stolen from Clairza

[fahye]

Fuckit. I'm not getting any work done tonight.

Reply with an icon, and I'll write you a ficlet about it.

ETA: My brain has pretty much shut down, but I will keep writing these tomorrow; if you want to request one then do feel free to leave a comment :)

Comments

[kcdl.livejournal.com]

^

[fahye.livejournal.com]

I'm in a sonnet-writing mood :D

~

I think you are too fond of verbs and nouns,
that adjectives fall careless from your tongue
when I would hear you make no structured sound
at all. You say: my love, too long unsung,
must now be given voice. I say be still.
I say that adverbs give no hint of love,
and I would have you say no more until
your eyes have spoken so: below, above,
in every turning frame of your regard.
I'd see these endless vows of which you speak,
I'd feel them in your fingers, pressing hard;
your touch is sure, your words are far too weak.
The language that we use, give it its due,
is not how I would receive love from you.

[hobviously.livejournal.com]

I love this game.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

You can never find a spare cable when you need one, Early says as he winds the cable that normally connects the port nav sensors to the automatic boosters around her legs. Does that seem right to you?

And she can't cry out, oh God, she wants to cry out, she wants more than anything for the scream in her throat to escape. But it's stuck, and it's splintering, and it hurts like hell.

Just something that has to happen, Miss Kaylee, and he's spinning a gun around and around in his hand as he looks at her.

She thinks: I should be brave. Mal would want me to be brave.

She hiccups past the gag and tries not to cry but the tears spill down uncontrollably.

She thinks: that'll rust.

There's a shuddering sound off to her left as the engine wakes up to the fact that it's missing a connection.

She thinks: I should be worried about the ship. About the others.

But Early looks at her with an expression that's part pity and part disdain and part naked enjoyment and she can't spare even the smallest fraction of her mind to be anything but terrified for herself.

She thinks: you're dead, you gorram tāmāde húndàn, why aren't you dead, but she can't think it loud enough to block out her own sobs. And Early's hands are tugging at the cables and she can't move and his gun is stroking up her bare legs like a lover's caress and when the engine whines and sputters she knows it's a dream because it wouldn't make a sound like that with just the nav control out of whack.

But she's still crying, and she doesn't stop until the world blurs and she hears Simon's voice - hey, hey, Kaylee, hey - and it sounds a little like the voice he still uses with River but she doesn't care, it's him and it's home. She lies there with her eyes wild and lets him unwind the sheets that she has twisted around her legs, lets him brush back her hair, lets his words piece her back together.

[not-in-denial.livejournal.com]

Ooh. Now I need to pick one. Dammit. I'll just use my favourite.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

She has believed in angels since she learned the word, because she chooses to believe most strongly in the beautiful things. This does not seem illogical. Any Creator would understand that the loveliest parts of any Creation should be loved more intensely, should shimmer and be solidified through the adoration of the aesthetes.

She closes her eyes and thinks that if she were given the chance to create a world, everyone would be angels.

The first image was from a book, a pale gorgeous man with a gentle smile and wings like the wings of the swans on the river. Every day for two months she walked to the river and sat in the damp grass and talked to the swans, on the offchance one of them would be an angel in disguise.

The second image was her mother, because the death occurred at that age where the adults thought this the best approach to take. Your mother is an angel, now, and she'll always be watching over you. This was never as comforting as they supposed. Her mother liked music well enough but had no personal sense of melody; liked the dark rich colours, red and blue and black. She worried, imagining her mother dressed in unattractive white and plucking dutifully at the strings of an instrument she did not know how to tune.

And then there was the word angle, which gave her hordes and hordes of shining beings with a precise mathematical appearance. The choirs were renamed: the Obtuse, the Acute, the Reflex.

In her world, words would all be very different, so as to avoid such silly mistakes.

She has had so many images and not one has come close to this. The wings are not a swan's; they are raven-black and oddly shaped. Hair wet and mussed, no hosannas from the throat but a tired series of gasps.

She swallows, and lifts her chin, and remembers that courtesy is everything even when the guest is uninvited; when the guest has dropped from the sky like an untidy comet and landed on one's back porch. "Can I help you?"

The eyes raised to meet hers are not endless pools of serenity, just eyes. Eyes tightened in pain and blue like the sea on a windy day. She reaches out a hand without thinking and the fingers laid on her palm are cold and pale, but she feels the sudden whisper of music across her skin.

[tammaiya.livejournal.com]

XD XD XD

[fahye.livejournal.com]

I am so not able to write crack just at the moment.

You get this instead.

~

"Look," Kamui says, or starts to say, but he doesn't want to hear it.

