#He's so misunderstood

[deprivedofbraincellsandsleep]

I will not tolerate any Aaron Minyard slander

[kaempen]

Machine, I- I need some time to think...

[cleradinscloset]

I will ALWAYS defend mike like he's so hated and for what?

[fyodior]

I'm I'm not a huge dazai fan but anyone who says he hasn't changed and I'm just like "did we even watch the same show?" Like see the way pm dazai treated akutagawa vs the way ada dazai treats atsushi or even starts treating aku better.... >:( like hes literally been trying to be better since before the first chapter even came out (season 1 episode 1)

right??????? like i feel like its a pretty obvious plotpoint that him taking atsushi under his wing is basically just a redo to show himself/others that he can actually be a positive mentor jkdfkdjfjk he can't flip a switch and become a completely new person in a day for god's sake the kid was raised by mori and the mafia 💀 but to act like oda and his death didn't completely change dazai as a person is just. like the storyline was right there and continues to repeat itself in everything he does DAZAI DESERVES BETTER

[dougkisser]

[bastardlybonkers]

i feel like not enough ppl are factoring in the cultural clash between laios and shuro and the many micro agressions shuro faced while being in their group. literally the name 'shuro' in itself is one

his name is toshiro 😭 lets also not forget that he has his own communication issues, in the opposite way that laios does- thats literally a factor in their argument, that his envy for laios's ability to express himself sincerely manifested as part of his distaste for him.

ig all this to say like, was their fight heart wrenching, especially when reading laios as autistic? absolutely. anybody whos ever been in laios's position knows how much it hurts to realize someone you thought was your friend doesnt actually like having you around, especially when they didnt tell you and you had no way of knowing due to not understanding their cues. but im begging yall to step back and see the nuance of this situation cause im gonna be real a lot of you are kinda just brushing over it acting like everything is toshiros fault and that hes a terrible person when in reality hes an average guy who really, really clashed with laios and it led to a very long misunderstanding due to their supremely opposite methods of communication. even laios and toshiro, after letting everything out in their fight, were able to come to an understanding and start a foundation for an actual friendship built on better communication

ok yknow what Edit: i shouldve made it even more explicit at the end of this post, i hadnt thought i would need to since i started the post with this, but i think a few too many people are missing my point so i just wanna clarify. i shouldnt have said 'really clashed' and left it at that because yeah they did, but it wasnt just their opposite methods of communication, it is also very much that toshiro was experiencing microaggressions via laios. it may have been unintentional on laios's part, but it still happened and wore him down, made it harder for him to communicate on top of both the more subtle social cues that he was raised with and his own communication difficulties. i also want to say that the fandom reaction to toshiro and the complete ignorance of this point is also racist tbh or at the very least ignorant. i understand that the anime did not cover this panel, and neither did the manga, as this was an omake, but im gonna be real with you guys. there are enough context clues within the story to clue you into this. if you didnt pick up on it thats ok, but i think this is a good lesson in picking up subtext in the stories that youre watching and/or reading. kui shouldnt have to explicitly say 'by the way laios was racist to toshiro' for this point to be understood, and at the very least, when the author portrays a character in a sympathetic light (as kui clearly does) it should make you question Why they are doing so and what makes them sympathetic, rather than youre immediate and only reaction to be 'well i hated what this guy did/said so i hate them and they suck'. idk exactly how to finish this, just. idk. question your biases and gut reactions to things you see in media and stories, and think about whether or not theres subtext that youre missing.

[chloesimaginationthings]

The Vanessas and Mikes if they met sooner in FNAF..

[ikiprian]

Mr. Fenton is a competent teacher. Almost too competent.

If Mr. Daniel Fenton had any more than a BS (with a minor in education), Tim would’ve flagged his profile as a potential Rogue. That’s the way of most charismatic academics, at least in Gotham. (Got a PhD? Instant watchlist.) Instead, he’s Gotham Academy’s newest celebrity, as a young, passionate, out-of-towner substitute while the chemistry teacher’s on maternity leave.

Tim gets the hype. Fenton seems to genuinely love teaching, and is invested in the welfare of the student body. He hands out bananas during exam week, hosts a “study habits seminar” each month to coach effective learning strategies, and the third time Tim falls asleep in his class, he even pulls Tim aside to ask if he’s doing okay. With all the late work he accepts and the protein bars he sneaks Tim, he’s every teen vigilante’s dream teacher. He could’ve been Tim’s favorite.

In fact, Mr. Fenton was Tim’s favorite. Up until Tim walks into Mr. Fenton’s chemistry classroom for a forgotten textbook, an hour after the final bell.

On the board where tallied scores for today’s review game had been kept, “THE CHEMISTRY BEHIND DR. CRANE’S FEAR GAS: ANXIOGENICS, NERI’S, & YOU,” is now scrawled. A detailed diagram of the human endocrine system projects in front of a small crowd of adoring and attentive students.

Fenton is wrist-deep in the skull cavity of an anatomical model. A short tug, and out pops the brain.

It’s plastic. It’s fake.

Tim identifies the nearest emergency exit.

