For the writing prompts, how about the murder wives (Tenten/Temari) and prompt 2?? Thank you!!
2. “This knife was meant for spreading jam, not jamming it into people’s esophagus’s!”
Temari is about to flay one of those weird white-skin-Sharingan eyed little fuckers when she hears an unholy howl, the likes of which she usually only hears across battlefields or when she does that thing with her tongue that makes her wife come undone.
Temari narrows her eyes. She’s got the creepy little fucker by the collar, and he’s kicking his legs pitifully in the air. There’s something sharp in his eyes that tells Temari he thinks he could take her but something more still telling him he’s not allowed.
If Temari had her way, the creepy little fuck would be dead already. She has no idea how he managed to get into her house, and she doesn’t even remotely like the way he was looking at Nanami. His eyes were too cold, too curious.
Sasori’s puppet had those eyes, and even though the man had been dead for years, Temari still didn’t like the puppet he had been turned into. His cold expression seemed to true to life for Tamara’s tastes.
The creepy white-skinned-Sharingan-eyed little fucker had that same way about him. He was just smaller. And staring at Temari’s only daughter like she was a science experiment instead of a person.
She had come out of the kitchen with cool slices of watermelon, a snack set out to tide Nanami over until Tenten arrived home. She was out entertaining the visiting Konoha shinobi, helping out with some sort of field trip for the children of Konoha’s orphanage.
She had dropped the plate on the table and snatched up the nearest weapon; a spreader knife left on the table from lunch. Nanami was going through a phase of wanting to make her own sandwiches, and Temari was loathe to tell her daughter she couldn’t do anything, even if she ended up having strawberry jam and honey all over her sleeves.
“What are you doing?” Tenten shrieks.
Temari looks down at the kid, whose freaky red eyes don’t seem to be trying to trap her in an illusion. She’s got the dull silver knife just beneath his ear, and she’s ready to slice the damn thing off for answers if she needs to.
“That’s a loaded question,” she mumbles in response.
Nanami, in the way only a six year old raised by two war survivors can, looks from her mama to her mommy, then decides to ignore them both in favor of the watermelon on the table.
“That knife was meant for spreading jam, not jamming it into people’s esophagi!”
“One,” Temari says, not even once looking at where her idiot wife is fuming in the doorway. “I’m jamming it into his ear, not into his esophagus.”
“Mama, I need help,” Nanami says, trying to level herself high enough to get to the watermelon on the top of the table.
Tenten goes to tend to their daughter, lifting Nanami onto her hip and handing her a slice of watermelon that Temari had already gone ahead and plucked the seeds out of.
“Two,” Temari continues, “you’re upset about me misusing a knife, but not about the stranger that broke into our home?”
Tenten narrows her eyes. Temari can feel it.
“How long have we been married?”
Temari wants to groan. The white-skinned-Sharingan-eyed little fucker gives her a sympathetic glance.
“Then you know how I feel about kitchenware being used as weapons when they are not weapons.”
“Are you going to yell at me about the garlic press again?”
“There was blood in it for days, Temari, for days! I couldn’t cook!”
“You could’ve used it if you weren’t being such a diva about a little blood in your food. You’ve lived in Suna for ten years and you’re still Konoha soft.”
“You wanna give our daughter a blood borne illness from some random bandit from the boonies, that’s your prerogative. I, on the other hand? Would like my child to stay healthy!”
“You know how many times I got foreign blood in my mouth as a kid?”
“That is the opposite of the point.”
“There you are, Shinichi-kun.”
The third voice draws the argument to a close, and takes Temari’s attention to the doorway. Her eyes narrow a second time.
Yakushi Kabuto is the kind of turncoat only Konoha would let back inside its walls. She’s grateful now that Tenten chose to immigrate to Sunagakure when they were married; she’s further away from the ridiculous cesspit of excused war criminals that Konoha currently allows to take up shop in.
He’s standing in the doorway, surrounded by a small gaggle of similarly white-skinned-Sharingan-eyed creepy looking little bastards, too pale to be anything not born and bred by Orochimaru, another white-skinned bastard that probably didn’t need the post war pardon that he got anyway.
The white-skinned-Sharingan-eyed little fucker wiggles cleanly out of Temari’s grasp, as if she had never been holding him at all.
“Tou-san,” the boy says, darting over to the man.
