#critiques bellow | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

stesierra · 10 months

Text

Since I'm trying to share something every day to motivate myself to write again, here's the first chapter of one of my adult fantasy books. At one point I loved it but I had a critique partner read the whole thing and now it embarrasses me. So this is probably terrible but give it a chance maybe? Trigger warning: magical seizures.

Please tell me if you want to be removed from the taglist. Or added, I guess.

Stitches and Memories

(WHY DID I PICK SUCH A TERRIBLE TITLE?)

Chapter One

The 4th Day of Spring, 502 King's Rule

Antea didn't spend her thirtieth birthday celebrating with the few people who called her acquaintance. She spent it dying. Again.

A normal woman wouldn't be on the floor of her bathroom, occasionally spasming hard enough to slam her head into the wooden tub. All she was doing was reliving her first kiss at age seventeen. It was just a memory. It was just a memory, brain, get it together.

But her brain did not get it together. It flooded her with memories of the boy's pink lips -- too wet and too large -- at the same time as it slammed a pickax through her eyes over and over again. She'd blacked out too much to see the room around her, but she felt it when her legs spiked straight and slammed her into the wall. She came away with splinters in her arm and cheek.

"Shut up over there!" her neighbor bellowed from the next apartment over. "Keep pounding on the walls and I'll report this to the constables!"

He probably would, too, the bastard.

In her mind, the boy drew back and beamed at her. The memory ended there, but the pickax didn't stop for another twenty minutes.

When the agony died down, she dragged herself over to the chamber pot and threw up.

When she finally eased her eyes open, a partly digested pasty stared up at her. The pounding on her door registered then. Thump. Thump. Thump. The sound raised dread in her heart. Only one type of person knocked like that in Drazen. With that terrible implacability.

When she wrenched the door open, hinges squealing, a broad man in green stared down at her over his posh black mustache. Some seamstress had embroidered his doublet with the king's symbol, a golden lion biting its tail. The gold thread was real, which meant she'd gotten an up-city constable somehow, which was deeply unfair since she lived in the slums.

He frowned at her. She could guess what he was seeing: a barefoot, brown-skinned woman who had just grown out of being pretty, wearing a dress that had been mended too many times. Her golden hair was mashed in a nest on one side of her head. She smelled of a few days of sweat and dirt.

Her black hair had turned metallic gold when she was eighteen. No, she didn't know why. There was a lot about being eighteen that she didn't know.

She bowed deeply. "May I help you, sir?"

He said, "I've had a noise complaint here. Pounding on the walls. Disrupting the peace."

"I had a fit of convulsions in my bathroom."

He frowned at her, his whole face drooping. "We have had a lot of complaints about these convulsions."

Antea resisted the urge to wrap her hands around his fat neck. "Yes. That's because it's a medical condition." And it was true, even if they weren't the normal sort of fits, not normal at all. As far as she understood it, normal people with convulsions thrashed around less and passed out and sometimes forgot the whole thing. She wasn't normal. She was awake through the fire in her head and every twitch and spasm, and she remembered everything.

The constable leaned in close. "Have you been praying for healing?"

"Yes."

"If I go and check your records, will I find you tithing regularly to at least one of the gods?"

"Yes," she lied.

"Because if I check and you haven't, then you aren't really trying to be healed, and you will be held wholly responsible for remaining ill."

"Which entails?"

He sniffed. "After all this commotion, I would think eviction, at least."

Her rentals always ended in eviction, but she had hoped this one would last out the year. "Sir, the Stag God teaches mercy to the infirm and poor. Seeing as I'm both, I would be most grateful for your understanding."

"There are many such deserving citizens in Drazen. But with your extensive record--"

"Of what? Running into walls in the night? That's not even a crime."

The man straightened to his full height, towering over her like the Eagle God over his foes. "If a constable of the law says you have committed a crime, then you have. Gather your things if you have any. I will speak with your landlord, and it will go poorly for you if you are still here tonight."

Antea sagged against the doorframe. "Yes, sir."

He smiled at her, wide and smug. "Oh, and remember the curfew."

It took all her willpower not to punch him. She turned sharply instead and shut the door in his face.

She didn't have much to gather. Her ragged haversack weighed nothing when she slung it over her shoulder. Her leather shoes were hiding under the bed. Even though the seams on the sides were giving way, they covered her toes at least. One change of clothes and a wool blanket lay on the mattress. The blanket served as a blanket, but her extra dress was her only pillow. She wrapped one inside the other and tied them to the bottom of her haversack.

One last thing remained. A letter. When she'd moved in, she had shoved it under the mattress where she wouldn't have to look at it. She pulled it out now and thought about throwing it on the fire. It would burst into flames, burning fast and hot, the dry paper shrinking into black curls before they crumbled away into white ash. If she burnt the letter, she would never have to read those words again. The pain in her head might always be with her, but that pain she could leave behind.

She read the letter. It said:

"My beloved daughter, I write this for my own sake, for you will never read it. Forgive me. What I tore from your mind was necessary, but with that wound, I know that I have killed you. May the gods have mercy on my soul."

She ran her fingertips over his signature. Then she put the letter in her bag and walked out of the tenement never to return.

It was two hours before the doleful tones of the curfew bell would ring across the city, two hours for Antea to find shelter for the night. She didn't have the coin for an inn. She had just paid the damn landlord the next month's rent money, not that he would ever consider a refund. If she asked he would laugh in her face, and the law would be on his side, too, like it always was.

With no other option, she headed for the nice part of the city. Not the nicest because that was up near the royal castle and the queen's spire, and people like her weren't allowed there. No, she went to the parts frequented by merchants and the new rich, where no one would care that she was there.

In the dimming light, the nice quarter was all faded stone edges and empty streets. Even the rich had to follow curfew. But even in the twilight, the library stood out as the biggest building in the district. Pilgrims that followed the Crow God visited from all over Ritalia. Its marble facade was hidden under red leather prayer offerings. When it rained the entire building stank like a wet dog.

She slipped between the leaving patrons and headed for the front desk. Zoren, the head librarian, raised his eyebrows at her. He was a pleasantly overweight man in a long black robe, with large spectacles sitting on top of his bulbous nose. The blue mage light beside him shone off his bald head. "Antea? This is quite the departure from the norm. What's going on, then?"

She flushed and hiked her haversack higher on her shoulder. "I got evicted. I was wondering--

"If you can sleep in one of the back rooms tonight?"

She nodded.

The librarian's voice was gentle but unyielding. "If we were caught housing people in a building not zoned for it, we could get into a great deal of trouble with the constables."

"That's a no?"

"I'm sorry, Antea. Good luck finding shelter tonight."

She bowed to him and slumped out of the library. But she stopped on the front steps and straightened up. She wasn't giving up that easily. The constable who had evicted her thought he'd catch her for breaking curfew, and that he'd see her locked up and the key thrown away. But Antea had planned for this, even if she had hoped the day would never come.

All her worldly possessions on her shoulder, she walked half a mile to the Shrine of the Gods.

The Shrine of the Gods was not one shrine but many, all marked by white marble columns that thrust up from the city streets. At its base, each pillar bore the painted statue of one of the gods. When you approached a statue, you were isolated from the others by head-high circular walls around each column. They carved out a little bubble of space so that it was just you and whatever god you had chosen, and anyone else who wanted to pray had to wait in line. Those lines sometimes stretched out for miles, but at this time of night, every statue she passed was alone.

An overnight vigil was the one thing the constables couldn't complain about. She wouldn't get any sleep that night, but she wouldn't end up in jail.

Antea paced around, refreshing her memory about which god's statue stood where. There were thirty-two gods to choose from. Some of them were so minor no one worshipped them, but the Shrine represented all gods. Leaving one out just because they were as popular as moldy cheese was unthinkable.

Antea picked the Dog Goddess because she'd always been fond of bitches, and who didn't need a little guidance in their lives? She sat cross-legged on the braided wool mat spread out before the goddess's marble toes. The Dog Goddess stood in two forms next to herself. One was a rearing limer with floppy ears, painted black and brown, the other a small-breasted naked woman, painted with dark skin and white hair. The woman's hand was outstretched in benediction. It shone white at the tips, the details of her fingers worn smooth from the touch of too many worshipers.

Antea leaned close and said, "Hi."

The goddess did not reply.

"It's been a while since I talked to one of you gods. I'm not very pious, I know."

The dog statue of the goddess had its head tilted as if Antea had done something peculiar.

Antea drew her knees up to her chest. "It's funny, you know. I used to be very pious. Ready to do anything any god asked of me. Thirteen years ago." Thirteen years ago, she'd been a lot of things.

In the twilight, the goddess's expression looked sympathetic, but Antea had had twelve years to learn how little the gods cared.

She said, "I think I'm supposed to ask you for a gift. It's traditional, or something."

Someone passed by outside, and Antea forced herself to stay relaxed. Go away. She was communing with her god, like a good little citizen. Go away.

She stayed silent until the footsteps had faded. Then she said, "So, demanding things. I can't think of what I want. I mean, I want to be healed. But you've all said no to that." Thousands upon thousands of prayers, all unanswered. She'd even tried the gods no one prayed to anymore. And nothing.

Beyond the shelter of the shrine walls, the constables were ringing curfew. They'd start searching the streets soon, looking for beggars and troublemakers and other unwanteds. People like her who hadn't been smart enough to hide out at the Shrine. She needed to look prayerful, but it was early enough spring that the nights were still cold. Surely it couldn't hurt to pull out her blanket and cover her lap. The devout didn't have to freeze, did they?

"I'll ask for food and a place to sleep. That's nice and humble, right?" She undid the ties at the bottom of her haversack and yanked her blanket loose. When her spare dress clung to it, she stuffed it in the bag. And the letter fell out and fluttered to the stones.

Antea froze. She stared down at where it lay, heavy with its words. When she sat back down, blanket hugged against her chest, her movement bumped the letter a few inches away, but it didn't disappear.

She buried her face in wool and said, "You can't be serious. That's not a reasonable suggestion."

It wasn't, but the Dog Goddess wasn't suggesting anything. Antea was just talking to herself again. If the goddess had actually been present, the statue would have lit up with bright light, perfectly white the way mage lights never managed. Antea had seen the gods answer petitioners before. She used to watch her father-- Never mind. Forget it.

But she didn't forget it in time. Stabbing pains made her squeeze her eyes shut.

Someone cleared his throat behind her. She spun around, and the headache and the motion nearly made her vomit.

A Shrine worker stood there in his modest tunic and apron, both glowing white. He bowed his curly head and said, "You're here very late, daughter."

Antea kept her head high and clasped her hands together on her lap. "I'm keeping a vigil."

"I thought that perhaps that was the case. We do permit vigils, despite the curfew, but I must ask what you pray for tonight. The constabulary has us keep records, you see."

Of course they did. And if she didn't tell him something worthy of a goddess's guidance, he would call the constables. And she couldn't say she was asking for healing because the Dog Goddess wasn't a healer.

The letter lay innocently on the stone beside her. She picked it up and held it in her hand. Words flowed from her lips as if someone else was doing the talking. "My father hurt me and left me for dead, twelve years ago. I don't know what happened to him after that. He never came back to the city."

The worker's brows lifted, and his lips pursed as he took a step towards her. "That is... troubling. What guidance do you hope the Dog Goddess will grant you?"

Antea slumped, letting the letter trail against the ground. "I just... I need to know why. Why he did it. But he's the only one who knows, and there's no way I could afford a passport to even leave the city, much less to go to all the places he might be. That's why I've never found him."

The Shrine worker nodded. "That is a difficult problem, and one I fear I cannot help you with. But keep your vigil, daughter, and perhaps the goddess will grant you her wisdom." He swept his hands in a sign of blessing, and he walked on.

Antea let her breath out in a rush. She shoved the letter back in her haversack with shaky hands and wrapped herself up in the blanket.

"Close one, huh?" she said to the goddess's statue. "Maybe give me some guidance if you feel like it. Because I would like to know what he ruined my life for."

The goddess's statues stayed dark. If the goddess intended to guide her, it wouldn't be directly.

She sighed and rocked back and forth. "I know I'm very stupid. What am I hoping for? To remember? Trying to remember makes it worse." Even remembering something near to that day threatened to tear her mind apart.

The cloudy heavens overhead split and spilled out a thousand stars, winking and sparkling like candlelight seen from far away. Her brain throbbing with its usual rhythm, Antea sank down in her blanket, shut her mouth, and closed her eyes.

@anonymousfoz

@moremysteriesthantragedies

@elizababie

@sm-writes-chaos

@bellascarousel

@palebdot

@Hyba

#writeblr #writing #writing community #creative writing #fantasy #this is terrible #why am i even posting this #Stitches and Memories

66 notes · View notes

diroxide · 9 months

Text

HEY I decided to write some very short stuff about Aeon Knight and the origin of Galacta Knight.

I’m not a writer of any kind so I don’t want a critique or nitpicking, I’m not perfect but that’s kind of the point. Hope you enjoy this little piece of me exploring some character interaction.

Read the snippet below =)

Once upon a time, in a galaxy home to a lone warrior…

A man who had seen the world millennia over, protector of all. Overwhelming power manifested into flesh and blood, those opposing doomed to fall.

For as powerful as he was, he was no tyrant. But tyrannical may his power be, it was used for the betterment of his home. His people.

Long gone had all the ones he came to love, a feeling he embraced to his heart. The need for familially close relations dwindled until he grew old, realizing just how lonely it was to be himself. The idea of passing his knowledge onto the younger generation had crossed his mind a few times so he pushed it aside but this time he could not.

It would have been easy twere he a simple man but he wanted only the best to take on the mantle of his knowledge and powers.

________

The warrior came before a grandiose star, bigger than most could fathom. Adorned beautifully with bronze and gold metal finishing, sleek but harboring a worn age. He kneeled before it on the small platform suspended in space, lowering his weapon. A show of his respect to the ancient.

“Glory be unto you, clockwork star Event Horizon.”

The massive machine lay silent before shifting its eyes open, a simple expression on its face. Cold, heavy, half-lidded orbs were now transfixed on a much smaller being.

“>OLDENED WARRIOR OF THE GALAXY.” Bellowed the voice of the cosmic entity, echoing in the mind of Aeon.

>YOU COME SEEKING A REQUEST,

>DO YOU NOT?”

Aeon bent his head down in response, confirming the star’s suspicion.

“I wish for a son.”

