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thosewickedlovelies · 2 months

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Conversation Pit | Dieter Bravo x afab!Reader

Rating: E for Explicit

Summary: You’re viewing a mansion with Dieter, and it has a conversation pit. Does he have the discipline to keep his hands to himself?

Tags: friends with benefits, SMUT: Dieter’s favorite dom appears 👀 could it be someone we know?; mmf threesome, piv sex, semipublic sex but don’t worry, edging (m receiving), references to sex work

Word count: 4,112

Note: Listen. This fic was supposed to be conversation pit fucking and then it evolved into something else. I did not do her justice. I’ll come back to you baby.

This is the same universe as Coping Mechanisms. There's no plot connecting the two fics, but I recommend reading it if you want more sexy Dieter smut 😏😌

Masterlist

“It feels like a little much,” you say. Your neck aches from craning to look up at the many elevated features of this house. Or rather, this mansion. The sprawling, avant-garde chandelier in the foyer. The ocean-themed mosaics undulating across the domed ceiling of a bathroom. An enormous space lined with hanging walkways and tunnels and little nesting spots, for who knows how many cats.

This latest hallway is nice, though. Rustic wood beams pass overhead at a more average height, providing a sort of cozy, normal feeling for the first time since you entered. Here’s hoping they lead to a similar design style in the next room.

“I dunno, I kinda like it.” Dieter slings an arm around your shoulders. “Lots of walls to paint, you know? I could make it my own.”

“True,” you concede. “There are way more rooms than I was expecting, though. Like maybe more than even you could paint on your own.”

“You’re right about the rooms, actually.” The realtor gives you an sheepish smile over his shoulder. “The owner’s kind of a character- it took some real convincing to get them to send us any pictures at all, so they missed a few things. But they left the house in great shape, right?” He beams winningly.

This realtor has shown you and Dieter a few houses by now. He’s pretty okay for a chummy salesman type. His methods at least included giving you space to think and discuss, which you appreciate.

Not that discussion between you and Dieter was really necessary. He was the one buying a mansion, not you. He just wanted you here for impulse control, and a second opinion. “I trust your judgment,” he’d insisted.

A lopsided smirk overtook his face. “Even with your choice of fuckbuddy.”

You’d rolled your eyes. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Dieter had shrugged. “Fuckbuddies, friends with benefits, booty calls. We know what we are.”

“Coping mechanisms?” you added drily.

He’d given you a wounded look- always so effective with those big brown eyes of his. “We can be friends and coping mechanisms.”

You’d laughed at that, and now here you were, touring the quirkiest LA mansion you’d yet seen together this week. Or maybe offbeat was a better word. You didn’t really have any idea how to describe these places. Homes, but also playgrounds of the rich and famous. They’d do the place up how they wanted (or how some expensive designer wanted) and then left the next person to clean up the mess- to paper over whatever was now deemed- *shudder*- out of fashion.

Or to paint over, you muse, thinking of Dieter’s impromptu artistic urges.

“Now, you may think you’ve seen the showstoppers of this house, but this next room might just make you reconsider.” Standing before a door at the end of the hall, the realtor pushes it open and stands aside with a flourish.

Your mouth drops open.

It didn’t just open up, as the rest of the house seemed to. This room also opens down. The beautiful wood beams do continue overhead, and the entire back wall is windowed, making the space feel both grand and homey at once. Bright sunshine streams in. The glass wall looks out over the backyard, which is less of a backyard than an entire valley, wild and forested, without a trace of the other mansions you’ve been informed are tucked into the hill. On the left wall of the room rises a stone brick fireplace; on the right wall, tall bookshelves. The sandy carpet underfoot looks thick and cozy.

And in the dead center of the room: a conversation pit.

Your mouth falls open again.

Is that even what it’s called? The word has a strange texture in your mind. Yes, a conversation pit; that architectural relic of the 70s. A great round depression, a huge circular couch set right into the floor.

It’s hideous.

Dieter hurtles through the door, down the short staircase, and bounds right into the pit. “Hey, check this out! A conversation pit, sweets! Have you ever been in a house with one of these?”

The realtor is prattling on about the other features of the room, something about adjustable lighting and special outlets.

“I haven’t.” You approach more slowly. The staircase below the door hugs the wall, presumably so that anyone who falls down it doesn’t carom straight into the pit. The carpeting is so luxurious that you almost feel bad about walking on it with shoes.

You carefully descend the two additional steps down to Dieter’s level. “This feels like a safety hazard.”

“Whaat? No way, it’s so cool! Like we’re in some classy old 70s porno.” In an instant Dieter has whirled to face you, grinning, a wily gleam in his eye.

Your eyes widen with what you hope is a forbidding look. “No, Dieter. Absolutely not.”

The realtor’s cell phone trills, cutting him off mid-sentence. “Excuse me, let me just check this.” He fishes it out and answers, and his eyes light up.

“You guys think about the house, okay? I’ll just be a minute.” The realtor heads back up the stairs. “Heya, Brad. No, no, I’m not busy…” He shuts the door behind him.

Dieter pounces.

“Dieter Bravo, you stay right there-”

The pupil in the eye of the pit is a cushy ottoman, which Dieter leaps over with unexpected grace. Your brain and your feet have different ideas on where to go; instead of fleeing, you stumble backward and fall to your ass on the sofa.

“Tell me you’re thinking what I’m thinking.”

“Dieter-”

“This room would be perfect for sex parties.” He’s practically glowing with excitement. He leers down at you, his shapely mouth turning up suggestively.

“D, that happened one time! And it wasn’t even planned, it was only because everyone drank too much of that Romanian liquor that Alexandra’s mom made her.”

The taste of cherries had haunted you for a month afterward. It was nothing like the syrupy-sweet maraschino flavor that smacked of childhood sundaes and red dye 40. This stuff was as black as the fruit itself and tasted of summer at its height, thick and ripe and heady.

Normally you’re not so keen to head off Dieter’s sex-related whims, but something about this moment, this room, feels different. Like your body can sense how little convincing it would take for you to give in.

Like Dieter can sense it.

“But it could happen again.”

Dieter crouches and pulls on something near the floor, and suddenly your feet are propped several inches higher off the ground. You blink, and in a fluid movement Dieter is kneeling between your legs, at the perfect height to put his mouth to your ear.

“Just imagine. You’re sitting here, just like this. I’m sitting here. Just like this.” His hand trails up your thigh. You swallow.

“The lights are low, low enough to see the stars in the sky outside. Maybe we have some music playing. Lying right there are John and Diana.” Dieter nods to the plush carpet inches from your face. “I know you liked watching them last time.”

As if in a dream, your head turns to look where he indicated. Your face heats furiously at the memory of your two attractive friends, and the heavy glances all four of you had shared that night.

“He’s fucking her, slow and easy. She’s watching us while he does. Maybe she’s telling you to join in- to let me make you feel good, like she’s feeling.”

Dieter’s low, husky voice is a potent aphrodisiac, and so is the picture it paints. The taste of cherries seems to coat your tongue. You fight down a little noise of want in the base of your throat, your body tightening and squirming. Your fingers dig into the couch cushions.

“We can invite Samya and Vish again. And maybe Dani and Riley. They’re so hot.” Dieter sighs, briefly indulging in his own fantasy.

Dieter’s hand has settled into a familiar shape- his thumb resting on your clit, but his fingers curled so the knuckles rest where they would normally slip inside you. Where they’d definitely be able to slide in right now. You can’t decide if you should thank or curse your past self for not wearing a skirt this morning.

“Remember how we could hear everyone? No one was hiding or acting shy, just enjoying themselves. Laughing and moaning…” Dieter’s voice drops to a whisper. “Diana was so wet you could hear it every time John thrust into her.”

His lips brush your ear. “And so were you.”

His teeth graze your neck and you can’t stop your moan. He sucks on the sensitive skin just the way you like, his thumb bearing down, and your head drops back.

The bright blue sky brings you back to your senses.

“Dieter!” You squirm away, gasping for air.

He immediately retreats. He remains kneeling on the foot rest as you pull your legs up and together, attempting to regain some composure.

“I think that courtesan part you played went to your head,” you say shakily.

Dieter’s last role had been a four-episode appearance in a new fantasy period show. He’d played a queen’s favorite courtesan in her harem; but upon hearing inklings of a coup, she’d sent him away, leaving the audience with tantalizing hints that he wasn’t just a mere prostitute. The show’s first season had been a huge success, and though it had been renewed for more, the reappearance of Dieter’s character was still only rumor.

Clearly he had picked up a few things from his character. You send him a half admonishing, half grudgingly impressed look.

Seeing that you’re not truly upset, he relaxes. “You like? There’s more where that came from.” Dieter walks his fingers up your calf. He smiles temptingly, his eyes still blown dark and beguiling.

Huffing incredulously, but unable to resist smiling in turn, you shake your head.

“Ookay. I’m just saying, it sounded like our guy was gonna be a while. Especially if Brad is whose PA I think he is.” Dieter shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. “Wouldn’t hurt to do a little test run.”

“Dieter Bravo, I am not having sex with you in a house we’re viewing.” You laugh, a bit high despite yourself off the endorphins from Dieter’s fantasy.

You turn and rise, making to clamber right over the back of the couch.

Dieter gasps. “Wait!” All trace of seduction is gone from his voice. You only make it halfway out of the pit, your knees where you’d just been sitting and your hands on the floor beyond the back of the couch.

“Babe, this is the position we’ve been trying to find! Look-” He’s hushed but excited. Dieter scrambles up behind you, his hands appearing on either side of your own, his chest flush with your back. One of his knees further compresses the cushion beneath you. When you twist your head to look, you see that his other foot is leveraged on the footrest.

Dieter groans your name, low and pleading. “Tell me you wore these pants for a reason.”

You gasp as his fingers dip beneath the waistband of your pants. LA weather means loose fitting bottoms, and high waistlines mean cinched elastic instead of button clasps. Dieter has no trouble sliding his hand into your pants and cupping your sex in a way that makes your elbows buckle.

“Dieter, we can’t.”

“Please, sweets, I’ll make you feel good- I won’t even come, this one will just be for you,” he promises. “You know I can be quick.” His voice goes velvety and dark with promise- with reminder.

Damn, but you did know. Dieter was a dedicated study; it didn’t take long before he could make you come faster and in more ways than any partner you ever had. The speed came in handy more often than you’d think. The man was insatiable, and his appetite could flare at any random moment- no matter how inopportune.

His persuasions are working. Your cunt throbs to have his hand so close and yet so far away through the barrier of your panties. You’re already wet from his earlier efforts, and the heavy drape of his body over yours brings your desire howling to life again.

“Hmmm?” Dieter traces a light circle around your clit.

You grit your teeth. The realtor could be back at any second.

Dieter flattens his hand over your cunt, rubbing just so.

Your resolves breaks. “Fuck, fine- but quick,” you implore.

“Oh, this is going to take so long,” you assure him. Dieter moans, helpless to your designs, the binds on his wrists holding fast. “What’s wrong, D? You didn’t seem to care about coming earlier.”

“Please, please let me come. I’ve been so good, your pussy feels so fucking good…” Dieter rambles, sobbing, his eyes rolling back in his head as you sink down on him again, achingly slowly, taking him as deep as you can. Dieter tries to help, his hips surging upward like he can’t get far enough inside you. That could well be the case, given that his ankles are tied together as well.

He moans again.

“Mmn, you’re so pretty like this,” you sigh. Dieter’s chestnut locks are tufted from your grasp and dark with sweat at his temples. Red blooms in his cheeks. His lips are kiss-swollen, teeth-bitten from trying and failing to hold back his cries. His body is thick and strong beneath you, and you attempt to spread your thigh still wider, take that little bit more of him inside you.

Dieter makes a choked sound. He turns his head to the side, desperation all over his face.

It’s been hours since Dieter seduced you into coming around his cock in the conversation pit of the house you were viewing. As promised, he’d been quick- you hardly had time to break a sweat before he brought you that familiar hot rush of release. You needn’t have bothered worrying, though. The realtor took so long on his phone call that your panties had nearly dried out again by the time he returned.

But true to his word, Dieter didn’t come, and you’re pretty sure his hard-on hasn’t flagged once since then. Some part of him had been touching you through the entire rest of the house tour that neither of you had realized was still ahead. He was so worked up he’d canceled lunch at his favorite diner, and then looked agonized when he remembered that you hadn’t taken the car with the privacy screen.

You follow his gaze. “What do you say, Ezra? Should we let him come?”

Dieter’s favorite dom is sitting in an armchair off to the side, observing, loosely guiding, your activities and stroking himself with leisurely enjoyment.

Abandoning his own biology temporarily, Ezra approaches the bed. “A hard decision indeed, gem. But in my professional opinion, I believe that you should come once more before we allow dear Dieter the privilege.” Dieter’s eyes are glazed, bleary with desperation. You’d had one orgasm since the start of this session, but another sounded fine to you.

“Should it be on his cock this time?”

“Hmmm. How would you feel about takin’ your pleasure on my cock first? Darlin’ Dieter got to experience it earlier; this time he can only watch, as a consequence of rushing his partner to the end so crudely.”

Surely that’s a little harsh. “Aww, I wouldn’t say it was crude. I did enjoy it,” you coo at Dieter, stroking his face reassuringly. Relief shines in his face, your words like a sunbeam breaking through the gathering clouds of his sudden anxiety.

“Oh, of course. My apologies; it was not my intention to imply otherwise. Nevertheless…” Ezra reaches over your thighs to give Dieter an apologetic stroke; then he runs his broad palms slowly up your body, Dieter’s eyes following like a starving man before a feast. Maybe like one of those ancient myths he's always drawing inspiration from- who was that one guy? Tantalus. Ezra tweaks your nipples and you shiver atop Dieter’s cock.

It had been your idea to text Ezra. On the car ride home, you’d suggesting upping the stakes, since Dieter had been so naughty in the house. He’d essentially already been edging himself since the conversation pit- why not make it a real challenge? (And maybe a little bit of a punishment, for being so cheeky.) Dieter had looked so torn, you might have asked him to choose between microwave chicken nuggets and taquitos for the rest of his life. But in the end Ezra was free, so you invited him over at three o’clock sharp.

Dieter sounds so anguished as you lift yourself off his cock that you think he might actually cry. You click your tongue. “You heard him, D. Consequences.” You lean down to kiss him, giving Ezra space to climb onto Dieter’s legs behind you.

“Stay there a moment, sweet,” Ezra requests.

Your breasts brush Dieter’s chest, and he automatically tries to lift his torso to meet you, forgetting that your hands are holding down his shoulders. He whines.

“Naughty Dieter, always pushing the rules. Trying to fuck me where other people might see.” You nibble at his neck and ear between murmurs. “Now you’re the one who has to watch.”

Your breath hitches as you feel Ezra’s cock notch at your entrance. “There we are, sweets. Sit back for me now, nice and easy.” His hands guide your hips, and you ease backward onto Ezra’s cock. A breathless moan falls free as you sit up, his length thick and full inside you. So joined, you shuffle forward just a bit- until Dieter’s cock rests against your sex. Dieter’s mouth falls open, mesmerized by the sight. He twitches, the movement brushing your clit, and you whimper.

“Mm, I thought you might like this, gem. If it sounds amenable to you, we’re goin’ to use darlin’ Dieter’s cock to make you come like this, slow enough for you to enjoy every second of it, and then, and only then, are we going to let Dieter come.”

It’s delightfully jarring to feel a cock inside you as well as outside against your clit; despite the pleasure winding heavy along your limbs, you manage to answer. “Perfectly amenable.”

Ezra cups his hand over Dieter’s cock and nestles it between your labia, coating it in your arousal and Dieter’s. The velvety ridges of him rub snugly against your clit- especially as Ezra begins to move. He starts gradually, thrusting into you with just enough force that you rock against Dieter’s dick at the same time.

Oh, fuck. This is more stimulation than you usually get via both methods at once- it won’t take long for you to come like this. You moan in approval.

“Does that feel good, gem?” Ezra asks.

His thrusts aren’t forceful. Rather, they’re constant, unceasing strokes along something inside you that makes your vision blur; and all the while he holds Dieter’s cock against your clit like the perfect toy.

“F-f-ffucking incredible,” you stutter. “Keep going, like that.”

Ezra rumbles in approval. Dieter’s eyes are as round as saucers as he watches his dom pleasure you with both their cocks, and he spills out a steady babble of praise. “Oh fuck, you’re so hot, sweets. Look so good like this. Can use my dick whenever you want…” Every muscle in his body jerks and strains, but whether trying to come or in effort to stop himself coming you can’t tell, and you stop trying as Ezra’s movements pour brain-numbing pleasure directly into your skull and down your spine.

You squirm and sob at the onslaught of stimulation. There’s no escape- not that you really want it. You can feel your peak approaching, a tingling creeping up every limb like vines about to fruit.

“Dieter- Ezra-”

“Ah, the end is nigh, is it, sweet? Go on then, let it come- give us everything you got.”

Ezra’s poetry is obliterated by the roaring in your ears. Something breaks open inside you, spilling bliss through every crack and crevice of your body. You quake and keen in Ezra’s arms. For long, long minutes, it feels like it physically rocks you, pleasure pulsing in an endless flood. Distantly you recognize that it’s Ezra’s movement creating the rocking sensation, prolonging your pleasure for as long as he knows you can last. You finally go still only when he does, the rushing pleasure slowing to a trickle.

Sagging into Ezra’s arms, you shudder as the bliss tapers off. As your breathing slows, other sensations come back to you, including that of something clinging to- or maybe dripping from- your thighs. Dieter.

Your paramour is gazing at you, awestruck, a familiar dopey, dazed grin pulling at one corner of his mouth. You make a questioning sound.

“You comin’ set him off, sweet. That was some mighty, powerful pleasure, if I do say so myself.” Ezra’s rasp in your ear sounds thoroughly satisfied. “It seemed unduly cruel to deny dear Dieter any longer after such good behavior, so I took the liberty of takin’ care of him.”

Indeed, Ezra’s hand is wrapped more fully around Dieter’s cock, though both are now somewhat obscenely mashed against your sex and covered in his spend. “Oh, good,” you sigh.

Ezra chuckles. “I’ll give us a wipedown, gem. Then you can untie his hands, if you wouldn’t mind, and I’ll get his feet.”

You blink yourself slightly more alert. Dieter didn’t like being tied up for very long after the fun stuff was over. “Mhm. Okay.”

You help Ezra wipe the various fluids from all three of you. Your brow knits at the sensation of him pulling out of you, but Ezra appears unperturbed, humming an idle tune as he rotates to unbind Dieter’s feet. You turn your focus to doing the same to his hands.

A serene, almost cherubic, expression lay over Dieter’s face; with his eyes closed and his breathing deep and steady, he looks halfway to sleep. When you lean back from untying him, his eyes are open. You start.

Then you chuckle. “Hey, D. Feeling okay?”

Dieter lengthens his already long limbs and then contracts them in a wiggly stretch. He rolls over toward you, resting his head on your thigh. “Mmhmmm.”

He looks for all the world like he intends to fall asleep right there. Honestly, the man resembles a giant cat sometimes. Or maybe some other, more exotic animal. Actorus libidinous.

A ferocious rumbles issues from what you can only assume is Dieter's stomach. His eyes fly open. "I'm so fucking hungry."

He appears astounded by this fact. Or maybe by the fact that he forgot his hunger in the first place- it’s truly a testament to how worked up he was that all other needs fled his mind so completely. (You made him eat a granola bar before Ezra arrived, but still.)

Ezra returns from the ensuite, and your eyes widen. Your hunch earlier was right- he didn’t come. Ezra’s still-hard cock bobs as moves around, flushed a deep red and still smudged with your arousal in places.

Dieter spots it as Ezra begins getting dressed, and his eyes go round. “Whoa, Ez, did you not come? Why didn’t you tell us?”

Ezra’s mouth quirks. Sifting through the scattered clothes on the floor, he extracts a pair of pants and begins turning them rightside-out. He gives an arch shrug. “What can I say, starlet? Your perseverance inspired me. I enjoy a good edging session myself; I thought I might wait until I arrived home to take care of it.” Ezra pulls his jeans on without anything beneath and fastens them snugly over his erection.

Ezra was an old hat at this profession. He didn’t entertain feelings of awkwardness or shame. If he wanted something, he asked for it.

“In that case, send us pictures,” Dieter says. His eyes wander Ezra’s sturdy, shirtless body with wanton admiration.

“That costs extra.” Ezra sends them a saucy wink. He reaches for his shirt without a hint of discomfort.

“Worth it.” Dieter rolls onto his back with a great sigh. His mostly-softened cock flops over with the movement, dribbling a bit more fluid as it does.

Now dressed, Ezra comes over to say his goodbyes. First he hands Dieter a tissue, nodding toward his dick. Then he gives you both a kiss on the forehead.

“Perhaps this time I might allow the debt to be paid with some of the takeout you’re about to order.”

Thanks for reading! 💕💕💕

You grin. "We'll schedule your delivery for an hour from now."

The Romanian liquor is real and exactly as delicious as it sounds- it's called 'visinata', which means '[thing] made from cherries'. I highly recommend making a Romanian friend and having them bring you a bottle of their mom's homemade stuff, although I cannot promise that it will lead to sex parties. That was just wishful thinking on my part 😬🤷🏻‍♀️

Dividers by strangergraphics

#dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #the bubble fic #the bubble #dieter bravo/reader #dieter bravo/you #dieter bravo fic

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bbypedrito · 1 year

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Push & Pull | Dieter Bravo/f!Reader

After an interview with Dieter goes awry, the two of you clash on the red carpet and accidentally go viral for your sizzling chemistry with each other. Unfortunately, it all goes downhill from there.

rating: explicit, minors DNI

word count: 3k

warnings: no y/n, no reader descriptions, piv sex, hate sex, a single dub-con kiss, some degrading language, mentions of dieter’s drug use, annoying flirty dieter who probably has too much game in this fic than is necessarily realistic but OH WELL, dumb social media jokes

📌 now on AO3

“I hate you so much,” Dieter gasps as he sinks himself into you. “Fucking. Uppity. Bitch,” he punctuates each word with a hard thrust, teeth bared. “Say it back to me, tell me you hate me too. Fucking say it.”

You open your mouth to reply but a long, loud, moan comes spilling out as Dieter pounds into you. He has you lifted up against the wall of a bathroom stall and you’re achingly stretched open, Dieter’s cock filling you up so good you can barely breathe, let alone think. You steel yourself, screwing your eyes closed, digging your nails into the broad expanse of his back. “Fucking — fucking hate you, Bravo.”

He moans into your neck and it’s a filthy, desperate sound that will haunt you for weeks, never letting you forget that not only did you let the Dieter Bravo pound you in a public bathroom, but horrifyingly, it was probably the best fucking sex you’d ever had.

You’re no stranger to dealing with some difficult celebrities in your line of work, so you weren’t particularly nervous at the prospect of interviewing Dieter Bravo for the very first time. He wasn’t exactly a ray of sunshine, even on a good day, but at least he humoured the press and answered questions with little to no fuss. You’d done your research the night before and, armed with the knowledge that he didn’t like taking off his sunglasses or answering questions about his personal life or drug habit, there was no way you could possibly fuck this up, right?

Wrong. Extremely, spectacularly, excruciatingly wrong.

In fact, you fucked it up so royally Bravo had stormed off set, forcefully unplugging his mic pack and muttering darkly about fucking media and their fucking jokes as mortified producers scattered in his furious wake.

When you look back on it, you can admit it was a total rookie error. It had been a long day for everyone on that particular press junket, and trying to break the ice by playfully riffing on his performance in Cliff Beasts 6 probably wasn’t your most inspired idea.

Still, you can’t help but think it was a bit of an overreaction, a total diva move, and it especially stung when your less than pleased boss demoted you to interviewing reality tv stars for a long, vacuous couple of months.

Your warm and easygoing interview style soon saw you bouncing back though, and the next time you see Dieter is at the premiere of his latest film. It’s a better movie than Cliff Beasts, which doesn’t exactly say a lot, but it’s a step in the right direction for his career and Dieter seems...almost cheerful out on the red carpet. He looks a lot less hungover than usual, forgoing the signature sunglasses he often wears at events to conceal whatever vice he’d indulged in. He has nice eyes, you begrudgingly decide, and his beard looks groomed for once. He’s also wearing a crisp, elegant suit that flatters his tall, broad figure and he’s even smiling, humouring fans with a couple of selfies and shooting winks in their direction whenever he catches their eye. You can’t help but laugh at the commotion it causes each time, a new wave of screams following everywhere he saunters.

You’d never admit it out loud, but he looks quite dashing - happiness and sobriety definitely look good on him.

Unfortunately, any goodwill towards his character or appearance evaporates when you approach him for an interview. Dieter’s expression drops when he spots you coming and he visibly sneers as your cameraman fiddles with his equipment, looking down his hawk-like nose at you with such derision it almost makes you shrink in on yourself. Almost.

“It’s you,” he says, plastering on a camera-ready fake smile. “The girl who thinks she’s a film critic.”

You force a sickly sweet smile to match. “Dieter Bravo. The diva who thinks he’s Olivier.”

Dieter pretends to laugh, but his eyes blaze with burning daggers at your verbal riposte. “The Academy Award winner who thinks he’s Olivier,” he retorts, his forced grin stretching just a little too wide to be natural.

Your cameraman clears his throat awkwardly as the two of you stare each other down. “I’m, uh, ready to roll.”

is it just me or does dieter bravo have crazy chemistry with the interview girl???

yeah he was definitely giving her the fucky eyes 👀

she deffo wants him too tho, i ship it tbh

i felt like a third wheel watching this

bro is down BAD 😂

You can’t believe what you’re reading. Your notifications are inundated with endless comments about your so-called “chemistry” with Dieter Bravo.

What. The. Fuck.

You flop face-first onto your couch, accidentally scattering your decorative cushions to the floor into a haphazard heap. Whatever. You’ll pick them up later. Your phone pings and you ignore it, assuming it’s yet another comment about Dieter and his supposed fucky eyes for you. Gross. Weird. Absolutely wrong, he would never— you would never—

Your phone fully rings this time and your heart sinks to your knees when you groggily sit up and realise it’s your boss, Michael.

“Have you seen the comments?” He asks excitedly, forgoing any pleasantries and getting straight to the point.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“And the numbers?”

“Numbers?”

“The numbers! The views! You hit one million in less than 24 hours. The teens on TikTok are obsessed with your sexual chemistry with Dieter Bravo.”

One million views. Sexual chemistry. Dieter Bravo.

Jesus christ. You pinch the bridge of your nose, a sudden headache coming on. Is this a nightmare? It feels like a nightmare. You’ve always wanted to make it big in your field, to finally stand out amongst all the other media journalists clamouring for the stars and the public’s attention, but not like this. Never like this.

You heave a loud sigh, too defeated to be polite to even your boss right now. He can demote you back down to D-list reality stars again for all you care right now. “You want me to interview him again, don’t you.”

“Smart girl,” Michael coos, and you wrinkle your nose, “I’ve already made arrangements with Bravo’s team to strike while the viral iron’s still hot. They’re all very excited - apparently this is exactly the kind of PR they’ve always wanted for Dieter.”

“What an honour,” you deadpan, but your sarcasm seems to fly right over your excited boss’ head.

“That’s my girl! Now, here’s the concept…”

It’s a date. They’ve forced you to go on a date with him.

Well, it’s a fake date, in a fancy rented out bar, with a specially hired bartender and a whole film crew crammed into the space. Either way, you’re unhappy, tugging listlessly at the hem of your short dress. You and your team had arrived first and predictably Dieter is late, which only serves to piss you off even more.

He was probably doing it on purpose, the ass.

Sitting at the bar, you unlock your phone to check it out of nervous habit only to immediately lock it again - your notifications are still crazy with endless messages and comments, your interview with Dieter having reached another million views and still going strong.

There’s even a fancam now, the footage of the two of you edited to Me and your Mama by Childish Gambino. The footage has been slowed down and out of context it certainly looks…like something else. Your gazes on each other are fiery, and at one point Dieter bites his lip as you lean into his space just a little, but jesus, you had been passive aggressively taunting him with purposefully annoying questions, trying to get a rise out of him. And not that kind of rise, thank you very much.

Your thoughts are interrupted by Dieter’s grand arrival and you fight the urge to roll your eyes at the sound of his smarmy voice chatting up the crew. Just to add insult to injury, the asshole looks irritatingly good; his hair is perfectly styled into an artfully natural looking bedhead, his beard left scruffy but his moustache neatly trimmed, and he’s wearing a dark maroon button down shirt with far too many buttons neglected to be decent. He catches your eye and has the gall to fucking wink at you as he joins you at the bar.

“Like what you see?” He drawls.

“I do now,” you quip as the bartender hands you a delicious looking fruity drink. The production staff that briefed you had encouraged you to get tipsy for a more loose and relaxed atmosphere, and who are you to say no to free drinks?

Dieter merely chuckles, ordering himself a neat whiskey. You notice him watching you as you sip at your drink and irritation blooms hot in your chest.

“What?” You snap, and Dieter shrugs.

“Just checking out my hot date,” he says before taking his drink and downing it with practiced ease. You ignore the way his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and then nonchalantly sets hls glass down on the bar. “Not bad. Shame she’s a fucking ice queen.”

You open your mouth to argue but you’re interrupted by the director calling for the lights to be adjusted. Instead of deigning to lower yourself to Dieter’s level with a childish ‘you started it’, you decide to busy yourself with your script until Dieter takes the hint and wanders off to chat up his makeup artist as she touches his face up.

The script itself is just a basic outline; you playfully banter with each other and ask him some flirty questions, Dieter comes up with flirty answers, you get him to promote his new movie at the end, and then cut, you can finally go home. Preferably to take a long scalding hot shower before bed and wash away the grimy feeling of flirting all night with a dickwad like Dieter just for clicks and good PR.

You order yourself another drink.

By the time you wrap, you’re more than a little tipsy. It lends itself well to the shoot at least, and you’re praised for how real and natural you were. Dieter practically vanished as soon as he heard the director yell cut and call it a day, which was a huge fucking relief because you’re not quite sure you can look him in the eye right now. Or ever again.

You wonder if you can get away with one more drink.

the tension is crazy, i genuinely thought they were gonna start banging on the table lol

that flirting is too real 👀

omg the way he looks at her!!!!

anyone else notice how much she kept blushing?

i don’t ship real people but i can’t deny their chemistry is crazy!

Looking back at the footage, you decide the two of you must be insanely good actors because the flirting does look strangely real. You resent the comments about you blushing, though. You’re a grown woman, goddamnit, it was the alcohol making your face flush, not Dieter’s finger absentmindedly tracing your knuckles, or his foot nudging yours under the table, or the way his big brown eyes crinkled at the edges when he fake laughed at your fake jokes.

These TikTok kids are ridiculous. You snap your laptop shut before you torture yourself further reading any more comments.

The pay is good, you remind yourself. You can finally start thinking about moving out of your tiny shitty apartment. Your social media accounts are flourishing too, as is your career, gaining a bigger following that you’ve ever dreamed of and more and more agents are reaching out for you to interview their big clients. One of them is even the major star of a popular series of Marvel movies, real big league shit, and just the thought of it makes you giddy.

You lie back on your bed, unblinkingly staring up at the ceiling. As much as you hate to admit it, you kinda owe Dieter, and despite his reputation and clear dislike for you, he’d been enough of a gentleman during your fake date. As you start to drift off, you decide you’ll be charitable and buy him a drink someday, just to say thanks.

Your phone buzzes, and blearily you peer at it, the screen too bright in the dim of your room. It’s a number you don’t recognise, but you know full well who the text is from.

congrats on another viral hit leeching off my fame ;)

Fully awake and seething now, you type out a reply:

Thanks Dieter! Congrats on finally becoming relevant again!!! So brave of you to bounce back after Cliff Beasts and that weird messy documentary that almost killed your career xxx

bitch. Dieter fires back, and you grin to yourself, knowing you got under his skin.

You send Dieter a final parting gift - a single passive aggressive 😘 emoji - before switching off your phone and turning over to sleep.

The next day, you wake up around early afternoon to PR carnage.

Dieter is plastered all over the tabloids after going on a very public bender and getting caught with a bag of coke last night.

You feel sick. Was this your fault? Were you really that harsh on him? You stare at your brief chain of texts, chewing anxiously on the inside of your cheek, worrying at it with your teeth until it’s raw. Fuck, maybe that ‘leeching off my fame’ text was just a joke. A shitty joke, but a joke all the same, one you were too tired and stupid to understand.

Fuck.

Should you try to call him? You stare down at your phone, at the stupid little emoji you sent him. A knock at your door pulls you out of your trance. Frazzled, you run to answer the door in your pyjamas, and freeze when you find Dieter on your doorstep. He looks exhausted, hair a mess, his plain grey t-shirt rumpled.

“I was thinking about you. Last night. All night actually,” he says. He grins sardonically. “Well, you probably saw the news.”

You’re in the middle of trying to formulate some kind of halfbaked apology when Dieter pulls you in close and kisses you hard, his hands vice-like on your hips and his tongue swiping into your mouth with such frenzied desperation it pulls a surprised moan from you.

Just as suddenly, just as you’re about to kiss him back he pulls away, jerking away from you as if burned, and then he’s gone.

You wander back inside, fingers pressed to lips that still tingle from the friction of Dieter’s scruff.

Because he’d kissed you.

What the hell was that? Scratch that, how the hell does he know where you live? The lack of answers only serve to frustrate you and you find yourself getting angry, pacing your apartment as the indignant fury builds. How dare he worry you and then just show up to your home unannounced and kiss you out of nowhere like that? Entitled weirdo. You hate him. You fucking hate him, and you can’t believe you were going to apologise, that you ever felt bad for him in the first place.

Hours later, Michael calls when you’re about to make dinner and you immediately lose your appetite because you know what he’s going to ask.

“Just one more thing together, so this coke thing blows over.”

“No.”

“You’ll be paid double.”

You falter at that, eyeing the water damaged ceiling currently blooming with ominous looking black mould and your sad, wonky kitchen cupboards.

“Fine,” you sigh, “but only for the money. And never again after this.”

“Thank you, darling.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you reply. Michael nervously chuckles, unsure of what you mean, and without bothering to explain you hang up.

Dieter’s PR team works quickly and efficiently and they somehow get you both booked together on some Buzzfeed thing the following week. It’s impressive, if not a little scary.

You’re more nervous than you’ve ever been at the prospect of being on camera, fidgeting in your seat as someone diligently dabs at your face with various makeup brushes. If the bags under your eyes are anything to go by, your poor makeup artist has their work cut out for them.

You’re beginning to zone out as you stare into the mirror when a cheery producer pops her head in. “Ready to break the internet?” She asks, painfully enthusiastic. The makeup artist steps back and gives you a thumbs up. Obliviously accepting your tight grimace of a smile as an affirmative with a bright “let’s go, girl!” the producer leads you to the sound stage where the crew and Dieter are waiting.

You avoid his gaze, but you can feel it, dark and heavy as you cross the room.

The production team begin to brief the two of you but you can barely concentrate, your traitorous mind drifting back to Dieter on your doorstop, Dieter’s greedy hands on your hips, Dieter’s lips angrily pressed to your own…

You’re pulled from your thoughts when someone shouts for a makeup artist and you nearly die on the spot when you realise it’s because you’re noticeably sweating.

You mumble something about the lights being hot as the makeup artist from before busily reapplies some product, your cheeks warm with embarrassment when you realise Dieter is looking in your direction. You half expect to see the mocking grin you’ve grown accustomed to seeing flashed your way, but his brows are furrowed and he looks oddly serious. Almost calculating. It unsettles you in ways you can’t explain.

Makeup retouched and camera ready, you rejoin him, and Dieter surprises you by casually slinging an arm around your shoulder as if you were old friends. “All ready?” He asks brightly, but before you can reply, he subtly leans closer, lips close to your ear so only you can hear what he says next:

“The comments on our last video were right. I was thinking about bending you over that table all evening.”

You inhale sharply, head whipping around to face him, and there it is, that fucking unbearable fake charm smile, and fuck it, you think. You’re not backing down now.

You match his stupid, smug grin with your own.

top comment:

i 100% bet these two fucked like rabbits after filming this

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo/reader #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo x reader #the bubble #pedro pascal #my fic

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softpascalito · 8 months

Text

Kinktober Day Two - Titfucking - Dieter Bravo x Reader

Summary: Dieter is alone in quarantine and begs you to come join him. Even with a few obstacles, you treat him the way he deserves. Relationships: Dieter Bravo x FemReader

WC: 1700

Tags/Warnings: No Archive Warning Apply, Smut, Explicit Content, Porn with (some) Plot, No use of y/n, Titfucking, Medical Inaccuracies, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/Sub

AO3 LINK

notes: get ready for day two! there are some semi medical-inaccuracies in todays fic, remember that this is no medical advice. as always, feel free to comment if you enjoyed it :)

_______________________________

Dieter had only been in Quarantine for a week and a half when the call came.

“Babe, please, you don't understand, I need you here.”

He had begged and begged and begged until you had agreed to come and join him in his bubble. You had already had a suspicion of what it was he wanted but you also knew that he tended to get quite lonely and eventually reckless if left by himself for too long.

So, after long discussions with the studio, you managed to somehow talk them into making travel arrangements. A mere two hours later, you had thrown some clothes into a bag, hopped onto a practically empty plane and were bound for England.

The day had been exhausting, but when you arrived the staff were already waiting, giving you a check-in at the health tent and making sure you underwent the dreaded tests and general health examination. It had been part of the agreement for you to be allowed to join Dieter so you didn't complain, just sitting through it and stifling your yawns best you could.

Just when you felt like you really might pass out, someone finally led you into the large manor, showing you the way to the room Dieter had already been occupying for a week.

The heavy door has barely shut behind you when you see him. He is in his wrinkled pajama bottoms and a fuzzy, worn-out robe the color of dirt. He's laying on the floor, huddled against the edge of the sofa, his hand absentmindedly pulling at the carpet beneath him. His gaze seems different, empty and you sigh a little. You had half expected him to jump you the second you walked through the door, but now it seems as if his begging had, at least not solely, come from sex withdrawal. You slowly walk over to him, approaching him like a wounded, scared animal and dropping your bags onto an ottoman as you pass it. He watches your steps, his head bowed so that you can't make out his face, unsure if he's delighted to see you or not. Dieter isn't sure if you’re even real.

Slowly, your hands find his hair and start massaging his head. A small breath of relief escapes your lips as you watch him visibly relax under your touch, his shoulders lowering and his breathing returning to a normal, steady rhythm. He pushes himself closer, closing his arms around your legs and you pull him in as well, your hands remaining in his hair as his head settles against your outer thigh. “I'm here, baby.” You whisper as you look down at the messy bundle of hair that belongs to your boyfriend. As you watch, it moves up and down a bit as he nods, “I missed you.”

Your grip tightens a bit as you sigh, “I know, but I'm here now.”

You stay like that for a while, entangled in this weird position, neither of you wanting to break the embrace. Eventually, Dieter shifts a bit, his head moving around your thigh until his face is pressing into your crotch and you can feel his nose through the fabric of your pants.

“I missed you.” He whispers again but it sounds different now, slightly more teasing, like he's talking to your core instead of your head.

“Oh, I bet you missed her too, alright.” You tease gently but immediately regret it when Dieter looks up at you. He genuinely looks desperate.

“Come on, let's get you cleaned up. You smell.”

With a small grumble, Dieter lets you help him to his feet and lead him into the bathroom. You try to hurry up, feeling your own body and mind becoming more tired with each passing second. The jet lag is catching up to you and all you want to do is sleep. Still, you pepper Dieter's body with small kisses of encouragement as you help him brush his teeth, rinse down in the shower and put on some semi-fresh clothes.

Dieter lets you take the lead - but when you try and throw his pajama bottoms into the hamper, he fights to keep at least those until you reluctantly give in, making a mental note to throw them into the laundry tomorrow.

Your own pajamas are somewhere in the huge suitcase you have dragged across several airports today and, not caring to search through all of it, you simply stay in the underwear set you were wearing under your travel outfit. It's rather simple, just ribbed cotton panties and a matching bralette.

Still, Dieter's gaze lingers on the way it hugs your curves as you lead him to the bed, plopping down with a sigh of relief. He joins you, immediately running his hands over your body and leaning down to press a small kiss to your head. Your eyes are already closed and you pull him in, just enjoying the feeling of his body next to yours.

Sleep is on your mind. But clearly not on Dieters.

His hands roam further and you can feel your own blood rushing towards your middle, whimpering softly in protest as your head begs you to just sleep, sleep, sleep.

But you can't help it. Neither of you can. With your eyes still closed, you meet Dieter's lips eagerly, your body molding into him and surrendering to his touch. His hand wanders under your back, expertly opening your bra and in an instant, his mouth is gone from yours and instead working over your chest, kissing your erect nipples, sucking on them, lapping around them like a dog getting his favorite treat.

You giggle a bit and then you feel his hand wander further and you sigh, bringing your own hand down your body to join his. “ Baby-” You mumble and finally, you open your eyes again to look up at chocolate-brown eyes, “Have to tell you something.”

His movements stop abruptly at that and his head fully turns, giving you his undivided attention, ”What's wrong?”

“Not wrong. Just- I thought you'd be gone a while so I got my new IUD inserted. Yesterday.”

The puppy eyes were back, staring at you as you could practically see the gears turning in his head, ''So you can't-?”

