#dieter bravo x fem. reader

[toomanystoriessolittletime]

into you

Summary: After almost giving up the hope to become a big actor you get offered the leading role in a period drama, leaving you to spend three months in Scotland with your male co star Dieter Bravo and maybe falling in love with him.

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x fem. reader

Wordcount: 2.247

Rating: T

Warnings: fluff, falling in love, implied smut, kissing, really cheesy movie lines I made up, confessions of feelings, reader is in her late thirties, Dieter playing the piano

A/N: Another one for  @undercoverpena April showers challenge! What's better than a Pedro character in period clothing in the rain? Making out with him hehe

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You couldn’t sleep. 

The moon was shining hrough the window of your hotel room, an old castle in the middle of nowhere somewhere in Scotland. 

You had come here almost three months ago, having gotten the first big job of your career, the lead role in a period drama. The first lead role you ever got. The first big job you ever got. 

For years you dreamed of being a big movie star. 

Much like every young person who came to LA. 

Which had been almost twenty years ago. You had been about to quit trying for that one big role that would finally grant your your big success last year. 

By now well in your thirties (the forties getting closer and closer), not having any major success apart from some multi episode secondary character on some netflix shows in the latest years, you gave up hope that you would make it. 

Sometimes the residuals you got from playing Chandler Bing’s awkward girlfriend for two episodes almost twenty years ago on friends had been the only way to pay your rent.

You were looking into going back to school when your agent called you, talking you into going to this last audition. It had been as a favour to them that you agreed, the contracts between you and the agency already canceled towards the end of the month. 

They had always believed in you and you hated saying no to them because of that reason. 

Maybe it was you having nothing to lose that left you going into the audition and blowing them all away. Not that you thought you did until your agent called you not even twenty minutes after you went out of the audition, asking you to come back to read opposite the male lead. 

Still you didn’t let yourself getting your hopes up, walking back into the office building, back into the room you had been in before, now with an additional face smiling warmly at you. 

You didn’t know that in the next two hours your whole life would change. 

Not just because they offered you the job. 

No, It was the day you met Dieter Bravo.

Of course you knew who Dieter Bravo was. 

You had admired him since he starred in the high school drama series you definitely did not tape every episode from when you were in your teens. 

And there had been no posters of him in your room growing up, nope. 

But like almost every teen crush, it faded over the years. 

You grew up, and he did too. You knew he had won an Oscar some years back, you saw the movie in the cinema back then. 

He had made headlines after that, naming him the next big thing. 

But lately the only headlines you remembered of him had been of his drug escapades and dating life. 

So you had been a little reserved when you first met, hoping he would be professional enough throughout the audition. 

Hope you shouldn’t have had, because Dieter had turned out to be professional in every single way.

Now, after spending almost two months with him, playing opposite of him, acting that you were in love with him, you found yourself wishing he would be a little less professional. 

Groaning you sat yourself up in your bed, clicking the lamp on the bedside table on, reaching for your phone. 

2:43 am. 

Taking a deep breath and releasing a long sigh as you exhaled you let your head fall back. 

In twenty four hours you would be on a plane back to the states, already on your way to shoot your next movie, your career seemingly finally starting off now that you were starring in a movie with Dieter Bravo. 

You should be beyond happy. 

Everything you dreamed off finally seemed to come true. You had three jobs lined up that would pay more than you had made in the last ten years combined. 

Yet the thought of waking up every morning and not getting to spend the day with Dieter made it all bittersweet. 

You had spent a lot of time together since getting to Scotland to shoot this movie. Not only on set, but apart from it too. He had been here before, shooting another movie and invited you out some times, showing you around. You had dinner together almost every night be it in an restaurant he wanted to show you or in the hotel. You got to know the man behind the persona you learned he put on for the public for and over the last weeks you had found yourself falling for him. 

Your fingers cam up to brush over your lips, the lips he had kissed. 

More than once. 

In front of the camera. 

But before you went to bed tonight, he walked you to your room and he had kissed you good night. Without cameras rolling. Without people around. Just you and him. His warm hand on your cheek, your back pushed against your hotel room door as he towered over you, his other hand resting on the door behind you. 

You were out of breath when he parted from your lips, wishing you a good night, leaving you watching after him with your lips parted, your brain still trying to process that he had just kissed you, as he went down the hallway until he disappeared into his room. 

You were too giddy to sleep, getting an old sweatshirt on before you grabbed your hotel key and walked out of your room, hoping he was as sleepless as you were and downstairs where you had found him often during your stay. 

You could hear the faint sound of a piano as you entered the lobby, the night manager giving you a small smile as you walked past, following the sound. 

In the far back corner of the lobby was a piano where you found Dieter playing a melody you did not recognise. 

You had found him here before, in the beginning when you could not sleep because you were too nervous to fuck this big chance you got up. 

He told you that his art supplies hadn’t been shipped yet, and that he usually painted when he couldn’t sleep.

And so instead he played. 

And you listened, sitting next to him until you both almost fell asleep, before he walked you to your room, only to be up some hours later to shoot a movie where his character denied to be in love with your character, pushing your character away until a big dramatic scene where you would finally admit your feelings to each other. 

Sitting down on the seat next to him as he played now, you let your head fall against his shoulder, hearing him inhale as he continued to play. 

His lips brushed against your temple and you closed your eyes, just listening to his song. 

When he finished you looked up at him, his eyes were already on you, an unreadable expression on his face. 

„Couldn’t sleep?“ he asked. 

You hummed in agreement. 

„Too many thoughts in my head,“ you whispered and he nodded. One of his arms came to wrap around your back, pulling you closer against his side. 

„You wanna talk about those thoughts?“ he asked and you chuckled. 

„Don’t wanna fuck the big scene up tomorrow, well today,“ you said and he gave you a small smile. 

„If someone is gonna fuck up it’s me. You make me keep forgetting my lines,“ he winked and you felt your cheeks growing warm, remembering the many occasions Dieter had seemingly spaced out during some scenes, looking at you with an expression you couldn’t place. 

„What do you mean?“ You asked, and he sucked his bottom lip in, before he shrugged and there it was again, that expression in his face, his eyes big as he looked at you. 

„I can’t stop looking at you. You’re so talented and beautiful and kind and so damn intelligent. Sexy….,“ he winked „You just blow me away and it’s like my brain stops working when I look at you sometimes. I never really felt like this before…“ he whispered and you blinked at him. 

„What I am trying to say is, I like spending time with you. I like talking to you. I like kissing you, touching you,“ he grinned and you huffed. 

„Especially when it’s just the two of us. Last week when the director called cut when we were in bed….“ He closed his eyes, shaking his head. 

You had rushed off after finishing the scene with him, having to take care of the ache between your legs in the bathroom after spending almost six hours in bed with him, shooting numerous sex scenes.

„I wish we had been alone,“ he whispered his face getting closer to yours, his lips brushing over yours. 

„Dieter,“ you whispered, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, his lips pressing against yours and you shivered. 

„Yeah?“ He asked. 

„We are alone now,“ you whispered and he nodded, before he kissed you again, deeply. 

„Would you like to have sex with me?“ He whispered and your lips twitched into a grin which he mirrored before he kissed you again. 

„Take me to your room, Dieter,“ you said, giggling when you found yourself pulled in the direction of the elevators in the next moment. 

„This is madness,“ you shook your head, the rain coming down on you without mercy, drenching your many layers of clothes. 

„Why? Why is it madness that I have fallen for you?“ Dieter asked, in character, his white shirt clinging to his chest. 

You huffed a laugh, your character in denial about the feelings not only she had, but he had too. 

„Because we are both engaged. And not to each other. We have to end this. I have to….“ You shook your head, closing your eyes, before you looked up at him. Dieter having closed the distance between the two of you, but not close enough to touch. The raindrops where running down his nose, his hair clinging to his face. 

He looked like a wet dream straight out of a Jane Austen novel.

„All these times we spend in each others arms, they don’t mean anything to you?“ He asked. 

„It was a mistake. It shouldn’t have happened,“ you said, Dieter’s character seeing right through your lie. 

„Do you love me?“ He asked and you did not have to play the small smile that sneaked to your lips for only a moment before you fought it down. 

„It doesn’t matter,“ you said, turning away from him, but his hand wrapped around your wrist, stopping you before you could go. 

„It matters to me. ,“ he whispered, broken, and the tone of his voice made you want to cry. 

The rain continued to fall as you gave the camera time to capture both of your faces. 

„Of course I love you,“ you finally said, looking at him over your shoulder. 

„Then stay,“ he pleaded. You began to shake your head, when he pulled you against his chest, one of his hands on your cheek, brushing your hair that stuck to your face to the side, his eyes gazing deeply into yours. 

„Stay and allow yourself to be happy,“ he said, almost begging. 

„Stay here and let me love you,“ he let his forehead fall against yours and your eyes dropped close, pictures of the night he had spend with you filling your mind, the way his forehead had rested against yours as he filled you over and over and…

You opened your eyes and Dieter’s lip twitched for a second, having caught your unintended pause.

„What about our families?“ you asked, „What about my sister? She’s in your house getting ready to marry you today,“ you asked. 

„They will understand. They have to. And if they don’t, I’ll take you away where we can live our life without the judgement of others. You’ll never have to worry for money.I love you, please be with me,“ his nose brushed against yours. 

You felt his other hand on your lower back and you gasped. 

„Then take me away,“ you whispered, feeling his smile against your lips as he finally kissed you, your arms wrapping around his broad back, fingertips brushing over his drenched clothes as he deepened the kiss. 

The first thing you realised when Dieter parted from your lips was that the rain had stopped and that it was quiet around you. Too quiet. 

Looking at Dieter he gave you a sheepish smile before you looked around, finding the crew around you looking at the both of you, Dieter’s PA holding two robes in his arms, giving you a wide smile. 

„You gonna listen when I call cut now?“ The director teased with a wide grin and you let your head fall against Dieter’s chest, mortified, but he just chuckled, before he helped you get into the robe his PA had brought over. 

„We’ll meet in an hour for the wedding scene, do not be late,“ the director reminded everyone, giving you and Dieter a longer look, and you nodded. Dieter grabbed your hand, and you looked at him. 

„Can’t wait to marry you,“ he winked and kissed you again, before you both were rushed off from the set to get ready. 

And you did actually get married. 

Seven months later.

On a beach. 

In the rain. 

Without any interruptions. 

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

I can’t stop thinking about a Notting Hill AU for young Dieter Bravo.

Reader is Hugh Grant and Dieter is Julia Roberts.

Except instead of a travel bookshop, Reader works at a hippy spiritual self-help shop; and instead of swanky Notting Hill, Reader takes Dieter around pre-gentrified East/South London.

They party at dive bars all weekend, explore Reader’s favourite spots during the day and somehow still finds time to get high and fuck.

Far too soon, Monday dawns and Dieter has to leave. They part ways - but neither forgets that one weekend they had together in the summer of 1999.

[psychedelic-ink]

ㅤㅤㅤ✦ 𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐌𝐄

ㅤㅤdieter bravo x f!reader

genre: smut, pwp, minors dni, friends to lovers? kinda

word count: 1.4k

summary: you and dieter get high on gummies.

warnings: edibles (gummies), heavy petting, high talk, for the sake of this fic the gummy shows affect very quickly, oral (fem receiving), nipple play, dirty talk, dieter is a menace, lots of grinding, also when i say pwp I REALLY mean no plot, just friends making out essentially, everything is %100 consensual

Your eyes widen gradually as you witness Dieter lean closer, his smile boyish as he holds a red gummy between his teeth. 

"Come on," he says, brows curling upwards. "You take half, I take half." 

Your eyes move between the gummy and the gorgeous brown of his eyes. It hadn't been long since you and Dieter started hanging out, not a lot had been shared between you two, other than your love of movies and, surprisingly, tabletop games. 

Staring at his expectant gaze, you burst into a giggle when he wiggles his brows. Finally, with an exasperated exhale, you shake your head and lean closer. 

"Fine, you dork. I don't have work tomorrow anyway." 

"Perfect," he grazes the sugary surface of the gummy against your bottom lip. "Bon Appetit."

You feel the softness of his lips as you bite down into the flesh of the sugary delight. You expect him to move back, for him to immediately chew and swallow, but instead, he lingers, keeping his lips flush against yours as you take half the gummy into your mouth. The sugars dissolve, leaving a bare and imperfect surface. It tastes a bit like strawberry, but it is overwhelmed by the taste of cannabis. 

Wrinkling your nose, you pull away, he laughs. “You’re so dramatic.” 

“Says the Queen of Drama,” you snap back, sticking your tongue. “Also you can’t convince me that this tastes good.” 

“Hey I never said it tasted good, I said it’ll get us high as fuck.” 

“Those were your exact words,” you mutter, leaning back. “So what now? We just wait for the hit?” 

“Pretty much.” Your eyes follow him as he nestles closer, the warmth of his body seeping into your own. A shudder runs up your spine, an involuntary sound escapes your throat. He’s a charmer, that’s for sure. Easy on the eyes. 

He lays a palm over your tight, spreads his fingers. Another shudder. “You like it when I touch you?” 

It’s phrased as a question but, for some reason, you don’t feel like he needs an answer. His thumb begins to draw shallow lines, up and down, over and over. Slick gathers between your legs and without a second thought, you instinctively rub them together. You start to feel it then, the delightful buzz from mother nature. A giggle rises from your throat. 

“This feels really good,” you say, he gently presses his nails down, liquid heat drips from your spine. 

“Which one?” 

You think you don’t understand what he means, but you do. “Both. Both feel good.” 

“Good,” he mutters, his voice dropping. “Come’ere. Let me make you feel even better.” 

He tugs you along until you’re firmly seated on his lap, without a second thought you roll down your hips, feeling the hard line of his cock. Your breath hitches, a tiny moan escaping. Dieter grins as his hands dances along your arms, only stopping to pull you down against his clothed cock. You gasp, a buzzing sensation shooting up your spine. You feel his soft lips on your chin, he nips the skin softly before traveling further down to take a hearty bite from your neck. 

Your hips twitch, your eyes rolling back, “F–Fuck, Dieter—” 

“Feels really good huh?” he licks the salt of your skin, more slick gathers between your legs, your cunt pulsing with need and want. “You’re so sweet—tell me how good I’m making you feel.” 

The words are caught in your throat, your body a live wire as it becomes nothing but melted metal underneath Dieter’s touch, only for him to mold. 

His hands sneak underneath your shirt and with one swift motion, he pulls it off, leaving you in nothing but your bra. You expect him to rip the lace off with the same hunger but instead, he holds the cups and tugs them down, exposing your breasts. He dips down mouth open wide, he sucks a hard nipple into his mouth and moans, his hips sharply thrust up. 

Your eyes flutter closed, he feels too good, every patch of skin tingling. He sucks hard as he rolls his hips over and over, making you feel every inch that you don’t have inside of you. Some part of your heart feels rage for that. You want him. Every inch of him. His fingers begin to play with the other nipple. 

“Tell me what I want to hear baby, or else I’m stopping.” 

“You’re amazing,” you gasp. “I can’t get enough of this…this feeling. Fuck, Dieter—I—I need—” 

His mouth is flush against your ear, you shudder, “I can feel how soaked you are through your sweats, sweetheart. I know exactly what you need.” Momentarily you let out a breath of relief, he would give you what you want, what you need— “Too bad you’re not getting it until I make you come like this first.” 

It’s almost as if someone dropped an icy bucket of water over your head. It clashes with the agonizing warmth he’s making you feel, a cry ripping from your throat, he smiles. 

“W-What? What?” 

“I know this feeling, have experienced it myself,” Dieter grins. “Sit still and enjoy the ride, sweetheart.” 

You choke on a whimper, buckling down against him. Dieter continues his torturous movements, his lips now biting and nipping at your neck while his hands wander down to your soaked sweats. He pulls them down, exposing your throbbing clit to the cool air. Without hesitation, he tightens his fingers around it, his movements hard and fast. 

You can't contain the moans and gasps that escape your lips, your body trembling with pleasure. Dieter's lips move to yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth as his fingers work you into a frenzy. You can feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, the pleasure building up within you. 

Suddenly, he stops, leaving you panting and desperate for release. 

“Please.” 

“Please what?” 

“Let me come, please. Please Dieter.” 

Your begging is getting closer and closer to sounding like dying whispers, tiny dots are starting to appear. You’re on the verge of passing out, in ways you’ve never thought someone could pleasure you. Hypnotized by his eyes and his hand movements as he plugs away yet you can’t help but think about how you’re stuck on pause, yet he looks like he could keep on going. 

"Is that all it takes to get you going?" Dieter's voice is low, his lips red and plump from kissing every patch of skin. He looks at you with a sense of satisfaction, like he's accomplished something great. "I can make you come just from touching you like this."

You moan in frustration, unable to form words as you try to push your hips forward, seeking any sort of relief. Dieter laughs, a dark and hungry sound that reverberates through your body. "I told you, baby, you're not getting to the fun part until you come like this first."

"Dieter, please," you whimper, your voice laced with need. 

He simply grins and stands up, taking you with him. He leads you to the bedroom, pushing you down on the bed before crawling over you, his eyes dark with desire.

"I want to taste you," he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. 

He lowers himself between your legs, his tongue flicking over your clit and causing you to writhe beneath him. His tongue moves expertly, teasing and flicking until you can't take it anymore. With a loud cry, you come undone, your body shaking with the intensity of your release. 

Dieter keeps lapping up your wetness, making sure to draw out every last drop of pleasure from you. When he finally pulls away, you're left breathless and sated.

As you lay there, panting and trying to catch your breath, Dieter cuddles up next to you, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. 

"Wow," you say finally, still trying to recover from the intense pleasure he just gave you. "That was...amazing."

"Remind me to get high with you more often," you laugh, finally able to form coherent words.

"Oh, I will definitely be reminding you," Dieter grins, his fingers tracing soothing circles on your back. "But for now, let's just enjoy this high and each other's company."

With a sly smile, you roll on top of him, ready for round two. Dieter's playful smirk mirrors your own as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you in for another kiss.

You can't help but think that this was just the beginning of a wild, passionate, and exciting journey with Dieter by your side. And you couldn't wait to see where it would take you next.

[prolix-yuy]

Simulated

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader Actress

Summary: You're a professional, which is why a sex scene with Dieter Bravo will be no problem at all. Now you just have to convince yourself to believe it.  

Word Count: 4.8k

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, descriptions of male and female bodies, simulated sex, grinding, fantasizing about sex, anxiety, lil bit of size kink, probably incorrect method for filming sex scenes but I'm using what I know and making up the rest. Don't do this for real, this is fantasy and Dieter is a filthy boy.

Notes: This leapt out of my brain and was enabled by the Discord besties. Dieter brainrot is setting back in but I doubt anyone's complaining. This may be the sexiest thing I've ever written without actual sex happening, but you all can be the judge of that.

Cross-posted on AO3

Midnight Alley Masterlist

Trembling on the verge of passing out is not how you wanted your first time in Dieter Bravo’s arms to be, but no amount of reprimands to your rebelling body have worked. 

It’s not him, far from it. Dieter had been nothing but gentlemanly since you came in for scene blocking. The director offered to have stand-ins while they adjusted lighting and staged the shots, but you boldly offered to come in anyways. It wasn’t your first shoot, but it was your first sex scene, and you wanted to impress the director with your no-nonsense attitude about it. 

All that confidence flew out the window when you came face to face with your scene partner, Dieter Bravo. Well aware of his aloof playboy nature, you didn’t expect his handshake to be so warm, the quirk of his smile to make your heart flutter, or for him to smell so strongly of eucalyptus. Apparently his agent mentioned you would be there for staging, and he decided to come in to test your chemistry. No issues there, your curious eyes roaming over his wrinkled cargo pants and threadbare sweater. He could be wearing nothing and you’d still melt into a puddle. Which, shockingly, wouldn’t be that far in the future.

Calm down, girl. Be professional.

To be fair, Dieter is fucking gorgeous, even under the bloodshot eyes and air of annoyance. His curls are even softer looking in person, heavy shoulders stretching his t-shirts and bulky forearms complimenting his thick thighs. Even the little pooch of a tummy makes you salivate. While your friends drool over Tom Hiddleston or Harry Styles, your heart beats fast for men who can crush you under their bulk. “Weighted blanket boys,” you like to call them, and Dieter wholly falls into that category. 

Which is why when you got the casting call for a bit part in the crime drama Midnight Alley, which Dieter had been co-starring in for three seasons, you leapt at the opportunity. Even if you didn’t get to share a scene, at least you could catch a glimpse, maybe say hello. That was surely worth the long hours. His proclivities for casual sex definitely didn’t fit into that plan. No sir. Definitely not.

It all became real when you got the pages. Your character was a one night stand, relegated to three scenes - the bar where you make eyes across a crowd, the tasteful sex scene (though only barely - tv ratings have really changed in the last twenty years), and the morning after when he leaves to go to a crime scene. The “gaze across the smoky dance floor” was easy enough; anyone with half a brain and a pulse would blush at Dieter’s intense stare, raised eyebrow, and sly grin, a signature of his questionable character. It raises goosebumps down your arms, his parted lips and the slip of his pink tongue resting just inside, the crinkle of his eyes when he knows he’s got you. If a man ever gave you that look you’d be in his bed in moments. 

Scratch that. Not just any man. Dieter’s the only one who could pull that off.

The blocking should have evened out your nerves, and in the moment you believed it did. Dieter was an absolute gentleman, even warmer than you hoped, as you waited to be called on set.

“Ever done a scene like this before?”

“First time. Can you tell?”

He thumbed through his thicker script.

“Wasn’t going to make you more nervous by pointing it out. But yes.”

You blew out a puff of air, making Dieter smirk even more as you crinkled your sheets.

“How do we…?”

“You know the direction?”

“Yeah, it seems…straightforward.”

“Well, today we’re just going to do the major movements - positions, angles, you know - and while they mark focus and shine a light directly up my asshole, we can talk.”

A burst of giggles pulled a wider smile onto his face, waiting for you to calm yourself.

“What do we talk about?”

“What’s comfortable for you. What would pull you out of the scene. What you’re open to. You’re our guest after all.”

So your afternoon was spent pantomiming the sex acts written for you and…talking. Which wasn’t supposed to be sexy, or like two hours of incredibly hot foreplay, but your body apparently didn’t get the memo.

“Anything you really don’t want me to touch? Besides the obvious,” Dieter asked, coming down from his hands to his elbows by your face. The tip of his nose brushed briefly against yours. A hairlight shifted in your periphery.

“My ribs are pretty ticklish,” you admitted, nodding to the assistant director Ramona when she moved on to the next setup. Scooping his hands behind your back, Dieter pulled you on top, showing how to sit a little further up on his stomach to fake the grinding. Unfortunately, the plush flesh against your core didn’t help with the ache.

“Here’s okay?” he asked, wrapping his hands just under your breasts, the tips of his thumbs barely grazing the swell. You nodded, body getting jolted again when the director Adiel asked for Dieter to scoot up the bed a few inches.

“My, uh…” you said, then stopped as you lost confidence. Dieter took his hands off your chest and laced them on his own. He looked up at you expectantly. “My…nipples are really sensitive, so I know I’ll have pasties on and everything, but, it’s like, uncomfortable if they get touched certain ways. So I just wanted to…warn you of that. It shouldn’t be a problem, just, ah, you know, just in case.” Your throat closed up, embarrassment at even saying anything crushing your tongue against the roof of your mouth.

“Thanks for telling me, I appreciate it.” Dieter patted your thigh and his smile was a little more tender than before. 

God, he really looked good underneath you.

“My skin’s sensitive too, scratches show up really clearly on it and it pisses off the cinematographer. So that’s the only thing we’ll have to watch out for there.” The shuffle of changing positions interrupts your conversation until you’re on your stomach with him pressed against your back.

“Sorry if I pop one too, it’s kind of par for the course with these. I’m good at keeping it under control for the most part.” You giggle into the pillow as he hovers over you. 

“My biggest advice?” Dieter murmurs, mouth close to your ear. You hum into the pillow. “Let yourself have fun. It’s not gonna feel natural, but that doesn’t mean it’s gotta feel cold. You won’t offend me if you go off script. I might too, if it feels right. If we’re having fun, the audience will too.”

The weight of his body bearing down on you drives any more anxieties out of your blissed-out brain.

The day of the sex scene comes quicker than you’d like, and the tender crush you’d been nursing for Dieter has become a panicked bird inside your ribcage. You’d spent the hours before preparing, mentally and physically with an indulgent morning routine, but nothing can stop your nerves when Dieter catches sight of you and gives a little wave. He’s in jeans and a black button-up, hair being artfully styled but sunglasses still on. One knee bounces in the chair but otherwise he looks cool as a cucumber. 

The sliver of golden chest you peep through the neck of his shirt sends you scurrying to your dressing room.

Everything leading up to the moment you step on set is distraction. Chatting with makeup, hair, props, with the fucking boom operator who looks just as confused as you are that you’re asking about good places to eat in the area. You talk with the intimacy coordinator, who gives you final notes on the scene. (“If Dieter makes you uncomfortable at all you give me The Eyes and I’ll correct him. No questions asked. I’ve worked with him for years, and I will cuss him out to his face.”) Eventually there’s no one left, and you’re standing alone clutching a water bottle to your chest when Dieter sidles up.

“Nervous?”

You almost jump out of your bathrobe. Which would suck because all you had on was a dark lace lingerie set, pair of pasties and the strange modesty patch protecting your lady bits. Sometimes seeing the behind-the-scenes really did erase the movie magic.

“Yeah, sorry. It’s a little more real now than the rehearsal,” you sigh, and Dieter’s bray of a laugh actually calms you. He puts a hand on your back and rubs firm, soothing circles that bring your heart back into an acceptable rhythm.

“You’ll do fine. And I’ve done this…eh, probably more times than it’s polite to mention. You’re in good hands.” He pulls off his sunglasses, treating you to rich brown eyes you could lose yourself in if you weren’t a professional, goddammit. 

“Close the set, please!” Ramona calls out, and the nonessential crew files out until it’s just you and Dieter and about eight other people who will be watching you writhe and moan. Taking in a deep breath and letting it out loudly, you shake your limbs and metaphorically gird your loins (since they already are pretty girded).

“Can I have actors on set please?” You stride up to the bed with as much confidence as you can muster, Dieter strolling up behind you. Now that he’s close he smells like fresh cotton and spice, a sharp shift from the earthier scents you’d been experiencing. Even a hint of mint from his breath, suddenly thankful you’d brushed and mouthwashed twice. 

“Positions for Scene 17.”

Yes, the first shot. Dieter would be hovering over you, kissing you as he pulls his shirt off. You would be in your bra and panties, slivers of your body visible in the frame but Dieter’s broad chest and unbuttoned waistband on display. Sliding the bathrobe off and placing it off camera, you arrange your limbs on the bed, hands shaking just a little now. Dieter stands at the foot, and if you weren’t about to simulate sex you’d swear he was devouring you with his heavy gaze.

Just getting into character. Breathe.

“Roll sound.”

“Speed.”

“Scene 17a, take one. Roll camera.”

“Rolling.”

“...Action.”

As the set drops to silence, you watch Dieter change from the slightly aloof but sympathetic actor to a brooding morally gray detective needing to bury his failures in a soft body. Despite your coaching, your eyes widen at the set of his jaw, how dark his eyes become when he wrenches off the offending button-up. He sinks to his knees between your thighs and hovers over you, hands pushed into the mattress on either side of your head. 

“Be good for me, yeah?” he husks, deeper and full of gravel. You nod, and he descends to crush your lips together. He urges your mouth open and works your lips together, but his tongue stays obediently behind his teeth. 

Fuck, for a second you forgot you were acting.

His hips dip, denim scraping along the inside of your thighs. He parts from your mouth with a gasp, forehead coming down to press against yours. He takes a deep breath, then…

“Cut! Reset.”

You blink slowly, Dieter already lifting back up to stand at the foot of the bed, rebuttoning his shirt. 

“Any notes?” he asks, voice so calm and clear you snap back to the reality of the situation. 

“When you’re kissing, pull her thighs up around you,” Adam says, Dieter’s head swiveling back.

“That all right by you?” he asks, smoothing the shirt on his skin. 

“Yeah, yeah, absolutely,” you answer, trying not to croak out the words. It was just the first take, it’s fine that you’re a little off-kilter. It would be easier by the second one.

