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immoralimmortals · 5 months ago

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A Song With Ten Names

Chapter 27: Misery is a Butterfly

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Summary of chapter: Sometimes people aren't worse off alive. It's at your lowest where loved ones hold you most close.

Author's Note:

Major content warning for disassociation. That's more or less what this chapter is about.

The song for this chapter is Misery is a Butterfly by Blonde Redhead, and it was suggested by my dear friend Moonfly (@mabzerie) as something that reminded them of the performer. I think it's perfect and ever since hearing it (around the posting of chapter 24, oddly enough, which featured a butterfly) I knew it had to be in the story. I think it's gorgeous and I appreciate so much being exposed to new music I wouldn't know otherwise.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Dearest Jane, I should've known better

But I couldn't say hello, I don't know why

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The darkness swallowing them is both vast and so very, very compact. Down, down down...a little hole in the ground, maybe. Not a cave; there is no stone.

“You’ll be okay.”

Material around them too soft to echo this assurance, instead absorbing the sound. She wonders, then, if it too keeps her from hearing more up and outside. He’s on top of her, the smallest drip of light raining down from above slicking the sides of a fiery mask. As hard as she can look— which is admittedly not very— there is still no hint of an eye in that black circle. It mirrors her own, layering over the one she was afraid to lose, the one that in turn had once been turned black with an attack just before she met the Akatsuki.

Just as when they tumbled in the grass and weeds, he keeps her pinned down now, too, hands interlocked with hers with his body blocking as much view as possible, whatever little there may be. A racing heart begs her ears to listen, to hear if there are the breaking of more spinal chords, the spilling of viscera just outside of wherever it is Tobi has taken her to hide and wait for it all to be over. Knuckles curl so hard grabbing his fingers, a necessity when the stranger is so, so afraid. Her bottom eyelids are sore and wet, and it moistens the musky soil beneath her head once done trailing down her face. To keep from screaming, lest they be found, she bites her lip until it punctures, and the scent of blood makes her sick. Blood, blood, blood. She has caused so much blood.

“You’ll be okay.”

The word “you” is on purpose, she knows, no promise of an “it” being okay to be found. Though his hands cannot move, his body clad in clothes as shadowy as this place moves in closer, his chest against hers. He can feel every shake in her diaphragm as she struggles to control her breathing. It seems as if each time her lungs tremble, his assert— a strong, calm, even breath trying to put hers back in rhythm. It is so...perplexing. Even in her panic, the woman is surprised that Tobi, too, isn’t hyperventilating just as she is. Her eyes struggle to stay open with it being so dark, exhaustion asking her to sleep once more, even as things are. But he, poignantly, either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

Where her expression likely fails, she tries to convince with her voice. “I’m scared.”

So softly, a voice much less silly than she’s used to, serious as the grave. “I know.”

“Tobi…” she tries to explain her deepest fears, “I need to stay awake...”

He doesn’t answer. She listens again, searching for shrieks of pain and shouts of agony. The absence of them is even worse. That means that she will not know when it is over. Her eyelids grow heavier.

“Tobi…” But nothing happens. Maybe she isn’t explaining it right; maybe he just doesn’t get it. Blood and tears wash into each other, staining the roots and ivy with her soul. “Tobi...help me stay awake…!”

But nothing happens. He presses closer, that rhythm forcing hers to slow. As they curl around each other, his fingers stroke hers.

No...he wants her to fall asleep.

The eye that mirrors hers is briefly lit by drifting moonlight. It is blood red. Just after that cold, orange ceramic presses a mouthless kiss onto her bleeding lips, and she is gone.

...You’ll be okay.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

But now I think, I think you were sad

Yes you were, you were, you were

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

She hasn’t talked in two days.

A name it is for Hidan and Kakuzu, but it is still more befitting for her: a zombie. Her eyes are half shut and she wobbles even when seated. Even in the safety of her home once again, told all is well and there is nothing to fear, she has become so small that it’s almost like she isn’t there at all.

