ita/shi shipping meme!
From when nthcoincident tagged me AGES ago, and i only finished some of them, but i figured post what i have, or i never will.
1) Urban Fantasy (otherwise known as me changing this to cyberpunk.):
“Shisui, some haste would be appreciated. They’ve almost hacked through.”
“Those two-bit fuckwits can kiss my ass! Itachi, where did you put the extra data storage?”
“Three layers down, double-encryption, Tuesday’s password set.” Shisui casts him a fuck you and your excessive neurotic security measures look. Itachi rolls his eyes, disturbingly sexy even under the various wires connected to his headset and blue-tinted visor, and flings the file to Shisui across the holographic display.
They are on the 1,894th floor. The alternating picture of smog, skyscrapers, and flickering electric lights drift in through the large window. The rest of their apartment is strewn with wires, an undergrowth of cords, plugs, circuits and processors, layered with sickeningly bright electric displays streaming light, color, noise. They fit comfortably over the drab physical connections, augmented reality in new-age sheen. Shisui’s fingers fly across the keyboard tap-tap-tap-tap as he rewrites code, blazing trails. Itachi follows in his tracks in the holospace, frying tracker programs, disabling failsafe mechanisms, cleaning Shisui’s work.
A series of explosions booms across the skyline. “Hah!” Shisui yelps in triumph. “That’ll teach them to mess with my codes. Seriously now. Amateurs.”
A noise distracts him. Itachi is coughing again, a small, dry wheezing sound emanating from his lungs. “Hey!” Shisui is off his chair in his typical bursts of speed, pulling off Itachi’s stupidly complex headset, and they sink into the floor tangled like the wires of the apartment. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it,” he mumbles against Itachi’s hair.
“It’s just the smog,” Itachi replies quietly. “Maybe now we can get a new place, ha ha.”
Shisui clutches him tighter. “Yeah. Maybe.”
2) Space:
“Shisui.” Itachi’s voice is Death, or perhaps, Gravel. “Did we crash again?” A trickle of blood runs from his temple to his chin, threatening to become a stream. He shades his eyes against the desert glare and his soon-to-be-murder-victim comes into focus.
“Huh?” Shisui looks up from the tangle of smoking engine parts, gears, and panels of fried electronics, ash smeared across his face and a spanner in his hands. “Itachi!” he gasps, and moves over to where Itachi had been laid out on a bedroll, under the only hastily constructed shade available. Shisui’s skin is suffocating as he gets close enough to examine the bleeding head wound. He smells like engine grease, burned metal, and dust. If Itachi wasn’t convinced Shisui will have located the source of the trouble and repaired the components in a matter of days, he would be much less disposed to the hands probing him gently. His head is spinning.
“Why are we on a desert planet?” He bleats out, trying to convey how irritating this is, how angry he is at Shisui crashing their ship. Again. His throat feels like it’s been run through a cheesegrater, probably the result of inhaling some kind of toxic smoke. So very angry.
Shisui gives him a rueful smile, one that Itachi is convinced is the source of all his trouble, because now he’s sunk. “Well, I figured you’d rather the ship crash on a planet with dubious oxygen content as opposed to space, which is very demonstrably lacking in oxygen.”
“Dubious.” Itachi repeats, trying to see shake the haze out of his vision. “Shisui, I am remarkably dizzy.”
“Well you should learn to hit your head less when we crash,” Shisui replies without pity. “Really. You’d think you’d know the procedure by now. You line up jobs, we accomplish them with finesse and panache, occasionally people are irked as to the illicit nature of said jobs, ship crashes, I fix it. You learn to put on seatbelts the way they’re designed.”
Itachi might’ve said Talk less, but it was muffled by his lips smushing into Shisui’s.
3) Mafia:
They weren’t supposed to find letters from Madara at the opposing family’s stronghold. It just wasn’t supposed to happen, even if you were the family’s two best sleuths and jacks-of-all-trades. They even bore his special insignia, the one they say can’t be faked.
When they walked back to the compound, it was like walking into the lion’s jaws. The air cracked like brittle glass, and behind every door was the enemy, the lurking danger. The unseen. Paranoia doesn’t do it justice, because now he sees fiends in every smile, betrayal around every corner. The waiting could kill you, if the fear doesn’t drive you crazy first.
When Itachi finally puts a knife through his heart with a solid finality, Shisui remembers being glad that he can see his killer’s face, and that he can stop dodging phantoms.
6) (Post) Apocalypse:
This drabble directly follows/pairs with my piece, Infected, for the bitter_nakano summer exchange.