It was an absurdly simple request that Event Horizon raised his eye at. The warrior continued to remain bowed, stalwart in his plea. Horizon stared for minutes more before closing his eyes.

“>VERY WELL.

>WARRIOR OF THE STARS,

>BE WEARY WHAT YOU WISH FOR.”

#short Drabble I wrote down #diroxide art #kirby #kirby art #writing #aeon knight #Clockwork star

30 notes · View notes

fly-sky-high-arts · 11 months

Note

i found you through your work on skurry's thumbnails and i really admire your art! i was wondering if you have any tips for blending/shading in your painting style since i struggle with that and you're pretty good at it. have a good day!

Hey thanks! I can try explain the best I can without loosing myself in what I'm trying to explain or confusing you in the process XD

I will be honest, and this isn't me being modest it's a general self critique but I am not very good with colors? (or backgrounds lol)

It's still something I'm trying to get to get a bit of a better hang of as well as do so in the way I will enjoy it and not make it too complicated and so far the simple rendering style seems to work out for me personally. Maybe something else could sit with you better but that's the joy of exploring the steps and methods in art, right? :3

Details bellow~

I'll try explain bellow what my general process is when making the slugcat paintings, as they seem to be the topic. I use different brushes for my other commissions and mix them around as I go but for slugcats specifically I used one brush (if not counting the pen tool I used to draw out and fill in the base color)

Detailed sketches help visualize the shape of what's being put down in base color but I'll use a simple one for this example:

With the base color in place, what I usually do is either: -Lock the layer like in this example and work on that single base where all the shaping and color will go on this layer -Create multiple layers of the base depending on what's closer to us or further (I used this for Gourmand and Spearmaster thumbnails), imagining segments like the arm closest to us as its own layer, then the body, then the back arm and so on, if the base shape has depth like that. (lock these as well)

The flat color then gets a gradient (gradient tool) that is worked with me shifting the hues and saturation on the color wheel to get more dark and colder shadow as well as warmer lighter highlight. You can play this in reverse and have cold highlights and warm shadows, depending what you feel like using for the piece

you can have the color palette somewhere visible if you want to reference these later on as you start to render shapes

Now, I have no way to personally explain shapes in detail so I will link a video on that, lighting and some more helpful stuff bellow the post.

What you have to think about is where the light is coming from. Based on the gradient made, here I kind of made it seem it's coming from the left upper corner or above the slugcat but how drastic it is will depend on stuff like what is actually around slugcat, where is it and how much light there is at all (if you look at the Artificer thumbnail, that is an example of little light but the source is also very dramatic red light of the ID drone thingy)

Note that you're allowed to make separate layer to make like a little guide I did above here on where the shadows will go and try base the render off of it.

This is the brush and its setting I'm using for slugcats. What's fun about this brush is that it's very soft but depending on the pressure means how much selected color it will apply to the area. (if you use paint tool SAI, the watercolor brush there applies this effect AND blending much better)

The brush works the way it blends depending where you set the tip and drag lightly. It took me a bit to get use to it but it will drag out the colors bellow it instead of applying color if not pressed too strong. You can use that to both add and blend colors BUT changing the size of the brush while doing so helps a ton.

What you mostly do next is "sculpt" the shape: You use darker color for depth and lighter to make things pop out.

You start of with most basic application on where the shadow and light are dropping by color picking the palette colors that were earlier applied for the gradient. The brush strokes should follow the shape itself (best way to think here is the same direction fur grows on cats and follow that haha)

COLOR PICK TOOL IS YOUR FRIEND~

You want to not just rely on the base palette colors but also color pick from shades and lights on the slugcat itself. Sometimes adding hues and tones between the already applied colors makes them feel more natural instead of using straight up shadow color. But this brush, as I mentioned earlier, is handy with blending stuff in, even if it's not super smooth.

Once you get the overall shadow and lighting done, you can start rendering with the same. What comes of the process is here is depending on how much time you want to spend shaping the look of the slugcat. I didn't had a lot of time but I got the gist of the slugcat down. Funny thing is that you can simplify this even more (and make it resemble cel shading haha)

What you can do after that is get more colors in, add more darker shadows and lighter highlights and like for this slugcat example, you can mix it up a bit. It's easier to stay consistent with colors but playing around by adding purples in blue shadows and light blues into warmer green highlights makes them pop out a bit more because now there are fresh colors in the mix.

(side note: You can use very dark and very light colors but it's prettier for the painting to not use any 100% black or white for anything like shading or highlights UNLESS you really want to have dramatic colors and negative space or such)

From this point on, you can basically adjust, shape, add, remove, work out the details etc. and mess around with how it looks. For practice purposes it's nice to keep it simple but trying to make more depth. I'm not the best at it, my work still feels rather flat but here is a tip that can help: Adding a layer above all layers, coloring it black and setting the layer option to saturation will make you see the colors in values. If you feel like they're too close to each other and too flat you can return to the base layer and add more depth with values to them, then recheck with the black saturation layer again by turning it on and off as needed.

(as you can see from my example, I am missing more darker colors around the neck and back arm haha)

What you come up with at the end again depends on you, what tools you trust using and how far you want to go with it.

At the end, I usually do adjustments to colors if needed. Say, the quick fix I can do to make up for missing shadows is to use one of the tone correction option, tone curve AND/OR color balance.

I usually use and play around with any of these (and sometimes level correction but not as often)

I adjusted base color (color balance and tone curve) and the background (desaturate it in shue/saturation/luminosity)

So uhhh

this isn't really like a tip of a sort, I can't really properly advice how to render since it's about tool preference and the personal process but I hope this was a bit insightful!

Here are some helpful videos that go into detail I could not work out via words or this process because they are multiple separate subjects that can help you learn about rendering colors:

youtube

#ask #about art #there is a bit more that goes on for the thumbnails themselves #like stuff about composition etc.#but hope this basic gist of the process is helpful still #as well as the videos linked

36 notes · View notes

vvictuss · 5 months

Text

Silence's Song

Intro for a work-in-progress fanfic inspired by a single line (included at end of post) in The Buried Dagger by my favorite WH40k author @jmswallow.

Setting is on Barbarus before Mortarion is found by the Emperor. Took some liberties with Silence's description and Barbaras’s worldbuilding, as in adding a single tree, I guess. I'm still new when it comes to lore too so apologies for any conflicting points. (also I know my writing isn't perfect, pls forgive the odd mistake and lmk so I can fix it lol)

======

A glint of pale light bounced from her cold metal as Silence sang.

She was beautiful as ever, polished in blood. Well cared for, the instrument cut through Barbarus’s pestilent sky with harmonious joy, like a spring bird delighting in the sun. Ichor pooled at the edges of her steeled blade at the conclusion of fading translucent streaks, then dripped from the toe’s end with a quiet pattering, like a distant drum beat to accompany her tune.

So much more than a tool, Silence brought a crescent omen of end, whose handle was grasped firmly by her hooded maestro. The young man wielded his instrument with the reverent steadfast and command of a conductor readied at the podium. Delicate, yet sharp, precise, dictatorial. Silence’s snath curved out like a crane’s neck captured in elegant Barbarusian willow wood. Shoestring strips of paled leather wrapped her grip and stem, darkened and indented where his hands had laid day after day -- worn, sculpted by time and strength. Silence fed on the crops gleaned by the Reaper of Men with grace and obedience -- in return, he respected her service through harvesting what evil had been sown before them.

Together, they danced. There were times Mortarion entertained the thought of humming along as his deadly companion serenaded their damned enemy. Ever since he heard that beautiful noise from the villagers on Barbarus the first night spent free from Necare’s prison, no sound met his ears without being composed into song. Everything was music, when he finally learned of its existence. Wind blasting through the valley as a deep horn’s bellow, noxious fog plucking its wheat strings, percussive cracks and pops of the village’s nightly fires.

Most of all, though, he heard it with the swing of his scythe.

She was an orchestra. She was an ensemble. She was a choir to rival that of mighty cathedrals. Named Silence, yet she trilled when her chine’s blade split skin and bone as effortlessly as a knife through paper, like the smoothness of breath pushed under a woodwind’s reed.

(Quote from The Buried Dagger and more below)

The inspiration:

"'Silence' was still moving, coming around, and the Death Guard heard the air sing as the blade cut again before the guardian could register that it had already been killed."

I loved the imagery of this whole scene, so vivid and fantastical yet grounded. Easy to follow, exciting, and James Swallow's technical writing skills push me to improve. I've tried to pay attention to the way he keeps the flow going while still taking the time to set the scene and immerse the reader.

It's been less than a year since I let myself pick up writing again and I'm proud of the direction I'm headed. Obviously I have a long way to go, if anyone has critiques, please comment or shoot me a DM/ask! I'd appreciate feedback very much.

14 notes · View notes

sacrificialheroism · 11 months

Text

Hero’s but make it Whumpy~

Hero had screamed before.

They screamed when they saw their beloved older siblings skull get crushed under the boot of that villain all those years ago.

They had cried before.

They cried when they watched that sad movie with their mom, the one their dad liked before he was killed by falling debris after rescuing their dog from the house fire that stole their childhood home.

They had begged before.

They begged when their mom said that she would be joining the hero society as a behind the scenes worker. They knew it was a deathtrap to be even associated with the hero society but their mom had hugged them and said it would all be okay.

But they had never screamed like this. Never cried like this. Never begged like this. This was different, before their reactions had come from pain, but this was agony.

Hero cried out once more as ice cold water water was poured across their bare back. They had been stripped of most of their clothes moments before, left to shiver in the cold dark cell that they were kept in.

This was cruel but superVillain didn’t care they just wanted a new toy to break.

The SuperVillain smirked at the trembling hero in front of them. “Darling~ This will all end as soon as you give in to me~ <3” Hero could feel bile rising in their throat at the saccharine sweet tone of their voice.

“I will NEVER give in to you.” Hero choked out.

SuperVillain tackled Hero to the floor, straddling their ribs and placing their hand around Hero’s neck. Hero tensed, their body freezing up. They just stared into Super villains mask.

SuperVillain laughed a deeb bellowing thing. They traced town the center of Hero’s throat with one hand and held the other hand out to the lighter end of the dark room, and suddenly something flew into the SuperVillains hand. Hero’s eyes widened at what they saw. It was a stoker, fresh from the fire that had been teasing the Hero from their cell since they got there.

Hero’s breathing picked up and they thrashed at the grip of the SuperVillain. “Please! Please!, NO! NONONONONONO!”

SuperVillain tilted the Hero’s head to the side, easily, and brought down the stoker inching it closer and closer to their sensitive neck. Before the metal rod could get any cooler SuperVillain thrusted the point into the Hero’s shoulder.

The hero wailed.

SuperVillain gazed at the sight with a sick adoration. And with that they stood up from the writhing hero and walked out of the cell.

Thank you for reading! If you have any tropes you’d like to see, or have any critiques please feel free! (This is my first whump)

#hero whumpee #team whump #whump community #whump tropes #whump whumpee #whump writing #whump

27 notes · View notes

trynadollsiesplay · 1 year

Text

Too busy jiving to the beats of Total Eclipse (Neon Shadow) in my kitchen... 😅 I forgot to watch the animation and just started grooving instead! 🤟

(that being said, the animation was... good. Realistic to a real life performance. But the stage effects were quite plain, especially for semi-finalists.

The facial expressions were weird in my opinion. The song was very dark. I'm surprised they made it to semifinals tbh...)

(do you think that performance was the same footage everyone would have seen first round? It sort of felt like it was. When you compare those effects to the ones in Glitches performance, Bottom Barrel, or the Kingsley Boys... it feels lacking. Not that those performances were superb. But they were better than that one... 😒)

#rainbow vision!#neon shadow #critiques bellow #the vibes rocked though!#that song was on fire!#rainbow high

7 notes · View notes

justforbooks · 11 months

Photo

The writer Martin Amis, who has died aged 73, delighted, provoked, inspired and outraged readers of his fiction, reportage and memoirs across a literary career that set off like a rocket and went on to dazzle, streak and burn for almost 50 years. His scintillating verbal artistry, satirical audacity and sheer imaginative verve at every level from word-choice to plot-shape announced a blazing, once-in-a-generation talent.

He seldom disagreed with Christopher Hitchens, the journalist and essayist who was his soulmate and intellectual lodestar. But when Hitchens published a tepid review of a book by the American novelist Saul Bellow – Amis’s literary idol and mentor, who ranked equally high in his affections – Amis rebuked his friend for ignoring “all the pleasure he gave you”. Amis stirred envy and emulation, ignited controversy, courted scandal. Above all, though, he gave pleasure.

He paid tribute to his father, the novelist Kingsley Amis, by praising his “super-humour: the great engine of his comedy”. However grave its themes – later years saw him preoccupied with losses, partings, and deaths – “super-humour” likewise fuelled the zest of Amis junior’s prose. For him, “seriousness – and morality, and indeed sanity – cannot exist without humour”. His gift of laughter followed him even into Auschwitz (in his 2014 novel The Zone of Interest). Critics could find its presence an embarrassment. Admirers never did.

He published 15 novels, from The Rachel Papers in 1973 to the hybrid Inside Story – which enfolds fiction into memoirs and essays – in 2020. His essays and journalism stretch from an account of arcade video games, through literary studies and critiques of pop culture, to a meditation on Stalin’s crimes: Koba the Dread (2002).

Until a quieter last decade, spent largely in New York, he combined fertility and versatility with a reluctant role as a writer-celebrity who epitomised literary fame in an age of glitz, hype and frenzied prurience. Keystone novels of the 1980s and 90s such as Money, London Fields and The Information channel the raucous urges of their time, and kick against them in dismay.

To a degree, he played the celebrity game: he dissected showbiz phenomena in witty articles, often for the Observer. But he found, in his case, that others played with laxer rules or none at all. For decades, the life, loves and family of a gossip-fed tabloid entity known as “Martin Amis” ran in parallel with the career of the hard-working author of that name. His fiction abounds in games of doubles, pairs and twins. In his own life, too, Amis struggled to negotiate the gap between the mask forged by fame and the true face of a serious writer.

Being the son of Kingsley might have sent him early warnings of the bill that a stellar career in literature can present. Martin was born in Oxford a year after his brother, Philip. His mother was Hilly (Hilary, nee Bardwell), whom Kingsley had met while she was studying at the Ruskin School of Art. Their third child, Sally, followed in 1954.