Fenton turns to the door, and in the dark classroom with the projector illuminating half his face, his eyes almost seem to flash red. “What’s up, Tim?” he asks. His friendly grin is too big for his face. “I didn’t know you wanted to join the Just Science League!”

[OR: Danny’s a science teacher at Tim’s school. Gotham’s a pretty wild place, even for someone who grew up a superhero in a ghost-infested town, so he takes it upon himself to start a club teaching kids how to manage themselves in the event of a crisis. These Gothamites are pretty hardy, but a little extra training never hurt anybody! And he suspects one of his students might be a teen vigilante, like he’d been, back in the day. As a senior super, it's Danny’s duty look out for him! Surely, this is the subtlest and most appropriate way to give the kid pointers.]

[Tim immediately assumes supervillain.]

[tategaminu]

[hotnmad]

oh my gosh. Oh My Gosh. Oh??? My??? Gosh???

I... don't know how i feel. I have no words!!! This was so beautiful and complex and gave me anxiety and hope for the future and disdain and helplessness... You mastermind!!! Mega kudos. Seriously.

Funny Girl - Sunday

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 Chapter Summary: At 11:29:30pm the live show begins broadcasting on live TV. The show runs approximately 92 minutes, ending just before 1:02am. All Cast Members are clocked out after 1:02am, though many head to after-parties in New York City that last throughout late Sunday Morning. WC: 5.9K Warnings: 18+ MDNI ANGST Kissing, unprotected vaginal sex, blow job, slightly public sex, cum play, cum eating, 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

Masterlist Series Masterlist Saturday <

When he takes me in his arms  The world is bright, all right What's the difference if I say I’ll go away - My Man [Funny Girl]

Sunday, 4:30 AM –  30 Rockefeller Plaza — Studio 8H

If you search the phrase “Funny Girl” on youtube.com the first video that comes up is the trailer for the 1968 film of the same name, starring the one and only Barbara Streisand. It’s very obviously a trailer cut for the 1960’s, sitting at 2 minutes and 9 seconds, telling you exactly what’s going to happen in the movie from the opening number until the credits start to roll. 

Fanny becomes a star, she meets Nick, they fall in love, and in the end it all falls apart. 

You don’t need a trailer, or any of the other clips that pop up in the search listing. You’ve been able to recite the story of Fanny Brice for longer than you can remember, her voice whispering to you from the past, her songs and jokes following you from stage to stage. 

The film is equal parts inspiring and devastating and you can’t help but feel like you should have been paying better attention to such an obvious cautionary tale. Fanny didn’t get to keep Nick; her star was too bright, her talent too big. All that she’s left with is a nickname, a song, and an empty stage. 

You almost laugh at the way art imitates life imitates art. 

The show went off without a hitch. Literally night and day from dress rehearsal. Dieter had looked beautiful in the shadows of backstage, brown eyes watching you carefully as you smoothed out the invisible lines on his jacket, far too intimate for the public eye. But you couldn’t seem to stop yourself.

It felt like both of you were playing a dangerous game, screaming the dirty little secret out loud for everyone to hear. In the middle of that one specific moment it felt like a waste of time to think about discretion, choosing instead to give into how good it felt to feel like his. You remember how he squeezed your hand one, two, three times before bursting onto the stage, electricity lighting up each step he took. His star too bright, his talent too big. 

The cast scattered quickly after the cameras stopped rolling, an after party waiting for them downtown. Elbows rubbed and drinks poured while everyone waited for the reviews of that night's episode. An invitation is always extended to the writers, but there’s a vagueness to it, one that implies a hope you’d all just call it a night instead. 

Some nights you read the room. Take their hints and head back to Brooklyn, content to find your own company to keep you warm after the rush of adrenaline from a job well done flees your system, leaving you cold and alone. And some nights you take full advantage of the situation, stretching out your networking skills and spending time with the types of celebrities and comedians you admire, hoping your name and face would make some sort of lasting impression. 

And then there were other nights. 

Like tonight.  

After the crew had finished cleaning up and the cast had left for good, you make your way back to the main stage, fingertips catching as you let them drag and skip along scaffolding and ladders, ropes and electrical cords alike. All of it lines the walls, waiting patiently to help create the magic of stage and screen. You move carefully around the discarded boom sticks and abandoned set pieces, feet stepping over the tattered costumes and tangled wigs littering the floor. Your own private dance. 

The lights are dimmed low, just enough to help you navigate to the familiar wooden door, the very same one you would watch with anticipation as a child, wondering which lucky celebrity would burst through it that Saturday night. You stand in front of it now, breathing in deeply, just once, before pushing through. You take the three steps down with zero flourish, crossing the creaking planks below your feet slowly until you are standing center stage.

This is usually the part where you close your eyes and pretend; imagine a life where this stage is yours for a night and take your bows with a smug sort of satisfaction. Some nights that dream seems closer and closer, confidence swelling over from the laughter of the audience mingling with the punchline of one of your jokes. While others make you feel like this is all a waste of time, that dusty mics and empty stages are all you’ll ever have. That perhaps you’d be better suited to something more mundane. 