The fires were sending acrid plumes up into the sky; planes had crashed, communication lines were down, and the brush fires in the area had finally started to burn down. The human response (overkill, really, and not that it did any good) to the hordes of the undead was almost as bad as the zombies themselves.
Open plains are never a good idea, never. In retrospect, they might have gotten cocky; their skills setting them apart and rendering anything less than a full-on army of the undead unthreatening.
Cuts are nothing new, either. You get beat up when you’re fighting for your life, trusting only the person next to you to dodge with you, strike when you feint, parry the blow you can’t see. When a claw raked across his skin, Shisui had twisted like a snake, and barely felt anything else as he leapt away, turning to the next corpse, and the next.
Maybe he was getting sloppy, because when it was over and done, Itachi was standing in a circle of cut-down zombies, his feet covered in blood, looking like the Madonna- serene over his silent flock, but barely a scratch on him.
His arm gave a twitch. Shisui looked down, and stared at his arm for a full minute before what he was seeing really registered, because it was so incomprehensible. His arm was slightly green, and the wound was not a claw mark at all, but clearly a bite; two sets of teeth. The blood was leaking out like it had lost the ability to congeal altogether. It twitched again, growing more painful by the second, starting to throb. Still Shisui continued to stare, and finally looked up. Itachi was gazing levelly at him, an Are we ready to go now? look.
Shisui locked eyes with him, and wordlessly held up his arm. Itachi glanced at it.
The moment hung endlessly, wavering in the air like the final note in a dirge. He was starting to get slightly nauseous, though whether it was panic or the virus he couldn’t say. The smell of the burning corpses far off stung his nose.
If he had to categorize the look on Itachi’s face, he would have had to say that the total agony there was in direct proportion to all the promises of love Itachi had made him. Enough to justify them, no doubt, and then some.
Minutes passed as they refused to break eye contact. The wind was very sour as it pulled foul smells across the plain, picked up their hair and flung it about. Itachi was holding it together, but only just barely, the tears rolling down his cheeks steadily. Shisui himself had started to tremble, and his eyes were stinging, itching, the skin underneath them crawling like a million tiny fire ants were scrambling about. His arm was very green, and he was getting more nauseous by the moment. So this is what it felt like.
“Do it,” he croaked, feeling the tears spill forth at last. “Do it, do it now, before you have to deal with me.” Itachi gripped his katana.
“I love you-”
1) Urban Fantasy (otherwise known as me changing this to cyberpunk.):
“Shisui, some haste would be appreciated. They’ve almost hacked through.”
“Those two-bit fuckwits can kiss my ass! Itachi, where did you put the extra data storage?”
“Three layers down, double-encryption, Tuesday’s password set.” Shisui casts him a fuck you and your excessive neurotic security measures look. Itachi rolls his eyes, disturbingly sexy even under the various wires connected to his headset and blue-tinted visor, and flings the file to Shisui across the holographic display.
They are on the 1,894th floor. The alternating picture of smog, skyscrapers, and flickering electric lights drift in through the large window. The rest of their apartment is strewn with wires, an undergrowth of cords, plugs, circuits and processors, layered with sickeningly bright electric displays streaming light, color, noise. They fit comfortably over the drab physical connections, augmented reality in new-age sheen. Shisui’s fingers fly across the keyboard tap-tap-tap-tap as he rewrites code, blazing trails. Itachi follows in his tracks in the holospace, frying tracker programs, disabling failsafe mechanisms, cleaning Shisui’s work.
A series of explosions booms across the skyline. “Hah!” Shisui yelps in triumph. “That’ll teach them to mess with my codes. Seriously now. Amateurs.”
A noise distracts him. Itachi is coughing again, a small, dry wheezing sound emanating from his lungs. “Hey!” Shisui is off his chair in his typical bursts of speed, pulling off Itachi’s stupidly complex headset, and they sink into the floor tangled like the wires of the apartment. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it,” he mumbles against Itachi’s hair.
“It’s just the smog,” Itachi replies quietly. “Maybe now we can get a new place, ha ha.”
Shisui clutches him tighter. “Yeah. Maybe.”
2) Space:
“Shisui.” Itachi’s voice is Death, or perhaps, Gravel. “Did we crash again?” A trickle of blood runs from his temple to his chin, threatening to become a stream. He shades his eyes against the desert glare and his soon-to-be-murder-victim comes into focus.
