#should i call oscar out on a praise kink like how important it is for him to know that lando sees him doing well

[ssentimentals]

the way oscar immediately turns to look at lando once he scores just to check his reaction, check that he saw it too, then smiling pleasantly at lando's smile is making me a liiiiiitle mental

[amywritesthings]

SAME OLD MISTAKES: ACT I

THE FAMOUS LAST WORDS SERIES.

gif credit @ pedrorascal

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x Female Reader ( Dieter x You )

Word Count: 3.7K

Summary: A decade ago, you were at the height of your aspiring acting career. Your secret romance and very public feud with Dieter Bravo, however, made you a Hollywood icon.

Warnings: Smut, Porn with Plot, Enemies to Worse Enemies Lovers, Dieter is a total moron, ‘Scripted’ Sex, Protected sex, Dirty talk, Praise kink, Doggy, that Move Javier Pena did in S2 Narcos that has never left my brain

A/N: After many requests, I give you the prequel to Just Old Habits. Spending two months simping over a Judd Apatow character was not on my 2022 Bingo card. 

Next Chapter. | Series Masterlist.

PREVIEW:

“I think it’s important to be on the same page for shit, and this is a Hail Mary for professionalism, so here goes: do you wanna have sex with me?”

You freeze in your sip of your vodka and cranberry, causing a dribble of liquid to fall down the corner of your mouth. 

Dieter springs into action, setting his cigarette into the ashtray on the coffee table to catch the droplet on your chin before it can ruin your off-blue shirt.

“Absolutely not.” You snort, raising your hand to push his thumb away and stopping just before you can make contact. Why are you stopping? 

“I mean—” No. “—kind of?”

What the hell are you saying?

SAME OLD MISTAKES

ACT ONE.

When you come back to Earth after a mind-blowing orgasm, you’re in Dieter Bravo’s lap — half-naked, half-delirious, and absolutely certain you have catastrophically fucked up.

For minutes on end, neither of you say a word. Only the distant sounds of the digital pinball machine jingle and your labored pants are present in his apartment, existing in the bubble of what has happened — and what you can’t take back.

Then Dieter speaks up with a hint of euphoric satisfaction, always aiming to ruin the moment.

“Like I said, babe: just old habits.”

Dieter will never understand how much of a mistake all of this is — 

               A decade’s worth of sneaking around.

               The mountain of deleted texts.

               The years of perceived hatred and rivalry.

— because none of this was ever a mistake to him.

. . . . .

.

.

.

                                        TEN YEARS EARLIER

Dieter Bravo is a fucking idiot.

It only took a singular 10-minute interview to figure it out. 

Between his insistence on wearing sunglasses indoors and his neon green crocs that squeak throughout the entirety of his Vogue interview, it’s hard to pin-point exactly where your disdain for your new co-star stemmed.

Maybe it’s when he misquotes Shakespeare with lines taken directly from Pulp Fiction.

(Y’know, Billy Shakespeare — I call him Billy because I think we would’ve been bros in this life — he once asked: ‘why do we feel it’s necessary to yak about bullshit in order to be comfortable?’ I felt that shit deep in my soul.)

Absolute. Fucking. Moron.

Meeting him in person for the first time on set is enough to want to claw your eyes out. He’s an entourage of one with an ego spanning across a dozen invisible people. To make matters worse, he wears the same crocs from the Vogue interview, too, like he's trying to bring them back into style.

(Sustainable closets, baby.)

From the get-go it’s painfully obvious he’s thrilled to see you — all grins and grand sweeping gestures of his arms, as if you’ve known each other your whole lives.

Not because you have, but because you, yourself, are predicted to take Hollywood by storm. The newest golden girl destined for an Oscar by season’s end thanks to your new movie, Faith of Eternity.

From what your agent has given you so far, Faith of Eternity is a romantic thriller about Richie Alzone and Ramona Cleese, a couple who should not be together — and oftentimes are not — but continue to find themselves in each other’s orbit. Justine swears it's a real character-driven piece of cinema, with monologues for days.

