Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep.
I stayed up until all hours yesterday night, omigod. I have no idea why. (That took so much longer than I thought it would. Of course, what we accomplished made it all alright. I won't give up RPing for anything. FUCK YOU, GRADE POINT AVERAGE.) The bags under my eyes are so huge - they're big and black and awful looking; like I've been beaten, almost. It hurts to keep them open. How much does that suck?
We're going to the Rennaisance Faire this weekend - hurray hurray! My boobs needed air anyway. I love Ren Faires. They make me feel so fucking good about myself. I'm going up to see Hayley for the first time in a few months, which is good because I've fucking missed her, dammit. (I love her so much. That girl. ♥)
As it is, that, of course means I won't be here until Sunday...but hey. I've got a cell phone. Call it, bitches. And if you can't do that...I promise to return soon. Fuji-sama. I promise to return quickly.
...It's been a strange day.
Pardon me as I steal and rape a bit of formatting because I feel the need.
Ink Betrothal and Glass - Itachi x Shisui, Rie + Itachi - drabble oh, so much, Oshima!universe - PG13
The light table is as it always has been, which is to say that it glows, and adds all the more white to the photographs, which cast of a glare of light that irritates Itachi's eyes and always has. He stays where he is, of course. (He is only too aware that his glasses are likely shining in the same manner; in fact, he thinks he might be aware of it's white reflection on the back of his chin, but as it is, it could also be his eyes playing tricks on him. It wouldn't be the first or last time, not really.)
There is a faint metallic ring in the back of his head, and he pushes his glasses further up so that they rest just below the curvature of his forhead. He surveys his nails critically as he pulls them from his face, and frowns in silent displeasure. (Shisui's been distracting him, and it seems that he's forgotten to repaint them today; the thumb nail's flawless coat has been chipped over the course of the photoshoot. It's always the damn thumb. He purses his lips.)
His mother returns from the back, readjusting her dress and setting the remaining folders in front of him - there are three and they have been color coded, red, green, blue. (Mikoto, at forty-one years of age, still moves like a swan, the semblance of all things beautiful in December, even entrenched in work as she is.) The folder in front of him remains a stark white, and he closes it in lieu of checking over the indigo compilation.
"Seeing her aggrivates you?" Mikoto sits beside him, and reaches for the green folder, opening it with all due grace. (It's contents seem tinted forestry in the reflective lighting.)
Itachi grunts over the notion; if there's anyone he'll talk to it's his mother, but if there's anything he won't talk about, it's Rie. (He doesn't remember being aggrivated; of course, now that she mentions it, he probably could've done without.)
He looks over the pictures, critically. It's a good shoot, but he's a stickler for perfection (always has been; his mother selects him to do this job because it's something he has quite a natural knack for.) He sets a few pictures aside, and his mouth twists a bit over the fact that the photographer seems to have taken quite a few pictures of her with her nipples showing. (Disgusting, he thinks. He's knows beauty better than the average person, and that offends him quite a bit. His mouth is almost contorted with disgust.)
His mother has always known to interpret his silences, and she moves over his pictures too, an analystic expression veiling her features. (She is just as skilled as he is at communicating soundlessly.)
"She's curled her hair," he notes finally, with a blank tone to his voice, an edgeless one. (He can remember it when it was black and dark and she still looked somewhat normal. Uchihas all look the same; even if it's genetic, that ethereal beauty, atleast he's become accustomed to it. To Rie's...'transformation', it's harder to adjust, mostly because he doesn't feel the need. He'd rather treat her like the rest; maybe worse. Yes. Worse, he decides. He treats the rest with relative respect. If he could disragard her completely, that would be nice.)
"Mm," Mikoto nods, smiling absently to herself. "You don't like it...?"
"...no." He says it frankly, turning to look at her. She doesn't look back up at him though.
"I didn't think you would."
"She's dyed it too."
"That's right."
"It looks unnatural."
"I thought you hated the way Uchiha's looked...?"
He did. Does. (Why is he using past tense? He definitely still hated it, the way they all looked alike. But still; the way Rie looked was just...silicon and upsetting.)
Mikoto smiles at him. "Or are you just looking for another reason to dislike her...?"
Perhaps she has a point. (He wonders if he would mind, were it someone else. He doubts it, in all actuality. How strange that it should be so offensive on Rie and so harmless by another hand, face, eye, mouth.)
He looks over images of her - the feather dress is flattering, so he chooses between which expression he likes best (none of them, his mind hisses, none of them) and places it in the stack of six with the others. Mikoto skims them over, hand moving across his part of the table, and selects one where Rie looks to be attempting to seduce the camera.
She pulls out the collection from the red folder - the ones with the devious expressions and the black underwear, the ones that Itachi had not wanted to expose himself to.
"...Shisui would fill that top out better, I think."
It was a statement, not a question.
It was true, too.
Of course, Itachi kept those thoughts to himself.
(It didn't matter much; he knew his mother could read him well enough.)
She selected a picture quickly, as if she picked it before hand and placed it in the pile with the others, respectfully face down.
They kept working.
(Itachi, having looked over the picture too thoroughly after being dealt the comment, vowed to pay a little bit of extra attention to Shisui's stomach, next time, because he knew it was smoother, thinner, and more satisfying to touch, just by comparing mental visuals.)