Hilly recalled the young Martin, bright and amiable, as “a child born under a lucky star”. The spectacular success of Kingsley’s debut, Lucky Jim (1954), brought prosperity but torpedoed family life. Kingsley’s many affairs, and his mother’s distress, became the background hum of Martin’s youth.

As his renown grew, Kingsley moved with his family to Princeton, New Jersey, for a year. Martin loved America: its speech rhythms rooted in his prose. In England, his father’s best friend – the melancholic poet Philip Larkin – supplied not only paltry gifts of a few pence to Martin, but a dire example of literary greatness allied to emotional squalor. The siblings spent happier times with their cousins, David and Lucy Partington. Lucy’s vanishing in 1973, and the final confirmation more than 20 years later of her murder by the serial killer Fred West, spread an ineradicable shadow over Amis’s later writing.

In 1961, Kingsley took up a teaching fellowship at Peterhouse, Cambridge. A rambling house on the city’s edge served as the rules-free, bohemian backdrop to the shipwreck of the Amis marriage. It ended in 1963 when Hilly moved to Mallorca while Kingsley began living with his lover, the novelist Elizabeth Jane Howard. Disharmony at home disrupted Martin’s education: he bounced idly from school to school. Relief came in the Caribbean when (for £50 per week) he acted in the film of Richard Hughes’s novel A High Wind in Jamaica.

As teenagers, Martin and Phil lived mostly in Maida Vale, west London, with Jane and Kingsley. They scoured Kings Road, Chelsea, for girls, and kept drugs in the fridge. Kingsley, lord of misrule, once bought his sons a gross of condoms. Jane, the much-admired “wicked stepmother”, finally presented the “semi-literate truant and waster” Martin with a reading list that ran from Jane Austen to Muriel Spark. She sent him to a Brighton crammer, where he thrived. Martin duly studied English at Exeter College, Oxford, with an “exhibition”: a scholarship, though of a minor kind.

After graduation, in 1971, he joined the Times Literary Supplement as an assistant, then as fiction editor. Starting with The Rachel Papers, his own apprentice fiction – smart, knowing, super-cool – flowed with little fuss. For Amis fils, “nothing is more ordinary to you than what your dad does all day”. In 1974, he moved from the TLS to the New Statesman: as deputy to the literary editor Claire Tomalin, then (until 1979), as books editor himself.

The Rachel Papers won a Somerset Maugham award. And the model for the “Rachel” fictionalised in his debut – his first love – introduced him to the Jewish themes that would draw him with increasing force. For a while, though, his fiction declined to grow up. Dead Babies (1975) performs stylistic somersaults around a country-house parody, although the warring foster-brothers of Success (1978) inaugurate the trademark Amis play of pairs.

Two sides of the Amis myth, or mask, solidified. With male chums – always Hitchens, often the poets James Fenton, Ian Hamilton and Clive James, or the novelists Julian Barnes and Ian McEwan – he adorned a sort of kebab-and-chips literary salon. They derided the old guard and lauded brave new voices. Yet Kingsley, old guard incarnate, remained an always honoured guest. Amis’s deep affection for his father, despite political and artistic clashes (Kingsley scorned his boy’s fancy technique, and reputedly chucked Money across the room), surprised and impressed their friends.

Like his father, Amis also picked up a reputation as an eager if inconstant lover. By his own account, he was a slow starter until the future magazine editor Tina Brown “rode into town and rescued me from Larkinland”. Soon, columnists began to chronicle – or fantasise – the romantic life of this literary wunderkind. Tomalin herself, Brown, Emma Soames, Julie Kavanagh: his liaisons with high-achieving women were mediated by salacious reporting, attracted awestruck gazes but also evil eyes. (His longest early relationship, with the photographer Angela Gorgas, left fewer media traces.)

Too short, too clever, too entitled, too rich: Amis became the author-ogre many loved to hate. Even his father remonstrated to Larkin when, in 1978, the son earned £38,000: “Little shit. 29, he is. Little shit.” Yet companions from that time recall no sneery seducer but a sweet, funny, sympathetic friend.

Come the early 80s, Amis as writer moved into higher gears. Other People (1981) heralded a mature interest in other minds and how to represent them. In 1984, the pyrotechnic satire and narrative trickery of the sensational Money both skewered an era of greed and glitz and, typically, embodied its appeal in the razzle-dazzle of its prose. The golden boy shone with a deeper lustre. His presence on Granta magazine’s 1983 roll-call of Best of Young British Novelists sealed his position on the crest of a new, media-savvy and PR-friendly, literary wave.

Also in 1984, the writer who had fretted that “childlessness will condemn you to childishness” married the American-born academic Antonia Phillips. Their son Louis arrived the same year, followed in 1986 by Jacob. With parenthood came an investment in the planet’s fate expressed in the bomb-shadowed stories of Einstein’s Monsters (1987), and the apocalyptic weather that roils around the large-scale comic dystopia of London Fields (1989). That book’s doomed antiheroine, Nicola Six, focused criticism of Amis as a serial fabricator of stereotypically damaged femmes fatales. The complaint, and the grounds for it, would persist.

At the same time, the comic craft that forged that novel’s darts-obsessed low-life Keith Talent could still make readers fall off their chairs with laughter. Visitors to the Amis work-flat in Westbourne Park loved to report on the blockish impedimenta of dartboard and pinball machine. Fewer clocked the neat editions of Bellow and Nabokov, twin touchstones of his art, on the shelves. The Holocaust motif and reverse narration of Time’s Arrow (1991) – shortlisted for the Booker prize – spoke of lofty formal ambitions, not laddish fun.

In journalism and fiction, Amis magnetised mimics and fan-boys (fewer girls) by the score. The essays gathered first in The War Against Cliché (2001) and, later, in 2017, The Rub of Time, recruited a tribe of wannabes – which rather missed their point. Hubris was ascribed to him, not espoused by him. Envious back-biters feasted on his every mishap or misstep.

The 90s saw his dental problems become a bizarre media fixation: he retaliated, gloriously, with the all-you-can-eat dentist-surgery horrors of his 2000 memoir Experience. Less reparable, his marriage broke up. He married Isabel Fonseca, an American-Uruguayan journalist and author, in 1996. Their daughters, Fernanda and Clio, were born in 1997 and 1999.

The media onslaught intensified with Amis’s most elaborate novel of doubles and rivals: the death-haunted, long-winded literary satire of The Information (1994). Its large advance drew sniper fire. So did Amis’s split from his agent Pat Kavanagh – and from her husband, Barnes – in favour of Andrew Wylie. Kingsley’s decline, after his parting from Jane, darkened his son’s horizons and turned Amis’s mind to “the information” (about mortality) that struck as a “negative eureka moment” in his 40s. What Amis called, after Kingsley’s death in 1995, the “passage to the main event” now suffused his work. He found death “always in my thoughts, like an unwanted song”.

In 2000, his sister, Sally, died, aged 46, after periods of depression and alcoholism. Griefs accumulated: the 1994 revelation of Lucy’s fate throws a pall over the superb Experience that wit can hardly lift. Still, in the mid-90s, Amis met his eldest child. Delilah was born in 1976 while her mother, Lamorna – who later killed herself – was married to the journalist-historian Patrick Seale. Larkin’s bleak emotional wilderness had terrified Amis. If anything, he overcompensated: so much life, so much love, but so much loss as well.

Amis, Isabel and their daughters set up home in London, at the other end of the Primrose Hill road where Kingsley had finally gone back to live with Hilly and her third husband. Post-millennium, his writing took a more political turn. Hitchens had always figured for Amis as the ideal type of the public intellectual. Now, the virtuoso storyteller – who identified as a centre-left gradualist – craved a slice of that gravitas himself. In Koba the Dread, Amis’s account of Stalin’s atrocities paid homage too to Kingsley and the ardent anti-communism of his circle: notably, the historian Robert Conquest.

It was 9/11 and its aftermath that propelled Amis into front-line polemics. Islamist terrorism revived a catastrophist strain in his work: the concept of entropy haunts earlier books. In the topical essays collected as The Second Plane in 2008, it threatened to elevate political foes into metaphysical demons. Rash interview statements prompted charges of Islamophobia. More soberly, Inside Story concludes that “the real danger of terrorism lies not in what it inflicts but what it provokes”. Still, the op-ed pundit Amis could drop his verbal, even moral, compass.

By the later 2000s, Amis began to look fragile, with the stiff gait of a veteran tennis player (he enjoyed the game, and wrote well on it). His mid-2000s fiction – Yellow Dog, House of Meetings – revisited old haunts: celebrity excess and tabloid depravity in the former; the lingering horror of Soviet atrocity in the latter. Calm spells with his family in seaside Uruguay raised spirits, as for a while did stints as a creative-writing professor at Manchester University.

With The Pregnant Widow (2010), his ambitions climbed again. Within its uproarious, comic-pastoral mode, the novel counts the costs of the sexual revolution that, for Amis, had devoured his vulnerable sister. To Amis, no longer a gleeful beneficiary of post-60s erotic liberation but its appalled historian, “the boys could just go on being boys. It was the girls who had to choose.”

In 2010, the Amis family began the process of moving from London to New York: Cobble Hill, Brooklyn. In Amis’s telling, the need to live near his elderly mother-in-law hastened the move. British media read it as a snub to his celebrity-mad homeland and its jeering fourth estate. Lionel Asbo (2012), with its scattergun satire on lottery-winning oiks in a plebeian nightmare, rather confirmed that view.

Amis enjoyed the Brooklyn weather, the freedom from spiteful gossip, his welcome on New York’s literary scene. But he missed British backchat: his west London patch, from the pub quiz-machines of Portobello Road to the sports clubs of Paddington, had served well as scruffy muse.

Thanks to Fonseca’s heritage, Amis now had Jewish daughters. Jewish histories, fears and hopes felt nearer than ever. Yet his concentration-camp novel The Zone of Interest affirmed that, for Amis, nothing stood beyond a joke. “How can you presume to laugh at Hitlerism?” asked a German critic. For Amis, how could he not? Any depiction of Nazi evil that overlooked its farcical absurdity lent it weight and credit it did not deserve.

His two wisest jokers had exited: Bellow, with dementia, in 2005; Hitchens, from cancer, in 2011. The loss of a virtual father and a virtual brother whetted fears of death but also (with Hitchens) sharpened the appetite for life: “the delight of sentience”. Kingsley had called a late novel The Anti-Death League, but Martin would never have signed up. “Without death there is no art,” he wrote. Bellow’s and Hitchens’s passing fed tremendous elegiac passages amid the multiform miscellany of Inside Story, where tricky “autofiction” sits beside heartfelt, no-frills memoir.

With its musings on “how busy death always is, and what great plans it has for us”, Inside Story felt like a valediction. If so, it was one in which Amis’s acrobatic wit defied both gravity and solemnity. He wrote with discipline and dedication, and wrestled with all the anguish of his age. Yet that pleasure-giving principle makes his long shelf of books feel playfully, buoyantly light.

He is survived by Isabel, and by his children, Delilah, Louis, Jacob, Fernanda and Clio.

🔔 Martin Louis Amis, writer, born 25 August 1949; died 19 May 2023

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS #Martin Amis #in memoriam

22 notes · View notes

yomogi-mogi-mochi · 1 year

Text

Pygmalion (V)

Pairings: Rook/ (Pygmalion) MC // Idia/MC (Platonic)

Summary: You were frequently told that your career as a renowned sculptor did not match your dull and less than colorful personality. With your cybernetic hands, you carve the lives and deaths of those long gone‒ producing pieces which have been held in both technical and emotional high regard, dubbing you with the title “Pygm.AI.lion” despite your human heart and brain. When you accidentally still the usually flamboyant archer into silence after he comes across you working in your atelier‒ you find that you’ve become a victim to one of his ceaseless stalkings. Though, you’ve been prey long enough to know how hunt the huntsman himself.

Notes: The devil has been “putting me through the fucking ringer” as white people say. Been going through it recently lol February has already been such a shit month so I tried not to let my absolute mental spiral into ceaseless despair affect my writing as much hahaaaaa

Short but dense chapter

Anyways enjoy the fluff and angst (*´∀`)♪

CW: Mentions of grooming

AO3 Link Here.

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 (Here) // Part 6

Masterlist.

——————————————————

Your friendship with him flooded into your life after that day. The two of you began to spend your weekends in the atelier from mild afternoons, until the moon rose high in the sky. Truth is‒ neither of you meant to stay for too long in the company of one another, but the bright laughter that carried throughout that small shed had made you both blind to the crimson brilliance of the setting sun and the bellow of the moonlight‒ only just noticing the darkness of the world when you aught the flickers of the candlelight lick his carefully carved features, glowing against his golden hair. You thought of grand baroque sculptures‒ the way he swayed and glided his arms in sweeping movements, tipping his head back into jubilant laughter‒ catching yourself posing him in your mind, committing every crease rippling from his fair smile, every which way his fingers fluttered against one another, sometimes against your own, carefully chiseling his flowering delight in your mind.

The two of you began to whisper clever lines to each other during critiques, tossing amused looks during rehearsals at Film studies club, shared each other’s warmth in your atelier. He urged you to talk with Idia after what you had said, and you nodded, following the march of his heart as part of your own. Idia was surprised when you showed at his door, lifting your heels off the ground to reach your arms around his neck. Even with his slouch, you felt joy in how much he had grown. Rook also followed you in this manner, listening intently when you showed him techniques and effects on his camera‒ racing your brilliant sensibilities as quickly as you revealed them to him, with a dancing heart.

“You seem different. Happier.” Idia says with a smirk. Ortho agrees, quietly catching the lingering glances each of you gave during rehearsals, your snickers and banter when you thought no one saw. Time had slowly receded back into the beat of a human heart once more‒ something you realized when you could remember each day, each sweet moment of which you and Rook slowly unraveled yourselves to one another. The two of you discussed all matters of things‒ ancient carving techniques dead to the world, the taste of his food, your friendship with foregone artists, his extravagant experiments in the science lab. You taught him attitudes of love, art, creation‒ trading thoughts which bloomed from your heart.

“How does your food taste?”

“Like buttered clouds‒ honeyed with the sun.”

“What are you carving?

“Guess.”

