT THE FUCKKKKK.
Disclaimer: Masahi Kishimoto's la.

Shikamaru was tired. The kind of tired that went past his usual laziness and sank right into his skin, pulling at open wounds and making it all but impossible to sleep.

What, however, made it truly impossible to sleep was the grinding sound of shifting sand, and Gaara of the Desert staring intensely at him.

He had fallen asleep earlier to wake up with sand curling all around him and a flat glare inches away from his face. He’d woken up to answer the call of nature, and had almost done his answering on the spot. His sheer tiredness had probably absorbed the shock factor, and saved his dignity there.

The tiredness did not absorb Gaara’s next pronunciation.

‘Temari likes you.’ The breathy, unemotional tone left no room to decide whether this was a positive thing.

- I’m going to get the big brother talk from someone who instead of saying ‘treat her well or I’ll break your legs’ will make me a sieve if I look at her in the wrong way. Or don’t look at her in the right way. What was this about two hundred moves? Does this apply to dating? -

A soft hiss of sand curling under his shirt broke through the tired hysteria, making him freeze, and backtrack madly.

‘Good brothers don’t take their sister’s things.’

All that swam to the surface of Shikamaru’s bone-tiredness was the thought that Gaara could hardly be called a good brother. The vague feeling of discomfort of being considered a possession of Temari’s would probably surface eventually.

And, from the smug, doll-like half smile on Gaara’s face, he all but heard that last few thoughts.

Damn. He always disliked being out-manoeuvred.

‘Gaara? Shikamaru?’ Temari’s voice called out, and the sand retreated.

The very last thought before he decided it’d be wise to pass out again, sand hissing out again to catch him, was to wonder if Gaara played shogi.

Gaara wondered disinterestedly if all Leaf-nin giggled in their sleep like that.

Sun, 21 Aug 2005 14:16:32 GMT

Title: Birds of Silk.
Author: icefalcon
Rating: PG
Fandom: Naruto
Pairing: zomg, lots of Hyugacest. Light Hiashi/Hizashi, Neji/Hinata.
Warnings: Hyugacest! Warnings = Pairings.
Disclaimer: Masahi Kishimoto's la.

How do you capture a beautiful bird without breaking its spirit?

Hyuga Hizashi never tried to remove the cursed seal branded deep into his skin.

In this, as in most things, Hyuga Neji more than made up for the lack. For he was as much of an opposite to his father as Hyuga Hiashi was, and could not and would not take things silently.

Had his father been alive, perhaps he could have explained to his son why he did not struggle within the bounds of what Neji saw as a cage. Oh, he had struggled for Neji, and for Neji’s future - for Neji, like Hiashi, had a proud visible power that did not know when to bend to another - but he had never tried for himself.

But his father was not alive.

Neji was.

And Neji was raised alone, festering full of burnt pride, out of the sight of a cold uncle who saw only the physical echo of his brother.

Alone, lashing out at the insidiously silken cage that was slowly tightening around him, erasing memories of sparring sessions with a happier uncle who smiled, of a little girl sitting on his father’s lap and their matching soft laughter, effortless love in their eyes.

Later, it became easier for Hiashi to condescend to Neji, with biting explanations he had never given to Hizashi, in words he had carefully crafted in response to questions and demands his brother never made. Hizashi had only smiled at him and remained silent, curling a hand through his hair.

The first time Hiashi remembered that hand was the first time Neji experienced the pain of the curse seal.

Oddly, it was the pain of being pushed aside again, and again, by one who looked so like his father that hurt more than the ravaging of pain through him.

Neji did not notice that Hiashi too, pushed aside his own child, a child who had inherited the fullness of Hizashi’s wordless compassion and gentleness, a strength of understanding that had nothing to do with bitter words.

All he could feel was silk, tightening against his skin.

And when the silk was began unravelling away at the edges, he still did not notice. Hinata was an extension only of her father and a further symbol of the seal he carried.

And when that final veil of silk was torn from him in a startled recognition of strength that so painfully familiar but so unlike his own, a soft hand tangled in his hair awaited him as he woke.

In the hesitant blush, and a shyly determined lifting of her eyes to meet his, eyes that somehow, somehow still held that undemanding love, Neji unexpectedly found it in himself to smile back, stretching muscles that had not been used in far too long.

