unfinished bits & pieces of fic

[meiface.livejournal.com]

Unfinished bits and pieces of writing that will probably remain unfinished. Feel free to take any of these and run with it.



01. KAT-TUN; Akame
Originally part of Fragments of Time for flaming_icicles but taken out.

“So, we’re going to put Kame over here,” said the photographer.

“I want to be next to him!” Jin interrupted gleefully. He bounced over to Kame and grinned, putting his arms around Kame. “Let’s do a spread with just us. See how many magazines we sell with just that.” He winked and Kame laughed.

“Yes, we were going to do that,” said the photographer, a little thrown. He smiled and nodded and let the make-up artists touch up Kame’s hair. “Just, uh, sit on that block over there, Kamenashi-san. Yes, good, just like that. And Akanishi-san can sit on the floor a little to the left, no, a little bit closer—good, good, now tilt your head down, Kamenashi-san and—”

Maru looked at Koki and raised an eyebrow. “I feel necessary,” he said lightly.

“We’re great background scenery,” Koki joked.

On the set, Jin had propped an arm across Kame’s lap, holding his head up as he gave the camera a sultry look through his bangs.

--

02. Digimon; Taito
I really want to write Taito again. Damn.

The acrid smell of smoke hung heavy in the air, stifling in the stillness of the room. The heap of blankets on the bed shifted slightly, an indication that life did exist. Further proof came in the way of a muffled groan and an arm that extended out from under the covers, patting all within reach, searching.

Whatever it was the arm was looking for, it clearly hadn’t found it, as a tousled head emerged and, slowly, a torso, until the blankets slid down to reveal a bare-chested Yagami Taichi, sitting up and blinking in sleepy confusion.

Ah—I’m at Matt’s, he thought fuzzily, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. He yawned. He recognized the smell of cigarettes.

Sliding off the bed and landing on the floor with an ungraceful thump, Tai stifled another yawn and clambered sleepily to his feet. His waking up at Matt’s was a common enough occurrence, but it was rare not to see the blonde around.

The early morning sun cast pale stripes of light through the window.

Tai stumbled to the door and pulled it open.

--

03. Naruto; gen
Actually the beginning of an essay analyzing why I loved Sasuke best. You can see how far I got with it; comes from being easily distracted, I guess.

Of all the multitude of varied characters in Naruto, if asked to pick a favorite, my answer would be “Uchiha Sasuke” with little hesitation. A large factor in this conscious decision is because he is one of the main characters of the show, which, despite the protests of the growing fanbase for minor and underappreciated characters, is a critically important aspect to my choice. As one of the major players, Sasuke is given more screen time, more background, a more detailed history, and more interaction with other characters, all of which are imperative in developing his character. In the same way, that time spent with Sasuke, relatively speaking, helps me get to know him better, to know his quirks and motives and hidden emotions. Those, in turn, make it easier to identify with him, which is what singles him out to me, for out of the entire vast cast of the show, he is the one I can personally empathize with the most.

--

04. Tenipuri; FujiRyo
Was going to be the beginning of some epic, multi-chapter FujiRyo. Hah.

The first time Echizen Ryoma got drunk he was fifteen and at Fuji Syuusuke’s graduation party.

Granted, many of his other senpai had graduated as well, buchou (because Ryoma would never see him as anything else), Kikumaru-senpai, Oishi-senpai, Kawamura-senpai, and Inui-senpai. But it was Fuji’s party and not held, for once, at the Kawamura sushi shop.

Ryoma supposed it marked some sort of era, or the close of it. Things were going to change now that all the graduated seniors were headed off to college. That wasn’t to say things hadn’t changed before,

--

05. Tenipuri; FujiRyo
Second attempt at same epic-thing.

The first time Ryoma attended Fuji’s graduation, he and Fuji were barely more than teammates. Close ones, of course, because all the Seigaku regulars were close, almost compulsively so. But they had only just begun crossing that boundary of camaraderie into the uncertain lands of a friendship brought about by a growing respect for each other as more than just tennis players (albeit good ones) and a mutual desire to defeat Tezuka. They had grown closer those days and weeks that their captain was in Germany and Ryoma found the graduation a hard one to face though not just because he was losing so many senpai and teammates all at once. Fuji leaving, he had to admit, troubled him more than losing Kikumaru, Kawamura, Inui, or even fukubuchou Oishi.

