#i'll never fall in love again | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

oonajaeadira · 1 year

Text

I'll Never Fall In Love Again: Scene 8: The Final Shot

Fandom: The Bubble

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Warnings: Angst angst angst. Sex happens, but not explicitly. Casual drug use. Playing fast and loose with: how the film industry works, how the naturalization system works, the shit media personalities can get away with on a red carpet.

A/N: It’s the final chapter. There’s…a lot of ground covered here. I thought about splitting it up, but it needed to go together, needed to pass in a blurry, painful memory. This fic took a total jo-ha-kyū route and I’m not sorry about it. I think I like it that way. Anyway. I’m so happy that I’ve had the chance to write for this disaster pancake. I’ve fallen in love with him so.

Thankfully Dieter always respected personal space. It’s why, the morning after the drunken session on the couch, you’d slunk off to your room in utter humiliation and anxiety about ruining everything–everything! so stupid!--and hoped he’d think you’d just gone out. It’s why you could lay on your bed with the door shut and know he wouldn’t open it if you didn’t answer his knock.

It’s not that you thought he didn’t like you or wasn’t attracted to you.

It was obvious that he absolutely wanted to sleep with you.

But that was the problem. It meant, in the end, you’d be just one of his many flings. You might have some fun–hell, he might even convince himself that he loved you–but surely and eventually it would become monotonous for him and he’d give you the cold shoulder, living up to the image of the commitmentphobe he’d presented to the world.

Curled up on your bed and fighting tears was futile. There you were, playing this wifey role, holding up your end of the deal, hoping to prove to the world that he wasn't that guy…but in no way able to believe it yourself.

It would have been so easy to give into him; surely you weren’t in denial and could admit it’s what you wanted. But there were only a couple of months left in the marriage and then you could let him go back to his feral life. It would pass for both of you. You could remain friends. Keep respect.

Keep your heart from getting broken.

And in one stupid night, you’d rushed past your best judgements and upset the equilibrium. It would be harder now to back away from this brink, because the more you retreated, the more he might be challenged to follow and if he did that…if he was sweet to you…it would be harder to resist….

What a fucking mess.

At some point, you’d fallen back to sleep and woken up in the afternoon feeling even worse. Dehydration demanded you brave the kitchen for some water, take the chance of running into him...

But there was only a note on the fridge, pinned up next to the printout of that photo. The two of you on his opening night. He’d held onto you so tightly….

Flight’s at noon. Sorry I missed you. Good to see you. Wish we’d had more time together. –D.

It was impossible to know his mind from the note. Was he sincere? Was he hurt? Maybe he was indifferent. No big deal. Like he could care less, a blip in the friendship, it happens. Or was it written in anger when you didn’t answer his knock but were so obviously at home?

The note and the picture couldn’t stay on the fridge. But you couldn’t throw them away either.

It seemed appropriate at the time to just…shut them in the freezer.

________

He was the first to break the silence about ten days later, a goofy shot of him on a camel. Sunnies on. Windblown and tanned. And you put a heart on it.

Things were a little easier past that. He wasn’t able to call as much, and when he could, you were either sleeping or working. He left messages, none of them threatening to talk about what went down that night, so after a few weeks, he finally called in the morning again.

“Hey, D. Nice camel.”

“What? Oh that. That asshole spit in my hair. Camel’s don’t give a shit about anyone but themselves. Dromedaries are the Karens of the animal kingdom.” When that earned him a laugh, you could hear him smiling back at you. “If you get a break in your schedule, you should come out. I’ll fly you out and teach you to ride one of these monsters. It’s a good skill to have. You never know when they’re gonna remake Lawrence of Arabia.”

Trying to skirt the offer, you poked, “Wait. I thought that was what you were doing out there.”

“Ha ha.” But he wasn’t giving up. “I mean it, Cakes. Get your ass out here. It’s a free ride to a place that’s almost impossible to get to and you won’t get food like this in your life. The hash is pretty good too…. I could show you around…. I’d…like you to see this.”

There it was. A hesitation at the end of every sentence. What he meant was “I want to see you. I miss you.” But couldn’t say it. It only proved what you thought to be true, that he’d never really get there. Another win on the side of shutting that shit down.

“Yeah. Great. What I want is to sweat to death and get sand in my asscrack and camel spit in my hair. No thank you.”

The huff he made was probably meant to be a laugh. Would have been, if it hadn’t been shuttered by restrained disappointment. “I guess I can’t blame you there.”

“It’s fine,” you pushed on, cheery, “Thankfully, I can live vicariously through you! How’re the dailies? Did they finally get you a better assistant?”

