[Drabbles] Naruto, joint with nthcoincident
Have to dash in a few minutes, but promised I'd put these up. Timed drabbles with the ever-brilliant nthcoincident in which I woefully ignored the time limit. Hers should be up in a bit, and they were AWESOME.
Prompt: love triangles
"He won't look at me" is what he says, but the muscle in his jaw goes taut and later when he fucks him over the threshold of the doorway to his little courtyard Madara makes a soft breathless noise in his throat and Tobirama pushes his fingers into his mouth so he doesn't say anything more about it.
That winter was heavy with snow and he remembers because there were so many upsets in the village. It had come down soft and white. They cleared the streets dutifully, starting with the main intersections. If someone had looked down on the village from above they would have seen the great black X with the dark sculpted mud underneath. Over time it became apparent where the real traffic was, people cutting across corners over yards and hopping fences. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. The footprints, which were very crisp and remained, gave rise to a whole new contingent of sordid romances, capers, and mischief. Tobirama sees a set that ring round and round the memorial stone, he follows another that meanders into a park and disappears under the canopy of one of the great trees, looking up there are tiny birds born put of season. A nest made of wool like the kind pulled from the stuffing in a jacket.
He walks home from his brother's, the inside warm. Mito had served him redbean cakes and tea. The graininess of red bean remained in his mouth as he wished her congratulations and helped her in the kitchen, her stomach already swollen and her cheeks a little flushed with the heat of the house. Her eyes were bright and she walked ponderously over to the study where his brother sat mollified by his own righteousness.
On the way back he takes a sidepath because he smells smoke off over the docks. He's not sure who it is until he sees the trail in the snow, bare feet. Madara's lips are a little chapped like he's seen them before when he's been doing the Katon grand fireball over and over. The ice on the lake already melted. Deep underneath, it's black and he wonders about how cold it is. How deep.
"He won't look at me".
"I know" is all he says reaching out to put a hand on his hip.
Prompt: characters who should never have met
"Who are you?"
They had met only once on the field. He hadn't known who it was then, but Izuna was maybe 12 years old and when Hashirama had gone over to check if he was dead he'd used a tiny handless blade held between his knuckles to and try to cut his eye out. He still has the scar, a line on the left side near his temple. At the time he thought he'd been lucky, that he'd moved fast enough, or that the boy hadn't been very good but looking back on it his blood roaring in his ears, his hand immediately dabbing at the cut he doesn't fully understand until he sees Izuna crouched in the bonsai courtyard of his house at almost 5 in the morning.
"It's better if you add some terra cotta to the soil." He's maybe 16 give or take, and doesn't seem at all perturbed by Hashirama being there. "Crushed of course, but it's better."
He has a light voice, but he still moves how Hashirama remembers a little too much calculated flippancy, a little too waify to be perfectly real. On the field he'd been crying, cursing, telling Hashirama to kill him as he'd used the mokuton to pull his attacking arm back and twist it so he couldn't make any one-handed signs. He'd struggled so hard his wrist broke under the strain then he'd snarled, "Kill me! Just do it! Kill me!". Snot-nosed, sheet white, face wet with tears of frustration, Hashirama remembers how dark his eyes were.
"My brother is not very good at it actually, it takes a lot of patience." His small hands pat the soil and then brush over the curvature of a miniature pine appreciatively.
"I'm sorry, I know I'm not supposed--but I heard and wanted to see," and he laughs a little at the last statement looking over at him when Hashirama finally speaks; "It's fine" he says, startling himself into movement. He leads Izuna over to sit down and tries to say something, something about higher purposes, and not about the boy's face and his snotty nose and his articulate cursing, and not about fighting a twelve year old in the mud and walking away as the boy screamed and begged, that at the time Hashirama couldn't--that he hadn't--but all he manages is "and I-I'm sorry about--".
"It's okay, you didn't know", Izuna says looking up at him and smiling; his eyes are milky white and made of glass, and as Hashirama watches he slips a foot out of his sandal to nudge patterns into the gravel with a toe. There's a long pause where the coarse shifting of the grains is barely audible, before the boy continues, "But yes, the terra cotta for the roots. You know what they say about bonsai, 'the roots go were only the bough dreams.'" He laughs again, the sound light and pleasing.
