Word Count: 11.9K. LISTEN. This installment contains a large portion of what originally would’ve been a one-shot when I was in the early planning stages of this fic. And then, as per usual, I couldn’t control myself, and well, here we all are.
Rating:E | Semi-explicit PiV smut; drug & alcohol use; references to canon-related drug OD; language. My blog is 18+ only!
Warnings: PiV sex & sexual situations, alcohol & drug use, food mentions, pining & yearning, self-doubt, a little angst, feelings, some fluff… honestly, this has a little bit of everything.
A/N: All my love to @radiowalletand@astroboots who both allowed me to throw several tantrums while writing this. Sometimes it takes a village, and I’m so blessed to have you both with me on this ride.
———
Redding, California | May 2022
Without fail, the first day of filming always made her nervous.
It didn’t matter how much she prepared, how many deep breathing exercises she did, or how long she spent reviewing her lines—nerves bubbled in her belly like a pot simmering on a stove, creating a thick haze she had to act through.
As expected, Dieter appeared unbothered. He walked into hair and makeup (his call time an hour later than hers, she noted, with only a hint of jealousy) with an extra-large latte in one hand, phone in the other, and a smudge of charcoal pencil rubbed into his scruffy chin.
Of course he’d been drawing beforehand. He never reviewed lines the day of.
He’s always had more confidence than her.
It’s why he has an Academy Award, and you don’t, she thinks bitterly.
The director calls ‘action’, and Dieter slips into character as easily as taking his next breath, delivering his lines flawlessly. He’s an incredible force to witness—focused, comfortable, natural—he could’ve done months of prep or none; it’s impossible to tell.
She suddenly feels woefully inferior, and it only worsens when she misses the dialogue cue he feeds her.
“Shit, sorry–”
“Cut! Let’s try that again.”
She thinks maybe the director already regrets their talent choices for the film, and it sends her head spinning with thoughts of inadequacy. They should’ve picked someone who could take up as much of a scene as Dieter can, someone who has actually had decent work in the last few years, someone who won’t drag the whole thing down–
“Cut!”
Shit, she missed the line again.
The crew around her murmurs—imagined harsh whispers of doubt in her abilities, like they’re just now finding out she’s a fraud—she feels exposed, stark naked in front of a crowd. She sucks in a shaky breath, the world narrowing in, and two warm palms land on her shoulders.
“Hey, take a breath.”
It’s the lifeline she needs to stop her spiral dead in its tracks.
Dieter dips his head, eyes meeting hers, and he’s all warm encouragement and gentle smile in one short sentence.
“You’ve got this,” he reassures, the tenor similar to how it sounded two decades ago, with a hint of smokey age at the edges. On a shuddery exhale, she cracks a quiet inside joke.
“Pay isn’t shit this time around.”
A laugh breaks from his chest, lifting her spirits and giving her the confidence boost she needs.
“Even less of a reason for them to be pissed off,” he responds with a grin, and they both find their marks.
“Ready to try again?” the director asks, and she notices that they don’t seem annoyed at all. She nods, and the director calls ‘action’ once more.
They get the scene in the very next take.
———
The first few weeks of filming had been hectic. Some sets were half-built, wardrobe required constant adjustments and alterations, and a few filming locations had yet to be finalized. It was the nature of the beast, particularly with a project that leaned more independent, but he liked that about it. It made him feel young again, like he was just starting out.
It kept him on his toes.
And so did she.
Aside from her brief stumble on the opening take, she’d been the brilliant thespian he’s witnessed through her career. She was professional, engaging—the ebb to his flow at each of his winding curves. They played off each other perfectly; his relief was palpable when they picked up their natural chemistry as if it were shiny and new; something solid, sturdy, and unbroken despite years of dormancy.
She was cordial, lukewarm, and sometimes even friendly with him between takes. He savored every smile that stretched beyond her carefully crafted shell; felt the warm imprint of her palm on his forearm for hours after he made her laugh at a stupid joke. She had even pressed herself into his side during a night shoot, teeth chattering from the evening chill, seeking the body heat he willingly shared.
He wondered if she was always like this with her co-stars—friendly touches were a great, safe way to build up a little intimacy before filming scenes—or if (perhaps a little too hopeful) she couldn’t keep herself from touching him.
She kept her distance outside of filming hours, though.
She thwarted his attempts at rekindling their friendship—not cold or unkind, but also not filled with platitudes of another timeorsorry, not tonight. Each invite to dinner, coffee, a drink, or even a fuckinghike had been met with a polite but firm no thank you. It stung, more than he’d like to admit, but he supposed it was his penance, his cross to bear after abandoning her.
Maybe karma had finally come for him, putting her just on the other side of a wall and somehow more unavailable now than she’d ever been with an ocean between them.
They’d been set up in apartments by the studio—a duplex with a shared yard, two units side by side in a quiet, secluded part of town—and he rarely saw her aside from her morning dashes out the door for a quick jog, or if they had the same call time.
So, he soldiered on, content enough to make a great movie, pulling their careers back from the brink of death.
She had set boundaries. He was going to respect them.
Funny, he thinks, maybe therapy doeshelp.
Healthy coping mechanisms, he echoes in his head. He’d discussed them with his therapist, things to keep him occupied outside of work so he doesn’t spiral into unhealthy escapism so hard. Except that there wasn’t much of interest to him in Redding unless he wanted to hike or look at nature or drive the two hours to the tiny hometown he hadn’t visited in ages. He’d never been much of an outdoorsy type. He knew it was unfair to write the place off, but everywhere felt too small and dull after twenty years in LA.
Thankfully, filming kept him busy, long hours punctuated by small windows of sleep, and he was grateful because boredom was dangerous for him. It led to stupid choices and heavy consequences, and he was trying to be smarter.
On their first filming break—a long weekend for Memorial Day—he spent Friday pacing his apartment, listening to a Jamiroquai album, drawing more mountain ranges than he could get his eyeballs on (landscapes were his mortal enemy), and perusing the nearby grocery store for something for dinner.
Still a hopeless cook, he moseyed down the snack aisle, his gaze landing on a familiar white can with a blue cap.
He grinned, eyes lighting up behind his sunglasses, and quickly filled his basket with the essentials. The idea formed in his mind, maybe from boredom, possibly from his burning desire to spend more time with her and mend their friendship; he didn’t care to dwell on his reasoning, only to hang onto a glimmer of hope.
When he gets into his car, he taps out a text to her, quietly thankful she’d slipped him her number in case of emergencies.
Don’t make me regret giving it to you, she’d also said, though her lips curled into a playful smirk he recognized from their youth.
His thumb hovers over ‘send’ for only a moment before he taps it.
Picnic lunch in the backyard tomorrow?
He watches her type, then pause, then type, then pause. He prepares for rejection, a bitter thought clawing into his mind that she would need to run his invite by her PR team first, calculate if her reputation could handle his.
He silently scolds himself for being an ass.
Just when he thinks she’s chosen to ‘leave him on read,’ as the kids say, her response appears.
You know what? Sure, why not?
———
Perhaps against her better judgment, she agreed to lunch.
She was tired of doing everything everyone expected of her.
She knew he was lonely; she could practically feel it through the wall between them; she heard him pacing in the evenings, music playing in the background. She saw he’d been trying, in all senses of the word, and she continued to cold-shoulder him into oblivion over… what, exactly?
Something so old she no longer carried a fiery torch of anger, just the grief and regret of things she didn’t say.
She could use a real friend, at least. They both could.
She’d been lonely, too. She’s been lonely for ages now.
Her answer to his text had been met with a million and one follow-ups:
Are you sure?
