"Yeah, well, we're making it up as we go."

oh, crying won't help you

Sun, 20 Sep 2009 01:22:08 GMT

I was trying to write post-5.02 Sam/Dean/Castiel angst, but this piece of pointless gen happened instead... I don't know. (Unedited, and I missed the first 15 minutes of the episode...)

It’s quiet when Sam leaves, too still and too calm. Even though Dean can still hear the engine of Sam’s truck rumbling, quieter and quieter every second, this doesn’t seem real. This feels like a dream, and maybe that’s why it doesn’t surprise him when Castiel appears on the bench next to him.

Dean doesn’t look up, keeps his vision focused on the cluster of trees in the distance, ears registering nothing anymore but the distant, constant hum of the cicadas. After a while Castiel’s breath hitches, barely audible, and Dean turns and stares at him, mouth set rigid. Castiel swallows, looks lost, looks like he pities Dean, and after a minute he says, "You did right, Dean."

"You think I know what right is anymore?" Dean responds, hunkering down into his jacket like he thinks it'll protect him. "Because letting your little brother just walk away into the apocalypse, the brother you swore your whole life you'd protect, that isn’t right. And letting the thing that freed Lucifer go without wasting it–hell, when it was your dad’s dying wish–that’s not right either."

Castiel narrows his eyes, peers out at Dean behind them unblinkingly. After a while, Castiel says, "Some time ago, there was a hunter named Gordon Walker. Your brother killed him, if I recall."

"Nasty son-of-a-bitch," Dean says, nodding. "But you really think Sam... you think my brother'll end up like that? Yeah, he needs a one-way ticket into demon blood rehab, and there’s something in his eyes that scares the hell out of me, but Sam’s not Gordon. Not yet."

"Gordon’s sister," Castiel continues, "was victim to a vampire attack. She became a vampire, Dean, and the first thing Gordon did was to drive his knife through the bones and tendons of her neck."

Dean says, "This is supposed to reassure me?"

Castiel’s standing up now, distancing himself. Gazing down at the canyon below like he’s puzzled by it, Castiel says, "You’re weaker apart, Dean. You’re an easier target, you’re easier to break and bend, and you can bet that Lucifer knows. Lucifer knows, and Zachariah knows. My sigils can’t hide everything, Dean, and he will find you."

"I don’t give a damn if this is what Lucifer wants," Dean says, jaw tight, voice low. "All that matters is, Sam’s not my brother anymore. Sam’s practically a monster, and I can’t trust him. I’m sorry, Cas, but I can’t."

When Dean turns back, Castiel is gone.

~~...Someone shoot me for writing that. So corny. T_T~~

As long as I'm talking about 5.02, the ending depressed me so much... this show is seriously breaking my heart. Am I the only person who thinks everyone needs to forgive Sam already? I mean, he had to watch his brother die right in front of him (and thinking he could've saved him, if he'd just listened to Ruby earlier), and that'd mess anyone up. Plus throughout season 4 he seemed to honestly think he was doing the right thing... and Ruby was manipulating him, so it's not like it was ever his idea. I feel so bad for him.

Writer's Block: What if calories didn't count?

Sat, 19 Sep 2009 04:46:41 GMT

If a magic genie told you your calories wouldn't count for 24 hours, would it change what and how much you ate that day?

View 1264 Answers

...Why is LJ being taken over by pro-anas?

Yeah, I'd probably end up eating less since I'd be spending the whole day sleeping and feeling miserable; I skipped dinner a few nights ago (from being legitimately full) and felt so weak I blacked out for a few seconds and went to sleep four hours early. (I'm not really sure what that was about, but I'm never doing that again.) I'd be so pissed at that genie... I need my calories for energy, kthx.

Otherwise it wouldn't, though, and I feel really sad for anyone who answers this differently. It won't kill you to eat what you want regardless of the calories. ♥

Sorry I haven't been online in ages! I'm home for the weekend (or at least tomorrow) right now, so I should be around. :3

Writer's Block: Going Without

Sun, 23 Aug 2009 02:14:03 GMT

Have you ever fasted or done a cleanse?

View 507 Answers

...Um. Am I the only person who thinks this is a massively inappropriate question? You don't lose weight by fasting or cleansing (even if it looks like you have, it's probably only water weight that you'll gain back again right away, plus not eating slows your metabolism like crazy), and they're dangerous and far from healthy.

I've fasted for weeks on end as part of my eating disorder, and even if I become morbidly obese I never want to do it again because it's torture, and even in the form of anorexia, it doesn't work. I'm not an expert on weight loss, or anything, but it seems much more sensible to just eat healthy and exercise.

I hate our society sometimes.

Also, this comic about fasting is pretty awesome (and illustrates why you should never do it).

(Real entry later, after I finish cleaning my room! Probably on the same subject, since I've hit a milestone recovery-wise, but I promise to talk about something else soon. :3)

we are eagles of one nest.

Sat, 21 Mar 2009 01:18:58 GMT

Freewriting! Sam/Dean, Sam/Jess. PG. Set during the pilot; no spoilers. (I know I got some details wrong, sorry!)

That first day they set out after Dad, Sam’s balancing his textbook on his knees and trying to read as the Impala bumps down the rough Jericho roads. The words he’s reading don’t focus, won’t form into sentences in his head, but he keeps the book open as a reminder of how different everything is now. How after this is over, Sam will be getting ready for his interview, dressed in a suit and tie, Jess squeezing his hand reassuringly–and Dean and Dad will be grime-covered, sleep-deprived, packing weapons into the back of the Impala and following a blood trail.

“Law school,” Dean scoffs. “Seriously, man? Dad needs our help–hell, maybe Dad’s got the thing that killed mom–and you’re studying for the freaking LSATs?”

Peering down at the tiny print and trying to keep his gaze steady, Sam says, “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m going to become a lawyer, Dean. This is what I’ll need to know, not–not how to forge a credit card or break into an apartment!”

Stored back in Sam’s memory, along with his times tables and the dates of the battles of all the major wars, is how to kill a zombie, how to exorcise a demon, how to load rock salt into a gun with his eyes closed. Sam, no matter what he tells himself, he’s never going to forget.

No matter how happy he is with Jess, no matter how pretty she’ll look swathed in white with her veil trailing behind her, he’s never going to forget Dean.

–

He doesn’t love Jess. Jess grew up in a two story house in Palo Alto instead of in the back seat of a car, grew up hogging a remote from her older brother instead of a pistol. Jess covers her eyes during horror movies and whispers, “tell me when it’s over,” huddling into Sam; Sam learned to step over mauled corpses without flinching almost as soon as he learned to read. He doesn’t love Jess, but right now, she’s the closest thing to normal he has.

Jess leaves him a breathy phone message about how much she misses him, naively asking how his dad’s doing, how he likes being with his family again. Jess, she’ll never be like him, and it’s a relief to dial Dean’s number.

Dean picks up, and Sam half-unconsciously cradles the phone to his ear, holds Dean’s every breath and syllable close.

It’s only when the Impala’s locks click closed, when the woman in white materializes in the back seat, that Sam figures it out.

“I’m not unfaithful,” he insists futilely, pushing the woman away, and his gut clenches as he thinks of Jess waiting for him at home–Jess waiting, while he’s here with Dean.

“You will be,” the woman in white murmurs in response, mouth twisting into a smirk. Like she knows, and Sam’s mouth is dry. He’s imagining Dean’s lips against his, Dean pushing him gently against the side of the Impala, even as the woman in white’s claws rake into his chest.

