koyuki: (stock 」 the shoreline of broken dreams)
/人◕‿‿◕人\ ([personal profile] koyuki) wrote in [community profile] southofreality2012-02-12 01:24 am

[fic amnesty x 16] ahny, fma, glee, inception, pokemon, sex pistols, suju, vf, xmfc, ygo 5d's

I'm taking a break from fandom because I need to get my life together, but I'm one of those annoying people who gets antsy sitting on top of fic. I plan on finishing most of these, except the ones I've marked, which I'll probably leave a comment about what the story's plot was anyway.

Warnings are marked if necessary, as well as fandoms, pairing, and a short summary.

untitled | Aoi Hitsuji no Yume | Ratri/Kai | Kai is clueless, Judd is long-suffering, Ratri fails at romance, and Shiki does not understand the fine art of subtlety.
”You owe it to him,” Shiki hissed, eyes narrowed and glinting more dangerously than they had any right to be. Shiki may have been a tennou, but Ratri was still the boss.

Ratri looked up from the report he was reviewing and considered Shiki’s statement, if only because the other man was being distracting and refusing to let him finish his work. “No, I don’t,” he responded. Cold, decisive.

“How can you say that after everything he’s done for you?”

“He knew what he was getting into when he took on this job.” As far as Ratri was concerned, all he owed Kai – as his leader – was his loyalty and whatever monetary commission that Kai was promised. Whatever else they had had never been defined, so there was nothing to owe if there was nothing there.

“I don’t think being your fuck toy was in the job description.” Ratri glared at him. “It’s too bad then,” Shiki continued, ignoring whatever ill Ratri was wishing on him at the moment, “I’m sure lots of people would’ve been happy to. Since there’s nothing between the two of you, maybe I’ll find him a cute girl...” Shiki’s voice trailed off, and ‘Kai could do better’ (or perhaps, ‘Kai deserves better’) was left unsaid and hanging in the air between them.

Ratri wasn’t so stupid as to think that Kai was easily replaceable, as a subordinate or as a lover, especially not after all the trouble Ratri had gone through to get him back – multiple times. However, what was between them was for the two of them to sort out, and certainly not for the likes of Shiki to interfere with. If Shiki weren’t similarly important (important, but not irreplaceable like Kai, Ratri thought – no one was irreplaceable like Kai) he wouldn’t have hesitated to kicked Shiki out and tell him to never come back.

Still, Shiki was brave - rather stupidly brave in Ratri’s opinion, but perhaps he could put this unanticipated bout of bravery to use by sending Shiki on a mission...

“Anyway,” Shiki interrupted, apparently changing tactics, “you haven’t taken a break in a while. And Kai can’t – won’t – take a break unless if you do. As his employer, I think you owe him at least that much.”

“I could,” Ratri answered smoothly, “And then just stay here and work for the day. There’s a pile of reports that need to be reviewed still.”

Shiki snarled. “C’mon, Ratri. What are you so afraid of?”

Ratri’s eyes glistened. That was a challenge if he’d ever heard one.

And Ratri Bara never backed down from challenges.


*

Ratri appraised himself in the mirror. He looked... as he always did.

That was a good. Probably. No need to make a grand event out of it.

(Still, for not wanting to make a grand event of it, he sure spent a lot of time preparing for the whole thing. Three weeks, to be exact.)

(Though to be fair, most of it was spent on figuring on what people did. And then figuring out what he should do.)

Ratri was a man with a mission, and everything would go smoothly and according to plan. All he had to do now was find Kai.

Ratri stepped outside his room to find Shiki waiting against the wall by the door. “He’s in the dining hall,” Shiki supplied.

Ratri appraised him. “What makes you think I’m looking for Kai?”

“Oh? Who said I was talking about Kai?” Shiki winked at him. Ratri resisted the urge to throttle Shiki. Instead, he turned and headed in that direction.

“Have fun!” Shiki called after him. Ratri rolled his eyes.

Ratri stepped into the dining hall to find it as empty as it should’ve been at just past three in the afternoon. He glanced around and spotted Kai sitting at one of the lone tables by the windows.

The afternoon sun was drifting in from the windows and had turned Kai’s hair into warm golden brown color, which was falling neatly in front of his eyes. A plate with the remnants of his lunch was pushed to the side of the table (Yan had probably yelled at him for not eating properly again). Kai was focused on the book in front of him, unconsciously playing with the edges of the pages while a small smile graced his lips.

Kai looked... (beautiful, his brain suggested) ...quietly content in a way Ratri hadn’t seen before. It almost made him back out of what he was about to do. Almost.

He stared at the scene before him for a moment more before forcing himself to approach the table. Kai was so absorbed in the book that he hadn’t even noticed him.

Ratri cleared his throat.

*

Kai was having a good day.

Ratri had taken the day off and subsequently gave him the day off as well. Kai had no problems with working – he could hardly complain when Ratri worked at least ten times harder than he did, and Kai knew that Ratri rarely took a day off since he would never allow himself to take a day off if Ratri was working – but having some down time every once in a while was nice too.

He’d spent most of the day so far reading the book he’d started months ago – never quite having the time to finish it – and enjoying the quiet of headquarters while everyone else was out. Yan had tried to feed him a particularly large lunch, arguing that he should eat more so he could store the energy as a reserve since he didn’t have to use it all up that day, and Kai attempted (somewhat unsuccessfully) explaining to her to her that since he didn’t need to eat as much since he wasn’t doing anything that day.

He was so engrossed in his book that he hadn’t even heard Ratri approach until the other cleared his throat.

Kai jumped a little and looked up from his book a sheepishly. It was probably bad form to be caught off guard in front of one’s boss, especially if one’s job involved acting as a bodyguard, especially if it was the person one was supposed to be guarding.

Ratri gave no indication that of plans of chastising Kai for his unguardedness and proceeded to inquire, “Kai, are you free right now?”

Kai blinked. Ratri had given him the day off so he should know better than anyone. Kai rarely had plans outside of work, and was rarely aware of a break in advance enough to make them.

“Yes, I am.”

Ratri shifted nervously (nervously? Kai thought oddly) from one foot to the other. “Could you accompany me to do some... things,” he finished a little lamely.

Ah, Ratri needed to do some work. Working even on an off day, Kai admired. In fact, Ratri had probably spent the morning and his lunch time looking over reports that had piled up recently.

“Sure,” he answered easily and got up.

He didn’t catch the small, relieved smile that flickered on Ratri’s face for a moment.

*

Shiki had never been trained in the fine art form of spying.

He never really needed to be, since his main job was to maintain the Isis system and protect their digital databases—a job he was quite good at. Shiki was no slouch in combat either, so he always let the spy work be done by someone else. But he always felt that if he should ever need this skill – well, he was a prodigy. It couldn’t be that hard to pick up right?

“What are you doing, Shiki?” Judd asked rather loudly from behind him, and Shiki almost screamed. Luckily, he caught himself in time.

“Shhh!!!” He angrily wagged his index finger in front of Judd’s face. “Quiet!” He ducked behind the door again and pointed inside the dining hall.

Judd tried to look inside discreetly. “What am I looking for?” he asked ask in a loud whisper.

“Ratri’s asking Kai out on a date!” Shiki said a little too gleefully.

“Is that unusual?” Shiki glared at him. “Ratri and Kai have never been on a date before?” Judd sounded incredulous.

“Ratri’s never gone on a date period.”

That was… unexpected. Though not completely unexpected, Judd realized if you gave it some thought.

“Alright. But you still didn’t answer my original question. What are you doing here?”

“I just want to see how it goes,” Shiki said innocently.

“So… you’re stalking them.”

“Not stalking! Just… curious.”

Judd looked into the dining hall again.

“Shiki?”

“Hm?”

“I think they’re already gone.”

*

Ratri strolled on the main path of the park, feeling the chilly early spring air against his skin. A few flowers were already poking out of the flowerbeds, surprisingly persistent against the slight chill that hung in the air despite their seemingly delicate exterior. They were perhaps not so different from someone he knew.

Ratri wasn’t sure what a good starting place for a date would be, but he imagined that it was hard to go wrong with a park.

Kai had insisted on driving them there, but Ratri refused. He might not know perfectly what constituted good etiquette for this type of event, but he was pretty sure letting one’s date drive, especially when one had initiated the date, was probably not included. They eventually compromised on letting one of the new recruits drive when Ratri pointed that he clearly would have the time to, since he was standing around doing nothing.

Currently, Kai was following him, walking steps behind him, almost like a puppy – not quite close as if he were wary of being reprimanded for tagging along unwantedly, but not so quite far either that his master couldn’t be reached within a moment’s notice. The mental image almost made Ratri chuckle.

“Kai,” he called out, “you’re not on duty. You don’t have to follow me.” Kai looked at him confused for a moment until Ratri gestured with his left hand for Kai to walk beside him. Kai quickened his pace for a few steps until he was right beside Ratri, and glanced around cautiously.

“Don’t worry. We claimed this area a few years before you came and is secure from Maina threats now, so you can let your guard down. We signed a contract over it,” Ratri explained. “It was actually a highly disputed territory back then, and hasn’t actually been completely secure until recently, when we started reconstruction on the park. For the sake of civilian safety, we both set aside our differences on this one. While it’s officially territory in our name, but it’s open to public use regardless of where they actually reside. Though, official Maina group members are still restricted from entering.

As of now, it’s mostly enjoyed by families and children returning from school.” Ratri looked around the park. It was mostly empty at the moment, abandoned on a chilly workday afternoon while school was in session. In about half an hour or so, Ratri knew that noisy children would populate the area. “It’s pretty popular with couples as well.” Like themselves.

“We’re doing repairs on the damages done to the park while fighting had occurred and replacing things that are aged from lack of proper managing from when it was abandoned. We’re also attempting to add some flower beds and trees to the area.”

“Ah.” Kai had started to relax as Ratri gave his explanation of the park and now seemed more unguarded. They walked in amicable silence for a while towards an area with a bunch of newly planted trees.

