Comparatively, Asuma got lucky. The seals blazed, shattering the world with white, and painted straight over Tsume's pale skin. He got a picture-perfect memory of softly curved breasts, beautifully defined stomach muscles, and a dark triangular thatch of curling hair all emblazoned onto the backs of his eyeballs--then it hurt.

In reality, the pain probably lasted as long as it took the seals to burn out. In relative body-clock time, it was about a hundred years.

When Asuma came back to himself, sweating, shaking, feeling roughly like someone had ripped out his coils and braided them, Tsume lay half-sprawled in his lap, shuddering in the grip of her own St. Vitus dance, and there were shouts echoing above their heads.

Sparks crawled across the walls.

Now, Asuma thought dazedly, would be a very good time to not be here.

"Good job, darlin'," he croaked, and dragged her into his arms. Long, calloused fingers fumbled through seals--he held his breath--and chakra snapped to life. They vanished with a crack of smoke.