They’re silent most of the way home. It’s raining steadily, and Dean’s humming along quietly to Led Zeppelin. Sam tries not to look at him, closes his eyes and tries not to think about anything at all.

“You can still come with me, if you want,” Dean suggests casually, as the Impala stalls outside Sam’s apartment complex, “Help me find Dad. Kill some evil sons of bitches along the way, like old times. What do you say?”

“I’m not going to live like that anymore,” Sam says, slamming the passenger door closed and heading up to his apartment. He doesn't look back.

and when i wake you, i'll be the first thing you see.

Tue, 23 Dec 2008 17:11:14 GMT

Twilight freewriting! Edward/Bella, Edward-centric. I found this in my Women In History notebook and decided to type it up... I think I wrote this right after I finished Twilight. Mostly unedited.

Never before has he felt so claustrophobically alone, so achingly inhuman. Every second he spends with Bella–every moment he stands here watching her life tick down closer and closer to death as she sleeps obliviously–holds the promise of another painful uprooting, existence made meaningless until he is so infinity-old that she is only the whisper of a fading memory. And yet, he can’t tear himself away, can’t bear to waste even a second of his time with her. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to leave her until it’s too late, until he loses control and loses the one thing that means anything to him (the one thing that, maybe, has ever meant anything to him).

Bella, that night, she dreams about him, breathing his name so softly he almost thinks he’s imagined it. Lips parted, fingers splaying to the inside of her thigh, face angled into her pillow and neck bared, illuminated in a stripe of light from the open window. Soft skin that would yield easily under his teeth, and oh, the pungent floral aroma of her blood–warm and fragrant against his lips and–strikingly red dripping down her neck and–quenching a thirst that until days ago, he never knew he had. Everything inside him tells him to pounce; he chokes the instinct down, holds it shakily within him, hands clenched hard. Alice is beside him in a heartbeat, fear all too evident in her eyes.

“This needs to stop, Edward,” Alice whispers. “That girl will only bring us trouble.” Edward feels another wave of fear flicker through her mind as it insists, she’s dangerous, she’s a threat, Edward can never imagine what she will do to us. Edward hasn’t seen.

“I know,” Edward replies, reaching out a long finger to stroke the cool skin of Bella’s throat. She shivers.

The scent of blood makes Bella faint, he reminds himself. Bella’s dreams are filled with nothing more than human fancies. Bella isn’t like him.

“But I’m dangerous, too,” Edward says, and despite it all, he smiles.

Fri, 29 Feb 2008 01:03:42 GMT

I know I need to stop posting memes instead of actual entries, but there’s honestly nothing going on in my life. ;_; I turned in my Shakespeare project, but I’ll probably have to redo some of my essays...

All I’m really doing is writing Fight Club fic, but I keep losing inspiration halfway through. So I’m gonna do the WIP meme! Stolen from half of the flist.

When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.

The word counts are all estimates. XD;

1. If I hadn’t been awake, Tyler wouldn’t have crept into my room and sat down on the edge of my mattress, silent for a moment as leaned back and took a drag on his cigarette, filling the room with the pungent scent of nicotine. [Tyler/Jack, NC-17, 3000 words]

2. “What do we do now?” Marla asks, cautiously, like she thinks you’ve still got Tyler’s gun on you. She’s tracing the lye burn on the back of her hand. [Jack/Marla, PG-13, 1500 words]

3. “I think I have to be out the door in less than ten minutes,” you say, smirking. “Now whether you want to keep jerking yourself off, pitifully, with the rhythm of a ten-year old trying to play drums, or if you want me to do it for you, if you want my hand warm around your cock and thrusting so hard you’ll be sore for days, that’s up to you.” [Tyler/Jack, NC-17, 1000 words]

4. “You just can’t hold back, can you?” Tyler says appreciatively, and instead of taking the gun out of your mouth, he’s pushing it in further. You taste blood and metal, and try not to gag. [Tyler/Jack, NC-17, 600 words]

5. We are decadent. We are slaves to consumerism. We leave the candles burning all day, all night, until the entire house is filled with the scent of charred wax, and Marla and I, we’re free. [Jack/Marla, Tyler/Jack PG, 500 words]

6. “I don’t really have a dissociative disorder,” you try to explain. “This wound, it’s from when I shot and killed him. He’s not coming back.” [Tyler/Jack, PG, 300 words]

7. God’s voice sounds a lot like Marla Singer’s. If this is heaven, you’re starting to pity Tyler in Hell. [Tyler/Jack, Marla/Jack, PG, 200 words]

8. You always hear how when people die, their life flashes before their eyes. You don’t know what egotistical filmmaker made that up, what 17th century philosopher came up with the idea, but you do know, it’s a lie. [Tyler/Jack, 200 words]

9. How we came to be doing this is all because of Marla. It used to be, Tyler’s hand would never have seen the inside of anyone’s boxers unless he was castrating them. [Tyler/Jack, NC-17, 100 words]

10. First he wanted you to hit him, now he wants to get you off. [Tyler/Jack, NC-17, 100 words]

Otherwise, I’ve been reading a lot. 8D I’m borrowing Animorphs from Kaylin... I forgot how much I loved that series. ♥ And I finally read Another Note, which was amazing, and I’m also getting kind of addicted to Palahniuk. I just read Diary, which was all kinds of love.

....I told you my life was really boring. D:

Fight Club freewriting.

Wed, 20 Feb 2008 18:25:20 GMT

I'm gonna start posting freewriting here, again! I wrote this last week sometime, but just typed it up today. This doesn’t really have a point... and I know Tyler is acting really out-of-character, sorry.

Also, I need to start crediting my bonds (I'll talk about this later, but I think we go blendy a lot when I write), so thanks for your help, not_a_consumer. :D And I just read Invisible Monsters, so that’s where a lot of this is coming from. D:

Anyway. Fight Club, PG/PG-13ish, gen. Post-book/post-movie.

Heaven isn’t anything like you expect.

Heaven is like the aftermath of a nuclear war, everything bomb-stricken and silent. Heaven is the world in the grip of another black plague, the few surviving members of the human race hopeless and powerless and waiting for it all to end.

In heaven, there are no more haughty men in business suits, no more trophy wives riddled with plastic surgery scars. There are no liposuction clinics, no overpriced jewelery or chunky gold watches.

Heaven’s celebrity perfume is Tyler Durden’s sweat. Its daytime television is Project Mayhem, emptying the pig troughs. Project Mayhem, husking the corn and planting the barley seeds, Project Mayhem heaping buckets of lake water into their purification machine made of old stage curtains and period evening gowns from some abandoned theater. Project Mayhem with their steps in synch like the militia of a country with no enemies.

In heaven, the flowers that get crushed under your bare heels are one shade lighter than cornflower blue. The sky, free of all its smog and airplane trails, it’s nowhere near the color called sky blue.

Heaven’s music is the wafting sound of Frank Sinatra from Tyler’s record player, the crinkling of a fire fed by the autobiographies of Joe’s spleen and Jill’s fallopian tubes. The scratching of scrawny, feral, once-prodigy greyhounds, purebred dalmations and bloody, mangled persians, humbled and begging for your trash. The hooting of monkeys escaped from the zoo.

Heaven is Tyler lounging naked on a beat-up Porsche like a Sports Illustrated model, eating roasted pigeon off someone’s antique china, a cigarette from some obsolete drugstore his hand as he tells you, “you’re dreaming.”

“I’m dead,” you tell him. You smell nicotine, gasoline and the unassuming scent of earth. “I’m dead and I’m in heaven.”

“You’re not dead. This is just a dream,” Tyler corrects you. “My dream, to be exact, and just like my life, it’s ending.”

