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Summary: The Courier is hoping for fatherly love and approval from Mr. House. She's also best friends with Veronica. What could possibly go wrong?

Genre: Gen

Rated: PG

Warnings: None, really, unless you want to count the fact that House just asked the Courier to murder a bunker full of people.

Word Count: 389

Notes: Can be found on the Fallout Kink Meme here. Convenient table of prompts for future reference can be found here.

"I don't want to," she says, low and quiet and desperate at first. She swallows hard, corrects herself, voice wavering. "I can't. I can't do that." Mr. House's expression on the monitor does not change. The image of him continues to look at her, eyebrow quirked, smile almost challenging her, expectant. It's something she's stupidly, irrationally, taken comfort in, as if it confirms that he predicts great things from her, believes that she can do it. She shouldn't be surprised that the portrait doesn't change. It never does. But, to see that face and to hear him reprimand her? "Don't tell me that you've fallen for the stories of noble paladins on crusade, preserving mankind's technology in a benighted age?" he sneers, biting and incredulous and patronizing. "Dross!" There is a pause. He is recollecting himself, reigning himself back in. All she can do is stand there, stricken, scared to breathe if it will disappoint him further. For all the open space in the penthouse, there is not enough air. There is a part of her, a very large part of her, that wants to buckle. Apologize. Seek forgiveness. There is another part of her, one that is smaller, so much smaller than it should be, that whispers, but Veronica. Imagines the look Veronica would give her, not because of the mission itself, but because she's scared to tell Mr. House no, even for this. "In any case..." Mr. House is cool again. In her mind, he is not looking directly at her. He is already dismissing her. "This is an employer-employee relationship." He says it as though he shouldn't have to remind her. "I've given you an assignment, and the directions are clear." She wants to touch him. She wants to reach out and grab him by his arms and beg him, please, listen to me. Listen to me. She's my friend. She's my best friend. That's her family. If she could just touch him, she could make him hear her. She wants to touch him. She wants to see him. She wants him to take it back, give her another assignment, one she can do and make him proud. She wants to see him smile at her as he tells her, once again, well done. "Yes, sir," she whispers. How is she going to tell him no?

#fallout: new vegas #courier six #elle days #mr. house #robert house

When We Were Young (And Alive)

The other old FFX fic! This one is also from 2009.

Summary: Memories are what kept Jecht sane as he murdered Spira. On this night, he recalls the second Moonflow crossing.

Genre: Gen / Romance

Rated: PG-13

Warnings: Rated for the un-detailed description of the lead-up to sex. Vague descriptions of Sin attacking a village, including blood. Also, discussion of inevitable death, because pilgrimage.

Word Count: 1793

Notes: This one involves Jecht/Auron.

Deep within the shell of Sin, Jecht keeps memories close to him. Memories of games, the greatest, the brightest, the fastest, the bloodiest blitz games in his history -- Memories of places, the houseboat, the blitz sphere, the Calm Lands under the Spiran night sky (so many stars) -- Memories of people, of Daja, creative and kind, of Tidus, energetic and bratty, of Yuna, sweet and small, of Braska, serene and sad and accepting, of Auron. Auron. Auron. Auron. Auron, moral and straight-forward and loyal. Auron. Jecht keeps memories close to him for when times are bad. Times are usually bad, but not always. Sometimes, there's peace. Sometimes, he can hide away under the ice of Lake Macalania and just sit there, do nothing, kill nothing, just sit and listen to the hymn. Sometimes, he thinks Shiva knows he's there. He thinks she, and the rest of the fayth, feel bad for him. Jecht hates it when people feel sorry for him. Times are bad. Times are really bad right now. He doesn't know where he is -- He doesn't know what village this is, he doesn't know the names of the people he's murdering -- Times are really bad right now. He clings to his memories, he sinks into them, loses himself in them. Sometimes, he hates himself for it. He always hates himself, but sometimes he hates himself specifically for this. For remembering the good times, for remembering peace and happiness while people die by his hand. For remembering sex while he burns their world. They passed by the Moonflow twice. They visited all the stops along Spira twice (except for Bevelle, except for Zanarkand), once on the way down to Besaid and once on the way up to Mount Gagazet. The first Moonflow visit was a disaster -- He doesn't think about that memory a lot. Sometimes he does, to remind himself of how he changed, to remind himself that he changed for the better -- far too late, but it happened. But the second time... The second time, it was night. The entire river -- imagine this -- the entire river, aglow. Glowing. As beautiful as the lights of Zanarkand. Pyreflies everywhere, gliding above the water, swimming under the water, lighting up the whole damn river with pastel colors. It was so bright, it was the only night he couldn't see stars flooding the sky. He'd never seen anything like it, and he told Braska and Auron so. The summoner laughed and shook his head, said something quietly about this being his second time, murmured something about a romantic evening, walked away, towards the platform where the shoopuf driver waited. Auron stood with him, beside him a moment, staring out at the magic. "Come," the other guardian finally said. "Lord Braska's waiting for us." Jecht was uncharacteristically quiet as they crossed the Moonflow. He stared over the edge, down at the water where it met the shoopuf's side. The water was darker than he expected. Because of the shadow from the basket on the shoopuf's back? Or because of the dead city resting underneath them? "Careful," Braska said. Jecht looked over at him. In the pyrefly light, his calm smile seemed ethereal and holy. "Don't get too close to the pyreflies. They're oddly strong here." "Strong?" Jecht turned to flop down on his seat. "Like, fiend-strong?" "No, just..." Braska shrugged. "These pyreflies are said to inspire strong emotions." "Emotions, huh...?" Jecht folded his arms across his chest. Braska smiled again, and Jecht knew him well enough by now to see the sadness in his eyes. "In my experience, they are especially good at taking the small feelings tucked away in your heart and making them more powerful." "Huh." Jecht looked over the edge again, watched as a pyrefly curled close to the bottom of the basket. "Do the pyreflies mess with the shoopuf, too?" The pyrefly climbed higher and higher. Braska laughed. "I don't know. It's a good question, though. We'll probably never know." Other pyreflies joined the one Jecht was watching. He leaned back, away from the edge of the basket. "I think they like me." "They're probably drawn to humans," Auron said mildly. "It's all right," said Braska peacefully, watching as one floated lazily through the center of the basket. "They're harmless." "Why tell me to be careful, then?" Braska paused, his eyes growing distant. The pyrefly spiraled through the other side of the basket and disappeared. His answer came in a murmur, but it was lost under the ghostly whispers of the pyreflies around them. Jecht glanced at Auron, but the younger man wasn't looking at him; his eyes were fixed on Braska's face, hands clenched into fists on his knees. Though Guadosalam was only walk down the last short stretch of the Highroad, the three decided to make camp on the riverbank to enjoy the rest of the night in peace. Jecht lay sleepless on his back, hands tucked under his neck. He didn't want to miss a minute of that night, he wanted to soak it all up, memorize everything, so that when he got back to Zanarkand he could... he could... But there wasn't any going back, was there? He knew that now. He took a long, deep breath, and exhaled it at the night sky. A moment later, he heard a whisper from his left. "... Jecht?" "Yeah?" He turned his head to look at Auron. This wasn't the first time the kid couldn't sleep, Jecht knew, and it wasn't the first time they'd shared a sleepless night talking, but... Auron was sitting, legs tucked in a lotus position, staring out over the water. Jecht watched him for a moment, waiting for him to say something else. When nothing else was said, Jecht sat up, too, and scratched the back of his neck. "I know. We're getting closer." Closer to Braska's death. Auron took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Jecht found himself tracing the line of his neck with his eyes. "There must be something," Auron muttered. Jecht scratched the back of his neck again. "Yeah." He glanced over at where Braska slept, curled up amongst the roots of a tree. With his eyes, Jecht traced over the lines of his face, too, and saw the loneliness etched in each and every one. Romantic night, huh? he thought to himself. With his wife, yeah... makes sense. Makes a damn lot of sense. "Jecht, I..." "Look. We'll think of something, all right? There's no way we're gonna let Braska..." The words died in Jecht's throat. Auron took another deep breath. Jecht watched him for a moment, followed the line from his neck down his shoulder to the curve of his elbow. "There's so much for him to do." Sometimes, Jecht didn't understand why he couldn't just shut up. "He said he wanted to get Yuna outta Bevelle, didn't he? He's gotta see her grow up, and he's gotta show her her first shoopuf." Jecht found himself nodding, his arms folded across his chest. "And I'll be there to teach her how to swim, and how to play blitz so good she'll beat all the boys at it. And you'll, uh..." Here, he was embarrassed to admit, he faltered. "You'll be there so I can point and show her what a stiff is and teach her not to be one." He nodded. "And you'll teach her the girly stuff, like cooking and sewing, 'cause you know all that." Auron was staring at him now and, though his expression was clear in the pyrefly light, Jecht couldn't read it, so he did the only thing he knew to do: He kept babbling. "Braska's gotta live, see? He's gotta be there to help her with magic and fight off the boys, 'cause you just know they're gonna be all over her when she grows up. He's gotta be there to... to tell her stories about her mom, about how beautiful she was and how much Yuna looks just like her, and all that." Jecht gestured wildly. "He's got so much to live for, so we're gonna make sure he doesn't die. Right?" Auron, still staring at him, shook his head, bemused. "But... how?" "How..." Jecht frowned for a moment. "Aha!" He slapped his fist into his palm. "We've got time before we reach Bevelle, right? We'll talk him into stopping the pilgrimage." "What?" "The both of us!" Jecht gestured again. "We'll gang up on him, and then we'll be right there at Bevelle anyway, so we could grab Yuna and run back down to Besaid. How 'bout it?" Auron was silent for a long moment. "He won't," he said quietly. "He won't give up the pilgrimage." "... I know." And he did. He knew Braska would never give up -- There were just too many things... He would never give up. He would keep on marching, right on up to Zanarkand, and -- and Jecht and Auron would be marching right along with him, because... because... Jecht still doesn't know how it happened. He never noticed how close he was to Auron, didn't know if he was the one who moved close or if Auron did, didn't know who made the first move -- didn't know if he kissed Auron or if Auron kissed him -- it just -- happened, and before either of them knew it, they were tumbling to the ground, desperately clutching one another, struggling to keep quiet, desperately moving for more -- more friction, more heat, more contact, more connection -- Auron. Auron. Auron -- The pyreflies were so bright, so bright, like stars, Jecht thought blindly. A blanket of stars on the riverbed of regret. Times are bad, but they're getting better. He's drifting away in the sea now, far within the depths of the ocean. He thinks he can still see blood in the water, but knows it's just his mind playing tricks on him. He thinks he's bound for Macalania. He hopes he is. He really needs to hear the fayth right now. For some reason, the hymn lets him hate himself a little less. Braska, I'm sorry. Auron, I'm sorry. Yuna, Tidus, Daja, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Sometimes, Jecht thinks his memories are the only things that keep him sane. He's probably right. His memories, and the fayth's song, and the knowledge that somewhere out there, Tidus and Yuna and Auron are fighting. Fighting fiends, fighting Yevon, fighting Sin -- fighting him. If they're fighting, it means they're alive. If they're fighting, it means they still have a chance to put an end to this. Sometimes, Jecht thinks that if he dies, he won't hate himself so much any more. You're late, Auron...