Yes.
You’re not going back to LA for the long weekend?
No.
(To who? she thought)
Wine preference?
Something cheap, for old time’s sake.
It unleashed a flurry of texts—she would’ve never guessed he could carry on conversations via various blue and white bubbles, but they messaged back and forth for most of the evening. It was harmless fun, catching up while still avoiding the glaring elephant in the room; a bit of friendly banter back and forth as she giggled into her bed covers. He still had his delightfully weird sense of humor she adored, sharpened to precision over the last twenty-plus years. He sent her photos of paintings he had recently completed, and she responded with pictures of meals she finally learned to cook during the pandemic.
It was nearing midnight when she ended the stream of chatter with a simple I’ll see you tomorrow, D.
And now, tomorrow has arrived.
Dieter’s in their shared backyard, blanket tucked under one arm, canvas bag looped around the other, his signature sunglasses perched low on his nose. She spots him through the sliding glass door, nearly bouncing on the balls of his bare feet, a giddy swoop flowing through her lower belly. In the glitter of sunshine, he looks so much like a grown-up version of the boy who used to wait for her outside the diner in the early mornings while she wrapped up shift change.
She steps out into the yard; it’s sunny and warm but not sweltering, the perfect day to be outside. He greets her with a smile, his thumb hooking into the handle of the canvas bag perched on his shoulder as if to prevent himself from reaching out to her.
She wants to hate how she wishes he would.
“So, what’s the occasion?” she asks quietly, biting the inside of her cheek against a pulse of awkwardness. It’s so easy for her to drop her polished guard around him, and it makes her feel more exposed than she’s been in a long time.
He bites his lip, tipping his head back, afraid to admit the truth.
He gives it to her anyway.
“Yeah, uh… If I stay in that apartment by myself any longer, I’m gonna go fuckin’ crazy… ier.” His brows thread, tongue poked and pressed between his teeth, all awkward limbs and soft vulnerability. A pang of guilt collects in her chest—she’d let it grow and fester if he didn’t also look so incredibly endearing.
And if he wasn’t so god damn relatable.
“Yeah,” she huffs a soft laugh, pressing her sunglasses up her nose to hide her eyes, “same.”
He visibly relaxes.
She steps forward, feet swishing through the grass, and gestures to the ground. He snaps into action, unfurling the blanket with a flick of his wrists, spreading it out across the grass. He settles atop it, one long, toned arm motioning for her to join him.
“It’s no Echo Lake, but it’ll do.”
She laughs, the tension between them loosening, and takes her spot next to him, tucking her legs into a neat criss-cross. “God, I haven’t been there in years.”
“Me either. Don’t think we could get away with it now.”
She hums, watching as he pulls items from the canvas bag—pepperoni in suspicious packaging, a can of Easy Cheese, butter crackers. Her belly flutters when, for just a moment, he’s twenty years younger with a lot less weight perched on his broad shoulders.
“Really?” She points to the questionable culinary display between them, failing to hide her grin. He quirks a brow in her direction—half playful, all hope.
“I still can’t cook,” he admits with a shrug. She tips her head back, an unladylike guffaw bursting from her chest, catching the final curve of his broad smile when she looks back at him.
“And here I was thinking you were being nostalgic.”
His eyebrows raise, and he tilts toward her, dropping his voice into a stage whisper. “Hmm, just like that gift basket was simply congratulatory?”
She feigns innocence, pretending to be more interested in her nailbeds than his words. “That could’ve been anyone; it was sent anonymously.”
She holds back another smile for as long as possible in a sudden game of chicken as their eyes lock in a silent, playful challenge. One of his eyebrows wings up knowingly before he chuckles and shakes his head, accepting defeat. He reaches back into the bag, revealing an aluminum can, and presents it with theatrical flair.
“For the lady.”
“Wow, wine from a can. That’s fancy,” she teases gently.
Dieter only shrugs and pulls a can of seltzer from the bag. He catches her eyeing it curiously and sweeps his lip with his tongue.
“I’m…trying to take it easy,” he says by way of explanation, eyes flitting to the can in her grasp.
It takes her by surprise—he’d been trying in even more ways than she knew.
“Oh,” her tongue trips, inelegant and clunky in her mouth when she doesn’t know what else to say. A snarky quip would be cruel, but sickly-sweet sympathy feels hollow.
She settles for curiosity.
“Witheverything, or…?”
He huffs an ironic laugh, opening the can of seltzer to take a long pull before setting it down and stretching his long legs across the blanket with a sigh. Tilting back on his hands, he tips his head toward the sun, squinting against the warm rays even under the protection of his sunglasses.
A drop of carbonated water sits nestled in the crease of his bottom lip, begging to be brushed off with a featherlight thumb or even her own bottom lip—a memory she usually keeps tucked away until she’s alone late at night. It figures, she thinks, with the first cautious tendril of rekindled friendship, she’s already thinking about kissing him.
Maybe she never stopped thinking about kissing him.
Among other things.
It’s been too long. Dating was hard when you still carried a torch for someone else.
She’s always wanted to write off his past behavior as foolish when, in reality, she’s no better herself. The only difference between them is that he acted on his impulses. She was always too afraid.
She’s still too afraid.
“All of them, I suppose,” he finally answers, a few breaths after she assumes he wouldn’t. “In the beginning, it made it a little easier to handle… everything,” he gestures vaguely, and she knows exactly what he means by everything. Their world is not normal; money and fame, an existence that often feels so devoid of anything genuine it borders on insanity. There are days she feels like a zoo animal, something to be gawked at by the masses whenever they please.
Entertainment, existing only to be consumed and then disposed of.
Nothing more.
She doesn’t expect sympathy, would never dream of asking for it, knows how fucking unhinged it would make her sound to complain about her life and what kind of access to the world it provides.
It doesn’t stop her from feeling hollowed out and sucked dry.
She knows Dieter understands, too.
“It’s hard to slow down, you know?” He says it like an apology, a quiet acknowledgment that he’s used the perks of fame to cope with its emptiness while she rejected them, suffering alone and in silence.
She bites her lip and shrugs. “I never indulged much.”
He eyes her suspiciously. “We used to smoke weed in my bathtub all the time.”
She nods, wrestling with a dreamy smile. She wasn’t sure he remembered much of anything from their summer together.
“I’m surprised you remember.”
The remark has too much bite, and she presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth against a bitter wave of guilt. There’s still so much unsaid between them, and it oozes out through the cracks in her veneer whenever she’s around him because he’s always been the only one she can speak to freely. His stare is heavy, forcing her to busy her hands with opening the can of wine and taking a sip.
It tastes like shit—over fermented and syrupy sweet, a hangover in the making—but she doesn’t mind.
“I remember everything from that summer,” he admits with a low rasp, drawing her attention. When she meets his eyes, they’re laced with memories and wrapped in pain from her insinuation.
Fuck, maybe she is an ice queen.
Setting her drink down, she reaches for the spread between them. She offers him a salty, buttery cracker covered in the cheese-like substance, topped with an over-processed pepperoni, just the way he liked it all those years ago—her silent apology. He takes it with the delicate dexterity of an artist’s fingertips, popping the questionable concoction into his mouth with little preamble.
“Me, too,” she replies softly. He wipes a hand across his worn tee, the collar stretched, golden skin glowing in the sunshine. His gaze shifts, staring at the opening of his drink. He remains quiet, even though she can hear his gears turning.