Ratri discretely glanced at Kai’s right hand every minute or two, trying to decide if he should take his hand or not. He wondered what the proper form for it was. Did one usually hold hands on a date? If so, should one ask before initiating contact or was spontaneous action preferred?

Ratri considered it as they walked, eventually deciding on the latter. After all, both he and Kai were men of action. (Plus, it would be awkward if he tried to ask, Ratri thinks, if he couldn’t voice his request properly. And even more so if Kai refused him. At least, if he to just do it, Kai could pull his hand away if he didn’t appreciate the gesture.)

Right as Ratri was about to grab his hand, however, Kai stopped in front of a small, newly-planted tree and pointed. “Oh, look.”

“Hm?” Ratri mumbled, irritated at the tree for messing up his chance.

“It’s a peach tree.” Kai cocked his head to the side, smiling. “I used to have on in my front yard, growing up. It’ll take a while for it to grow to big enough to flower properly, but I want to be here when it does.”

Ratri silently noted to tell them to plant more peach trees at the next committee meeting.

I forgot I've written so much of this... It needs a lot of polishing, but I'll finish this one day, I swear.



I call this the "prostitute!ed fic" | Fullmetal Alchemist | Roy/Ed | Roy makes friends with a young patron at a local bookstore, unaware that young man is the same boy he's seen every night...
It always surprises him how much a place could change depending on the time of day you visit. Central, for instance, is an uninspiring splatter of grey concrete and ugly buildings in the daytime, but, he muses, somehow transforms into a city of warm and twinkling lights at night.

He’s not so surprised the city’s red light district is the same, being a part of it after all.

He boredly notes how the night scene contrasts from squeaky-clean daylight-hours image the district offered with its hodgepodge of small family grocers, coffee houses, and antique shops, now locked up and closed down for the night leaving only an assortment of slightly-less-than-decent bars to light up the streets.

He stares up at the stoplight. Roy wonders if someone picked this to be the red light district because there are so many damn red lights.

The light finally changes.

*

Ed hates picking up military officers.

The thing is, they always come in a few Types. The arrogant ones who are a little too adamant about impressing him with the few badges they’ve been earned. The ones who want one more night of freedom before they’re sent out to whatever god-forsaken corner of Armestis (Ed thinks but doesn’t know for sure, there hasn’t been a war in years, yet there’s always some place to fight, some minor battle to throw away your life in). The homesick ones who want to pretend that he’s their childhood friend or their girl (or their boyfriend or whatever) from back home. The fresh-faced ones who have just arrived, bent on proving themselves or something stupid like that.

Ed hates everything about them – how they always seem to feel as if he owes them something – but more than anything else, he hates the emotional baggage they always dump onto him.

He’s a hooker. Not a friend, not some shrink, and not even the bartender who has to put up with their pathetic drunk whining. As far as Ed is concerned, they only pay him to fuck him and that’s that.

It’s not like his job isn’t hard enough as it is.

Ed hates all of them. If he has to pick the Type he hates the most, though, it’d probably be those stupid new recruits who’d just gotten to Central. For one, most of them are inexperienced (which is why they seek him out) so sex with them always sucked. But if Ed’s really being honest, he hates them because they’re the ones who stick around, taunting him and blaming him, as if their cruelty could erase the stupidity, as if he was responsible for what they had done.

Ed’s a prostitute, not a babysitter.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the kid in uniform who’s been eyeing from the bar for the last hour. Unfortunately for him, that’s likely the type he’ll be dealing with tonight. Pretty soon (or at least Ed hopes pretty soon) he’ll be drunk enough to gather up the courage to finally approach Ed.

Ed wishes someone else would pick him up before then. Or at least the asshole would get drunk faster so he wouldn’t have to stand out in the cold waiting.

He shivers and pulls his red coat closer, though it doesn’t help much. After all, he knows it’s not because of the breeze passing by but because he’s desperate for his next hit.

Ed hates his traitor of a body.

(Intuitively, Ed knows it’s not his fault, that addiction alters brain chemistry to induce a chemical-dependant state. He might’ve been a prostitute but that didn’t mean he was an uneducated moron.)

(That didn’t stop him from feelinglike he should’ve been better than it, though.)

Ed’s field of vision is becoming hazy and unfocused, but he finally catches a flash of blue uniform stumble out of the bar to his left and feels a spark of excitement that he is about to hook his first job of the evening. Money is money, no matter where it comes from. (And he wasn’t going to get a break from Marcus, so if he wants any, he’ll have to make for it enough tonight.) Beggars can’t be choosers.

As recruit drifts closer, Ed starts sweet-talking the man, faking the best he can since he isn’t feeling it and ignores the alcohol fumes that float around the man (Ed hates dealing with drunks almost as military officers).

Money and drugs aside, Ed maybe feels a little relieved. He doesn’t particularly like sex per se, but (bad as it might be) the it released neurotransmitters would imitate whatever drug he’s on and give him a moment’s reprieve from his withdraw.

Ed hates how weak he is.

(He thinks this is no way to live and wonders why he doesn’t curl up in a corner and just die already. Because even if he doesn’t catch some disease that’ll rot his brain from the inside out or accidentally overdose one of these days, Marcus will probably eventually kick him to the curb and shoot him while he’s down when he stops being able to work.)

(This is no way to live, but at least he’s alive.

Ed might be a little afraid to die.)

--

[basically this really long middle section of actual plot about how Roy and Ed become friends, even though Roy doesn't know anything about Ed...]

--

He stops at the same stoplight he almost always stops at when he takes this road and glances out his right window. The hooker who usually stands at that street corner is standing hunched under the dim streetlight, red hood pulled up from his worn coat, hair pushed to one side over his shoulder.

Maybe it’s the way his blond hair is falling in eyes or maybe it’s the giant dark bruise on his left cheek (the one Roy had to keep himself from staring at yesterday so Ed wouldn’t get upset and leave), but a sinking feeling in the pit of Roy’s stomach accompanies an unwanted spark of recognition.

Before he even registers it, he’s across the street, car door still open and vehicle left ignored in front of a stoplight, and standing right in front of him.

“Ed?” he breathes, and a pair of golden eyes jolt up to fix on him, wariness dissolving into shock. Roy’s stomach feels like it’s going to crawl up out of his throat. His voice sounds as betrayed as he for some reason feels. “What are you doing here?”

*

After the half-second of shock fades from his eyes, Ed’s pushing back – literally, so hard that Roy stumbles backwards and barely catches himself from falling onto the cold concrete sidewalk.

“What am I doing here?!” Ed hisses quietly, voice full of angry and hurt, fists clenched at his sides. “What am I doing here, you ask, when I was stolen away from my home before I was old enough to fend for myself? Was sold and branded like cattle?” Ed tears off the glove on his right hand for emphasis and his jacket sleeve slides down about an inch to reveal the tattoo his pimp has branded on the juncture between his hand and his wrist.

“What am I doing here,” he continues wildly, not even waiting for Roy’s response, “when no one in this damn city will give me the time of day, will look me in the eye, will hire me because I have ‘no qualifications’ even though I’ve more alchemy knowledge than most of the state alchemists combined?!” He’s holding back tears that are ready to break free because this wasn’t worth it, not when he hasn’t cried in so long already.

“What am I doing here, when you military bastards who are supposed to fight for justice or whatever, come here and fuck me up the ass then turn around and laugh at me while calling me a dirty whore?” he spits out viciously. “What am I doing here, when you sit in your office, signing papers and making pretty speeches about change that I’m never going to see while I stand here every day, both wishing for someone to pick me up so I can bring in enough for the night and take me off the streets for a couple of hours, and to never ever have to be touched again.”

Ed’s clawing at his face now because the tears won’t stop now, wiping at the as fast as they come, and Roy stands there awkwardly, not knowing if his offer of comfort would be appreciated or if he should keep his distance.

Ed looks

“It must be easy for you to stand there and think, ‘How can you sell yourself so easily, you whore? Don’t you have any pride?’ People need to survive too, Roy. Maybe that’s how I can still hold up my head,” Ed sobs into his hands, one still with the glove on. “So why don’t you go back to cushy job or your warm house or whatever, Colonel Roy Mustang,” he jabs and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Roy visibly flinch. “Just… Leave. Me. Alone.” Ed mumbles before breaking down hysterically.

In the back of his mind, he knows he’s not being fair. These things need to be said, these things he’s held so close, buried his heart for so long, but Roy is not the one he should be saying these things to. Roy is the closest thing Ed has had to a friend in a long time and has done nothing to deserve Ed’s wrath in this way. When he finally calms down a little, he realizes that whatever possibility – whatever little had been – of him salvaging what they had even after this has been squashed by Ed’s outburst.

For a moment, he mourns what was and what could have been.

“You’re right,” Ed says tiredly when he’s gathered enough composure to talk again. “Why am I here,” he says, meaning this corner that he’s been at every day since he could remember. “I - I’ll find somewhere else,” he hiccups and shivers, his body aching for his next hit even though his mind knows it’s hours away.

Roy makes a vague motion, like he’s going to stop Ed, but Ed shakes his head.

“Go home, Roy.”

*

Roy watches as Ed’s small figure pass each streetlight in the distance, appear and disappear again into the darkness.

He thinks about his car, still sitting in the street with its door open, a luxury import newly bought with his military commission. He thinks his house in the one of the nicer, newer communities in the city and the library inside that’s filled with dozens of priceless old alchemy texts. Then he thinks about Ishbal and the lives he’d taken, the lives he couldn’t save.

He thinks about the times he’d seen Ed stand at this corner – not knowing it was him – in the rain, in the cold, looking worn, looking hurt. He thinks about the bruise on Ed’s cheek and how it looks too eerily familiar to one in the photo the murder victim’s from this afternoon.

He watches Ed’s form get smaller and farther away.

And then, like a coward, he walks away.

*

Roy doesn’t sleep that night. Or the night after. Or the one after that.

He can’t eat because all everything tastes the guilt that has settled in the pit of his stomach, and he wants to burn down his library every time he walks past it.

In the office, Roy does his paperwork complacently, signing monotonously and not bothering to look over what he’s approving each time. His staff eyes each other worriedly and doesn’t mention the dark rings under his eyes, and even Hawkeye doesn’t know what to make of his new work ethic. Roy ignores their concern expertly.

