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oonajaeadira · 2 years ago

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I'll Never Fall In Love Again: Scene 7: The Sex Scene

Fandom: The Bubble

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Warnings: story jumps back and forth in time, playing fast and loose with "how things are done" in the film industry, consensual troublemaking with just a little boundary testing, frottage and thigh-riding (nothing super explicit but still very much a focus of action), messy feelings, indulgent yearning, angst, performance anxiety.

A/N: Thanks for your patience on this. It's nice to get back to these two idiots. I went light on sex and heavy on feelings and I hope that's okay with y'all because you know my kind of porn is feeling porns, right? Right. Okay. Let the disaster continue.

On film, kissing can’t be faked. Sex most certainly can.

When you enter the dim studio, Natalie and Nate, your stand-ins, lay artfully folded around each other in the back seat of a sedan, bared to the world in nothing but nude underwear as the crew work to set proper lighting levels and the DP makes sure this tight shot’s gonna work.

Unlike Natalie, you’re in a skirt and blouse, but only for the time being–it will be Dieter’s task to open that blouse and get that skirt rucked up around your hips soon enough.

Shit. You really should have taken some time to mentally prepare yourself for this. Taken a page out of Dieter’s book and, what? Had a stiff drink? (Heh. Stiff.) The butterflies that are escaping the cage of your stomach and eating at the supports in your knees should have been tended to prior to this shoot–

But then Dieter comes and takes a stand next to you and those nerves just…go away.

Yes, you both had your feelings out the other night, it should be awkward now, but it isn’t. There’s understanding now. Healing is coming. Has started already. And there’s never been anyone you’ve trusted more on set than Dieter fucking Bravo. You know he’s a pro. He’s a mess and a menace. But he’ll take care of you. Still.

“Hey,” he bumps a shoulder into yours. “You wanna have sex with me?”

Smiling down at your feet, you nod. “Yeah, let’s get this over with.”

Maybe not the best choice of words, even jokingly. You can feel his energy droop beside you, almost hear the wattage of his good mood bawooing out. “We okay, Cakes?”

Reaching for his hand, your fingers weaving into his own, you serve him a confident smile. “Of course. I’m glad you’re here.”

Like you have been for so many of my major career firsts.

The frantic kissing and the tussle in the rear car seat goes well; it’s okay to let your character get lost in his, to lean in and borrow from the way you and Dieter claw at each other. He kisses you hungrily, hands grasping your jaw, sucking in any breath you’ll give him, taking control of the kiss so you can concentrate on stripping him of his shirt and pants in the confines of the car seat as parsed out with Annie and the intimacy coordinator. But it's work and it's professional. Mostly.

You’d fall in love with his talent if you actually thought he was acting.

A few takes with resets of hair and makeup, a few different angles and a few shared giggles, and a few hours later you’re moving into the full shot, from the moment of first contact all the way through the deed.

And the kissing continues to go well–easy, pleasing, second nature. You’ve done enough takes to be able to get his clothes peeled away with ease.

But it’s when it comes to exposing you–to his big fingers somehow making short work of your dainty blouse buttons, to his palms sweeping up the sides of your thighs to push your flounces up and away–something yips in you, steps over a line into an unknowing void and you fixate.

It would be the same with any other actor, but it seems so strange here with Dieter–technically your husband–that you’ve never been in this state of undress with each other. With your breasts out, him slotted between your legs in nothing but a genital sock thrusting without actually making contact other then his hot breath in your neck and hands curling under your back and would it be better if he was making contact and you think about that night on the couch and what came after and your head’s not in the game here and Annie makes you take one shot, two, five–

“Cut, please,” Annie begs after take eight. “Take a break you two. Reset. We’re gonna try another angle.”

This isn’t good. Dieter peels himself from you, and you look anywhere but his face–although you have to avoid staring at the cock sock, at his whole bronzy naked body, really.

Something’s not working here.

And you both know it’s you.

A PA approaches Dieter with a robe open to receive him, but before you can ask him for reassurance, he simply snatches the robe as he passes the poor assistant, lazily throwing it on and padding off the set into the darkness of the crew area, covering his naked ass in his own time. “Hey. Annie, can I talk to you?”