It was not. Not by the third either, still swimming in the heady arousal that wafts from Dieter’s commanding presence. The director complimented how you clutched at his shoulders when he squeezed your thighs, which you tried to pass off as purposeful rather than hanging on for dear life. You were doomed, you’d bitten off more than you could chew and you were going to mess up this role and had no idea how to stop it.

Three more scenes to go.

You take a lap as they reposition the cameras, flip-flops slapping against the concrete floors of the soundstage as you debate if you have enough time to rub one out before going back, just to take the edge off.

“Actors back on set!”

Dammit.

Scene 18 has you riding Dieter, his hands guiding you until he bares his teeth (your signal to move with him) and rolls you on your back to pound you into the mattress. The lingerie is gone now, the cool air of the soundstage caressing over curves of your body that most people rarely see. Dieter averts his eyes when you disrobe, and carefully arranges himself below you. You’re feeling more centered, straddling Dieter with a little less fire burning between your legs, but your troubles take a sharp turn.

“Lean forward a little more, you’re half out of the shot.”

“A little faster.”

“Put your hand on his stomach about ten seconds in.”

“Never mind, back to how we had it before.”

“No, we said no hand, remember?”

“Do you need a break?”

Your body shakes after take 6, half from the exhaustion of lifting up on your knees over and over, your toes starting to go numb, and half with anxiety over forgetting another cue, or missing another note. The smile you keep shooting the director is getting strained, and mortifying tears start to prick your eyes. Dieter is watching your face closely, and with a pointed look at Ramona she calls a brief break. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, guiding you off his lap to sit on the edge of the bed. You cross your arms over your chest, and he reaches over to give you your robe. Draping his own over his lap, he strokes that soothing pattern of circles over your back as you shake your head.

“Sorry, it felt so easy in rehearsal, I’m having like, a weird lockup right now,” you stammer out.

“It’s okay,” he says, “I know what it is.” You look up at him with more desperation in your eyes than you mean. He nods sympathetically.

“It’s the cock sock, isn’t it?” 

He delivers the line completely deadpan. The shock of the phrase, plus the serious set of his brow, makes hysterical laughter burst from your lips. You bury your face in your hands and shake as Dieter’s deep chuckles tickle into your ear.

“That’s better, just need to get a little of that tension out,” he soothes, meeting your eyes with a charming smile. If only this could be a real moment, not something looked on by several men and women drinking coffees. Dieter seems like the kind of partner who would always make you comfortable, and seen, and absolutely satisfied.

That last thought tingles the baby hairs on the back of your neck as you move back into position. Straddling Dieter once again, the ridiculous genital covering out of sight, he grips your shoulders.

“Okay, let’s get back into character here, yeah? Remember your motivation?”

You nod. Not that the scene really needed a deep backstory, but you’d decided you were blowing off steam after a rough few days at work and an ex texting you to get back together. Dieter was mysterious, exciting, so different from your past boyfriends, and when he met your eyes across the room all you wanted was for him to wash the bad taste of their memories out. 

“Got it? Good. Here’s mine,” he says, leaning up while the last few preparations finish around you. Lips to your ear, he whispers only for you. 

“Another dead end, another long day, and I want something to distract me. I’ve got my eye on my usual type, but then I see you. You stand out in the crowd, bold, confident. You hold my stare, challenge me. I thought I wanted something easy, something mindless, but looking at you, I changed my mind. I wanted something with substance, someone to give as good as she gets, and I know you’ll give me even better. My cock got hard just looking at you, you’re fucking perfect. And then when you let me buy you a drink and you criticized my whiskey choice, I wanted to bend you over the bar right there. So I’m taking you home to bury my troubles, but you can surprise me as many more times as you like. I like to be surprised. I want you to take me as much as I’m taking you.”

Dieter lies back with a hell of a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

“Action!”

Your body moves with an ease that had been eluding you, liquid rolls as you take your time riding him. His hands come up to your hips, urging you faster, and instead you grind down on him, pressing your hands into his chest and pinning him into the bed. You’re not supposed to be fighting him, but it feels so right to arch and rock harder into him. His bare legs flex against your ass, meeting your hips with his thrusts. You can imagine how good he’d feel if you weren’t faking this, how his powerful thrusts would hit your g-spot. His hand cups the back of your neck, teeth bared in warning as he rolls you onto your back. 

“You’re so sexy,” he growls in your ear, hooking your legs around his waist and smacking his hips into yours. The impact is softer than it looks, aided by your moans and writhing beneath him. He goes for a handful more thrusts before “Cut!” is shouted again.

“There we go! I like the improv, can we do just one more for coverage?” Ramona says, giving you an approving smile when you immediately get into position. 

“I could go all night,” Dieter shoots back, earning an eye roll from half the crew and a dry mouth from you when he flicks his gaze back and winks. 

The second take flows even better, your bodies finally speaking to each other. Dieter palms your ass, you slow your hips. He urges you to go faster, you grind down on him. He grits his teeth as you push his chest, nails just about to bite into the supple flesh. His eyes capture yours over and over, and the hunger inside them is some damn good acting. 

The cues, the flip, and you’re on your back again, but this time Dieter drops his head to cover your breast with his hot mouth. You arch, a strangled gasp as you wait for his tongue, his teeth, but he works his jaw against the flesh and nothing more.

Fuck, you want something more.

When he pops his mouth off he resumes the script, thrusting frantically into you but with more force this time, even an edge of desperation. You meet his energy, throwing your head back and letting him yank you against him over and over. The slap, the friction, this gorgeous man before you all makes slick weep from your untouched cunt, clit aching for the act you’re simulating.

“Cut! Excellent, really good work guys, you’re hitting your groove here. Let’s move on to 19.”

Dieter stays above you for a few seconds more, your chests heaving. The lust bleeds away to a soft smile as he pats your side.

“Good work, you take direction really well.”

You bite your tongue to stop yourself from saying, “Just from you.”

You take one more walk around the soundstage to try and calm your rebellious body, but the moment you see Dieter again, kneeling in the bed with the blankets bunched in front of his hips, it’s all dashed away. Even his respectful touches as he guides you to your stomach, checking in if you’re comfortable, all burn across your skin. You just need to get through this scene.

“Action!”

This is indeed the finale. Dieter would finish above you, pounding into you from behind. You were supposed to lie there and take it, let him cuss and choke into the back of your shoulder before his breathing slows and you cut to the next morning. You could do that. You totally could. Most men you’ve been with hump you into the bed like this and it does very little for you. This would be fine.

The moment Dieter starts rutting against your ass you know you’re done for. You’re too worked up, and the position lightly teases your nipples. A wrinkle of blanket rubs against your mound just enough to relieve your clit, and while you know you should stop you can’t help but grind into the bed just enough to light up your nerves. Dieter hovers above you, thick forearms planted by your shoulders as he hisses and grunts his way to a fake climax. You press back against him, giving your own satisfied smile as he drops his forehead between your shoulders and rolls his hips again. 

“Not bad, can we go one more time?”

Shit. You’d hoped that would be enough, arousal rising dangerously between your thighs. Rearranging the sheets to deny you pleasure, you catch Dieter slumping to one side and watching you. It’s intense, being in his stare, but also warming and protective. When you lie back on your stomach and give him a nod that you’re ready, he leans down and whispers in your ear.

“If you want it, you can have it. I won’t tell anyone. You take it when it comes.”

You barely get a moment of shock before the cameras are rolling and the scene begins again. Did Dieter just…insinuate that he’d cover for you if you came? The thought makes wetness gush between your thighs, now lacking the friction you were relishing in earlier. The need aching in your cunt makes you roll your hips back against Dieter, a strained “fuck” spitting through his teeth. He grabs your hips and guides you against his narrow ones, not quite hitting where you want but the snap and slap of him against you still works you up more than it should. You cry out, bury your face in the pillow, fist the blankets as he chases his release. The practiced groan signals the end, this time his cheek pressing against your back and a kiss dotting your spine. 

Thank God. You were finally in the clear.

“I think we need one more, guys. I want a little more…intimacy this time. You both okay with that?”

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

“I don’t…” you started to protest until Dieter’s hand finds its way to the back of your neck.

“I think you can do it. I know you can. One more time?” he asks, but in his eyes is a promise that makes you nod, even against your better judgment.

This time I’ll make you cum.

Dieter changes tactics when the cameras roll. He starts off fast, yanking you back against him. Sitting up on his heels he arches you off the bed with his expansive hands. His thighs cage you in, squeezing tight. Something thick and soft slides against your ass, and you realize Dieter is hard behind you, cock still wrapped up but the weight of it against you obvious. You want him between your legs, fat head sliding over your clit, but you let him adjust you to exactly where he wants. 

With Dieter’s guidance you rock and writhe against him, drips of praise reaching your ears. With a deeply groaned, “Fuck, baby,” he folds over you, stomach pressing into your back. His fingers lace with your own, hugging you to his chest as he pumps his hips in long strokes. His cock nudges your lower back, little gasps keening out. He noses your cheek and guides you to turn your face to the camera. 

“This okay?” he mouths into your ear and you let out a, “Yes, please,” loud enough to mean anything for the camera. You slide a hand into his hair, gripping the thick curls to a stuttered sigh of pleasure. The pressure and motion finally gives you the stimulation you need, and it’s barely any time before your orgasm barrels to the forefront. You tighten your grip on Dieter’s large hand and school your face just enough to not look like you’re cumming through the hottest scene you will ever act in.

“That’s it, take it, take it baby, you’re doing so well, fucking god, look at you,” Dieter groans into your ear. He presses you deeper into the mattress, muting the uncontrollable bucking of your hips for the camera. Teeth scrape along your jaw in tender nips as he stutters to his fake finish, a guttural groan and relaxing of his body signaling the end of the scene. But Dieter lifts up on one elbow and pinches your chin between two fingers, turning your face to his. He looks at you like a mystery to be solved, like a gift, and then kisses you, slow and indulgent.

“Cut! Excellent, loved the ad libbing Dee, but you gotta stop saying fuck, we’ll have to cut that out,” the director says. Dieter laughs against your back, and the warmth of his skin makes you want to melt into the bed and never leave. 

“You doing okay?” he asks, lifting up off you and tugging both your bathrobes over to give you some modesty. He fists his own over his swollen erection, a little pink high in his cheeks and sweat along his hairline.

“Yeah, perfect, absolutely,” you say lightly, legs wobbling when you try to stand up. His eyes drag over you, a prideful smile playing on his lips as you try to cover up your dazed affect. “One more scene?” you say brightly.

“Yeah,” he says, distracted. “One more scene.”

The final shot of your day is the following morning, soft yellow light traded for the cool blue of daylight streaming in. You’re facing away from the camera, Dieter waking and looking over at your naked shoulder. He sits up and strokes along the curve of your waist, making you sigh in your sleep. He watches you with a mix of regret and resolution, kisses your shoulder, and gets out of bed.

The scene is done in one take. You wish it took all day.

The end of the shoot is quiet, taking off makeup and getting back into your public clothes. You strain to hear someone coming to your dressing room, a certain wild-haired brown-eyed man giving you a sendoff. A kind word, a piece of advice, you’d take anything. But he doesn’t come, and you leave the soundstage with your check and thanks and promises of references. 

The drive back to your apartment is quiet, music even feeling too loud for the moment. Weaving through LA traffic, the moments of your day slip through your mind like silk ribbons.

You suppose this is what meeting your heroes is like. A moment in the sunlight of their presence, then back to the real world of auditions and day jobs and hoping your parents never see this particular part of your portfolio. The dishes need washing, calls need to be made, and you have to go on with your life. It was an excellent experience, albeit a slightly inappropriate one. But if that’s the worst you got up to with Dieter then it was fairly tame.

The fleeting thought of what you’d actually hoped you’d get up to with Dieter comes and leaves without incident. 

By the time you get home you’re planning what casting call you’d go to tomorrow, making your grocery list, and considering if you can get away without doing laundry tonight. Which is why you walk past the bouquet of flowers in the atrium without checking who it’s for. Waiting for the elevator, however, curiosity gets the better of you and you peek at the card.

Your name. It’s your name on the perfectly imperfect bouquet of garden roses and eucalyptus. You’re opening the card as your cell phone vibrates in your pocket. Fishing it out, you greet the Midnight Alley casting agent on the other end.

“Are you open to a semi-recurring role?” 

“W-what?”

“Yeah, the director and AD were really impressed with your chemistry with Bravo. They’ve been trying to write him a love interest in the show, but he’s turned down all the potential actresses and guest stars. No chemistry, bad chemistry, whatever, but the point is he asked for them to consider you.”

Your hands shake, the clean white card pinched between your fingers.

I think we can do better together than that. Dinner?

-DB

“What do you think?”

Your heart flutters as you set it free.

“When can I start?”

END

[wildemaven]

Sweet Creature: Chapter Nine

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

WC: 8k

Warnings: 18+ Blog; Fluff, a kiss of angst, talk of past relationship and break up, pregnancy scare, mopey Poppy, nervousness and anxiety, brief mentions of sobriety, smut, self doubt, public speaking, reader has the nickname Poppy- zero physical description, to dumb dumbs in love

A/N: This is a doozy of a chapter, there was so much to pack in for these two. I can’t believe we’re nearing the end, I had definite moments of sadness as I was wrapping up this chapter but also found so inspiration to help tie up the story for these two! You can listen to Dieter & Poppy’s Playlist Here. Also a big thank you to @gnpwdrnwhiskey for constantly listening and helping me through this one, I definitely needed it on this chapter.

Series Masterlist / Playlist / Main Masterlist

Previous/ Epilogue

It had taken a few months for Dieter to tangle himself into your life. 

Inching his way into your mind, settling deep within your bones and eventually finding shelter in the most sacred of places— your heart. 

It took only a matter of a few short days for him to imprint himself into your home, pieces of him lingering in your space, even long after he had left. 

But you can’t seem to pull yourself from the confines of your bed, each morning since his departure, you study the hollowed out spot where his worn body claimed as his, still having yet to find the energy to make it or wash the sheets clean of the hours of intensity and conversations ingrained into the plush pillow-top. 

Your fingers run over the creases of the pillow, remembering how you would trace the same lines etched across his face in the early mornings, the usual scrunch between his brows smooth and relaxed, the faintest of snores escaping his parted lips— memorizing his angelic dreamy state. 

A soft thread catches the path your finger continues to take. A silky strand of hair, no longer a part of him, now woven in through the fibers of your cotton pillowcase— proof he was here and existed in this space with you, with those unruly thick curls tousled with ardency, sweat and sleep— your fingers still managing to work through the wildness. 

*

-Saturday Morning-

“What was your last serious relationship like?” Dieter asks, laying on his side with an arm bent, head propped on his hand, your bed sheet draped over his naked lower half. 

His free hand mapping out the plains of your exposed skin, the morning sun filters through your bedroom window, providing a soft muted light as his fingers continue to unearth new details of your body he has yet to see in daylight. 

“Oof! Hitting me with the serious stuff first thing in the morning.” The rasp of sleep still coating your throat, your body turned in close towards him with one arm tucked between your pillow and resting head, your free hand mesmerized by the texture of his skin— connecting invisible lines between each freckle painted across his neck and chest. 

“Question for a question then. But you don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to.” 

“No, it’s fine. It’s— just a lot for some people to hear. Kind of just keep it to myself, less questions and ‘how come’ once they find out.” 

“Hey, I won’t judge you, for anything you tell me— ever.”

Dieter watches the way your eyes flit about for a few seconds, his hand stopping to rest on your naked hip with a gentle squeeze, a reassuring gesture of sincerity in his words. 

“Frankie was my high school sweetheart, we started dating our senior year. We were together— gosh…. 5, almost 6 years.” You let out a sigh, all the memories of your previous relationship flooding back to you, having been locked away for so long. 

“After high school, when we realized things were getting serious, we decided to figure out what we wanted moving forward. We were on the same page with everything for the most part, no real deal breakers. We would get married after college, buy a house— a seemingly cookie cutter life together.”

“I’m not following— sounds like the perfect life to me.” Confusion settles across his forehead, brows drawn together as he studies your face. 

“Except, I couldn’t give him the one thing he wanted— kids.” You notice the way his face drops when you say it, knowing his first thought is exactly what everyone else usually assumes when you tell them.

“I guess I should rephrase that— I didn’t want, don’t want kids. It was something we established too, both on board with living a childless life. We agreed we would be the best Aunt and Uncle for our friend’s kids.”

Dieter nods at your admission, the hand on your hip starting to leave feather-like strokes the length of your side, goosebumps scattering across your warm skin. 

“It wasn’t until we were well into our relationship that things changed. We had a bit of a pregnancy scare, we were both very careful too, so it was a bit of a shock when it happened. I was angry with myself— how could I let it happen? What did I do wrong? All the things running through my head the minute I saw those pink lines, wondering how we were going to afford a baby on our combined income, all while trying to get through finishing college— I spiraled pretty hard for a good week. But, through some routine testing, we discovered it was a false-positive— I was so fucking relieved!” 

Your fingers still over the hollow of his neck, taking a deep breath, not really sure how Dieter is taking everything you’re saying. 

“In the midst of my inner turmoil over the thought of being pregnant, I hadn’t really checked in with Frankie to see where his head was at, I had just assumed he was riding the same boat as me.”

“He changed his mind?” He asks. 

“Yeah— or it was what he had always wanted, he just didn’t realize it until that week, when it was almost a possibility.”

“So you broke up?”

“We stayed together for another year afterwards, thinking we could work through it. But I couldn’t keep that from him, it would have eaten me alive being the reason he wasn’t 100% happy. We decided it was best if we split.” You can’t help the smile that starts to develop, Dieter’s receptive demeanor made this whole moment feel a little less heavier than you thought it would be. 

“I ended up running into Frankie a few years ago. We caught up and I learned he ended up joining the army, Special Forces I think, met his wife while saving her from some bar creep, always the chivalrous one—  and they have two little girls. I like to think we both ended up where we were supposed to be.”

There’s a prick of something that ricochets across his chest— the pairing of unaltered reverence and adoration. You just want the best for others, and it shows even in how not that long ago how you went to battle for Diem out of pure love, wanting the best for her and Wren— he respects you so much now looking back on it. 

Dieter leans over and places a few soft kisses to your lips, the last one lingering a little longer before pulling away to rest his forehead on yours. 

“Thank you, for sharing that with me.” He murmurs against your lips. 

“Of course. My question now— What about you? Do you want kids?” You ask. 

Dieter gently pushes you to your back, settling himself between your legs, peering down at you with a soft smile.

“I’ll only ever be Uncle Dude— never had the desire to be a dad.” 

His head dips down to your still bare chest, the few kitten-like licks before he takes your nipple into his mouth, scorching and persistent, causing your back to arch up into him, eyes fluttering closed and mouth wide as you emit a breathless whine. 

A few intense sucking motions before he gives your breast an experimental bite, his eyes observing the way your body writhes at the juxtaposition of sensations before releasing it with a pop, blowing a stream of cold air across your wet skin and watching the way your nipple instantly tightens. 

He crawls up your body, one arm resting next to your head as the other snakes down between your bodies taking hold of his now hardened cock, a few quick strokes before he’s notching the head at your now dripping entrance. 

“Doesn’t mean I don’t like partaking in the act.” His words punctuated by him fully sheathing himself into your cunt.

“Oh fuck! Dieter—“ Your laugh quickly exchanged for a heady moan. 

Your bodies meld together in a heated indulgence. The slippery grip of dewy skin as your bodies work in a synergistic fashion, calculated snapping of hips take you both to a climactic level of bliss. 

*

BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ

The vibration of your phone against your nightstand draws you back from the reliving of your weekend with Dieter, interrupting the playlist streaming through the phone speaker. 

You grab your phone to check who the message is from…

Mom ❤️: Hey Sweetheart! Let me know when you’re heading over. Going to sit by the pool for a bit until then. This place is beautiful, I might not ever leave! Talk to you soon!

The music promptly picks back up again with its uptempo beat, you connect your phone to your speakers in the living room, the words floating brightly in the background as you will yourself out of bed. 

In route to a much needed cup of coffee, you pull on the fuzzy warm jacket that seems to have established itself as an essential element in your daily life, dropping your phone in its cavernous pocket before bringing the fleecy fabric to your face for a brief moment. It’s a cognitive experience, the inhalation of the still drenched in his signature Dieter-musk, making your insides gooey and flustered. 

‘Ooh, I lose control, can't seem to get enough, uh-huh

When I wake from dreaming, tell me is it really love?’

You chuckle into your cup as you take that first sip, the words a flawless depiction, and complete coincidence of every morning this week. 

A quick text back to your mom to fill her in on the day’s plans. 

Poppy: Hi Mom! Had a bit of a slow morning, but I’m up and moving now! Going to shower and get ready. I thought we could go to this new sandwich shop that just opened. I've been wanting to try it. I’ll text you when I’m on my way to the hotel. Love you

Your mom had gotten in late last night, still having not seen her yet. Diem was so kind to put her up in the Capri for the weekend, your mom insisting she didn’t want to intrude and give you space. 

It was her first time visiting since you had moved, but not her first time to Ojai. She had visited on numerous occasions in her travels before having you, it was usually a brief stop for a few hours to grab a quick bite and then off to her next stop. 

As a child, you would spend hours browsing through her endless collection of photo albums, dreaming up your own stories about visiting her favorite places— grainy Kodak Portra 160 was her film of choice, the color grading and light leaks adding to the cinematized scenes. There was something alluring about Ojai, always spending a little extra time with those images, it had become your ‘one day I am going to move there’ place. So, when you had started actually considering moving, your mind instantly went to Ojai— it was a no-brainer this was the place you were meant to set your roots in. 

A slow sip of the ambered liquid trickles down your throat, its atomic structure hitting every nerve as it slowly expands in your veins, giving you the ample amount of energy to keep you from crawling right back in bed. 

A thrumming piano tune dances across the room, instantaneously reliving the moment you coerced Dieter to add it to your growing playlist, selfishly you hope the familiar high falsetto voice evokes the same memory for Dieter as it does for you when he shuffles through the songs. 

Just a small town girl

Livin' in a lonely world

She took the midnight train going anywhere

Just a city boy

Born and raised in South Detroit

He took the midnight train going anywhere

*

-Sunday Afternoon-

“Add. The. Song. Dieter!” A purely joking dramatic version of yourself pleads with him, you sense the song isn’t a front-runner for Dieter, but you’re enjoying the banter it’s causing. 

The popular chorus continues roaring through the living room where you’ve both been camped out for the last hour, switching off listening to music on bith your record player and Dieter’s Spotify account.

It felt silly when you suggested you both should create a compilation of songs that you could listen to and think of the other person— complete cheeseball move. It was reminiscent of junior high when you would download songs off shady sites and then burn the perfect cd mix for your crush, labeling it— I really like you but I’m not good with words, so here’s some songs instead— the cover art hand drawn sharpie doodles and emo quotes that could bring a 15 year old girl in love to tears. Being it was modern times, Dieter opted for a playlist of top favorite songs between the two of you, dubbing it ‘Dieter’s & Poppy’s Mix Tape.’

He wants to engrain this scene in his mind forever, your naked form cloaked in his beloved brown jacket, dancing around your living room, belting the lyrics in the most out of tune way. 

“Streetlights, people!— Dieter, please! You said our favorite songs— this would be a favorite of mine! Add the damn song!!” 

“This— This is your favorite song? It’s like the most overplayed karaoke song in the history of music” His cocked eyebrow as he holds his phone with the Spotify app open in his lap, finding it hard to hold off his growing smirk and not surprised in the least that it’s a top pick for you. 

“I’ll have you know, I am the reigning Karaoke Queen, west of the Mississippi River— you're in the presence of royalty, Babe. Don't stop believin' Hold on to that feelin'!” Grabbing another slice of cold pizza from the half eaten box on the coffee table, you continue twirling about on your tippy toes, maintaining your off-key singing between bites. 

“Something tells me your full of shit. Fine— It’s added. But I’m adding ‘You Need to Calm Down’ for tax.”

“I need to do what?” Your twirling ceases, the bottom of his jacket swaying about as you watch the way he stares down at his phone, fingers pecking at the screen. 

“No— it’s a song. According to Wren, “it’s a Taylor Swift masterpiece!’” His air quotes and deadpan expression almost take you out. 

“Never would have pegged you as a Swiftie, but I love it.”

“Well, it’s all she wants to listen to on the drive to school. I can’t help it if i know every word to almost every song.”

The next song plays through, Dieter continues to watch you from his spot on the couch, loving the carefree manner in which you move, your infectious smile on display as you sing along to a song you definitely do not know a single word to, eyes closed and arms stretched out letting the chorus fully envelop your mind— this whole moment solidifying his love for you. 

He brings his phone up and snaps a few pictures, each image progressively blurrier as he tries to capture you dancing, his last attempt is more or less successful, the timing just right and the result an accurate depiction of how he wants look back on this time together— a flash of your beaming smile that causes your eyes to crinkle at the edges and your audacious desire to be completely yourself in front of him is a picture worth taking. 

“Are you taking a picture of me?” Breathless and smiling. 

“Guilty. I need something to remember this day while I’m away.”

“Okay, but take a better one then.” 

Grabbing his sunglasses off the table to situate them on your face, your bare leg crossed over and kicked out to the side in an ameture Radio City Rockette fashion, middle fingers erect while your hands cover your now exposed breasts, a one-sided nose scrunch and curled lip with some semblance of a smile, all while the remaining slice of your pizza dangles from your mouth. 

“Beautiful, just like the other ones.” His chest vibrates at the sight of you, he pats his thighs motioning for you to come over to where he’s seated. “Alright Karaoke Queen, get your sexy little Believin’ ass over here!” 

Tossing your crust back into the pizza box, you skip-hop over to him, your knees sinking into the cushions of the couch as you straddle his boxer clad lap. His hands sliding under where his Jacket is splayed open, his warm touch glides over your thighs. 

“Let me see— the others, please.” You ask timidly, not sure what ‘others’ entails, pulling his sunglasses off and tossing them to the side. 

His thumb swipes and presses across his phone screen, then hands you an open folder of images, tiny intimate squares fill the screen. You click on the most recent ones of you here in your home, laughing at how ridiculous you think you look, glancing up to see Dieter’s head tilted to the side and his gaze fixed on you. Refocusing on his phone, you start swiping, so many images of times you had spent together, except you're the main focus of each photo, very much unaware of your photo being taken. 

There was the afternoon spent baking cupcakes for no reason other than they sounded delicious. Flour covering the surface of the counter, while you and Wren laugh at something completely unrelated to the making of said cupcakes— equal amounts of flour coating both your hands and faces. 

There’s the backyard dinner Diem had invited you over for. You were seated across from where Dieter and Diem were sitting, listening intently to something she was saying. The sun warm against your back as it had started its descent, your elbow propped on the table and chin resting on your hand, your attention focused on every aspect of the conversation. 

The first evening Dieter and Wren had attended your art class together, a few of you talking about something art related and then a couple of you actually painting and drawing— your face naturally lighting up at you sharing art with others. 

Each swipe revealed another image, so many of you smiling while looking off at whatever had your attention, full body laughs shared with someone out of frame, deep in thought or absorbed into something you were reading or looking at on your phone. 

Seeing your life candidly curated in a digital collection of photos has so many emotions whirling through your mind, love being the most prominent one. 

Your breath hitches when you scroll to the last image in the folder.

You're at the front of your classroom, a stack of papers tucked against your chest as your smile beams out to your class. You note your outfit isn’t your usual uniform, you're wearing your favorite band tee, jeans and sneakers— it’s the morning you were late and Dieter stepped in to help you out, bringing a sense of ease to your disarray of a morning. 

“I think that was one of the moments I knew.” Dieter’s smoky voice cuts into the air, pointing at the image you’ve been studying a little longer than the others.

“Knew what?” Looking up from the phone to see his chestnut eyes twinkling with adoration, his hands gently rubbing against your hips. 

“Knew that I needed you in my life, however that was.” 

“There were others?”

“Your art class was another.”

There’s a beat of silence between you, the start of the next song picking up its pace. 

“Do you ever imagine what it would be like if we would have met each other sooner than we did?” Something you’ve thought about at times, wishing you had more time with him, maybe if you had met sooner. Your fingers trace along the ridge of his collarbone as you wait for his answer. 