Eventually, they nominate Alphonse to approach him. “Are you okay, sir?” Al asks hesitantly.

“I’m fine,” Roy answers flatly, lying through his teeth. He isn’t fine, and it’s likely he might never be again, but that didn’t mean he had to drag everyone else down with him. He could still go through the motions.

Al backs down for the moment, but that doesn’t stop the rest of them from sending him more concerned looks.

Al asks almost ritually for the next few days. Roy continues to ignore him and everyone else.

Eventually, Roy reaches for the last paper in his tray and looks up at his staff expectantly. “Well? Where’s the rest of it?”

“You cleared away all the paperwork, sir,” Hawkeye answers.

“Where’s the paper for next week, then?” He barely keeps himself from snapping at her because Hawkeye is a scary woman and just because he’s not okay doesn’t mean he can’t be even less okay than he already is.

“You cleared away the paper for the next two weeks,” she clarifies, and looks as disbelieved as he feels.

“What else needs taken care of?” he snipes.

Breda looks him in the eye. “Aren’t you going to head to the bookstore this afternoon?” he asks.

“No.”

His staff all looks at each other.

“Sir, it’s Wednesday,” Havoc reminds him as if he were confused about the date.

“I know.” He can’t help himself from snapping this time.

He’s never told them why, but they all know Roy never missed his Wednesday bookstore trips. His staff stares at him. He stares down at the last form he just approved. Something about the streetlights going out earlier to save electricity.

Roy imagines Ed alone, in the dark, under an unlit streetlight. His stomach churns.

“Sir,” Al interrupts the awkward silence, “are you okay?”

Roy maybe breaks down a little.

*

“No, I’m not,” he admits quietly when he finally manages to collect himself.

“When was the last time you slept?” Hawkeye mumbles, leaning down a little and looking at him seriously after she’s sent everyone else away so it’s just the two of them.

“I passed out last night.” She looks at him incredulously. “For two hours.”

Hawkeye sighs. “Your men need you, sir. In case you’ve forgotten, there’s more to do here than just paperwork. You are in no condition to lead anyone right now, and you will put everyone at risk if you aren’t in top form,” she reprimands and a different type of guilt grips Roy. The world isn’t so small as to just revolve around him.

Her mask of stoicism slips as she straightens up.

“Go home, Roy,” Riza tells him and he almost flinches at the words. “Go home, and get some sleep.”

I promised [livejournal.com profile] elystia I'd write this story since 2005 and gdit if I don't get it done one day.



untitled [transitory] | Glee | Mike/Kurt | 1900's Hong Kong AU; Kurt is a silk trader from San Francisco and Mike is the British-educated son of wealthy merchant whom purchases from (probably discontinued)
The first thing Kurt thought when he stepped off the boat was, Hong Kong is nothing special.

And really, it wasn’t. It was the same cloud of browns and greys he’d said goodbye to when he’d boarded the ship not three weeks ago, the same dust and grime and sea salt he could never quite scrub off his skin, the same scent of poverty and industry in behind the glitz of a modernizing city.

Behind him, a ship horn sounded through the regular beating of waves against wood and steel.

No, Hong Kong was really no different from San Francisco. Perhaps there were less yellows and browns and reds between the black bobs of hair and straw hats, but Kurt was already accustomed to the taste of a language that was unfamiliar on his own tongue.

*

[...]

*

This time, Mike tasted like goodbye.

Basically: Kurt and Mike and a relationship up through WWI. They start an elicit affair, which they continue every time Kurt is in Hong Kong. Eventually, Mike's father dies and Mike becomes the person he trades with; Mike marries Tina and starts a family, and Kurt is slightly heart-broken when he comes back and finds this out. By the time of WWI, Kurt realises he can't come back anymore, and begs Mike to go with him, but Mike believes family is more important, and that's the end.

I'm actually really fond of the plot for this story, and ended up doing a lot of historical research to make it work. I started writing it the summer after S1 of Glee, back when writing for the fandom was full of possibilities and not douchebaggery and terrible flame and ship wars. It's probably salvageable and maybe one day I'll write it and publish it as an original story instead, but yeah, this is not going to be Mike and Kurt if I do.



a curse for every mile of ocean crossed | Inception | Arthur/Eames | Ghost!AU; Eames buys a house and it's haunted. The ghost, however, is not necessarily what he seems (warning: previous, potential-future, minor and major character deaths. good times all around)
Eames took one last glance around the dining room and sighed. “I love the neighborhood. And the house is lovely, but—“

“But?” the realtor asked.

“It’s a little out of my price range,” he admitted.

The realtor rubbed her temple. “There’s a house two blocks down from here going for $60,000 less. It’s a bit older but in great condition, same square footage.”

Eames frowned. “Then why isn’t it off the market yet?”

“Well.” She hesitated. “It’s haunted.”



It had taken Eames fifteen minutes to convince his realtor to even agree to give him a tour of the house. Apparently, the last dozen times she’d gone there, the kitchen cabinets had started rattling as soon as she’d opened the door, and most of her clients had been freaked out into leaving within five minutes of stepping in the house.

The house was silent as Eames entered, but not eerily so. Nothing extraordinary happened as the realtor showed him around the house.

“It’s perfect. I’ll take it,” Eames said as soon as the tour was done.

The realtor blanched. “Are you sure you don’t want to—”

“I’m not a fearful man,” he said and winked at her. “I’ll take my chances.”



The first night, Eames spent eight hours moving his stuff into his new house all by himself and promptly passed as soon as he hit the bed. If anything strange happened, he was too dead to the world to realize.

The second night, Eames stayed late at the office to catch up on all the work that piled up on the day he’d spent moving.

If the house was particularly silent and cold when he’d gotten back, Eames attributed it to the fact that it was past midnight and autumn was encroaching on the last bit of summer still trying to hang in the air.

On the third night, his neighbors invited him over to dinner. The Cobbs were a beautiful couple with one child and another on the way who so clearly only had eyes for each other that Eames was surprised they noticed someone new had moved in next door.

“Don’t be silly,” Mallorie Cobb said when he’d told her this. She set a plate down on the dinner table, and Eames hovered awkwardly, unsure whether he should offer to help or if it would be an unnecessary inconvenience. Mal elegantly padded between the kitchen and dining room, moving things over with a learned effortlessness, and even at five months pregnant, she moved with the slick grace of a cat.

“That house has been empty for almost two years now, and we would have to be blind to not notice someone had started to occupy it,” she continued once they sat down for dinner.

“Did you know the previous owner?” Eames asked.

“He was such a lovely young man,” Mal sighed. Then she frowned. “Eat your peas, Phillipa, sweetheart.”

Dominick Cobb resumed where his wife left off as Mal tried to goad their daughter into eating. “We moved in a few weeks after Arthur – the previous owner – inherited the house. His parents had died a few months before that, but since he was already seventeen, the state decided to emancipate him. They figured it would be more traumatic to uproot him, so he was allowed to stay in the house.”

“Such a shame,” Mal tsked as she wiped off Phillipa’s face. “We only knew him for about a year. He left for the military as soon as he graduated.”

Dom’s brow furrowed. “We didn’t hear anything out of the house for a year after,” he recalled, “until one day a moving truck showed up. Apparently Arthur had been killed in action, and his uncle was selling the house.”

Mal shook her head. “For some reason, no one wanted to buy the house after that. Sometimes, we did hear odd sounds coming out of the house at strange hours of the night, but we did not think it was truly haunted.” Mal turned to look at him. “Is it?”

“Well, I haven’t had any problems…” Eames trailed off, and the conversation faded into an awkward lull.

“Now, no more of this unpleasantness at the dinner table,” Mal said, breaking the silence. “You are here, so let us focus on the present. So tell us, what do you do, Mr. Eames?”



Eames woke up to the clock chiming three in the morning and clattering sounds coming from the downstairs kitchen followed by the dull whoosh of running water.

Dim light filtered in from under the crack of his bedroom door, and Eames knew for a fact that he’d turned off all his house lights before heading to bed. Quietly, he opened his nightstand drawer where he kept his Berretta.

The cabinets clattered once more as he opened his bedroom door, and Eames quietly crept down the stairs.

Slowly, he made his way towards the kitchen, where the light was on, keeping his up and in front of him. He was told by the realtor and several of his neighbors that this was a perfectly safe neighborhood with one of the lowest rates of crime in the area, but Eames couldn’t think of another reason someone would break into his house and clatter around his house at night.

As he drew close to the kitchen, Eames ducked behind the wall close to the opening and leaned over to peek inside.

A boy with curly dark brown hair was standing in the middle of his kitchen, staring at his sink, where the tap was on and running. Eames stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to do something. They boy sighed, but didn’t move otherwise.

“Hey!” Eames barked, stepping out from the dark, and kept his gun pointed at the boy.

The boy’s eyes snapped towards him.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“You can see me?” the boy asked, shocked.

“Of course I can see you! You’re standing in my kitchen at bloody three in the morning, now what do you think you’re –”

The boy disappeared with a pop.

Eames blinked.

Five seconds later, the tap turned itself off.

Eames lowered his gun and walked over to inspect his sink suspiciously.

“Well,” he said, and he turned off the lights, marched himself back upstairs, and crawled into bed.



The next morning, the first thing Eames did when he got up was to go inspect his sink. Nothing in his kitchen was out of place. Eames rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“All those ghost rumors are getting to your head,” he said aloud to himself and pushed the thought out of his head for the rest of the day.



Eames again woke to his clock chiming three in the morning and rattling coming from his cabinets down stairs. He glanced over at the digital clock on his nightstand, and the red numbers flashed back as 3:04. His old grandfather clock, appropriately, was a family heirloom given to him by his grandfather when he’d moved out on his own, and even though the old thing couldn’t be damned to actually keep time and lost a minute or so every day, Eames found himself reluctant to part with it. He’d put it up in every flat he’d rented before, and it seemed to be appropriate to have it in a house he could call his own. Eames had always gotten a strange sense of comfort in winding it up, letting it fall out of time and chime at odd hours and intervals until it wouldn’t run anymore, just so he could wind it back up again.

