senri
in
bedlam_mix
Naruto - Konan/Yugito, untitled
Authored by alex_zk and senri.
Genre: Angst/Romance?
Warnings: PG for ladykisses, I'd say. Nothing really graphic.
Fandom: Naruto.
Notes: femslash! I saw a request for Konan/Yugito on a kink meme one time and I haven't really been able to get the idea out of my head since... so Zander and I wrote it tonight. I think I might just really like pairing up Yugito with the Akatsuki... but these two are so pretty and hopeless together, it makes me sigh.
Yugito woke up in a still, cool place. She was still breathing, which came as a surprise; she'd blacked out after Hidan's torture without expecting ever to wake up again. She felt surprisingly coherent, and although the greater part of her chakra was removed from her control she was still sensitive enough to realize she wasn't alone.
It was raining outside. Sweet, swift drops that glittered through the air like golden sparks, caught by the light of the sun as it peeked out from behind the drizzle-clouds. The effect stopped after a moment, once the rays had vanished again. Konan was by the window, looking out. She didn't care for rain. Like Zetsu, she could travel great distances in a short time for their Cause. But while he moved in the earth, she did it through the air. As paper, caught in the breeze, riding zephyrs and tunnels of wind. Invisible, or nearly so.
It was a useless ability in the rain, though. Rain would melt her body. Turn her delicate leafs to sodden pulp. Ruin her.
And so she was waiting.
"Awake?" she asks, and her voice is like the rest of her. Vespertine.
A woman's voice; throaty, with the sense of whisper to it even though she'd spoken in a normal tone. Yugito shivered with surprise, decided against faking unconsciousness. She wanted answers, or at least to inspect her wounds.
A light cover was draped over her body. She pushed it aside, gazed blankly at her hands, which were relatively whole again, the puncture wounds inflicted by Hidan when he'd pinned her with a pike through the palms closed up. Stitched up, rather, with what looked like black surgical thread; Yugito clenched her fingers as tightly as she could, until pain zinged through her nerves. Her body felt... neutral, and when she lifted the hem of the white shift she was wearing and glanced down her body the rest of her wounds had clearly been stitched as well.
Her jounin-sensei would have disapproved of her laxity. Yugito dropped the shirt and finally looked at the woman who had spoken.
Slender, blue hair, drowsy-looking eyes, and the ubiquitous cloak. Yugito narrowed her eyes before she could help herself.
Konan's expressions quite minute. The incremental lowering of dark lashes and tilt of her chin are the only visible signs that she finds this immediate flash of hostility somewhat amusing. This woman who had been a bleeding mess when Konan had first laid eyes on her was watching her. Cat-like. That staring, steady glare. Red lips, muscles bunched and tense.
She was strong. An runner, a jumper, like so many ninja. Konan never was one--not truly. She never saw the point in it.
Yugito licked her upper lip, wondering if she felt up to standing. Then she decided that there was really nothing for it and slid off the futon, pushed herself up. There was a rush of blood and dizziness but she didn't fall and managed not to make too much of a fool of herself. How long had she been out, anyway, and how much blood had she lost?
There was a window to the side of her guard. Yugito eyed it for a second. Outside it was grey, rainy, and a ripple of displeasure stirred her mind - from the Nibi. The Nibi had never enjoyed rain. To be contrary, then, Yugito made sure to take a kind of bitter pleasure in it. It appeared to be truly pouring outside. Raindrops plinked on the roof and sighed through the trees. They looked to be on the second floor.
The window was close, but she didn't know where she was, and her guard was clearly very confident in herself... and besides, she was in a fatalistic mood, at this point. Yugito looked at the other woman again. "How long have I been asleep?" she asked, and "Who are you?"
"Quite some time, Nii Yugito." The reply was soft and even. Answers don't matter. This woman can have the truth--Konan does not mind giving it to her. She's doomed, after all. Her life is ending. There's no harm that truth can do.
She watches her sort of shift. Very subtly. Look at the window, look away, glare some more. Her mouth is so dark, lips fine and pursed grimly.
"And I am of Akatsuki." It's the obvious answer. It's what they both already know. But it's the truth again.