She makes herself the same stack of over-processed, nostalgic bliss. She can’t hide her groan when it passes her lips, bursts of salt and cheese and a hint of spice melding together. She washes it all down with the shitty wine, and suddenly, it’s the summer of 2001 again. He hums, agreeing, setting out to make another. She assumes it’s for himself, but he presents it to her instead. She takes it with a grin and a playful wink, watching the corners of his mouth form into a smile.
Sighing contentedly, he leans back until he’s propped up on one elbow. She sneaks a glance at the plane of his torso; it’s more filled out now, but she can still recognize all the dips in his formerly lanky frame she used to explore with her lips. His shirt rides up as he adjusts his legs, exposing a sliver of tan skin that lures her eye line to the trail of wiry hairs leading into the waistband of his shorts.
She tries to hide her pavlovian response.
She presses her sunglasses back up her face, taking another sip of wine, blaming it for the flood of heat in her cheeks.
Silence falls around them, similar to the ones they used to foster together routinely—him with his sketchbook, her with a novel. While still tinted with awkwardness, there’s far less pressure for them to maintain appearances than they’re used to. They polish off the sleeve of crackers, snack sets made and passed back and forth, fingertips occasionally brushing, sparks of electricity on each pass.
Dieter breaks first. Silence always drove him crazy long before it ever got to her.
“So… why the goody-two-shoes bit?”
She didn’t expect the question, but it didn’t surprise her either. He asked it like he’s been dying to know, the much-needed answer to a riddle he’s tried to solve for two decades.
She licks at a salt crystal stuck to the corner of her lips; it reminds her of seawater-laced kisses and a smile more gorgeous than an oceanside sunset. Finishing her wine, she tucks her knees up, resting folded arms across them, and heaves a sigh.
“On my first big movie, I got some advice about public image and privacy from a few veterans. It seemed like the best way to handle things at the time,” she starts, ignoring how right they’d been with the never-fuck-your-male-costaradvice.
The rest had been a bit of a crapshoot.
“You always were smarter than me with that stuff. It must be nice, not having what everyone thinks is your life splashed everywhere.” His jaw ticks with the statement, annoyed but not jealous.
“It must be nice, having the freedom not to care what people think.”
Dieter laughs bitterly at that. “Freedom? A fishbowl is still a cage.”
She never thought about it that way, but he’s right. Their opposing publicity choices still landed them in similar places—two sides of the same coin.
“I always thought it would protect me. This perfect shell to keep the real me safe,” she pauses, emotion choking her. “But it just isolated me.”
He nods, pointing a finger in her direction. “Now that, I can relate to.”
“Oh, come on, everyone wants to be around you,” she teases, wine-warm fingertips pressing into his shoulder.
“Yeah, for a good time and a chance at their fifteen minutes. They want to party, do some drugs, have some sex,” he says that part quietly, an apology inscribed within the words as he speaks them. “No one wants to watch movies from the 40s, eat a box of mac ‘n’ cheese, or look at weird art.”
She twists onto her hip to face him, knees barely brushing his shorts-clad thigh. His hand twitches, moving to touch her leg before he pulls back, pressing his sunglasses up the curve of his nose.
“I do,” she admits with a grin. Through his sunglasses, he looks optimistic. She ignores how it causes her heartbeat to knock against her sternum.
“Still?” It’s a hushed question, like he’s afraid she’s merely appeasing him.
“Of course I do. I love those things.”
“We should do them sometime.” He says it casually, like it wouldn’t crush him if she said no, even though they both know it would.
“Yeah, we should.” Simple, honest, direct. She means it, and he knows it.
He settles onto his back, linked hands cradling his head, eyes squeezing shut behind tinted lenses. His cheeks sit high on his face, an etched smile keeping them there. She pushes away their lunch scraps, mirroring him on the blanket—back flat, hands behind her head, wine-filled smile warming her features.
Silence washes over them again, sunshine soaking into their pores and making them both feel lighter in their chests—the sacred act of merely existing together, under no pressure to perform anything other than breathing. It’s nice, she thinks, not to worry about looking sloppyortoo tired or any of the other insults the media machine loves to say about women for daring to exist in the world.
When she’s with Dieter, none of that matters. It never did.
Eventually, a cloud passes overhead and temporarily breaks the sunshine. She cracks open one eye to catch a glimpse of the moon, making itself known even in daylight. She smiles and laughs to herself.
“Hey, D?”
He hums, sounding like he’s on the precipice of sleep, quickly clearing his throat before responding, “Yeah?”
“How’s the stargazing here?”
His grin tells her everything she needs to know.
———
Redding, California | June 2022
That lunch had been like opening a door they both previously considered nailed shut.
As summer warmed the air, they fell back into something resembling their old easy friendship, making up for lost time—sometimes with chatter, sometimes silence—but always comfortable.
They were careful, Dieter mindful of tarnishing her good reputation despite her reassurances, and stayed within their temporary homes. They kept their back doors unlocked, tiptoeing through the shared yard to slip in and out unseen by potential prying eyes. It was thrilling in its own way, like teenagers sneaking out to break curfew, though instead of getting up to no good, they watched old movies and ate pints of ice cream.
Sometimes they’d order take out, deliberately avoiding that same order they’d shared the night that began their end. Sometimes, she would cook, showing off the new skill she’d picked up in quarantine. Over dinner, he would make her laugh between sips of wine with a joke or a story from one of his many previous projects. He found he could enjoy a drink or two in her presence, never experiencing the nagging desire to overindulge to fuel his front of the fun-loving party boy.
It was refreshing not to be switched on all the time.
When they had later call times, they would share quiet morning coffees in the backyard, her nose in a book or her script, his hands smudged in black charcoal while he drew, the soft scribble of pencil on thick paper filling gaps between morning bird song.
He would coax her into that same backyard on clear nights, pointing out his favorite constellations. He’d been right all those years ago—the stargazing in NorCal was leagues better than anything they could’ve ever seen in LA.
One evening, they split an edible—giggle-dry mouths and warm, tingly limbs sprawled out on a blanket under the star-dappled sky, trading old and new banter back and forth. He teased her for her firm stance on social media (‘it’s rotting our brains, D’), and she shot right back with clever quips about his concerns over Bluetooth and brain waves.
Their laughs slowed into hushed whispers, quiet confessions told across weighted puffs of soft breath, vulnerabilities dangled out for the taking in small, measured acts of trust. They shared failed experiences in dating, brushes with the ugly power-hungry types in Hollywood, the roles they didn’t get, and how it still gutted them.
She admitted how devastatingly lonely she’d been during the pandemic.
He admitted how insanely bored he’d been and where it led. What it almost led to.
Through the choke of held-back tears, the rumors she had heard confirmed, she asked only one question—why?
“I went from one trap to another; guess I was trying to get free,” he answered truthfully, eyes full of remorse.
“You never did like a cage.”
“How’d you know?”
She huffed a dry laugh, lifting one eyebrow best she could through the syrupy warmth of THC. “No strings attached? That’s a classic.”
He grimaced. “I’m sorry. Back then, I thought every relationship would be a cage.”
She curled into his side with a flimsy excuse of warding off the non-existent nighttime chill, draping weed-heavy limbs across his body. He pressed his nose to her crown, breathing her in, wondering what fancy shampoo she switched for the cheap coconut one from his memories.
“It’s funny,” she whispered, her breath tickling his neck, “I think the last time I felt free was with you.”
Without a second thought, his lips landed on her forehead; an old reflex resurrected to bring her comfort.
“Me, too,” he confided, pulling her close and listening to her breaths as they slowed into sleep.
