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Since it's summer and I have no more papers in the way, no dumb excuses, and am a hopeless masochist, I think I'll go with what all the cool kids are doing and open up the drabble meme again. You know the drill: Gimme series, characters, situation. And if it doesn't immediately break my brain (...chira yes, I AM looking at you) I'll write a short piece of god-knows-how-many-words-I-Am-Bad-At-This in response. So let's get to it.
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HOT KON/ICHIGO ACTION.
The streets were busy, but no one saw the young man drop down to the sidewalk from the building on the corner. This, as it turned out, was a good thing, because someone might have thought to ask questions about a young man dressed that way, with a sword nearly as long as he was tall carried across his shoulders. He passed by an alley, stopped, stepped back, scowled deeper, and made a sharp right to where another young man was leaned over a dumpster. He was dressed for the right century, sans the sword and the annoyed expression, but otherwise there was a startling resemblance.
“Hey,” said Ichigo.
“Shit,” said Kon, and pitched forward. Ichigo shook his head. His legs—his corporeal ones anyway, were sticking out of the dumpster. There was a rattle of cans and bags and a cat making an escape, and he waited. Kon reemerged. There was a fish-head caught in his /borrowed/ hair, his /borrowed/ hands were cupped around something, and that /borrowed/ body was going to need at least two hours of loving time with a showerhead and a bar of soap to get the smell out. Ichigo slid his sword off of his back, rested the tip to the concrete, leaned against it and sighed for good measure. It just figured.
“Mind explaining why I’m not at school?” Ichigo was getting far too used to saying things like that.
Kon pouted.
“Not my fault,” he huffed, skirting back clumsily, all knees and elbows that weren’t. his. “They were going to /kill/ her.”
Ichigo tensed, hand tightening around the sword’s hilt. “Kill who?” he asked immediately, and was just as immediately faced by a pair of filthy hands being shoved into his face.
“Her,” Kon said, and opened them, looking grave.
Ichigo blinked, curiously.
The roach waved her antennae. Curiously.
“I had to bring her some place safe,” Kon said.
‘Damn’, Ichigo thought, and didn’t shove him back into the dumpster and slam the lid shut. He needed the body, even if the body stunk like rotting fish and oh boy would that be fun to explain. He sighed again. Really, it just. fucking. figured.
Re: HOT KON/ICHIGO ACTION.
*trying not to snicker into collapse from sleep deprivation this early in the morning*
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In conclusion....NYAH. >P
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....but I won't.
I want human!Renji. If possible, Renji/Rukia. And even more possible, hearty asskicking and the usual insanity :DDDD .....and it would be a complete bonus if you got him drunk. Or stoned. Whichever >D
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Kuchiki Rukia was perched on a bed that wasn’t hers, in a world that wasn’t hers, with a bag of chips that sure as hell wasn’t hers, with her legs bent and a smirk that would have been a lot more dangerous if the bag weren’t dangling in her teeth, swinging temptingly back and forth. She paused, considered the situation--and the very angry looking man collecting himself across from her-- and leapt clear just as he lunged. Aburai Renji caught her on the rebound, feathers exploding behind him from a busted pillow, fingers catching her shoulder, momentum taking them clear across the room and right into the closet door. Which worked well, Rukia decided, even with her head ringing; she held him off with a knee and pulled the door open. The sudden plunge they both took was enough for her to bang her elbow, roll away, and end up with her shoulders against the blankets, and knees on the floor. She fixed her skirt. Spat out the bag. Reconsidered, and struck while she had the upper hand. Or was at least the one who hadn’t crashed headlong into that wall.