He’s watching you like he’s expecting an answer. You shrug, and watch him chew off the last bit of flesh from the miniscule pigeon bones, then he pitches the plate off into the distance like a frisbee. The crash seems quieter than it should.

He swings his legs down over the side of the car and pats the space next to him. You climb up, broken glass jamming into the rough soles of your feet, and you watch the sun setting behind the jagged, crumbling skyline.

Tyler says, “this is what happens in every failed revolution. Someone shoots the guy who dreamed it up, and you’ve got a neverending power struggle. The maps are right in front of you, but no matter how far you run, you’ll just get further and further behind.”

He leans back and takes a long drag on his cigarette.

“The chaos you get,” Tyler says, “isn’t the chaos you want. Without leadership, nobody remembers what they wanted in the first place.”

Tyler says, “too bad, because this is all I ever wanted.”

You turn to look at him, and find him gone. You’re alone, and the sun’s gone down beneath the horizon of toppling buildings with broken windows. Project Mayhem is shuffling back into Tyler’s house, bags slung over their shoulders as they chant, “you are not the seeds you plant. You are not the deer you kill. You are the same decaying, organic matter as everyone else.”

You wake up at Wilmington Hospital, fluorescent lights flickering above you and traffic blaring outside your window, and Marla tells you, “it’s going to be all right.”

hey, let me know you

Sat, 29 Dec 2007 06:00:14 GMT

This journal is friends only... comment to be added! I love new LJ friends, provided we have something in common, and I promise I don't bite. If you're looking for my fics, you should check out taskefic, though I post freewriting here publicly sometimes.

Check out my userinfo if you want to know more about me! I mostly update about real life, with occasional fandom talk. I've been really busy with school and work lately, so I haven't been updating as much as I should, but I always read my flist!

♥

Sat, 09 Dec 2006 16:50:43 GMT

So a lot of times I'll wake up in the middle of the night really wanting to write fic. Except normally I'm half-asleep and too lazy to actually get paper or anything, so the fic just gets written in my head, and then dies forever.

Last night, I wrote it down. :D

Title: Spectrum
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Near/L
Warnings: Chapter 58 spoilers. Extremely, extremely unedited and incoherent! Seriously. I might edit this lots and do something with it later? (I switched this around and two "understands" in a row is really, really bugging me. I'm sorry. ;_;)

I. L, they tell him, is perfection. “L is perfect, Near, and to gain his title, you’ll have to work harder than you’ve ever worked before.”

“I understand,” Near says, and he takes the tests and memorizes the books, but there’s something missing (sunlight on a cloudless day and seafoam splashing against the sand), something he can’t grasp; tests marked 99% feel empty in his hands.

Near isn’t fond of the color white – blank answer spaces, pictures not painted and words not written – but to be perfect is to be unbiased, so he bathes himself in it.

He doesn’t meet L until he is twelve years old, but Near thinks he understands him all the same.

III. And here, pressed against the wall, staring into L’s deep eyes (acrylic paint spread too thick on canvas; infinite space through dark mirrors), Near understands.

Near’s monotone is broken, his dreams shattered, and he can’t look away, can’t close his eyes as L leans down to kiss him (one hand on Near’s chest, reaching for his fluttering heartbeat.)

And L’s hands are roaming up Near’s shirt, his lips leaving chaste kisses on his throat, and Near lets his eyes drift closed, lets his vision become overtaken with darkness.

He will never be L, but this is enough.

II. The day L dies, everything is grey. Steady rain leaving shadows on the wall like candles flickering (he reaches out to touch them, to spread them down the wall like paint, but they’re gone, they’re nothing, they’re slipping through his fingers.)

He’s gone. He’s gone and Near is still here, still breathing, almost the only thing left of him.

Near’s puzzle is sitting by the window; the rain may morph it, temporarily, but after L, nothing can change it (after L, no one will touch it) – Near’s puzzle will stay pure white.

Mon, 27 Nov 2006 22:44:55 GMT

Hi, I'm suddenly really sick. It's that COLD AND FLU AT THE SAME TIME OMG thing, except worse, and I really seriously have a fever right now. And also I'm freeeeezziiiiiing. Which is where this ficlet comes from.

Actually, I kind of don't know about this fic. It's here because it is, and I don't really even understand it.

Erm, L/Light, L/Naomi, pornish, nonviolent noncon, Naomi Misora spoilers, not fitting into canon or making any sense whatsoever, probable spelling and grammatical errors, fever!writing.

It’s cold, and Light’s hand feels wrong against his skin. L isn’t used to touch, L doesn’t like touch, and Light’s skin lacks feeling, lacks empathy, assumes that L is the same as Light (seventeen years old and desperate for touch, infatuated with bliss, every thought tinted with the scent of sex)– and if he closes his eyes, the absurdity of it disappears.

Eyes closed; this is nothing more than a dream. The last obituaries he had found (earlier, in the daytime, when Light had been only a friend) were from January first, and that wasn’t any good, because January first was precisely the day Naomi–

Light is moaning from behind him, and the windowshades are fluttering open (the sky is dark and foggy; it may snow tomorrow) and then Light’s fingers are sneaking away from his cock, moving lower, and it’s so intense, it hurts, and L’s wincing, eyes opened now, staring into the darkness.

Light hisses, “is this, Ryuzaki, is this–” and traces L’s entrance with a wet finger; it’s cold, like he’s bleeding, goosebumps forming all over his body. L shudders and thinks, she was last seen on January first, three days after her fiancé’s death, so Kira, she spoke with Kira (she was Kira but changed her mind, no, Naomi isn’t, Naomi couldn’t–) and Light pushes his fingers inside, filling him with ice. L squeezes his eyes shut, clenches his hands in the bedsheets, panting hard out of adrenaline that isn’t desire, that is the opposite of desire.

And then Light is pushing L’s pants around his ankles, moaning softly (without asking for consent; Kira did not ask Naomi if she wished to die). L does not have to look at him to know that he’s frowning, that his muscles are tensed (that he planned this all, that his life is centered around L’s pain.)

As soon as he pushes in, L is certain: Light Yagami killed Naomi Misora.

Obligatory Soulbonding Explanation Post

Sat, 25 Nov 2006 22:19:16 GMT

I know a lot of people on my flist have been confused about my revelation about being multiple, a soulbonder, and fictionkin; they're not exactly the most well-understood phenomena out there. So I'm writing this post to explain what my personal experience is like... I completely respect that it's your personal choice whether or not to believe me, and I don't expect anyone to, but please understand that this is intensely important to me!

First off, before you even attempt to understand this, you need to shake off every misconception you've learned from 4Chan and Encyclopedia Dramatica. Real soulbonding is a genuine experience that's been observed in authors such as Ursula K. Le Guin and Neil Gaiman (let me know if you want more info on this; I'm too lazy to dig up the links now). It's nothing like anything you've heard before. I don't think any fictional characters are real–even in a parallel universe, which I don't believe in–and I definitely don't think I'm married to them or anything remotely like that. I'm not part of some weird cult or religion, I don't make altars or walk around in costume, and no, I don't hear voices. In short, I'm not crazy. The word "soulbonding" has all kinds of negative stereotypes attached to it, so "muses" is a better way to describe my bonds, if you want to think of it that way. These sites go into more detail, if you're confused.

So, soulbonding for me is basically just communicating (inside my own mind) with fictional characters who after a while stop being so fictional. They have the same thoughts and fears as anyone else does; they have favorite foods and favorite colors; they have their own unique interpersonal relationships, even among each other; they make their own playlists on my iTunes. Above all, they are completely convinced that they are real. (Real as in "cogito ergo sum," not as in real in the physical world.)

