spank that new years baby

[moonsheen]

Ah, guess I'm a day late for the BIG UNMASKING? Oh well. HARK! TIS I who wrote yuletide story Gerda and the Snow Queen for ave_eva. Which is rough in places that still make me wince, but overall I'm pretty happy with how it turned out and glad that my recipient enjoyed. ♥

Meanwhile, because my f-list is doing it and I wanna be one of the cool kids: New Years Request Meme. Standard flavor this time. You know how this goes: name a fandom/pairing/characters and I write you a story of dubious drabble status to the best of my ability provided said request does not destroy my brain.

Comments

[saturnoolaa.livejournal.com]

GAY LAWYERS GOGOGO.

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

Miles Edgeworth woke up to the sound of the telephone ringing bloody murder, loud enough to be brought in on charges disturbing the peace and perhaps some form of assault. Edgeworth was a man who:

1) never got much sleep to begin with

2) hated loud noises

3) hated sudden loud noises

4) startled easily

and 5) hated that too.

To be faced by all of these things at once was a particularly bitter way to greet the morning. He came to consciousness baring his teeth. If it was the detective, he decided, there would be a salary cut. It didn’t matter if he was technically no longer in a position of such authority. There would still be a salary cut involved. He shoved his hand along the bedside table, knocking over a lamp and several papers as he felt around for the shape of the phone. It was harder to find than normal, and with all the noise that resulted he was surprised when he wasn’t immediately faced with the scrape of his alarmed dog’s nails on his calves. She had been raised better than that, of course, but these things counted for emergencies with her. He rolled and shoved the receiver against his jaw. He squinted, cursing the fact his lenses were where he knew he regularly he kept them, in the bathroom down the hall, and not somehow automatically dealt with so he could find the red blur of the clock and figure out what time it even was…

And, naturally, in his ear: “Nick? Niiiiiiiiick! WHERE! THE! HECK! ARE! YOU!”

That…spirited pitch, was unmistakable. “Maya Fey?”

The shouting ceased. “…” said the girl on the other end, while he dragged hair out of his face. Then, uncertainly: “Mr. Edgeworth?”

“Yes,” said Edgeworth evenly, he had very good practice with driving the uneven scratch of drowsiness out of his voice. He took a breath and ventured in with a neutral: “How did you get this number?” at the same time that she jumped into his initial pause with: “What are you doing at Nick’s--?” which led to a horrified silence.

“…”

“…”

“I’ll call back later.”

“Yes. Do that.” He hung up.

The lump to the left of him gave a yawn. “Ng?” said Phoenix Wright, so ridiculously, disgustingly, and somehow appropriately late. “Whazzawha?”

“Nothing,” said Edgeworth, dimly. “The right number.” And the less to be said of it, he concluded, the better.

[ningen-demonai.livejournal.com]

KH2: Riku Replica/Namine ♥

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

The end of all things turned out to look suspiciously like the inside of a broom closet. Or. Well. At least how broom closets look when you’re floating in a pool of an identifiable liquid that is probably mostly just some form of jelly that just looks cool in a tube and lit from the bottom. He sighs as much as this body of his is capable, closes his eyes, tips his head back, and makes the best of this kind of rest as he can. Someone finds him, of course. Eventually a hand rests against the glass, and it’s gone, and now he’s just sitting in a puddle of goo.

She’s there, though. He can see her legs, through the orange gunk dripping out of his hair. “Riku...”

“That’s not my name,” he growls, pulling himself out of his splayed slump and into a crouch, because he wants to look as little like a friggin’ toy as possible. He looks up, and the new body is about as artificial as the old one, but he can feel the clockwork he now remembers is there shaking as he looks up at her. He doesn’t know if he wants to hug her or strangle her. “Naminé…” he breathes, coughing on all the junk he’s been inhaling for who the heck knows how long.

“Oh,” she says, as though he’s just reminded her. She looks at him sadly, reaching to brush some of the congealing fluids off of his face. He jerks his head away before she can touch him and she pulls her fingers back quickly. “…are you working…?” she asks, carefully, instead.

He flexes an arm in front of himself. “Seem to be,” he says, curling his fingers into a fist, uncurling them, rolling his shoulders. “Don’t it figure,” he laughs, raggedly. “Vexen made a backup. If I look behind me, there’re probably a dozen of me, aren’t there.”

“Don’t,” she says.

He looks over his shoulder.

He looks back, and she’s covering her mouth. “…or not,” he laughs again, starts to shake again. He can feel his clockwork heart rattling in his ear. A pulse almost good enough to be a real one, except there’s too much of a clink and a jingle in accompaniment. “Guess I know where to go if I need a spare arm huh.”

