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pascallatte · 1 year ago

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Y/n L/n | In The Bag

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x Actress!reader

Summary: dive in on what you have in your bag, some might be yours and some might be not.

Date: August 2018

A/N: wanted to try the Vogue stuff (1 of ~) so here's a tryout, also a little tbt cause I lost the fic I was supposed to post today😵‍💫. basically, this is some sort of filler atm so without further ado enjoy reading and stay tuned for more!!!

You were sitting on the couch wearing a white silk dress that your stylist had prepared for you to wear. The video featured you showing off your prized headphones before cutting back to you sitting down.

“Hola Vogue, soy Y/n L/n, y esto es “¿Qué hay en mi bolso?" But since they told me to speak in English then I’ll have to speak in English…” looking directly at a camera smiling while placing the bag in front of you.

“This bag is very old, by old like really old. It was given to me by my mama when I got my role in Pirates of the Caribbean. It’s from a small shop, near our place in Madrid and it’s been with me ever since.” You explained the history of your bag of choice when asked off-screen.

“And as you can see it is a very big bag so I have most of my personal stuff here. It’s not the cleanest but it’s organized, just the way I like it,” beckoning the camera to come to take a look at the inside, which was in fact organized.

Setting the bag down on the table, you stretch your arms in exaggeration, “Ok!! Let’s dig in…my bag.” Reaching in you take out a small green purse, “Ah so this is my “legal things” purse, like all my IDs and cards are here- you’ll be seeing a lot of purses by the way. It’s how I separate things for easy access.” Opening up the purse, you pull out a card given to you by a brand and your license.

Showing your license to the camera, “Look this was taken, let’s say about 7 to 8 years ago, and you can still see the cheeks that I’ve tried the hardest to lose, but well it’s still here,” you said shrugging placing it back in the purse. “But hey, I’m actually happy it stayed it gives me the youthful look, most lose when they....age,” you said whipping your head to the camera.

“Next are these glasses most of you see me wearing if I’m out and about. These rectangle sunglasses actually come in a.. pouch I think? And these reading glasses in a hard case that I totally lost so they’re just sitting on top of my bag so they don’t get squished.”

You tried the sunglasses on and posed for the camera silly, before shaking your head and laughing. “Oh I actually- the sunglasses come in a pair, so the other one is with my partner, obviously. But he doesn’t really wear it since he prefers those big ones,” crossing your arms and looking at the camera straight-faced.

The video cut to you pulling out a wristlet, “ok, so here we have the wallet that I just bought, 'cause I really didn’t lose my old one, it just disappeared.” Opening up the wallet, you showed the insides towards the camera, it shows cards, receipts and a very well hid picture behind one of the cards that the camera was able to detect. “So, I don’t really keep any cash on me, just these cards cause bills are too bulky, I do keep my coins though.”

“Do I prefer coin purses or wristlets?” You said, repeating their question. “Uhmmm I love a good coin purse, but wristlets do come in handy and I can like slip it in somewhere easily.”

“Makeup and lady essentials that I won’t be showing you, sorry,” you bring out a see-through pouch with your balm, sunscreen, and powder inside. “I don’t really wear make-up if I’m not working so I have this…” you paused thinking what it was called, “.. tinted lip balm- I have two actually I just left the other one at home. I also got this sunscreen to keep the skin safe from the sun and of course, wrinkles, 'cause we don’t want that.” You said, squeezing some of it in your hand.

“Lastly, we have this powder that was given to me a few months back. And it’s useful when you want to look put together in a rush or like look fresh, so thank you to whoever gave this to me,” cheekily as you waved the powder around.

“Okk, what else do we have here- oh!” You exclaimed looking around, wondering if you can show it. Deciding to, you brought out a cap that clearly did not belong to you and fans would know whose it was. “Ok, so we have this cap that I didn’t know was in my bag, until now. I don’t really wear any head accessories but he does so, let’s just say it’s their essential, not mine,” you said placing the cap that was noticeably big on you, on your head bopping around.

“Next is, MY must bring. Drumroll please,” joking, before pulling out a camera. “My camera, I am the sort of person that wants to look back on moments I love so this camera is really the best. Usually, I would use my phone but I got this as a present. At that time since I was debating whether to buy one, so they just said here you go, your very own camera. And yeah, I’ve had this for about a year now” Looking through the viewfinder you took a picture of the crew showing it to them afterwards.

“Photos? You’re asking me if you can see some?” Shyly you nodded, and moved to show the small screen, you’re back facing them. “This was the latest one, like a few days ago in a party, then us having a drink at home, and-“laughing to yourself as you saw the picture,”-and this picture that I really can’t explain what was going on.” It was basically a picture of you laid up on the floor wearing clothes that were significantly bigger and longer on you, a fake moustache drawn on your face and your hair stuck in all different places.

“Brief explanation Ummm, let’s just say it was a fun night that led us to do weird things, one being this photo,” you giggled to them, which you nodded before placing it down on the table.

“Now, these are my headphones, I got them last June and they’re really helpful when you like some quiet time or you just really have to focus on work. I don’t really like those wired ones, different to what someone prefers, since I wreck and lose them easily so these headphones are my best and safest options.”

Snickering, you brought out a half-eaten bag of chips, “here, my friends are the chips I’ve had in my bag since last week. Why I haven’t finished it is because it’s too hot for me to handle. My friends laugh at me for they claim it isn’t spicy at all- it is.” You pop one in your mouth before offering it to the people you’re with.

“I mean, I’m not a big fan of chips and spicy food, but I’d enjoy it from time to time.” You said popping a final Cheeto in your mouth.

The video cuts to you bringing out something big from your bag. “And this pouch, this pouch actually takes up almost half the space in my bag, so let’s see what’s in it,” you pulled out a big cream pouch, which looked heavy to say even on camera.

“I have all sorts of chargers here my phone charger, headphones, iPad charger surprisingly,” you mumbled, knowing all too well you don’t own one, “and some cord I don’t know its use.” Placing it on the table you pull back your hand before sticking it in the pouch once again, “this is a small hair brush I keep in my bag, it’s supposed to be in the makeup bag, not sure how it got here so-yeah this brush cause we don’t want our hair to be tangled.”

“I also have these perfumes in my bag don’t ask who owns who, they both have this vanilla scent on them which we love to use when we go out on a walk and that’s actually the reason I have it in here.” You said, reading the labels on the bottles you have on each hand. One that was really used and the other barely.

“Lastly I have this hair clamp and silly socks. When it gets too hot I put my hair up and when it’s cold I got some warmers on my feet. The funny thing is that this hair clamp has been missing for a couple days now, and finding it here in my bag just makes me laugh at myself for not checking it properly.”

Leaning back on the chair, legs cross you beam up at them, “Well vogue, that’s what I have in my bag. I’m sorry that took me too long but thank you for spending time with me it’s a pleasure. Bye Bye!!” Waving to the camera, you blow a final kiss before the video ends.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙

Taglist: @benonlinear @t-stark35 @heyitsme-2 @elleeeee21 @holmesstrange @tagakalat @flyestvenustrap @oldermenaremyreligion @cherryred444 @hobiismyhopeu @ilovehotdadsandshit @djarinsstuff @guacala @avengersheart @pukka-latte @lilvampirina (the ones in bold are the blogs that I can't seem to tag, so please inform me if you aren't getting tagged. thank you!!)

#pedro pascal x actress!reader #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal fluff #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x female reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader

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its-time-to-write · 1 year ago

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ch. 1 - hustling for the good life

please never let me write a series again. if I say i’m going to, please remind me that it’s the worst and i’ll hate myself for it. anyway, here it is and yeah, i got self conscious about it. uhh also Jamie doesn’t show up till chapter 2.

table of contents

cowboy like me

Getting from the car to the hotel lobby should not be this challenging. It’s not even that far a distance, but the moment your car pulls up to the doors, you understand that this is going to take a lot of pushing, shoving, and flashing cameras.

“How’d they even know I was going to be here?” you ask your assistant-turned-best-friend Natalie.

She grimaces. “I was kind of trying to keep this from you, but your new makeup artist has been leaking your location. That’s why it’s been hell the past week or so.”

You groan and say, “Shit, and she was so nice, too! Who would’ve thought?”

Natalie shrugs. “I had my suspicions from the beginning. Gotta tell you, it was hard fucking work catching her in the act without you knowing.”

You smile and pinch Natalie’s arm affectionately. “This is why you’re the best, Nat. You’re always fighting a losing battle against my anxiety.”

She grins back and says, “You ready to brave the paps? Be warned, they’re going to be particularly vicious.”

“Obviously,” you reply. “They’re probably all wondering why I don’t have a ring on my finger.”

Natalie makes an ick noise and says, “I, for one, am glad you don’t. I think I’d have to quit if you married him.”

You laugh as your door opens and your bodyguard begins to usher you inside. You’re glad you’re not marrying him either.

—

Fame is weird because it pretty much means your entire job is based on other people’s perception of you. They never have any idea what’s actually going on, and if the people decide they don’t like you, you’re done. You like to keep your personal life, well, pretty personal. That means social media accounts run by a publicist, a secret apartment, large sunglasses, tinted windows, and a fuck-ton of coffee.

Your last three relationships had all been for publicity and you didn’t mind so much, but it was odd. There was an actor, a guitarist, and (most recently) a model. They were all incredibly sweet, which you understand is a rarity. Fake relationships have the tendency to run sour, but they were just genuinely kind people.

The last one, the model, had commented on your ability to detach one night. He specifically noted how you could fake a sparkle in your eyes, the kind that you’re only supposed to have when you’re really in love. You had laughed and patted his cheek, and told him that you didn’t want to be in love. It’s easy to fake something you don’t truly desire because there’s no underlying pain in your eyes.

The actor and guitarist had said similar things, the actor in particular telling you that you should consider switching which business you were in. You just grinned and told him some lyrics for a the song you’d release when you two broke up.

Love is a hassle. You don’t need it. You’ll take your nice car over an open heart any day.

—

It’s late but not too late as you and Natalie lay on the giant bed in your room, face masks on and glass of wine in hand.

“I still don’t understand why you won’t even keep ten percent of your new EP,” she says as you absently watch the show on the TV. “You’re making so much off it, that it wouldn’t make a difference.”

You shake your head. “Mango was always going to be for that charity,” you reply. “It doesn’t make sense that I would tell their stories and then profit off it. It’s their album, I was just the execution.”

Natalie raises an eyebrow as she says, “But no one knows what it’s about. Or that you’re the one donating all that money. Honestly, I’m shocked that no one in that entire organization has figured out what’s happening yet.”

“Well, I think Christine probably has an idea,” you laugh. “She always could see right through me. And the girls I talked to promised to keep it to themselves. You know, they each get a percentage too.”

