immoralimmortals

[immoralimmortals]

😇

[immoralimmortals]

7th May 2024

Hidan is still in that hole

#(in the arms of the angels playing in the bg) #but with your help we can make that hole deeper #hold on i'm gonna put in the funniest tag of all time #hole watch #eyes on that HOLE

[immoralimmortals]

eyyyyyyyyyy

#tak talks

[immoralimmortals]

Hello there! These questions aren't really apart of the Naruto asks but rather, just questions I'd like to ask because your analysis on things are so interesting!

Why do you think Shikamaru shouldn't have won in his fight with Hidan? Don't get me wrong, I 100% agree with you but I'm curious as to what your reasoning is because I loved reading all of your answers to the naruto asks as they are so interesting!

Lastly, why do you think Hidan is the way he is? Do you think he experienced something in his youth to have caused him to convert to Jashinism?

Oooh interesting questions!! Hidan is always rotating around in my brain like a microwavable treat so I'm so happy to talk about him

Why should Hidan have won?

Ok so I've got a couple of reasons for this. I'll try and list them coherently lol. My main issues all boil down to the fact that Shikamaru's victory is meant to be framed as this epic David vs Goliath story, but that only works if Shikamaru actually targeted and exploited some kind of weakness of Hidan that Hidan overlooked because of arrogance and/or stupidity

But that's not what happened. Shikamaru's victory felt like those movie plot twists that have absolutely zero foreshadowing and seem like they were included just for the shock value. As a reader, I see Shikamaru's victory as cheap and fabricated. I'll explain:

Firstly, the way Kakashi stole Kakuzu's blood was bullshit. Kakashi said that he extracted Kakuzu's blood after he punched through his heart. We see a scene of Kakashi discreetly using his free hand to insert the syringe into Kakuzu's arm, but that doesn't make any sense. Kakuzu's entire fucking thing is Earth Grudge Fear. He can harden his skin. You can't tell me that in a hand-to-hand, close-range fight with an opponent, Kakuzu wouldn't at least harden his skin enough for it to be impervious to syringes. Gimme a break And even if I grant the fact that Kakuzu wouldn't keep up his slight skin hardening after he'd been punched through, that doesn't explain where his blood actually came from. We don't know much about Kakuzu's biology, but we do know that most of his body is filled with his weird spaghetti jutsu. It's probably not as easy to take a blood sample from him, even if his skin wasn't hardened at all, as it is a normal person. So the way that Shikamaru even got a blood sample from Kakuzu requires a pretty big suspension of disbelief And we haven't even gotten to the second problem: how Shikamaru is able to prevent himself from getting cut by Hidan's weapon and also coat the tip of it in Kakuzu's blood, all while making it appear that he got slashed himself. If I could bring the databook stats into this for a second (oh god I'm using databook stats 😭), Hidan's stats for speed, strength, and stamina are 3.5, 4, and 5 respectively. Shikamaru's are 2.5, 2, and 3. I'll paint a picture: The two of them have now been fighting for a while. Shikamaru had to sprint into the forest and lead Hidan away from the others. Shikamaru is visibly tired and worn down. Yes, he definitely was playing that up, but he is certainly more tired than the man with arguably the highest stamina ranking in the entire series (😏). So he's getting slow. His movements are sluggish, even if just fractionally. On top of this, it is already difficult for him to keep up with Hidan's speed to begin with. Hidan might be the slowest Akatsuki member, but he's much faster than a Leaf chunin. Despite all of this, his plan relies on him to not only be faster than Hidan in order to defend himself from his attacks, but to be so much faster that he can procure his blood capsule and make sure Hidan breaks it without Hidan even realizing that he's done so And we haven't even talked about how physically weak Shikamaru is at this point. Hidan is still, practically, at full speed and strength. Shikamaru's strength, already paltry compared to Hidan, has dwindled. If Hidan put even a little force behind his slash, it is very unlikely that Shikamaru would be able to both parry and pull off his sleight of hand. Attempting to do so would almost assuredly get him killed And the icing on the cake—Hidan is intimatey practiced with long-range weapons. A man as versed in cutting and bleeding as him knows when he's slashed through skin versus shattered a glass tube

It just irks me because this entire charade is hailed as "Shikamaru's Genius" when really, Shikamaru's plan rests on not just one, but a consistent series of divine strokes of luck. It rests on the idea that Shikamaru should win, and the readers want him to win, and therefore, he will win. And yeah, this is Naruto, the good guys are gonna win. But I wish that Shikamaru's victory wasn't framed like it was somehow earned

Why do I think Hidan is the way he is?

That's the question, isn't it!! Everyone else is given a reason for why the act Like That except for Hidan. And I'm not saying that every character needs an "excuse" for their evil, but Hidan definitely has reasons why he made the choices he did

I think he came from a really bad home. I don't think he was an orphan necessarily, but probably wished he was. His mother was neglectful—he was an accident, and she had him very young—and his father was abusive

Hidan was enrolled in Yu's ninja academy by his parents so that he'd be out of their hair. He performed very poorly academically, both because he got no additional at-home instruction and because he viewed being there as some kind of punishment that he tried to resist

However, I think Hidan always had a knack for anything physical, and he far surpassed his classmates in all their physical exams. But more importantly, he felt powerful for the first time in his life. He was good at something, really good, and he could use it to exert control over his life. He quickly learned to weaponize his new-found strength against anyone who harmed him, especially his father. He was too happy to care that everyone was scared of him

He graduated the academy with the rest of his class. At this point, I think that Yugakure's caliber of ninja had steeply declined, and the fact that Hidan failed every academic subject and could only do the most basic of water style ninjutsu was of little concern to his teachers. He knew how to throw a kunai, and that's all that Yu's civilians thought a ninja did anyway

I think that Yugakure's political situation played a huge role in Hidan's conversion to Jashinism. At the time of Hidan's graduation, I think that the public had lost the concept of what a ninja was or what they did, and those that became ninjas mostly did it because of the social status that it offered. Most "ninja" were entrepreneurs that used the job as a way to network. Hidan, in his mind, was the only one who knew what a ninja was and what they did, a conception that was a lot more bloody than anyone in Yu was able to accept. He was not only alienated from the rest of his comrades because of his social background but because of his philosophy, and thus, looked for connection elsewhere

He found it in the cult. I imagine Hidan being approached by a missionary of Jashin when he was in his early teens, not that long out of the academy. I think he was initially drawn in with classic cult tactics, but at some point, the line blurs and it's difficult to tell how much he was simply beguiled into the cult and how much he actively chose to go along with it. I think he saw in Jashinism a celebration of himself and everything that had caused society to shun him for so long

And then of course there's Jashin. In my headcanon, Jashin is very much a Real Thing. (Whether or not he is an actual God that follows God Rules is another question entirely, but he is definitely an entity that exists.) Among other things, I think that Hidan found a kind of father figure in Jashin and thoroughly devoted himself to him. He was still a Yugakure ninja at this point, so he did all the murder secretly. (He murdered his parents and anyone that ever got close to him in Jashinist fashion)

I have a lot of Jashinist cult-specific headcanons, but so that this ask doesnt reach like 5k words, all that's relevant is that there is a "prophet" foretold is Jashinist teaching and they must be created from the worthy devout. The cult took that to mean an intricate blood ritual that was meant to "ascend" the devotee. In other words, they choose a lamb to slaughter, and if it resurrects, it's the chosen prophet. So far, none of the rituals performed have succeeded. Hidan had proven himself 10 times over, and the cult chose him to take part in the ritual. For how loyal to Jashin Hidan was, I think he was terrified when he was brought into the ritual room

Hidan survived! And I think it made him develop like 20 new complexes. Of course his cult regarded him as Jashin's chosen now, and why shouldn't they? Hidan believes that his connection to Jashin is stronger than ever, and he thinks he's the most powerful person alive. At this point I think is when Yugakure formally disbanded their shinobi force, and all Hidan could see was the village that had failed him cower and turn its back on everyone else like him and reject the one thing that could've redeemed it—a true, bloody shinobi force. All of this hurt and hatred combined with his rapturous chosen-prohet craze led him to slaughter his village

I think Hidan slaughtered his village when he was around 17. He then left. What was left of the Yugakure government enlisted the Akatsuki to find him and bring him to justice (and we know how that went)

Idk how familiar you are with Baldur's Gate, but Hidan is very Orin-coded to me. Jashin is the worst entity to ever exist, and Hidan is his favorite son

#op how does it feel to have the weight of truth upon your shoulders

[immoralimmortals]

im not sure if this matters to anyone, but just in case: did not realize the default messaging setting was to only allow blogs I follow. I just switched it <3

#bother me bother me bother me bother me #tak talks

[immoralimmortals]

A Song With Ten Names

Chapter 10: Kimmy and the Kalmia Kid

Chapter 1 ☆ Previous chapter

Summary of chapter: Lust and purity fall as drops into the same pool of Kisame's mind, and he's concerned that they blend so well instead of mixing like oil and water. A flower festival proves to be one of the most challenging missions he's taken on since becoming an Akatsuki. What does it mean to maintain a lady's honor?

Author's Note: Two songs are used here, the first one being Woah There Kimmy by Felix Hagan and the Family. Second song is Kalmia Kid by chloe moriondo. Minor content warning: this one is saucy and has vague discussions of prostitution that doesn't actually happen. But while we know that, Kisame does not.

*slaps the fanfic* This baby can fit so much self serving mental illness, autism, bisexuality, and polyamory in it.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I’m so sainted, untainted

Scrubbed up and squeaky clean

My virtue will serve you

Delight that’s so pristine

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

What has Kisame done today to deserve his eyes?

White sheets wash over their heads like seafoam of a tide. He senses her with every part of his anatomy. The woman raises her head, hair falling over her shoulders. It is immediately known that those hooded eyes desire him just as much as Kisame achingly desires her. Thirsty, soft lips part as she lifts herself up, drawing closer to the man as their bright snowy backdrop gently tents overtop her exquisite body. She’s so small compared to he as she leans above him, but the view he gets of her now fills his whole world. He is so, so hungry for her flesh, and he is ready to taste every square inch of it.

As he reaches a hand forward to guide her mouth to his, Kisame wakes up.

The sound of her sigh disappears as he gapes for air, throwing himself straight up in bed, heart racing as he grips the covers between tense fingers. Tweet, tweet, tweet. The morning birds mock him from the windowsill as Kisame begins to recover from his beautiful, terrible dream. Each hurried breath leads to one just a bit slower until the very last one comes as a groan behind a worried frown. The air is cold upon as his bare back now that he’s sitting up, and a hand holds his forehead in grief. He waits a moment. The blood in him needs to calm down before he moves from the mattress and begins the day, lest he spend more of it feeling like a lowlife.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

That’s what I tell myself

Well you’ve torn those lies apart

Just touch my wrist and for that instant

I’m yours with all my heart

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

His tormentors, dreadful and cute feathered things, seem to follow him from the outside trees down the staircase, into the hallway, and down past the kitchen. He pauses as he’s about to walk by the entryway of the room, his hair nearly touching the ceiling as he looks over his shoulder and towards the vase. The little blue daisies he bought have disappeared, not a day after they started to show decay. It’s a mildly disconcerting turn of events, though as far as bad things go this is probably in the bottom two or three of things that actually matter right now, which is not a hard award to achieve when bloodshed is the name of your game. Still...if the lady is so picky about her flowers, it wouldn’t hurt to replace them for her. A conversation begins under his breath as he walks over the floor he’s repaired, picking up the empty vase in his hands.