You shake your head softly. ”No.” He looks so sad and you sigh, bringing your hand back to his hair, ”Just for tonight.”

Dieter nods and you can tell he is pretending not to care too much. He's not a very good actor.

You think for a moment before you lay back, nudging him so that he sits on your stomach.He does as instructed, following your movements, always eager and obeying even if he's not quite sure where this is going.His eyes go wide when you pull his cock out of the dirty pajama pants, stroking him a few times.

“Since we can't do that..” He’s still looking at you with slight confusion but you can feel how painfully hard he is and you decide to not let him wait any longer, “I want you to fuck my tits instead.”

His dick twitches at the words and his face lights up at the same moment. His lips are back on yours for a split moment, kissing you sloppily before whispering, ” I love you .”

You chuckle a little and take your hands off his cock, instead placing them on the sides of your boobs and squeezing them together, creating a makeshift hole between them that Dieter lines up with and slowly pushes into. He lets out a high-pitched whine and a few curses as his cock disappears between your breasts and you smile up at him, watching the way his face scrunches up in pleasure. He looks beautiful like this, all worries seemingly washed away.

You're not sure if it's because of how tired you are, but you don't mind him getting all the satisfaction tonight, content to just help him after the time apart. Dieter's weight shifts back and forth on you ever so slightly as he pulls out- just to plunge right back in, repeating the motion as he whimpers above you at the feeling.

You squeeze a little harder, making the passage around his cock tighter and the high-pitched moan that escapes him lets you know just how much he is enjoying this. Dieter leans forward, an arm on either side of your head to support himself as he pushes in faster and harder, all the while making absolutely unholy noises.

“That's it, baby.” You praise, “You like using my tits like that? Like them squeezing your dick?”

Dieters breath is going fast already and he nods eagerly, his voice high, ”Yeah, fuck! Yes-”

After a few more thrusts, his tip poking out at the top with each one, you feel his arms starting to shake and you know what's about to happen. With one last, hard thrust, pushing himself all the way between your breasts, his orgasm hits him and Dieter collapses on top of you. Cum spurts onto your neck and breasts and you hear him whimper in your ear as you squeeze your breasts around his sensitive cock, praising him all throughout his orgasm.

“So pretty when you come for me, Dieter.”

He rolls off of you after a few moments, still panting but clearly more happy and relaxed than he has been at any point during his solo quarantine. A happy sigh escapes his lips as he uses his large hand to sooth your reddened breasts, ”Did I tell you that I love you?”

You chuckle a little, turning towards him and kissing his cheek, “You don't have to. I know that, baby.”

"Hmm, I know. Just thought I'd remind you.” He whispers as he cuddles up against you, aware that neither of you have the energy left to clean yourselves up.

Sometimes, being with Dieter Bravo simply means falling asleep with sticky cum all over you. You can live with that, you think distantly, as your eyes fall shut and you feel Dieter beginning to snore next to you.

#pedro pascal #softpascalito #fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo #the bubble #dieter bravo/reader #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo/you #kinktober

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marisferasiop · 7 months

Text

Eyes on Me

Ao3 link

Word count: 4300

Pairing: afab reader/Dieter Bravo/Cecil (Revenge for Jolly!)

Rating: so explicit. MINORS DNI:: Clicking read more implies your consent!

Warnings: Chastity play, orgasm delay/denial, public use of sex toys under clothing, pegging, canon typical drugs/alcohol use (so... A lot, but not in graphic detail), oral, anal, piv, established relationship - no condoms, cum eating, degradation play, subby boys/domme afab reader, no use of y/n and no descriptors other than having hair, enthusiastic consent, hand jobs, cock warming, a tremendous amount of fluff

Summary: Dieter Bravo is up for his second Oscar after Cliff Beasts 6 (shockingly) propelled him back into the spotlight. He's (mostly) sober and in one of his first solid relationships of his life. All he needed was a firm and indulgent hand. With you and Cecil, he gets everything he could hope for.

Or: You and Cecil are the other two thirds of Dieter's very- public polycule. You take care of him before and after a red carpet event, in your own special way. Both of your sweet, easy boys only ever beg for more.

🎥🎬🍿🏆🤵🏻‍♂️💃🏽🤵🏻‍♂️🎥🎬🍿🏆🤵🏻‍♂️💃🏽🤵🏻‍♂️🎥🎬🍿🏆🤵🏻‍♂️💃🏽🤵🏻‍♂️

It's four hours until the Oscars and Lead Actor nominee Dieter Bravo, instead of being in a makeup chair getting dolled up by designer artists and enduring endless photoshoots, is suffering.

At least, to the untrained eye, he might be. You know different. You watch the tears break the waterline, dribbling into his ears, and smirk, petting Cecil for his hard work.

"Please-- please, mamí -- I need to cum," Dieter chokes, this stomach flexing hard, trying to drill his hips upward into Cecil's mouth. Cecil takes his whole length easily, his gag reflex long since trained out of him.

Dieter has you to thank for that, he knows. He's seen what you do with Cecil when he's across the world on a set and you're having fun at his house. You send videos and instructions on what he should do to himself when he watches them. When he's away, he watches endless loops of Cecil on a Sybian, deep throating a toy suctioned to the wall, or bound on all fours, his ass in the air while you toy him mercilessly, or on his back with no bondage but his own will, while you suck his cock slow and cruel, his whines and tears a symphony for Dieter to jerk off to in his trailer, alone.

Dieter just whines harder when Cecil moves with him, dutifully keeping the languid pace you set. He's fun, loves drugs and cutting loose and being goofy. Deiter adores him. But he's also a well-trained pet; nothing will make Cecil pause like the prospect of disappointing you.

You had both come into Dieter's life nine months ago, already together. He had met Cecil first, at a club where the guy was trying (and succeeding very well) at bumming drinks and hits off joints from the crowd at large. Dieter had watched him for a long moment that felt suspended in time (he had been high as fuck-- it could have been barely a minute) before he motioned the pretty young thing over. Cecil had been rumpled in jeans, boots, and a tee shirt, but his face was gorgeous, and Dieter had liked his energy. When he asked Cecil to come home with him, Cecil had straightened.

"My lady won't like being left out," he had said, which had struck Dieter square in the chest.

"You got a lady?" He'd asked. Cecil nodded, the motion loose from his heavy intoxication.

"I'm looking for a third. We do that now 'n then. You think I'm handsome?" Cecil had blinked up at Dieter with those huge soft eyes and Dieter had been helpless to nod.

"I do. Does she love you?"

"She loves me like no one ever has. I love her. She's so good to me, Dee," Cecil's eyes had gotten huge and wet, and Dieter only nodded. "She'd be really good to you."

"Can I be your third?"

Cecil had taken Dieter back to the apartment you and he were renting. He had been with you for over a year already, and was well-used to doing whatever you told him to do. Dieter had met plenty of dommes, women who he went to his knees for easily, but he had never met someone as easy to drop and open his mouth as Cecil. Hell, Dieter himself had never met someone he was more than willing to be compliant to than you.

That night, you had coaxed him easily to his knees. He's hardly been off them since.

Your soothing voice drags him back to the present.

"Now baby, we talked about this. Use your words correctly. Do you really need to? Are you going to use your word?" You ask, kneeling behind Cecil, your strap deep in his ass. He moans around Dieter's girth and rocks his hips back, asking for more, his cock hanging heavy between his legs. You drag your hand up his sweaty spine, into his hair, holding him down, his slick lips flush with Dieter's pubes.

"Agh! No! No, Mamí I can wait! Oh, fuck-- sssssCecil--!"

Dieter blinks down at Cecil and immediately drops his head back to stare unseeing at the ceiling. He is wholly unable to watch what's happening to him- he's on a hairtrigger as it is. The very sight of Cecil's glassy, unfocused eyes as he floats along in his subspace, red-faced and choking on Dieter's cock, his ass stuffed with yours, is nearly too much to bear.

He wants to grab so bad, but you told him not to touch- his fingers twist in the sheets by his head, instead. You watch him writhe, his jaw dropping and brow crumpling in distress as Cecil chokes hard, running out of oxygen, and you yank him up and off.

A long thick line of spit connects Cecil's swollen, slack lips to the tip of Dieter's throbbing cock. Dieter makes a strangled sound at the sight of it, his balls crawling up, but he bites his lip hard to distract himself from the imminent need to come. You slap him once, hard, on the inner thigh and he jolts with a heady whine.

"Roll over, Dee," you command, and he does, flopping to his front like a despondent ragdoll. Predicting your next command, he wriggles down and folds himself over the edge of the bed. "Good boy, Dieter. Cecil, eat his ass, baby. I need him nice and wet for his toy. Don't let him come, remember?"

"Yes, mamí," Cecil murmurs, twisting his hips back into yours mindlessly, and dives his face between Dieter's cheeks.

"Fuck," Dieter whines, reaching back to hold himself open. He desperately wants to fist his cock, to disobey, but he knows if he does, you won't follow through with the scene today. And shockingly, he wants that endgame more. You've managed to teach him how to relish in the glory of delayed gratification, and he's revelling in it now.

Cecil, for his part, absolutely devours him. Burying his face between someone's legs is a pleasure only second to burying his cock somewhere agreeable. After more than a year with you, he knows that he will get his pleasure, especially if he's good enough. You make him feel good, and now he has Dieter, too. It blows his mind, sometimes, that you had taken him in when he was on the verge of a mental break, cared for him, gave him something to work toward and have agency in. He loves you. There is nothing he won't do that you could possibly command. Your disappointment, to him, is tantamount to the apocalypse- unfathomable and terrifying. He does his best to make sure he never displeases you, and it rarely happens.

He adores the feel of your cock inside him, just sitting, rocking slowly and unevenly. It sends little frissions of electric pleasure up his spine. Cecil tips his hips up and back, spreads his knees another centimeter apart, his tongue buried as deep as he can get it in Dieter's clenching asshole. Instead of reaching down to fist his cock- you haven't said he could touch himself yet- he wraps his forearms under Dee's hips, his hands on the top rise of his narrow little ass, and pins him, rendering the much larger man wide open and immobile. He sucks on the rim and then, when Dieter clenches around him tellingly, slides his hand under, cinching his long fingers tight around the base of that fat cock, and stiffens his tongue to plunge back inside when Dieter inevitably bucks backward away from the pinch of pain.

He had been about to come.

"Fucking-- CECIL!" Dieter howls, writhing in his grip. You smack Dieter's ass, hard enough to leave a handprint and make the muscle wobble. Cecil pulls his tongue out and bites the red swell of flesh, making Dieter yelp indignantly.

"Don't you yell at my perfect boy, Deiter Bravo. He's doing what he was told to do; you are misbehaving. Don't think I can't see you trying to rub off on the sheets."

Dieter whines and goes limp, hissing when Cecil backs away at your command. You reach and drizzle lube over Cecil's long, pretty fingers and drop a kiss on his cheekbone. "Use your fingers, baby. Open him up real nice for our toy."

Cecil easily slips two spidery fingers up inside, avoiding Dieter's prostate, and scissors them. He lays his cheek on Dee's ass and watches the slide of his digits in and out, feeling something similar from behind on himself as you rock into him. When he slides a third finger inside, you gift him a firm slide over his own prostate, making his cock drool onto the wood floor between his knees. If you're not careful, you'll milk him dry before he can even come. And he's been too good a boy for that.

"Enough, baby. Hand me the plug, please," you croon, scritching through Cecil's hair. He pulls his fingers out, smirking when Dieter whines at the loss, and hands you the silicone plug Dieter will be wearing until you take it out tonight.

It's silicone and flexible, not overly large, but a constant reminder when he's moving, walking, or sitting. It's just short enough to tease his gland, or brush it when he sits. As long as he doesn't squirm, it's fine. Dieter whines when you seat it easily and pat the base, making him clench.

"Is it the vibrating one?" He asks, slurring his words like he's wasted.

"No, you asked for no surprises in case you have to go up and give a speech," you respond. He nods and slides down to sit on his heels in front of Cecil, letting the smaller man rut against him, seeking a kiss.

"Please, mamí," Cecil whines, bucking hard when Dieter sneaks a hand down to rub his whole wide palm over and then cup Cecil's purpling dick.

"Good boy, Cecil. Stand up with me now. Dee, hands by your feet. Put your head back on the bed." You grip Cecil's hips and haul him up, standing without pulling out the rainbow horse cock toy you have him impaled on. Dieter settles on his heels, his dick softening with lack of attention, and drops his head backward onto the mattress. "Open up."

Cecil's not allowed to touch his cock unless you tell him he can. He whimpers and waits, teary-eyed and drooling with desperation as you reach down and pump him a few times, notching his sticky-wet head between Dieter's lips.

"Fuck yourself 'til you cum, baby boy. You've been so good for me," you croon, petting him everywhere you can reach while he ruts forward into Dee's throat and back onto you. It takes mere seconds- he's far too wound up. Dieter swallows his load, licking and laving his tongue over Cecil's softening length to clean him of every drop while he shudders and whines at the sensitivity.

"Good boy, Cecil. I want you to take Dee to the bath and wash yourselves up. I'll call Bec," you pull your cock out of Cecil's ass and let him go, watching them stumble to the en suite while you dig for your cell and call his stylist and preferred on-retainer makeup and hair artist.

They are both due within the hour, and you are due an orgasm. You pick up the cock cage Dieter will need for the evening and saunter into the bathroom.

🎥🎬🍿🏆💃🏽🤵🏻‍♂️🤵🏻‍♂️🎥🎬🍿🏆🤵🏻‍♂️💃🏽🤵🏻‍♂️🎥🎬🍿🏆🤵🏻‍♂️💃🏽🤵🏻‍♂️

Dieter fucking hates red carpet events. He takes no interviews down the row, only holds still for a scant few photos, and disappears inside quickly to find his seat and start swiping drinks off waiters' trays. His head is swimming with his anxiety meds and the dregs of the joint he'd smoked on the way over.

He needs a drink. Something stronger than champers.

Minutes later, he spots you and Cecil being ushered in the audience entrance and led toward his reserved row. You look stunning in a gown he picked out-- barely more than a sash, completely open to the waist in the front and back, a gold band about the natural waist to cinch it- and nothing underneath but carefully placed tape and a stick-on filming guard over your pussy. He adjusts his weight in his seat and curses the pinch of the cage on his cock for the thousandth time.

Cecil looks incredibly out of place despite the tidy cut of the suit and how pretty he is. Bec had done wonders with his gorgeous black curls. His thick scruff and sharp cheekbones catch the lighting perfectly as he follows you like a puppy with his typical slouching gait. Dieter wonders idly how many edibles you let him have before you came. His eyes are glassy but he's behaving- it can't have been too many. He wonders if you have more in that tiny clutch, or squirreled away in Cecil's pockets.

"Would you like a drink miss? Sirs?"

You give the waiter a kind smile and set your clutch on the table. "A cherry Italian margarita for me, please. And two double Taliskers, neat." The waiter nods once and disappears. Dieter reaches up and takes your hand, urging you to sit. You each take a side, effectively blocking him from dealing with whoever's assigned to be his row partner.

Cecil drops a hand on his thigh and leaves it there, and you take Dieter's opposite hand, and soon (not soon enough) the lights dim and the show begins.

🎥🎬🍿🏆🤵🏻‍♂️💃🏽🤵🏻‍♂️🎥🎬🍿🏆🤵🏻‍♂️💃🏽🤵🏻‍♂️🎥🎬🍿🏆🤵🏻‍♂️💃🏽🤵🏻‍♂️

He's absolutely fucked.

There's cold metal in his fist and a dull ache in his pants, and his eyes can't focus on a thing. He can feel Cecil nearby; those long, pretty hands are on him. One of you has kept a hand on him all night. He likes it. He looks down at Cecil's long, slim hand on his ribs, overlapping the velvet lapel and the loose buttons there and tries to listen through the cacophony of music to what he's saying.

"Hmm?" He squints, dropping his forehead down to Cecil's shoulder. The man shouts and it's still nearly drowned out.

Something about you going out to call the car.

He doesn't remember who gave him the coke, or the last five drinks, but he knows he and Cecil have been partaking since he left the awards stage with his new trophy. You had a few drinks and mostly mingled, watching from the edges while they danced and got absolutely smashed.

He kisses Cecil messily on the dance floor, there in the middle of the after-party, and hears the sussurus of shutters clicking; the few paps allowed in getting their gotcha shots for the night.

Fuck 'em. He came out publicly as bi ages ago, and as poly with you two sometime in the last several months. It's nothing new. Maybe to the tabloids it's just juicy, considering he just won for a goddamn cowboy movie. He hasn't been seen being a menace or an embarrassment for months- they're thirsty.

Cecil kisses him back like a starved man, he always does. Dieter thrives on it, especially when everything is too loud and too much. You're both good at dampening the crowd, in different ways. He sucks on Cecil's tongue like a cock and pants into his open mouth, begging to go home, to come.

"I wanna fuck her," Dieter whines, his legs shaking when Cecil grins against his mouth and slots a thigh between his legs. The pressure on his heavy balls, his caged cock, is unbearable. The toy in his ass is starting to chafe, which is what prompted you to go get the car. He's remembering now.

"She's probably waiting on us now, c'mon," Cecil pants. He takes Dieter's hand and leads him through the press of the crowd toward the doors. He swipes a bottle of liquor off a tray and knocks back two drinks from their table (not theirs- some other actor's remains). They frot again in the elevator down from the rooftop, with Cecil against the wall, utterly soft and moaning encouragingly while Dieter pins him with his bigger frame and holds his face. There are other people in here, Dieter thinks passively, but he couldn't care less. He won, and he's about to take two people home he cares about. He's high and drunk, and happy. It's a nice change of pace from his usual lonely depressive benders.

The doors open, and suddenly they're in an absolute swarm of paps crowded into the lobby.

Dieter squints against the complete wall of flashing lights and slides his dark glasses up his nose. He clutches his Oscar tighter and pulls Cecil behind him, walking the harrowing path out to the relative safety of the covered garage.

You're leaning on a guardrail there, talking to someone on your phone. You smile at both of them and wave them over. For as stoned and drunk as he is, Cecil is the more steady on his feet. He leads Dieter over to you in a mostly straight line and you let him fold into your chest.

"Have you had fun, baby?" You ask, carding through his gelled, sweaty, tacky hair. He nods and fumbles for your skin, wanting you closer.

"'s a good party," he slurs, and you huff a laugh of agreement into his shoulder. The car pulls up behind him and you three pile in.

Dieter watches LA speed by outside the tinted windows, nursing the bottle of tequila Cecil had swiped. They trade it back and forth. He wants you to rub him off, but he knows you'll make him wait to come til you get home. Even if you start now, he'll have no relief for ages. If he's patient, a trait you've taught him well, he'll get everything he wants and more.

He wants to explode into a billion pieces and then those pieces dissolve, to be nothing for a while. To be held in yours and Cecil's hands, and everything is quiet and nothing at all is expected of him.

"Cecil, baby," you say, and he lolls his head over to hum at you in question. Dieter blinks and takes the bottle back when you beckon the younger man across the limo's width with a crook of your finger.

"Hasn't Dieter been such a good boy tonight, baby?"

"Hmm. Yes, mamí. He has. Won a pretty award and made his nice speech. Shared all his friends and booze and drugs with us. He wants to fuck you," Cecil says bluntly. He can't lie to you for shit. Anything that's told to him is told to you, even if it's nothing.

Dieter swallows and looks at you.

"Does he?" You cup Cecil under his chin and make him kneel between your knees on the floor of the limo. He goes easy. Dieter feels his cock protesting the snug cage again and winces.

"We'll be home in ten minutes, baby. He wants to bend me over the second we get in the door, doesn't he?" You urge Cecil to turn and sit on the ledge of the seat between your thighs. You reach around him and open his trousers. Dieter's eyes are riveted on your hands.

"Yeah mamí, he does. Wants to fuck you so bad, he's gonna come too soon. He's gonna wanna go twice. Oh, shit," he gasps, hands curling on the outsides of your thighs. He keeps his dark eyes on dieter, enjoying being put on display.

Cecil is simple- you both think he's pretty, and you care for him, and he wants for nothing, so he likes to be what you want- a toy. He only ruts a little into the loose curl of your fist and your other hand comes up under his chin, pulling him back against you. The back of his head goes over your shoulder; he's pulled taut against you and you're stroking him to fullness.

"Keep your hands away, baby. I don't need those. If he's gonna fuck me, we gotta take care of you, right? You've been a good boy, too. You kept our pretty boy safe tonight, kept your hands on him. Made sure no one gave him anything nasty, right? What all did you have baby?"

Cecil shudders when you pull him out of his trousers. You watch Dieter, his eyes like glinting black gems in the passing streetlights. He is about to snap. You can see him adjusting his weight on the seat very minutely.

"Dieter. Come sit across from us. Straight on your ass, hands on your thighs," you command, and he nearly falls over in his scramble to comply. "Cecil?"

"We had lots of drinks, mamí. Mostly weed. A few lines of coke. Not much. Mos- ahhh-- mostly weed."

"Thank you baby. Such a good boy. Isn't he, Dieter?" You ask. Dieter blinks at you owlishly and nods. "Tell him, sweetheart."

"You're so good Cecil. So pretty. Such a good boy. Kept me safe, from them, and myself."

Cecil whines and nods, desperately pleased. He loves being praised so thoroughly. You tighten your fist around him and start stripping it hard, coaxing a quick and brutal orgasm out. You've only got a few minutes left.

His hands scrabble at the backs of your knees. Dieter watches your hand, panting, wanting to cup himself. Mindlessly, he does, and you stop, your hand tight around Cecil's base. He whines pathetically and thrusts his hips up, chasing friction. Your hand under his jaw tightens and Cecil sags against you, leaning into it.

"Are you allowed to touch my cock, Dieter?" You ask pointedly, and he gulps. He's been so good, he doesn't want to ruin his reward for a thoughtless gesture. He slides his hand away under your pinning glare, and you begin again.

This time, Cecil is already precariously on the edge. He comes with a sharp gasp as you're entering Dieter's neighborhood. He doesn't even hesitate when you hold your hand up, licking it clean while he comes down.

He sucks on your fingers and stares back at Dieter while the driver navigates the Hollywood hills. "I wanna kiss you," Dieter whines, and you smile.

"Come here then, sweetheart," you croon, and he folds forward on his knees, sandwiching Cecil tight between your chests as he dives over his shoulder and claims your mouth.

When the car parks, Dieter practically throws himself out of it, beelining for the door. You get out and thank the driver and help Cecil do up his pants (he's already mostly asleep) and follow at a more sedate pace. You find him in the bedroom, already naked and kneeling by the bed, practically vibrating. Cecil walks straight to the couch, kicks his pants off, and passes out on his front. You snort at him and turn back to Dieter.

"Come help me get these stickies off, sweetheart." You slink out of the completely seamless dress and are left in nothing but the pasties. He scrambles forward and gently picks the edges off one by one, peeling carefully on your tender flesh while you play with his hair. The long, thin silver chain with the key to his cock cage ends between your breasts in a tiny locket. He kisses over the red patches left behind by the stickers over your nipples and mound, and nuzzles the locket, whining faintly.

His eyes are so wide and soft and dark you could easily get lost in them. "Please, mamí."

You smile indulgently at him and nod. "Okay, sweet thing. Go get a towel and get on the bed."

He darts into the bathroom and comes back, eager. You take the key out of your locket and snick the tiny padlock open. When you pull the plastic sleeve off, he hisses as his cock immediately starts to inflate.

"Eager boy. What do you want to do to me, sweet thing?"

You pull the ring off from around him and cup his balls, making him flinch again. "I want you on all fours. Wanna hold your tits and kiss your neck while I fuck you til you come. Wanna come inside, and sleep there."

Your eyebrows raise at the thought he put into it. You glance at the Oscar glinting on the little table beside the bed. Best Lead Actor in a Drama Film, it says. Underneath, added tonight during the party: Dieter Bravo.

"I want that too, sweetheart. Give it to me?" You blink up at him, and he folds forward, melting over you.

He wants the plug out, and you remove it. After, he licks you til you're dripping and slides inside, basking for a long moment before draping his weight down and holding you tightly to all of him.

Dieter loves connection; skin contact. For all that he's never been alone for more than a day, LA is a lonely place. The spotlight is cold.

You're warm. Cecil is warm.

Dieter barely lasts ten minutes in the end. He tears up and clutches at you and empties himself, swirling fingers over your clit until you pulse around his tender, aching length inside. You let him stay there, and he wants to weep.

The comedown is hard. He hasn't been this intoxicated in a long time, now.

The loneliness has abated. You and Cecil give him everything he doesn't have already. He has money, fame, connections, too much attention, friends who want things and friends who want clout. Two Oscars.

He finally feels like he's won.

Cecil snores loudly across the room. Dieter plays with the ends of your hair until he too, drops off. They're both going to feel like absolute dog shit tomorrow. You text the personal chef who comes on Sundays to meal prep and ask for a tray of water and breakfast to be left outside, not expecting a response. She gives none. You listen to them snore for a long moment in the dark, simply being, and finally drift off.

#dieter bravo #the bubble #Cecil #revenge for jolly #pedro pascal characters #oscar isaac characters #reader insert #dieter/ Cecil/ you #dieter bravo/reader #dieter bravo / you #cecil / reader #cecil /you #boys whimpering #boys kissing #subby dieter #subby cecil #smut #minors dni

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theredwritingwitch · 1 year

Text

How to Fuck Your Sister’s “True Love”

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x fem!reader

Summary: After catching your sister going backwards cowgirl on your fiancée, you didn’t think the holiday season couldn’t get any worse, but it could get a thousand times better: especially if you revenge fucked your sister’s “True Love.” Dieter was all too happy to comply!

Word Count: 8.8

Warnings: Cursing, lots of fucks so NSFW, oral (female receiving), fingering, biting, butt plugs, virginial sex (p in v), creampie, unprotected sex, infidelity (but not form reader or Dieter)

Ratings: E 18+

Author’s Note: Loosely based off of one of the reddit AITA posts

Step One: To Be Fucked Over

He had always told you that he preferred to be on top. He preferred to be the same each time. He liked it quick and simple, like everything in his life. But that seemed to turn around when you walked in on your now ex-fiancé mounted by your own sister. You screamed and sobbed as you saw her ass bounce up and down against his length just as your ex laid back with his hands tied to the bedpost. His face showed blissed out euphoria even as you slammed the door behind you, not even paying attention to the yelling and cursing of your sister falling off your ex’s dick.

Even when you drove away, listening to the ringing and beeping of your phone sound off, you didn’t bother to look back at your traitorous family. You didn’t even comprehend how you got to your friend’s home or how a bottle of wine and a carton of ice cream were both emptied. The giant crack on your phone was unexplainable when you woke up wrecked and depressed the next day. A quick look at yourself in the mirror rewarded you with what you had suspected you looked like: unruly hair pointing every which way, the shine of drool in the corner of your mouth, dark circles under your eyes, and a nice stain of ice cream and wine mixed together on your shirt.

You didn’t bother to look at your phone, knowing full well it was probably blown up with gossip, exclusives, and bullshit about your breakup. News always did seem to travel fast in the entertainment industry. Soon, if not already, the world would know about a famous actress’ latest flop in her love life and all the juicy gossip of her family’s secret life! You rolled your eyes, knowing how the tabloids would spin this tale.

If only your ex could see you now, he would be begging to take you back, you joked to yourself.

Not that you would want him back, if there was one thing your remembered from the day before, other than the obvious fuck, is that it was agreed between you and your friend that you were under no circumstance going back to that cheating ass ex and betraying loveless sister. They could fuck off for all you cared about, but hopefully not each other anymore because that would hurt more. Still disheveled and disheartened from the long night, your call to your parents was less than ideal; swearing they would have a stern talk to your sister. You fully knew that it would lead up to a whole lot of nothing, as it always did.

But the disappointment led to a new idea. Over a healthy dose of over easy eggs and fried potatoes, you and your friend hatched a plan. One that required you to be completely empty of all your fucks. The two of you asked yourselves: who does your sister love? Who would she be pissed off if you fucked in bed? Who was actually an easy question to answer as you remembered your sister rambling on and on about her “One True Love.” She had each one of his movies downloaded and on dvd. Your sister had even waited long hours and nearly got run over by a car in order to get his autograph (which she never did get.) There were many moments you had caught her editing photos of him on her phone.

Your mind was made up quickly, you needed to fuck Dieter Bravo.

The plan would go as follows: Meet Dieter at the upcoming benefit gala. Introduce yourself, and convey to him the idea of you two fucking. He’ll say yes, cause Dieter is known to say yes to outlandish things, and then the two of you will have paparazzi taking pictures of your date. Then the final piece of the puzzle will be an exclusive pic of you and Dieter together, packaged away as a Christmas present to your sister.

The invite to the gala would be easy to score on short notice, your latest film was reaching high on all charts and well with many critics, the gala would beg you to attend. Convincing Dieter to join you would be easy, the man attracted gossip and the wild extravagant. Getting him alone probably wouldn’t be all too hard, lately Dieter’s popularity had de-escalated after the Cliff Beast incident. Convincing him to score pictures with the paparazzi might be hard, no one likes being followed. But with the promise of sex you were sure would convince him to overlook the exposer. It could work, you could hear your sister’s cries of disappearing and heartbreak hitting you now. Maybe it would heal your own heart from the betrayal, but it would certainly make you happy, for the time being.

Yes, no matter now or later, the idea of revenge was set, now all you had to do was to spring the agreement on one Dieter Bravo.

Step Two: Fucked In The Head

Dieter wished he was engulfed in his robe. He wished he was drowning in kit kats or snoozing in his bed. Hell, he even wished he was high and that’s something he hadn’t thought about in a long time since he went to rehab after Cliff Beasts. Anything would be better than schmoozing his way around a benefit gala. This place was full of golden stars, swirling snowflakes, and cascading holiday lights. The gala was in full holiday swing. It was even full of people he didn’t care for and people who didn’t care for him. The people to his left were all the clique comic book actors, who were all well paid and would donate well to the benefit, but were a little too serious about their roles. To his right were the Oscar chasing actors, brimming with parental issues, drug usage, and able to cry on demand. Ahead of him; producers waiting for their opportunity to gloat about their latest projects, directors running circles away from said producers, and executives jumping in to cut off the producers and directors with their own grand pyramid scheme plans. On the outskirts was Dieter, snacking on the kit kat he hid in his pockets before leaving his house.

There were so many places he would rather be, with so many different people. Although now that he thought about it, there weren’t a lot of people who wanted to be near him. Even after rehab his reputation was shit. People didn’t like the messed up, druggie disaster and they currently didn’t like the boring, old man disaster that he was now. Which is why Anita left him. She needed someone who actually had the same interests as her. His passion for art was weird. Even obsession with his homey comforts was too gross and American for her taste. But Dieter didn’t understand what was gross about lounging in robes and eating kit kats all day.

Dieter roamed his way around the crowds, scoping out drinks or appetizers that came his way. It wasn’t long into the evening that his attention was caught on one singular person who was snaking their way through the crowd straight to him. He watched one of Hollywood's top starlets waltz right up to him in one of the curviest, and sexiest little black dresses he had ever seen. You smiled a rather dopey yet heartfelt smile to him and handed him a kit kat with a definite Japanese label.

“Your agent told me you like kit kats, and I had one of these bad boys left from the last time I was in Japan.”

He looked over the Japanese packaging with awe and then looked back at you, “Thanks, babe, sorry that I have to ask, but are we…”

You waited for him to end his sentence.

“Well maybe were we…”

Your brow lifted as you continued to wait.

“Have we ever…” Dieter drew a finger between the two of you.

“Fucked? No but we should.” You said it so blatantly that Dieter coughed and nearly dropped his present. Past him would be joyful in your straight forward attitude, current Dieter is well he’s still happy about it but also trepid about your prowess to just be able to demand sex right off the bat. Then again, he’s also turned on.

“Christ honey, that’s not actually what I was asking. Normally people finish the sentence for me with whatever movie they’ve done with me. Although there have been plenty of people in the past who end the sentence with where we’ve done the deed before…now that I think of it.” Dieter mumbled to himself as he walked to a further corner of the room, you followed closely to his steps.

“Listen, I’ve got a bit of a weird question for you.”

“As if it isn’t weird already…” Dieter eyed you. “But I do like weird.”

“Then maybe you’ll like my proposal. I need you to sleep with me,” you paused as Dieter’s eyes nearly sprang out of his head. “And then I need some sort of proof that we were together.”

Dieter was frozen on the spot as his fingers fumbled to opening the kit kat. Here in front of him was one of Hollywood’s A-list actors looking for a hook-up. As well as porn for later? His mind wasn’t comprehending what was being asked of him right now, but he knew his agent wasn’t going to be happy. But there was part of Dieter’s old self that was basking in the heat of the moment…potential moment that is.

“Say that again.”

You sighed, “Let me explain from the top. I caught my sister and ex-fiancé fucking in my bed after I got home early from a photo shoot. Obviously I’m not thrilled by the news that’s roaming all the tabloids, so simply put, I want pay-back and that starts with you.

“Why me?” Dieter was intrigued now.

“She’s always said that you were her one true love, and she obviously fucked my one true love, or who I thought was my love…”

“And now you want to be fucked by her love,” Dieter nodded. “Shit, that’s petty.”

“Actually the petty part comes in the form of pictures being sent to her as a Christmas present.”

“Shit,” Dieter laughed. You were definitely fucked over and from the looks of your straining shoulders and tapping shoes, you needed to be fucked as well. The old Dieter would have jumped on this plan without a thought. But he was supposed to be better now…

“I’ve got a thought.” You leaned in as he continued, “I say yes to this fuckery, but we do this whole thing my way.”

You frowned, this was supposed to be easy. He was supposed to be easy.

“Now I don’t mean in the bedroom, I’m all for consent and communication there babe. But if I do this, I’m wining and dining you first. We do this damn thing right.”

You looked stunned at Dieter as he spoke of nice restaurants in his area that had good food and atmosphere. This wasn’t what you had expected when your friend had proposed this ridiculous idea. Actually, you expected to be running to his house by now, not talking when your schedule was open for date nights.

“So maybe on the first date, we’ll do the normal movie and restaurant? Then date two, we could do a picnic or some evening in the park shit. And last date, cause it’s the third date right? That’s when we fuck? Maybe a concert or museum? I like painting. Would you go to a couple’s painting class?”

You mumbled a “sure” to the pondering actor as he continued on and on about romantic and fun date ideas. Taking your hand and settling it on the croak of his arm, he led you around the party, introducing you to the idea of home made kit kat desserts that he wanted to try out maybe after you two had fucked. You limply nodded and followed as the man continued to befuddle you into what would be a series of actually really nice and decent first dates. You really couldn’t remember the last time you had been on a date.

Step Three: No Fucks On The First Date

It was Dieter’s idea. Plenty of photo opportunities would show up, he had said. On that he was definitely right, the day at the flea market was packed full of people. Multiple venders laid out their stalls to groups of people wandering through the thorofare. The two of you wandered down the rows past used and refurbished furniture, handmade jewelry, vinyl records, thrift clothes, and various pieces of art. Perusing past the stalls, you caught whispers of celebrity sightings from people passing by. Dieter said that the two of you would get a lot of attention, he was certainly right.

You watched as the man traded stories with vendors and swapped cash for some records. The two of you looked over refurbished mid-century furniture that he thought might complete his bedroom set. He slung his arm over your shoulders after he bought you a strawberry smoothie at one of the food trucks parked nearby. He even bought you some handmade clay earrings that matched your sundress. Under the warm dazzling sun, it didn’t take long for you to lean into Dieter. You couldn’t help but smile and giggle because you were actually enjoying this date. The man had even picked you up and gifted you a bundle of flowers as soon as you got to the market.

“It’ll look damn cute in the photos to have a bunch of tulips sticking out of your bag, but also they match your eyes,” he had told you as he grabbed one flower from the bundle and placed it behind your ear.

He was right again, the paparazzi photos would look great, but you did also hide your face when he announced that the flowers matched your eyes. Honestly you wondered if he had done this before. The grapevine had always told you that Dieter Bravo wasn’t a man you could date, he was a man that could fuck and would fuck just about anyone. Your agent had always stirred you clear from him or others like him, to say it simply, she wouldn’t be too happy that you were about to be seen with this man. The rumors would start to swirl soon enough, if not already.

You eyed the cameras from behind your sunglasses as they hid behind booths and vendors. This is just the start as your arm winded around Dieter’s waste and your hand wrapped around his hand on your shoulder. The two of you had already taken a few photos with fans and had loaded up your bags with trinkets from several stalls. Your belly was full from lunch at one of the food trucks. Even as the day was meant to be just a stunt, you were actually having a great time. And Dieter for his part, looked like he was having a good time as well.

An easy smile graced his face every time the two of you fell into a sweet embrace of sorts. He leaned an arm over your shoulders or around your waist. You settled your chin on him as you watched him sort through bins of records. His fingers would skim over your figure as he helped you try on new jackets at a clothing thrifter. He couldn’t stop grabbing you when the walkway would get crowded; holding your hand, tugging at your dress, or holding your hips as you led the way. Dieter was never too far away from you, always within reach.

It wasn’t till near the end of the evening sun, when the two of you found a quiet spot at a local restaurant for dinner, that the conversation opened up to the real reason behind the first date. You had enjoyed the conversation earlier, Dieter educated you on different local artists, while you rummaged through bins of old photographs worth $0.25 each. You told Dieter how you made up stories to the old photos, piecing them together as a puzzle. He smiled brightly as you told him about your collection of old photos that you wanted to write stories from and smiled at him when he explained the series of paintings he had created for a recent book he read.

But now after a day of getting to know each other, Dieter wanted something a bit deeper.

“So this sister of yours is a real bitch huh?”

You laughed and gasped as your drink almost went through your nose at Dieter’s comment. Composing yourself as he held back his own chuckle, you eyed the man up and down.

“You think? Or is fucking your sibling’s fiancé normal?”

“I’ve personally never done that, but I don’t have any siblings so…”

“Well I can tell you from my experience, it is not fun. Not one damn bit.”

Dieter studied you as you took a too large bite out of your food, stuffing your face as a solid crease developed on your forehead. The day had gone extremely well, in Dieter’s opinion. He had fun, you had fun, and he was sure the photos of the two of you together were circulating the socials by now. But looking over you now, Dieter was upset with himself for bringing up your sibling and ex. You looked so carefree and happy, a million times more happy than you did the night of the benefit where he first met you. Truthfully he didn’t know you well, but he didn’t want you to be mad. He truly wanted you back to that carefree vibe you had just a minute ago.

“I haven’t talked to her or him since I found them together. I’ve blocked both of them on my cell. They kept sending these stupid texts about how it wasn’t what it looked like it was.”

“Oh cause that line always works,” Dieter munched down on his own food.

“I know, I don’t know what else they would be doing completely naked with each other in my bed.”

“Did you burn the bed? I heard that burning things makes people feel better.”

“I threw it out and bought a new one.” You pushed your food around in thought, “I should have burnt it.”

“Honey, I’ll buy you a used one to burn if you want?” Dieter raised his eyebrows in question, making you laugh. “Seriously, we buy a mattress, take it to your sister's front yard, and set it on fire. Good reminder for your sister that she’s trash.”

“That’s not a horrible idea, though I like the idea of secrecy more. Something that will really get under her skin as she got under mine,” you drummed your fingers to the table as you thought back over this proposition with Dieter.

“Which is why she’s getting the best Chrsitmas present under the tree…” Dieter finished for you.

You jumped as you didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, “It can be us cuddling, or us kissing, or something simple like…” You didn’t want Dieter to think you thought less of him, that he was just a tool for revenge, if anything this first date proved to you that Dieter wasn’t what you expected.

“My dick pic!” Dieter supplied.

“Dieter no!” you laughed and swatted at him. “We don’t need to go that far.”

“You think a dick pic is too far, but we’re still fucking right?”

“Yes… well actually… I mean… we can…only if you…” you stumbled over your words as you stirred your straw in your drink.

Dieter placed his hand on yours, “It’s a good plan, I like it, we should stick with it.”

“Yeah?” you made eye contact with him.

“Yeah,” he said so quickly but then held a finger up to you, “After the third date of course. No fucking on the first date.”

“Of course,” you agreed as you took his hand and placed a kiss on his warm palm.

Step Four: A Close Call To Fucking

Dieter had felt lonely for some time. Even when he was in a relationship, he was still lonely. In all the beds he had shared, and all the drugs he had gone through, he had felt nothing but empty. The paintings he created, the stories participated in, and the events he attended; alone, in a group, or with someone on his arm; he felt abandoned and hollow.

But lately, that had all changed. Even if the circumstances weren’t ideal, Dieter felt joyful. The lonely actor actually looked forward to the days ahead. The last couple of days he was waking up and feeling quite excited and rejuvenated to work. He was working harder at his auditions and he found himself pouring more and more into his painting, a hobby that he was neglecting since he went off to rehab and quit drugs. Even his agent noticed the difference and welcomed the change in attitude, who then encouraged the actor to take you out on a second date as soon as possible. Dieter knew this whole dating scenario only made him look better in the eyes of social media and producers, while potentially making you look bad, but he had to admit to himself that he was having a lot of fun on this slippery slope.

