Disclaimer: Do I look like Masashi-san? The answer to that question had better be "no" or I'll butcher you.
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A Little Piece of Heaven
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Fourteen years old. Female. Student of above-average intelligence. I felt sorry for my self when I found out my IQ was only 131 until my uncle pointed out that most major genii have an IQ below 200 anyways. But that didn't actually overwhelm me with joy. And almost immediately after that conversation, I returned to playing a computer game.
I am willing to admit that my main fear was that I had lost intelligence since second grade, when I had taken the intelligence test. Other than that, it was that the things I could see were hallucinations, and not merely invisible to the rest of the population. It bothered me that people just assumed that crazies didn't know they were mad, even if it proved that I was still sane.
What I'm not willing to admit is (and therefore the reason this remains anonymous) is that the thing I want most in the world is to be pretty.
There's also the itty bitty problem of age difference. But that could be assumed from the first partial sentence. So for the afore mentioned purposes of anonymity, I'll go by Saimi, which also satisfies my craving for being considered pretty, at least for the time being.
But I can honestly say that I'm a kunoichi from Otogakure. And that I have brown hair. And a huge crush on the legendary pervert/extraordinary ninja Orochimaru. For as long as I can remember, Kabuto and I have been in a catty, subtle contest for who deserves him more, even though we both realize that there's a greater chance of him choosing both of us than just one, if it hadn't been for my apparent resemblance to "a plain boy with boobs"- direct quote from Kabuto that has been taken to heart. I'm sorry, but I'm self-conscious that way. I bet you love that in a heroine, even in a one-shot story.
That was sarcasm.
This is all running around in circles toward the back of my head as I ponder the door to Orochimaru's private rooms, and wondering toward the front of my head whether I'd be able to find my way around. I've never been in anyone's private rooms before, since my private quarters consist of one room with one bed and a computer desk. And various partly unpacked boxes that had been there for a while and a closet, but definitely no more floor. Right now, I can hear him yelling himself hoarse (or soon-to-be-hoarse, since like all major leaders, great and terrible alike, he has a remarkably healthy throat that doesn't get sore particularly often) and I know that not only is he still exhausted and only out of said private rooms before three o'clock because Jiroubou had messed up when he was ordering a few trap-building supplies and needed help getting rid of a giant trampoline, but, after months of observation, that he was at his least amount of self control when he was ticked off. Boy, that was a long winded sentence. And I can't decipher it anymore. Basically, I was targeting when he was in least control of his actions and most likely to be back in his rooms before I was noticed to be missing from the house-cleaning chores. Really, I hadn't planned for this occasion to arise on chore-day . . . but that didn't mean I regretted it. And Jiroubou was trying to get rid of a giant trampoline that didn't actually need getting rid of.
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. From the rhythm of said footsteps on stairs, I guess it's Kabuto, and decide that it would be best to avoid him, considering the delicate position of things, and that if anyone finds out about this, I'll promptly commit suicide. Really, I can't believe I'm doing this, and I'm partly disgusted that I've succumbed to the erotic dreams I've had for the past month or so. But the rest of me's too wrapped up in being nervous.
So I stop tracing the snake-like sannin's name on the mahogany door and jiggle the handle, which is admittedly something I should have done when I was just starting to stand outside the door. But it's unlocked, which was technically expected, but also insanely lucky. So I slip inside, knocking the dirty kimono from last night's party aside and closing the door, trying to forget that the kimono is a quick reminder that I was excluded from said party. I feel a daily need to humiliate myself on a large scale, I comment to myself dryly, and instantly wonder if there's a way that I can use it in a story that won't be finished anyway. If I had a notebook with me, I might have jotted it down for future use against Kabuto. But that wasn't what I was here for anyway, and I press my ear against the door, holding my breath in two apple shaped bunches on either side of my mouth. Kabuto walks by without acknowledging anything amiss. But then again, he probably has a major hangover anyway, even if he doesn't generally drink.
