#STAS PLS

[jorvik-gazette-archive]

Hey uhhh sse, when you're going to make your own assets for these rune stones? It has been over 10 years, instead adding more and more, fix your old stuff

search words used:

•Pentacle star symbol •Celtic moon •/did not find sun yet, similar ones were found in tribal sun tattoo/ •Lightning bolt icon

[itsme-anastasia]

TEXT: Can someone come and collect this man, pls???

-sends photo-

TEXT: He's really bringing down the vibe 😩😩😩😩

@charlxttelabouff @happieststarters

[ndostairlyrium]

Bring very creative with the censorship in this one ✨

[linoguy]

question: do stray kids fans and ateez fans have some kind of feud?

[pain-of-creation]

Cercando di essere obiettiva non credo farebbero mettere insieme i jeandrea più perché boh… serie rai… Italia…, ma è proprio un’occasione sprecata dai…

È stato un triangolo così insipido ed etero, tutto per avere i due canon subito. Spice it up e fate cambiare i sentimenti di Jean e Andrea nella S2 quando comporranno canzoni insieme!!!

[horsegamesins-old]

dead meme

[quarterprioritymidnight]

yeah I mean he probably isn’t bothered and does expect it but it’s kinda annoying that it’s expected in the first place I guess. I know that’s the celebrity way but honestly the way some people act around famous people sometimes is so weird to me (just speaking in general, not calling those girls out or anything it seemed pretty chill and nbd but yeah)

yeah I get what you mean. I mean I'm gonna be honest I can't imagine dan from bastille gets stopped a ton lol.

idk I have loads of opinions about fan/celeb interactions and I think the main issue is when people genuinely feeling like a celeb is their friend or that they're kind of in on fandom jokes etc. like its always gonna be a weird dynamic when person a thinks they know person b really well and to them person a is a literal stranger, but i think as long as people respect boundaries and are brief and polite then it is what it is ig

[omarfor-orchestra]

Ho appena ricevuto una notizia bellissima che sta succedendo

[starscelly]

mush and tyler out and using d*mi as the picture for their game tn post… am i a victim of homophobia???

[dantelovesvirgil]

No regaz sto svarionata

I mean gays of the world gimme a hand

Im starting to think that im either straight and don't actually like women, or im gay with a lot of interiorised homophobia

Or im ace

[strawbeerossi]

Only Friends

Pairing: Gender Neutral!Reader x Spencer Reid

Description: You and Spencer are best friends who act like anything but.

Content/Warnings: Oblivious mutual pining, kissing, lap sitting, teasing friends, cute little love confession at the end.

Word Count: 1.3K

Anon Request: hiii oki req (if u want pls take ur time) i think this is prob OOC butttttt spence + reader being in love and they don’t even realize it but they still kiss/ cuddle when they hang out and stuff and just say “we’re really close is all” “best friends kiss!” and stuff..

Navigation || Criminal Minds Masterlist || Request

🏷️ @kr-1-sta @iluvreid @nervousmoongiver @multifandom-on-the-side @ferrjulie

Affection in friendships aren’t always the same. Some friends hugged, some friends rarely talked yet maintained a healthy friendship, some friends even showed the smallest bit of intimacy due to their comfortability.

You and Spencer were just a tad different. You two would cuddle, share brief pecks on the lips, as well as sometimes shower together whenever you were in a rush on a case and got a brief break.

It wasn’t anything inherently romantic or sexual, just something that came easy. The team was highly convinced you both had a secret relationship. Which was fair enough, however no matter how many explanations, they never seemed to be enough.

Tonight the team was having a small watch party for a new show at Penelope’s apartment. She’d been so desperate for the team to have something like a show they watched together, or special games to play together. Nobody could really say no.

You had arrived with a handful of snacks just an hour prior, helping one of your favorite coworkers set up her apartment for the night ahead. As expected, it turned from you helping to the bubbly blonde interrogating you over the aspect of a potential relationship.

“We aren’t dating, Pen.” Your head shook as you were filling a bowl with pretzels, taking it to the table in order to place it in the available space surrounded by other snacks. “I saw you guys kiss before you left the office yesterday! What kind of friends kiss each other on the lips?? If this is normal, we need to make Derek aware because I am missing out.” Penelope huffed out of frustration. “Mark my words, I will get to the bottom of this. When I find out that you are secretly dating, I will bring all of the hurt!” The blonde held up her fist while narrowing her eyes in your direction.

By the grace of all things holy, it wasn’t long until the team had slowly begun to show up. There were no more interrogations, not yet anyway. As everyone was piling up on the couch, there was very limited room for you as you walked out of the kitchen. “Fuck.” You groaned, arms crossed. “I am not sitting on the floor!”

“You can sit with me.” Spencer spoke up from his spot at the far end of the couch, his shoulders shrugging as his hand patted his thighs to offer you the spot in his lap. “Come on! This is a family friendly show! None of that.” Emily groaned, which had you rolling your eyes as you were heading over to sit yourself on your best friend’s lap.

“It’s not a big deal.” You protested her dramatics while your body was leaning into Spencer’s chest, your body snuggling closer to his as the show began at its scheduled time. However instead of enjoying the programme, you were too busy ignoring all the curious stares from your friends. “Come on!” You huffed while pushing yourself to sit up. “What is the big deal? You’re all staring like we are animals in a zoo.” In all honesty, you were annoyed with the way people stared. You were friends, doing platonic things.

“Look. Kid, I hate to say it but you two are definitely a little too close for what friends should be. What kind of friends do you know that kiss each other? And yes, I know, they are pecks. I’m just saying.” Derek put his hands up as he broke the silence.

“It’s not a crime to have a crush on one another or to date one another.” JJ added soon after while letting her shoulders shrug. “We aren’t dating though.” Spencer confirmed everything you’ve been preaching while looking at the group in confusion. “Spencer, you haven’t eaten any snacks tonight because all of our hands have been in the bowl. It makes no sense to me that you’d kiss her considering the mouth has like a bajillion germs.” Penelope added.

“Well, the mouth has over a billion different germs and we don’t know the exact amount.” He corrected as he looked up at you for help. “I assumed we were normal?” He spoke up while you nodded in agreement. “I thought we were, too.” You huffed while leaning against his chest.

“It’s not even the hugging, kissing, and lap sitting. You guys just look so head over heels from an outside perspective. I mean, you hang out together all the time, you always room together, plus you guys go out on dates. You may not look at it that way but come on. You are both profilers. How do you not pick up on how you feel about one another?” Emily asked while frowning softly.

The more they were talking and giving actual points, the more you were thinking over the course of your friendship with Spencer. You’d always been close, even after your first initial meeting when you joined the team. You could remember how shocked the team was because the typically quiet and socially awkward genius was the first one to welcome you. You’d managed to become close friends over the course of two weeks. The first time Spencer even hugged you was after a case where he’d been put in harm's way. He came to you for comfort. You.

The first time you started your pecks on the lips, it was due to a complete accident when you tried to kiss his cheek but his head turned to face you. It just seemed.. Right. No matter how flustered you both were or how you felt butterflies in your belly, you just dismissed it. You being lost in thought was concerning enough for Spencer. “Hey. Do you wanna step outside?” His voice pulled you out of your thoughts, your head nodding. “Yeah, please head out with me.”

He helped you to your feet before his hand was gently holding yours, leading you out of the room.

“How much do you wanna bet that they are gonna actually kiss out there?” Aaron spoke up after being silent a majority of the night, the team turning to the unit chief who normally wouldn’t have inserted himself. “I’ll take those odds,” Derek smirked while getting his wallet.

Out in the hallway, you had your arms crossed as you looked away from Spencer. “I know that we are best friends and I promise you’ve done absolutely nothing wrong. I just really want you to tell me one thing,” You spoke while turning your head back to face him. “Did you ever, at any point, have feelings for me? Be honest.”

The words had Spencer’s face bright red, his hand nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I’ve always thought you were amazing.” He spoke while offering a shy smile. “I just didn’t want things to get weird. I like our friendship and the relationship that we have isn’t something that could be ruined. Dating friends can get messy and.. I don’t wanna live a life without you in it. I can’t even fathom a reality where you aren’t here.” He responded.

“So you did?”

“Y-yeah. I just didn’t want-”

Your hands were gripping his upper arms while you were gently shaking him. “Why didn’t you say anything?!” You asked while staring at him with wide eyes. “I’ve always been fond of you!” You added, his surprised look making you laugh softly. “God. How are we profilers?”

“You know, I’m not so sure. I think we are rusty.” Spencer responded, a little chuckle leaving his lips. “So.. Is there a chance? You know.. Us?” He asked softly while you nodded. “I do think there’s a good chance.” You responded while Spencer sighed in relief. “So it won’t be weird if I do this.”

“Do what?”

His hands were gently cupping your cheeks, taking every opportunity to press his lips against yours, much different than you were both used to but it carried the same feeling as all the little pecks have all this time. It was right. Like you were meant to be together.

“I’m pretty sure they are running bets. Do we tell them we kissed or pretend like nothing happened?”

“I want Derek to lose his money in that scenario, so let’s not tell them yet.” Spencer chuckled.

[pawfrill]

Okay but like imagine trying to visit father figure bf! Nanami while also trying to avoid seeing your dad o__o like Nanami’s probably all like never come see me at work or whatever & you just can’t help surprising him in his office or something n’ he just gives a slight scowl & a big ole kiss or something idk I’m in love

hweo littl anonie ! ur brain is so magical nd im obsessed wif it! here is a treat for waitin patiently for your request ! 𐂯 ! ⊹

to give everyone a break frm all da smut nd wht not here is a tiny but might drabble abt visiting your dad’s boss at work

( for more context read dis / / also !! i love private school uniforms so i gave this au a uniform for college! )

— pls dnt mind da spelling errors . . is almost 3 am nd im fully of energy

ding! you stepped off the elevator, thick mary janes clack against the marble floor as you reach two big spotless floor to ceiling crystal glass doors with a sign that read Jujitsu Law Firm.

you had just gotten out of school, you had no other plans for the day so you decided to stop by your boyfriend’s workplace and surprise him right after school.

the only issue is you’d forgot to pack a change of clothes in your bag for school so you have to wear your uniform. not that it matters but you’d have like to show up to your big time boyfriends job in more of a presentable manner than this but oh well!

pushing the door open, you are met with a big reception desk and classical music playing in the background with the ambient light accompanying. you look around taking everything in before being interrupted.

a women no older than twenty-eight, speaks. “uh, may i help you?” you look down at her desk, you spot a name plate; ‘Mako.’ you read.

“yes! hello, i’m here for Nanami Kento, please.” you give her a smile.

she stares back at you with a raised brow, looking you up and down, taking in your appearance. still sporting your schools outfit, you are dressed in a white button up polo, a red, white and gold neck tie, a oversized navy blue cardigan paired with a black skirt and leg warms.

“do you have an appointment with Mr.Kento.” she all but rudely says. An appointment? why would you need an appointment to see your own boyfriend.

“ uh no. could you please tell him that- “ she cuts you off before you could even finish. “sorry kid, but you can’t see him without an appointment.” her tone irritated with the interaction between you two.

kid? did you really look that young? you’re only twenty-three. before you could spit out a remark on her horrible communication skills, your dotting boyfriend appears from around the corner.

“ ♡ ? “ you turn around, seeing your boyfriend standing there with a surprised look on his face.

“surprise!” you said adorably, walking over and reaching up on your tippy toes to wrap your arms around his neck, his assistant long forgotten. he pulls away taking in your attire, cute as ever he thinks.

“what are you doing here, princess?” still surprised you came and visited him despite voicing your worries about your father being at the office nonetheless finding out about you two, but you put your worries aside and came anyways. kento’s sweet, sweet, girl.

“well i wanted to surprise you, plus . . i missed you.” you shyly stated at the end, looking down and kicking the imaginary dust off your shoes. kento thinks about how soft spoken and gentle you are..always wanting attention, he finds it cute; finds you cute.

“well considered me surprised baby” he almost can feel the heat radiating off your cheeks from how embarrassed you are, his heart almost gives out. “are you hungry puppy?” there he goes again, using that nickname that always leaves you wanting more. “have you ate?” he asks again. As if on queue your stomach growls, answering for you.

now in his office, stomach full and plate of food forgotten, you watch kento as he is working at his desk and you are sat on the opposite side. “staring is impolite you know?” he says assumingly.

“i- what, i- wasn’t staring at you.” you rushed out, flustered. kento laughs. his laugh is from deep in his chest, the one that warms your heart and makes you smile. “whatever.” you grumble out.

having enough of his teasing, you stand up from your seat and make your way around the desk, pulling his office chair out to make room for you to squeeze onto his lap.

you place your legs in between the arm holes of the chair that way you are blocking his view from the computer screen, “princess, i can’t see.” you loop your arms around his neck, “that’s the point, gimme kiss.” you whine, kento rolls his eyes playfully and chuckles “so needy..always kento i want , kento gimme, but you never say your please’s or thank you’s.”

he pinches your side, never breaking eye contact. “whoever is teaching you your manners needs to do better. you’re a spoiled brat.” he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, leaning in, kissing your cheek.

you huff, frustrated at not getting your way, “kento just gimme a kiss already-.” you hiss at the conact of a firm smack against your thigh, “so got damn bossy.” he leans in pecking your lips, two times before giving in.

slotting his tongue into your mouth. when kento kisses you like this, it’s like he is trying to take your soul and breath away, you whine trying to pull him closer you grip at his collar and rock your hips, you deepen the kiss by moving your tongue against his; its so messy, it makes your dizzy.

