interest 20/48 - kunoichi-as-whore
Anko & Hanabi. In which Anko gives almost-fifteen year old Hanabi that talk. The kunoichi one. (same world as Chocolate Candy Bar, but three years later.) 880-ish words.
It was time for that talk. No, not the talk. That Anko dispensed with a few months after getting her team.
(The talk was a whole hell of a lot more fun than this one. It had basically consisted of traumatizing her students, something Anko enjoyed:
“Hanabi, you have one set of parts. Hayabusa, Tobi, you have the other set. Eventually you might start thinking the one set would go well with the other set, or maybe you want a matching pair. The nice thing ’bout the latter is, well, Tobi here won’t ever knock up Hayabusa. Still, neither set is any good diseased. Use protection.”)
This talk was traditionally a kunoichi-only sort. Anko was going to have one with the boys anyway. But first here was Hanabi in front of her. Age fourteen, cusp of fifteen. Skinny. Her breasts poked up her shirt like a second set of collarbones defiantly trying to rise above their lot in life. She was all limbs, long lean legs and wiry arms. Pretty ankles though: slender, finely boned, set just beneath the widening of her strong calves. As Anko watched, Hanabi sat down and crossed them neatly.
She’d brought her to her little-used office just because it felt more official that way. The stuffy air, the mounds of paperwork, the pens crammed into a jam jar on the corner. Glass, uncurtained, like being in a fishbowl. The little embossed nameplate Anko had commissioned just because she thought it looked cool.
It was a sterile, professional sort of environment. Using both words loosely; there was probably a sandwich growing mold in one corner or another.
Anko set her elbows down on her desk, pushing papers in ten different directions and further blurring the lines between this stack and that one.
Hanabi frowned.
Anko briefly considered assigning Hanabi paperwork, starting with last year’s. She would bet the brat’d do it well, too. Hyuuga were made for paperwork. It reeked of disgusting things like tradition and records. You know, Hyuuga sorts of things. Too bad they were so damn useful out in the field.
She plopped her chin in her hand. “So, kid. It’s about that age, I guess.”
Hanabi lifted her eyebrows. They were aristocratic eyebrows, Anko thought. Everything about her was either aristrocrat or teenager. All the pieces met in an awkward pile-up of beauty and ugly, wrapped in too much pride.
“There’s one weapon you’ve got that I haven’t gone into much.” She took a breath. Fuck, she hated this, especially the way Hanabi looked slightly curious.
“It’s the one between your legs.”
Hanabi’s frown deepened. Then, without a word, she stood and walked towards the door. Anko didn’t look at her ankles, at the length of legs in her crisply-fit short trousers. Some times, some things even she figured were inappropriate, though Tsunade’d never believe it.
“Sit your ass back in that chair,” Anko snapped. Hanabi froze, hand on the handle and handle half-turned. She lifted a disdainful eyebrow. Her ass remained out-of-chair. But Anko recognized Hanabi-startled in her face, behind the disgust. No, Hanabi wouldn’t leave. “There’s some nin who turn a trick as a matter of course in a mission. You’ve met a couple. Not going to say who they are, because that’s their business. Most are women. There’s a man or two, though. You’ll never be one of them, though, don’t worry.
“Then there’s the other sort. Sometimes it happens that a sword isn’t going to save your ass. Some of those times, your pussy will.”
“You are so very crude,” Hanabi said. Now she turned the handle, back taut with anger.
So much pride. It hurt to think of her with her legs spread prettily for some bastard, all that brittle pride shattering beneath his weight. She could half-feel it like her own pride breaking. Maybe once it would’ve been. But Anko of today subscribed to the school of “what doesn’t kill ya…” (and she never ever ever wants to let anything kill this girl. Or the boys, for that matter.)
“One more minute, then you can go,” Anko said. “If it ever happens that that’s the case, you need to remember that you use your hands to kill, and end of the day, you can still patch up your teammates enough to make them live long enough to get properly healed. You can pet a kitten or cook a meal for your family. Not that your aristocrat hands do, but they could-”
“What are you blabbering about?” Hanabi asked.
“If it happens - and kid, I hope it doesn’t - but if it does, doesn’t mean you can’t pick yourself up afterwards and do it for fun -”
Hanabi sniffed. “Not everyone spreads their legs on a lark, you know.”
Anko grinned at her. “ - for fun, or love, or making babies to carry on that good ol’ Hyuuga blood, whatever it is you’ll spread yours for. Just remember that.”
“I suppose. Is that all you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Yup. See ya tomorrow.”
The door shut behind Hanabi with a click. Anko tossed off a wave at her through the glass.