But she is. She can never make herself so tiny as to not exist, even by withdrawing completely. And the absence of her spirit makes the presence of her body so much bigger to the Akatsuki. Some of them don’t get it at all:

“Hey!” Hidan folds his arms. “Didn’t you miss me?!” It’s a far welcome from the last time they reunited. It isn’t until he says anything that she so much as looks at him, let alone throw herself at the fellow Jahsinist. It takes everything in her to just nod, a reaction so light that it makes him grunt in confusion. “You sick?!” She shakes her head no, and his brow furrows over eyes narrow in frustration; he has forgotten the chemicals so soon. “Then what’s wrong!”

The reaper is so annoyed, and yet she can’t say anything at all to make this better. With the remnants of fading will, she walks into him and lets Hidan do the rest, her arms wrapped to her sides within the thin blue sweater she’s using as a swaddling blanket. His violet eyes widen and another vocalization rumbles in his throat, pitch heightening alongside his alarm. A hand grips her shoulder to shake her awake and she tries to ignore the weapon on his back. How many people has he killed with it? How many that him asking one from her meant so little?

And yet she does not leave the comfort of his bare chest, the triangle of his lord pressed on her skin.

“Takara? Angel?!”

She says nothing. It is the first time Hidan has ever really felt sick in his stomach since becoming a full grown adult.

Some others are afraid to do more harm:

“Hidan.” The named man looks over her head, locking onto Kakuzu as he walks back in the door, returning from the mission. The stitched one, in turn, is staring down at her; there a softness in those eyes that the Jashinist has not known. “Don’t bother her right now.”

The silver demon sputters. “Bother?!” Even as they fight, the woman does not flinch; that is the real sign something is very wrong. “She just came up to me!”

“Then let her stay until she’s done. Don’t keep her.”

“Why?!”

She hears a silence, vision steeping in the black and red cloak that folds near her face. There’s nothing left in her to flip in anxiety. If she feels the bounty hunter still looking, she cannot bring herself to care. Apparently this silence means something to the two immortals. After some minutes of laying down while standing up, she takes a step back and they leave. Hidan gives repeated, reluctant glances over his shoulder as he observes her own hunched, a frown towards the floor and eyes that don’t seem to see. Kakuzu presses a palm on Hidan’s back to urge him to keep going. He’s never touched him that gently before.

Some of them are concerned for her health:

“You should sit back down, un.” An unknown amount of time later, the stranger finds a hand with a blue ring guiding her back to the couch where she was. Another of his needs to grip her arm, too, lest she plop down haphazardly instead of gradually fall. Deidara’s brow curls and he tilts his head. His smile never wavers in position but does so easily in meaning. “You sure she doesn’t have a sickness of some kind, my man?” he asks the next person walking in, worry tinging the usual lax attitude.

Some of them don’t know how to say they’re sorry:

“No. Nothing’s wrong with her,” Sasori answers, a front of unfeeling defensively about him. “This is of her own doing.”

“Technically it’s your fault, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“But you—”

“But nothing.” She doesn’t have enough prior knowledge to know that, surprisingly, it is rare for Sasori to interrupt when Deidara argues. The man protests too much; he is, indeed, more antsy than usual. The blonde was too light, though, he wasn’t going in hard enough, someone else will say.

Her eyes shut and open. Day becomes night.

“I don’t understand.” There’s a shake in Sasori’s voice, as he crouches in front of her alone. A ring is on his thumb; she is finding no one shares the same position upon the hand. She sees it twitch and her arm raises forward to him, palm up to beseech, and it's as if it isn't even her doing. His unblinking eyes are so very wide, less like human and more like those of a doll. “There’s nothing wrong. You came back without a scratch. Why?” She doesn’t know if he’s asking for answers from her or himself.