“I’m sorry.”

He closes his eyes. “Yeah, there we go…”

“I wanted to leave. I’d never built this place to be a prison. I was tired. I wanted to believe anything he told me, if it meant I could leave.”

“Yeah, yeah I know. Look…stop it…”

“I just didn’t think--”

“Shut the f--” his voice locks up over what he’d meant to say and he realizes with some anger that Vexen’s programmed it out of him, and what the heck is it with this universe and all its kid safety? He gags around the omission. “—up Naminé. Shut up.” He finishes it on sort of a wheeze, which takes some of the force out of it, but she’s still staring at him with a hurt look and he feels bad about it. “Don’t cry, Naminé. And don’t ask me if I hate you, all right? ‘Cause it’s…” He feels tired: which is strange, since he’s fairly sure he came batteries included. “Not really a good time to ask me that and I…”

She hasn’t listened to him. He can hear her. Shutting his eyes and shaking his head somewhere between frustrated with himself and just plain annoyed. He reaches out and takes her hand. He does it hard. She winces a little. For a second he’d forgotten he knew she was a nobody again. “Look. I wasn’t made to let you cry.” He’s choking again.. He’d thought he’d cleared his airways, but his throat’s thick, and his eyes sort of hurt, and he knows why. He knows. He knows. He licks lips, suddenly gone dry. It tastes like apricots and yeah, he thinks, that’s about par for the course with Vexen.

[akatonbo.livejournal.com]

If you will accept a request from a random newcomer, I sure would enjoy some Basch fic. (Or Drace. Would never turn down Drace.)

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

Set after the Piscodaemon mark and yeah, Basch was totally my party leader for that one...


By the purpling of twilight, the smoke was gone from over the camps. It was a good sign, perhaps, although overall morale was still low, and the mourning priests still gathered outside the steps of the temple. Bur-Omisace yet cried, even if the skies no longer did. Basch fon Ronsenberg knelt by the wall and laid his back against stone painted a soft rose—which was better than red. He stretched out one leg. He had had a hot pole jabbed into it once, during his imprisonment. The cold reminded him of the injury, though the scar from it was now barely a faint white half moon on his thigh. He sat next to the acolyte, whose whiskers swayed in the wind. The nu mou glanced at him, small wise eyes curious.

“You come back alone,” said Ivaness, coming near.

“We have been short on supply, and our equipment grows worn,” said the former captain, “Giruvegan may have taken its toll. But also, I had wished to speak with you again before our leaving.”

“So your wish has been granted.”

“So it has. And may those better find theirs in such times.” Basch breathed in the crisp air of the mountains, he breathed it out. It wisped slightly, and then broke apart. “It was I who landed the killing blow.”

The nu mou’s tail ceased its constant rhythms upon the stones. “Ah,” said Ivaness, slowly. His face was unreadable, nostrils giving a slight flair in the way his people did when they were troubled by something. Basch stared steadily off into the skies. “You have felt…that you owed it to me, to tell me?”

“Yes.”

“Then bear no guilt. My thanks, and my brother’s, remains the same.”

The knight closed his eyes in silent gratitude, profile darkened. The sun had slipped below the horizon and only the memory of light remained in the sky, still gleaming off of the peaks. “You were close, once?” he asked, all at once, and so like a child, that Ivaness could take no offense at the abrupt nature of it. He merely nodded in some consideration, whiskers drifting, feather-light.

“Once,” the words came from a place farther than the rift below. “We were all that each other knew. It was a very long ago. I had not thought of it in some time, although as he now rests…I have come to remember, yes.”

“As have I,” said Basch, quietly, “I think of him often in these days. Though he does not rest, and I know nothing of how he suffers for it.”

The nu mou bent his head. “I see now.” He made the sign of the rood across his chest. “May the light be yet of some guidance. So that your peace may not be as long coming as ours has been.”

“I pray,” said Basch.

[lazulisong.livejournal.com]

okay the story was wicked awesome.

RikuNamine or Larsa whatever? You know what would be awesome, is Drace finding out about Penelo.

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

Right, so this totally went a different direction than it was supposed to go but. Uh. Here, have some weird alternative family.