They're just there, and they live in their own inner worlds (we're a gateway system) and think about their own things. And sometimes they're just lingering in the back of my mind and making me look at the world a little tiny bit differently. ♥ They're also a major inspiration for most of my writing, and I have them to thank for inspiring a lot of my fanfiction.

To clarify, I'm completely aware that my soulbonds aren't the "real" characters, straight from canon; I tend to think of them as just other people who happen to have had similar past experiences as those characters. They're usually very different from the characters depicted in canon.

In my particular system (or group of soulbonds/people sharing a body), my soulbonds are able to interact with the physical world through using my body (by moving around with it, talking with it, etc) while I either stay there with them or go back into the headspace they came from. This explains why you might see bonds commenting on my posts and such. This isn't at all dangerous... if someone starts fronting (taking control of the body) who could possibly be a problem, I can watch what they're doing, and force them away from the front whenever.

If you're still confused, my particular experience is a lot like healthy multiplicity–we're basically just a lot of people sharing a body, except the majority of us have fictional origins–so you can check out multiplicity or these sites.

We've been like this for over seven years and aren't going to change now. And honestly, we're all really tired of hiding. ♥

For the record, I'm also fictionkin, meaning that I'm something like a soulbond myself–my identity is tied to that of a few fictional characters whose lives I inexplicably remember. Most soulbonders aren't fictionkin, and vice versa, but I happen to be both. I want to stress that I never chose to be fictionkin–I just started remembering. I actually denied it for months at first because at that point, I was mocking fictionkin with everyone else, so the last thing I wanted was to have to admit, even to myself, that I was fictionkin.

Being fictionkin is as real to me as soulbonding; the memories I've seen are just as intense as any of my memories from this life (and often, even more intense; I have vivid flashbacks). I've winced at pain from remembering things I've technically never experienced, and I've laughed and cried over things that wouldn't touch even the most obsessed fans. Again, I personally don't believe in parallel universes, and I don't consider being fictionkin to be spiritual or supernatural in any way. Because of this, I'm not sure if I consider my fictionkin identities as past lives, though I remember dying in both. I think it's possible that my identity is just multifaceted.

Also, while I still feel connected to my fictionkin identities, the fact that I'm fictionkin doesn't mean I've lost sight of who I am in this life. I don't think I "am" any of my fictionkin identities right now. I just remember having been them, and I may choose to use those names as nicknames, or use icons of them, etc, because like it or not, they're a part of my identity.

Being a soulbonder is a completely positive experience, and I'd never give it up!

Feel free to comment (or send me a PM) if you're confused about any of this! ♥

Freewriting.

Wed, 22 Nov 2006 16:16:35 GMT

This is of the "I have to leave for school really soon" sort again. (If I'm not gonna write any normal fics, I should at least pay more attention to these... XDD; Maybe next time.) Halfway through writing this, I realized it was pretty much the same thing I just wrote a few days ago. x_x; So I kept it short. And it could use a better ending.

Also, I guess the only person Light could be saying anything to is Misa, so, er, yeah. I didn't think about this very much.

Light says he's done with guilt. It had attacked him, once, when he was young and didn't know better; he had been too frightened by the power of God.

But he's Kira, now. He can't be deterred by something as insignificant as that (even if it's watching him through L's eyes, even if he is confronted by it every day, hears its voice whispering in his ear, its hands clawing at his back, its moans tearing through his skin–)

And sometimes, at night, he lets it reach him; leans down and kisses it on the mouth, feels his own heart racing in his chest, he trusts me, he trusts me and I'm lying, I've killed– and even now, its eyes won't close, won't stop watching him, its long fingers tangling in his hair, and yes, that's it, I'm lying, and I'll kill him, I'll erase him.

When L falls, Light jumps down, too, catches him, watches the lights in his eyes disappear and his eyelids flutter closed, and a smile's forming on Light's face, because he's free.

With L gone, he thinks, guilt will never bother him again.

Wed, 15 Nov 2006 17:32:03 GMT

I don't know why I'm spamming so much. (I promise not to tomorrow.) Freewriting of the sort that I'm composing into the little LJ box and not editing at all, because I just need to write something.

I'm not Kira, Light thinks, and sometimes, the illusion is all that keeps him going (hands sliding over L's bare skin, L panting hard; and Light not thinking anything at all, because if he thought, L, I'll kill you- but Light doesn't think that, he won't). And it's something like freedom, leaving Kira behind, letting him go –

So when L turns to him and says "59%," something breaks, shatters, and Light's clenching his jaw and he can't look away, I'm not Kira, "no, Ryuzaki, look," and L's cock is jerking in Light's hands, in Kira's hands (and someday, Light will kill him–), "if I were Kira, I could have killed you already; I'm close enough to strangle you, and–" and L's coming, and Light squeezes his eyes shut, because to look at L now is to incriminate himself, because he has to stay innocent for one more second.

I'm not Kira. And L's watching him as he plucks away on his computer, gaze never leaving him, and Light can feel goosebumps forming all over his body from that stare. He gulps, leans back in his seat, pretends to be reading, and–

I'm Kira. And someday, L will find it out; L already knows, already suspects him.

Light will have to kill him before he finds the evidence.

Tue, 07 Nov 2006 20:23:56 GMT

I didn't feel like writing, so I tried anyway, and predictably it turned out pretty awful. I had to cut it short, even. (Also I've got an insane migraine, so ignore any weird errors. ^^;)

I wanted to listen to "Passive" by A Perfect Circle while writing this, but I'm on the wrong computer so I ended up with "Move It Like This" by Baha Men, which isn't quite the same.

It happens too slowly; L falls, Light follows, L closes his eyes, and he's dead. There's no adrenaline pounding in Light's ears, no victory music, just the overhead lights flickering and Matsuda gasping quietly, and when Light looks up, nothing's different. Nothing's different at all.

And "Ryuzaki," he shouts, voice quivering (and he's strangely detached, this isn't Light at all), "Ryuzaki, Ryuzaki–" and this is it? This is the best that L can do? There's so much he could've done before he died, but he simply fell, as if he was no better than a prison inmate, a foolish criminal who broke the rules of the new world.

And suddenly, Light has won, and it hits him that he'll have to keep this up for years; he'll be Kira always, without an L. Killing L was his last chance to get back at the detective, and Light didn't even do it himself, let L die all too quickly.

"Kira's coming for us too, he'll kill us," Light exclaims, breathing hard and forcing his hands to shake, and Matsuda's covering his head in his hands, Aizawa's voice is trembling, Mr. Yagami is curling his hand into a fist, and at least Light can find a little comfort in that. Even if L's death was relatively painless, the rest of the NPA will feel his heart attack; it will be with them up until the day they meet the same fate.

He can't wait to break the news to Aiber and Wedy.

Tue, 17 Oct 2006 18:18:05 GMT

I did one of those quick little fics where I just write down whatever comes into my head, again. ^^ Also, a few days ago I was all public, but now I'm all filtered. I'll probably make these all friends only in a few days, too, though.

It's dark, and Light's skin is nauseatingly warm, and why is he so warm when Misa is cold, when everything around her is cold? And why does he flinch away from her when she wraps her arms around his neck and whispers, "Ryuzaki won't wake up, and the cameras won't see us in the dark," and she can feel so much tension when he briefly presses his lips to hers – the wrong kind of tension, she doesn't like this – because Ryuzaki is here, that's why, Light can't stand him either, Light thinks he's a pervert, and when Light says "Misa–" there's something cold enveloping his voice; why did his skin seep up all the warmth and leave none for the rest of him?

