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midnightdiddleThree drabbles. One FMA, one pre-series Saiyuki, and one pre-series Naruto.
At first, he'd tried to show Roy the pictures. At the flick of fingers and the puff of smoke he'd considered that a lost cause, and moved on to show someone else. Hawkeye had blinked, Havoc had snuck away, and Armstrong had...glittered. With pink sparkles. Almost as glittering and pink as his own little princess-- But that was deviating from the point! The point was, that no one would sit still long enough for Hughes to explain, in great detail, the precious anecdotes of his precious angel. It was while he'd been waving a handful of photos at Fury (who was walking as quickly as he could, arms full of folders, eyes carefully averted) that Hughes saw him. The newest victim. The person (or not) that would sit and listen, and darn well appreciate it.
Black Hayate whined as Hughes whipped out the twenty-seventh photo, pointing out the perfect little fingers of his cupcake, the perfect hair of his chestnut, the perfect eyes of his cookiechip. Hughes paused, eyeing the dog, and eyed the hallway. Hawkeye wasn't within eyesight, and afterall, every apple-blossom needed a puppy-wuppy.
Gojyo wasn't used to people sleeping in his bed.
Correction: Gojyo wasn't used to people sleeping his bed for more than a few hours.
If he wanted to be more specific, he'd admit that he wasn't used to anyone sleeping his bed without putting out first, and without him putting in. So this was something that deviated far from the norm. He always wasn't used to the smell of blood on the air, or the taste of death in the back of his throat. For the first few hours (or days, he wasn't quite sure), he waited in the room, straddling a chair, sitting in the corner, sprawled across the floor.
The first night (or three) he slept on the floor, within arms' reach of the bed, dreaming of his mother and his brother and red hair that spread out in the water, like a bug's wings, spread out on a tackboard. The first night (or third), he woke up to a stronger smell of blood, and to a wet slickness on the man's stomach. Gojyo wasn't used to that, either.
After a while, though, he got tired of waiting. He'd never been good at waiting, not for his brother, not for his mother. (Sometimes he thought that was something he got from his father; never could wait for shit.) When he got bored, he started to clean. He cleaned the other rooms first, because he wasn't sure exactly how noisy it'd be. The kitchen, and the connecting room. He washed the floors, taking up the grime and droplets of blood that led from the door to another door. He cleaned the bathroom, organized the boxes of codoms and razors, and fixed the door's squeak. He even washed the windows one day (the thirteenth, or maybe the twentieth).
At night, though, he still slept on the floor, because for some reason, at night, he still could hear slow footsteps over floorboards, trailing in the grime that he'd washed away, and maybe if he was in his room, even if someone else was in his bed, he wouldn't have to wait for the bedroom door to swing open, a whoosh of air against his hair, choking his lungs and burning his heart.
By the time the man in his bed woke up, Gojyo was back to straddling the chair in the corner, arms spread across the back, head propped upon his hands. Gojyo looked out the window, clean for the first time in years, and watched the bug that was crawling across the glass.
"'bout time you woke up," Gojyo said, and wondered how something so similar could be something so different. After all, it wasn't unusual for someone to be in Gojyo's bed.
Kisame watched Itachi, frowning.
"You don't want to anger him," he said, but Itachi just looked away, a faint smile on his face. Sometimes, like now, Kisame was reminded that Itachi was still a kid, still stuck in the mindset of testing boundaries and playing pranks. Sometimes, Kisame forgot that Itachi's idea of play ended in bloody houses and broken homes.
"I don't like him," Itachi murmured, smooth and soft, like the perfect mannered child.
"You don't want--" Kisame began again, and Itachi's smiled grew a little.
"I know, Kisame. You've told me." Itachi flicked the top of the eyeliner. "You think he wants you to fuck him?"
Kisame closed his eyes, breathing slowly through his mouth. Sometimes, like now, he wondered why he was here, surrounded by people like Itachi, like Zetsu, like all of them.
"Do you think," Itachi continued, persistant, "that Orochimaru wants you to fuck him? His girl-body, fuck his cunt?" Itachi's eyes, when Kisame looked, were mild, a red that was as calm as his voice. Kisame reached over Itachi's shoulder, grabbing the eyeliner and mascara, pulling them out of Itachi's unresisting hands.
"You're going too far, Itachi-san," Kisame said as mildly as he could, feeling too pressed against the wall to deal with this, to try and keep peace with a child that was trying so hard to find a place to belong by trying to kill anyone and everything in his way.
"Am I?" Itachi asked. The smile was small again, nearly gone, and then it was closer as Itachi pressed up on tiptoes, eyes brighter.
"Do you want to fuck me, Kisame?" Itachi asked, breath against Kisame's face. Kisame stared down at Itachi, at a little-boy-face in a little-boy-body, hiding an old-killer-heart.
"I'm tired, Itachi-san," Kisame said, stepping back and catching Itachi's arm carefully, pulling Itachi from the shop. "The games aren't fun anymore."
