You don’t bother asking yourself why exactly you continued to try your luck in the entertainment industry. After shucking off dreams of becoming an actor like a too small jacket, you don’t waste what little breath you feel you have left on berating your career decisions, for you had eventually landed yourself the position of Photography Director for a multitude of movies over the past few years. You had worked yourself to the bone to get here, and you were undoubtedly good at what you did, seeing as you’ve always had an eye for capturing film in a way that it’s nothing short of magic.

Instead, you find yourself mutely contemplating every move, every word, every interaction you’ve ever had since that night and come to the conclusion that well…..this was sort of inevitable wasn’t it? It’s also entirely familiar, but you are still taken aback by the scene unfolding before disbelieving eyes. A haughty stance, a cocky grin, the glint of a singular earring; faint beams from a far off key light catching on its pressed metal form, dragging your eyes towards him and you’re suddenly at the mercy of a million and one emotions that rapid fire through you.

You had always hoped that when the day arrived at your doorstep like an unwelcome guest, you’d be able to switch off and let numbness lap over you. It ends up feeling absolutely torrential. You can't decide whether you’re disappointed or plain horrified as you feel a monsoon of bitterness, remorse, anguish, humiliation and worst of all, a tendril of lust crawl up your spine and wind itself around your lungs, squeezing.

Someone shoulders past your form and you are jerked out of your reverie, granting you momentary relief from the dregs of emotions that have started ripping at your every seam. With a shake of your head, you turn to Mickey, one of your younger camera operators who starts to ask you questions about a particular aerial shot taking place in the scene scheduled to be shot today. You preemptively apologise to her in the recesses of your mind, knowing that while you may be looking her directly in the eye and occasionally nodding, not a word of what she says is being paid attention to.

For the record, you hadn’t been jumping for joy when deciding to work on this movie. You had never been under the impression that working on the sixth instalment of the Cliff Beasts series was your ticket to the Oscars. What had convinced you to dip your toe into this project however, was the cast list: the movies’ main protagonists were all A list actors and sure, the franchise in itself was a bit doofy and so clearly a cash grab but fuck it, right? Steadily amassing fame with your prowess for cinematography, it was a no brainer - getting to work on this movie means getting to work with some of LA’s biggest stars, and having that under your belt, now wasn’t that just peachy?

At the time it had seemed like fun and at the time, it had seemed like something that you wouldn’t have to think too hard about. You have a feeling that you’ll be doing a lot more thinking than you’ve signed up for.

You surmise no one had bothered to tell you that one of said A list actors had come down with a bug of some sort. A real nasty one too, from what the camera assistants had whispered to you an hour ago, and on any other occasion you’d find yourself sympathetic. They’d casted someone else though; they couldn’t risk the production of Cliff Beasts 6 coming to a standstill before it had even started. No, the movies’ gaggle of big wig investors would clearly rather shit in their hands and clap before that happened.

You understood this, you were familiar with that sentiment and usually, usually you were more than fine with it. Your expertise shone on the big screen no matter the actors it portrayed, each and every angle of the film working in tandem with the colours, the lighting, the set and dialogue like a finely oiled machine.

What had you digging your nails into the palm of your hand however, was their chosen replacement.

With a sick sense of satisfaction you’re reminded that you were just oh so familiar with the man in question, who, out of the corner of your eye, seems content flirting with the pair of hairdressers tittering around him; brushing and slicking down chocolate brown hair that stubbornly, endearingly curls up at the nape of his neck. It’s morbid how your brain and heart berate you in sync by playing back moments from what seems like aeons ago. They feature those same silky curls you had playfully tugged on and harshly pulled and gently carded your very own fingers through night after night, day after day and my god can you still feel them.

And honestly, you should have seen this coming from a mile away.

How foolish you were to think that Hollywood’s very own poster child of chaos, superstar Dieter Bravo and yourself would never cross paths again, despite your shared field of work. Perhaps it had left you complacent, year after year of declining certain projects to work on and avoiding hit releases, interviews, red carpet premieres and the like, that all boasted the appearance of the veteran movie star. It’s unfortunate really, you’d have liked to be even the slightest bit prepared for this reunion because it… it feels like a sucker punch to the gut.

“I know it isn’t exactly what's been planned but the statue seems to be bigger than what was projected and I think its shadow is gonna blot out more than it's supposed to. Should we come in from a different angle or..?”

Mickey’s tangent trails off, the young woman a bit red in the face from talking at such breakneck speed without taking a breath. You snap yourself out of your thoughts just in time to catch the end of her question.

“Right.. Well we can always move the camera rig over depending on how big the statue is and considering we’re using a drone, I doubt it’ll be too much of a problem.”

You finish with a brittle smile, hoping that that was all her question entailed. She seems satisfied with your answer, bounding off in a hurry and you acquiesce that the drone operators will receive your message soon. Your grin falls, though not completely, bleeding into something a touch more genuine.

Eyeing her bouncing ponytail, for a second you’re reminded of your younger self. It flashes before your vision, memories gone by of days as an assistant to an assistant to an assistant, often delegated as a carrier pigeon between the plethora of people on a movie set; a delivery case of over-expensive coffee glued permanently to your fingers, the handle of which you swear is etched into the palm of your right hand.

What you are also reminded of are days where you were an assistant to an assistant to an assistant, but instead of the presence of clipboards and water bottles under your hands you remember having trailed them up a lean, trim chest dragging your fingertips up and up and up to cup a sharp jaw as you bring his mouth down to yours for a heated kiss. Like a reel of film unfolding in front of your eyes, you can almost see phantom fingers run down to your hips roughly shoving you against the locked door of one of the many storage closets on set. It’s followed by a smirk, a quietly whispered ‘sorry’ but you can never remember the feel of the doorknob digging into your side, too preoccupied with the sensation of a thick jean clad thigh grinding up against your throbbing core.

The reel is replaced, another memory glazing over you -- but this time it's of a warm palm against your mouth; to muffle any one of the whimpers that tumble out of your kiss bitten lips. With your hands scrambling to find purchase on his bare shoulders, you distinctly remember thanking the gods above he had a tight grip on your waist or you’d swear you’d have fallen to the ground in a boneless heap.

“C'mon babe, you’ve got one more in you, don’tcha? For me? Cum with my fingers in you just one more time and I'll give you what you want okay? I’ll give you what you need, promise.”

It’s whispered meanly into your skin, the feel of Dieter’s plush lips dragging up your neck, leaving molten, open-mouthed kisses in its wake. He mouths at you, sending livewire sparking through your veins, and kisses the sweet spot right beneath your jaw which leaves you shuddering.

Palm now off your mouth, he’d used his free hand to hike your right thigh further up his waist and you tried, oh how you tried to keep your voice down to a whisper, mindful of the noises coming from beyond the wall sectioning off the dark corner you two found yourself in.

