Knitwits: KuroTsu // Kurosagi
Title: Knitwits
Rating: PG
Fandom: Kurosagi
Pairing: Kurosaki x Tsurara
Summary: Kurosaki makes fun of Tsurara knitting one day and in response, she challenges him to a duel.
Notes: For cynicalism, because I owe her another fic and it's not writing itself yet. And a plunnie for this attacked me so this was born instead. An ode to the new Kurosagi movie (squee), my newfound love of knitting, and all things Yamapi. Five-ish references to outside things, see if you can catch them all! I'm sure you won't get two of them, but that's okay. And yes, there is a pun in the title. I COULDN'T RESIST.
Also, since this is majorly ooc, I think they're friends.. of sorts. So after that last ep. Maybe.
“What,” he says in the most condensing of tones she had ever heard, “are you doing?”
She gives him a blank stare, his visage eventually focusing in her eyes. “I’m knitting.”
He raises an eyebrow and leans on the door frame in the way he knows will infuriate her. “Have you become so poor that you can’t even afford clothes? Or perhaps you’ve just gone senile in your old age.”
“You’re older than me, lack-wit!” With a sharp intake of breath, she stands up, clutching her needles and yarn. “I wanted some fresh air and some sun, but your mere presense has tainted it all.”
“Then why don’t you move out?” He bends toward her with a smirk. “You’ll do all of us a favour.”
She throws him a glare and stalks into her small apartment, slamming the door. Insufferable man! He must have a gift, she thinks, knowing exactly what to say to make her angry.
Meanwhile, in the apartment next door, Kurosaki pets his cat absentmindedly as he thinks about the clicking knitting needles and is brought back to a memory of his childhood: his mother is sitting in an old rocking chair, a ball of yarn steadily getting smaller and smaller as she knits while listening to her children bicker about. Or, maybe it is just a memory from an old movie, but it seems a nice enough picture.
How very… domestic, he thinks, with a half-scowl and a touch of disgust. He certainly has no need of domestication.
The very next day, Kurosaki trudges up the stairs to his apartment and trips over something. It is a basket of balls of yarn - lots of them. As he flails his arms in a vain attempt to regain his balance, the basket overturns and the yarn bounces out and down the stairs. A female cry punctures the air and a feline yowl adds to the soundtrack. Their respective owners both dash for the fallen goods but only one succeeds.
And she is one very happy kitty, indeed.
“My yarn!” Tsurara gasps as she watches sharp claws pierce through her yarn. The balls fall apart and the string becomes tangled and Tsurara can only watch in horror. Then she turns to her landlord.
Hanging precariously onto a railing, Kurosaki curses gravity and its power over him. He tilts his head and watches the spectacle before him with a touch of amusement. He catches the poor girl looking at him and offers her a quick, non-apologetic smile and scampers up the stairs, holding out his arms.
“Wait!” She calls and he cringes. “You owe me yarn!”
“I don’t owe you anything. If you want something, ask her!” He points to the cat who is wrestling quite merrily in the yarn. “And besides, who puts a basket of yarn on the stairs like that?”
“Someone who was trying to take out their keys to their apartment!”
“Really, well then, next time I see them, I’ll warn them not to do that again.” With a light chuckle at her exasperated groan, he nimbly hops up the last step and sails into his apartment.
“You’re just jealous!”
That is unexpected and also warrants a response, according to Kurosaki. “I resent that; I am not jealous. And what would I be jealous of anyways? You?” He doesn’t even try to hide the scorn in his voice.
“You’re jealous that I can knit and you can’t.” She says triumphantly, as if she’s won a major battle in the war.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.” As she opens her mouth to retort with another “yes, you are,” he snaps at her. “And I can prove it to you.”
“Oh?” She asks, thrusting her chin up defiantly. “How?”
“I’ll show you that I can knit and therefore, I can’t be jealous of your knitting prowess.”
She scoffs, “I’d like to see you try.”
And Kurosaki knows he has dug himself into a hole, for he cannot resist a challenge, even one from this poor college girl with the eyes of snapping fire. So he goes out and buys a pair of knitting needles, a few balls of yarn (red, because he thinks she’ll look good in it), and a book on how to knit.
He, of course, doesn’t know how to knit, but how hard can it be, given that the poor girl can do it?
Apparently, very hard.
Even with the large, dull knitting needles, Kurosaki still manages to bruise, prod, poke, and batter himself into oblivion (a reason, he deduces, he would never, ever take up sewing, no matter how much of his manly pride was at stake).
Finally, a few days later, he emerges from his apartment holding a tattered red… something that half-resembles a cloth that had fallen from 20 stories, was trampled on by elephants, thrown into a pack of ravenous hyenas, and then stuffed into a blender on ‘liquefy’.
He hands it to her sullenly, anticipating laughter, a snide comment (like, “You’ve got lots of buttonholes, so where are the buttons?), or something equally fiendish.
So she surprises him when she looks over the cloth in her hands, a small smile on her face, and says, “Not bad.”
Kurosaki is stunned for a second (a split second, mind you) before snatching up his knitwear. “Of course not.” He replies with a sniff. “I made it.”
“Of course.” She says, turning back to her own knitting, a long scarf that Kurosaki hates to point out has no “buttonholes” or defects of any kind. “You’re Kurosaki. What can’t you do?”
“Well,” he thinks for a moment, “I can’t give birth.”
“Something I’m thankful for every day of my life, believe me.”