The stories of your six hundred years of existence felt no richer than his own years. When he reminisced about his childhood, you could catch fragments of your youth with it‒ revelations of long forgotten memories surfacing by the enchantment of his voice. You remembered Lutetia, the name before the City of Flowers, your time you spent in the sun, skipping rocks by yourself by the pond. Rook recounts similar stories‒ perhaps you would have been friends as children. The centuries that had weighed upon you felt impossibly lighter when you faced his excited laugher.

The scarcity of time and distance mattered less to Rook when you divulge him in your secret smiles‒ too much to enjoy here, now, at the base of the ripening fruit tree that he had not thought much of the decay of his harvest, but the sweetening morsel in front of him. The game‒ the hunt never ended, however he no longer hopped from one carcass to another, instead following this animal with narrow, childish joy and curiosity. That picture of clarity in his mind felt brighter than ever when he allowed the fresh fragments of himself that he gave to you to be a part of it, which you returned with your own growing roots in that painting‒ creating, hand in hand, a magnum opus of beauty. There was truly no way to spend the days between the two of you without coloring it with each other’s warmth.

You knew, soon, you were going to begin to find shapes of him everywhere you went‒ and in his absence, you would glance over at the imprint he left, and ache. The way his face stained pink with electrified blood when his touch lingered on yours made this longing worse, the rebellion inside of you nearly crumbling at his fingertips. The only thing which fortified that revolt was your knowledge of how it ended, the sculptures that surrounded the two of you which descended their decaying image upon you were evidence to that relentless tale, that curse.

Sometimes, you indulge yourself in such sweetened moments, your backs against each other resonating each other’s heart beat while you sat carving splendidly insignificant sculptures into ivory, he, fiddling with the camera in his hands, raising the screen when he remembered one of your exhibitions he had gone to, showing a picture of his adoration. But at times like this, it all felt too close‒ the ache much too acute for your swelling chest‒ suddenly aware of the closeness between you two strung together by your neighboring hands. Dread tightened your brows, you shrunk away from the warmth. This cruelty was a curse of your own making, but it was spun into your long, long life in such a way that it was almost unavoidable if you wanted to prevent your heart from breaking.

“Ah‒ sorry‒“

“Désolé, I did not mean to after‒”

“No. It’s alright.” Your smile reached the corners of your eyes, lifting them like the climbing in your chest. “I just try not to, because of my magic. My body is unpredictable‒ I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Does your magic affect living things as well?”

“No, but‒“

“Then I trust you not to hurt me.”

You would let him do whatever he wanted with you when he said things like that, cradling your hand with such tenderness. Anything‒ just don’t let go, don't leave. Don't leave me.

He asks you many questions, your thoughts. You don’t mind his curiosity.

"What did you intend with this piece?"

"What did I intend with it?"

"Yes. What did you intend when you created her?" He pointed towards the wax covered figure they glowed delicately in the dusty sunlight.

"My…" you lingered a bit at his words. "Like I said before. My hands move on their own. I am a sculptor who carves not with the mind or heart." Ignoring the tug in your chest at your own words, you continued. "I possess stone with life that has departed, and fossilize its demise into marble. That is all I know…I…" You were suddenly aware of the slight jitter in your movements, caused by your cybernetics. Opening and closing your fists, you could see the inhuman tick through the glass lens, connected to the enhanced retinal scanners of your eye. You knew of the cold, black blood which ran through your plastic veins. "Why…" Those words felt heavy on your lips.

Rook pressed a finger against your chest, feeling the rhythmic drumming of your still very human heart melting into his skin, into his hand, traveling to the thundering of his ears. He hoped to fish it out so you could hear it for yourself too. "Here. What did this one here have in mind when you created?" He noticed his height made it perfect to gaze right into where the flesh over which your heart beat. "When gods create, they make their creations in their own image." The green tucked behind the slits of his eyes flickered towards you. "What sort of god are you?"

You clenched the nausea in your abdomen. “…I am no god. These hands that create do not belong to me. I am merely a vessel to humanity’s life and death‒ its sorrows, pains, happiness. I merely observe it.” Your words came out in short bursts as you struggled to string together words that reflected your splintering heart. “ I cannot feel it. “

“What about your pain? Your sorrow? What about your happiness?”

You were silent. “My,” Rook took your old hands into the softness of his own. “My sorrow. My pain. My happiness.” The swirling in your chest felt muddled, a fine slurry of colors‒ you couldn’t identify what was what and where if you wanted to. You heaved out shallow breaths.

“Your sorrow. Your pain. Your happiness.” His cheeks raised to a slivered smile. “Treasure it, like you treasure others’.” Rook hadn’t meant to say the last part, but as always spoke with as much conviction as he could. He meant to keep it deep within himself, melting into the chasmic depths of his heart so you could not trace the entrails to his soul, where he hid in the forested depth of his viridian eyes‒ but when he found himself lingering, deepening his gaze towards you, he couldn’t help but to cleave those words from himself, so openly offering a part of his heart. No wound had felt fresher, more incandescent, more real. You press your hand on top of his, resonating the fluttering of his pulse at your sensors with your own elating heartbeat, as if to answer‒ yes, yes, yes . It tickled.

“Then show me yours, so I may know what to treasure.”

It had been centuries since you let go of your inhibitions to let the world eat you raw. You devoured each other in that tenderness, carving open your chests and watching them beat in each other's hands. Even in the face of blazing firelight against the darkness of night, your grotesque flesh burns the brightest, kindled with unparalleled vigor‒ the most soft, the most lucid, the most real thing in your hands.

So it was inevitable that he would bear witness to the sudden stutter of your movements.

It was during one of those temperate weekends, the two of you delightfully blind to the scorching sun setting on the horizon. You had been able to acquire a particularly fine specimen of ivory, carving it hollow into a small casket, sizing it to the dimensions of his hunter’s arrows. You chiseled diligently, with a murmuring chest, a low relief depicting scenes of affection, adoration, devotion. You remembered crowns of daisies, buttercups, and pansies merrily laced in wind tossed hair; scenes of lovers tending to a beast of love, the unicorn; secret meetings between sweethearts in the rose gardens‒ sculpting them prettily onto the creamy material, engraving the features as soft and tender as the feeling in your chest. There was a slight jitter in your arms, sure, but the swelling feeling in your chest carried you to an ignorant bliss. You place the casket on the drafting table, and go to lift a large slab of marble to access materials to polish the box. A tick sounds in your arms, you try to ignore it, but you're unable to when the full weight of the marble is slammed onto the ground, carrying your arms with it. Oily strands of black bead from your chest to the ruptured arms at your feet. You bend down‒ expecting it to pull together like threads, but it doesn't. It simply lies like cold flesh on the wood floor.

"Maître d’Ivoire?"

When you don't respond, looking blankly at your fallen limbs, he tries again‒ closer, soft touch tickling your neck.

"(Name)?"

"It's not…" Fright seized your throat. "It's not mending. My Orpheus system. It's not working." There’s a slight tremble in your voice, Rook catches it with ease, steading your shoulders as you rise.

"Let us search for Roi de Ta Chambre."

You nodded dumbly. A worn cloth is wrapped around the arms, Rook searches for another cleaner one, before he shrugs off his own coat, wrapping it tightly around you. His smell‒ deep earthen oak and warmed amber on skin‒ is the only thing you take note of until you find yourselves in the hallways of the Ignihyde dorm, which feels stretched with your soaring anxiety, your knees wobbling as that lift each heavy foot to catch up with Rook’s hasty pace. You find yourself stumbling, staggering to the cold wall with your head leaned against it, the floor spinning from under your feet. Rook scent rushes closer as he catches your body, letting you slowly fall to the ground to rest.

“Let’s rest a minute‒ before you’re falling into my arms again.” He makes you chuckle, you're glad he does as it distracts you from the gravitational feeling of something heaving from your chest, energy‒ or something more primordial from it‒ pouring from that thread of tension drawing from your lungs. You close your eyes for a moment, only lifting its weight and the slight one at the corner of your lips when you feel him pulling the jacket closer to your chest. Normally you would have detested such a fussy action, but you had little energy to thwart his movements or the smile mirroring your own, nor minded the warmth that came with his florid hands, enveloping you in his golden sanctuary.

A darkened shade sharply colors your vision. You shift your eyes from Rook to the towering figures, your entire body clenching into itself at the sight.

"Hello my little ram." He says with a crescent smile, arms open like a covetous falcon. Pointed teeth slashed across his face, glimmering sharp sliver in the inky overcast of his face.

The words dry in your strangled throat. The shimmery, twisting horns archaic and unforgiving as the river Styx, the hair dark as burning coal sticking sharply in the air; the staff coiling around his veiny hands, commanding every movement of his body. Krios.

“We were looking for you everywhere, young Jupiter.” He retracts his smoothed arms‒ just then, you notice he does not have the same weariness he did when you last saw him. It frightens you. “I can’t say I’m pleased with where you ran off to.” The creases at his nose bridge, and twitch of his eye were almost negligible, but the exact shapes were blackened in your memories as a sign of great vexation despite the hissing lightness of his voice.

Somehow, you force words out, staccato breaths. “They brought me here. They chose me. I belong here.”

“More than your family? More than I?”

“I don’t believe strangers are welcome here on Night Raven’s campus. I would be glad to retrieve an escort to see you out, monsieur.” You see Rook's jaw tighten as he clenches his teeth through a thin smile, raising his cheeks just enough to reach that strain from his lips to his eyes. You shudder as you haul your body off of the floor, aided by Rook’s rushed hands, steadying your legs, your chest, your heart momentarily with his touch. Krios follows your movements carefully, crimson eyes slender and slow through the narrowed slits of his face. You turn to Rook.

“Do you mind getting Idia for me? I’ll be alright here.”

“Are you certain? I‒”

“I am certain.” You curve your lips into a reassuring smile, quelling for a moment, the shaking in your body with all of the energy you could muster. Relief floods you when he nods, his hands stick Ike honey before he speeds off for Idia's room.

"Why have you come to get me? S.T.Y.X has not come to collect me since Night Raven College called for me, not ever, since your…” you chose your words carefully, remembering the coldness of fallen flesh of the man standing, sprightly, in front of you. “... sabbatical. Why now?”

"Who was that boy just now?" He trails his gaze to the endless hallways of the dorm, as if to pierce his precise location.

"Won't you answer my question?"

"Oh sweet child." He curled his taloned hand under your chin, then curving it to your cheek. You thought to pull away, but didn't, instead wrinkling that disgust in your brows. "Look what they've done to you here. So defiant, so soft ."

"My softness does not negate my abilities." You would treasure it dearly, harbor far from all of this .

"With what arms, my child? The whole reason I'm here is to fix you. Don't you have some gratitude for the family who took you in and gave you everything ? You have it all‒ fame, immortality, youth‒ you could have power too, you know."

No , you knew. You knew now. You were ablaze, enlightened by the brilliance of your own life, spun in the heavenly refuge of others. "I was so young. Conflicted. You took advantage of me. All of you. Every single one." The words were spat from your tightening throat. You knew what his presence heralded‒ your body would be brought back to that lab, subject to Krios’ dissections. Though you felt yourself being ensnared by Krios’ gaze, you felt that if you did not cry out this poison in your body, you would turn back‒ resist against the inevitable. You would spare that bitterness from yourself, from Rook. You glowered, a searing violence in your eyes.

“I don’t want any of it‒ and you rob me of everything in return. My humanity, my memories, my youth- gone. What more must you take from me ? ” You bare your teeth, clenching an animal violence in the blood of your mouth. There’s your humanity. In the brutality, the lament of your eyes. It’s all still here, now. You want to tear him apart.

His smile never falters, plucking your dismembered arms from the ground. With a lithe hand, he waves his staff, levitating your limbs in the air, before the blot swirls to your shoulders, threading together your body in curdles of jerky ink. You quickly shrug off Rook’s jacket so as not to soil it, allowing Krios to place a hand on your newly mended shoulder, bare to his sharp touch, cold as a cadaver. You lurch yourself from it, reaching down to grab the jacket, warming your shoulders inside of it.

"Are you done with this tantrum of yours, my dear little ram?" He chided, slinking his hand onto your neck to turn your body towards his. The grief, the fury is slowly dying inside your chilling body, you clutch onto it in your thundering chest to conserve any of its fleeting warmth. You think of the fluttering pulse of Rook's hand, bright and balmy as the sun. "Feels good, does it not? Blaming others for your own shortcomings. Come back to your family now, you won’t survive without us. I'm giving you the change to go quietly before‒ "

"(Name)!"

You inhale sharply, and do not meet Idia's eyes. It would break you.

"Master Idia, Master Ortho. How good it is to see you two again." A tightened smile.

“Rook is getting the headmage as we speak. You have no jurisdiction here Krios. I don’t know how- ”

The doctor titters a piping whistle that cuts through Idia’s words. “Doctor’s orders, Master Idia. Right, (Name)?”

You wish you had the organs to vomit, the way he pulled your body close to his side while your name sat on his tongue like a blight‒ the smell of bleach and decay overpowering the warming amber of Rook’s scent. He turns to you, expectantly, a sly tip of his head which says, “ you know what to do .” You want the world to collapse‒ cindering fires, cataclysmic tornados, roaring thunderstorms‒ anything that holds all your rage and grief. But the youth, the heart Rook has resurrected with his careful hands knows the ruthless wrath pooling in Krios’ eyes that adds, try me, do it. Not a threat, a declaration of your power against his.

“Idia. Ortho. Hear me.” You know the expression on his face without having to turn. Crumpled at the center of his nose bridge, head down. It was like this, always, back at the lab when you would tease him and his brother.

“ Anything .” Idia answers for the two of them.

"Watch over him. Over yourselves too."

"(Name)-" His voice breaks.

“Idia.” You’re able to turn to him now, holding the last drop of humanity in the warmth of your smile. “Take care. It’ll pass.” Then, like blood, you drain it all from your body.

Still, it returns‒ breaking into your veins like a flood. You wanted to clobber yourself from weeks ago, begging Rook not to let go. It was always you, always . You swallow that lump of humanity down your esophagus, deep deep into the belly of the darkness.

