That Machiavellian Streak
Various drabbles written for the ever-lovely myrafur. The first two were for her birthday, the second two were done online.
Katekyo Hitman Reborn!--Tsuna/Guardians, Cake
It's his birthday, they're serving cake with three layers piled high like a wedding, except there is only one figurine on top--of himself. Dino cuts deep into it exposing the dark insides, rich and heavy. The champagne is light and crisp, gold and tinkling like the delicate necks of the glasses. Gokudera proposes a toast and climbs up on a chair while hammering on his glass with a spoon, "Oi oi, I'd like too--" and Tsuna can barely hear, can't even make his eyes focus because a week before that same mouth had spread him back over his desk and kissed him, put a hand up his shirt and said, "J-Juudaime" in a voice entirely different than the one he's using now.
It should have been a fluke, he thinks. They should all have been flukes. Chrome nudges his elbow and offers him a slice of cake, smiling. He smiles back, and his lip still twinges where Hibari bit him when he came, and then with a peculiar kind of tenderness smoothed it out with his thumb. He's beginning to discover that his guardians possess all kinds of peculiarities, the kind of things you only notice when you're sleeping with someone. Yamamoto eats raw eggs, for instance, and also knows how to have sex in showers without slipping. Mukuro had a barcode on the back of his neck that read 0012769.
In bed afterward, the celebration is winding down outside. It's dark, his hand down his dress pants and moving just slow enough, slow enough to give him a little time, a series of faces pass over his eyes. Pale and leering, blue-black hair, and short crew cuts he could run his fingers through, some who bit him and wouldn't let him cry out, and other who kissed on and on with the intensity of new-born stars. He was divided among each of them, cut by the silver cake server the way each of their wounds in his service marked his own body with guilt. Dished out on porcelain he was their sweetness and their celebration.
Naruto--Iruka, Naruto+Sasuke
Every teacher has regrets. Some more than others.
After the 17th time Naruto professed to "forget" his homework. Iruka had taken him aside and taught him an old fail-safe mnemonic device for these types of things. "Just tie the string like you'd tie a shoe. One knot, then a rabbit ear, and then another...That way when you see it, you'll remember why it's there." For a week after the lesson Naruto had come in dangling bits of string from his arm, wrist, toes, upper lip (and he secretly confided in Iruka later another place), but what he'd failed to anticipate was the daily life of Konoha's most active prankster, and along with the homework that woefully continued to remain missing, he began to find bits of string where the knot had slipped, come undone and dropped to the classroom floor.
He'd forgotten all about it until he'd gone to visit Naruto in the hospital after Sasuke's departure, and it had been Naruto who'd reminded him. He'd been sitting up in bed watching TV, and then had paused as Iruka had taken a chair. That's when he notices it, feels his guts clench.
"Hey hey Iruka-san, remember when you taught me..." and he cannot look at Naruto's face where it was bruised black and blue, he cannot look at his feet beneath the covers where the toes sit pigeon toed and forlorn, he cannot look at those child's shoulders and the mass of new scar tissue directly above his heart. All he can see, so much so that it takes up his whole field of vision, is those broken hands cradling the knot of a hitae headband.
Harry Potter--Peter Pettigrew, Gen
Slip out of the portrait hole. The Fat Lady will forget if you compliment her hairdo. Third staircase on Wednesdays, the second or the banister for every other day of the week. Don't light your wand when walking through the hallway with the mirrors. Don't get the portrait of Lord Finnegan angry or he'll spit paint on you, and don't, don't ever tell if you get caught. "Keeps the air of mystery about us, yeah" says James the next day slinging his arm about Pete, the loose easy curl of his mouth when he says this, the same fluidity with which he says his incantations. And he wants it all: the raw scraped knuckles from punching your best friend, the Quidditch bruises, the sore back from the tryst with Anna Grimble in the 4th floor broom closet, that loose-limbed, silver tongued ease that James and Sirius wore about them like the finest-threaded cloaks.