Ramona Cleese, a thirty-something English lawyer, is not an easy leading role. It will take grit and tears and emotional exhaustion. You’ve skimmed the articles discussing the role, the plot, and the growing fanbase for a movie that hasn’t started filming yet.

It makes your stomach somersault with anxiety.

But Faith on Eternity has award season buzz due to the fact that this love story is electric, passionate, ground-breaking — and if you can sell being in love with Richie Alzone, the mysterious forbidden lover played by none other than Dieter fucking Bravo, then you'll have 'Academy Award Winner' next to your name by next Spring.

Passionate sex scenes. Pushing a hard R-rating. 

All for the glory of art.

And because of this award buzz, Dieter expects you to be game with anything he throws at you.

Scripts? Forget about them. 

Improv? Forget that, too.

Vibes.

“So that’s what I’m about: vibes, just vibes, and nothing but the vibes, so help us God,” he ends up telling you that very same day. “What about you? What’s the new It Girl all about?”

You hate the career-cursing nickname.

“Professionalism,” you manage while he hands you a coffee — the one he’s stolen from a production assistant on his way over here, as if you didn’t see it.

(As if he did the hard work himself.)

“I can dig that,” is all he says, cheers-ing your stolen coffee cup with his. “We’re gonna make magic, babe. You and me. This’ll get two sequels, easy.”

“Two?” you blurt against overzealous predictions.

Dieter just grins. “And that’s being humble.”

His oblivion to the world outside of the Dieter bubble isn’t an act — he genuinely believes what he says and stands by those beliefs. Manifestation in the palm of his hands; he thinks Faith of Eternity is going to be a smash hit not only at the box office but on Rotten Tomatoes.

Hell, he believes he’ll have Twitter swooning.

His ignorant confidence can be infectious. The guy with the neon crocs gets along with everyone — even the production assistant he continuously steals coffee from.

And he commits.

God help him, he commits to the role of Richie Alzone the second the director says ‘action’. 

After the first few days on set, Dieter’s goofy presence disappears and is replaced by the suave, confident, and broodingly sincere persona of Richie. In turn, it pushes you to play Ramona Cleese as sincere and honest as the script allows. 

The roles fit the two of you like a pair of gloves.

And he stands by his commitment to work with you behind the camera when you’re locked in close-ups. In past productions, former co-stars allowed the script supervisors feed lines to get some shut eye. Dieter? He stays put until you get the take you’re excited about — because he’s excited, too.

He’s overjoyed to work with you, to push you, to draw that raw emotion out with every scripted fight and monologue.

And as much as you hate to say it, he’s one of the most electric actors you’ve had a chance to perform against on set.

(You’ll never admit it out loud. It'll only send his ego to Pluto.)

At this point, he’s invited you to his trailer for drinks several times. Three, to be exact, in order to shoot the shit and talk about nothing in particular. Yet considering how charged the set feels after several takes of Dieter in your face when he stares at you with utmost, raw desire — like you are something he cannot have?

Acting or not, it's better to avoid that can of worms. It didn't work for Brangelina. It didn't work for Jen and Ben.

You will not get sucked into the cliché.

The first two attempts were met with excuses — I have to turn in early, I have a phone interview — but the third?

(Fucking rules of three.)

The third time happens to be when you’re passing by his trailer after a ten-hour shoot.

Dieter Bravo bursts from the door just as you’re nearing, a bottle of vodka in one hand and a jug of cranberry juice in the other. He proudly displays both high in the air like he’s won two gold medals. He’s still wearing his evening wear Richie Alzone costume from today’s shoot: a black and white suit, buttoned half-way down his torso to expose his chest and skinny black tie loose around his neck.

“Babe." Christ, he always starts with that stupid pet name. "We gotta celebrate.”

“What’s the occasion?” you bite, crossing your arms over your chest.

Dieter snorts. “We just finished most of Act One, for starters. You killed every scene. I know I looked smoking hot. And tomorrow’s finally here, so — huzzah for the professionals, amiright?”

You open your mouth to ask, but the unspoken reason — the tomorrow — hits you clear in the gut: you’re supposed to shoot the first major sex scene tomorrow.

Right. Shit.

“Oop. I see it.”

You blink back into reality. “See what?”

