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In Which Diplomacy Is Very Important

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It starts in Suna, with a party. It's the the kind where people in heavy robes and too much makeup murmur 'party' in their quiet and proper voices, the same way a jaded ninja says 'wake'. Tsunade's meant to be networking: she's the Hokage, it's a massive diplomatic do, all very important, yes, yes.

There's only so much time she can spend trading blank stares with the Kazekage.

Tsunade feels like she could use some company, somebody to talk to, a hand of cards to hide her face behind, something. She feels like she's all wrung out. She spent three days getting to this sweltering hellhole and all she got for her trouble was this headache and a mouthful of ashes.

To be fair, that could also be the sake. It flows freely at these sorts of events and Tsunade's still kind of recovering from last night. There's not enough deep fried meat in the world to mop up all that in just a day.

The party's in one of the big houses, left by the previous Kazekage and incidentally where Gaara probably grew up - talk about a home ground advantage. She runs her hands through her hair, trying to concentrate on what the old fossil in front of her is saying. He's a Suna-nin, almost as old as the desert sands, and a formidable power on the village's council.

Mmm. Yes. Trade of medical scrolls. That's nice. She nods, she smiles. She drinks.

Tsunade's too legendary - and too bored - to chat with one old councilman for long.

She's too far from home and feeling restless and aggressive. She rocks on her heels. She surveys the room.

She wishes Shizune was here. She's always more socially graceful.

Her eyes light on an unfamiliar silhouette: slender, with soft amber eyes and bluish hair and all the unconcerned elegance of a hunting cat.

Oooh, that's the delegate from Ame.

Tsunade checks her hair in the back of a spoon. Diplomatic relations are, after all, so important.

The Suna-nin can wait.


Tsunade suspects she might be a little too drunk. Experience tells her that she'll probably be embarrassed about that at some point - getting wasted at important diplomatic events is kind of a faux pas for the Hokage. Either way, she has no idea how she ends up crowding Konan back against a giant polished marble credenza.

She's drunk and restless and Konan is right there. And hot. So hot. She's pale and toned and her face is this amazing, perfect thing. Her expression is lofty and amused and in control in a way that makes Tsunade want to groan aloud.

Tsunade misses home and hates this stupid party and she so wants to lick Konan's mouth.

Even though the light and sounds of the gathering can reach them right here and they're in easy reach of calculating eyes. There are definitely people here tonight who shouldn't see something like this.

Tsunade licks her lips. Konan smells so good. It might be her drunken brain - chemically altered, deprived of most of her commonsense - but there's one sweaty lock of hair behind Konan's ear that's amazing.

Tsunade leans in and inhales, buries her face in the curve of the woman's neck, and if she bites her ear as well? Bonus.

Konan clenches her fingers in Tsunade's long hair and pushes her away, but she doesn't really seem to mind, she doesn't even put her drink down. "Okay," she says, sounding detached and just a little thoughtful.

Tsunade's probably too close now - she can feel the pressure of Konan's hips, hard up against her own. "My brother can see you right now," she says without moving her gaze from Tsunade's.

Tsunade holds her eyes and rubs her knee against Konan's, surprised and pleased when Konan's thighs relax against her. That looseness, implied surrender, faked vulnerability. Tsunade is thrilled, with a spine-tingling anticipation, a heart-thundering anxiety, a hot atavistic want.

The fabric of Konan's ridiculous formal robe shifts with her. It's stretched taut over her thighs, and Tsunade wants to shove her hand into that flat little shadow between them there, where she knows it'll be hot and probably sweaty, maybe - maybe, if she's really, really lucky - slick with something other than sweat.

She wants to scrunch the fabric up or - or rip it, yes, god yes, and it wouldn't take much, she wouldn't even have to use her chakra - and get on her knees and bury her face between Konan's thighs.

She wants to put her nose in the wiry hair there and inhale the smells of sweat and slick horny woman. She wants to feel those iron legs go tense around her head. She wants to dig her fingers into the fleshy parts of her thighs. She wants to rub her face on her cunt.

"Am I going to have to beat him for the privilege?" she asks. She realises after the words spill out that she's not even sure she's joking. She might do just that.

Tsunade tosses back the rest of her own drink - no small feat, with Konan's fingers still twisted in her hair - and gives Konan challenging eyes. Konan licks her lower lip, leaving it wet and gleaming in the light.

"Come on," Tsunade says, baring her teeth.

Konan gives her a thoughtful look, disentangling her fingers. Her mouth is so close, still, hot and slick with saliva and the heat of their combined breath.

Tsunade just does it. She leans forward that extra inch. She licks the saliva from Konan's mouth. She groans.

Konan smiles. "I don't think that will prove necessary," she murmurs, and puts her glass down with a clink.