Become the sky.

Sat, 30 Apr 2005 04:54:57 GMT

Title: Learning
Author: icefalcon
Pairing: Konrad/Yuuri
Disclaimer: Kyou Kara Maou, Konrad, Yuuri and all assorted characters are the property of Tomo Takabayashi.
Posted to: Here, 30_kisses, kyou_kara_maou, conradxyuuri.

Yuuri was learning.

Today, for example, he learnt ten things.

1. He learnt that if he placed his hand on Wolfram’s wrist, he could see a rippling tension spread across Konrad’s skin.

2. He learnt that the 16th Maou had lasted only six days before choking to death on a fishbone.

3. He learnt that if he ran into Konrad while bathing, a heat spread across Konrad’s face that had nothing to do with a blush.

4. He learnt that if he cycled his maryoku just so through the cardiac muscles, he could stop a stroke.

5. He learnt that if he ‘accidentally’ tripped down the stairs, Konrad’s arms were warmer and brighter than the summer sun - and would take just a fraction too long to let go, leaving Yuuri burning.

6. He learnt with a wince of sympathy, that one of the stableboys was sporting a black eye and a fiancée.

7. He learnt that if he moved closer to Konrad and glanced swiftly, suddenly, into his eyes, Konrad could no longer meet them without an imperceptible shiver.

8. He learnt that when Gwendel was heading very fast in one direction, it was best to run and ask questions about Anissina’s new invention later.

9. He learnt that the power possessing through him as the Maou was nothing to the power he felt when a strong man broke for him, breathing demandingly heavy kisses along his jaw, as a heated question was nipped against Yuuri’s ear, nothing to the livid amber surge of his pulse in response to that plea…

10. He learnt that he quite enjoyed answering Konrad’s questions, at some length, with reference to external sources, footnotes and frequently, incoherently poor grammar.

Yuuri was learning.

Sat, 23 Apr 2005 10:30:20 GMT

Image here again! And now wow, this is as close to done as it's going to get. I can't make it any better.

Title: Click
Author: icefalcon
Character: Iruka main, mild Kakashi/Iruka.
Rating: PG-13
Category: Crossover, Naruto/Saiyuki
Warnings: sanzo!Iruka. No real spoilers, general series knowledge of both worlds.
Disclaimer: Belongs to Minekura Kazuya and Masahi Kishimoto.

CLICK - went the lighter.

"Shit," he spat quietly. Again, louder. "Shit."

A controlled exhalation sent bitter smoke ripping through the air.

- Iruka pacing forwards, rusty sneer standing out all red black and pale on a bruised mouth -

He wrapped a defensive arm around his waist, staring at the limp sutra that lay at his feet.

- careless bone linen flowing, unbound hair whipping under crown and cloth, leather protesting a mad defiance -

Shit. Iruka kicked at the body-wreck in front of him. No movement issued, and several quick kunai flickering ensured that there never again could be.

- weight almost settling across his shoulders, unsealing an awareness held apart for too long -

He straightened, shaking out his sleeves, and grudgingly chanted a few short words around his cigarette. Some things should be done properly.

- hidden worries of late, too late, furious drive to protect, rising anger, all twisting together into a final savagely blind smile backwards -

Iruka let himself hear stirrings of life around him.

- Oh? And what are you supposed to be, little one? The demon’s amusement, diverted, trickling down from a lofty distance. The last resort of a dying village? -

He could hear patches of silence where something should be stirring, but nothing was.

- Come and see - a furious glare putting the flames of hell to tepid shame -

‘Iruka-sensei?’ Naruto’s voice eased a small knot of tension. A voice was a life, and Naruto’s was safe.

- Iruka! No! Kakashi’s startled, battle-tense voice cut off, swiped aside with a rapidly ruthless demon assault -

A larger knot remained.

- placing hands together - jounin pushed aside -

Lives… these things should be done properly - a chant for the living.

- the demon’s disbelieving laugh - chakra pushed aside -

A chant for those of his he hoped somehow still were.

- letting it all go, and carrying only the hellfire forward -

The life-voices behind him fell silent as he raised his own again, purifying words of burning coal coalescing into pale gold substance, restoring an unexpected lost brilliance to those left to hear it.