Still, he didn’t think too much of it because he was still focused on Tezuka then, and losing his rival and captain to high school irritated the competitor in Ryoma. And considering that Echizen Ryoma was about 85% competitor and 15% everything else, he was understandably upset.

He spent the next two years beating the tennis club into shape and challenging his former captain as often as possible, which wasn’t as often as he liked, what with high school’s fierce academic demands. He didn’t think frequently of Fuji, though the tensai was often a second choice when Tezuka turned down Ryoma’s politely-worded demands for a match. Evidently, Fuji was as natural a genius at school as at tennis and could afford to spend one or two weekends a month with his kohai on the courts. Ryoma didn’t give much thought to it.

The second time Ryoma attended Fuji’s graduation, though, this time for the successful completion of three years at Seigaku High, he got drunk for the first time in his life.

It was then, he realized, at Fuji’s graduation party, how much everyone had changed. And while he didn’t hate change on principle because it would always happen and adaptation was usually the best course of action, he found that he missed the way things used to be. Kawamura didn’t play tennis anymore and the current party, which Fuji had insisted on paying for, was at the sushi bar that he now pretty much ran on his own now. Inui had discovered the joys of high school chemistry and forsaken the rackets and courts. Momoshiro had moved to Hiroshima, much to Ryoma’s dismay, and the Golden Pair had been split up by the current captain into new doubles pairs.

Ryoma grimaced to himself. That’s right. Tezuka wasn’t captain and Fuji wasn’t even on the regulars this year (though Ryoma knew it was from a lack of sincere effort on the prodigy’s part as his attention had been diverted by the photography club as of late). Kaido was still on the regulars, as was Ryoma (to no one’s surprise), but everything was so different from what he’d been expecting.

Still, despite all the uncomfortable changes, the real reason Ryoma downed nearly two bottles of sake that night was because he just realized that he was in love. With a certain Fuji Syusuke.

If that didn’t warrant a drink or four, he didn’t know what did.

--

06. Tenipuri; FujiRyo
I don't remember this at all. Huh. Forgot what it was supposed to be. Anyway, very unfinished, as some of them are.

Ryoma hadn’t noticed when he was twelve, but at that age he’d had no real concern beyond tennis and the occasional nap. Things had been simple then, straightforward, and he had never imagined that three years later he’d be facing problems far more complex than an opponent’s net play or how to skip English class for a nap on the roof without getting caught; nor had he imagined that he’d be bringing the problems on himself. Ryoma had never taken himself for a masochist. Then again, he supposed he had never expected himself to be saddled with Fuji Syuusuke as a—was there any other term for it? Ryoma had spent months searching for one in the throes of denial and had grudgingly resigned himself to that disgustingly shoujo word—boyfriend. Life was full of unexpected things.

Unexpected, unwelcome things, at that.

Ryoma had found puberty a pretty good deal, for the most part. He’d added a good number of centimeters to his height—to the point of being on the short side of average, rather than just “short”—and he’d managed to build up a better musculature: compact, powerful, and deceptively slim. His voice had lowered without too much cracking, which had put him through a couple of embarrassing moments but not as many as most with his taciturn nature, and he’d grown more comfortable with his relationship with Fuji-senpai. Overall, Ryoma’s experience had been decent, almost easy. With Seigaku’s elevator program he’d gotten into the high school with few problems, though his high test scores proved that he would’ve made it in regardless, and tennis was still as fun as ever, especially with new opponents appearing in the high school circuits.

The problem, Ryoma discovered, was that no one had warned him about the hormones that came with puberty. Specifically, he thought with a scowl, the ones that induced embarrassing incidents with his sheets and left him entirely frustrated with his boyfriend.

It was hard being horny all the time when one’s boyfriend refused to do more than kiss.

And Ryoma didn’t know why.

Oh, he knew all about the hormones—in a fit of irritation, he’d looked up the biological explanations behind his body’s reactions—but he was at a loss as to why Fuji was so reticent about taking their relationship further.