Some menial job where you’re shoved into a dusty cubicle, hidden away from any spotlights that may find you. Tiny numbers typed into equally tiny boxes again and again, because none of it matters, including you. 

Tonight you’re not thinking of either of those things. 

You walk slowly in a circle, matching the steps you took back at Sadie’s, trying to remember each laugh that rang out through your crowd. Somewhere in the day-old memory is Dieter’s laugh, deep and rich and tickling at the back of your brain. He had been there. Somehow you missed him, missed his eyes, his laugh, his-

Dieter Bravo had dragged himself across town to a shit hole bar, ordered a watered down drink, and listened to you tell jokes. 

Jokes about him. 

You can still hear the echo of laughter from that night club, small but powerful, spurring on the bite of your silver tongue. The sound mingles with the laughter from tonight, another version of your jokes coming alive on that same man’s tongue. 

Dieter’s performance was outstanding. It’s printed permanently inside the confines of your skull, all of it, from start to finish. You could mark time along the floorboards, each joke, every line, sticking there for you to keep. Hopefully forever. 

You rub furiously at your eyes, a familiar and unwelcome sting burning from your temples all the way down to your fingertips. You refuse to cry; not now. Not yet. You turn back around, feet almost stomping as you make your way to the steps leading up to the door. You sink down into them, body curling inward, the heels of palms still pressed tightly to your eyes. 

You hate him. You swear you do. 

Except for the fact that you don’t. 

But fuck it all if things wouldn’t be easier if you actually did. 

A throat clears above you, dragging you unceremoniously from your thoughts. You don’t need to look to know who has joined you. 

A familiar red wrapper lands in your lap in lieu of a greeting, an offering but it doesn’t feel like a peaceful one. You pick it up gingerly, afraid to even think of opening it. You peek up, taking in his relaxed stance, hands buried in his pockets, sunglasses resting atop his nest of wild curls. He changed back into the clothes he was wearing for his monologue- the black dress pants wrinkled and the sleeves of the blue corduroy jacket pushed up around his elbows. He looks relaxed, the tight corners of his smile shaken loose. 

You realize, quite suddenly, that this is how Dieter Bravo looks free from the constraints of performing, the stress of being on finally behind him. It’s a look you recognize, one you had mistaken for something else completely— drunk smiles, a brush of fingers along your hand, a palm on your cheek as his lips pressed into your own— had he been telling you the truth this whole time? 

“Looks different like this,” he murmurs, nodding towards the empty stage, the chairs beyond it just as empty. 

It really did. 

“I thought you’d be at the after party,” you admit, eyes shifting back to the stage, smiling despite yourself. 

“Funny, I thought the same thing about you.”  

You choke back a scoff, face twisting into a playful grimace, standing up and moving back towards the center of the stage, leaving Dieter behind you. 

“No,” you countered, trying and failing not to sound smug, “you didn’t.” 

You sneak another glance at him, catching him mid scowl. 

“Okay, maybe I was just hoping. Still hoping for something else too.” 

You stumble, your recovery poor, your lips sucking in hard. It feels like something sour just hit your tastebuds and no amount of water will wash the taste away. Dieter crosses the stage, his footfall heavy in your ears and soon enough he’s standing in front of you, arms crossed and chin jutting out, a challenge in his eyes. 

“Don’t you think the ship sailed for an apology when we fucked in that closet.”

It was meant to come out as another joke but you can feel your pulse begin to race, legs giving the faintest shake. He had felt so good, almost better than the first time, splitting up inside you in the dark confines of that fucking closet. You doubt you’ll ever be able to walk by it again without needing a new pair of underwear, the memory of the doorknob digging into your spine as Dieter dragged your pleasure from you etched tattooed into your bones. 

“No,” he chided softly, stepping directly into your space, filling up your vision with him and only him. “I don’t think that at all, Funny Girl. In fact,” he counters, the tips of his fingers ghosting around your hips before he steps back to look you fully in the eye, “I think some groveling may be in order.” 

This does make you laugh, your head tilting back as you taunt him with the barking sound. Dieter waits patiently for you to finish, arms still crossed, eyebrows raised. You stop laughing abruptly, turning your steely eyed gaze back on him. 

“I don’t grovel, Bravo.” 

“Maybe you should start.”

That’s the statement that catches you officially off-guard. 

“Excuse me?”

“I said what I said,” he answers with a sudden air of nonchalance, busying himself with opening his own Kit Kat. 

You bite your tongue, fingers curling into two ineffectual fists, struggling to find a response. It’s like grasping at straws in the worst possible way, and because you can’t think of anything remotely clever, you settle for, “You’re flat fucking crazy.”

Your pitiful accusation does little to deter him. 

“Goya was crazy. And Mozart. Manet too, I heard.”

“Manet had syphilis,” you counter, letting your tongue linger around the name of the disease, smug and satisfied with your response this time around. 

Dieter seems undeterred; the only reaction he gives is an over-exaggerated grimace. “Eeesh. Tough break.” 

“They did other things too, you know? Music. Art.”

“And here we both are, talking about them. Get the picture, Funny Girl?”

You didn’t. 