Yugito feels... she doesn't know what, something swelling up under her mind. Non-answers, non-answers, but that's nothing surprising. Now that she's standing she's restless, but there's really nowhere to move. The sliding door is closed and there really isn't any furniture, only the woman seated on a rather incongruous chair. Yugito allows herself one restless sway from foot to foot; if she were a cat, her tail would be lashing. Someone's loosened her hair. Somehow, impossibly, there isn't a tangle in it. It coils in loose waves around her face. Yugito has never liked her hair loose. In fights, loose, it blinds her, and in regular life it makes her look like a civilian. Cloud generally looked askance at her appearing to be a civ. They liked to see where their best weapons were at all times.
It's raining and she wishes she was outside, with raindrops wetting her face and sliding into her mouth, sleeking down her hair and soaking her down to the skin. The air does smell sweet, freshened by the rain.
Konan moves. Not gets up, or leans in the chair, but moves. She falls apart. Square chunks of flesh riffle from her face in hundreds of soft, thin pieces of paper. Her cloak goes to pieces, fluttering into sheets and sheets and sheets. Countless sheets. For an instant she is a slow-moving, small dustdevil full of parchment in the middle of the room. The air stirs, cooled, and fills up with the sound of her crackling, rustling, sliding. Shf-shf-shf.
She comes back together standing, facing her prisoner. There are still lines on her face where the paper wants to pull away in blocks, but they seal as she settles back into flesh and cloth.
"You're doing better than you were when they brought you here," she comments. "You're standing. I wouldn't have expected it, particularly."
That dissembly...! That's a shocking thing. All of Yugito's muscles gone taunt as bowstrings, and her pulse still slamming hard in her throat. For an wild second she was sure that was an attack, and why couldn't the woman just walk?
It's difficult to speak after all that, but she was spoken to. This woman has probably seen how dizzy she is, at any rate; Yugito is not going to manage so well if she has to stand for a long time, or walk anywhere distant. She wonders where they are, those men who brought her in, and hopes that they're long distant by now.
"The Nibi," she finally says, because it's pointless to lie, at this point. "It helps." Reluctantly, and at this juncture worthlessly, and with muffled affect from seals, but it sustains her.
"Yes." Konan reaches and takes one of the other woman's hands, holding it in her own to inspect the sealed wound. She turns it over, looks at the back and then the palm, and puts a fingertip down onto the stitches. Kakuzu does good work with these things. His work with Deidara, with sinking down black cords tiny and accurate enough to bind nerve endings--that was impressive. This is no less so, though of course it's not been done with the same amount of attention to detail. Just neatness.
"I'd imagine so," she continues, speaking of the tailed beast sealed up inside this woman as she takes the other hand, looks it over, checking it. Then, almost to herself, "The wounds were not neat." Not small. Not shallow. They were gaping. Dark, gushing. Hidan had just grinned and grinned.
Yugito shudders, remembering. The Akatsuki's hands on hers are cool and dry, and make her skin prickle. They're not of a texture she'd immediately correlate with paper. What a strange bloodline that is... would this woman bleed, if wounded, or just... tear?
With the Nibi available at her call, Yugito thinks she could have had a chance against this woman. The flame breath would have eaten up those painfully delicate, thin papers. The point is moot now.
"No," she agrees at last, nearly whispering. "I remember." The wounds were rough, and incomprehensibly painful. Yugito turns her own palm up and looks at the stitches again, wondering who'd doctored her, not particularly caring. It had been a stopgap treatment, after all, piecing her back together so she could die in a different, more awful way, later.
Steady, half-lidded regard from Konan. Slowly, oh-so-wrongfully-tender, she raises one callused hand and presses her own dry, soft lips down over the stitching there. It is such a feminine gesture, somehow. Like an older sister, a mother, a lady love. And within herself she isn't entirely sure what brought it on, but it doesn't really matter. It's not important, after all. Just a small and pointless thing. Something done because she is a woman who is mated to her own doom, perhaps. Bedded down with it. Silently, she knows this, and so in a way, she understands. "None of it's permanent anyway," she says.
And it's true. True again. Paper things are for ceremonies. For use and admiration over a few brilliant days. And then they are over.
Yugito half bows her head, lowers her eyes, watches the other woman linger over her hands. Thinks about that careful, gentle touch, how no one had touched her with that kind of slow care... ever, really. This is not the kind of thing that she expected to find here.
The held hand, Yugito relaxes slightly, relinquishes it to the other woman's posession, lets it go. Such a dangerous thing to do, here, like this. Her free hand she catches a fold of that nightmarish robe and rubs the fabric between her fingers - it feels soft and slightly coarse, but very comfortable, not papery at all. It would be so interesting to hear about this jutsu and how it works, but Yugito asks another question instead.