With the destruction of the 8th fleet, the workload of every active Judge Magister had increased by a considerable fraction. It was a wholly unwelcome circumstance. Ghis had chosen an inopportune time to die, and Drace figured it to be one of his last great services to do as he did in life, and irritate the living hell out of her. His writing had grown no less spidery since the last time she had read a handwritten file of his, and now in the name of reorganization she was forced to interpret it yet again. No Judge Magister had slept properly in the last few days, and what’s more their body had been reduced to an even number: grounds for political deadlock, should the Magistrate be forced to convene. Drace had not yet determined the benefits of this. She was assured of Gabranth’s position, of course, but to hold a majority against Vayne required Zargabaath’s cooperation as well. She had not yet had the chance to corner him on the matter, and her only comfort was that Bergan was likely equally occupied with the crises at hand. There was so much to do, and they had been left with such a mess…

“…yet I am grateful you have returned safely, Lord Larsa,” she said to the boy, who was reviewing a map out on the office balcony. He had an art for finding reason to keep company with those that he liked, even in the most hectic of times. At her words, he looked back at her, and gave a warm but tempered smile.

“Were that my return under better circumstance,” he said, “I am sorry for the loss of Judge Ghis.”

“Yes, it has been an unfortunate blow to our military body. The Rozzarians have no doubt taken note.”

“You miss arguing with him.”

Had the Judge Magister been unmasked the boy would have seen the arch in her brow. “My lord makes a curious observation,” she said, thoughtfully, “What has brought you to that conclusion?”

Larsa put a mark on his map, and folded it shut. “Your Honor,” he said, with respect and admiration, “enjoys debate immensely.”

“Is that so.”

“Such that it has been most beneficial to my education.”

“Flattery to temper such a pointed statement,” noted Drace, lips quirking. “Not poorly done, Lord Larsa. However you will need to be more subtle, if you are to meet with your Rozzarian as you hope.”

Larsa’s smile faded. “Yes,” he said, distractedly, “I know.”

“I do approve of this course of action,” Drace added. It was the right thing to say, for the boy’s shoulders eased some. His current posture had reminded her oddly of Gabranth, that straight back in the face of knowing something more than his colleagues and superiors. The likeness should not have surprised her, since so much of the boy’s lessons in swordsmanship had come from the man.

“I am glad. I do believe this course of action will be helpful to us… but I believe it more strongly, knowing that you are also in support of it. I promise I will not disappoint you.”

The Judge chuckled at the very notion. “Lord Larsa rarely ever has.”

He beamed. “Then I have decided. In my next return I shall bring you brighter news than the last.”

“How ambitious of you,” said Drace, smiling. “I look forward to it.”

[bravecows.livejournal.com]

I want Sora being dumb and Riku being a cranky kleptomaniac Catholic schoolboy and also MULAN please. And Donald and Goofy and Mushu and HIJINKS. Oh, you could make it a Temeraire crossover, that would be BRILLIANT.

Also a PONY.

(You can put Kairi in if you can't write Sora and Riku on their own. I quite like Kairi in fic.)

NB. I don't mean it about the pony.

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

I think temeraire is totally more awesome than a pony


…and then the heartless were gone.

“Gawrsh,” said Goofy, which was a good way to summarize it. Donald was too busy holding on for dear life and swearing up an incomprehensible storm. Sora was staring. The dragon winged around the peak once to be sure that the way had been cleared, and then came in to land in one of the shallower drifts. Donald stepped off so fast that he made a duck shaped hole in the snow. Goofy helped Sora down, since the keyblade master still looked a little dazed.

“…yeah,” said Sora, once vocal functions were restored. He stumbled once, stuck the keyblade into the snow to keep from tumbling. His hair was making a faster recovery, cautiously rising back to its usual bushiness. “You are…waaay more awesome than the last black dragon we met.”

“I should hope so,” said the dragon, starting forward with a few great strides that sent Donald bolting out of the drift to avoid one of those large feet. “This ‘Maleficent’ does not sound like she was a very good example at all. I hope I have been a better one.”

“I think so,” said Sora, bounding to keep up. “I’m Sora, by the way. And that’s Goofy--”

“Hiya!”

“And Donald’s...Donald?”

“GET ME OUT OF HERE.”

“There’s Donald!” Sora grinned, rubbing his head. “Sorry about before. It’s nice to meet you, uh, especially with how you wiped out those heartless. ”

The dragon paused in his examination of a depression in the snow to swivel his head around, droplets melting on his muzzle. “I am Temeraire,” he blinked, and pushed his head forward to examine Sora more closely. Sora, used to things much larger than he was having a look at him, didn’t flinch back at all. He looked back with an equal curiosity. Their eyes were nearly the same color. “And thank you. Is that what they are called? Heartless? Do they not have hearts?”

“They steal other people’s hearts.”

“I do not like them,” concluded Temeraire, with what one could only assume to be the dragon equivalent of a scowl.