And he took the hint and moved on.

Things mainly went back to normal after that. More mornings than not, you’d start your day with him as he ended his with you, and when he signed off with a quiet “have a good day, Cakes, miss your face,” you smiled sincerely and told him, “no need, we’ll talk more tomorrow.”

It was the best you could do. For both of you.

________

Dieter’s trials and tribulations on location came to an end a couple of weeks shy of the Oscars and suddenly, he was home. There wasn’t much time to hang out; once he touched down in L.A. it seemed everyone who wrote for a magazine, blog, podcast, entertainment website–not to mention friends and agents–all wanted a piece of him. And that was for the best.

Because from the moment he walked in the door, from the way you both froze in place–several body lengths apart, judging the distance, trying to quickly work out the fraction of space it would be appropriate to cross, or wait for him to cross, or wished he’d cross, strategizing where arms and hands and lips would land–it was less awkward than you ever could have expected and more…

…magnetic.

From the moment you let out a breath and raised a hand in what you hoped was a casual welcome home and he gave a half-smile and let his shoulders drop, it was easy enough to fall back into housemates and let him lift you in a squeeze–the little punch you gave to his arm and peck you left on his cheek said you were glad he was back–it was all meant to be breezy and friendly and laid-back but was uncomfortably more…

…yearning.

All the work you’d put into keeping your heart at arm’s length during all those calls, you realized in a flash that it had only created a greater ease between you, a natural partnership…

…a home.

And so you kept busy as much as you could. Because if you two should find yourself on the couch together again, that ease would be unbalanced. You’d find yourself fighting any urges to curl into him, becoming stiff with the effort to avoid touching or laughing or letting him catch your eye. You were barely keeping it together when you ran into him here and there, staying on your feet and always keeping a piece of furniture between you to allow smiles and eye contact, but had a physical disrupter to the rails that threatened to pull you in.

A stylist was hired. You were wrapped in matching Versace. He looked gorgeous in a black tux–with a shirt vibrantly pattered in colors chosen to pick up the nuances in your dress–except for his hair which had been styled back, but that he vehemently defied in favor for scrubbing his scalp with his thick hands and letting the curls stand where they may.

Your fingers itched to fix him–or to mess him up more–and you might have done, except that the limo had arrived with Davey and Mark inside.

The ride to the ceremony was joyous. Until the coke came out. Then you just let the boys have their fun and stared out the window.

There were enough personalities on the carpet to focus on, allowing you to split from Dieter and make your own way through the gauntlet, stopping to hug industry friends and chat with a few people along the ropes, all the things Dieter had taught you to do at Cannes and Seattle, his tutelage making the night and its blaring camera lights so much easier.

At least until you got to the ETalk media press point.

“Your breakout role as the soothsayer in Fall of Timon has you nominated for an Oscar tonight!”

“Yeah! I was completely bowled over by the announcement. I know everyone always says it, but I feel like that was the real moment, getting the nomination. It was the cake.”

“And now you’re looking for the Oscar icing!”

“That would be nice, but the cake’s still good without the icing.”

“Speaking of icing, has the temperature been cold at home with your husband nominated for his role in Hunger Strike alongside your category-mate Chelsea Seagate?”

It was still a struggle to keep composure in the face of questions meant to throw you off, meant to get a glitch reaction out of you, meant to dig in and hurt.

“Of course not. We support each other thoroughly. And I think Chelsea has earned every right to win that award. But speaking of my husband, I should go make sure he stays out of trouble.”

“Well good luck with that. We’re all pulling for you. And for the Oscar too.”

After that interaction, a blur. More lights, more plastered smiles and aching cheeks. All the same questions about the nomination, the competition, and the not-so-sly segways into how it affected your marriage.

But at the end of the carpet, Dieter was waiting. Dutifully. Smiling proudly as he watched you hold your own. He reached out to take your hand and lead you into the theater. And you let him.

Once inside though, it was easy to feign distraction–needing both hands to address a catch on your skirt or give someone a hug–conveniently having reason to ignore his waiting hand as you took in your first view of the Dolby Theater and the gold-and-crystal stage design for the ceremony, following the usher to your assigned seats.

You thought you were smooth, that he wouldn’t notice any avoidance on your part.

It was an odd set up, but one specifically put into place for Dieter. Because of course they had to seat him close to the Hunger Strike group, but knew you’d need to be with the Timon team, and yet they also wanted to keep you together. Your seats were on the aisle in the row of the Timon producers and the film’s composer and costuming team, with the Timon cast in the row behind (Davey sitting on the end behind Dieter as the main hopeful acting win for the production) and cast and producers of Hunger Strike taking up the row ahead.