“please, please more gimme” you pant, trying to pull him even closer if that’s possible. his hands has a firm grip on your waist that youre sure will leave a bruise but you couldn’t care less, not when he feels this good.

kento could tell that you are getting desperate. he knows that you are probably teary eyed, sometimes you get to needy and desperate that you don’t think anymore.

“hold on pup, let’s take a breath, yeah?” you whine when he tries to pull away from you. kento is correct, your big doe eyes are teary and you look a wreck. your school uniform is disheveled, skirt is twisted; along with your cardigan that’s halfway off your shoulders.

before either you and kento could continue a knock comes from the door.

“Mr.Kento, Have you seen my daughter? i heard she came to stop by!” your father.



[alastorslittledoe]

Alastor and Lucifer Taking Your Virginity

|| HeadCanon ||

Pairing: Alastor & Lucifer (x reader)

Tags: Smut, fluff, kissing, flirting, daddy kink, shy reader, dom!luci, dom!al

This was inspired by @hazelfoureyes

Pls pls pls go read their Alastor ‘The Big Part’ fic, it’s SO fucking good.

Pls request if you want me to make a full version of any of these or do HC for any of the others! 💕

Alastor had been watching you for a while, how you brushed off all the other attention from the male guests and overlords. You’d even managed to grasp the attention of Vox, which irked him. He’d been targeting the TV broadcaster more than usual, making fun of him on his radio show and almost twitching whenever his name left your lips. So, you can imagine his delight when you turned up at his radio tower, doe eyes laced with innocence.

“Al, I have kind of a…weird request”

He’d laugh, tilting his head with curiosity “How can I be of assistance, my dear?”

“Well, you know I got killed quite, uh, before my time, let’s say, and I thought…could you maybe, help me out with the uhm…sex part?” You shuffled in place, fiddling with your hands nervously, mumbling the last part quietly.

“What was that?” he grinned, he needed to make sure he heard you correctly.

“Sex” you blurt, a scarlet blush making its way over your cheeks “If you don’t mind, um…I want to learn because I’ve never…”

A shiver of pleasure would run through him. You, standing in front of him, practically begging for him to take the one thing no one else could ever have. It was almost too much for him to bare.

“Just so we’re clear, you want me to take your virginity, yes?”

He’d take further pleasure in watching you squirm for a moment before nodding.

“Yes, please”

His eyes would light up, and he’d immediately take your hand, transporting you to an ethereal looking plane, doused in black with a single bed in the middle of it all.

“Does this suit your needs?” He’d ask. As eager as he was, he knew it was important to ensure your upmost comfort.

When it came down to it, he was a lot more skilled than you’d expected. Though he’d like to ravage you and pin you down with his shadows, getting off on the control, he knew this would be painful. So he’d contain it. For now.

He’d place soft kisses along your skin, undressing you slowly before pushing you gently onto the bed. It was intimidating, watching the shadows whip around behind him, having him tower over you. But there was no denying the wetness between your legs.

He’d take you slowly, inch by inch.

When you were sure he was going to split you open, you’d place a hand on his chest to push him away, he would hook a leg under yours, swiftly disabling your movement no matter how hard you pushed.

“Ah ah, little doe, it’ll feel better soon, I promise”

You’d bite your lip, eyes watering looking up at him tearfully. He’d almost come undone at that look alone. But you’d nod for him to keep going.

He’d get off on your whimpers as he pushed in deeper, loving the fact that he was causing you such pain and pleasure.

When you finally took all of him, it would take everything in him to not let the animalistic part of him out and ruin you. But he’d manage to hold it in. There was always time for that later.

Now you were his.

He’d be gentle after the fact, simply content that he’d spilled his seed in you, a sign of ownership without any deal. Now he’d truly gotten something Vox would never lay his hands on. He’d kill him if he tried.

Lucifer would blink at you, mouth agape as you stood before him.

“You want me to…take your virginity?”

You’d blush, biting your lip “If you wouldn’t mind, Luci”

“Of course Y/N” he’d chuckle “but you’re sure this is what you want?”

You’d nod, breath catching in your throat “Yes, please”

He’d be unable to stop the grin spreading across his face “As the lady wishes”

Suddenly you’d be in his arms bridal style and he’d smirk down at you “Just showing you what it’ll be like tomorrow when you can’t walk”

You’d stare at him, speechless as he walked you to your room and gently laid you down on the bed.

He’d start slowly, foreplay is incredibly important to him. He knew there was no way you’d be able to take him without some coaxing from his fingers to stretch you out first.

Lucifer would completely focus on your pleasure, eating you out for a long time and slowly adding more fingers in you until he’s satisfied you could take him.

He’d make sure pillows were underneath you, ensuring there would be pleasure for you, though he knew it’d be incredibly painful first.

He would pause every so often to ensure your consent was still there.

When he first pushed his head into you, a yelp would escape your lips and he’d freeze, waiting for your heated breaths to calm.

“My love, we can stop-“

“No no” You’d look at him lovingly, wincing “you’re just” you glance down at him, barely inside you “really big”

He’d laugh breathlessly, taking the compliment before pushing the rest of his head in, biting his lip hard. How was he supposed to not blow his load two seconds in when you looked so innocent, trying so hard to take him.

He’d let his kink slip out pretty quickly.

“Cmon, princess” he’d growl gently “you can take the rest of daddy’s cock, can’t you?”

That would ignite something in you that you had no idea existed. And almost immediately, you’d feel a yearning to please him, to take all of him just for the praise.

When you did manage to take all of him, he’d kiss your neck lovingly, nipping at the skin.

“What a good girl, doesn’t it feel good? Having all of me fill you”

It did. It felt incredible. Your pussy still throbbed around him, protesting at the intrusion. But there was also waves of pleasure coursing through you, both from knowing he was inside you and the physical pleasure of feeling so full.

When he had shown you exactly how to cum with him inside you, paying expert attention to your clit and breasts, he’d shower you in kisses and affection, telling you just how good you’d taken him.

True to his word, you couldn’t walk the next day and he carried you around the entire time, despite your embarrassment.

[soupsuckz]

PLS YOURE SO GOOD WITH SAM WINCHESTER SMUT

sam winchester nsfw alphabet?? fem!reader

<3

♡ im basically a natural when it comes to sam ♡

A- Aftercare (What they're like after sex)

He usually stays inside you for a few moments after cumming. He likes the intimacy of being close, but then he'll get you water and a warm rag. If you're especially tired, he will wipe you up and then you'll most likely cuddle for a while.

B- Body Part (Their favorite of yours and their own)

Sam loves your neck. He loves nipping at it, leaving hickies, wrapping his hands around it, etc. For himself, he probably is the most proud of his arms or hands. He loves being able to pick you up without any issue.

C- Cum (Anything to do with it)

Usually he'll pull out and cum on himself, but if you give him the choice he'll either cum inside or on your stomach. He's also suuuuper messy with it, and loves seeing you covered.

D- Dirty Secret (A dirty secret of theirs)

He secretly loves subtle exhibitionism, stuff like making you moan so loud any guests can hear you. He doesn't want to actually show them anything, but rather just make them imagine. He loves when you brag about him, (especially in bed) and it definitely eggs him on.

E- Experience (How much experience do they have? Do they know what they're doing?)

He obviously hasn't had as much as Dean, but that's because he prefers to get to know the person first. Sam thrives on knowing exactly how to make you squirm, so he usually won't hire a prostitute. He thinks sex should be enjoyable for both of those involved and feels almost ashamed to use someone.

F- Favorite Position (Self explanitory, their fav sex position)

He honestly doesn't care what position you're in, as long as it's comfortable. His favorite though, is doggystyle. He loves being able to grab your ass and still have access to your neck.

G- Goofy (Are they more serious or goofy during sex?)

Sam is usually pretty serious during it, but he'll crack a joke every once in a while if you're nervous. He wants to make sure you're comfortable and knows he isn't going to hurt you. (Without your permission.)

H- Hair (How well groomed are they? Do the curtains match the drapes?)

It's no secret that he's hairy, but he does keep it clean and trimmed. Even when he's not in a relationship, he prefers to have it tamed.

I- Intimacy (How romantic are they in the bedroom?)

He's not necessarily romantic, but he's super sweet. He tries to take you out on dates and get you flowers, but it somehow always gets messed up. Usually a 'romantic' night for you two includes him making dinner and then watching a movie and cuddling.

J- Jackoff (Masturbation headcanon)

Whenever Sam does jerkoff he likes to still pretend it's you. He'll cover his eyes and think of all the things you do to him, stroking himself how you ways do.

K- Kinks (One or more of their kinks)

Hm, he's definitely into biting and scratching, maybe even a little tickling. Other than that I think he's pretty vanilla.

L- Location (Favorite place to do it?)

Honestly as vanilla as it is, he loves the bed. He'll be happy to fuck you in Baby, but he prefers somewhere soft and warm. He loves the convenience of being able to just cuddle and sleep afterwards.

M- Motivation (What turns them on?)

Sam absolutely loves when you wear his clothes/cologne. It makes him feel so primal.

N- No (Things they absolutely wouldn't do, turn offs.)

Even though he's a hunter, and deal's with super gross stuff, he will not do anything with scat, piss, or vomit.

O- Oral (What do they prefer?)

Sam loves a good blowjob, but he'd always prefer to eat you out. He's so desperate and hungry, eating you out like a starved man.

P- Pace (Are they fast or rough? Slow or sensual?)

He's rough and slow. He takes long, sweet thrusts before slamming back into you.

Q- Quickie (What are their opinions on them?)

He doesn't love them but he's used to them. Being with hunting you two don't have a lot of time alone so it's not uncommon for you to go to a gas station bathroom and get off.

R- Risk (How risky are they?)

It depends on the era. In the first few seasons, not at all. I think after S7 he stopped caring about whether Dean heard or not.

S- Stamina (How long can they go for?)

S1-6 Sam can definitely go up to 3 rounds, but I think after Soulless Sam he can only go 1-2 before being exhausted.

T- Toys (Do they have any? Do they use them on their partner?)

He doesn't own any toys for himself, but he's open to it. If you have a wand or something he wouldn't mind you using it on him.

U- Unfair (How much do they like to tease?)

Sam isn't super into teasing unless he's stressed out. He usually is straight to the point when it comes to the bedroom, so most of the teasing will be way before you two are even home.

V- Volume (How loud are they?)

Like I've said before I don't think he necessarily makes a lot of noise but he does grunt into your ear.

W- Wildcard (Random drabble or hc)

I feel like he probably fantasizes about a normal life where you're his housewife and he gets you pregnant. He loves the idea of showing everyone just how much he cares by filling you with a new life.

X- X-ray (What's going on under their pants?)

Sam is long and girthy. I think he'd probably be around 6 inches and definitely very thick.

Y- Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

He's obviously not as horny as Dean, but he does get very needy. Even if it's just getting off in front of each other, he loves seeing you trust him that much.

Z- Zzz (How fast do they fall asleep afterwards?)

Sam feels guilty falling asleep without taking care of you first, so he'll make sure to tend to your needs before even laying back down. After he's finished he will usually curl up with you and nap for a while.

[whatsnewalycat]

Psychomanteum / Chapter 14

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC Louella (2nd POV)

Chapter 14: Wish You Were Here

Chapter Summary: Dieter takes action.

Word Count: 9.9k+

Content / Warnings: dieter pov, implications of suicidal thoughts, swearing, alcohol use, airplane, uncertainty, parker/jackie, infidelity (not our heroes), thoughts of cocaine use/relapse, opera, fame, very vague understanding of the criminal justice system excuse that pls, bribery, lotta fucking dialogue, lotta yearning and self-reflection, angst, our boy is a big sappy mess and we love him for it

Notes: Chapter title from “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd. First and foremost, everything is gonna be ok, ok? I promise. Also, good news for people who like this story—since we’re nearing the end, I’m going to make it my primary writing focus for a while. Will be posting to AO3 later bc I can’t from mobile it’s a nightmare.

[ Previous Chapter ] [ Series Masterlist ] [ Next Chapter ]

— Dieter senses your absence before he even opens his eyes. 

Oftentimes you wake before him, still weaning off your internal alarm of 5:30AM EST (not-a-fucking-chance o’clock PST). When this happens, you brew some coffee and drink your morning cup in bed, passing the time by reading, or fucking around on your phone, or writing in your journal. 