Natalie nods. “I know,” she says. “I understand your vision, I really do. I just need to check in with you every now and then, so I know you understand what you’re doing.”

“I do,” you reply. “I really do.”

—

Mango was a one-off EP you created after becoming financially involved with an organization specializing in helping women escape domestic violence. A little heavy for someone whose songs were best listened to on a sunny day, but you needed something real. You hated the way you felt separate from real people and Christine, your point of contact, had given you a lifeline. Your money now had use, beyond buying loved ones houses and cars and whatever else they could possibly want. You didn’t want to become publicly involved, and the whole company was great with keeping you anonymous. You’d talked to so many women who had stories of love turned rotten, and the hope they’d been able to find.

You wrote a few songs about some of them, supposed to be a personal gift for those who had touched you.

It was Claire, the one who had told you the story that inspired Mango, who said you should release it.

You’d protested at first but the other girls caught wind of Claire’s vendetta and pushed you into it as well.

Natalie helped you put your vision to paper, and contracts were written so the money Mango made would go to its true visionaries.

It was satisfying in a way that no other album had been.

It had depth, it was personal, it was upbeat but in a real way, and it had a strange sadness laced throughout each track.

You came across a tweet that said, I don’t know why I’m crying to Kitchen Epiphany, but it’s 3am and I can’t stop sobbing.

That’s exactly what you wanted. Nothing is explicitly sad in the song, it’s actually one of the most sunny songs on the EP, but still. There was something that people could feel, could connect to.

You think that feeling is better than any type of love.

—

The trip to London is another PR thing. “Blue Glass singer/songwriter spotted in London on the heels of breakup with model ex,” said one newspaper.

“Mango artist has let her man go,” said another.

“I think they could have done better with that pun,” Natalie remarks. You giggle.

“I don’t give a shit, as long as they’re buying what I’m selling. It’s just nice to be out of America for a little bit.”

Natalie squints at her phone and says, “You know you’re here for work, right? You have that interview in an hour, plus we have a party tonight. You don’t have to pretend to be sad for this one, apparently you’re supposed to move on quick and act like you’re ‘happy, single, and unburdened.’”

You’re not sure who exactly she’s quoting, but you’re pretty sure she’s reading some message from someone in charge of your image. They don’t do a bad job, but they could do better.

—

The interview is good, done by a sweet girl who asks interesting questions about aesthetics and personal projects, things a little different from your normal interviews.

You head back to the hotel and figure out what you’re going to wear to this party, some football thing, while Natalie laments her inability to wear slippers.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” she says as she rummages through her makeup bag, “I fucking love the way heels look. But my feet are absolutely ruined and I just want to wear something comfortable for once.”

You hold up an ice-blue dress to the mirror. “You should just do it, Nat. It’s not like anyone’s actually going to care. I sure as hell don’t give a shit.”

Natalie’s head shoots up to look at you. “Are you serious? Please tell me you are. If you say I can, I’m totally not wearing real shoes.”

You decide to wear the dress and say, “Natalie Herrera, you can do whatever your heart desires. I literally could not care less.”

She squeals and says, “Oh my god, ok, ok, I’m going to the shops right now and I’m going to buy a cute pair. Oh my god, I’m so excited.”

“If you find a really good pair, get me some too,” you call after her, “I want some to wear around the room.”

table of contents

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt x y/n #jamie tartt x you #jamie tartt #ted lasso

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volkswagonblues · 2 months ago

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what if we do an IWTV role reversal but Armand is the human boy "interviewing" Daniel the ancient vampire??

....with always-a-human!Armand and 514-year-old vampire Daniel? And Armand is a depressed underpaid zillenial artist working at a fuckass theatre troupe, and then the vampire Daniel hires him to work on a mysterious painting? So it's like, instead of an interview with the vampire Armand ends up doing ~Painting of a Vampire~? And also human Rashid is Armand's roommate and is genuinely too cool for his bullshit??

under the cut

HUMAN ARMAND MEETS VAMPIRE DANIEL AU

Armand is only at the pub because the rest of the troupe is at the pub, and the way things are going with Santiago, he can’t risk pissing anyone else or worse, getting accused of not “being a team player.” Never mind that everyone else has forgotten about him at this point. He sees Sam, Celeste and Estelle in the corner playing pool. Quan Pham is chatting up some poor woman clearly dying to get away and get back to her friends. Santiago, the artistic director, is nowhere to be seen, which feels more ominous than anything else. Lately he’s developed a habit of lurking over Armand’s shoulder while he’s sitting at his iMac, pointing at things in After Effects and making comments like “Are you sure it’s scaled correctly?” or “Why’d you name that layer that way?”. Armand sometimes has fantasies of shutting him in a box and throwing away the key forever.

He’s wondering when would be an acceptable time to leave when someone slides onto the bar stool next to him. An older man. He’s white, with a head of corkscrew grey curls and a battered leather jacket. Although they’re indoors and it’s nighttime, he’s wearing a pair of tinted sunglasses. Ambiguous “creative type” hyphenate rich dillettante wanker, Armand thinks. Maybe a show exec, or an actor who’s found niche success in an extremely online fandom. Or he could just be rich. Armand’s only been in the UK for four years and he’s already encountered, by his rough estimate, about ten million versions of these men.

The man smiles. “Hi there,” he says in an American accent.

Armand nods. “Hello.”

The silence stretches on between them. The man’s eyes flicker behind his sunglasses, examining Armand like a bug under a magnifying glass. Armand, discomfitted, drops his eyes. Are those acrylic nails?

“Daniel,” the man says, finally. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Armand.”

“I know.”

Armand frowns. “Have we met before?”

Daniel leans back. Makes a noncommital sound. He says, “I follow your work online, you have a great eye for portraiture. It’s bold. Experimental, but not so abstract you’ve disappeared up your own asshole. If you ever put on a gallery show, I would have liked to see your brushwork up close. How come you don’t do any shows?”

“Uh,” Armand says. “Well, uh, working with galleries takes a lot of time. Mostly I take digital commissions. And painting isn’t my actual job. I work with—”

“Yes, yes.” Daniel waves his drink’s paper straw in the air. He holds it between index and middle finger: the gesture of an inveterate smoker.“You used to be a background animator for le Théâtre des Vampires.” He pronounces it with an American’s exaggerated accent. “How is that going for you?”

“Fine,” Armand says stiffly.

“The vampire’s theatre,” Daniel says, “Fun name.”

“It’s an ironic reference to the bloodsucking aristocracy. The whole point is that we’re trying to make theatre more accessible to the public, which is why we also do youth workshops to introduce lower-income children to the arts—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Daniel says. “I Googled you guys already.”

“Okay.”

“And while I was doing my research, a little birdie told me that they fired you.”

Armand feels his shoulder tense up. He tugs his sleeves over his hands, rubbing the fabirc between his fingers. “I have a contract with them that ended after August, yes. They are still deciding if they will renew it.”

This is true. He wrapped up his last day after their final show for the Edinburgh International Festival. Two grueling weeks at the Lyceum, their biggest gig to date and the last stop before they finish the summer festival circuit. Santiago had emailed him to say they’ll have an update about his contract once everyone comes back from their well-earned break. Armand can’t tell if this is good or bad news. Surely if Santiago wants him gone, he would have just gone ahead and said it?

Daniel leans in. “Shit luck, but I’m not here to discuss employment precarity in the underfunded and overcrowded arts industry,” he says. “I’m here because I have a job for you.”

“Are you a friend of Santiago’s?” Armand asks.

“Who? Nevermind. I want to commission you to paint a portrait for an acquaintance of mine. Big canvas. Oil paints. Really classic stuff. You’ll be painting a family portrait of my acquaintance. Him, his partner, and their daughter who passed away. Reunite the happy family for me. I’ll pay you an amount that’ll have you biting through your paintbrush. A few terms and conditions, of course, but I think you’ll find it an interesting endeavor.”

Armand knows that he is not the most savvy of people when it comes to business. He’s not good with money. Doesn’t have the capacity to read people and figure out what’s their angle. Trusts too much and thinks too little. Whatever scam Daniel is running, he can’t tell. But his brain is giving him warning bells anyway.

“I don’t do this kind of work,” he says. “I suggest you try Etsy.”

Daniel laughs, white teeth flashing in the pub’s low light. “Still such a smartass. Your English is much better though.”

Armand rubs his temple with his fingertips. There’s an insistent pressure behind his eyes, a tightening around his skull like the beginning of a migraine.

“Why not consider it?” Daniel says. “You have the free time.”

Armand darts a glance up at Daniel’s face. He knows (how does he know this?) with cold glacial certainty that if Daniel were to remove the sunglasses, the eyes behind them would be gold and orange. The colour palette of a nuclear explosion.

“Very poetic,” Daniel says.

Armand blinks away the bolt of pain that stabs through his left temple. “Do we know each other?”

Tap, tap,goes the weirdly pointy nails on the beermat. “Does anyone truly know anyone? Daniel says, sing-song. “So, are you interested? I’ll repeat myself: you’ll be very well-paid for you time.”

The pub is too warm from the press of too many bodies crammed together. Someone is setting up their guitar in the corner for live music night. They tap the mic and the soundsystem lets out a screeching wave of feedback. Is there feedback? The noise feels like it’s in Armand head. Too many people are talking right now in this pub.

Daniel’s nuclear explosion eyes are still fixed on Armand.

Armand feels cold. Early spring mist on his skin; the roar of traffic. A splinter in his left palm that itches. Excuse-moi, sais-tu où se trouve le gare? And Armand turns, and his grip loosens on the railing, and—and then—and then he—

Daniel slides off the bar stool. Such a smooth, youthful gesture. Not quite right for a man with his deep crow’s feet and silver hair. “I’ll send you the details by email. I assume the one on your website is still good? Yes? Make sure to sign all the paperwork my assistant sends over, it’s part of the whole deal.” He reaches into his leather jacket—fishes around the packet of cigarettes he always keeps in the left-hand pocket (cigarettes? how does Armand know this?)—and he pulls a piece of folded paper. “Call if you have questions. Bonne soirée, Armand.”

When Armand unfolds the paper, a business card slips out. No job title or company name. It reads, simply, Daniel Molloy with a phone number embossed in tiny gold numbers.

The piece of paper is something torn out of a schoolboy’s exercise book. Someone had left a sketch in pencil: Daniel’s face rendered in chiaroscuro. No sunglasses on his face. He’s looking off to the side, a nascent smile tugging up the corners of his mouth. Not the ironic and mocking smile he wore tonight, but something softer, genuinely unguarded amusement. The shading is wobbly but the lines are confident and well-formed.

In the corner the artist has left his signature. Amadeo. le 4 mars 2012

Armand looks up. “When did I—” he begins, but the chair next to him is already empty.