It wasn’t that Fuji had anything to hide; he was usually the one to brush a kiss across Ryoma’s cheek in the morning as he walked Ryoma to his class, or the one who’d come by and eat lunch with Ryoma. He certainly had no qualms about hand-holding—Ryoma only allowed this on special occasions because it made him feel rather like the main character of one the mangas his cousin read—or any other casual, public touches. But while Ryoma understood why groping, say, might be discouraged in public, he didn’t know why Fuji never went further when it was just the two of them.

It was frustrating for a fifteen-year-old boy who just wanted more when the heat flooded his belly and made him inch further up Fuji’s thighs, straddling him, hands fisted in Fuji’s hair. And fingers would tease the hem of his shirt, flirtingly skating light touches against his bare skin, and then Fuji would draw back, breathing hard, until they both caught their breath. Ryoma didn’t want to catch his breath, thanks, he wanted to rock his hips until the friction was unbearable, and he wanted to be touched.

There had to be something wrong with Fuji Syuusuke, Ryoma determined, irritated. Two weeks ago, when the older boy had coaxed Ryoma into being his model for his photography club project, Ryoma had thought it a set-up to get him naked—he knew all about this ‘art’ thing and its appreciation of nudity—but when he’d shown up at the studio and began stripping off his clothes, Fuji’s chuckle had stopped him.

“What on earth are you doing, Ryoma?” he asked, looking amused. “Put your clothes back on.”

“But—“ Ryoma opened his mouth to argue, then let it fall shut, scowling. He tugged his shirt back on. “Freak,” he muttered, feeling slightly insulted. Didn’t Fuji even want to see him naked?

Fuji appeared at his side and brushed a kiss over his forehead, stroking his hair. “Thanks for doing this,” he said softly. His eyes twinkled. “I’ll be sure to do you justice.”

All he received in return was a sullen look.

Then, just yesterday, by sheer luck, they had been left alone in the clubhouse

--

07. Tenipuri; FujiRyo
This was going to be Touch, part 5 of the Five Senses Arc but it didn't work out.

There was something in the air lately, something besides the sudden chill of the newly-arrived fall, something that nibbled on Ryoma’s consciousness, irritating, niggling, taunting him like an itch that couldn’t be scratched. It bothered him constantly and the result was that he could rarely sit still anymore, always fidgeting as though he could almost reach that thought, whatever it was, if only he reached a little…bit…more.

It hit him one Saturday night, as the Seigaku regulars enjoyed a night out karaoke-style, what it was that had been hovering on the edge of awareness: Fuji hadn’t touched him in over two weeks. In the light of how much time they spent together for tennis practice, and how touchy-feely certain senpai could get, especially one with an enjoyment for seeing Ryoma squirm, it was quite a feat.

“Syuusuke,” Ryoma blurted out before he could think better, irritation having gotten the better of him.

Fuji turned from his seat on the other side of Kikumaru. Oishi, who sat between Eiji and Ryoma, gave the latter a startled look.

“Echizen?” queried Fuji, smiling.

Ryoma scowled, blushing a little at his slip. “I have to talk to you, Fuji-senpai.” Oishi was still eyeing him in surprise, something almost approaching realization in his eyes. At least Kikumaru had been too enthused over the song Momoshiro was currently (attempting) to sing that he hadn’t heard. Ryoma fidgeted some more.

--

08. Tenipuri; TezuRyo
And this was my first attempt at TezuRyo before I abandoned it as crap and wrote Linger Long instead. See why?

Their lifestyles were completely different: two opposing forces greater than day and night that nonetheless brimmed with similarities. They both lived on the extreme of their personalities. One let passion and drive dictate his every action, strict in training and execution because the burn of every moment spent dripping sweat was rewarded in the end – with the gleam of light off tinted glass, with the full impact of victory supported by hard work. The other lived recklessly, carelessly, and let his whim take him where it chose, fluttering near genius talent and pulling away with a laugh that promised nothing, because his life was his own and he would never give it up to grueling years of courts, nets, balls, matches, opponents, victory, defeat.

They were both unquestionably talented, though one of them grit his teeth and worked for it while the other expended effort when he found cause enough.

One pair of eyes, determined, was framed by glasses and the other rarely seen, an unforgiving blue.