"Please," she says, softly, almost just a breath. "Tell me your name."
Her lips trace each of Kakuzu's tight, black, knotted stitches. Trail onto a knuckle. Onto a fingertip, where there is dry brown blood still crusted under the nail and Konan can smell it and nearly taste it, though her lips are closed. And she she draws away. Her eyes are dark and sleepy. The hand touching her robe is curious to her--unafraid, because there is nothing left to be afraid of but the inevitable.
"Konan," she answers simply. She has no surname, and hasn't since even before she, Nagato and Yahiko were orphans robbing the streets in Amegakure.
Space between them, and it seems that it's up to Yugito to fill it - she steps forward. It's a feeling like falling off a precipice, that reeling terror afterwards. Konan is fuller-bodied than she is, but only slightly taller, and with that beautiful passive face of hers it's like coming up to meet one of those old figures from a painting, the ones with the faces perpetually in expressions of dubious reserve. Yugito pulls fitfully, nervously at the robe where she has a grip on it. The rain outside is like a long exhale.
It's the same kind of smooth, tender brush as with the hand. The Akatsuki woman's lips meet the brow of the prisoner. There's a difference in temperature between them. To Konan's cool flesh, Yugito seems hot. Summer-day warm. She is so much smaller than she seemed from across the room, and Konan is reminded of a stray cat who'd lurked the alleyways with her as a child--and of finding that animal once after it had lost a fight with a crow, setting a hand on it and being stunned by how tiny it seemed. How compressed with spent fear and rage. How slender-boned.
As with the hand, she trails down. Brushes dry kisses downward. Not kindness, really. But not anything else either.
Yugito's eyes flutter; she feels floating, spinning, in some unknown current. Konan's kisses, light-flutter brushes, are rich with a dilute sweetness, like the first breath of clean air after a battle. She turns her head to allow Konan easier access to her mouth, the racing pulse-point on the side of her neck, and is abruptly seized with an obscure, hysterical panic. "Wait," she blurts. "Wait. When are they coming for me?" Your partners. "When -"
"Soon." And their mouths press tight, sultry, sighing like the rain.
/end
Genre: Angst/Romance?
Warnings: PG for ladykisses, I'd say. Nothing really graphic.
Fandom: Naruto.
Notes: femslash! I saw a request for Konan/Yugito on a kink meme one time and I haven't really been able to get the idea out of my head since... so Zander and I wrote it tonight. I think I might just really like pairing up Yugito with the Akatsuki... but these two are so pretty and hopeless together, it makes me sigh.
Yugito woke up in a still, cool place. She was still breathing, which came as a surprise; she'd blacked out after Hidan's torture without expecting ever to wake up again. She felt surprisingly coherent, and although the greater part of her chakra was removed from her control she was still sensitive enough to realize she wasn't alone.
It was raining outside. Sweet, swift drops that glittered through the air like golden sparks, caught by the light of the sun as it peeked out from behind the drizzle-clouds. The effect stopped after a moment, once the rays had vanished again. Konan was by the window, looking out. She didn't care for rain. Like Zetsu, she could travel great distances in a short time for their Cause. But while he moved in the earth, she did it through the air. As paper, caught in the breeze, riding zephyrs and tunnels of wind. Invisible, or nearly so.
It was a useless ability in the rain, though. Rain would melt her body. Turn her delicate leafs to sodden pulp. Ruin her.
And so she was waiting.
"Awake?" she asks, and her voice is like the rest of her. Vespertine.
A woman's voice; throaty, with the sense of whisper to it even though she'd spoken in a normal tone. Yugito shivered with surprise, decided against faking unconsciousness. She wanted answers, or at least to inspect her wounds.
A light cover was draped over her body. She pushed it aside, gazed blankly at her hands, which were relatively whole again, the puncture wounds inflicted by Hidan when he'd pinned her with a pike through the palms closed up. Stitched up, rather, with what looked like black surgical thread; Yugito clenched her fingers as tightly as she could, until pain zinged through her nerves. Her body felt... neutral, and when she lifted the hem of the white shift she was wearing and glanced down her body the rest of her wounds had clearly been stitched as well.
Her jounin-sensei would have disapproved of her laxity. Yugito dropped the shirt and finally looked at the woman who had spoken.