Ah...to get more would mean to go back to the florist that missed her. Maybe it’s time he considered keeping a promise. But is it a good idea to go so soon? Perhaps wait until his lusty heart clears up and he can behave like a human being in front of—

“Good morning!”

—Her.

The straps of her dress fall more loosely than he noticed before, as she surprises him from behind. Eyes trail down from the shoulders he’s massaged down the cleavage that teases ever so slightly in her neckline, down to the curves at her waist where the fabric hugs so lovingly—

“Mm?”

Goddammit.

Fish eyes return to her own, which are to his gratitude unwitting. To her, Kisame seems simply as if he is just waking up. “Sorry if I kept you up too late.” An apology, already, though from the warmth in her smile it is merely a formality. The birds continue to balk loudly behind the man’s ears, as if he’s not overwhelmed enough. Just shake your head enough, Kisame, and maybe it’ll knock the thoughts out.

“I’ve stayed up later,” he shrugs. Bashfully, the princess raises her shoulders, too, tilting her head.

“Not me, not really. I’m more of a morning person. It was nice, though!” A pause. He’s a bit...quieter than she expected. “...Did you have a nice time?”

Kisame remembers, of course, as two of the most gorgeous people in not one but two universes graced him with their presence until midnight, leaving him with longing and regret that he was so much of a bastard in a past life to curse this one with a shark’s mug and a penchant for unforgivable violence.

“It was alright.” He corrects, though, as the woman raises her shoulder higher just so her head can dip lower in disapproval. “I’m not used to that kind of thing, that’s all.”

What, having friends? She’s so fucking glad that this was NOT one of her slips of the tongue and stays in a shameful little corner in her head where such malice fucking belongs.

“Well...I appreciate it, then.” The traveler nods to finish the conversation, about to make her leave—

“Hold on,” a groggy voice stops her in her place. “What do you think about going to the village today?” As the woman mumbles in questioning interest, he elaborates. “I didn’t know you’d been there before. Turns out, someone misses you.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Woah

Step back and slap myself sane

Now lust erupts to leave shame

Bad little man, catch him and make him say:

Woah there, Kimmy

I’m not that kind of boy

I’m not some womanizing, self-defiling

Slave to my own joy

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

A lot of someones missed her, actually. The star of the show walks out of the shop first, a twig of forget-me-nots behind her ear and straw-colored sunhat cooling her face with its shadow.

“Wow. I didn’t realize she liked me that much.”

Kisame did, a man having become a walking bouquet of flowers of every shape and size that are together so large you can’t even see the bottom half of his face.

“You don’t say?”

She hums in the negative, though her tone is pleased. “We just talked in the morning, when I used to come down for lunch.”

“Lunch?”

A hum in the positive. “Kakuzu used to give me an allowance. I’d come over every day for it, and the entrance closest on the path here is always right by the flower shop.”

“...I see.” He had wondered why she was trying to lead the way for such a long walk it was to the town. It’s one she knows well. Another thought scratches his brain, though:

“Did you really just say Kakuzu gave you an allowance?”

“Oh, yeah. Just enough for lunch at the market.”

Well, that is a thing that Kisame never expected to hear in his lifetime or, frankly, any other in any timeline or in any dimension. He huffs a chuckle to mask confusion with amusement, tilting his head past an iris to see where he’s being led by the girl now. Someone too busy to stay gives her an excited wave as they wander by, one she returns as if she recognizes them.

“...Rather interesting he’d give up his own change. Must have put quite an impression upon him, to get a single coin from that miser.”

“Oh! It was technically mine. He said it came from my tips.”

What. What?

“Tips?”

“From the work he got for me.”

...

What???

The ghost of the still very alive florist looms over his shoulder, repeating something he had forgotten until now:

She was with others like you. She visited our village alone in the day, and they brought her back by night.

“Kisame?”

All of a sudden, he sees how everyone acknowledges her, if they so choose. He sees them with eyes half closed, lips parting, moving towards the oblivious siren. But the knight’s ward is not oblivious to him, to how he stops in place. She steps forward to stand right in front of him and look up, hoping he recognize her and say what’s wrong. Kisame feels as if the crowd of people is inching closer and closer to circle her like prey.

“AH! Kisame-!”

A coral-toned azalea ends up underneath someone’s shoe as a sacrifice, as Kisame frees one arm to quickly shuffle his princess away from immodesty. Turns out when a fish blushes, their cheeks turn purple. Oh, dammit…

The air is much cooler in the shade of the thin alleyway, the smell of trash an absolutely delightful addition to the aroma of flowers. His head is held again, dipping with the weight of a very likely reality that he was foolish enough to bring her back to. She repeats his name again, more commandingly as she begs to be recognized, but the shark can’t speak until he knows what to say.

“Kisame...?” He’s scaring her, now. The woman approaches from behind, gripping both hands on one arm and tilting forward as much as she can so as to put herself in front of his sight. He can’t bring himself to match her gaze.

“...I’m sorry.”

“...Huh?”

But he can’t give further answer at the drop of a hat. Whatever it is, it’s deeply affecting him, as he frowns so hard that lips lining sharp teeth begin to twitch. The woman knows, though, what it is like to be so overwhelmed you cannot talk, so she merely, gradually, moves herself in front of him again so that she is right there whenever he is ready.

Being able to look down the top of her dress is not helping. He’s no better than the rest of them. Kakuzu, though...he’ll pay for this. He really made a girl as sweet as her the village prostitute. Shame chokes his neck.

“I shouldn’t have brought you.”

“...What are you talking about?”

“To see them again. I’m—...certain you’re uncomfortable. I’m certain your...occupation...was not one where you want to return.”

She furrows her brow. “What? Well...just because I met most of them in a different place at night doesn’t mean they can’t talk to me when I’m not at work.” She talks as if she could just...waltz back into the job any second she wanted to. Fish eyes cast her under a new light that makes his heart ache and race:

Did she enjoy it?

Kisame makes himself look squarely at her boots instead of any part of her body, innocent or otherwise. Sex work is work, of course, and fine when done safely and without duress, but...she didn’t strike him as the type. Does that childish veneer really carry such sultry expertise underneath? On her side of the back alley, the performer is only about halfway to deciphering what this is about, but lacking a full answer doesn’t keep her from acting upon her instinct to comfort the man.

His stare jumps up as she takes both of his hands, and before they can wander, they pin to the flower in her hair. It stands for true love.

"I’m okay,” she assures, and she means it. “I liked my job. Everyone treated me nicely and if they didn’t, Hidan helped me out.” Kisame tries to imagine the silver-haired demon as chivalrous for the first time they’ve started wearing the same clouds. It is very, very difficult. “Kakuzu arranged everything so while I just...did my thing, we got paid and everyone went home.” For some reason, she knows, it’s important to her guardian that everything was safe. Were Hidan and Kakuzu really that mean to other people…? Grumpy, yeah— also yeah okay they were killers or whatever— but they didn’t start any fights! Yet! “I was safe. I was never scared.”

"...You weren't forced into it, were you?"

It is not a good thing that she shrugs as an initial response. He nearly has a heart attack and half a mind to shave the zombies shred by shred to see if they'd still technically alive.

"He kinda pushed me to try it...but it worked out. I enjoyed myself." An index finger and a middle finger on either hand cross, framing a nearly silly smirk. "Promise!"

Beside himself, Kisame memorizes the shape of tiny blue petals around yellow dots until he can see them with his eyes closed. She was safe...she was happy. Why does it bother him so much, then? She is not his; the carnal desire for that to be true does not substitute an actual contract of fidelity to the man. So Kisame does the right thing and lets the woman choose her life for herself.

“If you say so.”

Her smile widens and she closes her eyes up at him. The skin so soft against his, even if its just their hands, make his purple tint deeper and his own grin feel like an undercover sin.

“I’d like to go back outside now.” And he nods. And then, something horrible happens, as they reenter daylight: a familiar face from the flower shop is running down the street to catch up with them.

“Takara-chan!!!” she nearly runs the other woman over, throwing her arms around the performer to catch herself before holding her by the shoulders, stepping back. Was she one of them who hired her? She's so attached to the songbird... “I thought I’d lost you! I forgot to say—!”

“Mm? Say what?”

The florist is beaming. “The hydrangea festival is this evening!!!” Why does Kisame’s stomach sink as her heart flutters to the sky?

“A festival?” She gets an eager nod in turn but no explanation. “I’ve never been to one just for flowers before.”

“You HAVE to come! Please? Please, please!” Beseeching, the villager looks up to Kisame. He notes the trust in her eyes, now that he’s brought back the woman safe and sound as she had asked. “It’ll be in the town courtyard. I made all of the arrangements! Please take Miss Takara-chan, I know she’d love it!”

And though Kisame knows it is the princess’s decision to make, the two women still look to him for approval. He is, after all, her chaperone; her bouncer; her Akatsuki.

He isn’t sure he likes the feeling of replacing the feet that were in Hidan and Kakuzu’s shoes.

The man exhales, much less amused than he’d normally be. “...Fine.”

This is already the longest day of his life. Might as well make it longer.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Woah there, Kimmy

But I’m programmed to destroy

And make mistakes, so hit the brakes

And find another to enjoy

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Honestly, it’s a real damn shame that he didn’t tell Itachi there’d be dango and make him come along.

But the woman’s modesty— whatever that means to her— necessitates his protection, and it is her decision to tell the Uchiha about her line of work when she so chooses. However, she seems rather...open about it, and he notes others are pretty open to her, in turn.

“Hello!”

“Takara-chan!”

“Where have you been?”

“I missed you!”

For a performer, all the attention is making her blush.

“Wow...I...wow,” she murmurs to Kisame the moment there’s a clearing in the crowd, some space to be somewhat private. ��I had no idea they liked me so much…” It surprises him, too. Perhaps it’s a different attitude this village has, to see her for her heart of gold before anything else. He still hasn’t looked her in the eye yet, today, and the way she refuses to let go of his hand— lest they lose each other in a place neither had explored all that much— is not helping the stress on his mind.

Having no answer from him in the seconds after her confession, the star turns her head side to side, taking in everything. “Wow…” she repeats, under her breath in awe. Speckles and bundles of blue, purple, pink, and white adorn the buildings at the town center like an art piece, cut and in pots and rooted in ground alike.

“Isn’t it wonderful?!”

The florist gleefully makes herself known once again, latching both of her arms around her friend’s in excitement. “It’s my first year doing it! I mean, I did it before, but that was before my dad passed away— Anyhow! It’s good, right?”

As if she has any expertise in floral arrangement, the gardener’s favorite rose nods in assurance. “I think it’s wonderful,” she confirms, choosing the same word the other lady did on purpose. The florist squeaks with glee.

“Oh, Takara-chan…—!” Abruptly, the kimono-clad woman lets go of the princess and stands straight up, attention locked across the paved circle at a man who looks especially curiously at one of the bushes. “Hold on—” A few hurried steps forward and she begins to rethink this command, ponytail whipping as she turns her head backwards at the two strangers. “I have to stay and host everything. You just go and have fun, okay?!”

And she’s off to the races, already educating the other villager’s ear off by the time Takara turns to her guardian with a bright smile. Kisame isn’t as sure as she is that they can do as told.

Gentle fingers guide his, happy to blindly lead and wander the sectioned off streets and shops now dedicated to natural beauty and perfume. It’s familiar, of course, the way people eyeball the giant blue man, but somehow it is much more uncomfortable now that he has a dainty, feminine comparison by his side. Does he look like a lost puppy or a vicious dragon in the minds of these strangers?