“Me neither,” said Sora, folding his arms with a similiar expression. It was a moment of Bonding, and Donald and Goofy exchanged looks. This was an aspect of traveling with the keyblade master that they knew very, very well. The next step was no surprise: “You said you were looking for someone…?”

“Yes,” said the dragon, with a sigh that came out nearly pained. Donald edged back warily, half expecting another blast. “I am searching for someone very dear to me. We were separated upon coming here, and I have not been able to find him since. It is not often that we are apart for too long…” he trailed off, apparently little overwhelmed with the situation now that he’d voiced it. Sora answered by patting Temeraire on the foreleg, since he couldn’t really reach his shoulder.

“We’re looking for someone, too. Her name’s Mulan. We’re supposed to be meeting her over this mountain. We should go together! We’ll help you find your friend.”

“Oh. Would you?”

“No,” said Donald.

“ ‘course,” said Goofy.

“Sure thing!” said Sora. “I mean, I’ve found people across different planes of existence. How hard could it be?”

The answer turned out to be: ‘very’ and ‘an adventure, but Sora was the hero of the story, and these things happened to heroes, and anyway having a dragon in your party was just plain cool.

[jetamors.livejournal.com]

I really liked that one!

I request something about Rukia.

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

Rukia is kind of hot.


It had been an accident. It had been entirely an accident. The rookie had forgotten that dogs could sense them. He remembered the course from Academy. Of course he remembered it. “Corporeal beings with natural senses for the non-corporeal.” It had been a whole lecture a whole damn lecture and he had shrieked like a girl and the hollow had known he was there and he had required aid and it was his first time out and now here he was rescued by the Vice-Captain herself, which was possibly worse than death. Actually, no, it was definitely worse than death. Definitely. Definitely.

They told stories about Kuchiki Rukia, see. How she had been acquitted for political crimes, how she had been acquitted for the murder of a superior officer. How she had risen out of the darkest parts of the alley. How the ruthlessness taught to her from that kill or be killed world earned her a place among the nobility. And she was more noble than them all because there was no fanatic like the converted and the things she did in her brother’s name. She was colder than ice. Merciless. Picture of frigid efficiency on the job and an utter taskmaster to those who trained under her. The rookie had only seen her a few times, but it felt like the cold followed her. Her hair in perfect order, her eyes pale and unforgiving. Her stature …. Well, short. But dangerous. He’d heard a story of how she’d cut a man’s arm off for touching her once. And here he was with her hands crooked at his collar, pulling him from one world to the next. She dumped him in a pile and it was sweet sweet afterlife again-- except the Vice-Captain was standing over him. And here he stank of blood and sweat and she had killed the hollow with one lovely swipe of her weapon, which she hadn’t even needed to release. He was going to die. Definitely. Sooo definitely.

“Fool,” she said, looking down at him.

She raised two fingers. He shut his eyes tight.

The pain faded in his arms. “You were fortunate I was near. That hollow was far stronger than what you should have yet been assigned. Secret Operations has been lax.”

He sat there, amazed that there was no frost where her fingers had lain. There were no wounds there either, anymore. But of course not. Kuchiki Rukia was also said to be a master of Demon Arts, able to blow heads off without even the verbal commands. “V-V-Vice-Captain?”

Kuchiki continued sourly. “…one would think they would know better, with what they must have learned from the war! Fools all of them. You are especially fortunate you did not lose that arm. The 13th is not handing over our own to the research bureau if it can be helped. Men of science should be dealt with as absolutely little as possible!”

“…vice-captain…?” said the rookie in a small voice. Kuchiki blinked at him.

“You are still here.”

“Yes,” said the rookie meekly.

“What are you still doing here.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“What? Who the HELL—mm,” she regained her aristocratic bearing in an instant, “Yes. Those things that they say... You are a young. The hollow was not.”

He stared at her blankly. The Vice-Captain sighed, and reached down to pull him to his feet. He was twice her size, but she tugged him up instantly with one hand and minimal effort.

“You may go. I will expect your report on the captain’s desk by tomorrow evening,” said Kuchiki, at first every bit as stick-to-your-tongue-and-make-you-die-cool and then, with unexpected warmth in her eyes: “I will not fault you for returning from your first field mission in one piece.” She took one graceful step backwards, and vanished, unsettling only two leaves in her departure.

The rookie was never goddamn listening to his stupid asshole former upperclassmen ever again.