You know he’d leave you high and dry - has done so before - and you choose to shred what remains of your ego in favour of begging; acceding that the end result (getting to cum as he’s buried so deep you swear you could taste him) would make up for your dignity left tattered on the floor, mirroring the sorry state of your little black suit skirt.

The skirt that rounded the curve of your ass and clung to your smooth thighs like second skin, so tight Dieter wasn’t sure how you could walk as fast as you did without tripping and falling flat on your face. It’s the skirt that had him eyeing you up and down all morning, shamelessly imagining you in nothing but it. He’d bet you would end up painting the prettiest picture underneath him as you gaze up into his eyes with that ever present look of contempt and lust intertwined like vines to a tree.

The very same skirt that had eventually led you both to end up forehead to forehead, your eyes scrunched shut and his roving over your face. You look sweet, he thinks with a start, catching the way your mascara and kajal start to melt along the skin under your eyes.

( Hot? Of course. Good enough to eat? Well duh. But sweet? That’s…new. His eyebrows furrow in the middle as he makes work of figuring out if you’ve always had this saccharine tinge to you. How could he have missed it? )

A sudden breathy exclamation of his stage name takes his mind off his little discovery.

“Dieter oh god! I can’t, please just stop fucking around, I..please”

You cut yourself off before you say something utterly humiliating (I need you) and bite your lip hard enough to taste iron on your tongue. You don’t open your eyes and move to rest your head on his shoulder. Choosing to blame the stickiness of the mascara in your waterline, you ignore the fear that what swirls in eyes that gaze upon your writhing form will have you unwillingly spilling the contents of your heart all over the floor in a woeful mess. (I really need you).

“You what? Need me?”

Can this motherfucker read minds now?

You ignore Dieter’s taunting words and breathe him in; savouring the scent of patchouli and tobacco and, what the hell, is that chocolate? Moving to nip at the juncture between his neck and right shoulder, you debate asking about his cologne later.

“You have me right here babe… my fingers aren't enough? Oh aren't you greedy today..”

Its murmured haughtily by your ear and even though your eyes are closed you can so clearly see his stupidly charming face grinning down at you.

“Well all right, whatever she wants!”

He says it in a tone that so obviously suggests that he’s not addressing you, but instead gazing down at your now fluttering hole clenched around his long fingers. Before you can roll your eyes in disgust, he’d have pulled his digits out and sheathed himself inside you, your slick offering no resistance as you sigh in relief. Your hips bump into each other and your cores join, producing a sound so obscene your chest burns. Scorching heat blooms between your ribs, travelling higher and higher till you can hear how hot you are behind your ears, the colour red pulsing between your eyes.

His groan rumbles through his chest and into your own as you throw your head back, lips forming a silent ‘o’ at finally, finally being filled up to the brim.

“Oh you like that don’t you…’course you do, you- you’ve been whining and whimpering for my cock for ages,”

Awful, he’s just awful, choosing to run his mouth instead of fucking moving. You’d think he’s unbothered by the way your hot, silken walls pulse around his dick, if not for his voice that had heightened in pitch and gone airy. Noticing the force with which his fingers grip into the curve of your hips, you’re sure you’ll have plum purple bruises dotting your skin like candied constellations for days to come.

“Even though everyone outside’s been looking for us for an hour, you don’t care, do you? Hm? All you need is me and my fingers and my mouth and my c--”

“Jesus christ Dieter shut up and fuck m-- OH!”

In real time, a heavy hand clamps down on your shoulder and you can’t help but let out a small squeak, spinning around to find the person who’d so thankfully snapped you out of your torturous trance.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck you’re getting so increadibly sick of being caught off guard -- even though you should have expected this, idiot -- and you come face to face with James, the assistant director…including the man who trails behind him.

James makes quick work of introducing Dieter to you, but there's really no need; because one, there hasn’t been a day gone by since his big Hollywood debut without one of the mans’ latest escapades printed front and centre on every tabloid. You can’t not know him unless you live under a damn rock. And two, you like to think that no matter how much it threatens to cleave your chest in two, your time spent together with Dieter as a pair just shy of lovers, grants you a little more insight into the legend himself.. more than what gets splashed across TMZ’s front cover anyway.

Without thinking, you glance at him and notice an air of indifference surrounding the man. You can’t tell what it is about him that rubs you the wrong way; is it the way he seems entirely unbothered, or does the blame lie with the way he smirks at you like you’re some two-bit extra and not his ex…ex what? Girlfriend?

Don’t kid yourself.

It cuts at you further, the knife in your chest slicing into you just that much more as you realise it’s been almost 9 years and maybe..well maybe you just don’t know him like that anymore. Not like you used to. A sardonic voice rings in your ear, the little devil on your shoulder tugging at your dark hair like an impatient child -- did you ever know him? Or were you too busy digging your own grave to pay attention?

No, you got to know him all too well -- and that’s what sealed your fate; the universe enthralling you in depths of kismet that you hadn’t wished for.

Hastily fixing your mistake, you vow to keep your gaze fixed on James for the rest of the one-sided conversation. You bite your cheek until the ache of abraded flesh travels into your jaw, trying not to look directly into the movie starts’ warm, mocha brown eyes. It takes conscious effort but you persist, for fear that you’ll feel your own start to well up with tears.

“You’ll know what to do with him right? You can work with this?”

Eyebrows shooting up, you stare back at the assistant director as he looks at you expectantly.

“Sure..yeah of course.” You relay, having missed most of what he’d said.

“Great. I’ll let you catch Dieter up on the scene's composition and we should be set to start filming in about an hour.”

James doesn’t stick around for much longer, moving past you to catch up with another crew member as he waves his right arm above his head to grab their attention. You quickly look over your shoulder, eyes follow his retreating back and you silently will him to call you over or at the very least get Dieter away from your line of sight.

Even though you can't see him from this angle, something settles in the air around the two of you. It’s dense and thick and almost muggy, like you can physically feel the solidity of the tension that envelopes you both in its tight embrace. You pray to every deity you remember, from every religion you can possibly think of and wish to the heavens above that Dieter takes pity on you. That he chooses to leave you alone and without another word until shooting time, where you’ll have no choice but to interact.

It’s all for naught — your silent prayers dissipating into the wind because you know he’s never been good at keeping quiet.

“Now, if I didn't know any better, I’d say you’ve been avoiding me.”

Your eyes flutter hearing his voice and you take a deep breath to steady yourself. Donning what you hope is a convincing mask of impassivity, you turn back around to face the man who’s mirage has played with your mind, your heart, deep into the night when the clouds have blocked out the comfort of the moon, leaving you encased in inky black darkness. Every time you think of him, of memories from nearly a decade ago, old wounds haphazardly stitched together split open again; you always end up bleeding misery as you are handled by the neck into the arms of too familiar heartache.