He reaches forward, too, ever so slowly like a puppet trying not to show its strings. His palm comes underneath the back of her hand, flesh of his soft yet cold, almost rubbery. It slides and smooths and flutters around across her skin, and it sends electricity up her arm and down her spine. Gradually, ever so slightly each passing second, the weight of her body grows. Futilely, her limb goes limp as it becomes abundantly clear she will not move on her own. He looks with those wide eyes at her hand like it's a toy he cannot fix. A sin, this is...and somehow it isn't one of hers. “Why? Why are you doing this...?”

She’s sorry, so she closes her eyes and the world once again moves its people in and out of her sight. The scorpion's touch is gone.

Some of them feel they have failed:

“I cannot believe you let this happen!” Yet another unknown length of time later, the blue one is here, leaning all of his self into the unflinching space of a redhead. They are standing in the entryway of this living room, and it is still dark out, her a mute witness with no one to tell. Sasori regained his hooded gaze and Kisame’s eyes even so small and far away clearly are as big as possible. They may be reddened, too. It’s hard to tell. “I’ve expected this from the other two but you couldn’t just leave my low expectations well enough alone, could you!?”

A tsk and nothing more. This may have been going on long enough that Sasori is finally tired of giving retorts.

“Give me one reason Samehada shouldn’t shave that wood of yours off slice by slice like the teensy twig you are—”

“Kisame.”

Some of them...know better.

Itachi out of the corner of her sight— so close, he got so close without her noticing; she has enough wits about her to know this lack of awareness should scare her, but not enough energy to care. The Uchiha steps in front of her, the familiar black and red that haunts her life blocking half her vision. She can’t see the scorpion who had stung her in fear, but she can see a shark’s teeth grit as if he’s taken a bite of her flesh and is afraid of what he’s done.

“Itachi-san…” Less that these are words spoken and more that she can read his lips. Kisame’s glance twitches back and forth, presumably between the Uchiha’s face and hers. “I’m sorry,” he backs down submissively to the former. Fish eyes go down to the space on the couch. “I’m sorry,” he repeats just for her. The most she can give is a blink. Concerned, he steps forward—

“Kisame.” The voice that gave her peace now gives this named man dread. “Come back later.”

Despite himself, the kiri-nin knows this is for the best if his partner has deemed it so. Itachi, after all, knows him better than he knows himself. He feels his mouth stretch to show more teeth, unsure himself if it’s a grimace or a pathetic, apologetic smile. And even though he knows his partner will, Kisame still begs: “Take care of her, Itachi-san.”

And he may or may not nod in reply. Seeing Sasori stare back in silence, her lids shut before Kisame can finish turning his back, and when they open again the man with two sets of eyes blink their dark gray as he leans in front of her from where he sits, most likely right next to her. Are they touching sides again, as they did some time ago? She can’t tell.

“Takara-chan…” he whispers. He’s never called her that before. They are alone, no Kisame nor Sasori. “I’m sorry this happened to you, Takara-chan…” He seems to be contemplating something. “I’m going to help you sleep now. Don’t be afraid.”

She wants to scream at him to stop, but the red eyes raise to bring darkness upon her. Lids shut once more. She feels a press against her forehead and a few strands of hair drifting upon her skin that aren’t her own. He kisses her sweet dreams, sweeter than those he can have for his own.

A small reprieve. The weight of being alive in an unmoving shell loosens, shackles dropping from her wrists. She stands at the ocean and an arm with a crimson ring holds her from behind, a chin on top of her shoulder.

The woman named Takara wonders if he may know these waves, too.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

What I say, I say only to you

Cause I love and I love only you

Dearest Jane, I want to give you a dream

That no one has given you

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“She’s still like this…” It’s hard to miss him, and not just because the sheer size of Zetsu can only command attention. He tilts his shoulders forward and she remembers the corpse dangling down from tall, jagged spikes. He saved her, though… Saved her from what? What does it mean if the Akatsuki have deemed she is not better off dead?

“She can hear us,” the deeper voice observes, lips speaking without movement. Brighter returns: “Ghost?” White Zetsu prods.