[mithrigil.livejournal.com]

Archadian courtship practices

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

When asked where babies come from:


“A great affair: in which the female folds her tastefully plain wings and perfumes herself while the male struts about with as much plume as possible. The two circle in an elaborate and very tedious ritual, which consists of much careful pressing on the male’s part and well constructed show of apathy on the female’s part, in which she is expected to be demure and pure as snow while giving quiet hint that she is secretly a raging temptress. A great deal of wine and at least three parties later, there will probably be sex, and it will be very forgettable, probably due to the aforementioned wine, and with approval of their families an engagement will be announced. It is both parties goal to prolong this period for as long as possible. For, you see, at this point they can have as many forgettable matings as they’d like, with all the approval of their families and popular society, so long as the money remains good on both sides. When one grows less attractive and the other sick of looking at them, they marry. After this they spend the rest of their lives either in other people’s beds or bored out of their minds, for you see there is no better way to avoid having to sleep with someone than marrying them. Your father knew this very well: which is probably why he only married our late Empress and then got the rest of you on whores, which is another word for ‘mistress’ by the way, and in the right circles they do very well for themselves indeed. Will that do, My Lord?”

“Ah,” said Larsa, faintly, “Thank you Judge Ghis, I think that answers my question…well enough.”

[nekokoban]

... so, how 'bout them dancing ducks and the grumpy knights who love them? :D

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

There was a man who often waited outside of the dance hall. Who he was and where he came from, none of the first year students could say. He was very tall, and often wore a long coat when it grew cold, and he must have been someone of some local importance, for none of the professors of the university ever questioned his presence. The students would leave, and he would be there, sitting under the grove of trees or sometimes standing. He listened to the music that came from within the building with eyes clear and wistful. Sometimes, he brought paper and a quill. Sometimes, he brought a book. Sometimes, he brought nothing but himself. Sometimes he came with breadcrumbs which he thumbed out to the local sparrows that had always flocked around the hall most curiously, as though they were waiting for someone as well. As such, the girls liked to make up stories about him: a wandering poet, a foreign adventurer, or perhaps (some laughed) a watchman looking out for them all. This last one had some founding, in that once he had once restrained a man who had tried to drag a girl someplace she did not wish to go. There was an arrest soon after. These were not days of fairytales, and sometimes people tried very unfortunate things.

So perhaps a knight, some considered. The first year students were all too shy to speak with him, the second years almost equally so. They did not discuss him with their instructors. It did not seem right, and they liked to keep their blushes and their fantasies to themselves, for these private stories had a value all on their own, yet too fragile to survive outside handling from the others. Had they asked, reality would’ve been answered harshly: Ack! Silly girls! Who else would it be? Herr Fakir! The writer! He lives on the university grounds, and teaches classes for the department of literature, when he is not publishing stories about birds that turn into girls, or waiting for hours on end for that wife of his, who teaches all the beginning classes in ballet…

[innueneko.livejournal.com]

Hii lurker here..

Zuko and Iroh (cos you should write more Avatar and those two are awesome)

ooor

Balthier and Jules. Fisticuffs? ^_^;

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

“Our forces waited in the valley, for the days to become long again. And one evening, I left my tent, and caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I went to the borders of camp to see what it was. And what did I find? The most amazing of swallowflies, darting about the stones! They usually wait for the spring, you know. This one must have hatched early, or it must have been otherworldly, for it was larger than any I had ever seen and its tails held color like a ring around the moon the night before a snowstorm--”

“Uncle, did this really happen?”

“Yes, yes it really did. It took wing up the mountain side, and, believing it an omen for our good fortune in the spring, I followed it.”

“And you didn’t shoot it for your supper.”

“What do you take me for!”

“You’re making this up.”

“This is true. I only considered shooting it for my supper. Swallowfly is a delicacy. It is best on the coast, where they cook it with this amazing sauce that is made with--”

“Uncle.”

“Gifts from beyond our world are meant to fill a greater thing than our stomach, Prince Zuko. It invites poor, poor luck to do away with such things out of rashness or impatience. I followed it up the side of the mountain. It was not an easy climb, and many times I almost slipped. It was a slow journey, but never once did the swallowfly slip out of my sight. It was nearly dawn when I reached a ledge, one that overlooked the whole valley. I could see the smoke from the camp. The swallowfly landed, and in the first light of the rising sun I saw…”

“You saw what? An enemy encampment? A messenger bird? What?”

“The leaves of a mysterious plant, poking through the snow.”

“No.”

“Which turned out to make—“

“No.”

“--one of the rarest and tastiest teas I have ever had!”

“…Uncle, I am going to bed.”

