Steve's Notes: Sorry about only having a few to put up this time around, and for the obvious lack of my main pairings.


I. Craves
Shikamaru/Asuma

The cigarette dies slowly.

His fingers tremble as he drags longingly on the nub, the cheap tobacco ash on the grass. The nicotine sweetly poisons his blood and seeps into his brain; the sharp smell brings hazy memories of a rugged jaw, a long smile, the heat of a too close body he aches to bring closer. All these irrational things he wants to scream leave when he exhales smoke, his secret that writhes against the sky, a sound like a sob—the bittersweet sensation leave a the smoke dissolves into the endless blue above—the sick hollowness always follows and he wants more than he ever had.

It is an addiction, and he craves the brief ecstasy that it brings, though it will never be enough. Even so, Shikamaru doesn't resist the temptation to take another cigarette when all that's left of the previous is the filter, as long as it does what it's supposed to, no matter how fleeting it is.

The cigarette dies quickly.


II. A Ravenous Hunger
Shikamaru/Chouji

Chouji hates nothing more than hospital food—too wet, too dry, too bland hospital food that they bring to him like clockwork, three times a day. "I'm supposed to gain weight," he tells them, waving his skinny arms at them, all elbows and angles. "I'm an Akimichi!"

His protests make them stack his tray, but the food does not stick to his ribs (or his thighs or his gut). He argues with them that their diet is detrimental to his health—he needs to be overweight, needs excess fat so his shinobi techniques eat at that instead of his muscle and bone.

"You fight no battles in the hospital, Akimichi-san," his uncompromising doctor tells him, and Chouji sticks his tongue out at the white lab coat and their refusal to give him at least an unhealthy midnight snack.

"I'm never going to gain my weight back," he laments to Shikamaru, who creeps into his room after visiting hours, pulling a large box of Chouji's favorite take-out from behind his back. Chouji's mouth waters and he pauses in his gluttony only to savor the spicy aftertaste. "I can't wait to get out of this hospital…"

"It is troublesome," Shikamaru concedes, wiping some sauce from Chouji's smooth cheek with his tongue, wet and warm and smelling faintly of cigarettes. His flak jacket is pushed from his shoulders to the floor, followed by his fishnet shirt and black pants. Chouji wraps his thin legs around Shikamaru's waist, his bony ankles digging into the small of Shikamaru's back, and knows that his restlessness stems more from a lack of barbeque and mochi and potato chips; starved, Chouji devours Shikamaru's touches and half-formed whispers.

"What do you want tonight?" Shikamaru asks in the morning, taking a bag of powered doughnuts from his side pouch and handing them over with a kiss. "Anything special?"

Chouji licks the sweet sugar from his lips. "Surprise me," he says.


III. Inhibition
Raidou/Genma

Raidou does not like Genma. Genma is too loud, too arrogant, and gossips more than a civilian housewife; he sucks on the end of a wooden senbon regularly (Raidou secretly, spitefully wishes it would leave splinters on Genma's wagging tongue) and chews his left thumbnail when he's bored. Yet Genma is worst when he's had more than several cups of chilled saké, because he removes the senbon and his bandana, and Raidou notices the color of his hair and how well it matches his eyes. It happens that Raidou has had more than several cups of chilled saké as well, and when he leans over the table, pulling Genma's black, jounin shirt with seeking fingers and slurs all the things he hates about him, Genma giggles drunkenly and says, "You've been watching me!"

When alcohol is in Raidou's system, it doesn't matter who he loves or he hates, because Genma's eyes match Genma's hair, and kissing Genma is so nice he wonders why he didn't do it in the first place. All the thing that follow are only rational when he has no inhibitions, and Genma's smiles are full of sad promises and sadder secrets. It's only then Raidou whispers what he loves about Genma—how he's too loud, too arrogant, and gossips more than a civilian housewife—that Raidou understands.

But the next day, Genma ties the bandana over his hair and chew on his senbon; he invites Raidou for a drink with a cocky tilt of his mouth, and Raidou does not like it, but he looks into Genma's eyes and wonders why he should say no.


to be continued.