#final fantasy x #jecht #auron #braska

Faith

Bringing back some FFX fic I wrote back in, what. 2009? This story and the previous one were posted on my old LJ, and I don't want to have to go back to it in order to find these again.

So, here we go!

Summary: The sound of the Hymn of the Fayth soothes three old souls as they find peace with one another.

Genre: Romance

Rated: PG

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 267

Notes: Fwiw, this piece features Jecht/Auron/Braska as a ship.

#final fantasy x #jecht #auron #braska

How to Dig Two Graves

GODDAMMIT I'M SUPPOSED TO BE SUMMARIZING A COURIER'S HISTORY, HOW DID I FUCKING END UP WITH A FIC. WHY DID I DO THIS. WHY.

... er, that is. Hello, everyone, long time no see! :'] I spontaneously a random fic when I was supposed to be working on something else. Technically, I also have two other fic I could have been writing, but oh well. Summary: Why did the peace-preaching Courier help the depressed sniper murder the woman who sold his wife into slavery? That's a very good question. Genre: Gen Rated: PG-13 Warnings: Discussion of murder. Possibly the mutilation of the character named Craig Boone. Also, this is unedited because I'm so mad at myself I don't want to look at it any more. Word Count: 742

The more Boone learned about this courier, the more surprised he was that she ever helped him in the first place. The more he started thinking her as a kid, even if he wasn't actually sure if he was that much older than her. Most people would've charged into the REPCONN facility guns blazing, shooting first at ghoul and nightkin alike. Instead, she stumbled her way into becoming a saint in that ghoul cult and somehow managed to out-sneak nightkin "to avoid unnecessary bloodshed." Most people would've chosen to help the NCR or the Khans. One or the other. Not both. And most people sure as hell wouldn't have gunned for the safety of some people who helped get her nearly killed. But she not only challenged that lieutenant to go against orders and let the Khans go, but he actually listened to her. When she told Boone that she was rescued by a robot from a shallow grave, she said that she had to pay it forward. Her life had been saved, so she had a debt she felt she couldn't repay. That, he could understand. Had been there himself. But she was taking it to an extreme. After they killed the nightkin responsible for the death of the brahmin at the McBride ranch, she cried. Said she hadn't wanted to kill it. Insisted they bury the body, give it a proper funeral. And yet, she left Jeannie May Crawford's lifeless body sprawled on the dirt. Boone's morbid curiousity got the better of him one night as they sat around the campfire eating dinner, and he asked her about it. Her brow furrowed and she shifted uncomfortably. Bit her lower lip, the way he was figuring out she did when she was thinking about something personal. Eventually, she set her squirrel on a stick down on her leg and laughed quietly. "Well," she said, trying to sound casual, "that way, the people who cared for her could give her the funeral. Maybe it helped them find closure." Her tone raised at the end of that sentence, making it sound more like a question. Boone leveled her with an unmoving stare until she shifted again and frowned. "I..." She gestured with her hands, vaguely at first, but the movements quickened as she talked until it couldn't be called anything but mild flailing. "It's just... that bill of sale... and she... I don't -- Look, I don't know. I don't know. But every time I think about what she did, when I thought about -- When I thought about you, then I -- " She realized the way her hands had gotten out of control, and she forced them into her lap, knocking her dinner off her leg, and her fingers knit together. She stared at them for a long time, eyes fiercely trained but expression unreadable. Her mouth twitched, working words around behind her lips until they started spilling free again. "I was... angry. And -- hurt. That she'd do something like that. That she'd be so kind to me, when with that same smile, she turned against someone she... She had no right, no right, and I." Her hands trembled. She said nothing for a moment. When she finally spoke up again, her voice was quiet and guilty. "I don't know if I should have helped you at all. But I..." She closed her eyes, as if to brace herself against what she was about to confess. "I would -- do it again, if it meant that it would help you. If it meant that you'd still be here." Boone did not reply, partly in case she was going to start up again, partly because he... didn't know what to say to that. Didn't think he had anything for that. Silently, he resumed eating, and a moment afterwards, she dusted off her squirrel and worked on finishing it off. The rest of dinner went without a word. Boone didn't say a word until after she insisted that she take first watch. "Let's get moving." When she looked at him, firelight dancing in the reflection of her wide eyes, he stood. "If neither of us are going to get any sleep, might as well make progress towards Vegas." She opened her mouth, as if to protest, but then she must have thought of what awaited her there, because her expression stiffened. But then, it softened again, and instead, she quietly said, "Thank you."

#fallout: new vegas #craig boone #elle days #courier six

Syopa E Haat Oui

A quick thing I wrote about Braska and his wife, before Yuna's birth.

Al Bhed translator

Summary: It's a learning process, exploring the skin of someone new. Even more cautious is the mapping of their soul.

Genre: Romance/Smut

Rated: Not quite M??

Warnings: None. There isn't any actual sex described, but it's a story about sex so

Word Count: 267

#final fantasy x #braska #lanna

Warning: Final Fantasy X Flood Incoming

Yeahhhhh. I started up a Braska RP tumblr and it's gotten me started on everything again.

Current project: Hunt down what people have analyzed and/or headcanoned for the culture of the Al Bhed, katamari it all up, turn it into a star. I have a Notepad out for notes and links and everything, and I'm prrrobably going to wind up sharing my resources. Because yeah.

I really do want to write out a Fic Of Epic Proportions for my version of Braska falling in love with his wife, and Braska's experience being a missionary for the Al Bhed, period. But because I'm me, I want to hash out a good strong culture for the Al Bhed first (since canon gives us so little to work with 8|), so, hoooo. Here we go.

I'm cry.

#final fantasy x #al bhed

Of Fairies and Footprints

Another short story, but this one is from 2010 when I took the class the first time. Of the two I wrote that semester, this is the only one I'm willing to show in the light of day, so here goes.

Summary: Growing up and being left behind's a bitch, especially when you define yourself by your friends.

Genre: ???