- the hissing stir of something old, strong like darkness and stars, immensely deeper than chakra, coiling through the air –

Pale gold words, cold and clear, blending life over death, finally trailing off as Iruka listened.

- murmured words of newly cautious poison, join him, serve him, he would grant all desires, eternal life, would protect him, save him, give him what he deserved, what he needed -

Listened for one patch of silence he didn’t want to hear.

- pausing. I don’t need a damn thing from you. not looking to the unmoving nin -

He was afraid that he was already hearing it.

- slurred chanting, rising insistently in merciless volume -

He hurriedly lit another cigarette, wormwood trails fading.

- tearing open the abyss inside -

Cigarettes burned too quickly.

- ‘Makai Tenjyo!’ –

Once his last burned down, he had to face more than ash stains.

- eyelashes startlingly distinct against skin, closing his eyes, soul-searing sutra radiance thrashing around him -

‘Iruka…’ Kakashi, hoarsely.

- sutra entwining, reaching, shattering through cracks in demonic form, shrieks of panic echoing through the shroud of the word -

Kakashi.

- shrieks turning to screams, screams of salt and blood -

Kakashi.

- The sun rising – and silence.

‘Ah, shit,’ Iruka breathed finally, flicked the cigarette to the side and stood to face the precious things behind him.

Well I needed a beta but no one was online and bah, it's good as it is now.

Mon, 18 Apr 2005 14:58:29 GMT

For Lauren! <3

Image here!

CLICK - went the lighter.

"Shit," he spat quietly. Again, louder. "Shit."

A controlled exhalation sent bitter smoke ripping through the air.

- Iruka pacing forwards, rusty sneer standing out all red black and pale on a bruised mouth -

He wrapped a defensive arm around his waist, staring at the limp sutra that lay at his feet.

- bone linen flowing, unbound hair whipping under crown and cloth, leather protesting a mad defiance -

Shit. Iruka kicked at the body in front of him. No movement issued, and a quick kunai flickering in hand ensured that there never again would be.

- weight almost settling across his shoulders, unsealing an awareness held apart for too long -

He straightened, shaking out his sleeves, and grudgingly chanted a few short words around his cigarette. Some things should be done properly.

- worries of late, too late, furious drive protect, rising anger, all twisting together -

Iruka could hear stirrings of life around him.

- Oh? And what are you supposed to be, little one? The demon’s amusement, diverted, trickling down from a lofty distance. The last resort of a dying village? -

He could hear patches of silence where something should be stirring, but nothing was.

- Come and see - a furious glare putting the flames of hell to tepid shame. -

‘Iruka-sensei?’ Naruto’s voice, quickly silenced by someone - Iruka hazily thought Sasuke.

- Iruka! No! Kakashi’s startled, battle tense voice cut off, swiped aside with a savage demon assault –

A small knot of tension eased. A voice was a life, and Naruto’s was safe.

- a final blind smile backwards – it could be a last -

A larger knot remained.

- placing hands together – jounin pushed aside –

Lives… these things should be done properly – a chant for the living.

- the demon’s disbelieving laugh – chakra pushed aside -

A chant for those of his he hoped still were.

- letting it all go, and carrying only the hellfire forward -

Those behind him fell silent as he raised his voice again, purifying words of burning coal coalescing into pale gold substance, restoring an unexpected lost brilliance to those left to hear it.

- the crackling ripple of something immensely deeper, older, richer than chakra coiling through the air –

Pale gold words, blending life over death, finally trailing off as Iruka listened.

- murmured words of newly cautious poison, join him, help him, he would grant all desires, eternal life, protect him, save him, give him what he deserved -

Listened for one pocket of silence he didn’t want to hear.

- pausing. I don’t need a damn thing from you. not looking to the unmoving nin -

He was afraid that he was already hearing it.

- slurred chanting, rising insistently in savage volume -

He swiftly lit a second cigarette, wormwood trails curling.

- tearing open the abyss inside -

Cigarettes burned too quickly.

- ‘Makai Tenjyo!’ –

Once his last burned down, he had to face more than ash stains.

- eyelashes startlingly distinct against skin, closing his eyes, soul-searing sutra screams thrashing around him -

‘Iruka…’ Kakashi, hoarsely.

- sutra entwining, reaching, shattering through the demonic cracks, shrieks of panic echoing through the shroud of the word -

Kakashi.