No Name <[email protected]>

01 September 2023 at 12:01

To: Armand Breteau <[email protected]>

To Mr. A. Breteau,

I hope this email finds you well, or as well as any email can find anyone. I’ve been following your artistic career with some interest over the past years. If you have the time and capacity, I wish to engage your services and commission one (1) painting to be completed. The subject matter is very dear to me.

This is no ordinary project. I value, above all else, privacy and discretion.

My assistant will shortly send over a contract and a non-disclosure agreement. I will highlight a few key stipulations in the contract: first, you must complete the painting at a location of my choosing.

Second, all materials related to the painting must stay on the premises. You may not take home any sketches or references. You may not recreate any part of the painting in private.

Third, and most important, you will not meet the subjects of the painting. I will supply you everything you need to portray them in the most perfect of detail.

Yours,

D.M.

PS. If this all sounds like a crock of horseshit to you, then tough luck! Take a close look at the amount of pounds sterling I’m putting on the table. And no, I didn’t accidentally add an extra zero. It’s all above board and legally watertight. Show it to your lawyer roomie if you want.

Think about it, and then let me know if it still smells like shit or roses.

The arrogance of the email rubs Armand the wrong way, but then he clicks open the PDF attachment and nearly drops the iPad. It’s a lot of money. Not quite a ludicrous amount, but not far off. A truly life-changing amount of money. Enough money that he could stop worrying about rent for the next ten years. Enough money to soften the anxiety around his contract with the Théâtre des Vampires expiring in February and not knowing if they’ll want him around for another year.

Armand Breteau<[email protected]>

01 September 2023 at 02:29

To: No Name <[email protected]>

Ok. when do i start? can you tell me more details about the subject of the painting?

thanks,

Armand

He hears the notification sound almost immediately after he hits send.

No Name <[email protected]>

01 September 2023 at 02:30

To: Armand Breteau <[email protected]>

Tomorrow.

The next afternoon, there’s a car waiting for him outside on the street where he lives.

“Mate, don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging you for your life choices, but are you sure this isn’t like, a serial killer posing as a millionaire art appreciator?” Rashid gets up from watching the football match replay to peer out from between the curtains.

“He contacted me on my website’s public email,” Armand says, a defense that sounds pathetic when spoken out loud. “And you said to me that the contract looks alright.”

Rashid shrugs. “I also told you I don’t deal with contract law.”

“Do you think it’s a bad idea?”

“Depends,” Rashid says. “Is he going to pay you the money before or after he traps you in a pit and skins you make a suit?” There’s a tinny roar from the TV. “Oh shit, Arsenal just scored.”

Armand fidgets with the duffle bag holding his sketchpad and paintbrushes. “Should I not go?”

“No, you should. Go get that bread, or whatever it is kids say these days. Get that baguette, mon ami.”

“Will you call the police if I don’t text you at midnight? I’ll share my location with you.”

“Sure.” Rashid’s attention is entirely absorbed by Sky Sports instant replay.

“Really?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll send the cops after you if you text me he’s feeding you into his gay boy meat grinder.”

“Okay.”

“Look, Armand,” Rashid says. “I think you’ll be fine.”

“How do you know?”

“He’s driving a Tesla, mate. No serial killer would be driving a car with a built-in tracking system. If it’s a mid-aughts unmarked transit van I’d be worried, but a Tesla? Nah.”

“Okay.”

“Just remember to ask for the money on the nightstand before you take your clothes off. Use your big puppy eyes if you have to.”

Armand can’t tell if Rashid is serious or not. They’ve been flatmates for three years now, and he can’t tell if Rashid genuinely likes him or not. He often wonders if Rashid is making fun of him most of the time, but keeps him around anyways because if he likes having a flatmate who voluntarily does all the cleaning and whose work has even worse hours than Big Law. But he’s a good guy, Rashid. He would probably alert the authorities if Armand goes missing. At least, Armand hopes he will. He takes his time lacing up his sneakers.

“See you,” Armand says, finally.

Rashid grunts, but only because one of the Man United players got another yellow card. Armand shoulders his bag and slips out.

#iwtv #interview with the vampire #iwtv fic #I would throw it on AO3 but I think I might not ever finish it because I have no time #but it's very fun to think about

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sleepy-grav3 · 1 year ago

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Parents - Uramichi x Reader

A/n: Random idea passed by and I couldn't make it go away, so uh yay

Summary: Uramichi, Kumao, Usao, and S/n (stage name) are made to go to a lovely mall event for father's day! Uramichi does a passionate speech about parents and growing up and Y/n couldn't help but tear up at what he had said, leading to an emotional bonding moment.

Tw: Angst (there is comfort), parent problems, swears, spoilers, depression, verbal abuse, some other stuff I might've ended up forgetting...

Also, your stage costume is a hip-hop dancer type with sunglasses. You always wear the sunglasses to hide your eyes that seem to always show your current mood (which isn't good for your job). Just a little thing.

And this is also not too romantic, but whatever.

Y/n’s POV

“Y/n, I always see you with the sunglasses… They’re also really heavily tinted with a color and have different shapes. I doubt that Derekida actually buys those…”

I turned to look over at Usahara and smiled.

“Why do I wear these? Well people say that my eyes give away my current feelings! And since I work 2 jobs to keep living while having mandatory therapy to prevent me from going to a mental hospital, I don’t get sleep that often! So how do you think I feel every single god damn day?”

“U-um… Tired? Maybe?”

“Wow! You got it right! And what happens when you’re tired for such a reasoning every single fucking day?”

“You have heavy eye bags and get really angry really easily?”

“Ding ding ding! That must’ve been a hard question, Usao! I’m so glad the bunny learned yet another thing today!”

Usahara backed away, leaning over Kumatari’s shoulder.

“Is it just me or is Y/n sounding more and more like Uramichi as the days go on?”

“Please don’t talk to me.”

You mean the depressed 31-year old who’s having breakdowns about 10 times a day? Honey, I only break down to that point when nobody’s watching. This is nothing.

“You’re not a very good whisperer, Usao!”

“EEK!”

To top it off, Uramichi entered the room with a blank stare and… what’s with the red balloon? He might as well be trying to cosplay Nicklewise with that balloon… but more depressed…

He turned his head to me with a more intense blank stare. I only tilted my head and gave him a more bright and sparkly smile. That seemed to make it worse as the stare became more… intense- how the hell is he doing that?!

“Hey, it’s Uramichi-san, good mor-”

“Morning. Want a balloon?”

“Nope. For someone in your line of work, it’s amazing how little that look suits you…”

“Huh?!”

“...Nothing.”

“Y/n?”

“I look like a kid enough with this get up. Do I need a balloon and backwards cap to top it off?”

“... yes.”

“No ♥️”

I pushed Uramichi off stage for a moment, seeing as he broke down after a single comment from a child. Wimp.

“Haha! That was so nice of you to say, Tak-kun! It hit his heart so hard that he couldn’t help but cry from joy! Let’s give Uramichi oniisan some to convert that joy into energy instead of tears! And I think I know just the way! Let’s all get up and have a dance session with S/n!”

I could already see some of the parents hesitating along with some of the older siblings chuckling. I’ll teach ‘em-

“YAYYY!”

Some music started up and I started to guide them through it, making sure I called out each and everyone who laughed at our Uramichi ^v^

“Today, as a special treat, Uramichi Oniisan and his friends will draw pictures of their daddies too!”

That’s not on the script-

“...Huh?” Uramichi turned to the hostess. “That… wasn’t on the script.”

“Us too? For real?”

“Don’t you want to know what their daddies look like, boys and girls?”

The audience cheered, making me realize how often we use these kids to support our own ideas to cover for our faults. Huh…

“Gosh! I don’t know if I can draw my dad that well! Do you guys remember your dad’s faces?”

“I love my dad, hippety! No… well, I guess I remember it, but can I draw it? Maybe not..”

“Me too, grr! I just remembered I haven’t visited my folks since two years ago.”

“Wow, to think I get to show my dad off to the kids! I bet he’ll be so happy! Absolutely, but I'm not giving him this satisfaction. Make it up, that's what I'm doing.”

"That's actually really sad..." Usahara drooped his shoulders a bit.

I ignored everything else that happened, focusing on drawing some random man that would fit my character. What would fit my character? Maybe I should just make him have some normal clothes and make it up as I go? Nah, I’ll just make him another dancer.

I turned to see how the others were doing until I saw the fuck up the animals made.

“What the hell happened to your characters?” I questioned.

“Seriously, what happened to your characters?” Usamichi repeated.

That’s when they realized their fuck up. That didn’t work though, the kids still questioned it.

“H-hey, let’s take a look at the other two, hippety!”

I launched myself over to Usao, wrapping an arm around his shoulder with a hearty laugh.

“Man, I was wondering when I would be up! This is my dad! He’s another dancer like me! Showed me the ropes, you know? Ain’t he cool!”

“Yeah!”

“But I’m better, right!”

“YEAHH!”

“WOOO! That’s the spirit! Let’s move onto our amazing oniisan! Whatcha got the-... there…?”

The drawing he made was rough but it was of a muscular man throwing a crying kid and holding another crying kid. I had to strain my smile to keep it up as he spoke about his father. I’m… I’m amazed that he didn’t draw someone different like I did…

There was definitely more to this man, but children were present and he isn’t actually that close to us at the moment, so I doubt we’ll really get much more out of him unless we see through the lines…

Those lines have a pretty big gap though, so it’s not like it’s that hard.

“Weren’t you sad having him as a daddy?”

“If he hadn’t been my dad, I wouldn’t be here talking to you today!”

Wouldn’t that be a good thing?

“We all have only 1 life to live. Sometimes we think we’ve made a mistake, even if we can’t be sure whether that’s true or not… But in the end, if something brings us even a little happiness, it wasn’t a mistake at all! Whether you can reverse the mistakes of your mommies or daddies… all depends on the lives you grow up to lead. Even if you can’t live for somebody else… if you can live without blaming somebody else, I think that’s wonderful.”

Before a tear fell, I quickly wiped it away and went over to Uramichi, giving him a small side hug and a rub on his back. He put a hand on my shoulder, gripping it a bit tight for comfort.

Man, nothing can get past this man.

I couldn’t really see through my tears anymore as I sat down and took off my sunglasses.

“Fuck man… you need to warn me when you do those speeches..”

“Holy shit- are you crying?” Usahara asked.

“Shut up, I’ll clear up in a moment. Just… fuck…”

I felt someone pulling me into an embrace, petting my head so I rested against his shoulder.

“It’s ok to cry in front of us, just let it out.”

Uramichi…

~Flashback | 3rd person ~

“Stop crying! This isn’t something to cry about!” Y/n’s dad exclaimed.