"Leave." Subaru is abruptly fascinated by the sound of his own voice, by the cutting edge it has acquired, by the way he sounds about fifteen again, so he says it again. "Leave."

"No." The younger man stands in the doorway, arms folded, graceful and angry and looking about as young as Subaru sounds.

He's pulling the ofuda out and making the patterns before he can really think about it, and Kamui is still Kamui so he can block most of it, but he still goes flying backwards a few juddering yards and the door slams closed. It's not playing fair, not really, because Kamui would never use his advantage against Subaru, but fair was shattered and melted and dripped into the water under Rainbow Bridge a long time ago.

"It's my room too, Subaru," Kamui says through the door, and then, "I love you."

Silence.

"What do you expect me to say?" he says, seeing how sharp he can make the edge. The answer: very.

More silence, and this time it's an empty one. Subaru kicks over Kamui's collection of CDs and watches impassively as the plastic cases snap apart and the booklets full of trite insufficient words fall onto the floor.

He sits. He reads.

He was right: none of the words are enough. But together they come close.

He goes to the desk, finds some scissors, and cuts, every tiny laminated word falling haphazard onto the carpet. In the morning he'll start to rearrange, but the chaos will do him for now.

[stars-like-dust.livejournal.com]

HAHAHAHA. *MOCKS MERCILESSLY*

[fahye.livejournal.com]

CLAIRZA IS A HO.

~

She had imagined that she could dig her nails into the skin of his shoulders and he would never waver, never halt in his rhythm, never lift his lips from her neck. Just as in every other aspect of their lives.

As in: the way she lashes out at him for keeping so rigidly to the very regulations that have saved their lives time and time again; oh, yes, she knows this. Far better than people realise. Far better than she'll let them realise.

As in: the way she laughs a little louder at Sam's jokes when he's around, the way she'll lean a little closer and act a little less like herself.

As in: the looks she gives him, sometimes, when she knows that he knows that they should both know better. But what the hell, right? He's the great Lee Adama and he can control himself, so she shouldn't have to give this up.

So when she finds herself pressed against a wall in a corner of the Pegasus that half of its crew probably doesn't know about (because Lee is an Adama to his fingertips and when he knows his ship he knows his ship) and she finds enough of her wits to dig her nails into his shoulders, it's something of a surprise when he growls and stops staring at her like she's his everything, when he leans in and kisses her harder than he's ever kissed her before. There's a jolt of something in her stomach and it can't be fear, because the idea of her being scared of this man, her Apollo, is frakking ridiculous.

She had thought.

She is weighing and measuring her misconceptions, letting them break apart and fly from her mouth with every gasp.

She had imagined sheets and sweat and skin on skin.

She had imagined that it would be lazily synchronised, that they would frak just like they fly, that everything would be perfectly aligned limbs and perfectly executed manoeuvres.

But Lee is moving with nothing like a constant velocity; he is tugging at her clothes with urgent need and just as her pulse speeds up to match him he is pulling back and cupping her face, gazing, smiling so beautifully her heart stops thudding and starts breaking instead.

She forces herself to hold that gaze, even though she can feel the fear twining around the lust in her stomach, and even though she can taste the fine bitter dust that used to be all of her assumptions and careless exploitation. She had imagined that she could keep her love for him locked down tight; the gods only know she's had enough practice. A good lay. That's all.

Careless, Thrace, she berates herself, but she knows that it's far too late.

"Kara," Lee whispers, "Kara," and she lets it all go.

[eldorne-girl.livejournal.com]

*innocents innocently about*

[fahye.livejournal.com]

There really is no logic to your smile,
there is no simple way to add this sum,
subtract the empty men whom you beguile
and win with your bright eyes, your playing dumb.
There is no way to quantify my rage
in normal terms, in inches miles and yards,
and so we spar, with yells as we engage.
Or else we dance. Or sit, and play at cards.
I didn't mean to let is get this far;
believe me, love, this blood was not for you
to see. Do you think me uncouth? Bizarre?
Just kiss me, then, I always follow through.
I'll taste your hate and swallow down your sighs;
just let me have this once; just close your eyes.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

The angel factory was created on the third day, somewhere between the vegetation and the fruits with seeds. It was placed on a hilltop in Heaven, a thrown-together lump of buckled grey marble and improvised architechture. No sign of symmetry or manual labour, just strangely placed chimneys to let out the fumes and a few high windows to let in the light. Though the light wouldn't be properly regulated until the fourth day, when the sudden emergence of time and shifts and seasonal divisions meant that production could begin in earnest.