A sense of peace washed over him, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. He knew it was foolish to let himself sink into it; he couldn’t shake the quiet dread at the back of his mind that it might be fleeting, that it was all one long dream, despite the tangible proof of her body curled into his. He blinked against a sting of tears, eyes focusing on the pinpricks of light mottled into the inky canvas above—a perfect backdrop for a dream—and let himself drift slowly into slumber.
They woke the following morning to sunrise and songbirds, wrapped around each other, dawn-fuzzy gazes and shy smiles shared between them before ordering breakfast and showing up to set ten minutes late—no LA traffic to blame.
They walked into the hair and makeup trailer together to curious glances, extra coffees for the crew in tow as an apology. Dieter cracked a joke; laughs erupted from everyone in the trailer, and all was forgiven.
———
Redding, California | July 2022
Summer rolled on, and with it, filming progressed.
Their mended friendship had only improved their on-screen chemistry. They captured several scenes on the first take, her desire for perfection driving him to strive for the same. She enjoyed his improv moments, pivoting with him flawlessly as if the new words had been the ones written in the script all along.
They didn’t stray far from one another between takes, excitedly examining their character motivations or why they chose a particular intonation in the last take. Sometimes their voices would dip lower, discussions of which movie to watch or where to order food from when the day wrapped, careful conversations had when others were out of earshot. When no one was watching, she would lean into his side and link her fingers with his, and he’d toss an exaggerated wink her way, drawing a laugh from her lips.
She couldn’t remember the last time she had so much fun on a set.
Some script adjustments came in ahead of the fourth of July holiday weekend. She didn’t bother to finish reading them before slipping through the back door of his apartment to talk shop, the faint scent of patchouli incense greeting her.
She smiles to herself.
Some things never change.
She finds him sitting at the kitchen island, his nose in his sketchbook, a beer on his right, a manila envelope with his script changes on his left—still unopened. He’d showered recently, hair mussed and damp, with no attempts to tame his wild locks; it’s endearing that he still didn’t care for maintaining appearances or keeping up with fashion trends, despite several brands chasing him with lucrative offers of a full closet for a photoshoot.
He always did clean up nice, she had noted through the years, images of past photoshoots and red carpet looks floating in her mind.
A song switches over, and she immediately recognizes the music pouring from his phone, the small, tinny speaker doing a disservice to Coldplay’s sophomore album.
“This album was the only thing I listened to for six weeks when it first came out,” she tells him in place of a greeting, throwing her newest script copy on top of his. He sits up, reaching for his beer, pointing the neck of the bottle toward the fridge—a silent offer to help herself.
“It’s a good album,” he agrees as she grabs a beer from the fridge, handing it to him to open even though it’s a twist-off cap. He makes quick work of it, pressing the cold bottle back into her hand, fingertips brushing hers with a warm spark that settles in the base of her spine.
That’s been happening a lot recently.
She attempts to quell her quiet desire, keeping the conversation flowing.
“It’s a great album. It came out when I was shooting my first big film. I’d get back from a long day of filming and just lay on my apartment floor and listen to it. It always reminds me of that time in my life.” She sighs wistfully, taking a sip of beer. It borders on the edge of too hoppy for her tastes, the bitter hit making her tongue curl against her teeth, but she doesn’t care enough to complain.
“I listened to it a lot when it first came out, too. It’s always reminded me of you.”
She waits for the inevitable joke or cheeky grin to accompany the admission with bated breath, something to cut the tension between them whenever things start feeling like more than just friendship, but it never comes, sending her heartbeat into her ears.
His casual confession—that he’d thought of her beyond their summer together—turns her insides loose and liquid. It’s not the first time he’s insinuated he thinks about her, but it is the first time he’s admitted it so boldly.
She reaches for her drink, hoping the liquid courage will soothe her suddenly parched throat.
He shrugs after a beat—perhaps the only explanation she’ll get tonight.
She’s too cowardly to admit the same. The album makes her think of him, too; in another imagined life where they stayed friends, stayed together, lying on the floor of his old apartment and listening to the album together. Even now, she can picture how they would’ve stayed up until 3 AM with his old AIWA stereo pumping the music into the small, cozy space. They’d analyze lyrical nuances between sips of cheap wine, listening and relistening to get them right; the ubiquity of iPhones and Google still ages away.
She blinks the dreamy fantasy away, takes another sip of beer, and taps the manila envelope on the island between them.
“Have you looked at your script changes yet?” It’s a skilled conversation move back into safer topics, but she knows it’s futile as soon as she sees the look on his face.
“Youknow the answer to that,” he says with a grin, eyes tracking down to his half-finished sketch. “I’ll look at them later. We’ve got a few days off anyway.”
Her eyes follow his, curiosity getting the best of her. “What’re you working on?”
He shrugs, setting the pencil down.
“I suck at landscapes, so I’m trying to practice. I’ll never understand how Bob Ross did it and made it look so easy.”
“He used paint, for one,” she jests, biting back a grin that spreads wide when he rolls his eyes. She points her beer bottle at him. “It’s possible he was also an alien.”
“Now you’re speaking my language.”
“Well, I’ll believe Bob Ross was an alien before I believe you ‘suck’ at drawing landscapes,” she replies, padding around to his side of the island to peer over his shoulder. “Could’ve fooled me.”
He shifts in the chair, making space for her next to him, and she wordlessly steps into it. Her side grazes his, a brief tingle of electricity running up her spine; she ignores it by asking him a question.
“May I?”
He nods, sliding the sketchbook toward her, his silent permission granted. A thrill runs through her—for how much of Dieter’s life he lives in loud, bold color for everyone with a shark-like camera lens to see, his art might be one of the few things where his privacy rivals hers.
“This sketchbook is pretty old. I’ve had a lot of long drawing breaks in the last decade.”
She flips to the start, paging through a decade’s worth of work; full to the brim of charcoal and graphite, subjects of all sorts—a creepy graveyard landscape, abstract shapes, light streaming through a window with a surprising amount of warmth from just the stroke of a pencil.
He’s just as talented with pencil and paper as he is in front of a camera.
She turns the page, a surprised ‘oh’ dropping from her mouth.
“Shit, I forgot that was in there–” Dieter moves to pull the book away, but she reaches for his wrist, halting him.
She leans closer, brows threading together as she takes in the life-like drawing on the page, her own eyes staring back at her.
It’s a stunning display of his skill, how beautifully he captured her on paper. She looks ethereal, like he drew her through the blurred haze of a dream, and it immediately feels like she’s reading the pages of his journal—private thoughts for his eyes only.
He stills, his breath locked in his chest, but she can feel the intensity of his eyes on her. Her thumb strokes the inside of his wrist as she appreciates the amount of detail he used to capture her on paper. She turns toward him, meeting his eyes.
“You prettied me up, thank you.”
He makes an awkward noise, his jaw shifting with confusion.
“I draw what I see,” he whispers, gaze dropping to her lips for half a breath. His eyes dart back down at the page, and she follows.
She spots the date in the bottom right corner, next to the messy scrawl of his initials—his very own maker’s mark. Warmth blooms in her stomach, spreading into her chest as she puts all the pieces together.
“You drew this 10 years ago?”
“I told you, I took a lot of breaks–”
“This was the day after you won your Oscar–”
“You looked so pretty that night, and I–”
Words fall away, his heated eyes drifting back to her lips, and the warmth in her belly slides down into her hips, her blood immediately spiked with arousal.
She swears the air sparks between them, thick like ozone before a thunderstorm.
Shewantshim.
It sits there now in the center of her belly, louder than it’s been in years. He’s all she’s ever wanted; desire sharpened to a pinpoint; it would be unbearable if she didn’t welcome it so willingly.