It had been such a long time since Dieter had gone on a real date, and really, he didn't want these dates to stop. He knew they would, that was the deal. but Dieter was reconsidering this “deal.” Maybe, just maybe, the man could work just a bit harder and make this situation even better, or rather even longer than just a three date rule. He had ideas, and step one was to take you on the next date…

Which brought you two to one of Dieter’s favorite art galleries. It was owned by a friend of his, and he was promised a private night at the gallery. No strangers, no cameras, no posing. It would just be the two of you in your own little world, for a couple of hours at least until it was time to get to the dinner that he reserved for the cameras to see.

For now the two of you walked hand in and through the gallery. He was glad you didn’t flinch or put up a fight when he grabbed your hand, there wasn’t a need for the two of you to portray your relationship as you were all alone in the gallery. Yet Dieter was basking in the warm glow he felt from you by his side. He loved the gentle way your hand held his and the sweet way you looked at him. Even when he went on and on about different paintings, different mediums, or different techniques used in the art. You didn’t seem to mind his rants, just as he didn’t mind your questions. The two of you were speaking so fluently and quietly to each other, your hold on each other felt so in sync. Even the silence was lovely in the space between the two of you. There were even moments Dieter caught you staring at him as he noticed your reflection in some of the glass displays. He wondered if you noticed that he did it to you as well.

The topping of the gallery was at the end. Dieter remembered how you expressed your desire to learn how to paint or draw. Now he could easily teach you how to paint, that was his favorite medium after all. But Dieter had a better idea, one he got from one of his favorite movies.

In one of the back rooms of the gallery, you and Dieter walked up to a pair of stools and pottery wheels. Your eyes lit as you quickly jumped to the pile of clay. Dieter followed you quickly as he laughed at your squeal. Now he had only taken a few pottery classes himself but he was convinced, by himself, that he would be able to create a bowl or two. At the very least he could make something that the two of you could paint later on.

It didn’t take any time at all for the two of you to screw up bowl after bowl. Even if you followed Dieter’s advice and instructions to the letter, your clay creation always seemed to collapse. Luckily to your delight, and to Dieter’s, you always laughed the failure off. The smile on your face didn’t seem to disappear or fade as the night went on, even when you brought up the reason for your gettogether.

“Why did you say yes?” your fingers traced the lines of Dieter’s hand as you stared back at him.

Dieter had a feeling this question was coming. Through all the laughter and smiles, this was something you probably had been thinking about since the first date.

“I’ve fucked up a lot in the past. Fucked myself, fucked others.” Dieter paused as he watched the wheel spin his limping clay creation. “You can probably guess I’ve fucked people who were definitely in relationships, some were open some were definitely closed.”

You nodded, of course you had heard the gossip, that was part of why you walked up to him. There was also a part of you that almost didn’t want to be seen with him because of it, but you were desperate. Which was fine by your friend, desperate times call for desperate measures after all. But your agent was not happy with the new development in your life, cheaters don’t do right by more cheaters, she had said. And this would make you look terrible. Looking back on your agent's advice, you were sure she was right, but this wasn’t that situation.

Certainly Dieter didn’t fit the persona that you had developed through your career, but sometimes you need to step out of your own shadow. You fully knew this wasn’t the time for a lifestyle change. No this wasn’t that, not for you it seemed. This was just revenge…right? Fucking your sister over, that’s what this was all about. That’s what your friend said, that’s what you said to your agent, but that wasn’t what you were telling yourself anymore.

Your finger ran up and down the clay bowl as it swirled around and around. Dieter had restarted his bowl again, jumping back into his explanation.

“I’m an idiot on so many different levels, but I think I’ve got it in my dumbass head how shitty I was. There’s a lot of things I shouldn’t have done, and this doesn’t make up for all those mistakes but maybe it’ll help you somehow.” Dieter paused again as he ran his finger in a wave pattern into the clay. “I probably still be fucked up after this though.”

You watched the top of Dieter’s bowl swirl in uneven waves and smiled up at him as your own bowl started to flop to one side, “I like your kind of fucked up though.”

Dieter took his hand away from his clay and looked back at you, “Really? You don’t think I’m a waste or a piece of shit or an idiot?”

“We’re all idiots, Dieter. Look at myself. The first words I said to you were to fuck me. I’m the real mess in this situation. I mean who the hell does that? Loses their fiancé and sister all in the same day to just then go and begged to be fucked by a stranger.”

“I mean it’s not the first time I’ve had someone ask me for sex without anything else being said. Not so weird to me.” Dieter looked on as you smashed your clay into a pile again. “You’re not messed up, your sister and ex are, but not you.”

“This coming from Dieter Bravo, king of the tabloids.”

“King of bullshit,” Dieter chuckled. He leaned over to you and whispered, “Wanna be my queen?”

You laughed and leaned away from the wheel, “Hell yes! Only if you're fine with being with someone so emotionless and unromantic.”

Dieter’s brows furrowed as he looked you up and down, “I’ve been watching you since we started this date and you’ve been laughing and smiling this whole time. I wouldn’t call you emotionless at all.” You inhaled and looked over at Dieter as he held his clay covered hands up and studied you. A large smile grew on his face as you saw the gears turn in his head. “And for the unromantic part,” Dieter stood and walked behind you where he sat down on part of your seat. You scouted up to give him space as his arms came around you and placed his hands on yours. Together your hands melted into the clay, sculpting together.

“They did this shit in Ghost, super fucking romantic right?” Dieter whispered into your ears as his stubble ran against your cheek.

You bit your lip as you adjusted yourself on the seat, moving against Dieter causing a huff to leave his mouth.

“Yeah this works,” you mumbled to yourself as well as Dieter.

A minute went by in silence as Dieter’s hands engulfed yours to the clay. The two of you shifted in your seat every once in a while. Dieter’s thighs encasing you just as his chest settled to your back, making you want to arch back into him. Between your small movements and caught up breaths, the two of you made a decent vase. Small marks from your nails ran through the clay as well as uneven strips from Dieter’s large fingers. You stopped the wheel from turning; the pair of you looked over your creation. Not perfect, but not bad. You straightened out to look over the vase as you leaned back into Dieter’s lap, letting out a soft gasp as Dieter grabbed hold of your hands and gasped your name into your ear.

“It’s not half bad but you know I think it’s time for our reservation.”

You felt Dieter quickly rise away from you, missing his warmth instantly. But he wasn’t quick enough to cover the bulge in his pants. Your own legs shifted and jittered as you stood as well and looked back to Dieter.

“No fucking on the second date,” you mocked as you quickly gave Dieter a kiss to his lips.

Dieter grabbed your hand and held it as he tugged you to the sink to clean up “Fuck.”

Step Five: Time To Fuck

He was wearing matching pajamas.

“You look so amazing, Dieter! That’s a way better outfit than mine,” you laughed as you entered his home.

Date number three was underway, the next step of your plan was in motion, the real clincher of the entire idea of dating Dieter was happening tonight…you were excited. and so was Dieter.

He had prepped all day, cleaning his space, cleaning himself, ordering food, and new clothes. The man was nervous, to say the least. Ok yeah, he knows he’s good at fucking, but it’s been awhile and this situation is different. It’s more than a Friday night orgy or a fling in a gala event restroom. This needed to be right for you’ you deserved it to be right. He thought just for this special occasion he could forgo the old and comfy bathrobe for some itchy yet crisp pajamas. It rubbed against his balls in all the wrong ways, but he really liked the little dogs depicted on them. He wanted to be cleaned up for you, but he felt weirdly professional in the matching pjs. He was longing to wear his boxers and bathrobe.

But that wasn’t the only place Dieter touched up, his house had been decorated at his best attempt. Lights roped around the railings of the stairs, a tree was thrown up in the corner of the living room, and wreaths were pinned throughout the house. Dieter wasn’t one to decorate for holidays, but his agent was a good sport to help out. He just wanted to be a little festive for you, but felt a little confused as he eyed the Santa hat that sat upon his Oscar over the fireplace.

“I’ve got a matching set if you wanna try it on?” Dieter deadpanned as he closed the door behind you.

“What? Really?”

“Nope, just joking, this is itchy as fuck. I wouldn’t want you to go through this hell.”

You laughed as you toyed with the top button of the shirt, “Well maybe you won’t have to wear the outfit for long, although I appreciate the effort.”

Dieter held your hand and placed a kiss to your fingers, he felt all of his nervous energy lift away as he finally held your hand again.

“Later, I’ve got a gift for you.” He tugged you to the dining room, where he had plates setup with candles and a fine bouquet of flowers placed in a vase that looked vaguely familiar. Dieter pointed his hands to the vase. “It’s our vase, the one we made on our last date. My friend fired it up in the kiln and I painted it.”

You walked closely to the table and inspected the vase, realizing he had painted it in some of your favorite colors, blending together in a vibrant display. He was a much better painter than clay molder.

“I love it, Dieter. it looks so gorgeous with the flowers.”

Dieter perked up and stoped fiddling with his hands, “Yeah?”

“Yes! No one has ever given me a handmade present before. It’s wonderful.”

“Well merry early Christmas, babe.” Dieter’s hands found their way to your hips as he turned you around as he planted his lips to yours.

The kiss was soft and gentle, just like Dieter’s hands as they gently squeezed you close to him. Your own hands stayed settled on his chest, feeling him inhale deeply through his nose. You hummed as you felt his tongue swipe at your lips, and huffed in amusement as you butt hit the chair behind you. Dieter pushed you slowly but you tapped at his chin and squeezed his hip, making him jump away in a giggle.

“Now who’s getting too ahead of the schedule,” you smiled at Dieter as he gently pulled you back into his arms.

“Couldn’t help it, been thinking about this for awhile now,” he whispered as he leaned his forehead to yours.

“Well you're not the only one who has a gift to give…” you announced as you pulled a box from your purse.

Dieter undid the bow and opened the box to find rows of Japanese kit kats lining the box. A soft sigh escaped Dieter’s mouth.

“I remembered how you scarfed down that last kit kat I gave you back at the gala when we met. I thought you would want more.”

“Fuck I love it babe,” Dieter mumbled in disbelief as he thumbed through the rows looking over the flavors. He pulled out a strawberries and cream kit kat, ripping it open and dividing the kit kat with you.

“Dessert before dinner,” you nodded your head to the empty plates.

Dieter smirked, “No, I’ll be having you after dinner.” His hand ran past your hip as he walked to the kitchen, returning quickly with a bag of take out from a local restaurant.

“I'm not a cook, but I know good cooks,” Dieter smiled as you took your spot at the table.

You were all too happy with the food selection, “When you brought up the idea of a stay at home date, I was a little confused, but I’m liking the idea more and more as the date goes on.”

“Good,” Dieter sat down next to you so his leg brushed against yours. He was certain of this idea himself, but was determined to make this comfortable as possible. “I wanted this to be just us, no extras, no cameras, no bullshit.”

“I’m glad, this is nice. All the other dates I’ve been on were all so pretentious and over-thought out.”

“Also since we’re home, when we get to fucking, we’re already alone so it’ll be easier to get going…” Dieter elbowed you. You laughed and swatted at the man who grinned away at his food.

“I take back the over-thought out part.”

“There’s been a lot of thinking on my part. Especially tonight.”

“Really? Like as in second thoughts? Cause if you are uncertain, we don’t have to do this. There’s no pressure, I don’t want you to feel pushed,” you rushed out the words as your hand seeked out Dieter’s thigh and squeezed.

But Dieter interrupted you from talking yourself out of the occasion, “No. You’re not pushing me. I’m not uncertain about a damn thing when it comes to you. I want this. I want to spend the night with you, to fuck you. And it’s not because you want revenge or I’m horny. Although that is part of it. But I want to spend time with you, to have you. I want you to have a good time, because you deserve to have a damn good time. I want to have not only sex with you tonight but also many nights after this.” Dieter paused as his hand cradled your face. His eyes searched your face and you watched as his mouth wobbled to form words, “Do you want to have sex with me? And potentially a couple of more times?”

Your hand ran up his arm and held his own to your face, “Yeah Dieter, I wanna have sex with you, now and many times after.”

It didn’t even take Dieter a heart beat as he sprung forward to crash his lips with yours. The gentleness he had showed you just moments ago was gone as he was bent on devouring you. He took in all your breath as he nipped and pushed into you. His tongue passed through your opening lips and collided with your own just as he lifted you from your chair and into his lap. His arms circled around you, one wrapped around your waist and the other hand buried into your hair. But what you were aware of the most was the growing bulge that was grinding against your leg, or maybe you were grinding against him.

Your own hand was buried in his wild chestnut hair as the other centered yourself to his broad shoulders. Dieter moaned into your mouth as you pulled lightly at his hair. Becoming desperate to rearrange yourself as you felt the heat in your core building up, you raised yourself up to straddle the lap of the man under you. You both moaned in unison as you lowered yourself down, rubbing your clothed heat against his growing bulge, causing him to buck up to you.

“Fuck baby, we need to…we really should…oh fuck,” Dieter franticly mumbled out words between kisses and his own dry humping. You got the message clear as day though.

“Bed, where’s the bed?”

Dieter tucked his hands under your ass and lifted you up as you yelped.

“Yeah yeah I know where that is,” he breathlessly said the words as his mind caught up to his body, finally clicking in to move his feet to his bedroom. It probably took longer than it should have, Dieter kept banging you into the walls as he carried you away. You giggled as he struggled to keep himself away from your marked up neck, but soon enough he led you to his plush bed. Bouncing you to the center, he climbed over you and attacked your neck, marking his way down the plunging neckline to your slightly exposed chest.

His hands racked up your shirt so he could nip, kiss, and suck at your skin. Creating a trail of marks up to your now uncovered breast, Dieter leaned away from you and took each of your breasts in his hands. Squeezing them and rolling them in his hands, he looked down at you as you arched to his touch and ran your own hands up his thighs. Lightly digging your nails into his pajama pants; the scratch of starch cotton filled the air.

“You should take these off,” you said as you pinched at the fabric. Dieter smiled down at you as he rolled your nipples in his fingers.

“In a minute, I want to know how you want this.” He leaned down as he sucked at one nipple as you moaned out. “I’ve got toys. Vibrators, dildos, plugs, straps, a tail.” He raised his eyebrows a few times as he spoke and then turned his attention to your other breast. You stuttered out nonsensical words before he finally popped off your breast. “Or we can go the natural, old fashion way,” he spoke quickly as he planted his head between your breasts and licked up between them. “I’m fine with whatever you want,” he finally said as his head resurfaced to your face so he could kiss you deeply.

“Shit,” is all you could get out as he continued on kissing down your body to your stomach. The man was driving you crazy quickly and this was only starting.

“Anyway you want Dieter. You can have me however you want,” you breathed out in a sigh as he rocked your hips so he could strip your pants and underwear off. Finally bare to him, Dieter pushed your legs apart wide. He lowered himself, kissing your thighs as he went, to your heat. He smiled dumbly at you, happy to hear those words come out of your mouth.

“I need to taste you first, then we’ll figure it out from there.”

You nodded to him, unable to believe this is how it was about to go. At the start of this whole dating thing, you simply thought you two would grab some drinks then have a quickie with a photo for proof. Then move on. But nope, you were surprised by Dieter Bravo all over again. Your friend had been surprised by the news of the dates and so had your agent when the rumor mill came out that he was treating you like a queen. And now…you gasped and clutched at the sheets of his bed…Dieter Bravo was licking a strip up through your folds and wrapping his arms around your legs. Holding you down as he took another lick though your folds, digging his tongue into your cunt.

Muffled against your clit, you head Dieter say, “Fuck this pussy is dripping for me, aren’t you honey.” He then jumped back into giving quick licks to your clit till he sucked your clit between his lips.

You squirmed against him and threw your head back against the bed, letting a high moan pierce through the air. The man below you hummed into your clit, as you buried your hands into his unruly hair. You felt him flick and swirl his tongue against your clit, making you hotter and hotter under his pressure. His arms wrapped around your legs, allowing his fingers to gently probe at your entrance, dancing around your fluttering hole.

“Please Dieter, fucking please,” you begged out.

“Please what baby? I wanna hear you say it. Need you to say it.”

You huffed out a long breath and propped yourself up to look down at the large round brown eyes, “Make me cum sweet boy, please make me cum so you can taste all of me.”

Dieter groaned, specifically at you calling him baby boy, and pushed his finger into you causing you to throw your head back in a cry. His finger rounded your heat, strumming your walls just as his tongue rounded your clit. Your legs shook and pushed against Dieter’s large shoulders, unable to close and relieve the mounting pressure in you. Dieter for his part wouldn’t let up as he felt you near your climax.

It was the cry of his name, the aftershock wrecking your body, and the flood of juices in his mouth that almost made Dieter lose his own load.

“Shit.” Dieter raised himself to fall on top of your stomach as your legs laid out boneless. You patted his head and closed your eyes in bliss, and to also recenter yourself for whatever he wanted next. Dieter scruff scratched up and down your stomach as he rubbed his head to your rising and falling stomach. “Your pussy tasted so good, but you’ll feel incredible around my cock baby.”

You laughed and swirled his hair with your fingers, “Just give me a minute sweet boy.”

“Need some water?” Dieter raised his head and looked you over before getting up properly and grabbing a glass from the bathroom and handing it to you. “Always prepared for care,” he smiled and kissed your temple.

You smiled back and ran your fingers to his chin, scratching at his gray beard as you drank your water. He sat down next to you and wrapped an arm around your waist to tug you to rest against him. You happily leaned into him, basking in his warmth. As your head rested on his shoulder, you soon realized that Dieter still wore his scratchy matching pjs.

“You still have this awful thing on,” tugged at his pants in amusement.

“Got caught up with eating you out,” Dieter shrugged.

You giggled for a second and went dead serious, “Take your close off sweet boy.”

Dieter’s eyes went wide as he instantly jumped off the bed and threw off all his clothes, standing fully nude and fully erect at your attention. You smiled at the beautiful man.

“Happy now?” Dieter asks.

“I’ll be happier when you fuck me, but yes,” you laughed as you leaned over to him and kissed up his chest to his lips. Dieter took hold of your face and deepened the kiss, leaning you further back till you both collapsed back on the bed.

“Ready for more?” you questioned Dieter.

Straightening up, Dieter looked down at you, “Still up for whatever way I want it?”

You nodded, watching Dieter curse and run off to his closet. Coming back he held two objects in his hand.

“You like feeling full, so do I,” Dieter stated as he held up two butt plugs. The plugs matched but one had a purple jewel while the other had a red jewel. “I call purple.”

You nodded and grabbed the purple jeweled plug from him, applied lube to the end and lifted your brow to the gawking man before you. He smiled and kneeled on the bed with his ass up. Slowly you pushed the plug into him, watching his reaction for any discomfort but in reply you got a low throaty moan. When the plug was fully in and the purple jewel shined up to you, you patted his ass. Dieter stood and waited for you to present your ass to him. You flinched only a little as the cold of the lube and plug touched your skin. Dieter’s warm hand rubbed your ass as he slowly pushed into you. You held your breath as he twisted the plug slowly and pulled it in and out of you, until he finally seated the whole plug in. Kissing each one of your ass cheeks, Dieter smiled as the red jewel sparkled back up to him.

Surely, Dieter’s hands rolled over your ass and up to your hips and you felt the bed shift under his weight. Dieter tightly held your waist as he hovered over you, brushing his chest against your back as he kissed your shoulder. You preened under his touch and care, pushing back against him. You quickly felt his cock softly pushed against your ass as one of his hands curled around your front and grabbed ahold of your boob. The other hand grabbed hold of his cock and directed it to your entrance. You both moaned out as he swiftly entered your drenched folds.

Waiting a few seconds before pulling out and pushing back in, Dieter tried to remember himself. His mind was exploding with the fact that he had such a beautiful heat surrounding his cock, a full ass that matched your own full ass, all the while his ears were full of the loud cries and moans out of your beautiful mouth. Dieter had imagined this moment happening as soon as you walked up to him at the gala, but he still could barely wrap his head around the fact that it was real. You were so willing and happy to be with him and damn was he happy to be with you. Completely forgetting the fact that this was really revenge, he didn’t care as long as you wanted to see him again. Which by the way you were babbling, was going to happen.

“Dieter… shit… you feel so good… I feel so full...fuck…Dieter.”

“That’s it honey, tell me how it feels.”

“So damn good baby…so good…I…”

Dieter continued his movement in and out of you, “Say it.”

“More…please more…” you stated it like a question which made Dieter love your moans even more.

His hand gripping your breast ran down to your clit, swirling around it making you cry and push back on his dick. Spurred by your cry, Dieter straightened up, taking you with him so you were pressed to his chest and clinging to his hands. Throwing your head back, Dieter attacked your neck with kisses and teeth just as he continued thrust in and out of you. Rubbing harshly against your clit, you felt Dieter take you to the top of your climax again. The blinding heat ran from your core to your eyes, taking your breath away. Dieter cursed and spurred on still.

“Knew you were going to feel amazing…fucking knew you’d be perfect.”

“Yeah…cum in me then sweet boy.”

“Fill you up more… is that what you want?” Dieter asked breathlessly as he felt his own release nearing.

“Yes. Do it. It’s what you want.”

Cursing as his pace went frantic, Dieter’s lips attached to your shoulder, biting down as he finally released inside you. Holding you tight to his chest, the two of you collapsed to the bed, breathing deeply into the sheets. Minutes later, while still seated in you, Dieter’s fingers traced your side as you nestled into the crock of his arm.

“Need another glass of water.”

You nodded into the man’s arm, “But in a minute, want you here.”

Dieter smiled and buried his face into your hair.

It wasn’t till another round of fucking did the two of you remember to take the memento you had hooked up for initially.

Step Six: The Fuckery Of Christmas

You decided to skip the traditional family Christmas. You knew that your parents and sister were busy opening up presents just as you found yourself sleeping the morning away. Maybe there weren’t any presents under your tree, but wasn’t the holidays about giving rather than receiving? Making someone smile as they opened up their present, that was the meaning of Christmas. The joy of giving… well maybe this wasn’t the idea of giving that the songs had sung to you when you were a child. But gift giving did bring a smile to your face this year, that was for sure.

And smile you did as you rose to the smell of fresh coffee and burnt bacon. You cooed as Dieter presented you a freshly toasted pop tart. You laughed as the charming man showed off the pile of broken and discarded eggs in a bowl over at the stove. You hummed with delight as you felt the warm arms of this darling man encircle you as you tried to teach him how to properly make scrambled eggs. And you sighed and moaned with each kiss Dieter gave to your neck, face, and lips; fully knowing you would be getting more of these in the future. But you silently smiled to yourself as you knew that a mountain of rings and pings silently gathered on your phone.

It was the thought of your sister clutching at the gold wrapper present. She would squeal in delight as she would see your neat handwriting sign the present away to her. You had always given your sister and family the best gifts money could buy, and knew your sister would be excited to open this gift. Just as you knew she would be excited yet confused as the box would hold only a polaroid picture, flipped up for the receiver to see all its glory. Oh yes, you could hear the screams and cries of your sister as she tore apart the very photo that would curse her dreams for the rest of her life.

The copy of that very polaroid sat back at Dieter’s dresser, propped up against his mirror. Frozen and encapsulated in the picture to your and Dieter’s delight were the two of you: you laying on top of Dieter’s bare chest, clearly naked but cover by a bit of a bed sheet as the scruff of a man’s chin and lips settled against your forehead, with a relaxed and propped up arm seen behind your head. One large triangle tattoo could be seen on said arm. Dieter even wrote the words X-mas 2022 under the photo, forever set in time.

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo/reader #the bubble #dieter bravo/you

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chronic-ghost · 8 months

Text

Chapter 10 of Recovery Road

chapter rating: E (18+)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 31K (part 1: 14K + part 2: 17K)

chapter summary: how they find each other again . . . and everything else

chapter warnings/tags: discussions of mental health, medication discussions, therapy (so much therapy), everything about theater and theatre production is nothing but fake lies, and yes lots of smut

a/n: there's a longer, sappy-er reblog coming but i just wanted to say thank you to everyone who came along with me on this journey. this wouldn't have been possible without you and i hope to see you again soon!

▲ Series Masterlist | Previous | Part 2 + Epilogue

▲ AO3 Link (posted there as a single chapter if you like to read it all at once)

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“Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever.” - Jane Austen, Persuasion

SEPTEMBER

“And so we can see that with the abstract paintings, color theory, as well as a fundamental understanding of color under light, is more important than ever. We can have a more immediate reaction to abstract art precisely because it digs at our unconscious thought. We see what we want to see and that can give us perspective on our own lives as well as that of the artist.”

One hand jumps up from the back of the crowd.

“Yes?”

“Is it true that Van Gogh ate yellow paint because he thought it would make him happier?”

You nod. “He did. But Van Gogh was a deeply disturbed man and while many of his best works come from his Yellow period, art historians have debated for decades about whether or not the madness was worth the beauty.”

The same boy in the back, blonde, lanky, frowns out of frustration, not boredom.

“So he ate yellow paint and then painted yellow things?”

“It could be said that he wanted to literally take what he was feeling inside and put it on the canvas.”

Another boy, bigger than the first and clearly used to all eyes on him, snickers. He points to a frame at the end of the salon wall.

“So, what, the artist who did that one wanted to get their blood all over everything?”

You cross your arms, unphased by yet another teenage smartass. “What does color theory tell us about the color red?”

“It’s associated with anger,” a young girl at the front says with confidence. “Or more often, love. Intense emotions.”

The same jokester in the back chuckles, louder this time. “Wow, so that guy must have really been in luuuurve to paint that.” He pinches the waist of a girl next to him and she wriggles away, giggling.

“Actually,” you say, straightening up, “I had just come out of a horrific break up and was trying to process grief, trauma, and heartbreak unlike anything I’d experienced before.”

That successfully manages to silence them all. It usually does.

“You painted that, miss?” The girl at the front asks again, her eyes wide in awe.

You smile at her. You remember being her age, fourteen, and thinking the world of art, theater was all so exciting.

“I did. Am I a vain bitch for putting my own paintings in my gallery? Probably, but for some reason, people like to buy them and I’m not going to turn down an opportunity to fund another kitchen renovation in my home.”

There’s a surprised chuckle amongst the students. Nothing endeared you faster to teenagers by some light cursing.

“What other paintings are yours, miss?” The blonde boy asks, eyes suddenly leaping from wall to wall, trying to spot similar brush strokes. You don’t miss when the girl looks at him, her cheeks red.

“Miss Lorraine only has a handful of her paintings in this gallery.” Marie steps forward from around one of the salon walls, her trusty iPad clutched against her chest. “If you are really interested in her work, I highly recommend going to see her charcoal sketches upfront. But this is the end of the tour. Your teacher has given you fifteen more minutes to view any last pieces or purchase a souvenir, but then it’s back on the bus. ”

The gaggle of high school students disperses, an excitement buzzing as a few surge towards the charcoal exhibit.

You roll your eyes, as bodies flow around you, and flick your best friend of the past ten years on her earlobe.

“That was supposed to be a secret.”

“Oh, whatever.” Marie bats your hand away. “It’s honestly some of your best work. You should be proud.”

“This is meant to be a business, not a housing facility for my ego.”

“Well, the second your ego starts to suck money out of this place, I’ll let you know.” She taps her iPad with her stylus. “Speaking of which, Andrew should be by in about ten minutes to discuss that piece he wants for his new show.”

You groan, falling behind Marie as she leads you to the front desk, where some of the students are purchasing posters of the art they liked. You watch as the sales girl rings up a few posters and some postcards, as Marie continues to scroll through her tablet, always thinking of the next thing, the next move.

“This had better be the last one,” you sigh, particularly pleased when you see someone buy a postcard of your red painting. “Why am I starting to think this damn show is going to be the death of me?”

Marie scoffs as she leans forward onto the corner of the sales counter, your bark always worse than your bite. “If you’re so concerned, think about what the notoriety of designing a set for an off-broadway production will do for this gallery.”

“Does it always have to come back to this dump?” You smile at her, knowing you are the only one who is allowed to tease her precious child.

“Duh.” Marie sticks out her tongue at you.

Despite the absolute horror you felt about starting your own gallery three years ago, you can’t say it hasn’t been a success. A reasonably-priced gallery in Brooklyn, you worked to showcase small local artists who needed a leg-up in the industry. Not that breaking into the art world yourself had come easy, but with your old connections in Hollywood and Marie’s in the music scene, you recognized the sheer number of doors open and available to the both of you. The community received the opening of the gallery better than expected, given that it was occasionally used as a center and study hall. It was small, quiet, and unassuming, but it was yours. Yours and Marie’s. You wouldn’t be here without her. Quite literally.

“Once you’re done sulking, we have a meeting with a local council member about expanding the property at two, then that new artist from the Bronx is coming by to measure his space.” She scrolls through your day, with the sharp eye of someone who never missed a beat. You told her she didn’t have to wear that crisp white shirt and pleated black pants, but she rolled her eyes at that: “I’m going to be thirty-three in two weeks. I cannot wear plaid shirts to work every day.”

Same old Marie. Using any small excuse to dress up. Unlike her, you had zero compunctions against wearing old concert shirts and paint-splattered jeans to “the office”. Except, you conceded, on days like this where it was tour after tour, client after client. You attempted something “professional” for her sake, but these heels pinched your feet and the emerald green top seemed to draw the eye of every teenage boy who walked by you.

“Ah, shoot,” Marie says suddenly, standing up right from her iPad. She glances at her watch. “Andrew asked to see a print of King Square and I totally forgot to grab it.”

“Want me to get it?”

She waves you away. “Nah, mingle. I’ll be out in a second.”

You smile as she struts away. Again you wonder what you possibly did to earn a friend like her, what you did to earn her devotion for a decade of friendship. It was as if the universe had been steering you away from all other friendships, keeping you a friend-virgin, until you met Marie. The One. The girl, now woman, who had saved your life more times than you could count, even before she became the manager of the gallery. You hoped to spend the rest of your life proving to her that she had chosen well.

The class of teenagers has thinned. Only a few remain to chat with friends, or check out one last piece they might have missed, a plastic bag with a rolled-up poster in their hands. The noise in the gallery dulls, as the patter of feet against the wood grain and the sound of eager voices falls away. You hear the front door swing close and the room goes silent. You inhale, the saw-dust smell of the space always soothing to you, even before you turned it into a gallery.

This place felt like a destination, a culmination, a breakthrough after so many dark nights. You poured your heart and soul and nearly every dime you had into building this space and its community. You could wander through the salon walls, easily identifying the artwork done from different points in your life, what each of them meant to you, by the colors or mediums used. You experimented a lot after rehab, trying every creative outlet you could find until something stuck. Hell, you even attempted cross-stitching – Marie still laughed herself silly every time it was brought up.

Early on, you processed a lot through clay, through sculpture. It wasn’t very good, but it gave you somewhere to put your rage, your frustration, those hot emotions that made you want to squish warm goo. You could never make bowls or vases – instead just absurd creations with teeth and wide eyes.

Next came the paintings that covered entire walls. You’d come home after spending hours in a rented workspace, covered in paint, hot and tired and teary, but relieved. The scratchy ball in your chest loosened after those hours of working yourself into exhaustion. That was also around the time when you had started to process decade old feelings and memories regarding your parents with your therapist. It all went hand in hand.

It was only recently that you’d turned to charcoal and your canvases shrunk. There was something hypnotic about charcoal as a medium, the stark contrast of black and white, of the delicate shading required to give depth and offer light, the way it stuck to your palms, your forearms as if the subject you sketched lingered on you.

You turn a corner and are welcomed by the sketchings of dozens of artists who also worked in charcoal. The exhibit is called The After Effects of Flame and the artists had completely risen to the challenge. The soft paper, the light etching, it makes the space beautiful, quiet, warm.

But your eyes fall to a single piece across the room, your heart thrumming in your chest.

He had shown up in your work in prior years, of course, as much as you tried to swallow him and the memories down. A flash of the curve of his chin, the sharp angle of his nose, the endless brown of his eyes – they were there as you sorted through the cracked pieces of your life in rehab and continued on in therapy. As you moved on from that night in the hospital.

As you moved away from him.

But you still found slivers of him, splinters that dug into your skin against the wood grain. Marie said it wasn’t noticeable, that only you saw those flashes because of what you had been through, what he had meant to you. But he was there, inside you somewhere, after ten years, and he became a different sort of ache. What he had been to you was never clear, never given structure or form, and perhaps that was why closure had been so hard to find: there was no road map to moving past whatever Dieter Bravo had meant to you. What he had become. What he still, in the fitful state between dreaming and awake, was to you.

He wasn’t haunting you; you had never known a silent ghost. But he lingered, like the remnants of last night’s perfume or the body warmth of a loved one after they’ve left the bed. You saw him in everyone and in everything and, simply put, Dieter wasn’t going away.

Much like with grief, you learn to hold this part of you that held him and let the memories, the good and the bad, pass over you without judgment.

The world is hard enough on you as it is, your therapist told you, don’t add to it by beating yourself up.

So you let him stop by, hang around if he wanted to. He kept you company as you sketched and drew and created in a way you had never experienced as an actress. This is what you were meant to do. It just took you twenty-two years and a decade of heartbreak to get here.

You stepped closer to the centerpiece of the exhibit.

A simple sketch, nothing outwardly advanced or difficult, but it is detailed. Thoughtful, introspective. It comes from an image that appears to you in the morning light of your empty bed, or as you fade into the welcoming arms of sleep. It feels like it should be a memory, but if it is, you don’t know when or where it sits in your history. Sometimes, it doesn’t even feel real. Other times, it’s too real, the added weight in your bed almost palpable – you can smell him in the air, you could reach out and touch the curve of his shoulder – and you blink, the image is gone and you’re alone. Your outstretched hand floats through empty air, the tears stinging so sharply in your throat you can’t breathe for a moment.

To anyone else, the sketch is that of a man, naked, sleeping partially on his stomach, partially on his side, turned away from the viewer. His arm curls beneath his head, under the pillow, and the sheet slips low on his hips, the turn of the light dictating whether or not the exposure is playful or sensual. The waves of his hair fan out across the pillow, tuck around the back of his neck in a way that begs to be teased, tugged on. To everyone else, it’s a loving image of relaxation, of peace, of quiet, joy.

To you, it’s the image of Dieter that visits you most frequently.

You stand before it now and try to find that solace, that imaginary morning where domesticity dripped into your bed with him, the tension it takes from your bones. But you can’t find it. The day is coming up again, the first blush of fall breathing down the New York streets, and like a thready hangnail you forget to cut, you find pain with every movement.

He sits, melancholic, in your heart. I know, darling, I know.

Unconsciously, you rub a hand up your shoulder, unease mounting. You rub again, and something catches in the corner of your eye.

Someone is still here.

Tan coat nearly the same color as the floorboards, the man somehow blended in amongst the cream paper of the charcoal sketches. His knee-length coat looks expensive, the white Converse do not. His head is tilted back, looking up, inspecting one of the pieces.

Okay, yes, you saw him in passing on the streets – a flash there, a blur here – but this is getting ridiculous.

You stare, immobile and silent, at the dark curls that catch against his collar. At the broad shoulders that curl inwards. This is not a ghost, a specter. This is not a haunting. He even stands, holds his weight, just like – no, no, this is just desperation, you’re overworked and tired and –

Oh, fuck, the black rings –

“Darling!”

Your head snaps to the front of the gallery, seconds before you are nearly tackled to the ground by your friend and long-time benefactor Andrew Young. He had started to go gray at twenty-five, and never to be outdone by the ravages of time, he dyed his entire head silver. It’s been this color for years, blinding and shining, the only thing he changed was how it was styled. Nearly forty, he’s shaved the sides and let the top grow long. It flops in his face as he pulls back, grinning from ear to ear.

“This looks fantastic!” He beams around your latest exhibit. “Baby girl, I am so proud of you!”

You drag out a smile, your lips catching on your teeth, the buzzing in the back of your mind at a low hum.

“T-thank you, Andrew. I– uh,” you blink up at him, “sorry, it’s been a day and I haven’t eaten. I’m just a little dizzy.”

Andrew frowns and throws an arm over you. “You work too hard – has anyone told you that? And that, quite frankly, I simply cannot have. You see, I can’t do the set without you, and then I can’t do blocking and stage production, and then the damn thing itself is off the rails. Do you see my problem?” The designs you had been planning are back in your office, some initial sketches drawn up and laid out based on Andrew’s requests over the phone. You smile, settle, that gnawing sense of panic easing. Andrew watches you visibly relax in his arms and he taps your nose with a bright blue nail. “Besides, it’s up to you, you New York native, to help me show my star a good time around town.”

He steps back, arm thrown out wide, and your heart plummets.

You know who he is before he turns that thick head of hair, before you see that aquiline nose in his profile, before you are swallowed up by those endless, warm brown eyes that flicker in the corners of your heart.

“My dear, I’d like you to meet –,”

“Natalie?”

The noise is barely human, a punched out groan from a hit that maybe broke a rib, popped an organ loose.

The gallery has gone silent, or maybe it’s just you’re so suddenly stuffed full of memories, of rage and joy, grief and giddiness, that there’s no room for any sound.

He’s not a ghost, not a haunting, but he is pale, the whites of his eyes bright and round and staring.

He is not the Dieter that curls up against your neck at three in the morning when you can’t sleep, no, this one’s different. The lines marking his eyes are deeper, more pronounced – laugh lines, you remember, he’s clearly laughed a lot in the time that he’s been gone. His beard is speckled with gray, here and there, drawing your gaze to that lovely bare spot where the hair refuses to grow. His hair is longer, unkempt, and wild, and in his ear sits a small silver ring. This is not the Dieter you remember.

He’s older and so are you.

The coffee cup drops from his loose fingers and splatters against the ground, light brown liquid splashing everywhere. It rolls towards his shoes, but he doesn’t move. Neither do you. You couldn’t, really, even if you wanted to.

To cope, in the beginning, in the cold, sick days in the hospital, you told yourself that he had died. That’s why he left you, why he abandoned you to get the drugs out of your system alone. To get him out of your system. It was childish and petty and completely irrational, but it soothed you in a way that made living manageable. You could walk around those long white hallways, talk, eat, exist without a giant gaping bloody hole in your chest.

Consciously, you knew he was out there, somewhere, but in all the chunks inside of you that made up his lingering presence, the old idea, the old comfort, embedded itself.

Seeing him now, seeing him ten years older, it’s like he had come back from the dead. You could not have made up a more surreal dream.

“Oh, hey, Andrew, I got your print and I –,”

Marie stiffens the instant she sees who’s in your line of sight. Her mouth drops open and the poster joins the spilled coffee on the ground.

“Holy fucking shit.”

Andrew’s perfectly manicured eyebrows eject into his hair. “What? You’ve met before?”

“W-we . . .” the rest of the sentence dies in your mouth, catches fire and turns to ash. “We – I . . .”

“We used to . . .” his voice is raspy, deep, as though scraping through a wet crevice. “We used to work together.”

It doesn’t sting, the casual distance in his words, because he’s right. All of you met a decade ago for work.

Marie swallows as her eyes slide to you.

His have traced every line of your body, once, twice, and three times over. They stay on the bridge of your nose, the crook of your neck, the arch of your cheek. He’s not looked at Marie once. Given the circumstances of your last meeting, perhaps it should have been you to appear as a ghost from beyond the grave.

“Uh, Andrew, do you mind if we give Dieter and Natalie some time alone to –,”

“No!” You both bark, a sufficient reason to tear your gaze away from the other.

He sounds genuinely frightened. Your stomach twists. Your gaze flickers to the spill at Dieter’s feet.

“Marie, would you get some towels for that?” She nods, completely forgetting the print and nearly sprinting for the bathroom. You swallow, set your shoulders, and turn to Andrew. “I’ve got the designs in my office. If you’d – if you’d both – like to–,”

“Natalie.” He tries again and you flinch as though his voice is a physical force that has pressed roughly against an internal bruise. At his side his hands clench over and over, mouth opening and closing, brow furrowed as if he’s scrambling through every word he knows and can’t find the right one.

Your chest suddenly squeezes so tightly you have to put a hand over your sternum to keep your ribs from collapsing into your spine. You can feel the blush breakout across your cheeks, down your chest, and you’re so confused as to why, a hot bloom of anger overwhelms everything else.

Andrew’s eyebrows are in danger of falling off his forehead. Dieter still hasn’t looked away.

“Okay, what am I missing here?”

“We dated.” You say. You keep your gaze on Andrew, knowing your knees would buckle if you look anywhere else. “While we worked together. We dated about ten years ago on the set of one of our movies. But,” you swallow, your knees shaking in these stupid fucking slacks, “that was a long time a-ago.” Your voice cracks and you hate it. You want to hear him say your name again, just to make sure he got it right.

“Are you sure you don’t want a second?” You nod. “Then, uh, let’s see this design.”

Dieter doesn’t follow you and Andrew. Small miracles, you suppose. As you walk Andrew through the designs, you can see out the clear office door that Dieter had taken off that rich tan coat and is using it to soak up the spill. You can’t tell by the twist in his mouth if he’s regretting that particular decision, or regretting something else, but Marie appears a moment later with a rag. His expression changes as she hands it to him, softens, that wind-swept, knocked-back-on-his-ass surprise creeping into the opening of his mouth. She says something to him – her back is to you – and his mouth flatlines. He nods and Marie turns on her heel towards the office.

You avert your eyes from her and look back at Andrew.

“So what do you think?”

He grins, completely obvious to the exchange outside, as he shuffles through a few papers. “As always, darling, you’ve managed to somehow crawl into my brain and recreate exactly what I’ve been looking for.”