[chikapus.livejournal.com]

Do you still do Bleach fics? If so, maybe a Hitsugaya general

If not something about Penelo from ffXII, please. =)

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

I learned to do everything on a beat. One-two-three. One-two-three. My brothers taught it to me as soon as I knew how to walk. Before I was running I was turning circles to a rhythm. One-two-three. One-two-three. I guess it seems silly, that brave Knights of Dalmasca would have time to teach their baby sisters to dance, but knights are made to learn a lot, and my brothers liked to see me happy. They were good people like that. Rabanastre was, back then. This was before the plague and the war when everything changed. Our Mighty Pirate Ratsbane was just a boy down the street. He’d try to pull my pigtails, literally, and I would foil him with a side step and kick to the butt. One-two-three. He would go down in an instant.

After my family died, when I wasn’t helping Migelo in the shop, I used to dance on street corners for gil. One-and… People liked to worry about it. I never did. My brothers taught me to dance for a reason, and no one ever suspects a girl my size capable of the things I can do. My audience is different now. I’ve danced for queens and I’ve danced for emperors. I’ve danced for a Rozzarian general, on his name day celebrations. He’d wanted entertainment. So here was the exotic Dalmascan dancing girl Penelo: there to regale him with a dance that was said to have won the heart of King Raithwall, persuading him to spare the daughter of a bitter enemy and to take her as one of his wives instead … while Penelo’s partner snuck past the guards and grabs letters of a certain incriminating correspondence. One-and-two-and-three-and-four. A couple of sky pirates made off considerably richer that evening. House Margrace pays well for peace, and Mighty Sky Pirate Penelo can’t ever object to a transaction like that.

[annwyd.livejournal.com]

I totally told random_prophet that the next time you did a fic prompt I would ask for Gabranth/Drace.

SO I DO.

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

This is the way the 9th Bureau works: you take a man, you take his history, and you pluck out his sins the way some gods plucked out the eyes of men who looked too intently upon their doings. Archadia and its love of documentation make this a routine task. Here is a man who is be declared responsible for a minor provincial conflict costing several military units and the destruction of what had previously been a colonial settlement offering a good source of grain. The soldiers were hungry and undersupplied. Greater attention had been paid to doings on an opposite border. This man is not at full fault, but the senate is eager to jump upon any military oversight, any chance draw blame up the chain of command and to House Solidor, and so some sacrifice must be made. So here are his past failings. Here are his records of misconduct early in his career. Here are the previously erased reports of his authorization of the burning of a supply bridge to the north. Here is the correspondence he held with a duplicitous senator. Here is the file containing all of his absences in Akademy as a boy. Here are the letters attaching him to the name Regall Solidor. Here is his sentence. Guilty. The crafting this sure sentence takes many days, it demands nothing but thoroughness, and Gabranth as its overseer must ensure the case against this man is utterly flawless, so that the senate can have no reason for complaint, though they will find one anyway. It requires the hunting of men. It takes the opening of files that are nonexistent except for the archives under his control. It requires storming through halls and barking at subordinates. It requires the maintenance of normal duty, regular reports to His Excellency, and Lord Larsa’s requested lessons in swordsmanship. It requires five days, and no sleep.

When Gabranth returns to his apartments, it seems nearly unfamiliar. It is the night before the first hearing. It has been days since he has been there. The automatic doors hiss. The tables are clean. The window affords vast view of the city. Judge Drace lounges in his parlor and he is wholly unsurprised.

“I do not gainsay your efficiency, Gabranth,” she says, the continuation an earlier conversation which has at this moment slipped his mind. He stands in his doorway and stares, waiting. She rises to greet him, as though she were the host and not the guest, arm sliding from where it had been imperiously draped over the arm of one of his chairs. “I merely…find it worthy of some scrutiny.”

She has seen fit to forsake her armor for this occasion. “Gods smite me now if I do not know your love of ‘some scrutiny’, Drace,” he says, taking in the ease of her stance and the crook of her mouth. She has too much a soldier’s dignity to smirk at him. Rather, she wrinkles her nose and scoffs. It would have been a brave move had it come from someone who was not of equal rank.

“Gods, Gabranth? What need do Gods have to do any smiting when we have a law to ensure the same effect?”

“Have you spoken with Zargabaath?”

“I have,” she says, and touches his face. “How haggard you look.”

Her middle and index fingers brush his cheekbone. He tips his head away. “He is with us, then?”

“Zargabaath is…tentative on the subject.”

“He was advisor to the late Regall Solidor and his insight would be invaluable.”

“And he, tentatively, agrees.”

Gabranth closes his eyes. “Good,” he says, and kisses her.

[random-prophet.livejournal.com]

I wouldn't mind some Zalera fic set during the war with the gods or between the events of FFXII and FFT!