Tilting your head a bit to the side, you muster up enough of your voice so that it doesn’t shake and you reply,

“Well, it looks like you don’t Bravo.”

“Don’t what?”

Old habits die hard you guess; raring and ready for action as your nervous system selects the Fight option out of Fight, Flight or Freeze.

Oh this should be good.

Face twisting to harbour a deep scowl, you hope you're not coming off too defensive when you answer him.

“Know any better. Why in god's name would I be avoiding you?”

A weak bluff; you know it and he most certainly does too. You fight to keep your heart rate in check -- whether it be from the fear of being caught in a lie or an instinctive reaction to that cheshire grin currently being pulled from entirely too kissable lips, is not so clear to you.

You’re poised to attack, prepared for more of his taunting words, but what he says next momentarily stuns you.

“You…Fine. Jack said you had camera stuff to catch me up on, right? Where’s this catching up gonna happen?”

He … gave up? Just like that?

You’re so dumbfounded that you don't bother correcting him for calling the assistant director by the wrong name.

And like, yeah okay, maybe the bar is that low, but still. The Dieter you know and lo..and loathe was what you were going to say. The man you knew would have latched onto your feeble attempt at an excuse with the single minded ambition to annoy and weedle the truth out of you; about whether or not you’ve really been avoiding him.

You have never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth though, and while your expression does not relax, shoulders unconsciously raised in tension finally drop.

Looking around slightly, you wave your right hand in a general ‘how about this?’ motion.

“Um..here works fine doesn’t it? Or did you want to--”

“How ‘bout my trailer?” He interrupts, leaning in just a touch.

No. Absolutely not.

“Yeah, whatever. Sure.”

Uh…alright. His goddamn trailer it is then.

You start walking past him in the direction of your destination - the RV lot being separate from where the main set is situated - hoping you haven’t accidentally thrown yourself into your worst nightmare.

He saunters beside you in what is surprisingly silence, and you sneak a glance at him — not expecting his eyes to be glued to your face with an expression of….something. You honestly don’t know what could have him looking at you like that and your nerves skyrocket, realising you’ll be completely alone with the man who had unknowingly taken a bludgeon to your heart all those years ago.

Reaching the concrete clearing with trailers parked atop it, you look around as you have no idea which one is h- nevermind. You make an educated guess that the RV with the dumb as all hell life-size cutout of him near the vehicles door is Dieters.

Turning to the cardboard’s real life counterpart with an unimpressed look, you watch him face you with a dumb grin, so bright and full of mirth, your own hardened mask slips; gaze softening just a touch as you take him in.

He opens the trailer door with an exaggerated flourish, ushering you inside.

“Ladies first.”

Catching the wink he tacs on at the end, you shake your head in exasperation. Stepping into the surprisingly spacious vehicle, you look around, the first thing within your line of vision being the large cream leather couch situated at the back and the mini coffee table in front of it, with magazines and a lone ashtray scattered atop it.

You hope to keep standing close by the door with the intention of spinning around and exiting the vehicle the second you’ve finished your current business with the actor. He waltzes right in and you wait for a minute and then another; looking on with confusion as Dieter flitters around the open space, opening cabinet after cabinet in search of something.

“Right, so..what we’re filming today, as you should know, is the opening scene of Beasts which involves the big statue shot using the drones, so it’s really important that you and the rest of-- are you even paying attention to me right now?”

“We’ve got,” you glance at your wrist, your attempts at getting his attention failing horribly. “Just under an hour and I have no idea how much you’re aware of Bravo, so I’d really appreciate it if you could just stop moving-- what the hell is this?”

It turns out to be an expensive looking glass tumbler filled with about two inches of amber liquid, held in a large hand currently being thrust in your direction.

You look up at the actor in question, eyebrow cocked.

“A drink. For you,”

You think that’s all he has to say about his little offering but he infuriatingly continues,

“Y’know, thought it’d maybe loosen that stick up your ass”

Any charm that might have gotten you to lower your hackles has now been thrown, no drop-kicked, out the proverbial window.

“Are you fucking kidding me Dieter? D’you think this is some kind of joke?” You sputter indignantly.

“Not a joke toots-- but I do wanna know why you’re so riled up right now. You can’t possibly ask me to believe you give that much of a shit about this stupid movie,” his lips curls up into a too fake smile, before letting it drop into something so despondent, like he has the fucking audacity to be disappointed in your opinions.

In you.

You’re about to spit back, preparing to defend this dumb film to the ends of the earth and back if it’ll let you leave the actors’ trailer faster, when he says something that has blood rushing to your ears, your breath hitching in a traitorous move.

“I think I’d know you better than that.”

His words light a long dimmed fire within you — passion, anger, anguish coalescing into one gigantic, all-consuming mass in the centre of your chest. It acts as tinder and causes embers to lick up at your heart so quickly, you're worried for a second that you might actually go up in flames; blistering your body from the inside out.

Your anger- at whom, you’re not sure - wins and without thinking you step into his space, an accusing finger pointed directly at his chest. You fight to keep your voice at a quiet volume, much unlike your thoughts ringing through your head.

“You don’t know shit Bravo. Don’t kid yourself.”

Your voice doesn't shake, words spoken in steady, almost gravelly timbre that matches the humourless countenance in your eyes that are now locked onto his own. It’s silent for a second, two seconds and then three. The only sounds picked up by your ember hot ears are the soft noises of the both of you breathing.

In, In, Out, Out.

Slowly, your breaths come out in sync, mimicking each other in a perfect duet.

The surrounding setting goes hazy, like an all-blurring filter had gotten thrown onto the background, leaving only Dieter’s every expression razor sharp in your vision.

His hair, half slicked back due to the ministrations of the hairdressers, his dark eyes lit up with the same fire, the same acrimony mirrored in your own, his hook of his curved nose down to his moustache situated above plush lips giving way to a snarl that you unconsciously imitate. His stupid, scruffy beard along his jawline, gray hairs dispersed among brown, save for spaces along his skin where they dont grow at all.

That alluring patch on his left jaw, the one your lips would find time and time again till you made your way down his--

Your gaze follows the line of his neck, catching the way the collar of shirt has slid up one shoulder and down the other, exposing smooth, tanned skin; his collarbone inviting you in to just bite at--

Mesmerised, you fail to notice that you've stepped in even closer, and only when his breath hitches, turning your breathing asynchronous do you realise that..oh.

Oh.

Nose-to-nose now, you have crowded yourself against him, so near that you can separate the brown of his irises from his sable pupils. Your lips part and the fission in the air dries out your throat to the point where you are almost unable to breathe.