Slender, blue hair, drowsy-looking eyes, and the ubiquitous cloak. Yugito narrowed her eyes before she could help herself.
Konan's expressions quite minute. The incremental lowering of dark lashes and tilt of her chin are the only visible signs that she finds this immediate flash of hostility somewhat amusing. This woman who had been a bleeding mess when Konan had first laid eyes on her was watching her. Cat-like. That staring, steady glare. Red lips, muscles bunched and tense.
She was strong. An runner, a jumper, like so many ninja. Konan never was one--not truly. She never saw the point in it.
Yugito licked her upper lip, wondering if she felt up to standing. Then she decided that there was really nothing for it and slid off the futon, pushed herself up. There was a rush of blood and dizziness but she didn't fall and managed not to make too much of a fool of herself. How long had she been out, anyway, and how much blood had she lost?
There was a window to the side of her guard. Yugito eyed it for a second. Outside it was grey, rainy, and a ripple of displeasure stirred her mind - from the Nibi. The Nibi had never enjoyed rain. To be contrary, then, Yugito made sure to take a kind of bitter pleasure in it. It appeared to be truly pouring outside. Raindrops plinked on the roof and sighed through the trees. They looked to be on the second floor.
The window was close, but she didn't know where she was, and her guard was clearly very confident in herself... and besides, she was in a fatalistic mood, at this point. Yugito looked at the other woman again. "How long have I been asleep?" she asked, and "Who are you?"
"Quite some time, Nii Yugito." The reply was soft and even. Answers don't matter. This woman can have the truth--Konan does not mind giving it to her. She's doomed, after all. Her life is ending. There's no harm that truth can do.
She watches her sort of shift. Very subtly. Look at the window, look away, glare some more. Her mouth is so dark, lips fine and pursed grimly.
"And I am of Akatsuki." It's the obvious answer. It's what they both already know. But it's the truth again.
Yugito feels... she doesn't know what, something swelling up under her mind. Non-answers, non-answers, but that's nothing surprising. Now that she's standing she's restless, but there's really nowhere to move. The sliding door is closed and there really isn't any furniture, only the woman seated on a rather incongruous chair. Yugito allows herself one restless sway from foot to foot; if she were a cat, her tail would be lashing. Someone's loosened her hair. Somehow, impossibly, there isn't a tangle in it. It coils in loose waves around her face. Yugito has never liked her hair loose. In fights, loose, it blinds her, and in regular life it makes her look like a civilian. Cloud generally looked askance at her appearing to be a civ. They liked to see where their best weapons were at all times.
It's raining and she wishes she was outside, with raindrops wetting her face and sliding into her mouth, sleeking down her hair and soaking her down to the skin. The air does smell sweet, freshened by the rain.
Konan moves. Not gets up, or leans in the chair, but moves. She falls apart. Square chunks of flesh riffle from her face in hundreds of soft, thin pieces of paper. Her cloak goes to pieces, fluttering into sheets and sheets and sheets. Countless sheets. For an instant she is a slow-moving, small dustdevil full of parchment in the middle of the room. The air stirs, cooled, and fills up with the sound of her crackling, rustling, sliding. Shf-shf-shf.
She comes back together standing, facing her prisoner. There are still lines on her face where the paper wants to pull away in blocks, but they seal as she settles back into flesh and cloth.
"You're doing better than you were when they brought you here," she comments. "You're standing. I wouldn't have expected it, particularly."
That dissembly...! That's a shocking thing. All of Yugito's muscles gone taunt as bowstrings, and her pulse still slamming hard in her throat. For an wild second she was sure that was an attack, and why couldn't the woman just walk?
It's difficult to speak after all that, but she was spoken to. This woman has probably seen how dizzy she is, at any rate; Yugito is not going to manage so well if she has to stand for a long time, or walk anywhere distant. She wonders where they are, those men who brought her in, and hopes that they're long distant by now.
"The Nibi," she finally says, because it's pointless to lie, at this point. "It helps." Reluctantly, and at this juncture worthlessly, and with muffled affect from seals, but it sustains her.
"Yes." Konan reaches and takes one of the other woman's hands, holding it in her own to inspect the sealed wound. She turns it over, looks at the back and then the palm, and puts a fingertip down onto the stitches. Kakuzu does good work with these things. His work with Deidara, with sinking down black cords tiny and accurate enough to bind nerve endings--that was impressive. This is no less so, though of course it's not been done with the same amount of attention to detail. Just neatness.
