Fics: Nodame one-shot , Suzumiya Haruhi one-shot, SasuSaku one-shot
The first two are older, un-linked ones. #1 & #3 are both for
31_days
1.
( Prank Called )
/ January 16 / It's sane enough what I'm asking
The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya / Kyon, Koizumi Itsuki, Suzumiya Haruhi / Rated PG /
2.
( On Bedmates and Drinking Partners )
/
dormant_musesDecember Anonymous Request Challenge / knitted fabric
Naruto / Sasuke, Sakura / NC-17 / Final draft (links to AFF)
3.
Disclaimer: Just borrowing Nodame. For entertainment. To relieve ennui. Ok? Ok.
Dreams Of
Forests bore a chock-full of metaphor. They could signify complexity of life, the silence of death, or anything in between---sex, even. He was not much of a nature trekker, preferring the great cities of the Old World, bastions that housed the aesthetically pleasing, the sublime and the depraved borne of human minds, human hands. His inexperience manifested yet again, when he stumbled for the umpteenth time, this time headlong into a prickly bush. Cursing, he scrambled back to his feet, casting about him in hopes of sighting his prey. He thought he had glimpsed the dappled flank of the great striped cat, but being upside down had discombobulated his sense of direction.
A ghost of a laugh floated to his sharp ears; though a discordance with the lilting background, it was not entirely unpleasant. There was also singing. Cherubic voices enthusiastically tackled a cheerful fragment of melody, over and over, a scampering stampede of a round song.
It was getting cloying.
The chortle came once more, an infuriating, beckoning sound. It eluded his grasp; he was left bereft, lost. Thus left behind, he wandered the shifting wood and its morphing trails, slipping into a fanciful semi-wakefulness.
A brook crossed his path. Across from him, the beast stood in all its eye-damaging splendor, with its cacophonous hide of indigo, orange, and old rose. Perhaps, if he caught it and dissected it, analyzed its separate components, he wouldn't be as confused. Maybe its entrails formed some mystical map that would get him the hell out of there.
Or deeper.
Into the woods.
He ran towards it. It ran towards him. He stopped, suddenly unmanned by the animal's seeming show of aggression, of teeth. The creature merely laughed at his mockery of a fighting stance, and dissociated into minute pieces of silver. The babbling stream washed them away, the glinting slivers lost in its suddenly swollen waters.
He stared at the empty spot for a few moments, before proceeding with the ritualistic loin-girding: of course, he would follow. Manfully, he jumped in after it; the icy wetness was somehow most painful against his groin---down his legs, he felt nothing, not even the gravel crunching underfoot. The current swept him away speedily, the creek now a seeming underground river, an inexorable endlessness leading into the same. (Around the circles of hell? The sought-after Elysium?) From aways, he thought he could hear the hum of a motor. The tunnel engulfed him, and so did darkness.
A cheery incandescence greeted him when he opened his eyes. To where, to when, he wasn't sure where the waves had brought him. Suspended, drowning in an aggregate of sensations, he closed his eyes again, sheathing his vision with sanguine. A knot, he pinpointed: at the base of his neck, there was a maddening crick. On his thighs, there was a foreign weight. On his groin, there was a spreading dampness.
Groggily, Chiaki Shinichi raised his hyperextended head and peered down his lap.
A head.
. . . dead?
Of course not. Snoring.
The expression on her face was enviable. It halted his initial impulse to jump and run. She effused a certain contentment, even in the way her mouth hung just a tad ajar, just enough to dribble a steady stream of drool down a cheek and to his jeans.
Which explained the heavy sensation on his legs. Good.
He allowed himself to drift closer to wakefulness, pushing himself neither to full awareness nor back to sleep. Beyond the illumination of the living room lamps (he was in his apartment--no, hers now), it was dark. It was night still.
Nodame. A knot of a conundrum, if there ever was one. She was worse than the spasm now torturing his back muscles. Equal parts bemusing, frustrating, and endearing, awake or not. She must have decided to take a short break from her relentless practice (which made him happy and proud, he supposed, but also, secretly, unexpectedly, just a tad wary---discontentment had a way of ulcerating insidiously. To where was she rushing? He wasn't that far. He was there.) He supposed it was his own fault for dozing off in the first place, and of course, she would be tired.