- shrieks turning to screams, screams of salt and blood -

Kakashi.

- The sun rising – and silence.

‘Ah, shit,’ Iruka breathed finally, flicked the cigarette to the side and stood to face the precious things behind him.

Wed, 20 Oct 2004 15:46:02 GMT

Aion always felt a vague distaste for this part.

No matter how many times it came to pass, however many men left him for the smug saintly cruelty of whatever prophet of the time happened to be present, it still quietly stirred the smoldering flame that was all that remained of the original fury from the First Betrayal.

It had not been the first time he refused the will of heaven, refused – as should have been his right, as a son of fire - to bend knee to a daughter of clay, that first Magdalene, but it had the first time his Sinner, the one who had been Aion’s transcendent brightness, the one who had been his, only his, the one who had stood at his side for so long, the one who could not imagine submission, would not bend his neck to anyone, had drawn the sword, arming himself with hell’s flame, and strode forth at Aion’s side to face anything and anyone that told them to bend knee and yield – it had been the first time his Sinner refused to follow him.

And with each and every Sinner that followed the first, each betrayal, what had once been stygian sulphur and hate searing molten hot through his veins had simmered a little further down into acid coals of hard determination.

Something, however, had sparked his interest in this little one here, this Chrno - this little battle-proud apostate was all too reminiscent of Aion’s first Sinner. Consequently… He had become too attached to this one, and the same old, tired charade of the Betrayal caused more pain that it usually did, watching the irritating struggle flicker across Chrno’s face elicited an unusual stab of raging hate, the sudden brave and boring resolution to protect her tearing unexpectedly deep.

"No matter how much you deny it, fate cannot be changed."

The banked spark of his immortal hate ignited, and he laughed at it in a savage undertone. Damn that Magdalene and her sanctimonious filth… No matter how long it took, he would change it, and oh, how he would make heaven pay for this one, pay for this current mockery of his first Sinner, pay for this degrading exile, pay for erasing his name from the Book, pay for toying with his fate like he was a mere human, pay for it all! He would bring them down to his level, bring them down to the heart of hell, and sully them all, and maybe then he would find –

- but until then -

Aion closed his eyes for a brief moment, firmly leashing down the raging deadly hate, black and deep, which stirred inside.

He sprang, and the snap of horns sang out.

*****

Aion always felt a vague distaste for this part.

If it wasn’t for the need for his presence here at this key moment, and the elaborate playing out of an mocking God’s script, he would have just sent whatever this Sinner of the time was called, some insignificant little fallen one, for Aion could not recall him at Pandemonium, off with the insipid woman to move events forward to the point where he had a chance to break the cycle and change his fate, change the fate of heaven and earth, change his bondage to the wheel of events that played out over and over, without cease.

That was all that mattered now. Freedom. Not paying pathetic court to ridiculous jesters who were bound more tightly to serve than the angels in His care, not even winning his first Sinner back to his side again, but freedom, using the very tools that had caused his fall, and this world of men would stand as his sacrifice, and his revenge.

‘Kill the Saint.’

Yet the reality of the slow inevitability of the annoying struggle plainly written across the Sinner’s face, the struggle Aion had seen so many, many times, on occasions such as this, lent him enough despair to the point where he would almost consider accepting exile, returning… But no, he would not reside in Hell, in Pandemonium, with the ignoble ease and the peaceful sloth that the others indulged in. He would not. He had walked out of there through the burning adamantine gates, declaring he would fight, he would not yield to any Tyrant of any name or form, not even one chosen in hell by the Council of the Fallen.

He turned his face away, unwilling to watch the predictable conflict spread through the Sinner, until he finally made his decision to stand with the Magdalene again, and again and again…

‘Fulfill your duty,’ Aion murmured, waiting for the moment to spring.

Five – four – three – two –

A sickening wet snap, and a thud.

Aion froze.

Not one of them had killed for him before.

Never.

Still unmoving, still in a crouch, still with eyes focused on the ground, a thin line of blood oozed slowly past.

They never killed for him.

Never.

Quiet steps made their way over, and a tired, tired smile came into his line of vision.

‘I’m not like the others, you know,’ a hesitantly calm voice told him.