He recovered faster than expected—he was getting used to the body, even if he professed no great affection for it—rolled, met her on the assault and a second later she was pinned, the enemy’s eyes were narrowed, there were teeth at her throat, teeth and tongue and hot breath and she supposed he hadn’t really been that hungry after all. She punched him on the shoulder and he shoved her back and bit down a little harder—probably drawing blood, there was already a bump on her skull, and a growing bruise at her elbow. Physical reflexes were slower than either would have liked, but sensation worked well enough, and pain registered, but it didn’t register as any particular priority. Rukia scoffed, drove her nails into Renji’s arm, and felt him grin against the underside of her chin, all fang. She laughed, not terribly impressed; she told him so. He snorted, caught her fingers (she’d been readying to yank his hair, he hated that, she knew), and rose over her, leaving her neck cold. One hand holding down the offending wrist, grabbing her bare knee with the other—and she butted it into his palm, hard, still not impressed, and if it had been his stomach he would have been reeling. It wasn’t, and he held fast, pushed his head down and his mouth against her jaw and she had to admit that was a bit better—
The blast of cold water wasn’t. Neither was the fact that it was scented and Kurosaki Ichigo was standing just a few steps back, wielding the spray bottle like a gun in one of those Western movies he watched sometimes. He was stoic in the face of a pair of interrupted, flailing, damp and now lemony fresh shinigami, or at least couldn’t be bothered with more than a strong twitch. “No,” Ichigo said, delivering another spritz that halted an untimely murder attempt. “Not. In. My. Closet.”
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*only doing this because she LOVES you, honest*
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“May I help you?” He drawled. Akimichi jumped and turned and—ah, it looked like he was working to correct the matter of his body mass, if what he carried was any indication. “…I hope you’re not planning on bringing that in with you.” And Neji was annoyed, but feeling charitable in the way evidence of a shared near-death experience could make someone, so he was polite and left it at that, straightening his back and waiting for the other boy to finish looking surprised.
“…didn’t think anyone would be here,” he muttered, hitching up his towel again.
“Hmm,” was all Neji said, because clearly he’d been wrong. Still, Akimichi shook it off with a grin that had a little bit of nerves in it but a lot more cheek as he slid into the water, and dragged the food right up to the edge--which was disgusting. Neji informed him of this and the other boy merely shrugged and met his eyes plainly.
“Want some?”
“No.”
“I’m offering,” he said, like it was something important and Neji with a twitch irritation wondered exactly what there was to miss in a question like that until he realized it was an Akimichi who’d asked it. Then he tightened his lips, and replied with a simple:
“Why?”
His companion didn’t deign to be direct beyond that. “You look good, Neji.”
Neji said nothing.
“They released you a couple of days ago, right?”
“…yes.”
“You survived.”
Neji felt a twinge in his side. “Obviously,” he said stiffly, and failed to see the point in this. Akimichi popped a bit of his snack into his mouth, and his smile brought crinkles to the corners of his eyes. He swallowed and laughed.
“Guess it’s not a Hyuga thing,” he said, mostly to himself, and then to Neji: “Living people eat. Dead people don’t. Do you see?”
It was, in Neji’s opinion, a stupid question. “I see.”
“No. You don’t,” said Akimichi, stretching out. “Living’s kind of nice, isn’t it?”
It depended on the life, he could have noted, but there was some sense beginning to be made. “Ah.”
“Want some?” Chouji asked again. His eyes open and amused, there was color in that face. He offered Neji the dish, across the water-- which was even more disgusting, really. Neji reached out and took it.
“…fine,” he said after a moment, and helped himself to a bite.
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temperamental loudmouth blonde shorties meet...
What will come out of it?
Lita of Jupiter
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“Show me.”
It’s been years, but Naruto knows exactly what he’s talking about. After a second of frowning and scratching his head, that is. There are plenty of things it could mean. Gaara waits patiently, or at least appears to. He doesn’t blink and the dust on the road doesn’t start jittering. Naruto takes this as a good sign.
“Okay,” he says. “I gotcha. I’ll give it a shot.”
Gaara does blink at that. Once. There’s a glass-bowl quality there too. Naruto wonders for the first time ever if the sand guards his eyes and if it does he wonders why they aren’t red and why don’t they tear up-- but he guesses it must be a pretty thin layer if the grains do get in there and it’s Gaara anyway and Gaara nods and waits again, arms folded, for what comes next.
To tell the truth, Naruto had been kind of hoping he’d give specifics.