Blood rushes through your ears, your heartbeat pounding so loud you think it reverberates around the trailer.

The trailer, the way he’d hurried around the space, holding out that glass whose rim you feel pressed into your stomach--

Jostling out from whatever the fuck kind of lust-charged staring competition you’ve been engaged in, you hurry to step back, mortified, only to be stopped when Dieter’s free hand shoots up to grab you by the wrist.

Without dropping his molten gaze from your eyes, he moves slowly, as if he’s afraid to spook you any further and places the tumbler on a nearby marble island. His right hand now free, hesitantly clutches at your blazer with a loose enough grip that you would easily be able to tug yourself out of -- if you so wished.

You swallow around air and he watches the smooth line of your throat bobbing with anxiety, anticipation, hope--

The admonishing voice in your head -- the one not clouded with a nostalgia so cloyingly sweet it sticks to the back of your throat -- is drowned out by the way he calls out your name in a manner so feather soft, so quiet it resembles a pin drop. His eyes now glazed; in them a needy, wanton lustre so brazen it has a familiar heat coiling at the base of your stomach. You shuffle your feet forward till you re-enter his bubble, your right hand placed gently against his collar, fingers folding downwards so that your nails press into his skin -- scoring crescent moons onto a canvas of heated bronze.

Unlike last time, your voice cracks -- more air than sound emanating from your vocal cords when you repeat yourself once more.

“You don’t know shit, Bravo.”

And the house made of cards, with the both of you inside, collapses.

With your tight grip on his shirt, his on your suit jacket, you pull at each other until you're both grasping at one another, lips finally, finally meeting in a fervid kiss.

It’s just as intoxicating as you remember it, your lips parting and moulding into Dieters; tongue flicking out to stroke his and you throw every emotion festering inside of you behind the force with which you kiss him.

His hands flutter about in a frenzy, as if unable to decide whether he wants to grab your hips or the gentle curve of you waist-- eventually settling on moving higher and higher till your face is cradled in his palms, and it's so sweet that for a second you forget this is exactly what you’ve been trying to leave behind you.

It’s suddenly too hot to think properly; your heart is fucking racing and you shudder in his hands before moving one of your own to nape of his neck. Tugging his head back by his errant curls, you kiss him so hungrily he worries he’s going to split a lip. He moans into your mouth and releases your face, dropping his hands to your torso; shoving your blazer to the ground and grabbing handfuls of your breasts, pawing at the cloth covered flesh. It lasts for all a second before he’s holding onto your waist, basically lifting you to sit on a nearby counter.

A switch flips -- the syrupy sweet atmosphere from the kiss you shared at first diffuses, no longer blanketing the both of you. From there on it's a collection of rushed, messy kisses that involve entirely too much teeth, your hands roaming over each other, pawing at his shirt, your blouse straining over your chest as Dieter drags his palms over every surface of your torso he can reach. Greedy fingers grope at your body, the heat from his digits branding you through your clothes.

It’s not enough for him - it never is - and he clamours out of his wild state to unhook your shirt’s buttons -- his hands shaking from adrenaline and lust until he gives up and starts tugging hard enough at the material you think it’ll end up in tatters.

Your chest burns from a lack of oxygen as you pull away from him. Shooting him a menacing look as you twist away a fraction, so you can properly take off your blouse.

Not a second is wasted before he’s onto whatever expanse of skin he can reach on your neck; mouthing and sucking at you and honest to god crooning, the sound causing your fingers to mimic his -- trembling as you fiddle with your clasps. He notices and chuckles into your skin - bastard - as you finally manage to shuck off your shirt and throw it onto the ground.

Turning back to face him you bring your mouth to his again, biting his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, as if to admonish him.

“Don’t laugh at me,”

You huff into his mouth and he groans as you suck on his now bleeding lip.

His hands fumble behind your back to get your bra off, your skin positively burning from the inside out and as the cool air hits your nipples, you feel as though he’s saved your life.

He stands between your legs with your thighs bracketing his, and he moves so that he can run this tongue up one pebbled peak.

“God .. i’ve missed this,” Dieter grunts as he continues biting and suckling at you. “Missed these pretty fuckin’ tits, and thighs, and that ass..” He finished his sentence with a particularly hard bite to your right nipple, now slick with his spit, while your left one is continuously rolled and pinched between his fingers, sending electric currents zinging down your spine and to your pussy; slit now dripping slick, soaking right through your panties

“Are-- fuck- are you gonna do something about it then?” You whisper through clenched teeth and lift your right arm up from where it had been bracing you up on the counter, down to his bulge. You start palming him through his soft sweatpants in an admittedly not so gentle manner, drawing a hiss from his swollen lips.

“Ohh--shit, please,” He almost mewls, rolling his hips against the drag of your ministrations.

“Please what?” You reply, your other hand moving to grip his jaw, slender fingertips pressing into his cheeks just hard enough as he continues to grind against you. You tap the underside of his chin with your fingers and he gets the hint, moving off your tits. A trail of spit, a lone gossamer thread, connects his plush pink lips to your wet nipple -- the sight of which has your hole weeping crystal clear arousal, forced to flutter and clench around nothing

“Come on, answer me baby.. You want me to fuck your mouth? Hm? Rub this pussy on your mouth.. ride your face till you can’t breathe? You miss me that much?”

It’s hypocritical honestly, the way you taunt him as if you were not a hair's breadth away from trembling uncontrollably in his big, strong, warm hands. As if you don’t want him so much you're physically aching.

His fingers slide down your waist and latch onto your soft thighs and you feel his long, thick fingers press into your skin as if to leave permanent indents. It takes over your every sense and births a heat so deep in your core that you can’t help but fall prisoner to it.

He huffs out a laugh and you open your eyes, not realising you had shut them in the first place.

God his hands are big.

His blissed out expression morphs into something that sets your veins alight, and he turns his head to the side to kiss the fingertips now loosely grasping his jaw. You whine out something incoherent when he slips your ring finger into the heat of his mouth, swirling his tongue around your digit. Dragging the thick muscle over its underside, he lets his teeth scrape against your finger, biting your tip lightly as he pulls off with a smirk.

“If you wanted me to eat your pretty little pussy out, all you had to do was ask nicely,”

“Didn’t have to get all mean about it.” he pouts at you mockingly. Hearing his tone though, you know for a fact that you really could get mean about it and he…Well, he’d love it all the same wouldn’t he?

He bats his long sooty eyelashes at you (like some pretty damsel, you scoff internally) and with one final kiss to your fingers he moves to get down to his knees, pulling your body towards him till you’re at danger of almost falling off the damn counter -- and your core now in line with his face.