The early models were failures. Early models generally are. They were swept into the cosmic scrapheap, along with the fading shadows and crumbling bones of the draft universes and the creatures who couldn't quite cut it in Eden's nitrogen-rich atmosphere. The place became the first black hole, more or less by default.

But soon enough the factory was rattling along nicely, with thin grey-purple smoke rising from the chimneys six days out of every seven. The newly-made angels were taken to the City and stored, carefully, sleeping, their limbs perfect and weak. Their wings pristine, but never stretched.

Every angel began the same way, but the production line split off after the basics had been completed. Some of the Choirs needed nothing more than a rudimentary polish, a handful of adjustments, before they were done. The Dominions needed more care; the Cherubim and Seraphim, more again. Local pockets of miraculous time-compression were needed for the Highest of the Host, that they could be shaped to be all that they needed to be. That they could become credits to their Maker, who had set his Word that was their blueprint into the grey stones of the factory; that they could be infused with glory, and thus be glorious.

And every so often a fresh, specially crafted angel would be shut up in a silver tower to dream the songs of the working Host; to dream in wakefulness, and to await a naming day.

[vaudevilles.livejournal.com]

*hopeful look up through eyelashes*

[fahye.livejournal.com]

Briefing, shit, yes, briefing, and she's rummaging through her locker for that stogie that she knows she stowed somewhere in her pile of spare tanks when her hand closes on something hard and fragile

The day Zak is accepted to the Flight Academy they have lunch to celebrate and that afternoon they're at the markets, walking along beside the river. Lee is wearing a shirt that's a far too starched for a Saturday afternoon, so Zak buys a tiny plastic water pistol and fills it up with dubious river water and solemnly squirts dark lines of moisture onto his brother's back.

"Pass that here," Kara commands, grinning. Lee hasn't acknowledged the insult to his person or the chill of the water, but his back is a a bit stiffer.

"One class sharpshooter award and suddenly she's in charge of the weaponry," Zak says in mock despair, but he lets her tackle him and wrest the tiny thing from his grasp.

"Apollo?" she says, injecting all the winsome appeal she can into her voice, but she doesn't really expect him to fall for it. So when he turns around, one eyebrow raised, her finger slips on the trigger and it takes three clumsy seconds before the jet of water hits him in the chest and then trails rather pathetically to the side.

"You shoot like a girl," Zak says, slipping an arm around her waist and kissing the base of her neck. "I'll hold her, Lee, you grab the gun."

She chews on her lip and suddenly ducks out of Zak's grasp, snatches the glasses from his face. Slips them on, because there's something stinging her eyes that she can't recognise but she has a horrible feeling that Lee, who sees through her far too often, could.

"They look better on me, stud. We'll get you another pair." She grabs at Zak's hand and drags him up to a stand selling cheap pairs of sunglasses that were probably made by starving children in Saggitaron, but she's not going to think about that; not going to think about Zak's scores that were just barely enough to grant him entrance to the Academy; not going to think about how blue Lee's eyes were in the cold brittle sunlight.

There's a smudge on one lens and the support is tarnished, but she breathes on everything and rubs it gently with her messily-folded tanks.

Maybe, maybe.

When Lee walks in, she tries not to meet his eyes; can't stop herself, and even though he has no chance of knowing where her gaze is her stomach tightens up. And then she flicks ash away with her thumb, and keeps going, and watches him watching her with a smirk that gives away nothing at all.

[amayonolune.livejournal.com]

if it inspires.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

I don't know if you follow this particular original piece of mine, but occasionally they move into my head :)

~

"What is hell?" Pandora asked. "You keep going on and on about it from every ridiculous angle, but you haven't given me anything concrete."

"You really want to know?"

"Yes."

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Forever," Lucifer said, skipping ahead.

Pandora stared at his back, horrified. "That's dreadful."

"Tell that to these people." Lucifer waved vaguely around the filthy streets. "Oblivion may not hold as much dread as you suspect for those who can find disease in a pocket full of posies, who can find nothing in a clear blue sky but the threat of drought."

"This is England."

"Land of hope and glory," he said promptly.

"Gloriana won't be along for a couple of centuries, and as for Hope..." Pandora bit down on her lip, surprised at the sudden wave of anxiety and despair.

"I must say, it's an interesting choice of hiding place."

"Kassandra doesn't mind it. There's prophets enough that she goes unnoticed, she says. And the people here need hope - there's not much around in the way of faith, as I'm sure you're aware."

"Such injustice." He gave a boyish laugh, ducking his head against the wind. "I get blamed for every blossoming bouquet of death, and the real culprits go free."

"Well, if you -"

"Rats!"

Pandora pulled her cloak tighter and nodded. "Rats and fleas. Not common knowledge in the fourteenth century, no."