But he must remain, not only for the mission but as an unspoken duty to the lovely girl that feeds hungry eyes.

It’s fascinating, he ends up wondering at the back of her head, how someone that he thought he had clocked so well— she did melt so quickly that night in the cave, of course— could have so many unguessable multitudes. It reminds him of when he first met Itachi, a handsome man he greeted with hostility but eventually made more than peace with. It’s the lonely life of a ninja, yes, but they’ve at least been lonely together. Kisame knows his soft, matte gray eyes and the ravenous nature of his sweet tooth, and Itachi knows each flaw and strength of his partner like the back of his hand. The shark sighs. Beauty to him is merely something destined to be put on the shelf of his mind, isn’t it? To be admired and protected but never touched.

But the difference between Itachi and Takara is that Takara will touch you.

“Kisame…” His palm feels hers tighten, and he snaps himself awake to see a finger of hers point. “What’s that?” Bittersweet, his toothy grin widens. Ah, the irony.

“Ahhh…” he takes in the sight as they approach, tri-colored balls of mochiko delicately slid onto wooden skewers by a street vendor. “That’s dango.” He drinks in the sound of her hum, curious and unknowing of even the most common treat. “Don’t tell Itachi-san that I told you, but it’s his favorite.” He reaches into an inner pocket of his cloak. “We’ll grab some to go.”

A minute later, a stick is in her hand, and he examines her as she examines the candy, its weight and balance and its dusted, muted color against the blue sky.

Really? Someone like her...?

Kisame threatens his own brain to shut the hell up. It doesn’t matter. She’s still the same person. It’s none of his business. No matter how sweet her lips look, rounded and plump as she brings the candy nearer...no matter how cute and pink her tongue looks, peeking in between her teeth. Her innocence is a fact assured as the treat is, eventually, lowered. She re-wraps the dango and hands it back to him for safety alongside the spare.

“I’ll wait until we can share it together. I figure he’d like that.”

…

Kisame exhales, one side of his mouth wearily upturned.

“So he would.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Well I’ve got these demons

They’re screaming for something good to eat

Trussed up and dreaming of their freedom

Their chains are getting weak

But I’ve seen darkness

In my heart, miss

And it scares the shit out of me

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The terrible, beautiful nightmare come to life finally winds down, it seems for the poor, hotblooded man. Some sort of song is hummed sweet as nectar inside his friend's mouth, legs that are bare up to the knees kicking at her seat. Twilight has fallen, the sun down but the sky not yet dark. Finally, a long day can be put to rest. Kisame rolls his weary shoulders, one arm behind her on the bench while his chin looks to clouds the same color as the festival’s flowers.

“We best be getting home now, or else the whole trip is going to be done in the black of night.” The woman interrupts her murmurs to reply.

“Mm…” This tone is a sad one, and while tempted to argue that she’s gone back in the dead of night all the time, it isn’t her call. Kisame sighs.

“We can always come back.” He damn hopes they won’t, but that isn’t his call. Takara sighs.

“Yeah, okay…” The melancholy is as thick as can be for reasons he can’t assertain why. One by one, the street lamps are lit by a candle bearer, and the woman watches them until her eyes trail down to the one place down this road where the building’s entry shines in the coming midnight.

“...One last thing?” With his grunt of permission, the performer explains. “I wanna visit the bar before we go.”

The bar.

Kisame can feel his heartbeat in the sides of his neck going up to his ears and aching his head. Presumably, if he remembers correctly, this is where she used to go, escorted and guarded by the zombies. Presumably, if he infers correctly, where she preformed her work. She’s allowed to go back. Of course she is!

And putting himself aside, she deserves to not go alone. He accepts solemnly, with a dip of his head, and her eyes are as bright as the stars. The woman guides him by the hand the long walk down. He counts the lamps until the awning of the only business awake this hour is at their feet.

One.

Two.

Three.

She senses how tense he is. “I think you’d like them,” she tries to soften, and a lost breath in his throat somehow loses even more air.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Is he afraid? Why is he afraid? Is he unhappy? Why is he unhappy?

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

“...You don’t have to go in with me if you don’t want to.”

Ten.

Kisame drinks in the sight of her, his sinful gaze better hidden as it grows dimmer outside. Lantern-light slicks her locks and caresses the shape of her face. A couple of blue petals have fallen over the course of her day, off and away into the cracks on the road or blown onto rooftops. He can’t help himself. He pushes the stem of flowers back in place.

Briefly, he asks himself: if so many hands can touch her, why not his? But he’s not that kind of man. He wants to be wanted. It doesn't feel fair otherwise.

“Takara!”

The two dreamers under the stars turn around as a new addition opens the curtain, arms spread open. She recognizes him immediately.

“Sir!” though she’s ashamed she never learned his name, the middle aged man makes her beam. Kisame finds his mustache too bristly and eyebrows too thick; you can’t get a good read on a face you can hardly see. The barkeep’s star, though, reads the wiggles of fuzzy brown caterpillars with ease.

“Where have you been, my girl!” A clap on her back is met with wary eyes, one which the man seems to meet with a raise of his chin. “Ahh, a new entourage. I’m glad you took her back. Place hasn’t been the same without our little lady.” The hand slides down, holding her around the hip. Kisame wonders if his stare alone could set it on fire.

“Wait, really?” The older man meets her surprise with an exhale.

“My little wallflower doesn’t know how to give herself credit! I still get asked: ‘Taiga, when is your girl going to come back!’ I swear, my profits on drink since have sunk 15% if I did the math right.”

A flush tinges her face, and wide eyes end up locked on their shoes. “Wow…” So maybe it wasn’t just Kakuzu that kept her employed. Huh. ...Huh.

“Now, I don’t mean to take up your precious time. Is this business or pleasure? Guess for you, it’s the same thing!” Oh, Kisame does not like how he laughs at his own jokes, but she doesn’t seem to mind, and for her sake he can keep his pointed mouth shut.

“Just wanted to say goodbye before I left.” The old man coos:

“Ooh, well, goodbye to you, lass. But consider this: you only just arrived! You don’t want to come in? Maybe perform one last time?”

“Welllll…”

Kisame scrutinizes every inch of his ward for some sort of signal she needs help. But, eventually, the woman just just shrugs her shoulders.

“I suppose one more night wouldn’t hurt.” She looks up at the knight. Oh no. “Is that okay?”

He nods. He cannot do anything but nod. The old man leads the way, disappearing into the debauchery and expecting her to follow. Does the star expect the same of Kisame? She certainly offers it with that long gaze she gives. Before him again, as earlier when he held the flowers, an innocent folds her hands behind her back and stares up in wait. Kisame is so, very, still.

…

His frown twitches.

…

The corners barely stretch up.

“I’ll wait out here.” No, he cannot bear it. He will be here, waiting without judgment, but he cannot witness what she does. It's as if he doesn't have the right. The man isn’t sure what to make of the exhale she gives, what she must expect of him— hope from him. What a strange thing, he ponders, as the woman slips by and he turns his back to the curtain. He tries to ignore the cheers that emerge, hardly muted by the barrier, tries not to imagine the groping and dirty words she will accept. But then...things are hush. Far too hush.

And then he knows he’s become the fool.

If I found someone to stick like glue to

That...is singing. She is singing.

I'd probably peer out from the leaves

Hide a couple of roses up my sleeve

The performer sounds more lovely than any dove as she continues the tradition Kisame has already known her so eager to do.

Of course she is singing.

And I always find myself stuck

In this love goo

Feelings are hard to ignore

Especially when you don't know what they're for

Don't know just what makes flowers bloom

But I hope that they'll enjoy a tune

Oh, goddammit, you asshole...

The swordsman breaks his chaste vow and peers inside, shocked at what the truth is despite how it was the likely outcome all along. She’s in the corner of this little watering hole, a borrowed guitar on her lap that she strums like she’s never been away from it. So many eyes on her but she only has her own on strings and fingertips, hair falling off her shoulder as she tilts her head in dreamy melody. Kisame sees her lips part and sigh, revealing secrets of tiny things that find contentment in their simplicity.

So if the only love I'll feel is for bumblebees

That's fine with me

That's fine with me

And if I'll only ever dance with pine trees

That's fine with me

The siren lures Kisame in, despite his previous misgivings, despite his obvious, painful misunderstandings. The giant ignores the stares on him as he drifts closer and closer in the tide of the goddess, and though she is not here for sex as he mistook, she is still the most enrapturing woman to have ever walked into his life. Her eyes crack open, the moment they notice him clear as she jumps up in her seat with excitement first and then simply, purely joy. She smiles. She smiles for him. A whole audience in the room and he could swear it's like he’s the only one that matters.

He’s the only one shy eyes will make contact with.

That's fine with me

He kneels right in front of her, as any obedient knight should. Although new and novel at first, the other stares begin to fade, and as she did before, the performer blends into their background. Her doubts hide in the lyrics and sift away, lost forever behind the noise of conversation and clacking drinks.

It's lonely in the coral reef I float in

I wish I could swim out of the sea

But sharks are circling and nothing's easy

I-I still don't really know

Which way I'm going

But I guess the water's warm enough to bear

And I never have to wash or dry my hair

He is so, so desperate to drink the sight of her in, both culpable and so relieved. It didn’t matter, no, but shame on him for assuming something so drastic just because of the sin on his mind.

I miss watching the flowers bloom

But at least I can keep writing tunes

The applause is a gentle patter as the song ends and she excuses herself for the night. The woman stands up, and much to his surprise, asks for his hand among many for his help down and out. The hesitation Kisame keeps doesn’t last, but the guilt for being so presumptuous does.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

So I’ll cement my defenses

And get up off my knees

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The night is no longer young by the time the escort is complete, the welcome mat that is this clearing in front of her home finally beneath their feet. The crickets chirp and the owl calls. All the sounds of nature, and still the breath from her lips is the only thing he can hear.

“Kisame?” It isn’t a question, not really. She just wants his focus and permission to speak. She gets it. She gets all of it from him. “I...wanted to thank you. For everything today. I know it wasn’t your favorite.”

Don’t apologize, she reminds herself, he doesn’t like it when you apologize.

“I...hope you enjoyed yourself,” the performer rephrases, taking the sunhat off her head to hold it to her chest. His answer is immediate, of course, certainly he did—

But as he speaks it, he stops. He’s surprised to find it true. He did enjoy himself, somewhere underneath being a prudish worrywart fussing too much about what a lady does or does not engage with...even if only for the way she looked at him at the end of the night.

It’s so saccharine that he can’t take it anymore.

“Takara…” Kisame begins, tugging at his collar and looking towards the ground in shame. “I apologize.” It almost makes her mad, how he’s begged her to stop saying that and yet he—

No, it feels important the way he’s saying that. She closes her mouth and listens.

“I’ve been an idiot.” And he’s continuing to be! He doesn’t NEED to tell her this! Why? Why!!! Why does it matter that he’s honest? It’s because he needs a world of truth. He can’t go on another way. Honesty is something he and her have in common, spilling into their lives in different ways.

“I’ve thought...I’ve had...no reason to. I want you to now this. It isn’t your own doing. But with the breadcrumbs I’ve gotten today about working at night, and getting tips, I had...forgotten myself.”

Please don’t make him say it.

…

She is going to make him say it.

“I believed you to be a...lady of the night.” The term murmured under is breath for the minute chance the woman mishears him for something better. And perhaps she does! Because the first reaction he gets isn’t sobbing or yelling or a slap to the face. It isn’t even remotely upset. At most, at worst, is a tiny tinge of annoyance.