"If he wakes up, we can stop," Misa reassures him, looking into what she can see of his eyes and wrapping a hand around his waist, and it's normal to worry, of course it's normal – nobody wants somebody watching them, "I promise."

And she leans over and kisses him, because if Light's scared, Misa has to make the first move, and Light won't mind, if he loves her. He won't mind if he loves her.

He's immobile for a second, and then he deepens the kiss, he's holding onto her jaw with one hand, and Misa's glad he's forgotten about Ryuzaki, Misa's so glad. And she cups his hand in hers and moves it down until it lies limp against her left breast, and Light lets it lay there for a moment and then draws his hand back, breaks the kiss, and, gentle and firm at the same time, he says, "no, Misa."

And she says, "Light...," why, Light? and runs a hand down his shoulder – his skin so smooth and firm, without goosebumps like Misa has – and he turns away from her so she can't see his face, so she can dream up whatever emotion she wants to fill his eyes.

"When I've captured Kira, Misa, then we can celebrate, but not with Ryuzaki here. That wouldn't be right," and Misa responds, "of course, Light," and she wonders if Ryuzaki's skin is cold but his heart is warm, if Ryuzaki is the only one who is truly human.

...That was really clichéd. But anyway. Sorry if there are any mistakes; it's unedited and everything. ^^; And it's time for Shakespeare now, so bye.

Wed, 11 Oct 2006 20:05:55 GMT

I just let myself write, and this is what happened.

Onesided L/Light, PG, me rambling, overuse of parentheses. I made L really... gentle and young. I'm not used to him being 25. XD; Sorry. (Also, yeah, this is about bond!L... he was feeling really lonely, so I had to write about it. ^^;)

Also, writing in first person is weird. It makes me feel like I'm writing self-insert. >< If I ever edit this to the point that it's postable, I'll figure out a different way to do that section.

L's first memory is of stars. Looking out the half-open window of the hotel now, listening to Light breathing softly from across the room, he can see them again. And it's the most comforting feeling in the world, warm hands wrapped around him, hushed voices and rocking-rocking, wind and waves, and the stars above him, protecting him.

It almost suffocates him, not being able to share this with anybody – being so close to Light (Light who was Kira, Light who above all wanted him dead), and knowing that they will never be real friends, that by keeping himself such a secret he has transformed into a two-dimensional being, into a single letter with no feelings of its own.

They can't actually talk, so sometimes, L pretends. Now he closes his eyes and thinks, I'm stirring a cube of sugar into my tea, and I say, "not unlike you, Light-kun, I spent most of my childhood alone, reading books on philosophy which were organized as neatly as the ones in your room," and Light smiles and says, "that is like me. I was the only one of my friends who willingly read nonfiction. I'd pegged you for the more scientific type, though, not interested in something abstract like philosophy," and Light is good with hidden meanings – love is an abstract feeling as well. I reach over on the pretext of taking another sugar cube from the bowl, and my hand brushes slightly against his shoulder, and he turns reflexively, and –

And normally, L catches himself before it goes any further. He thinks he is being uncharacteristically juvenile.

But even if they can't be as close as L would like (even if L can't be as close to anyone as he would like), it still comforts him to know that Light is on the other end of his chain, that Light cannot leave his side, that Light is not Kira.

Sometimes (like now, standing beside the window, Tokyo a glimmer of lights before him) it seems like he and Light were meant to be friends, that Light was always supposed to be a part of L. (He can imagine them, easily, sitting in front of the computer, a live video of the NPA displayed on the screen before them, both reaching for the keyboard at the same time – and meeting each other's eyes, and smiling –) but Light isn't L, he'll never inherit the name, because at one time, he was Kira.

L has been very careful to distance himself from Light. It's dangerous to have thoughts like these, after all.

And then there's a quiet rustling from behind him, and L turns to see Light easing his way to a sitting position. What L can see of his eyes are cool and metallic, calculating and predatory, and for a second, neither of them speaks.

"Are you all right?" Light asks, the tiniest hint of panic showing through his warm voice, and L turns away, L has to turn away.

He wishes that Light were still asleep, because now, there is nothing stopping L from reaching out to him.

"It's nothing," L replies, padding back over to the bed and slipping underneath the covers. He sleeps dangerously near the edge of the bed, as far from Light as possible – Light is L's first friend, and letting them grow even closer would be a mistake. He shouldn't have let them get this far.

When L closes his eyes, all he sees is emptiness; there are no more stars.

L's real name

Tue, 10 Oct 2006 15:33:47 GMT

....It's not as ugly as I was scared it would be?

I need some time to think about this, because... he's L. He's not supposed to have a name.

...I think I kind of like it? My brain's a little broken still, though.

Also, he's really old.

I'd have a different icon for this post, but this is the only L icon I have left... ^^;

EDIT: Okay, I like it. It fits him well, I guess.
AND ALSO! Nobody's allowed to yell at me for what I said about L that one time, because it's true. :D

I still didn't really want to know, though.

EDIT2: So that thing that happened in chapter 58 happened on November 5, 2005... so I wanted to see what I was doing on that day (or close to it) and... I had a dream about JK Rowling/Terry Pratchett, and was talking about transvestite vampires. XD Yeah.

EDIT3: Also, if you're here because you actually want to know L's name, it's L Lawliet. :D As in, his first name is really L. Which is pretty awesome, IMHO.

...Yeah, I just realized this is one of the first hits on Google for "L's real name." *facepalm* Sorry for not telling you guys sooner! XD;

Fri, 23 Jun 2006 17:11:08 GMT

Okay, so I can't put this in the fic journal because it's unfinished. But I also can't save it to my computer because it'll get deleted, and I can't make it private because I may have to use computers that won't let me log in.

Think of it as a rough draft or something. I'm going to have to edit this in anonymous comments or something. XD;

EDIT: Okay, I'm working on it a little bit. If you read now, it may not make so much sense.

Working Title: Together
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: L/Light, but it's not quite there yet.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Yes. Up to somewhere around 56, I think.
Warnings: Unedited and unfinished, whut.

It started while he was locked up, on the [third week of captivity]. He doesn't know why; L might have been finally starting to get to him, or maybe it had been there the entire time, a lurking, ominous presence that he had been all too busy to acknowledge.

But what Light knows is that it came then. Then, with L’s grainy, loud voice through the speakers, speaking dully and testily, “there has been no change.”

And this was L, L who thought he was Kira, whose voice was firm and stable and always questioning, and Light had needed to prove it once and for all. He’d swallowed once, tasting the bile rising in his throat, and looked up with desperate eyes. “Ryuuzaki, listen to me!”

He wasn't Kira.

_

Back then, he was living for L. He’d always been living for L (sitting in his room wondering if L was protected enough, if he might slip his name and let Kira get to him; planning ways to convince him that he wasn’t, so he could get into the investigation and catch Kira, once and for all.)

L was just like him, except for the fact that nobody distrusted L.

–

They fought, sometimes. There was nothing for it but that oftentimes, L was stupid.

“You are Kira,” he’d say, looking over with challenging black eyes, or, “Misa is a tool,” and Light would really have no choice.

“You bastard,” Light would say vehemently, lunging at him, and L would rush out of the way, smile, and say it again.

“Only a murderer would be this defensive, Light-kun.”

Light wasn’t sure why nobody ever suspected L.

–

Light was certain that together, they would be the best.

“Look,” he had said, pointing at the screen, “Ryuuzaki, there’s a pattern.”

“Yotsuba,” L had breathed, bringing his thumb to his lips and brushing his other hand across Light’s shoulder.