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

Her name existed in a tongue that is not known or pronounceable today. It was late morning. There was singing in the distance. She rose from her meditation to stand at the temple gates and listen. It was not the sort of song that would be sung in later years—these were days where song was forbidden by the humble younger children of the gods, and as a member of such she had barely the ears to comprehend what she heard. She could not see what was happening in the distance, for the temple rested so close to the heavens that, fragile as she was, a blindfold was necessary to keep from having such light drive her mad. She could hear well enough the baser thrum of clashing swords and beating wings, and so she knew at once that it was a war song, and that it would soon be upon the temple, and that there was not much time. She turned and vanished inside, finding her way through mere memory. She walked to the inner chambers, behind which lay a figure rumpled and ragged. She knelt by his side.

“My traveler,” she said, combing her hand over the places where the bandages were thick, and were his wounds had been grave. They did not ooze. It was a good sign, though his arm had nearly been severed at the joint and was likely not soon to recover. “The Undying, they come.”

“Do they?” creaked the beast in her company. “Do you hear them?”

“Yes. Quicker than the wind and very near.”

The sound of their song echoed now through the vestibule. “I hear them now,” said the beast in her company. His one thin hand slid up her side. “You should bring tribute.”

“They come for you.”

The beast in her company gave pause, his fingers resting at the soft point just under her arm. “Ah. You knew.”

She put her arms around his neck. “You smell of burial soil.” She lifted him. The beast in her company was infinitely larger, but she as a younger child was infinitely more solid than he, and so she was able to sit him up. “You must hide.” She buried her face in the dark of him.

Claws curled over her shoulder. “No,” murmured Zalera. “I will not.”

Claws dug in.

not a request, just a big 'ol "thanks"

[reflectedeve.livejournal.com]

I emailed, but I feel like repeating myself. :p You're awesome, not-so-secret Santa. Thank you so much for my story, I love it! I remain immensely impressed with your command of the "fairy tale" style.

Re: not a request, just a big 'ol "thanks"

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

Happy to be of service! It was fun one to write. The Snow Queen was one of my childhood staples growing up, so I was glad to have to chance to play around with it! This was my first time doing yuletide, and I definately see now why my friends go crazy about it every year. Heckuvalot of awesome, that.

[farli.livejournal.com]

As requested on AIM:

Kairi and Penelo, on the stupidity of teenaged boys. o/'

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

kinda less about the stupidity of teenaged boys and more about the uh, borrowing of stupid teenaged boys but


The Princess of Heart struggled to move. Whatever spell she’d been hit with, it seemed to have ruined all movement. Her legs wouldn’t lift, and her arms hung frozen at her sides. She was slumped against the wall of the gummi ship, watching them take Sora away. She wasn’t even sure where they’d come from. Their vessel hadn’t shown on the radar at all--

She could still talk, at least. “You don’t want to do this,” said Kairi, glaring at one nearest to her: a girl a few years older than her, with feathers tied in her hair and flowers wreaths inked into her upper arms. There was something birdlike about her, especially the way she walked on her toes. By her clothes Kairi would’ve guessed she’d come from Agrabah, but Kairi didn’t really care about that too much when they were taking Sora away. “You really don’t."

“You’re right,” said the girl. She was examining the main console. Kairi stared at her, and she looked up at the large screen with a sigh. She hit a button. “Vaan, I’ll be there in a minute.” She cancelled the feed, continuing: “This isn’t really our usual style. But we were hired to get the keyblade, and if we can’t take it from him…”

“You’ll just take him?!”

“We’re pirates,” said the girl. “Sorry.”

Kairi tried to lunge. “I won’t let you--“

The girl picked up the staff she’d left propped against the pilot’s seat. “We won’t hurt him,” she said, reasonably. “And that’s a Disable spell. You probably won’t be moving for awhile.”

“Where are you taking him?”

“Can’t tell you.”

“Who wants the keyblade?”

“Noooot allowed to say,” she turned to go, “It’s another pirate thing. Look, your ship should work just fine. We only—oh.”

Kairi stood up shakily, holding the blooming blade between them. It smelled like spring and fresh water, and spectral petals went flying as she swiped it once in warning. “Well. If you’re going to take Sora because he has a keyblade…you’ll have to take me too!”

“Oh,” said the pirate, frowning. Her hand came back down onto the keyboard. “Vaan?” said Penelo, as the Princess of Heart began an unsteady advance, shaking the remains of the magic out of her hair. “Uh. Might want to come back down. This is a little more complicated than we thought…”

[alexsirkman.livejournal.com]

Hmmm....howsabout Derek and the nurse, Angie, from Trauma Center? Just interested in seeing what you come up with ^____^ *hugs* Thanks so much for coming to New Years by the way...it was great to have you there ^^ sorry I died ^^;

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

I am glad you are still alive! I had fun but dude I've played like, two seconds of Trauma Center!