“Oh, well. I’m not.” And then her own guilt comes in. “I...didn’t do anything that made you uncomfortable, did I?” Kisame sputters.

“No, no! I simply— I just—” He looks her over, starting at her shoes, working up her waist and landing on stern eyes. They don’t hate him. Why don’t they hate him?! “I...I expected you to be uncomfortable with me. Assuming such a thing about you.”

...Oh. Something clicks in place for her. This is explaining a lot, about how quiet he’s been, how introverted.

“No…! Kisame…” Two brows tense in concern, a small pout in her lips as she tries to repackage the situation into something less raw and tender. “There’s...no such thing as thought crime. You know that, right?”

“...Thought crime?”

“Yeah. It’s a term used where I’m from.” She tilts forward at his side so he sees more of her, of how unintimidated she is no matter how brutish or mean or dirty he believes himself to be. “Just because you think something...doesn’t mean you’re bad.”

“Eh?” That certainly isn’t the response he expected. “That’s nonsense—”

“It’s really not! It’s what you do that matters.” Unable to stand tall enough to touch his forehead, she touches her own square in the middle, serious as can be. “Whatever is in here...it stays in there. It only matters—” The hand is moved back so both of hers are raised to the shoulders, flexing fingers demonstratively. “—What these do.” She’s pleading with him, and it hits him in one more sentence how emotionally immature he’s been:

“And nothing you’ve done today in misunderstanding my job has actually hurt me!”

The bugs and the birds and the lowlifes of the dirt play their tunes in the stead of his silence. She just sang a song about how she adores them. Is now really the time to dismiss her? ...He concedes:

“...Sorry, princess,” he sighs. She’s much too kind for him, unable to even return the scolding the woman has received before from him. She just smiles. The star twinkles and shines and smiles, and he melts. All of a sudden, he understands astrology, the people who throw their fate to bright and distant things.

“It’s okay.”

But as soon as they walk across the way, over the grass, onto the porch, and turn different ways down the old hall, not even her wave goodbye can cleanse him. The goodness in her heart and the snow-white purity of her soul are too naive to see past what they want to see, and another truth seeps into him as his bedroom door clicks behind his back.

Samehada looms inches away from his shoulder, disappointed at being left behind, at having no feast in the days he’s held back from war. A blue palm presses onto the bandages and lets it drink, staves it off lest he gets a good enough reason to take it out for a run. Normally, he’d be eager for it, but it’s too risky to do it here, anywhere within sight of a pale dress that’d be ruined by getting blood on it. It needs to wait. The beast in him needs to wait. Itachi knows him, knows that the Akatsuki are destined to die by their own treachery. There is no gentle way to make Takara learn...so perhaps he will just avoid tainting her mind in the first place.

At least, as long as he can.

And so he slips into bed and imagines his exoneration for besmirching the princess’s faith in humanity. It hasn’t happened yet.

But it will.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Bad little man, catch him and make him say:

Woah there, Kimmy

I’m not that kind of boy

Get out of my mind and forget me forever

Woah there, Kimmy

I’m programmed to destroy

My body of mine

But that’s fine

So take your black heart and go

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

…

…

…

…

Tweet. Tweet. Tweet.

The lovebirds sing outside the kitchen window as Kisame is left dumbstruck, observing where the empty vase was. Not only is it now full to the brim, hydrangeas of the village cascading the edges and glowing in the sunshine, but what resided in it before has returned. Delicately taped to an old scrap of paper, the knight picks the blue daisies up. They have been lovingly pressed and dried over the past two days, surely by two equally lovely hands. He squints at the horizontal writing in symbols he can’t understand, leaving the imagination to fill the gaps. Just like a horror story, a romance is better written if one is allowed some mystery, room to see what the enigma of the brain want to see. This is regardless of if it alarms the mind's owner, makes them wonder what lurks in their heart to make them think such a thing Kisame so desperately wants the easy answer of being a monster. A rejection. A tailless beast.

But he also wants to be loved.

It is not so easy that the last word in the conversation of flowers is that he is still oh so very human, especially as a bittersweet parable still rings in his ear:

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

So if the only love I'll feel is for bumblebees

That's fine with me

That's fine with me

And if I'll only ever dance with pine trees

That's fine with me

That's fine with me-e-e-e-e-e

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

#kisame x reader #hoshigaki kisame x reader #akatsuki x reader #aswtn fic #songfic

[immoralimmortals]

I don't give a fuck about your special eyes, Uchiha. You wouldn't believe half the shit my mouth can do.

[immoralimmortals]

Just some Kakuzu writing his fic. (a.k.a. some silly art I did for @narutofanonshinden)

#op your brain is so big and made my morning

[immoralimmortals]

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:

On

…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 . 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 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.

Goodnight.

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 :)

[immoralimmortals]

kkhd textposts

[immoralimmortals]

HELLO????

@hidan-rp

#jashin's favorite good ol boy has entered the chat #tak talks #but fr big respect role play blogs carry fandom on their shoulders

[immoralimmortals]

Since I was practicing anatomy, I decided to use Christian Bale's pose. (Please do not repost) https://twitter.com/KAIKA_NO_YURU

[immoralimmortals]

A Hidan that was supposed to be a quick doodle,,,,it became anything but that

[ID: A digital drawing of Hidan from Naruto Shippuden. He is shown from the shoulders up, grinning with a smug look on his face. The background is a bright lime green with the symbol of Jashin repeating in the background. /End ID]

[immoralimmortals]

A Song With Ten Names

Chapter 8: In a Week

Chapter 1 ☆ Next chapter

Summary of chapter: Summertime settles around the torn home, and Kisame tries to ignore blood in the water and docile prey. But rot and decay can spread with wounds left alone, so, what is he to do about the wretchedness of domestic life?

Author's Note: The song for this chapter is In a Week by Hozier and Karen Crowley, lyrics not complete.

I woke up at 5am because my cat woke me up at 4 and I couldn't go back sleep and I started writing and now it's 5pm and I have a full chapter written and rewritten here you go. Take it. Takeittakeittakeittakeittakeit

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I have never known peace

Like the damp grass that yields to me

I have never known hunger

Like these insects that feast on me

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Alone, at the edge of the universe, humming a tune…

The ocean sighs, waves in...and out...as breaths of air from Aphrodite’s yearning lungs. It matches her own.

In…

...

Out…

It’s almost like it babbles with laughter underneath the surface, soft and distant after being carried from so far away. It speaks, too, but so hushed she can hardly recognize words let alone decipher them. Then, there are four rings: rusty orange, dusty turquoise, glittering amber, bright crimson. She’s caressed by four hands whom the jewels belong to: one cupping her left hand with its palm; one gripping her shoulder; one fluttering on the side of her neck; one holding her right hand. Reverence. Possession. Caution. Calm. She sees not their bodies, but she knows them. Her eyes are locked ahead in a trance. The sky is such a light blue it may be closer to white, and the water froths in the same pearly shade.

In…

...

Out…

Is this heaven? She had given up the idea long ago. Heaven doesn’t exist for people like her. Omniscience tells her she is alone on this unending beach, just her and the touches of a hand. The water draws ever closer to her bare feet.

In…

A gasp. She is awake.

Two birds twitter back and forth on a branch outside, framed by a cracked open window. They hobble and hop around one another, arguing, till a third joins in and pulls away her mate. The maturing leaves rustle in a perfect summer breeze, a last echo of the waves in her mind. Wide but sleepy eyes flicker, taking in the graceful flow of a thin curtain overhead, shifting like a white flag in the wind. The traveler blinks. Her hands are folded underneath a knit blanket, and she feels her untied hair sprawl over a pillow beneath her head. The fabric beneath her smells of age, but nothing unpleasant such to betray its prior years of neglect. It’s almost like she’s a child again and just spent the night at Grandpa’s house. It’s almost as if it was all just a dream.

The sensation of peace soaks into her as long as she can manage, her heart itself taking a sigh of relief for this respite.

In…

…

Out.

...But it’s time she grows up and inspects that pounding sound a room or two away. The last bird remaining sings, alone and longing as the dreamer picks herself up from the couch and sleepwalks into a new day.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

A thousand teeth

And yours among them, I know

Our hungers appeased

Our heartbeats becoming slow

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The tall man still has blue skin as she approaches from behind, even more clearly now with his cloak off and headband set onto the folded clouds upon the kitchen counter. A muscular arm wipes the sweat off his forehead, tank top thin enough to betray each movement of his back to do so. He looks over his shoulder and the woman jumps— just a little. Surprise takes him first, too, then his common sense.

“Oh, you’re awake.” So she is. He wields the hammer with a bit of guilt, raising it from his hip in display. “Hopefully it isn’t my fault.” Her heart flutters as he stops his handiwork to face her, the organ still sore from all the efforts it had to go through these past few days. Sheepishly, shark teeth grin. “You can at least tell me if it bothered you… Much preferred over how quiet you are.”

Self-consciousness kicks in as commanded, and her cheeks prickle redder. “Sorry.”

He blinks. Geez… How does someone get so sensitive as this? He can’t imagine going on the way his ward must. “You don’t have to be sorry,” he corrects.

“Oh.” … “Sorry.”

“At this point I’m of a mind you’re mocking me.”

She has to bite her lip to not say sorry again. A moment of internal admonishment, and then her shy gaze finally works its way upward off the polished floorboards. The height of Kisame against the backdrop of kitchen windows is like looking up at a redwood in midday, sunrays split at his hair and cascading past till its faded at her feet. They lock eyes, for just a moment, as the two lovebirds from before dance behind his head and away into the forest. The singing of the third is still heard, desperate but unwavering, and it wakes up her ears to what she isn’t hearing:

“...The drip is gone.”

His frown revises into a grin. “Ah, yes. Hopefully you weren’t attached to it.” Taking the man literally, the house host shakes her head no.

“You fixed it for me?” The answer is obvious, but he finds this polite opportunity to take credit nice.

“Among some other things,” he reveals humbly, returning to his chore. Despite himself, it hasn’t been so bad-- perhaps in part because he’s left to his own devices. Itachi, especially with proper tools, cooks marvelously, and it’s gratifying to have a bed to claim, in a space to call his own. He hammers more gently on the window frame to fix the new wood in place; it’ll take more time, but there’s less chance of spooking the lady. “You can’t actually own this place, can you? Not just with the story I’ve heard— you not being from here— but with how simply decrepit these conditions are.” Frankly, he’s not sure how even the zombie combo managed to tolerate it.

At first she just shakes her head again, but realizes his position turned away means she must speak. “I just found it. I got lost the second day I was traveling with them, and I took it as shelter.” A shrug. “No one’s shown up to claim it or yell at us, though.”

One eye of his pinches in confusion. “The hell did you manage to get lost with one S-rank missing-nin flogging each of your sides?”

“Got tired. Trailed behind.”

Oh gods above, he thinks.

“Well, when we travel, it’ll be different,” he promises in an exhale. She blinks.

“We?”

And Kisame stops again, the nail so tiny to her between his fingers, and he once more looks over his shoulder. “Ah. You really have just woken up. Itachi will explain that to you. It’s his idea, anyway.” He raises the hammer:

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The sound of repairs taking the space where a conversation used to be gives the woman a good idea that perhaps this is her cue to part. She backs away, hands folded behind her as she can’t help but take in how— why, yes, it is— how different this place is. What was dull is now shiny, and what was rotten is now renewed. A search for the cracks in the ceiling finds none. Kisame can still feel her presence in the entryway, and so the hammer continues to falls soft, softer than its purpose requires.