Krios rubs a thumb of your neck, guiding your movements towards the carriage you suddenly find yourself staggering towards. You twist out of his grasp like a feral animal‒ letting the coat fall from your shoulders and snatching the collar of his neck. Your breaths come out in white, steamy gasps, as you think, your gaze gritting against his never ending smile. No words, not even in all of the arcane, ancient languages you knew, were big enough for the hollowness in your heart, and the anger at the one who twisted it open. Hunger, starvation, famine‒ these words were not enough for the cosmic emptiness. You heave, silent, crumbling to the ground, pathetically grasping at the ground near Krios’ feet. The jacket is seized in your hands, rushing to a fragrance of humanity‒ of warmth, of life, of love. it will never be like this again. The frost you feel rising now is especially fracturing, knowing what the warmth from the rapture of the sun felt like on your flesh. It splitters you. This is not a wound your body can mend.

——————————————————

Notes:

Gina Lorenzo Bernini was a famous Italian baroque sculptor, you’ve probably seen some of his works in the past without realizing it‒ his work has been featured in a lot of mythological and Roman Catholic contexts. If you look up his pieces like David, Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, and Blessed Ludovia Albertoni‒ you’ll see what I mean when I was comparing it with Rook’s over dramatic movements lol. Baroque sculptures are typically very dynamic and have a melodramatic flare‒ but still retain a sense of sturdiness and realism‒ perfect for Rook I think. Very sensual, beautiful‒ and kind of scandalous for its time period. But some art historians argue that he’s even better than Michelangelo so sometimes you gotta be horny in the wrong time to get that sweet sweet fame after your demise ya know. You’d be surprised how many artists fit that statement

Also fun fact about Baroque painting‒ the guy who is most well known for it, Caravaggio (you might have heard the term “Caravaggesque” and chiaroscuro which are attributed to him and the overall baroque movement), killed a guy. Like literally just stabbed a guy to death. And NO ONE talks about it

Magnum opus: Basically the most important piece of artwork an artist produces (most renowned, most popular, etc)

Lutetia (called Lutèce in French) is actually the old name of Paris, meaning mud or swamp in Latin.

I feel like I spoke in riddles with all the analogies I’m using with Rook lol. But I feel like fits the flare of his character while it also grounds itself in reality a bit with its very visceral experiences. Like the whole fruit tree analogy is like Tantalus' thing‒ except the catch is that you’re the thing that holds yourself hostage from claiming the fruit, which I think is a very relatable experience for people who’re are in that young adult stage.

Ivory chests, or coffret in French (meaning “coffin”- however no connection to death or burial rituals) were used as dowry pieces, or tokens of affection during courtship, as they often depicted scenes of love‒ especially through hunting imagery that was growing in popularity during the medieval period when these were made. Since they were much smaller because of the limited shape and size of ivory, they often held small things like trinkets, jewelry, locks of hair, etc. There’s a pretty famous version of these caskets (“Casket with Scenes of Romances”) that were reproduced multiple times in Paris, the center to ivory carving in the fourteenth century (unfortunately because of the plundering of Africa during the period). There’s a strong intersection between secular and nonsecular imagery during the period because Christianity was growing as a huge patron of the art world‒ so I changed some of the imagery up a little bit. Also, because of the unfortunate sexist and colonialism bit (keep in mind Crusades had just ended like a couple centuries ago too, and contributed significantly to national French identity)- like images of love being equated to the take over of a castle, images of combat, and the hunt and slay of a unicorn. Yes, heteronormative courting rituals have been convoluted with a slight air of violence for centuries folks. Anyways wanted to add more gentle imagery since A) don’t love the sexism and colonialism bit and B) it better fits the overall theme of acceptance and gentleness.

Yeah can you tell I like consumption imagery in my writing? Not at all right

In “Flowers of Manhood” by Christopher Looby he describes daisies, buttercups, and in particular pansies as terms for "flamboyant gay men", which in the mid 20th century had become a symbol of queerness and queer love. As a queer myself, it's difficult to completely separate my own life from my writings‒ and with a GN MC, I thought I would add that in as a little homage to any of the queer people reading this, since we are so rarely represented in media.

22 notes · View notes

electrasev5nwrites · 9 months

Text

Ninja Daily: Clarity 21

"How do I look?" Tsunade pursed her lips and readjusted her robes one more time in an attempt to achieve perfectly symmetrical hems.

With his tightly crossed arms, Sasuke looked like he very much wanted to be anywhere else and in anything other than his sleek red kimono, but Aiko gave the Hokage an assessing look.

"That hat swallows up your face," Aiko critiqued, making a face and turning away from the dossiers she had been organizing for the office lady to put back. "The draping fabric makes your shoulders enormously boxy. Two of ten, I would not wear."

Sasuke gave her a narrow-eyed expression that implied she was plumbing new depths of stupidity.

"But you really pull it off, of course," Aiko added insincerely. "It's just anyone else that would look like a total bag in it." She gave the Hokage a simpering, dull-eyed smile.

Tsunade's red nails glinted when she curled a hand up into a fist. "Thank you." She adjusted the ceremonial headgear a centimeter and brushed off a wrinkle in the fabric.

'Before I met her, I didn't know that 'dangerously polite' was a thing,' Aiko mused absently.

"You're welcome."

The Hokage drew in a long, calming breath. "How long?"

"Two minutes," Shizune piped up from the door, as impeccably dressed as her fellow apprentice. The stressed expression that she was giving to the watch on her wrist only tarnished the effect a little. "I'll set off the lights thirty seconds til your entrance." She fidgeted with her sleeves, shaking them down over her hands. "Are you ready, Tsunade-sama?"

"Oh, yes," the woman confirmed, checking her makeup from all angles in a hand mirror. "Not that it matters. No one is going to like this."

"That's why it's important to do it perfectly," Shizune fussed.

Aiko took her eyes off the two women in time to see Sasuke start mouthing along with Shizune's words, face still impassive.

"You have to impress the importance of an alliance with Ame, despite the recent feelings of hostility engendered by Pein." Shizune's fingers tightened around her sleeves. Sasuke was still mimicking her speech. For some reason, Aiko suspected that this was not the first time she had given it to Tsunade. "Remember to be sensitive to the lower income civilians who are still in public housing. And the shinobi who were retired from service after-"

She cut herself off at quiet beeping from her wrist.

"Oh dear." Shizune rushed out to the balcony doors and bent to flip a tiny switch attached to black wires. The view through the translucent window was instantly darkened. The ambient noise from the crowd outside faded to nearly nothing in anticipation.

At a frantic gesture from Shizune, Aiko obediently stepped far to the side so she wouldn't be visible when they threw open the doors. Tsunade's back seemed to straighten and she oriented herself in position to fling open the balcony. Shizune stepped two paces behind her mentor on the right side while Sasuke visibly rocketed up three notches on the 'grumpy teenager' spectrum and mirrored her position on the left.

"Showtime," Tsunade said quietly. There was a tiny clicking that Aiko couldn't identify, and then a pure, bright light spotlighted the three from behind just as the Hokage opened the balcony and stepped out to raucous cheering.

'Show time is right,' Aiko huffed. 'What a drama queen.'

She definitely was not jealous of the Hokage's swagger. Nope. A little resentfully, she skirted the edges of visibility below and plopped down into Tsunade's seat. After a moment of thought, she propped her feet up on the desk and surveyed her domain from the position of ultimate authority.

"Citizens of Konoha!" Tsunade bellowed outside. The crowd went wild.

Aiko studiously ignored the three lonely blue folders sitting on the side table by the couch. Tsunade did have a good view of the entire office. Granted, the plant forest wasn't usually squashed against the wall, but they didn't often need the balcony.

"It is my privilege and duty to act in the interests of this great nation."

'I think I like this.'

She scraped her heel against the desk top, pushing an ugly knick-knack to the ground. She didn't expect it to shatter. Aiko shot a guilty look towards the open balcony. She couldn't see Tsunade from this angle, but she could hear her quite clearly. Aiko would be able to even without the sound system and carefully managed acoustics set up. Could Tsunade have heard that breaking?

"You are all well aware, I am sure, about the international meeting scheduled in two weeks' time for the trial and possible sentencing of Ame no Konan as a potential war criminal."

The cheers that statement roused were disconcertingly cheerful, considering that Tsunade was working her way to telling them that Konoha did not want a conviction. Aiko suppressed a snort.

'Good luck with that. I should bounce.'

She did not look at the wreckage of whatever bauble she had broken in the interests of plausible deniability.

'For purely considerate reasons, I should be gone before Tsunade finishes. She'll probably want to have a talk with her apprentices and I'll just be in the way,' Aiko convinced herself. She edged around the walls, careful to remain out of sight.

She paused at the couch that was her usual seat, guiltily noticing once again that she had dossiers left to read. Her avoidance looked even more blatant than usual, considering that she had finished the last yellow folder about half an hour ago.

She still wasn't allowed to take those dossiers out of the office. They were highly sensitive information. It would be suspicious for her to be caught reading about people she supposedly knew. And it was just plain rude to wander off with someone else's property, even if they hadn't explicitly asked you not to.

Aiko tucked the folders under her arm and pushed out of the office.

'I'll live with myself somehow. This is not the most reprehensible thing I have done.'

Actually, Tsunade should be grateful. She was going to read them. Aiko was doing the Hokage a favor, valiantly pushing through all the stupid prep work to argue her stupid cause at trial for some stupid woman who was totally guilty.

Aiko wasn't stupid. She'd read enough to see that Ame no Konan had very little legal defense for that whole kidnapping thing. Her best hope was arguing that she had been caught up in forces beyond her control.

'And fuck, it would rankle to argue that you deserve mercy because you couldn't get out from under someone's thumb. I wouldn't make that case. I might rather be executed than remembered in such a humiliating fashion.'

Perhaps Aiko shuddered at that thought precisely because she was guilty of that exact same pathetic floundering under Obito's control?

She stewed in that as she crept out of the deserted Hokage tower. It was impossible to avoid getting caught up in the outskirts of the mob listening to Tsunade go on about the spirit of international cooperation and goal of long term peace, but she kept her head down and pushed her way free as quickly as possible, eliciting only a few indignant mutters of, "Watch it! Where do you think you're going?"

Although that wasn't a half-bad question. Shizune's apartment wasn't a terribly inspired place to go to avoid Shizune. Aiko paused a few blocks away from the crush of people to contemplate her problem.

'I could go sit in a bar and read,' she reasoned. 'Just be alone around people. It's late enough that it'll get busy after Tsunade is done. That could be nice.'

Of course, this would be the first time that she'd gone out alone in Konoha. The thought made her frown a little bit and miss her usual companion for eating out.

Not that she needed Yamato to pay for her food, of course. Apparently she had a couple active bank accounts and even received a stipend while she was in training to re-join Konoha's military.

'Do I need identification to drink here?' Aiko wondered, letting her feet take her towards what her explorations had revealed as the seedier side of town. She hadn't before, but then, Konoha was a shinobi village. They tended to be much more observant of legal technicalities than backwards towns in the exact center of nowhere.

Nah. She was way past the drinking age. If it was necessary, she was certain that she could bully a bartender into serving her.

The first bar she saw…

"Covert Schnapps," Aiko read, disbelieving. "Newly Renovated: Now With Ceiling." Really?

'It's probably not actually where Konoha's black operation workers get drunk. Right?' she reasoned.

When she pushed her way in, the bar was nearly deserted. A woman with a prosthetic hand and some rather becoming facial scarring was carefully arranging a liquor display while a person with seriously impressive tattoos on their bare shoulders scrawled out a special drink menu for the night.

Aiko read over what was completed, and tried not to laugh.

'You can get something called an Ame nin served dry, and a Suna border rookie with candied beetles. How is that a thing? People eat candied beetles?'

It didn't appear that anyone was ready to take orders, so she settled into a booth to wait. It would probably be a good idea to at least start reading before she got hammered. Right?

Right.

She sucked on her lower lip and carefully spread out her three dossiers. The covers held no meaning, much as they hadn't when she'd stared at them over the last three days.

'I just need to go for it,' Aiko thought, screwing her forehead up in determination. 'Any one will do. Like ripping sutures out. It'll be much easier after I have started.'

Still she did not move.

'Oh for the love of-' mildly disgusted with her cowardice, Aiko closed her eyes and slapped a hand down on a folder. She pushed the other two off to the side and settled in to read her randomly selected dossier.

Her mouth went dry.

'Oh my fucking kami, that hair.' She had to stare at the identification photo of a young woman with the most stunning red hair she had ever seen. It was almost painfully vivid even in a photograph. And it matched her eyes.

The woman herself was wearing an unimpressed expression and a crisp white doctor's coat, hanging open down her chest. Underneath appeared to be a purple top that displayed collarbones, but nothing scandalous.

'I might be okay with my relatives. This woman appears to be on point.'

Aiko shifted back in her seat, throwing her left arm over the back of the booth and stretching her legs out under the table. She would have propped them up on the opposite seat if her legs were long enough. As it was, she pulled the folder upright and began reading with genuine interest.

Oh, this was that poisons technician whose research Shizune was so enamored with. Maybe Shizune had a crush? Uzumaki Karin was definitely worth a broken heart or two.

'She came from Grass?'

The fact that the Sandaime Hokage had blatantly stolen an allied nation's nin when he noticed her at a Chuunin examination made Aiko laugh out loud. What a fabulously shameless troll.

A moment later, she sobered to realize that Grass was now a deadzone. Holy shit. If he hadn't done that, Karin would be dead. That'd suck. She looked pretty cool.

'She must be, if I let her live in my house and vouched for her.' Aiko pressed her lips together and inhaled through her nose. 'Either that or family was just a big thing for me.'

Karin had been a training partner of sorts, though they had apparently shared no missions. Well. She had been a low-rank shinobi with a skill set that wasn't suited for the field. Until her apprenticeship with the former apprentice of the snake sannin along with another girl-

Another Uzumaki? Her eyebrows shot up. Sometimes the second girl was written with a redacted surname, and sometimes as Uzumaki Hinata. Curious, she abandoned Karin's file and peeked inside another.

The face she saw wasn't Naruto's, so she felt safe in assuming it was the right girl.

'She doesn't look much like Karin or Naruto,' Aiko thought dubiously. Something was a little odd there. 'Maybe she married in? Is she Karin's wife?' Reluctantly, she let the dossier fall shut to finish reading Karin's. Nope, there was no mention of Karin getting hitched. How else did Hinata end up with a legal name change?

"Sorry about the wait." A woman about Aiko's size with a perky smile and a series of black tattoos winding around her thin arms slid a bowl of mixed nuts onto the table. "Can I start you off with anything? We have a few new items on the menu." She pushed a lock of pin-straight brown hair behind her neck.