Rated: PG

Warnings: none, except that this is first person and the narrator's voice is kind of annoying

Word Count: 3603

We used to believe we were fairies, you know? Well. I used to believe I was a fairy. My brother would always say that he was a troll that eats fairies for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And then I’d shriek and point at him and yell “Fairy killer!” and then we’d play war. (Fairies always won.) But we were kids. The best kind of kids ever, and by that I mean the most obnoxious kids ever, but we were kids all the same. That was back before we had to deal with grown-up things like stolen motorcycles and boyfriends and college and hiding in bathrooms, back when we could get away with believing we were fairies and fairy-eating trolls and that the fate of the universe was hinged on the outcome of our totally vicious war. Sometimes we’d get the other kids to play, too. My brother’s best friend was always a troll, too. The worst kind of troll, because he’d pull on my hair and put sand down my shirt and call me smelly. Then I’d run crying to where my cousin and her friends were hunting dragons. They were fairies in disguise, you see. They would reveal themselves when it really counted, like during tea time and when the floor was lava and when the trolls were big fat meanies. I’d go crying to them and they’d show their true fairy nature by charging into war to avenge me. Fairies always won. (Except for the one time when my cousin’s boy friend betrayed us by revealing that he was actually a troll in disguise as a fairy in disguise. It wasn’t nearly fair when it was a full-on boys-against-girls war.) It was great. That playground -- the one down the street, you know, that used to have the woodchips and the metal slide and the seesaw that looks like an alligator -- was a bloody battlefield of sheer, unadulterated awesome. And then after the fairies stood in cheesy victorious poses on top of the slide (it was the time of Power Rangers, okay, don’t judge), we were just kids again. My cousin’s boy friend would push me down the slide and I’d drag him with me. My cousin’s other friend would help us both back up only to push the boy back down to prove her point. Of course, that’d just start a new war, but that’s not the point. The point is that we were kids. We believed we were trolls and fairies, but we just as easily turned it all off. Back then, it was like the magic that let fairies and trolls exist would always be there. It wasn’t going anywhere. We could come back to it another time. Because we were kids, we took it for granted. We took each other for granted. Obviously, everyone would always be there to play war. Obviously, the fact that we played war meant we were friends forever and ever, and that meant we would be together for a trillion jillion years, just like that. Fairies and trolls were immortal, because we said so. And nothing was gonna change that. Because we were kids. * Christmas was the best time in the whole wide universe, from childhood all the way up to… Well, Christmas never stops being awesome, if you ask me. And it’s not just because of the whole “giving and receiving presents” thing, either. I mean… Okay, so, like. Family has always been a big thing for me. It’s always been a big thing for all of my family. ‘Cause it’s like -- All we’ve got in the world is each other, you know? It’s felt like that ever since I was little, but that may just be because of the way my pops and brother and aunt and uncle and cousins acted. That kind of stuff rubs off on kids. I mean, now I know that you can depend on your friends just as much as you can your family if they’re the right kind of friends, but if you ask me, all my friends are part of my family, too, so the difference is moot. (Unless they’re not the right kind of friend, and then you just need to kick them in the face and leave a grenade in their mailbox. Oh, stop looking at me like that -- It wasn’t a live one. Eesh.) So family has always been a big thing for me, and that means holidays are the best time in the whole wide stinkin’ universe, from childhood up to forever, because it means it’s time to spend time with family. Which, yeah, I mean, it’s not always a good thing. My dad and my brother always fight, but they’ll do that regardless of if it’s the holidays or not, you know? Sometimes I wonder if my mama would be able to calm them down if she was still with us, so I do my best to try and get them to at least shut the hell up, because really, it’s Christmas, cut it out! (Mama died when I was real little, but it’s okay, because I know and Pops knows and my brother knows that we’re going to all meet up with her later, ‘cause that’s just how it is. Family is family forever, and nothing like death can keep us apart for too long.) But time with family is time with family, and eventually the guys will stop fighting and we’ll all carry on with all of the awesome traditions that come with Christmas. Like decorating the tree. That one’s always my favorite. Well, aside from eating -- uh, baking cookies, I mean. Usually me and my cousin are the only ones to do it. Pops is usually trying to find the rest of ornaments or something and my brother’s lazy, so it’s usually just me and her. It’s kind of nice, really. My cousin is the sweetest girl you’ll ever meet in your life. She’s always there when I need her and she has the softest smile. She’s the kind of person who can listen and listen and listen, no matter how angry or upset you are, no matter what you’re saying, and still give you -- Well, no, it’s not really advice, but she’ll let you know what she thinks about the situation, and then she’ll give you a hug and, if you’re really worked up, sing you a quiet little song. I can’t remember if Mama sang me any lullabies before she left, but I like to think that she’d sing just like my cousin. I love my cousin so so so so much, and I never, ever, ever want anything bad to happen to her. I’ll travel the whole stupid Earth and fight off a million and a half monsters just to keep her safe. Anyway. Decorating the tree is like, something we do together. It’s our thing. We put the tinsil on the tree, and then we put the lights on, and then we start hanging whatever ornaments have all ready been found. My favorite thing to do is to put the see-through or super-sparkly ones right next to or in front of the lights. It puts all kind of color in them and they shine like snow in the streetlamps. You know, I think my cousin’s in love. I think she’s in love with this guy we’ve known ever since we were little. He lives in the neighborhood, you see, so he was one of the kids who came and played war with us. He’s always had a crush on her, and everyone’s known it. I’m not really sure if my cousin knows, but I wouldn’t be surprised; she’s really perceptive like that. But there was this one time when we were hanging ornaments on the tree and the doorbell buzzed. I could hear my brother opening the door, and then a few minutes later, my cousin’s boy friend followed him into the room. They were just passing through ‘cause he was there to borrow a video game from my brother, and we all waved and said hi and all that friend-y stuff. But, you know how I found out that my cousin’s probably-very-likely in love with him? ‘Cause when he walked into the room, she lit up, like he was a Christmas light and she was an ornament. I mean… It so definitely isn’t just a crush. I dunno if my cousin’s ever had a crush on anybody before, but I still think I can tell the difference. ‘Cause, I mean… When I have a crush, I get all flustered around the guy and I can’t stop talking and because I talk with my hands it looks like I get all flaily. I mean, there’s a huge difference between how I act and how my cousin acts, because I can’t sit still but she can for hours and hours. But when that boy walked in the room, she lit up and kind of… She came alive. All of this color came to her face and eyes and her smile was just different and… It’s like how her mom and dad are when they’re together. That’s when I knew. She is so totally one hundred percent seal-it-with-a-kiss in love. And I’m happy for her. And I’m happy for him. Because they just belong together, you know? They’re the kind of people you can tell are going to have one of those one-in-a-hundred-million happy ever afters. So when he and my brother came back through, I jumped up and tackled him and yelled and hollered and nobody knew why but me. And that makes me happy, too. So I invited him to stay for dinner and everyone looked at me funny but he’s a friend and a friend is family and he’s going to be family in the future, you know, so what does it matter? The more the merrier! And if he doesn’t make her happy, if he ever, ever breaks her heart, I’m leaving a grenade on his porch. A live one. ‘Cause the only kind of person who can do something like that to my cousin is obviously secretly some kind of evil troll-monster. * It’s kinda funny how when kids grow up into teenagers, they want to rebel, don’t you think? I mean. I totally understand. Because I did, too. I didn’t want to be anything like my brother or my pops, ‘cause, I mean, look at ‘em. They’re lame and they fight all the time and who ever wants to be like that? I didn’t like them at all. I wasn’t related to them, not really. I was adopted. I was a stepchild from Mama’s other marriage! Look at me, I’m hurt and my family will never, ever, ever understand me! But, like. I think that maybe teenagers need to rebel, even if it is kind of silly. ‘Cause there’s a lesson to be learned in that, you know? All kinds of lessons. Like, “this is how you sneak out of the house at two in the morning without waking anyone up.” And, “this is how you hotwire your brother’s motorcycle.” And, “this is how you don’t kill yourself driving it down the street to see your brother’s totally hot best friend.” Uh, no, wait, that’s not what I mean. Ignore that! You didn’t see that! There’s all kinds of lessons to be learned as a rebellious teenager. Like, the whole balance between walking your own path and walking in other people’s footprints. Because, I mean… There’s nothing at all wrong with finding your own road. Nothing at all. Unless you hurt the people important to you when you don’t have to, even if you tell yourself that they’re not important at all. Like, take the thing with the motorcycle, for example. Do you know how many times I came close to breaking my dumb neck trying to drive that? Not that I really cared at the time. I thought every narrow escape from death was all kinds of exciting and cool and awesome, and I thought that the guy was gonna be so impressed because I was so brave and daring and more than just his best friend’s kid sister who used to believe she was a fairy. And, you know, he kinda was impressed. ‘Cause I didn’t know how to drive it, not really, so making it down the street without cracking my head open on the asphalt like a cream-filled chocolate was nothing short of a miracle. He told me that, and then he told me I’m a stupid idiot, and then he told me to move over, he’ll drive, because at least he knew how to. It was our first (and only) date. Ish. Thing. It was actually kind of lame. Do you know how many places are open at two in the morning? Not many at all. Maybe there was the odd bar that was still open, but like hell they’d let in a couple of teenagers on a stolen motorcycle, even though all we wanted was a basket of cheesy fries and a couple of Cokes. So all we did was drive around and throw rocks at birds and make stupid jokes that didn’t make any sense because it was two in the freakin’ morning. And then I got home and found out that my brother has the same sleeping patterns as his best friend. Oops. I was in Trou-ble. Like, see that capital T and the bold and the slanted letters there? Yeah. I was in so much trouble that I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere but school and home for two weeks. And I was so mad, because I didn’t understand why at all. I was being a rebellious teenager! There was nothing bad about that! Everyone does that kind of stuff at that age! How dare they, I didn’t do anything wrong, they couldn’t do that to me! Rawr! Anger anger rage-y hate I don’t like you any more tantrum! But, you know… That was the first time I’d ever, ever seen Pops that angry. And to be honest, I was kind of scared. Not of him, not really. But of the look in his eyes. Because it wasn’t just anger there. There was fear and hurt and I’d never, ever seen him look so terrified, except for when we got the news about Mama’s accident. I was real little at the time, but that stuck with me. His expression, I mean. That look of heartbreak and no no no this isn’t happening and… And I never realized just how much I didn’t want to see that look again. Not until that night. Do you think you know the lesson now? It’s not as obvious as you think it is. Yeah, there’s the whole “your dad is scared of losing you” thing, but… Nah, I won’t say it. You’ll figure it out. * I think I’m jealous of my cousin. Stupid, isn’t it? I mean, I should be happy that she’s happy, because she so totally is. The guy she’s in love with finally got up the nerve to ask her out, and now he’s not just my cousin’s boy friend, but he’s my cousin’s boyfriend. And they are so, so happy together, and they deserve each other and every ounce of joy and glee and sunshine they have. But I think I’m jealous of her, because… I don’t know. It’s stupid. I mean, why should I be jealous? I don’t want to steal her boyfriend or anything like that. He’s a sweet guy and all, but I could adopt him as another brother so that’s just all kinds of ew. But… Okay, so. The other day, we were all hanging out, the whole group. Me and my brother and his best friend and my cousin and her boyfriend and our mutual friend, a girl who used to play fairies with us. All six of us were hanging out at the mall, just hanging out and occasionally pelting food at each other and that kind of thing. It was the first time in a long time we actually had a chance to do that, because everyone’s been busy with school and all. I’m still the youngest one, the only one still in high school. I’ve only got one more year, granted, but everyone else has been off on their various campuses and whatever. So it was the first time in a long time we actually had the chance to hang out. My cousin’s boyfriend started complaining about this test he’s got coming up in math, his worst subject, and that spawned a whole conversation about their classes and their “instructors” and “there’s this beautiful tree on our campus” and “my dorm is co-ed, right, and the other day” and and and so on and so forth and blah blah blah oh my god I don’t care. I mean… I do? Because they’re my friends? But… I slipped out of my chair and said I was going to the bathroom, but I didn’t think anyone heard me, and I kind of ran and hid myself in a stall so I could hit my head against a wall without anyone giving me funny looks. I’ve been trying so hard, you know? I’ve made all kinds of new friends at school and got myself involved in all kinds of clubs and activities and whatever, anything and everything from chess to muscle car club to choir to theater, and I barely have enough time to do homework but I manage to turn everything in anyway because I’m cool like that. I am a superhero when it comes to time management, and it makes me feel awesome, being able to juggle it all without blowing up from the stress. It’s a lot of fun, and I’m enjoying myself, I really am, but… but… I’m still stupidly, outrageously jealous of not just my cousin, really, but all of my friends. I don’t get it. I’m happy where I am and I’m happy for them and they’re happy so what’s the problem? I mean, I don’t get to see them very often any more, and of course I don’t like that, and of course it means that I don’t know anything about the new things that make them laugh or what it’s like to live in a dorm or what their dreams are now compared to back then but but but -- None of that really matters because they’re happy and I’m happy that they’re happy, right? It doesn’t matter because they’re making their own footprints and I’m trying to follow them but no matter how much I run, I can’t catch up, so I’m running and running and running and -- I apparently spent more time in that stall than I thought I did, because the girl who used to play fairies with us came in to check on me. She’s really cool, you know? All calm and collected and sarcastic and she could kick anyone’s ass, no matter how big and beefy they are. We all look up to her, even the guys, because she’s all kinds of awesome and probably more manly than they are. I’m still kind of surprised that it was her and not my cousin. She’s not really the type to do heart-to-heart talks or anything girly like that. “You okay in there?” she asked. “Yeah,” I said. “Haven’t fallen in or anything, have you?” “No!” “Good. You coming out any time soon?” “Maybe.” “We’ll be waiting.” I listened for her footsteps, for the door to swing open and shut again. I didn’t hear anything. “What?” I asked. “What what?” she intoned. “You’re still here.” “Yeah.” “Why?” “Because you need to know I am.” I didn’t know how to answer that. I just kinda stood there and stared at the green metal of the stall and chewed on one of my braids. If I tilted my head enough, I could kind of make out her outline in the crack of the door. She was still standing there, and I think her arms were folded. I unlocked and opened the door, just a little, just enough so I could see her expression. We met eyes. I didn’t move. “Okay,” I said. “C’mon,” she said, tilting her head back towards the door. “Let’s get back before your brother eats all my cheesy fries.” I’m jealous of my friends, but I think it’s okay. Because even though they seem so far away, they’re not, not really. They’re off making their own footprints, but they’re still waiting for me. And once I finally catch up, I’m gonna skip and jump and do somersaults and all kinds of cool stunts and steal my brother’s cheesy fries, and everything will go back to the way that it was, except not really. We’re all grown up now, you know? And that means that we’re different people even though we’re still us. We may not be walking side-by-side any more, but we’re all still on the same beach, so I’ll meet up with them later. But in the meantime, I can take the chance to settle down and straighten out my footprints, because right now it just kind of looks like I’ve been scrambling around like a crazy squirrel. I can’t catch up if I’m running in place, right?