“No— you would have definitely deserved better than who I was back then. You would have hated the thought of being in the same room as me.” 

He wouldn’t have been anything close to who he is now, grateful you were never fully subjected to the asshole he used to be. 

Your hand settles on his bare chest, right where his heart is beating fiercely.

“I deserve you now though. And I definitely want to be in every room you walk into.” 

‘Tears stream down your face

I promise you I will learn from my mistakes

Tears stream down your face, and I

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones And I will try to fix you’

Your lips meet his in an unhurried embrace, Dieter pulling your lower body closer to his, his fingers digging into the meat of your backside when your hips start to gradually begin to grind against him, his cock hardening with each brush of your wet cunt. 

His hands create their own intimate paths over your body, one traveling up the length of your spine, the other moving to the underside of your breast, cupping the supple weight of it in his palm. A swipe of his thumb over your sensitive nipple has you gasping into his mouth, the catalyst for your silent plea for more— and he hears it loud and clear. 

His hands. His mouth. His cock— all working in perfect, articulate motions. Until you’re succumbing to the culmination of purposeful exertion and precise execution. 

The last 48 hours were spent with Dieter's departure looming in the background of your minds, not allowing yourselves to stew on the impending heartache that was to come the moment you said your goodbyes. 

Between the hours of relaxed conversations and alleviating desirous needs, you both managed to get through the weekend with a strong sense of optimism about the future. A shared commitment to each other, with endless promises of check-ins whenever possible and working out a plan to see each other once Dieter had his schedule set, it was enough to keep the sadness at bay— it gave you something to look forward to. 

The afternoon slowly began to bleed into your final evening together, tangled limbs and intimate memories treated with exactness, fueling hushed whispers of ‘I love yous’ embedding themselves into every single part of your soul. 

*

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK 

You hadn’t been expecting anyone, the rapid knock on your front door was a complete surprise. 

After confirming your name with the sweet delivery lady, she hands off the beautiful dried floral arrangement, mentioning a card was tucked into the center, wishing you a great rest of your day before driving away. 

You had never seen anything like it before, an incredible assortment of dried flowers, stems and oversized leaves arranged meticulously in a ceramic vase. 

Placing the flowers on the kitchen counter, you pull the small card from it, reading the small written note:

Poppy, I’m so proud of you! You’re so talented and I can’t wait to hear how tonight goes. Love you, Dieter

You smile at his thoughtfulness, missing him so much and needing to hear his voice desperately. 

Pulling your phone from the coat pocket, you dial his number and hope there’s a chance you catch him at a good time. 

“Hello.” There’s warmth in the way his voice cracks through the phone. 

“Hi. I just got the flowers— they’re absolutely beautiful, Dieter. Thank you!” 

“I can’t take full credit. Nessa, my assistant, said you might like them, something about them lasting forever. Anyways, she set up the order while I was in a meeting.” 

“Well, I’ll have to thank her at some point then.” There’s some static carrying through the line as you continue your conversation.

“How are you feeling about today?” 

“Good. Just finally pulled myself out of bed. Going to get dressed, then have lunch with my mom before I get ready for tonight. I miss you, Dieter.” 

There’s a brief moment where it sounds like the call cuts out, looking at the screen you see it’s still counting up the call minutes, still connected. 

“I— you too. ‘Ant wait— it goes….”

“Dieter?…Hello? Babe, your phone keeps cutting out.”

*Call Dropped* 

The connection was lost, conversation cut short, staring at a now black phone screen. 

Poppy💐: Your service must be shitty or something, couldn’t hear most of what you were saying. Call me when you can. Love you 💜

You attach a photo of the flowers along with your message. Knowing if he was in a bad service area, you wouldn’t be getting an immediate response, so you take that as your cue to get yourself ready. 

Poppy: Getting dressed! Should be leaving here in 20 minutes. See you in a bit mom! 😘 

*

Your mom’s presence was exactly what you needed today. Seeing her sitting across from you now makes you feel less overwhelmed by the fact that your boyfriend isn’t here and you’re hours away from sharing this passion project of yours, something so intimate and personal, with a room full of art loving strangers.

But even in her presence, you still find your mind wandering— Dieter being the central character of your deviating thoughts— even things outside your home, the smallest of details, reminding you of him in some way. 

Bart’s across the street, a favorite spot for both of you, especially after the talk you both shared coming to an understanding and moving forward together with a new perspective on each other.

Someone walking by, where your mom and you are sitting together on the restaurant patio, was carrying a merchant bag from a store you had bought Dieter’s birthday present. There was a gold colored velvet button up shirt cover in a large geometric print that you had seen while out shopping with Diem one weekend, she had made the offhand comment that it was totally something Dieter would wear and when you had found out a few days later that Dieter’s birthday was the following weekend, you immediately went back to buy it for him. 

You had also thrown in a pair of tiny Frozen charms, Elsa for Wren and Olaf for Dieter, for the Crocs you had seen him wear around Diem’s house on movie nights, in the chance he hated the shirt you knew he was a sucker for kitschy gifts— by the way he wears the shirt regularly, it’s fair to assume he likes it. 

You even think of him in the most laughable ways too, like when a car similar to his drives by the restaurant, you of course immediately think of him— you find yourself to be a lost cause at this point. 

“I’m so sorry, Sweetheart, I’m sure Dieter would love to be here if he could. Aside from him leaving, how was the rest of the week after he left?” 

“Hmm?” 

“I asked how’s your week been? We haven’t talked much since last week.” 

“Oh my gosh, Mom! I’m so sorry— I’m literally the worst person to be around right now, I’m sure. I’ve been so in my head lately, I can’t even think straight.” You cover your face as you apologize for being lackluster company to her, realizing you’ve spent most of lunch off in La-La-Land. 

“My week was good though. With summer break starting last week, I spent most of this wrapping up last minute grading and finishing up paperwork. Monday and Tuesday I went to clean up my classroom, just mainly clearing out old projects and lesson plans from the past year. Which then left me the rest of the week to get my canvases prepared and hung up over at Reverie, where the art opening is tonight.”

“Sounds like it’s kept your mind off of Dieter not being able to be there tonight.” She gives you a sympathetic look, and it makes you feel so appreciative that she flew out to be here for you. 

“If I’m being honest, it really hasn’t. I just selfishly keep wishing he didn’t have leave so I could have more time with him. And then I hate myself for even thinking that, because I’m so happy and proud of him— he deserves this, I just miss him so much. We’ve tried to talk and FaceTime when we can, but his schedule right now has been busy, so I just sit and wait for him to call most evenings. God, I sound ridiculous!” A slight crack to your voice as you’re overcome with emotion, it’s sadness and happiness all wrapped up in a perfect little box sitting in your chest, lifting your chin up as you fight back the tears that threaten to break. 

“Oh, honey.” She passes you a few clean napkins, noticing the few tears that managed to escape. “Maybe give him a call in a bit, I’m sure hearing his voice will help you feel better.”

“Yeah, I’ll give him a call when I get home. Thanks mom. I’m so glad you’re here! Let’s talk about something else, bring the mood back up. How’s retirement going?” Changing the subject to hopefully suppress your mopey demeanor, dabbing your wet cheeks lightly. 

“Oh, it’s great! I’ve actually been thinking about doing some traveling now that I have all this time.” 

“I love that for you mom. You should go, see the world— you deserve it.” 

She shared about the places she had already started planning to visit— in and around Canada, parts of Europe, then several areas of South America. You greedily wished she didn’t want to go, feeling a steady wave of emotions rock through you at the thought of her being gone for so long. But, you know how much traveling means to her, it’s pure joy watching the way she can’t stop smiling as she shows you landmark places she’ll be visiting— a true testament to chase after the things you love. 

*

Doubt. 

Fear. 

Trepidation. 

A war of anxieties. Ruthless, belligerent intruders, battling for control and power. Your mind slowly forfeits, white flag in waiting, ready to surrender yourself to the helm of your own enemies. 

Even with the excitement surrounding tonight, you hadn’t really mastered the art of calming intrusive thoughts and apprehension once they began to build their way into your consciousness.

There’s the brief moment where you consider getting back into your car and driving home— rid yourself of the stress and anxiety that is overcoming you at the thought of being the center of attention tonight— albeit your art the main focus, but with that will come talking about yourself and it has you ready to bail. 

But, you had put so much time and effort into this collection, executing and curating an intimate journey of discovery in the form of detailed lines and brush strokes that make up a whole series of paintings you are incredibly proud of. 

Breathe. 

In. 

Out. 

Dieter comes to mind, the words he shared with you before he left: 

“You were made for this, it’s who you are and it’s what you know— don’t let you be the reason you stop chasing what you deserve. I believe in everything you do, you should too.” 

His words wash over you, each one forging a path for you to conquer your reluctance to seek out something that you have always dreamed of doing. 

You pull out your phone to shoot Dieter a quick text before heading into the gallery. 

Poppy💐: Hi! I miss you and wish you were here ❤. Hope you had a great day. I’ll have Diem take pictures to send you later. Call me when you can. Love you xo

Remembering back to when  Dieter had shared something he does when his anxiety starts to surface, deciding to take a minute to borrow his technique to help ground your thoughts. 

You see the vibrant lights from the front windows of Reverie Studio, the way the moon is peeking out from behind the building making its way through the sky, the streak of lights from headlights of passing cars, blurred bodies of people milling around the streets unbothered by you rooted in the center of the sidewalk, the time stamped over an image of you and Dieter as the lock screen on your phone. 

You feel the weight of your phone leaving your hand as you drop it in your purse, the flowy dress that you picked out with Diem a few weeks ago specifically for this evening, a folded piece of paper with notes for the small speech you were going to give, a good luck charm in the form of Dieter’s 1 year chip clutched tightly into your hand. 

You hear the muted chatter of the early birds spilling from the open door of the gallery, the mingling musical instruments in the local park showering concert goers with an original melodic song, an indistinguishable mix of hello’s and goodbye’s wrapped around gossip filled phone conversations. 

You smell the sweet-vanilla-waffle confections of the little ice cream shop that stays open late during the summer, a hint of a smokey musk dusting the air reminding you of the woody spicy that’s so distinctly Dieter. 

You taste the delicate flavors of a savory future, one that has a palatable balance of sweetness and verve— something so delectable that you don’t think you’ll be able to stop reveling in its richness. 

BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ

Your immediate thought is it’s Dieter, pulling out your phone to see it’s instead Diem. 

Diem: Are you going to stand out there all night?? Get your ass in here!

She’s standing in the window with Wren on her hip, both of them waving at you. 

Feeling a somewhat renewed sense of confidence, you wait for a break in the passing cars and jog across the street to join the crowd already forming inside. 

You’re completely taken aback once you’re through the front door, not by the overwhelming number of people who showed up to view your work, but by how the room is filled with a plethora of vases overflowing with poppies. 

The edges of the room, table tops, display pedestals all covered in a sea of pinks, oranges and pale yellow flowers. 

“So glad you could show up!” Diem and Wren wrap you in a joint hug, a warm greeting with a touch of her special sarcasm. 

“Where did all these flowers come from? They weren’t here yesterday when I stopped in to do some final touches.”

“A certain someone might have wanted to surprise you with something special.”

There’s an immediate pang in your chest, his thoughtfulness and his way of showing support by filling the studio space with your favorite flowers, you have to actively fight off the urge to cry tears of happiness. 

You snap a few photos, focusing on the ones that sit below where your canvases are hung on the fabricated display walls. 

You can’t contain the smile plastered across your face, seeing your work being admired by those in attendance, getting a chance to catch up with friends and fellow artists and having your mom close by listening to her talk up your talent with complete strangers— all still while wishing Dieter were here bask in the excitement with you. 

“If I could have everyone’s attention please.” The owners ask, the room’s noise quickly reduced to a curbed level. “We thank everyone for coming to show their support for this wonderful event. We’ll have her share more about it with you and then we’d like to say a few words afterwards.” 

Applause breaches the silence as you’re beckoned to the center of the room, your paper of scribbled notes in one hand and Dieter’s chip in the other, making your way to the front of the mass of people. 

You introduce yourself as you take in all the faces, some familiar and some new, Diem and your mom in a side embrace with Wren to the front of them, each person enthralled and eager to hear you share more about you and the art behind you. 

“Art has always been a part of me, in so many different ways. Growing up I would tear apart my mom’s magazines to make collages of pretty pictures, sorry mom.” Glancing down at your paper as a wave of soft laughter filters around, it elicits a surge of excitement and sureness blooms somewhere deep in your soul, deciding to for-go reading anything you had written and just share from the heart. 

“And then I got my first sketchbook, that thing never left my side. Always with me at school, trips to the grocery store and even on days when my mom worked late, I’d sit in the corner of her classroom and just draw— creating little scenes from memory. I filled the pages rather quickly too, pages were barely hanging on with the amount of wear and tear I had put it through. Before I knew it, I had amassed a collection of sketchbooks and canvases over the years. Art has always been a part of who I am and I think it always will be.”

Everyone seemed so fascinated by everything you’re sharing. Explaining the story behind your collection— starting as a literal dream and slowly becoming a now etched on canvas reality. 

Even the collaborative piece with Dieter is hung among the others, you went the extra step to add his name onto the little artist placard:

Artists: Dieter & Poppy

Title: ‘Sweet Creature’

Medium: Acrylic on Canvas

$: (Not For Sale)

“Thank you all for taking the time out of your busy schedules to be here tonight, I appreciate it so very much, I’ll be around the rest of the evening to chat more or answer any questions. And thank you to Reviere Studio, you’ve become like a second home to me. I’m so grateful that I had the opportunity to share my love for the arts with the many who attended my classes in this very space, but also to be the last art showing truly means so much to me. I will miss you all.”

Another round of applause and cheers fill the open space. You feel like it went pretty well for how nervous you were earlier in the evening, not really sure why you were doubting yourself to begin with. 

The crowd slowly starts to disperse as you start to weave to where Diem, your mom and Wren are standing, getting stopped for hugs and hellos from former class attendees, congratulatory remarks for complete strangers too— you’re even shocked when Betty and Marilyn stop to share their well wishes with you. 

“I’m so proud of you sweetheart, it’s all so amazing!” Your mom wraps you in praises and a tight hug. 

“Thank you mom, I’m so happy you could be here!”

“I’m happy to be here too!” Wren’s excitement is barely containable as she bounces off the floor. 

“I’m so happy you’re here too Wren!” You tell her as you bend down to give her a hug as well. 

Standing back to your full height, you turn to Diem and just wrap your arms around her shoulders and hold her close, she returns the same energy. 

“Thank you so much for everything, you are literally the best friend I could have ever asked for. I love you so much Diem!” 

“God dammit, Poppy! I didn’t wear any waterproof mascara because I wasn’t planning on crying tonight! I love you too!” She pulls away and starts fanning her face, drying up the tears that had started to fill her eyes. 

“Excuse me! We have a quick, exciting announcement to make before the evening continues with drinks and appetizers.” The sweet owner Susi’s voice boomed out to the guests. 

*

Dieter doesn’t like lying, not in general at least and especially not to you— open and honest is how he continues to move forward with his life. 

But this doesn’t feel like a lie, in a sense. A secret. A surprise. 

Taking this role meant sacrificing his time away and that terrified him, especially being his first project to jump back into. 

After a call with his agent on the drive back to LA Monday morning and a check in with his sponsor,  Dieter requested a meeting with the movie’s higher ups. 

That meeting didn’t happen until a few days later, but when he found out filming would be held in and around LA, Dieter learned his request for weekends to travel back to Ojai was successful. 

That gave him less than 24 hours to get flowers ordered to be delivered to the gallery, let Diem in on his plan to ensure everything was in motion, all while you had no idea what was happening. 

Dieter settles in the back of the crowd, tucked out of sight, finding it difficult to keep his eyes off you as you stand up there. 

Watching you share about your life and how art has always been a big part of it, the two of you so similar in many ways makes him feel a deeper connection to you. 

He recognizes the paper you’ve started crumpled into your hand, worn and creased from the repetitive folding and unfolding, scarred by the cross-hatching over abandoned words or shelved sentences, bullet points of importance to add substance to your speech. He likes the version you who was pacing around her living room Sunday morning, paper in one hand and pen in the other, reciting each line with a fluctuating ambivalent tone, stopping intermittently at the coffee table to rework a line or add something he had suggested. But he loves this version of you standing before him right now, no hesitation in your words, speaking with certainty and feeling— you were more than prepared. 

The way you wear your confidence stirs something inside of him— trying his best to keep a low profile, because all he wants to do is scoop you up and kiss you breathless, to tell you over and over, how perfect and amazing he thinks you are.

He notices the light catching something you’re intently smoothing your fingers over, tracing repeatedly over every word— It’s not going to be easy, but it’s going to be worth it— engraved on his 1 year chip, a habit he’s welcomed into his daily routine. You had refused to take it from him when he offered it, not wanting him to be without it longer than necessary, but he had vowed to take it back the moment you were reunited. Placing it in your palm, hinting at the streak of luck it had brought him over the past year, ensuring that it would do the same for you— but he knew you wouldn’t need any.

He wants more of this— more time with you. To feel immersed back into this normal paced life and experience the joys that you feel regularly. 

He has to shuffle himself around a bit when the crowd starts to move about, still trying to not be seen, watching you celebrate post speech with your mom, Diem and Wren— eagerly wanting to do the same. 

The gallery owner’s announcement signals the beginning of something exciting. 

He just hopes you’re as ecstatic about what’s about to be revealed as he is. 

*

Susi takes a moment for everyone to quiet down and focus their attention on her before continuing her speech. 

“Earlier this year, we had made the difficult decision to close our doors— deciding it was time to seek out a new chapter with new adventures and close this chapter on Reverie Studio.”

You’re sandwiched between Diem and your mom, hands intertwined as your head rests on Diem’s shoulder, somber as Susi’s heartfelt words about the studio’s closing. 

“But we have some exciting news to share with you all. The gallery and studio are now under new ownership and will continue to stay open. It will be under a new name, but will still retain what Reverie had previously been known for— classes, art openings, studio space. And while we’re sad to hand it over, we’re excited to see it continue to serve the community.”

The delighted commotion pours out into the streets, catching the attention of passersby’s curiosity. 

“So, we welcome you to the new home of Les Coquelicots Studio. The new owner is somewhere here in the audience too.” Heads begin to turn, seeking out where this mysterious owner is, when Susi points towards the back of the room and waves. “Ah, there he is. Please be sure to make him feel welcome and thank him before you leave. Thank you all again for coming and have a wonderful rest of the night.”

Music begins to brim over the conversations that start to pick up, guests dispersing to fill their small plates with finger foods and refilling of drinks, ambling about observing your artwork and surrounding art pieces. 

But you're too focused on the fact that you had no idea that the space wasn’t closing, as you continue turning about scanning the room for the new owner. 

Everything stills. 

No sound. 

No horde of people. 

Just him. 

Dieter Bravo. 

All Dieter-like too, leaning against the back wall, hands secure in his pockets, the slightest tick of his jaw punctuating his dimple. 

Your brain is actively working to re-hardwire your body to function properly, but you’re motionless. Speechless. 

He’s here, propelling himself forward and making his way to you, even as he stands before you, it doesn’t feel real. 

“Surprise.” His voice nearly takes you out, it hasn’t been that long since you had last spoken, but you’ve missed its gravely tone so much. 

“What are you doing here? I thought— I don’t know what I thought because I can’t think straight at the moment. How are you here?” Dizzy with total surprise and confusion. 

He leans in, laughing at your flustered smile, hands slinking their way to your face, his touch charged with fervor as his thumbs sweep over the apples of your cheeks. 

“Came to see my girl.” He smiles softly, his words a breath away from where you want him most. 

You close the distance between you, his lips fitting perfectly against yours, unbothered by the room full of people around you. You knew you would never get that same feeling or experience like with your first kiss, but this is second best and you welcome it fully. 

Before the kiss has a chance to turn into something more than what is appropriate for the setting, you pull away, resting your forehead on his, breathless and happy. 

“It’s you isn’t it— You bought this place?” The answer is clear as you look into his warm eyes. 

“I did.”

“Les Coquelicots? Monet’s painting?” 

“Poppies.” 

This is it. Your forever. With him. Always. 

“I know how much this place means to you, think of it as a thank you— for giving me a chance, for believing in me.” 

“You didn’t have to buy me an art gallery as a thank you, dinner would have been fine.” Your fingers catching the rampant tears streaming down your cheeks, emitting a breathy laugh. 

“We can go to dinner after this then.” His words mumbled in a kiss against your forehead. 

“You still didn’t answer my question— How are you here? What about your movie?” 

“When I found out we would be shooting locally in LA, I told them I had one request— that I was able to go home every weekend if I wasn’t needed on set.” 

“But your home is already there?”

“I’m selling my home in West Hollywood— my realtor is getting it ready to be listed next week, hopefully moved out by the end of the month. So I can move home.” 

It goes without saying that you know what he means, but you want to hear him say it out loud.

“Do you mean here? You’ll be moving here?” 

He nods his head in response.

“What if this place gets too boring for a big movie star like yourself?” Biting your lip with a hint of a smile. 

“Poppy— wherever I go, you bring me home.” 

The kiss is short, but full of a warmth you crave when he’s in your presence, your arms linking around his neck as he pulls flush against, white knuckle grip on your hips— the two you lost in each other as the work around you carries on. 

“Hmm— so, you’re gonna move in with Diem permanently?” 

“Nah, I’ll find some place eventually.” He winks, no real rush to move in together, but he sees it as an option at some point in the future. 

“Well, if you’re over living with your sister, I have a comfortable couch with your name all over it.” You snort at your offer. 

“Poppy, I’m not sleeping on your fucking couch.”

“Suit yourself then.” You mirror his wink before pulling him in for another string of small pecks. 

“I love you, Dieter.”

“I love you too, Poppy”

Next

[oogaboogasphincter]

would u do a part 2 of after the beep when bunny gets home from work? because it’s very much delicious and i ate it up with a little salt and pepper

Stress Relief | Dieter Bravo x f!reader

🩷 hiii anon! 🥺 i can’t even begin to apologize for how long this took me to get to you, i’m so beyond thankful for your patience <3 i hope i delivered for you! 🫶

After an agitating day, your boyfriend Dieter helps melt all your worries away by delivering on the dirty promises he left in your voicemails earlier that morning.

word count/warnings: 4.9k+ words EXPLICIT 18+ ONLY MDNI! // hurt (reader has a terrible horrible no good very bad day) then comfort, reader and dieter have a verbal argument (in which reader throws a pillow at dieter) but it’s quickly resolved, phone sex mention, dieter threatens to blackmail your boss lol, anal play (f!receiving; fingering, licking), anal sex (f!receiving), masturbation (f), oral (m receiving), recreational drug use (weed, reader and dieter both use but it’s not a factor in their consent), insane amount of pet names (baby, kitty, bunny, sweetheart, sugar, lady, girl) // ao3 link

(this can be read as part 2 to after the beep but it can also be a standalone!)

“Dieter!?”

You shout as you wrench the door open with your rain-slicked hand and kick it closed behind you, leaving a muddy bootprint on the crisp white wood. The roaring thunder fails to drown out your enraged call, but you’re left unanswered nonetheless. The house Dieter is staying at - one of his actor friend’s vacation homes - is darkened by the storm outside and seems to sigh at your anger, upset that you roused it from its storm-induced slumber. But Dieter’s rental car is in the driveway, so you know your boyfriend is here somewhere. You yank your soaked jacket off and don’t bother finding a peg for it, throwing it on the hideous accent chair that probably cost more than your rent. 

Despite the boisterous thunder, the quiet inside swells to an intimidating glower. By now Dieter should’ve come lumbering out of whatever pit of candy wrappers or wrinkled pajamas he plunged himself into, but the air remains undisturbed. You keep your footsteps light as you walk around the unfamiliar house, peeking in and scanning each room for him. 

“Hey, Diets?” you ask another room, devoid of any activity. Your anger has softened now, eaten away by a growing concern of what Dieter could’ve possibly gotten himself into between when you left to go to work this morning and now. You know he was upset that you were leaving, but he always is. Hell, his voice gains a whiney edge when you just want to leave his grizzly embrace for all of thirty seconds to go to the bathroom. He left you those deliciously vile voicemails earlier in the day, detailing exactly what his erotic plans were for you later this evening, but it had been radio silence since then. 

More calls, no answers. Your mind races with options, getting more worrisome as your brain’s overthinking cogs are given more unresolved time to spiral with. Did he go meet up with a friend and forget to text you? Did he get let go of by a project, a studio - god forbid it isn’t his lawyer - and he’s drowning his sorrows with some chosen vice? Did he make one too many wrong friends on one of his many esoteric adventures and they have come back to haunt him? 

You circle back to the living room, taking out your phone to call the friend that owns this house. Maybe Dieter got picked up by them to have drinks and that’s why his rental is still here? You dial the number with a crease in your brow, and as you lift the phone to your ear and it starts to ring, you spot your dastardly lover: dead asleep on the couch, curled into himself. Only his muss of graying curls bobs from the surface of a sea of pillows and blankets with every light snore.

Your rage is rekindled to its fullest extent as a bolt of lightning cracks across the sky outside. You swear you can feel your eye twitch as you stand drenched from head to toe in rain before your dozing boyfriend, swaddled in cozy, dry warmth. 

“Dieter!” You take one of the pillows and lob it at him, hitting him right on the head. You don’t feel bad because you know it didn’t hurt him and it irks you when his eyes burst open, holding his hand to his forehead like it did. He blinks slowly, his eyelashes sticking together with sleep as he mumbles quietly, “What the fuck?” Then his eyes - those irritatingly gorgeous puddles of melted chocolate - widen when they take you in. His expression morphs into compassion and he shakes the blankets off, stumbling to his feet with lingering drowsiness.

“Bunny, what happened?” he asks, reaching for your arms to hold you. You take a step back from him, still steaming with anger. You get even more irritated when you feel the hot tears that prick your eyes every goddamn time you get upset. Stifling them back, you straighten your back and unleash your anger. 

“What happened? What happened is that I stayed late at work, even though my boss was being a fucking asshole, and when I went to leave, my car battery died, and since I stayed late, everyone else had already left, and my boyfriend didn’t answer my fucking calls!” You jab a finger into the air, aiming at his chest. “So I had to leave my car at work because no tow or rental company would help me, and I walked here in the fucking pouring-down rain!” 

You turn on your heel and slip against the marble floor, which you honestly should’ve seen coming but you’re too irate to think rationally right now. Dieter reaches his arms out again, wanting to steady you, but you beat him to it and stomp away angrily. With your face hidden from his sight now, you let your tears silently flow down your cheeks and blend with the fat raindrops on your neck. Dieter follows behind you, quickening his pace to match yours and subsequently slides in his slippers in your wet wake. He tries to get you to stop, sympathetically calling out to you by name. 

You beeline for the bedroom and lunge into the adjoining bathroom. Just as Dieter catches up to you, he’s pleading, “Bunny, wait, just let me-” 

You shut the door in his face and lock yourself in, leaning your back against it and crying into the darkness. You let yourself sob out loud, releasing all the pent up anger, frustration, sadness and shame you’ve been holding in all day and that hit its climax when you started arguing with Dieter. 

Your sweet, beloved boyfriend. 

The two of you haven’t officially labeled yourselves as of yet, but you know it’s more than the booty calls it began as. You… care about him. You never thought you’d see the snarky, charming jerk as anything but. However, over the past two and a half years you’ve shared a bed with him (among various other furniture and locations), he’s revealed a soft vulnerability that you were convinced he faked in order to come off to the public as empathetic, intellectual. But he’s the real deal; all those philosophical musings, whether fueled by questionable substances or not, were spoken from his heart. That four letter word that scares the daylights out of you both rings in your head, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. 

Just because you don’t have the wherewithal to vocalize your feelings right now, it only serves to engorge the guilt you have for shutting Dieter out, both literally and figuratively. He’s only trying to help you, trying to provide a safe space for you to lash out, cry, or forget about your grievances, like he always does. With a sniffle and a deep sigh, you open the door and jump a little when he’s standing right there; he was waiting for you to be ready. He never left. 

His genuine care for you makes your eyes well up and flood again, your voice hoarse as you begin, “I-I’m sorry, I just…”

Dieter holds his hand up in a sign of peace and softly interjects when you trail off, “Hold on. Before you say anything more, sweetheart, know that you have nothing to apologize for.”