Then - then, well, no one can shrug off everything. So she figured it was all right that she sagged face first into her paperwork.
It was time for that talk. No, not the talk. That Anko dispensed with a few months after getting her team.
(The talk was a whole hell of a lot more fun than this one. It had basically consisted of traumatizing her students, something Anko enjoyed:
“Hanabi, you have one set of parts. Hayabusa, Tobi, you have the other set. Eventually you might start thinking the one set would go well with the other set, or maybe you want a matching pair. The nice thing ’bout the latter is, well, Tobi here won’t ever knock up Hayabusa. Still, neither set is any good diseased. Use protection.”)
This talk was traditionally a kunoichi-only sort. Anko was going to have one with the boys anyway. But first here was Hanabi in front of her. Age fourteen, cusp of fifteen. Skinny. Her breasts poked up her shirt like a second set of collarbones defiantly trying to rise above their lot in life. She was all limbs, long lean legs and wiry arms. Pretty ankles though: slender, finely boned, set just beneath the widening of her strong calves. As Anko watched, Hanabi sat down and crossed them neatly.
She’d brought her to her little-used office just because it felt more official that way. The stuffy air, the mounds of paperwork, the pens crammed into a jam jar on the corner. Glass, uncurtained, like being in a fishbowl. The little embossed nameplate Anko had commissioned just because she thought it looked cool.
It was a sterile, professional sort of environment. Using both words loosely; there was probably a sandwich growing mold in one corner or another.
Anko set her elbows down on her desk, pushing papers in ten different directions and further blurring the lines between this stack and that one.
Hanabi frowned.
Anko briefly considered assigning Hanabi paperwork, starting with last year’s. She would bet the brat’d do it well, too. Hyuuga were made for paperwork. It reeked of disgusting things like tradition and records. You know, Hyuuga sorts of things. Too bad they were so damn useful out in the field.
She plopped her chin in her hand. “So, kid. It’s about that age, I guess.”
Hanabi lifted her eyebrows. They were aristocratic eyebrows, Anko thought. Everything about her was either aristrocrat or teenager. All the pieces met in an awkward pile-up of beauty and ugly, wrapped in too much pride.
“There’s one weapon you’ve got that I haven’t gone into much.” She took a breath. Fuck, she hated this, especially the way Hanabi looked slightly curious.
“It’s the one between your legs.”
Hanabi’s frown deepened. Then, without a word, she stood and walked towards the door. Anko didn’t look at her ankles, at the length of legs in her crisply-fit short trousers. Some times, some things even she figured were inappropriate, though Tsunade’d never believe it.
“Sit your ass back in that chair,” Anko snapped. Hanabi froze, hand on the handle and handle half-turned. She lifted a disdainful eyebrow. Her ass remained out-of-chair. But Anko recognized Hanabi-startled in her face, behind the disgust. No, Hanabi wouldn’t leave. “There’s some nin who turn a trick as a matter of course in a mission. You’ve met a couple. Not going to say who they are, because that’s their business. Most are women. There’s a man or two, though. You’ll never be one of them, though, don’t worry.
“Then there’s the other sort. Sometimes it happens that a sword isn’t going to save your ass. Some of those times, your pussy will.”
“You are so very crude,” Hanabi said. Now she turned the handle, back taut with anger.
So much pride. It hurt to think of her with her legs spread prettily for some bastard, all that brittle pride shattering beneath his weight. She could half-feel it like her own pride breaking. Maybe once it would’ve been. But Anko of today subscribed to the school of “what doesn’t kill ya…” (and she never ever ever wants to let anything kill this girl. Or the boys, for that matter.)
“One more minute, then you can go,” Anko said. “If it ever happens that that’s the case, you need to remember that you use your hands to kill, and end of the day, you can still patch up your teammates enough to make them live long enough to get properly healed. You can pet a kitten or cook a meal for your family. Not that your aristocrat hands do, but they could-”
“What are you blabbering about?” Hanabi asked.
“If it happens - and kid, I hope it doesn’t - but if it does, doesn’t mean you can’t pick yourself up afterwards and do it for fun -”
Hanabi sniffed. “Not everyone spreads their legs on a lark, you know.”
Anko grinned at her. “ - for fun, or love, or making babies to carry on that good ol’ Hyuuga blood, whatever it is you’ll spread yours for. Just remember that.”
“I suppose. Is that all you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Yup. See ya tomorrow.”
The door shut behind Hanabi with a click. Anko tossed off a wave at her through the glass.
Then - then, well, no one can shrug off everything. So she figured it was all right that she sagged face first into her paperwork.