Shit. FUCK.

It’s very telling that neither of them are turning to you immediately. Annie giving up on offering direction and Dieter has no encouragement in him anymore. Like they’re gonna huddle up and decide what to do with you. The thought of disappointing not just one but both of them–a director you admire and a friend and fellow actor who you had looked up to not so long ago–is heartbreaking and ego-shattering in so many ways and imposter syndrome shrinkwraps itself around your heart, preserving it in a marinade of cringe.

Why? Why can’t you just portray sexual pleasure? Sex can be faked! Tap into the arc of your character using this man who’s crazy about her to get off? You’ve got real life experience to draw on, and–if you're sly about it–you can play a little of life imitating art here….no. You don't need that. This shouldn’t be hard.

But it is. And you know full well why.

You can just make out Annie’s serious face and Dieter’s waving arms over by the craft table.

Shit. Well, union rules are union rules, and you might as well take advantage of the break. If you make it quick, you can get all the tears out and still swing by makeup to cover it up before anyone misses you.

____________

That summer after Cannes and Seattle was a whirlwind. Fall of Timon had its major release and there were regional premieres and panels, talk shows and interviews, everyone fawning over the director and Davey and Dieter; those few who paid attention to your involvement mainly asking about your experience with those two and then of course your marriage to the latter.

Auditions came hot and heavy. Dieter had some last minute ADR work for Hunger Strike and then took on a voice acting gig for a major video game company, so he rarely allowed himself to speak much after hours in an effort to manage his instrument.

But there were a few nights that hot summer, balcony windows open, curtains billowing and blowing through your room out into the lounge where you and Dieter sweated against the couch, taking turns getting up for cold beer and ice cream, laughing through a classic 80’s romcom. Those were good nights. Happy nights. You-and-your-best-friend nights.

By the end of August he was gone. Venice’s Film Fest first, then Toronto’s to promote Hunger Strike. Straight from there back over the ocean to Jordan for filming a season on a sci-fi series.

He called almost every night. Not long. Just a harried recap of his day–your morning–the shoot, his victories, his irritations, outings with the cast, hot goss. And you fought so hard against your jealousy–of him for his adventure, and of the cast for getting his presence. You found any and every excuse to be out at night with friends rather than streaming tv by yourself in a big, empty house.

But more and more he’d tire of talking and beg you to tell him about your day. Well. Your yesterday. If you didn’t have much to tell, he’d push you for details of a meal you ate or what you wore or even what the weather was like. It became clear that he was growing weary of being away from home and just wanted to hear you chatter, that your voice was his bedtime routine, that he would sleep better just hearing you complain about traffic.

And more and more, you realized your day was better when you could speak to him at the beginning of it.

And soon enough it was Thanksgiving week, Hunger Strike’s Stateside premiere, and Dieter was coming home. His schedule was tight–a mere five days to hit the premiere, the afterparty, the talk shows, a few auditions, and a recording session–and yet, he took you by surprise and reserved an evening just for the two of you.

Dieter new people, like any celebrity might. And one of the people he knew–an old college friend–happened to be working an install at Geffen Contemporary, able to open the gallery after hours for a private walkthrough on the weekend before the exhibit was set to open.

Takashi Murakami–one of your mutual favorites. A surprise for you. And as much as he was happy to get the chance to see the exhibit before he flew back to Jordan, he spent most of the time there just enjoying your delight at all of the bright colors, the insipid smiling flowers, the crazed and euphoric animals, the fountains of anime jizz.

Standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling mural of repeating cartoon faces, you’d turned to him, grinning like an idiot, only to find him regarding you with the same expression.

“This is a nice treat. Thank you, Deets.”

“Happy birthday,” he beamed, severely proud of himself.

You laughed, your nose wrinkling in confusion. “It’s not my birthday.”

“I know,” his smile faded a bit, “but we didn’t do yours properly. So since we’re done here, we’re going to the weiner stand.”