HI STILL DON'T HAVE INTERNET

[halcyonjazz.livejournal.com]

1) that story still rocks my proverbial socks

2) previous drabbles include AAAAH YOU WROTE IT YES and AAAAH MY HEART

3) Write me some Original 'Verse (hobo kings!) or, yanno, esper slashing. YOU KNOW THE ONES.

Re: HI STILL DON'T HAVE INTERNET

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

And here, gentle readers, we find ourselves at an impasse. At which our hero must make a decision, and one of great weight, which ought to be important to the narrative thus far but knowing as well as we do who were are dealing with—

“I WILL CRY RAVISHMENT.”

“Try it.”

--that will likely not be the case at all. So, here: Felix Lowe found himself thrown down across the bed in an inn called ‘The Merry Peacock’, the monk’s hand fastened tightly into his shirtfront. His attempt at escape against such an assault was a valiant one, for him anyway, but it was the effort of the feather seeking to tickle the rhinoceros. Jolanka was unmoved, and for his troubles Felix would likely find bruises on his fair, bony chest by nightfall.

“Are we done?” asked Jolanka.

“Hm. Maybe. Perhaps—you know what no,” said Felix, with customary cooperation, opening his mouth wide and inhaling deeply, intending a bloodcurdling shriek and having the practice to achieve it.

“Do really wish to do that when we are holding a razor next to your throat.”

She tipped her head, indicating Madison, who stood ready with the bowl, the towels, the shears, the soap, and indeed the razor glittering like moonlight in the poorly lit room they had chosen for its cheap obscurity.

Felix closed his mouth. Greater powers were at work here. The sort that looked like sharp objects positioned in awkward places. “You know,” he said, sullenly. “This counts as a threat upon my life.”

“Well, good thing that you are used to those by now!” said Madison, with a cheerful menace as she leaned over him. She was, possibly, not the best of choices for this task: she smelled very strongly of a nearby tavern’s finest. “And think of it as a better fate than the one you might otherwise get, if we go to see the Princess with you resembling a drowned rat--”

“I’ve eaten drowned rats. I have no prejudices—NK.”

Ever the tender one, Jolanka pressed a pinky against the underside of his scruffy jaw, and shut his mouth for him.

[motorbike.livejournal.com]

I still vote Balthier and Jules. If you will. Because yes.

[motorbike.livejournal.com]

FFAMRAN RATHER

[skyscope.livejournal.com]

Opportunistic lurker here. XDD

Kingdom Hearts/ Tutu crossover? Alternately, more Ashe/Rasler would be great. Or something about Michael and Martha.

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

When the chocobo finally slowed from their sprint, they were in an unknown section of the forest, the sounds of their escort had faded behind them, Lady Ashe was hiding her laughter against her hand, and Rasler was just trying to make sense of exactly what had just happened.

“My lady,” he began, offering his bird an apologetic pat on the side of its neck. “Did something about our current company offend?” He did not put this past her. Her moods were changeable and her capability for mischief endless, as her knights could attest. He could as well, now that their engagement had been announced officially and he was thoroughly at her mercy. She returned his reins to him. A skilled rider, she was, to flank him and commandeer him so. A rider not yet fully accustomed to riding through wood, however. Leaves clung in her hair.

She assumed a lofty posture. “I suppose I must be honest with my lord, since I am to marry him.” She urged her mount forward in a slower trot. Rasler bid his to follow. They seemed to welcome this new pace. “I had another motive for joining you on this hunt.”

“Besides a kidnapping, you mean?” Rasler asked, interested. The lady shot him a look, but it held no true sharpness. She turned her gaze airily upwards, staring at the glittering lights that occupied the interlocked branches above them with her best show of regal indifference.

“Besides…that, yes.” She turned her chocobo onto one of the walkways and paused, allowing him to come up along side her. He paid careful attention to her hands, lest they dart out and grab him again. He wasn’t so ready to go rocketing through the half the forest a second time. Their surroundings were only just beginning to look familiar to him. “The truth is I had designs upon your royal person.”

“I see. Ones that did not require an audience, I assume.”

She nodded, bringing her eyes level with him once more. “My father may put great trust in the good captain, and I know you find his company very interesting, but his presence was very much a hindrance to my plans.”

“Which are…?”

“This,” she said, and laid a hand on the saddle, not the reins. She leaned over to meet him, thus.