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moonsheenI am being a terrible sheep and ripping off ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-syndicated.gif)
bravecows shamelessly! Which is to say: the unfinished ficmeme! A bunch of snippets, in no particular order, of stuff of varying age and quality. Kingdom Hearts, Bleach, and Final Fantasy Tactics. Warnings for sex, drugs, and rock & roll. But actually mostly warnings for headsquishings and people thinking way too hard about daisies.
(some shinigami hunt by concentration and the rasp of ribbons against their palms, following the tug of it wherever it may lead them. skilled shinigami do this. Renji has neither the patience nor the inclination for this particular method. spiritual power has always for him come in flecks of light. thousands upon thousands built upon his awareness when he cares to look. it is rough and unrefined and simply what has always come naturally.)
Capture or kill, he’s been told. Capture or kill. She’s near, he knows she’s near, and he’ll kill her for this, he decides baldly: he’ll kill her.
Renji, beginning of the Soul Society arc. First Renji fic I ever wrote! And rewrote, like, five times before I canned it and moved on. You can kind of tell why. Yeowch.
once upon a time there was a little boy who loved a princess so much he broke his heart in two...
beginning of a pretentious Naminé fic. I got five paragraphs in before Word ate half of it. Rewrote that half and then my computer shut off. Sometimes there are just SIGNS... I liked the first line, though.
The generators sticking out of the stone hummed, the solar panels folded flat against the walls. There were no rays to catch at night. Each and every one of them were higher than the boy coming up the steps was tall, and wider than the shoulders of the guard waiting on the battlements. As the boy approached, the guard turned slightly, his arms crossed and his weapon rested against the rail. He was silhouetted on a great expanse of stars, huge and endless and at that time unmarred.
“You should wear more than that, Ienzo.”
The boy in his night robe shrugged. “It’s not that cold.”
The guard frowned at him. “You should be sleeping.”
The boy lifted his hand. “And you shouldn’t. It’s so tiring, just standing here. Do you want to be rid of me so quickly, Elaeus?” He opened his palm. “I’ve brought the new lense.”
yes, I like these two. Yes, I know. Shut up. Beginning of Xehanort!fic surprisingly enough. I may finish this one some day.
"Indeed, King Delita enjoyed a peaceful reign on all counts. Even the weather, it seemed, agreed with him. Of his years in power, the number of good harvests were many, the number hard winters scant. Even the spectre of the Black Death, which had killed so many towards the end of the 50 Year War, did not rear its ugly head again.
This is not to say that the King ruled in perfect health—several years into his reign a mysterious malady struck the province of Zeltennia. The death count was very low, but among the most ill was the Queen Ovelia, who it is said slept for seven days in a vicious fever, before a sudden recovery most counted as a Miracle, for surely it had seemed that she would die..."
Half the fun of Tactics fics is coming up with fake history excerpts. This is one of them. This was the prologue to...
“Olan Durai has nailed another dissertation to a church in Lionel,” said one woman to the other, leaned in with a giggle and stroking her friends curled hair in an conspiring fashion.
It came upon Ovelia thus, that brief heat as she turned her head to hear them, a feeling like a stone was stuck stationary right behind her eyes. It remained in place with every tip and tilt, heavy and headache inducing. It had dogged her for the whole day. A bath, she thought. She needed this bath. It would be clearer then. Like water, which now she found she craved. “Lionel. Can you believe that?”
“Well, we can be guaranteed he’s raced off into the blue again.”
“…oh has he,” murmured Ovelia, fingers skimming the door handle. Polished. Engraved. Cool to touch. “Good for Olan. He will have an adventure.”
...this. My problem with Tactics fic is I forever want to write something long and involved and political and it is FRIGGIN' HARD.
Anyone who had ever talked to Hinamori Momo of the 5th Division generally knew two things: One, the fact that she was horribly in love. Two, the exact name and rank of the person she was in love with. And generally this information was to be found within the first five minutes of conversation-- unless, of course, the conversation happened to be centered about the trying of her patience, in which case the first five minutes were a miracle to be survived.
There were just certain constants in Seireitei in times of peace. The skies would be clear. The walls would be white. Hinamori would love her captain. These things were just that simple.
Random Hinamori Momo bit #1! I had a lot of these. A lot of them shouldn't be shown in polite company
When it came to gardening, Momo’s education in the subject came well after her school years.