In one quick move, her hand twists into the front of his tee, pulling him in to meld her lips to his. It’s messy, a little clumsy, the angle awkward from his perch in the chair. He stiffens, a noise of surprise catching in his throat, and she pulls away just enough for her mouth to hover over his, their foreheads pressed together.
“What is this?” he asks breathlessly, hands floating over her hips, a tremor running through them. Her laugh breezes across his full bottom lip.
“A kiss, you idiot.” It’s affectionate, her fingers twirling in his collar to tug him even closer, but his eyes go wide and wild like he’s locked in a dream. She draws back, wondering if she’s made a mistake and read the moment wrong. “Unless you don’t want–”
“No,” he says with conviction, finally allowing his palms to rest on her sides, “I definitely do. I never thought you’d want–”
“Well,I do, so come here and kiss me, Mr. Bravo.”
She pulls on his collar again, and this time, he goes willingly, lips meeting hers. It’s shy, tentative at first; the soft brush of plush lips, a set of shaky exhales, a shared, warm gaze under hooded eyes, his thick fingers curling into her shorts. She brings one hand to his stubbled jawline, encouraging his mouth to slant over hers. He breathes into her open mouth—a raspy, shuddery whisper of oh my god against her lips—before cradling her face in his palms and seeking her tongue with his own.
Her only thoughts are him—the hoppy hit of beer on his lips, the cheap green apple shampoo he’s always used mixed with an expensive-smelling cologne she can’t place but has savored more than she’d like to admit the past few weeks, the warmth of his palms seeping into her cheeks. It’s a heady rush that would set her off balance if they weren’t clinging to each other so desperately.
He whimpers, and it goes right through her, every nerve-ending lighting up with buzzing electricity. It’s nothing like the kiss they shared for the camera a few weeks ago—awkward, uncomfortable angles that look good on film, people shouting directions, an intimacy coordinator with firm instructions on how to kiss as if they were clueless—this one is real, familiar, like knowing the way through one’s hometown no matter how long it’s been between visits.
Refusing to break the kiss, he stands, and the stool kicks out behind him, clattering against the floor. Startled, she pulls away.
“Wha–”
“Don’t worry about it,” he growls, recapturing her lips and deepening the kiss. His hands cup her face again, fingertips cheating into her hairline, and he uses his solid body to cage her against the island’s edge. The counter digs into her back, but she doesn’t care, fingers spearing into his shower-damp hair to pull him flush against her.
He’s everywhere, invading her senses—inhaling her exhales, swallowing her breathy pants, chasing the taste of beer and summer on her tongue—his hips press to hers, and then she feels him, hard beneath the thin material of his shorts.
Her blood sings, and she clenches around nothing.
The kiss becomes smooth and fluid; it’s a dance they both know by heart, stuck in their memories from twenty years worth of quiet longing. It’s soft puffs of warm breath and desperate whines and rediscovery, a return to each other, a return home.
Eager for him, she lets one of her hands slip under the hem of his tee, her fingertips dancing along the top edge of his shorts, and he breaks the kiss with a gasp.
“Should we… talk?” he asks, dotting her face in sweet pecks, his scraggly beard dragging against her soft skin.
“Later,” she breathes, craning her neck to allow him access to it, arousal gathering at the apex of her thighs, soaking into her underwear, “after.”
“After?” It’s less a question and more a confirmation that they want the same thing; he sucks a kiss into the spot where her shoulder and neck meet while waiting for her response. She moans, feeling him twitch against her belly in response, and nods, her fingertips hooking into the band of his boxer briefs.
“Please,” she begs, unwilling to ask again.
“Fuck,” he utters, finding the hem of her shirt and guiding it over her head. His lust-dark eyes drop to the swell of her breasts, and she watches as his tongue nestles in the crease of his bottom lip, contemplating his next move while he catches his breath.
She shoots him a sultry smile, sex-kitten eyes, and pouty lips, arching her back just so, and it has the desired effect. With a pleasured sigh, his mouth drops to her chest, groans planted on the curve of her breasts as he presses hungry kisses into her skin.
His hands move to the button on her shorts, and she temporarily halts his progress.
“Your bed? We’re not young anymore.”
He nods, scooping her up with a soft grunt, his back giving a small protest as he walks toward his bedroom. She laughs into his shoulder, repeating they aren’t young anymore, but she loses all words as her back hits the mattress and he crawls over her, the weight of his hips pressing into where she wants him most.
He wastes no time, hips grinding against hers, providing a delicious weight and friction where she’s soaked and throbbing. He kisses her again, and she could drown it in, in him—the slow roll of his hips as it blooms pleasure up her spine, his hands roving her exposed skin, leaving tingles in their wake. Even the soundshe’s making pull her deeper into his current, whispered adorations (baby, gorgeous, beautiful), pants and grunts and groans, expressions of awe (oh my god andoh, fuck); it’s been so long, she thinks she could come from listening to him alone.
They strip each other bare, muted apologies for rounder, aging bodies met with enthusiastic compliments and desirous kisses across planes of skin. They let themselves get lost in it, in each other; the discovery and rediscovery of mapped sensitive spots paired with loud, sloppy kisses; sighs and gasps and moans filling the room, the rustle of the sheets as he slides her firmly under him, her throaty laugh when a pillow he haphazardly shoved away flops onto her face.
He shushes her with his mouth and uses his hand to draw different noises from her lips, sliding two fingers through her center. His head falls to her chest when he feels how wet she is—how wet he’s made her. She cants her hips up, seeking friction, and he delivers, fingertips expertly circling her clit until she’s crying out against the wall of his chest, and he’s grinning like the cat who got the canary.
Through the blissed fog of her orgasm, she kisses him until he’s breathless; when she breaks it, she begs for him, fingertips wrapping around his hard cock and lining him up at her entrance.
His first slip inside her is everything, weighty and full with a stretch that sends sparks to her toes; he cradles her head in his hands and weaves a pleasured groan onto her tongue when his hips nestle within hers.
“Fuck, I missed this,” he murmurs against her temple like he might tattoo the words there if she allowed it. “I missed you,” he adds, a golden thread of emotion stitching them tightly together.
Her palms press into his shoulders, encouraging him to move, and words fall away.
Their bodies used to snap tightly together like pieces of a brand new puzzle—edges clean, sharp, and unmarred. Now, their edges are softer, a bit frayed, but still made to lock in place, a perfect fit even after the passage of so much time.
He tries to draw it out, wants to make it good for her, for both of them, but she hooks her heels over his thighs, and he loses the last drops of brain power he possesses.
They quickly find the easy rhythm they once knew so well, buzzing electric and fiery warmth with each desperate, eager thrust of his hips. Her nails claw into his back, hushed pleas of please, baby spurring him on as they breeze over his ear, words he’d only heard in his dreams and fantasies.
The world drops away, time measured in heavy breaths and quickened heartbeats, kisses exchanged like a secret currency only for them. She comes first with a bitten-off gasp of his name, squeezing and pulsing around him until she pulls him over the edge with her, his face buried in her neck as he fills her with a choked cry.
They melt together on the mattress, sweet adorations and soft kisses shared in a post-orgasm euphoria—curved smiles, breathy laughs, the brushing back of hair—each movement is simultaneously newly exciting and achingly familiar.
She thinks she should feel worried that they let things get messy once more, but everything feels so right in the moment, just like it’s always felt when she’s with him; she doesn’t have the presence of mind to care.
She’s gotten pretty good at handling messes, anyway.
———
They spend the remainder of the evening in his bed, rediscovering each other as the sun dipped well below the horizon. While the stamina of their early twenties was gone, their passion for each other was not, fueled by two decades worth of desire.