“Is that a metaphor?”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Do you want it to be?” But your pseudo-husband granted you mercy, turning to go before your face betrayed the whammy he’d just dealt you, leading the way out of the gallery and into a silent Uber. The trip ended up with the two of you sharing a messy order of Holee Molee Fries with your hands, standing on the sidewalk in front of the hot-dog shaped walk-up eatery under the husky rose and umber L.A. sunset.

He always looked so content and warm and beautiful in the twilight hour.

You weren’t prepared for Hunger Strike. Or rather, how it would make you feel.

The premiere was grand, fun. Davey and half the cast of Timon were there making the occasion a mini-reunion, and Dieter’s stylist had struck up a deal with de la Renta, so you were matched in a tasteful floral cocktail gown from the same series as Dieter’s suit. Which meant plenty of couple photos on the carpet. It wouldn’t have been wrong to slip off and let him take the spotlight alone, except he simply wouldn’t let you, holding tight to your arm and joking that you were his fanciest and most slimming accessory–nobody would notice that he’d gained weight since the filming if they were all drooling over you.

But you weren’t fooled. And he wasn’t trying to fool you. Just trying to keep you beside him because he wanted you there. Simple.

It wasn’t until he found you in a quiet corner of the afterparty that he was able to seek your opinion, your mind whirring with the premiere you’d just witnessed, Dieter’s performance brilliant, unnerving, inspired, breathtaking–leagues more surprising and career-making than his work in Fall of Timon.

“Hey, I wondered where you’d gone,” he breathed, relieved to be away from the crowd for a hot second. “You okay?”

He was quiet while you gathered your thoughts, while you tried to articulate the swirl of emotions after watching your best friend–your mentor, your damned fake husband–fucking kill it on that screen. Finally, all you could manage was to pull him into an embrace that he eagerly returned, to press a kiss into his cheek and tell him, “That was astounding, D. I’m so, so proud of you.”

In those scant seconds after you let him go, he was transformed–haloed in pride, drunk on your praise, even though he’d had more thorough words from the mouths of a hundred guests–you watched the world begin to fall away from him as his eyes held yours, yearned after more. There was something he wanted to say, something that started with, “Yeah? You really think so,” and might have ended in god knows what if he’d been allowed to finish, but a couple of VIP guests had noticed the lack of crowd around you and paid no respect for the private moment, swooping in to take the opportunity to have you both to themselves.

As it was, all you got out of the night were some blisters from your designer heels and a press photo someone had snapped behind your back--your arms around him and your lips to his cheek, his fingers gripping the back of your dress and his face buried against your shoulder, eyes squeezed tight in agonized bliss as if your approval had meant more to him than the whole theater combined.

You refused to entertain the possibility of that being the truth.

You found a printout of the photo hung on the refrigerator after he flew back out to Jordan the next morning. Like a toddler that did a good job on his spelling test and wanted you to remember the best of himself.

You had a suspicion that a twin printout was in a bag on its way to Jordan.

____________

“What’s going on?”

The crew is in a flurry, doing final light checks and adjusting the car set when you’re called back into the soundstage after being redressed and reset again.

Dieter’s back in his full costume as well. Looks like it’s another full take again.

“They’re doing a slight adjustment on the lighting,” he says, watching them. “Talked to Annie. We’re gonna try something different.”

“Uh…what?” You’d just gotten used to the fact that this scene was happening and now they’re changing it? “Does the I.C. know?”

He shrugs. “She’s not here. What she doesn’t know won’t get her buttplug all twisted ‘round.”

“And were you two going to clue me into these changes or…..?”

Here’s where he finally turns to you, but can’t seem to meet your warning gaze for long, chewing on the inside of his cheek. God, he’s pretty when he drops all his swagger. If only Dieter knew how good vulnerability looked on him….“You trust me, ‘Cakes, yeah?”

An old warmth returns, melting you like the earth turning back towards the sun in spring. It’s an instant recognition that whatever he said to Annie was about you–and in your best interest–and just like he did during Timon, he wants to help you again.

“‘Course I do.”

