[fic] craven
Title: Craven
Rating: R
Words: 700
Pairings: Some you like, and some I don't
Summary: Let's pretend.
Craven
*
things fall apart
the centre cannot hold
W.B. Yeats
*
i.
When Sasuke finds Naruto outside one of Konoha’s less reputable nightclubs using his Orioke no Jutsu to pick up strange men two weeks after Sakura’s funeral, he hits him so hard that his knuckles split and the henge flickers and fades even before Naruto hits the ground.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he asks, emotion excused by his dismay.
Naruto pulls himself to his feet gingerly, wiping blood off his lips, and observes his red-tipped fingers indifferently. “It doesn’t really matter anymore.”
He reaches for Sasuke’s belt-buckle, the swipe of blood fresh on his still-smiling face.
*
ii.
Ino sits in her bathtub, the warm water going cold, listening to the steady drip-drip of it hitting the porcelain floor. There are red scratch marks all down the lengths of her arms and legs, bits of broken skin under her painted nails. She peels them off and eats them, savoring the coppery tang on her tongue.
From the bedroom, the radio is whining a strained, badly scratched tune, “My dream girl don’t exist… At the age of five she slit her wrist…”
Ino smiles and leans her head back against the wall, closing her eyes against the salty burn.
*
iii.
Sakura had a habit of always forgetting to lay a coaster beneath her teacup, and she left dark yellow half-rings all over the surface of the coffee table.
Naruto takes his cigarette and traces the semicircles with the burning tip. The flame keeps going out, but he just lights it again.
One blackened scar for every day that he loved her. Everyday until she died.
When Ino walks in on him, she pushes him flat on his back on the couch and tugs down his jeans, drawing Sakura’s name from his lips when her mouth closes hotly around his cock.
*
iv.
Sasuke holds his pain - the pain with the name of a person - inside the hollow of his left palm, closing his fist upon it, refusing to let go. In the privacy of his bedroom, he caresses it for hours, opening and closing his palm to check that it’s still there.
Naruto shoves him against the wall in the hallway and kisses him, taking his silence as permission, and perhaps it is.
Ino, standing on the opposite wall, crosses her fingers in a familiar seal and says, “I know every curve and angle of her body. I know how she kissed. Fucked.”
*
v.
He mouths ‘No, no, no’ with his lips, but in the topsy-turvy nightmare they have tumbled into, maybe no really means yes.
It’s not such an uncommon thing, Ino will tell you. She encounters it all the time on her special missions, the ones where she wears her black silk garter and slips a kunai into its custom-made catch.
Dead girlfriends. Dead wives. Even a boyfriend every now and then. The information gets better each time that she manages to hold the jutsu through faking climax, which is pretty damn often.
“And,” she shrugs, “it’s not like you care anymore.”
*
vi.
After they leave, Sasuke stumbles into his bedroom and downs a quart of whiskey from a bottle he keeps in his cabinet.
He crosses his finger and breathes the words. “Do it,” he tells the clone when the smoke’s cleared, and flicks off the overhead light.
In the darkness, he fists his hands in short, silky hair - pink, it is pink - and buries his face between small, high-rising breasts, and tries to remember. But the memories slip through his fingers, and all he can remember is the taste of Ino on his lips, and Naruto’s rough fingers on his skin.
*
vii.
He stares at his reflection in the mirror, flooded with fluorescent lights and cold and numb as anything else he can feel right now. Even with everything burned away, until his bones are so sharp they threaten to poke through his skin, he looks the same.
That… might prove useful.
Because it is easy - even though it shouldn’t be - and the cure for grief is smoke and a rumpled bed, and my, doesn’t it look inviting?
So maybe there is someone else in grief right now, someone he should fix and cure and push onto a rumpled bed.
Maybe… maybe Kakashi?
Rating: R
Words: 700
Pairings: Some you like, and some I don't
Summary: Let's pretend.
Craven
*
things fall apart
the centre cannot hold
W.B. Yeats
*
i.
When Sasuke finds Naruto outside one of Konoha’s less reputable nightclubs using his Orioke no Jutsu to pick up strange men two weeks after Sakura’s funeral, he hits him so hard that his knuckles split and the henge flickers and fades even before Naruto hits the ground.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he asks, emotion excused by his dismay.
Naruto pulls himself to his feet gingerly, wiping blood off his lips, and observes his red-tipped fingers indifferently. “It doesn’t really matter anymore.”
He reaches for Sasuke’s belt-buckle, the swipe of blood fresh on his still-smiling face.
*
ii.
Ino sits in her bathtub, the warm water going cold, listening to the steady drip-drip of it hitting the porcelain floor. There are red scratch marks all down the lengths of her arms and legs, bits of broken skin under her painted nails. She peels them off and eats them, savoring the coppery tang on her tongue.
From the bedroom, the radio is whining a strained, badly scratched tune, “My dream girl don’t exist… At the age of five she slit her wrist…”
Ino smiles and leans her head back against the wall, closing her eyes against the salty burn.
*
iii.
Sakura had a habit of always forgetting to lay a coaster beneath her teacup, and she left dark yellow half-rings all over the surface of the coffee table.
Naruto takes his cigarette and traces the semicircles with the burning tip. The flame keeps going out, but he just lights it again.
One blackened scar for every day that he loved her. Everyday until she died.
When Ino walks in on him, she pushes him flat on his back on the couch and tugs down his jeans, drawing Sakura’s name from his lips when her mouth closes hotly around his cock.
*
iv.
Sasuke holds his pain - the pain with the name of a person - inside the hollow of his left palm, closing his fist upon it, refusing to let go. In the privacy of his bedroom, he caresses it for hours, opening and closing his palm to check that it’s still there.
Naruto shoves him against the wall in the hallway and kisses him, taking his silence as permission, and perhaps it is.
Ino, standing on the opposite wall, crosses her fingers in a familiar seal and says, “I know every curve and angle of her body. I know how she kissed. Fucked.”
*
v.
He mouths ‘No, no, no’ with his lips, but in the topsy-turvy nightmare they have tumbled into, maybe no really means yes.
It’s not such an uncommon thing, Ino will tell you. She encounters it all the time on her special missions, the ones where she wears her black silk garter and slips a kunai into its custom-made catch.
Dead girlfriends. Dead wives. Even a boyfriend every now and then. The information gets better each time that she manages to hold the jutsu through faking climax, which is pretty damn often.
“And,” she shrugs, “it’s not like you care anymore.”
*
vi.
After they leave, Sasuke stumbles into his bedroom and downs a quart of whiskey from a bottle he keeps in his cabinet.
He crosses his finger and breathes the words. “Do it,” he tells the clone when the smoke’s cleared, and flicks off the overhead light.
In the darkness, he fists his hands in short, silky hair - pink, it is pink - and buries his face between small, high-rising breasts, and tries to remember. But the memories slip through his fingers, and all he can remember is the taste of Ino on his lips, and Naruto’s rough fingers on his skin.
*
vii.
He stares at his reflection in the mirror, flooded with fluorescent lights and cold and numb as anything else he can feel right now. Even with everything burned away, until his bones are so sharp they threaten to poke through his skin, he looks the same.
That… might prove useful.
Because it is easy - even though it shouldn’t be - and the cure for grief is smoke and a rumpled bed, and my, doesn’t it look inviting?
So maybe there is someone else in grief right now, someone he should fix and cure and push onto a rumpled bed.
Maybe… maybe Kakashi?