What was he going on about? Was this still about your set? The low blow joke about his ridiculous(ly sweet) stage name? Not going to one after party? Refusing to give into whatever feelings have frothed up between you? 

Dieter offers zero hints, taking his time snapping a bar of chocolate free and eating it slowly, and for a second you start to think he isn’t looking for an apology. Not really. That it’s just been a game he’s been playing all week. And when he leaves later today, you’ll be forgotten. Dropped by the wayside as easily as the last person to share his bed.

But his lips are curling up around the candy in a smile, his eyes pinned to your trembling frame, and it’s then that you start to connect the dots. 

“Asshole,” you growl. “You want me to beg my way to Hollywood? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Might get you further than those cruel little jokes you told last night. And after parties have markedly better drinks.” 

“I go to the after parties.”  

“Not for a while, from what I heard. Colin mentioned it’s been almost six months since he’s seen you at one. You’re resting on your laurels. Yeah, sure, you know how to play the game, but you’re refusing to use all the pieces and in the end you won’t make it.”  

“You think because you fucked me you know-“

“I know-” he interrupts, “you’re avoiding the attention. Maybe it’s because you’re afraid-“

“I am not-“

“Or maybe you don’t want to deal with the hassle-“

“Now hold on-“

“Either way,” he shouts over you one final time, “You’re falling behind.”

Something molten and acidic pours down your throat, vicious enough to steal your voice, but you somehow find the words anyway.

“And what would you have me do?” You challenge, pointing your finger at him, your lips twisting into a sneer. “Sleep with producers? Co-stars? Cocktail waitresses? Snort some coke in the bathroom with the next Sorkin? Get high and sleep my way to stardo–” 

“If it makes you happy!” He practically roars. 

He stands there in the silence between you, then drops his hand and pins you with a stare. If you weren’t certain you were alone, you’d be worried about someone overhearing. Either way, your answer is barely more than a whisper.

“I am happy.” 

You expect him to laugh, a sarcastic cutting little thing, instead he continues to stare you down until you are prickling from the attention. 

“Bull. You’re hiding. In this job, at that desk, on this stage. You’re lonely, Funny Girl. Admit it.”

He’s wrong.

So wrong.

More than wrong.

“How would you know?”

He pauses, takes a breath, and looks away, and for a moment you think he –Dieter fucking Bravo– known world wide for his lack of shame, is too embarassed to look you in the eyes when confesses, “Because I’m lonely too.” 

The air freezes between you, the argument spiraling so far from where you started, it’s hard to know what to even say. It could be true, maybe even more than, your life empty save for the little black notebook that lives so close to your heart. Is that why Dieter got under your skin so easily? Was he the same? How could he be when every part of your life looked so different? 

“I…Dieter, I didn’t…”

He shakes his head, waves one hand as if he’s soothing the icy chill of the room, his eyes mournful as they watch you move in closer from across the stage. 

Pride is a funny thing. An hour ago you had been clinging to yours, nails splintering from where you held too tight to your precious ego. It had felt like the only way forward; no other solution to the painful potential of getting too close to the chaos surrounding him. The fire in your throat is gone, the fight dying out. Angry pride hadn’t gotten you anywhere. No– you need to make this right.

“I meant what I said,” you admit, hoping he understands. That he won’t ask you to say it again.  

He doesn’t. Instead, he gives you just a little bit more.

“I don’t share things easily. I thought maybe you saw that…I thought…” 

It’s so similar a confession to the one you gave him; admitting in a half-formed turn of phrase that you felt a connection. And this was his way of saying the same to you. 

Slowly, you approach him, trying your best to keep your steps soft. It feels like you’re approaching a baby goat, all anxious hooves and loud cries, and you do your best not to spook him. When you’re close enough you reach out, tangling your fingers in his own. It’s only when he squeezes tight, three times, that you let yourself breathe. 

“I am sorry,” you whisper, partly because admitting it feels more honest than any other joke you’ve ever told, and partly because you’re desperate to keep this moment quiet. Soft. 

Dieter nods once, eyes pinned at a spot above your head, and you can’t help the overwhelming feeling to prove just how sorry you really are. You reach up, resting your free hand on his cheek, barely pressing until he’s looking back at you. When you’re positive you have his full attention, you say it again.

“I’m sorry, Dieter.” 

He nods again, this time smiling at you when he does. You smile back, the moment still fragile, but you’re unable to keep the teasing tone out of your voice.

“Fucking hell, Bravo. You talk about me being honest but then you want me to go rub myself on the upper crust crowd of comedy? Sort of opposing ideologies, don’t you think?” 

He licks his lips, his tongue sticking out between his teeth, his grin doubling in size. “What’s your point?”

“Bit confusing, isn’t it?”

“Well that’s the thing, Funny Girl. Hollywood is a really confusing place.” His expression softens just a smidge, eyebrows bunching in, his large palm cupping your cheek. “I just want you to be okay.” 

You nod into his touch, letting that familiar scent of weed and chocolate invade your senses, content that this is as close as you’ll get to something concrete with Dieter Bravo. It’s warm, a balm coating over the burns rubbed raw over the last 7 days and you really hope he feels it too. 