"Yeah, I saw." Aiko slapped her dossier shut and slid it away, scanning her memory. "I want… Was there something called a Black Clover?"

"Yepp!"

"I want that and a glass of water," she decided. It was a little morbid to name a drink after a poison, perhaps, but she was curious.

"Sounds great. I'll just need to see your identification, since you're not wearing your hitai-ite." The waitress pulled a straw out of her black apron and settled it on the table.

Ugh.

Aiko frowned. "I really don't think that's necessary." She raised an eyebrow, and milked her aggressive posture for all that it was worth. "I'm well over the drinking age." That was visibly apparent. She was a little short, sure, but what fucking thirteen year old looked like she did?

"Ah-" The waitress looked uncertainly toward the kitchen. "I'm sorry, miss, but since I don't know that you're above the age of fourteen-"

There was a snort from a nearby table. Aiko involuntarily glanced over to see a man with a senbon waggling in the corner of his mouth. "I know her." He gave Aiko a once-over that wasn't entirely friendly. The Chuunin he was sitting with gave her a confused look at well. After a moment, her eyes widened in apparent recognition.

"Shiranai-san?" The waitress prompted, glancing between the two Jounin whose postures had become just a little bit too aggressive for her comfort.

Aiko held his stare, a little confused but confident. She didn't know why this man had a beef with her, but she was more than willing to take it outside if he felt like starting something.

After a moment, Shiranai broke eye contact and leaned back in his chair. "She's nineteen," he vouched begrudgingly, and far too loudly considering how close he was. "Don't you recognize the Yondaime's first kid?"

The waitress dropped her notepad. Heads swiveled in the closest booths.

"But I heard she was dead," someone asked in a tone that she probably wasn't meant to hear. Aiko winced at the sudden attention.

'That absolute shit. He did that on purpose.'

Shiranai smiled ever-so-slightly at the disbelieving look she gave him, but no one else was paying him much attention.

"I- I'm sorry." The woman bent to pick up her lost notebook, but didn't entirely lose eye contact. "I didn't realize-"

"It's fine." Aiko reassured with all the kindness she could muster through her irritation. Admittedly, it wasn't much. "Just get me my drink, please."

The waitress gave her one last searching look, seeming to survey her features for some mysterious resemblance. "Of course. It'll be just a minute." Professionalism recovered, she pushed back to the counter. That would have been much more convincing if she hadn't immediately leaned over to confide something into her coworker's ear.

Aiko suppressed a groan and glared at her table neighbors. The Chuunin gave her a friendly nod, but her male companion seemed pleased with her irritation.

"You're welcome." His grin was slick. Then he dismissed her, turning back to his companion. "Now, what were you saying about your sister?"

Moody about being stared at and uncomfortable with being publically identified in connection with a famous father she had never known, Aiko readjusted so that both elbows were on the table and pulled out her next file. Uzumaki Hinata.

A second look didn't make her look any more like what Aiko thought an Uzumaki should be. Hinata had the smooth, moon-shaped features of a traditional beauty and long dark hair with a glossy sheen. Aiko, Karin, and Naruto had all at least shared pointed, foxy facial structure and bright coloring. Certainly none of them had that kind of healthy, pettable shine in their hair.

She leaned back, giving the picture another skeptical examination. It didn't change- a pretty young woman in a purple dress with her hitai-ite around her neck and a mark on her forehead. Aiko squinted, but couldn't quite make out the details in the little photo. It looked oddly like a seal. Something like what Tsunade and Sasuke wore on their foreheads, perhaps?

Oh. Apparently not. Aiko winced when she got to the part about her former classmate being passed over for her sister after a disastrous showing in the Chuunin exams against the Kazekage.

"Here's your drink."

Aiko blindly reached towards the light clink of glass setting on the table, grasping something cold. "Thank you."

'That seems shitty of her family. He was obviously not really a genin if he became kage so soon after that examination. He couldn't have been more than sixteen when he became Kazekage.'

Was that what had made Sasuke's Chuunin exams so disastrous? If he was Naruto's teammate, he could be close to Naruto's family.

Aiko frowned, noticing something. 'It seems odd that I've read what seems to have been the files for almost every team in that Chuunin exam. Hinata filled out the reconnaissance team with the Aburame and dog nin. If Karin was a Grass-nin, she can't have been the kunoichi filling out Naruto and Sasuke's team. I suppose I assumed it must have been Hinata by process of elimination. Pity I didn't get to read Sasuke's file. I might have found out more about his team.'

Well. Naruto's file would probably have answers there as well. She cast it an uncertain glance, longing to know mixing with trepidation. Jinchuuriki were dangerous. Then again, so was she.

She took a tentative taste of her drink –pleasingly tart- and went back to reading. She nearly dropped the folder in surprise. She'd adopted Hinata? What an odd thing to do. Then again, perhaps they had been on good terms, considering Hinata's address also changed to be the one that Aiko had apparently shared with Karin. The reading was absorbing enough that she hardly noticed finishing her first drink, or when it was replaced with another.

Like Karin and pretty much every other Konoha nin Aiko had read about, they had shared no missions. Hinata had apparently been pretty occupied with splitting her time between her original team and her training under Mitarashi Anko.

"Do you have a minute?"

It took a moment to come back to the real world enough to respond. By that time, the interloper had made himself comfortable. "Excuse you!" Aiko snapped. She slapped the dossier shut.

The man who had slid into the seat across from her gave a surprisingly sheepish expression. "Ano, sorry to intrude, but I was wondering if you would be adverse to answering a few questions?"

What.

She gave him a once-over. Ame nin, male, early twenties. He wore the same goggles as the Ame nin that had eyed her the other day- a teammate, perhaps?

"What do you want?" Aiko asked ungracefully. She didn't like being interrupted.

"My teammate mentioned that you remind him of someone we haven't seen in a while," he started carefully.

Her neck prickled.

This Ame nin was giving her hair the same creepily intense examination that his buddy had. But he was also reaching out with his chakra and-

Aiko stood abruptly, muscles tight with tension. There was a slight sway in her calves that told her she had been drinking faster than was perhaps advisable before a fight. And what the fuck else could he be angling for after probing her chakra signature? He was trying to get a read on her. That was hostile, aggressive, intrusive.

But the Ame nin threw his hands up innocently, palms out. The gesture was undermined by the creepily euphoric grin on his face and the marveling stare he was giving her eyes. It was enough that Aiko self-consciously checked to ensure that she hadn't activated the Rinnegan or Sharingan. Nope. Just black eyes.

"Don't worry," he said very quietly. "I won't say anything. We were just so-" he faltered. "Not that we actually believed you could be dead," the Ame nin backtracked, manic speed flipping his otherwise charming voice into something unnerving and nervously deferent.

Her stomach seemed to fall out of her body entirely, leaving only a swooping feeling in its absence. Her fingers were cold.

'He knows something.'

The Ame nin was far too thrilled to see her. She could think of absolutely no positive reason for Ame nin to recognize or care about her. The man fidgeted, scarred fingers shaking on the table with adrenaline. His eyes were positively manic. "It's just- seeing and believing are-"

'What kind of people was I involved with? Would Tsunade know what's going on if I asked? Or if this Obito's work? Is he coming for me?'

"Hey, leave her alone!" someone bit out.

The grin slid off the Ame nin's face when he looked up and realized that he was getting dark stares from the restaurant in general.

Aiko certainly did not need any help dealing with this man. He was a Chuunin. She could kill him. Maybe she should. But with this audience?

'Not a tactically sound choice. And now that we have an audience, I'll be a suspect for anything that happens to him. Depending on what he's talking about, getting rid of him might still be worth the risk of an interrogation later.'

Of course, that was contingent on whatever he knew ending with him. That hope was already a lost cause- his teammate had shared whatever suspicion he had. The death of one Ame nin in Konoha would be a diplomatic incident even if they never proved anything; but the death of two would probably mean war.

She chose to take a step back, a defensive movement that stressed the visual contrast between his bulky, equipment peppered outline contrast with her lithe and obviously unarmed body. If that didn't summon protective instincts from anyone who was already agitated in the crowd, nothing would.

The shinobi the waitress had called Shiranai was giving the Ame nin a black stare that seemed out of place, considering his earlier hostility. His pretty companion had been replaced by-

'Oh dear. That's the Konoha nin that I killed. Maybe that's why Shiranai is disgruntled with me?'

Aiko gave her one-time victim a mildly queasy smile. His returning expression was filled with surprisingly tolerant amusement.

'What in the actual fuck?'

She squirmed, a tingle traveling up her neck.

'If anyone is holding a grudge about that, it should probably be him.'

"I think you should go." A chair scraped. Aiko startled at the soft arm that rested on her right shoulder, soon joined by a face propped on her left. The woman's free hand danced down Aiko's hip, fingers digging in possessively- or was it protectively? "This just isn't your scene, Ame-nin." Warm breath drifted over Aiko's neck, carrying with it a scent that wasn't entirely pleasant. Something about this woman was dangerous, hard and sliding and dry as scales. Aiko itched to duck away- or worse, relax into the disconcertingly sensual hold.

'At the moment, she appears to be on my side,' Aiko told herself to excuse her inaction. It definitely wasn't that there was anything pleasurable about the chest pressed against her back- an interesting juxtaposition of softness covered in what could only be a ridged metal leaving criss-cross patterns in Aiko's shoulderblades.

Surrounded in a bar full of Konoha nin who weren't feeling particularly partial to his country, the man swallowed slowly. His dark eyes darted around. "Maybe it isn't," he agreed slowly. A hand played with his goggles- a nervous habit? "I'll leave, then."

Aiko could feel a cheek stretch against her neck when the unfamiliar woman smiled. "Lovely!" she chirped. Somehow, it sounded dangerous. "Have a good night. I hope you're enjoying Konoha's hospitality."

There was something very pointed about that statement that flew over Aiko's head with a soft whooshing sound.

The Ame nin walked out with as much dignity as he could manage. After a moment, the unfamiliar kunoichi drew back, formidable presence seeming to fade into nonchalance.

"What a terrible bore," she muttered.

Aiko nearly choked on a laugh and twisted around. "Pardon?"

The stranger wasn't much taller than Aiko- a kunoichi with a heart-shaped face, choppy purple hair, and generous assets. Wow. Wow-wow-wow.

"My face is up here."

At the snapped fingers, Aiko jerked her eyes up and looked innocent.

All she received was a snort. "Yeah, you can't fucking fool me." The one-handed shove she received nearly pushed Aiko into her seat again. "You." The other woman scowled. "You just drop off the map for a fucking year and give me that dopey ass look? I thought you were fucking dead, you ratchet skank."

'She's so grumpy,' Aiko marveled. 'Holy shit. She's amazing.'

Feeling like she had just been run over by a team of horses, Aiko opened her mouth to give some polite deflection that danced around the fact that she didn't recognize the other woman. Instead, "I think I love you," popped out.

The other woman stared for just a moment and burst out laughing. "Goddamnit." This time, she gave a moderately friendly punch to Aiko's ribcage. Which, ow? "Don't make me laugh when I'm chewing you out."

"No, go on," a male voice called. The woman scowled and instantly oriented on the offender, a blue-haired man with a scar over his face. He grinned. "Anko-chan has an admirer. It's cute."

'Anko? The Mitarashi Anko who taught Karin and Hinata, perhaps?'

That could explain how they knew each other, but their association seemed to go beyond that of acquaintances. This woman acted much more familiarly.

"I have tons of fucking admirers, shitstain!" Anko barked. "S'not novel. The only thing that's cute around here is how hard you're trying to schmooze on that poor man there. Don't you understand the concept of leagues? He's not in yours."

The man flushed, reply cut off by hoots and laughs.

He wasn't going to get a chance to respond. Anko wrapped a hand around Aiko's arm and tugged violently. "You have some 'splaining to do."

It was a phenomenally bad idea to leave a bar with a stranger, just because they were hellishly attractive and seemed to know her. Aiko couldn't possibly be that asinine.

"Just a sec-" Aiko pulled her arm away and lunged to sweep up her dossiers. It would be pretty awkward to explain losing them to Tsunade. Anko gave the folders a knowing look, but didn't comment when she bodily hauled Aiko out of the smoke into the night. They made it a good block before anyone spoke.

"So," Aiko started, injecting false confidence into her tone and forcing down a shiver at the wind. "If I said I was sorry-"

"I would tell you that you aren't sorry enough yet." Mitarashi wheeled around and hip-checked Aiko against the face of the building they had been passing. She caged Aiko in with her arms in the same movement, scowling and sharing alcohol-tinted breath.

She had just enough time to think, 'This woman is handsy,' before she was being glared down.

"What is your game?" Anko leaned her head in. "Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you didn't bite it. But I thought we were close enough that you'd do me the courtesy of letting me know you hadn't ended up face down in a ditch." Her face twisted- this close, Aiko thought she sensed pain behind the anger. "Or do you just show up now when we have fuckin' Ame nin infesting the village?" She paused for a second. When she spoke again, her tone was just a little raspy. "I thought you were dead," Anko repeated, eyes distant.

The vulnerability there struck Aiko dumb. "I-" She cleared her throat and glanced down. From her perspective, that meant her chin was nearly touching Anko's cleavage. Aiko hurriedly made eye contact again. "I don't know what to say," she said honestly.

Her chest was hurting with something that felt suspiciously like guilt. But that was bullshit. She couldn't possibly have been expected to make things right with this woman after Obito had spirited her away.

'She was looking for me.'

Aiko's mouth was dry.

'While I was settling in with Obito, this woman was looking for me.'

She'd known that she must have had loved ones- family and friends- but it hadn't really hit her. But this was real. Anko had hurt. She might still be hurting. Hurting like Aiko was hurting after finding out that Obito had used her.

"You don't know what to say," Anko repeated, disbelieving. She drew back in a snap, seeming to coil into herself. "I see," she said stiffly. "I overestimated your regard for me. I won't-"

"That's not it!"

The words surprised Aiko as much as they seemed to surprise Anko. The older woman raised an eyebrow, waiting.

'What am I going to tell her? The Hokage told me to lay low. We're going to lie in court. I shouldn't tell anyone that Tsunade hasn't approved.'

Then again, it was her story to tell. Not Tsunade's. Aiko straightened her back and made a decision.

"It's a long story," she said. "Or, more accurately, one that shouldn't be told in public. Your place?"