Your last bit of resolve is blown to smithereens and you practically fall into his arms, where he catches you and envelopes you in his warmth. Openly sobbing again into his chest, Dieter presses his warm mouth against your temple and just holds it there for a moment, letting his touch calm you as he caresses your damp hair away from your face. When your spluttering gasps subside, he speaks quietly and compassionately, “I’m the sorry one. I had the balls to bother you earlier, knowing you were stressed and busy, and then being the lazy asshole I am, I fell asleep and was dead to the world for hours. I’m sorry.”

When you fish your face out of his shirt, the damp spot that your eyes made on the fabric makes you cringe. Dieter reads your discomfort and rubs his big palms up and down your back, silently pardoning you. He’s had much more vile substances on his person before, a few tears from his lover isn’t anything to make a fuss over. You shrug and collect your thoughts that finally have some sensibility to them, “It’s okay. I just had a bad day at work, they gave me so much extra shit because I scheduled a few days off so they were trying to wring me for all I had and were even pushier than usual and were yelling at me even when I was doing all the right things and what they asked and- and then my fucking car-”

You cut yourself off with a gasp, not having realized that throughout your spill you didn’t stop to breathe. Dieter strokes your cheek with the back of his fingers as he coos to you, the cool metal of his rings grounding you, “Hey, shhh. It’s over now, right? You just relax, baby, okay? Focus on taking some deep breaths, like we practiced. In through the nose and out through the mouth, remember?”

If you weren’t so distraught, it would make you chuckle. You were the one that had given him that technique to calm his own anxiety, and here you were forgetting your own advice. Dieter sets an example for you, breathing slowly through his nose and out through his mouth, and you follow along until your sobs stop catching in your throat. His hands never stop stroking you, sending waves of comfort through you. Soon, your body has stopped trembling because of your volatile emotions, but you shake in your skin from the cold rain that has seeped into your bones. 

He notices and chuckles breathily, rubbing your arms to instill some heat into your blood. There’s a hint of mischief in his smile, one that you sense will swell into some menacing devilishness as the night deepens, “Let’s get you warmed up, hm?” 

He sidesteps you to go deeper into the bathroom behind you, going to the bathtub which he takes a seat on the edge of and turns the faucet on. With his palm upturned, his forefinger points at you and wiggles in an upward motion. 

“Off,” he instructs. His eyes rake over your dripping frame, following the cold droplets’ paths over the rain-soaked clothes that mold to every delectable curve of your body. His yearning stare wedges an extra beat into your heart rate and makes it hard to swallow. 

Despite the unceremonious manner of your strip, your locked gazes are brimming with passion, ferocity, boiling with the heat of the night to come. Your sopping clothes land on the floor with a splat and Dieter sighs at your figure in all its nude glory, moving his hand to palm himself unabashedly through his pajama bottoms.

He leans back and swishes his finger through the water once the tub is filled, checking the temperature. He jerks his head toward the warm pool, “Come here, sweet thing.” 

His fingers graze along your bare hip as you step into the bath and retract back to his cock when you sink down out of reach. The water feels heavenly, and fulfilling Dieter’s wish without the need of verbal instruction, you lean your back against the slope of the tub until the water’s surface meets the underside of your chin, letting out a deep sigh. You’re about to close your eyes when he brushes a stray hair out of your face, wrangling your attention to the sweet smile that graces his lips. 

His voice is soft but firm in its sincerity, “I’ll have your car picked up and checked out.” Knowing you better than you know yourself, you’re about to pipe up to offer that he really doesn’t have to do that, that you’ll pay for the rest even if he insists on covering the tow. He leans in closer, so close you can taste his breath on your lips, robbing you of all thoughts other than the ones that spiral around him. “Don’t worry about any repairs it needs. I’ve got ya, sugar,” he supplies with a wink. 

“Your boss will be receiving an unsightly letter to treat you better or else. There’s also a blackmail package available, featuring a rather smelly, heaping pile of a ‘substance’,” his fingers scrunch in allusive air quotes, “that Bravo Enterprises can’t disclose only for the purpose of ensuring surprise for the recipient, of course, that can be left on his desk. If the lady so desires.” You’re giggling before he’s finished, smacking him on the bicep that leaves a wet handprint on his t-shirt sleeve. 

“I appreciate the offer, but no thank you. I don’t want to be fired, or jailed, depending on what this ‘substance’,” you mimic his air quotes, “is you speak of.” 

“But,” you look up at him from underneath your lashes, shyly, “how could I have known my boyfriend would send in a letter of complaint?” 

He kisses your forehead proudly, stroking your cheek with his thumb affectionately, “That’s my girl. Now, I want you to sit back and relax for a while. Let the stress of the day melt away.” His hands dip shallowly into the water to rub his thumbs into your collarbone, moving onto your shoulders to massage soothing circles there after that. His voice drops an octave, with a satisfying rasp that runs parallel to velvety smoothness, “I need you relaxed for what I’m going to do to you later, anyway.”

With your eyes closed, you smirk in anticipation. He gives a parting kiss to your cheek, leaving you to shed the stifling stress of the day on your own time. Before he does, he asks, “Want some?” 

You peek one eye open and are being offered a little white rolled paper with a twist at the end. 

“No thanks,” you shrug, “Maybe later.” 

A little while later, there’s a knock on the door so soft you don’t hear it. Dieter pokes his head in, his boyish scruff rearranging into a smile when he sees your eyes still closed in peace. He quietly lays a folded bathrobe on the counter next to the sink and steals one last admiring glance at you before he ducks back out. 

When the water has lost its warmth, you exit the bath and shrug on the thoughtful, fluffy robe with a smile, knotting the belt loosely around your waist as you go into the bedroom. Dieter is lying on his back on the bed, toying with a vibrator in his hands. The scene makes you chuckle and the playful sound draws his gaze. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, “Get over here, sweetness,” and you oblige, standing in between his parted thighs. The robe you’ve had on for all of sixty seconds becomes a redundant heap on the ground. Dieter’s hands cup your asscheeks, pulling you closer to him so he can envelope your nipple with his tongue. He bites down on your pert bud softly as you do the same to your lip, moaning through your teeth. His tongue drags a path across your chest to your other breast, where he laves his desperate tongue against the erect little peak there too. When he pulls back, he looks drunk off of you already. 

He pats the center of the bed, his tone gruff and lost in his allegiance to your pleasure, “On your knees.” 

Dieter puts the weight of his palm on your back, sculpting you into an arch. You’re on your knees but you’re also on your forearms, too. He kneels before you, sitting back on his haunches, and lifts your gaze up to his with a finger underneath your chin. “You remember what I said on the phone?” he asks, using his free hand to squeeze his bulge through his boxers. You nod, resting your cheek on his thigh and batting your lashes up at him. “Mmhm…,” you lick a stripe up the seam of the crotch, “You said you were gonna fuck my throat.”

He pulls his underwear down to his knees, freeing himself. The thick heft of him lightly smacks against your nose and a pornographic moan rumbles up from your center, whose emptiness is gnawing away at you. “Until I gag,” you tack on, remembering all his erotic details. His shoulders deflate with a sigh, his eyes shine with rapture, “Smart girl,” and he feeds you his cock. 

You take it greedily, engulfing it in your hot, warm mouth. Harsh, helpless breaths escape his chest as he stumbles through the foggy abyss of ecstasy, regaining enough consciousness to thread his fingers in your hair and glide against your waiting tongue. “Fuck,” he whispers on every thrust, taking the time to rut in and out of your mouth until enough saliva collects to aid his descent down your throat. You take it all like a good girl, his good girl. His stubbly balls nestle against your chin when he reaches that impossible smoothness at your end and he anchors himself there, waiting for that godsent sound of- 

You gag wetly around his length. Tears spill from the corners of your eyes as you try to look up at him, despite the compromising position. He helps you out and leans back so he can stare at you in amazement; his wrought expression has you dripping from both ends. 

He ruefully retreats from your cavern and a thick string of saliva leaves the two of you connected. He swipes it from your lip with his thumb and drinks you down as he shuffles on his knees behind you. 

Planting himself at your opening, he sighs contentedly as he settles in to patiently work you up until you go crazy. “Open up for me, kitty,” he rubs the backs of your thighs and you concede to lay your head down on the bed, splitting yourself for his ravenous eyes. You wiggle your ass back and forth when he doesn’t do anything but sit there admiring and your antics earn you an abrupt, satisfying, open-handed slap to your ass. 

In his voicemail smut, he promised he would open you up, nice and slow, and he does just that at a tauntingly sluggish pace. His languid, sensual tongue draws rivulets up the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, before his warm breath ghosts across his tight destination at the peak of your apex. Your breath catches in your throat delightedly when his wet curiosity finds your hole at last, tracing it with his tongue then deftly swirling it around your perimeter. It makes you bite your lip and your breathing come more strenuously. You’re tight, you know that and he knows that, but you don’t doubt his capability to unravel you until you can take his whole length with no resistance. 

His raspy, comforting voice murmurs into your cheek, echoing his promise, “Don’t worry, bunny, I’ll open you up. Nice and slow…” He starts with his tongue again, lubing your backdoor entrance until you can feel his heavy saliva slide down to your aching folds. You rub at your clit lazily while he massages your hole with his thumb, gradually exposing you to increased pressure. Your resistance fades in time with his patient ministrations, to the point where he can lick into you. You both groan out in relief, him at your taste and you in dire pleasure. He reaches to swap your hand for his and draws perfect circles around your clit while his tongue works magic against your hole, bringing you to the peaks of two orgasmic heights whose blissful slopes have you feeling relaxed afterward, like jelly. It takes a little while of licking into you for him to be able to slide his thick finger in there, wriggling it around. 

It tickles more than you expected, making you giggle before you’re choked out with a moan as the ticklishness ignites into absolute pleasure. The tingles crawl up your spine, fizzing out in the base of your neck and skittering sparks of dopamine all over your brain. 

He squeezes a second finger inside in between contractions of your muscle, convulsing and expanding in time with the merciless waves of ecstasy that pour over you. Dieter watches with rapt attention as you stretch around him, your impeccable body adjusting to him deliciously. When your body starts to pull him back in on every retraction of his fingers, his cock twitches. You’re ready. 

He gets to his knees, stretching over to the bedside table to grab the lube - just for extra comfort. You whimper ceaselessly underneath him on all fours, your body on fire for him. You squirm with impatience, a fiery need for him to fill you to the brim thrashing through you. Hurried by your mewling, Dieter’s fingers slip against the bottle and knock it to the floor. “Fuck!” he spits, bursting you into pieces with laughter. 

He regains possession of the bottle and settles your devilish attitude with a single smack to your asscheek. The cap pops open, the cold gel runs into his palm, and he warms it up in his hands before he coats you everywhere you’ll need it. Dieter gives himself a few additional strokes too, groaning at the thought of what’s about to come (quite literally). 

He pushes his tip against your hole, testing you, relishing in the remaining pressure your body still keeps. It feels so good to be broken by him, like he’s knocking down a barrier you don’t have the strength to keep up anymore. You want to surrender and he lets you. 

He pushes inside and you gasp sharply, immediately followed by warbling babbles of how good he feels, how big he is, how good it fucking feels! He eases into you slowly, gliding deeper until his hips are nestled against your cheeks and all he can see is his hairy base above where he’s buried inside you. His splayed hand runs from the nape of your neck down your curved spine. “Shh, bunny,” he soothes. His hand comes to a stop just above your tailbone, pressing into the small of your back to arch you further beneath him. You bend to his will and groan as the new angle seats him impossibly deeper inside. 

Your pussy drips for him, warm and fresh, and your hips wiggle of their own accord to make his intrusion a pleasurable one. His fingers wind around your pelvis and hold you steady, tongue tutting at you over your shoulder. 

“Move, goddamnit,” you seethe, on the verge of tears. You feel helpless beneath him, a prisoner to your own desire, and your voice comes out just as vulnerable despite its biting rage that he still hasn’t moved. 

Upon hearing your desperation, he doesn’t make you hold out any longer. His first thrust is gentle, experimental, opening you up even further. Breath heaving, whole body shaking with every inhale that squeezes you tighter around him, “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck…”

“Holy fuck,” he blurts out in an echo to you, staring down at his thick cock lodged in your tight hole. 

Even as he starts to gain pace, he maintains a consistent degree of gentleness to his thrusts so as not to hurt you - that’d be no fun for anyone involved. 

“Feel so good, bunny,” Dieter whispers breathlessly, neck craned up to the gods with eyes closed and imperceptible, breathy oh, oh, ohs flowing from his mouth on every plunge. Meanwhile, your face is smashed into the sheets, squealing with a sensation so pleasurable that is ill-monikered by “an itch that needs to be scratched”; this is more like a firework in the night sky that you jump to catch every singing ember of. 

You grip at the bedsheets with white knuckles, grinding your teeth together. Dieter splays his hand on the crown of your head and lifts you up to release your stifled, heavy breaths, “Let go, bunny,” he encourages. Your resolve instantly weakens and your orgasm overtakes you swiftly, knocking you without warning. Wracked with blinding pleasure, every breath you take is either a scream, a desperate moan, or a wrecked sob for him to keep going! 

He does, fucking you until you’re a mess beneath him. You faintly remember his threat on the phone, something like he’d pull out midway through your release and make you gape. But thank fucking god you appealed to his sympathy enough tonight that instead he treats you, keeping his length nestled in your ass for you to pulse around, choking on air as your heart pounds in your chest. 

Not too long later, your reverie is dissolved when he lands a smack to your ass, “Good girl,” he purrs. He leans over your body, his breath cool on your feverish skin as it tickles your shoulder in a whisper, “Your turn.” 

You whimper when he pulls out and stay stuck in your feline position, back arched like a cat and wishing he was still hitting it. Dieter lies down in front of you, his cock resting erect against his tummy and his stupidly big, pleading eyes beg for you. “Please, baby,” comes whimpering from between those plush lips. 

You nearly choose to leave him dangling on the edge; after all, you know how much he likes to be cucked (and how much you like to cuck him). But you want him too badly. Like in his dirty dreams this morning that he analogged for you, you mount him and begin riding. His big palms ascend your sweaty skin to cup your breasts that bounce as your thighs work to propel you up and sink you down in quicker succession. He leans forward to take one plush mound in his mouth, flicking your nipple with his tongue - but you twist your fingers in his ruffled hair and tug him back. It felt good, but the devastated crease between his brows makes you feel even better. This push and pull, give and take of dominance and submission always had to equalize with you two; your egos were too prideful for the game to be finished with a clear decision. 

With the score tied, you finally find the patience to slow down; you gyrate your hips, grinding down on Dieter and meeting his shallow thrusts in a symphony of movement. That is, until that biting urge deep in your tummy needs another orgasm thrown to it to be satiated and stop growling at you for more. You resume bouncing, not going as fast as you could but opting for a poignant, striking rhythm instead. 

“Sweetheart, I’m gonna-” he chokes.

“Fuck yeah baby, do it,” you hiss like a temptress, watching the restraint drain from his eyes and give way to the unstoppable bliss that erodes him until he’s nothing but. You lift your hips up for him to pull out and he takes himself in hand, pumping feverishly as white hot cum spills into his lap. The muscles of Dieter’s stomach jerk in tandem with his spurting, even after he’s reached empty. He runs his hand down his sweaty, wrecked face, breathing haggardly as you roll off his lap and lower your mouth to his hips to lap him up. He tastes mostly salty with a hint of sweetness, viscous and easy to swallow down. It might not be your arousal your tongue cleans him of, like he fantasized earlier, but the sinful sight drives him up the fucking wall regardless. 

Both of you lie there, him on his back and you on his chest, for a long time, just trying to catch your breath. Dieter reaches over to the nightstand for a joint and raises his eyebrow, asking your permission, which you give with a nod. He lights up and passes the smoke to you through parted lips, before handing over the rest of it for you to finish off. The thing about weed’s specific effect on you, that Dieter is very familiar with, is that it makes you feel warm, cuddly, and… aroused. With a mischievous giggle, you grind your wet folds against his thigh, asking for more, to which he grunts and gives a dry chuckle. 

“I’m not 25 anymore, bunny, you gotta give me a little bit of time to recover.” 

“What do you think I was trying to get off work for?” Your fingers waltz up his ribs with a mission to tickle him, but he catches on and swats you away with a smile. You love that shit-eating grin he gets, but it tarnishes your own when you’re hit with the thought that… you’ll miss it. 

You turn your face away to look down at the burning paper, trying to disguise the disappointment in your voice, “You’re leaving soon, right?” 

He sighs bitterly, but not at you, “Yeah, I am. But I was thinking…”

Your ears perk up so that you don’t mistake not even one word in his soft, raspy voice, “If you could, if you wanted to… you could come stay with me for a little while.”

You meet his eyes to gauge if he’s fucking with you - to your delight, he isn’t. “I have that fuck off huge house that production gave me with nobody in it but me and some makeup and costume people who are in and out for a few hours each morning. Ha,” he chuckles, raising his eyebrows in time with his words, “In and out.” 

He can never take anything seriously for very long, but that’s the Dieter that you fell in- nopedon’tsayitthatwordistooscaryheonlyinvitedyoutocomestayforalittlewhilethatdoesn’tmeananythingseriousthatdoesn’tchangeanythingbetweenyoutwo. But the softened glimmer in his eye… it’s not a high from the weed. 

“I’d love to.”

main masterlist 🍑 join my taglist!

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[the-orange-tabby-cat]

last updated: August 4th

Tabby note: All my fics are currently in a small hiatus cause I'm moving! I will be back soon enough, meanwhile, why don't you read one of my recs?

Howdy! 🤠

I'm an orange tabby cat that writes fanfic about Pedro Pascal's characters. Welcome to my masterlist, cowboy (gn). If you'd like to request a drabble, feel free to drop a purr on my asks. To check my WIP list, click here. I'm also doing some album reviews connecting my favorite albums with a Pedro character, check it here for a soundtrack. To guide you better, here's a small resume of what you will find bellow:

💣 smut | 🧡 fluff | 💀 dark | 🌵 angst | 🌻 sad/grief | 🦋 slow burn

SERIES

Wings Of The Dawn

tags: 💣🧡🦋 AO3 | Fic masterlist | Spotify playlist |  Work In Progress | 6/?

Summary: You are Jackson’s librarian, a doll with good heart, that has your life changed when a handsome man and his kid decides to start again in your small town. Having a hard time ignoring Joel’s dark brown eyes, you found yourself wishing to have him closer as you both navigate through love triangles, teenage drama, city gossip and ghosts from both your pasts.

This is a comfort fic filled with slow burn and small town dynamics.

SERIES

By The Window

tags: 🧡💀🌵 AO3 | Fic masterlist |  Work In Progress | 1/4  Alternate Universe - Haunted House, ghost!Joel Miller

Summary: Wisteria grew over the wall, year after year, covering the sidewalk in a light purple petal tapestry. The windows that hadn’t been open for at least a decade no longer contained finger marks over the white paint, just a dust layer. Between the bricks, the bindweed made a delicate pattern covering most of the façade in green. The house sat quietly at the bottom of the valley, undisturbed and unnoticed. Sometimes walkers passed by it, but it didn’t matter, they never saw the building or what lives inside. The thing that lives inside the house waited patiently for her, until she came and changed everything.

Wednesday

tags: 🧡🌵🌻🦋 AO3 | Fic masterlist |  Work In Progress | 2/?  Alternate Universe - grief support group

Summary: For the last 5 years, every Wednesday you watched a handsome man walk by your street with a lilac bouquet in hands. Except he doesn’t stroll on your street this Wednesday, he shows up at your grief support group. 

The Renegade

tags: 💣🧡🦋 AO3 | Fic masterlist | Work In Progress | 1/4

Summary: This is why I’m writing to you, Tess. Do you see how much trouble am I? How unstable and not anywhere good for him? I can’t fall in love with him and he can’t get closer, I’m a weak bitch: I’m gonna fall for him if you don’t help me. I walked too many meters of bad decisions before, I can’t cross another ocean. You are my only hope, The renegade - Your parents ask you to try seeing a therapist, Tess, and you agree under one condition: she can't let you fall in love with Joel Miller. A fic in the format of letters, from you to Tess.

ONE SHOTS

The Season Of The Witch

tags: 💣 AO3 | Read it on Tumblr

Summary: October 1986 - The Miller brothers start the Halloween season by going to a carnival to try some luck with a fortune teller. Unfortunately for them, she is real and spills out about what the future holds for them. Wanting more answers, Joel flirts with the occult and gets way more than just a palm reading. Almost pure smut for your enjoyment. 

ONE SHOTS

A Lesson In Nature

tags: 🧡 AO3 | Read it on Tumblr

Summary: A hike with your handsome co-star made you believe two things: 1. Your agent would be fired as soon as you got signal, 2. Dieter was a full pain in the ass. Forget about having the starlet breakout of your dreams, you were about to murder whoever cast you both together. But first, you need to survive this.

ONE SHOTS

Dusk

tags: 💣🌵 AO3 | Read it on Tumblr

Summary: Javier sees you again years after the end of your love affair. Torn between the memories of what happened then and what is now, you both face the weight of your actions from Bogotá to Madrid.

[whatsnewalycat]

Psychomanteum / Chapter 13

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

Chapter 13: Lunacy Fringe

Chapter Summary: You and Dieter spend the day at the beach.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 9.2k+

Content / Warnings: alternating pov, grief, heart-to-heart, fluff, angst, smut, swearing, blood, cannabis use, cliffhanger, public sex, poverty mention, infertility mention near-death experiences, unprotected piv sex, ocean

Notes: Chapter title from “Lunacy Fringe” by The Used. Hmmmm let’s see. Idk if you know this, but I am employed now after like 16 months being a full-time student and SAHM, so I’m in a bit of an ~ adjustment ~ period and might take a bit longer to post things, but time will tell lol. This is a very soft chapter, I hope you like it. Let me know what ya think 🖤✨

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Despite your initial trepidation in doing the DIRT interview, and how disastrous it actually wound up being, Darlene reported to you and Dieter that public feedback has been generally positive. As all three of you expected, some of his fans have labeled you a gold digger, conwoman, or flavor of the week, but most find your story a sympathetic one and seem to be supportive. 

The news has saturated the past five days in a warmth and brightness you’ve never encountered before in your life. 

You and Dieter have been painting and writing and laughing and cooking and fucking and falling asleep tangled up in each other and waking up stuck together by sweat. Luxuriating in something neither of you could afford before: quality time. 

Today is no exception, with the two of you under the white down duvet tent, all glowing from morning sun pouring in through the skylight onto his bed.

It smells like him here, of course, but it also smells like you. Your scent has seeped into the threading of his sheets, commingling with his. Like you’ve claimed your spot here with him and now it’s something different, something shared and sacred. 

Meaning that it now smells like you, in the collective sense, and find any excuse to bask in it as long as you can. 

The pads of Dieter’s fingers trail along the shiny scar tissue that laces your leg, your hip, your arm. All those swaths of skin once split open, he traces them with reverence, his touch delicate and studious. Content to memorize you as long as you’ll let him. 

You count the gray hairs sprouting in his beard and at his temples. The wrinkles that crease his forehead and eyes. Signs of age you feel blessed to encounter. 

You think about how the two of you were rejected from the afterlife, from the omnipresent belonging, the sea of love, back into these vessels. 

“What was it like when you died?” you ask him, bringing your touch to that hairless heart-shaped spot at his jawline, “Like, what did you see?” 

“I, umm,” he clears the sleep from his throat, then says, “I remember feeling tired. So fucking tired. This crazy heavy fatigue took over, like—like someone put the world’s heaviest weighted blanket on me, and I tried to stay awake but I just fucking couldn’t. When I woke, I was floating above my body. Saw them all trying to revive me. Then it was like… I was sucked up into this tunnel.”

“The tunnel,” you grin, “That tunnel was fucking awesome.”

He chuckles, “It really was. It was like… I’ve never felt more at peace. Fucking wild,” he shakes his head and frowns, “I saw all these scenes from my life. Growing up, living in New York, getting my first real gig, moving to LA, all that. I got to that barrier, you know,” he glances at you and you nod knowingly. 

“I was right there, I touched it, and I knew that was it but I wasn’t scared. Then Annie shot the adrenaline, and I was getting sucked back, and,” his eyes flick to yours, softening to ganache, “And… I saw you.”

You blink, searching his face, shaking your head. 

“I—I saw you, Louella. I didn’t know who you were. But when I met you, I recognized you. I felt this,” he turns his wrist in a circle and twists his face up in this bewildered expression, “Connection. I don’t know. Like it was supposed to happen.” 

Then he looks at you, and his eyes are glassy and wide with this tender awe. Every cell in your body swells so fat and ripe with love, it’s a miracle you don’t burst like an overfilled water balloon. It hurts, how much you love him. 

“You never told me that," you manage to whisper, brushing your knuckles against his cheek. He gives you a sheepish shrug, and you drag your fingertip down the bridge of his nose, “Maybe it was supposed to happen.” 

Dieter plucks your hand from his face and interlaces his fingers with yours, then immediately pulls it back, pressing a slow, wet kiss into the blackwork apple tattooed on your wrist. He brings your palm to his cheek and holds it there, his eyelids fluttering, “What was it like for you?” 

“Well,” you set your thumb in motion against his skin, “I closed my eyes, and it was dark, then I opened them and saw the wreck. Paramedics were putting me on a stretcher, and there was so much blood I was… red. Like someone dropped me in paint or something.”

The phantom scent of iron sends a shiver up your spine. It took a week to rid your hair of that smell. In the hospital, you scraped under your nails and picked at the hollows of your ears for days before you stopped finding dried blood. 

Maybe it wasn’t days. Maybe it was hours, or minutes, you’re not sure. 

You just know that, for approximately an eternity, you discovered a small mountain of little rust-red flakes and wondered whose blood it was, knowing that even if it wasn’t his, it was. 

Dieter kisses your palm, pulling you back into the present. You blink a few times, take a deep breath, then continue. 

“Ethan was with me, and we were pulled behind the ambulance, like there was some kind of tether between me and my body, but somewhere along the way, he disappeared. That’s when I noticed...” 

You tilt your head and frown, watching your nails graze his whiskers while your mind tries to assemble a description that might make sense. 

“Above me, there was this light. Something inside me knew that’s where he went, so I followed him into the tunnel. I saw my life. When I was growing up in Ohio, my dad, my mom… the time I spent, um…” 

Your teeth catch your bottom lip and your eyes flick to his, “I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but I lived out of my car for a few years after I moved out, before I was accepted into CIA.”

“Really?” he searches your face, and when you nod, he rolls on his side, sliding his palm along the curve of your back, scooping you up to bring you closer. 

“Well, technically I was still homeless when I started going there, ‘til my classmate found out and insisted I move in with him,” you smirk, “That’s how Parker became my bestest friend.” 

“As always, a man after my own heart,” he murmurs and mimics the smirk on your lips. The tips of his fingers work up and down your spine in a soothing motion. 

You chuckle at this, then sigh, “Then, yeah, moving to the city, meeting Ethan. I got to the barrier and saw him cross. I could see inside it like a window. My grandparents, my dad, and Ethan—they were all there, but wouldn’t let me through. My dad told me I needed to go back, that I had more to do.”

A burning sensation climbs up your throat, settling behind your eyes, where tears start to form. You swallow the thick, raw feeling and shake your head. 

“I didn’t believe him. I didn’t think there was anything left for me if Ethan was gone, even though—” 

When you realize what you were about to say, a sob escapes you. Dieter kisses your cheek, then your forehead, and tightens his arms around you. You curl up against him, wriggling your head into that space between his collarbone and jaw. The heat of his body and your own recycled breath warms your face.

“Promise not to judge me for this?” you ask him in a hoarse whisper. 

He tucks your hair behind your ear, “I promise.” 