"You comin' tonight?" Sirius asks, nods at him with the Black Bored stare. "Sure" he hears himself say, "Sure". Down the banister, and along the corridor with the statue of Boswin the Bewildered, which Sirius running ahead slaps in its marble face; his laughter at its shriek high and echoing off the ceiling. Tickle the fruitbowl to make the pear giggle, and opening the door he's hit with the heavy dense air of cooking. The Elves look up in a sea of large tennis ball shaped eyes, and they, the two of them laughing, arm-in-arm wade in letting Remus and him bring up the procession.
"Lookit Wormtail, Creampuffs eh? Your favorite."
He picks one up and gorges himself on loathing.
Harry Potter--Sirius/Remus, During the war...
The war wasn't fought in the way Harry will picture it later. Remus doesn't have the heart to tell him. It lacked the grandeur, the majesty with which the new generation imagined it.
It was the early eighties and Remus felt older than ever. They collected in rooms. Apartment buildings that smelled like gas and had a touch of the old Victorian about them. Huge where the carefully constructed walls had been knocked out to create hotels or flats. The war was fought in quiet streets damp with rain, in narrow alleys next to pubs closed up for the night, in church graveyards. Headstones and steetlamps and signboards growing chips and holes by unexplained means in the night. The muggles muttered about "Hooligans and the no-good youth," under their breath. It was true they were no good, Sirius had taken to not brushing his hair and wearing a leather jacket covered in bright badges. He puts his cigarette out on the stone wall next to Remus's ear, grinning wolfishly the whites of his eyes huge and a yellowed by the streetlamps. It is a little past two in the morning and all the drunks have headed home for the night. "Moony" he says, brings his attention back around, "Moony, moony" and takes his face between his hands. A little crazed, too young and too in love--just another couple having a feel next to the church yard frantic and clumsy. Sirius's zipper cutting into the back of his hand when he comes, cock jerking and Sirius's "fuckfuckfuck" sweaty, a tongue in his ear, a fist shoved into the small of his back.
In the rooms where they gather Remus looks down at his feet eyes lowered as if they are in prayer. They are quiet, penitent almost. Surrounded by grey moldings, high ceilings, thin panes of glass unable to hold back the storm.
A/N: The S/R is--as always--following the vein of far better writers: ourmutualfiend and "imochan<3
Time for school work :\
Katekyo Hitman Reborn!--Tsuna/Guardians, Cake
It's his birthday, they're serving cake with three layers piled high like a wedding, except there is only one figurine on top--of himself. Dino cuts deep into it exposing the dark insides, rich and heavy. The champagne is light and crisp, gold and tinkling like the delicate necks of the glasses. Gokudera proposes a toast and climbs up on a chair while hammering on his glass with a spoon, "Oi oi, I'd like too--" and Tsuna can barely hear, can't even make his eyes focus because a week before that same mouth had spread him back over his desk and kissed him, put a hand up his shirt and said, "J-Juudaime" in a voice entirely different than the one he's using now.
It should have been a fluke, he thinks. They should all have been flukes. Chrome nudges his elbow and offers him a slice of cake, smiling. He smiles back, and his lip still twinges where Hibari bit him when he came, and then with a peculiar kind of tenderness smoothed it out with his thumb. He's beginning to discover that his guardians possess all kinds of peculiarities, the kind of things you only notice when you're sleeping with someone. Yamamoto eats raw eggs, for instance, and also knows how to have sex in showers without slipping. Mukuro had a barcode on the back of his neck that read 0012769.
In bed afterward, the celebration is winding down outside. It's dark, his hand down his dress pants and moving just slow enough, slow enough to give him a little time, a series of faces pass over his eyes. Pale and leering, blue-black hair, and short crew cuts he could run his fingers through, some who bit him and wouldn't let him cry out, and other who kissed on and on with the intensity of new-born stars. He was divided among each of them, cut by the silver cake server the way each of their wounds in his service marked his own body with guilt. Dished out on porcelain he was their sweetness and their celebration.
Naruto--Iruka, Naruto+Sasuke
Every teacher has regrets. Some more than others.