Temari has seen a lot of shit in her years of life. Yakushi Kabuto as a father is now one piece of that shit.
“I’m very sorry to trouble you, Tenten-san, Temari-san,” Yakushi says, dropping an affectionate hand on the boy’s head. “Shinichi-kun is one of the more curious of his brothers, and he often wanders even when he knows he isn’t supposed to.”
Shinichi, the white-skinned-Sharingan-eyed little fucker, looks up at Yakushi like he hung the damn moon.
“I made a friend, tou-san.”
“Did you?” Yakushi asks indulgently.
“Mm!” Shinichi says, pointing at Nanami, who is demolishing a slice of watermelon where she sits in Tenten’s arms. “Her name is Nanami and these are her mothers.”
“How wonderful, Shinichi-kun,” Yakushi says, clearly rewarding the boy’s efforts. “But you shouldn’t go into other people’s homes unannounced or without permission. Temari-san almost seriously hurt you. Will you please apologize for frightening her?”
Shinichi purses his lips, but turns around and offers Temari a polite bow.
“I am very sorry for intruding. Please forgive me.”
Temari rises to her full height, twirling the jam spreading knife between her fingers; it’s an old trick Temari picked up when she was trying to woo Tenten.
“No problem, squirt,” she says. “Don’t do it again.”
“Good,” Temari replies. She looks up at Yakushi, and the mass of white-skinned-Sharingan-eyed brats that he’s passing off as his sons. “Get out of my house.”
Yakushi nods, still smiling in that aggravating way of his.
“Of course, Temari-san. We’ll be on our way. Come, Shinichi-kun. Your brothers want to go see the botanical gardens.”
When Yakushi and his brood have finally disappeared from the Kazekage residence, Temari places the knife on the table and looks to where Nanami is sucking on the watermelon rind.
“Mama, can I have another one?” she asks, words garbled around the rind in her mouth.
“Of course, sweetheart,” Tenten says. “Can you help mama first though, by bringing all the silverware together in one place?”
Nanami nods enthusiastically and tugs on her earrings. The spreader knife rattles a little bit on the table, then it, and the rest of the silverware that Nanami had touched all that morning carefully drag across the table.
“Don’t use the baby to prove a point,” Temari says, fingers singing with Nanami’s chakra as she locks the door to their apartment in the tower.
“What’s the jam knife for, Nana-chan?” Tenten asks, nuzzling her nose against Nanami’s cheek. “Is it for cutting off people’s ears?”
“No!” Nanami shrieks, her laughter bubbly and bright.
“Is it for stabbing people in the throat, or threatening orphan children on a field trip from their native village?”
“Then what is the jam knife for, Nana-chan?”
Tenten leans out, looking at her daughter with an expression of exaggerated confusion on her face.
“Jam!” Nanami says. “The jam knife is for jam, mama!”
“Very good, Nana-chan,” Tenten says, picking up another piece of watermelon to give to their daughter. “I wonder if your mommy knows the same thing.”
Temari rolls her eyes and sidles up to her family, giving Tenten a firm smack pinch on the ass just to be contrary. Tenten doesn’t so much as blink at the gesture, and Temari picks up a slice of watermelon for herself, grinning at her wife and daughter.
“What are knives for, Nana-chan? Are they for cutting things?”
Nanami looks up at Temari, her big teal eyes the same shape as Tenten’s but the color of Temari’s. Her dark brown hair is pulled into two ponytails, and her cheeks are rosy from the excitement and from using her kekkei genkai.
“Sometimes for cutting things,” she replies.
“And sometimes for spreading things, right?” Temari asks, leading her on.
“Didn’t you just say not to use the baby to prove a point,” Tenten huffs, bussing a kiss on Nanami’s cheek.
“Unlike my wife,” Temari replies, “I’m adaptable.”
“Adaptable to hypocrisy.”
“Maybe so. I am a shinobi,” Temari replies. “Adaptability, like compromise, is key to a happy marriage,”
Tenten lifts an eyebrow, bouncing Nanami on her hip.
“Is that what Gaara tells you?”
“No,” Temari says with a toothy grin. “That’s what Lee tells him.”
It gets a laugh out of Tenten, and while she’s smiling, Temari leans in and kisses her wife, their daughter between them, still going to town on that slice of watermelon.