He was gentle. He was gentle with everything, but Aizen Sousuke’s plants afforded a special brand of care. The soft absent kind in his garden or in his office or personal quarters—slow and thorough and warm in a way she had to watch. She watched his profile and she watched his lips as he smiled and spoke in a low pleasant murmur and most importantly she watched his hands. His hands. His hands were something strange to her: Momo being then one who had never kept a plant she hadn’t killed with her rough fingers and inexperience. Momo being one then who did not know much about gardening at all, but wanted to with a longing that took root as a twinge in the belly and pushed downwards into a hard ache she dared not bring to stuttering words.
She schooled herself in his touch on the unopened buds. The flush of their spring colors muted in their taut, waiting skins, his fingers sliding over them and their dampness in light curiosity: its almost time to come now. you’ve been waiting, haven’t you?
Yes, she always wanted to answer for those buds. Among the many things she would have liked to say to him. Yes. Yes. Please.
...liiiike this one. Erm. I think I wrote this at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chirachira's. I AM SORRY THAT I LEFT FLOWER PORN ON YOUR COMPUTER, CHIRA.
"Sighting of the Blitz!
Blue and yellow sails spotted off the coast of Zeltennia! Could this be the pirate ship Caladbolg, come again to ravage the eastern ports of Ivalice?"
FAKE TAVERN GOSSIP FOR TACTICS!SETTING AGAIN. This time the intro for the infamous DREAD PIRATE TIDUS AU. Which may yet see the light of day. Later ones are/were to include "The Abduction of Lady Braska!" and "Count Seymour's Dilemma"
“Oh,” said the girl, touching her finger to the apple’s shiny curve after she’d asked the price. “That much.”
“Imports don’t come cheap, Miss,” said the man at the stall. It was late afternoon and the streets where bustling. The girl glanced over her shoulder, and saw distracted faces and the white skyline of Seireitei in the distance. She turned back, and started counting through what she’d brought with her.
“Oh,” she said again. “Oh. This foolish person has wasted your time.” She pressed her hands together, lifted them level with her mouth.
“Hisana is sorry,” she said feelingly, with a pronounced dip of her head. “Most terribly sorry. She will come by tomorrow—will you be here tomorrow?”
“…I’m here every day,” said the man, shifting slightly.
The girl smiled behind her fingers. Achingly. “Hisana will try to come again, then. With a little more, she hopes.” Her reflection bobbed in the apple skin once more. “You have been patient with her, thank y--”
“Half price,” said the man, before she could finish.
“…ah.” The girl looked startled; she opened her mouth, as though about to protest in utter humility-- he shoved the apple she’d been eyeing into her hands, before there could be question.
“Special discount,” he hissed.
“…oh-oh thank you!” and she fumbled immediately for her meager coin, and paid the exact price as newly demanded. She smiled wide, for him and for his graciousness, and then smiled more quietly into the flesh of the fruit she bit into. She took swift leave of the market after that.
Under filename: "Hisana is a sneaky bitch."
In the 57th district, a man tried to shove his hand between her legs. He was wide mouthed and big shouldered and oily and disgusting and frightening. Hisana pressed her palm up against that flat, sweaty forehead when he bent down to lick her cheek. He’d laughed, because it seemed like such a pointless thing to do. A red flash, a loud crack-- he fell backwards with a fleshy thud.
The others shouted—she just took off, swift and untouched, little blue blur in her little blue rags. A hand closed over the air where her shoulder had been. They might’ve decided to chase her, and then she might’ve been caught. They didn’t, and she was lucky for that-- but she didn’t think about it. She just ran. Ran and ran and ran. She might have killed that man but she didn’t think about that either.
She saw the slick line of the river in the lantern lights, the dark sluggish shape of boats. She didn’t count herself for free until she was knee deep from the bank. Her bare toes sunk into the mud. The water lapped at her thighs. Her throat ached, her eyes ached, and her lungs, especially, ached. The light of a passing rowboat made her jolt hard, ready to run right back up the bank, but when it passed by in apathy she finally let the breath in good and slowly and she sank down. The stickiness on her arms and on her face was blood. She realized this by the taste when she pressed her lips together. She tore off the end of one of her sleeves and dipped it and began to scrub it off.
...I think I realized how old this is comparatively to my other Hisana stuff when I realized that she was using 'I' in her dialogue. Hisana is more fun in third person. Hisana is also just as likely to explode your head. In some ways I think this is a remix of that alleybrat Rukia fic I posted eeeeeeoons ago.