Tezuka hated people like Fuji the most but, somehow, he had never had a closer friend.



Their lifestyles were startlingly similar: two independent forces as irrefutably linked as night and day that flaunted a world of sheer drive. They both lived on the extremes of their personalities, always pushing harder, pushing further, pushing higher until they could feel the air beneath their feet as they reached for the sky. Every second, minute, hour upon hour that they spent immersed in this sport – their lifeblood – gave them a new fire in their souls. I will be the best, I will be the greatest, and they were both scaling a mountain of dreams, one sliding rope between his hands to help pull the other up, constructing with each test, with each word of advice a new nation of hope. The other climbed on, proud but not stubborn enough to blindly ignore what aid was provided him. He would be the best.

They were both unquestionably talented, though one of them would sacrifice something near his entire world to see the other conquer the highest, brightest dream.

One pair of eyes, determined, was framed by glasses and the other shaded by the brim of a cap, flashing gold and ambition.

Tezuka wanted Echizen to be the next pillar of Seigaku and, somehow, ended up wanting him, as well.

--

09. Tenipuri; TezuSaku
And this was going to be a serious attempt at TezuSaku for ninjatrauma, with some FujiRyo on the side because that was the only way I could get her to read it.

She was waiting for him outside, patient in the spread of her skirt on the bench, smoothed out by anxious hands now folded demurely in her lap, discreet fiddling the only sign of her ill ease. She had been waiting now, for a lifetime, for a smile or a look that would tell her, suddenly, that her patience had been rewarded and she would know. She had been waiting and waiting and sitting here for an eternity as the sun sank from the heights of the blue sky to the horizon.

When she looked up at the shadow that fell across her, she was hopeful, though subconsciously she’d already known it couldn’t be him—the length was too long, too tall, but maybe it was the elongated effect of the late afternoon—and she was hopeless, not stupid, and the light in her eyes when she saw someone else didn’t waver, though internally she sighed.

“T-Tezuka-senapi,” she gasped, unsettled at this anomaly in her routine. Amongst the watching and the waiting and the wanting, she had come to expect nothing more than a longing in her heart and a certain distance, hero-worship, that linked her to him inexorably, but paradoxically kept her at that arm’s length with her heart in her eyes.

She isn’t sure what to do with this incongruity, this figure that played prominently in the background around her hero, whose role she would have envied had she ever wavered from her thoughts of him long enough to think of anyone else. But she wasn’t a jealous girl, only a little wistful, and so she never saw this boy who stood before her as anyone but someone important to the person most important to her.

He looked down at her and she looked up, too uncertain to say anything, and his face was expressionless and unreadable and her heart pounded in her ears, loudly.

“Ryuuzaki,” he greeted her, inclining his head slightly. “Kawashiki-san asked me to speak to you,” He continued standing and she couldn’t help but notice how tall he was, how composed, and she always knew he was good-looking and that most of the girls—Tomoka, even, the self-proclaimed president of Ryoma-sama’s fan club—swooned over him. She understood, had always understood, but it was less prominent now that all she could focus on was how intimidating he was, how powerful and skilled and above her. He was one of the most important people to her most important person.

He cleared his throat discreetly and she startled, consciousness flying back to the present, and she flushed. “Ara! What—what did you need to speak to me about?” Self-consciously, she ducked her head and, briefly, now she focused on herself—what could Kawashiki-buchou want? She was so strong and vibrant, perhaps not as skilled as Sakuno’s most important person, but still so far from her own talents that she could do nothing more than to watch with awe.

It really was like the end of the



“Saa, Ryoma…” Fuji stroked Ryoma’s hair and felt the head resting on his shoulder shift in response.

“Hmm?” Ryoma glanced up at him through lowered lashes, eyes sleepy and questioning.

--

10. Original
Nostalgic on my birthday...

There was something particularly wistful about that almost-summer night, the air nearing the muggy warmth of June, but still tempered by the breezes of a cooler April. May, she thought, curled by the window with her arms resting on the sill, was her favorite month. Endings and beginnings, openings and closings, May consisted of the end of a school year, the start of summer, saying goodbye and saying hello, and turning another year older.

