AN: Written as part 6 of the prompting shenanigans with my loves Le Requiem and junealondra. Check them out, foos!

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine, NOTHING! T.T

Prompt 6: Terrible Habit

.xxx.

Reno knows he shouldn't do it. He knows he should stop, that it's no good for him, that he already has enough blood on his hands as it is, but…

But it doesn't matter. Because he just. Can't. Stop.

Blood, after all, has never been a deterrent for anything in his adult life. As a Turk, if he wanted something, needed to get a job done, blood was the only way to finish it. Even with the Turks moving on to less… controversial work, he still hasn't lost his indifference toward bloodshed and pain.

So he keeps on doing it.

Yuffie knows, and every time she just shakes her head, perpetually disappointed.

"It's all about self-control, Turkey! For gawd's sake…"

Her disappointment should be enough—and he worries that one day she might leave him in disappointed, disgusted frustration. He worries she might leave for good. Still…

Still, there's nothing he can do. He's an addict, through and through and there's no hope of him ever stopping. Yuffie, his conscience, his own, fleeting desire to change can't deter him from staining his fingers red, night after night.

It's all about the relief, he reasons. When he doesn't do it, when he tries to abstain, the tension builds inside him, itchy and static and it drives him insane. When he finally gives in to the habit, it's as though nothing else matters save for the overwhelming, all-encompassing feeling of satiation.

Sure, there are ways to counter the tension without giving in—he's even tried them all. Gum chewing, stress balls, snapping rubber bands against his wrist. Yet nothing brings the same satisfaction, the same contentment and as when he finds his fingertips red and bloody once again.

Shit hits the fan when Yuffie catches him in the act yet again.

"Reno! You big fucktard! Would you stop picking at those! You're bleeding all over the sheets and not even OxyClean can get those damn stains out!"

As she storms from the room, huffy and indignant, he looks down at his pale, skinny legs, dotted with little, bloody circles.

Yes, he knows he should stop. Yes, he knows he simply shouldn't do it. But nothing cures the itch like scratching a particularly irritating bug bite. It's a habit he just can't seem to break.

.Fin.

Fun Fact: I was way too emotionally exhausted from last week to turn this prompt into the angst-fest that it could've become. Hence, the lightness and fluffiness. Also, I am one of those people who can't NOT pick at a bug bite and then pick at the scabs when they form too. I'm kinda gross that way =P

If you liked it, hated it, have any sort of constructive criticism or comments, then a review would be greatly appreciated ^.^