Studio
folder
Naruto › Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
2
Views:
1,153
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Naruto › Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
2
Views:
1,153
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Naruto, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Studio
Title: Studio
Author: T.S. Jackal-Bright
Rating: PG for this chapter, will eventually be NC-17
Warnings: AU [reincarnation being the main cliché], Angst, Yaoi, Lime/Lemon
Pairings: SasuNaruSasu, KakaIruKaka, one-sided ItaNaru, one-sided GaaNaru,implied past ItaTsu, possibly [probably] others
Summary: No matter how much things change, so much remains the same.
A/N: From here on out my notes will be at the end of a chapter, but I wanted to start this out with a hello and a few warnings:
~ First of all, hello! While this is my second epic [well, multi-chapter] fic I’ve written, it’ll be my first posted. I might post the other at another time, but first things first. I’m hoping this will keep my attention long enough to finish it because I know you, as readers, deserve to be paid that respect.
~Second, about the story: this will be a reincarnation fic and because the characters are reincarnated they will have different names and potentially different age...differences...yeah; also, only Sasuke’s and Itachi’s characters will remain Japanese. The story takes place in an American metropolis in the near future [the city, Necropolis, is obviously fictional, so just play along.] Names that come up in this chapter, for the curious who don’t want to wait and guess, are:
Dympna/Dee Redd - Naruto
Colin Halliday - Iruka
Uriel/Uri Halliday [nee - Uriel Beckmann] - Kakashi
Yoshitomo Ufan - Sasuke
Takashi Ufan - Itachi
Sara Mad Walker [Tsunade]
Bonus love if you know which particular populace Dympna is the patron saint of and which three contemporary artists the Uchiha boy’s new names come from. ^_^
~Third, there will be more boy-love than you can shake a naked Sasuke at. Lots of it and eventually explicit descriptions of it. Yay for smut! Ahem... I mean... Up with well-written erotica! [At least, I hope it will be well written.] There will also be cussing, drug and alcohol use, transexualism, major angst, art-snobbery, and some clubbing, if we’re lucky.
~Fourth, this is unbetaed, so please feel free to put me in my place, grammatically or if a plot point makes no sense. Please do not flame me senselessly over points you have been warned about [i.e. - homosexuality] because you knew what you were reading when you got into it. I will also update warnings when necessary, per chapter.
~Fifth, I don’t own Naruto or Talking Heads [tiny reference to their song “Artists Only” in the chapter, which is, coincidentally, my ringback and a lovely song, thank you.]
With that said, enjoy!
------
Chapter One
“Lease”
-----
“As you can see, the space comes with its own full bath and kitchenette, as well as plenty of natural light, good ventilation...”
“And another tenant.”
“Now, I know you only wanted to look at single properties,” Uri Halliday placated, keeping his pleasant expression intact while his insides geared up for a royal snit, “but this particular lessor’s looking for a studio-mate and the location is hard to turn down. You can’t find a better price in East Necropolis.”
The young man looked around, the dark expression he wore all morning remaining
without betraying how he felt about the place. They visited five properties already and this brat found some insignificant and rather pissy-bitchtastic reason to turn them all down. While Uri couldn’t blame him for refusing this particular space, it seemed worth the attempt; it was technically Uri’s fault that Dee needed a studio-mate, since he had to raise rent this past year, so he felt it was the least he could do to try and place someone with his brother-in-law.
“What else do you have available?” the young man asked, his English flawless behind his thick accent.
“I have two more open properties, although they cost twice anything we’ve seen yet,” Uri quipped, his cheerful, laid-back demeanor starting to harden. If the emotionless wonder noticed, he failed to show it.
“Their locations?”
“One’s on the 1300th block of Belles Ames and the other is on the north border of the meat district, 34th and Main.”
A grunt from the potential client. Wordless, yet effective in conveying his displeasure. Uri checked his watch, making sure the guy noticed that he had, and followed it with a loud sigh. He didn’t have enough time to take this twit to opposite ends of the city during rush hour and still make it home and free of Colin’s wrath.
“What is the current tenant like?”