Have been having battles with the "Show vs. tell" aspect of writing so I'm sorry if these aren't the usual descriptive fare
Prompt: love triangles
"He won't look at me" is what he says, but the muscle in his jaw goes taut and later when he fucks him over the threshold of the doorway to his little courtyard Madara makes a soft breathless noise in his throat and Tobirama pushes his fingers into his mouth so he doesn't say anything more about it.
That winter was heavy with snow and he remembers because there were so many upsets in the village. It had come down soft and white. They cleared the streets dutifully, starting with the main intersections. If someone had looked down on the village from above they would have seen the great black X with the dark sculpted mud underneath. Over time it became apparent where the real traffic was, people cutting across corners over yards and hopping fences. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. The footprints, which were very crisp and remained, gave rise to a whole new contingent of sordid romances, capers, and mischief. Tobirama sees a set that ring round and round the memorial stone, he follows another that meanders into a park and disappears under the canopy of one of the great trees, looking up there are tiny birds born put of season. A nest made of wool like the kind pulled from the stuffing in a jacket.
He walks home from his brother's, the inside warm. Mito had served him redbean cakes and tea. The graininess of red bean remained in his mouth as he wished her congratulations and helped her in the kitchen, her stomach already swollen and her cheeks a little flushed with the heat of the house. Her eyes were bright and she walked ponderously over to the study where his brother sat mollified by his own righteousness.
On the way back he takes a sidepath because he smells smoke off over the docks. He's not sure who it is until he sees the trail in the snow, bare feet. Madara's lips are a little chapped like he's seen them before when he's been doing the Katon grand fireball over and over. The ice on the lake already melted. Deep underneath, it's black and he wonders about how cold it is. How deep.
"He won't look at me".
"I know" is all he says reaching out to put a hand on his hip.
Prompt: characters who should never have met
"Who are you?"
They had met only once on the field. He hadn't known who it was then, but Izuna was maybe 12 years old and when Hashirama had gone over to check if he was dead he'd used a tiny handless blade held between his knuckles to and try to cut his eye out. He still has the scar, a line on the left side near his temple. At the time he thought he'd been lucky, that he'd moved fast enough, or that the boy hadn't been very good but looking back on it his blood roaring in his ears, his hand immediately dabbing at the cut he doesn't fully understand until he sees Izuna crouched in the bonsai courtyard of his house at almost 5 in the morning.
"It's better if you add some terra cotta to the soil." He's maybe 16 give or take, and doesn't seem at all perturbed by Hashirama being there. "Crushed of course, but it's better."
He has a light voice, but he still moves how Hashirama remembers a little too much calculated flippancy, a little too waify to be perfectly real. On the field he'd been crying, cursing, telling Hashirama to kill him as he'd used the mokuton to pull his attacking arm back and twist it so he couldn't make any one-handed signs. He'd struggled so hard his wrist broke under the strain then he'd snarled, "Kill me! Just do it! Kill me!". Snot-nosed, sheet white, face wet with tears of frustration, Hashirama remembers how dark his eyes were.
"My brother is not very good at it actually, it takes a lot of patience." His small hands pat the soil and then brush over the curvature of a miniature pine appreciatively.
"I'm sorry, I know I'm not supposed--but I heard and wanted to see," and he laughs a little at the last statement looking over at him when Hashirama finally speaks; "It's fine" he says, startling himself into movement. He leads Izuna over to sit down and tries to say something, something about higher purposes, and not about the boy's face and his snotty nose and his articulate cursing, and not about fighting a twelve year old in the mud and walking away as the boy screamed and begged, that at the time Hashirama couldn't--that he hadn't--but all he manages is "and I-I'm sorry about--".
"It's okay, you didn't know", Izuna says looking up at him and smiling; his eyes are milky white and made of glass, and as Hashirama watches he slips a foot out of his sandal to nudge patterns into the gravel with a toe. There's a long pause where the coarse shifting of the grains is barely audible, before the boy continues, "But yes, the terra cotta for the roots. You know what they say about bonsai, 'the roots go were only the bough dreams.'" He laughs again, the sound light and pleasing.
Have been having battles with the "Show vs. tell" aspect of writing so I'm sorry if these aren't the usual descriptive fare