Blinking up at you with wide eyes, he asks, “Want these off, yeah?” All the while his fingers fiddle with the band of your panties, which rests just below your skirt that is now rucked up at your waist. Deftly skimming them under the lacey material and caressing your sensitive, tingling skin, Dieter sees you nod and mimics you, swiftly moving to remove both articles of clothing off of the lower half of your body and you lift your hips up to help him. Now fully naked, you hiss as your bare ass meets the chill of the marble counter beneath you.

His mouth pulls up into something that's more a grin than his trademark ‘I’m gonna fuck you silly’ smirk and he lets out another question.

“This all right?”

You don’t think you could have stifled the mellow smile that blooms from your lips even if your life depended on it, and you quickly respond:

“No--yeah, this is good.”

“Well, it’s about to be fucking fantastic in a second,” he’s fully smirking under his breathe now. His eyes crinkle with a warmth so familiar, so dear to your steel-walled heart that it shifts something monumental under the cracks of its surface.

Words are honey thick and stuck in your throat -- you can only think to play along, to respond with a witty remark of your own that keeps the age old push and pull between the two of you alive. As if your heart does not threaten to tear clean in two, every second you are both together in the same vicinity.

As if you haven’t dreamt of days where you thought it’d have been easier to give in, to stay near him and to feel for him all that you keep in your chest - a rose; petals love-soaked and blood red while its thorns puncture your lungs with every inhale - despite the state of affairs you find yourself in.

Distracted by the near lack of space between the apex of your thighs and his face, he thankfully fails to notice how your smile turns to something sordid, and you do what you do best: play along.

“Geez Bravo, no need to be so modest--”

You start to mumble before you feel hot, balmy breath puff up over your pubic mound, your legs parting further unconsciously as Dieter buries his face in your pussy unceremoniously. Having his tongue dive into your slit, you throw your head back, palms smacking down atop the cool marble underneath you.

Crying out as he laps up your slick in a feverish haze -- drinking you in messily -- you squirm above him and attempt to bring your thighs together around his head, if not for his strong grip holding you open, fingers splayed across the tops of your legs.

The man is reverent as he continues licking, nuzzling and sucking into your core, tongue not stopping its motion once and you think you start to see stars as his moustache catches on your reddened clit peeking out from its hood.

You’re mewling something loud, animalistic even and he refuses to pull away to even take a breath and your legs come around his torso to wrap around his back. The scruff of his beard rasps along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and your shiver, the little pin pricks causing a friction so delicious it causes your back to bow inward, pushing yourself into the wet, hot depths of his mouth.

The way you shake and shudder above him; god is it a sight for sore eyes. Dieter flattens his tongue to lick broad strokes up your weeping pussy all the way up to your clit, where he wraps his lips around the swollen bud and sucks hard.

“FUCK! Ohh-- Fuck you, Bravo. S--seriously,” you stammer out, feeling like your breath’s been punched up and out of your body, static electricity fizzling something whitehot in your veins.

Peering down at him with an incredulous look as he has the audacity to laugh at you, mouth still buried between your thighs; the sound pulses through your cunt and has your belly clenching.

Pulling off of you ever so slightly, with a shit eating grin plastered across a mouth, messy with traces of your arousal, he speaks up.

“Liked that did’ya?”

God, he’s infuriating.

He opens his mouth again, but before he has the chance to annoy you further, you take the finger of yours that he’d previously had in his mouth and settle it between his lips again. He’s surprised, but not for long and he trains his molten gaze on you and hollows his cheeks, sucking around your appendage till your knuckle hits his lips.

You’re already burning hot as you watch him mouth around you, but the low lit flames in your chest flare up so fucking high as he pulls off about halfway and lets an obscene amount of spit travel down your digit, leaving you trembling with want in front of him as you both haven’t looked away from each other.

He does that thing with his teeth again, scraping the skin of you finger, and it drives you fucking mad. Without looking away you lift your finger out of his hot mouth and bring it up your own lips. Petal pink tongue flicking around and over it to collect what’s left of Dieter’s mess, you whine around your own finger, drinking him down -- your actions are filthy and makes your chest burn with something close to shame, but not quite, as it only causes your hole to dribble out more wetness.

Dieter’s mouth falls open slightly and hes fucking entranced, forgetting where he is for a second as his takes in your golden form sitting above him like some holy idol. The piestic look in his eyes has you grinning dazedly around your digits and your free hand moves down to grab at his now partially mussed up hair to guide him back to your slick hole.

You turn bleary-eyed as he acts with ravenous intent in between your legs and your voice sticks to the back of your throat like molasses. You seize up completely, feeling the way his hands wrap around your legs to keep you steady. He moans into your pussy and the way it sends searing bolts down your spine makes you jerk your hips away from him-- something he is decidedly not happy about, judging by the way he pouts and turns to bite a mark into your soft inner thigh.

You hiss at the stinging sensation, the hand situated at the base of his curls tugging hard and it brings Dieter’s gaze up to yours. He whimpers something nectar-sweet in a deep baritone at the cherished ache; the sound dripping down your throat and settling like molten gold amongst the tightly curled coils of pressure in the base of your belly.

“Play nice, Bravo..” you warn almost distractedly as he works the flat of his tongue over your clit and oh fuck he decides to pay no attention to your words.

Dieter’s smile presses into you as he lets his teeth graze against the throbbing nub and oh shit oh shit, there are his fingers teasing the weeping seam of your slit-- finally sinking into you, filling you up and pushing up against the vice of your cunt into that one fleshy spot that no one but him has ever been able to reach and fuck fuckfuckfuckfuck--

Your voice takes on an almost cartoonishly high pitched tone as you are bullied into an orgasm. Gushing around his fingers and mouth, a string of oh’s and please’s are pulled from your thoroughly bitten lips, brain nothing more than mush inside your head. Your fingers have taken a cinching grip on Dieter's hair, and it should hurt badly, but neither of you are paying much attention with the way the frantic grind of your pussy across his mouth comes to a honeyed end with one final tremor.

The tangy sweetness floods his mouth and coats his teeth and gums like sugar syrup; tongue lapping up every last trace of your miasmic high, drinking all of you down like a man starved. He eventually pulls off your mound with a wet noise - a one final open-mouthed kiss pressed atop your fluttering hole - and rests his head against the plush of your thigh, right atop the now rose pink indents of his teeth. He’s panting and so are you, once again falling into a synchronous breathing pattern.

It is interrupted with a puff of air through his nose; an almost laugh from looking at your face -- post-orgasmic haze so clearly clouding your eyes in a shiny film.

The sound makes you blink down at him with large doe eyes now sparkling with unshed tears, the hand in his hair loosening its grip but not leaving the sanctuary of cacao brown curls. Your other arm, lifting up from where you’d been using it to prop you up, trembles as you rest your hands alongside each other. When a soft, dreamy feeling blankets your body, leaking into your limbs, your fingers start to move by themselves -- as if directed by a masked puppeteer.