#original #tl;dr warning #short story

A little KH/WIR somethin' somethin'

Because of Reasons.

#axel #kingdom hearts #roxas #wreck-it-ralph #xion #vanellope

malathyne

> go on Xion tag > see a post that makes me angry > draw a little cute something to make self feel better

#kingdom hearts #xion #my art

luckythirtyeight

I got bored and this blog has been entirely devoid of my own art thus far, so I decided to fix this. So here, have an Elle. Have two Elles, actually, a chibi one and a normal one. I didn’t draw the hat on the full version because I am terrible at drawing fedoras.

This is her hairstyle when she actually keeps it up; if she’s been traveling a lot, it gets longer and more ratty and she stops bothering trying to keep her bangs out of her face. Some day I will doodle this, but that day is not today. Probably.

For the record, drawing with a touchpad sucks.

#my art #fallout: new vegas #elle #courier six

I'm going to reblog a couple of things from my personal

They are little doodles I have done and I am reblogging them here because I want to

#hello 5:30am

"our characters go on a date. what happens?"

Wingus: Veronica doesn't date Couriers Me: but what about Christine tho Wingus: THEN IT BECOMES VERY AWKWARD Wingus: And kinda cute Wingus: And clumsy Me: it ends with embarrassed kisses goodnight and then they both flee in opposite directions Wingus: Some passing-by smartass probably gets punched for making a comment about Christine's scars. Me: twice

#reposted because something weird happened #callmewingus #fallout: new vegas #christine royce #veronica santangelo #not inaccurate

Chasing Stars and Possibilities

The second and final short story I turned in for class. This one, I am much more proud of.

Summary: She travels the world with him, and she hardly knows who he is. It's a learning experience.

Genre: ... idefk. You tell me?

Rated: PG-13, maybe? For the warnings.

Warnings: A random minor character makes a really sexist remark using the words "bitch" and "whore." Also, mentions of violence. Also, blood.