“Huh?” Shisui looks up from the tangle of smoking engine parts, gears, and panels of fried electronics, ash smeared across his face and a spanner in his hands. “Itachi!” he gasps, and moves over to where Itachi had been laid out on a bedroll, under the only hastily constructed shade available. Shisui’s skin is suffocating as he gets close enough to examine the bleeding head wound. He smells like engine grease, burned metal, and dust. If Itachi wasn’t convinced Shisui will have located the source of the trouble and repaired the components in a matter of days, he would be much less disposed to the hands probing him gently. His head is spinning.
“Why are we on a desert planet?” He bleats out, trying to convey how irritating this is, how angry he is at Shisui crashing their ship. Again. His throat feels like it’s been run through a cheesegrater, probably the result of inhaling some kind of toxic smoke. So very angry.
Shisui gives him a rueful smile, one that Itachi is convinced is the source of all his trouble, because now he’s sunk. “Well, I figured you’d rather the ship crash on a planet with dubious oxygen content as opposed to space, which is very demonstrably lacking in oxygen.”
“Dubious.” Itachi repeats, trying to see shake the haze out of his vision. “Shisui, I am remarkably dizzy.”
“Well you should learn to hit your head less when we crash,” Shisui replies without pity. “Really. You’d think you’d know the procedure by now. You line up jobs, we accomplish them with finesse and panache, occasionally people are irked as to the illicit nature of said jobs, ship crashes, I fix it. You learn to put on seatbelts the way they’re designed.”
Itachi might’ve said Talk less, but it was muffled by his lips smushing into Shisui’s.
3) Mafia:
They weren’t supposed to find letters from Madara at the opposing family’s stronghold. It just wasn’t supposed to happen, even if you were the family’s two best sleuths and jacks-of-all-trades. They even bore his special insignia, the one they say can’t be faked.
When they walked back to the compound, it was like walking into the lion’s jaws. The air cracked like brittle glass, and behind every door was the enemy, the lurking danger. The unseen. Paranoia doesn’t do it justice, because now he sees fiends in every smile, betrayal around every corner. The waiting could kill you, if the fear doesn’t drive you crazy first.
When Itachi finally puts a knife through his heart with a solid finality, Shisui remembers being glad that he can see his killer’s face, and that he can stop dodging phantoms.
6) (Post) Apocalypse:
This drabble directly follows/pairs with my piece, Infected, for the bitter_nakano summer exchange.
The fires were sending acrid plumes up into the sky; planes had crashed, communication lines were down, and the brush fires in the area had finally started to burn down. The human response (overkill, really, and not that it did any good) to the hordes of the undead was almost as bad as the zombies themselves.
Open plains are never a good idea, never. In retrospect, they might have gotten cocky; their skills setting them apart and rendering anything less than a full-on army of the undead unthreatening.
Cuts are nothing new, either. You get beat up when you’re fighting for your life, trusting only the person next to you to dodge with you, strike when you feint, parry the blow you can’t see. When a claw raked across his skin, Shisui had twisted like a snake, and barely felt anything else as he leapt away, turning to the next corpse, and the next.
Maybe he was getting sloppy, because when it was over and done, Itachi was standing in a circle of cut-down zombies, his feet covered in blood, looking like the Madonna- serene over his silent flock, but barely a scratch on him.
His arm gave a twitch. Shisui looked down, and stared at his arm for a full minute before what he was seeing really registered, because it was so incomprehensible. His arm was slightly green, and the wound was not a claw mark at all, but clearly a bite; two sets of teeth. The blood was leaking out like it had lost the ability to congeal altogether. It twitched again, growing more painful by the second, starting to throb. Still Shisui continued to stare, and finally looked up. Itachi was gazing levelly at him, an Are we ready to go now? look.
Shisui locked eyes with him, and wordlessly held up his arm. Itachi glanced at it.
The moment hung endlessly, wavering in the air like the final note in a dirge. He was starting to get slightly nauseous, though whether it was panic or the virus he couldn’t say. The smell of the burning corpses far off stung his nose.
If he had to categorize the look on Itachi’s face, he would have had to say that the total agony there was in direct proportion to all the promises of love Itachi had made him. Enough to justify them, no doubt, and then some.
Minutes passed as they refused to break eye contact. The wind was very sour as it pulled foul smells across the plain, picked up their hair and flung it about. Itachi was holding it together, but only just barely, the tears rolling down his cheeks steadily. Shisui himself had started to tremble, and his eyes were stinging, itching, the skin underneath them crawling like a million tiny fire ants were scrambling about. His arm was very green, and he was getting more nauseous by the moment. So this is what it felt like.
“Do it,” he croaked, feeling the tears spill forth at last. “Do it, do it now, before you have to deal with me.” Itachi gripped his katana.
“I love you-”