“Sir?”

He grunts in recognition. Then, he feels her smile like sunshine upon his back.

“Thank you.”

Kisame glances just in time to see her wave— as kiddish and pure as a grown gal can manage— before the pale dress slips away to see the raven.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The hammer isn’t the thing making that sound this time, playing like a record in his ear. Guiltily, conflicted, he huffs under his breath at the empty space where she was.

“Of course, princess.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I have never known sleep

Like the slumber that creeps to me

I have never known color

Like this morning reveals to me

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The other man still wears his cloak, red clouds stark against the earth tones of picture frames and wooden chairs. Steam rises from his cup, dust motes waltzing in its spotlight, and it wafts around his face as he takes in a drink slow and steadying. Black, matte eyes take in the sight of her— her eager wave but nervous smile. How much does she remember? Probably just enough.

“You...your name is Itachi. Right?” the woman begins. Though several seats adorn the edges of the dining table, she takes none to join him. He notes her wariness.

“Yes. Apologies for not clarifying sooner.” She appears to shrug it off.

“No no, it’s okay. We both kinda...had a lot on our minds when you got here, I think?” Speaking of… “...Is...everything okay?” While the man nods, she still feels reason to clarify. “With the...bruise. I mean.” His gaze shifts just a touch down.

“It appears that way.”

And after a questioning hum, she looks too. After being such an ugly, clearly hand-shaped mark, it’s hardly like anything’s there at all. “...Woah. It really healed well for just one night, huh…?” It’s been a couple of nights, in actuality, but Itachi sees no harm in keeping her perspective as the truth. “Whatever your friend used was really powerful stuff, I guess.”

Another sip, unburdened and unrushed. “It wasn’t that. It was rest you needed.” This reply means she can’t dance around the questions any longer:

“Itachi," she says, now with a more personal weight she can place upon that infamous name, "Did...you make me go to sleep?”

Lids with full lashes close, and for a second there’s fear they’ll rise and reveal red once again. But this does not occur. He simply recomposes...and they open to the same shadowy tone. “Yes,” Itachi admits, if only because she will know regardless.

“Why?”

This isn’t something he takes joy in answering.

“To guarantee you rest.” To guarantee her compliance without further trauma, as they inspected and cared for her injury or any others. Her lips purse and brow curls, but another response will not be squeezed from the hypnotist. She requires a compromise, though, however how small:

“Will you warn me before you do it again? I-...I thought I was dying, for a second there…”

As Itachi is wont to do, he replies in silence, shutting his eyes once more...and nodding. A tiny relief feels like a boulder off her back, and it lets her move on.

“So...I heard you wanted to take us somewhere?”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

And you haven't moved an inch

Such that I would not know

If you sleep always like this

The flesh calmly going cold

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Gentle raindrops patter, light and quick like the notes of this piano she’s going to pick out. The dreamer can hardly believe it: no more needing to work in the bar just to touch one again, she will have a real-deal piano of her own. She missed her keyboard, sure, with its lightweight and flexibility, but nothing beats the weight of real black and white keys, the reverberations under her fingertips. It makes her giddy— so giddy, in fact, that she hasn’t asked the question of how a half-ton instrument it will be brought back home with them yet. The shark grins agreeably, twisting his head as he watches her hop from one overturned log to another on the outskirts of his reach, arms outstretched as if it really does help her balance. Her whimsical nature almost makes the apologia worthwhile, each tiny “sorry” as a splash sputters up to the edge his cloak every so often. It seems like not responding to it is the best strategy, as the woman merely keeps on as she was afterward, with more skipping and kicking of water with her muddied brown boots. Her sunhat does little to shield the weather, but she revels in the cool touch upon her cheeks. The ribbon flutters like butterfly wings.

He’ll swear he heard her laugh, somewhere along the way, hushed and secret but there all the same. He feels just a twinge of guilt, as certainly it was to be private, but he will keep her secret.

“How long did you say it was?” the woman asks, one foot now directly in front of the other in an imaginary tightrope. Kisame looks to his partner in amusement, searching for any tinge of annoyance as she asks for the third time since the adventure started. Itachi, however, has the patient of a saint.

“Much longer, Miss Takara. You should conserve your energy. We can’t have you falling behind.”

It may or may not pass over Itachi’s head, but it doesn’t his partner’s as the last sentence causes her to deflate. Gradually, arms lower and so does the smile, and as if in self-fulfilling prophesy, her steps nearly stop. Kisame slows to her speed, quite a feat with his stride being so much longer.

“It’s a metaphor,” he explains. “We aren’t really so daft as to let you do that.” But they did, he imagines her silent retort in those big, expressive eyes. “...We won’t let that happen. Still... not a bad idea to go at a pace you can maintain. We’ll be on the road a while for this gift of yours.” Success is found with his rewording of the situation, the woman’s face regaining a bit of its former levity as she nods to convey understanding.

He’s not a big fan of how quickly he’s grown loyal to that smile; Kisame mentally notes to pace himself. Beside him, Itachi nods in agreement, and the three continue on. Hours pass as she murmurs her joys— such as the petals that drift down and the bugs that sneak by in retreat. Sky becomes darker, and while the rain doesn’t worsen, it also does not cease. Instinctively, after such a long comradery, the Akatsuki can agree wordlessly that it is time to bunker down. It isn’t the destination that obtains their objective, after all, but their journey. At first, the woman attempts to apologize once, but it’s quickly diffused: no, she didn’t slow them. This was the most likely outcome. Yes, they are prepared for it. Don’t worry— certainly don’t say you’re sorry yet again. They step into the mouth of a cave, and after a moment of inspection, deem it worthy for their camp. Only one sleeping bag was brought, and she can’t insist it upon someone else, much to her dismay.

Rain glimmers like diamonds under the moonlight, and each one is fancied in her head as a sweet, short note as they hit the dirt. Itachi is further down than she, back upon the rock wall and eyes shut, while the swordsman across her leans with one arm over his knee, Samehada propped beside him, not watching the rainfall but beyond it.

“Mm?” Kisame acknowledges her question, returning a stare with his glance. “Someone has to keep watch, I’m not about to sleep. Don’t worry about me. Just go ahead and close your eyes, princess. No one needs to watch the watcher.” But even as she does as instructed, she cannot sleep. Beautiful as the night is, it’s too cold, and mist manages to find its way to her goosebumped skin.

No...she can’t show weakness now. Don’t climb in the blanket, don’t complain...—

But she can’t hide how she shivers.

Movements slow as molasses bring Kisame up from his seat. The woman not yet alerted to this change, he’s allowed to take the sight of her in without so much fidgeting. Why the hell is she like this…? Unfortunately, he knows why. He’s felt why.

Failure arises in his attempt to wrap his cloak around her shoulders without making her look at him; why is it so disconcerting to him whenever she just looks?

“What are you doing?”

He’s so close by in the middle of this swaddling of her. He can feel the warmth of her breath on his face. She can feel his on her own.

“You...don’t have to—”

“Stop.”

A pang of remorse but not regret as this word makes her freeze. So near to the swordsman, she can finally get a good look at his small eyes, see that it isn’t a command of his but a plea. There’s no disdain, just...sympathy. He’s on the wire with this, now, and the woman needs to listen and listen well if they’re both going to make it out of this with spirits intact.

“No matter how hard you try…” Kisame murmurs, just loud enough for it to register. “You will never make yourself so small, so insignificant you will not exist. If that is fact— and it is fact— do so with no second guessing, alright? You exist. You will take up space… No matter how hard you try.” This is his truth. In a world of lies, existence is one of few realities everyone should know. Should honor. What’s been done to for him to doubt the the space he takes is obvious...what could a wee thing like her have done?

Whatever it is, it’s branded on her soul like a tattoo. She must question him. It is her curse. Surely his nickname for her isn’t out of respect.

“But am I a burden? Kisame?” Lips that surely have said no evil whisper his name, and he wonders if it stains upon her mouth.

“It doesn’t matter if you are.” Unable to take this anymore, the man begins to stand— but...but...a palm brushes onto his arm, begging he remain. Its fingers trail down grayed skin until tangled in his own. The ring is starkly cold against the rest of him.

“I have one condition,” she chooses to wager, for his coat. To be embarrassed is to be known, she repeats to herself. To be known is to be embarrassed. Life is short. There may be no third chance. Just take it. And as always, you can regret later.

So, hesitantly, she does accept his kindness on a stipulation of her own design. It is one that draws hesitation from Kisame as well.

“Share it. With me?” Don’t apologize. Do not apologize. Wait for his answer. Her fingertips bask in his presence. “You’re so warm—” Cease the explanation. It hurts to not reject yourself before he can...but...wait.

The seconds pass by like pressing your hand against a hot stove.

“...I’m not the kind of guy you should be vulnerable with.” It’s a halfhearted dismissal, and two words carry it to the grave.

“That’s okay.”

He keeps his mouth shut, lest he trip and cut her on his way down to her side. The heat of his body swathes, an immediate shield against the frost of night. Though the cloak is sized for him, it easily swallows the dreamer up, too, hardly needing his arm looping around her to keep it shut. And then, as they settle into this tiny corner of wilderness, so too does acceptance roost. It’s quiet, it’s peaceful, somehow tense yet nothing between them at all. Raw human need and emotion, hungry exchange but careful hands. Though he must keep his watch, he’d be looking to the rain anyways; it washes the earth like she briefly does his misdeeds. It should be no surprise to him that she gifts him the dignity she gifts everyone, but it still hitches his breath as the woman sings her lullaby of death and rot and flowers.

We lay here for years or for hours

Thrown here or found

To freeze or to thaw

So long, we'd become the flowers

Two corpses we were

Two corpses I saw

These lyrics speak to him as a consolation, a thank you. Two beings finding guilt in being alive, but compromising that yet they still must. The dewy grass seems to grow taller even as she speaks, and the birds of prey come lower from the treetops. Despite his best efforts, the rain can’t keep his mind from wandering.

And they'd find us in a week

When the weather gets hot

After the insects have made their claim

I'd be home with you

She’s a siren, and he sees her spell plain as day. Lying on a bed together, under sheets as white as snow: as immaculate as he imagines her soul to be, to be so trusting. Their hands lay between their faces, interlocked till they die.

I'd be home with you

With this repetition, the vision pierces him it too deeply. Abruptly, disappointingly, the swordsman stands straight up, hiding his startle and making the cloak flit like a wing till it unwraps him from her.

“I— heard something,” he lies. There’s so much empty space where he used to be; it quickly fills beside the woman with chill. “I’ll need to keep watch...Sorry,” he adds quietly, not daring to look back.

Though ignorant, the dreamer is not stupid. Irony makes her ache. Humanity makes her hope. But it’s his choice to make, that there is nothing to relish in forcing one stay. The tailless beast seems of single mind as he steps to the rocky mouth of their sanctuary, refusing to look back at the gaze he can still feel. He warned her already not to get too close. Whatever comes next will be her fault, he convinces himself, just as with everybody else. She isn’t special.

Then why does he care if she gets hurt?

“Close your eyes,” Hoshigaki Kisame requests once again. Don’t look at him like that. He is meant to die alone, and domestic living is too good for the likes of him. But even so, on the back of his lying tongue, the rogue dares to mouth her name:

“...Takara-hime.”