Now, it was an eerie reminder than things were more real than he’d like.

“Right, just a dream,” he muttered to himself under his breath and reached for his gun, which he’d put under his pillow before going to bed, to reassure himself.

After five or six minutes, the rattling stopped. The light from downstairs switched off, and Eames could tell because the glow from under his door crack disappeared.

He pretended that didn’t just happen.

Eames breathed out to calm himself and closed his eyes, counting from one up. When he reached two hundred and thirty-seven, the grandfather clock chimed quarter past. When he got to two hundred and eighty-four, he was halfway asleep.

“Your clock is slow, you know.”

Eames’ eyes snapped open. The boy from yesterday was looking down at him, mouth pulled into a slight frown. Eames’ mouth fell open, and he made a choked sound.

“Also, it’s not much fun haunting someone if you can’t even bother to be freaked out by it.”

Eames screamed. Loudly.

He scrambled for the berretta, but soon as Eames managed to aim the gun at him, the boy disappeared in the blink of an eye.

Eames’ eyes darted around the room, trying to track the intruder and convince himself that it wasn’t just a trick of his mind. After a dozen tense seconds, Eames let go of a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. No one else was in the room with him.

Christ,” Eames huffed and dropped the gun on the bed, shaking.

Needless to say, he didn’t get much sleep after that.



“I think,” Eames remarked casually to the Cobbs when had him over two Sundays later, “that I’ve met the ghost.”

All the Cobbs paused in their dinner and looked up at him. Eames waited for them to process what he said.

“Ghost!” Phillippa happily exclaimed after a beat.

Mal turned to her daughter, picking up a napkin to wipe off her cheek with. “Yes, ghost,” she repeated. “Now eat your rice, sweetheart.”

“I thought you said you weren’t having any problems,” Dom said.

“Er, well…” He hadn’t had any trouble since that night though he’d woken up both the next night and the night after that to the sound of his clock chiming three. Nothing unusual happened, though, and Eames easily convinced himself to fall back to sleep and hasn’t since woken in the middle of the night.

“Nevermind,” he said. “Probably just an over-active imagination taking those ghost rumors to heart.”

Both Mal and Dom frowned at him, but let the subject drop.

Later, as Eames was pulling on his jacket preparing to leave their house, he caught sight of a framed picture hanging in their doorway. A younger Dom and a longer-haired Mal that looked as pregnant as she was now were standing with a sullen-looking boy with brown curls, and Eames’ heart jumped to his throat. To anyone else, the boy might’ve passed as a relative of Mal’s or maybe a son of a family friend, but for Eames, it was too much of a coincidence to be anything else.

“Who’s this?” Eames asked and pointed to the picture as Dom was showing him out the door.

“Ah, that was Arthur – your house’s previous owner,” Dom said, looking at the photo with fond melancholy. “Mal sort of adopted him after we moved in and said he was like a baby bird we had to take in. Arthur didn’t really seem to want to let us get close, but relented after a while.” Dom smiled. “When Arthur complained that Mal mothered him too much, Mal told him that she was practicing on him.” That got a small smile out of Eames as well.

“Arthur seemed pretty lonely. I don’t know what he was like before his parents died, but we never saw him have any friends over. He left a few weeks before Phillipa was born. Mal saw him as a little brother of sort, and, after we found out that he’d died…” Dom shook his head. “I don’t know if she ever really forgave herself for letting him go.”

Eames tilted his head and studied the photo closely, trying to memorize Arthur’s features.

“Sometimes, these things happen,” Eames said eventually. “And never to anyone who deserves it.”

“I guess they do.” Dom sighed. “Anyway, I shouldn’t be keeping you. Have a good night.”

“Good night,” Eames said and pushed out the door.



Eames was barely even surprised when he woke to his clock chiming three times. When he glanced over at his digital clock, however, he was surprised to find that the time exactly matched his clock downstairs. Eames covered his eyes with his hand and let out a shaky sigh.

After a minute, he heard a door in his room crack open and then soft rummaging sounds.

Eames uncovered his eyes and was unsurprised to see his closet door open and the soft silhouette of the boy in the moonlight, rummaging through his closet.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than to bother people who have work tomorrow?” Eames asked. Then, after a beat, he added, “Arthur.”

Arthur glanced over at him from the closet door, with something unreadable in his eyes.

“Then you must not work very hard because everything in your closet looks like it came out of a thrift store,” Arthur said.

Eames scowled. He had a few nice suits for work in that closest, and for the record, he liked his sense of fashion.

“Oh, that’s rich coming from a ghost that’s dressed like a hipster,” Eames remarked. “Is that’s what’s in right now in the spirit world?”

Arthur’s eyebrow twitched. “Hmph,” he said, and disappeared again with a pop.



Eames worked for an international insurance company. It wasn’t anywhere close to his dream job but he liked it well enough as it usually had regular nine-to-five hours and paid him decently. Eames could admit that he hadn’t exactly gotten the position fair and square, having used his father’s connections to con one of the board members who owed his father a favor to hire him into a higher-level management position. The most appropriate part of it all was that as soon as Eames had personally cultivated enough rapport within the company, he’d asked to be transferred somewhere as far away from his family as possible.

Eames didn’t think that he was particularly suited to management, but he worked hard and was good at his job, and it had allowed him to bypass the starter positions like dealing with insurance claims or trying to find loopholes or con a statement out of someone so the company could avoid paying out. It made him feel like less of an awful person when he only had to manage the managers of the employees doing those things, rather than having to do it himself.

Still, that meant that he was the one who occasionally had to stay late and collection and organize the files for the monthly report. He hadn’t minded it so much when he was still living in the city, but the neighborhood his new house was located in was a good forty-five minutes drive outside of traffic. Staying late meant that he could avoid the usual rush hour bumper-to-bumper congestion, but it also meant he would get home very late.

All the lights in his house were off when he pulled into the driveway, but as soon as Eames opened the front door, the light in the kitchen flicked on and the dull rush of water indicated that someone had turned the faucet one.

Eames rolled his eyes. He hadn’t heard anything from the ghost in three days, but Eames figured Arthur would get over his fit eventually and come back to bother him. “Oh, real scary, Arthur,” he said and closed the door behind him.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

Eames gasped and jumped an inch. He turned around to see some— …Arthur in a suit with his hair slicked back?

“Hey,” Arthur said and lifted a hand in greeting.

“Jesus,” Eames said, clutching his chest. “Can you not do that?”

Arthur frowned. “You already knew I was here. And how come you’re not scared by me doing ghostly things, but freak out every time I do something normal.”

“First of all,” Eames said, “you caught me by surprise is all. Second, what’s with your fixation on the kitchen? Really, that trick is getting old.”

The tap stopped, and the light in the kitchen turned off the same moment the light from the top of the staircase flickered on. Arthur turned semi-translucent with the light flooding in from above him. “Nothing, really.” Arthur shrugged. “It was just something that seemed to freak a lot of people out. Also,” he hesitated. “The faucet always used to leak when I lived here. I guess my uncle must’ve fixed it before he put the house on the market. It’s not really the house I know anymore.” Arthur’s shoulders slumped a little as he said this.

Eames tilted his head to the side and took a close look at Arthur now that they were standing so close. In a suit, Arthur looked simultaneously much older and younger, and Eames wasn’t sure how to feel about that. The suit seemed expensive and was well-cut, and Arthur at all didn’t look like he was a child playing dress-up, but rather someone serious and mature who was born to wear a suit this nice. On the other hand, the slicked-back hair accentuated Arthur’s youthful face, and Eames felt a twinge in his heart when he remembered that Arthur had died very young.

“You’re wearing a suit,” Eames commented dumbly after a moment.

Arthur’s lips twitched. “Yes, and you’re wearing a suit, too,” Arthur replied. “It’s actually not awful.”

If Eames could punch Arthur in the shoulder right then, he would have. Instead, he asked, “But why are you wearing a suit?”

Arthur pursed his lips. “Well, someone didn’t appreciate my sense of fashion, and I like to dress to impress.”

Eames raised an eyebrow. “Dress to impress? And who are you trying to impress? Aren’t I the only person who can see you?”

“Yeah, well.” Arthur pulled on his sleeve a little. “It’s even harder to make an impression on someone when they can see you.” He refused to meet Eames’ eyes. “And we’re not exactly on an even playing field. I can’t even scare you anymore since you can see me and you know who I am, but I… don’t even know your name.”

Eames blinked. “Er, I’m Eames,” he said. He almost offered his hand out to shake, but caught himself the last minute, figuring that would be insensitive. “Is there a reason you have to scare people, though?” he pressed on. “Is it in a ghost handbook of sort or something?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “No,” he said. “But it’s not like there’s much you can do when you’re a ghost. Why do you think I spent three days hanging out in a suit store? You get bored after a while.”

Eames bit down a grin. Sure, Arthur claimed it was boredom, but Eames was pretty sure he’d taken Eames’ insult to heart and had spent the time trying to come up with something to impress him with. Eames figured that his efforts deserved some sort compliment at least.

“Well, I for one think you look dashing,” he said and winked.

Maybe it was just the light, but Eames could’ve sworn that Arthur flushed red for a moment before he vanished in a snap. Eames blinked.

“Good night, Eames,” an invisible Arthur’s voice called out from somewhere in the house.

Now that Arthur was gone, Eames let himself smile for real and shook his head. He climbed up the staircase and prepared to get to bed.

Eames wasn’t woken up again that night.

I have the outline written out and a timeline even, for everything. I'm going to finish it, I swear.



untitled | Inception/Numb3rs | Arthur/Eames + ensemble | Numb3rs-fushion; ten years ago, Scott Reynolds killed a man. Now, it might finally catch up with Arthur.

“Go to sleep, Mr. Eames. You have an 8am class tomorrow.”



--



The second time they meet, Eames introduces himself like they’ve never met, drawing out the A in Arthur’s name and barely skirting over the R like he always does, and Arthur wants to punch him in the face.

When they’re finally alone, the first thing Arthur does is punch him in the face.