"I'd imagine so," she continues, speaking of the tailed beast sealed up inside this woman as she takes the other hand, looks it over, checking it. Then, almost to herself, "The wounds were not neat." Not small. Not shallow. They were gaping. Dark, gushing. Hidan had just grinned and grinned.
Yugito shudders, remembering. The Akatsuki's hands on hers are cool and dry, and make her skin prickle. They're not of a texture she'd immediately correlate with paper. What a strange bloodline that is... would this woman bleed, if wounded, or just... tear?
With the Nibi available at her call, Yugito thinks she could have had a chance against this woman. The flame breath would have eaten up those painfully delicate, thin papers. The point is moot now.
"No," she agrees at last, nearly whispering. "I remember." The wounds were rough, and incomprehensibly painful. Yugito turns her own palm up and looks at the stitches again, wondering who'd doctored her, not particularly caring. It had been a stopgap treatment, after all, piecing her back together so she could die in a different, more awful way, later.
Steady, half-lidded regard from Konan. Slowly, oh-so-wrongfully-tender, she raises one callused hand and presses her own dry, soft lips down over the stitching there. It is such a feminine gesture, somehow. Like an older sister, a mother, a lady love. And within herself she isn't entirely sure what brought it on, but it doesn't really matter. It's not important, after all. Just a small and pointless thing. Something done because she is a woman who is mated to her own doom, perhaps. Bedded down with it. Silently, she knows this, and so in a way, she understands. "None of it's permanent anyway," she says.
And it's true. True again. Paper things are for ceremonies. For use and admiration over a few brilliant days. And then they are over.
Yugito half bows her head, lowers her eyes, watches the other woman linger over her hands. Thinks about that careful, gentle touch, how no one had touched her with that kind of slow care... ever, really. This is not the kind of thing that she expected to find here.
The held hand, Yugito relaxes slightly, relinquishes it to the other woman's posession, lets it go. Such a dangerous thing to do, here, like this. Her free hand she catches a fold of that nightmarish robe and rubs the fabric between her fingers - it feels soft and slightly coarse, but very comfortable, not papery at all. It would be so interesting to hear about this jutsu and how it works, but Yugito asks another question instead.
"Please," she says, softly, almost just a breath. "Tell me your name."
Her lips trace each of Kakuzu's tight, black, knotted stitches. Trail onto a knuckle. Onto a fingertip, where there is dry brown blood still crusted under the nail and Konan can smell it and nearly taste it, though her lips are closed. And she she draws away. Her eyes are dark and sleepy. The hand touching her robe is curious to her--unafraid, because there is nothing left to be afraid of but the inevitable.
"Konan," she answers simply. She has no surname, and hasn't since even before she, Nagato and Yahiko were orphans robbing the streets in Amegakure.
Space between them, and it seems that it's up to Yugito to fill it - she steps forward. It's a feeling like falling off a precipice, that reeling terror afterwards. Konan is fuller-bodied than she is, but only slightly taller, and with that beautiful passive face of hers it's like coming up to meet one of those old figures from a painting, the ones with the faces perpetually in expressions of dubious reserve. Yugito pulls fitfully, nervously at the robe where she has a grip on it. The rain outside is like a long exhale.
It's the same kind of smooth, tender brush as with the hand. The Akatsuki woman's lips meet the brow of the prisoner. There's a difference in temperature between them. To Konan's cool flesh, Yugito seems hot. Summer-day warm. She is so much smaller than she seemed from across the room, and Konan is reminded of a stray cat who'd lurked the alleyways with her as a child--and of finding that animal once after it had lost a fight with a crow, setting a hand on it and being stunned by how tiny it seemed. How compressed with spent fear and rage. How slender-boned.
As with the hand, she trails down. Brushes dry kisses downward. Not kindness, really. But not anything else either.
Yugito's eyes flutter; she feels floating, spinning, in some unknown current. Konan's kisses, light-flutter brushes, are rich with a dilute sweetness, like the first breath of clean air after a battle. She turns her head to allow Konan easier access to her mouth, the racing pulse-point on the side of her neck, and is abruptly seized with an obscure, hysterical panic. "Wait," she blurts. "Wait. When are they coming for me?" Your partners. "When -"
"Soon." And their mouths press tight, sultry, sighing like the rain.
/end