This entry is to keep track of my fanfic100 claim (with Gokudera and Yamamoto from Reborn as my pairing). I'll update the table every time I write something new. (And if I happen to falter, give me a kick in the pants.)

( Ze Table )

“Go away.”

“But Deidara-”

“That’s Mr. Bang to you.”

“Oh come on…don’t be so stodgy podgy, Deidara. Mr. Bang. You’re not busy. Anyway, I’m a patron. I can’t be expected to navigate the library by my lonesome.”

Deidara slowly lifted his gaze from his computer screen. He had encountered a number of strange individuals during three ( Read more... )

Normally, when he’d walk inside the café on the corner of West Grover Street, the little bell rigged above the door would precede his entrance-and every time, without fail, he’d tell the establishment’s overly cheerful proprietor just what he thought of that damn bell (“Don’t you get tired of listening to it? Annoying as fuck…”).

Today, ( Read more... )

“What do you want, Gokudera?”

They’re facing each other, breathing deep, nearly panting. He is up against a brick wall, part of some dilapidated old building (though most of their world is dilapidated and old-looking, these days), held in check by Gokudera’s smaller body-he’s never thought size mattered much, because how many times has ( Read more... )

“Kuro-tan.”

A grunt, which in Kurogane speak translates as “what do you want?”

“Open your mouth, please.”

Kurogane frowns, his expression similar to that of a temperamental bear-Fai knows better, of course (he may be a bear, but not the kind found in nature; no, he’s the kind you buy at the toy store to give to children). “Huh?”

( Read more... )

“I…hate it…when you’re like this, un.”

“Oh?” Tobi leaned in and cupped Deidara’s cheek. “But I love it when you’re like this.” He moved his mouth down Deidara’s throat to his chest, where the thick, black stitches were. “I love that face you make.” He slid his tongue over the stitches, across the slit between them. “I want to immortalize it.”
( Read more... )

Seven hours since they arrived in this world, and Fai doesn’t even know what it looks like. If someone were to ask, he couldn’t describe its distinctions, what makes it unique from any other world he’s passed through, like a wraith.

His perspective is narrowed to an airy, open room with white walls, white ceiling, white floor, white bed, white ( Read more... )

It is amazing, really, how a phantom heart can hurt, can twist and churn and break in a cavern that houses nothing at all, nothing but emptiness.

You’re a Nobody. You don’t have a heart.

Fact undeniable. He yearns for a heart, yes; like the rest of his kind, he searches blindly for something, anything to make him feel human, to justify ( Read more... )

1. The first time he sees her, it is from a distance. Perched atop a cliff, legs dangling over the edge, he peers down and out, studies her.

A lesser man may have grimaced in revulsion at the mutilated bodies strewn about the field, forming a near-perfect circle around her, as if she had arranged them that way once she killed them. A lesser ( Read more... )

Temari is a connoisseur of masks.

But these masks are not tangible. Handcrafted, yes, elaborate and beautiful and grotesque, yes, but not touchable. Never that.

Her masks are faces. She puts them on. She takes them off. She scours them for dirt, for cracks, for flaws.

She wears them to survive. She wears them because she believes she ( Read more... )