“Son of a bitch,” he hisses.

Then Arthur kisses him.



--



“I killed a man,” Arthur says, “once.”

“You’ve killed many men,” Eames replies, and it’s true. He’s killed dozens of men since – hundreds, if you include projections in dreams – some of whom probably deserved it even less than Jonas Hoke had.

“Yes,” he says, “but that time, it was personal.”

Arthur is Scott, they try to extract from Larry for NASA, and Eames has to forget Charlie.

I also have the outline for this why do I have such ambitious plots for Inception stories when I write at the pace of a dying snail. Those are all the lines I salvaged from just the outline.



water floating above ice | Pokemon | Red(+Green) | Red has always liked his version of the story better (warning: mental illness)
It’s white. It’s all white and goes on for miles and miles.

Red reaches out in front of himself, slowly closing his fingers on the air. His nails scrape a bit against his palm. Ah, he thinks, this must be what loneliness feels like.

When he looks up into the blank sky, though, he is searching for answers. He knows why he’s here, but he still doesn’t know where that is –

Oh.

It’s snow.

Red blinks at the spots of white in his eyes and tries to rub them away. Then, he stretches his hand out in front of him. The snowflakes melt before he can touch them. That’s his answer.

After a moment, he sits down, knees pressed up against his chest, huddling at the corner of infinity. The ground is cool, but not icy. He’s on a mountain, he realizes and remembers all at the same time. He’s used to this.

He’s here – because he needs to be. Because he can’t be anywhere else. It’s the closest to sky anyone will ever be, and he’s too great for anything less. Of course there’s nothing else around; Red never looks down. All he can do is wait, look up into the white sky, and hope someone will be able to reach him here.

Strangely, Red doesn’t feel cold at all.


______


[...]


______


A nurse pauses, stopping to stare at them. Red is sitting up on the couch, staring up straight and still and expressionless as ever, but his shoulders are just slightly relaxed, and his fingers are laced through someone else’s. The boy whose hands Red’s are intertwined with is looking at him softly and fondly, head tilted and muttering quiet things in his direction.

“Are you the new attending?” she asks, eyeing his coat and name badge. It’s after hours, and she’s never seen him before, but they’re starting a new rotation in a few days.

The boy’s head turns towards her quickly, not quiet startled but not exactly unsurprised by her presence either. Red doesn’t move.

“Ah, no, sorry,” he says sheepishly. “Just visiting.”

“Well, unfortunately visitors aren’t allowed to be in the hospital after 9 o’clock, so I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she says.

“I’m on rotation in the ER,” he explains, checking his watch on the hand not in Red’s, “and, I have ten minutes before my shift.” He gets up from the couch, and Red’s arm went up with it, still tightly clutching his.

The boy turns back and looks at him sadly. Leaning down, he whispers, “I’ll be back, Red, I promise,” right beside Red’s ear but loud enough for her to hear. When Red doesn’t budge he wavers. “Please, Red. You know I have to—”

Red’s expression doesn’t shift a bit, but whatever the boy said worked and allows him to extricate his fingers from Red’s. The nurse stares on, eyes wide. That’s probably the most response anyone has gotten out of that patient since he was admitted weeks ago.

“I’ll be sure to find out the ward’s visiting hours the next time I come around,” the boy – Green Oak, the nurse notices now that she’s close enough to read his name badge – says as she escorts him to the door. “I just – I’ve been busy and hadn’t had the chance to see him in a while. Sorry.”

The nurse purses her lips. Red rarely leaves the ward, save the few times his mother had come to visit him and taken him out for a few hours, but it seemed unlikely he’d meet an ER resident in those short trips.

“Don’t get too attached,” she says. She’s been working long enough to know how residents think of themselves, saviors to the world and curer of all diseases. She doesn’t need anyone coming around and messing up her patients even more.

Green – Dr. Oak, she supposes – laughs, a bit harsh and dry. “A little too late for that,” he says. “I’ve known Red since I was five.” The door shuts behind him, loud, and the nurse is left staring at it as the echoes ring throughout the ward.

Red has delusions of grandeur, let's just say. The clinical version, I mean.



sort-of untitled | Pokemon | Green/Red | I don't have a good summary for it without giving too much away, so let's just say it's a epic action/adventure story that's actually a disguise for a romance
Unlike everything else that involved the two of them, the matter was resolved in a way that could only be described as anticlimactic. Red didn't quite remember what exactly happened – though he did have the foggiest memory of Green pressing up against him, making out against a wall – but at some point, they’d both managed to quietly acknowledge their mutual attraction, and that was that.

Which was why he was currently standing in his – and Green’s – new apartment, surrounded by boxes.

Green was in their kitchen sorting silverware, a task looked utterly boring yet mesmerizingly fascinating at the same time, which was probably why Red was staring at him instead of putting away their belongings like he was supposed to be doing. When Green finished, he looked all too proud at himself for having successfully placed the spoons, forks, and knifes in the right slots.

Green looked up from the silverware bin and caught Red’s eyes. “What?”

Red shrugged and tried not to flush at having been caught staring. “Nothing,” he mumbled. “It’s just... weird.”

“Me or the silverware?” Green paused. “Or me sorting silverware?” he added as an afterthought. Red knelt down on the floor and opened a box as Green moved out of the kitchen and into the room. “I knew we should’ve gotten the other set,” he muttered, and Red ignored him. In truth, he wasn’t sure why Green cared so much. They’d been using disposable forks and paper for so long that what design their silverware had was pretty much irrelevant.

Red picked through the contents of the box as he threw each of the items into an open drawer. The box was filled with old things from his room, things his mom had packed up and sent to him when she heard he’d be getting an apartment. Most of the stuff he’d forgotten about years ago – children's books, clothes that were probably too small for him now, a few childhood toys – useless stuff he’d have to get rid of sooner or later but didn’t have the heart to refuse when his mother when she dropped the boxes off earlier.

His heart skipped a beat when he pulled out two Pokedolls from the box. The Pikachu and Eevee dolls’ coats were dusty and faded from age, and they looked smaller than he remembered them to be, but were still nostalgically familiar. Red tugged on the Pikachu’s ear, and it flopped to the side.

The Eevee doll had originally belonged to Green, once. That time, Red remembered, he’d thought he had lost his Pikachu doll and was upset for hours. At first, Green had teased him, but after that and any sympathy Green offered had failed to console him, Green begrudgingly handed Red his Eevee and loudly concluded that he was too old to play with dolls anyway.

When Red had returned home with Green’s Eevee doll in hand, he then discovered that his mother had washed the Pikachu and forgotten to tell him. She’d tried to make Red return the doll, but he had stubbornly refused, and his mother eventually gave in and let him keep it.

Green never asked for his Eevee back, even when he came over to play and saw it sitting on Red’s bed next to the Pikachu doll. And despite claiming to be too old for dolls, Green happily pretended to be Pokemon masters with Red and the Pokedolls until Red’s mother decided that they were both too old to play with dolls, pushed Red and Green outside to play in the garden, and stuffed them away.

(Red had been five at the time. Even though it probably wasn’t, Red still likes to think of it as the first thing Green gave him.)

He clutched the Eevee doll lightly.

“I can’t believe you still have that.” It sounded like it was meant to be a casual statement, but Green’s voice was tight and full of suppressed emotion.

“Yeah,” Red said. He got up anyway to navigate through the maze of boxes, and set the two dolls down next to each other on their dresser before going back to unpacking the boxes. Green’s eyes trailed him the entire way.

Green was quiet for a suspicious while, and Red turned around to see what was going on only to catch Green standing behind him, still watching him. “What?” he grumbled.

“N-nothing,” Green said. “It’s just… nice,” he settled on. “This. You and me. Us. This apartment. The silverware. All of it is... nice.” Green’s voice wavered slightly, as if he wasn’t sure what to say, and for the first time in his memory, Red’s arrogant, self-assured best friend and rival didn’t seem confident about something. Like he still couldn’t believe that it was happening. Like it was too good to be true.

Red hesitated. Then he pulled Green down for a kiss.


*


The one-room studio apartment was a bit too small for even one person to live in comfortably, much less two, but for two boys whose lives had been reduced to a single backpack for years, it was enough. It was a little pricey given its size, though the prime location in Viridian City and the view was probably what hiked up the cost. A league champion and newly-minted gym leader could probably afford a little better, but neither of them had particularly wanted to attract any attention to their situation.

In the end, they had decided to put the bed in the middle of the room so neither of them had to climb over the other to get off of it, even though it was the least efficient use of their limited space. They probably could’ve gotten a smaller bed and had briefly contemplated it before Red recalled the sleeping bag incident from a few months ago. Sure, they both had rather pleasant memories of the event, but Red was quick to remind Green that, for the five minutes they hadn’t been... having fun, it was a stuffy, claustrophobic mess, and there was a reason it never happened again even though they both remembered enjoying themselves immensely.

It wasn’t that Red didn’t like being close to Green – if that were the case, then he would’ve suggested they get two beds, or you know, not moved in with him in the first place – but the idea of both of them trying to squeeze onto the same tiny bed didn’t seem that appealing.

In retrospect, it didn’t seem to make much of a difference. It was only the end of spring, but the room somehow seemed stifling and hot and impossible to sleep. Red stared at the ceiling. He sighed, then turned and shifted so he could stare at the wall instead. It also didn’t help that the bed was less than three feet away from the wall, so Red knew that about three feet from where he was laying was the crisp chill of the not-quite-summer air.

I am absolutely not kidding when I say this is the second fic I started writing in Pokemon fandom; 2 years later, I have still not gotten anywhere with it. LONG-SUFFERING SIGH.



nowhere to go but up | Pokemon | Green/Red | Rocket!AU I pitched this idea for [community profile] pokemon_bigbang and [personal profile] kuruk wrote it, so it's abandoned. Yeah.
It was one of the earliest memories Green had - him and Red with Eevee and Pikachu on that rainy day. He remembered feeling invincible right then, from the rush of getting his first Pokemon combined with excitement of all the adventures ahead of him. Them. Him and Red and their Pokemon.

It wasn’t supposed to turn it out this way.