She knew that tomorrow she’d only be a day older, but the one digit change in her age reflected an entire year’s worth of growth and change. Tonight was her night for reflection. Tomorrow she’d be someone new, someone different; time passed without stop and change was the only constant after all.

--

11. Naruto; NaruSasu
It was going to be the sequel to Learning From Mistakes, the NaruSasu teacher/student AU for sasunaru100. Ugh.

Naruto had cornered him again—fifth time this week—and it was fast getting old. Sasuke’s nerves were fraying rapidly along with the strength of his resistance to Naruto’s advances. It certainly didn’t help his

--

12. Ouran; Kyouya/Tamaki
The Egypt AU I was going to write splinteredfate but got horrifically stalled on. I may still write it for you, Ivy, only with a different beginning. And no TRC characters, either.

Once upon a time in a land not unlike Egypt, there lived a pharaoh. He was a powerful and good-hearted pharaoh, but he was not particularly wise. Because he knew as a pharaoh, this weakness could be exploited, he hand-picked wise advisors he trusted to help him rule and kept them in line with well-trained guards he trusted to keep him alive. However, these advisors, as wise as they were, had not been able to stop his folly eighteen years ago, when he had been young and in love with the princess of the country he had been visiting on his grand tour of neighboring lands before assuming the throne.

She had smiled and he had fallen – right into her bed. That night, the pharaoh, whose name was Yuzuru because this land, though like Egypt in clime and politics, utilized a system of writing nearly identical to the Japanese[1], laid with her (after various other more strenuous activities) and conceived a son.

He left the country three days later and Yuzuru never knew of his son until he received a letter nearly two decades later, which he asked his scribe to read to him.

Your son’s name is Tamaki, the scribe told him and handed him a lock of golden hair.

Because this land was an agricultural one, living off a river suspiciously like the Nile but was in actuality the Nial, the people worshipped the sun. Its golden life-giving rays were celebrated every day the slaves went out to work the land, to till and plow until sweat ran down their backs and their skin was kissed by the wonderful sun (for which the masters told the slaves often to be grateful for, while they sheltered themselves in their houses during the high noon, claiming themselves not worthy of Ri’s gift). So Yuzuru looked at the lock of hair with its sunbeam color and sent a summons back with the messenger.

His son would come to him, marked as he was by the favor of the gods.



“Ah,” said Tamaki as he fell off his horse.

“Be careful, your highness!” exclaimed his right-hand bodyguard, Fai, as he caught the prince in his arms.

“Idiot,” growled his left-hand bodyguard, Kurogane.

Tamaki beamed as he was righted on his horse. He waved a hand grandly. “I’m fine! Thank you, Fai.” He tugged at the covering over his head and sighed, long and heartfelt, gazing into the distance. Sand and sky as far as the eye could see… “Are we there yet?”

Kurogane’s hand twitched on his sword as if this were the hundredth time he had heard that question this trip. It was actually only the ninety-sixth. Fai had been keeping count.

“No yet, your highness,” Fai told him cheerfully. “Would you like some water? I think I see an oasis over that way. Of course, I could just be thinking I see an oasis. The desert’s a very deceitful place.”

“Like you,” muttered Kurogane, who had never come to trust Fai because he smiled too much. He was smiling now, petting his horse and leaning forward to coo,

“Oh, Kuro-pon, don’t say things like that! You’ll hurt my feelings.”

“Now boys,” Tamaki told them when Kurogane growled low in his throat. He straightened in the saddle, lifting his face towards the scorching sun and waving his arm across the sea of sand. The wind tugged at his clothes. “It’s not in the spirit of chivalry and guardship to be petty or violent. Be remarkable and courageous and brave! Let history remember you for eternity! History recalls the names of those who were valiant and strong and—”

“Dead,” said Kurogane flatly.

Tamaki’s expression fell and he looked on the verge of tears. His arm dropped. Kurogane gritted his teeth and wished very hard that this job was an illusion.

“Don’t mind him,” Fai said. “I think it is an oasis! Shall we leave Kuro-ron to brood while we get some water?”


[1] Except for the “bi” sound which in this land was written “vi” on account of their Creator God, a half-male, half-female heavenly being called “Miyavi”.