“I-I ca-can’t!”

Y/n curled up in their seat at the dining table, pulling at their hair to relieve some stress.

“It’s just homework, why can’t you do something as simple as this?!”

“I DON’T KNOW!”

Y/n flinched, eyes wide from their mistake as they looked up in fear. Their dad grabbed their face with a hand with a tight grip, making them look into his eyes.

“Look at me. Don’t yell. Just take a deep breath and get back to work. You can have your break after you’re done.”

This wasn’t the only memory that flew by the current Y/n’s head either.

“Mom, I can’t find my notebook!”

“So? C’mon, stop wasting my time.” She rolled her eyes.

“Huh? Can’t you help me look for it?”

“And why should I? You lost it.”

“And you lost your keys yesterday! Why do I have to help you look for your stuff when you lose it but when I lose stuff, you don’t help me?”

“Because that’s reality. People are unfair and you have to handle problems yourself.”

“But I helped you…”

“That’s your problem then.”

~ Flashback end | Still 3rd person ~

“It must’ve sucked having a dad like that, right?”

Uramichi didn’t respond, knowing they had more to say.

“My parents were always really strict with my academic grades. I never got break and their word was law. So I decided to do just what they wanted. Yeah, sure, it was more extreme but… that didn’t fucking matter. They got even more angry at me. ‘Why won’t you help me find my keys?’ Because you never helped me with anything. ‘Why don’t you just ask us for help?’ Because when I asked, you said that it was nothing and to get over it. ‘Why won’t you hang out with your friends?’ Because you said they’re useless! Nothing mattered! They were never happy with me! It’s to the point they changed everything for my sister yet still treated me the same!”

Kumatani and Usahara awkwardly looked at each other. They never really saw Y/n look so distraught before. In fact, they got more and more concerned as Y/n rambled on and on, words soon becoming incoherent. Uramichi only continued to hug them, feeling a strange sense of comfort holding them.

“That’s way too many expectations. It makes sense why you chose to do that.”

“And they still ask why I’m depressed. They gave me a therapist and right from the 3rd day, they asked why I’m not fixed? Is severe depression supposed to be something fixable like that? NO!”

“That’s actually very angering.”

“And that’s not even the worst of it- They say this whole job is stupid! That I have college degrees and should be doing something with my life! But I- I feel happy here! Even if this job is draining, I get to make some people happy! Why should I give that up?!”

Uramichi could only agree with most of what they said. And honestly, he really did agree with Y/n. Their parents were the type to think they were always in the right, even after having a group talk with their therapist. Now that’s a fixed mindset.

Eventually, Y/n took a quick breath, wiping away their tears and pulling away with a bright yet awkward smile.

“Well, that was a great vent! I think I should call my therapist for an earlier meeting- anyway- Thanks for listening. I hope to never do that again.”

“That’s a quick switch!” Usahara exclaimed.

Uramichi got up as well, putting his hands on their cheeks gently to make them look at his face, rubbing circles with his thumbs.

“What they did was wrong, you know that. Family shouldn’t be the only people you could depend on. Friends are a good thing to have. Hobbies, even if you drop them, are good too. As long as you find some happiness in what you do, it’s ok. So you don’t have to listen to them. Do what you want. Stay here as long as you want.”

“Seriously, please don’t leave me in this hell of a kids show-”

“Here, how about we go out for a drink? I know you don’t usually drink anything alcoholic, so maybe a cafe might be better?”

Y/n blinked owlishly, blushing slightly as they had started to lean forward into his touch. He couldn’t help but squish their cheeks together.

“Cute…”

“Uh, sure… When? What time?”

“How about today right now?”

“Yeah, um, sure. Great. Ok, let’s uh… go then…”

“You still have to change out of your clothes.”

“Right! Uh- I’ll be right back!”

Y/n quickly left to the stalls and Usahara crouched down.

“I can’t believe it… Uramichi is actually going on a date…”

“What are you talking about?”

Usahara jumped up, grabbing the gym rat by his sweater and shaking him violently.

“You idiot! Don’t you realize that you just asked Y/n on a date! A DATE! AND THEY ACCEPTED!”

Uramichi’s eyes widened, face going bright red.

“Oh shit, I did-”

A/N: Would ya look at that! I had enough motivation to type another thing! It's awful but whatever. I'll eventually get something actually romantic on here... hopefully... It's probably not what you expected, sorry... Anyway! Hope you have a good day!

#uramichi oniisan #uramichi x reader #gn reader

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winterfireice · 5 months ago

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look at me posting a fanfic for the first time in months (also the first time this year so yay) anyway here is some Sophiana because when and doubt write random gay stuff for pride month.

story under the cut

Age 13

I’m walking through the pier with my family, it’s June 15th and my parents wanted to find somewhere to eat with a good vegetarian menu and outdoor seating. My brothers are playing some random game where they try to attach sticky notes to each other’s backs without the other noticing and my mom has tried to stop the game three separate times but since then has given up, they’re both being quiet and that seems to be all my parents care about.

I on the other hand am window shopping. I’m looking at colorful beach bags and darkly-tinted sunglasses, I pass by all of them without a problem. The only thing that catches my eye is a flowy sundress that looks long enough to touch the floor even if I am wearing heels. But my attention is quickly taken away by a little piece of fabric on the counter. It has all the colors of the rainbow and a thin tan stick anchoring it into a pen cup.

My mom notices me hanging behind and wraps an arm around my shoulders into some weird side hug and gives me a look I don’t know how to process. Just a second later Fitz, one of my brothers yells out because he finally notices there has been a bright green piece of paper stuck on the back since we left the house and Alvar has just been adding to the collection. Aka Fitz has been losing this made-up game since it started.

The rest of my family’s attention is diverted to my brothers and even mine is taken away from the flag.

Age 14

I’m on a run with my brother Fitz’s best friend, Keefe. I hate running alone and he was the only one free so I asked him to go with me. My dad gave me an extra long look which I ignored, I’m pretty sure the majority of people we know think we are going to start dating since he’s only a year older than me, and were both single. Plus he’s been hanging out around our house a lot more, one of my friends said it's because he likes me but I’m pretty sure he likes my brother more.

My side starts to cramp so I slow down waiting for the pain to subside and taking deep breaths. Keefe notices I’m no longer next to him and turns around to find me. He gives me a second to catch my breath and looks around, we are on a residential street a couple of blocks away from my house, and while there are a lot of trees providing shade the June heat is still beating down on us so much I can feel the sweat dripping down my neck.

I’ve closed my eyes to try to get the sun out of them but when I open them I see Keefe’s head turned to one of the houses. I follow his gaze and see a flag hanging by someone’s front door, it's the same color pallet as the one I saw a year ago and I can see Keefe smile to himself before asking me if I’m ready to finish up our run.

Age 15

I’m on a picnic with one of my best friends, Sophie. She has pined up her long blonde hair to beat the heat of mid-June. She prepared the whole day, made little sandwiches, and packed different fruits and cookies, there are even some baked goods her mom taught her how to make.

The two of us are leaning against a huge oak tree in the park and watching the neighborhood kids fly kites and chase each other around the other trees.

“Ooo look a rainbow!” Sophie gasps and points past some clouds on the other side of the park. She pulls out her phone and I notice her lock screen has a photo of her holding two little flags, one is rainbow and the other is a combination of pinks and oranges, she swipes away the photo as she opens her camera to take a photo of the rainbow and I can't ignore the butterflies fluttering in my stomach.

Age 16

It’s June and I’m sitting in my room with my brother, his boyfriend, and my girlfriend. We’re getting ready for a parade that Sophie and Keefe heard about. Soph is using her phone as a mirror since all the other ones in my room are currently being used but before she opened her camera I saw her newest lock screen which is a photo of the two of us holding up a pride flag just like the one she got me a couple of months ago that sits in an old cup on my desk that I use to hold my pens.

But hey, it's just a cute little flag.

#kotlc #kotlc fanfic #sophiana #sophie foster #biana vacker #keefe sencen #fitz vacker

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immoralimmortals · 6 months ago

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A Song With Ten Names

Chapter 9: This December

Chapter 1 ☆ Next chapter

Summary of chapter: It's hard to play the entire piano, end to end 88 keys, with just one set of hands. It's impossible to go through life totally alone, no matter how well you convince yourself otherwise. Itachi, Kisame, and the traveler discuss the little things that set her world apart from that of the shinobi.

Author's Note: The song for this chapter is This December by Ricky Montgomery, lyrics not entirely in order.

CONTENT WARNING: the overall warning for the fic is especially prevalent in this chapter. Allusions to suicide, suicidal behavior and ideation, self harm.

I also now have a playlist with each song in order of appearance :)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It's just a little bit, it's just a little bit

Lonely in this home

It's always colder on your own

My darlin', I

I let the season change my mind

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Kisame keeps an arm’s length about as well as the traveler can ignore how a full size piano could be taken back to the mansion with just a scroll and a puff of smoke. That is to say: it was, for certain, a noble attempt. She’s watching him now, bumblebees idling by as he re-sides the brick wall in humid summer air. Ivy pushes forth from its cracks, poison and otherwise alike, so he had rolled his eyes and pretended like he wasn’t going to be the one working on this chore anyways, having no allergy. As if Itachi would sully his pretty hands.

In this time together, the princess’s knight hasn’t been so bold as to ask...why? He knows she’s lonely. Damn, so is he! But she was told, right? That her first set of bouncers weren’t the exception but the rule for the rest of ‘em. It’ll be her fault, he excuses himself, if anything amiss were to threaten that lovely little neck of hers. He’s still stuck on the stage of denial where it’d just be for the mission if he did- and he should- make the offender pay dearly, direly, desperately.

The woman contemplates, too, but at a different pace, eyelids low and sleepy under the blanket of midday humidity. Contradictions are smothering: guilt for feeling guilty. But she’s an adult, and prolonging the sensation makes her weary. Best she can do is do her best, and in this case, it means to think about other things until that part of her psyche settles down. Ironically, this shift causes another part of her mind ramp up— a rather metaphysical sort about this predicament she finds herself in. Kisame, of course, is a part of it, but he is not the whole: she is unhappy about her happiness. Sadness can survive even in summer air.

Under the shade of the back porch awning, deep in a trance, it takes her a second to recognize a second shadow has layered over her, just a bit darker where she sits.

“Mm…? Oh. Thank you.” A cup of tea passes between the Uchiha’s hand to hers, ceramic hot to the touch, but not too hot as to burn in your grasp. It’s an uncanny skill he has, this perfect steep; a personality like his would be well suited for a cafe, she muses. Steam raises as the cup tilts at her lips, a mist collecting on her rose-pink lenses that sit on top of her head; they aren’t the best at being sunglasses, but they’re cute, and that’s a good enough reason to still have them. Slowly, knowing her as jumpy, the gentleman raises a finger and pokes the object, just enough that she can feel it start to part her hair.