“That you’re more nervous than me.”

“I didn’t think Dieter Bravo got nervous on set.”

“Around you? I’m terrified.” Dieter tilts his chin to spy over his sunglasses. “A little liquid courage and a chat, methinks, will cure that look. So what do ya say? Pretty please?”

You can’t stand him.

And you appreciate the offer, even if you’ll never tell him.

“One drink,” you warn, raising an index finger high.

The warning only brings a growing smile to Dieter’s face.

“Hell yeah. Only one, babe.”

. . . . . . . . .

It turns into only three.

(The rule of three is haunting you with this shoot.)

Most of the night is taken over by Dieter showing off his art, which is surprisingly good. He’s a damn good actor and an even better artist with books filled to the spine. Charcoal faces, penciled silhouettes, abstracts — he isn’t ashamed to be proud of what he’s done.

“These are kind of amazing,” you murmur, flipping through the third book as he refills the short glasses with the cranberry mixture.

“I appreciate it,” he says, shrugging one shoulder with an addictive nonchalance. In his other hand is a half-lit cigarette. “They keep me occupied. Keep me sane. What’s on your tab, babe, what keeps you sane?”

“Keeps me sane?” you repeat, brows furrowed. “I don’t know, I’m… rehearsing? That works.”

“Uh-huh.” He swipes a hand down his face before holding out a glass for you to take. “So you worry all the time in that trailer. Got it.”

“I'm not worrying in my trailer. Why, do I look worried all the time?”

“Yeah, kinda.” Dieter takes a sip, souring at the bite of the vodka. “Specially because of tomorrow’s thing.”

Right. Tomorrow’s thing. You tilt your chin back taking a gulp of the mixed drink.

“You’re not the—” You sour at the aftertaste of vodka. “—slightest bit nervous?”

“Like I said: terrified, but not in the way you might think.” He pulls a frown. “You’re beyond talented, a total knockout, quick as a fuckin’ whip with improv if the line sucks. I’m not worried at all about you, but me? Gotta stay on my A-game to keep up. Why, are you worried I’m gonna fuck it up?”

You part your lips to respond — I don’t know how to properly do a sex scene with a guy I vehemently hated a six weeks ago — but quickly drop your attention back to your drink and shake your head.

Dieter takes a long drag of his cigarette, the smoke billowing up his nose.

“Alright, then, that leaves me with the heavy hitter.”

“The what?”

“I wanna ask something, babe.”

You snort, mouth lingering on the lip of your glass. “You keep calling me babe.”

“Do I?” he asks, nose scrunching with false sincerity. “I didn’t realize.”

“You’re such a fucking liar.”

“No, I’m an actor. Big difference.” The cigarette dangles between his fingers as he hunches over his thighs, elbows pressed into his pajama bottoms. “But I’m serious about the question. Can I?”

“Something tells me you’re going to ask anyway.”

“I am,” Dieter confirms, sucking a sharp breath. “I think it’s important to be on the same page for shit, and this is a Hail Mary for professionalism, so here goes: do you wanna have sex with me?”

You freeze in your sip of your vodka and cranberry, causing a dribble of liquid to fall down the corner of your mouth. Dieter springs into action, setting his cigarette into the ashtray on the coffee table to catch the droplet on your chin before it can ruin your off-blue shirt.

“For rehearsal, obviously,” he adds. "Like, practice to make it believable and shit."

As if that saves his ass.

You stare, not quite noticing his thumb running along on your chin. “...are you serious?”

“Like, so serious.”

“Absolutely not.” You snort, raising your hand to push his thumb away and stopping just before you can make contact. Why are you stopping? “I mean—” No. “—kind of?”

What the hell are you saying?

Dieter blinks twice. “Okay… you lost me. Was that— when you say ‘kind of’, what would you say is the percentage of—”

You interrupt. “Logistically speaking, let's look at it this way: we’re co-stars.”

“Both of our names are on chairs, so… yeah.”

“That’ll complicate things if we — rehearse.”

(You can’t seriously consider this offer.)

Dieter squints. “Okay, but when I read the end scene in the first act when Ramona and Richie fuck for the first time in years after dancing around their bullshit, I felt it might feel more organic if we already know—”

“Wait, you read the script?”

