Mar. 30th, 2008

karanguni: (HUGHES junshou)
Not dead yet! Playing Crisis Core. Will come out of hole once Tseng stops making me drool over my keyboard. Exciting! Even more exciting: short drabble of mine got translated; such things have never happened before, v. cool. Brain melting. Squeenix hasn't spat me out yet. Nghhh.


Things to write:

* Crisis Core fic: Tseng, Zack genfic; two of them cooped up too damned long in helicopters with no one else around and Tseng is about as much of a conversationalist as Zack is a deep thinker: "Stop looking at me like that." "I wasn't aware I was looking at you in any particular way." "... You're getting on my nerves." "... You shouldn't go after her. Aerith, that is, not any of the other five or six women you flirt with." "?!$@)$(&"

* Crisis Core fic: Tseng, suits and beaches; Zack, a cool drink and fighting with umbrellas. Sand gets into guns; but Turks can't be perfect all of the time.

* Ghost in the Shell fic: Togusa on Batou in a genfic sort of way: "You're not the marrying type, are you?" Batou keeps getting angstier and angrier, and what can he do, really...

* Discworld fic/series: A day in the life of Rufus Drumknott, or how he let go and learnt to love the bomb.

karanguni: (RUFUS' clothes)
Title: Fact of the Matter
Characters: Zack, Tseng
Rating: PG
Summary: Zack's spent too much damned time in helicopters watching Tseng watching him watching Tseng.
Warnings: Crisis Core insertfic just after Zack and Tseng have that... interesting conversation regarding Aerith outside the church.

1255 words. Genfic. Tseng is a bit twisty, but only if you squint.

Tseng tilted his head to the side, just barely. 'I wasn't aware that I was looking at you in any particular way.' )

 

A universe of unmapped grief and love
And new master light is beyond
The pleiades and plow and southern stars.

O soaring
Icarus of outworld, burn bright
The traceries of known skymarks,
Slide the highway planets behind
Your clear waxed wings.

Go conquer the everywhere left
Beyond your sad confinement
In a predicted bonehouse,
Witch thrown riddle of flesh
And water.

O soar until nothing
remains but great glittering holes
In the black godspun shirt over your head.

- John Fairfax