Most of the time he opens his eyes and finds you deeply engrossed in one of these activities. Sometimes you’re cuddled up into his side, silently tracing patterns onto his skin. Even when you’re not in the same room when he wakes, he can still feel you, your life force brushing up against his. 

But this morning is different. 

Dieter winces at the morning light and sits up, rubbing his face before looking around the room. He clears his throat, then calls out your name. 

It echoes back to him. 

The silence that follows is eerie and distinct, its vacuousness an exclamation point that hurts his ears. 

How can nothing be so loud? 

Swinging his feet over the side of the bed,  he goes to grab his phone off the nightstand and instead finds a note with his name on it. He sits there staring at it for a minute, rubbing the layered notebook paper between his fingertips. 

The gears in his brain start to turn. 

He looks at the armchair where your suitcase has been sitting the week and a half. It’s gone. 

Understanding twists his guts bowtie. 

Denying the cardstock confrontation, Dieter puts on a robe and searches the house. 

He finds nothing. 

Each empty room accumulates buzzing and hot beneath his skin. 

He goes outside. 

The patio, the garage, the driveway, the street. 

Calling your name like a kid who lost his mom in a department store, panic building with every utterance, a desperate crescendo. 

By the time he returns to the origin point, his thoughts are stumbling over one another trying to explain what the fuck could be possibly be happening, because this can’t be real. 

It’s a joke, it’s a terrible joke that you’ll laugh about later—or, no, there was an emergency and you had to go—but wouldn’t you wake him? Wouldn’t you tell him? Maybe you went to the store and you’ll be right back. But why would you bring your suitcase? 

He snatches the paper off his nightstand and unfolds it.

—

Dee,

I need you to know this isn’t your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. I love you as much as humanly possible, and then some. Please understand that I couldn’t make you choose. That burden shouldn’t rest on you. 

I’m sorry for ruining everything. I’m sorry for leaving like this. I’m sorry for not giving you a choice. 

I love you with everything I am. 

Until the next life, 

Lua 

PS: I stole some cash from your wallet. I’m sorry for that, too. 

—

The words don’t compute at first. 

He shakes his head and reads it again. 

And again. 

And again. 

A thousand-pound weight drops his stomach to the floor. Adrenaline pumps through his heart and turns his limbs gelatin. Blood whooshes behind his ears, and—God, he’s going to be fucking sick. 

The note wavers in his grip and the text starts to blur.

This isn’t right. 

This can’t be happening. 

He needs to talk to you right fucking now. 

Overcome with this sudden rush of panic, Dieter grabs his phone off the nightstand, ignoring the barrage of notifications littering the screen, and calls you. 

The line trills, and further away, he hears “I’ll Be Your Mirror” by The Velvet Underground and Nico play. 

He follows the noise into the kitchen, where your phone buzzes on the countertop, displaying your contact photo for him. The one where you’re both mid-laugh with red lipstick and black face paint smudged all around your faces. 

Your voicemail picks up.

“Hey, this is Louella, sorry I missed you. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back, thanks.” 

A tone signals the start of recording. Dieter clears his throat, then says, “Hey, doll. It’s me. This is probably stupid because your phone is here, but I don’t know,” he pauses to gather himself as everything around him becomes blurred by tears. When he speaks again, his voice is somehow gummy and ragged at the same time, “I don’t know what to do. You’re gone, and there’s this note and… Fuck, whatever it is, we can figure it out. Please, Louella—Lua, baby, I love you. If you hear this somehow, please call me.” 

When he hangs up, all he can do is stand there, staring at her phone. 

The air particles around him throb with this deep, dense sorrow that cracks him wide open and hollows him out. It’s heavy. Infinite. All-consuming, like loss on loss on loss on loss. 

He knows, like he just knows things, that this is what you were feeling before you left. He knows you left your phone so nobody could find you. 

Beyond that, though… It's a brick wall. He tries, although he doesn’t really understand what the fuck he’s doing, to send out some kind of a psychic ping. Sometimes he can get a sense of you this way. 

This time he gets nothing. 

He can’t hone in on anything, can’t even feel the rough edges of your life force. The string that connects your tin cans has been severed.

What the fuck does that mean? 

The not-knowing makes him anxious. His imagination starts wander deeper into the dark forest, showing him taxis and mirrors and riverbeds and— 

Your phone jumps to life. 

It starts ringing to the tune of “Take Your Mama” by Scissor Sisters, lighting up with a photo of you and Parker. 

He scrambles to grab it and answers, “Parker—”

“Dieter?”

“Is she with you? Do you know where she is?” 

“What do you mean? Isn’t she with you?” 

“No, I just woke up and she’s fucking gone and there’s this note,” he sighs and throws his hand out at his side, “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“A note, what does the note say?”

“Hang on, let me,” he tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder, rummaging through the pockets of his robe, “Here we go, ok…” 

He reads it to Parker, who remains silent for a long while afterwards. 

“Until the next life?”

The tips of his ears heat up, and he runs a hand through his hair, “Yeah.”

“Have you talked to anyone else this morning?”

“No, I just woke up,” he starts pacing the length of his kitchen island, explaining, “Last night we were talking about moving in together, having her come out here, and… I don’t know, did I fucking scare her off or something? She seemed into it, but maybe I’m wrong, maybe I was going too fast—”

“Whoa whoa whoa, ok, slow down, papi,” Parker interjects, “It’s not like that. Her apartment was raided this morning.” 

Dieter frowns, “Wait, what?” 

“Yeah, some fucking journalist went poking around, talking to her neighbors and shit, digging into stuff about Ethan, their business, all that. He brought it all to the cops and demanded they do something about it, so they got a search warrant.” 

Dieter stays quiet as his mind whirrs, trying to comprehend this information. 

Parker continues. 

“I went over there this morning, just to check in on the place, and it was fucking crawling with cops. I FaceTimed Lou and told her, then she hung up and I haven’t been able to reach her since. Figured she was talking to you, but…”

Poisoned words cycle through his head, begging to be released, but he traps them behind clamped lips. 

“I called Reese to see if he knew anything, since he bumps elbows with a lotta those criminal justice guys, you know?”

“Reese?” Dieter furrows his brow, “Married guy? I thought you were done with him.” 

“Yeah, well,” a sigh crackles in his ear, then Parker says, “Good thing I’m not. Turns out, he’s friends with the DA. He told Reese about the journalist shit, said they have a warrant out for Lou. Wanted on possession with intent to distribute and drug trafficking for the pot stuff, oh—and possession of cocaine, because apparently they found one of Ethan’s hiding spots.” 

“Fuck.” 

“I know.”

Hundreds of thoughts ricochet around his head screaming for attention. The whole goddamn dashboard is lit up and blaring WARNING WARNING WARNING—

The nausea returns. Dieter plucks a half-smoked joint from the ashtray on his countertop and lights it, then turns and slides down the cabinet onto the kitchen floor. 

He takes a few hits, waiting until the overwhelm dims a bit before whispering, “Fuck, Parker, this is bad.” 

“I know, baby, I know.” 

The skunky smoke burns his lungs as he inhales again, holding holding holding, then lets it go. 

Things start to slow down enough for him to backtrack, “Did you say a journalist?” 

“Yeah, Reese couldn’t get a name, but there was this guy outside the building this morning who was—oh, fuck.” 

“What oh fuck?” Dieter wrinkles his nose at the roach and takes one more drag before stubbing it out on the shiny hardwood floor. 

“It was that point dexter motherfucker that did your interview. That was the guy! And I was on a video call with Lou—”

Parker cuts himself off with a gasp.

I couldn’t make you choose.

“Oh fuck,” Dieter breathes, “I gotta call you back.” 

He hangs up and trades your phone for his own, rejecting an incoming call from Darlene. 

It takes him three seconds to find it. 

Dieter Bravo Girlfriend Wanted On Drug Trafficking Charges, Claims In Email to DIRT: “He Was In The Dark” 

The header presented at the top of the article is your mugshot from your previous arrest. Your eyes appear puffy and dull and hopeless. Below it, the article continues: 

Dieter Bravo’s newest girlfriend reportedly has a warrant out for her arrest in relation to drug trafficking charges. 

Early this morning, the NYPD hit Louella Friedman’s Downtown Brooklyn apartment with a search warrant. Friedman was not present at the time the warrant was executed, so no arrests have been made, but law enforcement sources tell us that she is now wanted by the state of New York on multiple drug charges. 

This is not Friedman's first run-in with the law. Just days ago, she appeared alongside Dieter Bravo for an exclusive interview with DIRT, in which she admitted to being convicted of felony drug trafficking in 2018. She stated during this interview that she has “changed a lot since then … we don’t want people to think we’re trying to hide any of this, because we’re not. We’re just trying to move forward together.”

The email we received from Friedman this morning paints a different picture: 

“As you probably know, my apartment is being raided. I need one thing to be clear: Dieter is not complicit. He didn’t know about and did not take part in my illegal activity. He was in the dark. My mistakes are my own, and I ask that the blame be placed appropriately.” 

It’s assumed that Friedman is still in the LA-area, as she and Bravo have been spotted out and about a few times this week. Before that, the pair were seen in New York, which leads us to wonder how much time the Academy Award winner actually spent in her apartment. 

Bravo himself has a notoriously checkered past with drugs, and although his antics have been subdued since the “publicity stunt” for the movie Limbo (premiering next May), it wouldn’t be considered out of character for him to become knowingly involved with a drug dealer. 

DIRT will continue reporting as this story unfolds. 

—

The first person Dieter calls is Lincoln, who answers on the second ring with a cheerful, “Good morning, Dieter!” 

“Lincoln, where the fuck are you?”

“I’m grabbing breakfast from that pla—”

“Change of plans,” Dieter leafs through the clothes hanging in his closet, “Get over here now.”

“What about—”

“Listen, I need you to get me the next flight to New York. And, uhh,” he rips a few shirts off their hangers and tosses them into the open suitcase on the floor, “Clear your schedule for at least two days. I need you to housesit.”

“Is everything alright?”

Dieter ponders the question for just a moment, long enough for a sharp ache to pierce through his chest, then says, “Hurry the fuck up, ok?”

He hangs up. 

The second person he calls is his lawyer. 

When he tells the guy about your situation, he says, “Well, it sounds like there’s enough room for deniability, I don’t think they’ll bring charges against you—”

“Yeah, no shit,” Dieter scoffs, “What about her, how could she get out of this?” 

“With all due respect, Dieter, you’re my client, not her.” 

“Come on, man. What if, you know, I was in her situation?”

On the other line, the lawyer sucks his teeth, then says, “Well, theoretically speaking, you would be looking to either turn yourself in or see if you could get the charges dropped.”

“How would one get the charges dropped?” 

“The District Attorney would need to drop them.” 

“Uh-huh,” Dieter nods and rubs his lips, then queries, “And if—you know, like you said, theoretically—if he were to be convinced to drop the charges—”

“See, that is a tight line to walk, and one must tread very carefully, you understand? Many methods people attempt to use in persuading district attorneys, for example, bribery or blackmail, get sticky quick. They offer the wrong amount of money, or don’t get enough dirt, or what have you, then they’re in a world of hurt.” 

“Well, sure. Those people don’t use their head. But if someone wanted to just… sit down and talk to him, would that automatically raise a red flag?” 

“Depends. If someone of similar notoriety as you reached out to him to set up a meeting, it might raise a red flag. But if they happened to run into each other… probably not as much.” 

“I see.” 

The front door swings open and he looks up, expecting to see Lincoln, but instead locks eyes with Darlene. She’s holding a phone to her ear and says, “Yeah, he’s here.” 

“I gotta go,” he says, then hangs up the phone and greets Darlene, “Hey.”

Her heels click-clack on the floor as she strides over, taps on the screen of her phone, and says, “Ok, Mark, you’re on speaker. Dieter’s here.”

Darlene sets the phone down on the counter and starts rummaging through the leather bag hanging off her shoulder. The phone speaks: 

“Dieter, we need to talk. Is Louella there?”

“No.” 

“Is she going back to New York?”

Not sure how to answer the question, Dieter rolls his eyes, “Is that what this is about?”

“Yeah, look, this isn’t good. I’ll cut to the chase. If you endorse her claim and cut ties, we can keep you on, but if you don’t, we gotta let you go, bud.” 

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Darlene answers this time, “We’re serious, Dieter. The optics are terrible—”

“The fucking optics, un-fucking-believable,” he mutters, pushing off the counter to pace the kitchen. 

“Is it really unbelievable?” Darlene blinks, her scathing gaze steady on his, “Coke head dating a felon who’s wanted on drug charges? You don’t see how studios will react to that?”

He doesn’t answer. She continues. 

“If you release a statement corroborating her story, explaining how you didn’t know, and things are over between you—”

A groan of agony rises in his throat. 

“—it will work. She gave you an out, Dieter. Take it.” 

His nostrils flare. Heat rises to his face and he hisses, “You never liked her, did you?”

Darlene scoffs, “What?”

“Did you even give her a chance, or did you just write her off the second you met her? That shit weasel from DIRT is the one that set all these fucking dominos up, did you know that?”