“You mean here?” Uri asked, thrown slightly, having written this lease off completely. “Dee?”
The other answered with a firm nod, as if to say of course I meant here, you idiot. Uri groaned inwardly, his annoyance bitter from nervousness. Dee was a good kid, his favorite in fact, but quite the opposite of this guy.
Quite.
“Dee’s sweet. He’s 22, around your age I’m guessing...”
“I’m 24,” the other interrupted.
“So you’re close then, good,” Uri continued, ignoring the glare. “Dee’s energetic and hilarious, and really quite the artist. He’s got a show up at Lucky Punk, actually...”
“When does he work?”
“Usually in the mornings,” Uri said, slowing himself to a safer pace without losing his sugar-sweet sales pitch voice. The interruptions annoyed him. He really hated being interrupted. “Dee works afternoons at his brother’s shop and evenings at Sara’s gallery, so if you’re a night owl you’ll probably never see him.”
The nod-response seemed pleased, but the opening mouth meant there was more.
“I’m not agreeing to anything until I meet him.”
Uric figured as much but it didn’t make him any happier. Not that he needed to move this property, what with Dee sitting on it already, but it would help the kid out. As it was, he had little time left for the young man. Snatching a random scrap of paper from Dee’s work area, he scribbled down a few lines of information. The young man studied it gravely, as if deciphering lost truths from within the words, while Uri explained their surface meaning.
“Here’s Dee’s cell and home numbers, as well as our address; we’re having a gathering at 8 o’clock tonight, informal, so if you want to you’re welcome to come. Dee’s sure to be there.”
Uri turned to leave, trying to get the other to follow him out. After one last look around, he obeyed. Without an indication he needed a ride back to the agency or even a good-bye, the young man made his way down the center stairwell. As Uri locked up, he asked one last question of the potential tenant, hoping the guy could still hear him.
“Can I get your full name, since you might be interested in a lease?”
Echoing back up the way, barely loud enough to over-power the slap of fine soles on old marble, the answer came and caused Uri to laugh.
“Ufan Yoshitomo.”
Ridiculous, Uri told himself. Like hell East Necropolis’s little art prince would be looking to not only rent one of his crappy spaces, but to also share it with his ADHD brother-in-law.
“Of course you are,” he called out, unable to swallow a chuckle. No reply came up and over the landing’s thick railing except the slam of the front door. Uri shook his head as he followed behind, bounding lightly down the stairs. If anything came of this, what a story to tell, especially if “Ufan” showed up tonight.
Wouldn’t Dee just die when he heard this.
* * * * *
The tinny, electro-grating beeps of a cellular being dialed feebly attempted to cut through the roar of downtown’s early eavening. Following that, an obnoxious, out-dated song informed the listener that the singer is “painting, I’m painting again.”
Yoshitomo hated ringback tones; ridiculous attempts to prove to the world how unique you are by broadcasting the perfect song that mirrors your, and a million other peoples’, soul. He had no intentions of acknowledging the attempts at cleverness in Dee’s song selection.
Gnawing on an already-ragged thumb nail, Yoshitomo rode out the idiocy in anticipation of the voicemail message. Which would probably hurt his brain as well. Of course.
“You’ve reached Dympna Redd’s voicemail! Crazy people and adoring fans wait for the beep, the rest of you need not apply. Unless you’re Colin and I’ll be there soon, I promise!”
That curled his lip. Dympna? What the hell kind of name is that?
Unable to bring himself to leave a message, Yoshitomo snapped the phone shut and headed north; he had time before the “gathering” that evening and, since he just happened to be in the neighborhood he might as well check out this guy’s show over at Lucky Punk Gallery. That Halliday man was quite right about the studio’s desirable location, that much was certain.
Dympna Redd, huh?
Yoshitomo just knew that whatever hung in Lucky Punk right now would be
exactly what he fought so hard against. Unsure what form it would take or what fancy label it would hide behind, he figured it would be some hideous display of hyper-active hues poorly attempting to execute some sort of idealistic, maximalist drivel. About love. Or hate. Or the soul. Either way, he guessed it would be painful, and Yoshitomo rarely guessed wrong.