“I haven’t seen these before.”

Despite his efforts, she blushes a little; memory of Kakuzu’s confusion over them have made her a touch bashful. “Glasses. Use them to read.” She points to the sky with a finger of her tea-holding hand, the other cupping her chin while its elbow leans on her knee. “Help with the sun.” There’s only the slightest shift— tilt of his head— as he contemplates the usefulness of tinted reading glasses.

...Strange girl, indeed. His own brew perfectly balanced above his lap, Itachi sits on the stoop beside his ward, his partner’s work and grunts as much of a buzz in the background as the bees in long-untamed rose bushes that line the property. Thoughtfully, he allows a relaxing pause before he prods the traveler further:

“Do many have such glasses where you come from?”

Lazily, a “mm-mm” negative-toned hum and shake of the head answer him. It’s like she’s sucked dry of energy. “Clear or black tinted, just like here. Bought ‘em because they made me happy.”

He takes in the details of her, lax in a noonday breeze. Rosettes— tiny and pink— adorn her white dress in vertical rows, frocked with thin, blue lines that match the powder tone of the sweater she’s tied around her waist. Certainly not attire she chose to travel in, the sort of ground to cover between here and Hoshigakure. This is merely one reason among many that she is not of Hoshigakure, of course, a fact so obvious he sees no point in berating the matter when he can get right to the heart:

“What brought you all this way from the stars, Miss Takara?”

He won’t be able to tell, but she isn’t nearly as eager as she used to be, back at the bar with her job and patrons. “I just… I don’t know... It wasn’t worth it anymore, I guess.” She shrugs, the weight of the matter much lighter upon her shoulders than it should be thanks to many, many hours of reflection. “I just wanted to be done with it all, end it the way I wanted to. On my own terms, you know? As much as I could.”

The man tilts his head even further, closer, as if proximity will assist their connection, and he answers softly. Her own words are tinged with a poison, regardless of her relaxed attitude. “...You speak of severance of an utmost degree…” His gaze is kind. It understands. “It must have been difficult.” But her eyes just look through the trees. For as warm as the cold man is, so is the warm woman being cold in turn.

“Just seemed like the logical thing. That’s all.”

“Miss Takara…” She’s just an inch away, both as he leans in and as he pulls the curtain of her mind away. “...What in particular pushed you so—?”

“Can we talk about something else?!”

It’s the first she’s ever demanded anything of them, let alone in such a tone. The woman bares her teeth and pinches her brow. The change stands out enough to warrant Kisame look over his shoulder in concern. The calm of lazy days is broken, in pieces in her fists. As such, the woman is abruptly too seen.

“I—oh…" Immediately, as if on command, she becomes as small as before. "Sorry. That was out of place. Sorry.” Itachi masks his surprise well, dipping his head in acceptance of her behavior.

“It’s understandable.” And it's no lie. Such emotional affairs...difficult to unwrap without tearing a layer or two. But still, she’s too unsettled to continue this dance around speaking her destruction, and she picks herself up from the steps of the porch.

“Excuse me—”

The cup of tea is set behind in her stead, dappling light washing over and away until she’s walked back into her home. The knight watches in silence, up until the very last bit of her is out of sight. He frowns at his fellow Akatsuki. “Are you going to—?” He won’t admit it’s too good to be true, living like this, and so it’s a relief when Itachi shakes his head. The easy way of the Sharingan is not a necessary one, to accomplish the mission. Persuasion will remain as talk.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I wanna see you with your head wide open

Empty in the ground, gone without a sound

Just another white elm growing at the end of town

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Only in my

No...that’s not right.

Her wrists raise again to press the keys:

Only in my dar

Hm. No. No! This shouldn’t be so difficult. Her silhouette is framed by the wall of the newly dubbed “piano room”, walls blackened with indoor shade while the outside glows with color. Itachi takes it in before stepping further towards the musician, the fuchsia of her glasses becoming clearer as the branches outside fade into bright, blinding light of the sun with his changing position. She doesn’t flinch, she doesn’t look. The music simply continues:

…Or it is trying to.

“What’s wrong?” the raven inquires from the doorway, interloping for his real concern. His eyes need not look at the piano. “Is it not tuned?”

“No…” the woman hums, unhappily. “It’s fine. It’s… It’s me. It’s the song.” There’s such a sharp frustration in her voice that was never present before, in this past week of daydreaming together, playing house. “I’m used to it sounding more full.”

Itachi blinks. “What’s missing?”

“Instruments that don’t exist.”

A rather blunt answer for how the woman typically presents herself, now a bit of a rose like her garden rather than a shrinking violet. Well-versed with thorns, the man draws closer behind the piano bench. As he does, he notes how this woman looks as if she was made to exist in this room, now that it’s been properly attended to; floors rustic but comfortable, a soft shade of brown wood that match her boots; a seat with a blanket and pillow neatly set atop, embroidery flourishing the edges of fabrics; the birds sing hardly some feet away as they do their best to peer inside, past antique curtains and old glass; a kitschy clock with tick tick ticks as a reliable metronome. Her fingers decide to go on their own, lyrics now wayward as she pins her thoughts too sharply onto black and white. Itachi, as always, listens, but he receives more than he anticipated.

It shouldn’t be so easy to catch an Akatsuki off guard.

“You are all...incredible.” Villains live on her tongue with such love. Could anyone but of another world treasure them? But that word has more meaning, here, than just to compliment. She refuses to look up. “You have wonderful abilities. Magic.” The performer has hardly seen anything of this place, but it’s more than enough to witness a man sink into the ground and a piano evaporate in a cloud just to arrive here in the middle of nowhere. She’s eager for more, but she is afraid— afraid, for obvious reasons, reasons like the magician’s red eyes.

“Why?” This question is so rehearsed that there’s no need to focus upon it, no need to stop playing idle music. “Why me? What makes me so special?”

Itachi answers simply. “You know why, Miss Takara.” But she shakes her head to this.

“Kind of. But. I don’t! Not why I’m here. Not what I’m useful for. Itachi, I-- I didn’t come here on purpose. I just woke up. And it had happened.” He furrows his brow, every so minutely.

“No explanation whatsoever…?” It’s hard to believe not even a clue in the laws of her dimension, what can and cannot make sense. “Do you not have higher powers, where you were? Chakra?” Another shake.

“I don’t even know what chakra is! What I had was just...reality.” The word is wistful under her breath. “I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“Perhaps you can try," her confidant offers.

And perhaps that's a wrong move of his in this chess game of feelings and semantics, as now she’s fallen mute. Her hands stray from the piano. They fold on her lap. He’s right behind her, now, but she still won’t shift to see him. A phrase repeats in her head, one of the voices that’s resided like an itchy scar for years, that she’s pushed away into the crowd of the village bar, or the traffic at rush hour, or the meaningless chatter of a TV screen. Those sounds are not here to pacify the voice, to rescue her away. She has no place to hide from it now, as she wonders what color Itachi looks at her with:

What have you done today to deserve your eyes?

“And what if it’s worthless to you?” The voice objects to her worth, to how she can see what's so good about living when she contributes so little. It's a question that logically brings another next, sorrow heavy in the space between them. “What then?”

He pauses, but unlike hers it is done in precision. The performer has her own answer that she wants to hear, and he knows another cannot become until this has its say.

“Itachi... Zetsu told me something." It's hushed, it's vile, it stings the way she speaks of him. It's like how you speak of a disease. "I’ve heard you’ve done something terrible. I’ve heard that you killed people.” It is true, and yet he must pretend he is unbothered, merely allowing she continue her interrogation. “Why not torture me? Hypnotize me again? Get it over with and go back to your lives?”

...

She waits. She waits and waits and waits like each tick of the clock above her head is slowly poisoning her air. There’s nothing she can do about fate; just make it quick. But Itachi sees her as his mirror, aware of what is behind the glass of their window, light shining bright enough to blind. He knows the tactic, the reflection of questions back without answering his.

“Why are you so eager to suffer?"

“Because...—” A justification so quick breaks so easily, and so does her voice, the answer so obvious. “Because…” But can she say it? She can’t catch her breath. As the truth is spoken, it nearly chokes.

“It’s...too good to be true.” She whispers something a sin to even acknowledge. “I still need to wake up."

No more flowery words or vague analogies.

"I still need to die.”

Without her conscious say, the woman's own hands have been fidgeting and rubbing so hard they might become raw, her fingernails pinching at her cuticles to tear skin away shred by shred. Maybe if the woman keeps pulling, she’ll unravel, and this will all be done. Crying shouldn't be so hard, but she’s already shed so many teardrops for her own sake. In the time they're needed most, they do not come. Surely, this is proof that dying would be of no regret. The crow looks with sad eyes, so hurt that he's expected to see her as a vulture does carrion.

“Takara-san…” So this is what she keeps inside. Burning intensity, ice-cold flame, feels intimately familiar. Who would he be to ignore such a plea? A black cloak shuffles like crow feathers around the unoccupied side of the bench and fills her lonely space. Because he knows this suffering so well, so too is there knowledge that this isn’t the core of her being but the veneer, the protection of something precious that you want left alone, lest a glass shatter so fine it becomes diamond dust. “You don’t deserve that.” A hand with a crimson plaque gently grasps her own, pulling bleeding fingers away from their small self-destruction. The player allows it, though her hissing mind does not cease. Please don’t waste your time on pitying me. Her blood will dry on his skin.

“It isn’t about deserving it. I told you. It just...made sense to do.”

He’s getting an idea, now, of how she ended up this way, so frayed and delicate and yet so wide open to whatever comes. It’s the kind of person you are when you meet the end. The raven weaves his fingers between those of the ghost. The muscles in hers tremble with effort, as they refuse to melt into his as they craves to.

“What if you can make it worthwhile?” he proposes. “Is there nothing to enjoy? You told me you liked the rain. That dragonflies shimmer so beautifully in the sun. ...And what of us? Do you not enjoy Kisame? Perhaps even me?” A bold addition, considering his reputation, but it finally makes her flinch. The queen has been captured, a move that paid off. At first her mouth grimaces, but slowly, surely, it’s a bitter smile.

“...The guilt card…” her voice quivers, the tiniest touch of gratitude amid playful seething. “That’s what we call this back home…”

With no worthy reason not to, just for him, she gives in. She lets him hold his hand, soft flesh giving way under his. A killer can comfort she who perhaps is the next prey. The wolf and the lamb need not carry on tradition, not just yet.

“Please promise me something.”

“...Anything.” She’ll never know the weight his vow holds.

“When it’s all about to end...tell me. Whenever that becomes the plan. I have no reason to fuss over it. I don’t have anything to lose.”