“No, of course not—”

“Dieter,” Mark sighs, “This isn’t personal. Look at the facts. You’ve done three stints in rehab just within the past decade. Beasts of the Bubble depicted you as a drug addict—Christ, you overdosed in that hotel. You just got divorced, had a ton of bad press from that. Now you’re in this very new, very serious relationship with a widowed felon. And, what, a week after swearing she’s a law-abiding citizen, cops find enough shit in her apartment to issue a warrant for her arrest? Do you know how that makes you look? Does it sound like you’re a person anyone could trust to sign onto a project?”

Dieter presses his palms against the kitchen counter and leans over the phone, “It sounds like you’ve already made a choice, Mark. You wanna drop me as a client, just fucking do it.” 

“If you make a public statement saying you were shocked to find out that she took advantage of your vulnerable state, you’re not using, blah blah blah, this could go away relatively quickly. Most likely she’d be painted as a con woman or gold digger or something along those lines, which makes you the victim. Granted, that makes you look a bit like a sucker, but we can live with that.” 

The nausea returns. 

“I can’t,” Dieter shakes his head, “I’m sorry, but I can’t live with that. Saying that she tried to steal my money—god, not a fucking chance in hell—”

“Of course, you wouldn’t say that,” Darlene cuts in, “People might infer that, is all Mark means. You know how this works—”

“Yes, I do know how it works. And no, I can’t. I won’t. It’s all fucking bullshit, the whole thing. Darlene, you’re bullshit,” he directs his voice to the phone, “Mark, you’re fucking bullshit. Fucking… optics and public opinion and the two of you trying to stage direct my fucking life—my life. Mine. I am my own person. And I love her. I’m going to find her, and fix this, and spend the rest of my fucking life with her even if it doesn’t make sense to anyone else but us.” 

Darlene holds up her hand, “Dieter, you’re making a mistake—”

He laughs. 

It booms, dry and humorless, through the house.

She jumps in surprise at the noise, then looks at him like he’s fucking crazy. Which is fair. He sounds fucking crazy. 

But for once, he feels completely sane. 

His spine straightens flag pole and he shakes his head, “Trust me, Darlene. I’m not.” 

They sit there, staring at each other in a silent standoff. Her hazel eyes flick around his face, then drop to the phone.

“Mark, I’ll call you back.”

Darlene ends the call before Mark can respond and stomps around the dining room table to a solid oak credenza, popping the top off one of the decanters of booze. 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I need a drink.”

“It’s 10am.” 

Whiskey sloshes into the crystal tumbler. Darlene glances over her shoulder at him, holding up the bottle in question. He sighs, which she interprets correctly as a yes, and pours a second glass. 

Dieter murmurs a thanks when she returns and hands it to him. He takes a big swallow of the liquor. Leaning back on the counter beside him, she does the same. 

“How’s she doing?” 

His stomach twists. 

He takes another swig and shrugs, then digs the note from his robe pocket and gives it to her. 

She reads it, then passes it back and empties her whiskey down her throat. 

“Fuck.”

“My thoughts exactly,” he mutters into the tumbler as he drinks the remaining booze in one large, burning gulp. 

“So you don’t know where she is?”

Dieter pinches his eyes closed, tilting his head up at the ceiling, and shakes his head, “She was gone when I woke up. Took her suitcase. Left her phone, funny enough.” 

After a brief silence, she tells him, “I didn’t know David was looking into her. Even if I did, I would never try to get her in trouble. You know that, right?” 

He shrugs. His shoulders weigh a million pounds. 

“Look,” she sighs, “Maybe I don’t see whatever it is you see in her, but I do see that you love each other.” 

“Yeah.”

“Do you think she’s turning herself in?”

He furrows his brow and looks down at the floor, shaking his head, “No.” 

Dieter breathes it in, that palpable emotion still clinging to the air. He sinks into the dense, dark feeling—blackest ink in the world—letting it carry him downstream. There’s a glimmer of something. A spark of you. 

He speaks it out loud. 

“She’s in the fucking woods now.” 

“In the woods? Dieter, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbles, scrubbing his face with his hands, “I don’t fucking know. I’m scared, you know, with the note…”

He doesn’t want to say it. If he doesn’t speak it into existence, maybe it won’t be true, that you’re looking for a place to die. Like how dogs do when they’re ready, crawling off into isolation to protect their loved ones. 

Darlene stays quiet. 

He swallows hard and starts pacing the kitchen floor again, running his fingers through his hair, “If I can get the DA to drop the charges, maybe it won’t be too late. Maybe I can fix this. But I have to find her, too.“ A hot rush of frustration overtakes him. He slams his fist down on the countertop with a thud and barks, “FUCK!”

“Ok,” Darlene turns to face him, placing a hand on his arm, “It’s gonna be ok—”

“But what if it’s not?” 

Emotion clouds his vocal cords and vision, warping both into a wet, smeary mess as he says, “What if she fucking—fuck, Darlene, what if she goes through with this? I can’t do this without her. I won’t.” 

“We don’t know that this is a suicide note—”

His whole body twists up into a snarl, a guttural moan rising from his throat as the idea shreds him to bits. He shakes his head in protest, because he does, he knows that’s what this is, but he can’t fucking bear to speak its name. 

Darlene watches him unravel for a moment before taking the crystal tumblers back to the credenza for a refill. When she returns, she holds one out to him and asks, “We need a plan to track her down. Have any ideas?” 

He rolls his head on his shoulders to look at her, glancing down at the cup, “We?”

She nudges him again, so he takes it and sips while she grimaces, “If I didn’t raise hell about the interview and get David in trouble… who knows, maybe we wouldn’t be here. I doubt he was looking to write an exposé on her before that.” 

“Maybe. Maybe not,” he shrugs, “Doesn’t matter now.” 

“Still, I’m… sorry,” she stares down at her glass and swirls the amber liquid around a bit while telling him, “The contract, too. I’m sorry about that. Like Mark said, it’s not personal. It’s business.”

“I know.” 

“You’re sure, though? That you don’t want to corroborate her story?” 

“Yes, I’m sure I don’t want to throw the love of my life under the fucking bus, Darlene.” 

She holds up a hand in defense, “Ok—”

“Even if that’s what she wanted me to do, no fucking way. She’s a good fucking person and I won’t sit here and agree with people saying she’s some fucking lowlife, because she’s not—”

“Ok ok ok—Dieter, I understand. I was just making sure.” 

He huffs and takes a drink. 

An uncomfortable silence settles over them. The booze starts to course heat through Dieter’s veins, sedating his agitation, making his head swim. 

“If you’re not my publicist anymore, why the fuck are you still here?”

“Because I’m still your friend.” 

He looks over at her, meeting her hazel eyes, and senses sincerity. 

His jaw works back and forth. He takes another drink, then tells her, “I’m going to New York to meet with the DA. Lincoln should be here any minute, he’ll stay here in case she comes back while I’m gone. I’m gonna have him try to track her whereabouts, see if she left any breadcrumbs—”

“You have a meeting with the DA?” 

“Not… necessarily.” 

“Then, what—” she pinches the bridge of her nose, “I don’t wanna know, do I?” 

“Doubt it.” 

“Right,” she sighs, shakes her head, then starts pacing, “Well, if Lincoln is here, he can call around to places, but I’m assuming you don’t want him to leave the house? In case she comes back?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll help follow up. Call around, and if needed, go to the places she might be. See if I can’t track her down.” 

Hope swells in his chest. His posture softens, and he nods, “Thank you.” 

She waves him off, “You said she left her phone, right?” 

“Yeah, uhh,” he pulls it from his robe pocket and stares at the lock screen, “I felt, I dunno, weird… about going through it. So I haven’t yet.” 

Darlene holds out her manicured hand, so he gives it to her. 

“Zero two one four eight eight.” 

She types in the passcode and starts tapping around as she paces, sipping her whiskey every now and then. 

Meanwhile, Dieter finishes his drink and stares at the empty glass, wavering back and forth on whether or not to pour another. A hungry buzzing works through the tendons in his neck. There’s an old, familiar voice at the back of his head, urging him for more more more, begging, pleading for sedation, anything to make these big feelings less so. 

Booze would be great, but you have the morphine, too, or the coke, fuck—now would be the perfect time for coke. It would straighten out your thoughts. Sharpen you. It could help you, Dieter, really. Help you clear your head and get to the bottom of this fucking mess, it could be the thing that saves her—

“She made an outbound call this morning,” Darlene murmurs as she punches the number into her phone, then raises it to her ear. 

Dieter hears the faint voice from the speaker answer, “Hollywood Checker Cabs, how can I help you?” 

She snaps her fingers at Dieter and pantomimes writing. He scrambles around the kitchen trying to find paper and a writing utensil while she asks, “Hi, my friend ordered a cab early this morning and I’m trying to track where she might’ve been dropped off, can you help me with that?” 

Dieter finds a notebook on the counter. He pulls the pen from its spine and writes down your phone number and full name, then slides it over the island counter to Darlene, who nods and reads your phone number, then says, “Yeah, she called at 5:32, the pickup is—yep, that’s it, that’s her.” 

She grabs the pen and starts scribing. Every few seconds she murmurs an uh-huh or ok. 

Behind her, the door to the garage swings open and in comes Lincoln, carrying a brown paper bag and a backpack. 

Concern creases his forehead as he approaches, and drops the paper bag on the counter, whispering to Dieter, “What’s going on?”

“Shh.”

Darlene glances up at them, then back at the notebook, and nods, “That’s incredibly helpful, thank you. Appreciate it.” 

When she hangs up, she says, “The driver dropped her off at Union Station around 6:30 this morning,” then continues typing in her phone, “From there, she could’ve taken another taxi, or a bus, or a train—”

“She took a bus.”

Lincoln asks, “Who took a bus? Lua?” 

They both ignore the question. Darlene blinks up at Dieter, and before she can question him, he shrugs, “Gut feeling.” 

“Gut feeling,” she snorts, shaking her head, and tosses her phone in her bag with a sigh, “Well, I’ll drive over there and see if she’s still there. When does your flight leave?”

Dieter looks at Lincoln, who perks up and pulls out his phone, “Let’s see… A car will be here in… fifteen.” 

“I’ll call you when I know more, ok?” Darlene says as she pulls her purse up onto her shoulder. She regards Dieter for a second or two before patting him on the shoulder, “We’re gonna find her.” 

He doesn’t trust himself to verbalize the uncertainty churning in his guts, so he acknowledges the sentiment with a flaccid smile and a nod, thinking, “I fucking hope so.”

—

“Hey, this is Louella, sorry I missed you. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back, thanks.” 

“Hey, love. I’m, uhh… leaving you an update, I guess. I’m going to New York to sort this shit out, talk to some people, see what I can do. But if you get this somehow, please, baby… please come home. Ok. I love you, bye.” 

—

Suspended miles above the Midwest, with Dieter packed in a tin can alongside all the other mouth-breathing sardines, the in-flight WiFi goes out.

He tries watching a movie, but none of the information computes. His mind keeps wandering to you. What you’re doing, where you are, why you didn’t just fucking wake him up and talk to him. 

Seconds twist under his skin. 

The minutes lodge inside his throat. 

The tiny screen could be showing him fucking anything, and his demeanor wouldn’t change a drop. 

Tight-lipped. Hostile. Dead-eyed. 

That’s what he gleans, anyway, from the way people react to his presence. The downcast glances and wide berths. How the flight attendant doesn’t even try to protest when he requests four mini-bottles of vodka. 

Wincing with every swallow, Dieter drinks them and scrolls through his text history with you. It’s not uncommon for him to do this while idly passing the time alone, within the past few months especially. 

Re-reading each conversation, admiring the photos and screenshots, allowing himself to daydream about you… usually, he finds it comforting. 

This time it’s different. 

It’s steeped in the knowledge that he may never receive another message from you. 

Flipping his phone face down on the little shitty tray, he looks up at the Q*bert air vent and releases a big sigh. The thoughts of you creep back into his brain. He doesn’t shoo them away, though. It’s fucking pointless. 

Please understand that I couldn’t make you choose. That burden shouldn’t rest on you. 

A burden. 

What a load of shit. 

As if he wouldn’t let hellfire lick his bones to dust for one more earthly second with you. As if you don’t revive him every single time your lips meet his. As if he could breathe without you in the atmosphere. 

Of fucking course he would choose you. 

Over anything, really. Especially acting. Fuck, maybe that’s exactly what he needs. It’s all just stupid Hollywood bullshit anyway. Being owned by a dozen different people at any point in time. Everyone trying to get their finger in the goddamn pie. He’s tired of being a billboard first and a human second. 

The more he thinks about it, the madder he gets. He douses his stomach with vodka, thinking about the fame machine, how it chewed you up and spit you out in no time at all. 

He resents the public spotlight. His whole adolescence, he dreamed of having a successful career as an actor. He worked hard and got lucky and his dreams came to life, and now, well… he’s right back where he started. 

Watching, helpless and terrified, as the person he loves gets pummeled half to death. 