"No, I mean rats." Lucifer pulled his foot from the muddy puddle into which it had slipped and shook it pointedly at her. Pandora sighed and stepped away from the dirty spray. "Interjection of disgust, alarm, irritation. Hardly a surprising morsel of slang, really."

[miscellanny.livejournal.com]

:D?

[fahye.livejournal.com]

Adam's first visit to London was an interesting one. The forecast was for rain, rain, rain, the whole week, and Mr Young sighed and looked over to where his son was lying on the hotel bed, creasing the sheets and watching the weather forecast with a solemn expression.

"Er. Sorry about this. I'm sure we'll be able to see lots of things anyway."

"Not your fault," Adam said absently, and then: "I think I'm a bit tired."

The next day was overcast but tentatively bright, and when they ventured down for breakfast the waiters snuck look out at the grey sky and the scarf-wrapped crowds and enthused about what a lovely, lovely day it was.

Adam cut his toast neatly into soldiers, and almost smiled.

They saw the things that one is meant to see in London, and Mrs Young left the boys at the Tower whilst she wandered off in search of "nice coffee that wasn't from that silly Starbucks place". The Tower was visited, and the ravens cut dark patterns across the sky.

Nevermore, they said.

"Such fortunate weather," Mr Young said to a Beefeater.

"Come on," Adam said.

They bought tickets for the Underground. They minded the gap. Adam crawled up on the seats and ran a finger over the map, following the bright colours from one side of the cracked plastic panel to the other.

"Let's get off here," he said, "and then we'll go here, and then here."

And so it was that they ended up in a smallish street relatively free of tourists, and Adam's feet told him exactly how many steps to take before they stopped before a very ordinary-looking shopfront. A small sign in careful copperplate informed them that the owner was Entertaining, back shortly.

"They're entertaining, are they?" Mr Young eyed the sign. "D'you reckon they sing and dance, as well as sell books?"

"I think it's the other sort of entertaining," Adam said, and when he pushed against the door it opened with a friendly creak.

The shop appeared to be empty, but from a doorway behind the counter came the sound of voices raised in an argument that wasn't really serious, but was a good enough way to pass the time for two people who knew how it was going to end anyway.

"Hello?" Adam raised his voice. "Hello?"

"I'm afraid we're not open just at the...oh." The blond man stopped in the doorway with such suddenness that his teacup slid sideways. He reached up an absent hand to steady it on the saucer, eyes very wide.

"Really," said Adam, and winked.

[glamaphonic]

PLZ AND THX

[fahye.livejournal.com]

The first breath of oxygenated air is like cold water on Lee's face, like Galactica's dreadful coffee after a ten hour shift. It takes him a moment to remember how to breathe deeply; and then all of a sudden he's just lying there letting his limbs tingle and revive, feeling the metal under his fingers and Kara's breathless laughter tickling his neck, his chest heaving under her hand.

He laughs too, eventually, because it's easier than finding words for the fear.

"We should get to CIC. Report this."

"Frak 'em," Kara slurs, her hand gripping his shoulder with a force suspiciously contradictory to the weakness in her voice. "We almost died. I think we're allowed a little R&R, Captain."

Lee lets his head fall back with a quiet thunk and smiles ruefully at the ceiling. "On the floor of the shooting range?"

"Quiet. Cozy." Kara exhales noisily into his ear.

"You're insane."

"You keep saying that."

"That's because it takes five times longer to get an idea into your thick skull than -"

Kara's fingers are lying across his mouth, tapping absently, as though she's not quite sure how they got there. "Stop talking," she mumbles into his shoulder, "you're using up the oxygen."

He opens his mouth to point out how utterly illogical she's being, and then realises the folly of rising to her bait. He closes it. She giggles, her chest vibrating softly against his side.

"Kara," he begins, exasperated, and her fingers flutter against his half-open lips and normally he wouldn't even have noticed the quick inrush of her breath, but it creates a momentary vacuum adjacent to his neck. Neither of them moves. The rest of Lee's sentence has been sucked away into that empty space.

Kara covers. She's good at that.

"Sir," she says unsteadily, "I would like to lodge a complaint against my CAG's shoulder. It's entirely too starched to be comfortable."

"All complaints regarding the uniform of your superior officer are to be completed in triplicate. Backwards," he adds, and she whacks him sleepily on the collarbone.

He can hear a quiet groan from across the room, and is struck with a brief pang of immense relief; he hasn't lost a pilot today. Not yet. There are more voices outside, where someone's obviously found the shattered glass. Lee should sit up, check on Hotdog, give the sitrep and go back to his duty. His breaths are coming easier. There's no excuse to just lie there.