“Let’s run away,” he’d said, the reckless words of a five-year-old who was all too eager to start his Pokemon journey before really being ready. And Red - the shy, quiet five-year-old Red - was more than willing to just go along with whatever grand plans his best friend had made.

But a five-year-old’s dream of running away was never supposed to amount to more than a short trip a stone’s throw away from home before they decided it was too dark and cold and they were hungry, and turned back. It wasn’t supposed to start raining as it turned dark, and they weren’t supposed to get lost, especially not in an unfamiliar forest. And they definitely aren’t supposed to stumble upon a [----]


Green could tell that Red was scared, and he was too, but he was going to protect Red. After all, he was the older one (and more importantly, it was his fault this happened).


It wasn’t supposed to turn out the way it did, but that time around, it was just how the cards ended up falling.

You can read the prompt here, which is half the story. Basically, after Green goes to Johto and becomes Silver's hero and Giovanni goes into hiding, they go back where Red is basically seen as the leader of TR even though Green is officially. Green just rolls with it and ends up taking over the gym, which is the cover for the testing facility. Eventually, up-and-comers Lyra and Ethan start taking out the entire TR syndicate in Johto, and Leaf in Kanto. Desperately, to pick up speed of the experiments, Green goes to Pallet to kidnap Oak, who realises that it's his grandson and that he and Red were kidnapped by TR when they were younger.

uring that time, Lyra and Ethan head over to Viridian and take on Silver, who is manning the gym while Green is away, and end up convincing him to be friends with them. Silver, who is still in love with Green, initially refuses to give the organisation up.

Oak goes back to Viridian with Green, but not because he was coerced. However, the E4 thinks he went missing, and sends a whole force after him, especially after Silver reveals the truth to them. Oak manages to convince Green and Red they're wrong and brainwashed, and Green and Red set off to release the experimental Pokemon as everything crashes down on them. The gym starts burning down, but Eevee and Pikachu save them (despite Green and Red having set them "free") and they brave the storm through Mt Silver to escape. At the end, the storm clears, and they look out onto all of Kanto as the sun rises.

"Where should we go?"

"I don't know. Anywhere, as long as it's with you."

They set off with just Eevee and Green, to another land where they're not known, to start over again.



untitled | Sex Pistols | Yonekuni/Shirou | Yonekuni knocks Shirou up on purpose, and then decides to be a bitch about it. (warning: mpreg)
It doesn’t occur to him until quite a bit later, of course, and is probably not something that should occur to him at all, but after a week of not being able to keep down his breakfast – and sometimes lunch and dinner as well – heachaches, and general fatigue, Shirou decides to take a pregnancy test.

It's a bit absurd, he thinks as he stares at the stick, quietly waiting for the results, because even though now he knows about madararui and knows that it – the whole pregnancy thing, that is – is possible, it's not like his body is naturally acclimated to it either. There has to be intent involved, a desire to create an actual child together, and not an accidental stumble into being knocked up.

Children, he'd reasoned at one point, pregnancy and families were almost inevitable. Shirou had always liked children, wanted ones of his own, even though he never expected to be the one having them. And it wasn’t like Yonekuni had made any indication, at least recently, that he'd be interested in starting a family any time soon.

Shirou tries to be reasonable, tries to remind himself of these things as he waits for the results.

The stick reveals a little pink cross.




If Shirou has to pick one word to describe Yonekuni in the context of their relationship these past years, it would be "resigned." Yonekuni, for better or worse, merely seemed resigned to loving Shirou, resigned to the fact that it was Shirou who was his soul mate, that it was Shirou who'd be having his children, who he'd be raising his litter a pups or hatchlings or whatever they end up being – that it was Shirou and not some pretty girl with pretty big eyes, a large chest, long hair, and soft curves that he’d be curling up against in the middle of the night.

For the most part, Shirou was okay with that, resigning himself to Yonekuni’s revolving cycles possessiveness and cold apathy.

They’d moved in together. Gotten an apartment, did the whole couple thing to the point where it was uncomfortably domestic.

Most days, they ate breakfast together, would leave for their individual university classes separately, sometimes with but usually without a goodbye. Yonekuni worked afternoons, and Shirou tended to make enough dinner every day for both of them, even though lately, Yonekuni would go out drinking after work at least the time.

Shirou tries not mind too much, accepts this as a last act of semi-rebellion, to spread his seed around before they settle into the permanence of their situation. From an evolutionary biology point of view, Shirou reasons, he should be content enough to know the father of their children is always going to be there. He also knows that, logically – and for the right price – Yonekuni would be more than willing to give away his DNA.

Shirou doesn’t know how to feel about this. He’s always been bad at matters of the heart.




When Yonekuni comes home that night, the day he takes his pregnancy test, Shirou is sitting in their bedroom pointedly avoiding him. The door is locked just in case.

He hasn’t made dinner, and outside, he can hear Yonekuni knock around their apartment, movements neither frenetic nor angry, but loud enough to seem like it.

Eventually, Yonekuni stalks into the bathroom.

Shirou knows what he’ll see. The box for the pregnancy test is lying at the top of the heap in the trash bin, pink and loud and obvious. The stick itself isn’t there, though. Shirou had made sure to carefully discard it in the trash can outside the convenience store where he picked up his dinner bento.

Shirou picks sullenly at the remaining contents of his bento box. After a few minutes, Yonekuni comes out of the bathroom, bangs around some more before their front door clicks close.

It’s quiet.

Shirou breathes out slowly, unlocking their bedroom door and tossing the last of the bento in the kitchen trash can. When he goes into the bathroom, he sees that the test box is untouched. Everything is in its place.

Shirou purses his lips thin and washes up as usual.

He goes to bed early that night, and leaves the door unlocked.


When he gets up the next morning – early, for his usual Tuesday class – Yonekuni is sleeping in their living room on the couch. His tall frame looks particularly uncomfortably squished, and the blanket is falling off of him and pooling onto the floor.

Shirou makes sure to pull the blanket up to cover him and brushing Yonekuni’s hair out of his eyes before he leaves.


[...]



"Yonekuni," Shirou says, and his eyes fix on Shirou. "I'm fine. The baby is fine."

Yonekuni stares at him before averting his gaze again.

"Yonekuni," Shirou tries again, and Yonekuni looks back at him. "I'm having your baby."

Yonekuni’s features are carefully blank.

"I'm having your baby," Shirou repeats.

"You're... having my baby?" Yonekuni asks, his voice almost small. He looks at Shirou, desperately trying to keep his expression cool and neutral though his eyes are clouded with uncertainty. For the first time, it strikes Shirou that Yonekuni might be scared, scared about the future and providing for a child, scared that Shirou might not have wanted to keep it, then terrified that he was going to lose both.

Shirou nods slightly, a small smile tugging on the corners of his lips.

"We're having a baby," Yonekuni repeats, as if that, in and of itself, was a miracle (in many ways, it was).

He moves to the edge of Shirou's hospital bed, and sits down gingerly on the edge as if he could break Shirou somehow if he sat down too hard.

"Can I... can I touch it?" he asks, as if Shirou would ever say no.

Shirou smiles and drags Yonekuni's hand over his stomach.

Yonekuni slowly and reverently runs his hand over the small curve of Shirou's stomach, and when he finally looks up, half-smile on his lips, he looks at Shirou like he's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

This fic is basically an excuse for me to write like Hemingway because it's boring as fuck. It's exactly what the summary says: Yonekuni knocks Shirou up on purpose, and then decides to be a little bitch. Can probably be seen as a prequel to the other Sex Pistols fic I wrote, even though I started this first.



untitled coffeeshop!au | Super Junior | Kyuhyun/Zhou Mi + everyone | Kyuhyun gets a job. He ends up with a boyfriend.
Kyuhyun gets the job in the middle of the semester. It’s bit of an odd arrangement because no one ever hires in the middle of the school year, except, apparently, where Kyuhyun gets his job, and he doesn’t really need the job anyway, except that he does.

It all comes down to this: Kyuhyun’s grades are perfect. In fact, Kyuhyun is actually a very good student when he’s not too busy gaming (which, admittedly, is most of the time), but for some reason, Kyuhyun’s parents still refuse to buy him Starcraft 2. Instead, they give him a long-winded lecture about work ethic and personal marketability and taking advantage of your education, and ignore Kyuhyun when he points out (politely) that his grades are actually perfect and – that’s just not cool.

But it’s Starcraft 2 and Kyuhyun needs some way to support his gaming addiction, and he decides to take matters into his own hands.

Karma’s Café is located a two blocks south of the university library and is every way a normal, quaint little family-owned coffeeshop other than its unusually high turnover rate. Kyuhyun would be suspicious, but he can’t find a single person who has anything bad to say about it, patron or former employee, and they’re the only place that’s hiring anyway so it’s not like Kyuhyun has much of a choice.

He shows up to his interview in a stiff suit and an uncomfortable tie and is way overdressed, but what are you supposed to wear a barista interview anyway? He spends ten minutes looking around at the café’s decorations while twiddling his thumbs, as his interviewer – Leeteuk, the coffeeshop’s owner – flips through his résumé. Eventually, Kyuhyun settles on staring (discretely) at Leeteuk’s dimple which is actually freaking him out a little because Leeteuk won’t stop smiling.

“Congratulations!” Leeteuk says eventually, and makes Kyuhyun jump. “When can you start?”

“Wait – seriously?” Kyuhyun asks. He’d always thought an interview involved actually interviewing someone, and not just sitting around smiling creepily as you read their résumé. “You’re not going to ask me any questions?”

Leeteuk looks him over appraisingly, and Kyuhyun fidgets. “I think you’ll fit in great! So, when can you start?”

While Kyuhyun is ridiculously overqualified for the job and may know how to hack the school’s server, it doesn’t mean he can operate a coffeemaker, and Kyuhyun doesn’t think they’re that desperate to hire. “Are you sure? Not that I don’t want the job - I mean. Uh, tomorrow,” he finishes lamely, before he can sabotage himself anymore.

“Great!” Leeteuk says, and impossibly, smiles just a bit wider.