One of the assistants calls over to the two of you, ready for you to return to the set, and you follow close to Dieter as he whispers, “Listen. You’re just wearing a snatch patch, right?”

“W-what? Yes?”

“Good. A full genital guard would have been rough."

The assistant dressers crowd you, doing a last minute swat for lint, trapping fly-aways, fixing your waistline. “Um, okay, why–”

“Alright, you two,” Annie appears beside you, all smiles, her tiny frame belying the big sass that you know lurks underneath. “So Dieter and I talked and he made me see the very rare error of my ways and here’s the deal.”

Your director goes on to explain that Dieter alerted her to the fact that this is an escalation point for your character, that little by little you’ve been taking control of your situation and this is the moment you take control of Dieter’s character. Trapping you under him was cutting you off from options to express that.

“We’re putting you on top,” Annie says to you, continuing when she sees your dropped jaw. “You let Dieter guide. This isn’t about you seducing him or dominating him. It’s about you learning to let go and enjoy him, to own your own sexual freedom. So we’ll start with the buildup as is, disrobing as is, but then let him pull you on top. It’ll give you more opportunity to play.” Pinching your chin and giving it a sisterly shake, she growls, “You got this, kid. Feel free to really give into her wildness. And remember it’s your call if you need to stop at any time. Dieter leads, but you’re in control here? Okay? Now. If you want to rehearse a take, that’s your right, but I’d like to roll for spontaneity’s sake.”

Looking away from her glittering, black eyes, to Dieter–standing there like a taught rubber band, his arms hanging but his twitchy fingers betraying his trapped kinetics–and back to Annie, you give her a nod. “Let’s do it.”

A shake of the shoulders, a fist bump with your scene partner. A silent commitment to do better for both of them.

And while Annie gets situated behind the monitor and the DP synchs, you keep Dieter’s focus, allowing yourself just for the moment–for the hour, the day–to fall back in love with him.

You wonder if he senses this change. You’re certainly sensing one in him, his fidgets melting, his jaw unclenching.

You both know what to do.

His kissing has improved since……well. Perhaps he’s more confident when he’s acting rather than being drunk or jet-lagged. But right now…now he’s intoxicating. Traces your jaw and ears with the soft bend of his nose and plush of his lips, taking care not to let his scruff tear you up too much. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to devour your breath, keep your tongue dancing tempo with his, put his big hands in all the right places to press out all your tension.

It’s not even whispered, just mouthed against your lips: “That’s good.”

His shirt comes off first, and you take the lead in stripping away his jeans, but then the choreography changes as he slows you, brings your focus to him, pushing up your skirt in order to hold your hips and guide you to his lap, pulling you into a straddle, watching your expression as you land.

Only the thin fabrics of his genital sock and your modesty patch separate your softer sections from his harder ones.

And he drags you against him.

And you gasp.

There’s a moment where you pause with your eyes and mouth wide in surprise, his air trapped within him as he waits to make sure he hasn’t crossed the line.

He has.

But your skirt covers things. And what Annie and the crew don’t know can’t hurt them.

Suddenly you’re in the mood to match his trouble.

And you begin to slowly ride.

And in his escaping breath, there’s a “Yeah.”

His hands give you a gentle pull and leave you with the subtle direction to keep rocking while he takes his time working his way through your blouse buttons, pushing the fabric down over your shoulders but not your arms, leaving it to drape artfully from elbow to elbow across your back, giving you a little more cover, a little more security, allowing his naked character to be the vulnerable one.

And as you roll against him, wetting your breath-dried lips, he watches you, checks in with you.

You okay with this?

Yeah.

A rise of his hips. I’m gonna pick it up.

Please.

That’s good, Babycakes. Just like this.

And all of a sudden, it clicks. It doesn’t matter that the set is full of people, doesn’t matter that Annie is hoping for a saving take, doesn’t matter that millions of people will watch this intimate moment between the two of you.

All that matters is that you get to have it with him.

As he rocks you closer to breaking, your lips part, your eyes close, and your forehead lands upon his.