Word Count: 3347

“I lost my home, too, you know,” he says conversationally and licks the concave of his spork. They’re relaxing in the kitchen after a particularly taxing adventure and eating Nutella straight out of the jar. He’s perched on the island counter, legs tucked up under him Indian-style. She’s sitting next to him, bare feet dangling off the ground. She pauses in smoothing out a crease in her khaki skirt and glances up at him. He catches her looking and raises his eyebrows. “I’m sorry.” Her response is familiar and reflexive, soft and honest. Her eyes drop and she moves to scoop out another spoonful of chocolate-hazelnut spread, just for something to do. “There was a war of sorts,” he explains, focus trained on twirling his spork. “My family turned against one other, each convinced their way was the right one. But they took it too far. Even forgot why they were fighting. There aren't a lot of us left, any more.” He falls quiet, and she looks at him again. His grey eyes are dark and far, far away, as if staring into the past itself and seeing all the wounds that he couldn’t mend. She reaches over and smooths out a crease in the shoulder of his cream-colored jacket. He glances at her, and what she sees then in his eyes makes her heart clench and ache. She wishes she could reach out and gently stroke away that pain, another wrinkle to soften, but she knows it’s deeper than she can ever hope to heal. “What…” she murmurs, but stops, sorting out what to say. “What do you miss the most?” A note of surprise flickers in those eyes and he breaks her gaze, blinking and exhaling. “The sky.” He lifts his chin. “None other like it. The sunsets were magical.” She slides her hand from his shoulder to his side in a tight hug, her cheek pressing against the side of his shoulder. He doesn’t immediately move to return it, but that’s okay. “I miss…” She thinks for a moment, searching, sifting through her memories. Waves of emotion crash over her as she imagines: the endless sky, the crisp morning air, the silhouette of the farm in the dawn light. Her father, his head thrown back in heartfelt laughter. Her mother standing on the back porch, arms folded over her chest. Her father’s gravestone. And wait; your waiting will not be in vain. Time gilds with gold the iron links of pain. The dark to-day will lead into light to-morrow; there is no endless joy, no endless sorrow. Her mother, standing in the middle of what used to be their living room but is now a hollow, empty space, without any of the warmth or the acceptance that once thrived there. “I miss my family,” she whispers. She can’t seem to raise her voice higher than that. He’s hugging her, too, now, and he gives her a squeeze. She leans her head on his shoulder. In a little while, she’ll be okay enough that she can put on a smile, and then he’ll take her hand and lead her to a new city, a new adventure, into their new life. But for now… She’ll stay here, curled up against him, and he’ll remind her, without meaning to, what it feels like to be home. * * * “If there's one thing I'll never get tired of,” he says, “it's the stars.” She lies in the field next to him, staring up at the night sky. She grew up looking at this sky. The moon is so bright they have no need for any lights to see their way. To be honest, she's the one who wanted to stop. He wants to push on, keep walking until they reach the next town, but he can't keep her from her memories tonight. The smells of the grass and the trees and the crisp air calls up too much for her to ignore. He holds up his hand to the sky and stretches out his fingers, as if to seize the very stars from the night. “They are beautiful,” she admits after a moment. “They remind me of all the possibilities there are out there.” His voice is as bright as the moon, as restless as the grass in the wind. “Have you ever thought about it?” She turns her head to look at him. “What do you mean?” “There are so many people in this world who never look up. They never wonder, what if? They're too scared to try.” He closes his hand and opens it again. “But look at all of those stars. Who says we can't become one of them? Who says they can't be other realities waiting for us to come say hi?” “Science,” she says. He laughs and doesn't continue on. She looks away. They lie there in silence for a moment. “How long have you been doing this?” she asks finally. “Chasing stars and possibilities, I mean.” “Oh, a few years now.” “How do you afford to do this? We don't ever work when we go anywhere. You just have copious amounts of money at your beck and call.” “It's called inheritance,” he says with an easy laugh. She frowns at the sky. “So why... This? You could live comfortably for the rest of your life with the way you throw money around, or travel comfortably. Why fields of grass? Why buses and walks?” He's quiet for a minute. “Well... Would you want it any other way?” She doesn't answer him. She doesn't have to. “The way I see it,” he continues, “it's better to be out here than to be cooped up in some mansion with all the weight of the past on your shoulders. I want to make my own choices without worrying about what came before. I want to live my own life. I want to carry pieces of it with me, to know that everything I could ever need is right here next to me.” When she looks up at the stars, she doesn't see possibilities. She sees the choices she has made. She sees the places she has walked, the things she has touched, the lessons that she's learned. She sees her mother, sitting alone in the apartment, still waiting for her to walk in the door. She sees her father, holding a book of poetry open in one hand, hears his voice as he reads from it for her. “'A mighty monarch in the days of old made offer of high honor, wealth, and gold to one who should produce in form concise a motto for his guidance, terse, yet wise. A precept, soothing in his hours forlorn, yet one that in his prosperous days would warn. Many maxims sent the king, some say. The one he chose: 'This too shall pass away.'” The night whispers around them as she struggles to find her voice. When she does speak, her voice is quiet, as if in confession. “I could never forget.” She inhales deeply, takes in the smell of her childhood, of home. “And I wouldn't want to. It's a part of me. Even the things I regret, or the things that make me sad... I don't know how you can leave all that behind.” “I would rather give all of that up for this life,” he says softly. “Even who you used to be?” “Especially that.” But then, what do you learn? she wants to ask, but doesn't. She takes in another deep breath and holds it before exhaling her unspoken words to the sky. * * * He offers her his hand, his mouth open in a wide grin. “Oh, come on. It'll be fun!” She eyes the dance floor. Men in crisp suits guide women in glittering gowns. They glide effortlessly across the ballroom, the setting for an engagement party for some local celebrity he sweet talked their way into. Looking at it all reminds her of everything she's never been good at. “I don't know...” “It isn't as complicated as it looks. Promise.” His eyes are bright even as his expression turns pleading. “If you don't dance with me, I'll look like a bad escort.” She laughs at him. “Yeah, because our reputations here are so important.” “All you have to do is follow my lead. No talent required.” When she still looks uncertain, he purses his lips in a pout. It looks ridiculous on him. “Please?” “Oh, fine,” she says with a put-upon sigh. She'll never hear the end of it if she keeps saying no. “Excellent!” He grabs her hand and pulls her to her feet. She almost trips over the hem of her dress. Despite her protests, he continues on. By the time they reach the dance floor, she all but stumbles into him. He catches her with his body, and he steadies her with his hands on her elbows. “Whoa, there.” He grins.