Unable to decide on a course of action, the young conductor continued to stare at his sleeping companion. There had always been a baby roundness to her face, and he thought, perhaps, she did fit her teacher's nickname in more ways than one. Her eyes were slightly open, the way a doll's would when tilted up just a little. Briefly, he suspected her faking it, waited for her to launch some bodily attack. But there was movement underneath the curtain of her lashes. Brown fishes swam lazily, meandered back and forth. Inevitably, he followed their paths, somehow lulled by their oscillating direction, hypnotized by the rhythm of her sonorous breathing.
Whatever you say. Whatever you want.
She shifted abruptly, and her snoring stopped. It also dumped the contents of her mouth over his groin.
"H-"
He swallowed the rest of his high-pitched screech---what if she bit when startled like those rabid strays?!
Gingerly, he moved her head back to its previous position. Like a turning motor, the snoring resumed.
Chiaki sighed, ruefully ignoring the spreading sensation of her saliva against his skin. It was smeared all over her neck now, too, which made her hair stick against her damp skin, matting. He'll be damned if he used his own sleeve for it---he pulled, tugged at her collar and used it to wipe her face and neck dry. With the subtlest of motions, he moved her hair aside, tucked it behind her ears, then moved it out of his cleaning path, anyway. A piece of thread, hanging out of his cardigan, slithered over her nostrils. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose, sneezing once before resuming her snoring. He smirked, even as he bunched more of the fabric on his fist, hiking her dress higher as he reached underneath, to her nape. It was the growing expanse of flesh at the corner of one eye that wiped out the amusement on his face.
She likes lace on her underwear, she said.
Wears them mismatched.
Appelez la police!
Yanking her skirt over her knees, he pulled his arms back to himself, crossing them across his chest, hunching over as if to hide his burning cheeks among them. He kept his eyes averted for a full five minutes, even though. . . whatever he saw was once more concealed underneath the blessed utilitarian cotton. Accident, he assuaged the inexplicable guilt gnawing at his viscera. Everybody knew she was the hentai here; he wasn't going to be accused of molesting anybody, not by her, of all people.
Not that he was doing so, in the first place!
It was moments like this, little inadvertent scenarios like this, that reminded him: not his pet, not some wild beast. This Noda Megumi was all person, all woman.
He squirmed on his seat, her head on his lap now weighing a ton. He was awake now, far, far too capable of thinking thoughts he wasn't prepared to think yet. But, as with every cloud, there was a silver lining. He was also awake enough to formulate a sensible course of action.
He hoped.
He noted the score she had lying open across her chest.
D.
Hastily, he pulled the booklet away from the glare, revealing its full title. Piano sonata no. 56 in D Major. Haydn.
Tomorrow, he thought with a sudden, saving clarity. Tomorrow was a school day. Meanwhile, this idiot was sleeping on a sofa, with her typical disregard of her own health. This woman---!
"Oi, Nodame."
He tugged at an arm. It flopped down the side of the sofa, boneless.
"I'm saving you from three days' worth of stiff neck, which I'll be having, apparently. Get up."
She didn't. Irritably, he hauled her to her room himself, depositing her on her side of the bed. He spent a moment glowering at her sleeping face, before fixing her pillow and tucking her in.
"I suppose, even if I leash you to me. . ."
He didn't finish the sentence, as he himself retired to bed and fell back to sleep, back to dream.
~1640 012908
Dediks to
mikochan_noda. Dunno how it turned out, being too groggy these moments. Please feel free to insinuate all you want. *attempts to waggle eyebrows*
/ January 31 / vague, tangled, chaotic, and deeply disturbing
Nodame Cantabile / Chiaki, Nodame / Rated PG / Word Count: 1375 / 3rd draft
Another dreaming fic. O__o How many of my fics involves dreaming or sleeping? A good percentage, I imagine.
I think this will be the last for bit. School's started so. . . the ideal would be for me to turn to more important stuff. (Yes,
swollenfoot, I'm talking to you.)