He’s improvised under worse circumstances. “Let’s go,” he says, jerks his head west and starts walking. “Ichiraku’s this way. Should be open, this time of day…”
“Ichiraku?” Gaara asks, not exactly curious but not exactly entirely looking murderous about having to ask either. He’s gotten better some, Naruto has to admit.
“For Ramen. Tell me you know what that is right? Right? Crap, you don’t do you. Ramen. Raaa-men. It’s--”
Now Gaara’s looking a little murderous. “I know what it is,” He snaps quietly, if that’s possible. If it’s not he makes it so. “Why.”
“ ‘Cause it’s good.” Naruto tucks his arms behind his head. “And I’ll buy you a bowl. It’s not a bad place to start. 'least, I always thought so…” He laughs, and picks up the pace. Gaara walks on his shadow, gaze trained on his back. “Worked for Iruka-sensei, anyway.”
And Naruto doesn’t expect him to get that last part, but he figures they’ve got time for that kind of thing.
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IU don't know WHAT about him, just write about him! XD
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There was a tradition in St. Margaret’s, the school on the hill in the town northwest of Central and anything that ever happened in the world, that the boys played cards between classes. The halls were narrow—according to the prouder faculty the actual building was over a century old and once a formidable fortress—and the circles that found themselves spread out on the floor under windows were often tripped over, unless people stopped to watch, in which case there was a crowd to be fought. Competition was loud, fierce, and cutthroat and Maes Hughes at fourteen threw himself into it with great fervor whenever the chance arose. He was one of the shorter, scrawnier kids of his year, with thin arms and big feet and a bigger grin as he pushed up his thick glasses and passed the cards around with guys twice his size. He had a lousy poker face. He lost three times out of five. If he’d bet money on it, he would have been broke and out of the running ages ago, but St. Margaret’s had a very strict policy on gambling and an equally strict dress code—so uniform ties became the favored wager, and most of the professors blinked more often when he came in with his still on than without. Once or twice he’d earned detention for taking a seat looking perfectly presentable. This was an injustice and he said so, but it fell on deaf ears, or at least disinterested ones. Roy Mustang who shared Mathematics, History, and best friend duties with him rolled his eyes and said, “Well. You have an image to uphold.”
“Image /this/,” crowed Hughes, on a good Wednesday two days after, throwing down his cards triumphant with his victory spoils between his fingers and an opponent fixing their disheveled blazer morosely. “Hey, Miss.” Hughes said to girl who’d been watching behind him, Penny Duval, with red curls and the freckles. “Could you help me with this? If it’s not too much trouble?” He beamed up at her.
“…image nothing,” he grumbled later on his way to History, rubbing his chin. He nearly dragged his feet right past Roy, who turned and quirked an eyebrow. “She didn’t have to hit me.”
“She has a boyfriend,” Roy pointed out. “He plays rugby.”
“…how was I supposed to know /that/!” Hughes scowled. It wasn’t such a good Wednesday anymore in St. Margaret’s. “Ah well.” He brightened, pointedly ignored the six or seven ugly red-and-black ties sticking out of Roy’s book bag, and proclaimed, with pride: “Least I won.”
He had detention that day.
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The butterfly roused herself at the first sounds of morning life in the shop. She flew against the silver bars of her confinement, the patterns in her wings flashing from black to green to blue to black again. She was having a tiny, graceful hissy fit. Urahara touched the cage bottom and gave it a light spin, clucking at the back of his throat. He held his cane tightly.
“Now, now,” he murmured. “Terribly sorry, but you’ll just to accept this for now.”
The butterfly redoubled her efforts, almost rocking the cage on her own. It would do no good; the bars were well crafted, elegant as their current company, and reinforced to prevent any premature vanishing acts. “Can’t have you flying off yet—ah, careful,” Urahara said. “You’ll hurt yourself. It would be a pity if you died at it, no?”
He pulled a white flower out of his sleeve, and pressed it carefully through the bars. It was fresh, with a sweet scent that very likely belonged in another world. The insect hovered over it, warily.