But you guys.

He already spoke his seal, his dedication, and so Itachi finds it unnecessary to taint the moment with a mere verbal confirmation. Her smile becomes more genuine, and gratefully, she rubs his knuckles with her thumb. Eyes close again, this time with a closer semblance of peace, and a blind hand raises by its wrist once more. It isn’t trying yet for the melody; she merely...appreciates the notes. She lets them resonate deep in her, its echo up her bent arm and into her heart. The player studies them individually and by their own merit rather than failure to replicate a certain song, returning to the basics of what makes a sound pleasant to the ear.

With two silhouettes side by side, layered into one person with two heads in the dark, maybe there’s a new version of what “complete” means. A rendition. A remastering. A rearrangement. How can one note mean so much? To seep such emotion into cold-hearted murderers...a talent, indeed.

The next step in healing is to try move on.

“Itachi,” she repeats, about to outdo herself. “What do you like?” She beats him to the cop-out: “Besides time with me.”

While a question he’s gotten sarcastically once or twice in the past few years, it has never been one with an answer. You either know him well enough to not need ask, or you do not. And with his own mission, it leaves few worth the time to see firsthand. However...her happiness, however brief, is part of this journey now. To indulge her is to unlock his secrets. It is a risk worth taking, and so he closes the gap until he’s right up to her side and can whisper innocent things from terrible lips.

“My brother,” he begins with the most obvious, the sun his planet revolves around. He hears her murmur of surprise. “I left him when he was small. But everything I do...I do for him.” He’s never...seemed happy before. Placid, yes, perhaps even content but...happiness is what this is. She can hear the smile just underneath his collar. “When he said my name...nothing surpassed that joy. He loved playtime with his big brother. He wanted his shadow to be just as long as mine, if only to keep me safe. He loved being where he didn’t belong, just to stay beside me. ” And Itachi regrets that he cannot do the same.

Itachi’s happiness stings.

The rose leans into him more, and the Uchiha welcomes the intimacy that scratches him with her gentle touch.

“He sounds...incredible,” she repeats, though different in meaning. A cracked eye sees his free hand raise, and a finger that has sent many to hell tries to join her in heaven with a single, harmonic voice.

Ding…

It joins her perfectly, something deep from her on one end and bright from him upon the other.

“He is. He always will be.”

And that’s enough. She needs to return the favor, thinks the crow: “And what of you? What do you like?” With the question, her finger inches just a little closer to his, just a little higher in tone.

“I…” Dumb things make her heart race, as ever. Her cheeks tinge the color of her glasses. “It’s the first thing on my mind, is all. Just the first. That I miss from home. Don’t laugh.” The woman knows he will not, and yet fear necessitates this verbal ritual, this disclaimer. She knows how he would answer, that any little thing that keeps her alive is worthwhile.

“I like...cotton candy. I like how puffy it is.” She pushes back shame for not praising things of grander value to the universe, as her own existence is so very small, and its buds deserve to be nurtured by the only one who can garden for it. “I like that it’s soft. That it can be pink. Or blue. Or yellow. It’s always so pretty. It’s like a cloud from your dreams.”

Itachi’s hushed voice betrays wonder. “...I’ve never heard of such a thing.” His receptiveness puts heavy shoulders a little more at ease, setting her burden a little more upon the ground.

“It isn’t...a sophisticated taste. It’s just sugar. But it’s whipped so, so fast...that it’s like silk. It’s like spiderwebs. And then as soon as it’s in your mouth...it melts so fast that it’s gone.” She holds back an ironic comment on how this could be like other forms of joyousness, but that’d be rude to him.

“I like…” She purposefully selects something alongside her grievances with an infinitely connected world. “...Pictures of cats. Where I come from, it’s so easy to share things. To show things. And so much of it was dedicated to just showing how silly or happy or cute your cat was.” Her smile widens, sweet as the sugar clouds he can only imagine. “I love cats.” Love. That’s progress in his purview; he didn’t even have to press for such emotion. “Do you like cats?” All of a sudden, she’s looking at him, and her eyes are as bright as the morning they searched for the piano standing in front of the pair. “I like all of them, but I really like orange cats.”

And suddenly, something clicks.

He sees it now. A part of her, deep inside, is so very, very small. She sheltered it so much from the suffering in her skin and bones that this piece of her soul will never quite grow all the way up. The magician takes her question very, very seriously.

“...The brown ones. With soft tones and darker points.”

“Siamese!”

And then it happens. She laughs. She laughs unhindered and out loud and without guilt. Itachi sees something familiar, and he remembers that this is what it means to be alive. This is what peace can be...

...Is, before him, for him, now.

This is how the rest of a lazy summer day passes by. Much to the ease of Kisame's mind, he finds the woman enraptured in joy and stories and so many- many- flutters of excited hands. Part of him is so goddamn relieved he didn’t fuck up so badly that rainy night prior that he sucked all the hope out of her precious bleeding heart… But also part of him didn’t know she had this kind of energy in her, that this kind of behavior was beaten out of her with no return. So after brief surprise, it returns to grateful ease. What is it with Itachi and women…?

...No, it isn’t worth framing like this so simply, Kisame surmises, seeing the way black eyes soften with her reflection in them. So even Uchiha can feel love...

Tentatively, with the guide of a red-ringed hand, the traveler gets some help passing barefoot past the road of coals and thorns and on the way to some sort of freedom, as much as can be found in a situation with no choices. The new man is greeted warmly as he enters.

“What’s all this about?” Kisame joins in, pulling up the chair to join one old friend and one new. Bashfully, the woman releases her grasp from Itachi’s— the hold unseen by the swordsman in the first place— and presses her reddened fingertips together. “I’ve been thinking about things that cheer me up. What do you like?” she invites so quickly it takes him off guard.

The taller man looks up to his partner and either receives the permission he is seeking or does not in those dark eyes. With hesitation, as if he could make her cry with just a word, Kisame engages the childish quandary, putting his true, bandaged favorite that's normally strapped to his back in temporary second place.

“Well…” he begins with a scratch of his chin, worried it won’t be up to par with whatever preceded him, “...I quite like seafood.”

“Seafood?!”

At first he’s afraid, she’s so much louder than he’s ever heard her, but those are stars in her eyes as she jumps up.

“I love seafood!”

With slow acceptance, the blue man raises a brow and one side of his mouth. “...Is that so…?” She nods, eagerly, and so it’s impossible to hold back a chuckle. “Then we’ll make a date of it, princess.”

“Oh my gosh!” Two fists pump the air, the woman’s expression as determined as one can be over fish. “Yes! Next time! Next time we’re out!” She turns to Itachi, just a notch quieter. “...Next time we’re out?” As if he’d do anything else, he pauses before giving his own quiet nod. “Yes!”

The shadows change shape over the hours, and the three silhouettes are now in color with it so dark outside. Normally such a figure in triple-headed shape alone would be more akin to a hydra, what with 2/3 being some of the most feared men in all of humankind, but the third makes their picture mean something else entirely. Unknown, what other analogy there could be for something with three faces, but it is remarkably more sweet.

“—And you can use it to watch videos!”

“Hm? Videos?”

“Like movies! Wait, do you have movies? Films?”

“Of course we have films, we aren’t cavemen!” Though Kisame doesn’t know her movies have sound and color.

“Okay, so it’s like a film, but it’s shorter— no, it can be as long. Or longer! But it’s usually pretty short. And you can say whatever you want in them, or do whatever you want!”

“Sounds trite.”

“It is! It was awesome. I liked one channel who talked about his farm—”

“Channel?”

“Yeah, where you would post your videos!”

“Post? Hold on, princess, I thought this wasn’t a physical place. How can you post on anything that’s not, say...a billboard? A pole?”

“That’s just the word for it, Kisame, I didn’t pick it!”

“How unusual…”

Itachi watches the two banter as she tries to paint them a picture, a mere sketch in the corner of a massive masterpiece that is an entirely separate manner of existence. For someone who hated it so much, these details still make her bubble with glee, grin like it’ll all be just fine. But then it grows late, and as the moon rises, so does the dreamer’s hand to suppress a yawn. Kisame offers her a hand, though she takes before understanding his purpose.

“We’ve kept the songbird up for so long that she lost her voice!” he teases, and even though she comprehends this tone, she still shakes her head in refusal.

“No, I haven’t lost it yet. Just one last thing. One more—”

It doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t have to be complete. But it can be something else.

“Itachi?”

The dying man returns her gaze. She does not flinch at his coal-black eyes.

“Help me with something?” Even as she requests, her hand is already taking his again, and an angel guides two fingers to make one chord on the piano, pressing for him in multiple lengths.

Dmmmm… Dm. Dm. D-d-dm.

“Just like that,” she explains. “Every so often, when it feels right. That’ll be a big help for this song.”

Having slumped onto the floor somewhere in the past couple subjects, she outstretches her fingers for Kisame’s hand again, signifying she’s ready finally for his aid, and she’s lifted off the ground. Once the wrinkles upon the lap of her dress are pressed off, the woman returns one again at the bench, Itachi having not moved from it. Their sides touch again. He’s numb to the thorns. The scent of rose is intoxicating, dizzying in its contrarian, painful innocence, and he notes to be wary of it in the long times to come.

“I’m going to sing for you guys.” Confident as the statement is, the next one makes it waiver: “...If that’s okay.” But she knows it’s okay, so she does not wait. An inhale winds up her nose and an exhale shoves out fear clinging to her throat. Two wrists raise and press the keys, once they pulled down her lenses so she can view her situation with rose-tinted glasses. Unspoken questions ruminate, fuel the engine of her soul:

Can we be friends?

But what if it doesn’t last?

Does it matter?

So she sings:

Only in my darkest moments can I see the light

I think I'm prone to getting blinded when it's bright

She sighs melodically, to her new rhythm, as she tries to describe to them what it’s like to want to hurt, to ache, to die, when things are getting better.

Well, this December, I'll remember

Want you to see it when I do

Oh, oh, oh

God knows I do

Suffering makes you doubt joy, joy makes you doubt that you’ve suffered. Both are veracity of being alive, and yet so easily they can be swayed to the benefit of the negative. Guilt for allowing yourself happiness: it’s something these men know, too. They need little explanation. The passiveness, as if existence is merely erosion of the self instead of the building of your mountain, your accumulation of many, great, little things. It's a form of self-harm. Itachi is perfect in his role; he knows just when to add in his given chord and give her strength.

I'm alright if you're alright

I'm okay if you're okay

It's this state, in this state I'm living in

It's just a little bit, it's just a bit

Maybe, this December, I'll remember

Want you to see it when I do

Oh, oh, oh

God knows I do

The ghost will ride joy out as long as it lasts. Maybe someday, Itachi will see how cotton candy compares to dango. Kisame tries in vain not to have this moment change him forever, for the better. Heaven doesn’t need to pass away just yet. And then as the song fades and it’s time to retire for the evening, single words between the three make each other a promise:

Goodnight.