“He says as if it wasn't his fault to begin with,” she grouses. His hand is settling on the small of her back, the fingers of the other linking with hers. He raises his eyebrows at her. There is a challenge in his eyes as he says, “Shall we?” Her frown deepens, but she nods. She has never been graceful, has always been too preoccupied with daydreams that promised the world. Her father only encouraged her by reading to her, poetry carefully crafted by long-dead writers, novels full of embellished fantasy, scholarly articles on faraway jungles and deserts. Her mother, ever the realist, didn't approve, for all the good it did, because it didn't stop them. They skipped the dance lessons her mother signed her up for in favor of listening to audiobooks full of metaphors and dragons and good conquering evil. Those stolen hours were their time, wedged somewhere between farm work and dinnertime. She wouldn't trade that time for anything, but right now, she's certainly wishing she would've gone to at least one lesson. She can't fail now. Not with that look in his eyes, and the crawling feel of strangers watching. “One, two, three,” he counts under his breath. There isn't a doubt in her mind that it's for her sake, not his. “One, two, three. One, two...” She fumbles it. She steps out of time, wobbles in her heeled shoes, loses track of the beat. He remains poised, every gesture performed without an ounce of extra effort, and he looks so perfectly at home here she almost hates him for it. But despite her graceless movements, he recovers well enough for the both of them, bringing her back into step, guiding her back into balance, rescuing her from almost crashing into the nearby couples. The heat is high in her cheeks, but she does not let her frustration win. By the end of the dance, she may not have mastered it, but she has managed to stay in the game. “You're a natural,” he tells her cheerfully once they've left for the quiet of the gardens. She stares at him incredulously. “That was you I was dancing with, wasn't it?” “You were more into the dance than anyone in that room. Including me.” He still hasn't stopped grinning. “Don't sell yourself short. Just because you're not good at something, that doesn't mean you're not good at it.” “That doesn't make any sense.” “Sure it does.” He reaches over with one finger extended and taps the tip of her nose. “You'll get it. Just think on it. Now, c'mon. I know a place where we can find a real party.” * * * He is asleep on the couch of their hotel room. She watches his chest rise and fall in a slow, deep rhythm. It's the only time she ever sees him sit still, and it's as strange as it is beautiful. His face, normally so lively and always moving, remains placid and relaxed. His golden hair falls across his bandaged forehead and almost into his closed eyes. Her own eyes pause before straying to the rest of his body. He is shirtless, but she can hardly see skin for all the gauze wrapped around him. Her mouth tightens. “Idiot,” she murmurs under her breath, not for the first time. When she found him, it was the only thing that she managed to say, and so she said it, over and over again. Why did you do this? She had wanted to grab him by the front of his shirt and yell in his face. That man is almost dead! Why?! But when she looked at him, bloody and sweating and panting, standing over the prone body of the man who insulted her not even an hour before, a grin wide on his face and a look she didn't like in his eyes... “Idiot.” She won't lie, not to herself. He scared her that night. He terrified her. She never thought he was capable of something like that, of beating a man unconscious. She swallows hard. He didn't have to do that. If she'd known that he would, she wouldn't have wanted him to. She doesn't want him to do it ever again. That man didn't even threaten her life. She knows that the man was just some poor bastard who didn't like the fact that her friend was taking the spotlight by being gentle and good-humored. They stood next to each other, watching him sweep a girl who had never been asked to dance before around the dark room. “He's not even that good-looking,” the man growled. She spared a glance. “To a straight man, maybe.” “No one even knows his name. He could just be some bum off the street, some murderer, some psychopath looking for his next victim.” “Jealous?” Colored party lights danced across man's face as it twisted into a snarl. “Of what? Of how he's a lying fuck?” “Maybe you should stop drinking,” she said, eying the half-empty glass the man held. “And why should I listen to you?” The man scowled at her now, too. “You're just some little bitch following him around. You're nothing. Just another whore.” Her temper flared then, but she bit her tongue. She knew it was the alcohol talking, more than anything else. Instead of retaliating, she instead moved away to greet her friend and his dance partner as they turned from the dance floor in favor of the chairs lined up against the wall. While the girl left to rejoin friends at another table, she grumbled under her breath to him about the man. She knows now that she should have seen the signs. His expression cleared and his tone sounded strange and distant as he asked what her response was. When she told him she didn't do anything, a shadow passed behind his eyes. She thought she was just seeing things, thought it was a trick of the lights. His dance partner returned then with her friends, and soon she became lost in the laughter and companionship they brought with them. She didn't notice him slip away. She didn't realize he'd been missing for the better part of an hour until it was too late to stop him. He refused to go to the hospital himself, even as she called ambulances to tell them where the man lay. He insisted that he didn't need it. He took her hand in one of his own bloodied ones, and they ran. He's lucky their hotel room had a first aid kit. Despite his protests, she wrapped him in gauze bandages after he washed the blood away, and she realized that he was right. He was fine. Not even his hands were damaged. All of that blood... It wasn't his. “What did you do to him?” she managed to ask. She didn't manage to keep her voice even. “I made him pay,” he answered. His voice was light, carefree, just like normal. “I hope you didn't leave behind whatever you hit him with,” she said after a moment. He gave her a reassuring smile. “Do you really think I'd be so careless?” She feels sick. She stands and moves away from where he lies on the couch, instead choosing to look out the window. The sun is rising, and the initial rays of dawn are reaching out to touch her face. She chews on her lower lip. “What am I going to do with you?” Her voice is soft and she doesn't consider whether or not he would be able to hear her. Her words aren't for him. Not really. “I can't leave you on your own. I don't want you to be alone again. And...” I don't want to be alone again, either. Even if she did walk away, what did she have to return to? It's not like she's on speaking terms with her mother. If she goes back, she'll be going back to school. The crazy thing is, she still doesn't know what she wants to be when she grows up. She had always thought she would take over the farm, but... It's gone. She can still remember the look in her mother's eyes when she stood up and shouted at her for the first time since she was a child, shouted how could you sell it, how could you be so selfish, I don't want to move, this is my home. Her mother went very still, then, and though she couldn't read the look in her eyes, it made her heart tremble. She remembers seeing him for the first time, standing on the sidewalk in town with his hands in his pockets and nothing on his back but his clothes and a small duffle bag. His gold hair gleamed yellow under the early morning sunlight, and when he smiled at her, she couldn't help but stop to talk. When he held his hand out to her, offering to take her away and to see the world in a way she's never seen it before, she thought of predators with kind smiles, of psychopaths looking for nothing but their next victim. She knew he was lying, but she couldn't figure what about. She thought of never seeing her father's headstone again. She thought of her mother, waiting in the apartment for her to come back from a dance lesson. She thought of audiobooks and poetry and fantastic adventures. “But that's just silly,” she told her father once as they listened to the story of a foolish hero. “Didn't he know it was dangerous? He should've decided to stay home.” “You can't ever have an adventure if you don't take risks,” her father said. She watches the dawn light stretch out into their hotel room. It touches his hair tentatively, and it glows yellow softly. She thinks of gilded promises. She thinks of eating Nutella with sporks and learning to dance. She thinks of how he has never hurt her. She wonders what he hasn't told her, about his family and his past. She wonders if the risk is worth the adventure. She remembers what it was like to feel found again after being so lost for so long. “'Since life is short we need to make it broad; since life is brief we need to make it bright,'” she recites quietly to herself. “'Then keep the old king's motto well in sight, and let its meaning permeate each day. Whatever comes, This too shall pass away.'” She watches him stir awake. He sits up and stretches, and when he notices her, he offers a bright, if sheepish, grin. “Can I take the bandages off yet? It's not like I need them.” She folds her arms across her chest. “No.” “Why not?” Here comes that ridiculous pout again. She doesn't answer him at first, instead choosing to focus on picking her way across the floor as she heads to the bedroom. She needs some sleep. “So you don't forget what you did. Maybe you'll learn something.”

#original #tl;dr warning #short story

Background Music

The first short story I submitted for...... short story class.... Not sure what else to say about it. I do like how it came out, though I'm not as fond of this one as I am of the second one.

Summary: It's hard, choosing between your dream and your friends.