G h o s t …

The sky is bright outside, color flooding in from either dusk or dawn; she is guessing the latter. She feels her head bob and lips part, but that’s as far as the frayed connection between mind and body allows. She hears a crack and it reminds her of the bones. The flytrap is lowered and cloak on the ground, and arms reach to hold her hands as she can offer no dance. Zetsu kneels on the floor in front of where she is frozen upon the couch. Black...white...how does he work? Do they take turns in control? Do they both have to move at once, independently? The dark hand grips so tight it hurts while the light strokes a thumb upon her knuckles. What could he want from just a little ghost...?

“You’re a funny one,” the softer voice whispers. She thinks he is too.

Just as soon as he came, he is gone with others in the spy’s place. Her stomach hurts and is making noise.

“How long since she ate?” Deidara frowns from one chair as she sees an amber ring on blue fingers come around to hold her side.

“Too long, I’m sure.”

“How long is it that civilian types can go without doing that?”

“Not this long, I know.” There’s a huff of Kisame’s breath in her ear as he lifts her up, carrying much the same way that star ninja did who was just like her. “Come on, princess, let’s try something else…”

Orange soup is in front of her on the kitchen table. A spoon is put in her hand. Her reflection is in the liquid and she doesn’t think that’s what she looks like. Encouragement from the sidelines, someone yellow and someone blue— rings opposite that— ahead of her in other seats:

“Itachi-san made it just for you,” Kisame says, and he resorts to something he normally does not for she who takes things so seriously: guilt-tripping. “You can’t disappoint him, now can you?”

Deidara rolls his eyes with a growl. “Hardly a reward!” He fans himself in a self-aggrandizing way. “Takara-chan, you finish that bowl and I might just paint your nails again.”

“Might? Hardly a reward, yourself.”

“I mean, of course I’ll do it, un!”

They bicker like this, as her stare swims in the dish, half-closed eyes lost in a vegetable soup. The pieces within bob ever so slightly up and down, trailing past the reflection of her face. It begins to look less like it’s supposed to be her and more like she’s just fucking staring at a bowl of soup. That’s a good thing.

As the sound of her friends fills her vacant mind, it is easier to find her senses reconnecting. Her fingers twitch the muscles under skin and on top of bone, and she manipulates it ever so slightly into a hold better suited to eat. The clock on the wall behind her two guests says it’s about half an hour until she’s done. They really sat there that long…?

...Well. Granted Deidara needed the aid of having something for his fingers to do and Kisame looked pained the entire time. But still, very nice of them to be so patient. She drops the spoon into the bowl to indicate it is done. The swordsman sighs as if he’s been holding his breath.

“Good.”

Deidara is a man of his word, opening his polish as they sit on the floor where they’ve had their few prior “sleepovers”. He demonstrates again how to stretch out your fingers and she manages to replicate, letting him hold in place with a gentle, precise touch as the scent of paint sharply fills her nose. She blinks more in these minutes than she has in the past few days.

“See, Takara-chan? No more chips!" The artist is exerting more exclamation than usual, making it seem like a grand achievement. "Perfect match with me again, un.”

...

And it is finally his turn to exhale a breath Deidara did not know he was holding, as he sees her wiggle the fingertips at him in the meekest show of excitement he’s ever witnessed. It puts a grin on his face, a satisfaction much like seeing his work explode. That reminds him—

“Oh— Don’t go ruining your nails over it, but…” The tongue on his face sticks out as he reaches into his pocket. “I finally finished this, un.”

The lips of a palm close as he couldn’t have helped but gave one last finishing touch, the little statue she’s seen him working on since the day they met. It is a girl in a hat wearing a dress and holding a bag over her shoulder. Does she look like that? The thing is cupped in her hands, the amount of detail helping her eyes twitch more and more to take it all in. Blink, blink, blink. It feels like her vision is more in focus than before, edges not quite so fuzzy.