Maybe she has some terrible power, after all.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

After the foxes have known our taste

After the raven has had its say

I'd be home with you

I'd be home with you

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

#akatsuki x reader #aswtn fic #kisame x reader #itachi x reader #implied hidan and kakuzu x reader but not enough to tag without being a rude tease #(weeping) i love kisame so much you guys #ive spent. so much time thinking about him #blorbo of all time for forever you go you funky little shark with attachment issues #songfic

[immoralimmortals]

☺️

[immoralimmortals]

A Song With Ten Names

Chapter 7: I'd Like to Walk Around in Your Mind

Chapter 1 ☆ Next chapter

Summary of chapter: Uchiha Itachi: intimidating, deadly, and right in front of her. But can she know him at all from reputation alone? (Also Kisame is here and I love him very very much.)

Author's Note: The song for this chapter is I'd Like to Walk Around in Your Mind by Vashti Bunyan. I've been in love with it for a long time, how sweet and eerie it is and that I relate to it a lot, but only recently caught onto me as an Itachi kind of song.

CW for this chapter in specific for references and allusions to abusive situations / physical abuse.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I'd like to walk around in your mind someday

I'd like to walk all over the things you say to me

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Petrichor bakes in the sunshine, onto the earth like coals after a fire: a welcome scent after such destruction. Taking shelter caused the two replacements delay, but at least there was assurance Zetsu would keep their watch in absence. Disconcerting as he may be, it was better than the alternatives that used to be here. Blue toes step into the brief clearing of the forest, this little welcome mat of the abandoned mansion. A straw hat slips off his head, revealing that sharp teeth aren’t his only animalistic quality as gill-lined eyes blink.

It doesn’t take a missing-nin to notice a shape in the window abruptly duck away. The tall man hums.

“Guess she’s a skittish one.”

Pressing her back against the wall, half-slunk to the floor in panic, the woman clutches her racing heart. Oh fuck, oh FUCK he fucking saw her, didn’t he?! Finding him watching— as he seems to always do— she explains herself to Zetsu as if it will make this less sinful:

“I just happened to look out the window- you know, wondering if they’re arriving soon like we thought- and he was THERE, I swear! Just, all of a sudden! God, I made it worse. I just made it worse.” Making it known how jumpy she is, that is. First impressions are everything! And she just HAPPENED to have a good one of killing people and making money the last time! What do fish-men respect? Probably not someone who flees and flops like bleeding prey! But of course, Zetsu has nothing to absolve her of; in fact, this turn of events is quite amusing.

Let’s make it even more worse.

“It’ll be quite an honor, you know,” White Zetsu purrs.

“...Huh?” A performer drunk on sleeplessness is the absolute most malleable subject- that is, easy to scare. Delightful.

“To meet them and live! Especially Uchiha Itachi.” He pauses, analyzing her response. The traveler double-takes a glance out the window, the shark-man looming across the way as if to wait for something before crossing the final gap. His grin is unwavering. She turns back to Zetsu, brow curled in wary curiosity.

“…Who?”

That’s a notch in the “not faking it” counter, he notes. It’s this point on that the woman’s full attention is wrapped in the weavings of her flytrap, allowing a second figure to step out into the drips of sun, unnoticed:

“Well...here we are,” the first one nearly sighs. “The time has come, hasn’t it?” This isn’t exactly his ideal way of spending his days. It’s a civilian, no known enemies: the objective is simply to protect and comprehend. No high stakes, no swordplay, just time and talk. Part of him thinks the gal should just stick with their spy. Now beside him, a pale, ringed hand drops a matching straw hat, smooth black hair swishing with the residual breeze. The elder partner continues to prod the young man for more of his mind.

“Do you think it’s true?” he nearly teases, like an older kid that knows better about monsters under the bed. “The show must have been quite convincing for our leader to take it seriously.”

Itachi exhales behind the cover of his cloak’s neck. “That isn’t something that matters. We have our mission. The truth will come in time.”

Kisame smirks at this play on his own words. Ah, time...how much of his time will be spent in this lull of a daydream? For the other side of the clearing they approach, it feels a bit more like a nightmare.

“Itachi is of great status and fame here. He is a former ANBU member,” the softer Zetsu says in drawling precision, much like telling the younger campers a ghost story at the fire, “The most skilled ninja in all of Konohagakure, arguably the world as we know it. His genjutsu is flawless, second to none.”

The woman takes in his tone, but the words pass through from ear to ear. “...I don’t know what any of these things mean...—”

“He slaughtered his clan.”

Four words that do make sense in that exact order.

“Oh.”

Bump bump bump!

The traveler nearly jumps out of her skin at the knock on the door. Her head twists to Zetsu to open and greet, but he’s keeping them waiting. Oh... Oh… Oh.

“Answer,” Black Zetsu says.

She’s not too keen on her sudden ownership of this house.

Two men wait patiently under the porch awning, in silence, as a little crack in the doorway creaks wider and wider at the breakneck pace of a lazy slug. A shaky eye on half a mousy face appears; the Kirigakure-nin knows it’s square on him. Who can blame her, he guesses, sorta scares everybody outside of the Mist. Only problem is this isn’t a brief encounter: it’s going to be long term. How do you diffuse this sort of timidness?

The staring begins. Speak, either she hears in her head or Zetsu commands. Speak, either he hears in his head or Itachi commands.

“Are you—?” The blue swordsman and the wary house host begin at once. Interrupting one another, the man grunts in response to the woman’s squeaky “eep!”, throwing her hand over her mouth in an apology. Cute if this is a one time thing, annoying if this is going to be the next several weeks of his life. Joking is second nature to him when there’s nothing left to do about such timidness:

“Oh, come now,” he speaks, voice smooth and deep as the sea, “He isn’t as scary as he looks!” He turns to the younger man in a bit of a quiet call for help. The dark-haired one raises a hand, gently pushing open the door for a better view of one another.

He isn’t as scary-? She looks to the second man for the first time at this suggestion, pale with raven tones in his locks and eyes. He...really isn’t scary at all, she decides, taking the taller one too literally. Maybe he’s Itachi’s entourage, since people are so afraid of him.

“Miss Takara.” His voice is velvet, mouth hidden behind his coat. “We’re your guards, assigned by the Akatsuki.” His choice of words, always and forever, purposeful. “May we enter?” By this point, the shorter shinobi has stepped forward, filling most of her sight, but it’s hard to ignore beady white eyes above pearly teeth shadowed as they nearly touch the porch awning. She swallows. She nods. She steps aside and lets them in.

“...Of course. Sorry. I’m just—” Nervous? Can’t admit that. Scared? Even worse. Unused to human contact? Too true and long to explain. “...Sorry.”

The length and girth of the standard Akatsuki attire, of course, is enlarging and intimidating on its own atop whomever’s shoulders bear the burden, but the vast difference between the two gentlemen- shorter one first, then the giant- is staggering. The traveler can see it, the way the latter passes in front of her. The fire, the thunder, the blood, the what have you that accompanied the death of his own family. She imagines it swathing around the shark, those massive hands stabbing or choking to death—

His head turns and meets her eyes again. Hurriedly, the woman dips her gaze, holding her hands obediently. To him, it’s as if she’s too shy to even breathe; Kisame’s used to being intimidating but this is a bit ridiculous. Something else may be going on, and she misses a silent look between the two men to communicate that.

“It's nice to meet you. We apologize for our late arrival,” the pale man says. “The windstorm posed a threat if we didn’t take shelter. Are you well?”

Is she well?

That’s not a question she expected. Fluttering eyelids allow her sight to raise, seeing the speaker intent on her while the azure killer glances about the decrepit entryway; she can sense his disdain for it. The woman nods. There is no option but to nod. It isn’t very convincing. From her view so much lower than he, she can’t tell that the shark’s smile has become a frown. His partner continues.

“We’ve traveled far, many days and nights to make our way to you. Do you have any food to share?”

...And that question is actually a really damn good one! Does she? “I...oh, I actually don’t know. Let me ask Zet—”

The woman turns just in time to see a closed plant finish sinking into the floorboards and disappearing from all of existence.

“...su.”

He left her alone. Zetsu filled her head with fears and left before giving ANY advice on how to handle someone- who by his tongue- is a genius mass murderer. The back of her mouth begins to whine, as if it’ll help her find the words he’d give. She can’t move— she can feel them staring at her. Feet are glued to the ground, and she’s shrinking smaller and smaller as the seconds pass.

Itachi looks to Kisame. “The village nearby should have provisions. I’ll stay with her.” Kisame sighs.

“Of course...” Is that disappointment in his voice? Still frozen, she hears him slink away, as much as someone of his size can, and step out and off. He passes in front of the window where they first spotted one another, and she catches his one glance back.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I'd like to run and jump on your solitude

I'd like to rearrange your attitude to me

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

A spider greets with empty dishware as light pours into the cabinet, a frantic eye trailing back and forth, up and down for something left to eat. It’s never a good feeling, being a host, and having less than needed to simply be polite. However, she finds it even worse when no one is here on their own free will. She frowns at the creature, humming sadly as its front door closes. Nothing so far, and she’s running out of places to look. As she twists her chin over her shoulder in one last desperate glance, she catches a mouth and chin— finally— peaking out from under the cover of cloth as the man, too, raises his head. It takes a moment before the host realizes he’s staring at the large cracks in her ceiling.

“I— don’t really spend a lot of time in here. Sorry it looks—” A second arachnid creeps out and in two adjacent openings where he looks. “...Like this.” Not knowing what to expect, she finds neither comfort nor fear in his wordless response. His head pans over the corner room of this bottom floor, evaluating its features of broken windows and dripping faucet. He blinks, as if to signify to himself the picture is taken— the evaluation is over— and he speaks ever-so-softly once again.

“Show me the rest of your home.”

From him, it’s not a demand but a request, so she complies easily, gesturing to the exit of this room to the following. Maybe she should be more concerned, given Kakuzu’s final warning, but this man is so...calm. He asks a question, and he listens. Perhaps after so much time with Hidan, the host has forgotten what manners are. Either way, her iceblock of a chip on her shoulder is starting to melt; he can see it carries less tension than when Kisame was there; he had made the right call.

“I haven’t spent much time exploring,” she begins, truthfully, as she leads up the stairs. “I have my space and Hidan and Kakuzu have—...had theirs.” Each creak of the steps is louder now that their arguing is gone. Was it always this bad? The handrail wavers under the guest's feathery touch.

“This is where Kakuzu stayed.” An arm gestures to the closed door. “I. Never was allowed in. And that one was Hidan’s.” A second motion, to yet one more closed door. “He. Never let me in his, either.” But Itachi is not Takara, and he is not afraid even in their absence. The first room’s knob is turned…

“Oh.”

A neatly made bed, a briefcase on top. It almost looks like a businessman left his suitcase in the hotel room and left. She had expected...something? She guessed? From someone so private. She allows herself a shrug before she continues to walk away, while Itachi notes the X-ed out profiles stuck to the wall and studies the scent of rot coming from a mass underneath the bed frame.

Next in line, her hand reaches to Hidan’s door...and before Itachi thinks to stop her, the stench of death floods out, a dusty red circle with an astringent, metallic odor centering the room with splatters every size of blood on every. Damn. Surface. She goes pale and weakens in the knees, prompting the man to bolster her up with an arm around the hip as another decides this room should probably just stay shut.

“Anyway!!!” she panics cheerily, trying to maintain composure while standing up straight out of his hold. “There’s lots of rooms I don’t really use. Some of them have beds if you need—” Of course they’ll need, stupid! “You can use any room you’d like!”

The things untouched by the other Akatsuki are the last thing on Itachi’s mind right now. “Where do you stay?” Perhaps a bit bold to ask himself into a lady’s bedroom, but circumstances will allow. She points up with her index finger.