Kara is still muttering uncomplimentary things two inches from his ear, and her hand is still resting on his shoulder.

He should sit up.

He should sit up.

[woodstock-21.livejournal.com]

If you know this fandom. If not... I'll have to educate you. XDXD~

[fahye.livejournal.com]

I don't :D But I took the text and wrote you Mirrormask, if that's okay?

~

It's not that juggling is an especially rare skill, but it means more if you've only got the one pair of arms. Valentine learns to compensate for the moment when the balls are in his blind spots, and out of his field of vision. The holes in his mask are not large, but he never noticed the gaps in his world until the balls flew into them.

And hey, that sounds deep, dunnit - the gaps in his world. He tries to talk about that, one night, but Jacko has no gaps that money cannot fill and the others would rather sing than talk philosophicks. What's got into you, Valentine? Do us a dance, shut your trap. The music stretches across their campfire, taut, a thin and apologetic sound in the night silence.

Valentine idly juggles with three silver coins and watches the way they catch the firelight, and agrees to himself that money can fill a great many gaps.

He doesn't think about it again for a long time.

Not until Helena pulls back from another of those empty dusted windows and says she's not me, she's fighting with my father, and she looks so torn apart that Valentine bites down on his response. As far as he is concerned, fighting with one's parents is the natural order of things.

The world gets darker, but it also begins to light him from unfamiliar angles, and he finds an unpleasant hollow at his centre that he cannot name. A gap.

He breaks away from this girl with her odd ideas and her rare sliver of a smile, her dark eyes, and scrambles desperately to fill the gap with money because that is the only path he knows well enough to tread blind. He blames it on the mask. (Those tiny holes.) He blames it on her stubbornness. He blames the Shadow.

When he finally crumbles and blames himself, he is watching the Queen's elegant and inhuman grace and finding a strange desperation in the way she beckons Helena closer. For a moment she is ugly with the cries of all the emotions she is killing inside herself, and Valentine draws back. The gap inside him shivers and says something, not quite loud enough to be heard.

Helena lifts her cup. Helens looks sidelong, and meets his eyes.

This time he hears: family.

[liminalliz.livejournal.com]

OMG?!

[fahye.livejournal.com]

HELLO, MY LIZZEN.

~

"Do you like music, Starbuck?" he asks her, somewhere between the third time his nose starts bleeding and the fourth time he falls from the chair.

"Now that's an interesting question. Are you going to tell me about the music of the stars? The neverending tune that we all dance to?" she drawls, watching a trickle of blood make its way down his wrist. She swallows hard and tells herself: Cylon, Cylon, he's not human.

"It's just a question, Kara." All of a sudden he's smiling, and he has a very nice smile. She tries to concentrate on his eyes instead, but there's a hint of something even more frightening there. She's glad she can't see it up close.

Until she can.

Until his fingers wrap around her neck and her head slams against the hatchway and their faces are close, far too close, and she recognises in Leoben's eyes the same strange softness - forgiveness - that Lee looks at her with when he thinks her attention is elsewhere. She doesn't know which is worse; the knowledge that Lee has forgiven her when he should not have, or that this strange enemy thing presumes to forgive her for nothing at all.

By the time he is torn off her she can hardly think, her heart is beating so loudly; anger and fear and solid heat being crammed through her veins.

"You frakked up, pal," and then the heat in her chest is liquifying and turning to wax, clogging her lungs and choking her breath. "Now the gloves come off."

When he's no longer gasping through the water, Leoben tips his head back and laughs. "Gloves. Gloves cover many things. Scratches and scars and the shaking angle of injuries not yet healed. Are you sure you want to take them off?"

When she can speak again, her voice is foreign, but at least it's coming unhindered from her mouth. There is no music in it at all. "You motherfrakker," she breathes. "You're lucky I haven't torn you apart with my -"

And she can't (bare hands) say it, she can't (no gloves) get the words out, so she gestures sharply instead. One of the Marines kicks him in the stomach, hard, and then looks over at her.

"Should we break its fingers, sir?"

She freezes.

Leoben lifts his head and smiles.

[tropes.livejournal.com]

Still doing this?

:>

>.>

[fahye.livejournal.com]

(I will be! Still taking requests, certainly :D)

And I love that icon. So, SO much.

[littledust.livejournal.com]

♥

[fahye.livejournal.com]

Sonnet for you, my dear Kelsey, because I know you like them :) Now with FIXED TAGS.