Avoiding looking in the mirror on the wall across from the door, I note that Orochimaru-sama's (even if I only refer to him by his first name in my thoughts) "private rooms" is really just one room, and idly wonder in the back of my head whether the same goes for Kabuto's quarters and the rest of the sound four. Since this sort of topic invariably got me on the similar but unnecessary track of whether Sakon and Ukon had two beds or if they slept with one inside the other, I let the back thoughts take their course, and focus on the more prevailing questions of how I should greet him when he gets back. Should I be lying in his bed or standing in the middle of the room? Should I be naked to help ensure that his thoughts go in the right direction?
Deciding hurriedly that moderation in all things is the key, I hastily unbutton the first few buttons of my shirt and sit on futon with one leg pulled up to my chest and the other one crossed behind the ankle, looking out the window too quickly as he turns the doorknob.
He had indeed yelled himself completely hoarse and when he spoke his voice was sexier than usual in it's huskiness. (A/N: Oh my god, that's really a word. . . oh, sorry.)
"Please don't tell me Kabuto's done something stupid again," he groans. I shake my head, and look at him, feeling my cheeks heat up as his eyes flick to the unbuttoned collar of my shirt, and I recall that I'm usually sooo picky about having everything completely buttoned, zipped, tied or whatever.
"A-actually," I curse myself for stammering and making this sound yet more like a sappy, low quality romance like the ones on Kin's bookshelf, "I-I was wondering if I. . . I could, um. . . help you calm down or something . . . ." by the "ing" in "something" my voice is a complete operatic squeak and I would be willing to bet that the whole village heard it. He raises one eyebrow, but his eyes don't leave my collarbone, or whatever exactly he's staring at.
"And how would you propose to do that?" he asks calmly. I would bet an equal amount to the last bet that he knows not only exactly what my proposal would be if I were just a little bolder, since that's a little obvious, but that I'm losing my nerve too, especially when I shrug helplessly. But at least he looks like he's suppressing a smile, so this whole thing may or may not be a lost cause, versus a definite not. But he's walking over by then, so my thoughts are trailing off just like my voice, as I will myself to get lost in his eyes and stop remembering how much he trusts Kabuto versus how much he trusts me, how much closer he is to Kabuto than he is to me. I have almost completely succeeded when I feel something warm against my cheek. Not quite as warm as ordinary human skin, but warmer than I'd expect to his hand to feel. His pale fingers are tracing the skin below my eye, and I feel myself lean against the touch, my eyes drooping.
"I know what you're offering, Nezumi-chan," he says, causing the back thoughts to wonder why he always calls me mouse instead of by my name, or child like he calls Kin sometimes. My front thoughts are already out of it as if they were on angel dust or pot. The back thoughts comment on how we've always preferred the term angel dust . . . .
"And I appreciate it," he continues, dragging me back as I notice his head is a mere couple centimeters from my own, "But I can't take you up on it until after the council with Tsunade organizing a temporary peace treaty." His nose now brushes against my own, and I do as much as I can to avoid passing out. Although, I suppose, since this already counts as a crappy romance, I should use the term "swoon". His breath floats against my lips, and the back thoughts idly note that I might consider wearing make-up.
"After all, until you're sixteen, it would be considered statuary rape."
As if to respect that anything louder would damage my ears what with the state in them, this last statement comes out in a whisper as the cool lips press against mine and my eyes finally droop close completely. A little piece of heaven. . . .
Orochimaru frowns as he picks up the limp form still on his bed, then rearranges it in a more comfortable position on the futon, and lays beside it.
"Please be more composed when you're sixteen," he whispers.
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Sorry about the possible mis-term of statuary rape. And the little authoresses note in the middle of the thing. I would also like to mention that I'm not a christian, because I'm currently in the depths of despair over a certain christmas present.
Kabuto wants to comment on the fact that fourteen magically coincides with my current age, which somehow brings me to a belated merry christmas before I go beat him to death with a meter stick.
Please insert one of those uppy-eye anime smiles here. Thanks.