“I picked the one farthest away. I’m kinda shy— weird, I know, singing and all— so I stay up there and recharge until I’m ready to go!” A fist swings in front of a woman overly-enthusiastic and obviously lacking sleep; Itachi keeps his own placid demeanor in turn.

“Show me.”

And even as that whine begins under her breath again, how can she say no?

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You say you just want peace and you'd never hurt anyone

You see the end before the beginning has ever begun

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The task is harder than anticipated, Kisame finds. He nearly looks lost, head turning as the bustle of the village is hushed with each coming step of his, every conversation trailing off as he passes. The blue face looks side to side, everyone either making eye contact too long or refusing it altogether. He doesn’t much care for trips like this, without his partner to cushion the blow of social awkwardness. For a missing-nin, he still cares too much about the attention he draws. Ah well. A mission is a mission, no matter how trivial. Food, basics...and something to soften things with the girl. Actions speak louder than words, always— that’s one of many reasons he and Itachi have such mutual respect. If she’s as frightened as a mouse, perhaps a bit of cheese may help her tolerate the fingers who give it.

His wave of indigo hair bobs up and down like a fin as he judges each shop, too damn low for him to see without slouching. Kisame hardly knows this lady. What’s something guaranteed for every woman to like…?

And it comes to him like a prayer answered, cut stems bearing blossoms and blooms, for sale by the bunch.

The florist’s eyes bore into him, of course, as he trails purple-painted nails underneath the leaves of one flower, evaluating its health. Mind his own business, and hopefully she minds hers, that's all there is to it. The bouquet is lifted from the display and set carefully onto the counter.

“How much for this one?”

The florist is dead still in response, no speaking, no moving. Her lips form a straight line.

…This whole routine the village has is getting a touch too dramatic, isn’t it?

“At least say if you aren’t willing to sell to me—”

“Do you know her?”

Kisame grunts in surprise as the abrupt interrogation. He glances her over a second time, more carefully, and understands her tight-fisted stance is more serious than afraid. What should he answer to that?

The association is obvious: “You wear their cloak. She was with others like you. She visited our village alone in the day, and they brought her back by night.”

He blinks. This is the first time he’s heard of them taking her anywhere. Most he heard is that she liked to sing and her singing was weird, and somehow she was still alive despite the company.

“Please.” Foolish to beg at the feet of an Akatsuki, she must know, and he picks up desperation beneath the resolve. “If she’s alive…bring her back to me? She loved my flowers. Came by to see them every day. I...— I never had a chance to give her this...—”

Nervous hands fumble behind the counter, and Kisame half-braces for a weapon that doesn’t come. It’s a little jar, cupped in her palms. “She asked me once how I kept my hands soft after working all day in the garden. I promised her I’d make her own jar of the stuff.” Tentatively, the cloaked man plucks up the thing, silly and delicate with its ribbon bow in his roughened grasp. He uses a couple of fingers to twist it in inspection. Sensing possible distrust, the woman is eager to assuage his suspicions.

“It’s lotion— that’s all. I make it myself, with ingredients I grow. If she’s alive, just—” Can’t help but choke up at the question of if. “—Give it to her for me. For us, even? People here miss her. At least when she was here once a night...we knew she was okay...but...Do what you have to do,” the florist adds hurriedly, aware of the little influence she has over a force so tremendous. Kisame contemplates the glass container, flecks of flower petals inside that dye the milky salve as its raised to the sun, and the woman’s shoulders lower in relief as it finds home in his pocket. She complains not as random coin is dropped onto her counter and the man leaves, peace offerings in tow.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I would disturb your easy tranquility

I'd turn away the sad impossibility of your smile

I'd sit there in the sun of the things I like about you

I'd sing my songs and find out just what they mean to you

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

They climb yet one more flight and walk past untouched halls and rooms of dust and decay, a pair of yellow eyes caught by black ones before disappearing once more. He continues with no mention. Zetsu’s spying doesn’t bother him nor change his actions. The woman’s hand pulls a lever and she asks him to step back before an angled ladder slides with a thwump! from a hatch in the ceiling. That...looks like an attic, the man ponders, though following her up all the same.

And, as she lights a candle, he sees it is one, too.

“This is where I sleep,” she says, pleasantly. Kisame-height or not, you can’t stand up straight in here, even at the vertex where rooftops meet. Itachi’s eyes follow the dancing light she set on the wall to take in the details: a pile of blankets and pillows; many, many boxes surely from the previous owner with two skittering mice playing king of the hill amongst them; a single, meager window frosted with cobwebs; and then -

“That’s my guitar!” A proud answer, for once, so he pulls himself from the negative and listens well. As eager and anxious as any night at the bar, with her hunched back she slides over to her nest, placing the instrument in her lap. After so long of having the performer routine, it’s almost like putting her face back on, getting to hold its neck again.

Buh, duh, da, dee, dum…~

She strums the chords before thinking, pressing palm flat on the strings to mute further excitement. He didn’t ask. What if he doesn’t want to hear it? What if he’d hate it? Shame washes over as quickly as it left, but just as the woman begins to lift the guitar off her shoulders, she hears a soft “don’t.”

Black eyes even more matte in the dark, they draw closer to the performer as the man joins her where she sits. The motion is so smooth, it's ethereal. And then he’s so close, the sides of their thighs are touching. She contemplates this until he speaks once more, flame-lit gaze meeting hers.

“I’d like to hear it.”

…The lady hesitates. He repeats himself.

“Grace me with your music, Miss Takara.”

She purses her lips. “...I’m not as good as people say I am.” Where did that come from? It’s a fear of hers, deep down- a truth that she’s known from the start. Yeah, she’s known it, but why is she tripping over herself to say it now of all times? “I don’t write anything. They just...haven’t heard it before. And haven’t heard it right.”

“Is that so wrong?” he returns.

…

“It feels like it,” she whispers, having no other answer than this.

…

“Do you fear me?”

The answer is immediate, much to her surprise. “No, I— You’ve been...nothing but nice to me. So far.” Perhaps not long enough to justify this sort of trust, that’s what she actually is afraid of. He radiates peace, stability...it’s something she’s not felt in years, let alone since she’s been here.

"Then I would like to hear your music."

Her mouth twitches. It stills. It twitches again. Finally, she can grimace a smile to the man, hoping she may be safe as long it is just the two of them and the dust motes. It’s known, somehow, in her gut, and she’s okay feeling this way up until she’s proven mistaken and gets slashed wide open. The risk is more comfortable than the alternative.

“...What kind of song?” she offers.

He does something he only does for someone who can keep a secret, and he smiles back.

“The choice is yours.”

So, the song on her mind.

To an audience of one, her heart begins to race. Are there stakes to this game? Should she still be afraid of a bad first impression? It was kind of ruined at having him realize he has to stay here in this grimy, unkempt house she hasn’t even managed to tame. But he’s still here, he still listens. It’ll make staying with Itachi- the scary one on his way back any second now— easier. Maybe he'll be nice, too? We can cross that bridge when we get to it. Her audience right now could be anything or anyone, and yet he chooses to sit beside her, and even if it doesn’t last, he will pay attention. She’d like to walk around in his mind, she confesses. She’d like to know exactly what he thinks of her, nay, choose how she is thought of if the answer scares her. How terrible a confession. She’d like his respect. For his kindness to stay. As she closes her eyes and talks melodies in the dark, a patch of her skin slips out of her sweater. The crow stares, but he says nothing until she’s done swirling her curls of hair around her neck and sweetly requesting, under her breath and in song, to be loved without being too noticed.

That breath hitches as when she’s finished, he approaches closer in her space and lightly pulls a strand of hair off her shoulder. Fingers stretch out to match the space made by her markings, pale ones covering the shadow of Kakuzu’s that were left behind. A wince— sudden chill and the soreness of touch— and she pulls back.

Too close, too intimate. The man sees right through her now, for better or for worse. His black irises raise like moons off the ground, from her bruise to her face. The woman has lived in squalor as the two before him— resilient and unsympathetic as they are— carried on with no worry. What things did she see them do? How much did they hurt her?

“Hey, hey, it’s nothing, see?” She gestures to it, only to surprise herself with how purple and distinct the injury turned out even in such low light, but she has to continue the role of pacifist. “It was...on accident. He was talking about something serious before he left, and—”

And this doesn’t sound so good being said out loud, does it?

The man closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, briefly recentering before they open again. She didn’t notice they had a red tint until now.

“Tell me who.”

Even without him present, she can’t help but repeat her defense for the man who gave her a name. “It’s not a big deal, it was on accident—”

“Who?”

Though spoken soft, the word rings in her head like a bell, and the answer falls from her lips. The woman becomes lightheaded, not noticing she was led back downstairs until she’s fumbling her way onto a couch with the magician in tow. It’s about when she’s registered this change that the front entry closes and a bundle of blue daisies walks itself in. Kisame stops where he sees her, sweater removed and injury obvious, dead in his tracks. She looks nearly delirious, and so he mutters his partner’s name.

“Itachi-san…—”

To her ears, it’s the wrong voice that’s saying it, but the younger man answers in kind:

“Kisame,” he speaks, serious as death, and like she’s waking up, the woman begins to realize who is who. The word is all the swordsman needs to hear for permission, not needing to be asked to set down his bags and drop to his knees at the woman's side. Hypnotized eyes ogle as she reevaluates, first that this is not Itachi, the clan slaughterer—

“Forgive me for getting so close so soon, princess—” He divulges the nickname he originally made to mock her, having time on the road to imagine problems to come. Sharp teeth grit in clear agitation.“Dammit. They said they didn’t touch you… I had my doubts…” It isn’t much, but he has gratitude for the little jar as he picks it from his inner coat and twists it open, the scent of friendly folks forgotten wrapping around her head. "Guess you can't train a zombie after all." Grey-tinted fingers dip into cold lotion, but they retract just as soon as they touch.

“Ah—!”

Kisame hears her hiss and looks to his partner for guidance, abruptly unsure of himself now that the objective is to help instead of harm. The firm gaze he gets instructs him to keep going.

The application of the stuff is like he’s afraid to break the girl, like he too could easily leave these marks without trying. Surprisingly, she allows it. While she’s porcelain, he’s sandpaper. This, unlike him, is someone who is cared for. She’s loved, and yet she is alone. He doesn’t think highly of her— not enough time in the collective couple of minutes they’ve been in the same place— but he finds himself rooted in respect of the wake of her actions. It’s a shame. It’s a shame that she had to spend so long with the zombies. He'll do better— goddammit, he can at least do better, low a bar as it is. It won’t be a fun job, taking care of her, but it’s one Kisame is beginning to find has meaning. In turn, the woman knits her brow, though the rest of her is helpless but to ease under his fingertips as they slide under the strap of her dress and brush the edge of her collarbone.

“Hold on… It's not medicine, but it’s better than nothing. Just stay still a second longer.” The more he massages the bruise, motions gingerly and attentive, the clearer she can tell how warm his hands are, how under his strength is intent and conscientiousness. Kisame is no monster after all, she can see. It fills her to the brim with something overwhelming, though she doesn’t know what. She wants to thank him— she wants to apologize— but her voice is blank as this other emotion takes over, numbing. Briefly, with the soothing rhythm he takes upon her wound, she shuts her eyes. Hardly managing to crack open again, she witnesses two blood red ones return to black.

—Second, that this is the one she was told to fear. Words of pardon and excuses from Kisame become more and more mute as she takes in the sight of he who is stabilizing her by sitting beside again, holding her hand as rays of setting day glow around them. The man is a bloom like datura, alluring and lovely but with so many fallen dead to his feet. But he is so nice. He was nice to her. What Zetsu said can’t be true, can it?