It takes a while for the sculptor to realize that she is returning it to him, the way it’s so slow and gradual how she pushes her palms back in his space. “No, no! That’s yours to keep, un.” But she gets even closer to him; Deidara hums in confusion as the gift is taken back; he twists the thing in his fingers, looking for flaws. “What? What’s wrong?”

Bright blue eye twitched back up with a hum as her index finger unfolds to point at him. “...You want me to keep it for you,” he guesses. The barest of nods, but the point continues. “What?” Continues. “What about me?”

…

Oh. He smiles wide, not the sort he puts on— cool, collected, angled ever so slightly to the side on purpose— but one big and toothy and unabashedly sincere. If this is still a performance, somehow, then it is one that deserves his applause. Even without a voice, what a powerful siren she is.

“You want one of me! Don’t you?” And for the first time since she came back, she smiles too, and Deidara feels like a butterfly. She accidentally closes her eyes...—

“The hell are you doing out here?”

The sky is dark again by the time Hidan arrives, his own cloak missing just as Deidara’s is. However, the latter is wearing his green pajamas and holding his chin up with pointed elbows on the floor, kicking his legs like the slumber party it is. Apparently Hidan just sleeps naked. She doesn't feel her cheeks prickle pink, but figures they should be.

“I could ask that of you, really. Would it kill ya to put on some pants?”

“Yeah it fucking would!”

“And in front of the lady, no less.”

“Who cares? She’s not like…awake. Or whatever.”

“She isn’t comatose, un.”

She feels Hidan’s stare on her as she lays sideways on the couch; it is even more distracting than his uncovered body. He’s frowning. “Then what is she?”

“Traumatized, I think.”

“Hilarious—”

“I mean it, though. That’s what Sasori said, too.”

“Traumatized by what? She fucking survived!”

“Sasori no danna said that we can’t necessarily pick what makes this happen, if it happens to us. Easier for a civilian than a ninja, too. Why don’t you cover up your dick and come back, if you don’t plan to leave alone. She still has eyes and ears, un.”

She can feel him staring still, judging if that’s the case, and does her best to blink at him. Gradually his face gains a color usually reserved for her and he rubs the back of his head, gaze bashfully turning away. “Yeah, okay. Fine.”

He comes back some time later with his bottom half now dressed, a bare arm over that of the couch nearest her head. Hidan is positioned in such a way that she can't see him, but most assuredly he is very, very close; every so often a finger tickles the top of her scalp. “So you can hear me, right?” Hidan asks, though not waiting for a response. “So what’s up, girly? What’s there to be afraid of when you didn’t even get hurt?”

Only this woman would know so well to not assume this is an accusation but a genuine question. It's clearly more difficult now that her voice isn't here to explain it all, how the sickness in her brain works. But as much as she wants to answer...—

“Ask her later,” Deidara butts in, and somehow he says exactly what she means to. “Talking seems to be the hardest part.”

Hidan grumbles, and she hears cracks as he rolls his shoulders. It makes her sad, how stiff he's gotten and it's likely her fault. “Well, that’s a huge pain in the ass.”

“Well, yeah. It’d be a great look on you, though.”

“Real comedian tonight, huh? You’re the one with ten mouths.”

“It’s four, un.”

“Still too fuckin’ many…”

She notices this night that Hidan does not fall asleep. His fingers idly comb through her hair and never stop, not until Deidara begins to stir in the morning. She thinks at one point he may have put a kunai into her hand, grunting in disappointment as nothing happened.

The reaper and the artist leave for their breakfast, and while they are gone Sasori holds her arm over a tub and cleans the cut on her forearm again, speaking to her and blinking, as he does when others are around and he needs to pretend to be human once more. The corners of his lips pull up as she finally reacts, the slightest hiss of pain as alcohol on a cloth slips between layers of flesh, and she notes he has never smiled for her until now. His sting is accompanied by a look from brown eyes so soft she can only compare it to chamomile cotton candy.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Remember when we found misery

We watched her, watched her spread her wings

And slowly, slowly fly around our room

And she asked for your gentle mind

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Numb hands grip Kisame for balance as he takes her for a walk, tired mind suddenly much more aware of the vastness of the forest around them, even as the trail remains only on her property. Is all of the forest technically hers, though, or the Akatsuki’s now that they’ve claimed it…?