You won’t be designing the actual set pieces, but more of the backdrop, what the audience will see through the open windows and around stairs. Most productions use lights to fill in their backdrop, but Andrew described wanting to make the stage feel as claustrophobic as possible. “Nothing breathes in here,” he had said over the phone. “We need something sturdier than lights.”

You have never felt claustrophobic in your office, but staring at Dieter, an older Dieter, a different Dieter, absurdly scrubbing your gallery floor spotless, the walls nestle tighter, the air stagnant and stale. You feel like you’re seeing the entire place with new eyes and you realize how dingy it is. You can’t look Marie in the eye as she opens the office door.

“How goes it in here?” She says, surprisingly breathless.

“Fantastic!” Andrew claps his hands together. “The theater has given us access to the space starting Monday, so I’d like to get to building this as soon as possible. The back lot is huge so I’m hoping to do all painting onsite.”

You nod, the request somewhat expected – Andrew was a bit of a micromanager.

Behind you, Marie is humming with unfocused energy, but only in a way you can pick up on after ten years of knowing her. To Andrew, she calmly asks,

“Would you like us to bring out those other pieces you won at the fundraiser? We can have them loaded up, if you’d like.”

Andrew’s eyes widen. “Oh god, yes, please. I’m so sorry – I told you I’d pick those up weeks ago! I’ll go get the car.”

Marie’s gaze latches onto you as he jogs past her.

“What do you want me to do with . . .”

You can’t find him through the window, but the floor is spotless.

You shake your head, that slightly dizzy feeling returning. “Go help Andrew. I’ll . . .” you shrug. “Actually, I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to be alone with him if you don’t want to.”

You feel your back muscles tighten. “No, no – I want – I mean, it’s fine. If I’m going to help Andrew with the designs, then we’ll have to see each other, right?”

Her look is apprehensive but she gives in. “Alright. I’ll be just a minute.”

The second the door closes, you push your palms into your eyes and groan. What the fuck is happening?

You spot him again in the charcoal exhibit, as if this is the area he is confined to. He holds his coat over his arm, the bottom half of it damp and a different color, as he slowly roves from piece to piece. He’s on the opposite side of the room from your contribution, but a part of you wants to yank it down and shove it under the floorboards. A very large part of you.

“Dieter,” you say, hands up, but your voice startles him anyway. His stark white t-shirt matches his converse, and you vaguely think, he’s going to be cold without a jacket.

He physically steps back the closer you come. You don’t know if that hurts or if you feel relieved.

“Andrew went to get the car,” you say, your focus going in and out as you stare at his earring. “He has some paintings he won at an auction here and he hasn’t picked them up so Marie is bringing them out to the curb to load up.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Yeah.” You lose track of the earring as you meet his gaze. Terror, in his eyes. Concern, worry.

Sadness. Yeah, you definitely know that one.

Without a single coherent thought in your head, you head for the front doors, feeling him fall in step behind you.

You can almost hear the storm brewing in his head.

“Natalie, wait.”

Just in front of the glass doors, you stop. On the other side, Marie and another backend worker load wrapped canvases into a Black Escalade. Even without the faint howl of wind, it looks cold outside.

He stands in front of you, older after ten years, but no less beautiful. He’s thickened over the years, more solid, an oak instead of a stretchy willow. The thought of what it would be like to wrap yourself around his chest, feel the warmth of his stomach against yours, comes crashing down on you. The inclination is to yank it back, submerge it, but you don’t do that anymore.

You look into his eyes and the old ache hums. You thought it was gone, despite the many times you think about him, the many versions of him that live in your memory. But it’s there. You’ve missed him.

“Look, I’m sorry – for, um, the surprise visit.” Voice low and quiet, like trying to pass on a secret, his thumb spins through his rings distractedly. “Andrew said he had some errands to run around the city a-and the names didn’t register with me . . . a-after all this time.” He swallows, glancing at your shoulder for a second before finding your eyes again. “Had I known it was yours, I would have . . . I’d . . .”

“You’d what?” You want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Shake him until he speaks, until he explains himself for showing up and cracking your world in half.

His mouth crumbles, stricken with regret, and he shakes his head. “I – I –,”

Someone taps on the glass beside you and it’s your turn to jump ten feet in the air. Marie waves to you and Dieter, her arms wrapped around her chest to stave off the cold. On the street, Andrew gets into the Escalade as the worker heads for the warehouse around back.

“For what it’s worth, it was really, really good to see you.”

Your head snaps back to him. No stutter, no unease. Confidence. This is what he feels. This is what he means to say.

And then Dieter Bravo smiles at you. Genuinely, gently, full of wonder. He is . . . relieved.

You nod, dumbstruck, as he pushes through the glass doors and you’re following him before you know what you’re doing. The air has a bite to it, the threat of winter swirling in the gray clouds above the city streets. A particularly rough gust of wind barrels down and Marie staggers into you. Wrapping her up in your arms, you watch as he climbs into the Escalade and the passenger window rolls down.

Of course Andrew hired a driver. He leans out, his silver flop fluttering in the wind.

“We’re having a party tomorrow, my place. A little kick-off party before production and rehearsals begin. You two should come.”

You can’t see Dieter behind the tinted glass but you know for a fact he just tensed up. Beside you, Marie is shivering, the little thing.

“Maybe, you know? We’ve got a lot to do around the gallery before the weekend,” you say as you rub her shoulders. “It’s kind of a bad time.”

“Well, the art director is going to be there, so it might be nice to get to know him before we get started.” Andrew shrugs, seriously, unaware of the consequences of his simple request.

Nothing about this feels like a good idea. You nod. “Lemme get Marie here back inside before her lips go blue. I’ll text you tonight about it.”

You both step back from the curb as the Escalade eases its way into New York traffic. Your eyes stay pinned to the window until you can no longer see it in the distance. Holding her close, you kiss Marie’s cold forehead.

“C’mon, Frosty, I think we both deserve the biggest cup of coffee our Kerig can make.”

The hum of the potter’s wheel is loud in your concrete basement. Cold air curls in from the small open window at ground level, chilling the floor and the walls. It stings your bare toes just a bit to keep you awake and focused, your arms and hands already chilled by wet clay. You pump the wheel a bit faster as you try to thin the edge of this bowl – or what may be a bowl. This rarely ever works out, but at least the concentration forces out everything else in your brain. And, as an added bonus, the sound of the wheel also blocks the incessant buzzing of your phone.

Andrew and Marie had not stopped trying to call or text you since the gallery closed. Marie was not above simply barging into your brownstone if you had been quiet for too long, but this was a special case and she knew it.

Hands wet, back aching from your hunched position, fingers as steady as they’ll ever be, you smooth the rippling clay as it spins. You pump the pedal steadily – too fast and the clay will spin off, but too slow and you’re basically playing with playdough.

To your enormous surprise, the clay curves, molds between your finger tips. With every rotation, there comes a clear, distinct solid edge to this unfinished ceramic.

Yes! Okay, just a little bit to round things out and –

Your phone alarm goes off, you jump, and the maybe-bowl deflates into a pile of squishy goo.

“Damn it,” you mutter, even though you have only yourself to blame. You set this alarm because you needed two extra minutes to clean off before accepting the incoming Facetime.

You just finish rinsing clay out of your nails when you hear the familiar chimes from your phone. Switching between your phone and a dry rag, you accept the call and smile into the face of a sixty-five year old woman. Blue tips on the edges of her gray hair, oversized cat-wing glasses, Dr. Carla Holstein always reminded you of Ms. Frizzle’s evil twin sister, in appearance only.

“Natalie, how the fuck are you doing?”

Her non-existent brain-to-mouth filter was one of the things that initially endeared you to her. Talking to a shrink about your childhood trauma felt less embarrassing when the woman taking notes had electric blue nails.

“I’d say I’m good, doc,” you smirk at her as you head up the wooden stairs of your basement, “but then I probably wouldn’t be calling you.”

“It’s like you only wanna talk about the bad things with your therapist,” she shakes her head mockingly. “As if I wouldn’t appreciate you calling with good news.”

You chuckle as you drop onto the floor of the living room, mindful of any furniture that might get smeared with errant clay from you overalls. “I’ll save those for our weekly meetings, alright?”

“Which brings me to my next question – what the fuck is going on? You haven’t made an emergency appointment in years. What gives?”

You set your phone up against a stack of books on the wooden table you lugged here all the way from 42nd street. Frowning, you lean against the redbrick fireplace, in a home you decorated with ugly little trinkets and overused furniture. Tidy and messy, this place holds everything that over-spilled from your brain, a place that feels like what the inside of your heart might look like, if you could see it.

“Seriously, Natalie, what is it? You’re kinda freakin’ me out.”

“It’s Dieter.”

Those perfectly drawn on eyebrows arch into that silvery hairline. “What? He called you?”

“He showed up at the gallery this morning.” A motormouth when left unchecked, Carla is a fantastic therapist, first and foremost. She knows exactly when to shut up and let everything pour out of you. And you hated when she did that. You scrubbed your face with your hands, groaning. “Not like that, but he’s the lead role in Andrew’s new production. I don’t know how the fuck he even found out about the part in the first place, but he swears he didn’t know that Andrew and I know each other. I know it wasn’t an intentional ambush but . . .”

“But it still feels like one?” You nod, your bottom lip snagged between your teeth.

“It’s just . . . it doesn’t feel real, you know? Like, what are the fucking chances that everything has to line up perfectly in the universe for him to come stumbling into my gallery after ten years?”

I really thought I’d never see him again.

“Was he actually stumbling? Is he sober?”

“No to the stumbling part, but I have no idea. I mean, I don’t think Andrew would hire someone so coked out they couldn’t remember their lines . . . but he was always so good at hiding it.”

The desperate anger in your voice makes you cringe. Even after all these years, you hate when you confess something you didn’t mean to. Dieter’s ability to mask how high or drunk he was used to scare you. Like you were never quite sure which version of him you were going to get. But then again, you were also so high and drunk you never really cared. Which was entirely the point.

“Well, that’s his shit to work out,” Carla scoffs. “I wanna talk about you. What did you feel at the time?”

“Nervous. Shocked. Surprised. Angry.”

“Talk to me about the anger.”

“I’m angry that I couldn’t think of a single fucking thing to say to him. Not even a good ol’ ‘fuck you’ or a ‘hello’. I’m angry that he’s back in my life in a way where I’ll have to see him again and again. And I’m fucking pissed that after all these years, after all this work, I see my ex for thirty minutes and I’m running scared to my therapist.”

Carla’s face softens. If you were in person with her, this would be the part where she lowers her clipboard and looks at you with warmth you are barely accustomed to.

“But did you run for a drink?”

“No.”

“Did you run to the nearest street corner and pick up a bag of coke?”

“No.”

“Then the process is working. The tools we built to manage your anxiety, to find healthy outlets for your emotions, they held up under scrutiny. You can be pissed all you want but you should also be fucking proud as hell.”

Something hot and sharp threatens to choke you, your cheeks flushing. The word “pride” and you in the same sentence always fucking did that to you. You cough, clearing your throat.

“Okay, then what do I do?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how do I act around him? Do I treat him like a stranger? A friend? Can I be his friend? Should I?”

“Is that what you want? Don’t forget you always get to set the boundaries of any relationship you have. He doesn’t get to decide that for you.”

Your toes squeeze into the plush forest green carpet beneath you, thumb pressed into your palm.

“I . . . don’t know.” The truth of what you want sears the back of your throat, a vomit-burn on your tongue, but you keep it to yourself. “But I shouldn’t be around him, at the very least, right? Isn’t rule number one for ex-addicts to keep away from contacts in their past lives?”

“Sure,” Carla nods sagely. “Old friends can bring back old patterns. But are you saying that because you are genuinely concerned about what would happen if you reconnect or because you feel like it’s what’s expected of you as a recovering addict?”

You bite your lip harder. “I don’t know, Carla. It just seems stupid to willingly let someone like Dieter back into my life.”

“And I’m saying you don’t have to. This is a hard case because not only is he an ex, but he was also your dealer and fellow addict.” Carla leans into the camera – this is the part where she put away her clipboard entirely. “But whether or not you let Dieter back in is irrelevant. I want you to go through life with the security in yourself that your past doesn’t have to own you. You have come so far and done so well. You’re on medication and in therapy. You’ve built a great life for yourself, in spite of everything. There will always be temptations, cravings to go back, and I’m not saying you should be overconfident and assume nothing can go wrong, because it absolutely can. But you are not the old Natalie anymore, have faith in yourself. You get to decide your life.”

Once again, you are reminded of all the people who let you forget that. The anger, the hurt, decades in the making, it’s still there. But its bite is no longer cruel.

You nod. “Thank you, Carla. I needed to hear that.”

“I know that,” she smirks. “I’m a damn good therapist.”

“As if you’d let me forget.”

You thank her and end the call. With a sigh you lean back, staring into your living room. Back then, you grew spikes to keep back a world intent on consuming you. Dieter had been the only one to not mind the spikes, even mold around them.

If he’s still a fuckhead, I’m gonna kick his ass.

Your stomach makes a displeased noise, irritated at being empty for so long, so you stand, taking your phone with you as you head for the kitchen.

You bring up his contact and type out your message:

Hey Andrew! Would love to come to your party. What time?

Marie did not want to go to the party for a variety of reasons.

Too busy at the gallery. Invoicing. Nothing to wear. Straight up tired.

All valid reasons. Except they weren’t and it was bullshit and you made her go anyway.

Groaning all the way on the subway, she won’t even look at you as the elevator doors open to Andrew’s hallway. She’s gone uncharacteristically silent as you near the party. This is not her usual “I’d rather be in my Snuggie” scowl, but something else. Her eyes are sharp, hard.

“What?” You bump her with your elbow. “You look like you’re plotting murder.”

“Maybe I am.”

You still and she does too. It’s like you can see inside her brain. “This is about Dieter?”

“Andrew’s a good guy,” she huffs, waving at the shut door. “He doesn’t deserve Dieter’s drama and bullshit . . . and neither do you.”

About a foot shorter than you, Marie carries enough spitfire to fill someone twice her size. You’ve never actually seen her in a fight, but you really don’t want to. Her cold pink nose from the wind outside does nothing to deter her rage.

“If it makes you feel any better, I was cleared by my therapist to be around him.”

She harumphs.

“Look, if I can make this much progress, this much change, shouldn’t we give him the benefit of the doubt? Maybe he can too?”

Her scowl deepens, but the murderous glint in her eyes fade as she knocks on Andrew’s door. “You are too nice for your own good.”

You mock-gasp. “You take that back!”

Just like every other party you’ve ever been to hosted by Andrew, the vibe is intimate, warm, and friendly. You run into and greet a few of the costume designers and lighting techs he’s used in the past, ones you’ve met before by way of just hanging around Andrew during rehearsals. Andrew is very fond of adopting creatives like pets and if he likes your work, chances are he’ll use you again – something uncommon in the industry, but very welcome to those whose paychecks are never steady. However, you notice how small the gathering is. You’ve seen this open-floor plan apartment full of people, partygoers nearly stacked on top of each other during Halloween parties or on New Years Eve. But this production team is a fraction of that size.

Private. That was the other word Andrew mentioned over the phone for the backdrop design. He wanted the space to feel private, as though you were staring into something that was none of your business.

That feeling doesn’t persist here. Here, everyone is welcome.

Everyone, including –

“So, are you going to tell me what the fuck is up with you and him, or am I going to have to think up a very elaborate con to get you to confess?” Andrew snakes an arm over your shoulder, a glass of sparkling water in his hand. His green eyes are full of mischief, the faint lines around his eyes crinkled with glee, as he watches for any change in your expression. Dieter sits on a chair across the room from you, leaning in to listen to a story a man on the center couch cushion is animatedly telling with his hands. To his right, and nearly touching Dieter, is a blonde, beautiful, twenty-year old actress who everyone is telling you will be on Broadway any day now. You know someone told her your name, but you can’t remember it. You swat away your annoyance.

“C’mon, I’ve never seen you look at someone like that. I’m dying to know –,”

“Is he sober?” Your frown falls on Andrew who takes a step back, his own thick eyebrows scrunched together.

“Who, Dieter?”

“No, the man on the moon.”

Andrew shrugs, the lilac pullover he wears looking soft enough to eat. “As far as I know, yeah. We met when Toby and I went to that yoga retreat in Oregon last year. It was a substance-free commune so unless he was getting drunk off the atmosphere –,”

“You’ve known him for a year?” You gape at him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why would I tell you about some actor guy I met out on a co-op in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere? I didn’t know you knew him! We didn’t reconnect until I asked him to come read for the part.”

“And why did you ask him?”

“I . . . dunno,” Andrew says, clearly ruffled. “I liked his vibe. Matched what I had in my head for the role of Sam. And he’s got the best puppy dog eyes of anyone I’ve ever seen.”

It’s not like you can disagree so you turn away from him, scowl on the verge of pouting.

“Oh, no, the conversation does not end here, not after you’ve given me the third degree. Who the fuck was this guy to you?”

Across the room, the blonde’s knee knocks against Dieter’s and something acidic like bile claws the back of your stomach. You take the cup of water from Andrew, other hand digging into your purse.

“We dated. It didn’t end well. In fact, just watch Recovery Road – kinda says the whole thing.” You know Andrew doesn’t deserve your ire and you’ll apologize with coffee and a biscuit from his favorite bakery, but right now, if you don’t leave right now, you’re liable to pop something. “I heard it even won an Oscar.”

It’s stupid and childish and wrong to get jealous every time he talks to a woman.

Okay, notice the thought. Observe it. And let it go.

You inhale, the orange ring immolating the paper around the tobacco, and exhale smoke over the railing of Andrew’s balcony. It’s a nice balcony, as far as metal balconies go in New York. It’s private, sturdy, and a perfect place to contemplate the insanity of your own life. The sunset bleeds rapturous colors, bright and loud, across the city, light reflecting like stars in the glass windows of the buildings. The sight and the smoke is enough to ease the burden in your chest, just for a moment.

It’s not like you are even really jealous. You know that feeling and this isn’t it. The pain is farther away than the immediate nip of jealousy. You follow the feeling, careful not to nick yourself too hard on old memories as you use your toolbox to sort through the undulating waves of feeling.

But therein lies the problem. You remember.

You remember when that girl curled up next to Dieter, eyes full of adoration, used to be you.

You tap the ash against the metal railing, feeling terribly sorry for yourself, when the door to the balcony slides back. A few people had come and gone, shared a smoke, then went back inside. You know you are probably being a party pooper, gazing alone and wistful at the sunset, and you promise yourself this is the last one. It’s officially getting cold the lower the sun falls. But then you turn to the person who just came outside.

“Ah, shit.” He blinks at you as the noise from the party inside is muffled behind the closing door. “I mean, uh. Hi. Um. I didn’t know . . . look, I’ll just come back later –,”

“Andrew says you’re sober. Have been for at least a year. Is that true?”

Maybe you should have just brought a police hat and badge if you were going to grill everyone like this. You lean your hips back against the rail, the burn of the smoke forcing you to breathe slowly.

The autumn wind tugs at his hair, threatens to pull that black sweater out of his pants, as he stares, a lighter and a packet of cigarettes in his clenched fists.

“Um, yeah. He’s right. I’m . . . I’m sober. Have been, for a while.”

You nod, reeling in that invisible electric fence you kept him at the edge of. He senses it and hesitantly, cautiously, he takes a few steps forward and joins you at the railing, but at least two arms lengths away. Eying you, he taps out a cigarette and lights it. He smokes, a full inhale and exhale, before continuing.

“Going on about ten years now.”

The way he says it knots your stomach. His tone of voice. You know exactly what he means. How could you not?

You sip slowly, unable to look at him.

“You haven’t had a drop of alcohol or smoked a single joint in ten years?”

He shrugs. “Doc says weed’s actually good for unfucking my brain.” He swallows and props himself up against the railing. “But, uh, I did go to therapy in rehab again and for the first time, I continued going after I got out. Turns out risk taking behaviors and mood swings are not things normal people experience. Looked lot at my anxiety around self-acceptance too. Triggers included feelings of inadequacy. I even got a new syndrome named after me in the DSM. Baffled my therapist for months.”

“Really?” You stand up right, mouth parted.

“No.” And there’s that Dieter grin. After a decade, it blooms across his face without any hesitation. Your heartbeat pounds rough against your throat for a second. But then his expression grows heavy. “But, uh, I was serious about the therapy part. It’s helped with the depression and anxiety attacks.”

You roll your cigarette between your forefinger and thumb as another wind blows by. You nip at your lower lip.

“Personally, I found Buspar was really good at keeping me from wanting to claw my skin off. Anxiety’s never been better.”

His eyebrows jump and he shuffles a bit closer.

“Oh, yeah? Used to give me the worst headaches, but we fucked around with the dosage and it helped.”

You nod, remembering those weeks of trial and error. You don’t know what to say, what else to admit. His gaze flutters up your shoulder to the side of your jaw and he leans forward with you.

“Did they, uh, put you on Campral too? Wish they had that the first time I went to rehab.”

You shift your weight as you glance over your shoulder. “Yeah. Makes coming to shit like this easier. I, um, don’t feel so overwhelmed to fight the urges, you know?”

“Yeah. I fuckin’ do.”

You blame the catch in your breath on a particular rough gust of smoke. He taps out that cigarette and eagerly lights another one. Yours is barely holding on. He must think of something, remember a joke, because he smirks again.

“They also tried to put me on Metoprolol, but I told them to fuck off.”

You frown at him. “What’s that for?”

Dieter shakes his head, barely containing the smile on his face. “Fucking blood pressure medication. You turn forty-five and they wanna put you on Centrum fucking Silver.”

“Centrum? Isn’t that for –?”

His look dares you to tease him for it, all low eyes and curling lips, but you can’t swallow the fit of giggles. You snort, which makes him laugh, and then you do too.

You laugh with him, until you remember you shouldn’t. You swallow your giggles, sipping more fervently on your cigarette, hoping your abrupt end wasn’t too obvious.

But if Dieter notices, he doesn’t say. He watches the city skyline, contemplative.

“But of all that, therapy seems to be the thing that sticks the best.”

You groan, smacking your palm against the railing, hunching your shoulders. “God, doesn’t that fucking suck? The one thing that actually helps is talking about your stupid fucking feelings?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “yeah, it really does.”

Grinning, you flick your cigarette into the concrete pot Andrew has specifically out here for that sort of thing and go to light another one, but your packet is empty. You both stare at the empty box and then each other.

Dieter pulls on his cigarette, with a big inhale. “Well, I guess you, um, gotta go back –,”

Your past does not own you. You decide what you want.

“Do you wanna get lunch sometime?” That is not how you should have asked that question. His eyes go wide and he’s consumed by a coughing fit. You realize your mistake only seconds too late. “That’s not a line, I swear–,”

He bats your concern away, eyes watering, shaking his head.

“No, I know–,” he croaks. “Yes, I’d like — to catch up. No – I didn’t think it was – a line.”

He barely gets his breathing right, your own hands knotted together, as the balcony door opens for a second time.

“There you are!” Marie tsks. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere and –,”

She frowns at the hunched-over coughing man in the shadows. He tries to smile at her, cheeks red, eyes wet.

“Hi, Marie, how are–,”

“Andrew wants to make a speech.” She talks like she didn’t hear him. “Come on.”

She all but takes you by the scruff of your neck and hauls you back inside. You wave over your shoulder to Dieter and realize you don’t have his number anymore. Haven’t had it for years. You no longer have any way of contacting him, even if you wanted to.

As speeches go, Andrew was always very good at them. Short, sweet, and to the point. He thanks everyone for coming as he stands on his dining room table, thanks the caterers and the staff. You stand in the corner with Marie, chatting with the art director you finally met until Andrew started his speech. You focus entirely on Andrew, resolutely not searching the crowd or the balcony, as he continues to welcome everyone to New York, cracking a few jokes here and there. But then the perfunctory part of his speech is over, when something thoughtful comes over his face.

“I know you’ve all got better things to do than listen to me rant and rave, but I know each of you personally, and I’d like to say I’m so happy you’re in my life. I’d like to think everyone touches each other’s lives for a purpose. Not to sound utilitarian, because those purposes can be healing an emotional wound, or filling a hole you didn’t know was there. Or, in Jack’s case, the best damn audio technician I’ve ever seen. Thanks, Jack.” He holds up his glass as the crowd laughs. Andrew smiles and shifts his weight. He had never done any sort of acting himself, always more content to be the conductor of the chaos, but you always think he would have done well. He has a presence and it’s comforting. “Every day we interact with each other in ways that we can’t foresee and leave lasting consequences we can’t explain. That’s what’s at the heart of this story, this play we’re about to create. The effects we have on each other, how those chance meetings can have lasting consequences.” He grins across the crowd, to where you know his husband, Toby, stands. “How love is the only thing that matters in this fucking world. I really hope you remember that as we start production. If nothing we do matters, then love is the most important thing we’ll ever do.” He holds his glass high and everyone follows. “To love.”

“To love,” the chorus chants.

You’ve never been good at sitting still but this is getting ridiculous. Beneath the table, your toes curl and uncurl in your boots, rubbing blisters with your thick socks. Your teeth nibble the thinnest piece of skin behind your lip, chomping constantly like an uneasy horse chewing at its bit. You stare at the menu and read absolutely nothing. It could be written in French for all that you retain.

This is such a dumb fucking idea.

The restaurant is nice. Too nice for something like this. They have glass cups and plates that clink together when stacked on top of each other. The lighting feels low, even for the middle of the day. The paneled wooden walls are too stuffy, too old money. When you asked Andrew for a brunch suggestion, you never should have trusted the recommendation of someone whose idea of loungewear is a pair of hot pink Puma track pants. You loosen your grip on the leather-bound menu out of fear of breaking it in half.

“This is so weird.”

Your eyes snap across the table to your lunch companion. Sunglasses pushed up and nestled inside his long hair, Dieter distractedly tugs at his earring, frowning at the cream-colored menu. Everything about this is wrong. The location. The vibe. The white fucking table cloth. The fact that he’s here, sitting with you, like this is some chat with a business acquaintance –

“This is so fucking weird,” he says again, slowly. “Not a single thing on this menu looks good.”

He pauses for a moment, letting it settle, before he grins up at you. With a sigh, all the air rushes out of your chest. You smile back.

“There’s this really good hot dog cart down the road.”

He snaps his menu shut with glee. “Lead the fucking way.”

Ten minutes later, Dieter groans into a steaming chili cheese dog. You’ve found a concrete bench overlooking a small nearby park. It’s Saturday so the park is full of children and their parents, dogs and their owners. It’s . . . normal.

“Holy shit, this is good.” He licks melted cheese off the space between his thumb and forefinger and goes back in for seconds.

You suck a drop of chili off your thumb and grin. “Found this place when Marie and I first moved here. We lived just down the road and Tony with his cart became our guardian angel. And even now, even though I live across town, I’ll still come by just for his hot dogs.”

The man, round as he was tall, waves over his shoulder, heat rising from his chunky yellow cart, and you both wave back.

“Can Tony adopt me? Please? I clean the dishes every time, I swear.”

You chuckle as Dieter continues to slurp every errant stream of meat juice careening down his wrist.

“I think his other kids would object, but you can try.”

He chews slowly, suddenly thoughtful, glancing over the cold autumn air at the vendor. “You told me once you felt like it was hard to make friends. Guess that’s not the case anymore.”

He glances at you and you finish off your hot dog in two bites, your mouth dry. You shrug. “I do a lot of things now that I didn’t back then.”

He nods – rather, moves his head up and down rigidly – and finishes his lunch as well. You hand him a napkin and he takes it gratefully.

“But, uh, speaking of friends, how’s Heidi? Do you still keep in touch?”

Dieter’s eyes light up. He tosses away the napkin as he takes out his phone. “They just adopted another little kid.” He scrolls through his pictures before handing it off to you.

And once again you’re struck with the weight of memories that had been at the bottom of the box for years. Heidi’s older too, her hair now completely sheared off, cut shorter even than Dieter’s, but she’s smiling. She and another woman hold up a boy who looks to be about six, while two others, another boy and a girl, sit in front of the couch. All of them smile up happily for the camera. It tugs at a soft place inside of you.

The thing that’s been circling your mind for days lifts its head out of the churning mixture of your thoughts, sniffing the air, knowing it’s almost time.

“Oh wow! He’s adorable!” You grin genuinely.

Dieter smirks as he closes his phone. “Carlos. Heidi asked me to help him practice his Spanish, but I’m pretty sure he knows more English than I do.”

“So they’re happy?”

His brown eyes fall on you like autumn leaves and your toes curl again. “Yeah, they’re happy.”

“And Mark? Do you still keep up with him?”

Dieter glances away, biting his lip. “Um, no, actually. It’s kind of hard to hang out with someone after you’ve punched them in the face and called them a liar while being so coked out you’re hallucinating.” He picks at a callus on his palm. “Wouldn’t be the first time I lost a friend because I did dumb shit while I was high.”

You nod, the shame and embarrassment all too familiar. Plus, every memory you have of that hotel you handle with radiation tongs and chemical-resistant gloves.

“But, uh, what about you?” He leans back against the bench, hands in his lap. Behind him, children run and scream in the cool sunlight. “Were you and Marie always friends, even back then?”

“That’s a complicated question.” You sigh and tuck your hands up into your jacket pocket, matching his position on the bench. His legs sprawl out far longer than yours. “I wanted to be her friend back then, and I tried, but then things got . . . intense, with you, and the drugs, and I stopped responding to her calls and texts. For weeks at a time.” His gaze flickers to you as you talk, between your face and your pockets. “But she was also there for me . . . afterwards. She says Heidi called her and told her what happened and she immediately came to the hospital. She just fucking forgave me. Forgave all the shitty things I had done to her, just like that. To this day, she doesn’t hold it over me and I don’t know why but I’m so grateful for her . . .” Your voice cracks and you squeeze your eyes shut for a second. You can feel the wind on your cheeks, your unspilled tears sitting in your eyes.

You have to get this thing off your chest.

“Dieter, I’m so sorry.” With a gasp to stifle your tears, you turn to him to look him in the eyes. “For the first two years of my rehab, I thought about writing to you, or calling you. Just to say how sorry I was. I had no idea what it was like on the other side of sobriety, how every day is a such a fucking struggle, and I rubbed that in your face, over and over again until you snapped. I’m so sorry.”

He studies you for a moment, arms crossed, dark eyes almost black in the thin light. You can hear children yelling and shrieking with glee. Faint, distant. He taps his teeth together twice before finding his answer, his jaw tight.

“That’s not why I snapped and you know it.”

His voice holds like iron in the wispy wind. Everything blurs around you but not that. Not him. He shakes his head gently, eyes falling to the scarf around your neck.

“And please don’t apologize to me. I don’t think I’ll be able to stand it.”

He meets your eyes and you swear they’re damp. A shade brighter than they were before. You stare at each other, on that park bench in Brooklyn, on a cold autumn day, for a long, long time.

You have to ask it now. You can’t avoid it any longer.

“You wanna get coffee?” You pass the tremble in your hands off as a shiver. He nods, still chewing on his mouth, and you gather your trash.

It slips out of you as casually as you slip your napkins into the trash bin.

“How’s Chloe?”

You barely have turned around when his hand seizes your upper arm. His grip is almost too tight, his eyes wide and manic.

“Oh, shit.” He blinks as though he’d been slapped. “Natalie, I never told you – I didn’t even think – fuck –,”

“What, Dieter?” You want to pull away, but the touch around your arm is warm, thick. You peer up at him from furrowed eyebrows. “What didn’t you tell me?”

He swallows.

“The baby – it’s not – it wasn’t mine.”

Your entire body goes slack as your mouth drops open. The hold he has on you is welcomed; the entire park is in danger of spinning sideways.

Somehow he has the good sense to pull you both back onto the bench. Your knees buckle the second you move and you all but collapse into the concrete. Dieter releases you and rubs his hands together, leaning forward on his elbows, eyes still wide and blank.

“How do I say this?” He murmurs and that old hurt turns to panic, to anger.

“How to say what, Dieter?” You snap, hotly. “Just start at the beginning. Please.”

He shakes his head, tongue up against his molars, finally turning to look at you. “Chloe and I got divorced. Years ago.” He takes a steadying breath, thumbnail absent-mindedly against the black ring on his third finger on his left hand, as if to remind himself what was there. This is why no one over the age of twenty-five needs to wear this many rings, Dieter!

“Look, Chloe and I – our marriage was shit from the get-go. I didn’t want to admit it back then, but it’s true,” he says, still soothing himself with gentle strokes. “I used Chloe, like all the people in my life, like a crutch and she felt it. I was smothering her and she couldn’t get far enough away from me, even halfway around the world. She started seeing someone in Portugal and I think she was happy there. I hope so. But, uh, she didn’t want it to get to the papers that she’d cheated on her movie-star husband and got knocked up as a result, so she passed the baby off as mine. We were about seven months in when she finally told me. I don’t know if she could tell I was coming apart at the seams or she was finally ready to be happy, but she confessed. And I confessed to her – the drugs, the affair with you – all of it. I think I just wanted it to be over, done. We weren’t going to come back from something like that and I think we were both okay with it.” He stops spinning the ring and, against all expectations, grins. “This is probably kind of fucked up of me but we kept in touch for a while. She married the baby’s dad about a month after we divorced. He’s actually a really nice guy. I was even invited to the wedding, if you can imagine.”

There must be something wrong with your hearing. He’s stopped speaking but there’s a high pitched whine nestled between your ears.

“So you don’t . . . you aren’t . . .”

“No, I don’t have some ten year old kid running around out there,” he huffs, shaking his head. “And no, I’m not a father. Or a husband. Not anymore.”

You say the first thing you think of.

“Dee, that’s fucking crazy.” His old nickname slips out while your brain is offline. “That’s, like, soap opera levels of insane. That’s . . . I can’t believe . . .”

With a massive inhale, where you can see the hot steam of breath enter into his mouth and nostrils, he sits back, hands limp in his lap.

“I don’t blame her, you know. After what I had done, to her, to you, I didn’t have the right to be angry that she cheated on me. In some fucked up way, it made sense and it wasn’t just my paranoid, druggy brain telling me something was off. I was never a good husband, was never going to be a good father. When I think about it, the kindest thing she ever did was agree to leave me, even when that seemed impossible.”

His massive palms smooth across his thighs, his soft hair tugged on by the wind. His fingertips stop just short of touching yours, inches from your own lap.

“Natalie, I’m sorry I never reached out after that night. Or even years later. I lost hours of sleep thinking about what I was going to say to you if you ever let me see you again. I had all these grand plans of finding you and showing you how sorry I was. But then,” he swallows, “I realized what damage that would do and I . . . I thought it would be better if we just never saw each other again.”

Your ribs expand out into your chest, just once, just enough for it to hurt, before everything settles.

“I didn’t try and find you for the same reasons. I wanted to, though.”

If that counts for anything.

Back then, Dieter always had a fascination with your hands. Holding them, inspecting them, drawing invisible artwork across your palms and over your veins. He even sketched them on notebook paper and post-it notes from time to time, when you sat still long enough to let him.

You can see it in his eyes that he wants to touch you, to hold your hand, but he doesn’t. Instead, he puts his own back into his pockets.

Anxiety churns in your stomach. There’s more he wants to say and so do you, but for now, you’re content to let the confessions of the day settle.

It’s funny, the little things that you pull together in your mind to create an image of someone. You didn’t think of it often, but when you did, you tried to imagine him happy, with his wife and child. And now you know that’s all they were, imaginings. You wonder if you thought about it more than he did.

The label of father for Dieter was gone, after ten long, insufferable years. You had no idea what would take its place.

“Can I ask you something?”

When you look at him, the intensity in his gaze is lifted. Something lighter has taken its place.

“Sure.”

“Why were they called The Sixers?”

The whiplash between conversation topics is colder and sharper than the air around you. You suddenly remember you’re in a park full of children with Dieter Bravo inches from you.

You grin at him.

“Because it sounds like the sex-ers. Like sex-havers but said fast.”

That press of skin, the dimple on his right cheek, deepens and he smiles. “Nick came up with that one, didn’t he?”

You giggle. “Yeah, but the rest of them signed off on it.”

He nods, eyebrows arching as he shrugs. “But I actually meant why are they called The Sixers when there’s only five of them?”

Not once, after a decade, after millions of memories you shifted through, pulled out and examined and held up to the light – after shifting weight and blame and shame, putting your entire life under scrutiny – after sobriety and founding the gallery and finding Marie as the best friend in your whole world –

Not once, had you ever stopped to consider that.

It starts low in your stomach, expanding rapidly, arching up your spine, pulling your lips open, your head back until it bursts out of your mouth so absurdly loud, you clap a hand over your lips to keep from drawing attention.

You laugh so hard, you cry.

Dieter is bent over, howling alongside you.

When he orders your coffee, he remembers how you take it.

“Cream, no sugar, right?” He smiles as he hands you the steaming cup.

What else of you still lives inside of him? You hesitate to wonder.

You nod, thanking him, and follow him down the street.

A brisk evening settles between the high rises and rows of brownstones. The air has a mean bite to it now, a chill that nips at the bone. But you don’t really notice it. Not with his warm shoulder pressed up against yours, the warm styrofoam keeping your fingers from numbing. You’d brought up Andrew and the discussion quickly turned to the play. Dieter gestures wildly, chatting about this role, something so different from Hollywood.

Not that he had done much in the way of the public eye after Recovery Road. Smaller stuff, indie films, a few local LA plays. Then when all that became insufferable, he wrote a few treatments for some films, scripts to movies that never saw the light of day, and sold off the rights of those scripts to keep himself busy. He even directed a short film or two, but still felt a restlessness you were all too familiar with.

“So when Andrew called, I got the next flight out. This is the first part I’ve been excited about in years.”

You smile at him as you sip your coffee. “I’m really glad to hear that. Andrew’s a great director, I think you’ll have fun with him.”

As you led him near and nearer to your street, the conversation wove between artistic inclinations, production management, set design, character work – things you thought you’d forgotten about for the most part, but came back all too easily. You laughed easily too.

You were laughing when you stopped in front of your brownstone, but then instantly sobered when you saw who was waiting for you on the steps. Which was intentional because she absolutely had a set of keys.

“Oh, uh, hey, Marie.”

“Dieter.” But she’s looking at you, her jaw set and eyes blazing. “I just came by to get those invoices. Did I interrupt something?”

The back of your neck warms and you put more space between your shoulder and his. “No, i-it’s fine. Dieter was just walking me home. The invoices are in my kitchen.”

The chill of the air settles around you, tapping against the bubble you’d found yourself in after the park. You have him at arm’s length and you don’t know whether to shake his hand or give him a hug. You go with neither.

“It was good catching up. I’ll see you Monday?”

He nods, grinning in that silly way that makes him look like a fourteen year old dumbass. “For sure. See you Monday.”

It’s not the way you wanted your afternoon with him to go, but in honesty, it was probably the best way it could have gone. Dieter waves at Marie as he heads back the way you came, towards the subway station.

He’s not entirely out of earshot when Marie turns on you.

“So, what the fuck was that?”

You don’t meet her eyes as you fumble for your keys, your fingers numb from the cold. The door to your brownstone creaks as you stumble inside, as if irritated with you that you’re letting all the warm air out.

“What are you talking about? We were just catching up.”

She’s hot on your heels as you slide off your jacket, almost running for the kitchen.

“You don’t just catch up with someone like Dieter Bravo. He knows all your weaknesses, Nat.”

You scowl as you toss your purse onto the kitchen island. You face off with her, your hands on your hips. “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means he’s your blindspot,” she says, carefully watching your face. “Always has been. He’s not just some guy and you know it. He broke your fucking heart.”

It had been all smiles and laughing and remembering the good this afternoon. But she isn’t wrong. She rarely was.

She can see the understanding cross over your face.

“Where’s his wife anyway? Chloe?”

“They’re divorced, okay?”

Marie’s mouth falls open in disgust and you cringe. Probably shouldn’t have mentioned that.

“So he’s back in your life for five minutes, single, and you’re getting coffee with him?”

“I didn’t know he was single when I asked him — you know what, it’s fine. I asked if he wanted to get lunch and that turned into coffee and we spent a lot of time talking about the play. That’s it.”

She crosses her arms, reading every line in your body for secrets, as if he might have slipped you a bag of Oxy. You stare back. You have done nothing wrong and neither did he.

(You store away the fact that this was the first time you hung out with Dieter Bravo in a capacity that didn’t have you both hiding in shadows, ready to examine later alone in bed.)

“And you can honestly say you didn’t feel anything for him?” Marie arches an eyebrow, waiting for your stony face to crack. “No flicker? Nothing after ten years of radio silence?

“It’s not like it was before,” you answer as honestly as you can. “Even if it was, I can’t imagine he feels anything but guilt over me, which isn’t a great starting point for a relationship. You saw his face in the gallery – he looked petrified, not in love.”

When she nods, it stings, just a bit. She eyes the paperwork, knowing the income and good word coming from Andrew’s production would benefit the gallery for years to come. And of course she knew – she was the one who came up with it. Would she have said yes if she knew Dieter was attached to it? Would you have?

“Are you going to see him again?”

You wave a sweeping hand at the invoices, as if to show how the gallery and Andrew’s show are completely intertwined.

“I have to, right?”

Marie frowns at you, angry but not at you, and then her face softens, all fight gone, and she goes around the island to hug you. This is what saved you. This is what kept you going.