Including the shining, platinum and perfectly-coiled coif of Chelsea Seagate.

Who stood up to hug Dieter.

And Dieter hugged her back.

For a long time.

She chattered excitedly in his ear as you sat next to the composer and tried not to notice how Dieter’s hand subconsciously slid down the curve of Chelsea’s lower back.

When she finally came away, she had the audacity to boop his nose.

She booped. His nose.

Then twiddled her fingers at you, “Hiiiii!!!” and sat back down without another word.

Well. Without another word to you. Because there were plenty more words for Dieter. She purposely turned her chin over her shoulder to make comments during the preshow–and throughout much of the program itself–speaking quietly enough so he would have to lean forward and she could repeat herself next to his ear.

Cameras swooped in to catch their chatter here or there, leaving you in the far shot to act as if you were fine with their friendship and just concentrating on the ceremony.

You may have laughed a little too enthusiastically. Smiled a little more brightly. Reacted a bit more theatrically.

To the Academy’s credit, it was an exciting ceremony and Timon was winning all its technical awards, putting you on your feet often enough to let people through the row, giving congratulatory backpats between bouts of clapping your hands clean off your wrists.

But soon enough, it was time to announce the win for supporting actress. And again, you let Dieter coil his fingers into yours.

Something shifted. In all the nominations being read and applause happening, the center of the world suddenly seemed to exist on the armrest between you. His hand was warm. Sturdy. Grounding. A reminder of all you had been through together to be there. For one moment, all the other tangled feelings fell away to reveal the core of your friendship, how he had singled you out, supported you, walked you through this sudden onslaught of media attention. And here he was again, your unerring, never hesitating, main support. Here to usher you through this new first.

One last time.

But he only needed one hand to hold yours. The other reached forward to Chelsea’s bare shoulder. And squeezed.

Soon enough that support was ripped away and he was standing, pulling Chelsea into a congratulatory hug while she began to cry and kiss your husband on the cheek.

There was a touch on your own shoulder. And though it wasn’t the one you wanted, you still turned to smile at Davey and let him know you were okay.

Suddenly, the award didn’t seem so important anymore.

Soon enough, it was your turn to lean back over the seat and take Davey’s hand in solidarity when Dieter’s name was called.

It wasn’t lost on you that Dieter hadn’t at least kissed you for the cameras. Hadn’t sought your praise. Had enough drugs in his system to go off book and use his acceptance speech to wax poetic about the little gold man in his hand but thank none of the people who helped put him on that stage by the time the orchestra started up and drowned him out.

And, of course, he never acknowledged Fall of Timon. Or Davey. Or you.

His award was given out near the end of the night, so he never returned to his seat. Neither did Chelsea. Most likely they were fielding press questions together.

An indie film took best picture, leaving you without the chance to take the stage with everyone… without the hope to be reunited with Dieter.

Davey and Mark took possession of you, glued themselves to your side as you spent the next hour making your way out of the Dolby, chatting with industry friends, giving the obligatory “it’s an honor to be nominated” to a few microphones, and saying “I’m so proud of him” enough times that you were happy to find that it was never a lie.

Of course you were proud of him.

You loved him.

You were the stupidest, saddest, most pathetic girl in the room and surely everyone could see it.

There must have been press photos for all the winners. A junket. That’s why he was taking so long to return to you. You finally began to feel faint, needing food and getting tired of waiting and the boys whisked you away to the afterparty you’d all agreed to meet at. Surely Dieter would catch up with you there.

But he never showed.

And the blur continued, having to pretend to be exuberant, to fake-the-good-time-in-order-to-make-the good-time…trying not to bring down all your friends. There was still your nomination and production wins to celebrate after all.

Even though you were aching inside.

Even though you were sure you had ruined everything in all the ways you wish you hadn’t.

Later, Davey and Mark would turn in and you would stay behind to wait.

At least until the limo returned.

And then you took the ride back home.

Alone.

In the morning, Morgan called, telling you to sift through all the notifications on your phone–Oscars, Fall of Timon, your name–until you got to the trending topic of Dieter Bravo. The most surprising thing about all the pictures of him leaving Chelsea’s home was not that he had gone home with her, but how numb you felt scrolling through them.

No. Not numb. Validated.

And you stayed in your room. And ignored the knock that finally came.