Together.

–

He was a decent person, even if he did cling to the notion that Light was Kira.

“Would you like some coffee, Light-kun?” he asked softly, and Light blinked his eyes open and nodded in acceptance. “It’ll help you stay awake.”

L rarely slept; it was something Light had to get used to while they were chained together. Even now, with the computer’s peaceful hum pushing him into half-dreams and Light’s vision blurred and unfocused, L was wide awake, staring at the data on the screen.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me,” he said, stepping down from his chair and glancing at Light with curious eyes and dark hair framing his face.

The coffee machine was on a counter near the window; the shades were open, revealing a dark blue-grey sky. Almost dawn.

“Someday, we’ll make him stop,” Light said idly, rubbing the chain of his handcuffs with his free hand.

“If you are not Kira,” L said, glancing up, “I am 78% sure that you will catch him first.”

His hands were steady while he poured the coffee.

–

The others didn’t understand – Matsuda and Mogi and Light’s own father – and Light, with the faintest hint of annoyance, watched L spell it out to them.

Kira was theirs.

–

"It's [Higuchi]," Light said, looking up at L with a slight smile, "L, Misa was right. It's Higuchi."

L lifted his thumb to his lips and bit down on the nail, eyes wide. "Light-kun."

"Now all we have to do is have him tell us how he kills," Light continued, eyes again riveted on the screen, hands scrambling frantically over the keys. "We could send another fake message from Kira and see how he reacts; his method of killing doesn't seem to match that of before, so if he's a different Kira – or if the power to kill has been switching off like you think – he'll act differently and won't immediately know that the message was sent by the police. We could plant cameras –"

"Light-kun," L gasped [not right word, "breathe" was right but then I'd have said it twice. "whisper"] again, thumb still pressed against his lips, and Light had glanced over to find the other man's eyes watching him [must leave finish start the MAKINGOUT soon!]

-
It ends in the helicopter, while Light is grasping the notebook in his hands with a beating heart and a subtle, hidden smirk.

He has never liked L.

Fic journal!

Tue, 07 Mar 2006 23:37:33 GMT

Starting 03/07/06, this is now my personal journal only. All of my fics are moving over to taskefic, and that's where I'll always post fics from now on.

So go ahead and friend and defriend however you want. ^^ The whole point of this is so I won't be spamming anyone, so if you don't want to see the fics don't friend taskefic, and if you don't want to see my real life, defriend taskemus, and everything will be wonderful.

Er, you might want to wait a couple days if you're going to friend the fic-journal, though, since I've just finished uploading all of my fics there, and that would spam your friends page LIKEWHOA.

Everything over there will be unlocked, too, and everything here will be locked, unless it's something like this.

I'll get around to moving up the Friends Only banner sometime soon, too, but first I'm going to make sure I've really got all of my fics over there, and before that there's a special on migraines on TV and I'm going to go watch that.

...And I know the layout sucks, I'm going to make it exciting over spring break, hopefully.

Ficlet: "EdandAl," Elricest (PG)

Sun, 05 Mar 2006 17:19:09 GMT

Well, I tried to write a prequel to "Everything, and", because I wanted to see if I could define what I'm trying to define by it's actually being there, not by the lack of it. But I think I failed... this makes me really dizzy and isn't exactly coherent, and I don't like it half as much as the other one.

I guess that proves my point. Fluff is harder to write than angst.

Title: EdandAl
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Gen, I guess. But it's Elricest later on, so...
Rating: PG
Notes: Prequel to Everything, and. The size is an element of the fic, but if it's too small to read please tell me...

Ficlet: "Down to Nothing," Roy/Havoc (PG)

Tue, 28 Feb 2006 22:53:52 GMT

Look at me, I'm actually writing a fic on LJ! Because, you see, I have lots of things like homework that I need to be doing right now, and so if I wrote this anywhere else I'd be tempted to edit it a lot, and I don't have time for that, but if I don't write the fic now I'll lose it forever. And I don't want to lose it forever. ;_; So you people just get it unedited and then I won't be wanting to edit this while I'm supposed to be doing other things.

Title: Down to Nothing (wow, I'm very original and didn't just steal this from the song I'm listening to. *nodnod* At all.)
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Light Roy/Havoc. I was going for Havoc/Hughes, too, but that didn't come out so well. If you really don't want to see anything in this, go ahead and pretend there are no pairings.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Episode 25 spoilers. Very very unedited, so be warned. This is probably going to be horrible and not make any sense at all. Er, also, I know nothing about cars so stuff is probably wrong. And I don't know these characters, either.
Notes: ...Written for someone who probably isn't reading this, unless you've found my LJ and aren't telling me. I'm sorry. ;_; *hugs*

When Roy glances up, he can see Havoc's face in the mirror; he is concentrating too hard, paying too much attention to the road. His muscles are tensed and his eyes small and secure and focused, no longer lost in the slow-moving scenery outside. Clenching the steering wheel with both hands, no part of him could possibly drift away.

They turn the corner and Havoc looks back at Roy; immediately, consciously, he pulls on the mask, and his lips tremble into what Roy assumes is supposed to be a laid-back smile.

The sky is finally darkening, and Roy is glad – it has been red too long.

"Are you sure you don't want to stop?" Havoc asks, and Roy does not move his gaze over to the yellow house, does not look at the one solitary window that light is shining through.

"Yes, I'm sure," he says, above the sound of the engine, and Havoc puts his foot down on the exhaust. His eyes follow the house as they leave, and Roy notices the man's hand subtly digging into the steering wheel.

It has hit Havoc hardest of all.

It's strange, Roy thinks, to say that, but it's true. When they got the news his eyes had widened and the cigarette had dropped from his mouth; for once, his face had been completely readable, clear, devastated.

It's only a subtle difference, really, but for someone who knows him well (like Roy) it's incredibly easy to see.

The first sign was his voice (deeper than normal, tremulous) and then his words, succinct, laconic, hopeless. And First Lieutenant Jean Havoc has always had hope. Even if sometimes he contradicted himself, Roy has never seen him like this before.

Because no matter what happened to him, he had always smiled and assured that he was fine – Roy would never have continued to steal the man's girlfriends if he knew that it would really hurt him.

"Lieutenant," he breathes, and then regrets it as Havoc's eyes meet his own – because what could Roy possibly say to break the curse?

"He was always laughing," Havoc says, quietly, chewing on the tip of his cigarette. "Why would anyone want to kill a guy like that?"

The interior of the car is dark now, except for a patch of white light falling over half of Havoc's face. His eyes and skin look all too thin and frail.

"You used to laugh, too," Roy says, sitting up straighter against the seat and frowning. I don't like to see you like this.

Havoc glances at him, opening his mouth to speak, and Roy sees something that could be anger flicker across his face. "I don't see why you won't just go talk to her."

Roy sighs. "Lieutenant, you of all people should know I have better things to do."

Havoc frowns, obviously suspicious, and all of his face comes into the streak of light. "I didn't think you were one to lie, sir."

Roy smirks slightly. "I'm not. Why would I go comfort his wife when there's someone else sitting right in front of me who needs my attention first?"

There is a long silence, and Havoc blinks, surprised, and then looks back at him quietly. Roy doesn't look down.

Havoc turns the corner slowly, his gaze lingering on Hughes' house – and then Roy smiles at him, and the house disappears from view.

Not too happy with the ending, but I must go now.

Ficlet: "Shattered"

Mon, 27 Feb 2006 01:56:13 GMT

I've been writing lots of Dante-fic lately, because I want to get everything I see in her across on paper. I took this opportunity to work on that more. Because there's something wrong with her and it's been bugging me for ages. I mean, just listen to Butou and try to tell me she's perfectly sane.