He couldn’t remember the last time he wanted someone to stay in his bed (it was her, it’s always been her, only her), but he kept her there, pulling orgasm after orgasm from her until she begged him for a break, in the same tone etched across his eardrums—exhausted, but completely satisfied, sending a wave of pride through him.
In the afterglow, they tackle one of the final hurdles of their past.
He didn’t mean for it to happen like this, their bodies pressed together under the too-warm duvet, unwilling to separate long enough to kick it away, choosing to enjoy the prickling waves of heat flowing between them.
“I meant it earlier. I’ve missed you,” he confesses, repeating the words without the easy excuse of the heat of the moment. They’d sat on the tip of his tongue since she glared at him during the table read, a rare show of her true feelings under her carefully crafted mask; it had served as a beacon of hope that this hollow industry hadn’t stripped away her entire personality, the one he knew and secretly cherished.
She’s gone so quiet that he wonders if she’s asleep. He’d almost believe it if not for the way she’s holding her breath, and he realizes why a moment too late.
“Then why didn’t you call?” The question carries no heat, and still, it burns him.
It’s his turn to hold his breath.
She tilts her head, looking at him from where she’s nestled into the crook of his arm, silently pleading for an answer. There’s no anger in her eyes, but he almost wishes there was—it would be easier to bear than her raw, honest display of heartache.
“I did,” he starts, tongue thick with guilt. “When the towers fell. You didn’t answer.”
Her brows knit together, eyes narrowing as her mind drifts back to then,twisting through time and weaving the unknown pieces together before she heaves a bone-tired sigh.
“I went out for a run to clear my head.”
Dieter’s blood runs cold. “Oh.”
Shit.
“I– I thought you were screening your calls.”
“I was, but I would’ve picked up for you,idiot.” She taps his nose, all tender affection, but he’s already on the precipice of a spiral, groaning as the realization sinks in.
He’s been a colossal fucking idiot.
Her fingers dance along his jawline, drawing his eyes to hers. He wants to bask in the intimacy of her touch, press his cheek into her palm and let the warmth of her skin seep into his, but her eyes reveal she has more to say.
“You could’ve left a message, Dieter,” she whispers, all the hurt she’s held onto bleeding into her tone. The way her sharp tongue curls around his name nearly shatters him.
She’s right. He could’ve. He should’ve. The fact that he didn’t has haunted him for an eternity.
“Yeah, you’re right. I don’t know why I didn’t…”
Silence fills the small space on the pillow between them. It’s uncomfortable—heavy and suffocating—making him want to crawl out of his skin. Go find a fifth of whiskey and some white powder, stumble home with a nameless, good-looking stranger, and get lost in them, no tricky conversations to be had besides kicking them out afterward.
Hecan’t go back to that life. Not now, when they’re this close to something that feels like reconciliation, like coming home.
He shakes his head, willing the truth to form on his tongue.
“Actually, that’s a lie. I knew I fucked up. I should’ve called when I landed in Berlin, and I could give you a million reasons why I didn’t, but they’d just be tired old excuses. The truth is, if I had heard your voice… I would’ve been on the next flight back to LA.”
His exhale is heavy, breathing away the weight of guilt he’s carried as penance for the last twenty years. Her hand strokes a delicate pattern across his bare chest—he tries not to think about how it hadn’t been that long ago when someone else’s hands carved the same path in his skin after saving his life.
After giving him a chance to make amends, giving him the chance to be here, like this, with her—somewhere he never thought he’d be again.
He’s been such a fucking dumbass for far too long.
“You wouldn’t have come back to LA. There’s no way I would’ve let you no matter how much I missed you,” she murmurs.
“You missed me?” He knows the question is silly; the signs are there when he reels back through his memories. Her quiet support through the years—their eyes locking across every crowded room they shared, the one and only after party she ever attended, the gift basket, the longing in her eyes as she fixed his bowtie backstage—he wants to choke on how fucking foolish he’s been.
“Of course I’ve missed you. You were my best friend,” she pauses, a tear glittering in her eye. His thumb catches it before it can slide into her hairline. “You still are.”
That admission breaks him, because he feels the same way.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” his voice breaks into a dry sob, and she shushes him, coaxing him to nestle over her. Wordlessly, he rests his head on her chest, ear pressed over her heart, counting the steady beats that used to lull him into a peaceful sleep. Her fingers card through his sex-wild hair, and he can’t think of a single high that’s ever felt better.
“I forgive you. I already did a long time ago; I just didn’t realize it until recently,” she whispers, nails running over his scalp, sending a wave of chills across his back. “I hope you forgive me. I didn’t need to be such a cold bitch for so long.”
He laughs in disbelief. She would think she had something to apologize for. “No, I deserved it, and then some.”
He props up onto his elbows to kiss her properly, something deep but slow and unhurried, savoring it after spending so much time dreaming about whether or not he’d ever kiss her again.
“Hey, D?” she asks, breaking the kiss. He hums, his lips mapping a path across her jaw and neck. “What’re we gonna do now?”
He wants to laugh again. She’s always been worried about what comes next instead of living in the moment. Though he supposes it comes with the territory—both this life they live and whatever fucking miracle happening between them.
“I don’t know,” he tells her honestly, and she cracks a silly grin.
“Me either.”
They fall into laughter, and she tucks herself along his side, nestling deep into the sheets.
“Sleep on it?” he asks quietly, kissing the crown of her head. She nods, pressing her face into his neck. It’s nearly the same position he’d held her in the night he told her he was leaving—like she was trying to become part of him so she’d never have to lose him—and it carves right through him. He tries not to think about how they’re only a few weeks from returning to LA to wrap up shots in the studio and what that might mean for them.
Now who’s getting ahead of themselves?
Her breathing evens out, the sound of his most cherished lullaby, and he allows it to pull him under the veil of sleep alongside her.
———
In the muted grey light of pre-dawn, her phone chimes. Dieter groans, shoving his face into his pillow, as she squirms away to silence the alarm.
“Whyyyy?” he whines, reaching across the bed for her. She props up on one elbow, sleepy eyes studying his face.
“Yoga,” she offers in a sleep-thick voice as her only explanation.
“Fuck that. Let me sleep another hour, and I promise to bend you into as many positions as you’d like.”
She hums, something that sounds like a low, amused laugh, but still hesitates, legs creeping toward the edge of the bed like she might actually leave it. He reaches for her, one arm wrapping around her torso, and pulls her close, a gasp falling from her lips. Through the fog of his sleep-addled mind, he whispers the words he’s never said to anyone. The words he sometimes wishes she would’ve said, back when he was too terrified to admit he wanted to hear them.
“Please stay?” It’s a weighty request, all his vulnerability perched out onto a limb for her to take and either crush or cradle.
She’d been understandably cold toward him in the past, but never cruel.
Thankfully, he’s only met with affection, one palm curling over his jaw, her thumb stroking his cheek as she smiles, pillow lines still imprinted across her face.
“I’ll stay,” she breathes with conviction, and he lets himself believe she means it beyond that moment. She brushes her lips to his. “But you’d better make good on that promise.”
He chuckles darkly, encouraging her to turn in his arms and press her back to his front. He wraps one arm around her, nestling his lips over her ear, a low rasp poised to devastate her in the best way.
“Oh,I will.”
———
Redding, California | August 2022
The end of summer and on-location filming was near the horizon, but that didn’t stop them.
For the most part, they maintained professionalism on set, Dieter honoring her desire for privacy. He learned a few things from her, like striving to be more subtle and biting his tongue against every thought that filtered through his mind instead of just spitting it out for anyone to hear.