The next few days carried the theme of avoidance. The paparazzi. The questions they shouted out at you about your cheating husband. You closed up your wounds so their salt couldn’t get in, packed up your essentials and moved back into the apartment he’d paid to keep for you all this time so you’d have a place to go if you needed.

Well, you needed.

On your way out, it was easy to ignore the envelope laying on the kitchen counter with your name on it, just like you had ignored all the texts and the voicemails. It was, however, a convenient spot to lay a sparkling gem–one that had caught the light so brilliantly a year ago–after you’d slipped it off your finger and given it a kiss goodbye.

________

Notice came in the mail of your citizenship a month later.

Dieter had done the interviews, answered all the questions, signed all the documents, kept your separation a secret.

He didn’t have to do that.

But he did.

You picked up the phone and dialed.

It barely rang once. “Hey. Hey. How are you? Are you okay? Can we talk?”

One long breath. Made him wait. “Can I just say what I need to say?”

“Yes. Please. Ladybug. Anything you want. You got it.”

Taking one last look at your heart, you tucked it away, out of sight, though hardly out of mind. And with a practiced vocal poise, you began.

“I just got my green card. And I want to thank you so much for this. You’ve been such a help to me since the moment I met you and I couldn’t have gotten through this last year without you. I want you to know that.”

“Cakes–”

“I’m not done. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that with everything going on you still did this for me. I want you to understand that this is going to help me succeed here. And you did that for me. I will always cherish you for what you’ve done for me.”

“Cakes, I’m so sorry. I haven’t held up my end of the bargain. I didn’t–we didn’t–”

“It’s okay. I can handle myself and anything lobbed my way. You taught me well. And you held up the important part. The citizenship was the main trade off, remember? If there’s ever anything I can do for you in thanks, just let me know, okay?”

“Come home.”

It was the break in his voice that gave you pause. But the mental image of him in his battered Versace with the tie undone on the steps of the Silver Lake home was what pushed you on. “I can’t. You know I can’t.”

“I really thought you might love me.”

“I…I can’t.” Not a complete lie.

“I love you…so fucking much.”

You’d let it go on too long. It was starting to hurt. You preferred numbness. You preferred validation.

“No. You don’t. You think you do. But you don’t. You’ll get over it. It’ll be okay. Congratulations on the Oscar, D. You deserve every ounce of it. Really.”

“I need to talk to you–”

“There’s nothing to say, D.”

And you hung up, letting the last words hang there between you. Unraveled. Severed. The end.

The phone rang. It would ring on and off for hours.

You didn’t allow yourself to cry until it finally stopped.

________

The next few months were a mess, avoiding press questions, reminding yourself to stop reading stories about his more frequent temper tantrums and drug-fueled fan interactions. The paparazzi pictures of him and Chelsea out at that coffee shop signaled that it was time.

An envelope arrived in the mail a week after you sent him the divorce papers, and you frowned at its thinness, its lightness, its not-hefty-enough-to-be-countersigned-legal-forms-ness.

The paper inside was warped, as if it had been frozen and thawed, which you knew it had.

Scrawled across the photo of him hugging you like his life depended on it were seven words.

I need more time. Wait for me.

It hurt too much to keep.

It hurt too much to throw away.

Into the freezer it went.

For two years. Until the day of the first read for your current film, when he brought you coffee from the Farmer’s Market. Then it came out of the freezer and was pinned to your fridge.

A reminder, you told yourself, that you were once at least friends. And maybe could be again.

________

On set, it isn’t unusual to break for lunch and walk out from behind the bright lights to find him sitting behind Annie, watching you work, even on days he isn’t called. It helps him get a better sense of your character and why his might be drawn to yours so intensely, he says. You both acknowledge its truth, but only by half.

In front of the camera he is giving and fierce like you remember him to be, dropping the character easily between takes, keeping you entertained with the same stupid conversations you used to have at home, cracking the same sarcastic jokes, negotiating the beats of the upcoming exchanges.

Overall, it’s been an amazing shoot. Time has smoothed the edges off the knife he’d put into your heart so long ago but it sealed the fissure clumsily. It’s been easier than you’d expected to just fall back into comfortable companionship, even with the lobbed grenades of his sporadic flirting.

But his confessions in the restaurant booth found purchase in that fissure, began trickling through and loosening the seal so that by the time you were riding his lap for the cameras, there was no stopping the flow of all the yearning that had been dammed up since the night on the couch.

It feels different than it had back then though.

It…it feels better. Wanted. Open. Like it should have been.

Like it should be. Maybe still could be.

Fuck. What fools you’ve been.