“I know my boundaries, Marie,” you say to the crook of her neck, unwilling to look her in the eyes while you say this. “And I know what happened in the past. I’m not going to make the same mistakes.”

She kisses your cheek. “Good because I really can’t run the gallery by myself.”

You laugh, pulling apart, and you shuffle the invoices together. “Yeah, who would you have to cart all this paperwork around?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Bright and early.”

You wave her goodbye from your porch, locking the door after her.

You want to google his name and “divorce” to see if it’s true. If anything he told you today was real. You want to curl up in bed, with your head under the sheets and try and piece his life without you together. But you don’t.

That was the thing with Dieter. You want things, but you can’t have them. You have this indescribable urge, but it must be tempered. The obsession is lesser, a blindspot more than anything, now that you know your next hit and how you felt about him had been horrifically tied up into one, incessant, painful need. It would never be as bad, you assure yourself because now that you don’t have that overwhelming urge to get high; whatever you would be feeling is just good plain old human brain chemicals. And if you survived being coked out for nearly a year straight, you’d probably survive your own stupid emotions.

You would survive Dieter Bravo. All you have to do now is be his friend.

OCTOBER

A sharp chill had descended over the city, bringing with it an explosion of color. A consolation prize for the painful nip in the air. It was too early in the season for snow, or anything to prevent the wind from being so cruel, so everyone had to bustle from one structure to the next, careful to avoid the cold that hounded them like dogs. Teeth clenched, hands clutching scarves, the streets were filled with scowls and pink cheeks, raw knuckles and frozen ears. The crowds moved faster, eager to get where they’re going, out of this cold, out of this wind that pressed unsuspecting bodies together with the force of it. It made getting out of bed, leaving the cozy warmth of duvets and covers, planting your feet on the freezing wood, almost a monumentally impossible task. Especially for those who hated mornings anyway.

As much as you tried – really, truly, desperately tried as you sorted through the mosaic of your life, shining up as much as you could – you simply could not turn yourself into a morning person. Yawning widely, you stirred the cup of terrible coffee aimlessly, as if with enough glaring it would not only taste better, but startle you awake.

No such luck.

“Hey, miss, where would you like us to put these?”

You grimace as you choke down the black sludge, pointing the workman to a far wall at the back of the stage. Six in the morning and you already know it was going to be a long day. There are supplies to organize, materials to sort out, work to delegate, but you can’t seem to climb out of that sleepy haze. It had been a while since you’d been on the set of a production but if you don’t plant your feet now, you are liable to get swept up into the chaos.

You shake your head and blink. Focus.

Your designs had mapped out six separate moveable pieces of extra thick balsa wood. Attached to wheels, stage hands could rearrange the pieces as needed, depending on the scene. The “walls” are light enough for Andrew’s skeleton crew, but with some shadows and shading, you could give them depth and visual weight. You just had to build the damn things first, but Andrew assured you that all of his stagehands are basically master carpenters. By the confused but eager looks on their faces, you doubt that’s entirely true. Maybe by the end of this you’ll all be master carpenters.

Smiling to yourself, you go to help them unpack the planks of wood, but freeze when you hear Andrew’s voice unexpectedly. Assuming he’d come by when most of the work is nearly done, you poke your head around the thick black curtains.

Andrew stands facing the house, his arms wide and mobile. You smirk at the Lululemon sweats – his version of dressing down – as he addresses the small crowd in front of him. It’s the cast, you realize, only about seven of them and in the center is, of course, Dieter, with dark circles under his eyes. He’d never been a morning person either. He has his arms crossed over a thin black shirt and he’s focused entirely on Andrew, thick brows furrowed.

And focused entirely on him, is Emily (you finally remember her name), the cute blonde twenty-something.

Friends help friends get dates, right? Maybe this would be a good first step.

Getting Dieter Bravo laid.

Lunch arrives well past noon, leaving everyone tired, hungry, and a little irritable. Cast and crew go off into their separate corners, looking for peace and quiet and somewhere the pounding of hammers isn’t audible.

You’re deciding between a ham or turkey sandwich when he sidles up next to you. His plate is half a sandwich, three strawberries, and four cookies. Good to see his voracious sweet tooth hadn’t dulled even a little bit.

You glance over your shoulder. Emily sits on the edge of the stage, munching on a bag of chips and reading over her script. With your elbow, you nudge Dieter and he turns to look.

“She likes you,” you grin.

He frowns, glancing back between you and the girl on stage. “Who? Emily?”

“Duh. She has eyes, doesn’t she?”

Dieter’s mouth goes tight and he turns back to the craft’s table, suddenly interested in adding something healthy to his plate.

“She flirts with everyone. Besides, I’m kind of out of practice.”

“What do you mean?”

He picks at a melon, noses through the box of chips. “Rehab makes dating kinda hard. Unless . . .” he pauses and puts down his plate, “unless you’ve figured out the secret to dating in rehab.”

Your neck heats again. “Um, no, definitely not. It’s been a while, for me too.”

“How long is a while?” His eyes darken as he asks.

You are completely baffled at how quickly this conversation spiraled out of your control.

“Dieter – I – it’s been – you —,”

He spares you and bites the corner of his cheek. He glances over to Emily as she swings a long, bare leg over the edge of the stage.

“I’m not sleeping with her.” You nod, dumbstruck by this complete and total opposite reaction you thought he’d have. He works his jaw before looking back at you. “Her or anyone else. Okay?”

Andrew calls the cast to the stage to review blocking before the buzz saws start up again, so Dieter is pulled away before you can sputter incoherent consonants at him. He leaves his plate with you.

“Don’t let anyone steal my cookies,” he says very seriously before wiping his hands on his jeans and heading back to work.

What you said is true. You didn’t date anyone in rehab, the practice actually rather forbidden, and didn’t really have the inclination once you got out. It had been years before you actually tried to date anyone, but most of them ended after the first awkward hug goodbye or when he tried to put his hand up your skirt at dinner.

You hadn’t been a nun this whole time – you weren’t a fucking saint – but there hadn’t been anyone, anyone who really mattered in, years. For the first time, that struck you as odd. There wasn’t time, you reason with yourself as you watch him cross the stage on Andrew’s direction and jot notes in his script, his hair sticking up in all directions as if a cat’s tongue had licked him up the back of his neck. With moving to New York and starting the gallery and then running it, expanding it, there just simply wasn’t time to find something to fill that giant, gaping hole in your life. A hole you didn’t seem to mind or even notice, until Dieter came back.

Okay, maybe, friends didn’t need to help friends pick up dates. He didn’t seem interested anyway.

You pick up his plate, careful to not spill his precious sweets, only vaguely aware that his first inclination after loading up his lunch was to come find you.

🤍 Next: Part 2 + Epilogue

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo x reader #the bubble fanfic #the bubble fic #the bubble fanfiction #the bubble 2016 #dieter bravo/f!reader #dieter bravo/you #dieter bravo/reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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wheresarizona · 2 years

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Inspired by this post. For @nicolethered

#pedro pascal #dieter bravo #dieter bravo/reader #dieter bravo x reader #wheresarizona gets creative #wheresarizona writes

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dumbgothbunny · 2 years

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Okay but Dieter Bravo and his super cute assistant on a movie set. She’s straight edge, innocent and doe eyed. He flirts with her hardcore, manipulated her into staying in his hotel room and even taught her how to smoke some pot (that’s was cute). But she’s always politely declined his physical advances, despite how her lip trembles or the way her body presses into his as if on command. Despite how in the middle of the night she clings to him in the giant california king he insisted on having in his suite. He wants her, and he always get what he wants.

Until he falls in love with her. And then his entire world is flipped and he’s fucked

#dieter bravo #fanfic idea #dieter bravo/reader #dieter bravo x reader #The Bubble #Pedro Pascal

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scrambledslut · 1 year

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makes me so eepy

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thosewickedlovelies · 2 years

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Coping Mechanisms | Dieter Bravo x afab!Reader

Rating: E for Explicit

Summary: Dieter Bravo finds you in an uncharacteristic state, but he’s an adaptable guy. It's a night you never anticipated for yourself.

Tags: Offscreen drug and alcohol use, and descriptions of being Affected (but not so drunk you’re incoherent). SMUT: semipublic sex, unprotected sex (don’t do that), there is a mirror 👀, Dieter has absorbed some of his dom/me’s teachings, uhh p*ssy slapping, ring kink.

Word count: 4,885

Note: whew so this is a little uh. dirtier/messier than my usual smut 😬😳 10/10 recommend writing dieter bravo smut as a coping mechanism 👍🏻

The effects of the ‘drug use’ are probably definitely not accurately depicted as I have never done a Drug, but that’s not really the point of this is it? 🤷🏻‍♀️😘

Masterlist

---

You don’t know what you took. Only that you wanted to forget- wanted to be out of your own head. That you couldn’t stand to sit at home and wallow, drowning in the heavy, hollow sense of defeat yet again.

Not that you’re exactly swimming now, you suppose. But you’re…managing. Floating, if nothing else. Your head filled with cotton candy instead of the tolling of bells, each clang another blow to your self-esteem: worthless. useless. pointless.

You only know that the room is spinning. That the wall you’re leaning on is cool and still, offering a moment of reprieve from the sticky warmth and noise of the party.

Your mouth is so dry.

You frown. It’s too dry, enough so that you can’t just ignore it, which is annoying.

Supporting yourself on the wall, you rotate yourself along your head and shoulder before pushing off. The bathroom is closer than the kitchen, and your cup is empty.

“Oof.” Your path is interrupted; you rebound off a cushy chest you hadn’t noticed come up from behind.

Dieter Bravo frowns at you.

No wonder the chest had been so soft. Dieter Bravo, the unlikely A-lister famous for his hedonistic penchants- the least mentioned but most relatable of which (in your opinion) included the comfiest clothes his considerable money could buy, which he then ‘wore in’ until they were falling apart. Proof of this theory is easy to come by- it’s currently visible in the tiny hole fraying along the stretched-out collar of tonight’s gray t-shirt.

Why is he wearing sunglasses inside and at night? Has he found a way to make those comfy too? The gleam of the party lights on the plastic frames is hypnotizing, pulsing red, purple, green…

Dieter tilts his head down, looking at you over the glasses, one eyebrow raised expectantly.

Had he asked you something? “...What?”

Dieter snorts. “I said, are you on something?”

He leans in closer to examine your face, scrutinizing your eyes, your mouth.

You bend back, affronted- and fearful. Could he tell?

Would you get into trouble? There were always rumors of whether Bravo was clean or not, what his drug of choice was or had been while filming any given movie. Whether his presence in the cast made it easier to deal or buy on set. There had to be almost zero chance that Dieter Bravo would be the one to get you in trouble, but the mere idea…

Dread slithers oily and sick in your chest as the things you fought to escape return, battering at the chemical barrier around your thoughts.

“No, I’m just getting water.” You push off the wall with more effort, only swaying slightly as you swerve around him and navigate to the bathroom. Your brow furrows deeply in a scowl exaggerated by the effects of the alcohol you’d also consumed.

Dieter dogs your steps. “The kitchen is the other way,” he points out.

You open the door with an exasperated flourish. “There’s a faucet in here, too.”

“...Huh.” Dieter sounds vaguely impressed, like such a thing would have never occurred to him.

Water swirls away the brown dregs of Coke in your cup at a turn of said faucet. You roll your eyes, nettled at this man’s interruption of your vibe and the risk, however slim, he represented.

The door closes, and the sudden glare of lights from above the mirror makes you squint.

Well, the glare of one light- two of the three bulbs are out, which you’d find gratitude for once your eyes adjusted.

“What are you doing?”

Dieter is grimacing too, bringing a hand up to shade his eyes, and a smile prods at the corners of your mouth.

You’re on reasonably friendly terms with Dieter thanks to your position on the film crew- one of the grip team. He knows your face if not your name, winking at you the same way he flirts with so many cast and crew members everywhere he goes. You’ve been warned of the infamous question he asks- and how little emotional investment usually lies behind it.

Which would be fine with you, frankly. You don’t understand how so many people claim to have been left broken-hearted by the philandering Dieter Bravo when it’s equally proclaimed that ‘everyone knows’ being propositioned by him never leads to anything deeper.

The man in question shoves his hands in the pockets of his knit cardigan, which rides the line between ‘well-worn’ and ‘dumpy’. He leans his head back against the door, brown hair bristling against white paint, and regards you.

“You’ve never done drugs before.”

The water you’ve half-emptied your cup of roils in your stomach, leaden and nauseous.

“Not here, anyway. At a work party,” Dieter allows. He tilts his head, those unexpectedly observant eyes clinging to you from behind tinted lenses.

It’s not a ‘work party’, strictly- just a crew get-together, letting off steam- but you know what he means.

“What happened?”

The red plastic cup creaks in the clutch of your hands.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” You avert your gaze from him, from your reflections in the mirror.

“But you wanna do drugs about it.” His eyes have gone half-lidded, yet they remain on you, watching, watching.

What the hell does he care? “What’s it to you?” you demand.

“Well, if you must know…” Dieter saunters toward you- as much as one can saunter in a space three strides long- and extricates the cup from your hands. He drains the last of the water from it, and you stare at the stretch of his throat, open-mouthed, until he sets it down.

“If you must know,” he says, with a smile that has some awareness sitting up straight inside you, “I was going to ask you a question tonight.”

He drags a knuckle lightly along the length of your jaw, one of his rings leaving a cool trail in its wake. “But if you’re in some kind of..fragile state…maybe I shouldn’t.” Despite his words, Dieter continues easing closer, dipping his chin so his nose brushes your temple, your cheek.

Your eyes must be as wide as your mouth by now. His smell fills your head- a whiff of marijuana from smoke sessions past, the musk of sweat from a day of filming, a stronger layer of something pleasant but artificial. A swipe of deodorant in lieu of a shower, maybe. His presence beckons, looming large and warm, all that softness offering a better kind of oblivion.

“I…” Your hands hover helplessly by his sides, not yet caught up.

“You..?” Dieter raises his sunglasses enough to catch your eye unfiltered, one eyebrow lifting.

“You should,” you whisper.

He grins, and a flash of that old movie star charm appears for just a second.

His sunglasses clatter carelessly to the counter. His fingertips skate up your arms and oh, does that feel nice, like tingling, sugary cloud filling your body again.

Dieter’s hands come to rest on your shoulders. He begins with your name- oh, he does know it- and with effort, you focus.

One corner of his mouth remains curled higher than the other, a trace of amusement at the dramatic redundancy of what he’s about to ask. Dieter looks you in the eye.

“...do you want to have sex with me?”

–

You don’t know how long the two of you have been here.

Here: locked in what you hope isn’t the only bathroom at this party, pressed against the tiled wall, bodies steadily entangling in a slow rhythm that matches the exploratory pace of your kiss.

Dieter crowds into you hungrily, using his whole body to seduce you, as if you hadn’t already answered yes. His teeth nip your lip, your jaw, his tongue sweeping along in the aftermath, the difference like fireworks to the soothing black of night. He moans at the taste of you, the feel of your body writhing in response to his; soft, helpless sounds spill from him so unabashedly that it makes you wonder who needs this more.

Sobriety isn’t fully in your grasp; it comes and goes, a little bit like you’re underwater but don’t know it until you come up each time. Your embrace would likely be considered sloppy to someone with more sense available, but Dieter doesn’t seem to mind, and it feels so good.

You moan freely, loudly, as his tongue laves your pulse point. He slips his hands beneath your shirt, kneading at your skin with his warm, wide hands, and you swear your vision goes white. Your nerves are all singing and crashing into each other, and your knees wobble.

Dieter catches you. He carefully withdraws from the kiss, and your lips chase his, dazed. Your breathing is heavy in a way that you’d probably be embarrassed about if you thought Dieter was in a position to judge.

His brown eyes glitter in the light of the dim orange bulb. They sweep from your own glassy eyes to your kiss-smudged mouth, to where your hands clutch fistfuls of his shirt in attempt to keep him close.

When he speaks, you flinch. You don’t know why; maybe you weren’t expecting him to be able to formulate his thoughts into sentences, or enunciate them in a way that seems to echo in the enclosed space.

“What do you need?” Dieter asks. He says it like an offering; he’s still close enough that his voice slides down your spine like a bead of sweat.

What do you need?

It’s such a different question to the one he asked earlier- what happened?- and so much better. It doesn’t matter what happened; what matters is what he can do about it.

Still…

“To forget.” Your eyes drift shut against the beginnings of shame clogging your throat. Dieter can do what he wants. You wait- for him to do something to you, or tell you what to do, or leave-

A light nudge beneath your chin. A request; a plea. You open your eyes, and Dieter is still there, holding your chin between his thumb and forefinger. His gaze is steady.

The silence pulses like a heartbeat. A strange connection between you that you weren’t expecting, but that you grasp at like a lifeline nevertheless. You can almost read the words scrawled across his pupils. I understand.

He leans in, and you think he’s going to kiss you again. Instead, his lips brush your ear. “I want to remember this next part, though.”

His fingers and lips crawl down your body until he’s kneeling, his nose at the seam in the crotch of your jeans.

“Can I?” Dieter looks up, a smirk toying with his lips. The signet ring on his right hand glints compared to the snap of your jeans, a disk of gold flashing beside copper-black tarnish.

Gaping, you nod.

Dieter Bravo getting a grip on grip team! The tabloid headline, a variation on the many you’ve seen dedicated to Dieter’s exploits, ripples like a bright yellow banner in your mind’s eye. Your friends would never believe it.

Your hands instinctively go to help his, but Dieter bats them away. He seems to enjoy this task, parting your zipper tooth by tooth and pressing his nose to the triangle of fabric revealed beneath, your chest heaving all the while.

Your jeans pool around your ankles, but Dieter makes no move to free them. Instead he digs his fingers into your thighs- his long, thick, fingers- and drags his lips up the sensitive inner flesh. Futilely, you attempt to bury your fingers in the featureless tiles of the wall holding you up. What is he waiting for?

Your muscles judder with tension, flickering and snapping like electricity in overloaded wires.

Dieter, attuned to the body under his palms, looks up from where his tongue was tracing the curve of elastic along your hip.

“It’s the anticipation,” he explains, conversationally, although his eyes gleam. “It makes it all better. Fills your head so it’s all you can think about.”

His fingertips grasp the waistband of your underwear, but roll it down only far enough to run his tongue along the imprint it left in your skin. Your rapid breathing turns into a high-pitched sound.

“...Until all you want to do is beg for relief.”

Dieter’s voice, impossibly, lowers to an even deeper rasp. You’d wonder where he learned this, but you can’t, because the only thing in your head is the hot, wet line of his tongue, drawing shapes on the tiny bits of skin he exposes at a time.

You moan your agreement, and Dieter seems to understand.

He tugs down your underwear in one smooth motion until his hands ring your ankles. The sensation makes you instinctively widen your stance, allowing Dieter, rubbing his face against your calf like a fucking cat, to run his cheek up and along the inside of your leg until you have to lift it over his shoulder with an unbalanced squeak.

“Dieter! Please,” you huff.

Chuckling, he splays one wide palm against the hip not lifted on his shoulder, keeping you upright with surprising strength. “There’s the begging,” he purrs.

You almost fall again as he backs out from under your legs, wondering indignantly where the hell he’s going. Fuck, you’re not steady enough for standing-up foreplay- but as Dieter gets to his feet again, you find yourself very interested in trying if it would mean you get to play with the thick, rigid length swaying prominently beneath his thin pants.

He snags your hands before they can reach him, however, and uses them to guide you into a seat on the counter.

Oh, this you can handle. You keep ahold of him with one hand while the other darts to the back of his head, into his hair, to pull him close again. The strands are soft despite a residual coating of product, the perfect length to fist and tug.

Dieter’s eyes widen slightly as you direct his head, but he seems to relax again when all you do is guide his mouth back to yours. His hands settle on your bare hips- and hold you in place as he slots himself between them.

Your back arches at the feel of him. That rigid length, rock hard and burning hot, deposited directly between the lips of your cunt- which, you realize, as the pressure increases, is wet. Your cheeks flare with heat. It smears and soaks into the flimsy fabric of Dieter’s pants as he rubs himself against you.

Dieter withdraws to suck in air. He looks down, and his mouth opens as he catches sight of the dark patch on his pants. “Fuck,” he croaks eagerly.

He drops to his knees so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t bang himself on something. But then he’s easing up one of your feet to rest on the counter, utterly splaying you for him, and arousal erupts between your thighs, thoroughly sweeping away any other concerns.

Your bare sex seems to hypnotize him- a specimen pinned open and on display. “Hold on to the counter, okay?” Dieter doesn’t say anything more, doesn’t even glance at you, before he’s eating your cunt like it’s his new favorite snack.

A strangled keen bursts from you, cut off almost before it starts, but your lip soon stings where you bite it to keep the sounds in. God, if you had known Dieter could use his mouth like this- all slithering tongue and sucking at your clit amid sounds of relish- you would have propositioned him first. He shoves his tongue into where you ache and you nearly leap off the vanity.

Dieter chuckles. “I said hold on, sweetheart. Is this what you need?” His tongue teases your entrance again.

Your grip on the counter is almost cutting off circulation to your fingers. “I am holding on!”

Dieter’s right hand is splayed on your lower belly, his thumb poised above your clit. Your gaze skitters down, lingers where the gold ring on his index finger is a cool indent in your flesh.

He notices.

“Ohhhh.” That hand moves, fingertips fluttering a taunting dance down toward where his mouth just was. “I’ve seen that look before.”

Dieter takes one of the rings off his left hand and places it on the middle finger of his right. The thick silver band and large stone seem flagrant and crude next to the simplicity of the matte gold signet. Regardless, the sight of both of them on fingers so near to where you’re all but flayed open, raw and slick and throbbing, makes you swallow hard around the desire ballooning inside you.

He makes soothing sounds as he eases first one, then the second finger into you. “You’d be surprised at how many people are into these.”

Dieter reflexively tries to wiggle his fingers in demonstration, but the first two are, of course, buried inside you, so it doesn’t have the usual effect. He watches your arousal leak and glisten onto the metal bands decorating them, spreading like some kinky polish, then looks back up at you.

“Or maybe you wouldn’t be.” Dieter grins, a touch of smugness crooking its shape.

You’re too far gone to care. The rings at the base of his fingers add an increased pressure at your entrance, a cool, unyielding demand, and you’re already addicted to the sensation. Whines bubble from your throat as you cant your hips, trying for more.

Dieter hums. “Oh right, sorry.”

And then his mouth is on you again, wet and swirling over your clit, and his fingers move, the hard metal bands a continuous threat- one slippery stretch away from fitting inside you. If Dieter is bothered by licking his own rings, he doesn’t show it, only spears his tongue where you moan the loudest. And you do moan- nobody has knocked on the door yet, so you give up on listening for intrusions and allow the banks to burst on the pleasure flooding from where Dieter laps at you.

Does drinking make it easier or harder for you to come? You can’t remember, but it’s probably harder. Your head is still in a sluggish spin, blurring all the wonderful sensations, but a cramp in your thigh is becoming hard to ignore.

“Dieter,” you mumble. You risk moving one hand to nestle it in his hair and tug.

“Mmm?” The sound is lazy, hazy. Bliss clouds Dieter’s face as he cracks one eye open, his mouth and fingers slowing.

“I want you.” You pull upward on his hair, gently, and lift him to standing again.

He carelessly wipes his sleeve across his mouth, clearing most of your mess. But you can still taste it when he kisses you, the unmistakable tang, can smell it when his still-damp fingers- and rings- come up to cradle your neck.

Dieter kisses you, thorough and languid despite the needy half-sounds that catch in his throat and the way his other hand splays on your back to keep you arched into him.

“You want me to fuck you like this?” he murmurs. It would be easy- only a moment’s transition from your current position.

“Or do you want me to bend you over?”

The image bursts in your head: the one dingy bulb making an orange shimmer of the sweat on your bodies, bare and conjoined in an obscene tableau. Imagined sensation follows: the commanding clutch of Dieter’s huge hands on your hips as he fucking plows into you, losing yourself in the stretch of taking (what feels like) his sizeable cock. Maybe you’ll have to lift a leg on the counter to get him in all the way…

“Fuck.” Your voice is weak.

But there’s no question. “Bend me over.”

Dieter chuckles, a sound shaded with intrigue. “I like wherever your mind just went.”

When he helps you off the counter and turn around, you see what he means. Your eyes are still glazed over, your jaw slack, and heat floods your cheeks at your obvious desperation.

But Dieter holds you flush against him, his fingers flexing against your skin, gazing with eyes huge and awestruck at your reflections.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re fucking gorgeous,” he groans, mouthing at your shoulder over your shirt. His hands twitch upward beneath the hem. “Can I take this off? Wanna see you while we do it.” He’s rutting his hips against you like an animal, helplessly.

He’s no better off than you. Your insecurity vanishes. “Fuck yeah, if you do too. Wanna feel your skin.”

Your words are an eager jumble as you clumsily spin to help him. Fabric pulls and drops. Dieter’s loose pants slide right off his hips, and you were right about his size; you actually lick your lips at the sight of him. His dick is flushed ruddy and readily (flatteringly) spurts precum when you grasp it. You weren’t the only one to leave a damp patch on his pants, it seems.

“Mmnnn, turn around again, please.” It’s Dieter begging you now, but not a cell of you is asserting itself at the moment, and you obey his plea-command without thought.

Under the orange bulb of the mirror your bodies gleam, just as you’d imagined. Dieter devours the sight of you, his eyes still wide.

“Fuuck, yeah.” He palms your tits, experimentally tweaking your nipples and grinning at the way you squirm and whimper. You can't decide if sober-you would want to slap him (for grinning) or you (for being so damn susceptible) more. It seems like Dieter is regaining some of his discipline, but in the next moment his cock nestles against your ass; he spasms, and in the next second it’s between your legs.

Eyes a little wild, Dieter watches the head of his cock appear between your thighs in the mirror, coated and gleaming with your slick, and his mouth hangs open.

Fuck. You’re never going to be able to see his shocked face on a screen again without thinking of this moment- without feeling the silken skin and stiff, fever-hot length of his cock insinuating itself in the mess he made of you.

Your breath coming short, you lean forward, bracing your hands on the counter. “Dieter,” you manage. You won’t even be able to say his name on set anymore without thinking of all the different tones in which you’ve stuttered it tonight.

Your shift in position changes the angle at which his cock catches on your entrance, and Dieter’s head snapped down, riveted to the sight. At the sound of his name (in such a gorgeously consumed tone), he looks up.

“Oh shit, yeah.” He adjusts his grip, working the head of his cock at the molten give of you- the place where you clutch at him so desperately.

“Ready, sweetheart?”

“Please.”

With no further ceremony Dieter sinks into you, and the pressure is divine. You literally feel your walls stretch to accommodate him, and a throaty moan rips from you as you give yourself completely to sensation.

Your eyes close. At first there’s only him- only Dieter and the sweet ache of his cock, his guttural sounds and hot breath in your ear. Only his hands, big and careful as he holds you in place, as he eases himself closer to you, to the incredible feeling.

A few short, tentative thrusts, that despite their slowness make your brow crumple and your mouth open. Dieter whines, a barely-there sound strained from him.

Your head drops back and Dieter gently turns it toward him, lips seeking yours. It’s a tender kiss until he starts to move in earnest, thrusting deep and sharp, and then it’s simply a direct line of filth from your brain to his mouth as you spill pleas and curses and vulnerable little whimpers that you think you’d have rather died than let any other partner hear.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart.”

You obey, turning your head to meet his gaze in the mirror. Dieter’s brown hair is tufted and mussed beyond its normal craftedness, but it only adds to the stunning vision he makes, with his arms and shoulders unexpectedly defined and his eyes full of fire as he works.

“Mm, there you are, so fucking pretty. You look so good like this, feel so good like this. You okay?”

His question almost blends in with the rest of his vocalized stream of consciousness. Are you okay? Pleasure rocks you in unceasing waves, jolting up your spine with every hungry kiss of his mouth on your neck, at every strike of his hips. His cock is shoving into something incredible, and if you were in your right physical state you probably would have fallen apart by now- but as it is, elbows buckling while you hold yourself up, all you can do is take it. Accept whatever Dieter gives you, this blissful, drawn-out torture of hanging on the edge.

Dieter reads this in the pained furrow of your brow in the mirror. He noses your ear. “I’m not gonna leave without making you come, sweets. You need something more?”

His fingers itch toward your mound. The same ones that he had obligingly beringed and fingered you with earlier now hover over your clit, waiting, along with his cocked eyebrow, for your response.

Dieter banks the pace, though not the depth, of his thrusts.

“Trust me,” he husks.

Scratch whatever you said earlier, you’re not telling this story to anyone.

You nod.

His hand comes down. Dieter slaps your clit, and although it isn’t painful you gasp at the sensation, bright and electric, sizzling through you in a way you could never anticipate. Shocked, your legs jerking, you try to close your thighs but you can’t, because Dieter is holding you in place and the cabinet is in the way of your knee-

He slaps your cunt again. Your head drops, air punching from your chest on a strangled sound. All your lower muscles tighten.

“Mm, I felt that,” Dieter grits. “One more?”

Your breathing comes short and fast, everything in you winding up tight. One more? You can feel the end rising in you, thick in your throat- it tastes like him.

It’s less a word than a sound, but the confirmation is there: “Yes.”

Dieter strikes your clit a last time; and like a bolt of lightning to a house of cards, you collapse. He moans as you come, hips ratcheting again at a furious pace, stroking something inside you that bursts to life with your climax.

It’s not as earth-shattering as some you’ve had. But damn, does it do the job, searing your mind clean of everything but the euphoria tingling through every limb. Dieter comes at exactly the right moment, shoving his hips into yours and wringing a last, delicious shudder from somewhere deep within you. His arms enwrap your whole body, one around your hips and the other up between your breasts- as much to hold you to him as to hold you up, period.

Dieter is still panting in your ear, making these unfairly sexy little sounds as he clings to the last flutters of pleasure. His incongruous strength plus those noises are almost enough to wind you up again- maybe if it weren’t for the film of sweat on your skin and the sudden exhaustion that's demanding a prompt collapse into bed.

With a flutter of his fanlike eyelashes, Dieter returns to himself. The dopey- crooked- charming grin that turns his mouth is the most recognizable expression you’ve seen on his face tonight.

He burrows a sigh into your neck. “Good?” he murmurs.

His breath tickles; it pulls a drunken giggle from you. “Good,” you confirm.

“Good.” He appears covertly satisfied, but not in the suddenly distant or obnoxiously masculine way you've experienced from the occasional man previously. It’s strange, but you don’t get a chance to comment before he’s easing out of you and hunting for clothes, rambling sheepish assurances of birth control and STI testing as he goes.

It’s touching, and pulls your head back toward the real world in a way that makes you want to cry- in a pleasant, cathartic way, as if at the end of a feel-good movie.

Dieter stops you before you can reach for the door. Curiosity rises on your lips- but then he’s kissing it away at the same unhurried pace with which he began; so gently and yet so impossibly thoroughly that you’re stunned, unable to pull enough air into your lungs.

You’re lightheaded by the time he pulls back. A bit of that post-orgasmic peace returned, to cushion your spirit for the way home.

Dieter’s smile softens when he sees your eyes round and questioning. He cups your cheek one last time; it’s unintentional, but the graze of his rings recalls a faint heat to your face.

“I know what it’s like to want to get out of your head,” he murmurs. “But I’m a healthier coping mechanism than drugs.”

The hole at the neck of his shirt looks bigger than it did before you yanked it off him. You fixate on this tiny detail, until another movement diverts your attention.

Dieter Bravo, his handsome features more sincere than you've ever seen them, holds out your phone. A contact profile under the same name glows on the screen.

“Call me next time?”

---

Post A/N: Yes i did google “film crew jobs” to come up with the funniest tabloid headline, and I did amuse myself 😂😌

Taglist: @thirstworldproblemss

#dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #the bubble fic #the bubble #dieter bravo/reader #dieter bravo/you #dieter bravo

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auteurdelabre · 6 months

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STORY MASTERLISTS

WELCOME TO P-STAR VHS RENTALS

A place to find whatever suits your tastes. Perhaps you're in the mood for a little romance with Dieter Bravo? Or maybe you're looking for an erotic thriller with Dave York? Alternatively you might be drawn to a deliciously dark drama starring Joel Miller? Whatever your tastes, we have it here.

Just make sure you have your membership card ready.

RENT HERE

COALS IN WINTER (rated G)

How I imagine Joel Miller falls in love

CURLS OF SMOKE (rated G)

How I imagine Javier Peña falls in love

A Secret Kind of Pain [Frankie Morales x f!reader] (rated 18+)

Poker night over at Benny’s tests the amazing burgeoning relationship you have been hiding with Frankie Morales.

Joel's Eyes (rated 18+)

based on the prompt by ashleyfilm: I don’t know if you take requests but I love your writing and I’m dying for a slow burn in post outbreak Jackson. Joel and fem reader strangers to friends to eventual lovers. Reader is in love with Joel from the beginning and is like him strong silent type but with a heart of gold. Lots of pinning and then a surprise when it turns out Joel pines for her too and Tommy and Ellie know that he loves her. Maybe some jealousy thrown in before soft dom Joel to sub reader smut. Then a snippet of them together after confession of love so you can hear what other towns folk think about them. Anyway, if you don’t take asks that’s totally cool and I look forward to reading whatever you write! :)

PALPATION (rated 18+)

Say, Thank You. [Dave York x F!Reader] (Rated 18+)

After driving you home from babysitting his kids, Dave York has a proposition for you that you just can’t refuse.

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mypoisonedvine · 1 year

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𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙩 || dieter bravo x camgirl!reader

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 || being quarantined in his hotel room has dieter getting a little stir crazy, and when the drugs run out, he has to find a new vice. that's how he found you.

𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩 || 5k

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 || smut (18+ only; phone/video call sex, use of toys, male and female masturbation), sex work (obviously, look at the title), dieter being down astronomically bad with a burgeoning housewife kink, basically nothing to do with the movie he's from whatsoever it's just porn with almost no plot

(my challenge for @the-slumberparty this week was to write a fic that has a bouquet of flowers somewhere in it! leave it to me to find a way to include that in something so insanely smutty...)

He couldn’t stop watching you—both right now, in this moment, and just generally.

Right now, he couldn’t take his eyes off the way your cunt slid up and down on the glass dildo, your walls gripping every ridge and detail of the toy, your arousal coating it and running in droplets down to the base.

And for the past two weeks, your videos had been his obsession. Maybe it technically qualified as a porn addiction—but it wasn’t just about that. He didn’t watch anyone else, and he didn’t even jerk off every time he watched one of your videos; sometimes he just liked hearing your voice, feeling less alone in quarantine in his hotel room.

Most people just put on sitcom reruns or the local news to make a hotel room feel less empty, but that didn’t work for Dieter. Maybe being an actor ruined the illusion of scripted TV for him—and as for the news, well, nobody would be comforted by the news these days.

So he turned to the only comfort he could rely on when all else failed: masturbation. But he didn’t like to do it without something to watch, and normally he would just find a video he liked and work with that, but something tempted him to try a cam site… and now he was never turning back.

You weren’t the first girl he saw, it took a little scrolling, but something about your channel caught his eye. It didn’t take even a full stream before he was addicted: you scratched every itch.

First of all, though he didn’t want to be too shallow, he couldn’t deny that your body was just his type. It felt like he could stare at you naked for hours and never get bored—and it drove him crazy that he couldn’t touch you, couldn’t turn you around and look at every inch of you. Instead he just had to lay back and let you show what you wanted; in a way, it was like a dominance thing—he was a victim to your whims, he could only get what you offered and that was it.

That said, you never left him wanting, that was the second thing he couldn’t resist about you. Your videos were… indulgent, maybe that’s the word he was looking for: it was so much more than just a girl rubbing herself in front of the camera and calling it a night. You spent a while talking with the viewers and reacting to comments, sometimes while undressing if you weren’t already naked; then, you upped the ante bit by bit, teasing yourself and him until it finally culminated in you bringing yourself to the peak over and over—until neither of you could take anymore. He wasn’t just satisfied after watching you, he was exhausted, in the best way.

And lastly, this one was probably just him projecting, but you seemed… sweet? Kinky, sure, but with something real about you—kinda that girl-next-door vibe. Maybe it was because you started some of your videos in normal clothes—not lingerie, not a sexy nurse outfit or whatever people are into these days—just a baggy band t-shirt and shorts or an old hoodie and pajama pants. It was hard not to imagine you as his girlfriend during those streams. Actually, once he let himself do it, he couldn’t stop—and it got him harder than anything else.

Perhaps Dieter had a bit of a reputation, and most would say he wasn’t very… sentimental with women. They wouldn’t be wrong, but they’d be misunderstanding him a bit. Truth be told, he was a pretty sensitive guy, and he’d always wanted a real relationship, it was just difficult with his career. Love is sort of like eating healthy: maybe you like to cook, maybe you like green beans and chicken breasts, but when a bag of potato chips is right there, you know what you’re probably gonna end up eating.

And Dieter really did go through ‘em like potato chips. It was easier that way. He got used to expressing his emotions through acting, and when emotions become your career, it’s a lot harder to be vulnerable for free.

Sometimes he wished he’d met you in person, somehow. (Then again, right now he was wishing he could meet anyone in person.) But if he’d met you in person, he would’ve probably just hit on you, convinced you to sleep with him, and then gone back to his same old habits—you would’ve just been another meaningless night. Instead he was trapped in this hotel, using his laptop like a window to the outside world, and you had become his vice. Even drugs couldn’t do for him what you could; the high you brought him was incomparable.

He told you just as much; sure, he felt like kind of a loser, but he started commenting on your streams hoping to get a reaction. I think I’m addicted to your videos. It was just one in a long string of adoring, horny comments that floated up alongside your video that day as you were casually touching yourself—one hand teasing your breast, pinching and circling the nipple, the other between your legs as you gently rubbed your clit. You hadn’t noticed his comment that time—or if you had, you didn’t say anything—but the next time, you saw it. You’d been using a vibe, taking it on and off your clit so you could edge yourself: that alone was a feat of self-discipline he couldn’t imagine. Can’t wait to see you cum, he’d written, too worked up himself to really wonder if it was clever or interesting.

You smiled, a little breathless laugh coming out more through your nose than your mouth. “Can’t wait to see you cum,” you repeated, “me either, buddy. Shit. Need to come so bad.”

Hearing you read his comment made him actually anxious—like an adrenaline rush, like when he was a kid and hadn’t gotten rid of his stage fright yet. You had such an effect on him; his heart was still racing when he finally came—he managed to wait until you did, only because he didn’t start jerking off until the last minute. Having to keep his throbbing dick out of his hand was an enormous task, but he knew that once he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop. And it was worth it, to come with you; he loved hearing your moans as you came, imagining how you’d sound if he was fucking you—imagining all his come painting your stomach or ass or even going inside you…

And now, right now, he was imagining that last thing—imagining filling you with his come. You rode that glass dildo beautifully, and when he moved his hand at just the right pace, he could watch and feel the way you would ride him.

“Mm, y’like that?” you moaned, looking back at the camera—damn, if you looked back at him like that while you were on his cock he’d be a fucking goner.

“Yeah,” he panted, in real life, because responding to you aloud was a bad habit when he was close to coming.

“Wanna come in me?” you encouraged, and he bit his lip as he nodded; he wanted to shut his eyes from the pleasure, but he couldn’t miss a second of you picking up the pace as you bounced on the toy. “Wanna fucking come inside me?”

“Yes, fuck, yes,” he panted out, starting to fuck up into his hand when your pace felt teasingly slow (even though it was already getting so much faster).

“C’mon baby, I want it—come in me, nice and deep,” you begged, voice getting shakier as your own orgasm neared. “Can you come with me? Please? Just fill me up right as you make me come—fuck, so good—”

“God, baby,” he whined, tightening up his stomach to try not to come instantly. Thankfully, he only had to hold out a few more seconds before he heard you start to make those undeniable moans: when you came, you were loud. He fucking loved that.

“Yes, yes!” you screamed, and he swore he could see the way your pussy squeezed that toy, he could see the shiver that ran up your spine—he’d give anything to feel that squeeze on his cock, to feel that shiver under his hands…

Come painted his hand, splattering onto his chest and thighs; if only he’d had the thought in advance to take his robe off entirely before he did this, now he was going to have to send some very shameful laundry to the front desk.

“Fuck, that was intense,” you laughed breathlessly as you started to recover. He could tell you were still a bit shaky as you lifted yourself off the dildo— and he winced, the last drop of come squeezing out of his slit, when he saw the way your pussy was left gaping for juuust a moment by the toy. Then one squeeze and it was like you were back to normal; she’s fucking incredible, he thought to himself, finally taking his hand off of his softening dick.

Panting, he felt the slightest tinge of shame in the back of his mind. Not just shame, actually, but loneliness: he watched you smile and turn to face the camera again, reading the slew of filthy praises in your comments, and he just wished it was the two of you— in real life, alone, holding each other…

But this was easier, this was so much easier. Being alone meant there was no one here to judge him, and that was worth having no one to wrap up in his arms in a time like this.

As he snagged a tissue from the bedside table to wipe himself off, he listened to you read and react to some comments. “Thanks, guys,” you beamed as you were overwhelmed with so hot and I just came so hard and you’re perfect. “You flatter me, stop it…”

He had to bite his lip when you started to play with your own tits, seemingly out of nowhere.