We will all still wake up for each other in the morning.

#akatsuki x reader #aswtn fic #songfic #itachi x reader #kisame x reader #i had...a lot of trouble writing this one. i had a completely different chapter and decided while im happy its out of my system #it is not what i wanted in the story. part of why there's a gap of time on my part between this one and the last #but i like how it ended up :)

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blood-mocha-latte · 9 months ago

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Okay hear me out. A Valentine's Day ficlet wherein everyone in H Company is out on fancy dates except ace!Chuckler, who is S T O K E D to have the apartment to himself. He's gonna Tom Cruise underwear dance yo.

bestie you absolute GENIUS by god. ace!chuckler my beloved!! loosier sort of Shoved themselves into this, which i hope is okay!

i love this too much. so much. all the much. i hope you enjoy <3

“Please don’t tell me those are what I think they are.”

Chuckler smiled, smug, and adjusted the sunglasses across the bridge of his nose. “I think I look classy.” He said, and Lucky looked at him with something that matched vague horror.

“They’re bigger than the continental US.” He said, sounding somewhat impressed. “And pink.”

“And stylish.” Runner jumped in easily, rounding their kitchen island with a cup of coffee and sitting across from Leckie. “You could be on the cover of Vogue.”

Lew grinned, and tilted his face up so the sunglasses wouldn’t fall off. “Because of my stunning good looks?”

He’d gotten the glasses for half off at the gas station that sat kitty-corner from their apartment, and it was, in short, the best three quarters and a dime he ever spent.

“I think I’m gonna wear them everywhere.” He said, and took them off only to admire them, the heart-shape of their frames, the red tint of the shades. “Paint ‘em green, go out for a night in the town.”

“Get horribly lost again.” Runner agreed, and Chuckler made a face at him.

“Okay, well, that wasn’t on me.” He said loftily, crossing his arms and setting the glasses down on the table. “Someone took the charger so my phone was dead, so I couldn’t Google-walk home—”

“—that was extenuating-fucking-circumstances, I was supposed to get a call from a publisher—” Leckie is jumping in with a protest before Lew can even finishing talking, holding up his hands defensively, and Runner started talking over him after that, a large jumble of shouting that ceased only when Leckie’s door cracked open.

Lucky nearly fell out of his chair when Hoosier shuffled out of his room, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, hair sticking up in every direction. “Coffee.” He said, and Hoosier grunted, a nonverbal confirmation that sounded only slightly murderous.

“I hate you.” He said, shuffling the short distance between their bedroom and the dining room table and dropping into Leckie’s now unoccupied seat. Leckie in question was pouring a second mug of coffee, still steaming, and was quick to move and set it in front of Bill, pressing a kiss to his temple that Hoosier was too slow to bat away.

“I love you, and I’ll get you whatever you want tonight.” He promised, already turning back into the kitchen to find the creamer. Hoosier curved his hands around the mug, bringing his face down to inhale the steam.

“I want a new boyfriend.” He muttered to it, and Runner snorted.

“Bad night?” He asked, and Chuckler raised his eyebrows, pushing his glasses closer to Hoosier when the other just gave him a blank look.

“I was having trouble with my novel.” Leckie said absently, clattering around at the counter as he did something that Lew couldn’t see. “And was trying to force myself to write, which—”

“Which means that I got one and a half hours of sleep last night, and also am going to get a gun.” Hoosier said over him, face still against his mug. “To kill you, Bob, if that wasn’t clear.”

“It’s very clear. And very understandable.” Leckie said, turning back around with one of the semi-stale croissants they’d gotten at the same gas station that Chuckler had acquired his glasses at. “Have I told you how gorgeous you are?”

“I’m breaking up with you.” Hoosier said. “We’re done. Get out of my house.” Leckie hummed, setting the croissant in front of him and crossing an arm over the front of his chest, dropping his face down to his hair before kissing his forehead.

“I’ve got an awesome day planned.” He said, and Hoosier groaned, holding up a hand to fend him off. “You’re gonna love it—”

“I’m gonna be too tired to enjoy it—”

“Well,” Chuckler interrupted, pushing his sunglasses back onto his face when Hoosier showed no interest in them. “I mean. I slept great.”

Hoosier just blinked at him. “Would you like company tonight?”

“Baby—” Leckie started, holding his hands out, but Lew was already shaking his head, vehement.

“No way in hell!” He said cheerfully, pushing his glasses further up on his nose. “Today for me is about me. Today for you is about you and Lucky, it’s not my fault he’s a terrible partner.”

Hoosier dropped his forehead to the table with a groan, and Leckie shot Chuckler a vaguely threatening look. Lew just shrugged, still grinning, and Runner snorted.

“I mean. I’m gonna have a great day too.” He offered, and Chuckler held his hand up in a high five.

“Hell yeah!” He said, enthused. “But you can’t stay here. I have dibs.”

Leckie made some sort of frustrated sound, still clattering around in something that seemed to be in an effort to reap forgiveness. “When can we come back?” He asked, complaining, and Hoosier snorted.

“Why do you care?” He muttered to the table. “You’re never getting laid again.”

Chuckler just shrugged. “Sleep over at Hoosier’s place.” He offered to Lucky, and Hoosier groaned over him in protest.

“He’s sleeping in the fucking street before he’s getting into my bed again.” He said, and Leckie sighed.

So. Very par for the course.

“I’ll give you seven dollars if we can come back by nine.” Lucky offered, and Lew grinned, delighted.

“Nope! This is the first time I get to be by myself in nine months, by darling friends, and I don’t want to see any of your faces for the next twenty-four hours. You have thirty minutes to get out of here.”

He finished off his own coffee, and Hoosier pushed his face off of the table to squint at him, under eyes bruised purple. Leckie moved around him again, attempting to kiss his cheek, and Hoosier steered him away with an open palm to the face.

“I like your glasses.” He told Chuckler.

“Thanks.” Lew said, cheerful. “I like your croissant.”

“Thanks. You can have it, if you want. You can have the man who made it, too.”

“Babe—”

Chuckler snorted, wrinkling his nose. “Thanks, but I’m okay.”

His plan for the night, as written out:

Wrap all of Leckie’s shoes in cellophane.

Last month, Lew had woken up at four in the morning with his singularly obtained Buffy the Vampire Slayer comic book shrink wrapped, and Leckie sitting at their kitchen table, sipping at coffee, calmly writing out what seemed to be a letter.

Finally, he had time to seek his revenge.

(He had also conveniently forgotten that the reason Leckie’d wrapped his comic book at all was because Chuckler had replaced all of Hoosier’s keys with plastic baby rings.)

Do his laundry. In peace.

Last time, Runner had gotten cheetos in the dryer. Lew wasn’t even sure how he managed that, but never again. Never again.

Text Hoosier to make sure he hasn’t actually killed Lucky.

“Hi.”

“Hey! Are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah. It’s fine. It’s all fine. I’m still mad, though, so. Uh.”

“Lucky plan something good?”

“Ugh. Yeah. It’s really sweet, the motherfucker. I’m never gonna forgive him for this.”

“He took you to the Observatory, didn’t he?”

“Yep. The bastard. How’s it going for you?”

“I mean. If it makes you feel better, he has a nice present at home, now.”

“Hm. Make him suffer for me.”

“Okay! But don’t make him too upset. This is, like, a big night for him.”

“...”

“Hello?”

“Chuckler. You have to tell me if he’s going to propose. Legally. It’s — you can get arrested if you don’t.”

“Hm. I don’t think I can. But he’s not gonna propose—”

“I — I mean, we’ve talked about this, and I’d say yes, but if he proposes on fucking Valentines day—”

“He’s not gonna propose! I promise. Scouts honor! Roommates honor!”

“That is the most cliche shit I’ve ever heard—”

“All I did was tell you to be nice to him! That doesn’t mean he’s going to ask you to marry him—”

“Oh, holy fuck, I knew that he was being weirdly nice—”

Make a cake.

Although whatever drama Hoosier and Leckie were going through was interesting enough, he also had a recipe that he wanted to try and last time he’d tried to bake anything of any sort, Hoosier had poured jalapeno sauce into it.

Which, come to think of it, may have been because Chuckler popped all of the keys out of Leckie’s laptop.

Listen to Simon and Garfunkel.

Runner hated Simon and Garfunkel, and because Chuckler was to be a good person, he didn’t blast it through the house when he was home.

But he wasn’t home, was he!

Lew loved Valentine's Day.

Call Hoosier one more time. Just to be extra certain Leckie isn’t dead.

“Oh, good, you picked up! Please tell me you haven’t got engaged—”

“What? Oh, no. Bob has been, uh. Well. Bob’s been arrested, so—”

“Bob’s been what—”

“But it’s not my fault, I feel I should make that incredibly clear—”

“Uh-huh. Okay, well, I’m not coming and getting you. Call Runner.”

“No, no—”

“It’s my day, Hoosier! You know this! It’s my day, I’m not dragging my ass down to the station—”

“My boyfriend’s in jail, Lew, I think that’s extenuating circumstances—”

“Ope, the Sound of Silence just came on, so I’m gonna obey its wise title and hang up. Call Runner!”

“I — uh. Fine. It’s your day.”

“It really is! Good luck. Don’t say anything without a lawyer.”

Yeah. Lew loved Valentine’s Day.

#rie writes #peace and love and ace chuckler on planet earth <3 #thank you for the prompt i ADORED it #the pacific #chuckler juergens #loosier #hbo war

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harleychick91 · 1 year ago

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The Best Birthday Ever (rated G)

Lena wants to spend her birthday with her best friend. What that turns into was never part of Lena's plan.

Full fic on AO3 and FFN

This is insane. I shouldn’t just show up to Kara’s and see if she wants to spend the day with me, driving around aimlessly with the top down, finding a few hole-in-the-wall places. She’s always said that if I needed to, or wanted to, stop by that I’m more than welcome.

Before my resolve wavered, I pulled into a parking spot and made my way to the reporter’s door. Taking off my sunglasses, I slid an earpiece into my belt. Knocking, I waited. I hope I didn’t underdress too much. Jeans and a nice sleeveless shirt. No one in National City has seen me in something like this. Kara has seen me in my lounge clothes before. She won’t care.

Confusion washed over me when an older woman answered the door. “I recognize you,” she smiled. “You’re Lena Luthor.”

“I am, yes.” She looks so familiar. My eyes flashed across the room behind her. This is definitely Kara’s apartment. I can see my appointed blanket on the couch.