Hard to own a house if you don’t know where the deed is, though.

“You shouldn’t worry so,” the knight says to his ward, feeling her tension; he is helpless but to, of course, as he acts as her anchor trying to keep a balloon from floating off into the space she's from. “Everything is in place now. Those Hoshi shinobi were all taken care of. We made sure no one got away.” He misunderstands why she is uncomfortable, assuming it is only the threat of others and not also the threat to them. The man exhales. “Here.” Slowly, step by step, they approach one of the overgrown rose bushes she has adopted. The leaves are speckling yellow with various degrees of green still remaining, the petals opened wide and beginning to brown at the tips. “We should take some before they begin to rot. Put them in your flower press, perhaps?”

And at first Kisame’s heart flutters as he sees the princess reach forward, but it quickly drops as sharp eyes recognize she is more than ready to pinch right into the thorns in order to get it—!

A clasp. As has happened before with these two, at first it is tight in panic but soon recognizes its power, and the grip grows less forceful. His hand is so warm as it holds hers, even if it’s to take it away from further harm.

“Here...” Something steeps in his voice as his free arm reaches in the woman's stead, navigating cutting . If she had more wits about her, she’d assume the worst. But now? It might sound something like love.

She does love him, too, after all.

Blue fingers twist the stem so no thorns are left to be found as the flower detaches. It is put into her palm. Just as they did before with Deidara, cupped hands offer the gift back to Kisame, too. He smirks, chuckling. “No, that’s for you.” The red rose retracts to be held closer to her chest, and he wonders in what beautiful way those big eyes are drinking something so simple in.

“That’s...for me…”

And his heart stops beating entirely, having no idea he could miss her voice even more than he thought he did.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Misery is a butterfly

Her heavy wings will warp your mind

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Reluctantly, Kakuzu puts in his own effort with the good news. Giving her something made her talk again… She’s seen him come and go in passing, just to check in, but the hunter’s never stayed until now, gift in his hands. Miser he is, he’s playing smarter and not more expensively.

Off his shoulders and then over hers go the strap of the guitar. “Figure you missed this.” She looks at it dumbly as it rests upon her lap, nothing said, and he sighs. Of course it can't be that easy. “You didn’t forget, did you?” How did it go again…?

With struggling patience, hands wearing a dusty turquoise ring help rearrange her own to hold the instrument properly, taking guesses until it looks right, same as the many nights they spent at a bar together. One hand on the strings, other on the neck. And like a fish to water, soon as his touch retracts, she strums.

Dum...dum...Dum…

He blinks. Okay. Well...it isn’t nothing. Maybe she’ll get back into it, do more than just pluck a single note over and over.

Dum...dum...dum…

Dum…

Dum...

…

...

Dum—

This is getting old fast, actually. “Play a chord,” he half suggests, half demands. The scarred bottom lip purses ever so slightly, and then her wrist winds back to strum proper—

“Takara!”

The front door slams and the treasurer’s partner flings himself in, expression plastered upon his face as if he figured out how to solve world hunger. (Or...err...solve world heathenism? It is very smug, is the point). Kakuzu’s head whips to the sound, glaring daggers so hard his eyes twitch, but Hidan has brought zero fucks to give. What he has instead...—

“I got you motherfucking fish!”

Indeed he did. Upon the coffee table, out of a bag, one after another, is one form of seafood following more, uninterrupted as she merely stares with the guitar in her hands. It's granted her reaction may have been the same even if she had all her senses. Bento box of sushi. Fried crab. A whole fish. Grilled shrimp. A whole fish. More sushi. A whole fish. A living fish—

“HIDAN!”