Last thing she thinks before drifting away is that there's no answer on the Uchiha's face.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

But most of all I'd like you to be unaware

And I'd just wander away

Trailing palm leaves behind me

So you don't even know that I've been there

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

#akatsuki x reader #aswtn fic #songfic #itachi x reader #uchiha itachi x reader #kisame x reader #hoshigaki kisame x reader #blue daisies stand for long term trust btw :)

[immoralimmortals]

A Song With Ten Names

Chapter 6: Yes, to Err is Human, So Don't Be One (1)

Chapter 1 ☆ Next chapter

Summary of chapter: It’s like she’s in a haunted house, seeing his face, his eyes. She eventually runs outside, and it only gets worse.

Author's Note: This song was MADE for Zetsu. ...Ok yes it's a character song for a podcast that has vampire imagery but STILL! Hopefully I'm not stretching the verses out too much. Like with Hidan's chapter, Misanthrapolagist, I plan on more with this title for Zetsu. The song is Yes, to Err is Human, So Don't Be One by Will Wood. Also I have SO many song associations and playlists for these characters, I will hyperfixate you to death if you ask (lovingly)

CW for talk of cannibalism. Because of Zetsu. Existing.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I could drink your blood if you let me, baby

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The hisses of wind only grow sharper as the gusts blunder past the cracks of the brick house. Was weather here always prone to this?! It didn’t so much as drizzle in the months she’s been around! The caged bird believes no omen, but hell if the anxieties don’t multiply one another.

She grips her shoulders through the thin blue sweater; it’s nearly useless to this kind of storm. In her gritting teeth she can feel a racing heartbeat, her stomach tipping upside-down like a trashcan in a tornado. It’s been five-something fucking hours since her comrades left at the break of twilight, five-something fucking hours in what’s become practically a haunted house. Fearing the roof cave in after one more groan of the ceiling, the woman finally tears herself from the glue trap of fright and figures there must be a better way to take shelter, just in case.

Her lip is bit till it turns stark white. If her Kakuzu and Hidan were here, they wouldn’t leave her like this, right? She’d be protected again. No fear of kidnappers, handsy patrons, nor a maelstrom such as this. They never spoke nice but they always were nice, somehow, when it mattered.

How desperate is she to think they really had such sentiment, she scolds herself. No, regardless of this deal with a god she’s been left alone again. Her eyes feel like they’re being squeezed in their sockets, since they’ve no more tears to give tonight.

“I’m so scared…” she murmurs, holding herself. Her eyes pinch shut but with a crack of lightning, they burst open and she can only scream. A stoic face with candlelight-yellow eyes stares at her from the wall, lifeless, and it disappears in the dark once the bolt’s glow decays. Feet scramble underneath each other till she trips out the door and into the hall.

The hallway itself feels like a rickety bridge overtop ten stories of mountain air, dizzying altitude making it hard to stand up straight or breathe. Like a newborn deer she staggers up, limping through vertigo-induced twists and turns. Just as she regains some sense of control, approaching the first stair down, lightning strikes again and the specter returns in a picture frame. Another cry and she pushes forward, panic yanking her down the staircase so she runs with any body part but her legs, pounding, pounding, poundingtill the last thud is more mute. Shaky arms raise herself up yet again, and the ache in her bones causes the woman to forget the course of her ship.

A growl in the throat of the storm brings another vision of him massive green, jagged teeth around a split face in the corner of her eye, and the only thing she knows how to do is run.

Is she any good at it?

Grazing the sides of dusty furniture scrape her skin, knickknacks shoved from their shelves in a pop, pop, pop like grenades, shattering porcelain. The head of a doll rolls until it catches on the lapse of two floorboards, one eyeball caved in and rosy lips pursed in emotionless death. The woman’s arms fling open the door of the cage, and it feels like a mile in the few seconds it takes for her to turn and look back.

The wind plays with the back porch gate as a restless child would, square edges stark in shape against the sea of thick, foggy gray in the sky. The leaves cling to the branches around for dear life, and the space in the doorway where the creature should be is empty. The woman inches a few steps backward, unsure, disoriented, as she finds herself outside.

And nature takes her, as while the leaves don’t fly away in early summer, the branches still can.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Hang from your rafters, patchwork & paisley

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The wind coos like an owl, deep and songful. It plays with her hair, cold weaving up the strands till it hits her scalp. Then slowly, but surely, his fingers do too, cupping the side of her head as she lays on his lap- in his arms. Zetsu, of course, can only ponder this: her eyes are shut, refusing to see him. The sight of him made her flee. And yet she grips now, to his familiar cloak, with her life depending on it.

Humans are such silly things.

Yellow irises take in the amputated limb ahead, the branch that almost fell on her. Its bark is healthy, its inside green at the edges where bisected. Quite the gust to rip that off, half of him muses. It’s time to take shelter, the other minds. They’re in agreement as the phantom plucks her from the earth and returns her to the haunted house.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I could suck you dry on the rocks with a twist

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It’s funny. The woman always thought the iconography of ghosts to be enamoring, you know? From little round sheets with holes for eyes, to wisps of foxfire and gossamer, to visceral mutilations of what a person used to be-- they’re all fascinating, representing different aspects of longing and lingering and leaving this plane. It makes sense, a woman nearly obsessed with death and perspectives of afterlife to find attachment to their personifications. As she is placed gently as a feather atop a bed unused for years and years, does she see her ghost, ahead in the vanity mirror? And as that face returns, is that what he is?

Weariness of a long night must overcast prior instincts, as now she merely flutters her eyes in surprise. “Oh,” she speaks too simply, “It’s you…!” The woman recognizes him now, once she stops burying her face in red clouds. The scent of pollen fades off of him like a perfume as distance increases. The man is a mirror of himself, plain as can be, and even as she stares, she can’t figure out how his face works. The complete eye of Zetsu’s becomes hooded now she's properly rescued and subdued; she becomes flushed.

“A-apologies.” A formal tone is necessary, not only after being so erratic but as she doesn’t know him at all. But the expression of his isn’t short like she first thought; he begins to smile.

“You almost killed yourself.”

Never mind, he’s probably mad.

“Sorry.” Her head bows. “The wind, the thunder—”

One eye blinks. “...It scared you?”

She can’t even nod to that; the woman knows how childish it is. “...A tree fell into my room. When I was little.” It’s so hard trying to relax her shoulders after being tense so long. “I get anxious when it’s windy like this.”

Zetsu’s sweeter voice exhales an “oh,” calculations running in his head. “...It makes sense. Forces of nature like this kill all the time. It’s only a matter of time until you—”

A sharp pang rings through his skull, one communicating the other to for the love of god shut up. Great. As White Zetsu refocuses, he sees that she’s fixated on the storm again, a still intact glass arch in the wall framing a branch that swings up and down like a kid carrying a teddy bear by the paw.

Why do you care if she’s upset?

Pain-sama’s intentions are clear.

But being attentive doesn’t mean babying.

Look at her.

And he does. The woman is withered, drained and meek to the imagination of forces smashing her down like a bug. She’s small. In this big, big world, she is still so very small. Zetsu sighs.

“There's no threat,” he assures, truthfully. For his soft voice, it’s so confident. “This building has stood for years. It won’t fall tonight,” the other voice adds. The fear-paled lady in her white dress now finally nods in agreement, eager for some logic to stand onto.

“You’re right...You’re right.”

The gaze falls from the window to the broken mirror some meters away, seeing herself in it- propped up against the headboard with hands folded on her lap- and the creature looming on the bedside. Forces of nature, huh...?

“...Are you like them?” she inquires. The black cloth can only bring such questions. “Do you kill, too?” Though the exact nature of the Akatsuki- the execution of Pain's peace- eludes her, the bounties and (to an extent) the rituals of her entourage did not.

The monster of a man doesn’t shake his head, nor says a proper no. “I’m not a fighter,” he explains. “I’m not suited for such work.” A tiny bit of relief enters her heart, but it still holds worries.

“...May I ask what you do?”

A curious one. Best she be careful.

“...Watch. Learn. Listen," he provides. "The roots take me where I need, pass information that needs to be known.” He’s the reason the other Akatsuki know she exists, why she’s here now, sitting next to him in wait for the next pair.

“It sounds...more peaceful,” she admits, admiration creeping in her weary tone. She envisions herself as he must be, weaving in and out of oak and birch as smooth as watercolor brushes on paper. Her head sticking out on the very tippy top of the woodlands, the smell of magnolia or plum blossom surrounding as an aura. She’s above the world, anything that could crush her--

“Oh yes. It can be meditative,” he agrees pleasantly, “...Especially the meals.”

She blinks again. “Meals?”

“The bodies,” Zetsu says. “Consumption of them renews my chakra. I presume it’s much like how you must enjoy sleep or a bath.”

“...Bodies? Of…?!” The woman regrets it as soon as she asks.

“Corpses,” he elaborates. “My most vital duty is to dispose of our dead.”

It is suddenly so very nauseating imagining herself so high up.

“Mm?” The man cocks his head, though the woman isn’t even using the mirror to look at him anymore; indeed, her eyes aren’t seeing anything that’s actually in front of her. He chides once again.

Damn...so sensitive…how annoying...

Then don’t make it worse! Fix it!

“...You needn’t think about that. I only eat you if you die.”

That is NOT AT ALL what she was thinking about, thank you very much!!!

Predictable as a jack in the box, fear encapsulates her again, shivers making her bolt straight up in bed. A hand searches blindly desperately across the blanket till it palms a pillow to shove into her face. A brow curls in confusion as he watches her muted scream, and then just as quickly, she stops, setting it back where it was. That helps a little. Unified, he and her exhale in release of stress, lest the remaining time get even longer than it already will be.

“You'll just be brought back again if you leave, you know…”

“I do, I do…Just.” She swallows, forcing herself to take in his visage in the mirror once more. The way his coat wraps around the plant structure causes the collar to taper off, sort of like a vampire's cape. “Never heard that one before.” ...No, she hasn’t heard that one before. Eating the dead... And she’s so morbidly curious--

--No. No, she’s not going to ask what they taste like!!! She needs the sky to stop spinning before that box can be unwrapped. God. Oh god...! She mouths a quick "bleh!" and vigorously shakes her brain free of the idea. Zetsu allows himself to smirk again, questions of her filling his own fascinated mind. A woman that may be of another world, perhaps across time and space...she's a weird one, indeed, but not in the way one would expect. Before he caught a whiff of it, the traveler had already put herself in the good graces of the Akatsuki's arguably most unstable members-- a talent of some sort, surely, amount of magic (or jutsu) involved still unknown. As much as one can ask how many of her fairy tales are real, how much of her self is one?

“Must be quite a few things you’ll experience for the first time.”

You strange thing, he ponders, what secrets do you keep...?

The infinite is in the wind, across the fluttering leaves and in the waves of grass. Ghosts and ghouls and Frankenstein’s monsters. The two aliens share this space as the other carries a whole other universe- way of existing- upon their back, both grotesque and incomprehensible. Another flash of lightning, and electricity fills the air with possibilities grand and grave. As she rests upon the bed, though eyelids beg to close, the exhausted woman finds herself staring at his split reflection in wonder. The flytrap tilts its torso forward till he can see his own face in the cracked glass, and he tries to see what she sees.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

But just like a vampire, I don't exist

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

#akatsuki x reader #aswtn fic #songfic #zetsu x reader