________

“Tell me what you want, Cakes. Tell me what you need me to do to you.” He pleads, desperate. Breathless. Painfully horny. Thrusting and causing the trailer to rock, probably signaling to everyone what was going on inside.

Fuck ‘em. They probably all have bets going anyway. Might as well help make it rain.

“Gladly,” you kiss him, laughing at his transparent neediness, “But what about what you want?”

“I don’t want anything. Or I want everything. I don’t fucking care. I want you to come. How do I make you come? I’m begging here…”

Dieter’s eager in bed, eager to go, eager to please, likes being told what to do without having to ask, answers in reverential tones, yes ma’am, no ma’am, please and thank you ma’am, runs his mouth, pretty much gets off without having to do much at all other than to know he’s the one that made you feel good.

Not just good. Glorious.

But afterward? He calls the shots. And what he wants is to hold on tight and not let go. The man turns into a weighted blanket, a sloth on a tree, he’s the stripes and you’re the candy cane and any move to extricate yourself turns him into a moaning toddler.

“But I’ve got to pee, Dieter. We’ve been at this two hours straight.”

“No!” he barks reflexively before unhinging his arms with a whining, overly dramatic groan that doesn’t quite end until you’ve done your business and crawl back into bed and then he’s pulling you in and digging his nose and forehead into your neck with a sigh that signals relief for the oh so tortured soul.

“Oh you poor thing,” you laugh and comb through his sweaty curls, kissing his scalp, a tiny yelp popping out of your throat as his arms tighten around you–boy doesn’t know his own strength–”were you really that lost without me?”

He nods into your neck. “I love you.” It’s aching. And pathetic. And adorable.

And breaks through the very last of your defenses.

It doesn’t matter if he’s talking about missing you for two years or just the time you were using the toilet. Tilting your head up to staunch any surprise tears, it takes a moment for your throat to clear. “I know.”

Giving you the puppy eyes and ducking to nibble at your collarbone, the request for reciprocation comes out coy and sweet, “Do you…love me?”

You can’t stop smiling at the big dope, running your fingertips around the bare patch in his beard and whispering, “Yeah. I can’t help it. Look at you. If I don’t, who will?”

Nose to nose on the pillow, love dumb and staring, the two of you silently weigh the events of the past. Compare it to this present. Regret what you could have had this whole time. What that might mean for the future.

“I thought you didn’t want me, missus.”

“I thought the same.”

“What? You broke my fucking heart.”

“Well then, we’re even. I’m here now though. Feel better?”

“I dunno. You gonna come back now?”

Fingers that are stronger than he realizes subtly grip your back a little firmer, big arms pulling you in slowly…as if he can get you any closer than you are plastered against him. It doesn’t matter if you say yes or no; either in celebration or to beg you to stay, he’s preparing to hold on tight and never let go.

The smart answer is that it’s too soon. But you don’t want to give him the smart answer. “Can I ask you a question?”

His pout relays his disappointment. He wanted a dumb answer. “You’re gonna anyway.”

“Why didn’t you want to bang me that night on the couch?”

He blinks. You watch his brain rolodex flipping back to that night and he gives a sheepish smile. “Jet-lag. And…drugs. Knew the jet-pack wouldn’t fire up.”

“Jet-pack–? Uh…oh. Oh. Your penis. Nice. Is that a name I should be using?”

Concern creeps over his face as he makes an uncharacteristically quick detection of your forced humor, realizing what you were really asking him, the pain you’re carrying and that you just revealed the real moment back then where everything went wrong. “And you were drunk, ladybug… I just didn’t want to, I dunno, take advantage. Spoil it.”

“It?”

Quickly grasping the gravity of the conversation, he props himself up on an elbow, pulling the bedcovers up around you in comfort as if performing triage for a past hurt. His hand smooths warm and heavy over your jaw, “The moment. Our juju. Any trust or good opinion you had of me.”

“I see. I was just so embarrassed that I’d thrown myself at you–”

“I wanted to. Cakes. You gotta know I wanted you to.”

He must smooth your hair and trace your cheekbone a hundred times in the silence that follows; continuing as long as it takes for you to believe him. To believe in him…that he was as capable of sincerity then as he is now. That you misjudged him. It isn’t hard to do so, you can see that now. But after so long flexing the blame muscles, it takes some effort to let them fully relax.

The time for apologies has passed. There’s only so many times someone can say they’re sorry out loud before you can learn to read it written on their very skin. A list two years long.

And you take your time kissing every passage.

He soaks in each drop of affection you give, completely, blissfully grateful, melting to goo under your forgiveness. “Fuck, Cakes. I reeeeeeeeally fucking wanted to.”