~

I'm sitting on a polished piano stool
and waiting for the footlights to be lit;
for you to come, or leave me like a fool
who never learned to be shy once she's bit.
And yet you sent me roses - Best of luck,
you wrote, the cursive letters rushed and bent,
to my dear fairy from her tender Puck.
Eleven roses. Such a gorgeous scent.
One hand of mine picks notes out on the keys;
the other plucks the petals one by one,
half-wishing for a sentimental breeze
to carry them away. I come undone.
And here I sit, all through this unlit night,
with roses: ten of red, and one of white.

[sophistry]

I THINK I'M EVIL.

[unravels.livejournal.com]

Ahahaha, you beat me to it! And yes, I think you are.

Also, can I steal that icon? Mine is kind of crap and yours... is not. Will credit & stuff. :]

[linnpuzzle.livejournal.com]

I shouldn't be doing this, but it's so hard to resist.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

"Really, my dear," Aziraphale said, but he didn't say it with much conviction.

"Just a bit of harmlessss fun, angel." Crawly wound his tail around a branch and wished that snakes had eyelids, as this entire exercise would be quite a lot easier if he could close one eye and aim properly. "Could you shift that apple to the side, perhaps?"

The angel looked at him reprovingly, but leaned closer and complied. Crawly pulled back on the branch and then released it, and the soft fruit went sailing through the air and hit one of the Cherubim on the hip. The tiny angel gave an outraged squeak and fell down into the soft grass of the Garden.

Crawly sniggered. "I was aiming for its head, but oh well."

Aziraphale, who looked as though he was attempting to disguise himself as a new and exciting type of shrub, bit his lip in a valiant effort not to smile. "I'm sure we can get in trouble for this."

"You can get in trouble," Crawly said airily, distracted in his search for more low-hanging branches by the sudden discovery of an ideal patch of sunlight. He was still getting the hang of being cold-blooded. "I'm just doing my job. But don't pretend they don't piss you off as badly as they do me. Bobbing around like cheerful oversized insects."

"Hmm." Aziraphale reached out and absently picked up a fallen apple, weighing it in his hand. He was careful not to meet Crawly's eyes, but the demon gave a pleased hiss that might just have been laughter.

"Go on, angel."

"Tempter," Aziraphale said, staring at the apple.

But he threw it anyway.

[ripedecay.livejournal.com]

I couldn't resist? XD

[fahye.livejournal.com]

Now without missing word!

~

"You destroyed -" But Subaru couldn't quite finish his sentence. He told himself it was becase he was incoherent with anger, but the fingers untucking his shirt might have had something to do with it as well.

"Yes," Seishirou murmured against his neck, and Subaru lost his train of thought entirely.

Five minutes later he hadn't managed to pick it up again, but he didn't really care until he fell back on the bed and the crawling, aching warmth across his skin was disturbed by the crackle of paper.

"What the..." Subaru's eyes were still a bit glazed, but he blinked a few times and managed to read the piece of paper that he'd pulled from under his arm. "Seishirou-san -"

"Oh." Seishirou snatched the paper and skimmed it. "Oh. Damn. I knew I'd forgotten something."

"Milk," Subaru said, in a tone commonly employed to deliver words like 'malignant', or possibly 'bastard'.

"Look, I'll be right back." Seishirou untangled his hand from Subaru's shirt and started scanning the floor. "Do you remember where my shoes went, by any chance?"

"No." Subaru looked sullen, and something in his eyes hinted at the fact that he might be regretting some of the things he had gasped out a few minutes earlier.

"The shop closes at nine," Seishirou tried to explain, but Subaru just glared at him.

The Sakuarazukamori sighed and tied him to the bed with a few select ofuda that he kept in his top drawer, just in case he decided to do something silly like run away whilst Seishirou nipped down to the shops for milk.

Some people just didn't understand the importance of lists.

[schiarire.livejournal.com]

AS INSTRUCTED. *SALUTES*

[fahye.livejournal.com]

I wrote this in Starbucks yesterday and I have no idea what the fuck it is. Rusty! I told you!

~

Now

that death is not an everpresent fear
(if such it was, for someone such as he)
he seeks his own diversions in the here
and now. He fears instead that she may see

and

hear more than what he whittles into speech,
of men he sees and things he might have done.
And yet...he hopes she does. It just may teach
her this, of living dead: if it's no fun

then

you laugh a little, push a little more,
and linger past the candle's feeble death.
Past blood on lips and dirt from the cold floor;
past sudden smiles and heat; past indrawn breath.

He says: of course I won't go back again.
(Perhaps he lies. But only now and then.)

[juprujac.livejournal.com]

Hope you don’t mind. ;)

[fahye.livejournal.com]

When she hears Kara Thrace's voice - this is Starbuck - Laura Roslin is very pleased, of course, but she is also aghast at the small part of herself that is watching Apollo.