Lost in the fog of your own mind, your hands sink into brown strands causing the frantic, shrill voice threatening to resurface at the base of your skull -- the one pleading with you to pull away from the man in front of you and label this portion of your re-encounter with Dieter Bravo one giant flaming hot mass of mistake -- dims.

The voice that begs you to stop, lest the organ pumping life through your body shudders once, twice, thrice before shattering again; the noxious reminder that you will never have him like you so desperately, selfishly wish, quivers, before going totally silent.

Dieter’s hair between your fingers is thick and smooth, and you squint slightly at the way the product in his hair loosens its grip. You slide your hands further along his scalp, musing up steadily messy curls, looking on with fascination at the way his hair springs this way and that before falling together; wild and ever so charming. You keep at it, digits sweeping through the silken mess till you feel Dieter’s own hands grasp lightly at your dainty wrists. It causes you to still and move the trajectory of your gaze to the triangular tattoos imprinted on his forearms.

Is that..?

Your eyebrows crinkle in the middle, a soft frown marring the look of muted serenity that veils your face.

The tattoos on his arms; the solid black pyramid near the crease of one elbow and the thick bordered line-art of another situated just below his left wrist, looking like a blown out but otherwise identical version of the art that embeds the skin of your hip.

What the fuck?

Now obviously, you don’t believe the disparate triangles are anything original to you, being that the shape is as common as they come. But you have to admit, it’s a little odd to see them on this man, especially when you have crystal clear memories of distinctly bare forearms the last time you saw him in person. And considering you remember being barely out of highschool before taking a bottle of ink and a sterilised needle to your skin with an apple between your teeth to channel your pain through - courtesy of a low pain tolerance and a penchant to losing dares - you take can a wild guess that whatever plagiarism going on here, is not on your part.

Quizzical eyes flicker like a dim flame until they meet his, and you question,

“New ink, huh?”

Either he doesn’t hear you, or he chooses to ignore you completely in favour of crowding in impossibly close to you, your bare breasts crushed against his solid chest, the softness of his belly grazing yours, his plain grey shirt the only barrier between the heated meeting of skin.

You lose your chance to ask him about his sick new art that suspiciously matches the one on your own body because his impossibly warm hands are back to cup your face, sturdy chest driving yours downward into lying atop the marble counter you’re perched on -- all the while nipping at your lips in ghosts of a kiss.

Suddenly, you yelp before trying to sit back up, the searing chill of the marble seeping into the skin of your back impossibly fast, despite only the second of contact. You shove yourself forward, your forehead catching his with a hard thunk and you swear your skeleton rattles inside you.

“FUCK!”

“OW!”

With the throb of your clit now overshadowed by the one in your skull, you scrunch your eyes shut and drop your head to your chest, bringing a hand up to massage the sore spot.

“What the hell was that?” Dieter gapes at you, a bewildered look on his face as he mirrors your movement, left palm pressed up against the middle of forehead.

Jaw dropping before trying to regain your composure, you find yourself a bit embarrassed for some reason and you spit back in defence, the words tumbling out of you.

“It was cold you idiot, I’m not getting frostbite on my back while you get to stay all warm and cozy balls deep inside of me!”

The second those final syllables leave the confines of your lips, you know you’ve made a terrible, horrible mistake. His eyes light up with mischief and you hurriedly attempt to shift the attention (and blame) back onto Dieter.

“A--and anyway, maybe if your head wasn't so thick we wouldn’t have ended up here. With twin concussions.” You finish with finality; moving to cross your arms against your naked chest and cross your equally naked legs out of habit. You eye him through squinted eyes and an angry pout painted on your lips.

He’s blessedly quiet, which you find even more suspicious than those tattoos you were thinking about, but a sly grin surfaces on Dieter’s face -- one that has your blood simmering in your veins and it only worsens as he opens his mouth.

“I know something else that’s thick..” he simpers out and-- oh my fucking god.

“Don’t piss me off.”

Beating down the truly miniscule part of you that wants to snort at his awful attempt at a joke (it was low hanging fruit, really), you purse your lips in an unimpressed scowl.

Raising his hands in mock surrender, he pouts.

“My bad..my bad..”

Dieter makes a show of looking everywhere but into your eyes in fake awkwardness (you just know he’s so proud of that one) and you cave, huffing out a plume of air through your nose at the man’s display of immaturity.

Hearing what he needed to get out of you, he grins so wide his eyes are almost crescent moons and you find yourself leaning back as he yet again moves into your space. There’s no time to consider how much of the bad idea this all is, just how much your bruised and battered heart will suffer in the aftermath of this encounter because you’re jolting suddenly, having not expected his hands to grab the meat of your hips and pull you up off the counter and into his chest.

Your legs instinctively move to lock themselves around his hips to keep from toppling over onto the ground. Nimble fingers curling onto his broad shoulders, you look at him confused and before you can say anything, he’s nuzzling into the soft skin of your neck.

He inhales the perfume of something citrusy and soap-bubbly mingled with the faint saltiness of your sweat-- it’s something so distinctly you, he can’t help but shudder in remembrance.

Hefting you higher and securing his grip on your ass, Dieter mumbles into you words that annoyingly send a red-hot bolt of want down your spine, pooling in the depths of your core.

“Will the couch do?”

----

The couch turns out to be a great idea.

The thought floats past your dazed mind for a fraction of a second before being quite literally, fucked out of your head.

He’s buried to the hilt inside your sopping hole and your back bows upwards as Dieter fucks into you like a man depraved. Feeling the hefty drag of him inside of your fervent walls, you whine with a cheek pressed into the couch and feel his accompanying groans rumble in the space between you. Your pussy convulses around his cock and everything you’ve been worrying about for the past 15 hours dissipates into the spaces between cream couch cushions underneath you; moving in tandem with your plaint body.

Too blissed out to do anything but roll your hips in tiny circles against his pelvis, the last of your self-restraint drains through the cracks of your joints with the way his own hips keep at the momentum until they reach the bruising pace you crave.

You feel the sweat on your back sticking to the leather beneath you, but any discomfort felt there is again jostled out of your cock-drunk brain as Dieter swoops down to kiss you breathless. Each thrust feels fucking electric, every swipe of his tongue against yours has ichor flooding your veins and you’ve missed this oh how you’ve missed this. Missed him.

Your kisses turn ravenous; it’s hungry and urgent, the exceedingly desperate exchanges of mouths against each other, teeth clacking with spit drawn and swapped between the two of you. It should honestly be a little gross, but the way he pulls reedy, airy sounds from the depths of your lungs into his own makes you feel nothing but white-hot pleasure -- the ambrosial scent of patchouli, tobacco and cocoa clouding every sense till all you can see, feel, taste, touch and smell is Dieter.