“Seems like you want to do that with a lot of people.” Smiling with your lips against his cheek, you reach down to give him a gentle, playful tug that makes him wake up again with a jump.

“Yeah, but like, that’s just pump and dump stuff, scratching an itch. You’re like, the cure to the underlying cause of the itch. You don’t just feel good for now. You’re like a big bathtub full of yogurt.”

You dodge his incoming, lovelorn kiss. “Excuse me, what?”

“Look, I’m better now!” he wines in mock dismay. “You made me better!”

Allowing your laughter to fade out, you finally give in to the chase and kiss him back. “No. You made you better. And I’m glad you did. And I guess I’ll take it.”

“Wait. Do you mean–? Really? Really??” He tumbles you onto your back, cupping your face in his big hands, forcing you to look at him, searching your eyes eagerly for veritas as if he can’t believe you of all people are giving him the dumb answer. “You gonna come home?”

“Yes, D, really. But truthfully? I can tell how sore I’m gonna be tomorrow. Right now I just wanna fill a tub with yogurt. That sounds amazing.”

With wide, eager eyes and a wild, punctuating wag of his head, he insists, “I know a guy at Fage! It’s done!”

“Well I’ll be damned. Is that a promise, you weirdo?”

Sighing down at you, he softens. “Every fucking word, missus.”

________

“One more time, please? Let’s mark so she can see the shot.”

Back on set, Annie’s request drives the crew to motion, prompting you to turn your back to the camera. When the go is called, you give it a couple of beats. “Now turn,” she directs, and you do. “Good, focus on the box, focus on the box, then lift the lid, good, steady, process what’s inside, the note and the key, this is the cue that you’ve missed your chance, it’s bittersweet, look up into the camera, dear… Yes. Good. Hold. Come here, darling.”

Without looking up from her monitor, Annie raises a tiny hand and curls her fingers, beckoning you near. She takes the time to show you the rate of zoom, how close the frame is, what they’ll enhance in post, and what the final edit should be.

“Think you can nail this in one?”

“She can do it.” Dieter’s voice slides out of the darkness, somewhere over near the craft services. They brought in cupcakes today. He’s not gonna pass that up.

You smile much more easily now near the end of filming than you did when you started. “Maybe. All I can do is try, right?”

“Atta girl,” Annie says, slapping you on the shoulder and calling out for a final set.

While costume and stylists come to make final fine adjustments, Dieter moves closer to watch over the rim of his sunglasses, standing near the camera, one hand shoved in the pocket of his lounge pants, the other holding a ridiculously large chocolate cupcake–pink frosting, sprinkles–which he’s devouring devoid of any subtlety or grace. As props swaps out the box and hands you the on screen one–presumably with the prop key inside, judging by the metallic rattle–Dieter casually slides his sunglasses off, folding them and hanging them from his stretched-out tshirt collar and gives you a wink before taking another enormous bite of the cupcake.

“Okay, darling,” Annie coos from the void behind the lights. “Take the time you need, let us know when you’re ready.”

Turning your back to the camera once more, you close your eyes, manifesting the layercake of emotions that will play out as the camera zooms in tight to only your face. Grief, regret, but also love and release. The final shot. The culmination of all your character’s journey.

“Ready.”

“Okay, Darling. Let’s roll.”

Letting your heart drop, you wait for the cue to slowly turn, keeping your focus on the beautiful wooden box in your hands. Once you’re flush to camera, there’s another cue to open it.

There’s a flicker of confusion when you find not a key inside, but a ring.

A familiar ring.

One that once belonged to Dieter’s grandmother. One with a huge stone that once caught the light filtering down into the Farmer’s Market. One that you haven’t seen since you left it on your husband’s kitchen counter.

There is a note inside as well.

“Looks like maybe your first wedding was THE wedding after all.”

When you’re prompted to raise your eyes to the camera–Dieter standing beside it with hands in pockets, wearing a sly grin and frosting on his nose–you’re not quite sure what your face is doing, but your eyes are certainly in danger of spilling over.

“That's it,” Annie says. “That’s the shot.”

________

“And here we have the star of Annie Devereaux’s latest film, nominated for Best Actress and–”

“Hi!,” you chuckle as you keep yourself from tripping on your gown a year later on the red carpet leading up to the Dolby Theater. “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry. This dress! I’m afraid it’s far too elegant for me!”

The correspondent from ETalk reaches out to steady you and joins in your good-humored self-deprecation. “Are you sure it’s you in charge and not the gown? It’s beautiful though. YSL?”