Ah, Sunergos chapter 15 is about 80% done. One last scene, which I hope to finish by tomorrow.
.
31_days
1.
( Prank Called )
/ January 16 / It's sane enough what I'm asking
The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya / Kyon, Koizumi Itsuki, Suzumiya Haruhi / Rated PG /
2.
( On Bedmates and Drinking Partners )
/
dormant_musesDecember Anonymous Request Challenge / knitted fabric
Naruto / Sasuke, Sakura / NC-17 / Final draft (links to AFF)
3.
Disclaimer: Just borrowing Nodame. For entertainment. To relieve ennui. Ok? Ok.
Dreams Of
Forests bore a chock-full of metaphor. They could signify complexity of life, the silence of death, or anything in between---sex, even. He was not much of a nature trekker, preferring the great cities of the Old World, bastions that housed the aesthetically pleasing, the sublime and the depraved borne of human minds, human hands. His inexperience manifested yet again, when he stumbled for the umpteenth time, this time headlong into a prickly bush. Cursing, he scrambled back to his feet, casting about him in hopes of sighting his prey. He thought he had glimpsed the dappled flank of the great striped cat, but being upside down had discombobulated his sense of direction.
A ghost of a laugh floated to his sharp ears; though a discordance with the lilting background, it was not entirely unpleasant. There was also singing. Cherubic voices enthusiastically tackled a cheerful fragment of melody, over and over, a scampering stampede of a round song.
It was getting cloying.
The chortle came once more, an infuriating, beckoning sound. It eluded his grasp; he was left bereft, lost. Thus left behind, he wandered the shifting wood and its morphing trails, slipping into a fanciful semi-wakefulness.
A brook crossed his path. Across from him, the beast stood in all its eye-damaging splendor, with its cacophonous hide of indigo, orange, and old rose. Perhaps, if he caught it and dissected it, analyzed its separate components, he wouldn't be as confused. Maybe its entrails formed some mystical map that would get him the hell out of there.
Or deeper.
Into the woods.
He ran towards it. It ran towards him. He stopped, suddenly unmanned by the animal's seeming show of aggression, of teeth. The creature merely laughed at his mockery of a fighting stance, and dissociated into minute pieces of silver. The babbling stream washed them away, the glinting slivers lost in its suddenly swollen waters.
He stared at the empty spot for a few moments, before proceeding with the ritualistic loin-girding: of course, he would follow. Manfully, he jumped in after it; the icy wetness was somehow most painful against his groin---down his legs, he felt nothing, not even the gravel crunching underfoot. The current swept him away speedily, the creek now a seeming underground river, an inexorable endlessness leading into the same. (Around the circles of hell? The sought-after Elysium?) From aways, he thought he could hear the hum of a motor. The tunnel engulfed him, and so did darkness.
A cheery incandescence greeted him when he opened his eyes. To where, to when, he wasn't sure where the waves had brought him. Suspended, drowning in an aggregate of sensations, he closed his eyes again, sheathing his vision with sanguine. A knot, he pinpointed: at the base of his neck, there was a maddening crick. On his thighs, there was a foreign weight. On his groin, there was a spreading dampness.
Groggily, Chiaki Shinichi raised his hyperextended head and peered down his lap.
A head.
. . . dead?
Of course not. Snoring.
The expression on her face was enviable. It halted his initial impulse to jump and run. She effused a certain contentment, even in the way her mouth hung just a tad ajar, just enough to dribble a steady stream of drool down a cheek and to his jeans.
Which explained the heavy sensation on his legs. Good.
He allowed himself to drift closer to wakefulness, pushing himself neither to full awareness nor back to sleep. Beyond the illumination of the living room lamps (he was in his apartment--no, hers now), it was dark. It was night still.
Nodame. A knot of a conundrum, if there ever was one. She was worse than the spasm now torturing his back muscles. Equal parts bemusing, frustrating, and endearing, awake or not. She must have decided to take a short break from her relentless practice (which made him happy and proud, he supposed, but also, secretly, unexpectedly, just a tad wary---discontentment had a way of ulcerating insidiously. To where was she rushing? He wasn't that far. He was there.) He supposed it was his own fault for dozing off in the first place, and of course, she would be tired.