I must warn you though, I can't write at all today. XD; And for some reason that I can't comprehend at all, Green Day is my Trisha music. That's about as incongruous as how Pikachu says my name whenever anyone opens the trash can. Unless I'm secretly a trash can and I just don't know it, or something, and y'know what? I'm just gonna post the fic now.

EDIT: ...Just discovered that Pikachu also goes "Sabrina! Sabrina!" when he hears babies crying. What, so now I'm a baby and a trash can? I'm insulted. XD

Title: Shattered
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Er. It's sort of driven by Trisha/Hohenheim and Dante/Hohenheim, but there's not actually any pairing in the fic...
Rating: PG-13
Notes: AU. For 15minuteficlets word #142, but I went over the time limit a little because I suck. May be confusing because my writing is being weird and distant.

Trisha shivers once, shielding her eyes against the wind, and frowns slightly. The trees are shaking a little, and the clouds overhead are thick and grey. “Edward! Alphonse!” There may be a storm soon, and she would feel better if the children were inside.

It’s all too open, lonesome, without him (not that she thinks about him very much, of course – he’ll be home soon, so there is no reason for her thoughts to linger on him), a strange chilled emptiness to the world that he has left behind.

When she looks over, it is still there.

It makes her uneasy, this black form beside the tree – standing, unafraid of the wind – and were she not alone she would approach it. If Hohenheim were here –

And it is no different, really, since she will not be alone for long. It’s a woman, Trisha notices with relief, tentatively stepping closer to the tree – “Hello?”

The woman’s smile is not altogether even, and she looks all too poised to have so many wrinkles littering her face.

“You’d be Trisha?” Her voice is contemptuous and young, and when she looks up there is something off-center and dangerous about her eyes.

“Yes,” she replies, with a smile – people from the city must always be unnervingly eccentric like this. After all, Sara’s husband was from Central, and look how he acted! “You’ve met my neighbor Mrs. Rockbell, then?”

A drop of water hits her left forearm and the woman nods slowly, practically unshielded from the rain. She blinks once but doesn’t move.

“It’s going to storm,” Trisha says, and the woman meets her gaze and holds it. “Would you like to come inside? I was just about to make some soup...”

She glances over her shoulder for the boys, but then shakes her head; they’ll come when they’re ready.

The woman nods again and the expression on her face is something that could be defined as a smile – could, but isn’t quite.

Dante twists her face into a smirk as soon as Trisha's gaze has left her – poor fool, she wants to say, you won’t need to cook anymore. It is lucky to have a homunculus like Envy under her command – the spread of disease is no harder to control than the reins of a horse.

The skies are blue; it has not stormed today.

Thu, 09 Feb 2006 23:51:53 GMT

I fell asleep in the nurse's office and had a horrible dream that Pikachu and Wrath died (there was blood everywhere, it was awful – this person called cephiedvariable had killed them), and then I woke up and threw up and I guess I have whatever it is that's been going around now. x____x

Anyway, I just have a question for anyone who might know, which is probably no one, but I need to know this and couldn't find anything online: If fanfiction is used in a piece of artwork, do you need to have some kind of disclaimer? ^^;

Because I'm working on my mixed media self-portrait, and the picture in the upper left was going to be made out of stuff I'd written and then some colored pencil and feathers over it, and I don't want to get in trouble or anything for using fanfiction. And I don't really want it to be all original stuff, either, because I don't have enough of that.

Speaking of, I really need to work on my war-fic again. ^^ I have, like, two pages. Avogadro hasn't even shown up yet.

To make this less pointless, here, have ficlets! XD These were written in comments on maypirate's journal ages ago and I just completely made them up, so that's why they're terrible.

Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Elricest, if you want to take it that way. If not, it can be gen, because I just realized that there's actually not much Elricest in here, eh heh...
Rating: PG

It's snowing when Edward wakes up, falling down outside of the window of his train car and fogging up the window. Chilled, cool, air leaking through, and he shivers, moves over a little bit to get away from the cold.

Hard metal, colder than the outside air.

"Brother, what's wrong?" A frenzied voice, and Alphonse shifts beside him, leans over and looks into Ed's sleepy eyes.

"Nothing," he breathes, reaching over and drawing a transmutation circle onto the foggy window. His hand comes away cold but he's used to it by now, and erases the circle, clears the glass so he can see outside.

Everything is white and endless, as if he is in the middle of nowhere, as if he is still dreaming.

"Do you think we're almost there?" Alphonse asks him, peering outside, too, and Edward shakes his head back and forth once. Zipping his jacket up to try to escape the cold, but he shivers anyway.

Alphonse studies him as he leans back in his seat.

"Is it cold, brother?" Words spoken tentatively, as if his brother feels he shouldn't be asking this.

"What?" Edward responds, and then he remembers, and curses himself for ever forgetting – for creating this problem in the first place, for being stupid enough to cause his little brother this much pain. For unwittingly seperating him from everyone else and making him something else, different.

"Yeah. It's cold," he says, with a grin, and hopes that Al can't see through it. "But that's not a problem."

And the window has fogged over again. This time Edward leaves it that way, as the train bumps along, all too silent. It's as if they're the only ones here, the only ones anywhere. They would never know it, now.

Alone, but not alone.

He yawns, takes his watch out of his pocket and blinks at it. "We're gonna be here a few more hours, Al. It's only 4:30."

"Huh? But it's so dark here." Alphonse says, leaning over to look at the watch himself, and Edward draws back from him almost unconsciously.

"What's wrong, brother?"

I don't want to be so close to you, that's all. "You're cold," he says instead, because it's the first thing he can think of, and Alphonse shudders once in response, looks away.

"I forgot," he says softly, and Ed cringes at the tone in his voice. "I-"

"Never mind."

Alphonse looks away now, pointedly, and even though that had been Edward's plan he can't draw his eyes away from his brother. He watches as Al gets up, slowly, and moves to the other side of the room.

And then it's as if he's really alone, for the first time.

And maybe, he thinks, it's for the best.

Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Havoc/Roy
Rating: PG

The smell of a snowy winter's night is absolutely unique, and can't be replaced by anything else. Like cigarette smoke, Roy thinks, as he reaches into his pocket for his key, shivering slightly.The sky is blue-purple, ethereal, trees black and naked against the sky, and he wants to get indoors, to leave this all behind him.

To stop looking for a car that will never come, to stop hoping for anything other than this – for a day without bleak cloudy skies, snow smelling of exhaust. And that smell, too, reminds him of cigarettes.

The sound of a motor behind him, and he doesn't turn around, keeps fumbling with the key. It won't turn.

And even his jacket isn't thick enough to keep out the cold - it sneaks its way inside his very soul, essence. It is days like these that he hates, despises. The color white isn't always pure.

The car behind him slows down and Roy has to stop himself from turning around, from peering into the window, just to check.

It isn't him and it never will be, never.

A bird chirps somewhere to his left, oddly out of place in this silent wasteland.

"Hey," and the voice itself makes him turn, makes him look. He hears the clink of his key on cement before he knows that he has dropped it.

"Lieutanant," Roy says, and he hopes the uncharacteristic shaking in his voice will be mistaken for mere shivers.

Havoc is grinning out at him as he rolls the window down. "You need a ride?"

"This is my house, lieutanant," Roy says, and the scent of cigarrettes is already drifting towards him, a smell he would rather leave behind him with the scent of the wind and snow. A smell that would disappear as soon as he slammed the door behind him. And he wants to leave it, to turn his key in the lock and open the door, to leave it all behind him.