Anko's place turned out to be a traditional home in a shocking state of disrepair. Aiko pressed her lips together tight and withheld comment. Anko kicked off her shoes with enough force that one flew into the door with a thud and slid into the house proper. She didn't glance behind her as Aiko stepped out of her own shoes. There was a horrible, chest-shaking clatter when Anko swept a pile of clutter off of the kitchen counter to free up room.

"I'm going to make some fucking tea," Anko called, sounding proud.

"Thank you?" Aiko tried, running a hand over her hair. She tripped into the front room, carefully avoiding debris. Empty boxes of mixed chocolates? At least it appeared to be the good stuff.

"Yeah, you better thank me." Something scraped ominously. There were a few beats of silence. "Actually, I have some booze." Anko came out holding two clear bottles and giving the kitchen a guilty expression.

Aiko chose not to think about that and silently accepted the bottle she was offered.

"So." Anko bounced when she landed on the couch and flung her legs up. "You better have a story, bitch." She frowned, disturbed. "Last thing I remember that day was that fucker snapping my neck." She waved her bottle. "When I wake up, your skinny prude of a captain said he remembered you fucking blowing your fool ass up-" She leaned over and slapped Aiko upside the head with delicacy at odds with her fierce expression. "And then!" Anko waved her free hand jerkily. "And then you're just not there. No one says anything, even when I ask." She stopped talking and unscrewed her bottle to take a thoroughly unladylike swig.

That seemed like a good idea. Aiko imitated the motion, forcing herself not to cough at the hard liquor burning down her throat. She gasped and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth.

'This is nothing like a mixed drink.'

She could only put it off so long.

"I don't remember any of that," Aiko admitted. She nearly collapsed on the floor, sliding her legs under the kotatsu. "I mean that so literally. In fact, I knew that Nagato killed me somehow, but you just gave me more information than anyone else has. Some things make more sense now." She cupped her hands together and mimed an explosion by wiggling her free hand and moving the bottle out in the opposite direction. "An explosion could explain a little…" Aiko trailed off, and tapped her free hand against her head.

Anko's face was screwed up in uneasy anticipation.

It seemed like a good time to take another large drink, so she did. "Screwiness," Aiko decided wryly. She rested her drink on the table with a loud clink. "Nagato fucking sucked," she stressed. "He didn't bring me back how he meant to." She paused. "Or maybe he just didn't care," Aiko grudgingly allowed. "However it happened, all the pieces didn't get fit back together right. Body's fine," she admitted, and let the omission speak for itself.

Something like horror was dawning on Anko's face.

"So…" Anko's fingers tightened around her bottle. "Did you retire? A psych retire? A lot of people thought that," she added unnecessarily, voice speeding up so that her words bumped into each other. "That whatever happened to you made you retire and take off. You, Sandaime-sama, and the Sannin were the only ones who managed to kill any of those fuckers. You bet your ass that people were looking for you."

The darkness of her tone dissuaded any interest Aiko might have had in a follow-up question.

"Did I get a psych retire? Not… exactly," Aiko fidgeted. Maybe she should have. She took another pull, now immune to the itching in her throat from the liquor. She just felt warm. "Although I nearly retired from Konoha on accident." She pulled at her hair with her free hand, tugging out her ponytail.

"On accident?" Anko repeated slowly.

"Yepp." Aiko smiled bitterly. "I may have been slightly kidnapped by an Akatsuki out of the hospital."

Anko carefully put her drink between her knees and balanced her face in her palms.

"That about sums it up," Aiko agreed politely. "No idea how he knew to come by, but he did." She shrugged, despite the fact that the other woman wasn't looking. "I just recently got back to Konoha. Figured out that I'd been played and got in a fight with him. Hatake's team came by just in time to scrape me off the ground."

Anko's head shot up and she gave Aiko an odd expression. "Hatake?" she repeated, stressing the name strangely. She gave a low laugh, shaking her head. "Holy fucking shitcakes, I think you're telling the truth. A year ago, that would have been 'Kakashi-shishou'." She batted her eyelashes in a way that was truly sickening.

Aiko recoiled.

"It's true!" Anko nearly tipped over her bottle in her enthusiasm, which was a pretty good clue that she was well on her way to inebriation. "You had the hots for teacher for the longest fucking time, I swear on my tits."

Aiko could physically feel the blood draining out of her face as the true horror of just how embarrassing that was dawned on her. She swallowed. "Was it obvious?" she asked gingerly.

Unmerciful, Anko nodded. "Of course it fucking was." She paused, and begrudgingly added, "It was cute though. No one would hold it against you. You were just a kid." Her face shifted, gaze turning sharp. She gave Aiko a once-over. "You're not anymore," Anko said slowly. Her eyes appeared to be lingering on the curve of Aiko's exposed shoulder.

Suddenly the room was hot. She pushed her bangs off of her face just to have something to do with her hands. Then she realized they were sweating and clenched them.

"Pffft." Anko flopped back, the intensity of the previous moment gone. "That's enough feelings talk. I'm starting to feel all vulnerable and shit." The toothy grin she bestowed invited Aiko to share in the joke, but Aiko didn't feel like laughing.

Anko really was vulnerable. That was okay. Acting like she was too tough was- well, it was probably a coping mechanism. But it was still sad.

She forced out a smile, but didn't feel it.

Her companion must have sensed that, because she frowned. "Hey, knock it the fuck off." She waggled her eyebrows. "I'm done talking. Let's just get drunk and pretend the television is fascinating, alright?"

Aiko cracked a real smile. "Yeah," she agreed. She did have a lot left in her bottle.

She woke up the next morning with her right arm asleep and the fingers of her left tangled in the mesh over Anko's stomach. Her head was resting in what appeared to be the curve of Anko's armpit. The same dangerous, scaly scent that had put Aiko off last night lingered there along with faint body odor. Glamorous.

Aiko grimaced, withdrawing. Her head was pounding, but she could cope. The pain was roughly equivalent to the headaches that centered behind her eyes. She somehow managed to survey her surroundings. She was still in Anko's home, but the older woman appeared to have slumped off the couch and onto the floor sometime in the night in search of a warm body like a freaking lizard or something. The bottles were abandoned on top of the kotatsu- one empty, and one still slowly dripping sticky liquid onto the floor. The tv was displaying only static.

'At least we're both fully clothed,' Aiko told herself, and definitely did not feel let down in the slightest about that. Sheepishly, she ran a hand through her puffy bedhead. It immediately caught on a tangle. Hm. Should probably do something about that.

Anko yawned and stretched, nails scratching the floor. She did not open her eyes.

"Hey, I think I need to go." Aiko looked around for her hair tie, and then gave it up as a bad job. If anyone asked, she'd say 'messy' was the new look. The dossiers clung to her sweaty skin when she tucked them under her arm.

'I need a shower. I smell like I bathed in booze.'

"Fine," Anko grouched. "Leave me here to die." She rolled over and tucked her arms over her head.

Aiko tried not to laugh, because that would probably hurt. "Will do." She hastily pulled on her boots- and then had to try again, blinking gummily in mild surprise about mis-identifying her right shoe. Huh. She paused with a hand on the door knob. "See you later?"

If anyone asked, Aiko would forever deny the slightest hint of vulnerability in that question. She wasn't the one who needed someone to talk to. That had been Anko.

"Yeah." Anko forced herself into a seated position, rubbing at puffy, dark skin under her eyes. "Yeah, I'll track you down later. You must be going out of your fucking mind with those stiffs up in the tower. A soak would be nice, right?" She pried an eye open. "Blue Dragon Hot Springs. I'll see you there tonight?"

She nodded and left before she could embarrass herself by grinning at having made an actual appointment with an actual friend in Konoha. Someone she wanted to see, other than Yamato. That was going on the calendar.

"Where have you been?" Shizune all but bowled Aiko over as soon as she opened the door.

'I thought you would be at work by now.'

Aiko physically recoiled from the taller woman, fingers tight around the stolen dossiers hidden behind her back. "I can explain," she lied.

"What?" Shizune brushed hair back from her face, accentuating deep circles under her eyes. "I thought-" she shook her head and groaned. "Do I even want to know what you're talking about?"

Wisely, Aiko kept her mouth shut.

"Why didn't you come home last night?" Shizune finally backed off enough that Aiko could shuck her shoes and enter the apartment proper. She dithered over what to do with her hands for a moment, and then went with the standby of making tea.

It only took a moment to contemplate how Anko would feel if Aiko was honest about their conversation and her need for answers. Nuh uh, not going to sell her out.

'That does leave the question of what to tell Shizune.'

Hastily, she stashed her stolen dossiers under a magazine on the kotatsu. Aiko cautiously followed Shizune into the kitchen and decided on a selective truth.

"I met a woman at a bar and went home with her," Aiko offered. She tugged at her hair again, knowing she looked like something that crawled out of the lint compartment.

Shizune slapped her forehead and muttered something nearly inaudible.

Aiko rolled her eyes. "I'm an adult," she reminded waspishly. "I don't remember you being my mother or keeper."

The older woman sighed quietly, thin shoulders heaving. Aiko felt a twinge of guilt for worrying her hostess.

"You're right, of course," Shizune admitted wryly. She turned just enough to give Aiko a dry smile. "Normally, I wouldn't mind. Didn't you hear the riots last night? Is that why you stayed out?"

She really didn't have a response for that, except to let her mouth hang slightly open and her eyebrows crawl up.

"I will take that as a negative." At the shrill call of the teapot, Shizune turned away again to pour out hot water into the steeping pot. When she began scooping leaves, the scent of peppermint floated into the air. Shizune raised her voice to be heard. "We knew that public sentiment would be opposed to our decision, but I have to admit that I was surprised by the extent of their enthusiasm." She screwed the lid back onto the tea tin and put it up.

"Who, exactly," Aiko hesitated, struggling for diplomatic terminology. "dissented?" she settled for.

There was an unabashed snort. Shizune waived an empty teacup in the air by her shoulder. "Who didn't? That's the better question." She arranged the pot of steeping tea and two cups onto a bamboo platter and settled it on the table.

Aiko pulled out a chair nearby, listening intently.

"There are levels of malcontent, in a way," Shizune decided. She gracefully perched into her chair, waiting for the sweet-scented water to hit the perfect composition. "Most of the problem stems from-" her eyes darted to Aiko- "when Pein came to Konoha."

She nodded politely. That sounded like a reasonable thing to be upset about.

Shizune just looked tired. "Quite a few of our elite shinobi and the bulk of our Chuunin force were in Ame or on their way there at the time. We didn't know it, but the alliance had just taken control of their village. That meant that when Pein arrived, our forces were already depleted." Frown lines etched into her face. "Luckily, we had some time to prepare," Shizune admitted, seemingly in the interest of fairness. "We evacuated our civilians, genin, clan key personages, and selected chuunin as guards."

'That makes a lot of sense,' Aiko noted. 'Kept the potential cannon fodder out of harm's way and insured it would be impossible to completely collapse Konoha's infrastructure without making it to the evacuees.'

Shizune didn't need her approving nod to continue. She didn't even see it- eyes glazed with painful recollection. "His very first attacks eliminated almost everyone stationed within the village center. Chuunin," she explained distantly. "Remaining Jounin and elite Chuunin were taking shifts on patrol of the outskirts. Those tended to be the people who fought either one of Pein's incarnations or his summons beasts." The medic shuddered.

'Is she cold? Does she know that she's rubbing at her arms?' Feeling like she was intruding, Aiko averted her eyes.

When her voice came again, Shizune had collected herself. "As I was saying. Civilians and genin are largely resentful about all the property damage, having been spared from seeing anything too damaging. The reactions of our personnel can generally be divided along how Pein killed them."

Her tone was far too impersonal.

"More experienced soldiers are those who fought for longer and experienced more drawn-out deaths," Shizune explained.

'That would have been me. I was a Jounin even then. I wonder who Anko referred to as my captain. I bet he knows more about the particulars.'

Aiko curled her toes up so tightly that her calves began to cramp.

"They are the most contentious demographic. By virtue of experience, those Jounin and Chuunin are more likely to have established coping mechanisms that reduced the trauma. But they are also most likely to have experienced horrible deaths." Shizune's knuckles were white around the teapot. "It changes you. Who would trust anyone connected to the monster who did that to them?"

'Good question.'

She ran a hand over her head to suppress the shudder trickling down her neck. Her mouth was almost painfully dry at that point. It was just the hangover, of course. Aiko swallowed. "Isn't the tea oversteeped?"

Shizune blinked, outright surprised. "Oh!" she flushed, lifting the pot. "I suppose that it is." She hastily poured out two cups and fished out the wire that held the looseleaves in place.

Aiko took her cup when offered and eagerly brought the tea up to her mouth. The two women drank in silence for a moment.

"This is awful," Shizune said contemplatively, staring down into her drink.

Aiko nodded. "Yes." She took another sip.

"Would you like to go to the coffeehouse-"

"Definitely," Aiko cut her off. She dumped both of their cups and washed out the pot as quickly as possible. "Can I have a few minutes to change?"

"Of course." Shizune promised, not bothering to hide her amusement. "You look like you had a more exciting night than I did. I wasn't going to mention it, but you smell like a brewery."

Aiko finished setting out the dishes to dry and stuck her tongue out at the older woman. "You're just jealous that you didn't have any fun," she sniped back. She didn't wait for a reply, hurrying to gather up clothes and slide into the shower.

'I need to do laundry. This is getting sad.'

While she was still rifling through her closet for something that wasn't completely atrocious, Shizune's lofty response drifted back.

"As you say, Aiko-san. Don't forget those dossiers that you stole, ne? Tsunade-sama would like those back."

She startled, bumping her head on the rack.

'If she already knew, why didn't she say anything?'

Aiko scowled at her closet, snatching a skanky red top and a ruffled pink skirt that definitely did not match. Fuck it. In a record ten minutes, she was technically clean and heading out the door.

Shizune cast a dubious look backward, tucking the dossiers into her bag. "Are you entirely certain-"

"Yes," Aiko confirmed, not waiting to find out if the skepticism was about her wet hair or admittedly ugly outfit. "I don't care, I just want a drink." Her stomach growled. She didn't blink, adding, "and probably breakfast."

"It's noon."

She shrugged, shaking off Shizune's disapproving tone. "I don't tell you how to live your life."

It took forty minutes but Shizune doggedly stayed with her until Aiko had finished eating and started towards Hokage Tower.

'If I didn't know better, I'd say she doesn't trust me.'