—

Dieter leans on the doorframe and gives apartment 14C three firm knocks. 

The blaring music inside cuts. Parker stomps up to the other side of the door, “Who is it?” 

“Fucking Santa Claus, who do you think?” 

A thunk sounds from the deadbolt, then Parker swings the door open, propping a hand on his hip and shaking his head, “Santa Claus? Really?”

His face is fully dragged up in the style of Jackie Lantern, with blue eyeshadow and hot pink lips and harsh contour, while the rest of him is Regular Parker, with sweatpants and a baggy Bikini Kill t-shirt. 

“Ho ho ho,” Dieter enters the cozy, dimly lit apartment and pulls him into a one-armed hug, “Good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too,” Parker mumbles as he wraps his lanky arms around Dieter and squeezes, “Wish it was under better circumstances.” 

“Me too, bud,” Dieter takes a step back and ventures into what looks like a new-age opium den. 

Incense and pot smoke cloud the air. A loom-woven tapestry, depicting a unicorn standing triumphant in a field of wildflowers, takes up almost the entire wall behind a well-worn sofa. On the opposite wall, at least 50 framed bug specimens hang on display. 

Between the deep-seated couch and the TV sits a big octagonal coffee table, its glass top all littered with books and water bottles and cannabis paraphernalia. 

Dieter, finding none of this surprising, looks around and nods, “Nice place.“

Parker bolts the door closed and turns to scan Dieter up and down, “Nice suit.”

“I hate this fucking thing,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders in a feeble attempt to make more room inside the jacket, then points to Parker’s sweatpants, “Is that what you’re wearing?”

“Shade,” Parker scoffs and starts off down the short hallway into his bedroom, “I’ll be ready in a minute, help yourself to whatever.”

“Where do you keep your liquor?”

“On top of the fridge.” 

Dieter wanders into the kitchen and grabs a bottle of whiskey from its home, then starts flipping through cabinets. When he finds the one with cups, he calls out to Parker, “Want a drink?” 

“Lord, please.”

He unscrews the cap and pours two generous servings. Before returning the bottle, he takes a pull off it. The cheap booze burns the whole way down, settling like fire in his belly. 

Parker comes stomping back into the room, clawing at the back of his blue sequin gown, “Do me a favor, love, help me zip this?”

Dieter signals for him to spin around, then guides the zipper up his bony back as Parker asks, “Any updates from your neck of the woods?”

He taps on his shoulder, giving him the all clear. 

Parker turns and leans back against the galley kitchen’s countertop opposite Dieter, who hands him a drink. 

“Yeah,” Dieter nods, takes a sip of the shitty whiskey, then explains, “Darlene was able to convince the security team at Union Station to let her review footage from this morning. At 6:30 this morning, Lua boarded a Greyhound bus that dropped her off in Fresno around 11:00. Darlene couldn’t get much over the phone from them, so she’s driving up there to raise hell, see what she can find out.” 

The words come out dull and matter-of-fact. Offline, disconnected from the treasure chest labeled LUA. 

Parker studies him, “How’re you holding up, papi, you doing ok?” 

“No.” 

He stares down into his cup and thinks he should probably say something else, but comes up with nothing. It feels both pointless and too painful. 

“Wanna talk about it?” 

“No.” 

When he glances up at Parker, and their eyes meet, he recognizes the melancholy there. His own, reflected back at him. 

He shifts a little and adds, “After we get this part over with, though, maybe we can… I don’t know, get hammered, cry about it. Drown our sorrows or whatever. If you want.” 

The corner of Parker’s hot pink lips turns up in a smirk and he chuckles, “Long as we don’t get arrested doing this stupid ass shit, I will take you up on that.” 

“We’re not gonna get arrested, I promise. He’ll take the offer.”

“And how do you know that?”

Dieter could make a reference to The Godfather here, or mention the thick wads of cash lining his Armani suit, but thinks better of it. Probably best he doesn’t know. 

Instead, he asks, “Do you trust me?” 

“You know we wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” 

“Then trust me, we’re gonna be fine. Just follow the plan.” 

Parker snorts and shakes his head, muttering something about ‘you cryptic ass motherfucker’ into his glass as he takes a sip. 

Dieter drinks, too, then tells him, “I like your dress.” 

“Thanks,” he smiles, eyes flicking to the clock on the stove, “Fuck, I gotta finish getting ready or we’re gonna be late.” 

“Can I pick out your hair?” 

Parker groans a little, feigning annoyance. He pushes off the counter and starts towards his room, “Fine, but I reserve the right to veto.” 

—

“Hey, this is Louella, sorry I missed you. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back, thanks.” 

“Hey, doll, it’s me. I’m uhh… in New York, at Parker’s place—”

“Who are you talking to?”

“I’m leaving her a message.”

“Give it, I wanna say something.”

“Just hold on—”

“Hey Miss Lou, I love you, I miss you, and let me tell you, your boy is a goddamn mess. And, um… so am I. I’m worried about you—we’re worried about you. Just… let us know you’re ok, ok?”

“Me again. We’re gonna go fix this. I love you, Louella. Please come home.” 

—

Instead of conversing en route to the Metropolitan Opera House, they pass a flask of whiskey back and forth and occasionally sing along to the music on Jackie Lantern’s “PUSSY POWER” playlist. 

Although neither of them mention it, Dieter knows they’re essentially doing the same thing. Hyping themselves up. Trying to ban the performance anxiety from their brains as they get into character. 

By the time he and Parker arrive at Metropolitan Opera House, the booze has fully assimilated into Dieter’s bloodstream. 

Thank fucking god. 

It grinds down the coarse edges of reality and allows him to slip effortlessly into a familiar skin.

Dieter Bravo: Washed-up Actor. 

Dieter Bravo: Party Monster. 

Dieter Bravo: Brazen Jackass. 

A carefully curated persona so convincing, it had him fooled for years before you coaxed the real him out of hiding. 

That guy, the real him, or whatever the fuck, is not the right man for this job. Too soft. Too emotional. Guy is a pansy, he would fucking cry or make a scene or something. 

Seriously. 

He has no jurisdiction here. 

Here, in this glitzy opera house, among the other black-tie patrons who regard him and Jackie Lantern with a kind of grotesque curiosity that guy couldn’t fucking handle. 

But, Dieter Bravo: Attention Whore? 

Eating. This. Shit. Up. 

“Literal fucking pearl clutching, ho-ly shit,” he murmurs to Jackie’s big, white blonde afro wig as they walk up the red carpeted stairs into the lobby. 

It opens up into a huge space that reminds him of a cave. 

Brightly-lit, thanks to the starburst chandeliers dripping from the ceiling like stalactites, but a cave all the same. All four stories of shining white marble look to be hollowed out over centuries. Smooth, curved staircases flowing into terraces, filled with hundreds of well-dressed people and the abstract murmur of their conversations. 

For the millionth time today, he wishes you were here. 

You would be awestruck, gazing around with starry eyes that would make him appreciate its beauty that much more. You would look at him, in that way you do, and everyone else would melt away. You would smile and make those crystal chandeliers look like bare fluorescent bulbs. Put the goddamn place to shame. 

“Whaddaya think, sugar? Get a drink?” 

He glances up at Jackie over the rim of his sunglasses and tosses his sloshy head back and forth, trying to gauge how drunk he actually is, then shrugs, “Fuck it, why not.” 

She leads the way while Dieter follows in her wake, delighting at the number of people who ogle Jackie, with her big hair and her commanding presence and her blue gown, shimmering aqua and cyan and turquoise in the light. 

Only a few people seem to notice him trailing behind her. Fewer yet glint any tell-tale signs of recognition. The little upright jolt. The furrowed brow leaping into a surprised expression. The whispered “Is that who I think it is?” to the person beside them. Or, his favorite, the scramble to grab their phone and snap a photo. 

They order drinks and find a tall table in the corner to lean against. From this vantage point, they survey the crowd for their subjects. 

“How much does your man know?”

“My man,” Jackie mutters to herself with a little scoff, glancing down at her martini, “He’s not my man. I’m just a rental.” 

Dieter peels his eyes away from the crowd to look at her, “A rental?”

“Not good enough to invest in long-term.”

His head rocks back in understanding, and he frowns, “How long have you been seeing him?”

“Off and on for two years.” 

As she says this, she looks up, flicking her eyes around the room. Then she zeroes in on something. Her posture perks to attention. That little glint of recognition. 

Dieter follows her gaze to what can only be described as the most average looking white man in Manhattan. Dusty blonde hair, athletic build, black suit. 

He would’ve completely overlooked the guy if not for the precision of Jackie’s stare. 

Well, that and the fact that you’ve gone on your fair share of angry rants about the man, which involved you showing Dieter his Instagram. This is how he also recognizes the mousy woman standing at his side. 

“He brought his wife?”

“Yeah.” 

“Have you two me—”

“Nope.” 

The sullen aura radiating off her makes Dieter tick his jaw back and forth. He looks between her and Reese, then asks, “Does he know the plan?” 

“Kind of,” she shrugs, “Bare bones, enough to maintain plausible deniability.” 

“Uh huh. How did Reese know about Mr. Lindorm’s uhhh…” 

He scrunches his face up and turns his wrist around, trying to find the right word. 

Jackie raises an eyebrow, “Proclivities?” 

“I was gonna say fetish, but sure.” 

She lands a playful smack on his arm, then sighs, “Sometimes it’s best I don’t ask.”

“Don’t ask don’t tell, good policy.” 

This earns him a side-eye with very little humor attached. Sore spot. Fuck. 

“Look,” he leans harder on the table, “All I’m saying is you could do better. No doubt about it. You uhh… I don’t know. You deserve someone who loves you so much, they would pluck the stars from the sky and craft them into a crown for you. Not someone who keeps you a secret.” 

“Craft them into a—?” She blinks at him, “Ok, papi, what the fuck’re you talking about?” 

He tries to formulate an answer, to figure out where the fuck that came from, but admits, “Fuck if I know.”

“I’m cutting you off.” 

“I am not that drunk.” 

“Better not be, cuz it’s fuckin’ showtime. Here they come.” 

“Sorry to interrupt.” 

He looks to the source, flicking his gaze up and down Reese’s neat tuxedo. 

Reese extends his hand, “I don’t believe we’ve met, but I’m Senator Reese Bernard—”

“I don’t endorse political campaigns, sorry.” 

He starts to turn back to Jackie, who mirrors the action, then Reese, right on cue, says, “Oh, no. Nothing like that, I’m just a big fan. Could I buy you and your um,” his eyes shift to Jackie, “Companion a drink? Maybe pick your brain for a bit?” 

Dieter finds himself slightly surprised with Reese’s acting ability. That is, until he remembers the man acts every single day of his life. He raises his eyebrows in question at Jackie, who holds his gaze and shrugs, “Fine by me.” 

“Alright, yeah.”

A boyish grin spreads across Reese’s face, then he turns to the little mouse of a woman behind him and murmurs something to her, jerking his head towards the bar. 

She nods and walks off as Reese joins their table, glancing between Dieter and Jackie, “Well, this is certainly a way to shake things up at the opera, huh? Kind of exciting,” he settles his gaze on Jackie, giving her a charming smile, “You look gorgeous.” 

“Thanks, love,” she tilts her head at him, batting her lashes. 

The way they look at each other, all goo-goo eyes, inspires Dieter to finish his drink. When he slams the empty glass down on the table, they both jump, snapping out of their nauseating little bubble. 

“When’s our guy supposed to be here?” 

“Ahhhh,” Reese frowns at his watch, then starts searching the lobby, “Should already be around somewhere. We always meet him and the missus over here for a drink before the show.”  

“You guys do this often?” 

He shrugs, “Every couple of weeks or so. Not really my cup of tea, or his even, but the gals love it.” 

“Cute,” Dieter mutters. 

Jackie shoots him a look, then asks Reese, “Do you really think this is gonna work?” 

“Oh, definitely, definitely. The guy is smart when it comes to law, but thinks with his dick when it comes to most everything else,” he smirks at her, “And you’re just his type.” 

In response, Dieter grunts and searches the room. His head feels weighted, brain sloshing around in the sea of alcohol he consumed throughout the day. 

Maybe he should switch to water for a while, slow down this freight train. 

Or maybe we should go in a different direction. Try to get a hold of something that will straighten us out. 

This thought overrides his entire body, blaring and hot and uncomfortable in his veins, and he wonders if that’s why it’s called an impulse. 

Wouldn’t it make you feel better? 

His leg starts to bounce. He grits his teeth and reminds himself that he promised you he wouldn’t use cocaine again. Reminds himself of what you said in return:

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Your voice in his head makes his heart flutter, while the content of your statement sits heavy in his stomach, warring with that concentrated dose of urgency buzzing through him. 

“There he is,” Jackie murmurs into her wine glass, “Over by the stairs.”

Jerking to attention like he fell asleep at the wheel, Dieter follows her laser-focused gaze to a distinguished salt-and-pepper man posing for a photo with a tall blonde woman. 