“Sometimes—you know, when things were really bad with him—sometimes I, um,” your voice breaks. You squeeze your eyes shut in an attempt to stop the tears, take a shaky breath, then confess, “Sometimes I wished he would die.“

Self-loathing crackles in your chest. Each second that passes with no response only amplifies the feeling, and you can’t stop the wave of anxious thoughts from spilling out your lips, “It’s fucking horrible, I know it is, but he wasn’t the man I married anymore. He would leave for hours, sometimes days, without telling me where he was or who he was with, coming home all fucking strung out, reeking of booze and smoke and pussy, and—and if I asked, if I dared to fucking ask, he treated me like—like I was the fucking enemy or something—”

Another wet sob gurgles from deep in your chest. Dieter squeezes you tight, nuzzling against the crown of your head, thumb grazing your shoulder as he coos, “It’s ok, baby, it’s ok—”

“No, Dieter, it’s not fucking ok—I should have done something when I noticed it happening more and more, but I was so fucking angry with him for taking away my choice to have a family—”

He shifts to look down at you, asking, “What do you mean?”

Your heart jumps so high, it seems to get lodged in your throat for a moment. You  shake your head and swallow it down, then take a deep, wobbly breath, exhaling a sigh, “He, um… he cheated on me. Said it was a one time thing, he was all fucked up because it was the anniversary of his brother’s death—I—I don’t know. He didn’t tell me until months later when I got really sick out of nowhere and had to go to the Emergency Room. They couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me at first, but admitted me and started me on antibiotics because the symptoms pointed to an infection.” 

This big, blue boulder settles on your sternum and presses the air from your lungs. Dieter’s comforting touch starts again, swirling patterns into your shoulder, his arms cradling around you, lulling you into a sense of security, urging you onward. You relax into his warmth and clear your throat. 

“When the antibiotics worked, the doctors looked into my symptoms further. They ran a bunch of tests and eventually found that I had chlamydia. I told them it was impossible, the only person I was sexually active with was my husband—and, well… yeah. Anyway. Turns out he knew he had it, got treated, but couldn’t bring himself to tell me about it,” you shake your head and let out a sad chuckle, “Just, um, stopped fucking me. Let it fester inside me until it turned into pelvic inflammatory disease, which scarred my reproductive organs enough to make me infertile.” 

“Fuck,” he mutters, and his lips part like he’s going to say more, but his breath catches and they snap shut. When they open again, he says, “Fuck, I’m sorry.” 

You study him, “What were you going to say?” 

“What?” 

“Before you said you’re sorry, what were you going to say?” 

“I, uhh,” he pauses, and you hear the wet squelch of his gulp, “Nothing, it’s not important.”

You pull back to meet his eyes, finding them all red and glossy. An ache of affection radiates across your chest. You cup his cheeks and search his face, “Tell me.” 

“Just… that’s just a fucking terrible thing to do to someone you love,” he shakes his head, tears pooling in his eyes as he winces and looks away, “But—but my first thought was that I understand why, he umm, why—”

His face crumples. Tears blur your vision. You nod, showing you get what he’s trying to say. 

He sniffles, and his eyebrows draw together as he meets your gaze, “God, that’s fucked up, right? What the fuck does that say about me?” 

You take a moment to deliberate, wiping your eyes before telling him, “I think… the fact that you are able to recognize that in yourself, and know that it’s wrong, but tell me the truth anyway, is…” you lick your lips as you try to find the right words, deciding on, “Indicative of growth.“ 

Dieter chuckles. It’s a wet, forceful noise, like he couldn’t even help it from happening. He sniffles and presses his forehead to yours. His thumb scrapes against your damp cheek, “That is very diplomatic of you.” 

You smile despite the tears, then lean in to give him a tender kiss. His lips are warm and soft. They linger on yours for a few moments, and when you pull away, you murmur, “I love you, Dieter.” 

“I love you, too,” he rumbles, brushing your face with the back of his hand, “So, you found that out in the hospital, and I’m assuming things got worse with him after that?” 

“Yeah,” you frown and nod, “Yeah, I mean, I iced him out pretty hard. It all went down right before COVID hit New York, you know, and we were stuck at home together… he’d run our orders, then lock himself away in his office. I’d hear him snorting and pacing in there for hours. Like a caged animal. He’d come out all fucking,” you make a sniff noise and mimic a facial tic, “Twitchy and withdrawn, which was totally not like him. But, I don’t know. I couldn’t bridge that gap and move past what happened enough to help him.” 

You sigh, flicking your gaze to his, “Do you remember what he was like?” 

“Yeah,” Dieter swallows, glancing behind you for a moment before returning to your eyes, “He was nice. Funny. Easy-going. I—I mean, I liked him. Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“Well, knowing what I know about him now, I feel… I don’t know, guilty, or something.” 

“Don’t,” you frown and shake your head, combing your fingers through his curls, “He was all of those things. He was so… good, you know? This thing would happen, I swear to fucking god it was like every time we went out,” you chuckle fondly, “He would strike up a conversation with a stranger and make friends with them. It was effortless. He was so magnetic. I always loved that about him. And it’s not like he was different behind closed doors or anything like that. Not at that point, anyway.” 

Your smile falters. Dieter tilts your chin up and kisses you. When he pulls back, you wriggle into his chest and close your eyes. 

“That’s what I mean, though, when I say he wasn’t the man I married. He became paranoid, unpredictable, erratic. There was this darkness about him that was so… hard to be around. I—I fucking hated him.” 

Your stomach drops, eyes blinking open. Before you can think twice, you tell Dieter, “That’s the last thing I said to him. ‘I fucking hate you.’” 

He draws a sharp breath, holds it for a moment, then says, “That’s not true, though. You talked to him last weekend, in the psychomanteum.” 

Your lips part to contradict him, but you realize he’s right. That dark, heavy feeling in your chest lifts enough for you to smile. Fresh tears prick your eyes, “I did, didn’t I?” 

“Fuck yeah you did,” he grins, craning his head to kiss your forehead, murmuring against your skin, “My sexy little ghostbuster.” 

You bury your face in his neck and laugh. His chest vibrates with a low chuckle. A serene silence settles under the white, glowing dome. Dieter releases a content sigh and traces the pomegranate on your shoulder, “Did you ever find out why?”

“Why what?” 

“Why he, umm—”

“Ah,” you nod, “Why he tried to kill us?”

“Yeah.” 

“No,” you furrow your brow, “When he dragged me out of bed that night, he kept asking me who I was working for, said it had to be NYPD or feds. He told me that someone was following him and he knew I was setting him up. I don’t know.”

You take one of his hands and interlace it with yours, cuddling them to your chest, “The first time we tried the psychomanteum, I was hoping he would be how he was before—I mean, obviously because I needed to know who he really was, if it was all a lie in the beginning, if I had just missed it… but I also wanted to ask if I should lay low. The more time that went on, though, with no red flags from police, the more I knew he was just… sick.” 

Dieter hums in acknowledgment. 

“I’m so glad we tried again. That I got to talk to him again,” you say, smirking when you add, “Thank you for helping me with my crazy ghost FaceTime.” 

He smiles, “Thank you for convincing me to try it. I’m glad I did.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he pauses and shifts a little, “James and I, in our heyday, we would write these scripts and screenplays and act them out. He did most of the writing, and I did the big parts, but I, you know, I liked… writing.” 

You pull back and tilt your head at him, a grin spreading across your face at his bashful demeanor, “Really?” 

He nods, a little bob wobbling his throat, “I’ve been thinking about giving that a shot. I have some ideas for scripts, but I’ve been so… reluctant, I guess, to put them to paper,” he shrugs, “When I talked to James, he told me I should try it again, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot.” 

“I think he’s right,” you tell him, and press a kiss into the back of his hand. 

“I just keep thinking… What if it’s terrible? What if nobody likes it?” 

“Does it matter as long as you like it?”

His features shift into seriousness as he considers this. Brow furrowed and pinched in the middle. Corners of his mouth folded in a slight frown. Eyes downcast, studying your clasped hands as he flattens your palm over his heart. 

The soft, rhythmic thump-thump beats steady. You watch his eyelids flutter and his facial muscles slacken into a serene expression. This feeling comes over you that’s hard to explain. 

It surges from deep inside your chest and buzzes across your skin. 

There’s weight to it. Nothing you can’t handle, but still, the heaviness is apparent. You simultaneously feel responsible and completely exposed. Like you’re exchanging your most prized, most fragile possessions, under the silent condition that neither of you will break the other’s. 

You would be lying if you said it didn’t scare the shit out of you. You would also be lying if you said it didn’t bring you joy. 

He catches you staring and smiles, “What?” 

“Nothing,” you grin, “I just… I love you.” 

“Yeah?”

You nod, glancing down at his lips. 

He searches your face and murmurs, “I love you so much.” 

“So fucking much,” you confirm. 

Gravel crunches beneath your sandals as you trot down the steep path to the beach, splitting your attention between your clumsy footwork and the scenery. 

Clusters of purple flowers occasionally break up the tall, dry grass. Palm trees stretch high into the brilliant, cloudless sky. Beyond the white sand beach sits the Pacific Ocean, dark and alive. 

As you inhale deep and wide, letting your eyes shut as you relish the sulphuric, briny scent of the sea, your foot catches on a rock, and you stumble forward with a yelp, grabbing Dieter’s arm to keep you from falling. He only falters a little when you latch onto him, even though he’s outfitted like a pack mule, beach chairs strapped to his back, lugging a tote bag stuffed with towels and a cooler. 

“You ok?”

“Yeah,” you wrap your hand around his bicep for support and shrug, “Just, y’know, being super attentive and graceful.” 

His muscles twitch under your grip, “Good thing you have such a big strong man to hang onto.” 

“Are you flexing?” 

“Pffff, no,” he scoffs, and this big, contagious smile spreads across his face. Gravel transitions into sand at the trail’s end, and he asks, “Alright, doll, where you wanna set up camp?” 

Your nose crinkles as you squint around the sparsely populated beach. There’s a section of shoreline far away from everyone else, and you point to it, “Right there! Avast ye!”

“Aye aye, captain!” 

His pirate voice is surprisingly on point. It makes you laugh. He grins at your amusement as the two of you trudge towards the spot. Sand kicks up inside your sandals, gritty and hot against your feet, and you grumble, “Fuck this, I can’t with the shoes.” 

You slow down to take them off, but Dieter stops you, “Wait wait wait—” 

“What?” 

“Think you can kick ‘em all the way there?”

You shrug, “Probably.” 

He sets the cooler down, takes a step back, and props his hands on his hips, looking between you and the vacant section of beach through his sunglasses, “Let’s see it.”

Rolling your eyes, you tease, “You are such a boy.” 

“Kick your shoes! Kick your shoes! Kick your—”

You wind up your right leg, then kick it forward, sending the sandal flying. 

“YEAAAAAAH!” 

It goes high, but not far, flopping on the ground a few strides ahead. 

“Ah, beans,” you say, “I thought that was outta here.” 

“See, your problem is,” Dieter drops the tote bag and shucks off the beach chairs strapped to his back. 

“Oh, you have a technique? A shoe kicking technique?” 

“Obviously,” he guffaws while tugging his joggers up his calves, “You gotta get your flippy all floppy on your toes, then kick it.” 

“I believe the technical term is loosey-goosey.”

“You’re absolutely right, my mistake,” he walks to your side and points to his foot, “See, watch this.”

He shakes his foot around until the sandal dangles off it, then winds up and launches it forward. It goes about four times further than yours, landing right where the two of you were headed. 

“BOOM! That’s a shoe kick.” 

“Nice,” you give him a high five. 

“Thanks,” he grins, “Now you try. Should we do this one together?” 

“Ok ok,” you balance on your right foot, wriggling your ankle around until the sandal slides down as far as it can. 

Dieter does the same, “Here we go, ready?”

“So fucking ready.” 

“One, two, three—”

Both of you rear back, then kick, and your sandals go whizzing through the air. Yours hits the ground first and skids across the sand, coming to rest a few feet from his first sandal, while Dieter’s flies so far it’s just a speck in the distance. 

“Holy shit!” you laugh, “That went so fucking far.” 

“And the crowd goes wild!” Dieter bellows, embellishing the statement with cheering noises as he runs a victory lap around you. 

You snort and shake your head, “Ok, now you’re gloating.” 

He continues the one man celebration as he returns to his abandoned cargo, then heaves the chairs back over his shoulders. You skip up to him and snatch the tote bag off the ground, even though he insisted on carrying everything, then take your place on his arm. 

Once the two of you arrive at the vacant stretch of beach, marked by two left sandals, Dieter sets everything up, unfolding the colorful canvas beach chairs on either side of the cooler while you strip down to your black string bikini. He digs in the pockets of his joggers and unloads most of their contents into the tote bag, save for a little tin of joints and a lighter, which he sets on the cooler.

Stretching out in the beach chair, you bury your toes in the hot sand and watch Dieter kick off his pants. He notices you noticing him and whistles at you, a flirty wheet-whew.

You grin, and when he reaches for the hem of his shirt, you catcall, “Take it off!” 

He does so dramatically, spinning the shirt over his head like a helicopter and flossing it between his legs before tossing it at you. 

“Oh my god,” you laugh when it smacks you in the face. The fabric is warm and reeks of him, which you kind of like, so you ball it up and stuff it behind your head like a pillow. 

With a groan, Dieter sits down and grabs the tin off the cooler, plugging a joint between his lips. He lights it and takes a few puffs, then relaxes back into the beach chair, passing the torch to you. 

You accept it and take two hits in quick succession, keeping the smoke hostage in your lungs. The rush of THC blurs your senses and elevates you to a pleasant altitude where worries slough off your brain. On the exhale, you hand it to Dieter and ask, “If you were a fish, what kind of fish do you think you’d be?” 

He just starts giggling as he plucks the joint from your fingertips and takes a drag.

You catch a few contagious giggles and tell him, “I think—I think I would be a, uhh… a pufferfish.” 

He furrows his brow and blows the smoke towards the ocean, then shakes his head, “A pufferfish?” 

“Yeah,” you take the joint from him, inhaling skunky, thick smoke with a shrug, “Spiky. Temperamental. Solitary.” 

“Kind of adorable when you’re mad,” he adds with a grin while accepting the joint from you, then puffs on it. A condensed white cloud curls out his parted lips when he hands it back to you. He looks out into the water, “I’d be a goldfish.” 

You study him while taking a drag, and flick a long tube of ash off the glowing orange tip. 

His nose scrunches up around his sunglasses as he glances over at you, “Trapped. Always… on display.” 

You pass him the joint and nod in understanding, but say, “I don’t think you’re a goldfish. You’re like… way cooler than a goldfish.” 

“Well, I don’t think you’re a pufferfish.” 

“Then what am I?” 

“Hmm,” he leans way back in his beach chair, tucking an arm behind his head while taking a hit off the joint, then hands it back to you, “Let me think about it.” 

“Kill it,” you wave off the joint, perfectly content with how stoned you managed to get, and lay back to bask in the warm sunshine. Your eyes drift closed and you release a deep, cleansing breath while thinking about goldfish. Pea-brained, sociable, common. 

Sure, he may feel like a goldfish, but that’s not him. Not really. 

He’s unique, and smart, and dedicated, when he wants to be. 

Dozens of different sea creatures swim behind your eyelids. You compare and contrast each one to your paramour. Octopi are smart and shapeshifters, but they’re too reclusive. Sharks too aggressive. A whole fleet of colorful, tropical fish, but none of them seem right, until one little curly-tailed guy buzzes across the ocean in your head. 

Your eyes open and you smile at him, “You’re a seahorse.” 

“How’s that?” he asks, voice warped by smoke. He grinds the joint into the sand, then outstretches a hand to you. 

You take it, interlacing your fingers with his, forming a bridge between your armrests, “They eat a lot, they’re kind of pokey—”

“Stop, you flatter me,” he deadpans.

You throw your head back in laughter and say, “Wait, wait—let me finish! They’re also cute, and romantic, and smart, and curious,” you lean forward and bring his hand to your lips, pressing a kiss into his skin, then declare, “You, my love, are a seahorse.” 

A wide grin spreads across his face. His thumb works against your hand. He tugs on it and murmurs, “C’mere.”

You crawl out of the beach chair, into his lap, linking your arms around his neck as you pull him in for a kiss. One of his hands snakes around your waist while the other comes to rest on your bare thigh. When your lips part, you curl up against his chest and sigh, “I love you, my sweet seahorse man.” 

He lets out a dopey little giggle and kisses the crown of your head, mumbling into your hair, “And I love you, my beautiful seahorse lady.” 

You gasp, peering up at him, “I get to be a seahorse with you?” 

“It makes sense, don’t you think?” he pulls you close and nuzzles into your hair, snuggling you like you’re his favorite stuffed animal at bedtime, “You and me, we can just… get our tails all tangled up and float around the sea together. Hang out in coral reefs and eat, uhhh… I don’t know, whatever seahorses eat. Sea-monkeys?” 

“Sea-monkeys?” you guffaw, “What the fuck are those?”

“It’s a thing!” he laughs, giving your thigh a playful smack, “Didn’t you ever have sea-monkeys? They came in those, uhh, little Parmesan cheese packet lookin’ things—Oh! They’re shrimp! Brine shrimp.” 

“Ohhhhh!” you cover your face as you nod, “Ok, yes. I know sea-monkeys. I bet if I was a seahorse I would eat the shit out of those.” 

“Told you.” 

“You’re right,” you relax back into him, unable to shake the smile from your lips, “Did you know that when a seahorse finds another seahorse they really like, they mate for life?” 

“Really?”

“Yeah,” your eyes drift closed, lulled by the warmth of him surrounding you, “They love each other so much that when one of them dies, the other shortly follows. Cuz they can’t live without each other.” 

“That’s weirdly romantic,” he chuckles and kisses your forehead. 

“Totally us.” 

He hums in agreement. The noise is saturated with a warm contentment that seeps into your bones and boils them down to broth. It sloshes around under your skin and you can’t imagine having to move ever again. 

“If we stay like this I’m gonna fall asleep,” you mumble. His response is to nuzzle even closer and take a deep, sleepy breath. It’s all the permission you need to let the sandman pull you under. 

When Dieter wakes, not much time has passed. The sun no longer hangs in the zenith of the sky like an angry disco ball, but stares him straight in the face. 

He peaks down at you and chuckles. A puddle of drool has collected on his shoulder, dribbling from the corner of your slackened mouth. Warmth swells in his belly and aches all the way up to his chest. He strokes your sweaty, heated cheek and thinks, “I don’t deserve her.” 

The thought is not so much self-deprecating as it is full of awe at his fortune. 

Each morning, when he wakes and you’re still there, wrapped up in his embrace, he can’t believe it. Your one-way ticket to LA has no return trip planned. Neither of you have brought it up. The closest you’ve come is asking him, “Are you sick of me yet?” one morning over breakfast. 

“Sick of you?” he scoffed and ripped off a chunk of his blueberry muffin, popping it into his mouth, “Not possible.” 

You smiled at him over your coffee mug before taking a tentative sip and changing the subject, “What’re we doing today?”

He knows you have a life back in New York. A business and friends waiting for you to return, but, god… he’d do anything to keep you here forever. To share as many days with you as possible. 

As has been happening often lately, he dwells on a snippet from his near-death experience. The one of him holding your hands, where you’re wearing a white dress, smiling bright and full and gorgeous, and you say, “I do.” 

Given the result of his previous marriage, he considers that he might be an idiot for daydreaming about it. Especially this soon. 

Didn’t he learn his lesson last time? 

Apparently not. 

Did he feel this way last time, though? Like someone turned up the dimmer switch on his life? With Anika, did he ever know, with certainty, that he would give up anything and everything to stay in the orbit of her affection? 

No. 

It’s different with you. The tendrils of your love have burrowed deep inside him, taking root in a place no one else has touched. A place he didn’t even know existed within him. 

You stir a little. Dieter strokes a scarred-up strawberry on your arm, gazing down at you in time to witness your eyes blink open and meet his. A hazy smile spreads across your lips, and you reach up, brushing his patchy beard with your knuckles, “What time is it?” 

The words are groggy and rough. 

He shrugs, “Sometime.” 

Humming, you look around, then try to sit up, but he reels you back in and squeezes his arms around you, “Mmmm no.” 

“Dee,” you whine, laughter wavering your protest, “I’m so thirsty. And hot.” 

“Yeah you are.” 

One corner of your mouth tucks into a smirk and you snort, shaking your head at him. You kiss him, your dry, sea-chapped lips sticking to the soft inner plush of his mouth. When you draw back and stretch your hands up towards the aquamarine sky, a deep yawn expanding your rib cage, he reluctantly lets you go. 

Exhaling a gust, your body goes slack and you roll off his lap into the sand, groaning, “Water,” then crawl towards the cooler. He reaches over to pop the lid open for you and grabs a seltzer. The can opens with a hiss. He brings it to his lips, taking a big swallow of the bubbly, vaguely strawberry-flavored water. 

You twist the cap off a dewy plastic water bottle and tip your head back to guzzle it down, water streaming out the corners of your mouth, trickling down your chin, neck, chest, the column of your throat pumping in a thick glug-glug-glug that flickers at the base of his spine. 

Sand coats your arms and legs, all those microscopic grains clinging to your slick, sweaty skin. The bottle collapses in on itself as you suck down the remaining water. You toss it aside and gasp for air, chest heaving, practically fucking moaning, “Oh my god—that was fucking amazing.” 

A hot, heady rush of need gushes through him. His dick jumps. Breathing quickens. 

Dieter gulps down seltzer, ogling you while you grab a fistful of ice from the cooler and hold it to your forehead, eyes fluttering shut. You press the melting ice into your cleavage, squishing your tits together, lips parting in a gasp. 

Jesus fucking Christ, Louella. 

He sits up and finishes off the seltzer, dropping his empty in the sand, “Need some help?” 

With your head still tilted back, eyelids still sealed shut, a sly smile spreads across your face, “Oh yeah?” 

By now, the heat of your skin has turned the ice to water, trailing shiny and wet down your abdomen, pooling in your belly button, darkening the very top of your black string bikini. 

Dieter stifles a groan at the sight. Saliva gathers in the dark cavern of his mouth. He gulps it down. 

You open your eyes and level your gaze to his, eyebrow quirking as you shrug. 

He takes a handful of ice from the cooler and pats his thigh. Your teeth catch your bottom lip. You crawl over to him and climb into his lap, sliding back until you’re seated firmly on his hard cock. 

“Someone is excited,” you chuckle. 

“Can you blame me?” he grins, brushing hair from the nape of your neck. He presses the ice into that knotted bone right beneath your skull, then slides it down your back, drawing circles over each vertebrae. Your shoulders slacken and you let out a sigh of relief. 

When the cube melts, right around the middle of your spine where your string bikini is tied into a neat little bow, he gets a new one. 

“That feels good,” you breathe, hips arching back, ass pressing hard against him. 

The way you say this, all lusty and scraping along the edge of your vocal cords, makes his throat rumble and beckons him closer. He shifts his seated position, sitting up higher, slipping a hand around your waist to make sure you don’t wiggle away, then presses a slow kiss into your pulse. 

You hum, opening your neck wider for him to taste the salty bite of your sweat. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles against your skin, fingertips digging into your soft belly. The ice cube melts against your tailbone, and he grabs another, smearing its decay along your collarbone, down your sternum. 

When he slides it under your skimpy little bikini top and rubs it against your pebbled nipple, you rock your hips against his, letting out a soft gasp, “You’re gonna get us in trouble.” 

“With who?” he murmurs, nips at your neck, then says, “Nobody’s here, love.” 

“Wait, really?”

You lean forward and look around, turning back to him with a mischievous grin when you find what he said is true. Your pink bubblegum tongue peaks out to wet your lips as you search his face, “Are you sure?”

“Relax, doll,” he purrs, reeling you in, pressing his lips into your shoulder, your neck, your jaw. You reach back, fingers tangling in his hair, and pull him into a leisurely, saccharine kiss. 

Like always, it makes his heart stutter. Bubbles hot and wanting up the middle of him. You roll your hips. The heated weight of you grinds hard against his cock, making him groan into your mouth. 

His fingertips dance across your abdomen, tracing tedious little swirls into your skin. Your lips gape open with a whine and you roll your hips. His eyelids flutter and he shudders at the wave of pleasure that floods his body. He grabs your hips and silently urges you to continue, rocking you back and forth. 

“Fuck, that’s good, baby,” he pants. 

Your hand slides over his, both chilled and wet from melted ice, and you guide it between your legs, nodding when his touch wriggles under the fabric of your swimsuit, moaning when he finds your clit and rubs you, soft and steady, studying the subtle, pleasure-filled tremors that make your muscles twitch and breathing quicken. 

Your eyebrows thread together and your lips get all pouty, these huffy whimpers escaping them with each stroke, and he could just fucking eat you alive right now, you’re that goddamn beautiful. 

His mouth seizes yours. You respond with vigor, twisting your top half around to bury your hands in his hair and kiss him harder. 

He works you faster, flicking his wrist, swallowing your moans whole. 

You pull back with a gasp and throw your head back on his shoulder, “Holy fuck, yes—”

“Does that feel good, baby?” 

“Sofuckinggood,” you whimper, grinding against him, “Fuck—fuck, I want you, Dee—”

“Yeah? Want me to fuck you right here in the open?” he coos in your ear.

You nod. 

“Let me take these off,” he withdraws his hand and you scramble to your feet, chest heaving as you glance up and down the shoreline. He tugs off his swim trunks and reclines in the canvas beach chair. 

Your eyes drop to his cock, and this big, delighted smile stretches across your face. Returning to his lap, you lower yourself back while Dieter pushes the gusset of your bikini aside and guides to your target. When the tip of him breaches your entrance, you gasp.

“Holy shit, baby,” he groans as you ease him into your hot, wet squeeze, whimpering, “Fuck fuck fuck,” under your breath as he stretches you open. 

When he can’t go any further, you adjust your posture, hands on his knees, leaning forward, arching your back. You look over your shoulder, meeting his eyes, and start to roll your hips, pussy suctioning around him, taking him slow and deep. 

He moans and nods in approval at the pleasure that gushes up his spine, “That’s it, baby, take what you need. Ride that cock how you want it, feels so fucking good, fuuuck—”

“Oh my god, Dee,” you whine, eyes fluttering shut, mouth hanging slack. 

He slides his palms up your back and watches his cock, all shiny with your slick, disappear into you over and over again. Your huffy little whimpers grow louder and you grip his knees, pushing yourself back onto him harder, faster.

“There you go, love,” he groans, gripping your waist, “It’s all yours, baby, take it—”

“Fuck, Dee—”

Your voice is high-pitched and frantic. His hips arch into yours, pulling a wrecked moan from your chest. Liquid heat pulses through him, and when he thrusts again, you gasp and nod, “Fuck, keep doing that.”

He does. He fucks up into you and you curve your spine, face to the sky, tilting your pelvis just so, and the hot, plush silk of your cunt grips his cock, making this sick, wet squelching noise that only fuels him further. 

“Fuck, you’re amazing, so fucking perfect,” he pants, skin tingling with desire, wanting to feel you closer, needing to feel your lips on his. His hips slow and he slides a hand to your belly, urging you, “Come here, baby.” 

Dieter guides you back, threading one arm around your abdomen, the other scooping up your knees. You link your hands at the nape of his neck and he presses his forehead into yours. The first thrust makes your whole body tense and you whimper, “Holyfuckingshit—”

“I know, baby, I know,” he coos, pulling back to meet your wide eyes, “You can do it, you can take it.”

You make this cute, pathetic kind of noise, gulping down a whine, but nod for him to continue. 

He rolls his hips, slow at first, letting you acclimate, increasing his tempo when your head rolls back and your walls relax. 

You’re cradled so close he can see the sweat glistening on your skin, can smell your damp musk, can hear every breathy moan, can feel every muscle in your body quiver as he pumps into you. The edges of him start to crumble, deteriorating with each thick wave of pleasure that washes over him. 

“Fucking perfect, Jesus fucking Christ, pussy feels so good I fucking love it,” he babbles.

Your breathing grows frantic and sharp, head snapping up to tell him, “Don’t fucking stop I’m so close, holy shit Dee—”

“Fuck yes, cum on this dick baby, let me feel you, I fucking love it I fucking love you—”

You pull him into a needy, messy kiss, your deep, wanton moans vibrating on his tongue as you convulse around him, tremors twitching your muscles. A swell of pleasure steals his breath, surging through him hot and gooey and overwhelming, and he falls over the edge, spilling inside you. 

Your lips don’t part from his for more than a moment while the two of you come down into blissful satisfaction, your bodies sweaty and trembling. Labored breaths gradually dissipate into normalcy, and the kisses linger with intimacy. 