When Hisana needed to catch a boat, she didn’t do it honestly. She would regret it later, as she would so many things but at the time it was what needed to be done and she did it. It was easy. She was a small girl: she crept right past them along the pier and tucked herself in behind the crates as the supply ship untied its bowline and returned to its route. It was heading north—towards to the first districts. There was more food there and that was where she wanted to be.
She stayed aboard that ship for two and half days, living tucked up in a ball, occasionally prying open one of the barrels in front of her to steal the shiny brown nuts they were ferrying. She shoved a few into her mouth and stuffed more down the front of her rags, to save for later. This practice turned out to be her downfall. She crunched too loudly and one of the nuts popped out of her fingers and rolled across the deck. The men fixing the sails saw. That was that. They hauled her up by the wrists, squirming and screaming, and threw her overboard. It was easy for them, too. She was a small girl.
More of the same. Fic was called "Scarlet's Walk." See the clever pun. Fic probably should've actually been called "In which Hisana is a vicious little survivalist."
“That went well,” said Naminé, brightly.
From under his hood, Riku stared. “And in what universe did you get that idea?”
I love these two.
“Picnic?” Freeloader #1 looked up across the room: one Kuchiki Rukia, sitting primly on his window sill, keying things into her phone with a steady ping. ping. ping. It must have been engrossing work. She hadn’t looked up when Ichigo had come in and only now glanced his way. “Tomorrow?”
“Sunday, yeah. Old man’s idea of--” Ichigo was rummaging through the closet. There was no sign of his boots. There were sheets, more sheets, every additional mattress in the house, but not the goddamn brown boots; there was also what smelled like a whole collection of pickled lemons. Ichigo felt around a box of old toys. “—Rukia what did you spray in here?”
…freeloader #2, one artificially created ghost-hunter in plush form, chose that moment to pop over his shoulder. “…COMPLAINTS! WHAT IS THERE TO COMPLAIN ABOUT, THAT IS SISTER’S MOST LOVELY SCENT--”
Ichigo stuffed Kon’s face into one of Yuzu’s rain boots.
The shinigami, for her part, crossed her legs and wrinkled her nose. Her ankle swung in a quiet indignation. “The bottle said it would make things ‘fresh’.”
“…you used the stuff for the dishes didn’t you.”
“It did not make things ‘fresh.’”
Part of a pre-SS genfic involving Ichigo, hiking, and a mountain god. ...no, it didn't Rukia. No, it didn't.
bravecows shamelessly! Which is to say: the unfinished ficmeme! A bunch of snippets, in no particular order, of stuff of varying age and quality. Kingdom Hearts, Bleach, and Final Fantasy Tactics. Warnings for sex, drugs, and rock & roll. But actually mostly warnings for headsquishings and people thinking way too hard about daisies.(some shinigami hunt by concentration and the rasp of ribbons against their palms, following the tug of it wherever it may lead them. skilled shinigami do this. Renji has neither the patience nor the inclination for this particular method. spiritual power has always for him come in flecks of light. thousands upon thousands built upon his awareness when he cares to look. it is rough and unrefined and simply what has always come naturally.)
Capture or kill, he’s been told. Capture or kill. She’s near, he knows she’s near, and he’ll kill her for this, he decides baldly: he’ll kill her.
Renji, beginning of the Soul Society arc. First Renji fic I ever wrote! And rewrote, like, five times before I canned it and moved on. You can kind of tell why. Yeowch.
once upon a time there was a little boy who loved a princess so much he broke his heart in two...
beginning of a pretentious Naminé fic. I got five paragraphs in before Word ate half of it. Rewrote that half and then my computer shut off. Sometimes there are just SIGNS... I liked the first line, though.
The generators sticking out of the stone hummed, the solar panels folded flat against the walls. There were no rays to catch at night. Each and every one of them were higher than the boy coming up the steps was tall, and wider than the shoulders of the guard waiting on the battlements. As the boy approached, the guard turned slightly, his arms crossed and his weapon rested against the rail. He was silhouetted on a great expanse of stars, huge and endless and at that time unmarred.
“You should wear more than that, Ienzo.”
The boy in his night robe shrugged. “It’s not that cold.”
The guard frowned at him. “You should be sleeping.”
The boy lifted his hand. “And you shouldn’t. It’s so tiring, just standing here. Do you want to be rid of me so quickly, Elaeus?” He opened his palm. “I’ve brought the new lense.”
yes, I like these two. Yes, I know. Shut up. Beginning of Xehanort!fic surprisingly enough. I may finish this one some day.