Was he really that masochistic that he would waste his time seeing it? Should it really matter what kind of work a potential studio mate put out?
Yoshitomo’s kink and Yoshitomo’s pride both answered yes to their respective questions.
Ignoring the rush hour crowd, forcing it to flow around him and his chosen path, Yoshitomo headed deep into East Necropolis’s gallery district.
Lucky Punk had made the current scene, relocating art form the over-priced and
over-played Blue Line district to the east side of the city almost twenty years ago. It revived a dying neighborhood, turned a pretty profit, gave contemporary art the booster shot it needed to get through at least another decade or two before dying out again, and all because of its aggressively desirable owner and her shining champion, Takashi Ufan.
Yoshitomo only met Punk’s lone owner and manager once, when he was very small and his parents still claw-clutched him tight in their Nihon nest. Sara Mad Walker flew in with Takashi one New Year, all slick, ink stone hair, smooth, sun-fucked skin, and talltalltall. Mother and Father hated her and everyone shouted a lot; Takashi found him in the closet under the stairs hours after Yoshitomo thought he and Sara flew back to America, whispering promises that next time, next time, he wouldn’t leave without his little Yoshi by his side.
By the time big brother Takashi made good on his word he had fallen out with Punk’s proud, loud owner; now he heard stories about their rows and the violent, nasty things that they said to the other. That each did to the other. Naturally, Yoshitomo sought other representation when he decided to try his hand at his brother’s trade. He never even set foot in Lucky Punk before, for fear of any lingering death threats to the Ufan bloodline that Takashi drew from Sara’s lips with relish, for both parties. He wondered if she would
remember him as a scrawny, Japanese baby-boy that she cooed and covered in fine gifts and sweets and treats Yoshitomo couldn’t keep for long; Mother and Father made sure to burn anything that reminded them of their older son, desperate to erase their shame.
Yoshitomo doubted it.
If anything, she would see his face and know his name, because who didn’t down on the east side? Then, there might be murder.
With a sick grin, Yoshitomo headed inside.
He certainly hoped that would be the case.
-tbc...if ya’ll want more-
Author: T.S. Jackal-Bright
Rating: PG for this chapter, will eventually be NC-17
Warnings: AU [reincarnation being the main cliché], Angst, Yaoi, Lime/Lemon
Pairings: SasuNaruSasu, KakaIruKaka, one-sided ItaNaru, one-sided GaaNaru,implied past ItaTsu, possibly [probably] others
Summary: No matter how much things change, so much remains the same.
A/N: From here on out my notes will be at the end of a chapter, but I wanted to start this out with a hello and a few warnings:
~ First of all, hello! While this is my second epic [well, multi-chapter] fic I’ve written, it’ll be my first posted. I might post the other at another time, but first things first. I’m hoping this will keep my attention long enough to finish it because I know you, as readers, deserve to be paid that respect.
~Second, about the story: this will be a reincarnation fic and because the characters are reincarnated they will have different names and potentially different age...differences...yeah; also, only Sasuke’s and Itachi’s characters will remain Japanese. The story takes place in an American metropolis in the near future [the city, Necropolis, is obviously fictional, so just play along.] Names that come up in this chapter, for the curious who don’t want to wait and guess, are:
Dympna/Dee Redd - Naruto
Colin Halliday - Iruka
Uriel/Uri Halliday [nee - Uriel Beckmann] - Kakashi
Yoshitomo Ufan - Sasuke
Takashi Ufan - Itachi
Sara Mad Walker [Tsunade]
Bonus love if you know which particular populace Dympna is the patron saint of and which three contemporary artists the Uchiha boy’s new names come from. ^_^
~Third, there will be more boy-love than you can shake a naked Sasuke at. Lots of it and eventually explicit descriptions of it. Yay for smut! Ahem... I mean... Up with well-written erotica! [At least, I hope it will be well written.] There will also be cussing, drug and alcohol use, transexualism, major angst, art-snobbery, and some clubbing, if we’re lucky.