“Wow,” you giggle eventually, slack and boneless against his body as you tuck your head into his neck, “Are there awards for fucking? I think you just won in the outstanding performance category.” 

The praise curls up inside him and makes him chuckle, “What an honor. I’d like to thank my beautiful costar, Louella. Couldn’t have done it without you—”

Your laughter cuts him off, then you say,“You can put your Fuck-ee next to your Oscar.” 

“Fuck-ee?” he throws his head back and guffaws, “What would that trophy look like? A golden dong?” 

Your body shakes with laughter, “I think that sounds perfect.” 

He kisses your sweaty forehead, releasing a content sigh before murmuring “I should put my trunks back on.”

You chug two more bottles of water before returning to your chair beside Dieter. 

As you stretch out in the sunlight, the outside world starts to creep back into frame. Sand heats the soles of your feet. Ocean waves roar and slosh onto the beach. A salty breeze ruffles your hair and cools your heated skin. 

Dieter nods to the seemingly infinite gray-blue water, “Wanna take a dip?” 

You look at the ocean. At the tide washing ashore, then pulling back, again and again. Big, rhythmic, gasping breaths. You think about the vast depth of the Pacific, about the ecosystems it contains, all its tides and currents. All the life it contains and death it brings. The sheer power and magnitude of its existence, right in front of you. 

Unease twists your stomach and hums in your bones. Your chest aches. 

It’s so overwhelming. 

Dieter squeezes your hand, reminding you of his question, and you glance over at him, his expression hopeful and earnest. You can’t say no to that face. Besides, it’s just water. 

You’re being irrational. 

“Sure.” 

“Yeah?” he crinkles his nose like he’s squinting at you behind his sunglasses, “We don’t have to, you know.” 

“It’s fine, let’s go,” you crawl to your feet, dusting sand off your legs and ass as you start towards it, ignoring the violent thud of your pulse. 

He catches up to you, interlacing his fingers with yours, and the two of you trudge through the hot sand. 

“Are you sure?” 

You frown, “Yeah, why?”

“You seem,” he pauses here, jaw ticking to one side, then runs a hand through his wind-blown curls, “I dunno. Like you don’t actually want to.” 

You frown and shake your head, but the action isn’t convincing. 

When he starts to slow, you do too, and you both come to a stop, side-by-side, right across the border of smooth, damp sand. A wave crashes against the shoreline. Its tide stretches towards you, then the cool water washes over your feet. 

Dieter squeezes your hand, “Lua. Don’t lie to me.” 

You turn and face him, opening your mouth to lie, then he pulls his sunglasses up into his hair so you can meet his eyes, that warm gaze knocking at the eroded, but stubborn, cement wall of your heart, begging, “Let me in. Please.” 

“It’s stupid,” you drop your gaze and catch the soft inside of your cheek between your molars, then glance between him and the rolling water, “It’s just scary, you know?” 

He frowns, “What is, the ocean?”

“Well, yeah,” you scoff, gesturing towards another incoming wave, “It’s fucking massive. We don’t even know what’s in there, I mean, there could be monsters—”

“Monsters?” 

You shoot him a playful glare and chuckle, “We don’t know!”

“Uh huh” he grins, both of his heated, sandy palms finding your waist. 

You drape your arms around his neck, tangling your fingertips into the damp curls at the base of his skull, then swallow hard and shrug, “And maybe… I don’t know, maybe I can’t, um… swim?” 

His eyebrows shoot up, “Oh shit, really?” 

Heat creeps up your neck. You drop your gaze and hear yourself mutter out excuses like a reflex, “Not very good, anyway. Nobody ever took me swimming, or showed me how, and I never figured it out on my own, and-and Ethan was supposed to teach me—” 

“Hey, that’s fine,” he works his thumb against your skin, soothing you, “We don’t have to go far, no swimming necessary.”

You thread your brows together, “Really?” 

“Obviously,” he scoffs, “What, you think I’m gonna make you? We don’t have to go into the water at all if you don’t want to—”

“No, I want to. It looks nice, just,” you chuckle at yourself, at the worried voice of anxiety piping up in the back of your brain, “I know it’s silly, but will you make sure I don’t get, like… pulled under?” 

“Scout’s honor,” he pulls you into a hug, and you hug him back, resting your cheek on his bare chest. The ragged, jittery sparks in your ribcage calm to a low purr. Your muscles melt and untangle. Another wave washes ashore and rolls over your feet, then disappears.

He plants a firm smooch on your forehead, then rubs your back and murmurs, “Ready?” 

“Let’s fuckin’ do this,” you say in your most masculine tough guy voice, pulling back to grin at him. 

He snorts, shaking his head at you, brown eyes crinkled and twinkling with amusement, then grabs your hand and starts walking out into the tide as it rushes inland. When the ocean takes its offering back, you squeal at the sensation, how water pulls sand out from under you like a rug, coaxing you closer. Wild, salt-addled gusts whip your hair around and nip your generously exposed skin. Before you know it, you’re knee-deep in the icy water, wobbling when an incoming wave shoves you back and splashes up your thighs. 

You gasp and squeeze Dieter’s hand for stability. He steps behind you, wrapping his warm, sun-kissed arms around your body, purring in your ear, “I’ve got you, doll, don’t worry.” 

“Ok,” you nod, staring out into the deep, dark unknown, rooted in place by his fortitude, finally allowing yourself to marvel in the beauty of it all, “Ok.” 

Dieter watches you from bed as you rub moisturizer into your cheeks, leaning towards the bathroom mirror, making all these cute, squishy expressions. Little beads of water drip off the ends of your hair, still wet from the shower, onto the floor and counter. 

He’s never really been a forever kind of person. Up until about a year ago, every good thing in his life had been fleeting: flings, highs, gigs. The friendships he held onto were superficial and based in commodity. His marriage felt like a debt he owed. Companionship spoke foreign tongues. He never felt sated. Never felt like this. 

This. 

Fuck, he loves this. 

He thought people made this shit up. Forever. It always sounded like a joke. 

But it’s all he can think about. How he never wants to spend another night without you here, wearing nothing but his faded old Prince t-shirt, brushing your teeth, putting all your things away in the bathroom drawer. For-fucking-ever. 

When you flip off the bathroom light and come wandering back into the bedroom, you notice him staring at you, and chuckle, “What’re you smiling about?” 

Dieter didn’t even realize he was smiling, but you’re right, he is. With a shrug, he says, “You look pretty.” 

“Yeah?” you smirk, and twirl around a little, “Is this doing it for ya?”

“Oh, fuck yeah.”

You roll your eyes, that big beautiful smile stretching across your face, and crawl into bed beside him. He wraps an arm around your shoulder as you tuck yourself into his side, ear to his heart. Probably, you hear it skip a beat when he realizes what he’s about to say. 

“I don’t want you to leave.” 

The seconds after are so quiet he hears your lips part. You shift around until you’re propped up on his chest, searching his face, “What’re you saying?” 

His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth. He curls a hand around the small of your back, “I mean, you know, I want you to stay,” he swallows and meets your gaze, “Like, to live here.” 

Your features lights up, and it’s sweeter than any fucking buzz he ever caught. 

“Really?”

He nods. 

As if something occurs to you, your lips fall into a frown, “What about my baking? And-and Parker—”

“Open something up here. You always tell me about how you want to run a legit bakery,” he smooths his thumb against your spine, “Parker can visit us whenever he wants.” 

“I don’t have the capital to open a bakery—”

“I’ll help.” 

Your shoulders deflate a little and a crease forms between your brows. You tap your fingertips against his chest and ask, “Would you consider moving to New York?” 

He drops his gaze and shakes his head, “I have to be here. Better chance of me picking up work if I’m close by.“

“Dieter,” you pause, holding your breath like you’re not sure you want to say it, but when he meets your eyes, you stammer, “It just doesn’t seem like, I don’t know… Do you even like acting?”

The question feels like a jolt. 

He jerks his head back, “Yeah. Yeah, of course I do.” 

You raise your eyebrows. Unconvinced. Stomach acid sloshes around inside him and bubbles up his throat. 

“It’s my purpose. Acting is the only constant in my life, the only thing that I do that means anything. It—it’s what gets me out of bed and pushes me to keep going.” 

He says this, but the words taste sour. Does he even like acting anymore? Or is he just scared to try something else? 

A glimpse of the answer in his heart sends it racing. He stuffs it down and tries not to look at it. It’s too fucking scary. 

You study him for a moment, then scrunch your face up and stare at your fingertips as they dance across his bare skin. Deep in thought. With each second that goes by, he’s sure you’ll press harder and make him crack. It wouldn’t take much. 

“I wonder how much money I could make selling my inventory,” you ponder out loud,  “Probably at least $20k. That would be an ok starting—”

His mouth drops open, “Holy shit, how much do you have?” 

You shrug, “Twenty pounds raw, thirty pounds cannabutter—”

“And I’ve been smoking you up?” he tuts, “Puta madre.” 

You gasp and smack his chest, breaking out in a giggle when you say, “Rude.” 

“I’m just kidding,” he laughs, pulling you closer, “Smoking you up is an honor.” 

“Damn right it is.” 

The two of you smile at each other for a moment, then what you were saying catches up to him. 

“So, if you sell everything, then…” 

Your eyebrow quirks and your grin spreads wider as you shrug, “Then I could probably swing a cross-country move.” 

“Yeah?” 

His cheeks ache from smiling, but he can’t stop. 

You nod, “Yeah.” 

The shrill sound of your ringtone cuts through sleep. 

You roll out of Dieter’s loose grip to grab at the source, frowning first at the time, then the caller. Fucking FaceTime, seriously?

You pull Dieter’s shirt over your head and tiptoe out onto the patio, sliding the door shut behind you as you answer with a hiss, “Parker, it’s 3am, what the fu—”

“Lou, look,” he says, and you squint at the screen, recognizing the propped open door to your apartment building. The snow piles flicker blue and red. Parker pans the camera to the half-dozen NYPD squad cars clogging the street. Police officers and people wearing jackets reading NYPD FORENSIC INVESTIGATION DIVISION file in and out of the building, the outgoing individuals carrying boxes of evidence. 

“I don’t understand,” you shake your head, “What’s going on, are you ok?”

“That’s from your apartment, Lou,” he tells you quietly, “They fucking raided it.”

Panic seeps into your blood, an icy cold rush that numbs your limbs and freezes your brain. You just keep shaking your head, and hear yourself tell Parker, “No—no that can’t be right.” 

“Trust me, it is—”

“Excuse me,” an off-screen voice says to Parker, and the perspective shifts to the source: a bald white man with thick-rimmed glasses. He’s holding a camera, and he asks, “Do you live here?” 

“No,” Parker answers. 

Another wave of panic slams into you as you realize who he is: David Alterman from DIRT. 

You end the call and stare at the screen, unable to move. Unable to think. Just one thought blares in your mind, deafening and persistent: RUN.

[sweetpascal]

— 𝐭 𝐡 𝐞 𝐬 𝐭 𝐨 𝐧 𝐞 𝐫 𝐝 𝐢 𝐚 𝐫 𝐢 𝐞 𝐬 ༄

pairing: dieter bravo x fem!reader

MAIN MASTERLIST

— series summary: being dieter's only best friend—also long term friends with benefits—you've learned not to be an enabler like the other "friends" he's had in the past. after forcing him to only have weed as his drug of choice as therapy, you're soon trapped in his world of chaos, sex, and idiocy.

— series warnings: [ WARNINGS WILL BE MORE DESCRIPTIVE PER CHAPTER ]. MINORS DNI. idiots to lovers (boffum). TW: weed use. healthy coping mechanisms. TW: mentions of poor mental health. sex sex lots of sex. brief angsty-ness. dieter is just a huge dork in this.

— notes: the dividers used in this series have all been made by me. please give credit if you wanna take them for any fics you'd wanna use them for. thank you !! ≽^•⩊•^≼

follow @sweetpascal-notifs for updates on future fics.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓇𝑒𝒷𝓁𝑜𝑔𝓈 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝒶𝓅𝓅𝓇𝑒𝒸𝒾𝒶𝓉𝑒𝒹. 💌 ꒱ ˎˊ˗

— 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎 𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐃.

ᝰ.ᐟ = s m u t 〤 = a n g s t

no. 01 — draw me like one of your french girl's

MORE COMING SOON. ༉‧₊˚.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ EXTRAS ꒱ ˎˊ˗

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[pedrito-friskito]

three…two…one… - dieter bravo x fem!reader

❄️’tis the season❄️

summary: you and dieter throw a new year’s party.

word count: 2.8k

warnings: MY BLOG IS 18+, MINORS DNI, smut, fluff, unprotected p-in-v, dieter’s dirty mouth, mentions of drinking/drugs/classic dieter things, this is SUPER SELF-INDULGENT AND I DON’T CARE BUT I LOVE THESE TWO SO MUCH AND JUST WANT THEM TO BE HAPPY OKAY THAT’S IT THAT’S ALL

a/n: the beginning of this fic genuinely made me laugh out loud when I wrote it. thank you all for the love and support always (I’ll make a sappy new years post separately) and I know I’m a day late, but enjoy! (also special props to @mandoblowmybackout for giving me the pizza idea 😏)

“I wanna throw a party.”

Well, that’s definitely not what you were expecting.

“What did you just say?”

Dieter pauses, head snapping up, eyes flicking from where they’d been trained on your bare tits up to your face. His eyes are bloodshot, pupils blown wide, and his cheeks are rosy, a slick of sweat at his temple. “Huh?”

He’s stoned. You both are, truthfully. The last few weeks have been a blur of cardboard, tinsel, and red wine, flitting from one house to the next. You were Dieter’s plus one to a slew of holiday parties (which went much better than your Halloween escapades had, mainly because it was time spent with Dieter’s actual friends, people he trusted, not a bunch of strangers trying to get on his good side) and, in a not-so-shocking twist, a Christmas party thrown by your closest pals. 

They had been more than shocked when you announced you were bringing Dieter fucking Bravo along with you, doubly shocked when you told them you were moving in together. It was something to get used to, the talking about him, the calling him your…boyfriend? Partner? Something like that. But up until now, you’ve been so used to keeping it hush hush, reducing your relationship to what it had been, not what it’s turning into. And your closest friend had a keen eye on Dieter, knowing exactly what had gone down at Halloween.

“You’re sure moving in with him is the right thing?”

“There’s nothing I’m more sure of, trust me.”

She’d tilted her head to the side, stared at you a long moment. “You seem happy. Almost too happy.”

“I am,” you said, barking a laugh. “I’m really fucking happy.”

Parties, friends, a quick appearance by your parents — which Dieter had handled with such composure you had to restrain yourself from sticking your tongue down his throat in front of your mother — and the end of the era that was your apartment. You were officially moved out as of Boxing Day, the 27th of December was spent at a work party, and now…you’re officially living together.

The end of a long few weeks, both of you dead on your feet and desperate for a little reprieve, Dieter had declared it a night for celebrating. A healthy-sized joint had been shared on the balcony, reminiscent of the first time you’d set foot in his condo, and you’d swapped smoke, shotgunning between heavy giggles and tired smiles.

“I’m really happy you’re here, baby.”

“Me, too.”

Realizing this would be the first official meal in your now shared space, you spent nearly half an hour trying to decide what to order. Dieter had pouted at that, telling you he wanted to cook you something, but he’d nearly tripped over his own feet coming in from the balcony and almost ripped the curtains down in the process, and the last thing you want to do your first official night is have to call the fire department or an ambulance.

You settled on a giant meat lover’s pizza with extra cheese, bottles of root beer, garlic sticks, the works. You ate sprawled on the rug in front of his fireplace, licking grease from your fingers, watching old episodes of Family Guy, and Dieter’s Stewie impression made you laugh so hard you nearly spewed root beer out of your nose.

It was perfect.

After the pizza had been demolished, things took a turn. It had started innocent enough, the pair of you cuddled up on the couch, your head tucked under Dieter’s chin, his arm wrapped securely around your waist. Something else came on tv, but you were barely paying attention at that point, Dieter having tipped your chin in his direction, hungry kisses that tasted vaguely of pizza pressed to your mouth.

One thing led to another, and before you knew it, you were sprawled on the chaise end of the sofa, stripped of all your clothes. He’d started with your knees hooked over his shoulders, face buried between your legs. He’d pumped you full of three fingers, lips sealed around your clit, mumbling into you the whole while.

“Pussy tastes so fucking good, baby,” he rasped, curling his knuckles, making you keen. “God, you’re so good for me, aren’t you? Taste like a fucking dream.”

You’d cum so hard you saw stars the first time, your head thrown back on the couch, hands buried in his wayward curls. He’d worked you through it, lapping around where his fingers were splitting you open, pulling them out only to replace them with his tongue.

Dieter growled when you yanked at his shoulders, clawing at his t-shirt until he scrambled up the couch, shoving his lounge shorts down over his ass, pulling the hem of his shirt up and over his head. He dropped onto his elbows a second later, covering your mouth with his as he slid into you, both of you stark naked, thrusting so hard the couch slid across the hardwood. You were lost in it, chasing Dieter’s mouth, arms hooked around his shoulders, keeping him close to you.

And then—

“I wanna throw a party.”

He starts laughing, clearly realizing that he said the words out loud, but his pace doesn’t falter. He grins broadly, leaning up on his knees slightly, letting his hands skim along your shoulders and down over his chest, squeezing at your breasts, thumbs swiping your nipples.

“A party, baby,” he continues, glassy eyes raking down your body, trained on the spot where you’re joined together. “New Year’s, yeah? Wanna celebrate this.” He punctuates the word with the drop of his thumb, a slow drag over your clit. 

You make a choked sound, back arching slightly. “My pussy?”

The corner of his mouth quirks. “Something this good should be celebrated,” he says, swiping at your clit again. “God, you feel amazing, you know that? Fuck, I love you.”

“Dieter.”

“The New Year, baby,” he says, eyes flicking back up to yours. “Your friends, my friends, the people we actually give a shit about. Let’s celebrate it. This. Us.” He runs his other hand up your side, curls his fingers around your ribs, rubs a harder circle around your nerves. “Get all dressed up, drink champagne, the whole thing.”

You laugh despite it all, sliding your hand up his arm, squeezing at his bicep. “I’m used to New Years in my sweatpants.”

“Wear whatever you want, baby girl,” he purrs, leaning down and nipping at your lips. “I’m just gonna peel it off you at midnight anyway.”

+

You think he’ll forget, that you’ll wake up the next morning and his sudden desperate need to throw a party would have subsided, but you instead wake up to an empty bed. At eleven in the morning. Supremely uncharacteristic of Dieter, who usually lays in bed until the last possible moment, trying to keep you hostage every single morning.

Snagging one of his t-shirts off the bed, you pad out of the bedroom to find him perched at one of the barstools. He’s got his laptop open in front of him, a giant mug of coffee in his hand, and his phone pressed to his ear. “Yeah, hi, do you guys do those little fuckin’ pigs-in-a-blanket things?”

You just burst out laughing.

Two days later, and the condo is full of friendly faces. It’s by far your favourite party you’ve been to with Dieter, made all the more special that you’re throwing it together, in the home you both live in. You make the rounds, play hostess, resist the urge to go hide in the bathroom. You love the holidays, really, but the constant stream of people, the small talk and the drinking and the late nights, it’s weighing on you.

But when you saw the spark in Dieter’s eye as he called caterers and made drink menus and decided on a guest list, you couldn’t say no.

You still haven’t had time to unpack, and all of your boxes are shoved in the guest room, but even that doesn’t stop it from feeling crowded and overwhelming. You’re stopped by a few friends, remnants of your old life mixing with your new one, and you’re grateful, having a quick conversation before someone else is calling your name, pulling you away.

It’s quarter to midnight when you know you need a moment, and you excuse yourself from the people you’d been talking to and head straight for the bedroom. Your dress feels too tight, the necklace you’d worn with it making you want to claw your head off. Heaving a breath, you toss it onto the chest of drawers, reaching for the zipper on your dress as you head into the closet.

Toeing off your shoes, you reach for one Dieter’s t-shirts, the fluffy jacket you’d thrifted for him, a pair of leggings. You’re halfway into the leggings when you glance over and see the Mandalorian armour he’d worn on Halloween. It’s piled on the floor, the jumpsuit wrinkled and pieces of metal scattered. 

The helmet is now sitting beside his Oscar in the living room; your idea.

You already know the closet is going to be a project, a complete reorganization if you are gonna fit anything besides your underwear in with Dieter’s things (something you doubt he would mind). Pulling the leggings on all the way, you reach for the armour, gathering the pieces of metal first, stacking them on the shelves beside a pair of custom Crocs you know you’ve seen Dieter wearing around the apartment. 

The jumpsuit is next, and as you pull the fabric up off the floor, something tumbles out of it. Your eyes track it as it falls to the carpet. A little black box, perfectly square and shiny on top. You cock your head, putting the jump suit to the side as you sink down and reach for it. It must be a watch or something, but you realize as your fingers close around the box that it’s too small to be a watch, that it’s the perfect size for—

“Holy shit.”

Your breath stalls in your throat and for a moment, you pause. 

Should you open it? There’s a chance that it’s not at all what you think it is, but there’s also a chance that it is one thousand fucking percent exactly what you think it is.

What if he has a plan? Wait…then why was it in the Mando suit? Was he planning to ask at Halloween, before everything went down the way that it did? When had he bought the damn thing?

Your mind is a flurry of questions, a tiny voice screaming at you to just open the damn box! until you hear Dieter’s voice, snapping you out of your reverie so hard you have to shake your head.

“Baby? What are you doing back here?”

You nearly drop the box, shrieking as he steps into the closet before you have a chance to drop the box, hide it, put it back in the jumpsuit, anything. “Fuck, D, you scared me!”

He stares at you a long moment, eyes jumping between your face and the box over and over and over again. “Whatcha got there?”

You’re caught red-handed; there’s no getting out of this one. “I was putting your Mando costume away.”

Dieter chuckles, takes a half-step towards you, the closet door swinging shut behind him. “I can see that.”

“I was just putting it away,” you say again, and he takes another step towards you, until he’s close enough to put a hand on your hip, “and this fell out.”

“Oh, it fell,” he repeats, and his free hand moves to cup yours, the box held aloft in your palm. “It’s been there for a while now.”

“Did you forget you had it?” you ask, and there’s a crack in your voice you’re not expecting, a new sort of desperation crawling up the back of your throat. Is this actually fucking happening?

Slowly, Dieter shakes his head. You bottom lip trembles as he leans in and kisses you softly, squeezing his fingers around yours, around the box. “Not for a second.”

Realization sweeps through you, and you wince. “Oh god, you were gonna propose at midnight, weren’t you?” When he doesn’t answer, you take it as a yes, groaning. “Oh fuck, I fucked it all up, didn’t I? Fuck, Dieter, I’m sorry, baby, I’m—”

He kisses you again, cutting off your words as he pulls you against him. He plucks the box from your hands, snapping it open, and all your breath shoots from your lungs in a gush, knees nearly giving out underneath you. It’s beautiful, salt-and-pepper diamond winking back at you. Rose gold, flanked by two tinier diamonds on either side, an interesting octagonal cut that catches the light from every direction.

“Oh my god.”

“After the Halloween party,” he says, his voice dropping low, “I was gonna get McDonald’s on the way home. I was gonna get you a strawberry milkshake and put the ring on the straw, and then I was gonna write my question on a napkin and give it to you.” He gives a little chuckle, and his hand is at the small of your back now, holding you close. “Obviously, that didn’t work out how I planned it.”

There are tears in your eyes, thick and crawling up the back of your throat. Happy tears, the happiest you think you’ve ever felt. “No, it didn’t,” is all you can manage to mumble out.

“Then, I was gonna do it that day when you gave back the keys to your apartment, but you were so sad, and it didn’t feel like the right time. And then you agreed to this stupid fucking party, even though I knew you didn’t want to, and I thought now, but this—” He plucks the ring out of the box, reaches for your left hand. “—this is better.”

Vaguely, you can hear the sounds of the party, people yelling that the ball is about to drop, that it’s almost midnight, that the New Year is almost here.

Dieter smiles, and it’s a smile that’s now familiar to you. It’s love and it’s light and the man is beaming. “You know you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, baby. And I know we’re not easy, or conventional, and maybe people are gonna say this is way too fucking fast, I don’t know. But I know that I love you, and I wanna have a life with you.”

People are counting down now, shouting the numbers as they tick by. Your heartbeat is in your ears, thumping loudly with every second that passes.

10…9…8…7…

“Y’know, I’m supposed to get down on one knee for this,” Dieter murmurs, but you’ve got a death grip on his shoulder, refusing to let him move.

6…5…4…

“Ask me.”

He grins.

“Will you marry me, baby?”

3…2…1…

“Yes.”

Happy New Year!

Dimly, you hear the celebrations in your living room, the whooping and cheering of your friends. Your heartbeat is still thundering, and your hand is shaking as he slides the ring onto your finger.

A perfect fucking fit.

As soon as it hits your knuckle, your arms are around his neck, mouth seeking his, knotting your fingers in his hair. You can feel his smile, a broad grin against your lips as he crushes you to his chest. It’s tight enough to lift you off your feet, your legs automatically lifting around his hips as you kiss him.

His tongue tastes like champagne, and you’re drunk off the feeling of him, the taste of him, the new foreign weight of the ring on your finger. Holy fucking shit. The kiss is just as sweet as it always is, but there’s something about it that feels different now, something more intense, new territory for the two of you to suss out together.

Dieter carries you out of the closet, and it’s only then that you realize you’re only half-dressed, in the leggings you’d thrown on and your bra. He’s got one arm around your waist, other hand pressed between your shoulders, and your lips don’t break as he walks towards the bed and lays you out on the mattress.

“Happy New Year, baby,” he says against your lips, still smiling, and so are you. You’re on Cloud 9, champagne high, over the moon, walking on air, every fucking cliché you’ve ever heard in your life.

You clasp your hands behind his neck, fingers automatically seeking out the ring on your left hand, rubbing you thumb over the diamond. “Happy New Year, Dieter.”

He gives you one last lingering kiss, your whole body tingling with it before he pulls away.

“You wanna go tell your friends?”

You shake your head no. “Not yet. I want us to celebrate it first.”

He nods, an understanding look in his eye. “Wait here,” he whispers, grabbing your left hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips, kissing your ring. “I’m gonna go kick all these fucking people out, and then I’m gonna make love to my fiancée, you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

That beaming smile is back, and it sends a flurry of butterflies through your stomach. “I love you, baby.”

“I love you.”

As soon as the door clicks shut, you can’t hold back anymore. It’s that little girl moment, the kicking feet and the squealing and blushing so hard you think your cheeks are on fire. You can’t stop staring at your ring, and you just hope Dieter moves fast out.

—————

if you’re curious what the ring actually looks like, my inspo is HERE.

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Complications

Dieter Bravo x f!reader

|| Consent universe oneshot but can be read independently from the series ||

{ Fuck Yeah Holidays | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E

Prompts: Dieter shoots a watch ad | New Year's Eve

Summary: Dieter shoots a watch ad at a New Year’s Eve party. What could possibly happen - specifically in the VIP powder room - when the ball drops?

Warnings: !WATCH KINK!, dirty talk, fingering, semi-public sex. These holiday fics are for fun, so not as *rigorously edited* as my regular stories, please forgive any mistakes or plot holes!

Word count: 2.3k

In horology, a complication is any feature of a mechanical timepiece beyond the display of hours, minutes and seconds.

Dedicated to Maddie @imaswellkid for loving watches on Pedro boys as much as I do 😘

‘Sweetheart. C’mon, stop pouting.’

‘I’m not pouting.’

Dieter brushes the pad of his thumb across your lips, pursed petulantly despite your denial. ‘You so are.’

You swat away his hand then cross your arms. ‘I’m scowling. There’s a difference.’

You’re not sure who made the executive decision to appoint Dieter Bravo as the brand ambassador of a watchmaker. The man’s never worn a watch in his life. Time is but a social construct to him.

But what’s done is done, and he will be launched as the face of their new line of luxury watches at a New Year’s Eve party hosted by the brand this very evening - a last-minute decision that’s upset your plans for your first new year together.

Pete is throwing a bash at the warehouse conversion he’s just moved into, and you’ve been looking forward to seeing your backstage friends from Resurgence since you got the invite. You pull out your phone to text him your apologies, which Pete responds to speedily with a string of sad face emojis, and follows up with a call to Dieter.