The way they stand next to each other, all rigid and precise, their perfect, practiced smiles spread wide beneath dead eyes… it strikes him as familiar. 

Middle-aged Barbie and Ken. 

A fair comparison, although she looks closer to 20 than 40. Either that or she has a stellar plastic surgeon. 

There’s something else, though. 

It’s in the way they take a big step apart when the photographer gets his shot. How they seem to be bickering at each other out the side of their faces between fake smiles. 

Anika and Dieter. 

He studies them with a morbid kind of curiosity, wondering if that’s what they would have eventually been like if they tried to make it work. If, almost a year ago, he would’ve gone home to her instead of boarding that plane to New York. 

They would’ve fought about it. Maybe they would’ve cried and had make-up sex. He probably would’ve gone to rehab, and couples counseling, and, hell, maybe they would’ve had a kid or something. Things would’ve felt real and good with her for a while. 

But it would have faded. 

After a while, he would have strayed again. He would have started getting high and fucking around all the time. He knows this like he knows you’re alive, like he just knows things, certain and right at the very core of him: He never would have found peace until he found you. 

Instinctually, he wants to say you changed him, that you made him want to be a better man. But it dawns on him, with stunning clarity, that you didn’t. You didn’t change him any more than an astronomer changes the universe when they discover a star. 

Which is to say, darling, that you just brought him into focus so he could see himself for who he really is. 

Anything else would have been a plastic, miserable cohabitation. 

As this sinks in, that hungry buzzing in his chest wanes. He understands that he can’t break his promise to you. More aptly, he won’t, because he’s not that man anymore. 

—

Sometimes things go sideways. 

For instance, sometimes the love of your life thinks that disappearing is the best solution to both save your career and evade a second felony. 

Sometimes, though… the universe aligns in your favor, and a plan goes off better than you ever could have imaged. 

Sometimes your girlfriend’s best friend’s boyfriend’s wife, who Dieter eventually learns is named Rachel, runs into her friends, Mr. and Mrs. District Attorney, on her way back from the bar and invites them to join your table. 

They introduce themselves as John and—no fucking joke—Barbara Lindorm. Just as Reese predicted, John is captivated by Jackie the second he lays eyes on her. He occupies the open space next to her and laughs at her jokes, frequently splitting off into quiet little side conversations, where Dieter hears him ask where she’s from, what she does for a living, and whether she and Dieter are dating—which is great news, because it means he has not placed him as Dieter Bravo: Louella Friedman’s Meddlesome Boyfriend. 

If Barbara notices her husband flirting, she doesn’t let it show. Dieter surmises it’s because he’s doing a bit of flirting himself, letting his gaze linger on her longer than appropriate, complimenting her dress, her hair, her nails. Not because he’s interested or anything, but rather to provide a bit of a distraction while Jackie reels in her husband. 

It’s a little fucked up, sure, but you’d understand. Think big picture, baby. The greater good or whatever. 

At one point, he sees Jackie pull out her phone and tell John, “Oh, I have to show you this picture from my last show, you’ll love this.” 

This is the move. The part where she shows him a typed out message telling him to follow her at intermission. 

Dieter calls attention to the other side of the table, asking Reese, “So, what, do you guys have regular seats or something? Since you come here so often.”

Reese sees the setup and nods, “Oh, definitely. A box, actually, they’re great seats—“ he cuts himself off with a gasp, slamming his palms down on the table, “Hold on, I’m getting a crazy idea. The other couple we usually come here with dropped out at the last minute. Do you two want their seats?” 

Dieter glances over at Barbara, meeting her demure gaze, while he hears John murmur to Jackie, “You’re right, I do love that.”

“Why the hell not,” he licks his lips and shrugs, departing from Barbara’s eyes to meet Reese’s, “Let’s keep this party rolling.” 

Reese grins, “Fantastic! Ok, do you guys wanna go now, or…?”

The lights wax and wane in brightness a few times, signaling curtain call, and Dieter smirks, “Lead the way.” 

—

While waiting for the gilded curtains to part, Dieter flips through the program for Ariadne auf Naxos, tuning out the meaningless chit chat taking place around him. 

He skims the synopsis provided, mostly just trying to look busy. One sentence catches his attention. 

Ariadne is alone in front of her cave. 

He tilts his head at it, lingering for a moment before resuming the skim. His eyes snag on the words stars vanish, then backtrack to the beginning of the sentence. 

Entranced by Ariadne’s beauty, Bacchus tells her that he would sooner see the stars vanish than give her up.

Like he did with the last line, Dieter stares at it, slightly stunned. He shifts in his seat, glancing around before leaning over the program to re-read the opera’s synopsis from the beginning. 

The passage briefly recounts the story of Ariadne, who assisted Thesus in escaping a labyrinth because she loved him. They were betrothed, and Ariadne left her family to be with him. On the trip home, Thesus abandoned her on a remote island while she was sleeping.

Ariadne woke and found herself alone on the beach. Heartbroken, she longed to die. When Bacchus arrived on the island, Ariadne first thought he was the messenger of death, then mistook him for Thesus. Bacchus explained that he was neither, he was a god. They fell in love and rose into the heavens. 

Dieter sits back in his seat and fidgets, trying to find comfort despite this goddamn suit jacket, all stiff and tight with wads of cash. Despite the painful parallels his mind keeps drawing. 

You are fucking everywhere. 

The opera. The crystal galaxy chandeliers that hang from what looks like a bright white tunnel into the afterlife. The scalloped ceiling, backlit with a warm, golden light, reminding him of goldfish scales. 

Are they signs or is he just losing his fucking mind? 

“Probably both,” he mutters to himself. 

Jackie looks up from her program at him, raising an eyebrow, “What?”

He shakes his head, nervously tugging at the whiskers that sprout from his jawline. 

Before she can prod him further, the chandeliers float up into the white abyss and all of the lights dim, then the curtains part. 

—

As soon as intermission starts, Jackie is on her feet. 

John waits one cool second before excusing himself and following her into the hall. Reese hears this and turns around in his seat, asking Barbara how she likes the show so far. As she leans forward and begins to answer him, Reese locks eyes with Dieter and gives him a wink of approval. 

Dieter nods and rises to his feet, then slips into the hall, weaving his way through the crowd.

See, when Jackie used to work catering gigs here, she got to know a member of the opera house staff who showed her a few private rooms that aren’t necessarily secret, but aren’t exactly advertised, either. They’re reserved for VIPs, when they want them, but mostly remain unoccupied during performances. 

He follows the path Jackie mapped out for him earlier today to an unlabeled door on level three. Inside, he hears a familiar giggle and knows it’s the right one. 

He pats down his suit jacket with both hands, double checking that he didn’t somehow drop all his money en route, then grabs the doorknob, twists it, and pushes the door open to reveal the smallest Victorian parlor he’s ever seen in his life. 

It contains an antique sofa, a coffee table, and an armchair in the corner, and still feels cramped. The back wall is entirely occupied by a mirror. Probably an attempt to make the room look bigger. 

On the ornate red sofa, Miss Jackie Lantern and Mister District Attorney are so busy making out, neither of them seem to notice his presence. 

Dieter makes a point of closing the door with a loud bang. John jumps up and starts scrambling away from Jackie, his face all covered in hot pink lipstick, stammering out clichés, “I can explain, this isn’t what it looks like—”

“Save it, that’s not what this is,” Dieter waves him off as he approaches the couch, unbuttoning his suit jacket. 

“What is this, then?” he looks from Dieter, who shucks off his jacket and sits down beside him, to Jackie, “A three way?” 

Jackie sticks out her bottom lip in a sympathetic manner, shaking her head. 

“This is an opportunity.”

John turns to him, narrowing his eyes, “Explain.” 

“Well, see,” Dieter tosses his jacket on the coffee table, “I’m going to give you a stupid amount of money, I mean—really, truly, a fucking obscene amount of money. In return, you’ll drop the charges against Louella Friedman.” 

He studies Dieter carefully.

“You and I both know that warrant was bullshit. Based on witness statements obtained by fucking paps, really?” Dieter clicks his tongue against his teeth and shakes his head, “That man is a gossip monger with a grudge. Zero fucking credibility. It wouldn’t hold up in court. It would be a waste of everyone’s time and money. This is an opportunity to cut through the red tape and get a little something for yourself in return.” 

John sits back, crossing his arms. He frowns at the jacket for a while, seemingly running calculations in his head, then asks, “How much?” 

“Hundred thousand.”

His eyebrows make a surprised jump. He presses his knuckles to his lips, considering this. His leg starts bouncing. He looks between Dieter and Jackie, these quick, sharp glares, “I don’t appreciate being set up like this.” 

Dieter nods in acknowledgment. Jackie just blinks at him. 

He releases a big sigh. 

Sitting up, he grabs the jacket and digs into one of the pockets, then pulls out a few $10,000 bundles. 

As he inspects them, Dieter asks, “Well?” 

“You two are good,” John chuckles, then extends his hand to Dieter, “I’ll look into her case for you, see what we can do.” 

He takes it, giving him an overly enthusiastic shake, “Good man. Thank you.”

“Louella Friedman?”

“That’s right. I, uhhh—I put her info in the front pocket.” 

“Got it.” 

Dieter stands and looks at Jackie, nodding to the door. 

“Thanks, Johnny,” she winks, then rises to her feet and starts towards the door. 

“Thank you, Jackie,” he grins at her for a second before returning to Dieter, “And thank you.” 

“My pleasure,” Dieter pulls up the sleeves on his dress shirt, “Don’t spend it all in one place.” 

John laughs at this, so Dieter feels compelled to clarify, “No, but really, the IRS might start asking questions if you do. So—don’t, ok?” 

“Oh, well, yeah—”

Dieter turns on his heel and follows Jackie out of the room, closing the door behind him. 

“Johnny?” he raises an eyebrow at her as they walk away.

“He’s kinda cute. Good kisser.”

“Thinking about adding him to your roster?”

She snorts and gives him a playful shove, “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

—

Within thirty seconds of entering the apartment, Jackie has locked herself in the bathroom with the shower running. 

Dieter collapses on the couch and slowly dismantles the remains of his suit, unknotting the bow-tie, taking off his dress shirt, wriggling out of his pants, until he’s left in boxers and an undershirt. 

Exhaustion, emotional and physical, drains any remaining adrenaline from this evening’s success from his limbs. 

Figuring it will take a while for the de-Jackiefication to take place in the bathroom, he checks his phone for updates, then decides to call and leave you a message before letting sleep take over. 

“Hey, this is Louella, sorry I missed you. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back, thanks.” 

“Hey, doll, it’s me. It is… just after midnight here in New York. Just wanted to let you know, I talked to the DA. He’s dropping the charges, because they’re bullshit, and uhhh… yeah. You can come out now, if you want. I… I miss you. All day I missed you. I wish you were here, and—listen, Lua, I get what you’re doing. You think you’re saving me or something by disappearing, but let me tell you, you are fucking not. Ok? I don’t think you understand… you save me every single day. Just by loving me. The acting, publicity, fucking—whatever, none of that fucking matters to me. I swear to god. You are—you are it for me. The end all be all. My sun, my moon, the stars, you are my whole fucking universe. You are… everything to me, Louella. I love you. I hope I see you soon.” 

[ Next Chapter ]

[kakashixhatakesxwhore]

sneak peek on the itachi and shisui one pls pls that sounds so intriguing 😩

k y'all i don't know how to do sneak peeks, so this is literally the start of the story, like our girl befriending itachi and meeting shisui. something's wrong w me, i'm too longwinded.

anyway, this is the original request - thank you so much to this person, whoever you are, you beautiful mind. death and angst to come, but for now, enjoy the fluff and smidge of tension, i suppose.

"Thinking about an Uchiha love triangle with Shisui and Itachi. Neither of them got to confess to the girl when they were still kids (also given how things played out for Shisui and Itachi….…) What if Shisui asked Itachi to keep her safe as one final wish? And that years after, she and Itachi ended up accidentally reconnecting. With him as an Akatsuki and her being assigned to investigate them and their whereabouts? What if after all these years, he’s always kept Shisui’s promise? That he’s always been her shadow??? That his feelings for her never faded????? HhhhhH Djdjdncn I’m definitely not a writer but I’m imagining angst. So much angst."

Masterlist💿

Loving From Afar

Pairing: Uchiha Itachi x f!Reader x Uchiha Shisui

Summary: A little brainwashed by public opinion, our reader is extremely stand-offish when faced with an Uchiha. Itachi changes that, and then had to deal with our reader being nicer to Shisui than she was to him in the beginning.

W/c: 5.3k (IM SO SORRY)

Warnings: Reader's a nervous puker, talk of throwing up but not particularly detailedly, kids flirting with kids (it's all rated G, dw), brief kids bullying kids, Itachi trying to overshadow his cousin

Ages: Itachi - 6 in the first n second bits, 7 in the third | Y/n - 7 in the first n second bits, 8 in the third | Shisui - 9 in the third

Notes: lmk if y'all fuck with this, if y'all hate this, what you would change, add, keep, throw away - just let me know!!!!