~Fourth, this is unbetaed, so please feel free to put me in my place, grammatically or if a plot point makes no sense. Please do not flame me senselessly over points you have been warned about [i.e. - homosexuality] because you knew what you were reading when you got into it. I will also update warnings when necessary, per chapter.
~Fifth, I don’t own Naruto or Talking Heads [tiny reference to their song “Artists Only” in the chapter, which is, coincidentally, my ringback and a lovely song, thank you.]
With that said, enjoy!
------
Chapter One
“Lease”
-----
“As you can see, the space comes with its own full bath and kitchenette, as well as plenty of natural light, good ventilation...”
“And another tenant.”
“Now, I know you only wanted to look at single properties,” Uri Halliday placated, keeping his pleasant expression intact while his insides geared up for a royal snit, “but this particular lessor’s looking for a studio-mate and the location is hard to turn down. You can’t find a better price in East Necropolis.”
The young man looked around, the dark expression he wore all morning remaining
without betraying how he felt about the place. They visited five properties already and this brat found some insignificant and rather pissy-bitchtastic reason to turn them all down. While Uri couldn’t blame him for refusing this particular space, it seemed worth the attempt; it was technically Uri’s fault that Dee needed a studio-mate, since he had to raise rent this past year, so he felt it was the least he could do to try and place someone with his brother-in-law.
“What else do you have available?” the young man asked, his English flawless behind his thick accent.
“I have two more open properties, although they cost twice anything we’ve seen yet,” Uri quipped, his cheerful, laid-back demeanor starting to harden. If the emotionless wonder noticed, he failed to show it.
“Their locations?”
“One’s on the 1300th block of Belles Ames and the other is on the north border of the meat district, 34th and Main.”
A grunt from the potential client. Wordless, yet effective in conveying his displeasure. Uri checked his watch, making sure the guy noticed that he had, and followed it with a loud sigh. He didn’t have enough time to take this twit to opposite ends of the city during rush hour and still make it home and free of Colin’s wrath.
“What is the current tenant like?”
“You mean here?” Uri asked, thrown slightly, having written this lease off completely. “Dee?”
The other answered with a firm nod, as if to say of course I meant here, you idiot. Uri groaned inwardly, his annoyance bitter from nervousness. Dee was a good kid, his favorite in fact, but quite the opposite of this guy.
Quite.
“Dee’s sweet. He’s 22, around your age I’m guessing...”
“I’m 24,” the other interrupted.
“So you’re close then, good,” Uri continued, ignoring the glare. “Dee’s energetic and hilarious, and really quite the artist. He’s got a show up at Lucky Punk, actually...”
“When does he work?”
“Usually in the mornings,” Uri said, slowing himself to a safer pace without losing his sugar-sweet sales pitch voice. The interruptions annoyed him. He really hated being interrupted. “Dee works afternoons at his brother’s shop and evenings at Sara’s gallery, so if you’re a night owl you’ll probably never see him.”
The nod-response seemed pleased, but the opening mouth meant there was more.
“I’m not agreeing to anything until I meet him.”
Uric figured as much but it didn’t make him any happier. Not that he needed to move this property, what with Dee sitting on it already, but it would help the kid out. As it was, he had little time left for the young man. Snatching a random scrap of paper from Dee’s work area, he scribbled down a few lines of information. The young man studied it gravely, as if deciphering lost truths from within the words, while Uri explained their surface meaning.
“Here’s Dee’s cell and home numbers, as well as our address; we’re having a gathering at 8 o’clock tonight, informal, so if you want to you’re welcome to come. Dee’s sure to be there.”
Uri turned to leave, trying to get the other to follow him out. After one last look around, he obeyed. Without an indication he needed a ride back to the agency or even a good-bye, the young man made his way down the center stairwell. As Uri locked up, he asked one last question of the potential tenant, hoping the guy could still hear him.
“Can I get your full name, since you might be interested in a lease?”
Echoing back up the way, barely loud enough to over-power the slap of fine soles on old marble, the answer came and caused Uri to laugh.
“Ufan Yoshitomo.”
Ridiculous, Uri told himself. Like hell East Necropolis’s little art prince would be looking to not only rent one of his crappy spaces, but to also share it with his ADHD brother-in-law.