“That’s it, Baby,” he breathes, his words just hurried shapes and pops, “I want you to feel it this time. I want you to have this. I’m here. Use it. I want you to have it.”

Later, Annie will tell you what a perfect arch your back makes when your character finally lets go.

____________

After the Hunger Strike premiere, he called less often. He was bouncing around Europe, shooting a commercial, visiting friends, auditioning a few treatments, and when he was back in Jordan, he was far enough off the grid that he’d have to use the production’s satellite phone to call and that was getting governmental aerospace involved, so communication slowed to a crawl.

You’d had an unsent message sitting in your drafts for weeks and was just about to delete it one dreary January morning as you lazed in bed. Alone. In a big, empty house.

But then the phone rang in your hands and you dropped it on your face with a loud curse, fumbling and snatching it back with the hope that the call was coming from the person your message was addressed to so you wouldn’t have to say it–

“SWEETHEART!”

No such luck. “Heyyy Morgan.”

“Well, you did it, kitten,” your agent’s bangles rang over the phone as you imagined her clutching her fists and doing a little shimmy, “congratulations!!!”

“Huh?”

“Wait. Are you kidding me? The nominations dropped today. Don’t tell me you slept in.”

And all of a sudden you were a windmill of arms and legs and flying sheets, a shrieking and thudding mess across the carpet as you ran to the desk to open a laptop. “Shit! Tell me!!!”

“Supporting actress, hon. I TOLD YOU.” Morgan knew you’d be sitting there in a permanent gasp, so she took the opportunity to spill. “Fall of Timon is one of the big takers; film, director, special effects, supporting actress, lead actor–”

“Dieter?” you squealed. “Oh shit, he’s going to be so excited–!”

“Ah, no. I mean, yes, but Davey’s been nominated for Timon. Dieter did receive a lead nom, but it’s for Hunger Strike.” As if she could feel the turmoil in your silence, Morgan laced her voice with a smile pushed forward. “And this is marvelous; the press will be all over you two, the power couple who have to war with rooting for their spouse or their project. Good visibility.”

“Well,” you force a chuckle, “I mean, yeah. Davey’s my costar. But of course I’ll pull for Dieter because I know he’ll be pulling for me.”

“Yes. Although. He’s going to have to support Chelsea as well.”

“Chelsea? What? …Oh.” Chelsea Seagate. His nemesis in Hunger Strike. “But…that’s easy, right? She would be up for leading actress, so–”

“The studio thought she’d have a better chance at taking supporting, so that’s where they championed her.”

“Oh.” Direct competition.

Somehow you’d made it through the rest of the conversation. Somehow you’d managed to fake full enthusiasm for Morgan’s sake while you were sitting stunned on the edge of your bed. Somehow you’d let her congratulations sink in.

But you’d also fallen back onto the mattress, all fetal position and stunned silence.

It wasn’t anything to cry over. But your adrenaline was running high off your own nomination and you were stupidly excited for Dieter of course.

If he had been there, it wouldn’t have been an issue. You would have hugged and jumped up and down and called in a mess of takeout and downed some edibles and just been happy for each other.

But he wasn’t there. And you felt it. Had been feeling it for weeks and living in denial that it meant anything. The year was close to being over and there was no need to complicate things. Catching feelings wasn’t part of the deal and the logistics of being tied to Dieter Bravo for a long haul just weren’t built on solid enough ground.

Especially since he’d been calling less. Being out of country meant he could probably mess around easier without anyone finding out. He was doing his best, keeping his promise, slowly repairing his image and not making you look foolish for marrying a–well, a bit of a slut, really, if reputation served. And if he was getting his dick on, well, he’d been discreet and you could appreciate that.

You told yourself he was having his fun but being discreet for you. There was no way you’d believe he was denying himself for your sake. Not Dieter. Entertaining that thought would be like admitting that…

That you didn’t want him to.

Shit.

Laying with your cheek to the sheets, squinting in the cold January sun, a thumb-drag across your phone opened it to your messages. It was easy enough at first to avoid the unsent one.

--Congratulations, D!

Still skipping past the unsent text.

--I’m so proud of you!