“They’re so sensitive after I come,” you explained with a giggle, then a moan as you pinched and teased the buds. “Have any of you ever tried that? Playing with your nipples?”

Dieter laughed as the comments poured in: what? that’s fucking gay all the way to I’m doing it right now for you my queen

“Oh god, has it been an hour already? I think I need to hop off, guys,” you announced.

Instantly the chat was flooded with pleas of don’t go!! and ten more minutes and how much do we tip for more time?

“If anybody wants to keep the conversation going, private chats are on sale on my page right now,” you explained with a friendly smile. “But if not I’ll see you tomorrow! Or, you’ll see me.”

With a flirty wave to the camera, the image froze and blurred; STREAM ENDED popped up on the screen. It was already trying to suggest other streamers live right now that he could watch, but Dieter only sighed and shut his laptop.

Seven seconds later, he opened it again.

“Private chats…” he mumbled to himself remembering what you said. He knew that you offered other services on your page, but something about you mentioning it this time got his attention. As he considered for a second if he should’ve washed his hands before touching the trackpad, he navigated to your page and looked at the menu of additional services for purchase. The list was long: private chats, as you’d mentioned; custom videos anywhere from 15 minutes to a concerningly-long two hours; a subscription to daily nude pictures, sent via Snapchat; even used panties available for shipping anywhere in the US and Canada.

He was originally just going to get a custom video, but as he scrolled through more options, he saw one-on-one video chat, and he got that feeling again—the adrenaline rush. It took him a second to even compose himself enough to read the description.

Do you hate having to share me with all the other viewers during my streams? I’d love to have some personal time to get to know you better, and do exactly what you’ve been dreaming of. You can use voice if that’s easier for you than text—top fans can even turn their camera on if they so desire.

A half-hour video chat was only $75— that sounded like a steal to Dieter right now— and they were available to book as soon as tomorrow. The idea made him feel all tingly and weird, but weird in a good way.

Top fans can even turn their camera on…

His constant engagement with your page for the last couple weeks had earned him the ‘top fan’ badge. When he imagined showing you his face, his body, he got unexpectedly anxious, though; he wasn’t a particularly shy guy, but this was a delicate issue. What if you recognized him? What if you were a fan? That would be weird— in a bad way.

Or what if you were a fan and you were overcome with the need to send him free videos, free pictures, even being willing to meet up with him sometime? That would be… convenient, certainly, in some ways; but the thought overwhelmed him, and he decided that if he was going to buy one of these chats, his camera would have to stay off. Just not worth the trouble.

He decided something else, too; a strange instinct, but one he was too deep in his post-orgasmic haze to resist. He wanted to send you a gift. Mostly, he hoped it would set him apart from other viewers— give you two something to talk about during that call. If he bought you a toy from your wishlist, maybe you could use it for the first time for him… that would be incredibly hot.

Or maybe he’d buy you something more normal, like a nice throw pillow for the bed you laid on for some of your videos… the domesticity of that certainly attracted him.

But then, he had a simpler idea. When in doubt while giving a gift to a woman, why not stick to the classics, right?

There was a P.O. Box for fanmail and gifts on your page, and he pulled up another tab to search: can you send flowers to a po box?

Just because he was a whore didn’t mean he wasn’t a romantic.

“I have to say, I get a lot of gifts… never gotten flowers before.”

His heart warmed to hear you say that— but it didn’t stop racing. This felt different: having you here, in only a t-shirt and panties as he’d seen you many times, but knowing it was just for him… he loved it, but it was a little scary. In a good way. “Do you like them?” he asked.

“Yeah!” you smiled, fiddling with the stems as the vase sat beside you. “Pink roses, lilies, orchids… you’re gonna spoil me, Hector.”

(Yes, he gave you his real name. Ironically, he used it to hide who he actually was— but he liked hearing you say it.)

“Not that I mind,” you added with a wink. “Do you mind if I have these in the background of my next stream? They'll match the toy I'm gonna use."

"O-oh, yeah, sure,” he choked. “What toy are you gonna use?”

You smirked a little, to the point that he almost felt stupid for asking that— but you didn’t mind showing him, in fact you had it ready and showed the baby-pink toy off for him. His throat got a little tighter when he saw the U-shape of the toy; didn’t take a genius to imagine where that would go… and already his mind was jumping ahead to how you’d look with those silicone ends penetrating both your holes—

“Looks like fun,” he managed to get out, and you looked pretty proud of yourself for making him a bit flustered.

“Do you wanna turn your camera on?” you offered suddenly after you’d set the toy aside. “No pressure, of course.”

He went through a whole rollercoaster when you asked that. Because yes, he did—sort of. But would it just make things more complicated? What if you were uncomfortable with him being famous, thought he might expose you or something—or, more concerningly, what if you exposed him? Or what if you just berated him with dumb fan questions when he was trying to forget about his life right now? “Uh,” he stalled, “is it okay if I don’t, this time?”

“Of course, it’s all up to you,” you replied. “I’m just a little curious… you have a sexy voice. Gotta wonder if it matches.”

He didn’t even know if you would think he was sexy—he certainly hoped so, but maybe you had a type of your own. Maybe you were a lesbian, how should he know? “Thanks,” he hummed, “you too—but, you know, all of you is sexy.”

“Aw shucks,” you said as you struck a pose, putting your hands under your chin and batting your eyes to complete the sarcastic impression of innocence. He laughed, and it reminded him why your videos were so special— ‘cause you made him laugh like that. “You know, a lot of people book these chats because they have a specific kink they want me to try for them,” you explained. “What about you? Why’d you book this?”

“Is it weird if I just… kinda wanted to talk to you?”

His heart skipped when he saw your reaction—the shy, tender smile that appeared on your face. “No, that’s not weird,” you replied, and for some reason it was how incredibly sweet you looked right then that made his cock jump in his boxers. “We can talk about whatever you want.”

“Can we talk about you?”

“Not much to talk about,” you shrugged, smirking a bit; of course you were teasing him, he didn’t even mind.

“I really doubt that,” he chuckled. “Is this your only job? Do you do anything else?”

“I, uh, used to do something else,” you answered, “but then they found out about this.”

“Oh, that sucks…”

“Nah, worked out for the best. Started making way more when I had more time to put into it,” you nodded. “I like this a lot better, actually. No sick leave, but no dress code, either.”

“Yeah, that’s a plus,” he nodded, even though you couldn’t see him.

“What about you? What do you do?”

“Um… I’m an actor,” he replied. He considered lying, but couldn’t come up with anything else.

“Oh, that’s really cool!” you smiled. “Wouldn’t have seen you in anything, would I?”

“Probably not,” he laughed off your question. “Do you, um, have any hobbies? You must not have a lot of spare time, with people paying for chats and custom videos and all…”

“I take a few days off, here and there,” you nodded, “mostly I just like movies and stuff.”

That made him even more anxious that you would know who he was. He still hadn’t decided if that would be a good thing or a bad thing, though.

“I like to cook,” you added.

It was starting to feel like you were intentionally targeting his newly developed girlfriend fetish. Instantly his mind was flooded with all this domestic bullshit: shopping with you for ingredients, coming home to a fresh dinner, waking up to you in the kitchen wearing his shirt and flipping pancakes. “I like to eat,” Dieter replied, “we’re so compatible.”

You laughed, and if this was all just some act where you pretended to think he was funny and interesting, it was the best acting he’d seen in a while. “Are you flirting?” you noticed, raising an eyebrow as if to point out how fitting-yet-bizarre it was for him to be hitting on you—because he didn’t need to, you were his for the half-hour regardless. But he liked this better, and he loved making you laugh.

“Maybe,” he offered cryptically in return.

“Is that what the flowers were for? Are you trying to seduce me?” you accused with a grin.

“Those were just to get your attention,” he admitted.

“Hector, honey,” you cooed, making his heart skip. “You already have my attention.”

That excited him and his dick, which was now making a tent in his boxers as it waited for some of your promised attention; somehow, just casually-flirtatious conversation with you was almost hotter to him than the usual stuff. Maybe he was just a little burnt out on all that by now— because talking to you had become much more valuable than seeing you naked.

“Just tell me one thing about you,” you bargained.

“Alright,” he agreed.

“Are you hard?”

He swallowed. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice sounding weaker than he meant it to. You smirked a little.

“We don’t have to,” you assured him, “but if you’re interested, why don’t we get off together, hm? Does that sound okay?”

Was it a good sign that you were initiating this, or did it just mean you were getting impatient with him? God, it didn’t matter—he was gonna do whatever you wanted. “Okay,” he answered. “Yeah—that sounds… more than okay.”

Biting your lip slightly, the way you looked at the camera almost made him feel like you were sizing him up—even though all you could see was a black screen. “Are you touching your cock already?”

“N-no, I… I still have boxers on,” he replied. “Should I?”

“No, you should rub it a little through the boxers,” you instructed. “That’s what I’m gonna do—touch my clit through these panties. It’s even more sensitive when I do that, don’t ask me how.”

“R-right, okay,” he nodded. He already liked taking instructions from you more than he thought he would. His hand spread out over the bulge in the cotton, a sigh slipping from his lips as he started to find the right amount of pressure so he wouldn’t get too into it too fast.

His eyes were transfixed on the way you spread your legs, and he swore your panties already looked a little damp…

Your finger traced delicately over the seam of your pussy, and his balls tightened up at the way you sighed as you teased yourself. “You should play with your tits, too,” he informed you, his own voice sounding shaky as he tried to hold back from just getting his cock out and jerking off as fervently as he wanted to.

“You’re just full of good ideas, huh?” you joked, taking your free hand and pinching yourself through your shirt.

“Then here’s another one for you,” he offered, “take something off.”

“Shirt or panties?” you asked.

“Dealer’s choice.”

You smiled and surprised him by lifting your hips, pulling your underwear down your thighs before kicking them off to the side. For some reason, even though he gave you the choice, he expected you to take the shirt off first; and there was something surprisingly sexy about you still having that casual t-shirt on and nothing else. (Likely, it was because it made it easier to imagine you just wearing one of his shirts…)

It added a new thrill to the now-familiar sight of your pussy— not that he ever got bored of that view. “Can you— can you spread it for me?” he panted, nearly whimpering when you took two fingers and scissored apart your lips. “Fuck, got such a pretty hole, baby…”

He saw it flex as you heard the compliment, and he couldn’t help but moan quietly. “Yeah? Have you thought about how good it would feel?” you encouraged with a sigh. “How good this hole would feel on your cock?”

“Every fucking day,” he promised.

“Then take it out,” you instructed breathily. “Start touching your cock, and think about what it would be like if I was there touching you instead.”

Though he was glad to do as you’d said, pulling his throbbing erection from his boxers with a sigh, he had to disobey one of your commands. “No, m’thinking about a lot more than that,” he replied, and you cracked a smile as you rubbed your clit faster. “Thinking about being— fuck— inside you…”

You hummed happily; after all that teasing, he was so sensitive and worked up that it felt like he was already fighting to hold himself back. He certainly couldn’t keep his pace down— right away he was stroking himself quickly, struggling to keep it together.

“Thinking about how fucking tight you are,” he added with a groan, loving the little whimper you let out in return.

“Hector, baby,” you moaned, and he hadn’t heard that name said that way in a very long time. “This might be over sooner than I thought if you talk like that…”

“Good,” he decided, “it’s not gonna take me very long, either— you always make me like that.”

“How would you fuck me?” you asked, panting, rocking your hips against your hand. “Tell me how you’d fuck me, baby.”

“Fuck, I—hard,” he choked out. “So fucking hard—”

“Mm,” you moaned encouragingly.

“And I’d eat you out,” he decided, “before and after. I’ve been dying to know how your pussy tastes.”

“After, huh? Is that with your come inside?” you wondered. “Or did you wanna come on my tits?”

“Inside,” he groaned. “I’d eat my—fuck—eat my come out of you, I don’t care.”

“That’s dirty,” you purred, “I like it. I like a man who can clean up his mess.”

“Never liked coming inside that much until I started watching your streams,” he admitted. “Now it’s all I can think about—coming inside you.”

“Fuck,” you moaned, “want you to think about that when you come for me now, okay? Can you do that?”

“Yeah,” he promised, moving his hand faster and feeling that tension in his gut that told him the breaking point was approaching.

“Think about filling me up,” you continued, “giving me all that come, so deep inside—”

“Fuck,” he hissed, “are you close too?”

“Baby, I’ve been trying not to come since we fucking started,” you admitted— and maybe it was a lie, but he bought it joyously.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he gasped, “I’m gonna come so hard— fuck yes— gonna come for you…”

“Do it,” you begged, “I want you to, I want you to come, Hector.”

“You— you should come, too,” he countered with a shaking gasp, his cock already starting to flex as he knew he was seconds away from losing it.

“I will,” you promised with a smile, your voice itself turning every word into a moan, “I’m gonna come with you, baby, fuck— lemme hear it, wanna hear you come—”

He came with a grunt, squeezing down on his cock with his fist as come launched out in long pulses; “F-fuck, I’m coming, ahhh fuck,” he narrated— normally he wouldn’t say something like that, but you had asked to hear it, so…

“Me too, I— oh!” you shouted, and he watched with heavy eyes as you tossed your head back, hips rocking up into nothing— your hand was a blur over your pussy but he swore he could see it pulsing and clenching, creamy slick leaking slowly from your hole.

The last of his come came out as a fat droplet running down his shaft, making his fingers unpleasantly sticky as the ringing in his ears subsided and he began to slowly come back to reality. You were panting, pushing yourself just a bit further until your whole body jolted and you quickly pulled your hand away.

“God,” you groaned, “that was… draining.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, laughing a little at how wrecked his own voice sounded.

“I wish I could just, like, take a nap right now,” you admitted with a tired grin.

“I mean, you could— we’re almost out of time…” he noticed.

“No, I— yeah, I could, but I have something after this,” you replied, and he felt a little twist in his chest. He didn’t blame you at all for it, but it made him jealous to think of you hopping right on to your next call— it made him feel like he was just one of your thousands of fans, which is not how he wanted you to think of him at all.

“Another call?” he assumed.

“No, just private chats,” you corrected, which somehow made him feel a little bit better, “and I should probably post a few things for my Snapchat— we’ll see. I will definitely need a break before my stream tonight, though… will I see you there? Proverbially?”

He smiled a little. “Yeah, definitely.”

“Drink plenty of fluids before then,” you winked. “Thanks for calling, Hector… I hope we can do this again sometime.”

It’s an upsell, she’s not actually into you, she’s not actually into you, he tried to force himself to believe. But it was so much easier, so much more fun, to imagine that you really liked him— that those flowers stood out enough for you to realize that he’s different.

You both said your polite goodbyes and the call ended. He was definitely sleepier than he anticipated after all that— you said you were, too, which made him just want to have you here even more so you could fall asleep on his shoulder and he wouldn’t have to be alone in this bed for the seemingly-thousandth time in a row.

Exhausted to the bone, some impossible mix of satisfied and starving for more of you, Dieter sighed and shut his laptop.

Seven seconds later, he opened it again. He wanted to book his next video call before he passed out.

thank you so much for reading! if you're interested in a second part to this, please let me know by reblogging or maybe even leaving a comment! you can read my other works for pedro pascal characters here or check out my full masterlist here

#dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo x y/n #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo fic #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #navy and roo's sleepover

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slvtforoldermen · 2 months

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Pedro’s Characters: The Dick-tionary

How big are Pedro Pascal’s characters and some NSFW headcannons

(WARNING: DETAILS OF PENISES AND TALKS OF SEX - MDNI)

Part Two <3

A/N: Sorry I never continued Fluff February :(, I lost motivation so I’ll just write them and post them as a prompt list for whenever…

Joel Miller:

Okay, all his characters are big, it’s a known fact, but Joel is 100% the biggest. Probably about 8.5 inches, with a pretty pink mushroom tip, and GIRTHY AGH! There’s a vein on it that is really visible when he’s hard. Oh and his balls are big too. Everything about Joel is just big. Not only is he big but you best believe he knows how to use it too. He’s got a daddy kink… Fav positions are missionary and cowgirl, however when he’s angry doggy or the mating press are a no-brainer. Daddy kink! DOMINANT!!! There’s no way this man is a sub, it just doesn’t work, he’s just so dom yknow, and when he’s soft, he’s the sweetest he’s ever been, but if he’s angry, hard dom Joel comes out and that’s a man you don’t wanna piss off if you wanna cum. He’s got such a daddy kink. “Fuck babygirl/boy, you’re so fucking sweet, sugar. So fucking good for daddy. Yeah baby? You like that? Such a good little girl/boy, so fucking sweet.” Daddy kink is such is a big thing for him. Hair wise? Well it’s the apocalypse so it’s probably hard to find the Manscaper 3000 or whatever. He trims his hair with some scissors, honestly he didn’t really care for shaving before you, so he just let it grow, but once when you were sucking him, you almost sneezed from how much it tickled your nose and made a little joke about it after, which made Joel feel a little bad so he cut them just a little shorter. Oh I’m sorry and did I mention… DADDY KINK!!!

Javier Peña:

(Here I’m purely writing about Javier Pena in a fictional sense AS PEDRO, not the real guy, this has nothing to do with the real Javier Pena)

Okay, Javier, my baby daddy. Um, who said that- ANYWAYS! Javier is probably the second biggest, in joint place with Oberyn, definitely about 7-7.5 inches, as he’s nicknamed by moi, the Pussy Slayer of Medellin. It goes without saying that Javier is rough, as we’ve seen, side note: I don’t know why I thought watching Narcos with my family would be a good idea… I was sat on the couch like “😀 okay, I’m watching Pedro have sex next to my mum, just a normal Saturday morning…” anyways back to it (hehe Negan reference) but Javier is rough, doggy and cowgirl are his favourite positions, but sometimes when he’s feeling a little somber he likes a little missionary. As how domestically-kinky I like my men, I’m a little disappointed that Javier isn’t a committed man, but he does have a tiny 🤏 breeding kink, he defo isn’t a fan of being called daddy, in fact just call him Javi and he’s yours, and he’s dom obviously. “Oh carino, you take my cock so well, you good little whore… fuck… my sweet little angel.” I mean, we’ve all seen his hair, so do we really need address it, that also might genuinely be my fav sex scene in all of cinema history.

Oberyn Martell

Okay, admittedly, I haven’t seen any proper scenes of Oberyn, because I’ve just started GOT, so I have no clue what his character is like apart from being a HUGE BISEXUAL SLUT, so he’s just like me 🤭

Oberyn, tying with Javier, is about 7-7.5 inches, and I feel like his cock is definitely a lot more tan than others, idk why, it’s just an instinct. Defo uncircumcised. His fav positions are definitely cowgirl OH and dude is the literal definition of a pillow prince, again, just like me. Suck his dick, please, just suck his dick. Again, I don’t know how he’s presented in GOT, but I’m like 74% sure he’s dominant? From the clips I’ve seen 🫣 Hair wise, do razors exists in the GOT world? Or does my man just shave himself with a sword.

Javi Gutierrez:

Oh my sweet baby Javi… he’s so kinky. I’m fully convinced he’s into full BDSM, not so much where he has to do it every single time, but maybe like once a month. When I was watching TUWOMT for the first time, when Nick is about to go into the room with all his merch and stuff, I was dead convinced it was gonna be a sex dungeon. There’s no way a man is this sweet and adorable without being into some freaky shit.

Anyway, Javi is about 6.5 inches, with a sweet pink tip and he’s definitely a giver not a taker, don’t get him wrong, he ADORES you with his dick in your mouth, but he prefers to eat you out/suck your dick for hours on end. Oh and he’s a sweet talker, when you guys aren’t being full kinky, he’ll praise you to hours on end, mumbling in your ear how good you are in that sexy accent of his. Is a little bit of a switch, but mostly dominant, soft dom if it’s a normal night but if it’s that special night, only your safe word will pull him out of hard dom space. Definitely the type to overstimulate you in a sweet way “you can take it right sweetheart? Mi amor~ just take my cock nice and good, ahí tienes.” Um, daddy kink for surely, but not like every single night like Joel. But when he’s between your legs, and he’s stimulated you so far into sub space, and you’re struggling to keep your eyes open, and you’re reaching up for him, babbling how good his cock feels in your hole, he can’t help but coo down at you and praise you so hard. He’s not bald, but his hair isn’t long, just trimmed to the point where it tickles your nose when you suck his cock.

Din Djarin

Okay, so I think it’s canon that Din hasn’t really ever felt human touch, so I feel he’s really inexperienced… but the dude’s got a pretty dick. Like it’s just so… pretty. About 6 inches with a sweet baby pink tip, he’s so sensitive too. He loves head but he really can’t say it, he’s just too embarrassed. I just get the vibe that he’s mostly subby. He tried to be dom once but the poor baby couldn’t handle it all. But then he tried again and he did so good, but it tired him out, so if he’s domming, which is once in a blue moon, he’s going to be soft, maybe even softer than Javi. Mommy/Daddy kink!! “Please, I’m good right? Please, please tell me I’m doing good… you always feel so so good, I love you so much.” Please, he’s so sweet I love him. It’s rare that you guys get off together because of reasons due to his upbringing and stuff so he just likes being taken care of, the sweet boy. Before you, he never really cared for shaving, so when you first strip together, he’s a little nervous about it, and then after that he trims it, quite short.

Marcus Moreno

If anyone says this man is a hard dom they’re just kidding themselves, this man is the sweetest man out there, obviously not as much as Din ofc <3.

Marcus has an obsession with using his hands, making you cum just by fingering you. Then when he’s inside you, he slips his fingers into your mouth, or around your neck, or on your cheek. His dick is about 7 inches, and like everyone else, knows how to use it perfectly. Angel is one of his favourite nicknames to call you. “My perfect Angel, taking my cock so good baby…” whilst hes thrusting into you ever so gently. Would never EVER do it when Missy is around, so quickies before picking Missy up from school are his go to, but he loves the days where his mom can take her out for the day or even a grandma sleepover so he can be with you for hours. You under him, over him, him inside you, his good girl/boy, his good angel. Pleasuring you until you get numb. The armpit hair in the scene of the gif gets me and idk why, I have never had a thing for armpit hair but maybe I’m just really horny, but his hair down there is nice and trimmed, not bald, never bald.

Tim Rock(Hard)Ford

Here we go…

Oh Tim man! I have a teensy 🤏 detective kink so when Pedro played this role it was over for me.

Maybe it’s the greying, like Joel, but I feel like he’s huge, just like Joel. He’s 8 inches, living his best life. But he’s just a tired old man, so when he gets home, please just get on your knees for him, he’ll just lay there, stroking your hair, praising you, telling you how good you suck his cock. Then he’ll bring you up to the bed and return the favour, making sure to always get you to tell him about your day as he does so. Saturday nights are always his favourite time to rail into you, he’s had the whole day off, just resting, watching you walk around, getting him so worked up. He has a domestic kink. So seeing you do chores get him so hard. Loves fucking between your thighs when you’re sleeping because he gets home so late and just needs a little relief, but you look so cute and peaceful while you sleep and because he’s so considerate, he doesn’t wanna wake you. “So good for me baby, so good for daddy, gonna fill you up, you’re not gonna let any of my cum slip out right, gonna keep it all in your tummy, yeah, that’s it, cum for me.” TALKS YOU THROUGH IT!!! Sleeps naked. Not trimmed, not shaved, just grows it out, he’s old so he doesn’t care, it’s not like anyone but you would be seeing him like this anyways.

Dieter Bravo

I love Dieter, he’s so cute.

Not dom, but not sub either, just dom enough to see you break under him but sub enough to whimper and get soooo desperate. Such a huge pillow prince, he loves it when you suck him, especially when you grab his balls and caress them, he cums so quick when that happens. He’s about 6.5 inches, and it loves fast, not as in quickie, but he loves seeing you fall apart as he jackhammers into your hole. When you ride him he gets so sweet, and he can last long, don’t worry, but you just look so pretty on top of him, he can’t help it, please don’t be mad at him. Has a thing for dry humping, especially in the morning when he’s too lazy to move properly. “So good baby, oh yeah, fuck, grind against me just like that, mmmf fuck…” loves to beg and watch you beg, he’s so good to and for you, don’t doubt him ever. He doesn’t shave, he trims it, but he’s so goofy, so once he shaved it into a heart.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #javier peña #javier pena x reader #javier pena smut #javi gutierrez #oberyn martell #din djarin #marcus moreno #tim rockford #dieter bravo #slvtforoldermen

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theredwritingwitch · 2 years

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Fleetwood Day

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x fem!reader

Summary: The day starts with Dieter in his normal asshole mood, and then it starts again, and again, and again, and...

Word Count: 11K

Warnings: drugs, cursing, alcohol, stealing, fingering, creampie, vaginal sex, oral sex (female receiving)

Ratings: E

Author’s Note: Based off the movie Groundhog Day...also I’m tired and going on a trip tomorrow so sorry for spelling or grammar mistakes.

June 25

“If you wake up and don’t want to smile,” Dieter moans out with his head muffled into a pillow. The sun blazes through the open curtains as the alarm clock rings out. “If it takes just a little while,” the sluggish actor raises his hand and reaches his arm out, flopping it lazily through the air, missing the alarm as Fleetwood Mac continued to blare, “Open your eyes and look at the day, You'll see things in a different way.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Dieter swore as he turns over and finally smacks the alarm off. He makes grabby hands around the side table as he finally grabs hold of his sunglasses and places them on his still closed eyes. Dieter lifts his head slightly as a text buzzes in through his phone, blaring the words “YOUR LATE.” Slowly he rises and squints, even with his sunglasses on, out through the window. He was late. Dieter doesn’t realize how much time had passed as he’s lounged in his hotel bed. Everything is too white, too clean, too bright in this hotel room. From the walls, the sheets, to the furniture; it was all that uniform look that never makes him comfortable. The trash, the loose clothes, bottles and stashes of wine and drugs though; that all makes him more comfortable. But today is a work day, he can't stay in bed. He scratches his beard and gives a quick glance at himself in the mirror. Shorts, a worn-out button up, crocs, and bed head. It’ll do.

He arrives on set for a photoshoot and interview for his latest movie 4 hours late. He doesn't bother explaining why he’s late, that he’s sorry, or that he’s thankful for everyone’s patience. Nope, Dieter stays grumpily silent, ready to go through the motions that he’s done so many other times; hair, makeup, pose for photographer, talk to interviewer, return to hotel room, drugs, sleep. No one really seems surprised by his tardiness, his disheveled looks, or his smoky smell. Dieter isn’t surprised everyone knows his reputation a little too well. They don’t even bother making conversation. But that’s no surprise since Dieter is shit at small talk, even to people he sees on a daily basis. He doesn't even seem to comprehend that you, his personal assistant, is also in the room. No hello, no hi, no nod, no questions or statements, no acknowledgment. But you’re used to that, that’s Dieter’s way of fumbling through life. You watch him doze off and slouch in the makeup chair, not bothering looking a bit professional. The photographer is particularly over this whole session, barely giving Dieter any instructions or advice. The interviewer tries her best not to look pissed; she tries a quick ‘this or that’ game that the internet will surely love. All in all the interview is…fine…it’s over at least, you wonder what work management will have to do to help this image look better. Dieter himself is lackluster, all this for a film he hardly likes, just to grab one more paycheck at the end of the day.

Not bothering to hide his yawn as he exits the photoshoot, clearly unconcerned by your shouting, Dieter instead looks forward to grabbing a bite to eat. He doesn’t bother waiting for the hostess to seat him and orders food that isn’t actually on the menu. Dieter adjusts his sunglasses as he waves off the annoyed waiter and looks out to the scenic sea before him. The PR team wanted the photoshoot over the cliffside village in Italy. It was picturesque. Quante with colorful houses, staircases that lead into the sea, narrow pathways flowing through the village; all real nice postcard shit. He has no idea what it all had to do with his latest movie, one where he plays some wandering stranger in the apocalypse.

Just as he considers taking a picture of the view to send to his mother, two figures sit in the seats across from him. His agent, Ben, doesn't ask permission to sit down and Dieter doesn’t care. He’s been with Ben for years, the man is completely used to Dieter’s ways and eccentricities. He’s all business; a big Hollywood man who knows how to talk the talk and walk the walk. Without Dieter, Ben would do just fine. Honestly Dieter guesses Ben only stays with him out of loyalty. On the other hand, Dieter stays with Ben because no one else will take him. He may be all about business but he’s a decent guy that knows how to handle Dieter well enough. Everyone likes Ben, especially when he has those simple social graces down. As Ben slides into his seat, he pulls out the chair next to him, letting the latest member of the team have the other empty chair.

You’re not exactly new new as Dieter had guessed when he first met you. But you are his newest PA, he had thought he could run you right over and get his way on most things. He does from time to time, especially lately. At the start, you had hounded him to get his shit together, be on time, look professional, and greet people. He complies every once in a while, but he likes to poke at you and lately you have been cracking. Dieter was really getting through life by the bare minimum. He has to give you credit though, not that he would ever say it out loud, you do your job well; you know how this business works and how a screw up like Dieter works. The last six months lacked any media disaster moments thanks to your quick thinking and planning. But you are definitely tired of him, he could see it in the way your face fell when you thought he wasn’t looking. He saw it at the photoshoot today. He’d seen that face on many others before and he stopped feeling sorry for it long ago.

“So, late again,” Ben sighs out, “Good thing you freshen up well I guess.” He reaches into his pocket and brings out his cell phone, not even bothering to look up at Dieter. “Or maybe my compliments should all go to the makeup artist and photographer.”

“Probably wouldn’t hurt,” Dieter mumbles as he stowes away his phone, forgetting all about the picture.

“No it wouldn’t hurt to tell someone they do good work. Maybe you should try to do that someday? You know, so I don’t have to come in after you and sweep up your mess every time.”

Dieter doesn’t even make eye contact with Ben as he swirls his glass of wine around and drinks it up.

“Well anyways, I read through the interviewer’s notes and everything looks fine. No worries there. The movie even currently has a 98% on RottenTomatoes,” Ben looks up at Dieter expectantly.

“Yea,” Dieter deadpans with a swirl of his fingers.

Ben scuffs and rolls his eyes to give you a familiar look. You and Ben have had a great many talks about Dieter Bravo. The two of you had several discussions about different tactics to deal with Dieter and even more discussions about leaving Bravo to someone else’s handling. You've been in the business long enough to have connections for better job prospects. You really have no love for Dieter, he wasn’t abusive or cruel, just plainly a lazy asshole. Leaving him would be easy. Ben, on the other hand, had been with him for years and was looking into other opportunities. That was a harder process for him, solely for the friendship he once held with Dieter, not that the friendship was broken but it wasn’t what it once was.

“So let’s talk about what to expect for the rest of the day,” you speak dryly to Dieter as he went on to eat his late lunch. “There’s a party going on in a local restaurant, a semi-formal event. We have a makeup artist on standby in your room. It’s a standard meet and greet. Nothing too special, just chat with some lucky attendees. That’s from 2-5. After that, you have the night to yourself. Do as you please as long as you're not getting into too much trouble, Dieter…Dieter?”

The Oscar winning star had stopped listening to you as soon as you mentioned the mandatory party. He’s really tired of parties, maybe that was out of character for his reputation, but he’s done with the loud music and bright lights. The people are even louder than the music and less interesting than the napkin currently on his lap, smudged with grease from his food. Dieter Bravo was wanted by every party but unwanted by everyone at the party. The man hates going out honestly, he may have become a couch potato with age. He longs for an afternoon in his robe, a long night with paint caked on his fingers, early morning beginning with a kit-kat, and a joint waiting for him at all times.

“DIETER.”

Dieter jolts to your loud hiss. He throws his hands up in defense.

“No snoozing till done schmoozing, no pot nor pill till I’m out of the mill…” Dieter pauses as his mouth hangs open in thought. You tap your finger as Ben shakes his head at his phone. “No nudity till after duty,” Dieter giggles at the last rule you had imposed on him.

Both you and Ben nod and sigh. It was always one step at a time with Bravo.

“Well now that’s been all sorted out, I’ve got a flight to catch. My wife is already disappointed that I’ll be late for our anniversary trip.” Ben stands from the table and roughs up Dieter’s hair as the actor brushes him off. You stand as well and walk Ben out of the restaurant, leaving Dieter to pick apart his food.

“Sure you want to leave already? We’re about to have so much fun,” the sarcasm was a normal attitude you and Dan shared often.

“Oh I’m sure, good luck with that,” Dan glances back at your charge. He grimaces and looks back at you, “Listen after the party, find some time for yourself. The village is beautiful and once Dieter is locked away in his room, you’ll be all clear to find your own get-away.”

“If he listens to me at all,” you roll your eyes as you remember how he acted earlier.

“Just try to get through the day, it’s only a couple more hours and then you're off the clock. You know once he’s back in his room, he won’t bother coming back out. He’s such a recluse these days.”

You nod and give him a quick hug before he leaves you to your charge.

You turn towards Dieter watching him tap at his wine glass to a waiter. The clock in your phone tells you it’s past noon already. Time to get this man-baby moving.

The world renowned actor Dieter Bravo does not ever move fast. He’s sluggish and mopey. You would consider his messy hair and pouty lips cute if he wasn’t ruining the day for everyone. Makeup and hair take too long that he becomes antsy. His pants itch, the shirt is a little too snug. The sunglasses don’t go with the outfit but he insists they stay. At the party he stays at the appetizer tables the whole time till you shew him away. He mumbles out half ass answers to everyone, only when he doesn’t shoo them away with his disinterests. The afternoon drags on, but at least he isn’t jumping into the sea in nothing but his birthday suite or snorting salt from a waiter’s serving tray. He got the salt confused with something else once… You’re always thankful for the small wins.

“No offense but I’m having trouble caring about your…well just you in general.”

Another guest walks away annoyed from Dieter as he lounges against the balcony railing. Dieter looks out to the sea, bored out of his mind. No one bothers him for the rest of his time at the party, all scared away by a moody actor. He blows out a puff of smoke from his blunt, contemplating if he’ll watch an old classic movie tonight or porn. You walk up to him, waving the smoke away.

“Dieter, could you please hold off on smoking till you're done with the party? No one wants to talk to a cloud of smoke.”

He doesn't even glance at you, just stuffs the blunt in his pocket, “How much longer?”

“Just a half an hour left. Then you’re free.”

“30 minutes,” Dieter pauses to bite his lip. “Yeah I’m gonna just leave now.”

“No Dieter wait!” You grab hold of Dieter's sleeve as he starts his way to the nearest exit, “30 minutes isn’t long, you can spend it at the appetizer table if you have to!”

This gives him pause, “That would work except I ate the majority of those apps. I was bored.” He pushes you off of him as he takes the stairs from the restaurant.

“Fine, how about 20 minutes. Then you can be off.”

“10 minutes,” he huffs out.

“15 and you take a picture with the owner,” you point at Dieter.

“10 and I take a picture with the owner,” he counter points at you.

“Deal,” you know that you won’t get a better deal.

Quickly the pictures are taken, the staff and crew are excited but Dieter cheaks out as soon as the camera is lowered. You watch him go quiet to his own adventure or hibernation. The ping of your phone gets your attention as you receive a text from another actor’s PA about a local’s cookout going on at the beach. Earlier in your time with Dieter, you had invited him to these small get-togethers, thinking he may enjoy the local atmosphere away from paparazzi. But he had always scuffed at the idea. Now you don’t bother, don’t even consider him in on the party. You roll your eyes, he can fend for himself for the rest of the night, you’ll have your fun.

Dieter strays here and there. He watches people enjoy their night. They laugh and sing, walking up and down the seaside village as they take in the lively night air. When he was younger he used to go out dancing late at night. He can hear the music playing at one of the open air restaurants, people swinging in and out of each others arms. Warm arms holding and caressing each other. They share drinks and tell stories all through the night. For a moment, Dieter considers spending his night in the corner of the bar, eavesdropping on everything he’s missing. But he doesn’t need to be seen as a creeper. He walks back to the hotel instead. Alone except for the cloud of smoke that engulfs him as soon as he enters his room. He sheds his clothes for his green puffy robe. He shares pills and other drugs with himself as he throws on some marine time documentary. The soothing voice of the narrator fills the room as Dieter lounges in his bed again. He doesn’t bother setting the alarm, you’ll come to wake him up.

June 25

“If you wake up and don’t want to smile,” Dieter moans out with his head muffled into a pillow. The sun is blazing through the open window as the alarm clock rings out. “If it takes just a little while,” the lethargic actor flops his outstretched arm through the air, nearing the alarm as Fleetwood Mac continues to blare out, “Open your eyes and look at the day, You'll see things in a different way.”

“Oh fuck off,” Dieter curses as he turns over and finally smacks the alarm off. He pushes several items out of the way on the side table as he finally grabs hold of his sunglasses and places them onto his blurry eyes. Dieter lifts his head slightly as a text buzzes in through his phone, blaring with the words “YOUR LATE.” Confused as to what he’s late for now, he scrolls through his calendar, looking over the schedule you had created for him. The same interview he did yesterday was showing up today. Same team. Same time. Same place. As well as the same party in the afternoon. Except his calendar says that yesterday is today. Today is June 25, but yesterday was June 25?

Dieter rubs his eyes and then glances about the room. His robe is in the same place as before, his clothes the same button down as what he remembered, even the drugs that he did last night were still on the side table. Dieter stands from bed and spins around the room taking every detail in, seeing that the mess he made from the night before is nowhere to be seen. It’s as if he never came back to his room last night and crashed.

Confused, Dieter shakes his head and grabs his phone and quickly walks his way through the hotel. He gets to the photoshoot where everyone is off doing their task and job. He sees the stylist prepping her station, the photographer switching lenses, the interviewer writing notes, and you type away at your phone. He nods a hello at you when you look up and slides into his chair for hair and makeup. The photoshoot and interview go as normal, or rather as they did the day before. Dieter even goes to the hotel’s restaurant and has the same decision with you and Ben.

Even the party this evening goes the same. Same music, same people, same food. He decides the day has been weird long enough and starts to leave when he feels you grab ahold of his arm.

“Just a half an hour left. Then you’re free.”

“30 minutes.” Dieter pauses as he realizes that’s what he said yesterday. “Yeah I’m definitely leaving now.”

“No Dieter wait!” You tug on Dieter’s sleeve “30 minutes isn’t long, you can spend it at the appetizer table if you have to!”

Of course you say that Dieter thinks, “I already ate the majority of those apps. I’ve got too much shit going on in my mind right now.” He looks toward the exit, fully knowing what you're about to say next.

“Fine, how about 20 minutes. Then you can be off.”

“10 minutes,” he says emotionlessly.

“15 and you take a picture with the owner,” you point at Dieter.

“10 and I take a picture with the owner,” he knows he’s won.

“Deal,” you smile and tug him forward.

Quickly the pictures are taken and the 10 minutes go by. He thinks about what he’ll do for the rest of the night as you interrupt his thoughts.

“Alright, you're free to go,” you smile effortlessly at him.

“Cool,” He pauses before he sets off to leave. You ‘ve always been a straight shooter with him, maybe you know something. “I’ve got a weird question for you, have you ever gone through a day that you swear you’ve already done?”

You hum and think for a moment, “Like when you’ve driven the same road again and again and you get to the point you don’t really think about what to do so much as your body just goes through the actions?”

Dieter smiles and nods, “Yes like that except it's not just the one particular time, it’s the whole day!”

“Oh kind of like déjà vu?”

“Yeah I guess so. It feels like I’ve been through this whole day twice now.”

“It probably means you need more sleep, that you’ve been doing gigs like this too much,” you laugh and shake your head at him.

He smiles back and scratches at his beard, “You're probably right, just weird déjà vu shit.”

“Rest Bravo, get some rest. Think you can take it easy tonight?” you ask him as your phone buzzes with a text.

“Yeah I can do that,” he mumbles as he slowly walks down the stairs and out the restaurant to his hotel, leaving you behind to type away at your phone.

Dieter doesn’t bother with the stray walk he took before, or what he thought he took the night before. Skipping the open air restaurants and dancing couples, he wonders what the hell he took last night that gave him some major déjà vu. He reminds himself that he needs to stay hydrated more often, that has to be it.

June 25

“If you wake up and don’t want to smile,” Dieter moans out with his head muffled into a pillow. The sun blazes through the open curtains as the alarm clock rings out. “If it takes just a little while,” the startled actor bolts his hand out of bed, barely hitting the alarm as Fleetwood Mac continues to blare, “Open your eyes and look at the day, You'll see things in a different way.”

“Fuck off,” Dieter curses as he turns over and finally grabs ahold of the alarm. It reads the same time as the past two days. There’s no way that's right though. That’s all just some déjà vu shit. He didn’t take anything last night, just hydrated like a good boy then fell asleep to some porn. He stares at the clock dumbfounded when a text to his phone buzzes, startling him. He peers slowly over to the phone, eyeing it as he reads the words “YOUR LATE.” He was late. Third day in a row late. Dieter doesn’t bother looking around the hotel room as he grabs his crocs and quickly shuffles out. The schedule still says that he has a photoshoot and interview, nothing is different. He curses himself and trips on his own feet as he enters the lobby.

He stops to ask a hotel employee what the date is. June 25. He dumbly nods his head, not daring to say it out loud but clearly thinking that yesterday was June 25. Dieter gives a nervous glance to the front desk and continues to the photoshoot and interview.

“What the fuck is going on…” the actor whispers to himself.