“Of course you are,” he called out, unable to swallow a chuckle. No reply came up and over the landing’s thick railing except the slam of the front door. Uri shook his head as he followed behind, bounding lightly down the stairs. If anything came of this, what a story to tell, especially if “Ufan” showed up tonight.
Wouldn’t Dee just die when he heard this.
* * * * *
The tinny, electro-grating beeps of a cellular being dialed feebly attempted to cut through the roar of downtown’s early eavening. Following that, an obnoxious, out-dated song informed the listener that the singer is “painting, I’m painting again.”
Yoshitomo hated ringback tones; ridiculous attempts to prove to the world how unique you are by broadcasting the perfect song that mirrors your, and a million other peoples’, soul. He had no intentions of acknowledging the attempts at cleverness in Dee’s song selection.
Gnawing on an already-ragged thumb nail, Yoshitomo rode out the idiocy in anticipation of the voicemail message. Which would probably hurt his brain as well. Of course.
“You’ve reached Dympna Redd’s voicemail! Crazy people and adoring fans wait for the beep, the rest of you need not apply. Unless you’re Colin and I’ll be there soon, I promise!”
That curled his lip. Dympna? What the hell kind of name is that?
Unable to bring himself to leave a message, Yoshitomo snapped the phone shut and headed north; he had time before the “gathering” that evening and, since he just happened to be in the neighborhood he might as well check out this guy’s show over at Lucky Punk Gallery. That Halliday man was quite right about the studio’s desirable location, that much was certain.
Dympna Redd, huh?
Yoshitomo just knew that whatever hung in Lucky Punk right now would be
exactly what he fought so hard against. Unsure what form it would take or what fancy label it would hide behind, he figured it would be some hideous display of hyper-active hues poorly attempting to execute some sort of idealistic, maximalist drivel. About love. Or hate. Or the soul. Either way, he guessed it would be painful, and Yoshitomo rarely guessed wrong.
Was he really that masochistic that he would waste his time seeing it? Should it really matter what kind of work a potential studio mate put out?
Yoshitomo’s kink and Yoshitomo’s pride both answered yes to their respective questions.
Ignoring the rush hour crowd, forcing it to flow around him and his chosen path, Yoshitomo headed deep into East Necropolis’s gallery district.
Lucky Punk had made the current scene, relocating art form the over-priced and
over-played Blue Line district to the east side of the city almost twenty years ago. It revived a dying neighborhood, turned a pretty profit, gave contemporary art the booster shot it needed to get through at least another decade or two before dying out again, and all because of its aggressively desirable owner and her shining champion, Takashi Ufan.
Yoshitomo only met Punk’s lone owner and manager once, when he was very small and his parents still claw-clutched him tight in their Nihon nest. Sara Mad Walker flew in with Takashi one New Year, all slick, ink stone hair, smooth, sun-fucked skin, and talltalltall. Mother and Father hated her and everyone shouted a lot; Takashi found him in the closet under the stairs hours after Yoshitomo thought he and Sara flew back to America, whispering promises that next time, next time, he wouldn’t leave without his little Yoshi by his side.
By the time big brother Takashi made good on his word he had fallen out with Punk’s proud, loud owner; now he heard stories about their rows and the violent, nasty things that they said to the other. That each did to the other. Naturally, Yoshitomo sought other representation when he decided to try his hand at his brother’s trade. He never even set foot in Lucky Punk before, for fear of any lingering death threats to the Ufan bloodline that Takashi drew from Sara’s lips with relish, for both parties. He wondered if she would
remember him as a scrawny, Japanese baby-boy that she cooed and covered in fine gifts and sweets and treats Yoshitomo couldn’t keep for long; Mother and Father made sure to burn anything that reminded them of their older son, desperate to erase their shame.
Yoshitomo doubted it.
If anything, she would see his face and know his name, because who didn’t down on the east side? Then, there might be murder.
With a sick grin, Yoshitomo headed inside.
He certainly hoped that would be the case.
-tbc...if ya’ll want more-