*


Kyuhyun finds out rather quickly why Karma’s has such a high turnover rate from Siwon, the barista who’s training him.

Basically the story of Karma's is that everyone who works there eventually finds their soulmate, and then they have to quit to spend time with them. Yeah.



untitled airport!au | Super Junior | Kyuhyun/Zhou Mi | Everyone is always leaving Kyuhyun.
Everyone is always leaving Kyuhyun. This isn’t nearly as bad as it sounds, since, after all, Kyuhyun works at an airport. Well, more accurately, Kyuhyun works at a wine bar in an airport since he doesn’t do security or inspection or anything like that.

Kyuhyun sells coffee. In an airport.

I started writing this because I got snowed in at the airport last year.



paris, je t'aime [or] l'amour, pas pour moi | Super Junior | Kyuhyun/Zhou Mi + others | music school!au, Kyuhyun and Zhou Mi fall in love, in Paris. (It's too bad they can't understand each other.)
Kyuhyun arrives in Paris on a rainy January morning. It’s warm for this time of year – hasn’t snowed in almost a month – but the low-hanging rainclouds and overcast skies make the city aren’t exactly his idea of a warm welcome.

He gets dropped off by the airport shuttle somewhere in the middle of Paris, and it takes him half an hour to even figure out the direction he needs to go in on the metro – fuck whoever told him he could get by without knowing French because Paris is such an “international city.” (Not that Kyuhyun knows enough English to justifiably get away with it anyway, but that’s beside point.)

(The point is,) By the time he finally pushes through the herds on the subway, tugs his luggage up the mile of stairs to reach the school, gets his keys and gets lost finding the dormitory, and finally drags his suitcase to his room, all Kyuhyun really wants to do is die (sleep).

Unfortunately, this did not appear to be in fate’s plan for Kyuhyun either because when Kyuhyun manages to push open the door, he’s greeted with a giant nose and pair of dark glasses.

Ah! Je suis désolé!” the nose says


[--]

extra: au printemps

"Oh. My. God. Omigawd," Zhou Mi says as he runs towards the clothes rack.

Kyuhyun follows him, head cocked slightly to the side in confusion.

"This jacket! I've had my eye on it since it came out last month."

Kyuhyun's eyebrows furrow. He doesn't know anything about fashion but he can't see what's so exciting about clothes. Kyuhyun tugs on the jacket’s sleeve and turns over the price tag, and his eyes nearly fall out of his eyes. "Holy fuck," he says. "You are not allowed to buy this."

"But - Louis Vuitton - new spring collection -"

"Would you rather have that jacket, or eat for the next three months?"

Zhou Mi pouts. "You wouldn't let me starve."

Kyuhyun glares. "Watch me."

(Later:

"I knew you wouldn't let me starve," Zhou Mi says as he helps himself to more of Kyuhyun's noodles.

"You are never allowed to go near that store, ever again.")

I started writing this when I was in Paris last year do you see the pattern, yes? Basically it's just nonsense about them not being able to speak a common language, and falling in love in Paris, just because it's so beautiful and cliche.



so many stories where i've been | Super Junior | Kyuhyun/Zhou Mi | University!AU; Zhou Mi likes telling other people's stories.
The first thing they teach you in school about the art to good writing is: write what you know.

Zhou Mi writes love stories. He gathers his words and puts it to music. Calls it a song.

He writes stories about people falling in love or people with broken hearts falling out of it. About people who’ve been and people who just want to be in love.

Zhou Mi has never been in love.

But he sees in his parents’ eyes, in his friends’ voices when they talk about their relationships, in the air - everywhere.

Zhou Mi has never been in love, but it’s always been all around him. He (thinks he) knows what love is.

--

The first shift at the library is always the best, Zhou Mi thinks. It’s not that he’s particularly a morning person – because he’s not -

It’s not that Zhou Mi is a morning person, but he likes working the morning shift at the library for several reasons.

Zhou Mi likes telling other people’s stories. Instead, he’ll sit in his favorite café on campus and watches couples on first dates clatter and giggle nervously together.

--

It’s not that Zhou Mi doesn’t have any stories of his own – just none worth retelling.

--

“You write love songs like someone who’s never been in love,” Kyuhyun comments, craning his neck to look at Zhou Mi’s lyrics over his shoulder.

Zhou Mi shifts in attempt to block Kyuhyun from seeing what he’s writing. “Yeah? Like you’ve been in love before,” he jabs back.

There’s a long enough pause that Zhou Mi actually turns from his notebook to look up at Kyuhyun. “No. Yes.” Kyuhyun’s voice wavers , and though his eyes are still fixed on Zhou Mi’s notebook, he seems more to be staring past it. “I don’t know.”

--

“Do you ever get tired of writing love songs?” Kyuhyun asks.

Zhou Mi has to pause and think about it. “When I get tired of writing, I stop for a while.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

--

Zhou Mi (thinks he) has never been in love. But he wonders if you be heart-broken if you haven’t.

Zhou Mi wonders if it can still be heartbreak if it was never love in the first place.

--

Zhou Mi likes telling other people’s stories. It isn’t that he doesn’t have any of his own to tell, but he’d rather save them all for Kyuhyun.

Based on this song. Yes, another fic about how Zhou Mi writes love songs. So original, I know.



untitled | Viewfinder/Inception | Asami/Takaba, background Arthur/Eames | Takaba tries to get his big scoop. He looks for it in the wrong place
Takaba had always known, intellectually, that eventually it wouldn’t be enough – could feel it all the way down to his bones. After snapping headline-grabbing shots of a dozen or two celebrity scandals and petty political crimes, he’s already bored and dissatisfied. It no longer feels like winning.

The big scoop, the thrill of the chase – in the end, that’s what Takaba is after. It was why he went after Asami in the first place, and why he followed Feilong that one time instead of staying put like a good boy.

Still, he knows his limits and his options, and knows that he has limited options. Takaba likes the thrill, but he’s also not an idiot either. Feilong was an accident – a dangerous accident. As for Asami…

Takaba knows Asami owns half the government. Even if he didn’t already know Asami could easily buy his way out of whatever Takaba incriminating evidence Takaba had on him, he tells himself, he’s already so tied up in Asami that bringing Asami down would only drag his name through the mud as well. (This is what Akihito tells himself on the nights Asami doesn’t come home until it’s five, six, seven, when Asami is slipping in the door just as Akihito is about to head out for work.

He tells himself this instead of thinking about whatever else Asami might be up to, closing out another arms deal or bribing another politician or spending the night in a posh penthouse he keeps for another lover.

He thinks: it’s not foolish if it’s pragmatism. It’s not foolish if it’s not love.)

So instead, Takaba sits on his agitation for days and weeks, always teetering on the edge of doing something rash and stupid.

Then, Fischer-Morrow dissolves, Proclus Global takes over the energy market, and Takaba’s scoop practically falls into his lap.


______


“What do you know about Proclus Global,” Takaba says casually the next morning, setting down a cup of coffee on Mitarai’s desk.

Takaba hates buying Mitarai coffee, outright refuses to do so whenever Mitarai asks. He has, however, found that it’s the quickest and easiest way to get him to talk.

Mitari raises an eyebrow from behind today’s paper that he’s reading, feet propped up casually on his desk. He glances at the coffee, grabs it, tossing the paper on his desk. On the front page: Proclus Global.

“Okay, what do you know about Proclus Global that everybody else doesn’t know,” Takaba amends.

“Why do you want to know?” Mitarai says, voice soft and just a bit dangerous.

“Call it reporter’s instinct,” Takaba says, tilting his chin up just a bit defiantly. Mitarai has withheld information from him before, but Takaba knows to press where it hurts.

Mitarai’s eyes narrow, like he’s considering Takaba carefully, for a moment. “Saito Ichirou,” he offers, and Takaba scrambles for a notepad. “CEO and majority shareholder. Inherited the company when his father died fifteen years ago. Saito senior made Proclus Global successful; his son made it an empire.”

Takaba frowns. “Fischer-Morrow only dissolved a few days ago, and Saito couldn’t have influenced that.”

Mitarai smirks. “Ah, that’s what he’d like us all to think. Even if Fischer-Morrow hadn’t dissolved like it did, I’m sure Saito would’ve gotten his way anyhow, one way or another.” He pauses for dramatic effect, to let it sink in.

“Anyway,” Mitarai continues, “Saito makes sure to keep his public image clean, supports a few charities. Nothing that would cause financial downfall, and if there is, it’s buried too deep otherwise.”

Good thing digging deep is Takaba’s specialty.

“Takaba,” Mitarai says, snapping him out of the plans he was already forming in his head. “There is no story. Don’t waste your time.”

“How do you know?” Takaba asks.

“Call it reporter’s experience,” he says, mouth pressed into a thin line. “Even if there’s a story, it’s probably not one worth risking your neck over. Saito is a dangerous man.”

Yeah, Takaba thinks grimly, and I have the most dangerous man in Japan shoving his hands down my pants every day. Not that he wants or expects Asami to save his ass. Just a difference in the standard of comparison.

“Thanks,” he says anyway, though he means for the information and not for the warning. He lets Mitarai interpret it how he wants.


______


The easiest way to find out information he needs, Takaba has realized the past couple of months, is to ask Asami.

One thing I'm always surprised about is the fact that no one in animanga tries to write a crossover with Inception, when there's this intriguing, powerful Japanese businessman in it that would make it so easy. I decided on Viewfinder since the fic pretty much writes itself: Takaba tries to get a scoop on Saito and oversteps his boundaries. Arthur and Eames come in to do clean-up. Takaba realises there are some people even Asami can't protect him from.



any way you'd have me | X-Men: First Class | Charles/Erik | Charles is very pregnant and *very* horny, and Erik is uncooperative. (warning: mpreg if you can't read the summary =_ =)
The problem was, at least in part, that Charles was large. Quite large, in fact — which was the diplomatic way of putting it, and it wasn't even as big as he was going to get.

And whose fault is that, Charles was more than happy to remind him, as he'd done so earlier that morning while throwing a slipper at Erik's head before demanding tea. Then throwing the other slipper when Erik brought him Earl Grey instead of Camomille - why couldn't he just read Charles' mind? - before proceeding to decide what he really wanted anyway was orange juice.