Genre: Idk... Generically sci-fi? Slice of life? Something like that

Rated: PG for some choice language? Nothing too bad, though

Word Count: 3484

Meena makes up her mind while she’s standing at the rainy bus stop: she’s going into space. It’s kind of an absent-minded thought, decided while she’s digging in her pockets for her fare as her bus turns the corner. She’s going into space. Finally. Even if her best friends don’t follow her. She’s fed up with waiting. Well… No, that’s not true. She’s not fed up, she’s just… She just feels like it’s time to go. The bus pulls to a stop in front of her and opens its doors. She’s found her fare and she steps in, pays up, and heads for her usual seat in the back. No one looks at her twice, except for that red-haired guy nursing a to-go coffee cup in the front. Meena thinks he’s just checking her out, even though she’s got a few smudges of oil on her face. The few people on board are regulars, and they know she’s a grease monkey who works at the shipyard. If she couldn’t work on a ship, she had reasoned, she could at least help build them. The redhead is still watching Meena out of the corner of his eye, so she raises her eyebrows at him. His ears turn pink and he suddenly becomes very interested in his cup. She grins a little to herself and looks out the window. Yeah, she thinks as she watches the fields streak by, it’s time to follow my dream. There’s nothing wrong with the same old, same old. It's just… not what she wants any more. * Meena is greeted by Liliane’s cheerful voice and the warm smell of sugar and dough. “Welcome home!” “You baking?” Meena asks as she toes her boots off in the entryway. Liliane pokes her head around the corner, reddish-brown hair catching the artificial light as it swings over her shoulder. “Yup!” She flashes a bright smile and disappears behind the wall again. “Figured it’d be nice for everyone to have something warm and sweet after coming home in the rain.” Bless her. Meena shucks her coat and hangs it on the rack. “That sounds great, Linli, thanks.” Liliane isn’t in the room, but Meena can see her response in her mind: she’s tucking her hair behind her ear, ducking her head a little, her smile turning almost shy. “Welcome.” “When’s Trill coming home?” “Dunno. They’re doing a show for an elementary school, so it may be a while.” “But it’s raining.” Liliane pauses. “Must be indoors.” “Well, whatever. I’m gonna go shower; I am so gross right now.” “Cinnamon rolls should be out when you’re done!” The problem now, Meena thinks as she steps into the spray, is figuring out how to tell them. And when. She needs to check on the deadlines for applying to the Academy. Deciding to go to into the black is all well and good and there are ways to get up there without going through the Federation, but like hell Meena’s going into trading or shipping or someshit like that. She wants to be an engineer on an honest-to-god long-mission starship. Has wanted to be for a long time. She can fix the hell out of anything she can get her hands on, but working on and with the mechanics of a ship? It’s hard. It’s difficult, it’s a challenge, and she loves it. Needs it. Otherwise, she’s bored out of her skull, because machines are her calling, but damn if basic transportation vehicles aren’t easy to fix. So she needs to check on dates, find out what information they need from her. Figure out how she’s gonna cover her ass when it comes to tuition. Yeah, she’s been saving up, but with the economy the way it is (because of some distant war with some planet nobody even heard of until they up and declared war on the Federation because of some hothead starship captain)… Who the hell knows? And she needs to tell the girls. Her girls. Sweet Liliane and sassy Trillby. She needs to tell them that she’s finally applying, with or without them. They’re not going to take it well. Dammit. There’s a plate of cinnamon rolls sitting out on the kitchen counter, fresh out of the oven and iced and everything. Liliane is in her room now, Meena knows, because there’s a big test coming up in her anatomy class. She’s been worried sick, so she’s been studying almost non-stop. But even if Meena didn’t know that, she’d be able to tell Liliane’s in there because she can, if she listens, hear the music she’s playing. “Happy is what happens when all your dreams come true!” Liliane’s into old twenty-first century musicals, especially the cheerful ones. This particular one, if Meena remembers correctly, doesn’t necessarily have a happily ever after, but it’s a story about friendship. Two girls from dramatically different backgrounds become best friends but choose different paths, which lead them farther apart than either of them realize. But what they do realize is that no matter what happens, they’re different -- and better -- people for having known each other. Heartwarming, sure. But bittersweet. Meena didn’t think twice about it when Liliane first told her the story. Now, it kind of makes her feel… well. It makes her think, yeah, that’s how life is. But it also kind of makes her feel sick. Just a little. “So if that joy... that thrill... doesn't thrill like you think it will...” Maybe a cinnamon roll will help settle her stomach. She’s still picking apart her roll when Trillby walks in. Meena glances over at her and performs a double-take. “Wow.” “I hate rain,” Trillby grouses. Her long dark hair is plastered to her skull and she looks just a little like a drowned cat. Meena abandons her roll in favor of finding her a towel, licking icing off her fingers as she goes. “How was the show?” “Fun.” Trillby rubs the towel into her hair with a vengeance. “But it was freaking pouring when we could finally leave.” “Linli made cinnamon rolls.” “Oooh.” Trillby goes to change into dry clothes and Meena picks her cinnamon roll back up. After a few minutes, Trillby joins her, heaving herself onto a stool with a sigh. “Why is it,” she asks, “the only one of us who can actually cook is constantly busy?” Liliane’s baking is something of a special treat. “Universal laws of irony.” “Figures.” “Damn med school.” They eat in companionable silence for a few moments. Liliane’s music filters in again. “And if it turns out it’s over too fast, I’ll make every last moment last as long as you’re mine…” Meena can tell Trill right now. No need for any kind of awkward transition. All she has to do is come out and say it. Casually. “Hey, so I decided to enroll to the Academy.” Test it out on her before she tells Liliane. Except Trillby may take it worse. After all, Liliane can throw herself into her schoolwork, but Trillby… Well. Meena’s her only real support right now. Especially when it comes to Liliane. So, more than anyone else, she’s the most likely to take it in a “you’re leaving me” way. Meena reaches for another cinnamon roll. * The next day, Meena crunches numbers whenever she's on break. She looks into dorm costs and the prices of local cuisine. She dives headlong into scholarship listings, picking out the ones that seemed the most promising. She researches loans and calculates interest. She keeps track of everything by writing it down the old-fashioned way. Trillby always teased her about the habit, Liliane always looked confused and a little alarmed to see her scratching out notes by hand, and Meena always ignored them both. It's just easier for her to remember things this way. It makes her brain work in ways different from usual. Most importantly, it gives her the illusion of being productive. Having that hands-on interaction, being able to physically tie herself to the thoughts in her head... It grounds her. It's personal. Work ends almost without her noticing. She's forced to run to the bus stop, and she's grateful it isn't raining any more. The redhead is on board again, looking almost exactly as he did yesterday, including the coffee. Meena notices that he notices her again, though this time he seems more interested in the hand-sized notebook she's holding. She makes up her mind to ignore his stares until he clears his throat to get her attention. She lifts her eyes from the paper to spare him a glance. He smiles sheepishly. Cute. “Sorry to bother you,” he says, “but could I ask what you're writing?” At least he's polite. Meena considers his question for a moment before shrugging. “Nothing special. Just a bunch of numbers and prospects for the future.” He laughs, but she can hear the disappointment there. “It's hard to believe prospects for the future aren't anything special.” Meena allows herself a rueful grin. “Okay, amendment: My future.” There is genuine interest dancing with sparks of curiousity in his eyes. “My statement still stands.” “Are you trying to butter me up?” He looks embarrassed, then, and it shows in his cheeks when he laughs again. “No, no, no. Sorry. I guess that was out of line.” She shrugs, grinning at him again, this time more honestly. “Nah. It's okay.” “I couldn't resist,” he says, rolling the to-go cup in his hands. “It's not every day you see someone with a notebook.” “I know. Don't worry about it. You're not the first one to start talking to me because of it, and I can guarantee you won't be the last.” “Can I ask why?” “You just did.” “I guess I did, huh?” He runs a hand through his short-cropped hair. That cute sheepish smile returns to his face. “Sorry. Blew it again.” “I'm just giving you a hard time. There's something about hand-writing that calms me down. That's all there really is to it.” He nods, leaning back in his seat. “I know the feeling. When I'm brainstorming – Oh, I forgot to say. I write. All kinds of things. Journalism, fiction, poetry, you name it, I've taken a crack at it, even script-writing. Anyway, when I'm brainstorming, I can only get my ideas flowing if I've got a pencil in my hand. It's not the same typing it, you know?” Meena can't help but raise her eyebrows. “Yeah, I know, Mr. Chatterbox.” Before he can get flustered and backpedal again, she pushes forward. “So what's a writer like you doing on a bus?” “Heading to work. I don't write for a living or anything. Gotta pay the bills somehow, right?” “Right, right. What's your job?” “I'm a night shift janitor. Y'know, the kind that hangs around empty buildings at awkwardly late hours, scrubbing everything down. Well. More like watching the machinery scrub everything down, but you know what I mean. It's not exactly riveting work, but it gives me time to write and pays well enough to bolster our income.” Meena can't help but frown. “'Our'?” Girlfriend, maybe? Wife? She begins to bat away the creeping edges of disappointment even before he answers. “Yeah. I live with my grandfather so I can take care of him.” She stops swatting away her emotions. “Ohh. That must be nice.” He makes the 'kinda' motion with one hand. “When he's not telling me I need to give up my writing, sure.” “What?” Meena frowns again. “That's awfully supportive of him.” The redhead's mouth slants in a small lop-sided grin. “He likes to think it is. According to him, writing's all fine and good, but it's not gonna win wives or steaks.” She studies him for a moment. His posture is relaxed, his expression easy. “Doesn't it bother you?” she asks. “You're supporting him, literally, and he can't even try to back you up in something you want to do.” He chuckles, a little ashamed. “Well... Yeah. Of course it bothers me. I'm only human. But even though he's the only family I've got left now, that doesn't mean his opinion is the only one that matters to me. Just because he disapproves, that doesn't mean he doesn't love me, and it doesn't mean he can take writing away from me. In the end, I'm still me, and that's all I can ask for. ” Meena nods, but can't think of anything to say in response. They make eye contact. He gives her that lopsided grin again and asks for her number. Well, she figures, why the hell not? He leaves her alone after the exchange, as if he knew she needed to stew in her thoughts now. They don't speak again for the rest of the trip. The bus reaches her stop before it does his. It's only after the bus pulls away that she realizes she never caught his name. * That night, dinner consisted of take-out that Trillby had brought home. For once, she was back home before Meena or Liliane, so she chose to treat them the only way she could: by spending money. Trill got herself banned from using the stove their first year of living together after Liliane found her using it to heat a potentially explosive science experiment. Needless to say, it didn't end well for anyone, especially Trillby, who had to clean up the resulting mess all by herself. It's a good thing, then, that Trill is the type of person to spontaneously have copious amounts of cash. Meena still isn't sure how she pulls it off, and Trillby always laughs it off by saying she got it dancing. Meena doesn't know which is worse: wondering exactly what kind of dancing Trillby did, or whether or not it's true at all. Not that she's complaining; trouble's never come around knocking on their door, and it meant they got to celebrate every now and then. Linli brings her music out into the kitchen because one of her classmates introduced her to some new old music today. The volume control is malfunctioning, though, and it insists on playing too loud, no matter what anyone does. “Why can't you figure it out?” Trillby shouts into Meena's ear in the vain hope she'll be able to hear her. “Aren't you supposed to be good with this stuff?” “Mechanic,” Meena yells back. “Not the same as tech support!” Liliane tries to speak up, but she's so quiet normally that it barely makes any difference. “Does anyone else think this chicken's way too spicy?” Meena can't make out anything she says at all. “What?” “Does the chicken seem spicy to you?” “The chicken speaks what?” It's at that moment Trill gives up, jumps to her feet, and starts dancing. Linli just laughs until Trillby grabs her hands and pulls her up with her, and together, they twirl and dance to century-old music on the kitchen floor. Meena watches. She isn't sure she's grateful that they've forgotten her or if she feels left out. They dance like they're the only two people in the world. She has to admit, though, that it's a pretty catchy song. “Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded, and that heaven is over-rated? Tell me, did you fall from a shooting star, one without a permanent scar? And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?” Meena decides to go take a shower. By the time she comes back, someone's turned off the music. In its place, she can hear talking, subdued and serious. Curious and a little concerned, she treks on down the hall, toweling off her short hair as she goes. Liliane is sitting cross-legged on the living room floor and Trillby is perched on the kitchen countertop. When they notice she's there, they startle guiltily and stop talking. Meena pauses, towel draped over her head, to give them an odd look. “Something the matter?” Meena realizes, then, that her notebook is in Liliane's hands. “It was sitting open on the counter,” she says quietly. “I didn't mean to look. I just glanced over, and...” “It's okay,” says Meena with a shrug. To her relief, she manages to keep her voice casual. Trillby folds her arms across her chest. “Yeah?” There is something dark and wrong in her eyes, something that Meena is recognizing, too late, as betrayed. “So it's okay that you're looking at leaving?” There's a beat of silence. “I'm sure you were just planning ahead, right?” Liliane ventured, glancing back and forth between Meena and Trillby. “The way the economy is, I'm sure you were just trying to figure out how it'd be, paying for the Academy – ” “No.” The syllable drops from Meena's mouth slowly. Either she fesses up now, or Liliane will continue to make excuses and find alternative explanations for what they'd seen, and they'd let her. They'd let her, until it's all covered up with logic loopholes and wishful thinking, and then they'd keep on with their normal lives, pretending like nothing's wrong. No... They wouldn't survive it. Their friendship wouldn't survive it. May not survive this, but at least this way, she's got some kind of handle on it. At least this way, she won't be able to say she stood by and watched them fall apart. “I've been thinking about enrolling next year.” “Next year?” echoes Trillby. “When were you planning on telling us?” Meena keeps her voice level. Quiet. “When I had it figured out if I could pull it off or not.” Things won't stay this calm for long, she knows. “I thought we were gonna go together?” asks Liliane softly. Meena manages not to grimace. Together... Is that even a possibility any more? Yes, they're happy now. But... “It wasn't ever your dream to begin with,” she says quietly, almost more to herself than to the others. The silence in the room is profound. Meena forces herself to swallow the lump in her throat and push on. “Don't you remember? Either of you? It was my idea in the first place. We were just kids, and back then... Maybe it felt like we could make it happen. Maybe we felt we could make it work. But I know you guys don't really want to go up there with me. Trill, you still haven't decided what branch you want to go into. You've got so many options, and not all of them lead to space. Lin, you just...” She hesitates, then looks away. You just can't let go. Meena can't bring herself to say it, not when she knew why. Liliane doesn't have anyone else in the world she could turn to. She's in pre-med on inheritance alone. The redhead's words come back to her, then, unbidden. Even though he's the only family I've got left now, that doesn't mean his opinion is the only one that matters to me. Meena lifts her gaze again, meeting Liliane's eyes. “You need to find your own path, instead of following someone else's.” She looks away, seeking, but couldn't keep Trillby's gaze. “Both of you do.” “And you think you know best?” There it is, Trillby's temper. “What if we don't care what someone else thinks is best for us? What if we want to decide that for ourselves? What if we want to pick what makes us happy?” “So keeping me from making that decision myself makes you happy?” Silence returns again. “No,” says Liliane finally. “But we'll see you again, right?” Trillby deflates and smears a trembling hand over her face. Meena feels a lopsided smile crawling across her face, and she works to stifle it. “Duh. You guys aren't too good at math, are you?” She bends over to take her notebook out of Liliane's hands. “I can't afford to stay on campus. I'll have to commute.” Trillby's head jerks up, eyes widening. Liliane stares at Meena, dumbfounded. This time, Meena can't help but laugh. It's not the end of the world if she enrolls into the Academy this very minute or three months from now, she thinks about telling them. If their paths do take them into space, then who's to say their graduations won't coincide? It's possible. Entirely possible. But she'll remind them of that detail later. For now, she'll turn on that century-old music and drag her friends into dancing with her. “If life had background music playing your song... I've gotta be honest, I tried to escape you, but the orchestra plays on...”