Upon arrival he finds the same people as before. All just going about their jobs, same old same old. Dieter sits in the chair for makeup as the artist gets to work, he’s wide eyed and tapping his fingers uncontrollably against the chair’s arms. It’s finally when he gets into his wardrobe that his scattered brain finally gets an idea. Dieter calls out to you.

You had watched him walk into the photoshoot late, he was obviously high on something. The way he looked bewildered at everything, the way he looked suspicious at everyone. He was twitchy and agitated. So it was to no surprise that he called out to you.

“What are you on?”

Your question sent Dieter into a tizzy fit.

“What am I on? I mean I took a bunch of different things last night,” Dieter trails off as he thinks over his days. “Or maybe it was the night before last night because last night, or tonight, I drank a bunch of water. But then today and yesterday all those drugs and the water I drank seemed to reappear this morning, which normally would be great but this whole day is… weird.” Dieter speaks fast as you stare him down.

“It sounds like a friend of yours just refilled your supply Dieter.”

He straightens out in his chair and lurches forward to you, “No you don’t get it. It’s not that the drugs are back but the music is the same, the people are all the same, and everything that happened yesterday and the day before yesterday is happening again.” He glances about the room as he leans into you.

“Ok let me ask again, what did you take last night?”

“It’s not last night, it’s tonight! Don’t you get it!” Dieter now hisses at you in a low voice. “Today happened yesterday as yesterday happened yesterday’s yesterday so today is yesterday’s yesterday.” He spreads his hands out before you as if he has given you all the information in the world.

“Ok…ok…” you study his face, contemplating what to do next. You had dealt with drunk or high Dieter on many different occasions but he was never this confused. Certainly he could be paranoid about things, but never to the point where he was really out of it. Normally he would grumble about upsetting the cells in his head but would get his work done once you butted him in the butt enough times. This was different, and very confusing. You decide to try a new tactic, “How about this, what are you taking tonight?”

“Not the same shit that I took earlier,” Dieter mumbles as he gets out of wardrobe and poses for the photographer.

He gets through the motions of the photoshoot quickly, knowing what he did last couple of times and even gets through the interview quickly. He answers each of the questions well enough although he now has a questionable paranoid look on his face. He looks extremely untrustworthy towards the interviewer, sending questions right back at her, really putting her off her game. As soon as he’s done, he changes clothes, talking high speed about bugs and implants that are fucking with his head. He moves fast to the door but pauses just before leaving, and just before you're about to yell at him to wait up, which surprises you entirely.

“Let's eat at a nearby restaurant.”

“Not the hotel’s restaurant?” you inquire as you walk with him.

“No, don’t trust it,” he mutters to you.

He tugs at your sleeve to keep track of you as the two of you speed walk across the street. You look Dieter up and down; this feels so incredibly strange for him. Sure, Dieter has gone on rants before about radiation from cellphones and technology messing up his brain, but he was never this paranoid.

“You should text Ben we‘re across the street, he’ll be looking for us,” Dieter commands.

“Ok?” juggling your cellphone and texting Ben where to meet you and Dieter, you take a seat with the actor watching his fingers drum against the table. He doesn’t order any food nor a drink and even when Ben joins you two he refuses any appetizers. Ben looks concerned at you, Dieter never turns food down.

“I don’t think it was the food, but I can’t be too cautious here,” he states as he leans in to you and Ben.

“Careful with what?” Ben questions.

“With the takeover of my mind,” Dieter lifts his hands up to his head and frizzles his hair out. Ben looks towards you as you lift your shoulders in a shrug.

“He’s been weird all morning.”

Ben nods in understanding, he looks back to his friend, “Right, what are you on?”

“I’m not on anything! Everything from the past tonights is back this morning!”

“Past tonights?”

“Yesterday is today as yesterday’s yesterday is also today,” Dieter states to Ben in the most serious tone you’ve ever heard him use.

Ben draws a circle into his temple, a pattern you’ve seen him do many different times before, “You mean your days are repeating?”

“That sounds like—” you begin to speculate.

“It is not déjà vu,” Dieter interrupts you.

“Ok, ok, if you’re so sure.”

“Maybe you just need to rest, drink some water—”

“Tried it, didn’t work,” Dieter interrupts Ben. “Look, there's an infinite amount of possibilities where someone could have bugged me, slipped something in my drink, and abducted me.”

“What?” you and Ben say in unison.

“The stylist could have slipped something in my hair, maybe the photographer zapped me with an invisible ray from their camera,” Dieter throws air quotes around the word camera as he continues ranting. “The hotel might have put a bug in my food or some serum! Someone at the party this evening could have slipped a weird serum into the appetizers.”

“Dieter there is no way—”

“After the party, I walked around the village. Someone could have easily abducted me and shot me with some shit!”

“Why would anyone want to bug you or drug you Dieter?”

“I know shit Ben, I know lots of shit.” Dieter leans back in his chair confidently.

“Like what,” Ben counters, clearly irritated now.

Dieter doesn’t say anything at first, but just squints at Ben, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Ben sighs and throws his arms into the air, “Listen I’m late for—”

“Your anniversary trip with your wife,” Dieter interjects with a smug smile. “You wanna know how I know that?”

“Because for the first time in a long time you actually care about someone else's life other than your own,” Ben answers. “I’m leaving, good luck with this crap.”

The smugness falls off Dieter’s face as Ben leaves the table and restaurant. He’s never talked to Dieter in that way before.

“Look I have no clue what’s going on with you, but I really think you should go see a doctor,” you place your hand on his arm and squeeze. Dieter’s eyes fall from where Ben was standing to you in what you would almost call a broken lost puppy look. You actually find yourself feeling bad for your stubborn actor. “Listen, I’ll cancel your appearance at the party as long as you go get checked out. How does that sound?”

Dieter’s lip quivers and he settles his hand on yours, he doesn’t squeeze but his large, warm hand holds yours. It’s been a long time since he’s held another person’s hand. He’s missed the feel of this sincere touch.

“Can you do that, Dieter? For me?” you question him with a small smile.

He makes eye contact with you and nods, “Yeah, I can do that.” He finds a local doctor to talk to, describing in the best and simplest way possible what his past days have been like. The doctor listens well enough, but doesn’t have much input to give Dieter, other than rest and relaxation. Dieter doesn’t think this is a bad idea. When he gets back to his room, he books a vacation in the Bahamas. He’ll sleep in the Caribbean, lounge while getting some messages, maybe even have a sunny detox. Dieter doesn’t get to sleep for a while though, he’s jittery and nervous. He walks in circles, even cleaning his room of trash, and squeezing his arm where your hand had touched him. Eventually exhaustion takes him, and sleep comes.

June 25

“If you wake up and don’t want to smile,” Dieter’s eyes bug out as he listens to the radio. “If it takes just a little while,” the rigid actor raises up as the alarm blares Fleetwood Mac, “Open your eyes and look at the day, You'll see things in a different way.” He scans the room realizing that everything he cleaned is now trashed again. “Don't stop thinking about tomorrow,”

Dieter bites down at his pillow as he watches his phone. “Don't stop, it'll soon be here,” Buzzing alive, a text comes in. “It'll be better than before,” Dieter leans over to look at what the text says, fully knowing what the message will read. “Yesterday's gone, yesterday's gone” He reads the words “YOUR LATE.”

Dieter spends his whole day at the bar talking to his new friend, the bartender.

June 25

The now melancholy actor spends his day high off his ass in his hotel room. He orders room service and doesn’t bother to answer his cell or the door when you and Ben try to get to him. He watches porn, reruns of black and white shows, and a nature documentary. Of course he indulges in all the drugs he has. They won’t go to waste. He even paints a little. He can’t remember the last time he painted.

June 25

Dieter starts his painting again, his hotel room has a large wall that is perfect for a mural. He orders and over eats food from the hotel’s restaurant, the bar down the street, the restaurant around the corner, and any restaurant or bar that looks remotely interesting. He’s never seen so much food in his life. The mural doesn’t look half bad either.

June 25

His arts skills are definitely coming back, with each day he practices more. He eats more, drinks more, and smokes more.

June 25

After painting another mural, he ventures out of the hotel. He explores the village for the first time. He avoids you and Ben but does find a pretty woman that wants to dance with him. He’s unsure at first. But some drinks are in his system and he swings around the bar widely with a pretty lady in his arms. He dazzles her with stories of Hollywood, and asks if she wants to see his mural. Soon he asks to paint her as she smokes his joint. The paint swirls around her naked body smoothly just as smooth as his cock slides in and out of her. He hasn’t been laid in forever, he indulges in this connection for the time being, even though he knows this woman isn’t truly interested in him for the real him. Also she won’t be here when he wakes in the morning.

June 25

He’s never robbed anything before, never stolen anything in his life. But boy was it a crazy rush when he took the entire cash register from the bar. He doesn’t need the money and he doesn’t know how to open the register to even get the money. But he feels crazy alive right now. He also understands how uncomfortable a jail cell really is now. At least he got his accordion lesson done earlier in the day.

June 25

An octopus actually touched Dieter’s arm! Honestly, scuba diving isn’t as hard as he thought it would be. Playing an accordion underwater is hard though.

June 25

He’s slept with a few different men and women in the last couple of weeks, but he wonders about you. He’s seen you on the beach, at a party a few nights in a row now. That one time he came up to you and flirted with you after he had ignored you the entire day, you had slapped him the second he uttered a word. He doesn’t blame you for that, but he likes to think his persuasive skills have gotten better, although you know him in a much more personal way than anyone else. He’s watched you drink, eat, laugh, and dance on the sandy beach. The stars glittered above you as you were completely carefree. No responsibility, not babysitting the asshole Dieter Bravo. He wonders if this is what you’re like most of the time, so free and lovely. He’s never seen you dance before, never seen you throw your head back and laugh. But now he has, a couple of different times since he’s been stuck in this loop. He pauses and watches every time he finds you down at the beach.

Dieter wants to join in and encircle you into his arms, swing you around as the musicians play on and on. He wants to make you laugh till your sides hurt. He wants you to place your hand on him again and squeeze. He knows he has no right, he knows so much about you now that he’s watched you for days. It isn’t right to just try to have you out of the blue. How well do you know him, he wonders. You know his habits but you’ve never talked about art or experiences. You haven’t really even talked about movies or desires. He’s got so many questions for you now, but you hate him.

June 25

Dieter returned to the scheduled interview, photoshoot, and party. You watched the man enter the room and announce to everyone that he was sorry for arriving late and was very appreciative to everyone for their patience. You thought that maybe the man was high, on some uppers perhaps. But he jumped into the makeup chair, giving the stylist instructions on what he thought was a good look for a Mediterranean look. You watched as he made easy small talk and pointed out different clothes he would like to wear for the photoshoot. Soon the man caught your eye in the mirror and motioned you over with a smile.

Of course you come, you’re curious for what had put him in a good mood. As soon as you shuffle over to him, he clasps your hand in his own hands.

“Can you do me a favor?” His dimples are on full display as a small smile turns to you.

“Well of course,” you stutter out confused then quickly backtrack, “I mean it is my job as your assistant isn’t it?”

“It is and you’ve always done such a great job at it. I want you to call Ben and tell him to get on his plane, his wife must be pissed that he’s late for their anniversary trip.”

“Oh yeah sure I’ll let him know.”

“And order some flowers and chocolates wherever they’re staying, please.”

“I’ll get right on that.”

You walk away from Dieter as you text Ben and order him and his wife some gifts. He’s excited to leave early but also curious at Dieter’s new attitude, but not curious enough to stay and question it. You stand back and watch the man at work, his poses are on point today as he communicates well with the photographer. Even the interview goes great as he gives fun and interesting answers to the interviewer. It would be any normal day for anyone else but for Dieter Bravo this is something else. He’s lively and talkative. He even gives you a few smiles and a wink throughout the process as he catches you staring at him.

His lively mood doesn’t falter. He buys you lunch and asks you question after question about you. What’s your family like? How was your childhood? What did you want to be growing up? He gets on the subject of school, where you ask him about acting. You are surprised to find that he went to school for art instead. You're even more surprised to find that he’s truly passionate about painting, offering to give you some lessons in the future. He snaps a quick picture of the two of you together with the sea in the background and sends it to his mom. Soon enough the clock ticks by and the two of you head to the party. Dieter swings back into superstar mode where he regales party guests with behind the scene stories. He makes everyone laugh and even takes a few different people dancing. Honestly, you begrudgingly say you're a little jealous that his attention is elsewhere. You admit that you found the talk the two of you shared this noon was really fun, but now as Dieter spirals his way through conversations, you see a glimmer of loneliness in the man. You can tell he’s drained from too much people time.

In all the excitement, you catch Dieter’s eye several times. He was having a bit of fun here at the party but going over the same conversations again and again is getting to him. He finds himself constantly looking over towards you; he would rather get back to that conversation the two of you were having earlier. He looks at his clock and realizes there’s 30 minutes left of the party. Good enough. Dieter calls over the staff and owner of the restaurant for a picture and leaves the party for where you're standing. Two drinks in hand, you were always well prepared for him.

“Tired?” you ask as Dieter takes one of the drinks from your hands and gulps it down.

“You have no idea,” he sighs out as he leans on the balcony railing.

“Actually I probably do.”

Your charge stops for a moment and then drops his head, “Yeah you definitely do, sorry.”

You spit your drink up a little, that’s the first time you’ve heard Dieter Bravo say sorry.

“Say again?”

Dieter looks up at you and leans forward. His hair still has the elegant curls from the stylist this morning and his lonesome yet playful eyes lock on yours. His broad shoulders almost entices you to run your hands up them as he blocks out your view of the party. A hand engulfs your elbow and with a small circular motion of his thumbs, you find yourself almost leaning into him.

“Do you wanna leave early and go for a walk? Just the two of us. I know this small hole-in-the-wall bar on the other side of the village.” There’s almost a hopefulness to Dieter’s eyes as he holds you to him.

“I…well…actually,” you stumble out your words trying to figure out if Dieter just asked you out or if something else is going on. Before your mind makes a decision, your phone buzzes with a text from a friend about another party going on. Dieter glances at your phone and backs off of you, part of you misses his warmth but the other part has no clue what is going on.

“Listen Dieter, I’ve got plans already and I need an early start tomorrow.”

Dieter nods his head as he looks down at his shoes, “It’s fine. Go be with friends, I’ll take a rain check.”

You watch him walk away, feeling like you kicked a small puppy. Maybe you should invite him to the party, but he’s always declined the offer in the past. You're conflicted if you’ve just turned down Dieter Bravo after such a good day. He honestly was so different and refreshing today, you would have guessed it was someone else. You look back down at your text and then glance back to where Dieter had disappeared. Maybe a night grabbing a few drinks with friends would help clear your head, you’ll figure this out tomorrow.

Dieter ends his day in bed again. The mural on his wall is of you sitting on the beach with stars glittering above you. He’s seen it in real life so many times, it’s all too easy for him to paint. The kit-kats run out soon into his gloomy state of couch potato. Even the Italian greyhounds he stole from some old lady while on his walk back to the hotel aren’t cheering him up as they cuddle around him.

June 25

From then on forward, Dieter goes to the interview, photoshoot, and party more often. He doesn’t go everyday though, he skips a few in favor of reintroducing himself to the locals. The actor goes around the village, memorizing everyone's names to memory. He asks questions of their wants and desires, their daily lives, their troubles and accomplishments. Dieter was a man that acted out stories but it wasn’t till these last couple days did he realize that everyone has a story to tell. It makes him wonder what your story is. He’s so desperate to find out.

Finally a day comes where he’s able to convince you to take it easy, he already knows his schedule, he can take care of himself. You insist on following him, just in case, which does please him. He starts the day grabbing coffee for the whole team, gifting the stylist new brushes, helping clean the photographer’s lenses, and reassuring the interviewer she should argue for more pay. At the hotel’s restaurant, he jumps into the kitchen helping the chefs prepare for the lunch time rush. On the walk to the afternoon party, he offers to climb a ladder for an older man to hang a sign. Dieter even jumps in to help a young woman with a small fussy child carry her groceries. At the party Dieter gathers a large crowd of party goers, giving them all relationship advice. He unexpectedly stays longer at the party than necessary, helping the staff clean, and thankfully saves the life of a man choking on leftover food. He walks you to your party on the beach, which you have no clue how he knows it was going on.

For a moment you contemplate asking him to join the party, but Dieter pushes you forward, stating he has a few friends to catch up with. You wave him off, almost sad to be turned down with your unannounced question. But you watch the once grumpy and lazy actor confidently stride off. He stops abruptly to catch a cat as she falls off a ledge above his head, sneezing as he settles her down to the ground and gives you one last wave for the night.

Unbeknownst to you, Dieter goes on with his night to give dance instructions at a small bar. He amazes the crowd and reignites the love life of a few couples. But Dieter has yet to reignite your love. He’s got time to figure you out though, plenty of time that he’s happy to spend with you.

June 25

You walk onto the set expecting people milling about their jobs, but as you open the doors to the room, you find it dead quiet and void of people. Except for one person. Dieter Bravo stands in the middle of the room with a large bouquet of your favorite flowers. He looks good in a light matching floral shirt and pants, his curls just gliding behind his ears, the exact way you’ve liked it the most.

“You’re late,” Dieter calls out to you with a large smile on his face.

“By 5 minutes. But you’re…” you shake your head in disbelief.

“Early. I know. Don’t expect it everyday though, this is hard work getting up on time.”

You giggle at his pouty lips, “So if we’re on time then where is everyone else?”

“Day off, or rather I told them to reschedule to a new location that would make sense for the movie they're interviewing me for. These are for you.” Dieter hands you the bouquet of colorful flowers. You smell the flowers without thinking and look up at him.

“What are you up to?”

“I want to treat you to a day off, and the only way you ever have a day off is if I take the day off.” Dieter doesn’t blink or look away from you as he states it so plainly, like he already knows the answer to the question before you think to ask. “I’ve got the whole day plan, and I know you love plans and schedules so,” he nods his head towards the doors, “let's get going.”

He doesn’t leave much room for argument as he leads you two away from the hotel, and you really don’t bother to put up much of an argument as you're so curious as to what Dieter is up to. As he tools your hand into the crock of his arm, he guides you through the Italian village streets. The two of you walk the narrow cobblestone passageway, past locals that call out to Dieter and thank him for various reasons.

You lean into Dieter after an old woman had kissed him on both cheeks, “What have you been up to Mr. Bravo?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We’ve gone past at least five different people who’ve thanked you for different things.”

“Ah well, I got some work done this morning before I met up with you.”

You poke his side, making him flinch in mock anguish, “Work?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dieter brushes you off as he opens the door for you to a dingy looking home. “Just go straight back, I’ll be right behind you.”

Pausing for a moment, you step forward and do as he instructed, and only shake just a little when you feel the warmth of his palm on the small of your back. Dieter points to a pair of open doors around the corner, continuing your descent. As you walk through the doors, you're greeted with a lovely view of the village and sea. A gasp escapes you as you walk to the balcony and take in the view. A minute goes by before a tap on your shoulder brings you back to Dieter waiting patiently behind you.

“I know you’ve been wanting to see a better view of the town, so I thought breakfast and a view would do,” he motions to a small table with a beautiful display of breakfast treats. Even though your stomach calls for food, it's the mural behind the food that gets your attention. On full display of the building's outer wall is a bright and vibrant mural of the village and sea under a blanket of stars. You trace your fingers on the waves as Dieter takes a pastry from the table.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s gorgeous. Whoever the painter is did an amazing job capturing the beauty of the village,” you continue tracing the mural as you feel Dieter step into your space.

“Thank you. Took a lot of practice but I think I nailed it.”

“You did this!”

“Yeah I like to think of it as a vision into the future,” he eyes the particular part of the mural, he continues to eat his pastry, where a silhouette of a woman stands on the beach.

“A vision? I didn’t know you were a soothsayer.”

“You’ll find out later, I promise.”

You look at him now with your mouth hanging open. Dieter chuckles and pops that last part of his pastry into your mouth, licking his own fingers as he stares back at you.

“Come on, we can’t let these pastries go to waste,” he says as he takes your hand and sets you down to the table.

The rest of the day goes by in a similar manner, Dieter surprising you at every turn. He takes you to the beach and builds a giant sandcastle with you, amazing you with incredible hidden talent. Soon enough the two of you grab lunch with a local fisherman, who takes you out to sea where you both catch your own food. Dieter stands behind you guiding you on how to handle the fishing pole when the fish bites. Surprisingly, you don’t mind his arms wrapped around you. For the rest of the day, the two of you spend wandering the village, in and out of conversations with many random individuals who strike up a conversation with Dieter, only for him to give them apologies and return his attention to you.

He asks about your life, you ask about his. It doesn’t take long to get lost in conversation with Dieter, all too easy to get lost in the depths of his eyes and it feels like he’s gotten lost in your eyes as well. You don’t shy away from him when he pulls you under his arm for the walk. Maybe your mind is reeling with hundreds of questions about what is going on with Dieter Bravo but the day is too perfect to bother.

Soon enough dinner comes, and chef Dieter makes you a delicious sandwich. You laugh at him for making such a show out of his culinary skills, or lack of them, as he fumbles around the kitchen he’s rented out. You make a trade, you’ll teach him how to cook if he teaches you how to paint. He locks in the deal with a kiss to your hand.

Only a text on your phone startles you from your rose colored haze, a party on the beach. You look up at Dieter as he watches you with total adoration. He’s patient as you place your phone away and you smile at him.

“Do you wanna go to a party on the beach? Maybe just for a little while,” you slowly reach for his hand and interlock your fingers to his. The smile on his face is small, but it’s all too sweet to not see as he tells you yes.

Other members of the entertainment industry are at the party, but it’s a low key vibe. People sitting and lounging as music flirts through the air. Many friends welcome you and Dieter to the party, making small talk and trading stories. One local from nearby asks Dieter to play for them. You’re confused since you know Dieter doesn’t play an instrument, but the local brings out an accordion. The actor that you thought you knew so well plays a playful and lively tune for the party. People cheer and laugh, dancing to the beat as a band from the bar nearby comes in to join Dieter. You watch in amusement as this once frumpy and drugged out actor now leads the charge in a heart fluttering chorus. He’s lost himself in the music with the rest of the band, but as soon as the song is over his eyes make contact with you. You can’t help yourself to cheer and clap loudly like the rest of the party, which makes Dieter duck his head with a smile ready on his face.

The band takes over and Dieter leaves the spotlight to be with you, pulling you down the beach always to get away from the crowd. You cling to him as your bare feet splash through the water. Looking up at the lovely man, you watch as Dieter stops and places his hand on your hip, drawing you close as his other hand holds onto yours.

“One dance? Please?”

“I would never say no to a dance with you Dieter,” you respond as you two sway through the surf. The band’s music is just barely in range for your quiet tango. Placing his chin against your head, you're tucked into the warmth of Dieter's chest, a place you never thought you would be. It feels nice and just so right to be here with him.

“I’ve wanted this for a while now.” Dieter breaks the silence with his soft, low voice.

“Us dancing?” your voice is equally as hushed.

“Holding you.”

You don’t say anything right away, too in awe to talk. “Since when?” you squeak out.

His chest rumbles with a chuckle, “You know I’m not so good with time anymore, but I feel like it’s been too long.”

“Oh, you’ve never really given me any hints.”

“No, I suppose I didn’t in your memory.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been swimming with you; dancing with you. We’ve had several lunches and dinners together. Built tons of sandcastles, even painted together. But I was never able to hold you till this very night,” he strokes your back as you look up at him.

“Are these all dreams you’re talking about?”

“Dreams, visions, past lives, either or. Take your pick. It doesn’t matter. After the last couple of…weeks… I’m not sure. I'm only certain of one damn thing any more,” he places your hand on his shoulder as he tucks your hair behind your ear and holds your face to his.

“What’s that?”

“I’m going to have to relive this day over and over again, but I swear each day I’ll do everything in my power to show you that I’m utterly in love with you. Even if you don’t remember it in the morning, and I have to repeat every detail from tonight again, I swear it’ll be worth it to have this chance to hold and love you again.” A stray tear leaves Dieter's eye, but he doesn’t look sad, just completely enthralled and devoted.

And even as you don’t quite understand what he’s saying, you completely understand what he’s feeling. The mingling of your breaths, the entwine limbs, and unbreakable stare draws you into the man you once didn’t have a care for. Now, you really can’t help yourself as Dieter waits for your first move. You kiss him, smashing your lips to his. He envelops his arms around you wholly as you push your fingers into his hair. You’ve waited so long to run your fingers through his curls, enticing a moan from his lips to yours. He’s hungry you can tell, as he drives his tongue against your lips and tangles against yours. Just as you break apart for air, Dieter picks you up and swings you around against the surf, causing you to scream with delight as his lips attack your neck. It’s the scrape of his beard that causes you to gasp out.

“Dieter!”

He stops abruptly, “Do you wanna have sex with me?”

“Fuck yeah.”

It didn’t take long for you two to get back to his hotel room, Dieter incredibly thankful he remembered to clean this morning. Not a second is wasted as he strips yours and his clothes off grabbing kisses in between layers. The man can’t stop tasting you. You were, beyond a doubt, the best thing he has tasted, and he had really only tasted your lips so far. Without thinking, he lifts your naked body off the ground and places you, rather ungracefully, on the bed. Giggling into your hands, he kisses up your curves, between your breast to each nipple, and then up your neck and finally your lips. Taking a moment to center himself, he rests his head against yours.

Placing your hands to the sides of his head, you nudge your nose against his whispering to him that you were on the pill, which springs him into action again. Kissing and biting down your body to your nipple, he swirls his tongue around your perked peek until you arch your back into his mouth.

“Please Dieter!”

His large hand rounds and squeezes your breast as he lowers his mouth completely to suck on your reddening nipple until he believes your other nipple needs attention. Digging your nails into the bed, you huff out a moan while you throw your head back. He hums as he rocks himself against your thigh. Before he continues down your body, he rests his face between your breasts and squeezes them to his face. You realize what he’s doing and laugh, trying to gently push his face away.

“Did you expect me to be 100% a gentlemen tonight?” Dieter smiles up at you from between your boobs.

“No, I know you're really a goofball at heart,” you laugh and pat his head.

Dieter launches up to you, smashing a kiss to your lips and quickly leaving you a dopey smile as he bites at your belly then your thighs. He lifts one leg over his shoulder as his arm circles around your leg, warming your belly as he presses you down to the mattress. You don’t get much warning when you jerk and gasp out as you feel a large flat tongue lick up your folds and swirl around your clit. Your hips try to desperately buck up to Dieter’s hot mouth, unable to move under his firm hold. His tongue and mouth continue their dance upon your clit as he slowly strokes at your soft and wet folds with his free hand. Gently, one finger enters you as all your fingers tangle into Dieter’s hair. You feel him moan and rumble against you as you also feel a second finger fill you. Quickly Dieter’s fingers get to work, stroking at your walls causing you to flutter and echo his name to the walls around you both.

“Shit sweet girl, you taste so good when I have you like this.”

“Fuck Dieter.”

“Sorry not yet,” Dieter kisses your clit, “not done tasting you, but I’ll give you what you want soon.” He mumbles as he runs around your clit. “Shit you smell so good too.”

You're about to comment that no one’s ever said that to you before when, instead of words, another moan and curse comes out of your mouth just as Dieter presses three fingers now deeper against your walls. Returning a small amount of attention back to him, you tug at his hair.

“Fuck baby, I’m close,” you cry out as you feel the rolling pressure of his fingers against your quivering walls. “Can you get me there Dieter, can you get me there pretty boy?”

Dieter thrusts his erection deep into the mattress, “Shit, yes ma’am.”

Changing position a little, he takes his hand off you to trace tight circles around your clit while his tongue starts to lick at your fluttering pussy. His other hand pulls out of you so that he can push back into you, over and over. Now that there isn’t any force holding you down, your hips shift to the timing of his hand just as your nails run through Dieter bemused hair. Quickly the bright throbbing heat in you builds up and over as you cry out to Dieter while he carries you over the edge with his constant pressure. Backing his hand out of your heat, he licks and lightly bites at your soaking entrance till you plead for him to come up to you.

Obediently Dieter climbs up your body to give you a needy look as his desire is still wanting.

“Can I fill you up more, sweet girl? Do you think you can take more of me?”

It’s not really a question from him. It’s more so that he is pleading with you to take more of him as you feel him throb against your stomach.

You sigh out a “please” as he kisses you and takes hold of himself to slowly enter you. Pushing in little by little, the man pulls back and pushes in again. He lifts up his head and closes his eyes as he repeats the action. While he hovers over your body, lost in the tight space of your heat, you nudge your nose against the column of his neck, kissing and nipping at his freckles. Soon you feel even more full than you did with his fingers, as he starts to pound into you. You hang on to his shoulders, digging your nails into his skin.

“Feel so good Dieter, please don’t stop.”

Dieter groans and lowers his head into your neck. “Shit, think I’m gonna try to fuck you every day after this.” He throws your leg over his hip, not stopping his hips from snapping to yours. “Don’t care I have to do this whole day over again, I fucking will for you.”

You don’t understand what he means, but you can’t bring your brain to stop and piece it out as you feel the heat start to build again. Quickly you start to chant his name until he fully pulls out of you and flips you to your stomach. Loaming over you, Dieter’s arm comes around you as he leans over your shoulder, placing kisses to your back.

“Is this ok?” he asks while smoothing a hand over your hip.

“Only if you start fucking me again,” you smile back at him.

He gives you a quick sharp nip to your shoulder before lifting you ass to the air and pushing himself back into you. He doesn’t wait for you to adjust as he hastily picks up the rhythm he had before, but now brings his arm around to circle your clit. You can’t help yourself from pushing back into Dieter as he moans into your shoulder.

“Think you can cum again for me, pretty girl. Think you can let me fuck another organism out of you. Maybe let me fill you up?”

You gasp out and hang on to the headboard ahead of you.

“Will you let me fill you up? Would you let me fill you up tomorrow night too?”

“Shit Dieter, yes, do it now!”

“Fuck, well you’re the one who likes to plan.”

He buries his face into your hair as he picks up the pace of his fingers against your clit, and you begin to cry out begging for him. You close your eyes tight as a bright light hits your eyes and your cunt squeezes Dieter tight. He curses and his pace falters as he tries to continue pushing in and out of you. Not long after you finish, Dieter finishes inside you as well. You both collapse in a pile together, slugout in each others arms. After some more kissing and light petting, Dieter easies himself out of you and lifts out of bed for a wash cloth. He comes back to bed, finding you looking over his fluffy green robe. After you're both cleaned up, he helps you into the robe, liking how it engulfs you. Together, you both fall asleep after basking in the afterglow of the best day of your life. Dieter holds you, kissing to sleep, he tries all night to not fall asleep, afraid that you won’t be in his arms tomorrow.

He does swear, “Even if you're gone tomorrow, I’ll do the whole damn day over just to hold you like this again.” He closes his eyes and leans his head to yours, “But please be here tomorrow.”

June 26

“Can you understand me, baby don't you hand me a line,” a muffled moan calls out into a pillow. “Although it doesn't matter, you and me got plenty of time,” Dieter flops over to the side table, reaching his hand out. “There's nobody in the future, so baby let me hand you my love,” he knocks several things off the side table, completely missing the alarm. Groggily sitting up and leaning over he looks at the clock for the switch. Dieter shakes his head, he’s gotten too used to just unplugging and throwing the thing across the room, “Oh, there's no step for you to dance to, so slip your hand inside of my glove.”

“Hey, don’t turn it off, let it play. I love this song,” a rough sleepy voice speaks out. Dieter turns quickly to see you, smiling and cuddled up in his green robe.

“Hold me, hold me, hold me.”

Dieter places the radio down gently, “This is one of their better songs,” he whispers back to you as he tangles himself back into bed, back into you.

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo/reader #dieter bravo/ you #Pedro Pascal #the bubble #dieterbravo/you #dieterbravo/reader

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chronic-ghost · 9 months

Text

Chapter 7 of Recovery Road

chapter rating: E (18+)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 11046

chapter summary: this is how the spiral ends.

chapter warnings/tags: physical abuse, depictions of overdose, dark themes, angst – lots and lots of angst, crying, hospitals

a/n: the song accompanying this fic is Foreigners God by Hozier. I had to physically restrain myself from using the lyrics as title because everything about that song fits so perfectly with this chapter. (title from x)

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Wondering who I copy

Mustering some tender charm

She feels no control of her body

She feels no safety in my arms

I've no language left to say it

But all I do is quake to her

Breaking if I try convey it

The broken love I make to her

- Foreigner’s God, Hozier

The desert does storms differently.

Los Angeles, while hardly considered a desert, is occasionally touched by the fringes of a powerful storm. Bloated, purple clouds. Lightning so full of heat that is almost palpable as it sparks across the sky. Rain in fat globs that splatter and spray. Grumbles of thunder so deep and loud, they’re almost animalistic. Sometimes it rains like the world is in mourning, in deep-seated grief. It’s a comfort, though, in the same way sad movies are cathartic – an expression of pain in a way that is so often hard to conceptualize. There’s a relief in it too.

Outside the hotel window, thunder growls, curling low like a jungle cat, as lightning cracks, warding off the onset darkness for just a moment. It’s been raining for hours, water flooding potholes on the streets below, gushing from drain pipes. This early in the morning, the few cars out that swim through the gloom have their lights on bright, trying hopelessly to cut back the encroaching deluge. People are nothing more than wet shadows.

The weather is throwing a fucking fit.

Thunder batters against the hotel windows again, groaning so loud he almost misses it. Almost misses that soft, quiet, little “fuck” that escapes your mouth. But he’s too close, too deep inside you, nose to nose, his elbows in the mattress by your head – he catches every movement your face makes. Every twitch of your lips, every stretch of your jaw. Every sigh. Every wail.

The pitch black room, save for the occasional flash of lightning, smells like sex. And it should. You’ve been at it for hours.

The skin on his back smarts where your nails dig into him, but that doesn’t get him to speed up or change his pace. Steady, slow, making you feel every inch that he stuffs up inside you. He kisses the curve of your sweaty neck as his hips roll as deep as the thunder outside.

“Oh, oh my god – Dieter–,”

He nuzzles your neck, nose tickling the back of your ear, sweat rolling from the back of his neck, over his shoulder, and onto your chest.

“Take it, baby, just take it. Let me have all of you,” he murmurs into your ear. Gently, he reaches under the covers at his back and pulls your leg up to his hip, maintaining that slow, tortuous pace. You breathe in on a high whine, the sound knotting his gut with pleasure. You shove your head back into the pillow, your face flushed, eyes wet as if trying to escape from feelings he inspires in you. You bite your lip and moan.

He’s been dragging it out too long. The both of you are on a fine, miniscule edge, neither wanting it to end, neither wanting to be separated from the other, but the tension is too profound, too great to hold onto much longer. He knows his knees won’t work for hours after this. His hips are going to be totally shot. He doesn’t fucking care.

You breathe in sharply and your cunt contracts around him once and he thinks he blacks out for a second, hips stuttering to a halt. That almost-painful flare of heat he felt must be visible on his face because you gasp, somewhere between a hiccup and a sob. There are tears in your eyes, but you don’t ask for it. You take it just like he wants.

“Sorry, baby, sorry–,” you whisper, your hand sliding to his cheek, then his mouth, your thumb against his lips. But he shakes his head, eyes shut against the overwhelming sense of submission, sliding back into his agonizing pace, and he presses his lips to the pad of your finger, lets your hand ease up into his hair.

“Don’t – don’t a-apologize. You just feel so fucking g-good.”

He says this but wants to say other things. He speaks to distract himself from the fact that his denied orgasm has sharp shocks sparking up his spine.

He clumsily kisses your cheek.

“Thank you, b-baby, thank you for letting me do this. For letting me fill you up. For taking me, as I a-am,” he stutters, his tongue too thick for his mouth. He really should just shut up and come, but when he opens his eyes, the look you give him – your eyes black and round from the Ecstasy – it pulls on the tendons at the back of his chest. Like the strings of a guitar – strum his heart and he’ll sing.

He had begged you to let him fuck you slow, like he did in New Orleans. They only had a few hours before the comedown hit and he wanted to spend those hours savoring you. Licking his fingers of your sweetness, carving away old memories to make room for the ones of you naked and trembling, steaming images of you to the inside of his brain with a sweating iron. With a stripped-bare willpower, he holds himself back because he thinks the longer you’re beneath him, the more of you he can take.

But this last one, this one he can feel pulsate in the cup of his skull, it’s too big. It’s too much to suppress any longer. He grits his teeth, and tries not to languish in the warmth of your thighs.

“Are you close?”

You nod, a single tear breaking loose and running from the corner of your eye to the sheets below you. “Y-yeah. I’m so close, Dee.”

He adjusts on his already shaking knees, pulling back and giving enough space between your bodies so he can reach down to touch you at the apex of your legs, but you frantically shake your head, grabbing his wrist. You shake your head harder.

“No, n-not like that.” You put his hand back by your head, then pull him towards you with your legs, forcing him onto his elbows again. You dig your heel into his low back. “L-like this. Just a bit faster, honey.”

Feeling swells so much and so fast in his chest as he watches you encourage him, tell him exactly what you want, and what you want is him – he feels like he can’t inhale.

There are things he wants to say to you, but they’re clogged up somewhere between his gut and his tongue. He nods instead, planting one hand flat against the mattress, his head tucking into the curve of your neck. He goes faster, just a bit, like you asked. Under the patter of rain, the bed squeaks, metal screws and cheap wood rocking together. The wet clutch of your cunt is making him dizzy.

“Fuck, baby, I’m gonna– I’m gonna –,”

He angles his hips like he knows you need, his pelvis against your clit, and you cry out, hands latching around the back of his neck, knees up by his shoulders. You wail and it breaks him wide open. He comes, deep inside you, gooey, pearly cum mixing with your release, your cunt so tight, he feels it all ooze back down his cock. He shudders at the sensation, his cock twitching almost painfully. His brain feels like the last bit of film flapping in the gears of a projector – thin, empty, overused. White noise.

Beneath him, he feels you sobbing, gasping against his throat. He uses his shaking arms to pull back, just so he can look at you, so he can kiss back your tears. That was intense and he wants you to know he’s here for you.

“Baby, you’re crying.”

Your gentle thumbs catch wet salt on his cheeks and he blinks, suddenly aware of the cold streaks his tears left behind. He shakes as he wipes his own face.

“Fuck.” The word out of his mouth is watery, thick, and you smile up at him, your own grin wet and overjoyed. “I didn’t even realize . . .” You finally laugh and he can’t resist kissing you. Your tears mix with his as you press your cheek to his.

This is the thing inside of him being quiet, being eased, coaxed down and put to rest. The want for you, it’s indescribable. He has you but he doesn’t. It’s not enough. The only time this black mass of desire inside him releases its pull is when he’s coming inside you. When his split soul in your body reunites momentarily with his. When he makes you his. Over and over and over again.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

Outside, lightning flashes and you glow beneath him for just a second. This body is familiar because it’s his.

You make me happy, he thinks, so happy.

It has nothing to do with the drugs coursing through his blood, that sits in his cum drying on your thighs, on the mattress.

It’s been two weeks since the last round of press junkets and tours, one week before the Oscars. Chloe, of course, did not come on the rest of the trip, electing to go home before returning to Europe to help her father. At this point, he couldn’t care less. It became easier and easier to stop answering her texts, and ignore her calls. He was already starting his new life with you. After a party in SoCal two nights ago, when he was up to his eyeballs in booze and your tits, he got half-hard thinking about making the phone call to his lawyer to draft up divorce papers. Ecstasy is so much better when you have someone to do it with you.

He wonders if she could see the lie in his eyes when he told her he’d give her an answer when she came back. If the divorce papers will come as a surprise.

In a ring of thunder, he backs out of you, dragging the covers with him, and you shiver, exposed, skin damp in his sweat and your own. Eyes hazy, lips bitten, marks of him everywhere on your skin, you look raw, fucked out. He kisses your collarbone before easing out of the bed to take off the condom.

You’re already half asleep when he comes back to bed.

Sleep is oozing around his bones, making his muscles limp and pliable. He’s seconds away from passing out. He knows you both need to eat, but he can’t lift his eyelids long enough to find his phone. He crawls in bed behind you, the exhaustion a weight more demanding than gravity. He came inside you and all his energy left him. You hum as you curl up next to him. He doesn’t even make it under the blanket.

You say something to him, something that his body reacts to, but his brain doesn’t fully comprehend. Noise, soft, gentle, comforting noise. He wants to hear it, whatever it is you’re saying, but he can feel parts of his mind shutting off, going dark.

Instead, he turns your limp body onto your side, his own molding around you, a warmth he never before experienced expanding from his chest to the rest of his body. His fingers curve around your chest and he thinks he can feel your heartbeat beneath his fingers. It might be his instead.

He noses your hair.

“Never leave me.”

Sleep is a thing he is, not a thing he does. He drifts, untethered in blackness, for hours, maybe days, maybe years. He dreams and remembers and his heartbeat settles somewhere behind his stomach.

When Dieter wakes up, it’s still raining, but the bedside light is on, casting a warm glow over the clothes on the floor, the crushed up powder on the table, the tablets of E by the couch. His come down is making him itchy – he’d love a joint – but he’s more unsettled by his sudden loneliness. Your side of the bed is empty, still warm, and he hears the shower running, sees light from under the door. You’re close by. He settles. Easily, slowly, mindfully of his fucked up hips, he rolls onto his back, staring up at the dark ceiling, his thumbnail carving out a line between his eyes.

He wants it to be months from now.