Your expression drops as you finally remove his thumb from your face, but his hand remains in your lap, connected to yours. 

He nods small, as if sheepish to admit it.

“I could tell it bothered you that I wanted to only act with vibes, so I read it the other night. Three times, actually. Wait —I’ll show you.”

He holds up a finger before pushing from his chair, shuffling around to a cabinet on the far end of the trailer vanity. Pulling the cabinet open, he plucks the script in question from its place and moseys back to his chair.

The script is thicker than yours, bursting with dog ears and color-coded bookmark tabs all along the belly of white pages. Dieter shakes the thick book in the air, mouth souring to a pathetic smile.

“Ta-da.”

Goddamnit. It’s endearing.

You hate it.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you draw a slow exhale and utter a question you know you cannot take back:

“Do you actually want to sleep with me, or is this a method acting thing?”

Dieter pauses, brows knitting a way that says he’s truly concentrating on what he should say versus what he wants to say. As if words right now are difficult, because no one has written them for him yet.

“I’m gonna kiss you,” he decides, moving a fraction from his chair to hover by yours — it’s a request for permission without asking at all. “I’m gonna kiss you, and you can decide if this is real or if this is a method acting thing. Got it?”

You don’t quite understand what he’s saying, but you can smell the faint scent of vodka on his breath. You wonder if the scent on yours is just as strong.

You open your mouth to reply until you realize he’s been staring at your lips this entire time.

All you offer is a faint nod. That’s all the consent he needs to crowd your space like he’s a drowning man, large hands cupping either side of your face.

He stops just before his lips can reach yours. 

You freeze, searching his face. His eyes are squeezed shut, as if in pain from the proximity. Then he mumbles one word in prayer:

“Ramona.”

The script.

The ill-fated couple’s reunion starts just like this: drinks in hand and quietly sitting by a fireplace after years of neglect, of ignorance. The way he speaks your character’s name is one of undying submission.

He’s a little too good at it.

You remain perfectly still, nose to nose, brain flurrying through pages until it lands on the scene in question.

“What are you waiting for, Rich?” you murmur, lips barely touching his as you ask the scripted line, and you can see him break character for a fraction of a second to smile.

“You,” Dieter recites, nuzzling your nose with his. “Always you.”

The script says Richie goes in for the kiss, but fuck that.

You grab the lopsided tie, bunching the fabric in your fist to close those few precious inches, lips smashing on impact.

Dieter doesn’t falter from the diversion, instead melting against you as he pulls you impossibly closer, kisses frantic and deep and needy.

(Social media has insisted he looks like a damn good kisser. They were right.)

You moan at the sensation of the tip of his tongue swiping your lower lip, wordlessly requesting permission. You open your mouth to accept it, grip tightening on his tie.

As his hands drop, so do his knees. Dieter Bravo kneels in front of you like a sinner in church, fingers settling along the hem of your button-down. He abruptly switches his train of thought, attacking the button of your jeans. 

“I have wanted to eat you out all goddamn day.”

Your brows fly high, hold lessening on his tie as he beckons your hips to help him remove your jeans. You laugh — surprised and hot and nothing like Ramona— and gently place a hand over his.

“That isn’t in the script,” you remind him as he pouts up at you. “And I’m pretty sure Mr. Alzone doesn’t eat pussy.”

“Babe, every character I agree to play eats pussy,” Dieter reassures with utmost sincerity. “I would outright refuse the role if they didn’t.”

“This isn't what you want,” you say, voice wavering in control as you start on the buttons of your shirt to help his original endeavor. “It’s what Richie wants, and he doesn’t eat her out in the first — fuck — the first sex scene.”

“I can suggest rewrites,” he quickly replies, undoing the buttons of his own shirt to fling it clear from his torso and somewhere to the floor. 

Your eyes drop to the array of tattoos on his body — particularly the solid triangle in the middle of his forearm — and lose focus for a moment. He doesn’t skip a beat, yanking off his dress slacks and boxer briefs until your attention drops between his legs.

He’s already hard, deliciously so, and you wonder if those rewrites may actually be a good idea.