#original #tl;dr warning #short story

♫ to avoid complications, she never kept the same address ♫

So I want to work on my new Courier Six. I call her my "Killer Queen" Courier, because that song is part of the inspiration for her (she's a killer queen; gunpowder and gelatine, dynamite with a laser beam, guaranteed to blow your mind, anytime). That song, and this gif:

Now, let me write stupid amounts of words about her.

#fallout: new vegas #character analysis #tl;dr warning #killer queen courier

Old KH ficbite

Transferred over from my ooold LJ.

Lyrics from Existentialism on Prom Night by Straylight Run and Set the Fire to the Third Bar by Snow Patrol, respectively.

Summary: Sometimes, Xion needs to hide away in someone. Roxas is willing to be that person.

Word Count: 203

#kingdom hearts #roxas #xion #ficbite

More fic

Another quick thing I wrote centered on my Courier Six. This one takes place post-game, so obviously, there will be spoilers for both the vanilla game and the DLCs. If it even matters.

Also, the part about Dean Domino? In my first playthrough, Elle had to kill him, and so that's why it's hinted at. In my second, she wound up befriending him. I can't decide which I like better for her story, so I'm leaving it as it is for now.

Characters hinted at: OCs (both my own and my bf's), Mr. House, Dean Domino, Benny, Joshua Graham, Rose of Sharon Cassidy. See if you can spot them all! (As if most of them aren't incredibly obvious.)

Marked nsfw just to be safe? There is nothing more than suggestive prose, but hey, it doesn't hurt to be safe.

Summary: Even if her memories are foggy, the Courier's dreams are more than vivid enough to make up for it.

Word Count: 537

Elle's dreams were always conflicted and confused any more. Not like that's changed, but at least before, it was consistent. Before, they would be full of fog and vague movements, half-formed shapes thick with color and smells and forgotten emotions. They mixed and stirred and left her with that feeling of having something at the tip of her tongue she just couldn't make real enough to shape into words. Sometimes, she would wake up with names in her mouth, familiar without her knowing why. Avery. Leland. Elena. Erro -- Now, she was visited by these phantom memories only if she was lucky. Now, she dreamed vividly. Too vividly. The Cloud filled her nostrils, her mouth, forced her awake with chokes and coughs and the all-consuming fear of suffocation. Mechanical whirs and emphatic shouting made her ears ache as she stood arguing with the Think Tank. Her eyes stared widely at red walls of earth and rock, at plant-life leafy and healthy, at rain as it fell from honest-to-Joshua's-God clouds. Wind hot with irradiation burned as it whipped at her skin, as harsh and unforgiving as the hatred of the Marked Men, as Ulysses' vengeance. She dreamed of eyes on hers, too intense for her to hold but too deep for her to look away. They are blue, blue, blue, lighter than her own and more piercing. She dreamed of almost-touches, of a fleeting but fierce longing to reach out and brush her fingers against bandaged ones. Of being too afraid to hurt with a tender touch. She dreamed of could-have-beens and never-could-have-beens. She dreamed of hands, cold, firm, controlling her every moment. A man hovering over her, his hair still perfect and unruffled, his eyebrow arched in confidence, in a challenge, holding her down. He could hold her down with his eyes alone. She dreamed of desires she had never pursued. She dreamed of heat and movement and she ached and her confused mind would change the man's face. He flickered, and sometimes he would wear a checkered suit, other times his skin would be dark and his hair hang like ropes, or perhaps he was a ghoul, sunglasses slipping low to reveal a flash of dangerous eyes. Sometimes, he wasn't even a man, and soft breasts pressed against hers and her vision would be taken up by a freckled face with sky blue eyes. Sometimes, the body would warp before her eyes. Skin would fall away so red muscles glared under the heat of the sun, and then grow back slowly until the sunglasses-wearing ghoul returned, hands at her throat, his screaming of it's mine, I tell you! only barely audible over beep beep beep beepbeepbeepbeep in her ears and then he withered, shriveled, skin paling and his screams changed as he clawed at her defenseless body, traitor, traitor, traitor -- Rarely, she dreamed of running. Someone ran by her side, firing back at their pursuers. Familiar laughter rang clear and true, and it made her heart leap and ache. She could never make out his face, could only know he dressed as she did now, in a long trenchcoat and a wide-brimmed hat. Those dreams were the ones she hated most.

#fallout: new vegas #courier six #ficbite #nsfw #spoilers #elle

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