“I’m Eliza, Alex’s and Kara’s mother. Please, come in.” Stepping to the side, the older woman allowed me entrance.

That’s where I recognize her from! The photo albums and pictures on Kara’s desk and around her apartment. “Thank you,” I smiled. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Danvers. Kara’s told me so many stories.”

“You as well. Between everything Kara has told me, what’s been in the papers, and your TED Talks, I feel like I already know you.”

Kara talks about me to her mother? “I hope all was good.”

“It was,” Eliza chuckled. “I almost feel like I have three daughters instead of two.” Warmth filled my chest at Eliza’s words.

“Mom, who are you talking to-oh God. Lena, hi!” The agent’s voice pitched upwards with each word.

“Hi.” Crossing my arms, I studied the brunette. “What was that reaction for?”

“I…um…” Alex stammered, pulling out her phone to text someone.

“I hope you can make it to Thanksgiving this year.” Eliza made her way towards the kitchen. “Can I get you something to eat or drink?”

“No, thank you though.” She’s definitely the woman who raised Kara. That woman always offers me something to eat or drink the second I walk in. “Kara invited me but I may have to work.” I feel bad for lying.

“Well, I’m also inviting you this year.” Eliza smiled warmly. “Hopefully you can make it.”

“If you’re coming, then I’ll do my best. What brings you to town? I thought Kara said you flew in next weekend.”

“We wanted to see Mom longer!” Alex blurted, wrapping an arm around her mother’s shoulders. “This woman makes the best BBQ wings ever.” Hearing a frantic knock, Alex went to answer the door.

Walking in, Kara held a paper grocery bag in each arm. “Heeeyyy, guys. What’s up?” Eyes grew when the blonde saw me. She tried to speak but nothing came out.

“Kara?” Becoming self conscious, I looked over my outfit. “I dressed down because it’s my day off and I thought it would only be us.”

“I think you broke her brain,” Alex smirked.

“Alexandra,” Eliza warned.

Before Kara could respond, there was another knock at the door. “I’ll get it.” Alex moved quickly across the apartment. “Pretty sure I know who it is.”

“You look really good in green,” Kara smiled sheepishly. Tearing her eyes away, a light pink tinted the reporter’s cheeks. “S-Sorry for staring.” She murmured, placing the bags on the counter.

“No harm done.” I don’t mind when you stare. It makes me feel wanted.

The blood drained from Kara’s face when she saw who was at the door. “Mrs. Danvers, it’s nice to see you again.” Mike, from Kara’s office, walked in with a large bouquet of flowers. “These are for you.” He smiled, kissing Kara’s cheek. A shot of jealousy made its way through me.

“Reel it in a little.” Taking the flowers, Kara placed them on the table. “Thank you. They’re lovely.”

“Too much?” He frowned, disappointed in himself.

“For American society, yes. You normally only kiss certain people who you find special or some family members if they do cheek kisses.”

“Oh,” he paused. “But I’ve never seen you kiss-,”

“That’s enough!” Alex cupped her hand over Mike’s mouth.

Read the rest on AO3 & FFN

#supergirl #supercorp #lena luthor #kara danvers #Lena’s birthday #supercorp ficlet #supercorp fanfic

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aae-tuu · 1 year ago

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POV: Love always finds a way, it’s true. And I love you…Evangeline…

Ft: G. Satoru & G.Suguru (except I have a favorite) (fluff, gn!reader, probably ooc Gojo cause why is he so difficult to fuckinf write I’m gonna strangle him, I had fun with this🤭, some crack, also my English sucks so have fun reading)

(I was watching Princess and the Frog with my neighbor and this song played and I just ugghhhhh)

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It was quiet, not a sound an ear could hear. The nighttime sky above would’ve shone brightly with stars littering the usually dark, empty space as if thousands of fireflies chose to lay down to rest just for this moment. But alas, clouds in the sky have chosen for that moment to wait…just a little bit longer…

“Well…?” Geto asked, looking up at you. You were perched on the cobblestone wall that was meant for overlooking the small pond, while walking the low bridge. Your legs were gently swaying as you look down at Geto, a small smile gracing your lips as he leaned against the cobblestone, seeming as though he was trying to get closer to you, but also trying to keep his distance as to not scare you away.

You leaned back on your hands, your gaze a little dazed as you look into his eyes and he returned the contact.

“Hm,” you hummed, “and Gojo is okay with it?”

“I wouldn’t be asking if he wasn’t.” Geto replied with a small smile. “But if you aren’t interested…that’s fine too.”

You both said nothing as you stared into each others eyes, the clouds above finally parting and the light of the moon illuminated everything it’s light touched. The stars twinkled brightly and a few decided to rest across the pond, a light that was reflected in your eyes as time seemed to slow down, even if just for a second, to allow this moment for you both to be engraved in your memory (and hearts) for all time.

Geto’s hair that was usually tied up, was left cascaded down his shoulders. A soft breeze tickling the both of you as it fluttered against his strands as the light of the moon illuminating his features. You reached over, tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear as his mouth parted ever so slightly as the gesture.

As he stood there, he could see only you. Not the moon, or the stars, or anything else that was happening in this small place where hundreds of beautiful flowers grew. The only thing that could ever catch his attention long enough for him to be mesmerized…

is you.

“Suguru, Y/N!” A familiar voice shouted as the sounds of shoes running came closer. You both turned (Geto a bit later than you) to see Gojo with a stupid grin on his face, his sunglasses still on his face. You wondered if he can even see with those on. With all that tint is he blind? “Coming here without me? You both are so cruel.”

“I’m sure you can handle a few minutes by yourself, Gojo.” You ruffle his hair once he got close. “You’re not going to die just because we left.”

He grabbed your hand before it left his head and placed it back on his his hair as he pouted. “What if I’m secretly a rabbit? They die of loneliness, you know!”

“You’re not a rabbit, Satoru.” Geto sighed.

“No, wait,” you say, tilting your head as you studied his features, “I can kind of see it.”

“Don’t encourage him.” Geto rolled his eyes as Gojo stuck his tongue out at him. “I was asking L/N-..Y/N…, the question, Satoru.”

“Without me?!” Gojo gasped, clutching his shirt where his heart would be. “Suguru, you’re getting crueler by the day. Have you been talking to Nanami again?”

Geto ignored him.

“They’re still thinking of their answer.” The two boys looked at you as you looked over the pond, both leaning against the wall you sat on.

“Well you better hurry up and decide. I’m not exactly as patient as Mr. Saint over there.” Gojo yawned and Geto glared at him.

“Whenever you’re ready, Y/N.”

“But don’t take forever.”

“We have time.”

“Time that’s wasted on pointless thinking.” Gojo looked up at you. “It’s a yes or no question that can be decided right now.” He frowned and started poking the side of your head. “Come on. Is your brain working okay?”

“Satoru…” Geto sighed and Gojo huffed, placing his arms on the wall and laying his chin down. The two boys now looking over the pond with you.

“Yes.”

“Hm.” It was said at the same time as the two looked over at you simultaneously.

“My answer..” you smile as you look up at the sky, “…it’s yes.”

“See? Was that so hard?” Gojo teased and lightly bumped his shoulder against you. “But I was expecting something more…energetic!”

“Nothings ever good enough for the Satoru Gojo, huh?” You sigh with a smile as you share a look with Geto, who mirrored your expression.

“Eh. You two are!” Gojo shrugged as he lay his chin on the palm of his hand, his fingers resting on his bottom lip to look up at the sky before shifting to rest on his cheek to look at you instead. “And the Satoru Gojo always knows what’s best.” You roll your eyes as Gojo flashes you a toothy grin.

“As if!” Geto reaches around you to shove Gojo. “Remember when you thought that just because you were ‘The Strongest’ that you could chug an entire bottle of hot sauce to see if you could breathe fire?”

“But did I breathe fire?”

“No! You didn’t!”

“It’s a matter of opinion.”

“It’s really not…”

You laugh as the two bicker and Gojo’s smile seems to widen tenfold. He walks to stand behind you before pulling you at the waist and adjusting you so you were held against his chest. One arm under you legs while the other supporting your back as his hand rested on your arm. Kind of like how a knight would carry a member of the royal family.

You yelped as he held you close and he spun around a little.

“Satoru, don’t be so rough.” Geto said as he watched.

“I just wanna hear ‘em laugh!” Gojo giggled as he swayed you in his arms, straightening up as he got an idea. “Suguru!”

“Hm?”

“Catch!”

One second you’re in Gojo’s arms, the next

“WHY-?”

you’re thrown towards Geto.

Geto easily catches you in his arms as he stumbled forward and he brought you close to his chest. He looked down at you, a blush as soft as his eyes coating his cheeks before resuming to its usual sharpness when he glared at Gojo.

“Satoru, why?!” You exclaim and he shrugged.

“Thought it’d be fun.” He said with such nonchalance that you felt like throwing him over the small wall and into the pond.

“One of these days I’m going to throw you.” You glare at him before patting Geto twice on his shoulder. “Come on, Suguru.” You smirk and sharply turn you face away from Gojo, who’s mouth fell open. “Let’s leave this loser.”

“HEY! WHO’RE YOU CALLING A LOSER!?”

“It is getting late.” Geto hummed as he looked at the sky. He sighed before jumping up on the wall, holding you tightly in his arms.

“Suguru, what are you doing?” Gojo demanded in a low voice as Geto turned around to face him.

“Something fun.” Geto grinned before hopping off, Gojo watching with wide eyes as you both disappeared. He ran to look over the wall to see Geto had summoned his Rainbow Dragon, and was standing ontop of its head.

“We’ll be heading home now, Satoru~!” Geto chirped as the dragon slowly ascended, and you give give him a weirded out look, not expecting him to summon his strongest curse just to get you both home. “Don’t stay out too late, okay~?”

“Oh no, you don’t!” Gojo jumped up on the cobblestone wall, pointing a finger up at you both. “You’re not leaving me here, Suguru! And, Y/N, say something!”

“Bye, Satoru!” You wave with a smile and he frowns.

“Catch us if you can!” Geto yelled as he ushered his dragon to leave, your laugh echoing throughout the quiet night.

Gojo smirked as he stretched, watching the dragon fly high into the sky, “I will.”

Did you know I do more than write headcanons🤩

I just like to write headcanons more than fics

This was supposed to be a cute fluffy romantic thing with Satoru and Suguru, and it was going well until Satoru had to come in and ruin every romantic thing I wrote (that bitch)

Anyways uh

There’s more in my drafts that I’ll try to get out this weekend tehe

#Youtube #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #geto suguru #gojo x reader #geto x reader #jjk x reader #jujustsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru x reader #geto suguru x reader #gn!reader #I actually tried making this romantic #but gojo happened #so it’s now half romantic #and half crack

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