"You never play my games," Itachi said, but he didn't pout. After all, only children pout.
At first, he'd tried to show Roy the pictures. At the flick of fingers and the puff of smoke he'd considered that a lost cause, and moved on to show someone else. Hawkeye had blinked, Havoc had snuck away, and Armstrong had...glittered. With pink sparkles. Almost as glittering and pink as his own little princess-- But that was deviating from the point! The point was, that no one would sit still long enough for Hughes to explain, in great detail, the precious anecdotes of his precious angel. It was while he'd been waving a handful of photos at Fury (who was walking as quickly as he could, arms full of folders, eyes carefully averted) that Hughes saw him. The newest victim. The person (or not) that would sit and listen, and darn well appreciate it.
Black Hayate whined as Hughes whipped out the twenty-seventh photo, pointing out the perfect little fingers of his cupcake, the perfect hair of his chestnut, the perfect eyes of his cookiechip. Hughes paused, eyeing the dog, and eyed the hallway. Hawkeye wasn't within eyesight, and afterall, every apple-blossom needed a puppy-wuppy.
Gojyo wasn't used to people sleeping in his bed.
Correction: Gojyo wasn't used to people sleeping his bed for more than a few hours.
If he wanted to be more specific, he'd admit that he wasn't used to anyone sleeping his bed without putting out first, and without him putting in. So this was something that deviated far from the norm. He always wasn't used to the smell of blood on the air, or the taste of death in the back of his throat. For the first few hours (or days, he wasn't quite sure), he waited in the room, straddling a chair, sitting in the corner, sprawled across the floor.
The first night (or three) he slept on the floor, within arms' reach of the bed, dreaming of his mother and his brother and red hair that spread out in the water, like a bug's wings, spread out on a tackboard. The first night (or third), he woke up to a stronger smell of blood, and to a wet slickness on the man's stomach. Gojyo wasn't used to that, either.
After a while, though, he got tired of waiting. He'd never been good at waiting, not for his brother, not for his mother. (Sometimes he thought that was something he got from his father; never could wait for shit.) When he got bored, he started to clean. He cleaned the other rooms first, because he wasn't sure exactly how noisy it'd be. The kitchen, and the connecting room. He washed the floors, taking up the grime and droplets of blood that led from the door to another door. He cleaned the bathroom, organized the boxes of codoms and razors, and fixed the door's squeak. He even washed the windows one day (the thirteenth, or maybe the twentieth).
At night, though, he still slept on the floor, because for some reason, at night, he still could hear slow footsteps over floorboards, trailing in the grime that he'd washed away, and maybe if he was in his room, even if someone else was in his bed, he wouldn't have to wait for the bedroom door to swing open, a whoosh of air against his hair, choking his lungs and burning his heart.
By the time the man in his bed woke up, Gojyo was back to straddling the chair in the corner, arms spread across the back, head propped upon his hands. Gojyo looked out the window, clean for the first time in years, and watched the bug that was crawling across the glass.
"'bout time you woke up," Gojyo said, and wondered how something so similar could be something so different. After all, it wasn't unusual for someone to be in Gojyo's bed.
Kisame watched Itachi, frowning.
"You don't want to anger him," he said, but Itachi just looked away, a faint smile on his face. Sometimes, like now, Kisame was reminded that Itachi was still a kid, still stuck in the mindset of testing boundaries and playing pranks. Sometimes, Kisame forgot that Itachi's idea of play ended in bloody houses and broken homes.
"I don't like him," Itachi murmured, smooth and soft, like the perfect mannered child.
"You don't want--" Kisame began again, and Itachi's smiled grew a little.
"I know, Kisame. You've told me." Itachi flicked the top of the eyeliner. "You think he wants you to fuck him?"
Kisame closed his eyes, breathing slowly through his mouth. Sometimes, like now, he wondered why he was here, surrounded by people like Itachi, like Zetsu, like all of them.
"Do you think," Itachi continued, persistant, "that Orochimaru wants you to fuck him? His girl-body, fuck his cunt?" Itachi's eyes, when Kisame looked, were mild, a red that was as calm as his voice. Kisame reached over Itachi's shoulder, grabbing the eyeliner and mascara, pulling them out of Itachi's unresisting hands.
"You're going too far, Itachi-san," Kisame said as mildly as he could, feeling too pressed against the wall to deal with this, to try and keep peace with a child that was trying so hard to find a place to belong by trying to kill anyone and everything in his way.
"Am I?" Itachi asked. The smile was small again, nearly gone, and then it was closer as Itachi pressed up on tiptoes, eyes brighter.
"Do you want to fuck me, Kisame?" Itachi asked, breath against Kisame's face. Kisame stared down at Itachi, at a little-boy-face in a little-boy-body, hiding an old-killer-heart.
"I'm tired, Itachi-san," Kisame said, stepping back and catching Itachi's arm carefully, pulling Itachi from the shop. "The games aren't fun anymore."
"You never play my games," Itachi said, but he didn't pout. After all, only children pout.