“Hmph.”
Rating: PG
Fandom: Kurosagi
Pairing: Kurosaki x Tsurara
Summary: Kurosaki makes fun of Tsurara knitting one day and in response, she challenges him to a duel.
Notes: For cynicalism, because I owe her another fic and it's not writing itself yet. And a plunnie for this attacked me so this was born instead. An ode to the new Kurosagi movie (squee), my newfound love of knitting, and all things Yamapi. Five-ish references to outside things, see if you can catch them all! I'm sure you won't get two of them, but that's okay. And yes, there is a pun in the title. I COULDN'T RESIST.
Also, since this is majorly ooc, I think they're friends.. of sorts. So after that last ep. Maybe.
“What,” he says in the most condensing of tones she had ever heard, “are you doing?”
She gives him a blank stare, his visage eventually focusing in her eyes. “I’m knitting.”
He raises an eyebrow and leans on the door frame in the way he knows will infuriate her. “Have you become so poor that you can’t even afford clothes? Or perhaps you’ve just gone senile in your old age.”
“You’re older than me, lack-wit!” With a sharp intake of breath, she stands up, clutching her needles and yarn. “I wanted some fresh air and some sun, but your mere presense has tainted it all.”
“Then why don’t you move out?” He bends toward her with a smirk. “You’ll do all of us a favour.”
She throws him a glare and stalks into her small apartment, slamming the door. Insufferable man! He must have a gift, she thinks, knowing exactly what to say to make her angry.
Meanwhile, in the apartment next door, Kurosaki pets his cat absentmindedly as he thinks about the clicking knitting needles and is brought back to a memory of his childhood: his mother is sitting in an old rocking chair, a ball of yarn steadily getting smaller and smaller as she knits while listening to her children bicker about. Or, maybe it is just a memory from an old movie, but it seems a nice enough picture.
How very… domestic, he thinks, with a half-scowl and a touch of disgust. He certainly has no need of domestication.
The very next day, Kurosaki trudges up the stairs to his apartment and trips over something. It is a basket of balls of yarn - lots of them. As he flails his arms in a vain attempt to regain his balance, the basket overturns and the yarn bounces out and down the stairs. A female cry punctures the air and a feline yowl adds to the soundtrack. Their respective owners both dash for the fallen goods but only one succeeds.
And she is one very happy kitty, indeed.
“My yarn!” Tsurara gasps as she watches sharp claws pierce through her yarn. The balls fall apart and the string becomes tangled and Tsurara can only watch in horror. Then she turns to her landlord.
Hanging precariously onto a railing, Kurosaki curses gravity and its power over him. He tilts his head and watches the spectacle before him with a touch of amusement. He catches the poor girl looking at him and offers her a quick, non-apologetic smile and scampers up the stairs, holding out his arms.
“Wait!” She calls and he cringes. “You owe me yarn!”
“I don’t owe you anything. If you want something, ask her!” He points to the cat who is wrestling quite merrily in the yarn. “And besides, who puts a basket of yarn on the stairs like that?”
“Someone who was trying to take out their keys to their apartment!”
“Really, well then, next time I see them, I’ll warn them not to do that again.” With a light chuckle at her exasperated groan, he nimbly hops up the last step and sails into his apartment.
“You’re just jealous!”
That is unexpected and also warrants a response, according to Kurosaki. “I resent that; I am not jealous. And what would I be jealous of anyways? You?” He doesn’t even try to hide the scorn in his voice.
“You’re jealous that I can knit and you can’t.” She says triumphantly, as if she’s won a major battle in the war.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.” As she opens her mouth to retort with another “yes, you are,” he snaps at her. “And I can prove it to you.”
“Oh?” She asks, thrusting her chin up defiantly. “How?”
“I’ll show you that I can knit and therefore, I can’t be jealous of your knitting prowess.”
She scoffs, “I’d like to see you try.”
And Kurosaki knows he has dug himself into a hole, for he cannot resist a challenge, even one from this poor college girl with the eyes of snapping fire. So he goes out and buys a pair of knitting needles, a few balls of yarn (red, because he thinks she’ll look good in it), and a book on how to knit.
He, of course, doesn’t know how to knit, but how hard can it be, given that the poor girl can do it?
Apparently, very hard.
Even with the large, dull knitting needles, Kurosaki still manages to bruise, prod, poke, and batter himself into oblivion (a reason, he deduces, he would never, ever take up sewing, no matter how much of his manly pride was at stake).
Finally, a few days later, he emerges from his apartment holding a tattered red… something that half-resembles a cloth that had fallen from 20 stories, was trampled on by elephants, thrown into a pack of ravenous hyenas, and then stuffed into a blender on ‘liquefy’.
He hands it to her sullenly, anticipating laughter, a snide comment (like, “You’ve got lots of buttonholes, so where are the buttons?), or something equally fiendish.
So she surprises him when she looks over the cloth in her hands, a small smile on her face, and says, “Not bad.”
Kurosaki is stunned for a second (a split second, mind you) before snatching up his knitwear. “Of course not.” He replies with a sniff. “I made it.”
“Of course.” She says, turning back to her own knitting, a long scarf that Kurosaki hates to point out has no “buttonholes” or defects of any kind. “You’re Kurosaki. What can’t you do?”
“Well,” he thinks for a moment, “I can’t give birth.”
“Something I’m thankful for every day of my life, believe me.”
“Hmph.”