You can hear Pete whining through the receiver even though the phone isn’t on speaker as your boyfriend pacifies him. ‘Man, you know how much I wanted to come, but this work thing came up last-minute. We’ll make our way over right after the countdown, I promise. Yes, pinky promise.’

Your lips quirk despite your mood.

Hanging up as the car rolls to a stop in front of a swanky hotel, Dieter sighs at your long face. He leans over to press a kiss to your impassive lips, his brown eyes pleading. ‘I’ll make it up to you sweetheart, ok?’

‘Fine,’ you huff, softening just the tiniest bit as the car doors are flung open, and with one last smile at you, Dieter is whisked away by his PR team.

Midnight is still a few hours away, and the schedule is tightly packed with a photoshoot beforehand and filming of behind-the-scenes footage for social media. They settle you in the lounge of the presidential suite while Dieter gets ready in the other room, and you begrudgingly accept a glass of champagne and the plate of canapes they leave you on the coffee table.

You pace yourself, making the bubbles last. Pumped up dance music spills from his room as the door opens and closes with the rush of pre-shoot chaos. Garment bags, shoe boxes and makeup trolleys come and go as you entertain yourself with the glossy magazines on the coffee table while the PR team buzzes about, wired to earpieces and shouting orders into their phones.

You’re halfway through an embarrassingly engrossing magazine quiz - how hot is your sex life according to your fave side dish - when a shadow falls over you.

‘Sweetheart, we’re heading down to the party now. Come with?’

You can’t help but stare.

To be honest, you had no expectations whatsoever for this gig. You thought they would dress him up in a generic black suit, take some generic shots with him fiddling with his cufflink while showing off his timepiece like every other generic watch ad. It’s not like you don’t appreciate a sharp suit or a nice watch, you do - but it’s just not Dieter.

And it looks like the stylist heard your prayers.

Instead of a traditional two-piece, Dieter is wearing relaxed dress pants, a light knitted pullover tucked into them over a smart belt. Rounding off the ensemble is a smart knee-length black coat with sharp lapels. His signature sunglasses perch on the tip of his nose, his curls styled messily.

The sleeves of the coat are folded up to expose his strong hands, but what really catches your eye sits on his left wrist - a large, square-faced watch with a steel chain bracelet.

While you don’t count yourself a connoisseur, you know enough to recognise that this watch is the real deal. The time display is in refined Roman numerals, and an elegant moonphase complication sits at the top of the dial. The pièce de résistance is the small, circular window at the bottom of the face that offers a peek into the sacred inner mechanics - the tourbillon. Beneath the glass is a gorgeous criss-crossing of gold wheels, brass cogs, and silver springs, all tangled in perfect synchronisation, endless moving parts that tick and spin.

It is a beautiful watch, no doubt, and a hugely expensive one at that.

To your consternation, they’re letting him wear his ratty knitted bracelet he bought from a vendor on a farflung beach in Thailand on the same hand, as well as his rings with the black gemstones on his index and pinky fingers.

While unusual in theory, the contrast somehow pays off. The whole look just works - it’s Dieter. You could kiss the stylist on the mouth with joy even though your boyfriend is standing right there.

‘Sweetheart?’

Your eyes fall to Dieter’s palm, open and outstretched in invitation. Then they move just a few inches upward, lingering on the smooth steel encircling his wrist.

You swallow thickly and put your hand in his, letting him pull you onto your feet, knees wobbly. A shiver runs down the length of your spine when the watch brushes your skin.

It should come as no surprise to you that Dieter is just as good on the set of a photoshoot as a movie. He works the angles, ever aware of the lighting and the cameras, hitting pose after pose like the professional that he is.

The photographer’s assistant shows you the stills on a laptop as they snap. With the set outdoors in the dark, the raw lighting - bordering on harsh - lends a gritty overtone to the photos, the tone far more artistic than commercial.

There’s no tweaking of cufflinks or stale power posing here. Dieter’s smouldering at the camera, peeking through his hand while the watch takes centre stage. He’s raking his fingers through his hair, lips grazing the metal strap as he gazes into the lens.

But when he brings it to his mouth, biting the steel case with the pink of his tongue peeking through, your knees all but give out.

By the time the photographer yells it’s a wrap, you’re a mess. Tension hums under your skin and there’s a stickiness between your legs that puts you in a highly inconvenient position given that Dieter will be fully occupied for the next hour and a half. You adjust your dress as discreetly as you can, jumping when his palm lands warm on your back as he ushers you indoors before you can pull yourself together.

This party is not your scene. Formulaic pop music blares from the speakers, beautiful people mill about in sequins that sparkle under the disco lights and bounce off blindingly from mirrors everywhere you look. The only redeeming detail is the delicious champagne that flows liberally, at least that tempers the tedium.

Everyone wants a piece of him. Sometimes you find it hard to believe that this is the same guy who doesn’t know how to load a dishwasher. He handles the relentless demands with aplomb - a selfie with a fan here, a few words for New York Times Style magazine there, all the while performing for the live stream camera that trails two steps behind him.

You linger nearby, following discreetly while sipping on champagne. Even from a distance, the watch catches the light whenever he moves. Dieter notices you staring, jaw slack, more than once. But the harder you try to act normal, the more on edge you get. He sends you more than one quizzical glance over the top of his sunglasses, but with people buzzing around him like pesky wasps, it’s not until twenty minutes to midnight that he catches a break and drags you unceremoniously into the VIP bathroom.

The heavy oak door shuts out the blasted music as Dieter locks it behind him, wheeling you around with his grip on your elbows. ‘Alright sweetheart, what is it? Are you still mad about Pete’s party?’

You grit your teeth and force yourself to keep your eyes on his. ‘No.’

He sighs. ‘We can go afterwards. I told Pete we will, I just need to do this countdown thing and we can go right after.’

‘I said it’s not that,’ you insist, fighting the damn magnetic force trying to drag your gaze downwards.

Tugging you into his arms, Dieter traces his nose on your cheek. ‘C’mon sweetheart. I’ll make it up to you.’

Your voice trembles. ‘I’m not lying, I’m fine.’

Clearly unconvinced, he arches an eyebrow at you before pulling back, cocking his wrist to check the time.

The whimper slips from you without you knowing, suspended in the air between you that thickens instantly like some chemical reaction.

Dieter looks at you sharply. ‘What was that, sweetheart?’

You give in and take a peek at his watch for just one second, but he catches you - of course he does. A cocky grin tugs at the corner of his lips as he drawls, ‘What have we here - found a new accessory that you like the look of?’

You whine, a hot flush of embarrassment in your chest. ‘I don’t know why it turns me on.’

‘What does? The fact that I can tell time?’ he teases. Splaying his left palm on the nape of your neck, the cold bracelet of his watch caresses the side of your neck. ‘First my rings, now this? You filthy girl.’

‘I can’t help it,’ you gripe.

Knowing exactly what it does to you, Dieter takes another exaggerated look at his watch, head tilted to the side. ‘We have fifteen minutes. Can you be quick, sweetheart?’

At your desperate nod, he backs you up into the full-length mirror on the far side of the powder room before spinning you around, crowding you against the cool surface. His entire body engulfs from behind you as he trails kisses down the side of your neck, watching your reflection squirm in his grasp from the corner of his eye. With no preamble, he bunches your tight skirt all the way up your hips and tugs your panties to one side impatiently.

‘Look at how wet those panties are,’ he moans into your ear. ‘Have you just been standing there checking me out, rubbing your thighs together all this time?’

A gasp catches in your throat. ‘Yes.’

His left palm trails down your body, and you stare openly as the watch skims over your body, the hard steel scraping the swell of your cleavage as it descends. You’re panting by the time Dieter’s fingers slide along your folds until the tips nudge your slick entrance, a cry wrangled from you when the watch falls to the base of his hand and the strap grazes your clit. With a growl, he presses his inner wrist into the sensitive apex of your thighs. ‘Feel good, baby?’

You make an incoherent sound when two thick digits slip into your sodden pussy. ‘Oh fuck, yes, please.’

‘Rub that needy clit on my watch, sweetheart,’ he orders, dark eyes on you. ‘Smear yourself all over it.’

You mewl and do as you’re told. Riding his fingers, you feel every ridge on the watch strap as you grind into the smooth steel, your movements crude and fitful. Dieter has to hold you up with his free arm wound tight around your waist while your hands cling to the back of his neck.

‘Fuck, you’re getting so wet,’ he says through gritted teeth, as if in awe, and pumps harder into you. ‘Oh yes, I feel your cunt clenching around me, you’re close, aren’t you?’

You moan, words failing you. ‘Don’t stop, please -’

‘Fuck, baby, you’re getting my watch all wet,’ he grunts, pinching your chin between his fingers, making you look at yourself in the mirror. ‘See how it’s shiny with your slick? So fucking pretty, sweetheart.’

You feel another gush of arousal drip down his hand, and his watch slips, the bracelet catching your clit in an angle that makes your back arch. You cum hard, writhing desperately in his grasp as he whispers filth into your ear through your high. ‘So good for me, baby, that’s it, such a good girl, dripping all over my expensive watch, you filthy thing -’

Dieter nuzzles your neck as you catch your breath, the scrape of his beard on your sensitive skin making you tremble and squirm in his grip. He gently eases out of you, sucking his fingers clean before turning you around and kissing you slowly and deeply so that you can taste yourself on his tongue.

You’re still drifting in the aftershock when a frantic series of knocks on the bathroom door shakes you out of it. With an irritated snarl, Dieter barks, ‘What?’

‘Um, Mr. Bravo - we’re five minutes from midnight, you need to come out right now -’

‘I can read the fucking time,’ he snaps and gives you an apologetic kiss to the temple. ‘Sorry baby, work beckons.’

Your hand shoots out of nowhere to grab him, and locking your gaze with him, you drag the flat of your tongue across the damp strap, tasting yourself on the metal.

His nostrils flare and you can almost hear his jaw crack, pupils blown wide and black as you give him a wicked grin. Snaking one palm all the way down to rub his straining erection, you breathe into his ear. ‘I want you to stroke yourself until you cum all over that fancy watch later, okay?’

He groans, burying his nose in your hair. ‘How am I going to count down with this huge fucking boner in my pants, baby?’

You wink and give him a full-mouthed kiss. ‘Just think of it as a countdown to something else after.’

Dieter chuckles against your lips. ‘Happy fucking New Year indeed, sweetheart.’

Notes: I finally did it. A watch kink fic! Honestly, it's not as wild as it could've been, but damn I had the best time writing it. Thank you for reading, wishing all you wonderful people a very happy new year! ❤️

As soon as it was became clear from the results that NYE was going to be paired with the watch ad prompt, I just knew instantly I had to set it in a NYE party. Thank you Hayley @haylzcyon for this request that went perfectly with my idea:

ooohhh don't feel pressured to write this in if you do the NYE prompt but the idea of a swanky NYE party where reader and dieter get a little tipsy, sneak off for a quickie in a coat room or something and realize they missed the ball drop when they come back would be hilarious. dieter can't imagine a better way to ring in the new year than between your thighs 😏

[psychedelic-ink]

ㅤㅤㅤ✦ 𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐑

ㅤㅤjavi gutierrez x f!reader x dieter bravo

genre: smut, minors dni, romance

word count: 0.7k

summary: javi and dieter spoil you with everything they have.

warnings: established relationship, threesome, poly relationship, nipple play, vaginal fingering, oral (reader receiving)

a/n: HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY LOVE @pedrorascal!!!! I know you're probably sleeping right now (damn you timezones)but hopefully this will be a lovely morning surprise! I'm so happy that I've met you through this hellsite---everything you create is art and you bring so much joy to this fandom. You're one of a kind and I just adore and love you so so much 💗💗💗💗

It’s still hard to believe it sometimes— The two men that spontaneously came into your life, the way they made you feel that you belonged in a chaotic, dark world. First came Javi, then came Dieter. Two loveable idiots, and you, the biggest idiot in love. 

Looking down, your heart swells, and your pussy throbs. It’s a sight to behold. Both of their mouths latched on to each hardened nipple, sucking with earnest while you sit on the bed, your back pressed again the bedpost. Their eyes are closed, lashes fanning their cheeks. You slightly shift, your arousal getting the better of you as you search for any kind of friction. 

“Don’t be impatient,” Dieter murmurs with his mouth full. “Let us make you feel good. It’s been a while.” 

A shiver runs through your body at his words, memories of the last time the three of you were together flooding your mind. It had been pure bliss, the way their bodies moved against yours, the way their lips and hands explored every inch of you. And now, as they continue to suck and nibble on your nipples, it feels like coming home. 

Javi moves his mouth to your neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses and love bites along your skin. Dieter's hands move down to your thighs, spreading them wider as he dips his fingers between your legs. Your breath hitches as they both apply their attention to different parts of your body, driving you closer and closer to the edge. 

Their touch is familiar yet electric, and you can't help but moan when Dieter's fingers slip inside of you, finding your sweet spot and rubbing it with just the right amount of pressure. Javi moves his mouth down to your stomach, kissing and licking his way toward your core as Dieter starts to thrust two thick fingers in and out.

Your body is on fire as they continue to devour you, your senses heightened and your mind consumed with pure pleasure. You arch your back, pushing your breasts closer to Dieter’s eager mouth, encouraging them to take more of you in. Dieter's fingers continue to move inside of you, hitting all the right spots as he curls them and adds in a second and then a third. The sensation is overwhelming, and you can feel your muscles clenching and your release approaching. 

Javi's hot breath fans against your core as he blows on your heated skin before finally attaching his lips to your clit. You throw your head back, letting out a long moan as his expert tongue works its magic, swirling and flicking at just the right pace. Your body is trembling now, the sensations too much to handle as you feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge. 

Your eyes drop to where Javi crowns between your legs, his mouth briefly pulling back as Dieter stuffs his fingers between the other man’s lips. He sucks on them, loudly moaning while Dieter shallowly thrusts them in and out. 

“Good boy,” he raps, pulling them out and sliding them into you once more. “Now make out pretty girl come with those full lips of yours.” 

You can hear Javi and Dieter's moans mixing with yours, their own arousal evident. You feel them move closer to you, their bodies pressing against yours as they continue to suck, lick, and stroke you into oblivion. Your body is on the verge of ecstasy, and you know that you're only a few seconds away from losing yourself completely. 

And then it happens, the pleasure overtakes you, and you're screaming their names as you come undone in their arms. Javi and Dieter both hold you close, their touches still gentle as you ride out your orgasm. Their kisses now sweet and tender instead of passionate and relentless. 

“That’s it,” Dieter whispers. “That’s our girl.” 

Javi blinks up at you, his eyes dazed and lips slick, “That was amazing, mi amor. Want you to make a mess again, want to taste it on my tongue until the day I die.” 

“What about you guys?” 

Dieter chuckles, breath fanning your neck, “Don’t worry, I already have plans of fucking that dork over there until he faints as you watch.” 

“Good,” you say with a wide grin. “I can’t wait to see it.” 

As your breathing returns to normal, you find yourself sandwiched between them, their arms wrapped around you in a protective embrace. You feel so loved, so cherished in this moment, and you know that with them by your side, anything is possible. Your heart is full, and you know that you belong with these two loveable idiots, who have captured your heart and your body with their undeniable charm and affection.

[prolix-yuy]

Bangathon 2024 Masterlist

Thank you to everyone that participated! Please enjoy the banging below.

Submissions are always open! Please tag @prolix-yuy and use the hashtag #bangathon2024 so I can add yours to the list!

Bangathon Homepage

Bear & Bee by @mabelisapunk (Frankie Morales x f!reader)

track 9 - the prophecy by @pedrito-friskito (Din Djarin x Fem!Reader)

Quite the Reunion by @crowandmousewritingco (Jack Daniels (Agent Whiskey) x transmasc!reader)

Phoenix Playing in a Red Cave by @boliv-jenta (Dieter Bravo x F!Reader)

Trying Something New by @missredherring (Lucien Flores x Fat F!Reader)

Bangathon prize fic coming soon!

[wildemaven]

Sweet Creature: Epilogue

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

WC: 1609

Warnings: 18+ Blog: p in v, established relationship, fluff, Dieter in distress, mentions of sobriety

Series Masterlist / Playlist / Main Masterlist

Previous

The morning light filters through the sheer curtains, a harsh reminder of how time is of the essence. 

A sheen of sweat drapes over your bodies, a give and take shared effort, bedsheets lost in the shuffle of positions and tangled limbs. 

“Yes, Dieter— Don’t stop! Please!” You whine. 

Your fingers digging into the bulge of his biceps, his arms flexed and teasing you, delicious eye candy from where you're situated below him. 

“Fuck! Poppy, I’m close— shit! You gotta help me out here babe, I’m gettin’ a fuckin’ cramp in my ass cheek.” His hips begin their signature staggering thrusts, signaling his climax is imminent. 

You snake your hand between your bodies, bypassing your tiny bundle of nerves, your fingers sliding through your spread folds, feeling the way his cock sinks into your pulsing cunt repeatedly. 

“Dammit, Poppy! Quit fucking around— fuckfuckfuck! I fucking love that you want to enjoy this, but I n-need you to come with m-me— ah!” His neck tensing as he tries to stave off his mind-blowing finale. 

It doesn’t take much, your fingers nimbly work in circles over your sensitive clit, triggering your cunt to seize up, building up a network of arousing tingles across your spine. 

The room is filled with a blend of explicits and desperate moans— both of you slingshotting over the edge in euphoric unison. 

His head rests on your chest, your rapid heart beat punching up against his ear as you try to regulate your breathing. 

Your fingers scratch at his scalp in a casual manner, his locks damp and clinging to your skin. 

“Happy 6 years sober babe!” You manage to breathe out. 

“Thank you.” Lifting his head, a kiss to your heart then a kiss to your awaiting lips. “I love you, Pops!”

“I love you, babe. What time is it?”

Dieter looks over to your side of the bed where your alarm clock sits on the nightstand. 

“It’s 7:35.”

“Shit! Oh fuck! Get up, I’m late!” You push his exhausted body, his softened cock slipping out of you as he rolls to his side, his cum dripping down your thighs as you scramble out of bed. 

Throwing open your closet door to grab clothes for the day, the clothes you had asked Dieter to throw into the dryer and put away are nowhere to be found. 

“Dieter— did you put those clothes in the dryer yesterday? I can’t find any of my clean work clothes.” Actively searching through every hanger and shelf, only spotting a few pairs of dirty slacks and blouses shoved into the laundry that didn’t make it into the wash. 

“Uh, no— definitely did not. Sorry, Wren and I got sidetracked making cookies and I must have forgotten.” He replies, still sprawled out and naked on the bed. 

“No— it’s fine. I’ll just wear casual clothes again, hopefully the ladies in the office keep their glaring to a minimum this time.” You give him a pointed look.

“What? You say that like this is a regular occurrence.” His hands shoot in defense. 

“That’s because it is, this is the fifth time just this month alone Dieter.” You say as you grab for the jeans and shirt that have been making a regular appearance over the last 5 years that you and Dieter have been together. 

“Well, I never hear you complaining in the moment.” He has a point. 

“Fuck! I don’t have time for a shower either, you're going to be dripping out of me all day!” Using a dirty shirt to wipe up Dieter’s spend that’s smeared between your legs. 

“Not gonna lie, that’s fucking hot—“ The shirt you had used to clean yourself flies across the room and hits him in the face. 

“They should do away with a teacher uniform all together, seems very not with the times to require adults to wear stuffy clothes when they’re dealing with kids all day. Bring that up at your next meeting.” He suggests, pulling the cum covered shirt away from his face, giving it a quick experimental sniff before tossing onto the pile of bedsheets on the floor.

“Yeah, I’ll make sure to bring that up at the next meeting.” You laugh, but you can’t help but agree with him. 

It’s a mad dash to pull yourself together, but you manage to look like you didn’t just get fucked to pieces. 

“Alright, I gotta go— I love you.” Crawling back on to the bed to give him a goodbye kiss. 

“Love you.” He moans as he tries to deepen the kiss. 

“Oh my god! You’re the worst Dieter! I’ve got to go.” 

“Wash your dick today, it was smelling a little musty earlier.” You yell back down the hall, before heading out the door. 

“Really?” Dieter says to himself, looking down at said dick laying flaccid over his thigh. 

*

As predicted, the glares were on display as you walked onto the school grounds, bypassing a stop at the teachers lounge for the comfort of your classroom— you decide the whispered snickers between the office ladies were not high up on your ‘things I want to deal with today.’

Despite your lateness, students must have sensed your off kilter presence and were on top of their responsibilities of reading and writing while you sifted through your daily lesson plans. 

To your surprise, you had managed to forget to make copies yesterday for 3 worksheets needed after the students were done with printing their weekly words. 

There’s a light knock on your open classroom door that grabs your attention. 

Standing in the doorway is Dieter, with two coffees in hand. 

“Hey! What are you doing here?” You ask, knowing at least one of the coffees he’s holding is for you. 

“Figured, since I was partly to blame for your tardiness, I thought I’d try and make it up to you.” Giving you his best puppy dog eyes, holding up both coffees in your direction. 

“Two?! Oh my god, I love you!” Grabbing for both of them, giving each cup a glance over to see his cute little notes perfectly placed on the sides of both—- setting them on your desk then returning to where he’s still standing by the door. 

“Are you busy?” You ask, looking over your shoulder to double check your students are still working on their assignments. 

“No, I’m free today. I’ve got the new girl running the gallery on her own, so far no calls of distress.”

Dieter’s hand reaches out taking hold of your fingers, his thumb running over the tops of your knuckles. He tilts his head forward to look at you over the frames of his sunglasses. 

“You need something from me?” His eyebrows waggling at you. 

“Actually, yes!”

His smile grows nearly ten times. 

“I need to make some copies, you think you can watch them for me?” 

Your idea of needing something was not what he had in mind, but he’s more than willing to help you out. 

“Yeah, I got them. Go do your teacher things, I’ve got this handled.” 

*

It takes you no longer than 5 minutes to head straight to the office and make your copies, avoiding every side-eyed glance shot in your direction. 

60 sheets of freshly printed worksheets, warm and neatly stacked in hand, you make your way back to Dieter and your students. 

You can hear Dieter’s boisterous voice as you walk closer to the classroom, taking a minute to watch from outside the door. 

All 20 kids seem less than entertained by him, deadpan stares and little to no excitement— it could be worse and they could be like last year's students who convinced him you let them go to break early, coming back to an empty classroom was heart attack inducing and thankfully no one picked up on the random man with a group of kids chasing each other in the soccer field. 

A hand in the back of the class gingerly raises. 

“Yes, kid in the back— you don’t happen to have a brother with a weird haircut, do you?” His eyes narrowed as he sees a slight resemblance in the hair department to a past student of yours. 

“I don’t have a brother.” 

“Huh, weird coincidence then. What’s your question?”

“Why do you wear your sunglasses inside if there’s no sun?” 

Your hand comes up to muffle you laugh, but Dieter catches the snort that emits from your nose. 

“That’s enough questions for the day.” He retorts quickly, then makes his way to where you’re still standing outside. 

“Okay class, go ahead and pull out a sharp pencil,  I’ll be there in a minute so we can do our math test.” 

You lean back against the wall, taking in Dieter’s defeated demeanor. 

“This class isn’t as fun as your previous ones, those kids in there are ruthless. They refused to call me Uncle Dude too— You need to get a new class stat.” He points in the direction of your students, completely flustered by the fact that not one of them found him fun. 

“If I remember correctly, didn’t you play a teacher once?” You sarcastically ask him. 

“That’s enough outta you.” He smirks, crowding you against the wall, giving you a less than appropriate kiss for school grounds— you welcome it fully.

A passing teacher clears their throat at the sight of Dieter and you, prompting him to pull away and rest his forehead on yours. 

“Thanks for watching them for me, and thanks for the coffee. I’ll see you later Uncle Dude.” 

Dieter leans in one last time, a kiss for the road. 

“I’ll see you at home, Mrs. Bravo.”

A/N: Thank you all for this amazing journey with Dieter and Poppy!! I’m going to miss them so so much!! But, I do have a few one shots already planned, and blind drabbles for them. I can’t thank @gnpwdrnwhiskey enough for diving into every chapter with me and being the most amazing beta to ensure everything was right for these two!! My ‘Asks’ are always open if you ever want to chat or scream about the series, Dieter and Poppy or anything else! Xx

[pedroshotwifey]

Wifey's Christmas Countdown Dieter Fics (Not all Christmas related)

Holiday Baking Dieter Bravo x f!reader - You reward Dieter for staying out of your way in the kitchen. (1.4k)

Careful What You Wish For Dieter Bravo x gn!reader - You help Dieter indulge in one of his fantasies. (1.1k)

Requested Dieter Fics

Tease Sub!Dieter Bravo x sub!GN!reader x dom!Dave York - You and Dieter think it's fun to tease Dave, and Dave thinks he should teach you both a lesson for it. (2.4k)

[whatsnewalycat]

Psychomanteum / Chapter 1

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

Chapter 1: Honey, This Mirror Isn't Big Enough for the Two of Us

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Series Summary: You've recently taken on the customer-facing responsibilities of the small-scale cannabis bakery you and your late husband ran out of your apartment, which introduces you to occasional customer, Dieter Bravo. A friendship is sparked when you realize you have something in common: you've both died. What Dieter doesn't tell you about his near-death experience, though, is that it foretold his life with you.

Word Count: 6.2k+

Content / Warnings: alternating POV, death, sitting shiva, stitches / scars, cannabis, edibles, drug use, alcohol use, haunted mirrors, spooky stuff, verbal argument, face slap, cheating, sexual grieving, a dick named Glenn, meet cute

Notes: Chapter title from "Honey, This Mirror Isn't Big Enough for the Two of Us" by My Chemical Romance. Hey friends! I have a couple things right off the bat: (1) the reader has a name (Louella/Lou/Lua) and has scars and tattoos, but no other physical descriptors; (2) I'll be trying to release new chapters on Saturdays.

[ Tag List ] [ AO3 ] [ Title Song ]

When people ask what it’s like to die, you’re supposed to tell them it’s terrible, even though it isn't. Like leaving a shitty yelp review for a restaurant when you actually really loved the food, but you have a vendetta against the owner and their staff.

Death Louella F. Rating: 0/10 Scary as fuck. Not in a cool, vintage way like Bram Stoker’s Dracula, but in more of a can-you-believe-people-cream-their-pants-over-this-shit way like Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight. Ugh. They sent me away at the door and wouldn’t even tell me why. RUDE!!!! I would rather die than go back.

It’s only polite, after all. If everyone knew that it fucking rules to be dead, nobody would stay here in these decaying bodies, on this doomed fucking rock floating through space. So, when your good friends (like good good friends) ask, you give them the inside scoop.

Death Louella F. Rating: 10/10 The single most magical thing to happen to me during my existence in the mortal realm. Truly ethereal. I only had the 1 hour trial, and I wanted upgrade to the forever package, but my dad forced me to return to my meatbag (BOOO!). Can’t wait to do it again. Absolutely TO DIE FOR!!!

That’s why, now, when your just ok friend Kourtney comes over on the last day of sitting shiva in your apartment, and she asks you what was it like to die? in the same cadence she asks how's your mom?, you don’t tell her the truth.

You don’t tell her than every waking moment you’re alive now is torture because you don't understand why you weren’t allowed access to the club. Why could Ethan go, but not you? What could you possibly have left to do that doesn’t include him?

Instead, you give her a wane smile and joke, “Oh, ya know, I had better shit to do, so here I am.”

Her big sky blue eyes soften and her shoulders slump when you tell her this. Then she threads her blonde eyebrows together and gives a sympathetic frown, “Oh, honey.”

No matter how many times you try this line, everyone responds with pity. You need some new material. Kourtney wanders off into the kitchen before you can respond.

When you look around the living room from your vantage point on a sitting stool, you briefly notice that all of the other visitors are gravitating towards the kitchen, too. Then the opaque black stain that looks like a black hole in the middle of your otherwise pristinely white carpet catches your eye. You tilt your head as you study it, wondering how it can be so impossibly dark.

“Are you ready, Lou?” your father-in-law, Adam, asks you from across the room.

You lift your gaze and look around at the other sitters, realizing they're all staring at you expectantly.