After the 17th time Naruto professed to "forget" his homework. Iruka had taken him aside and taught him an old fail-safe mnemonic device for these types of things. "Just tie the string like you'd tie a shoe. One knot, then a rabbit ear, and then another...That way when you see it, you'll remember why it's there." For a week after the lesson Naruto had come in dangling bits of string from his arm, wrist, toes, upper lip (and he secretly confided in Iruka later another place), but what he'd failed to anticipate was the daily life of Konoha's most active prankster, and along with the homework that woefully continued to remain missing, he began to find bits of string where the knot had slipped, come undone and dropped to the classroom floor.
He'd forgotten all about it until he'd gone to visit Naruto in the hospital after Sasuke's departure, and it had been Naruto who'd reminded him. He'd been sitting up in bed watching TV, and then had paused as Iruka had taken a chair. That's when he notices it, feels his guts clench.
"Hey hey Iruka-san, remember when you taught me..." and he cannot look at Naruto's face where it was bruised black and blue, he cannot look at his feet beneath the covers where the toes sit pigeon toed and forlorn, he cannot look at those child's shoulders and the mass of new scar tissue directly above his heart. All he can see, so much so that it takes up his whole field of vision, is those broken hands cradling the knot of a hitae headband.
Harry Potter--Peter Pettigrew, Gen
Slip out of the portrait hole. The Fat Lady will forget if you compliment her hairdo. Third staircase on Wednesdays, the second or the banister for every other day of the week. Don't light your wand when walking through the hallway with the mirrors. Don't get the portrait of Lord Finnegan angry or he'll spit paint on you, and don't, don't ever tell if you get caught. "Keeps the air of mystery about us, yeah" says James the next day slinging his arm about Pete, the loose easy curl of his mouth when he says this, the same fluidity with which he says his incantations. And he wants it all: the raw scraped knuckles from punching your best friend, the Quidditch bruises, the sore back from the tryst with Anna Grimble in the 4th floor broom closet, that loose-limbed, silver tongued ease that James and Sirius wore about them like the finest-threaded cloaks.
"You comin' tonight?" Sirius asks, nods at him with the Black Bored stare. "Sure" he hears himself say, "Sure". Down the banister, and along the corridor with the statue of Boswin the Bewildered, which Sirius running ahead slaps in its marble face; his laughter at its shriek high and echoing off the ceiling. Tickle the fruitbowl to make the pear giggle, and opening the door he's hit with the heavy dense air of cooking. The Elves look up in a sea of large tennis ball shaped eyes, and they, the two of them laughing, arm-in-arm wade in letting Remus and him bring up the procession.
"Lookit Wormtail, Creampuffs eh? Your favorite."
He picks one up and gorges himself on loathing.
Harry Potter--Sirius/Remus, During the war...
The war wasn't fought in the way Harry will picture it later. Remus doesn't have the heart to tell him. It lacked the grandeur, the majesty with which the new generation imagined it.
It was the early eighties and Remus felt older than ever. They collected in rooms. Apartment buildings that smelled like gas and had a touch of the old Victorian about them. Huge where the carefully constructed walls had been knocked out to create hotels or flats. The war was fought in quiet streets damp with rain, in narrow alleys next to pubs closed up for the night, in church graveyards. Headstones and steetlamps and signboards growing chips and holes by unexplained means in the night. The muggles muttered about "Hooligans and the no-good youth," under their breath. It was true they were no good, Sirius had taken to not brushing his hair and wearing a leather jacket covered in bright badges. He puts his cigarette out on the stone wall next to Remus's ear, grinning wolfishly the whites of his eyes huge and a yellowed by the streetlamps. It is a little past two in the morning and all the drunks have headed home for the night. "Moony" he says, brings his attention back around, "Moony, moony" and takes his face between his hands. A little crazed, too young and too in love--just another couple having a feel next to the church yard frantic and clumsy. Sirius's zipper cutting into the back of his hand when he comes, cock jerking and Sirius's "fuckfuckfuck" sweaty, a tongue in his ear, a fist shoved into the small of his back.
In the rooms where they gather Remus looks down at his feet eyes lowered as if they are in prayer. They are quiet, penitent almost. Surrounded by grey moldings, high ceilings, thin panes of glass unable to hold back the storm.
A/N: The S/R is--as always--following the vein of far better writers: ourmutualfiend and "imochan<3
Time for school work :\