So Charles was quite a bit large, but that wasn't really the problem as Erik would've been happy to have Charles any way he came - blind, with two heads, and in this case, exceptionally large, or with any other type of secondary mutation. It certainly didn't make him love or desire Charles any less. In fact, if anything it made Erik love him even more, which had nothing to do, he told himself, with Charles' glowering endorsement of "You'd better," constantly ringing in the back of his head. Erik couldn't exactly blame him either, as the current turn of events was, admittedly, at least partially Erik's fault.

So the problem wasn't that Charles was large or that Erik wanted him any less for it, but rather the issue of why Charles was large. And, well—

Charles groaned, curled softly against Erik's side on the bed, head tucked into the crook of Erik's shoulder. Erik hummed, arm thrown over Charles' waist, and rubbed circles on his back soothingly. "Lower," Charles moaned contently, and Erik froze for a moment and stopped. Charles made an disgruntled noise and tried to put Erik's hand down with his own.

"Charles," Erik said long-sufferingly. "Darling, bearer of my—"

"Erik," Charles interrupted, unamused. "Dr. Carter said sex during pregnancy wasn't a problem." He slung a leg over Erik's and pressed up against him so Erik could feel how he was already half-hard. "Considering we haven't done anything in months," he said as his fingers trailed up over Erik's chest, the touch feathering over Erik's skin through his shirt, "now would be as good a time as any to start."

"Dr. Carter said it shouldn't cause a problem in normal pregnancies," Erik said and tried to push off Charles' leg in the in the least offensive manner possible. Charles didn't budge an inch, for indeed he was not only quite large, but also somewhat heavy. Erik grunted, and his head flopped back onto the pillow, resigned.

It wasn't that Erik didn't trust Jane Carter, or at least, he trusted her as much as he could trust any human. She was, after all, the best, and they would have settled for nothing less, having been introduced to her by one of Charles' fellow postdocs who'd been a biology candidate at Oxford the same time he had. Erik never quite understood how they managed to find a maternity doctor without stirring up too much of a fuss or rousing many suspicions, but he supposed that if there was one thing he should be grateful for, it was that Oxford was infamous for its circle of eccentric academics. Dr. Carter was excellent, conveniently based at Columbia University Medical Center, and - most importantly - discrete, having found Charles fascinating but otherwise not batting an eyelash.

Still, as excellent and top of her field as Carter was, she was also, ultimately, only really knowledgeable about human pregnancies — with the foremost skilled academic on mutants being both unhelpful and the one who was pregnant.

So it wasn't that Erik didn't want to - he really, really did, really - it was more that he was being careful.

"You're thinking too much," Charles whispered into his ear, voice low and breathy, and Erik quickly fought to nip that spike of arousal in the bud.

Erik willed himself to be the stiffest, most uninteresting board possible. It wasn't particularly effective seeing as how being the stiffest, most uninteresting board was how he managed to knock Charles up in the first place.

Charles sighed and pulled away slightly. "Is the thought of having sex with me like this really that unbearable?" Charles asked, inflection tinged with genuine hurt and upset.

"No!" Erik pulled Charles back towards him. "It's just that..." He ran his hand over the curve of Charles' stomach. "I don't want to hurt you or the baby."

"My friend, there's not much that you could do that'd hurt me more than being this pregnant," Charles said flatly. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Look, Erik, it's already been seven months. There's nothing particularly abnormal about this pregnancy." (Except, Erik thought, that you're pregnant at all, but he kept that thought as quiet and to himself as possible.) "Dr. Carter has told us several - several - times that it's okay to have sex. Do you want me to call her and have her explain to you - again - why it's okay for you to have sex with me?"

No, Erik did not want to argue with Carter about whether or not he could have sex with Charles. He didn't even want to argue with Charles about whether or not he could have sex with Charles, but they had several times over the past few days which was probably why Charles was so short-tempered and snappy lately, and nearing the end of his fuse.

"Dr. Carter is an excellent doctor," Erik emphasized, "of humans. Female humans, Charles, of which you are neither. We shouldn’t be shouldn't be taking any unnecessary risks, especially with you being the first documented case of a mutant pregnancy."

"Fine." Charles huffed. "I, too, am a doctor," he announced. "And of mutants. Therefore, I declare that it is okay for me to have sex."

"Of genetics," Erik corrected, "which means you know more about bacteria sex than the average person, not pregnancy."

Charles glared at him viciously, and Erik fought to quash down a smirk. It was childish and a ridiculous fight they shouldn't even be having, much less a fight he should feel at all victorious for winning. He never thought he'd see the day where he wanted to win a fight to not have sex with Charles, but it was their third argument in two days about it, and he was tired of fighting with Charles so he could protect both him and their future child.

Besides, if bacteria sex wasn't enough of a boner-killer, he wasn't sure what would be.



Unfortunately, it wasn't nearly as successful as Erik had thought and hoped it would be, for as he was busy congratulating himself on that scintillating comeback, Charles pressed his advantage and rolled on top of Erik.

Several signals raced through his mind all at once. Most of these thoughts were completely unhelpful, like, wow, Charles sure is pregnant, and, I hope he doesn't keep sitting on me like that or I'm not going to feel my legs anymore, but a few were sharp, distinct alarms from trained reflexes, detailing the easiest escape routes to all the metal in the room he could use to subdue Charles before Charles hurt himself. The loudest of these, however, were most definitely from his body, and as Charles hovered over him, hooded eyes and rounded edges, his traitorous cock reminded him that it had been several months.

"Um," he concluded elegantly.

"Erik," Charles breathed, voice low and husky. Charles was wearing one of Erik's button-ups, having outgrown his own clothes quite a few months ago, but remained unwilling to shop for actual maternity wear. The swell of Charles' stomach was pressed tight against the seams, but the rest of the shirt was still too large everywhere else and hung off Charles's shoulders loosely, the sleeves covering his wrists. The first two buttons of the dress shirt were already undone, collar unpressed and flopping to the side, and Erik stared at the juncture of skin at his collarbone, imagining how it would trail down if he popped open another button, or two...

Erik tried desperately to think about unsexy things. Like spiders. Or Shaw. Or how Charles was actually kind of cutting off the circulation to his legs.

"Erik," Charles breathed again, leaning down close to his ear, this time a bit more dangerously, "if you plan on ever trying to have children with me again, you will cooperate."

Erik was pretty sure if he even mentioned having more children to Charles in the near future, Charles would be throwing more than slippers at him for the next week. But Erik Lensherr was a smart man, or at least knew when not to be purposefully obtuse, and perfectly understood the undertone of Charles' threat.

[and some lines i never got around to posting because i didn't finish the fic]

"Erik, I don't care if it means my child will grow up without one of his fathers, but if you keep projecting how large you think I am, God help me, I will end you."

[...]

"You're right," Charles moaned rather defeatedly into Erik's chest. His stomach was unfortunately in the way so he was lying awkwardly half on his side. "The problem is that I'm too large."

Erik laughed and patted his hair soothingly. "Do you want me to blow you instead?"

Charles' valiant attempt to smother him with a pillow was his own reply.


For the record, the correct answer was, "No, darling, you are not too large."

...yeah. I'll probably finish it one day. Whether or not they end up even getting there is still up for debate.



I titled this "yuusei the science guy" | Yuugiou 5D's | Jack/Yuusei | university + after!AU; Yuusei studies science, Jack studies business. They end up together, despite the odds. (discontinued)
So he’s not exactly from the best part of town, but Yuusei’s smart so he knows he’ll get by. He’s not really expecting to make anything of himself because, well, he is from the ghetto and the system’s so fixed that the schools aren’t worth shit and there’s essentially no way out, but then there are these amazing test scores, a scholarship, and a miracle pulled out of God knows where and he finds himself going to college.

There’s a wave of hope around the projects, and his mother’s crying because she’s been sober and clean for fifteen years and has a modest but respectable job but she never thought this would ever, ever happen. Yuusei holds her as she sobs and tells he won’t disappoint her, he’ll make her proud and silently vows to never fall short of his own high expectations and goals.

College turns out to be nothing he expects it to be because it’s so clean and structured and there’s so much wasted potential everywhere, and he feels like he should be bitter because they don’t know what it’s like for him, what it’s like to not have things they take for granted. In the end, he decides on muted apathy because they’re not the ones with anything to prove, anything on the line, and Yuusei’s not about to screw this up for anyone.

More than of anything though, Yuusei really isn’t sure what to make of his roommate who should be the embodiment of everything he hates, all that privilege and wealth and entitlement that was his simply because of where he was born. Jack is an arrogant asshole and doesn’t know when to shut up because all Yuusei really wants to do is study, but then he’s also charismatic and, privilege and entitlement aside, incredibly smart and Yuusei even finds himself smiling at some of his stupid jokes.

But then, Jack is trying so hard to be his friend and Yuusei doesn’t know why because he’s just Yuusei and there are so many people out there, so many more people in the school who would kill to be friends with someone so charismatic and smart and wealthy like Jack. They’re from completely different worlds, they’re like fire and ice, the sun and the moon, and Yuusei really can’t see why Jack would want to be friends much less associate with someone like him. (Jack, he thinks, is too much like the sun, so bright but so ready to scorch anything that it touches.)

Yuusei really likes Jack, he really wants to like Jack, but then he just wants to Jack to leave him alone, in his solitude with his books and peace and nothingness because Jack is Jack, all bright and like the sun, and Yuusei’s afraid of being burnt.

He’s not sure if he should be surprised or not that a week in, they start fucking.

This is so old, I'm just dumping this here. I have another 5D's fic that needs amnesty, in which Jack and Yuusei are movie stars who break up. Basically: Yuusei is a genius from the ghetto, and Jack is wealthy and out of his league. They end up together, and Yuusei ends up working in a lab owned by Jack's father. They sort of break up in the middle, until the nuclear reactor goes off and Yuusei saves Jack's life. Then they end up together again. It's supposed to be all sad and pull-yourself-up-by-the-boostraps kind of thing.



...wow that felt good.

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