All him. Nothing but him. You wish you could stay here; suspended in this static state forever.

You could honestly probably die happy if you did.

A lewd moan drags from his chest, feeling the way your ribbed walls clench around him. The sultry noise cuts into your thoughts like a knife through corded flesh, and the turn of your heart’s musings scares you cognizant.

Not again.

Your eyes fly open, fire burning through molasses dark depths and you shove your hands against his chest-- moving upward till you are both sitting up, your ass situated snug atop his lap.

Dieter pants into your mouth, eyes roving across your face and his lips curl upwards as your movements mimic something primal, something buried deep inside the crevices of your mind, lugging yourself up and down, up and down his shaft-- the new position allowing him to sheath himself just that much farther inside your slick cunt.

This shift from being on your back to sitting upright changes almost, nothing to your dismay.

He’s all encompassing before you, like you have always known him to be.

You can feel Dieter twitch inside of you, hear him whining softly and see his eyes draw half-shut watching you fuck yourself onto him.

His cock catches on every ridge, every bump and every nerve ending inside of you and it burns like a dream. His voice reaches you in the midst of a cacophony of slick noises emanating from both your drooling hole and the crude slap of skin against skin.

“Finally…Thought a--ahh fuck, thought you’d make me do all the w--work,”

He stammers, words bleeding into your collarbone as his head falls against the swell of your tits.

Your warm, silken cunt stretched by his girth, cinches around him again, forcing a pleasure-pained moan to waterfall out of pouty pink lips -- though it does little to stop him talking.

“Always knew you liked that p--pillow,” He sucks in a breath and tries to finish his sentence despite your walls feeling like molten honey, sending a crackle of electricity that he swears shoots up through his dick and straight into his brain.

“- That pillow princess shit… no matter how much you mouth off at m--”

He’s cut off by his own wanton moan - worthy of the raunchiest of porn films - and the ungentle tug of his hair by your shaking fingers. The action forces him to tilt his head back and leave his sweat slicked neck on display for you to feast your hungry eyes upon. Without wasting a breath, your plump lips meet the skin of his bobbing throat, teeth biting down into golden skin with almost ruinous intent.

A saccharine tinge trickles into your voice as you speak, still mouthing at the pulsing heartbeat under Dieters skin.

“Didn’t I say something about not pissing me off? Hm?”

Words punctuated by a stinging bite, it drives Dieter to punch up into you with his throbbing dick. Your words weeping into his neck, your unyielding grip on his hair his in one hand, the other drawing burning crimson lines down his back, the feel of you plunging down over his lap with your pussy pulsing around him sends him into a frenzy and he thrusts hard, over and over into that tight bundle of nerves situated deep inside of your channel.

You gasp, back arching and your eyes scrunching shut and you instinctively try to memorise the feel of his cock wedged in you as it sets your nerves ablaze with a fire you’ll never be able to douse.

The hand in his hair falls from lush curls to grip at the base of his neck and his core tenses in time with his arms. Not a second has passed before he’s grabbing you by the hips and fucking himself into you as deep as he can.

Earlier bravado not fully tucked away, a feral snarl paints your lips but you’re also reduced to a moaning mess, a sweat slicked body writhing atop him. It just feels so fucking good as his dick kisses your cervix-- a twinge of pain and the feeling of being stuffed to the brim causing the roaring flame within your chest to lick up spine till you feel it diffusing into the rest of your limbs, leaving you with static-numb fingertips.

Tears are squeezed from the corners of your shut eyes but Dieter’s remain steadfastly open, not bearing the thought of missing even one second of you shuddering before him.

He recalls a memory from a ways back, and he once again is not able stop himself from looking, admiring, hypnotised by how you look. A rose-red bottom lip caught in your teeth, your hair falling out of the pretty claw-clip as you are filled full of his cock, but the star of the show is undoubtedly the smudges of dark makeup under your eyes, now running down your heated face.

He doesn't know what it is exactly, but something about the way the black of your liner (kajal, you had once called it) diffuses into the softness of your skin, lines of mascara sliding off long sable eyelashes and down your cheeks just does it for him. The picture you paint in front of him, all mussed and wrecked, panting and calling out for him in that sweet fucking voice almost pushes him to the edge.

He brings a hand down to where your cores are joined and swipes at your clit, pulling a cry from you that is so needy he almost cums right then and there.

“Cmon sweetness.. Open your eyes for me yeah?”

His voice is butter-soft and you follow his instructions without a second thought.

Still whimpering at the feel of your now puffy folds being pounded into, you sniffle and blink the wetness of your tears and the tackiness of your makeup out of your eyes, only to feel your heart rattle inside your ribcage as you lock your gaze onto Dieter’s.

His eyes are wild, kindled with an emotion that you don’t have the sense to explain, but you know that whatever it is causes any self-preservation you might have had left to melt into nothingness.

How could it linger within you? There was no chance; not with the way he looks at you; making you feel like the most coveted of jewels, its rightful place at the top of some golden heap guarded by a fearsome beast. You feel like the most beautiful woman in the world and your lips quiver, eyebrows going slack as you give in to the man before you.

The hand on your hip loosens, and floats up to your eyes, thumb smearing the saturated black of your makeup down to the apple of your cheek; the sweet drag of a paintbrush against a relished canvas.

“You’re pretty like this, yknow?”

The muscle in your chest squeezes tight and you want to put up a fight -- growl something out about shutting the hell up and fucking you because you know if he keeps this up, you’re sure to be a pitiful mess once you leave the trailer and go your separate ways.

He doesn’t give you the chance, and keeps talking.

“I mean, you’ve always been pretty, sweetness, don’t get me wrong..”

You think that’s the extent of his musings, but he continues.

“I mean I get it! Trust me! Actually, I think I gotta wear some of that black stuff for the movie too and it’ll look good. Make me look even hotter ‘cus it like-- accentuates my eyes or some shit, I dunno.”

It drives you crazy how he just talks to you so casually, as if isn’t cramming his hard length inside you, fucking your hole raw, blissing you out to the point where you think you can hear colours.

“Wait, remember that time you-- when I found you fucking plastered on that shitty rose you’re obsessed with and ‘cus, you get so weepy when you’re drunk-- you were bawling over how messy your makeup drawer was and you got distracted and put the black pencil stuff on my eyes-- god I looked good. Obviously duh, but you--”

Dieter snickers, nosing the softness of your cheek and you are too dazed from his brutal pace to fully pay attention to his words, only barely registering the sound of his voice through ringing ears.