Unable to decide on a course of action, the young conductor continued to stare at his sleeping companion. There had always been a baby roundness to her face, and he thought, perhaps, she did fit her teacher's nickname in more ways than one. Her eyes were slightly open, the way a doll's would when tilted up just a little. Briefly, he suspected her faking it, waited for her to launch some bodily attack. But there was movement underneath the curtain of her lashes. Brown fishes swam lazily, meandered back and forth. Inevitably, he followed their paths, somehow lulled by their oscillating direction, hypnotized by the rhythm of her sonorous breathing.
Whatever you say. Whatever you want.
She shifted abruptly, and her snoring stopped. It also dumped the contents of her mouth over his groin.
"H-"
He swallowed the rest of his high-pitched screech---what if she bit when startled like those rabid strays?!
Gingerly, he moved her head back to its previous position. Like a turning motor, the snoring resumed.
Chiaki sighed, ruefully ignoring the spreading sensation of her saliva against his skin. It was smeared all over her neck now, too, which made her hair stick against her damp skin, matting. He'll be damned if he used his own sleeve for it---he pulled, tugged at her collar and used it to wipe her face and neck dry. With the subtlest of motions, he moved her hair aside, tucked it behind her ears, then moved it out of his cleaning path, anyway. A piece of thread, hanging out of his cardigan, slithered over her nostrils. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose, sneezing once before resuming her snoring. He smirked, even as he bunched more of the fabric on his fist, hiking her dress higher as he reached underneath, to her nape. It was the growing expanse of flesh at the corner of one eye that wiped out the amusement on his face.
She likes lace on her underwear, she said.
Wears them mismatched.
Appelez la police!
Yanking her skirt over her knees, he pulled his arms back to himself, crossing them across his chest, hunching over as if to hide his burning cheeks among them. He kept his eyes averted for a full five minutes, even though. . . whatever he saw was once more concealed underneath the blessed utilitarian cotton. Accident, he assuaged the inexplicable guilt gnawing at his viscera. Everybody knew she was the hentai here; he wasn't going to be accused of molesting anybody, not by her, of all people.
Not that he was doing so, in the first place!
It was moments like this, little inadvertent scenarios like this, that reminded him: not his pet, not some wild beast. This Noda Megumi was all person, all woman.
He squirmed on his seat, her head on his lap now weighing a ton. He was awake now, far, far too capable of thinking thoughts he wasn't prepared to think yet. But, as with every cloud, there was a silver lining. He was also awake enough to formulate a sensible course of action.
He hoped.
He noted the score she had lying open across her chest.
D.
Hastily, he pulled the booklet away from the glare, revealing its full title. Piano sonata no. 56 in D Major. Haydn.
Tomorrow, he thought with a sudden, saving clarity. Tomorrow was a school day. Meanwhile, this idiot was sleeping on a sofa, with her typical disregard of her own health. This woman---!
"Oi, Nodame."
He tugged at an arm. It flopped down the side of the sofa, boneless.
"I'm saving you from three days' worth of stiff neck, which I'll be having, apparently. Get up."
She didn't. Irritably, he hauled her to her room himself, depositing her on her side of the bed. He spent a moment glowering at her sleeping face, before fixing her pillow and tucking her in.
"I suppose, even if I leash you to me. . ."
He didn't finish the sentence, as he himself retired to bed and fell back to sleep, back to dream.
~1640 012908
Dediks to
mikochan_noda. Dunno how it turned out, being too groggy these moments. Please feel free to insinuate all you want. *attempts to waggle eyebrows*
/ January 31 / vague, tangled, chaotic, and deeply disturbing
Nodame Cantabile / Chiaki, Nodame / Rated PG / Word Count: 1375 / 3rd draft
Another dreaming fic. O__o How many of my fics involves dreaming or sleeping? A good percentage, I imagine.
I think this will be the last for bit. School's started so. . . the ideal would be for me to turn to more important stuff. (Yes,
swollenfoot, I'm talking to you.)
Ah, Sunergos chapter 15 is about 80% done. One last scene, which I hope to finish by tomorrow.
.