||Lupin III x Reader Oneshots||

Jazzy Night || Lupin

(No gender reader x Lupin)

"Yeah, I knew the guy." You sighed, annoyed, twirling the toothpick with an olive in your martini.

Another night at the french bar and restaurant, the same question always arises as you flirt on your break.
Lupin this, Lupin that.
What was he like?
What did he tell you?
What do you know?

-
All because he, that stupidly famous thief, had a one night with you.

Then he flew out your window bright and early in the morning. You were mortified and ran to your window sill draping your parts with a white sheet, only to see him safely escaping your tiny hotel room down the street.
A bystander was recording him, then returned the view to your window. Your eye caught the person with the phone and you quickly seclude back into your home, drawing the curtains.

Yet—
Of course the video went viral. Of course people tracked down your location. And of course, came unwanted publicity. You never knew a one night stand could change your life so much.

Now, here you are, in a tiny restaurant and bar at the edge of a city, trying to do your work as a lone jazz pianist while hopefully having a night a little less lonely. Sure there was the drummer and bass player, but you rather not 'mingle'. Afraid that close friends were only in it for the publicity too.

You're not even that famous; not everyone knows your name, music, or life.
But you liked how it was before, how mysterious you were to most met you: just some charming person who played jazz on the keys. You knew that not everyone in the world knew, but it felt like they did.

Now, you're just one of 'Lupins' one night stands.

It didn't help that Lupin was likable with his smile, charm, wit, and cleverness.

He was like jazz: unpredictable but can smoothly, easily transition from one situation to another, no matter the measures, without batting an eye.

And you, still, like jazz.
-

You became bored with the stranger chatting with you. You get up from the conversation, drink in hand, and walked away. Despite them calling out to you, you didn't feel like chatting again about some sleazy thief.

You head up the steps and sit at the grand black piano. You weren't suppose to play for another 30 minutes as it was your dinner break, but you had a big lunch and the martini will do.

Placing the glass on the side of the piano, you start tickling the keys. Not literally, but you did a couple random chords that sounded nice together, one after another.

A smirk arises onto your face as began to play.

Your hands glide up and down the piano as the chords mend and melt together into a beautiful sound with trills that keep you on your toes: explaining that this is a jazzy tune than something more contemporary.

You put your foot on the leftest peddle to soften your keys because you knew jamming out would be too loud to do. Yet you were jamming out, a hell of a time just for yourself— in your own little world.

You suddenly feel someone come up the stage stairs, the vibrations of their feet. It wasn't the stomps of a heavy bass player or the gentle clacks of the drummers' shoes. Someone else was there, but you couldn't stop playing to look, not now.

You gasped as someone suddenly slides onto the piano seat with you on your left—the mans butt scooting you to the right edge of your seat. You loose your left hand but the stranger quickly took over; He did what your left hand couldn't.