“Come here.”

He drags you from your train of thought, unbuttoning the last few notches keeping your shirt together. Everything is too cold and too hot at the same time.

Tongue darting between his lips, Dieter marvels at the lace along your white bra and kneels higher to meet you. Gently he works one breast out of a cup, palming along the swell of it with utmost worship. You can’t help the noise that exits when his mouth closes around your nipple, tongue swirling with eagerness around the raised bud.

“Fuck, Dee—” He flicks his tongue, causing you to jolt with correction. “—Richie.”

He hums in approval, snaking his free hand between the fabric of your jeans and landing the tip of his middle finger against your clit. It’s not enough — somehow you’ve landed in the palm of Dieter’s hand, but you can’t find yourself ashamed of getting here.

It’s just a rehearsal.

It means nothing.

You finally lift your hips for him, wiggling the jeans and panties down your legs. Dieter continues to rub his finger in a circle, following your movements so not to break rhythm like he’s already attuned to your body. It’s experienced. It’s hot.

(Shit — did you just refer to Dieter Bravo as hot?)

What’s even better is the noise he makes, short and keening, when you sink to your knees to meet him on the floor. He drops his fingers from your clit to spin you around.

“All fours,” he says, voice wavering behind you. In the first sex scene, Richie demands Ramona to get on all fours. Yet when Dieter demands it, it’s anything but — it’s a request, pushing on the verge of begging when he kisses down your spine.

You respond because you’re delirious for this game, settling on all fours with your hips arching on display. You hear him mutter a string of curses, fumbling with the foil of a condom. Your fists bunch the shag rug beneath you in anticipation.

Line.

There’s a line here, but you’re not remembering it.

He runs a hand along your hip, tugging you backwards.

“Only gonna do it if you say please,” Dieter reminds you, rewriting what you're forgetting when he runs a thumb along your slit. You shudder, head dropping with the teasing up-and-down motions of the digit.

“Fuck, please,” you request, keeping to your Ramona accent.

Because if you admit you’re begging for it, then you’ll never stop thinking about this.

Slow and cautious, you feel the tip of Dieter nudge along your folds. He groans, loud and filthy when he slides right in without resistance, bottoming out. You whimper, high-pitched in your gasp as the stretch takes over your train of thought.

Dieter hovers over you, running a hand along your back, until he eases back out. “This good for you, baby?” When you nod once, he pushes back in at a new angle. “Not good enough, apparently. I wanna hear it.”

Whether this is in the script or not, you do not know — and quite frankly, cannot care.

“So fucking good,” you respond, white-knuckling against the rug.

From there he is relentless. Pressing his palms into the crease of your hips, he picks up the pace and leaves you a moaning mess underneath him. He mumbles sweet nothings until they border downright debauchery.

“Such a good fucking girl for me,” he moans above, running a hand down the nape of your neck. “Taking this cock so good, look so pretty from up here. God, wanted to do this for weeks—”

At first, you think ‘this’ means fucking you. What ‘this’ ends up being, however, completely catches you off guard.

Mid-thrust, he wraps an arm around your waist and lifts you to kneel in front of him. Your back presses flush against his chest as he relentlessly fucks up into you. One arm keeps you locked in place while the other snakes along your torso to land at your chest where he cups the breast hanging out of your bra.

The new angle gives you plenty of room to reach down, furiously drawing circles around your clit to keep up with the pace.

You won’t last long.

Not when he’s growling in your ear.

“Mine.”

Because Richie is possessive.

Dieter is worshipping.

He repeats your character's name — Ramona — after every few thrusts until stars explode behind your eyelids and he’s not far to follow clear over the edge. One, two, three final thrusts and he slacks, holding both strong arms around your middle so you don’t immediately collapse.

Sweat-slicked and desperate for air, you drop a shaking hand against the coffee table and spill a cup of highlighters across the hardwood floor.

Goddamnit.

God. Damn. It.

Running a hand through your hair, you ignore the peppered kisses across your shoulder and breathe deep for the first time since you arrived at his trailer.

“That — cannot — become a habit.”

You feel Dieter grin against your skin.

“Famous last words."