But she learned from him, too. She was a little less tight-lipped, more friendly, and less worried about a cloudy spot or two on her polished finish. She found it made things… easier, freeing almost, not to be so concerned with her public reputation all the time.
She still valued privacy above all else, but Dieter made convincing arguments for occasionally bending the rules.
It’s probably the only reason she let him pull her into her trailer for a quickie when a set repair required a delay in filming for part of the day. Even then, he still took care to be discreet—one large hand clamped over her mouth while the other pumped two fingers into her wet core, begging her to come for him before anyone noticed their absence. After they finished, he checked for curious onlookers, sneakily slipping from her trailer back to his own, everyone none the wiser.
When the days wrapped, they eagerly made their way home, slipping into a routine: a shared shower, filled with soft kisses and sudsy shampoo; food, eith
Synopsis:Being a personal assistant meant you needed to help Dieter out with all of his tasks - but never did you imagine you’d become another tick on his list.
Warnings:Smut, Hate Fucking, Angst, Asshole!Dieter, Dieter Bravo himself needs a tag, Hair Pulling, Choking (slightly), Spanking, Rough Sex, P in V, Unprotected Sex, Camera Sex, Public Sex, Fingering, Dieter hits it from behind, Age Gap (Dieter is about 40-45 while the reader is close to 24-25), Making Fun of His Name (LMAO who is actually going to scream Dieter during sex??????), Name Calling on Both Ends, Mentions of drug use (cocaine specifically), Covid-19 Pandemic talks,
Rating:E
Author’s Note:Happy The Bubble release day! I had to break my hiatus for this!
Series Summary: You’ve been busting your butt day in and day out to get your comedy career off the ground. Crappy writing jobs, late night stand-up gigs, and tending bar on the side to make ends meet. Landing the job as a staff writer at Saturday Night Live was the best next step for your career. So what happens two years in, when you come face to face with the show’s next host, Dieter Bravo, a man you’ve mocked relentlessly for almost the entire length of your career?
Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader ChapterSummary:Friday is a pure rehearsal day. Pretaped sketches are rehearsed and taped first on Friday, and may take up until 4pm until the live sketches are rehearsed. WC:8.1K Warnings:18+MDNI Kissing, oral sex (male and female receiving), anal play, vaginal sex, intercrural sex, dirty talk, FEELINGS. Tension, cursing, bratty behavior, drinking, drug use, yearning, allusions to m/f and m/m sexual relations and slight angst. Possibly OOC Dieter, definitely playing fast and loose with the production of SNL, but I’m doing my best with the help of Fandom.com
Lovers, very special people They’re the luckiest people in the world - People [Funny Girl]
Friday, 1:33 AM – 47-50 Sts Rockefeller Ctr Station - Subway Platform
You keep a notebook with you wherever you go. It has a sturdy cover, black and white marble, that takes you back to a time when everything was simple, everything was funny. Inside are pages and pages of blank paper, empty lines waiting for your crooked handwriting to chase away the vacancy. The spine is thick, durable, the perfect curve to fit your fingers where you clutch the little book to your chest, secrets kept as close to your heart as you know how.
I have been staring at this reblog for DAYS now and I still don’t have a proper response! You come into my house and say these nice things to me??? What’s a baby whore to do?
Series Summary: You’ve been busting your butt day in and day out to get your comedy career off the ground. Crappy writing jobs, late night stand-up gigs, and tending bar on the side to make ends meet. Landing the job as a staff writer at Saturday Night Live was the best next step for your career. So what happens two years in, when you come face to face with the show’s next host, Dieter Bravo, a man you’ve mocked relentlessly for almost the entire length of your career?
Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader ChapterSummary:Friday is a pure rehearsal day. Pretaped sketches are rehearsed and taped first on Friday, and may take up until 4pm until the live sketches are rehearsed. WC:8.1K Warnings:18+MDNI Kissing, oral sex (male and female receiving), anal play, vaginal sex, intercrural sex, dirty talk, FEELINGS. Tension, cursing, bratty behavior, drinking, drug use, yearning, allusions to m/f and m/m sexual relations and slight angst. Possibly OOC Dieter, definitely playing fast and loose with the production of SNL, but I’m doing my best with the help of Fandom.com
Lovers, very special people They’re the luckiest people in the world - People [Funny Girl]
Friday, 1:33 AM – 47-50 Sts Rockefeller Ctr Station - Subway Platform
You keep a notebook with you wherever you go. It has a sturdy cover, black and white marble, that takes you back to a time when everything was simple, everything was funny. Inside are pages and pages of blank paper, empty lines waiting for your crooked handwriting to chase away the vacancy. The spine is thick, durable, the perfect curve to fit your fingers where you clutch the little book to your chest, secrets kept as close to your heart as you know how.
The way you stole my whole entire heart with this reblog! Ma'am! YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW!
From the minute you could relate to Funny Girl’s writing process to understanding immediately why I refer to Dieter as a tattoo-
This. Line. THIS FUCKING LINE, MAN!!!! The imagery has me REELING. He’s a tattoo - a permanent mark. A unique expression. Artwork. A risk. A beating rhythm in her heart. A mark on an empty page.
Sometimes small, simple lines can be over looked but you saw immediately and my heart was singing!
And the fact that you understood and got reference with Dieter washing his dishes, right down to the freaking Jenny Slate quote! EXCUSE ME! MARRY ME PLEASE AGAIN!
Series Summary: You’ve been busting your butt day in and day out to get your comedy career off the ground. Crappy writing jobs, late night stand-up gigs, and tending bar on the side to make ends meet. Landing the job as a staff writer at Saturday Night Live was the best next step for your career. So what happens two years in, when you come face to face with the show’s next host, Dieter Bravo, a man you’ve mocked relentlessly for almost the entire length of your career?
Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader ChapterSummary:Friday is a pure rehearsal day. Pretaped sketches are rehearsed and taped first on Friday, and may take up until 4pm until the live sketches are rehearsed. WC:8.1K Warnings:18+MDNI Kissing, oral sex (male and female receiving), anal play, vaginal sex, intercrural sex, dirty talk, FEELINGS. Tension, cursing, bratty behavior, drinking, drug use, yearning, allusions to m/f and m/m sexual relations and slight angst. Possibly OOC Dieter, definitely playing fast and loose with the production of SNL, but I’m doing my best with the help of Fandom.com
Lovers, very special people They’re the luckiest people in the world - People [Funny Girl]
Friday, 1:33 AM – 47-50 Sts Rockefeller Ctr Station - Subway Platform
You keep a notebook with you wherever you go. It has a sturdy cover, black and white marble, that takes you back to a time when everything was simple, everything was funny. Inside are pages and pages of blank paper, empty lines waiting for your crooked handwriting to chase away the vacancy. The spine is thick, durable, the perfect curve to fit your fingers where you clutch the little book to your chest, secrets kept as close to your heart as you know how.
I’m gonna reblog this properly when I’m running on a few more hours of sleep, but can I just say that if you ARENT reading this fic you are missing out.
CAT IS A GENIUS AT WORLDBUILDING AND SMUT AND EMOTIONS AND BUILDING TENSION
SHUT UP YOU ARE A GENIUS AND A LOVELY FRIEND FOR LISTENING TO ME GRIPE NONSTOP ABOUT THIS BEAST OF A CHAPTER!
Thank you for reading and supporting this insane story! You are a true gem!