It says: have you seen him smile since his father was shot?

It then reconsiders, and says: have you seen him smile since she left?

It says: he's not your man, when all the dice are rolled.

She hates herself.

She looks around unthinking for Billy, whose voice can drive the cynicism out of her head, and her heart falls in a jolt when she remembers where he is.

She's wondering how to do this, what the best angle to play in front of the Quorum will be; but then Lee Adama strides foward, past her, and takes the decision out of her hands as though it's the most natural thing in the world.

And it is. She pictures Billy's face and tells herself that she has to remember that. She's worrying about consequences and forgetting that there are other important things, like the tiny grin on Starbuck's face as she ducks her eyes to the ground. Like the way the pilots hug, warm and close and ringing with home.

She smiles, rubs her hands together, and she's about to open her mouth and say something Presidential when Apollo kisses Starbuck.

She doesn't miss the way the girl's eyes fall closed immediately, as though she was expecting it. She doesn't miss their crowded breathless silence afterwards, and for a moment she wonders if this is her Captain Apollo at all. The Lee Adama who got almost all of the way through a speech denouncing his father, who is so careful of the persona he projects, who cares deeply but never too much...she would not have thought him capable of standing there as though the room were not full of politicians and plans and priorities, staring down with a half-open mouth at an insubordinate pilot whose hair is coming out in messy strands.

That small part of her says: so this is what it takes to push him, and she realises that she isn't actually surprised.

Starbuck breaks first and makes a joke. Zarek whispers something, off to one side, and she can't hear what it is but she tucks away his interest to be studied later. She walks forward and Starbuck meets her eyes for a brief second before looking back at Apollo. It's not quite a greeting, not quite an apology. She doesn't know what it is.

"Lee," Starbuck says. "There's something you should know."

[dopplegl.livejournal.com]

'Ello!

[fahye.livejournal.com]

i

You think he's maybe just a little too pleased with himself, standing there twirling the paddle between his fingers and looking at you as though he invented the appreciative stare, as though no man's eyes have ever traced the line of your jaw and dipped down your neck and then down further still.

You think he's maybe just a little too pretty.

ii

"You shouldn't have followed me," you say, and you actually mean it.

iii

He never actually understands how difficult ending things with Tom are. Like you were just doing it for fun. Like he's cornered the market on batting his eyes and marrying into British money so old it's stagnant. Stagnant and powerful. You're an actor - you are, goddammit - and you're not exactly the kind of person to take money lightly. He thinks that your priorities are completely different. Partly it's because you're a woman, and he can't take women seriously. You don't tell him this, of course, because you do love him, and he's no more sexist than every man behind every audition desk in the whole fucking city.

You wander around that obscene polished mansion in the country for the last time, and try not to be the mercenary little princess Tom's mother thinks you are. Partly out of a desire to be contrary. Mostly because it's a part you're going to have to outgrow.

iv

You call your mother, who asks if everything is all right. You bite the side of your hand and think about Chris' fine suits, his beautiful fucking eyes, his company car and his expensive haircut and suddenly you're horribly, sublimely certain that he will never care about you enough.

"Everything's fine," you say.

You're an actor.

v

"Nola," he says.

You hear the disaster in his voice.

You turn around anyway.

[wickedtrue.livejournal.com]

*fondly* Because your head exploding is fun! Crack crack crack.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

I don't know if you've read my Cylon crackfic, but uh. This is something of an extension of it.

~

D'Anna tapped on the screen with her stick, which she preferred to a laser pointer because it made fun noises and she could wave it threateningly when the others weren't paying attention.

"All right. I know there's been a certain amount of dissent lately as to the best way to go about this -"

"Really?" Six looked up from her nails. "There was an argument and I missed it?"

"As I recall," Simon said, inspecting his nails with a bored expression, "you were busy wasting energy by running the food supplies we got from that storage cache through the nutritional analyser."

"Just because some of us want to be careful about our calories -"

D'Anna coughed. "Sharon, do you want to give us an outline of the current fleet deployment?"

Silence.

D'Anna let the stick hit the screen with a satisfying thwack. "Sharon!"

"Guwha?" Sharon blinked, her face losing its vacant expression, and hurriedly sat on her hands. "I'm listening."

"What's that?"

"Oh. This? Um." She inspected the thin wire running into the small cut on her palm, wavering hopefully between guilt and surprise. "Nothing. I'm just exploring some of the files on the accessible Galactica mainframe, you know. Searching for loopholes."