And so Aion turned and looked, looked at this Sinner, as he had not before, to see blazing eyes shot through with power, shot through with sin, with the knowledge and full consciousness of what it was to fall, not just from Pandemonium but from heaven… and eyes that sought the same revenge that his did, demanding to become avenging infernal lightning laced with dark fire, a lightning might just shine with the blackened insurrection of Aion’s thunder…

Aion reached out a hand towards that winged red lighting.

The Fallen One took it.

Sat, 14 Aug 2004 15:03:05 GMT

Erriiiiin I'm so sorry. Here is teh shineh.

Title: After Their Own Image.
Rating: PG
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairings: Roy/Ed
Warnings: Noooone.

"Ed."

No response.

"EDWARD ELRIC."

As part of the celebrations of the Kaiser Roy Mustang's ten year reign, a (secretly disapproved of) line of figurines modeled after the Kaiser and staff had been commissioned. Much to Roy's bemusement, he discovered a rather guilty Ed had been playing with these at his desk for the last hour, squeaky voices and all.

"Ed. You're mutilating me," Roy said flatly. "And what did you do to my head? I most certainly am not bald - I have all my hair. Just yesterday that fascinating new secretary of General Zack's remarked on -"

"I bet she doesn't know that you check every morning in the mirror for any missing hairs!"

In lieu of responding, Roy narrowed his eyes and picked up the Edward figure, examining it from all angles.

"Oy, what are you doing? Leave the me alone!"

Roy picked up the figure of himself, aiming the flicker of a glare at Ed, and contemplated himself. With a quick swipe of chalk and flare of light, he had replaced the hair, and - apparently added a few extras along the way.

"Hey! You're not that well equipped, you know."

"I'm going to ignore that slur on my masculinity, and carefully not mention how satisfied you appear to be with... it."

"Satisfied? I - what are you doing?"

Roy had nonchalantly begun to toy with the figures, moving them together in what Ed considered to be a rather un-inventively boring and -

"Roy!"

- sexually explicit way.

Roy flickered an electric smirk in Ed's direction and raised an eyebrow that contained a smirk of its own.

"Old man, if you really think that you're capable of something that energetic, obviously I haven't been keeping you busy enough."

"Oh?" The smirk grew.

"Roy!" Ed snarled, fingers curling around Roy's shoulders in a motion that lacked even the pretense of reluctance.

"Yes?" Roy murmured against Ed's throat.

"Roy..." thickly.

"Next time, promise to leave my head alone?"

Interestingly, the high-pitched noise that issued from Ed in response to the, ahem, questioning, bore an remarkable resemblance to the squeaks coming from the Roy figure earlier that day.

Alchemists do follow the Law of Equivalent Trade, after all.

Thu, 24 Jun 2004 14:35:40 GMT

Yeah, I'm fucking lame. Short, kinda retarded. Sort of a deathfic but not. For ERRRIIIIN.

Title: Ensnare the Senses.
Pairing: Harry/Snape.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Deathfic that isn't.
Disclaimer: Yeah, shit ain't mine.

If pressed, the one thing that Severus Snape could say that he prided himself on, it was his sense of smell. No true Potions Master was left with any real sense of taste after their apprenticeship - foolish pranks and ill-advised concoctions were a by-word in the field. No, the sense that a Potions adept used to filter their world and work was the sense of smell, and Severus possessed what had been acknowledged rather ungraciously by his peers as an unusually sensitive one, even for a Master. A well brewed Vehementi Potion could send him to the heights of hedonistic delight - and a failed student disaster that offended his sense was the fastest way to blacken his mood, something that went a long way to explain the deep loathing he held for Longbottom.

Severus was not aware of the moment his superior sensitivity had carried over into investing certain scents with shadings of emotion. He was not aware of the moment when the wood polish, clean sweat, Quidditch-wool and the underlying unique smell of - that boy - began to evoke hatred. The merest tendril of that... scent... sent him over the edge into simmering rage. And so to, as the angrier he became, the stronger he could smell it - him! - the rich scent thickening and curling through his nostrils, choking out all else.

Nor was Severus aware of the moment that hatred lost its stench, and that distinctive smell became tinged with blood and singed hair, shifting from hate to duty. He was aware of the precise moment when duty slipped into the aroma of respect, the precise moment when it - he! - was on all fours on his office, struggling to stand just as the odors of pensieve liquid, blended with crisp air, wood and the medical hint that spoke of long stays in the hospital wing were struggling to imprint themselves onto Severus' senses.