Forceful hands reveal stitches as that last one comes out, a flopping, wee thing that a fishmonger sold overpriced to a fool who didn’t know better. Her still glance locks onto the creature as Kakuzu knocks his idiot partner into a wall, squabble starting:

“The hell are you doing!” she barely hears out of sight. Flop, flop, flop, gentle but desperate knocks onto wood where the tiny beast was unceremoniously placed. That can’t be comfortable for the fish. It’s kinda small...maybe she can...—

“She told me she liked seafood!” Running water. For some reason these actions are so easy— no, “easy” isn’t the right word. It’s like she’s on autopilot, not even having to think. Maybe it’s because it’s for the betterment of something outside of herself.

“You are the biggest buffoon I have EVER—”

Plop!

“...Eh?” the reaper asks.

In the middle of Kakuzu holding Hidan up by the collar, both look over at once. Kakuzu speaks next, and though it says little, it concedes much: “...Huh.”

Drop. Hidan sinks to the floor, but his fists raise in success. “HELL yeah!” She stands next to the fish in the bowl set upon the coffee table, hands folded in front of her lap as it swims within. It must be happy! Or at least doing better now that it isn’t suffocating. ...How did it get this far without water, anyway? “Well. Not what I expected to happen,” Hidan notes, “But it worked!”

“What worked?”

The silver demon shoots him a look like it's the ragdoll who's from another planet. “She moved, dipshit!”

“Hidan, I—” Kakuzu stops in his tracks, to his dawning horror. That...is the point. He has never exhaled so loud and long in his life, pinching his brow. Idiocy has saved the day. “...Goddammit.”

Her hands politely raise to clap in congratulation, bright smile and closed eyes to match, and Hidan allows himself to feel joy even with no such thing explicitly permitted by his lord Jashin.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

With her small ugly face

And her long antenna

And her black and pink heavy wings

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The performer should have asked herself sooner where on earth her mimic had gone. It’s so strange to have not noticed his absence, the way Tobi always inserts himself into every conversation. Where had he been? She sees his orange mask for the first time since he wrapped around her deep in the ground, guarded her from further harm. How long has it been, a week, perhaps? Time has always been hard to keep in this universe, no appointments to maintain and whatnot, and so it is as elusive as grains of sand blown in the wind nowadays. Tobi faces more towards her while Itachi faces more away. Nodding, talking. It lacks all of the usual mime-like flings of arms and jumping of feet that her rescuer usually puts on. Itachi eventually passes by and leaves.

Quiet. Chickadees twitter somewhere outside. Is the window open? Part of her hopes so, to feel a nice moonlit breeze. Part of her is afraid, as it means another way for someone to attack.

Ever so slightly, the spiral shifts its angle, gaping black hole pointed right at her. The figure in shadow wearing a long, green scarf otherwise stays still. What is he doing? And then…

Step, step, step. He holds his position standing over her for a long moment before ever...so...slowly...crouching down. She thought it was a mistake before— maybe just coincidence— but now it can’t be denied:

Covering where his lips should be, the curve of a spiral bumps against her mouth, about as tenderly as icy stone can. He will be a different person tomorrow. It’s only fair that if she can’t wear her mask, he can set his metaphorical one down, too.

How long until the act slips, the performance fumbles or he bows for the curtain to fall? It is inevitable, but Obito at least knows it won’t be now. His mouth for the sake of her safety will ache in the dark for just a little bit longer.

She sees red again where his eye should be, and the traveler is reminded once again that Tobi is a performer too. The sighing waves of water pull her back into dreams, and she imagines what his bare skin may feel like as he pins her down yet again onto soft and airy stardust sand.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Remember when we found misery

We watched her, watched her spread her wings

And slowly, slowly fly around our room

And she asked for your gentle mind

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

#akatsuki x reader #obito x reader #hidan x reader #kakuzu x reader #deidara x reader #sasori x reader #kisame x reader #itachi x reader #youre getting ALL OF THEM and i'm not halfassing it either!#aswtn fic #songfic #zetsu x reader

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