You wished you hadn't been so quick to assume the opinion of your parents, in your younger years. 

Your father, a Jonin, terribly wounded by the attack of the Nine Tails, cursed the Uchiha, whom he was certain were behind the carnage. Though a housewife, your mother steadfastly stood by his opinion, spitting on the once noble name with her husband. Like most of the village, you listened to those who seemed to know best.

They were evil, so evil that even the farmers on the countryside called the Uchiha a Family of Red Devils. Your thoughts were rightfully in accordance with the general public opinion - but it seemed you were one of the few sensible children at the Academy.

"Isn't he dreamy?" Yuna sighed, staring at Itachi over her sandwich.

"Totally," Mio agreed. She didn't even pretend to eat, like Yuna. Mio just stared at Itachi unabashedly, with her elbow propped on her knee and head in hand. "None of the boys in our year have muscles like his."

"Do you think he likes girls with-"

"Who cares what he likes?" You snapped, swallowing a mouthful of white rice. Mio and Yuna both turned their heads painfully slow, looking at you like you had just committed the highest treason. Indignant, you scoffed, quoting your parents, "He's an Uchiha - they're all reprobates, all rotten, vile people, and the more rotten and vile they are, the more powerful, and dangerous, they become. They come in two flavours only; weak or awful, and this one skipped a year, so he's not weak."

Neither Mio nor Yuna were able to come up with a quick enough reply. They just looked at you, and each other, opening and closing their mouths like stupid fish. Relishing the silence, you ate the last bite from your bento box, and threw it back into your bag.

When you looked back at your friends, their eyes were back on Itachi. You rolled your eyes, finally sparing Itachi a glance as you as you asked, "What can he be doing that is so... interesting."

Well, he was staring at you. 

Your group, at least, you figured. Staring-staring, blatantly. His dinner-plate-sized, pitch black eyes stood so starkly against the pristine whites of his eyes and the pale glow of his face. You'd never seen such large eyes before in your life.

It scared the daylight out of you.

"What a creep!" You exclaimed, pulling at your bag over your shoulder and running back into the Academy building, right into Daikoku-Sensei's classroom to hide. He was your favourite instructor, and you were, by far, his favourite student.

Surely, Daikoku would protect your peace and let you spend a little while in his classroom before class.

He greeted you quite jovially, halfway through his own lunch and grading papers. Daikoku let you pull up a chair to his desk, just listening to you yammer about the most trivial things in the world as he marked the pages before him with a red pen.

However, your peace was disturbed again, too soon after it was restored. A knock came and Daikoku called them to enter.

"What a pleasant surprise! My two most gifted students, come to visit," your sensei said warmly once the door opened. 

Intrigued, and a little jealous, you turned your head. Ugh. 

"Come, pull up a chair, we weren't talking about anything important."

"I was just leaving actually," you interjected, collecting your bag from the floor beside you.

But, of course, Daikoku knew you were lying. He chuckled, "No, you were about to tell me about making a new dye for-"

"No, I wasn't," you snipped, standing up quickly. Despite him standing behind you, you could feel Itachi's eyes on you, trying to strip you down to your bare soul.

"Where can you possibly need to go, ten- nine minutes before my class starts?"

Itachi's eyes tickled your skin, searing through. But you kept your calm, trying still to not be rude. You just stammered, "Er... the- the library. I, er, have an over-due book, that I have to, y'know, give back."

Tucking your bag close to your body, you breezed past Itachi, who let you go without a word. You tried not to look at his eyes, having heard the horror stories, but they were just so big, and they were glued to you. Wide and unmoving, as if he were restraining himself greatly, and waging an internal battle.

He freaked you out.

To your core, Itachi unnerved you. Like all of the Uchiha.

It was bad enough that he had been moved up to your year because of his accomplishments, but you never had to interact with him before. You still hadn't, not properly, and, as you scurried away from Daikoku's classroom, you noticed that you were shaking like a leaf. 

The unease travelled to your stomach, and made your mouth fill with saliva.

As quickly as your legs would carry you, you ran down the hall and out the back doors of the school.

You were just in time, kneeling into a bush and pulling your hair back, just as you began to throw up. Hot tears welled into your eyes, but you didn't make a sound as you gagged.

You could hear the doors swinging open again as you heaved into the bush, but you were far too occupied to care.

"Cor lummy - I didn't know you hated me this much."

Great. Yeah, perfect. Just what you wanted.

"Leave me al-" 

Another wave took over your body, cutting off your command and taking every bit of authority out of it.

Much to your dismay, at the time, Itachi came behind you. With fingertips as gentle as feathers, he collected the loose strands of your hair, bringing it back properly and sliding your impromptu ponytail out of your hand.

You wanted to swear at him, yell at him to stop touching your hair, but you couldn't - you just kept throwing up.

After another wave, Itachi's hand came to the center of your back. You could feel a warm tingle were his hand was, and it almost seemed to tingle at the only frequency that could stop the vibrations in your stomach.

"Are... are you okay?" He asked in a unbefittingly soft voice as he stroked small circles into your back.

"No, go away," you snapped, head still in the bush.

Itachi just stated, his hand stilling, "I'm not going to leave you... not if you're not okay."

Coming out of the bush, you sat on the pavement and looked up at Itachi as he stood from his crouch. Your hair fluttered back to your shoulders, feeling strangely warmed, and almost dirty. Your mother and father would have been incensed if they had seen what just happened, so you knew you had to be as well.

"Why?"

"Because," Itachi hummed as he sat in front of you. "I want to show you that I'm not rotten, or vile, or weak, or awful, or that one strange word you used."

"I... I didn't..." He was making it so hard to stay true to your parents' word. You felt guilty to have repeated it. "I know you're not weak."

"And I'm trying to show you I'm none of the other things either."

They said there wasn't a good Uchiha to ever touch grass, but here the good one sat before you. He may have just been trying to prove his worth, but he did, somewhat, no matter how forced his action could have been.

"Thanks," you finally said, still so unsure.

"Do you want to be friends?"

You were wildly taken aback, and your parents late-night tirades flashed through your mind. Scampering to your feet at the speed of sound, you took up your bag, not caring about the pin that fell off in your hasty movement.

In response to Itachi's kindness, you ran.

Back into the Academy you went, finding the nearest girls' washroom to camp. You stayed for fifteen minutes, making yourself late for Daikoku's class intentionally. 

When you arrived, you were woeful to find out that Itachi's wide-eyed stare had suddenly changed.

He glared at you now, and you wished for anything but. 

Itachi's sharp eyes ripped your skin off, just to examine the many layers at their own leisure. You felt as through he was piercing through your soul, cutting it like cloth, with his plain, black eyes alone. Quick as you came, you tried to leave.

"No, I have to-"

"Y/n, you just got here-"

As your sensei stood in front of the door, blocking your only exit, you dove for the trashcan beside him.

It was stupid to think that you had gotten whatever was bugging you out earlier, because it wasn't like you ate some bad clams. You had captured Uchiha Itachi's attention, and you were sick to your stomach.

Tossed in the gutter, you and your reputation became worthless. People used to like you, but once you became the Nervous Puker, people started to steer clear.

Whatever. It gave you a certain freedom you had never had before, not restricted to plans or anyone else's schedule.

The moniker was nasty in the first week of your naming, but you slowly stopped hearing it as people stopped talking to you. You assumed they probably still called you that, but you weren't bothered by it, because it was never staring you in the face.

Meandering the edge of the recess-yard, you stared out at the adults, ninja and civilians alike. They milled around, going about their business in various directions and ways. Some held cases, where others had bags strapped to their backs - the ones with the briefcases styled their hair much more nicely than the others, and you admired one blond man's perfect quaff as he walked past the Academy.

You couldn't wait to get out of the prison that was the Academy, and you forced yourself to make all the progress you could, as quickly as you could. The instructors loved you and gave you top marks, the work was simple, but that only supported your theory that the Academy was only stagnating you. Though, what use was a seven year old on the battlefield?

"Hey! NP!" One of the boys from your year called behind you, making you turn your head in acknowledgement. He laughed, "It's good to see you're used to your new name."

"It's just as good to see you're not eating," his friend commented, barely containing his laughter. "Don't want to put any fuel in the tank!"

Pursing your lips, you just nodded as they cried out with laughter, and turned your head back toward the passing people. Their taunts did little to bother you, so you weren't going to pay them any mind.

That was apparently the wrong thing to do, as a hand gripped your shoulder, throwing you around before you were pushed, back against the chain-link fence. The two boys jeered at you, both pinning your shoulders to the fence as it rattled with your attempts to move.

"Where are you trying to go? Feeling a bit nervous?" The blond boy snickered.

To add, his brunet friend sneered, "We'd better clear the splash zone."

Like a flash, your saviour appeared. You never got the chance to ask him what it was that spurred him to act, but you were always thankful for that decision of Itachi's.

"You two have nothing better to do?"

Their holds instantly relaxed as Itachi's eyes darted between them. You stared at him, confused, but undoubtedly grateful for his intervention. Anxiously, the two boys turned to Itachi. They were both taller than him, but Itachi's mere presence dwarfed them.

"We were just-"

"I don't care, stop bothering my friend."

Hey, you weren't going to poke a hole in that now. 

Itachi was saving you, scooping you up like the hand of a god, being the only person who could realistically stop the teasing, other than Father Time. 

When the wave swelled, you knew you had to ride it as far as it could take you. No gift-horses' mouths were getting looked into by you.

"Dude, you can't be serious," the brunet almost chuckled. "You, friends with the Nervy Puker? Puh-lease."

In an instant, Itachi's eyes swirled, turning from the, regularly unnerving, inky black to a bloody, Ruby red. The sickness came to your stomach immediately, and you looked away from the scene as best you could, scared in every respect.

"Call her that again at your own personal risk."

Yeah, you were going to throw up again. His voice... good, gracious Creator. You'd never heard such a sternness. Such authority. Especially not out of some six year old.

Because he wasn't some six year old. He was an Uchiha.

Just like it had a little over two weeks ago, your mouth began to fill with saliva. You swallowed it furiously, but the more you swallowed, the more came up. Heat travelled through your body, carried by the deep vibrations that pained you dully. In your attempt to stop the feeling, you hadn't even noticed the two boys running off, nor Itachi's eyes returning to their normal hue.

"Look at me."

You swallowed again and looked up. Itachi looked at you like he had a few weeks before, wide-eyed, as something you couldn't name flickered behind his pupils.

"We should go around back again, if you're feeling... unwell," he offered, voice restrained but still kind. Swallowing and clearing your throat, you shook your head, finding it hard to speak. To your surprise, Itachi came forward, stuttering, "I- er, the other day, when you... ran, I-I picked this up, for you. Y'know, so I could, like, give it back."

"Where did all your confidence go?" You teased, feeling greatly eased by his sudden nerves. You sank to the ground while leaning against the fence, arms wrapped around your stomach.

After looking at you strangely for a second, rifling through his pockets, Itachi let a small, straight-faced chuckle pass through him as he replied, "It seems to leave me when I speak to you."

"That's a real troublesome problem between friends."

Itachi's eyes lit up. "You... friends?"

"Isn't that what you said to Jiyuna?"

"Yeah," Itachi grinned, sitting next to you on the fence as he pulled your pin out of his pocket finally. "But... I thought... why'd you run, then?"

Without any good answer yet, you just shrugged and admitted, "You scare me."

As Itachi extended the pin to you, you held out your hand, and he pressed it right into the center, letting his touch linger. His eyes twinkled in a way that somewhat invited you, and his smile wasn't obnoxious or arrogant. Your parents were wrong, you realized then. You also realized you had never seen Itachi smile before, not even a little.

"So, friend, comrade, associate," Itachi started happily, moving his hand to point at the pin in yours. "Tell me about The Ballads of the Green Cloth, and convince me to get a matching pin."

From that day, onward, you and Itachi were as thick as thieves. The people who stopped talking to you tried to start again, attempting to get into Itachi's Good Books through you. It didn't work. Itachi hated them to an extreme, and the people who had actively teased you, even more. He steered you away from all of them, offering you some of the best company in the world; himself, alone.

After every school day, Itachi began to invite you places. He would take you to the library, to his favourite spot on the creek, to the confectionary just off the main road. With your parents under the impression that you were attending extracurricular classes, you had two or three hours every day to spend with Itachi, completely unadulterated.

Gradually, over a year of spending the afternoons together, you and Itachi had built a steady rotation of places to go. The cycle started at the confectionary, with another nine places on the roster regularly (ten in the Summer). It wasn't set in stone, but you quickly came to find out that Itachi only ran on schedules.

"It's pissing down rain right now, Itachi," you pointed out, motioning to the massive window beside you, that the two of you sat on the ledge of. "Let's just stay in the library today, the creek will be flooded."

"It's creek day, though," Itachi countered.

You groaned, pressing your forehead to the cold glass, "I know, but it's not the day to go to the creek."

"What are you talking about? Yes, it is, we went to the stationary store yesterday."

