@golden-gengar suggested a celebrity au and I tweaked it just a bit. It got longer than expected but ya know THE SHOW MUST GO ON!!
Hinata grabbed a soda before clocking out. “See you guys later!” She waved to her coworkers and went out the back door. Her feet were aching, customers were ridiculous and she spilled soda on her pants and shoes. She ripped off her hat and froze upon seeing a figure leaning against her car.
She turned back to the building and wondered if she should just run back. She grabbed the pepper spray on her keys. Hinata assumed it was a man by his tall built, he had on a jacket and baseball cap. He looked up with sun glasses on.
It was ten at night.
He pulled out his cellphone and her’s started ringing. Hinata slowly pulled her phone out of her apron to answer it. “…hello?”
“You’re still an idiot. If I was a killer why would you just stand there.”
Her eyes widened at the voice. He turned the cap around and pulled up his glasses. “S-Sasuke?” She whispered and dropped her soda.
Hinata ran into the man’s arms. He sighed and patted her head. “Hey.”
She looked up at him. “You’re done filming?” She scouted the area. “Why did you come here? Paparazzi coul-”
“You missed me?”
Hinata cupped his face. “Yes! Yes, I did.”
Being in a relationship with a celebrity was hard…but being a secret relationship with a celebrity was exhausting. “You smell like grease,” he said in disgust.
Hinata let him go. He took her waist. “I mean, you do.” Sasuke placed his forehead on hers. “…but I’m here for two weeks. I need for you to call out.”
“I can’t just call out. I can’t ask you to call out of filming.”
“You could,” he shrugged.
She smiled and kissed his cheek. “Let’s go home.”
“We’re not children anymore, Hyuuga.” He motioned her to the passenger side. She crossed her arms. “I have people drive me around everywhere as if I don’t have a working license.”
“I worked hard for this car.” She grumbled and walked to the passenger side.
“I’ll buy you a new one.”
She sighed. “My feet hurt.”
“How’s school?” Sasuke asked.
She shrugged and pulled on a Konoha University shirt. She crawled on the bed next to him. “You’re dating…Ino Yamanaka.”
“For publicity, you know that.”
She grinned. “She’s so beautiful. How is she?”
“She’s an actress,” he rubbed his neck. “How can one tell?”
Hinata tilted her head. “Did you kiss her?”
“Mm,” he yawned. “It’s not like you to be so concerned with celebrities.”
Hinata shook her head. “I’m not…but she’s so pretty. I think she’s nice, you know, despite rumors.” She laid her head on her boyfriend’s chest. “…and we’re basically dating you.”
“If you would come out of the shadows you could met her and everyone else…”
Hinata closed her eyes. She wasn’t like Sasuke. She didn’t like the limelight. She wanted a normal life. She wanted the struggling college student experience and she wasn’t photogenic by any means…she didn’t want that lifestyle.
“Mm?” He played with her hair. He stayed so fucking busy and it was hell trying to even call. Most of the time they were in different time zones. They grew up together until he started acting. Granted it was a bad idea, but they started dating the summer before.
Four years and three months.
“I’m happy you’re home.”
He patted her head. “Mm, really? Show me.”
She looked up at him with narrowed eyes. “Go to bed.” She turned over. He grinned. Same old Hinata.
I’m trying to draw more and after watching Don’t hug me I’m scared II for the 13th time since it was uploaded. And talking with my buddy Sasha about silly head canons for the humanized cast. I drew Notepad and Clock. One of my favorite head canon we came up with was that Red, D and Crow humanized would look like the trio from workaholics.
I practiced in the mirror for hours—tongue, no tongue—
cold glass against my inexperience, silver against pink.
I gazed at my own clumsiness,
gawking and grimacing, and hiding my bottom lip behind my teeth.
Advice on boys from my sister like a script
etched into the skin on the back of my hand.
She said she learned on other girls. Sleepovers beyond midnight
became cul de sac séances of superstitious mumbles and snickers.
The sticky husk of a Jones soda like a clock hand,
chiming off the hours with a chorus of snorts and spitty smacks.
Lots of practice, she said.
“If he goes all the way first—you know, French—let him do what he wants.”
I shivered in the milky sun of June, mouth half-open
in a reluctant snore, like a toddler chewing his beans
and, while still not liking the taste, unsure of where to spit his cud.
I made myself vomit and brushed him
out of my mouth for fifteen minutes until I could feel
a new tongue growing in place of the old one. I buried the toothbrush
in the kitchen trash.
“And whatever you do, don’t bite his tongue.” She drew a face
on an orange, said practice on your hand. Watch how I do it.
She called her boyfriend, more than eager to apply for the position
of teaching assistant. Before he could tell me, “It’s all
about technique,” I could taste my new tongue remember
where it had been, as if every drop of saliva vanished,
as if it passed like a ghost through my skin
and became cold sweat behind my collar.
When I fail the effortless, it looks the same as when I smile.
They laugh, “Look, look at that. You can tell he’s trying too hard.”