You should have closed the phone, but your heart teetered on the edge of a gulf, hovering over the send icon.

There had to be a different way to say it.

--If you were here, I’d take you out to celebrate.

It was the wrong thing to say, because it was true.

And it hurt. And the realization of what you were then admitting to yourself pulled the tears out even faster. All the times you almost told him out of some nagging need, and then, as if he knew you needed to hear from him he’d call and then it just lived there in your drafts, but oh god, this was a big twist of the knife, and it hurt, and you just thought, fuck it, and hit send.

--I miss you so much, Dieter.

____________

Silence.

Stupid. For the next week you tried to push the mental groan of anguish out of your head. This is why you should never text when you’re emotional, you big dummy. He might have been too far out on location. Or trying to text and it didn’t come through. There was no reason to believe he was ignoring you or you’d overstepped. After all, it was text and didn’t have intonation behind it. You could still be his best friend and miss him. That was allowed.

No need to fret.

Anything would be preferable to silence though.

What was going to buoy you was a celebratory get together at Davey’s place that weekend. An invite went out to cast and crew of Timon, and Saturday night saw old friends converging in Beverly Hills, Davey and his partner Mark’s mid-century home still lit up from Christmas.

It was exactly what you needed to relax and find your smile, to be among friends, and, of course, proceed to get just a bit more than tipsy thanks to the catered bartender.

Davey mentioned that he’d gotten into pinball lately and at one point in the evening a friend asked to see his collection, so the whole party took a detour to the outbuilding that he’d turned into a throwback dive-bar setup with nine vintage pinball machines.

Everyone was crowded around Mark, watching him play for the high score on the very suggestive cowboy machine that would trip the bucking bronco. He’d just missed, and there was a loud, raucous groan, that ended in Davey cheering, “Well fuck you, you son-of-a-bitch Oscar-traitor! Aren’t you supposed to be in Egypt or some such shit?”

The group spun as a messy whole to find Dieter standing in the doorway, offering up a dumb grin and a wave, causing everyone to whoop.

You were too drunk to feel anything but delight and shock, and it must have shown, because once he saw you in the crowd–saw you gasping smile and brimming eyes–he came straight at you, bowling you backward in a sloppy embrace, growling contentment as everyone else slapped and patted his back in welcome.

“I missed you too,” he mumbled against your shoulder. “Surprise!”

And everything that felt broken in you found its way back into place.

He made the rounds at the party, said his hellos to friends, but kept you close by until it was just the two of you creating your own little bubble, both leaning head and shoulder against a wall in the hallway–you a little overwhelmed with drink and him jet-lagged–explaining that he’d hoped to be here a day or two sooner, but there were re-routes and delays and he’d be flying back as soon as he could guarantee a stand-by. He’d literally been traveling over 24 hours just to surprise everyone and come celebrate.

And you’d stood there, asking him questions about the location and the shoot, listening, laughing a little too hard, hanging on every word, holding his hand as if he’d fly away the second you weren’t tying him to you. But he wasn’t going anywhere at that moment. He was as grounded to the moment as you were.

Maybe an hour? Two? Another drink? An Uber ride home. Laughter. You almost dropped your keys on the doorstop trying to unlock the door.

“You wanna see my house? It’s really big and I live here all alone,” you joked, chuckling as you kicked off your shoes and stumbled into the dark living room, your oncoming headache keeping you from turning on the light.

Dieter followed, but didn’t join you in the merriment.

“I’m sorry for not calling more, Cakes. We’re literally staying with the Bedouins, there’s nothing out there–”

“Hey. You don’t have to apologize to me. If I need company I know where to find it.”

That made him smirk. “Yeah? You’d cuck me in my own house?”

“Ah–” stammering, you tried to make light of what you assumed was a joke. “That’s not the kind of company I meant. Besides, you’re the one out there away from prying eyes with the desert roses, Mr. Bravo. So. No pointing fingers at me.”

“That’s what you think?” You couldn’t see his face in the dim light, but his voice told a story of quiet disappointment. Oh. So not a joke then. “I flew back here to surprise you.”