"Why would I need a ride?"

Havoc shrugs nonchalantly, and Roy can see the cigarette dangling loosely from his mouth. "I was just asking."

"Well, then," the man continues, with an almost mischeivious tone to his voice, "I'll just be leaving."

Havoc is halfway down the street when Roy realizes that the man has taken his keys.

Fic: "Changes," Elricest (PG)

Sun, 05 Feb 2006 20:30:05 GMT

This is what happens when I combine something I just wrote for 15minuteficlets with the awful fic I first wrote for morbid_flower. morbid_flower, your real fic is still being written, I promise. I posted a drabble for you a while back, too.

And I have a horrible migraine so I'm gonna go sleep now. Sorry for the lame title, I can't think right now.

EDIT: Hey, guess what? This is my 50th fic on LJ!

Title: Changes
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Elricest
Rating: PG
Notes: Er, yeah. XD; I know I'm trying to say something with this, but what that actually is escapes me right now. Also, I suck at writing in the past tense. Tell me if I messed up anywhere? Since this started off as two different things, it may not be coherent. ~~And I think I may be stealing from my own fics again. x_x Sorry.~~

It wasn’t right to be alone – it didn’t feel right. He was glad, though, that Edward was there too, that he hadn’t lost absolutely everything that defined him.

And Edward balled his hand into a fist. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. She can’t leave us yet, she can’t.”

Ever since it happened (since she died) – ever since it happened, Edward’s muscles had been all too tense, determined. He didn’t relax, wasn’t the same Edward that Alphonse always knew – if he were to reach out his hand and touch his brother’s cheek it would have felt hard instead of soft. His brother clenched his jaw and Alphonse could see something in his left temple twitch.

“It can’t be that hard,” Brother continued, voice quiet and low and grainy, and Alphonse’s mind meandered back to calmer days when Ed had run barefoot in the grass. When he shouted to Alphonse, his voice had been high and carefree.

It had broken him, this bitter taste of death.

And maybe, just maybe, if she were to come back, Edward would be Edward again.

Alphonse nodded once and met his brother’s eyes. These were not relaxed either – small and furtive and golden, and Alphonse knew that even if he were to stop him now, his brother would never give up, never.

Secretly, he had always thought that they should not have been born brothers. He knew that he did not deserve Edward as a sibling, barely deserved even knowing him.

The sky was beginning to darken outside and a certain shivery chill was leaking in through the windows. Slow, graceful chalk, lightning and the pattering of rain, wind thrashing against their house, and mother dead in her grave at the top of the hill – “that’s all a soul really is, anyway” – gold and mercury and sal ammoniac – blinding white-blue light and a sharp pain to his head, and then.

That.

–

It’s snowing tonight, white flakes drifting down from the sky and landing on his leather hands, his metal arms. Edward is asleep – if he were awake he would never have let Alphonse open the window – and Alphonse glances back at him guiltily as his brother’s body gives a slight shiver. But there has been something tugging on his mind for days now, something he doesn’t allow himself to think about while brother is awake anymore.

Now that he is no longer human (now that he does not have a human body), is he the same person he always was?

Edward has always looked into his eyes with a strong, concrete gaze, and said yes.

But Alphonse himself isn’t so sure – is, in fact, positive that he is not. He is drifting away from himself and turning into somebody else, so slowly that his own brother can’t see the changes, is blinded (like the transformation, he thinks, of water into snow – the end product seemingly exactly the same and yet something completely different, solid instead of liquid).

And he can’t help it that he is (that he should be) an inanimate object, a suit of armor. At first he hadn’t minded it much, not having a human body, but he feels detached now, fuzzy, as if he has always been this way and can never go back. For days now he has walked to the window at night, while Edward is sleeping, and stared out – at two lovers below – and he can’t begin to fathom what it would feel like to have a hand in his own like that, to have the night air wandering past his face, the ground covered in a deep layer of snow. And then something pulls at him, that maybe the bottom of his feet could feel too, that he could sense the shape of the ground beneath him, the snow around him, but he might be making that up – and their lips, as they kiss like that – can they feel one another?

And it worries him, that he can’t remember if the skin all over his body could feel (or if it was only that of his hands – that seems more logical, anyway) and he strains his memory for a second – the snow falling down outside and coating the universe in white – and though he remembers cuts and scrapes in various places all over his body, he can’t recall if they all hurt or not (or what pain even is, for that matter – he can tell that it’s bad, but when Edward is hurt his facial expressions don’t seem to connect with the blood spurting from his skin) or, more importantly, if he ever felt anything with his lips.

The armor has changed him more than his brother could ever know. Because more than anything he wants to feel his brother’s skin (a seemingly normal request, but if his brother only knew!). And he’d rather not think about it, about the person he has become – a boy who is so detached from himself that he wants to touch his own brother the way the lovers touch below.

There is a slight flutter from behind him and Alphonse turns around – Edward has rolled over, still shivering, but hasn’t opened his eyes. And Alphonse doesn’t want him to open them, doesn’t want to see the warmth in his eyes when he looks up.

“Al?” He swivels around further at the words, his brother’s voice still foggy with sleep, and he closes the window hurriedly so that Edward won’t see the people below, will never begin to suspect a thing. Will still believe in his delusion that Alphonse has not changed at all.

“Brother?” Al says, walking forward a little, and Edward blinks up at him and smiles (almost bitterly, but it’s a smile all the same – a smile that, for a minute, makes him forget that he can’t feel – because this is the closest thing to feeling that there is in this body.)

He wants to become human so that he will remember who he is.

Ficlet: "Reality," Elricest (PG)

Fri, 27 Jan 2006 21:57:12 GMT

Bad cramps and a migraine are killing me. Because of that, I don't think I'm gonna be online for a while. My brain doesn't seem to be working anyway. It's just sitting there going "..." and once in a while will think something odd like "enrage cinnamon alchemy a house?" and I'll just nod like I understand.

This is a ficlet. It is one of many things for morbid_flower, because I owe her stuff and they're still not finishing themselves and I felt bad and wrote something and I don't know how proud of it I am or even if it makes sense.

That should be a warning to all of you people who might be reading this.

Title: Reality
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Elricest
Rating: PG
Notes: For morbid_flower. AU, pointless fluff. (I'm not very good at fluff, so this is another warning.)

Everything is different when the filter of armor is removed. The world is alive – sizzles, wafts, drips, sloshes, chills. And suddenly it all makes sense again. His coat flutters and makes a soft, crinkly, sound, not randomly but because it is coming into contact with his skin; his brother pulls back from the oven and winces because the pan is hot.

It's all so much sharper – Alphonse had forgotten the pupils in Edward's eyes, the intricate strands of his hair, crisscrossing lines on his palms – and clearer, down to earth, real. A little shudder of wind through the kitchen that brushes past his cheek and enters his lungs, cool and clear – and Alphonse is glad that they did not lose sight of their goal.

"It won't be this way for long," Edward reminds him, as he sits down at the table, and he follows his brother's gaze outside to the endless trees and brush that surround their house. "Someday, we'll have to go back to them. They'll find us."

Alphonse nods, reaches for the butter – their fingers brush, the sharp little tingle that comes with unexpected contact – and Edward smiles.

His brother leans over the table – Alphonse smells aftershave, and the musty smell of the house, pine and cinnamon and old books, the clean little scent that is and always will be Edward – and the natural thing to do is to kiss him, soft lips that pull everything together and leave it that way.

"For now, brother," Alphonse says, catching Edward's gaze and holding it, "we'll be okay."

He's glad that he is no longer missing out on so much of the world.