Series Summary: You’ve been busting your butt day in and day out to get your comedy career off the ground. Crappy writing jobs, late night stand-up gigs, and tending bar on the side to make ends meet. Landing the job as a staff writer at Saturday Night Live was the best next step for your career. So what happens two years in, when you come face to face with the show’s next host, Dieter Bravo, a man you’ve mocked relentlessly for almost the entire length of your career?
Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader ChapterSummary:Friday is a pure rehearsal day. Pretaped sketches are rehearsed and taped first on Friday, and may take up until 4pm until the live sketches are rehearsed. WC:8.1K Warnings:18+MDNI Kissing, oral sex (male and female receiving), anal play, vaginal sex, intercrural sex, dirty talk, FEELINGS. Tension, cursing, bratty behavior, drinking, drug use, yearning, allusions to m/f and m/m sexual relations and slight angst. Possibly OOC Dieter, definitely playing fast and loose with the production of SNL, but I’m doing my best with the help of Fandom.com
Lovers, very special people They’re the luckiest people in the world - People [Funny Girl]
Friday, 1:33 AM – 47-50 Sts Rockefeller Ctr Station - Subway Platform
You keep a notebook with you wherever you go. It has a sturdy cover, black and white marble, that takes you back to a time when everything was simple, everything was funny. Inside are pages and pages of blank paper, empty lines waiting for your crooked handwriting to chase away the vacancy. The spine is thick, durable, the perfect curve to fit your fingers where you clutch the little book to your chest, secrets kept as close to your heart as you know how.
Pairing (just flirting for now):Javi Gutiérrez x Film Assistant F!Reader
Words:~3.5k
Chapter warnings:Flirting, jealousy, cursing, tension grows between Javi and Dieter, Dieter sets a boundary, a special mention of another Pedro show and character.
**The overall rating of this fic ranges from Mature to Explicit and features both Dieter Bravo and Javi Gutiérrez.
Summary:Javi’s attraction to you grows as Dieter finds that his jealousy forces him to do something he never thought he’d have to.
You had no idea what to think when you first saw Javi Gutiérrez. Well, obviously you noticed how gorgeous he was, but you couldn’t help but wonder why this random millionaire offered his home to all of you.
Those thoughts immediately left your head once he began flirting with you. And even now as you walked arm in arm with him, you could think of nothing else but how good he smelled and what it would feel like to run your fingers through his hair.
“Hey, man, you got any liquor?” Dieter asked, walking behind the two of you, seemingly unimpressed with the mansion.
“Dieter…” you warned.
“No, no its fine. Follow me.” Javi smirked at you and you smiled back. He led into a room that held a bar at the far end. “Here you are, my friend. All the alcohol you can dream of. Would you like a drink, my dear?” he asked.
“Oh, um, no thanks. I was actually enjoying the tour.”
“We can continue if you like.” He still hadn’t let go of your arm.
Series Summary: You’ve been busting your butt day in and day out to get your comedy career off the ground. Crappy writing jobs, late night stand-up gigs, and tending bar on the side to make ends meet. Landing the job as a staff writer at Saturday Night Live was the best next step for your career. So what happens two years in, when you come face to face with the show’s next host, Dieter Bravo, a man you’ve mocked relentlessly for almost the entire length of your career?
Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader ChapterSummary:Friday is a pure rehearsal day. Pretaped sketches are rehearsed and taped first on Friday, and may take up until 4pm until the live sketches are rehearsed. WC:8.1K Warnings:18+MDNI Kissing, oral sex (male and female receiving), anal play, vaginal sex, intercrural sex, dirty talk, FEELINGS. Tension, cursing, bratty behavior, drinking, drug use, yearning, allusions to m/f and m/m sexual relations and slight angst. Possibly OOC Dieter, definitely playing fast and loose with the production of SNL, but I’m doing my best with the help of Fandom.com
Lovers, very special people They’re the luckiest people in the world - People [Funny Girl]
Friday, 1:33 AM – 47-50 Sts Rockefeller Ctr Station - Subway Platform
You keep a notebook with you wherever you go. It has a sturdy cover, black and white marble, that takes you back to a time when everything was simple, everything was funny. Inside are pages and pages of blank paper, empty lines waiting for your crooked handwriting to chase away the vacancy. The spine is thick, durable, the perfect curve to fit your fingers where you clutch the little book to your chest, secrets kept as close to your heart as you know how.
gorgeous and sexy and intimate and sad and I want a happy ending but…..I know you’ll make it real, whatever kind of ending we get
Ah! Thank you so much! The ending…I think the best I can say without spoiling anything is saying it’s hopeful. I do promise that I will put my whole heart into these last two chapters.
Series Summary: You’ve been busting your butt day in and day out to get your comedy career off the ground. Crappy writing jobs, late night stand-up gigs, and tending bar on the side to make ends meet. Landing the job as a staff writer at Saturday Night Live was the best next step for your career. So what happens two years in, when you come face to face with the show’s next host, Dieter Bravo, a man you’ve mocked relentlessly for almost the entire length of your career?
Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader ChapterSummary:Friday is a pure rehearsal day. Pretaped sketches are rehearsed and taped first on Friday, and may take up until 4pm until the live sketches are rehearsed. WC:8.1K Warnings:18+MDNI Kissing, oral sex (male and female receiving), anal play, vaginal sex, intercrural sex, dirty talk, FEELINGS. Tension, cursing, bratty behavior, drinking, drug use, yearning, allusions to m/f and m/m sexual relations and slight angst. Possibly OOC Dieter, definitely playing fast and loose with the production of SNL, but I’m doing my best with the help of Fandom.com
Lovers, very special people They’re the luckiest people in the world - People [Funny Girl]
Friday, 1:33 AM – 47-50 Sts Rockefeller Ctr Station - Subway Platform
You keep a notebook with you wherever you go. It has a sturdy cover, black and white marble, that takes you back to a time when everything was simple, everything was funny. Inside are pages and pages of blank paper, empty lines waiting for your crooked handwriting to chase away the vacancy. The spine is thick, durable, the perfect curve to fit your fingers where you clutch the little book to your chest, secrets kept as close to your heart as you know how.
Series Summary: You’ve been busting your butt day in and day out to get your comedy career off the ground. Crappy writing jobs, late night stand-up gigs, and tending bar on the side to make ends meet. Landing the job as a staff writer at Saturday Night Live was the best next step for your career. So what happens two years in, when you come face to face with the show’s next host, Dieter Bravo, a man you’ve mocked relentlessly for almost the entire length of your career?
Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader ChapterSummary:At 8pm on Saturday a Dress Rehearsal is performed in front of a live audience. The live audience is used as a test monkey to determine which sketches and jokes are funny enough to make it to the live show later that night. At 11:29:30pm the live show begins broadcasting on live TV. WC:5.5K Warnings:18+MDNI ANGST Kissing, unprotected vaginal sex, slightly public sex, slightly cum play, dirty talk, FEELINGS. Tension, cursing, bratty behavior, drinking, drug use, yearning, allusions to m/f and m/m sexual relations and slight angst. Possibly OOC Dieter, definitely playing fast and loose with the production of SNL, but I’m doing my best with the help of Fandom.com
When the laugh is over and the joke’s on you Well girl, oughta have a sense of humor That’s one thing you really need for sure - Funny Girl [Funny Girl]
Saturday, 3:02 AM – Downtown Manhattan, Sadie’s Bar
It’s the stage lights that Dieter loves the most. They burn, bright and blinding, shielding him from the eyes blinking back at him. He knows with painful clarity that he is open and exposed to everyone, from the front row to the cheap seats, all of them allowed to gawk freely at his cracked and crinkled edges. There’s nowhere he can hide from himself beneath their gaze, except behind the bright white heat of stage lights.