“Yes.” Trying to do your formal wear sponsor proud, you smooth down the skirt of the champagne satin and turn so that the on-loan $43,000 South Sea pearl necklace you’re so nervous about wearing can catch the camera lights. “It’s actually a matching set. Dieter has the… Dieter?”

Ducking your head below the light glare, a search finds him two media stalls down, marinating in some praise he’s getting there.

“Speaking of your famous husband and co-star, you famously remarried shortly after working on this film. He’s up for a supporting role award tonight. Is it all or nothing tonight? Does he know who he’s going home with?”

As she swings the microphone around to you with a crooked eyebrow, you do your best to school your face into an expression of humor and grace as you try to make light of her impossibly rude question. You know what she’s asking. The whole world knows what happened the last time you and Dieter attended the Oscars together.

Laughing brightly, you assure her with the kindest, most sincere purr you have, “No matter who wins tonight, I’m so proud of him. Dieter’s amazing and I’m sure you’ll see that when you get your chance to speak with him. Here he comes; I’ll let him show you himself. And I’ll be watching from right over there. And if you insult my husband again, I’ll put one of these $6000 heels in your ass.”

Waving sweetly at the camera, you side-step the gawking reporter, finding your grace as you make way for your man.

________

“What did you say to her? She looked like I was going to eat her alive.” Dieter unbuttons his patterned velvet jacket as he takes a seat next to you in the auditorium behind Annie and her partner.

Kissing his cheek, you make a nod to his wild curls. “I told her your hair gets that height because you use your own spunk as product.”

“What? No you fucking didn’t!!”

“Shhhh. It’s starting.”

You wrap the lie in a wicked grin. If he believes you and the real footage drops, then all the notifications you’ll wade through later tonight will seem to be a much lighter irritation.

He’s taught you so well.

Award after award comes and goes. You’re on your feet often, applauding and making way for your film’s writer, cinematographer, and editing team to walk the aisle as almost every other envelope contains a member of your party.

As the presenters take the stage to announce supporting actor, your arm weaves its way through Dieter’s. When the award goes to someone else, you move to hug and comfort him, but he’s dragging you to your feet and applauding wildly….

How poetic that this year it’s Davey’s turn to win over Dieter.

There’s going to be ribbing at the party tonight. And by the wide smile on Dieter’s face, he’ll gladly take the consolation.

The best actress category is stacked this year, all of them truly amazing performances from some women you’ve looked up to for most of your life. You’ve gone back and forth between hoping for a win and feeling completely embarrassed to think you even stand a chance against them.

But when last year’s winner approaches the microphone with an envelope in hand, all you feel is white hot anticipation and dread.

“The roles represented for this year’s leading actress category run the gamut from war criminal to libertine, from a teacher trying to prove her innocence to a witch that is trying to prove her guilt, and someone who is battling both for and against a love so fiercely that she never finds it again. The nominees for best actress in a feature film are…”

Five short scenes roll across the monitor above the stage–yours among them t inhat iconic, final shot–accompanied by the recorded announcement of names and films.

And heavy waves of applause.

As the final scene plays, you lower your gaze back to the stage, only to find Annie turned and leaning on the back of her seat, chin on her hands, eyes shining. Smiling at you. Confident. Assured.

And once again, the beating heart of the world lays on your lap. On Dieter’s hand. Covered by your own.

“And the Oscar goes to…” Opening the envelope and nodding her head, confirming her guess, the presenter announces, “Another win for I’ll Never Fall In Love Again–”

Your name is drowned out under the roar of applause and your vision is momentarily cut off as Dieter crushes you against himself, lifting you to your feet, howling like a deranged sports fan, spinning you toward the aisle, and sending you off with a swift, loving slap to your ass.

There are so many hands clapping. So many smiles. And you walk in the wake of a camera, toward the light, toward the stage bedecked in silver and gold and shine and gleam, riding a swell of music and a gasp of air.

Somehow you make it up the stairs to the microphone.

You do not trip on your gown.

You do not drop the statuette.

You do consider both of these acts to be major successes.

________

“Did I remember to thank Annie?” Near the bar at the afterparty, Dieter rocks you back and forth, wrapped around you from behind. Davey does his best to hand you a drink while Mark makes your Oscars kiss. “I mean, I hugged her when we were all on stage for best picture, but fuck I hope I said it out loud–”

“Yes, you did just beautifully, kitten,” Davey assures, wrapping your hand around the glass to make sure you’re actually holding it before reaching for his own.

The nickname reminds you. “Morgan! Oh shit! Did I thank Morgan?”