“Yeah, yep,” you finally respond, then get to your feet. They follow suit.

After gathering their belongings, Ethan's immediate family crowds around your apartment's entryway to bid their farewells. His mom and dad tell you that they’ll call you in a few days to check in on you. You believe it. Unlike everyone else that promised you’d “talk soon,” Adam and Sarah mean it. 

"If you need anything, and I mean anything at all, please don't hesitate to call us," Sarah tells you, then scoops you into a great big hug. When she pulls away, she holds you by the shoulders and stares at you with tears pooling in those brown eyes that break your fucking heart. You look away when you say goodbye.

Your stepson, Ben, literally scoffs when you tell him to call you if he wants to talk about it. Which is just like a 16-year old to do. When his mom is distracted, fussing over your stepdaughter, you try to level with Ben.

"Listen. I know. I know people just say that. My dad died when I was 16, too. It fucking sucks. And I get it. So if you wanna talk to someone who knows which shade of 'this fucking sucks' you're going through, I'm your guy."

This time when he responds, the snotty tone is gone. It's replaced by a morose veil over his eyes and he just nods, "Ok."

The 12-year old, Talia, saves your phone number and tells you she’ll send you snapchats.

Even though you iterate these comforting half-promises to communicate in the future, when you tell Ethan's kids you’d “talk soon,” you don’t mean it. They don’t, either. But that’s alright. You never thought the too-little-too-late maternal bonding would stick, anyway.  

Once the last mourning visitor leaves, and door clicks shut, you deadbolt it, and you’re... alone. It's surreal. Moping around the silent apartment, you reorganize things to your liking, collect sitting stools, and tug the fabric off the mirrors. You're stunned momentarily after each reflection you unveil.

The person you see is a stranger. Your skin is very Bride of Frankenstein, stitched together with pieces of tattooed corpses. Just over a week ago, your body was twisted and mangled, but doctors slapped you back together in time to bury your husband. Briefly, you consider covering all of the mirrors again until you're farther along in the healing process, but decide against it. What the fuck does it matter, anyway. 

For at least five minutes, you're anchored in front of the spare bedroom door, its key pinched tightly between your thumb and index finger. You locked it last week to keep nosy visitors from poking around during shiva. God only knows what kind of shit they would stumble upon, considering how out-of-control Ethan was towards the end. Not to mention the deep freezer filled with bulk amounts of flower and cannabutter.

There are two huge mirrors in the room that you want to uncover. But this room is- well, was- his space. On most days, he spent hours in there, isolating, listening to music, hanging out with friends, or whatever else. Not like you'd know, since it was just another club you weren't invited to join. A deep sense of foreboding infiltrated your psyche when you covered the damned things, and it somehow feels worse now. 

A fuzzy, uncomfortable buzzing starts under your skin as you stare at the old brass door knob. You’re just about to say fuck it and try again later when something clatters from inside the room. Your hands work on their own accord. They slide the skeleton key into its slot, then turn the knob and push the door open. It swings back on its hinges with a groan and butts up against the doorstop with a thud.

The room is neat and clean, like it was a week ago, but you immediately notice two things that make your hair stand on end:

The picture frame

The mirrors

When moving into this apartment, Ethan insisted the 4x6” ceramic picture frame be transported on your lap from the dumpy apartment in Bushwick. His little brother, Benji, gave it to him for his birthday the summer before he fell through the ice. The photo depicts a 12-year old Ethan with his arm around his little brother’s shoulders, both smiling from ear-to-ear as they hold up the fish they caught off the dock of their childhood home in Eagle Bay, NY. 

One bare nail stands erect on the navy blue wall. That’s where it was hanging when you locked the door last week. But now, the picture frame is propped up by the easel back in the middle of the shiny hardwood floor.

It doesn’t make sense.

On the westernmost and easternmost walls, the matching set of Regency era mirrors, which hang across from one another, are uncovered. Their intricate bevels are illuminated by the fading sun, casting shadows into the mahogany frames. The bedsheets you covered them with last week are crumpled on the floor beneath them.

“Why are you covering the mirrors?” you asked your great-grandma, watching her from the doorframe of your parents’ room with curiosity. Her paper-thin skin drooped over the hills and valleys of her hands, shifting over bones and blood vessels as she secured a white cotton bedsheet to the full-length mirror with clothespins.

“So his spirit doesn’t get trapped inside,” she explained simply.

You shake the memory from your head.

They’re just mirrors.

Ignoring every cell in your body that screams at you to get the fuck out, you take a few cautious steps forward, then pick the picture frame up off the ground. The pad of your thumb rubs against the smooth finish of the white ceramic. An ache radiates across your chest as you stare at the young boys with their matching smiles, backdropped by tall pines and open waters. Suspended in time, happy and carefree in their favorite place.  

Now they’re both fucking dead.

The urge to cry tingles at the back of your throat. You look up at the bare nail sticking out of the wall across the room and march towards it. A shiver of warning runs down your spine as you walk past the antique mirrors. You mount the frame on the wall in its place.

But then you’re frozen.

Spiders are crawling around inside your spinal column, spinning webs, exploring every inch. And, it’s fucking insane, just childhood memories fucking with your head, but you swear you feel eyes on your back. A shudder racks your body. You look straight down at your feet, holding all of your concentration steady on them as you turn around towards the door.

The buzzing in your bones intensifies. Instinct engrained in the folds of your brain for a millennia, since homo sapiens were hunters and gatherers, urges you to look up look up look up because someone is watching you. Hunting you.

Fighting your seized muscles, you make yourself take one step forward.

Adrenaline floods your bloodstream and spurs you into action without thought. Your feet carry you past the mirrors, out of the room. The spiders mobilize, scurrying inside your spine, making you nauseous. As your trembling hands fumble with the doorknob, your eyes betray you.

They flick to the westernmost mirror.

And just barely… you think you see someone staring back at you.

“What is this?” Anika’s Bulgarian accent is the first thing Dieter hears as she shakes him out of sleep. His response is to roll away from the nuisance and pull the white duvet over his head. She jumps off of the bed and yanks the blanket away from him in a series of furious tugs as she hisses, “No. No sleep. Get up.”

When she succeeds in retrieving the whole blanket, she throws it on the floor by her feet, exposing Dieter's naked body to the megawatt afternoon sun. The intrusion sets him off, and he groans, pinching his nose in response to the headache throbbing in his eyes and nose, “Fuckin’ a, Annie, what?”

Sitting up, eyes still closed, he grumbles, “What could be so fucking important-“ he cracks open an eye, throwing his palm down against the mattress in frustration, then sees the headline displayed the iPhone she's holding in front of his face. 

LEAKED: DIETER BRAVO PARTYING WITH INSTAGRAM MODEL

He squints as he reads it again, then snatches the phone away, scrolling through the short article on the tabloid magazine DIRT’s website.

The Cliff Beasts 6 star, Dieter Bravo, was spotted with Instagram model, Lilly Stokes, getting hot-and-heavy at several LA nightclubs late last night. Reportedly, the duo were heavily intoxicated, seen taking shots and snorting lines of illicit substances. In the photos obtained by DIRT, the disheveled Bravo, sporting a half-buttoned floral shirt and jeans, can be seen groping Stokes, dressed in a hot pink slip dress and stilettos, as she straddles the actor in a roped-off section of Aspect’s VIP lounge. This scandal is surfacing amid rumors of Bravo’s marriage with Anika Bravo being strained to the breaking point. Dieter and Anika met in 2020 during the filming of Cliff Beasts 6, a film made infamous by the hit documentary Beasts of the Bubble. The couple tied the knot in 2021, immediately following their escape from Clifton Hotel. In one of their only public appearances together, the newlywed couple raised eyebrows when they brought fitness guru Kate Ridley with as their date to the Beasts of the Bubble premiere. Since then, the Academy Award winning actor has been under fire for alleged infidelity and drug abuse, as well as displaying bizarre behavior, such as his appearance on The View in September, when he told host Meghan McCain that he “hopes hell is real so (her) dad burns there forever.”

As promised, the article includes a slideshow of photos depicting him and Lilly making out in a booth at Aspect the previous night. Dieter tosses the phone to the side, and all he can do is shrug, staring up at her with cold eyes, “Whaddya wanna know?”

They sit here like this for a beat, frozen in their stubbornness. As if he doesn’t know the question on her mind.

She blinks, swallows hard, and crosses her arms in front of her body. Then finally breaks and asks, “Is it true?”

As if she doesn’t know the answer.

He grinds his jaw back and forth, considering the consequences of what he’ll say next. She stares at him.

Fuck it.

“Yeah,” he admits to his wife, averting his gaze as he runs his fingers through his hair, “Yeah I fucked her.”

Anika rears back, then slaps him across the face, gritting her teeth together as she growls, “FUCK YOU!”

His cheek stings as her palm jerks his head to the side. He deserves that.

Sure, he could have lied, but there’s no use in denying it. There he was, caught on camera with Lilly's tongue down his throat and his hands up her dress. From there, they stumbled into the bathroom of the club. He gave the bathroom attendant $200 to guard the door. Then, he snorted coke off her perfect tits, bent her over the granite top sink, and fucked her speechless.

The bathroom attendant won’t be speechless, though. Dieter is sure that for another $200 from any number of tabloids, the gangly, pasty skinned kid would unzip his rubber band lips and tell all. 

"Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do, Annie!? You won't fucking touch me!" the cords of his neck stick out as he leans forward barks this into her face.

"Don't deserve to be touched," she spits, narrowing her eyes as she inches so close he can feel her breathe, "Leave me alone all the time. Do you know how lonely I am, Dieter? What kind of man leaves me alone all the time?"

"Fucking AGAIN with this. Really? Every fucking time I come home, it's all I hear," Dieter stands up out of bed and stomps over to the closet, Anika hot on his trail. He starts mocking her, using an exaggerated Bulgarian accent, "Oh I'm so sad, you leave me alone in this big house with all this money, oh nooo!," then he turns on his heel to scoff in her face, "Get over it, for fuck's sake. It's tired."

Her shoulders sag. He knows he went to far. He’s being mean. Cruel, even. But he can't stop. His father’s anger, flooding from his hindbrain through his mouth. 

"It's how I feel, Dieter," she squeaks, big brown eyes filling with tears. He starts digging through drawers of the built-in dresser for boxer briefs, then stuffs his legs into a pair. She sobs, "I didn't know it would be like this. So lonely."

"Yeah?! Welcome to my FUCKIN' LIFE!" he screams into her face, then rips a shirt off the hanger and pulls it over his head before storming off.

You sink down into your purple velvet couch and turn on the TV. Fresh-out-the-shower damp hair sticks to your cheek when you rest your head on a black and white checkered pillow. In an attempt to take your mind off what you thought you saw in the spare bedroom earlier, you flip through various streaming services for a distraction. However, your attention is drawn to the shiva candle dwindling down on the fireplace mantle.

Each time it flickers, dread seizes your heart. You hold your breath and watch it, unblinking, until it steadies.

It happens again.

And again.

Your eyes flit to the opaque black ink stain in the middle of your carpet, only for a moment. But it's long enough. When you look back to the candle, the flame is gone. Black smoke curls and dances in celebration around a glowing orange wick.

He’s gone.

This fact creeps into your consciousness slowly, but surely. The same way the cold settles into your bones when the temperature is below freezing. It starts off fine, maybe a little brisk, but manageable. Then your nose, fingers, and toes start to feel frosty. Before you know it, you can't stop shivering, and can't even remember what warmth felt like.

Hugging your knees to your chest, you squeeze every ounce of oxygen from your lungs. Your brain prompts you to inhale. The breath comes as a shattered gasp, and your chest heaves, but the well of pain is too far underground. The tears don't come. You’re unable to tap into it and release the pressure that's been building for nine days. You're about to fucking explode.

Your gaze shifts to the window. It’s dark outside. You try to decide who to reach out to for support. Each person you consider would come over and sit with you as they awkwardly make conversation. They would probably try to talk to you about Ethan, or tell you about how their friend’s cousin had a husband croak on them and they did abc, then xyz, and voilà! They’re cured!

And you just can’t with that shit right now. You don’t want to be pitied. You want to have a normal conversation. One where you aren’t expected to cry and talk about it. You want to be how you were before.

How you were before, but without him.

“Whiskey neat,” Dieter tells the bartender without looking his way.

When he glances up into the mirror behind the bar, he sees the version of himself that Anika hates the most. Mop of curly brown hair stuffed under a baseball cap, sunglasses covering half his face, wearing sweatpants and whatever t-shirt he happened to pull off the hanger before heading out the door.

“Airport Dee,” her lip would curl up and touch the columella of her nose, “I don’t like him.”

“Airport Dee means Working Dee, which is better than Broke Dee, right?” he would try to reason, meeting her eyes over his sunglasses, tugging her closer for a kiss goodbye.

She would arch a brow and back away from him, her sneer firmly in place, “I like Home Dee the most.”

The last few times he left, he didn’t even say goodbye. He thinks that maybe Airport Dee isn’t the version of him she hates the most anymore.

His phone buzzes. He pulls it out of his pants pocket to see the text from his wife.

> ANNIEBABY: > If u get on the flight, we’re done

An amused laugh trickles from his throat. The bartender, a handsome, tall, blonde man with terrific posture, slides a coaster in front of Dieter, then places the lowball glass on top of it. Just in time. Dieter picks it up and swallows it in one go, then tells the bartender, who’s foolishly walking away, “Another.”

The bartender turns on his heel and raises a well-kept eyebrow at Dieter, who responds by reaching into his wallet and slamming a $100 bill onto the bar, advising, “This is your tip if you keep ‘em coming and don’t fucking look at me like that again.”

“You got it, boss,” the man responds as he grabs a bottle of bourbon and flips it upside down over Dieter’s cup.

The phone starts buzzing again, but this time it’s his publicist. He picks up with a cheeky, “Darlene, it’s been ages, what in the world could you possibly be calling me about?”

“Just wanted to call and let you know you’re making my life a living fucking hell today,” she volleys the same faux-sweetness back to him.

“Welcome to the club,” he mumbles.

“How’s your wife?”

“Terrible, she’s leaving me,” Dieter drops this bomb, then tells her, “Hey, I’m boarding a flight for the, uhh- the screen test thing, I’ll call you later.”

“Dieter, don’t you fu-“

He hangs up and puts his phone in airplane mode. Morphine was such a good idea.

Instead of the all-consuming anxiety that typically accompanies one’s name trending on Twitter, all Dieter feels is an overwhelming sense of fuck it. That’s what morphine is good for, after all. Not for all the time, though. Just emergencies.

He imagines a bottle of MS Contin but instead of the prescription label it just reads EMERGENCY OBLIVION.

“Having a rough day?” the bartender asks, looking from the discarded phone to Dieter’s smiling face as he leans against the bar.

Dieter giggles and shakes his head, “Fuck off, you don’t care.”

“I- I care,” the bartender frowns, then pushes off and stands up straight.

“You don’t. Not really. You’re just nosy,” Dieter grins with a shrug.

He downs the whiskey, slams the cup against the bartop, then points to it. The bartender refills the cup and fucks off. Dieter sighs with satisfaction and floats into the abyss.

About mid-way through your third vodka cranberry, you start to feel more comfortable in your skin.

A short-statured man hangs his winter coat on the back of the barstool next to you and sits down. A green knit cap hides any indication of hair on top of his head, although a trimmed beard hints that it'll be dark brown if he has any. When he looks your direction through thick rimmed glasses frames, you meet his honey brown eyes and you smile.

Granted, it’s not a smile you really mean, but he’s cute and he sat right next to you at a bar that has plenty of other open seats, so, you’ll play the part.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” he inquires, gaze trailing up and down your form.

You shake your head, “Not at all.”

“Thanks,” he gives you a wide smile, then flags down the bartender and orders a drink.

You sit back and look up to the flatscreen TV playing the Knicks game, pretending to care, watching the teams dribble a basketball from one side of the court to the other. Back and forth, back and forth. It seems so fucking pointless.

“You a Knicks fan?” he asks, following your line of sight to the TV.

“Hmm?” you blink, then realize you are furrowing your brow up at the game as if you’re interested, “Oh, no. I don’t give a shit.”

This makes him laugh. He shows you those pearly whites again, then extends his hand to you, “I’m Dante.”

“Louella,” your hand meets his. It’s warm and sandpapery. His thumb rubs against the back of your hand as you shake.

You ponder what this stranger’s hands would feel like on other parts of your body. What it would feel like to forget, just for a while, that Ethan’s hands were the last ones to touch you. What it would feel like to forget that he’ll never touch you again.

“That’s a really pretty name,” he comments, not letting go of your hand, not ceasing the movement of his thumb on your skin. A tingle trickles down the middle of you and produces goosebumps across your flesh.

It’s the only enjoyable sensation that has managed to rise above the soul-crushing emptiness of the past week and a half. Your skin aches and yearns for more.

You try to stretch your smile wide and make your eyes sparkle as if you’ve never heard that before, “Thank you, Dante.”

“Can I buy you a drink?” he lets go, then leans forward against the bar.

Your eyes flick from his thick lips to his honey brown eyes and you nod.

“Dieter fucking Bravo!” Glenn hollers at his longtime friend as Dieter approaches the well-dressed table.

Friend might not be the right word. Enabler is probably closer to the truth. His nasally voice booms across the dining room, earning a few disgruntled stares from the highbrow patrons expecting a quiet lunch on the Upper East Side. 

Dieter offers a nod in the general direction of the outburst, then pulls out the chair perpendicular to Glenn and plops down, picking up the menu as he scoots in his seat.

A peeved, but incredibly handsome, waiter comes to the table and pours ice water in a glass for the new arrival, “Welcome, sir. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Whiskey neat,” Dieter answers, then dismisses the waiter's presence as he glances around the room through tortoiseshell Ray-Bans and tells Glenn, “You finally got your wish. Anika is filing for divorce.”

“About fucking time,” Glenn guffaws and claps his hands together, “Was it the thing with the uh, what’s that broad’s name, Bailey?”

“Lilly,” Dieter corrects.

“Lilly,” Glenn repeats, “Irregardless, congratulations, my friend. Welcome to the divorcee club!”

Dieter’s face scrunches up in disdain at the enthusiasm as he mutters sarcastically, “It’s an honor.”

“We should celebrate,” Glenn winks. 

He knows Glenn well enough to know that "celebrate" means "go on an alcohol and drug binge so outrageous, you'll be trying to chase that high for a year." And, fuck, that sounds like a slice of heaven. The last time he "celebrated" with Glenn was pre-COVID. They were awake for 2-days straight, going to nightclubs, stripclubs, country clubs, whatever. It was a blast.

He thinks it was, at least.

“I don’t have to go back to the studio ‘til Wednesday, so I’m game,” Dieter gives a small grin, then rubs his hands together.

The waiter returns with Dieter’s drink and takes their order, then talk of celebrating recommences. Glenn leans over, trying to be as discreet as his voice can manage, “What kind of stuff ya looking for?”

Dieter ponders this, leaning back in his chair as he rolls head on his shoulders and sips his drink. The first thing that comes to mind are these "special" baked goods he gets sometimes when he’s in New York. The guy hand delivers them, and they were better than any pastries he’s eaten otherwise, “straight” or not.

“Doesn’t matter. I just want to get out of my fuckin' head. I’m gonna see if I can get some of those edibles we got last time. The pastries, what’re they called?” Dieter snaps his fingers together trying to jog his memory.

“Cookies?”

Dieter scoffs and shakes his head, “You think I don’t know what a fucking cookie is? No, it was like a donut.”

“Like a…” Glenn screws his face up and shrugs, then takes a sip of his old fashioned, “Like a long john?”

Idiot. Dieter pulls out his phone, clearing notifications from the Lock Screen from his lawyer, Darlene, and Anika, then sends a text message to Ethan.

< ME: < In NYC. Want what I got last time, can u do that?

“I texted the guy,” Dieter advises, then briefly looks at the last message he received from Anika. 

> ANNIEBABY: > My father was right about u

He ignores the sharp stab in his chest at this remark, remembering how hard it was to convince her dad that he wasn’t a piece of shit. Just as he’s about to hide his phone again, it buzzes.

> ETHAN NYC: > Idk what you got last time. $150/ dozen pastries. $100/ 2 dozen cookies. $50/ 4 brownies. Have to pick up here now FYI, in downtown Brooklyn.

< ME: < Ok. Surprise me. 12 pastries, 24 cookies, 12 brownies.

> ETHAN NYC: > You got it. Should be ready by tomorrow afternoon. I’ll text you the address when they’re ready.

“Alright, edibles won’t be ready 'til tomorrow, but it’ll be worth the wait,” Dieter announces to Glenn, who’s also fucking around on his phone.

Glenn nods, then looks up around the room and back to Dieter, leaning in as he asks, “So you wanna go do a few lines in the bathroom, or what?”

Once the second-to-last order has been picked up, you pour yourself a glass of wine. It's noon, which you consider a socially acceptable time to start drinking.

You turn the stereo on and start prepping for the next day while you sip wine and sing along to the music on your baking playlist. Aside from getting fucked by Dante in the bar bathroom the other night, baking is the only thing that has taken your mind off of the fact that Ethan is dead. 

It's the stupid little things you wouldn't have expected that sting the most.

His prescription refill reminders dinging on your phone. Leftover takeout from the day before the accident starting to emit an unacceptable odor. A package arriving yesterday from something he ordered online. You stare at the nondescript cardboard box now, as it sits next to the stack of outgoing pastry boxes, and wonder what's inside. 

All of these things and the deep ache they cultivate... but you still haven't cried. Everything feels so far away, like it's not real. Is this normal? Are you broken? 

You swallow the remaining wine in your glass and refill it. 

There’s a buzz on the intercom. You pad over to the screaming box, holding your wine glass by the stem as you press the DOOR button.

A knock sounds on the door a minute later, so you turn the stereo down from a roar to a murmur. You open the door to reveal a broad, relatively tall, tan-skinned man. Pillowy lips fold in a frown and he narrows his dark eyes at you. His age shows in the creases of his face and the sparse grays in his patchy facial hair. 

“Hi,” you greet the unrefined, but notably handsome, stranger, “Come on in.”

He does so cautiously, furrowing his brow with confusion as he peers around the apartment like a frightened animal, and you explain for the 8th time today while extending your hand to him, “I’m Louella. I’m Ethan’s wife.”

“Dieter,” he meets your hand and shakes it, avoiding eye contact. When he turns his head to the side to examine your kitchen, you catch a glimpse of his profile and feel the urge to run a finger down the center of his aquiline nose. 

“Ohhh!” you exclaim as your face heats up, “DEE-ter! Not DIET-er. It’s your name! That makes sense.”

He runs a hand through his mess of curly brown hair, “Yeah.”

When he does this, his knit sweater pulls up over the waistband of his jeans and exposes his bellybutton. Your eyes fall on the soft section of his broad body and you suddenly can’t tell if your mouth is dry, or if you’re drooling, but you swallow hard, and- is it fucking hot in here?

“Sorry,” you shake your head and feel the heat of embarrassment creep up your neck as you make your way over to the kitchen counter, “I just, um, I haven’t really met any of our clients in person. I thought maybe you were someone on a diet? I don’t know. Ethan had all kinds of weird fucking code names for people.”

“I didn’t know Ethan was married,” Dieter comments as he pinches one nostril closed and sniffs, then rolls the sleeves on his sweater up to his elbows. His jaw is clenched like he’s grinding his teeth. He’s practically fucking vibrating. 

This dude is coked the fuck up.

“Technically, he’s not anymore, because he’s dead,” you nod, then clear your throat and try to move on to the next subject as you fidget with your apron, “But yeah, I’ve always done the baking, so it’ll be just as good. I just can’t drive. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

His head jerks back and he unleashes a booming, bright laugh that brings an actual smile to your face, “Did you… did you just yadda yadda the fact that he’s dead?”

“Mhmm, yeah,” you laugh nervously. Your entire head is lit ablaze up now as your attention is drawn to his gorgeous smile, “This is like the tenth time I’ve done this today, I’m a little desensitized to it.”

His cheeriness disintegrates as he realizes he's laughing about your recently deceased spouse. 

“I’m-“ Dieter’s mouth gapes open and he tries to generate a response. You meet his glossy eyes, and notice now that his pupils are blown out so wide over the dark brown irises, they appear black. They remind you of Ethan. The black ink stain on your carpet.

And they’re filled to the brim with that annoying fucking look. Pity.

“Don’t- don’t say you’re sorry,” you sigh, real smile waning into one that’s painfully forced, then gesture to the stack of boxes on the counter, “Just pay me and you can be on your way.”

Dieter climbs into the backseat and sets the pastry boxes between himself and Glenn. He can’t shake the puzzled look from his face. Glenn lifts the cover off one of the boxes and grabs a brownie as the driver starts off down the street.

“What?” Glenn asks with a mouth still full of brownie. His dilated eyes search Dieter’s face, narrowing with suspicion.

Dieter frowns as he scratches the scruff on his chin, then snaps his head back and forth, cracking his neck, “That was weird.”

“Why? Did he hit on you or something?” Glenn’s words form around the food in his mouth. Dieter’s lip curls in disdain at the homophobic implication. He swears Glenn forgets that Dieter is not straight sometimes.

“No,” he scoffs and turns to dig a pastry out of the box in spite of the cocaine buzzing through his veins, suppressing his appetite.

When he bites into it, he finds it’s exactly the one he was trying to think of yesterday. Apple Danish. His shoulders wiggle and he groans in delight as the flaky crust gives way to apple filling inside. He swallows and clears his throat, “No, it wasn’t even him, it was his wife. The guy died.”

“She hot?” Glenn asks, not looking up from his examination of the remaining brownie.

Dieter nods as he chews, raising his eyebrows to indicate fuck yeah.

“How’d he die?” Glenn questions. His eyes are flicking all around the backseat of the town car, knee bouncing at lightspeed to spend some of his amplified, god-like energy. Dieter can tell he does not give one single fuck, he just wants to move his mouth.

“Didn’t ask,” Dieter takes another bite and throws his head back, groaning “Fuck, that’s good.”

Glenn shoves the rest of the brownie into his cavernous mouth and nods in agreement, “Good call.”

“But, she just casually mentioned that he died,” Dieter shakes his head and swallows the pastry.

“Weird,” Glenn comments in a disinterested tone as he grabs for a bottle of champagne waiting in an ice bucket by his feet.

Dieter licks his fingers and shakes his head again, “That’s not the weird part.”

“Then what the fuck is the weird part?” Glenn snips, growing impatient, all red-hot edges, fueled by cocaine and alcohol.

It wasn’t the off-putting way you spoke about your husband’s death. Or your apartment filled with a haze of loneliness so palpable it felt like someone was squeezing Dieter's heart.

Glenn wipes the brownie crumbs off his hands onto the seat of the car, then passes two champagne flutes to Dieter, who pops the last bite of Apple Danish into his mouth and takes the glasses. The unmistakable champagne POP! makes both the men flinch. Glenn fills both of the glasses that are shaking in Dieter’s unsteady grip. A substantial amount overflows onto the floor of the vehicle.

Dieter takes a swig of the bubbly, then explains, “When I OD’d, before they revived me, I saw her. It was like a memory, man. But it wasn’t, because it didn’t happen yet.”

He thought maybe the wires got crossed with someone else and he got the wrong memory. Fuck, he doesn’t know how it works. In the moments of clarity during his near-death experience, he knew, somehow, that he was seeing the future. His future. Each time he looked back on the experience, though, he grew more unsure.

But you opened that door into your apartment, and it was like déjà vu. High ceilings, purple crushed velvet couch in the living room that reminded him of Prince, pastry boxes stacked on the white granite countertop in the kitchen that looked made for a chef. It smelled like vanilla and pastry crust. 

Louella. One of your bare arms looked torn to shreds, tattoos once cohesive now crudely pasted back together, ribbed with newly formed scar tissue. Your smile, the real one, occupied your whole face.

"Weird," Glenn responds. He's scrolling through Twitter on his phone, not even listening.

There was more, though. 

Waking up in your bed, morning light spilling onto the two of you like a spotlight, his fingers tracing the map of scars up your leg.

Holding your hand while walking down the icy, snow-dusted sidewalk outside your apartment building. 

Kissing you in front of an ordained minister, cheers erupting from the crowd of spectators. 

Louella. Who the fuck are you? 

[ Next Chapter ]