“Here.” Urahara smiled. “Your favorite.” That seemed a fair enough offer. Appeased for the moment, the butterfly settled her thread-thin legs on the petals, unrolled her tongue, and helped herself to breakfast. The tips of her wings shivered.
Impatient little thing isn’t she, murmured the voice in his mind, on a low laugh. Urahara’s eyebrows rose. The corners of his lips turned up a little more.
Ah, he thought. She’s not the only one, is she?
Mm, came the reply, and if it were possible for that voice to sound drowsy, it did. If he pulled his hat a little lower and closed his eyes he imagined he would see a woman lounging in folds of a brilliantly red kimono. That woman’s eyelids heavy and her mouth formed in a pretty frown: Perhaps.
A little longer, he hummed; running his thumb over the head of his cane, turning. Not much longer.
Not much longer—it took great effort not to chuckle at the way he was sure those eyes would be narrowing at him—had better not be another century, Kisuke. Now hurry up and open your shop. The children will need to be woken up soon, too. Don’t forget.
He paused at the doors, and thought differently. No, he decided, the children could sleep in for a bit. And so could he, come to think of it. That idea was looking very promising, actually. The agitation in his mind did make him chuckle, this time. The shopkeeper shrugged, turning back.
“We’ll just have to stay open a little longer tonight, won’t we? Ah! Irresponsible, my princess calls me! You know we get more interesting business at those hours anyway…yes, yes you do…”
And somewhere in the city, Kuchiki Rukia balanced on a streetlamp, eyes tilted towards the sky. She listened for the wing beats of a swallowtail.
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Aaron
(Anonymous) 2004-05-23 08:52 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
Barring that, evil Neji/Itachi.
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His uncle hasn’t the heart to kill him yet. The fact that he is still alive tells him all he needs to know of the man’s old weaknesses. It’s more the pity, really. He’s always despised indecision. /She/ was fraught with it, he remembers distantly; pulling the cloak over his shoulders warm and black and dwelling briefly on things that are pointless now. He doesn’t need to gaze into the mirror across from him to know he is not alone.
“Hyuga.” Uchiha Itachi murmurs from the door. His eyes are the color of fresh blood, and do a lazy rotation on occasion, black scythes tumbling over one another.
“Yes,” says Neji, as though conversation is already tiresome—which it really is. He fixes his arm in his sleeve. When he finally looks at the mirror it is not into the Uchiha’s eyes but his own, which are the color of a corpse’s. “That is what I was.”
“What you are,” Itachi corrects with no inflection at all. He lifts his hand. The motion is allowed and watched carefully—his fingers touch the side of Neji’s face. They are cold and they smell like they are rotting under those fine painted nails but this too is allowed. “I would kill you.”
The pure intention drips in the lips close to his ear. A fingertip slides to the corner of his eye. There is nothing to be misunderstood. Neji doesn’t quite scoff. “Are we leaving?” He doesn’t quite jerk either, when the mouth touches his jaw. There is no point in fearing the inevitable, he’s learned; but he can be a little irritated when he knows it is still some time in coming.
“Not yet.” Itachi’s voice rattles the air, like the wind once rattled a girl’s kimono, white and red and growing redder. Neji closes his eyes, forgets, and nods, reaching back and taking hold of Uchiha Itachi’s wrist. His grip is light and enough to bruise. The rest, of course, goes accordingly.
They leave at dawn.
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This is great. Especially since I can't quite tell if it's happening in Itachi's super-goth NiN-video sharigan-land or not. Very creepy.
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(Anonymous) 2004-05-26 08:45 pm (UTC)(link)Yesh..feed my obsession...mweheheheheh!!!
Please?
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I stumbled across your writing at ff.net and... Wow. I read almost every Naruto fic you had up (except for "Small Talk," as I'm not familiar with that character). I really like all the endearing details you put in your writing, and the characterizations were flawless. (I wish I was a better critiquer, but really what I do best is fangirl incoherently. Guh.)
Would you mind me friending you here on LJ?
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