You had to put some mental distance between what he was saying and what you hoped it meant. “And to go to the party.”

“Because I knew you’d be there. I wanted to get home earlier so we could go together. Like we're meant to.”

You wished a lot of things in that moment, the main one being that you were more sober.

You didn’t get that wish. But you did get another one.

Because he didn’t pull back when you crashed your mouth into his. He didn’t push you away when you wrapped your arms around him. And even when the momentum of a few kisses pushed his calves against the couch and he lost balance and fell onto it, he was the one who reached up and pulled you onto his lap and kept begging you silently not to stop.

Delirium. Bliss. You were both sloppy, but equally present and willing. “Holy shit your lips are soft. Like pillows or some shit,” he mumbled, unable to help himself.

At one point you felt the evening dragging you down and you could sense yourself slipping into fatigue, threatening to steal precious hours with him away from you, but you fought it, trying to crank it back up by reaching for his belt.

He laughed softly against your lips as he gently moved your hand away. “Mmmmnnnope. You’re drunk, ladybug.”

“All the easier for you to take advantage.”

“I know,” he groaned, just a shadow of regret coloring it. “Another time maybe.”

“But you came all this way,” you whined, reaching again for his buckle and then switching to a purr. “Don’t you want to sleep with your wife?”

That made him stop. “Fuck, you’re making this hard on me.” He pulled your hand away again, this time guiding it up to receive a kiss to the knuckle. “No means no, missus.”

Oh shit. Thinking you’d really gone too far, misread the situation–how?--you shifted backward, moving to get up.

“No, no. Wait. C’mere.” Hands on your hips guided you back and he put a thigh between yours. Urging you to sit, he pulled you back to his mouth as he whispered, “Just. I can’t… Not me. Let me help you.”

And he did. Although he denied you any payback. He simply held you, gave you his kisses and his thigh, and your head swam and your desire glowed. But each sigh got longer, longer, longer…

Until you woke up the next morning on the couch, covered with a blanket, a glass of water on the coffee table in front of you twinkling in the cold wintry morning sun, the spike of pain in your head matching the one of complete mortification in your heart.

____________

I want you to feel it this time. I want you to have this. I’m here. Use it. I want you to have it.

Standing in the trailer at the end of the day, you flip through the divorce papers absently, unfocused, not really seeing anything but a word here and there; “differences,” “lack,” “unable,” “resolve.” Yours is the only signature. It’s inelegant–either your pen didn’t have enough ink at first or you hesitated–

“Hey.” Dieter stands in the doorway, confused, not expecting to find you in his trailer. As you turn toward him, he notices the papers in your hand and cringes in recognition, sucking in a rallying breath as he enters and pulls the door closed behind him. “That mad, huh. Listen, Cakes–”

But his jaw drops as you grip the top of the small packet….

…and give it all a neat tear down the middle.

Dropping each half to your sides, it signals an end to something between you that isn’t your marriage.

He waits for you. A little bit anxious. A little bit hopeful. Expectant and quiet.

And you make him wait.

Then you simply place what’s now garbage in the bin.

“I see you’re still in your robe.”

“I see you’re still in yours.”

“That was some trick you pulled, Mr. Bravo.”

“I can’t tell if you’re mad.”

“I’m not.”

He’s still not sure where this is going, keeps watching you with those same puppy eyes, Fight sitting on one shoulder, Flight on the other, waiting for a million shoes to drop.

“You didn’t finish during the scene.” You say, pointing to a shape that’s hiding under his robe. “How very professional of you. I suppose you came in here to take care of it.”

He swallows, nods eagerly, his hope utterly, adorably transparent.

You take a step toward the back where the crash bed is. Jerk a thumb back over your shoulder in its direction. Cock an eyebrow. “Well? I’m sober this time. You wanna consummate this thing or not?”

It’s not his birthday, but you might as well have just told Dieter you were taking him out to the wiener stand.

And this time, it would most definitely be a metaphor.

____________

SERIES MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST

#i'll never fall in love again #the bubble fanfiction #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x cakes

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