Aiko hid a thoroughly inappropriate smile behind her hand. Fancy that, where would Shizune get such a silly idea?

"I can sense your happiness," Shizune called out darkly, holding open the door to the tower lobby.

She stopped smiling and heaved a sigh.

Tsunade gave only a cursory glance when she entered behind Shizune. "Oh, you found her. Good work." Her attention instantly went back to the man in front of her desk- an ANBU with dark, mussed hair. "Assuming the instigators have sobered up, have them all cited and released." The Hokage looked as tired as Shizune.

'Wow. It really must have been a bad night. If anything, Shizune understated it.'

Aiko shifted her weight, reaching out wordlessly for the folders.

Shizune gave her a long-suffering expression but handed them over. Then she nodded sternly at the couch.

The message was clear. 'Behave, this time. I'm watching you.'

She didn't protest, pulling a cushion onto her lap and opening dossiers to find the one she hadn't read. Uzumaki Naruto looked more serious in photo than he did in real life, and even younger somehow. Age 19? Really? That was-

Her fingers went numb. Of course he was 19. He was her twin. Her eyes had glazed over- she wasn't even looking at the paper. Naruto. NarutoNarutoNaruto. She'd raised him and helped train his team and failed miserably she'd just been separated for a few days and Sakura had ended up deadDeAdDEAD. She'd left Naruto alone for a year. A lot could happen in a year.

The folder fell to her lap.

Naruto running out of the Academy with his Hitai-ite. Naruto crying when he'd seen her kill a Mist nin. Naruto boasting about his crush. Stuffing his chipmunk cheeks with ramen chasing rabbits learning Rasengan sexy no jutsu tussling with Sasuke still in the hospital bed-

Aiko bent over and clapped her hands to her head just to make it stop.

She hadn't even recognized him. She hadn't asked him how he had been. How long had it been since she'd seen him? What had happened? Sasuke was still in Konoha and so was Kakashi who was watching Naruto? Who was watching Naruto?

"Tsunade?" Her voice was very small. She looked up. The ANBU was gone. Shizune looked concerned.

"Yes?" The Hokage frowned slightly, tapping the handle of a paintbrush against her face.

"Where is my otouto?"

Tsunade's ink laden brush hit the desk and rolled off, splattering black pigment onto the carpet. Shizune took an uncertain step towards Aiko, glancing back at her mentor.

"Where?" Aiko repeated. The sunlight was glinting off of Tsunade's blonde, blonde hair.

She'd seen him less than a month ago. But not really. She hadn't known who he was. It wasn't the same thing. The last time she remembered, he'd been in-

"Ame," Tsunade admitted slowly.

She swallowed. Pushed her feet together. Rubbed a palm against the couch.

"I see."

"Diplomatic escort," Shizune added, smoothing over her kimono. "With Hinata and Karin."

'All of them are in Ame? Were they intentionally keeping me away from Uzumaki?'

No, that was ridiculous.

Shizune hurried on, "We couldn't spare Sasuke, but Hinata works well with them. And-"

"They probably have a decent reputation," Aiko filled in. "After helping take Ame the first time. That's a hostile gesture."

The medics exchanged a glance at her dull tone. "To be honest, team seven is rather notorious for having led the invasion," Tsunade said. She pushed her chair back and stood. "They're internally perceived as likely to be hard on Ame. I thought it might smooth over some tensions with our people."

Aiko hummed from the back of her throat.

"Every country is sending an envoy to escort Konan to trial, to eliminate the probability of funny business." Tsunade was watching her intensely, amber eyes narrowed. For what, Aiko wasn't sure.

"Alright."

Tsunade walked around her desk. "Can I assume that you-"

"Just Naruto," Aiko interrupted. "I just…" she trailed off. "I just remember Naruto. Things with Naruto." She blinked, a strange swelling in her tear ducts. "In my head, he's..." She held a hand out, indicating a height comparable to her shoulder. "And now he's so big," Aiko continued. She shook her head, bereft. "And gone."

"The time frame of your memories cuts off around what, age thirteen?" Tsunade prodded, taking one of Aiko's hands and kicking a chair so that she could sit across and stare with sharp eyes.

"Uh." Aiko shook her head. "No. It's just he's mostly little. There's some." She screwed up her face, flustered. "He's older in some things."

"Do you remember school? Training?" Tsunade asked briskly, changing the topic to something a little less confusing. When she nodded yes to both, Tsunade tried again. "Kakashi?" "Sasuke?"

Aiko nodded again, and rasped out the omission. "Sakura."

Tsunade's face screwed up in mild confusion. "Sakura?" she repeated under her breath. "I don't-" She took a sharp inhalation. "Oh." She was still.

Aiko loosened the grip she had on her hair. When had she started pulling her hair? Aiko stood. "I think I need a walk."

"That's-" Tsunade cut herself off, frowning slightly. "Alright. You'll see Naruto in a little more than a week," she added gently.

Aiko was already at the door, but she nodded in acknowledgment. "I know."

Even if she tried, she wouldn't be able to remember how she ended up sprawled on the grass in training ground seven. The trip was a blur.

"Are you alright?"

Yamato squatted a few feet away, elbows resting on his knees. His brow was drawn down. He looked much the same as he had when she had met him. Perhaps his face was a little broader. He'd gone from, what, nineteen to his early twenties since she'd met him? And now she was nineteen. Was that a full circle of some sort?

She patted the grass. He made a pained face.

"It's soaked," he said carefully.

Wet grass was sticking to her legs and backside. When had that happened? "Mud never hurt anyone."

He hummed, low in the back of his throat. "That is not true. With Doton-" He cut off at the look she gave him. "Ah. I see." Yamato rubbed at his neck. "Do you need to talk about it?" he offered.

The world clarified a bit.

"You're one of my ANBU guards," Aiko said blankly. When he did not react at all, she knew it was the truth. "That's why you've been spending time with me."

Yamato plopped down on the grass without a second thought. "Can't I happen to be enjoying my work?" he asked gently.

"Work isn't pleasurable," she rejected. "Look. What do you want?"

He didn't even have the grace to look offended by her rudeness or struggle for an answer. "I want what's best for you, including your safety," Yamato answered readily. "You're one of my comrades."

Aiko looked over. He looked serious, all big brown eyes and boyish sincerity.

'If he's lying, I really can't tell.'

"That so?"

His sandal tapped against the ground. "I want to help you. What do you need?"

'I think he really means it. If I want, I bet he would talk to me. Yamato's never been a liar.'

As far as she knew, anyway. He hadn't had much time with team seven. But then, if re-gaining her friendship under false pretenses wasn't a lie, what was it?

She shifted away, wrapping her arms around her legs. "I think you should go," Aiko said quietly.

When she looked up, he was gone.

It was cold enough that she was no longer looking forward to her appointment with Anko at the hotsprings. It would be good when she was actually there, she was sure. Not so much on the walk home… It would be much more intelligent to cover up before she even went over. Still, she wasn't too enthusiastic on her jaunt back to Shizune's apartment for more clothes. She cast a dark look upward to gauge the time. It must be four- it would be dark within a few hours.

The blue jacket that she found possibly minimalized the clashing tackiness of her ensemble. She pulled it on and crawled into bed to think.

'I want to see Naruto. I want things to go back to normal.'

But what was normal?

Normal was training with Team Seven. Normal was perfecting chakra chains and letting Yamato buy her ice cream. Normal was teasing Obito about Icha Icha and absorbing whatever pearls of financial wisdom Kakuzu was willing to drop.

'I should go.'

Aiko twisted around enough to peer out the window. It was getting dark out. Anko would be waiting. It would be pretty shitty to stand her up. She ignored her shinobi-esque boots in favor of white shoes with a soft, furry lining. They were warmer.

The onsen wasn't difficult to find, though Anko wasn't there yet. Aiko was about to strip and get in the water when she felt it.

'Is this some kind of sick joke?'

Her hands paused on the zipper of her jacket.

Impossible- Well, no. Not impossible, improbable. It was so unlikely.

And yet there it was, not a hundred feet away, all but begging for her attention.

'This is just not my day, but I would know that chakra signature anywhere. He's not even hiding it.'

Then again, who other than her would know it and know to look for it?

'And if he didn't hide it, how would I know to look for him? He must have been checking in for a time when I wasn't with the Hokage or a guard. Tsunade tried to prevent something like this. Smart woman.'

Her appointment could wait a little bit. It would be ruder to bring that confrontation to poor Anko than to leave her waiting at the onsen.

Aiko flipped up her hood and set off briskly, fisting her hands into her pockets with accumulated tension. She followed him across town in the fading light, ignoring the cold whip of wind against her face. He settled in a park ten blocks from the onsen Anko favored. It didn't take her long to find him waiting under a ginko tree.

'I think I forgot how big he really is.'

"You're looking well."

Aiko clenched her jaw and pulled her hands out of her pockets. "You're not," she lied. He looked fantastic, especially for a thirty-something year old. Halfway to forty. God.

Obito huffed, the expression tugging at the warm, friendly wrinkles of his scarring. "My feelings," he said reprovingly. "Ouch."

She moved her left foot, steadying into an athletic position.

'Why is he acting like such an idiot? We both know why he's here.'

"I've been expecting you," Aiko said instead of playing into his banter. Chakra began to rise, mingling with the atmosphere, ready to coalesce into chain-linked solidity.

He'd almost killed her in a fit of temper when he found out that she wanted to leave him. There were really only so many ways this interaction could go. He could try to persuade her to return with him, or he could kill her. And she wasn't going anywhere with him.

'Pity that I didn't have time to practice with Hiraishin. That would have been helpful.'

His eyebrows shot up. "Really?" Obito looked strangely pleased. "I thought-" He huffed out a quiet laugh and scratched at the back of his head. "I thought you'd be-" his eyes darted away, "upset," Obito finished. His body language opened up hopefully, painfully obvious in his hope for forgiveness.

She faltered, honestly a little thrown-off by the deviation from the hostile script. "What?"

Obito kicked at the ground, sandals tossing up grass. "I did overstep my boundaries," he acknowledged hurriedly. "If I'd explained myself better, I'm sure you would have understood. See, with the bijuu-"

"I'm not going anywhere with you," Aiko interrupted in a high pitch, desperate to get the fight for her life and freedom back on track. It was starting to sound a lot like he didn't even want to fight.

He gave her an odd look, and then broke eye contact. "I probably deserve that," he admitted with a hard edge in his voice. "Although you did undermine my life's ambition by destroying the irreplaceable-" Obito cut himself off, visibly calming. "We're not talking about that," he said softly, curling a hand into a fist at his side. His tone jumped back up. "It's a minor setback," Obito bit out, clearly trying to convince himself. "I will… work around it somehow. It'll be fine. It has to be fine. I can make it fine."

"Without me," Aiko said flatly, ignoring his mental breakdown. She felt that part was important enough to repeat.

A hysterical giggle boiled out of Obito's throat. "Without anyone," he stressed. "Well. Zetsu. I thought I would have Kakuzu but-" He rolled his eyes, red flashing in the moonlight. "I haven't heard from him since that day and three of my bank accounts were emptied."

That sounded a lot like Kakuzu.

"I owe you an apology," Obito said, words sounding painfully rehearsed. His right arm disappeared. It reappeared from his private hole in space and time with a crinkle of paper.

'This can't be happening.'

Numbly, Aiko reached out to accept the glossy pink bag he offered.

'This can't be happening .'

"I considered flowers, as they're traditional. But." Obito wrinkled his nose. "You'll probably like this better," he admitted grudgingly.

She glanced inside. He hadn't bothered to put any of the thin paper that hid contents in presents like this. She could see down to the bottom of the bag.

"Replacement copies of my books?" Her voice sounded distant to her ears. Although her breathing was coming loud and fast.

"And some of your clothes," he added, pulling out a blue bag this time. "You left without anything." His face lifted sharply, as if he scented something on the changing wind. "It was nice talking to you and confirming that I didn't kill you," Obito finished hurriedly. "I wasn't certain. I apologize for what I'm going to do, but I promise that it'll work out. You'll see," he assured. "Until next time."

He was gone. Aiko was standing alone in a park, holding a bag full of hardcore pornography and a care package from a terrorist.

The wind picked up, pushing her hood down. She didn't bother to fix it.

"How is this my life?" she asked. She looked directly up, noting that the moon was just creeping into visibility on the horizon, white and sullenly swollen.

It didn't seem to have any answers for her.

"Aiko?" When the leaves cleared, she was looking at a male form- a little shorter than Obito, but comparatively as broad through the shoulders. Familiar. Safe. She blinked up at him. Yamato took a step forward, head swiveling to check the vicinity. "I thought I sensed someone else," he tried, voice too strong for there to be any doubt in his mind.

She couldn't manage indignation about the fact that he'd been alarmed enough to check up on her when she mysteriously wandered to a deserted park in the middle of the night. Of course he had. The intrusion seemed pretty small at this point.

'Maybe I shouldn't have told him off for following me around.'

Aiko nodded numbly, holding up her burdens. "Yes." She turned her face up at Yamato, not bothering to hide the pained confusion on her face. "Obito came by and gave me apology presents?" she said, the statement coming out like a question.

Yamato flash-stepped over and lifted the bags out of her hands, holding them gingerly away from his body. "Let's go see the Hokage."

She nodded, appreciating the professional tone. "There are worse plans." She let him gallantly heft the bags. Oddly, she didn't share his worry. Obito was a fucking lunatic, but if he wanted to kill her with dynamite hidden in extra blouses- well-well-

Fine. She threw her hands up, metaphorically.

"Can we stop and get hot chocolate?" Aiko curled a shaking arm around Yamato's elbow, soaking in his steady warmth. He stiffened and pulled the bag in that hand away from her in apparent hopes of keeping her out of a blast radius. The look he gave her was mildly disbelieving.

"No."

She tightened her grip and leaned into his side, affecting her best injured tone. "I'm having a bad night." And she was. She was confused and angry and she didn't want to go directly to an interrogation with Tsunade. Even if asked under pain of death, she wasn't going to admit that she was blinking down tears.

Yamato sighed. But he altered direction slightly, and didn't shake her off.

Aiko remembered something important. It was rude to keep people waiting.

"After hot chocolate, can we stop by the onsen?"

"Aiko!"

#vapors #uzumaki aiko #electrasev5n #ninja daily #fanfiction #naruto fanfiction #clarity

3 notes · View notes