"I've been meaning to ask you about that; why do we keep going there if you never buy anything? My pen purchases can only support us for so long - they're going to stop being to happy to see us."

"Why would I need to buy something, if you buy a pen every time?"

"My man! I buy the pens because you don't buy anything!"

Laughing lowly, Itachi took the honeysuckle juice that you had made in your kunoichi class that day from your hand and sipped it greedily. You grumbled something about how absolutely gluttonous he was, which only made Itachi laugh louder. The sound of his laughter hit your ear very kindly, cracking your resolve, and making you smile almost instantly. You bit it back, snatching the half-full container from him.

"You are so rich, and yet, you never pay for your own stuff."

"Well, duh, how else do you think I stay rich?" Itachi joked, laughter calming, developing a blush. You giggled, but his face got a bit serious, and he captured your eyes. Gently, a tad regretfully, Itachi asked, "Should I... should I be... paying for you? Like, your stuff?"

For some reason, his tone spoke to your heart, setting it ablaze. Your breath caught in your throat, feeling a tight pinch in the center of your chest. Goosebumps rose on your skin, cascading down your spine, and back, up, all the way up to the top of your head. A chill settled just underneath your skin, destined to never be warmed, save by one thing.

Perhaps it was the cold glass beside you, withstanding a particularly strong sheet of rain.

"No," you whispered. 

Blinking a few times, the tension was cut, and you repeated, shaking your head and looking out the window, 

"No, no. You shouldn't." Swallowing thickly, you chuckled, "You're younger than me anyway, I have more birthday money saved."

"Pretty girls like you shouldn't ever pay for themselves - Itachi, you idiot."

If it weren't for the slight shred to the other's voice, you would have thought Itachi had spoken.

But the voice was inherently not Itachi's, the melody was missing; the colloquialism replaced by a certain type of suave charm.

Your suspicions were confirmed as you looked at the window's glass and saw the reflection of someone on the ground. He was looking up, between you and Itachi, as your friend motioned to him, trying to be discreet. Making you feel even more confident in your deduction, the standing boy looked extremely similar to Itachi. His nose, and general facial shape, seemed a bit rounder, more soft than Itachi, with much shorter hair. And he definitely looked older.

It dawned on you that you were in the presence of another Uchiha, and the fear bloomed within you - it was quickly squashed by a heavy-set guilt for feeling that fear at all.

The guilt just made your stomach feel even worse.

It was as if your mind was on open display to Itachi as he immediately uncrossed his legs, coming closer and putting a hand on your knee as he hissed at the other boy, "Shisui, go away, now. I'll see you later."

"Why? What's wrong?" He, Shisui, asked, sounding so genuinely concerned that it just made you feel guiltier.

"Nothing. Bye. Go away."

"No, not if she's not okay."

Through the window, you watched the reflection of Itachi carrying out a silent fight with Shisui.

You just closed your eyes.

You were mortified. Itachi was so kind, and, here you were, getting all frightened over one of his family members, and then being the cause of his rudeness. If it was his father, you might have been justified in your fear, but another kid? Get serious.

"Look at me."

You did, remarking Itachi's eyes gleaming in the honey-shaded light of the library. A warm comfort overpowered all of your other emotions, wrapping you up tightly. It brought air to your lungs, in a deeper breath that you maintain to have ever been your deepest.

Itachi smiled gently, taking your hand into his and finding the perfect middle of your wrist. He rubbed small firm circles onto the pressure point.

"Do you want to go get an ice-pop, or something?"

"Popsicle," you corrected with a breath.

Chuckling lowly, Itachi nodded, "Whatever. Let's get one."

"Sounds tasty, can I come?" Shisui interrupted.

You froze at the other boy's voice and took a deep breath as Itachi gauged your reaction briefly. Immediately, he geared up to send Shisui on a long walk of a short pier. But, when you looked at Shisui, the words seemed to die on Itachi's tongue.

Nodding slowly, you found you couldn't speak. Well, you probably could have, but it would have sounded like a croak, and you didn't want that.

To your surprise, Shisui smiled broadly. Extending his hand to you, like Itachi always did to help you off of the ledge, Shisui beamed, "Great. I know a lovely, little place to get some really good fruit ice-po-psicles."

"We have our own designated spot, thank you very much," Itachi replied for you, smacking away Shisui's hand just before you were ready to take it.

He jumped off the ledge and extended his hand to you, providing a much more usual sight. You smiled as you took Itachi's hand, jumping close to him as he put his hand around your back as a precaution. Leaning close to Itachi's ear, you brushed his long hair back with your index finger as you whispered, "Maybe we should go to his place, so we don't disrupt the sanctitude of ours."

Gritting his teeth, Itachi leaned into your ear and whispered back, "I don't want him to come at all."

"Why?" You asked in a hush, lips brushing Itachi's ear again.

Dramatically sighing, Itachi bent his knees back and looked at you with narrowed eyes before leaning back into your ear to whisper, "You're going to like him more than me."

"Not very likely, but let's see," you giggled, not bothering to lower your voice. You looked to Shisui behind Itachi's shoulder, and he grinned at you, obviously feeling left out. Gathering up your courage, on Itachi's good word, you finally said to Shisui, "Itachi never mentioned an older brother."

"Ugh, are you calling me ugly, Ms. Nervy?" Shisui joked.

The nickname made your eye twitch, but that was nothing compared to the force Itachi turned around with, turning you with him.

"Don't you dare-"

"Shhh," you hushed, hoping to put Itachi off being even ruder to his uninformed family member.

"We're in the back of the library, and it's a Tuesday," Itachi snapped at you, before setting his fiery gaze back on Shisui who you couldn't see. Resuming a threatening tone, though even lower, thus quieter, Itachi hissed, "If you call her anything like that again, you and I are going to have a bigger issue than you can even fathom."

Sounding taken aback, Shisui said to you, as sweetly as his raspy voice would allow, "My deepest apologies, I should have known your guard dog can't take a joke."

"You know what-"

"Hey," you said gently, letting go of Itachi's hand. His hand on your back lingered a moment longer, but dropped as you approached Shisui. You smiled up at the older boy, remarking how sweetly his eyes shone, giggling lightly as you said, "You're a lot taller than I thought you were, up on the ledge."

"I suppose it's all about perspective, darling," he hummed, that suave voice from before returning. Flickering his eyes to Itachi behind you, Shisui chortled, "Is that one okay, or are you going to threaten me?"

You thought it was more than okay. No one had ever called you darling, except for your mother. Especially not so... lovingly? Of course, Itachi felt a different way. Coming from behind, Itachi tugged at your waist to get to you move around Shisui. You did and Itachi followed you, Shisui folding in behind him.

Once your group made it outside, you were left to your own umbrella, while the boys shared Itachi's. Apparently, Shisui wasn't much for planning.

As the two debated between where to go to get a popsicle, you let yourself get used to Shisui's voice. You quickly discovered they were cousins, but were much closer than any set you had ever seen. Shisui was a year older than you, and two years older than Itachi, which made you wonder if Itachi's voice would soon turn to be like Shisui's on day. Truly, his cadence lacked all the melody that Itachi's had a surplus of. Shisui spoke more loosely, and never went very long without a joke or a little quip. Even their scents were markedly different, as Itachi smelled like herbs and spices, whereas Shisui smelled of harsh soap. You came to know Itachi to be a member of the main family, while Shisui was a part of the branch family.

"Together, or separate?" The shopkeeper of Shisui's spot asked as the three of you put your chosen popsicles on the counter.

"Together," Shisui said quickly, getting out his wallet. 

Itachi noticed, and got out his wallet as well, readying himself to beat Shisui to the money dish. Within your pocket, you collected 70 yen from your own wallet.

"That'll come up to..." The shopkeeper started, typing on his dated machine as it clicked and zipped. "68 yen."

You were first.

Smiling, oh, so very smugly, you looked at the boys as the shopkeeper took your bills from the dish with a soft chuckle.

"You two," he said, pointing at Shisui and Itachi as he gave you your change. "Ought to be paying for this sweetheart."

"Yeah," Shisui said pointedly, capturing your eyes before his smile returned. "If this sweetheart would let us pay for her, that is."

"I hear you, brother," the shopkeeper grinned, pushing the popsicles at you. The three of you took them up as the shopkeeper continued, "I've got a feisty one, too, back at home. They make the most wonderful wives, if either of you ever prove so lucky."

"They won't!" You exclaimed with a bubbly laugh, feeling embarrassed.

Maybe the shopkeeper would cause Itachi to recognize the signs of infatuation you displayed, and then he wouldn't want to be your friend anymore, and nothing scared you more. Not even your previous conceptions about the Uchiha.

"Oh, yeah?" The shopkeeper challenged you.

"Mhm."

The boys were strangely quiet, just staring at you. Maybe that was them seeing through your lie, so you decided to add,

"Honest! I like blonds."

"Blonds, hm?" He asked. You nodded with a soft smile on your face, praying that Itachi couldn't see through it. As if a test, the shopkeeper told you, "My son's a blond. Golden blond."

"Get me in contact with him," you laughed.

Before you could continue to dig yourself into the hole of your creation, Itachi put his hand on your shoulder, squeezing, though not strongly enough to hurt. You looked to him, and were met with that god-forsaken, wide-eyed stare.

Itachi needed to only look at you for a second before he kissed his teeth and relaxed his eyes, throwing his arm over you as he guided you out of the shop. Shisui gave the shopkeeper his thanks for the sale, and darted in front of you and Itachi, holding the door open for the two of you to squeeze through.

"Thank you," you and Itachi chorused in mumbles at the same time, before looking at each other and dissolving into a short laugh.

As you undid your umbrella, Itachi gave his umbrella to Shisui, staying by your side. The three of you began to walk slowly, down one of the back roads, Shisui with his own umbrella, you and Itachi sharing. You held it steadily for the two of you, only flopping a bit with the bounce of footsteps.

"I would dye my hair, if you would like it more," he asserted once at a comfortable pace, holding his popsicle to his chest to pop it out of the wrapping. Itachi moved to hold the stick as you took the end of his wrapping, holding it as he pulled it out. He looked at the cherry popsicle and gestured, asking, "Does it need to be blond, or can I do something cool, like red?"

Blushing, and leaning into his arm, you ducked your head down and laughed, "Platinum blond."

"I would look terrible, but if it's what you like..." Itachi replied, helping you with the wrapping of your popsicle before opening his palm for his wrapper in your hand. You gave it to him, and he shoved the wrappers in his pocket, giving you a smile as they crinkled.

Sighing contently, you and Itachi began to eat the popsicles. Your steps synchronized, and soon the bounces of your shoulders did as well.

"You two are cute," Shisui murmured behind you.  Itachi's head swiveled sharply and the elder cousin snickered, "I rescind that; one of you."

"Oh, you're such a charmer, Shisui," Itachi derided. He was, you thought. But leave it to Itachi to know what you were thinking. Shaking your shoulder a bit, Itachi leaned into your ear and whispered, "Don't fall victim, I'm your friend."

"You're my best friend, Itachi," you said loudly, grinning ear to ear as you swapped your popsicle for his. You licked his and he licked yours, and you both hummed,

"I like yours better."

Laughing again, you both shrugged and continued eating the other's popsicle. Shisui, no doubt feeling a bit left out again, came up beside you on the street and you angled yourself toward him, though Itachi's arm remained on your shoulders. You looked at Shisui as he gave Itachi a very playfully taunting look.

"This is what you two do?" He asked, making Itachi quirk his brow. Shisui motioned at his own popsicle, then the rainy day. "Get treats, and flirt, while walking around?"

Caught, your face screwed up. You didn't know where the line of obvious flirting was, and Shisui could tell you were interested in Itachi... so why couldn't Itachi?

"We're not flirting!" Itachi exclaimed, defended himself, his honour, his family's honour- "Yuck, don't say stuff like that, Shisui, that's so gross."

Oh. Okay. 

You distinctly remembered that pain for the rest of your life. It was like a knife, impossibly sharp, and quite unforgiving. 

For a year and change, you'd been using your small crush on Itachi to help with that overwhelming fear - you convinced yourself that he could have a crush on you too, and if that were true, then he really wouldn't hurt you. You would be safe.

But he didn't. Obviously, he didn't. Why would he?

Cripes, you didn't even feel like throwing up. Just crying.

"Hey," you mumbled, drawing Itachi's attention like a magnet. You looked at him, biting your tongue, as he looked at you with a tentative smile, worry in his eyes. Worry about what? Shaking your head, you got a grip, and half-smiled as you said, "I have to go."

"What?" He asked, smile dropping.

"Mum's making a nice dinner, so I have to go help," you explained, not exactly lying. Itachi nodded, opening his mouth to say something, but closed it just as soon. He moved to join Shisui's umbrella, and you grinned to the older cousin, "It was lovely to meet you, Shisui."

"And you, as well," he hummed. Shisui's smile was broad as he winked, "I hope we meet again, maybe do some flirting of our own."

In response to Shisui's kindness, you nodded, and ran away.