“So…forgive me?”

“I don’t know,” he muses, clicking his tongue against his cheek one more time. “You did expose one of my most heartfelt secrets to a room of 17 strangers.”  

You’re unsure if you should be flattered or embarrassed that he took the time to count your audience members but you laugh all the same.

“That’s fair,” you agree between catching your breath, letting go of him and sinking slowly to your knees, eyes never straying from his. “Maybe if I find another use for my mouth?”

The low light of the stage creases a shadow across his features, painting him in a half darkness waiting above you. There’s a halo around him, a spotlight all your own, and you can’t look away even as your hands move slowly up his legs. Without even asking, you know you’re covered in the same broken shades of light and dark as Dieter. Just another way this stage has evened the playing field out and it only spurs you on, your hands ghosting over the slight bulge waiting for you at eye level. 

“Y-You don’t have to-”

Your gaze turns up, eyes narrowed on his own, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted. You shake your head, cutting off his words. You don’t have to do anything. 

“I want to.” 

You keep eye contact with him as you press your lips to his bulge, feeling it twitch from the pressure of your kiss. Dieter whimpers, so much like he did back in your apartment and it only spurs you on, the tip of your tongue flicking across the dark fabric. He whimpers again, louder this time, the noise cutting off as he looks around frantically. 

“Didn’t expect you to worry about getting caught,” you murmur, letting the tip of one finger trace along the straining fabric. 

His eyes squeeze shut, a gasp shuddering out of him as you increase the pressure a little bit. When he tries to talk, he loses the words again and again before finally they come to him in pathetic spurts. 

“T-this is where you…shit…work-“

You can feel the tremor in his thighs, barely there but enough to give away how desperate he is for you to keep going, despite his chivalrous words telling you otherwise. You let your nose drag across the bulge of his cock slowly, chuckling as you hear him swallow down another groan. 

“Everyone’s gone. Promise,” you reassure him, fingers finding zipper of his pants, tracing the metal teeth up and down while you wait for his consent. 

Slowly, so slowly, he blinks his eyes open, looking down at you. There’s something there, a trust buried in the pools of his lust. Without hesitation he nods and you smile, promising silently— to him, to yourself— you won’t betray that trust again. 

You pull the zipper down, the sound of it mixing perfectly with the stuttering of Dieter’s breath. You pull his cock free, the size of him more brilliant beneath the stage lights. You lick your lips in anticipation, thighs clenching as your own arousal pools between your legs. Without a warning, you swallow him down, letting the tip of him touch the back of your throat. A guttural moan falls out of him followed by a litany of endless praise. 

“Fuuuuck fuck you’re so good at that. So fucking good, Funny Girl… taking me… shit-so… good…“

You pull off of him with a slick pop, your own laughter breaking up your concentration. 

“I’m just getting started,” you tease before licking up the underside of his length. 

He tastes just like you remembered, a musky sweet salt that coats your senses. He’s delicious, and you think maybe you could get addicted to the weight, the taste, the heft of him inside your mouth. It’s overwhelming in the best way and before you can stop yourself you’re swallowing back around him, swirling your tongue lazily around the blunt head. 

Precum hits your tongue, and you moan around the taste of that first drop of his release. Bitter and almost sweet, you’re already craving more. You lean down to take him deeper, ignoring your instinct to gag as he hits the back of your throat. Swallowing down the traitorous sound that’s trying to escape. Instead you do it again, sliding down along his length as deep as he goes as you revel in how ruined the deep groan from him is. 

Sneaking a peek from underneath your lashes, you marvel at how handsome he looks like this, curls furled with heat and the perspiration lingering on his forehead. It’s almost enough to make you stop in arrest to fully take him in. Almost. 

You slide down again, swallowing around him this time as you feel the thickness of him twitch in your mouth, again, and again, bobbing your head faster and faster, picturing what it would feel like to have his seed fill your mouth. Spit drips down your chin, tears prick at your cheeks. Your legs shake, knees digging harder into the old wooden floor, your empty cunt clenching around nothing as reality takes shape above you. 

Dieter Bravo trembling. Dieter Bravo begging. Dieter Bravo a few pumps away from coming down your throat. 

You keep going, refusing to keep any sort of predictability to your movements. You swallow around him before pulling your lips back to the head of his cock. It’s shiny and slick, glistening under the dim light of the studio, flushed pink with the attention from you. You slip your tongue between the slit before sliding back down to kiss gently around the base. You suck him back in and hollow your cheeks. You scrape your teeth gently along his length. You categorize every touch. You memorize each new sound. 

You don’t care what came before or even what comes next. This is yours. 

Before you can take the time to sink into the feeling his hands cup the back of your head, something like a warning ripping out of him. 

“C-close…fuck, Funny Girl…”

It’s like he’s been teetering on the edge of this moment since Monday morning, inching closer and closer to the edge with every snap of your words or bite of your teeth. You’re mad. Almost furious. Not ready for this to be over— he tastes too good. He feels so right. 