Much later, respect became admiration; weariness and smoke, sacrifices made in the dark, the heavy, metallic scent of sour sweat, ingrained dirt and encrusted blood, battle scent: hard earned and dearly bought. Underneath all this was the pure aroma of him, the sensory taste that had quietly and unassumingly become part of his own personal fight against the dark. And so, admiration had slipped easily into the perfume of lust, an awkward, fumbling scent: arousal, oil - Severus had never been quite sure what they had used - and the smell of his skin, their skin, at its most basic level, stripped of protections and peripheries.

Looking back, he could pinpoint the moment when the velvet over sin tang of lust had bled into the comforting aroma of love. Severus had not grasped the change at the moment itself - awareness came much later - a quiet touch on the shoulder, steady and reassuring, a comforting half-embrace, inhaling the all pervasive scent of the boy - no, the man, now, whose scent was a blend of curse-seared flesh, blood, tears and Severus' own skin.

And it was this phantom scent that now trailed through their quarters, until he finally fled from it. Fled from it, to end up facing the scent of despair: decaying flowers, cold stone, damp earth and the absolute and unyielding lack of the underlying scent that would always and had always utterly ensnared him.

Fri, 30 Apr 2004 12:43:57 GMT

While idling my time away on writing one of my 'Fei-centric fics, I realised that my Wufei has an alarming resemblence to Wesley from the Princess Bride. Oh dear.

Wed, 10 Mar 2004 13:40:11 GMT

For cat_o_ninetails

Quatre was sulking. It had been Duo and Heero's anniversary yesterday, and Duo had been on the phone to him all morning, gushing over how romantic Heero was, and how sweet he'd been, and all sorts of other details that Quatre in his secret heart really didn't want to know - he didn't even know you could USE a rose for that! - and wasn't entirely convinced that Heero actually exhibited all the lovey-dovey mush that Duo rambled on about. After all - Heero Yuy and romantic were not two things destined for the same sentence!

But the fact remained, Duo and Heero had celebrated their anniversary.

Quatre and Trowa did not.

"I don't think it's very important to celebrate the day, Quatre. I love you all year around - why pinpoint one day and say it's special, when every moment you're with me is the most precious gift I can ever receive?" Trowa had said. Quatre had all but melted into Trowa's arms, but occasionally it still rankled. It was true, he could feel Trowa's love and know the strength and unwavering dedication of it in a way that very few others would ever be able to. Still. Flowers would be... nice.

Sighing quietly, as he swung his legs on the chair, ignoring the paperwork piled on the desk and pouting at the ceiling, he was utterly unaware of the childish picture he painted. Trowa, silently stalking into the room, was not. An indulgent smile crept onto his face as he crept up behind Quatre and covered his eyes with a hand.

"Guess who?" Trowa pressed a kiss onto the nape of Quatre's neck.

"Trowa."

"Good guess."

Before Quatre could make a serious attempt to open his eyes, Trowa began to trail more kisses along his neck. "Mmm... don't open your eyes yet."

Quatre hazily noted the sound of shuffling footsteps appearing and disappearing but he couldn't THINK when Trowa did - ah, that!

He whimpered as Trowa's lips drew away. "Trowa - what?"

"You can open them now."

Quatre obediently did so, glaring up at Trowa for an instant, before turning his head to stare around the office.

Yellow tulips. Dozens of them. No, hundreds. His entire office was now a sea of yellow tulips.

"I noticed you'd been feeling a little down lately, angel, particularly after Duo's call." Trowa murmured with his lips against Quatre's temple, kissing him gently. "I don't find anniversaries important, but I should have known better - it's important to you, and I'd sooner cut out my own heart than cause yours any pain."

Quatre could only look at him, eyes overflowing with overwhelming, absolute love as he found Trowa's arms wrapped around him, just as Trowa's love once more wrapped itself firmly around his heart. As close as they were, Quatre could feel Trowa shrug in his graceful fashion that somehow paradoxically conveyed a sense of awkwardness. "And besides - I love you, and I don't need any other reason that to want to see that sunshine in your smile."

And indeed, as Trowa said later, the smile that rewarded his words outshone the sun itself.