Model selected to play Rie: Namie Amuro as if you couldn't tell.
And now, my mother is on a tirade.
Joy. Let's do something about that, mm...?
We're going to the Rennaisance Faire this weekend - hurray hurray! My boobs needed air anyway. I love Ren Faires. They make me feel so fucking good about myself. I'm going up to see Hayley for the first time in a few months, which is good because I've fucking missed her, dammit. (I love her so much. That girl. ♥)
As it is, that, of course means I won't be here until Sunday...but hey. I've got a cell phone. Call it, bitches. And if you can't do that...I promise to return soon. Fuji-sama. I promise to return quickly.
...It's been a strange day.
Pardon me as I steal and rape a bit of formatting because I feel the need.
Ink Betrothal and Glass - Itachi x Shisui, Rie + Itachi - drabble oh, so much, Oshima!universe - PG13
The light table is as it always has been, which is to say that it glows, and adds all the more white to the photographs, which cast of a glare of light that irritates Itachi's eyes and always has. He stays where he is, of course. (He is only too aware that his glasses are likely shining in the same manner; in fact, he thinks he might be aware of it's white reflection on the back of his chin, but as it is, it could also be his eyes playing tricks on him. It wouldn't be the first or last time, not really.)
There is a faint metallic ring in the back of his head, and he pushes his glasses further up so that they rest just below the curvature of his forhead. He surveys his nails critically as he pulls them from his face, and frowns in silent displeasure. (Shisui's been distracting him, and it seems that he's forgotten to repaint them today; the thumb nail's flawless coat has been chipped over the course of the photoshoot. It's always the damn thumb. He purses his lips.)
His mother returns from the back, readjusting her dress and setting the remaining folders in front of him - there are three and they have been color coded, red, green, blue. (Mikoto, at forty-one years of age, still moves like a swan, the semblance of all things beautiful in December, even entrenched in work as she is.) The folder in front of him remains a stark white, and he closes it in lieu of checking over the indigo compilation.
"Seeing her aggrivates you?" Mikoto sits beside him, and reaches for the green folder, opening it with all due grace. (It's contents seem tinted forestry in the reflective lighting.)
Itachi grunts over the notion; if there's anyone he'll talk to it's his mother, but if there's anything he won't talk about, it's Rie. (He doesn't remember being aggrivated; of course, now that she mentions it, he probably could've done without.)
He looks over the pictures, critically. It's a good shoot, but he's a stickler for perfection (always has been; his mother selects him to do this job because it's something he has quite a natural knack for.) He sets a few pictures aside, and his mouth twists a bit over the fact that the photographer seems to have taken quite a few pictures of her with her nipples showing. (Disgusting, he thinks. He's knows beauty better than the average person, and that offends him quite a bit. His mouth is almost contorted with disgust.)
His mother has always known to interpret his silences, and she moves over his pictures too, an analystic expression veiling her features. (She is just as skilled as he is at communicating soundlessly.)
"She's curled her hair," he notes finally, with a blank tone to his voice, an edgeless one. (He can remember it when it was black and dark and she still looked somewhat normal. Uchihas all look the same; even if it's genetic, that ethereal beauty, atleast he's become accustomed to it. To Rie's...'transformation', it's harder to adjust, mostly because he doesn't feel the need. He'd rather treat her like the rest; maybe worse. Yes. Worse, he decides. He treats the rest with relative respect. If he could disragard her completely, that would be nice.)
"Mm," Mikoto nods, smiling absently to herself. "You don't like it...?"
"...no." He says it frankly, turning to look at her. She doesn't look back up at him though.
"I didn't think you would."
"She's dyed it too."
"That's right."
"It looks unnatural."
"I thought you hated the way Uchiha's looked...?"
He did. Does. (Why is he using past tense? He definitely still hated it, the way they all looked alike. But still; the way Rie looked was just...silicon and upsetting.)
Mikoto smiles at him. "Or are you just looking for another reason to dislike her...?"
Perhaps she has a point. (He wonders if he would mind, were it someone else. He doubts it, in all actuality. How strange that it should be so offensive on Rie and so harmless by another hand, face, eye, mouth.)
He looks over images of her - the feather dress is flattering, so he chooses between which expression he likes best (none of them, his mind hisses, none of them) and places it in the stack of six with the others. Mikoto skims them over, hand moving across his part of the table, and selects one where Rie looks to be attempting to seduce the camera.
She pulls out the collection from the red folder - the ones with the devious expressions and the black underwear, the ones that Itachi had not wanted to expose himself to.
"...Shisui would fill that top out better, I think."
It was a statement, not a question.
It was true, too.
Of course, Itachi kept those thoughts to himself.
(It didn't matter much; he knew his mother could read him well enough.)
She selected a picture quickly, as if she picked it before hand and placed it in the pile with the others, respectfully face down.
They kept working.
(Itachi, having looked over the picture too thoroughly after being dealt the comment, vowed to pay a little bit of extra attention to Shisui's stomach, next time, because he knew it was smoother, thinner, and more satisfying to touch, just by comparing mental visuals.)
Model selected to play Rie: Namie Amuro as if you couldn't tell.
And now, my mother is on a tirade.
Joy. Let's do something about that, mm...?