He wants the divorce papers signed. He wants you in his home, all your things there. He wants to trip over your shoes, move your purse from the countertops, smell your shampoo in his shower. He wants his time to become your time, wants to carve out hours of the day just to be with you and no one else. He can feel himself finding excuses to get away from his next gig, the next tour, from the next press circuit, canceling plans for parties and dinners, from everything that doesn’t have you in it. Nothing is as important as you are because nothing makes him feel like you do.

He needs you to come back to bed – he misses you. Thunder rumbles and he follows the noise out the window, his gaze briefly catching on the bedside table where you left your things. He spots the pill bottle and his skin hums. Flexeril. He wants to be under a little bit longer. He pops the cap off, rattles two pills into his hand, and throws it back, his throat pliant and obedient.

Sleep comes for him again. He hallucinates you, either dreaming or awake. A fix – love – whatever. They’re all the same to him.

It’s still raining when he lifts his head, sleep sloughing off him like relaxing overworked muscle, but it’s brighter out, the barrage of rain lessened. He has no idea how much time has passed and looking at the clock won’t help. He hasn’t kept track of time in days. Not since Chloe went away.

He’s suddenly aware of the warmth across his back. Your dainty fingers hang over his shoulder as if you tried to hug him and collapsed in place. Grinning, he rolls over, careful not to wake you, and sneaks his arm under your pillow, his other hand pulling you back against him. You smell like lavender and smoke and, wrapped up in his green t-shirt, a bit like him. He runs his nose the length of your neck to your ear – all mine – and lays down, tries to go back to sleep . . . only to realize what woke him up in the first place.

Buzzing.

Blue light from the bedside table.

Blinking through the headache the sound is giving him, Dieter leaves you and the perfect glow the outside light gives your skin. Sitting up, he blinks several more times at the name at the top of the screen.

Chloe.

And he’s missed four other calls from her, about five minutes apart each. She’s never done that before.

Swallowing and easing his feet to the ground at the edge of the bed, he answers her call.

“Hello?”

“Dieter.” Her voice is wet, water-logged by a salty brine. She’s been crying. He glances over his shoulder at you. Fuck, does she know where he’s been? You stir in your sleep, but don’t wake up. Over the phone, Chloe inhales, hiccuping, and then an explosion of words: “Dieter, something’s happened– I wanted to tell you in person but – and I know you said you’d think about it but–but, Dieter, it’s happened and –,”

His head this fogged from his hangover, from the last vestiges of E and the muscle relaxant still crawling around in his veins, he can’t parse out her words, every vowel and consonant flowing and butting up into the next. He can’t tell if she’s happy or upset.

“–and it’s so much sooner than either of us expected but–,”

“Chloe. Chloe,” he soothes, trying to be quiet and firm at the same time. You move again behind him and he looks at you just as you open your eyes. You smile at him and his heart skips. He turns around, trying to shield you from her. “Slow down. I can’t understand you. What’s going on?”

Silence.

Rain lashes the windows behind him. Thunder rocks the foundations of the building. Cars careen through the wet streets below. Your small hand presses against the ridges of his spine.

“Dieter, I’m pregnant.”

Rain lashes the windows behind him. Thunder rocks the foundations of the building. Cars careen through the wet streets below.

Your hand pulls away from him.

“What?”

“I’m pregnant. We’re going to have a baby.” Her voice is tinny through the speaker. She sounds far away. Everything sounds far away. “You’re going to be a father. Isn’t it what you’ve always wanted?”

The phone falls from his hands to the floor with a clatter. It lands just right and the screen goes dark, the call ended.

His fingers feel spongy, rubbery, unreal. His heart beats up against his chest, but he hears it in his ears, like he’s been running for miles on end.

A baby.

His baby.

His lungs suck in air in short, sharp gasps and when he breathes in deep, he’s immediately hit by a wave of nausea. He fights to keep from hurling right onto the floor.

Go, he has to go – has to – his body is moving, shifting, but his knees give out. Weakly dropping him to the floor against the bed frame. The back of his skull tightens and retightens. With every pulse of his heart beat, he feels it in a different place on his body. His ears. His fingertips. His chest. God, there’s something in there, clawing to get out. It’s choking him.

“Dieter.”

His fingers pull at the invisible bonesaw cracking open his chest. “S-s-shut up. I can’t bre-eathe.”

Fuck fuck fuck fuck

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He can’t be a –

– can’t be his father –

Can’t can’t won’t won’t – not like this – not now –

He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t want it.

This kid – they’re gonna have his fucked up brain, his fear of living, that oppressive, slimy voice that keeps him pinned to his bed for days on end with all the curtains closed – that weighs him down to the bottom of the fucking ocean –

He’s ruined them before they ever even had a chance. Because they’ll be his, a part of him. An unlucky splinter embedded deep under a caustic burn. It’s not fair.

His fingers dig into his hair and wrench.

“Dieter.”

There’s a hand on his face. It’s soft and gentle and he hates it. It strokes his tears before he turns away and snarls, clawing his way up the mattress, cornering himself against the headboard.

Don’t touch me

Your eyes, gazing up at him from where you kneel on the floor, immediately flood with tears. They crack and overflow. They drip off your face.

“So it’s true, then. What she said. It is yours. Your . . .”

Can’t can’t can’t won’t won’t won’t can’t do it

His nails scratch his scalp, hard. There’s liquid under his cuticles.

“What happens now? What are we going to do?” You beg him, your tiny hands clutching at the sheets around the edge of the mattress. “W-w-we talked about – have you sent her the p-papers – I thought –,”

Maybe that weight in his chest will finally collapse and swallow him whole. Cramping until his very existence is crushed under the gravity of a pole star as it dies. He pulls his knees to his chest, his fingers knotting deeper and deeper into his hair.

“I’m going back.” The words scald his mouth the instant they leave it. They taste like bile, bile that rots inside of him. “I-I have to . . . I have to be there for . . . B-b-but n-not now – not like this – not when I-I’m still –,”

There on the table, there’s a chance he can forget about all of this, just take it away a second longer – but he has to go back to – to her – his ba–

“But you promised.” Your serrated voice snares him and tears his gaze back to you. “Dieter, don’t do this. Please. Let me help you. We can figure out something together. You can’t go back. You don’t love her. There’s nothing –,”

“She’s the mother of my child, Natalie. Of course I have to go back to her.”

He almost misses the gasp from your lips. Almost.

That noise. The inhale, the crunch of air against an unwilling lung. The audible sound of understanding. Of clarity. Of the ground finally setting.

You on one side. And him . . . him out of your orbit.

He sees the flash of your white teeth, the sharpness of bone, before you open your mouth.

“You’d be doing both of them a fucking favor if you never showed up at all.”

He thinks he goes blind in one eye for a moment from the rage that burns up through his rib cage. All that blackness that was inside of him since the day he was born comes rushing, pouring to the surface.

“What?” he snarls, lunging down and snatching you up by the meat of your arms, his fingers digging into your flesh. His teeth snap near your ear. “What do you want me to do, huh?”

“Stop, Dieter, you’re hurting me –,”

There’s a loud, angry man living inside of him, that’s lived inside every room he’s ever been in. The things he did subdued the anger, but not the inevitability. There’s a loud, angry man inside of him, and he doesn’t have the courage to pretend anymore that the voices in his head don’t all sound the same.

He crushes you against chest, your nails clawing at his skin, as he hauls you across the room. Dieter shoves you onto the couch, pulsating with fury. You’re crying again as your fingers curl around the ashtray on the table. Your arm winds back and he jerks away the second before you fling it at him with a scream. The ashtray shatters the lamp, electrical sparks flying, clay shattering, and then —

“I hate you!”

“And I hate myself around you!” He snarls.

He watches the words collide with your very being, your eyes fluttering as though he had slapped you.

“We bring out the fucking worst in each other,” he goes on, like toxic drool spilling out of his mouth. “And you fucking know it.” He can’t stop. He doesn’t want to. Your mouth drops, lips trembling, skin going white, as though you drank poison from the cup of his hands. “You want me to abandon this kid for the mistake of just being born? You want it to turn out like you?”

Tears again and this time he cannot miss the gasp. The hiccup where air goes down wrong.

It’s all wrong.

“Fuck you, Dieter, GET OUT!”

“This is my hotel room–,”

“Get the fuck out or I’ll call the fucking cops!” You shriek.

Your shoulder knocks into his chest as you shove past him, snatching up his clothes and pitching them into his face. The bed behind you looks like a war zone, covered in shards of glass and clay and wires. A great machine disemboweled.

“Goddamn it –,”

His belt buckle grazes his cheek. You’re trying to draw blood. Your hair wild and mussed from sex and his abuse, cheeks enflamed, you breathe as though you gasp around a collapsed lung.

This was always how it was going to end. He’s come to the end of the spiral.

He thinks you and hurricanes share the same sort of powerful, thunderous beauty. The very sight of you glaring at him with such disgust and violence on your face makes his eyes grow hot.

“You are a fucking coward, Dieter Bravo.” You sniff, wiping something from your chin with the back of your hand. “You’re a coward and a fucking liar . . .” You swallow, vitriol wet in your mouth, in the curve of your shoulders, in the unsteady shake of your hands, “and you’re gonna be a fucking shit dad. You have no idea how to love anyone but yourself.”

You’ve done it. Stripped him down to his bare essentials and this is what you’ve found: a copy of a loud, angry man. A copy, blurred and blackened and smudged beyond recognition. And despite his best efforts, the copies would go on until there was nothing left but hot darkness.

Turning away, you take the sweating champagne bottle from the bucket and, stumbling towards the bathroom, you fall forward and lock the door behind you.

That blank, empty door will haunt his dreams for years to come — he just doesn’t know it yet.

He’s still shaking when he picks up his phone.

“Are you in Los Angeles? No. No – I’m not . . . remember the old laundromat off 1st? You have to meet me there. Now. Hurry . . . please . . . please.”

In the blue darkness curling in the back of the room, metallic drums in their square boxes churn, their heating coils humming as excess heat warms the tile, the cracking plaster on the walls. Not a soul insight, but the machines go on, diligent and indifferent. There are the eternal mountains, the infinite sea, and there are these machines, washing out dirt from clothes and towels and bedsheets, and warming the cold and wet and the damp, forever and ever and ever.

He lets out a shaky exhale. Tapping the gray ash into the empty soda cup between his legs, he takes another sip from the cigarette, his left knee bouncing fixed and tight, as he waits in the half-darkness, his back pressed up against the cool window. In front of him, the washing machines grumble, the only light giving them individual edges coming from the glow in the street behind them. He didn’t even bother turning on the overhead fluorescents when he came in.

The cigarette butt between his fingers joins the other three at the bottom of the cup before he picks up the packet and shakes out another one. The metal zipper of his hoodie feels cold against his bare stomach. His knee won’t stop shaking.

To his left, the double glass doors suddenly open, the cool brush of rain overwhelming the heat of the machines for a moment, and a frantic shadow spills through, its head swiveling in a panicked search.

“Dieter?”

Disbelief. Horror. His chest swells so sharply he thinks he might split open.

Heels clacking on the linoleum, she comes into the light of the window. Her mouth smeared bright red, blonde hair down and smoothed around her ears, she wears a black raincoat over silk red pants and black heels. She looks beautiful.

Except for the way her mouth twists in terrible anguish.

“Oh, shit.” Heidi says, softly. “Dieter, what happened?”

He works his jaw, his eyes hot and tight, he doesn’t even look up at her when he says, “you look nice. Hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.”

Heidi’s mouth drops open as further bewilderment sinks in. She slowly lowers herself into the seat next to him. The plastic squeaks from the force.

“Honey, do you know what day it is?”

He shrugs, shakes his head.

“Everyone’s been trying to find you for days. The studio’s furious but . . .” she inhales and he knows the sound. It’s the sound doctors make when they tell parents their child has a terminal illness, when parents tell their children they had to put down the family dog, when his father told him he wasn’t welcome in the house any more. “I was on my way to the Oscars. It’s Oscars night, Dieter, and Recovery Road was nominated for best picture.”

The smoke in his mouth sucks out every droplet of moisture. He sees the room spin for a second. “Congratulations. I mean that. You deserve it.”

She inhales again, but it comes through perforated and broken. “Honey, you were nominated. Best Actor. That’s why we were trying to find you.”

He sniffs and drops the still burning cigarette into the cup, his palms rubbing frantically on his thighs, over his jeans, the smoke yanking his guts up into his mouth. He feels the acid burn his tongue.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, “I’m sorry I didn’t answer my phone. I’m sorry you didn’t know where to find me. But . . . fuck, Heidi,” his voice cracks, “it’s gotten so out of control and I don’t know if I can fix it . . . or if I should.”

It’s her soft hand on his back that does it. Like she touched a pressure point that released the festering knot he had become and every sensation within him is pushed to an eleven, everything pushed to the brink, to the very line of sanity, and he breaks.

He leans forward and cries.

The single hand becomes two, then an entire body of warmth as she pulls him into her chest, not worried if he smudges her makeup or wrinkles her blouse. It streams from him, a dam unsealed and imploding under its own weight, and he cries, the wails high and loud and he could scream like this. He sinks to his knees and she goes with him until they’re on the floor, the seat of the chair digging into her back and his arms wrapped around her waist.

“I fucked up, Heidi. I fucked up so bad.” His fingers twist into her coat. “I’m so sorry, s-so, so so-rry . . .”

I fucked up

I am fucked up

I fucked up

I’m so tired of fucking up

She lets him cry out this thing that’s been choking him, grips him tight, holds him down, in the murky darkness of that laundromat, the machines churning and churning and churning in the quiet. He cries longer than he has in recent memory. Maybe in his whole life. Nothing has ever hurt like this because this is the culmination of every other hurt, every other wound. A grief compounded he never had time to mourn.

He cries until it’s all out, until there’s static in his head and his eyes ache and his limbs are heavy. Until, despite the pain, his mouth wet and gummy, he can breathe around the weight.

She waits for the flood to slow, for his breathing to ease, his skin still fire hot. She rubs the back of his neck and he shudders against her chest.

“Dieter.” His own name sounds alien to him. “Honey. Talk to me.”

She hasn’t called him that in half a decade. She uses her own sleeve to dry his cheeks and he turns away, mortified he’d ruin her pretty shirt. Heidi eases him back, resting against the chair. Her hand still holding the back of his neck, he finally looks her in the eyes. He can feel his breastbone bend under the weight of his failure.

But he tells her.

Mouth sticky and eyes dripping, he tells her everything – from the moment he knew you were taking drugs on set, to you showing up dripping and half-naked at his door, to the house in Albuquerque, the unsteady acceptance and balance you somehow agreed to – despite how you both felt, what you both wanted to explore – how heartbroken he was when you slept with someone else, how heartbroken he was when it became clear that Chloe couldn’t wouldn’t understand him because the love she felt for him was never enough to fill in the ache inside of him.

The few moments of unparalleled joy he experienced with you in that cottage in the crescent city.

Joy, fueled and fed and stimulated by drugs.

That was the hardest to admit. That hurt the most.

His hands shook, either from the comedown or the nerves or both. Not a single detail was omitted, a memory misplaced. If he didn’t discuss certain blocks of time, then they were never in his memory to begin with. He wanted it purged from his system, like flushing an infection with saline water. If he didn’t bare his soul now, he never would, would never have another chance to be this honest with her or himself about his many vices, his many addictions. How he thought he loved you so much his heart might burst. How he can’t tell if that love comes from inside him or the strings he uses to stitch himself back together.

What he had done to you in that hotel room. How he treated someone he loves with his whole heart.

“And Chloe, she’s – fuck–,” he wipes at his eyes with his sleeve against his palm, “she called me this morning and told me she’s pregnant.”

Heidi audibly swallows. Swallows down her disgust and horror. She knows what this means to him. Her silence reminds him exactly how fucked he is, how irrevocably changed his life is, and ice-cold, black-dread terror rockets up his spine, squeezing his heart. His stomach claws at itself, empty of anything to destroy. He wants to peel the skin off his fingers.

She wraps her hand around his forearm, pulling his hand into her lap.

“Was that something . . . had you talked about . . .” she stops and starts, plucking at the threads of what she is trying to ask. “Were you trying?”

He shakes his head, eyes itchy from the tears. He paws at his face with his sleeve, huffing. When he speaks, he sounds like he has a cold. “Last time I saw her was at the start of the press tour. She came back, asking if we could fix things, and at that point, Natalie and I had already . . .” he wraps his arms over his chest, willing it all back inside of him. “Chloe asked if I wanted to have a baby with her and that was it. I think any desire to remain her husband just evaporated that day, whether I knew it at the time or not.”

“Wait, I thought you said you were going back? Back to Chloe? If that’s not what you want, then why . . .”

He picks up a piece of that famous Dieter indignance and holds it in his fist.

“I’m not divorcing the woman while she’s pregnant with my child. Besides, if she thinks I can help, or if she needs me . . .” he inhales, unsteady and weak, “if she thinks me being around the kid will make things better and not worse, then . . .” The laundromat goes blurry, the truth of it cracking, splitting, chunks carving up his throat. He exhales and the tears roll down his cheeks. “Then I’m going to do it. I-I-I just don’t want the baby . . . to-to e-end up . . . like . . . me.”

“Oh, Dieter.”

Heidi slides around his back, her head against his shoulder, arms tugging his inward, as if she could take away his sadness, his pain, his shame. They both tremble as sobs wrack his body.

“You wouldn’t make things worse,” she murmurs to his shoulder blades, to the thin sweatshirt damp with sweat. “You wouldn’t, Dee, I promise.”

“But it’s there, it’s in me, Heidi. This capacity to hurt everyone I love.”

“Honey, they wouldn’t love you if you couldn’t hurt them.”

“A baby isn’t going to love me,” he says, softly, to her knuckles around his stomach. “It needs care, support, someone who’s around all the time. And I don’t even know what fucking day it is.”

“But you won’t always be like this.” Hedi squeezes him gently. “I saw the healthy Dieter, the focused one. The one who loves the movies, who loves being an actor. You can be that person.”

“Yeah and all the while wanting to fuck someone who wasn’t my wife.” He tugs on his hair and feels a few strands come loose. Gray, by the light behind him. Great.

“You’re never going to be perfect, Dieter. No one is. Therapy and rehab is not meant to make you perfect, it’s meant to make you healthy.”

She’s not seeing it — why can’t she understand that he’s permanently fucked?

He slides out of her arms, irritated, and curls up by the window, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

“I was in rehab for two years and in an instant it crumbled. Everything they tried to teach me.” He rubs his palm in the divet of his nose between his eyes. “It doesn’t work. Not on me.”

“Then why’d you do it, Dieter?” Heidi asks as she stands, her hands on her hip. “Why do you keep going back if you think it’s pointless?”

“Because I want it to work!” He snaps up at her. “I don’t want to be like this forever. I went for Chloe, for you, for Mark, for everyone who–,”

“But not yourself.” She cuts him off and he feels the impact in his chest. With a sigh, she sits down next to him and drops her head against the wall. Heidi is quiet, observing the hunched washing machines, the spinning of the dryers, and a faint smile breaks across her face. “Do you remember that time we met that really cute guy here, what, fifteen years ago? Dark hair, blue eyes, hands the size of plates.” He nods. “And he was really into cycling, remember? So you and I would go down to that tiny gym twenty minutes from our apartment and join that fucking spin class at 6AM because you were determined to get his number . . . and then once you had it, after months of that goddamn class, you–,”

“I never called him.”

“You never called him, that’s right.” Heidi says as she laughs, Dieter chuckling with her. She watches as his fingers curl into his own hair.

“So, what, you’re saying I have problems with follow through?”

“I’m saying you are committed to whatever you want to do, if you want to do it.” She wraps her hand around his bicep and leans into his shoulder. They’re quiet, contemplating. “I remember thinking I’d die young, when I was in high school. And because of that, I was as reckless as I wanted to be. But then I met Lucy and as clichéd it is to say this, everything changed. Being with her, I was the most clear-headed I’d ever been in my life and I knew exactly what I wanted.” She glances up at him as the rain picks up again. Flat droplets splatter against the window near his head. “How do you want your life to make you feel? Do you know what you want from life, Dieter?”

Fame. Acclaim. Adoration. These things go off in his head as if they were a Pavlovian response to this kind of question, but then they fade, grow weak without sentiment.

Honestly?

At his core, his dark, deep secret is this: he wants to feel the way the drugs make him feel. Like he’s the happiest he’s ever been, or at peace with the universe, or the star of every room.

Like he’s loved. The drugs make him feel like he is loved and whole and that’s what he wants.

And there’s only one person on earth he’s ever felt that way with.

“Do you love her, Dieter?” The question is delayed, muffled against his shoulder.

He sighs. “Between you and me and these four fucking walls, no, I don’t. Maybe I did once, but what I feel for Chloe isn’t going to change or improve. I feel something for her, but it’s not the right kind of something to–,”

“I mean, Natalie, Dieter. Natalie.” Heidi lifts her head, her gaze serious, rimmed with worry. “Do you love Natalie?”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t question it, doesn’t add addendums to it, conditions around whether or not he loves her only when he’s high, or not high. There is something there, something deep. Something that scared him at first, but he’s seen you now. He knows that if he reached out his hand, you’d take it. Because whatever is in your soul, it recognizes itself in his. A split soul, into two bodies.

Racing to the edge of calamity.

But then Heidi sits up, takes him by the shoulders and asks a question he’d never once considered, about anyone.

“Do you see a future with her?”

“I . . .”

No.

He tries to swallow around the knot in his throat.

No, because one of you is going to burn out too fast. One of you isn’t going to survive, not the way it’s going. Did Heidi mean marriage, kids, a fucking lawn with a picket fence? He’s not made for that kind of future either but that is okay because he was never going to make it there anyway.

I always thought I’d die young.

Something fundamentally shifts in his brain, as though an old reality suddenly winked from existence.

He thinks about that blank door you locked yourself behind. He thinks of your tears and how he broke you. He loves you, he knows it, but now he sees outside himself. He thinks of the carousel and his mother and the promises she made to him.

“I want her in my life,” he tells Chloe with certainty. “I can’t picture my life without her, even if I don’t know what that’s going to look like. Whatever we are, whatever happens with the baby or Chloe, I know now I can’t live without her. Without Natalie.”

The dusting of worry fades from her face and a crease appears between her eyes. The one that comes out when a scene won’t quite come together, or there’s a line of dialogue that needs reworking. When something is just a bit outside her understanding and she hasn’t quite settled on an answer.

“I’ve never seen you make that face before.”

“What face?”

“I . . . I don’t know. You just look different, when you talk about her.”

“I love her. I mean it.”

She turns away, some personal revelation coming too late. Her eyes are like flints, flecks of hard green stone, when she looks back at him.

“Enough to leave her?” Heidi implores of him. “Because what you’re asking, it’s cruel, to do that to someone. You get that, right?”

He bites the skin under his lip. “Yeah. I see that now. Or maybe I always have and I just didn’t want to admit it.” He’s cried enough for a lifetime, but his throat pinches and the backs of his eyes grow hot. “I just can’t stand the thought of us never speaking again. If something ever happened to her . . .”

“If you really want to stay with Chloe and raise this baby, then you might have to make that choice. Or she might make it for you, to keep you out of her life. Either way, you have to accept that.” He nods, a few drops sprinkling off his eyelashes. Heidi squeezes his shoulder and goes on, “but for right now, we’re going to start with rehab. Get you clean. You’re going to have to tell Chloe about the drugs, but as for the affair . . .”

“Do you think I should?”

Heidi’s lively green eyes dull, the stem of a flower as it wilts. “Honestly, Dieter, I have no idea.”

Before he can read what else may be written on her face, she stands, pulling him up with her. She eyes him with a teasing contempt as he zips up his hoodie.

“You really do look like fucking shit.”

“Yeah, thanks, I feel it.”

She takes his hand and holds it to her chest. “One step at a time, Dieter. Step one, we’re going to get you some food so you sober up. Then we go get your stuff.”

His stomach twists at the thought of seeing you when he has no idea what to say — apologies aren’t enough. “But–,”

“One thing at a time.” She takes out her umbrella as they stand at the precipice between the laundromat and the wet street. Her look is one of hope, a small thing, of uncertainty and promise. “One thing at a time.”

The rising of the hotel elevator syncs with the steady climb of his anxiety. His head hurts, even in the low lighting, and there’s some small part of him that’s looking forward to that white bed in any empty room. Folded up into the corner of the opulent elevator, eyes dark-rimmed, hair long and unkempt, looking every bit the addict he is, he swallows as the numbers in gold across the top of the double doors ding with every floor. His eyes fall to the watch at Heidi’s wrist. She stands in the middle of the elevator, her head held high, a slight frown on the crease of her forehead. He wonders what she’s thinking about but he isn’t sure he wants to know with certainty. It’s six thirty. They’ll all be seated now.

“Thank you.” He murmurs to her wrist.

Heidi glances at him, taking in the dark circles beneath his eyes, his waxy skin. He had been so hurt by her apparent disinterest after she left the film’s production that when he called, part of him was sure that she wasn’t even going to answer. One by one his support network had been cut away, trimmed down until he was dangling by a thread. And yet, she came, without hesitation, on possibly the most important night of her life. If there is anything to be ashamed about, he figures, it’s that he ever doubted her. He should have called sooner.

“Thank you, Heidi, for everything.”

Her expression softens and she breathes slowly. She actually graces him with a smile. “Don’t thank me yet. We’ve got a long road ahead of us.”

We.

When he thought he was all alone.

His eyes sting as the elevator stops on the twenty-second floor, dinging cheerily when the doors open to the top, most secluded floor. It’s quiet, all five black doors in the hallway shut and locked. Heidi steps out with purpose and he drags himself after her, hands digging into his wet pockets to try and find his key, if he even managed to bring it.

And then he freezes.

Something’s not right. A sense. A chill in the air. An uneasy twinge in the stomach just before freefall.

Heidi stops, looks over her shoulder. “Dieter, what’s–,”

Behind the door to his room comes a loud thump. A scrambling. And then –

“Oliver?”

Those ice blue eyes snap up as the drug dealer stumbles through the doorway. Eyes bloodshot, skin gray, his immaculate suit is gone, replaced by black jeans and a loose shirt. His hands are trembling.

“Ah, fuck, Dieter.”

The blackness of his irises take up the entirety of his pupils. He’s high, out of his mind . . . and he’s terrified. Trembling like a child, his gaze bounds back and forth between Dieter and Heidi.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Oliver?”

“I-I-I . . . uh . . . look, she called me, and I, uh –,”

“Natalie called you?” Heidi’s eyebrows arch up her forehead. She frowns at Dieter. “What for?”

At that, Oliver’s cheeks flush red. “Look, it can’t be traced back to me. I’ve got a green card and I can’t lose that. I need it – I have to –,”

“What can’t be traced back to you?” Dieter steps forward, his pulse quickening.

Oliver actually whines when he looks back to his old friend.

“Look, I guess I didn’t realize how much she was t-taking. I was already high when I got here and just sort of let her h–have her pick –,”

Dieter’s stomach clenches.

Heidi frowns, still not getting it. “What are you talking about? Have her pick of what?”

“Oliver.” Those pale eyes jump back to Dieter, his entire body shaking. “Where’s Natalie?”

“I c-can’t be here, right now, ok-kay? They’re going to deport me if they f-find out that I–,”

Dieter thinks he hears the shower running.

The air in the hallway thins, a ringing settling between his ears.

The rest comes to him in flashes.

Tattered pieces flung into the air, raining down images. He snatches at them but they crumble in his grip.

Shoving Oliver out of the way.

Pills, liquor bottles, powders on the table. Ones he knows he didn’t leave there.

The white bathroom door.

This is the moment he realizes that blank door will haunt his nightmares for years to come. What he could have found on the other side. What he nearly does.

Your pale hand dangles over the side of the tub. That’s the first thing he sees. It brings him to his knees on the tiled floor.

Shower water pelts your gray face, black lines of makeup streaking your white cheeks. Oliver had dumped you in there still clothed in black underwear and his green shirt, possibly in hopes that the water would rouse you. But you don’t react to the water, or the sounds he’s making. You don’t react to him sliding down over the lip of the tub to you, his hand cupping your face.

You look small, broken and folded like a doll.

He had discarded you so easily.

But there, beneath the flood of water across your skin, he sees that you’re –

“Breathing,” he murmurs to himself, to you. “She’s breathing –,”

The ice cold water drenches his back as he pulls you out of the tub and into his lap. It’s not graceful, your knees and elbows knocking against the porcelain, but still you don’t move. You still don’t wake up.

He drags you into his lap like a lion drags its prey, selfishly, hungrily, snarling.

In his ears, the rushing of blood muffles all sound, everything happening in the room outside. He’s vaguely aware of movement, of running, of someone yelling.

But you still haven’t opened your eyes. He touches your face, fingers dragging back the damp hair across your forehead, and he thinks he feels your pulse slow.

No no no no no no no stop no not like this stop please i’m so sorry please don’t I’m begging you please please please please you can’t go you can’t leave me i’m so sorry please don’t leave me i’m so sorry please wake up wake up i’m begging you

please please please please

He doesn’t know what he keeps to himself or what he whispers out loud to you, arms wrapped around your back, limp head pressed tightly into his throat.

He holds you until the ambulance comes, as if his constant vigil will keep you from slipping away.

It was an accident, Oliver assured the police.

It was just a little fun that got out of hand. His stuff was more potent because it was made in a lab, not off the street. He didn’t remember to tell her and she didn’t know, Oliver said over and over and over again.

But that information came through Heidi’s contact at the police station, a contact that had been in the interview room when Oliver confessed everything in hopes of easing his sentence. But this was third hand gossip. A game of telephone that made Dieter nauseous to think about.

Maybe it didn’t matter why, only that it did. Only that you were hurt, that you were unconscious. That what he had done to you made you do this to yourself.

He watched the double doors from the hospital waiting room constantly.

Curled up in the back corner, his eyes remained glued to the swinging, open-and-shut, entrance to the admission rooms. Where they took you after the ambulance arrived. They didn’t let him go back with you. He was prepared to lie and push and use every ounce of his considerable influence to let him see you, but in the end, Heidi brought him down. Told him to let them do their jobs and all he could do was wait.

He paced the length of the waiting room, in the beginning. Shoulder curled, hands clenched across his body, nails bitten to the quick, he never took his eyes off that doorway.

The nurse at the station initially glowered at his frantic energy, but then something lightened her gaze. She recognized him from somewhere but couldn’t place it. Heidi tried to get him to sit, drink water, but he refused.

Her police contact called her, told her Oliver had been arrested and was selling out his suppliers left and right. For his sake, Dieter hoped they’d deny bail and keep him in jail, away from the public. Away from anyone who might come after him.

Heidi sits down next to him, now that he has settled, with a sigh, her second cup of coffee in a styrofoam cup from the machine smelling like burnt tar. She blows on it in a way that can only be described as calculating.

His sweatshirt dried cold against his skin. Why are hospitals always so fucking freezing?

“Dieter,” she begins but he grinds his teeth so hard, it’s audible.

“If you tell me to calm down, Heidi, I swear –,”

“No.” The word is heavy, cutting. It shuts him up immediately, even draws his dry gaze away from the doors. He looks at her, one of his oldest and only friends, with the coffee in her lap, thin pale fingers delicately holding the sides. Her eyes are unreadable as she watches him. “I want you to think about what you are going to say to her when she wakes up. And she will – that girl is tougher than you give her credit for,” she adds sternly. “But when she wakes up, that will be your one and only chance to do the right thing. The right thing for her. Not you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He chews on his tongue, which has suddenly grown three sizes and gone dry. The finality in her voice, it sinks into him. An ax falling into wood but isn’t removed. Left there, splitting the wood apart and letting the wet molasses ooze out of the crack.

It’s not fair, his heart aches. It’s not fair.

But it is right.

Dieter wipes his eyes as a doctor walks out of the double doors, the first in what feels like hours, and he approaches them in the corner.

He wants to ask, wants to open his mouth, but words have left him. What if it's bad news? What if –

Heidi stands to meet the doctor with an outstretched hand, Dieter shakily rising to his feet behind her. The doctor, a serious man with no facial hair and brown eyes, takes Heidi’s hand and returns the greeting. Dieter makes a fist in his pocket to keep his hand from trembling.

“You’re the family, then?”

Dieter wants to shake his head, no, this isn’t how families are supposed to be, but Heidi nods before he can confess his heart to an indifferent cause.

“We are. How is she? Is she–,” Heidi’s voice cracks despite her stern tone and Dieter’s skin at the back of his head pulsates.

“She’s alive,” the doctor says quickly. He wonders if that’s the information they have to give immediately. Some reassurance that all this time spent waiting wasn’t for nothing. That maybe something out there is kind and listened to his frantic begging. “But she will need to remain in our care for a few days. She’s going to be alright, but she very, very nearly wasn’t.”

The doctor goes on, describing what they had to do to save Natalie’s life. What poisons they found inside of her. What they took from her to piece her back together.

Wasn’t. There’s an alternative in that.

In a parallel universe, you died. You were gone.

But in this one, you lived. You were still here. There was still time.

“Can I see her?” He blurts out, cutting the doctor off from his long explanation. Those brown eyes harden like bird shells when they fall on him.

“She’s unconscious, heavily sedated, but stable. The nurse will show you back, but she might not be able to hear you.”

He nods. You might not hear him now, but you would, one day. You would know how sorry he is if it was the last thing he did.

The doctor waves at a nurse and Heidi turns and takes him into a hug.

“Tell her we’re all rooting for her,” she whispers in his ear. “Tell her I’ll be here waiting for her when she gets up.”

He pulls back, something about her phrasing squeezing his heart, he doesn’t like that he doesn’t like that at all —

But the nurse is opening the double doors for him, expectant.

She’s smiling but her eyes are empty as he lets go and steps back towards the long white hallway.

Your one and only chance to do the right thing.

He follows the nurse down room after room. He can’t bear to look into the rooms through the small windows, to flood his imagination with images of your possible fate, so he stares resolutely at the back of the nurse’s head.

She stops outside of room twenty two and opens the door for him.

“You’ve got ten minutes. You can come back in the morning during visiting hours.”

He nods, her indifferent gaze almost a relief. Pity, mourning, he couldn’t stand to see it. One more crack and he’d break. Shatter and spill like marbles across the floor.

He wants to thank the nurse, but the words get stuck and she walks off, handing him the responsibility of the door as she returns to the waiting room.

His hand shakes against the frame.

You were right. You always have been. He’s such a fucking coward.

Shaking, knees wobbling, Dieter falters as he goes into your room. It smells sweet, the air pungent and cloying. As if dead flowers had been sprinkled over filth.

There’s one light behind you, the curtains drawn shut, shadows heavy.

Where you had been a limp, lifeless doll in the bathroom tub, stretched thin in the small bed now you more resembled a weak, helpless child. Small, pale, ragged to the bone. As if someone had stripped back years of your life, revealing a vulnerability lost long into adulthood. A brush with death and you become humbled, glancing towards the light erodes your false pretenses until you lay bare at the end of time and at the beginning.

You look so, so sick.

His knees give out when he spots the skin beneath the arms of your hospital gown. The plastic seat beneath him all but holding him up right, he lifts the sleeve closest to him.

The skin is purple, green, in the shape of fingers. His fingers. He had done this to you. Of all the things he thought he was, thought he had become, this sort of monster seemed unfathomable. But he was wrong. He had become a special kind of monster.

His thumb trembles as he rubs the bruise, so sickened with himself his stomach churns.

As though pinched, you suddenly gasp awake, the machines monitoring you spiking and chirping. Twisting in the bed, eyes blurry, it’s clear you don’t know where you are, what has happened. You struggle until he puts his hands on your shoulders.

“Baby – baby, calm down. You’re safe. You’re in the hospital.”

Your hair still hasn’t dried completely and it curls around your shoulders like tentacles. Easing back down, you look up at him, eyes fluttering as you try and focus your gaze. You blink and recognition suddenly sparks across your face.

“Dieter?” You cry out and suddenly your cheeks are flushed with tears. Your pale skin sparks pink as you sob wretchedly. “Dieter – I-I t-thought you l-left me–,”

A solid block of stone where his heart used to be, he pulls you into his lap, arms clutched tightly around you. You’re shaking and shaking and shaking as you mutter,

“Thought you were g-gone. Thought you left m-me fore-eve-r-r. L-left m-me.”

Dieter swallows, his chin on your head, aware of his own tears but doing nothing to wipe them away.

He lets you cry. Holds you tight and strong in his arms and, as he always has been, unable to offer any real comfort. Real support. He offered nothing real, nothing tangible, no promises kept, because he had nothing to give. He sees that now.

You slow in your cries, your wailing, but you’re muttering something else now. He can’t hear it with your face against his heart, so he eases you away, hand soothing your neck, thumb by your ear. Your eyes are closed and you immediately try to nestle into him again, like a kitten searching for warmth.

“I did it . . . it’s my fault . . . I did it . . .” You claw at his forearms.

“Did what, baby?” He tilts your head up, up to him, to the light. Your face is puffy and pink and your lips are covered in tears. They spill again, your skin slippery, as you answer:

“I ruined your life, Dieter.”

In his shock and horror, his grip loosens and that’s all you need to launch yourself forward into him again. Your arms hold him by the waist so tightly it’s like you fear he’s going to fade away, crying again, crying anew. His eyes flutter shut, against the building wave of nausea in his gut, against the soothing hum of your skin against his – this is where we’re supposed to be – against the acceptance of what’s to come.

He lets you cry, perhaps longer than he should but he’s determined to sear the memory of your skin, your shoulders, your hips, your head into every crevice inside of him, stuff himself full of you when he has nothing else to sustain him on. He’s still greedy, selfish, corruptible, when it comes to you.

And that’s the whole fucking point.

“Natalie–,” he tries and it comes out soft. “Natalie, I have to tell you something.”

You pull away from him, eyes puffy and red, your beautiful mouth twisted and gnarled in grief. But there’s something wrong with your eyes, your gaze blurry.

His stomach knots with the realization that you might not remember any of this, the sedatives too strong. Fighting against his trembling chin, he takes you by the jaw, gently, carefully, how you’re meant to be handled and he has done it wrong so many times before.

“Natalie, I’m going to go away for a while,” he says. Your eyes fill with tears, but they don’t spill over. Your mouth twists petulantly.

“For how long?”

“For a while. You’re sick and you have to get better.”

You turn your head, considering his words. “When I get better, can I come see you?”

His jaw twists, dropping your gaze, chin trembling and teeth clattering. “I don’t know, baby. I don’t think that’s a good idea.’”

“Why?” You’re crying again and, finally, so does he.

“We’re not good for each other. And I can’t keep doing this to you.”

“Do what, Dieter?” You aren’t sobbing like before, but you pale. Like a ghost. Like he’s killing you.

Inhaling through a wet mouth, he kisses you on the forehead, tears flushing out of the corner of his eyes. Your little fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt.

“Dieter, I love you.” You mutter to his collarbone and that makes him let go. Releases you.

Sets you free.

You lived and he still had to say goodbye.

He wants to tell you in kind, try and capture this roaring, expansive feeling in his chest and give it to you. Offer himself on the funeral pyre if it keeps you warm.

You suddenly can’t quite focus on him, the rock of your shoulders is unsteady. Either the medicine is kicking in or the brief bout of consciousness is fading.

“Go to sleep, baby.”

You nod, eyelids heavy, and he gently eases you back, into the pillows, your weight growing as sleep overwhelms you. By the time, he has you against the white sheets, you’re already gone. He recedes from you, grateful and furious and happy and screaming all at once. He gives you one final kiss on the curve of your eyebrow, lingering long after he should, before tucking your hair back and moving away.

His last image of you is deathly pale and alone.

Nurses and staff stride through the hallways, around gurneys and into supply closets. Disembodied voices call out doctors through the intercoms and machines make noise. No one stops him as he walks down the long hallway and through the exit.

The metal handle clenches loudly as he pushes through, out into the dawning morning. It’s purple and quiet and not a soul in the entire city moves.

The rain has finally stopped.

“You’re still watching that?” Dan probes her, his patrol of the hospital slow given how late it is. “It’s just some dumb award show.”

April makes a face at him, glancing down briefly to finish her notes before her shift is over. Her feet ache and she’s looking forward to the pasta in her fridge.

“I worked a double today. If I want to indulge in a dumb show, I can.” She caps her pen and takes off her nurse’s badge. “Besides, it’s not a dumb awards show, it’s the dumb awards show. The Oscars are kind of important, idiot.”

Dan smirks, their banter the thing he looks forward to the most in his days as a security guard.

Neither one of them notice the single man walking past the nurses station towards the exit.

“Did you even watch any of these –,”

“Shush, they’re announcing Best Picture.”

A woman on the stage in a golden floor-length gown, her smile as bright as the lights around her, opens the envelope in her hands.

“And the Oscar goes to . . .”

She lifts the card, extending the suspension in her inhale.

“Recovery Road!”

The crowd on the TV bursts into applause and April squeals, clapping excitedly.

“Oh, please, like you even saw that in theaters.”

April shoots him a dirty look. “Yes, I did! I loved it. It’s my favorite movie of the year – maybe ever! I cried, like, four times. ”

Dan’s expression softens as he looks at her. She can’t soothe the blush in her cheeks quick enough.

“You really like movies, don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah, ever since I was a kid.”

“Maybe I could take you to one sometime.”

She smiles at him. “I’d like that.”

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