"Indeed, King Delita enjoyed a peaceful reign on all counts. Even the weather, it seemed, agreed with him. Of his years in power, the number of good harvests were many, the number hard winters scant. Even the spectre of the Black Death, which had killed so many towards the end of the 50 Year War, did not rear its ugly head again.
This is not to say that the King ruled in perfect health—several years into his reign a mysterious malady struck the province of Zeltennia. The death count was very low, but among the most ill was the Queen Ovelia, who it is said slept for seven days in a vicious fever, before a sudden recovery most counted as a Miracle, for surely it had seemed that she would die..."
Half the fun of Tactics fics is coming up with fake history excerpts. This is one of them. This was the prologue to...
“Olan Durai has nailed another dissertation to a church in Lionel,” said one woman to the other, leaned in with a giggle and stroking her friends curled hair in an conspiring fashion.
It came upon Ovelia thus, that brief heat as she turned her head to hear them, a feeling like a stone was stuck stationary right behind her eyes. It remained in place with every tip and tilt, heavy and headache inducing. It had dogged her for the whole day. A bath, she thought. She needed this bath. It would be clearer then. Like water, which now she found she craved. “Lionel. Can you believe that?”
“Well, we can be guaranteed he’s raced off into the blue again.”
“…oh has he,” murmured Ovelia, fingers skimming the door handle. Polished. Engraved. Cool to touch. “Good for Olan. He will have an adventure.”
...this. My problem with Tactics fic is I forever want to write something long and involved and political and it is FRIGGIN' HARD.
Anyone who had ever talked to Hinamori Momo of the 5th Division generally knew two things: One, the fact that she was horribly in love. Two, the exact name and rank of the person she was in love with. And generally this information was to be found within the first five minutes of conversation-- unless, of course, the conversation happened to be centered about the trying of her patience, in which case the first five minutes were a miracle to be survived.
There were just certain constants in Seireitei in times of peace. The skies would be clear. The walls would be white. Hinamori would love her captain. These things were just that simple.
Random Hinamori Momo bit #1! I had a lot of these. A lot of them shouldn't be shown in polite company
When it came to gardening, Momo’s education in the subject came well after her school years.
He was gentle. He was gentle with everything, but Aizen Sousuke’s plants afforded a special brand of care. The soft absent kind in his garden or in his office or personal quarters—slow and thorough and warm in a way she had to watch. She watched his profile and she watched his lips as he smiled and spoke in a low pleasant murmur and most importantly she watched his hands. His hands. His hands were something strange to her: Momo being then one who had never kept a plant she hadn’t killed with her rough fingers and inexperience. Momo being one then who did not know much about gardening at all, but wanted to with a longing that took root as a twinge in the belly and pushed downwards into a hard ache she dared not bring to stuttering words.
She schooled herself in his touch on the unopened buds. The flush of their spring colors muted in their taut, waiting skins, his fingers sliding over them and their dampness in light curiosity: its almost time to come now. you’ve been waiting, haven’t you?
Yes, she always wanted to answer for those buds. Among the many things she would have liked to say to him. Yes. Yes. Please.
...liiiike this one. Erm. I think I wrote this at
chirachira's. I AM SORRY THAT I LEFT FLOWER PORN ON YOUR COMPUTER, CHIRA."Sighting of the Blitz!
Blue and yellow sails spotted off the coast of Zeltennia! Could this be the pirate ship Caladbolg, come again to ravage the eastern ports of Ivalice?"
FAKE TAVERN GOSSIP FOR TACTICS!SETTING AGAIN. This time the intro for the infamous DREAD PIRATE TIDUS AU. Which may yet see the light of day. Later ones are/were to include "The Abduction of Lady Braska!" and "Count Seymour's Dilemma"
“Oh,” said the girl, touching her finger to the apple’s shiny curve after she’d asked the price. “That much.”
“Imports don’t come cheap, Miss,” said the man at the stall. It was late afternoon and the streets where bustling. The girl glanced over her shoulder, and saw distracted faces and the white skyline of Seireitei in the distance. She turned back, and started counting through what she’d brought with her.
“Oh,” she said again. “Oh. This foolish person has wasted your time.” She pressed her hands together, lifted them level with her mouth.
“Hisana is sorry,” she said feelingly, with a pronounced dip of her head. “Most terribly sorry. She will come by tomorrow—will you be here tomorrow?”
“…I’m here every day,” said the man, shifting slightly.
The girl smiled behind her fingers. Achingly. “Hisana will try to come again, then. With a little more, she hopes.” Her reflection bobbed in the apple skin once more. “You have been patient with her, thank y--”
“Half price,” said the man, before she could finish.