You make a sound of disappointment, his balls drawing up tight in the palm of your hand. You’re at least ready to have your fill of him, anxious to relax your throat and let his coke drip down your throat. But his hands are gripping tighter, your name catching on his lips, and for a second you still, listening intently to the filth dripping in his voice. 

“D-don’t swallow, Funny Girl. Please…wanna taste…”

And shit he’s disgusting. You feel your panties soak just at the idea of it all, sucking him as far down your throat as you can. He comes soon after, gasping for air, his fingers tangling in your hair. He fills your mouth with the hot taste of him and you hold what you can, some slipping down your throat, a little bit dripping down your chin. You fight back a gag from the burn, and you’re glad you do because a second later he’s dropping to his knees and pulling you in by your jaw. 

He licks deep into your mouth, taking the taste of himself as he does. It’s filthy and tender, the two of you trading his release back and forth as you kiss. Finally, he pulls away for a quick breath before he dips back in to press his lips sweetly to the stain of cum on your chin. 

“Do you want to get out of here?” You whisper, licking the spit slick taste of him off your lips. 

Dieter grins and nods.

“I know just the place. 

---------

You follow Dieter’s lead, arms looped together, feet tripping one over the other over the other. The moment feels suspended outside of time, the disbelief that he is getting on an airplane later today left behind on that big empty stage. You want to stop him, grab his face, look him in the eye, and remind him that this is really it. This is the time to make it count.

But instead you drag him in for another kiss and then another and another. You leave each other breathless, fingers digging into cheeks, noses bumping and teething nipping. You feel drunk on nothing but his touch and you think maybe you could float away on this feeling. All the way back to California with nothing but Dieter Bravo’s kiss on your lips and his hands on your hips. 

The door to his dressing room slams open and closed, the lock clicking into place. The lights are off, save for the lamp in the corner, bathing you both in shadows. You barely register your surroundings before suddenly you’re both laughing, because of course, of course, this is where he brought you. Of course you’re in his dressing room, liquor bottles still scattered, his bathrobe on the floor, those hideous crocs kicked into the corner. You want to make a joke but he’s pulling your body tight to his, your clothes stripped away, knees knocking and lips catching as you fall together on that ugly green sofa. 

Of course. 

Dieter maps your body from top to bottom, his normally busy fingers taking the time to touch every single part of you. He traces every curve, palms burning a mark to your skin. He bends himself into each dip, his body worshiping yours with a newfound reverence. He is slow, deliberate, as if there isn’t a ticking clock taking up space outside this room. 

You’re just as thorough, lips catching along his neck, fingers digging along his own curves and creases, somehow wishing you could bury yourself beneath his surface. It’s ethereal,your troubled waters soothed tepid and still it doesn’t feel like enough. 

You climb on top of him, his lips finding the beat of your heart, and you will it to slow, to march in time with the press of his kiss. Beneath you he breathes in, nose to your skin, hands on your hips, just as tethered as you but only barely. 

When he finally slides inside you, bodies locked like the perfect puzzle piece, it’s just as slow, a drag of him deeper and deeper. The weight of you fits above him and around him, your knees pressing hard into his thighs, your arms wrapped around him, pulling him into the salt of your skin. He goes willingingly, nose pressed where your neck slopes down, shaking breaths kissed over and over, pleas for more peppered in between.   

It’s almost lazy, the pace he sets, low little thrusts reaching up inside you. His hands find your backside, squeezing hard and holding you to him, your flesh spilling out around his fingers. The sting borders on too much, but you cling to the pain, cling to him, desperate to remember him long after he’s gone. You’re begging, voice high, breaking around the pleasure as you match his movements, and Dieter does his best to soothe you, teeth digging at your pulse point, the palm of his hand marking time up and down the curve of your spine. 

There’s tears and spit sticking to your skin, yours and his, pooling together and slipping between where your bodies are fused together. Hot and wet and all too much, but you won’t let go, refuse to, even as you feel your climax creeping up your legs and settling inside your core. 

Not yet. Please please not yet. Please. 

It’s hard to tell who’s pleading and for what, your own gasping needs mixing in with his. Is it because you want this to last forever? Is it the fear of goodbye? The tinge of regret? You are nauseous just from the idea of it, the grief you had meant to avoid threatening to rise up and swallow you whole. But Dieter’s voice is in your ear, ordering you to stay with him, to hold on. Not yet.  

The both of you dig in your heels and ride through the pleasure, catching closer and closer to the flame as you go. You feel the spell breaking, the bridge burning beneath your feet, but Dieter only holds you tighter, the two of you falling downward together. You sob loudly, his name ripping out of you, eyes pinching shut, your body clenching around him too soon and too tight. You know he’s right behind you, the thrust of his hips stuttering, his warmth filling you up and slowly dripping out of you.

A gentle touch at the hinge of your jaw tilts your head, your movements like honey, eyes blinking slowly open to meet Dieter’s. The kiss on your lips is just as gentle, barely there but enough to keep you floating through above the moment you both refuse to acknowledge. There is grief, the kind you had both been hoping to avoid, waiting past the haze of your bliss, but maybe, just maybe, you can avoid it a little bit longer. The kiss breaks but you don’t move away, your eyes slipping shut again, the light touch of sleep pulling you under. 