“Yeeeees,” a happy, sloppy baritone grumbles in your ear. “You checked off all the boxes, ladybug.”

“And you? Did I remember to thank you?”

Swiveling to catch Dieter’s eye, you watch his face transform into something teasing. Playful. Dangerous. “You suuuure did. You reeeeeeeally love me, don’t you.”

“Oh no. Oh no! Did I gush? Did I say something–? What did I say???”

Davey delivers two light slaps: one to Mark as he rescues your statuette from its romantic puppet show, and one to Dieter as he hands it over to you. “Don’t freak her out, you asshole. You were resplendent, lady, poised and adorable and modest and perfect. You’ll watch it tomorrow and kick this guy in the balls for getting your knickers in a twist.”

“An eye for an eye,” Dieter jeers, referencing the lie you told him about the rude reporter earlier. “And I’ll have you know she likes it when I twist her knickers.”

Drinks. Photos. Smiles. Hugs. Annie holds you in frank conversation about a possible upcoming project. Dieter is the perfect purse husband, holding your award when you run to the restroom or chat with someone privately. He hands it back upon your return, freeing up his hands and arms to hold onto his wife instead.

There’s no guessing the time when Davey’s kissing your cheek goodbye and Dieter’s off talking to the valet.

There’s still half a drink left and a handful of people you should say goodnight to, but your husband catches you by the hand and pulls you in close.

“I’m tired and I need my beauty sleep.” His thumb slides over the ring on your finger.

“Oh. That’s too bad. You going home?”

“Sorry. Misspoke. I need my beauty…to sleep. You think I’d let you ever go home alone again? Like, ever???”

“So because you’re tired, I have to stop partying.”

“I mean. We don’t have to stop partying just because we’ll be at home.”

“You said beauty sleep–”

Throwing his head back and whipping it side to side like a frustrated toddler, he growls through his teeth, “I am trying! To woo you! Can we just go home so I can show you how fucking proud of you I am?”

A kiss easily puts a stop to his flailing and he eagerly receives it, breaking it only to nip the tip of your nose and rest his forehead against yours.

“I promised you we’d have fun, didn’t I, Cakes.”

“Yeah, you did.” With your award in one hand and his arm in another, you let him lead you toward the door.

“Hey. Do you wanna get stoned and watch porn?”

By the look on the young valet’s face as you approach, Dieter’s question did not go unheard.

Not that he didn’t do it on purpose.

So you wait to answer until you’re just passing the poor boy.

“I mean. It is Sunday. Why deviate from the norm?”

With his hand on your back and a goofy grin on his face, Dieter ushers you out into the night, chest puffed with pride. And contentment. And glowing adoration.

Tomorrow’s gossip columns are gonna be wild.

________

SERIES MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST

A/N: Thank you so so much for reading my gooey romantic bullhonkey. When The Bubble first came out, I had so much heart eyes for Javi (still do) that I couldn’t imagine falling for this bozo. But something inside him asked to be loved and I was hooked. I think maybe it was the goat pictures. That heartbreak comes from somewhere and maybe it was from Cakes leaving him. Maybe that’s why Darren’s comment hurt him. So I gave him the alternative and sent him to rehab instead of CB6. I like this story better for him. Thank you for reading it.

Artwork for this chapter commissioned from @miranhas-art:

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

219 notes · View notes

oonajaeadira · 1 year

Text

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

Fandom: The Bubble

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x f!reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something’s not working here.

And you both know it’s you.

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

Shit. FUCK.

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

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

But it is. And you know full well why.

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

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

____________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that a metaphor?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

____________

“What’s going on?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Course I do.”

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

“W-what? Yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You both know what to do.

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

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

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

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

And he drags you against him.

And you gasp.

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

He has.

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

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

And you begin to slowly ride.

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

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

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

You okay with this?

Yeah.

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

Please.

That’s good, Babycakes. Just like this.

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

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

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

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

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

____________

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

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

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

“SWEETHEART!”

No such luck. “Heyyy Morgan.”

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.” Direct competition.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That you didn’t want him to.

Shit.

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

--Congratulations, D!

Still skipping past the unsent text.

--I’m so proud of you!

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

There had to be a different way to say it.

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

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

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

--I miss you so much, Dieter.

____________

Silence.

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

No need to fret.

Anything would be preferable to silence though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All the easier for you to take advantage.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

____________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you make him wait.

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

“I see you’re still in your robe.”

“I see you’re still in yours.”

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

“I can’t tell if you’re mad.”

“I’m not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

____________

SERIES MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST

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

202 notes · View notes