"Ha." D'Anna stalked over and held out a hand, and when Sharon winced and handed the sharp edge over, she dug it experimentally under the skin of her own palm. "If you think for one moment that I..."

Later, they would privately agree that it was the first time they had seen D'Anna blush.

Six leaned over and whispered in Sharon's ear. "Which one's that?"

"That was the one when Apollo lost the bet," Sharon muttered.

"Oh." Six paused. "Oh. When Starbuck - and with the -"

"Yeah."

D'Anna was a rather attrative shade of pink, and her eyes were very wide, but she had regained the use of her vocal cords. "Sharon?"

Sharon leaned back in her seat and did an admirable shot at casual innocence. "Yes, D'Anna?"

D'Anna's mouth opened and closed a few more times, and then she sat down. The stick fell from her fingers and clattered onto the floor as her eyes softened into an unfocused sort of concentration. "Meeting adjourned," she said faintly.

[corialis.livejournal.com]

Because I had so much trouble deciding between this one and the one I gave Ji.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

The wind is blowing from the west, but Loki doesn't much care. He's never been afraid to tack into the wind when necessary. The cool air whips at the hem of his jacket and he wishes he'd had time to steal something a bit heavier, but that's life for you.

The car that eventually stops is driven by a woman with red hair peeking out from under a blue bandana, bloodshot eyes and a very arresting way of tapping her fingernails against the dashboard of the car. Her arm rests comfortably across the lowered window.

"Weird sign," is all she says.

"Saves time, don't it?" Loki shrugs, smiles.

After a moment she laughs and jerks her head towards the seat. Loki considers dumping the sign, but it could come in handy later, so he stashes it in the back seat.

"No luggage?"

"I had to leave town in a hurry," he says with as much self-deprecation as he can manage, and hopes that she isn't a cop. She doesn't quite seem the type, but he's known some cops with the same edgy air, same stench of violence. Bad cops, cops who have been in the business too long, and despite her obvious youth he is struck by the urge to look around for her gun. Or maybe guns.

"Why west?" she says, once they're moving, and he likes the fact that she doesn't ask so where are you headed or how far west, just that: why.

He fiddles with the radio, but for some reason every channel is giving a news report, and every report is about a different local conflict. He turns it off and looks out of the window for a moment before speaking.

"The Indians and the Egyptians thought that to the west lay the lands of the dead. Quite a few other cultures, as well. Not a bad place for a pilgrimage."

"Do you believe that?"

"I prefer the Nordic theory, myself," he says, and gives a grin that shows almost all of his teeth.

"Which would be?"

"To the west lies the sea of destruction."

"Destruction. Well now." She takes her eyes off the road for longer than he feels is safe and grins back at him. He notices that her eyes aren't bloodshot at all, just a very strange shade of orange. "I think I may be able to take you where you want to go."

[genarti]

Because you don't have a bunch of requests already. Yes.

Or, alternately and more truthfully, because I am greedy for Fahye-fic.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

She wrote a poem one day before the Academy went wrong. There were these days, quite a few of them actually, though she cannot recall how many exactly. Days when the world glistened with promises and her teachers seemed the fountains of knowledge she wished them to be.

They were told: you are special.

River did not particularly care, one way or the other. She had no desire to be special. Her desire was to learn.

These were grand bright days, illuminated by something other than the sun. River wonders sometimes if they happened at all or if she dreamt them, wistful, making a nostalgic haven for herself to cower in. It's possible. It cannot be ruled out. She refuses to assign reality to one set of thoughts or another. Maybe she dreamt them, or maybe what followed was the nightmare, or maybe she will one day awake to needles and a cold chair and realise that Serenity and Mal and Simon and Kaylee and all the rest of it were the dream.

She considers this with her hand clenched around a gun. If she holds it tight enough she can almost (dodging the logical fallacies) convince herself that she can pull it through with her, through the dreaming veil. If Serenity is a dream - one of their tricks - she will want the gun there when she wakes up.

Bullet in the brainpan.

There was a point.

Wait.

She wrote a poem.

They all wrote poems, on any subject they wished, and the teacher collected them with a smile like warm dry ice. The next day she was summoned.

"This is very good, Miss Tam," they told her. "You're a very special girl," and though their smiles were broad she kept her eyes on her poem, dangling on a piece of paper held tightly between two blue fingers.

Very Interesting Here!

[(Anonymous)]

Hello world! I'm from Latvia, I now have a computer and Internet! It's so interesting here! But on some forums I see strange posts, they offer to buy some pills or something and they look very stupid. It is robots posting? I thought moderators should delete such posts. Maybe somebody will explain me what's going on? But at all it is very interesting to speak to all you people!
Kisses! :)