When you come back up for air, feeling barely rested and half-awake, Dieter is still looking at you, brown eyes narrowed in concentration, tongue caught between his teeth. It feels like your chance, (or maybe it’s his), to ask the questions that could soften the blow looming in the distance.

Do you want to see me again?

How much is a plane ticket to L.A.? 

Is this really goodbye?

Instead you smile and ask, “Do you still have that other Kit Kat?”

It’s buried in the pile of clothes left by the door, lost amongst the pieces you’ll eventually have to put back on. He moves towards them slowly, fingers gripping at your knee briefly as he moves away from you. You watch him carefully, eyes trained on his naked form long enough for that familiar sting of tears to burn at the back of your throat. He’s beautiful, vulnerable in ways you aren’t ready to give up but unsure how to ask for a piece to keep. 

It feels like a challenge, trying to memorize each blemish, every wrinkle, knowing it might very well be forever until you see this sight again. When it becomes too much you look away, eyes finding the ceiling in hopes of some sort of relief, a piss poor attempt to avoid the inevitable honesty of a goodbye. 

You feel the sofa shift with his added weight when he returns, his bare thigh brushing up against your own. Keeping your eyes on the ceiling, you lean into him, revealing in the sticky sheen of sweat coating both of you. The sound of the wrapper opening is barely a distraction, only reminding you of another thing you’re going to miss. 

The ceiling tiles above you are a disaster, pencils and pens stuck in them like darts. One or two of them look familiar, like they maybe once belonged on your desk until some busy fingers liberated them. You consider making a joke around the accusation, the words on the tip of your tongue. You hold them there a second longer before swallowing the joke down, choosing instead to stay in the silence a little bit longer. 

You share the candy quietly, his arm around your shoulder, your head over his heartbeat. 

There was still a lot to do in the little bit of time left. His things needed packing up both here and at his hotel. All the little pieces of himself that had overtaken the room would need to be collected. Monday morning would be here soon and with it a new celebrity. 

They’ll walk these halls, sit on this couch, maybe even tell your jokes. They’ll leave their marks and cover up the ones Dieter Bravo left behind. It felt wrong but somehow inevitable, and you frowned at the twinge of annoyance in your gut. The same one you felt almost one week ago when you first saw those teasing eyes and that impish grin. 

And all you want is just a little bit more time. 

“Hey D?” You ask, finally finding the courage to look at him again. 

“Yeah, Funny Girl?”

“Before you go?

“Hmmm?” 

“Walk me home?”

He grinned. “You got it.”

----------

The sun is too fucking bright, breaking through the buildings and casting your shadows along the New York city pavement as it rises. You blink into it, staring straight into the shine, the warmth all too similar to that of stage lights. Dieter walks quietly beside you, splitting the last piece of chocolate in half and handing you the bigger piece. His gaze is blocked by his sunglasses, but you can still feel the burn of his stare as you silently take the candy, nodding in thanks before slipping it between your lips. 

The streets are mostly empty, that weird time between the night and the day lingering in the air around you. You had turned right out of the studio heading quietly towards the stairs leading down to the subway station, but you walked right past it without a word, both content to keep walking. You glance down, considering what it would feel like to reach for his hand, but he beats you to it, the width of his arm snaking around your waist, pulling you close. His lips find your ear, a warm breath making you shiver in the early morning light.

“What would you say if I moved my flight to tomorrow?”

You turn your head into his shoulder, a grin biting at your cheeks, letting the tip of your tongue tease along your teeth, tasting the last bit of chocolate left behind. “I’d say there’s plenty of room in my bed.” 

“And what would you say if I asked you to come?”

“What would you say if I asked you to stay?”

The brief look you share is knowing; neither of you willing to rise to the challenge, laughter bubbling just beneath the surface of your smiles. He wraps his arm a little firmer around you, sniffing loudly as he blinks over the rim of his sunglasses, staring straight into the bright burn of the sunrise. 

“I have heard real estate is a great investment.”

“Oh yeah?” You don’t bother hiding the hope in your words. 

Dieter just grins wider, his thick fingers tickling at your hip. “Ask me again tomorrow, Funny Girl.” 

---------- Dedications

Stories like this do not happen in a vacuum. And I would be completely remiss if I did not thank every single person who helped make this crazy story (that is so far outside my comfort zone) a reality.

First to @astroboots who not only helped me rewrite huge chunks of this chapter (both smut scenes are what they are thanks to her filthy innocent mind) but she also was my literal SNL touchstone. CiCi! Thank you for geeking out over our shared childhood memories, our favorites skits, and our disdain for the modern era/Colin Jost! Truly, I don't know how this story is half as good without your help from start to finish!

To my dearest whore wife @jazzelsaur who didn't blink an eye when I stormed into her DM's and said "But what if Dieter Bravo hosted Saturday Night Live??????" You just nodded and told me to write it. You were there from it being just a one shot to two parts to a whole damn masterlist with seven parts. You're always by my side, ready to enable and I'm so thankful to have you.