“…ah.” The girl looked startled; she opened her mouth, as though about to protest in utter humility-- he shoved the apple she’d been eyeing into her hands, before there could be question.
“Special discount,” he hissed.
“…oh-oh thank you!” and she fumbled immediately for her meager coin, and paid the exact price as newly demanded. She smiled wide, for him and for his graciousness, and then smiled more quietly into the flesh of the fruit she bit into. She took swift leave of the market after that.
Under filename: "Hisana is a sneaky bitch."
In the 57th district, a man tried to shove his hand between her legs. He was wide mouthed and big shouldered and oily and disgusting and frightening. Hisana pressed her palm up against that flat, sweaty forehead when he bent down to lick her cheek. He’d laughed, because it seemed like such a pointless thing to do. A red flash, a loud crack-- he fell backwards with a fleshy thud.
The others shouted—she just took off, swift and untouched, little blue blur in her little blue rags. A hand closed over the air where her shoulder had been. They might’ve decided to chase her, and then she might’ve been caught. They didn’t, and she was lucky for that-- but she didn’t think about it. She just ran. Ran and ran and ran. She might have killed that man but she didn’t think about that either.
She saw the slick line of the river in the lantern lights, the dark sluggish shape of boats. She didn’t count herself for free until she was knee deep from the bank. Her bare toes sunk into the mud. The water lapped at her thighs. Her throat ached, her eyes ached, and her lungs, especially, ached. The light of a passing rowboat made her jolt hard, ready to run right back up the bank, but when it passed by in apathy she finally let the breath in good and slowly and she sank down. The stickiness on her arms and on her face was blood. She realized this by the taste when she pressed her lips together. She tore off the end of one of her sleeves and dipped it and began to scrub it off.
...I think I realized how old this is comparatively to my other Hisana stuff when I realized that she was using 'I' in her dialogue. Hisana is more fun in third person. Hisana is also just as likely to explode your head. In some ways I think this is a remix of that alleybrat Rukia fic I posted eeeeeeoons ago.
When Hisana needed to catch a boat, she didn’t do it honestly. She would regret it later, as she would so many things but at the time it was what needed to be done and she did it. It was easy. She was a small girl: she crept right past them along the pier and tucked herself in behind the crates as the supply ship untied its bowline and returned to its route. It was heading north—towards to the first districts. There was more food there and that was where she wanted to be.
She stayed aboard that ship for two and half days, living tucked up in a ball, occasionally prying open one of the barrels in front of her to steal the shiny brown nuts they were ferrying. She shoved a few into her mouth and stuffed more down the front of her rags, to save for later. This practice turned out to be her downfall. She crunched too loudly and one of the nuts popped out of her fingers and rolled across the deck. The men fixing the sails saw. That was that. They hauled her up by the wrists, squirming and screaming, and threw her overboard. It was easy for them, too. She was a small girl.
More of the same. Fic was called "Scarlet's Walk." See the clever pun. Fic probably should've actually been called "In which Hisana is a vicious little survivalist."
“That went well,” said Naminé, brightly.
From under his hood, Riku stared. “And in what universe did you get that idea?”
I love these two.
“Picnic?” Freeloader #1 looked up across the room: one Kuchiki Rukia, sitting primly on his window sill, keying things into her phone with a steady ping. ping. ping. It must have been engrossing work. She hadn’t looked up when Ichigo had come in and only now glanced his way. “Tomorrow?”
“Sunday, yeah. Old man’s idea of--” Ichigo was rummaging through the closet. There was no sign of his boots. There were sheets, more sheets, every additional mattress in the house, but not the goddamn brown boots; there was also what smelled like a whole collection of pickled lemons. Ichigo felt around a box of old toys. “—Rukia what did you spray in here?”
…freeloader #2, one artificially created ghost-hunter in plush form, chose that moment to pop over his shoulder. “…COMPLAINTS! WHAT IS THERE TO COMPLAIN ABOUT, THAT IS SISTER’S MOST LOVELY SCENT--”
Ichigo stuffed Kon’s face into one of Yuzu’s rain boots.
The shinigami, for her part, crossed her legs and wrinkled her nose. Her ankle swung in a quiet indignation. “The bottle said it would make things ‘fresh’.”
“…you used the stuff for the dishes didn’t you.”
“It did not make things ‘fresh.’”
Part of a pre-SS genfic involving Ichigo, hiking, and a mountain god. ...no, it didn't Rukia. No, it didn't.