To @write-and-buried and @magpie-to-the-morning who were always around to listen to my most depraved thoughts and then so very kindly ask for more. I love you both so much! You keep me going even when things feel impossible and I love that this hellsite has brought us together.

And to my husband -- Dieter Bravo's biggest defender --Thank you for reading this depraved insanity and thank you for worrying about Dieter's heart. I love you <3

[vaguely-concerned]

sometimes I think of all the on-the-surface warm, well-meaning but deeply ineffectual advice and attention john gives harrow through harrow the ninth (make some soup and get some sleep! get a hobby! don't be so hard on yourself! self care harrow! as long as I need take no actual responsibility in this relationship whatsoever I would have loved to be your dad!) set up against the stark truth that with his other hand he has been staging her attempted horrific murder again and again and again like a living nightmare on the logic that it will 'put her down or fix her'. and then I find that I wish there is a hell. a special hell where twitch streamers turned necromantic death emperors go

[antiqua-lugar]

tav being canonically so attractive that people just throw themselves at them is super funny as a galemancer because like so many people in-game (and the game itself at times) call gale either annoying or pathetic straight up to his face but tav is turning down all of faerun for him. everyone desires them carnally and they are busy getting ready to be introduced to gale's cat over dinner.

[miss-jaye]

monoma hasn’t let go of you since you showed him the sundress you’re wearing.

“neito? honey, i gotta change…” you said with a nervous laugh, trying to gently pry his arms off you. but he just shook his head, his grip tightening slightly. “no.”

you sighed. “what do you mean, no?” you asked, your voice tinged with exasperation. he looked up at you, his face completely blank, but his eyes held a stubborn glint. “no.”

you groaned, letting your head fall back against the arm of the couch where you’d been trapped for the past two hours. “baby, please,” you pleaded, your voice softening as you tried to coax him. you wanted nothing more than to slip into something comfortable and start on dinner.

“let me appreciate you for one more hour,” he murmured, his voice low and soft, savoring every second of having you so close.

“nooo…!” you huffed, feeling your patience wearing thin. “you already did that for two hours, neito.” he just shrugged, a playful grin spreading across his face. “i can do it for another,” he teased, clearly enjoying how flustered you were getting.

“neito!” you whined, but there was no real heat behind it. despite your protests, you couldn’t help but smile at how adorable he was being, even if it was a little over the top.

he finally lifted his head to meet your gaze, his expression softening into something almost vulnerable. “you’re nothing less than perfect, my dear,” monoma said, his voice filled with so much sincerity that it made your heart skip a beat.

“neito,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you searched for the right response. but what could you say when he looked at you like that, as if you were the only thing that mattered?

he smiled softly, sensing your shift in mood. “just stay here with me a little longer,” he murmured, his thumb gently tracing circles on your arm. “dinner can wait.”

you sighed in defeat, “you’re impossible, you know that?”

“maybe,” your husband chuckled, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “but i’m not letting go. not yet.”

you couldn’t help but smile. what was one more hour?

“fine,” you gave in with a soft laugh. “but after this, you’re helping me with dinner.”

“deal,” he agreed easily, clearly pleased that you gave in.

after a while, you felt his breathing slow, his body relaxing more against yours. “neito?” you whispered, glancing down to find his eyes closed, a peaceful expression on his face.

“just resting my eyes,” he mumbled, though the way he clung to you told a different story.

you smiled fondly, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. “i love you, you know that?”

monoma's eyes fluttered open, and he looked up at you with a sleepy smile. “i love you too. more than anything.”

[beomcoups]

the way I almost hulked out in my chair 😭

pretty sure this has been done before but! here's my take on heatstroke alex :]

[flamingpudding]

Bruce stared. He had just been lecturing one of his son on his gala manners. Dick or Jason were usually the ones misbehaving like that, not Tim! What had gotten into his son to behave like that in public when he wasn't even in a sleep deprived state. Of course, Bruce had to lecture his kid and benched him for the night to get some sleep because Tim had to be sleep deprived to act like that. That was untill said son, he was lecturing, came through the front door shouting at him for leaving him behind at the gala.

His head swayed between Tim and the teen he had apparently just abducted and possibly has now knowledge of their secret identities.

Okay, maybe Alfred was right about his amount of sleep. Bruce brain went to overdrive, he could play it all of with an extended Brucie act.

That was before the teen lifted on hand in a calming manner and sheepishly smiled at him.

Danny: I get the whole secret identity thing, but i dont think it's a good idea to bench me, when ghost might come attacking. I won't tell a soul about yours if you keep mine! I can make a death vow if that helps. So can I call vlad now? As much as I like getting on his nerves and away from him. HE is my original ride home.

Tim: Wait, Vlad Masters who pestered ME all night is your guardian?

Bruce continued staring at the teen that looked like Tim and was now talking to his son while his son was parallel texting on his phone. No doubt telling his other sibling.

Good, they will never let this go and Alfred will use this situation against him next time he works through several nights.

[muun-jai]

I know Satan is like, an angry terrifying being in nightbringer like SATAN the avatar of wrath !

BUT anytime i go on my home screen and he's like

ALL I CAN SEE IS JUSt--