“You couldn’t keep your hands off of me! Kept talkin’ about how sexy I looked, like one of your emo rocker dudes-- you were totally into it though, even if you denied it later. Or maybe you were mad because the-- Ok to be fair, I didn't know I wasn't supposed to use all of the remover stuff, but it wouldn’t come off! I looked like a fucking racoon!”

You let out a high-pitched whine as his swollen cockhead repeatedly pummels the scorching bundle of nerves inside you, and you claw at his shoulders. The pressure coiling behind your navel turns into a smouldering deluge, spreading down further into your gushing pussy.

“Br--Dieter!”

“Yeah I know now! And sure ok-- not pissing you off starting right n--”

“Kiss me?”

Your voice is soft as you cut him off, your bleary eyes even softer as you turn your cheek and end up eskimo kissing the man who hasn’t stopped yammering away even as he fucks into you viciously.

His lips are on you the second your plea leaves your mouth, tongue slipping through your parted lips and slashing against yours in a way that has your head reeling.

You reason that arguing about the etiquette of micellar water usage would only make him insist harder that the blame didn’t lie with him-- no, this was easiest; the only way to shut him up.

You have enough self-awareness to realise it’s the coward's way out; still not admitting to the burning shame that you always want to kiss him. It’s a never ending hunger to press your lips against his own and swallow down every moan, every whine pouring out of his hot mouth -- but you’ve never been all that brave, you think.

If you were, you wouldn’t have fled the second you came to know of your own damned feelings. Insulating your heart in faux steel and pretending that stress-relief was all that it was, being with Dieter.

That lump in your throat re-surfaces, but is quickly dispelled when the flat of his thumb finds your swollen clit again, slashing away at the reddened bud. The electric hot pulses it elicits, conjoint with the feel of his mouth on you, of his cock spearing you without faltering, has a torrent of magma sliding down to your belly. Your pussy clenches tight around him; pressure wrapping around your skull and popping at the base of your spine has you cumming, gushing around his rock-hard length with a guttural cry that trickles down Dieters throat as he continues kissing you.

It’s like a flash-bang has gone off inside your chest -- you see stars behind your eyelids as Dieter continues fucking you through your orgasm, over-sensitivity rippling through your soaked hole. His hips start to stutter before long, and he pulls himself out of your honeyed confines and fists himself fast, wrist easily snapping around his swollen cockhead due to the wetness of your joint arousal coating his dick all the way down to his balls.

You bring shaking fingers to the base of his cock and trace lightly over the bulging vein that runs on the underside of his length. He’s mewling something high pitched and tinny, and with the gentle press of your fingertip at his weeping slit, he’s cumming hard over your hand -- painting your stomach as well, spend dripping down over your mound and settling in a pool where your hips meet.

The both of you have gone completely boneless, Dieter especially, as you’ve wrung him out entirely and he flops onto you, pushing you down till your back hits the couch beneath you.

Panting hard, he inhales a couple lung fulls of air while nuzzled into your neck and even through the feeling of your sweaty back sticking uncomfortably to the leather underneath you, and the way your thighs have gone numb from being fucked silly in a sitting position for so long, you’re content with a blessedly blank mind.

Your eyes drift upward till you are staring at the ceiling of the trailer and you hear Dieter’s voice muffled through your chest.

“Couch was a good idea huh, sweetness?”

There it is again.

So you weren’t having auditory hallucinations about him calling you sweetness.

“Why’re you calling me that?”

It’s not that you don’t like the pet name. It’s just, well.. In all the time you’ve known him, spent time with him, fucked him -- he’s never called you that before, except now. It’s always been ‘babe’ or ‘toots’ or the syllables of your name dripping for his tongue like honey; like it was invented for him to say.

“Sweetness,” you repeat yourself.

“You’ve never..” done that before, is what you want to finish with, but that would mean acknowledging your past. Your hasty retreat from his life and the quick work you got done to remove his every touch from your world.

It doesn’t seem to matter to him that you never finish your sentence as Dieter replies anyway.

“I dunno, you're sweet.”

His face looks up at yours, head cocked to the side and he squints for a second before expanding on his answer.

“You call hot things hot, n’ sweet things sweet. Just the way the world works, sweetness. Not to say that you’re not smokin’ hot, I mean. It’s-- you’re sweet too y’know? The way you look, the way you taste--” he’s got a silly smirk on his face now and you bring a sweaty hand up to flick him lightly on the forehead.

“I’m being serious right now though,” he insists, and all you feel and see and hear is the man lying atop you. The comforting weight of his chest pushes into your bare breasts and stomach, both your legs lying in a tangled heap, and you sigh.

“And-- well ok you also got a little kick to ya, like uhh..cayenne.. Or whatever, but still..you’re sweet. And everyone needs a bit of sweetness in their lives, don’tcha think?”

He’s smiling up at you, chin resting on your sternum, when something forlorn bleeds into his expression.

“Sure Dieter, whatever you say.” your voice tapers off into a gentle laugh as he kisses the sensitive underside of your jaw, tickling you with his moustache.

It’s no surprise that your right hand embeds itself into his fluffy hair again, and you spend a few minutes carding your fingers through the silken mass in a blanketing silence disrupted only by noises of breathing.

It feels nice. It feels familiar. Scarily so.

And there it is; the other shoe finally drops, the lead in your stomach solidifying terrifyingly quick into something heavy and awful. Your breathing picks up, heart kicking into overdrive.

Fuck. What were you doing here?

You flick your left wrist up from where it dangles over the edge of the couch to check your watch and shit you’ve got just under ten minutes left before filming begins.

Nerves and adrenaline wash over you in a colossal tidal wave and you scramble upwards, pushing at Dieter to get off of you.

Curses spill from your lips as you race through the RV to pick up your discarded clothes, thankfully finding a roll of paper towels in the little kitchen area which you use to wipe off the tacky remnants of sex off your stomach, cleaning up your slick and cum smeared thighs.

“Fuck, fuck, ok, get your shit together because I need to speedrun getting you up to date for todays scene and we have less than ten minutes to get to set-- shit shit shit..”

Even in your haste, your eye catches on the lone glass of liquor sitting on the marble counter, and you throw the paper towel roll in the direction of the couch.

You scramble, fingers deftly slipping the buttons of your blouse into their designated sockets and adjusting the wear of your skirt. Your hands slip up to re-clawclip your hair into something that won’t rat out your entirely unprofessional escapades with Dieter to the world, and you kick up your blazer that lies on the ground, deftly catching it in a shaking, open palm.

You swipe a thumb across your tongue and bring it up to your eyes to wipe the ruined makeup off your skin. There aren’t any mirrors in the trailer, so you are forced to kneel by the coffee table, its shiny metal surface sufficing to assess your reflection. You make eye contact with the slightly distorted woman below you and notice the sheen of wetness in her eyes, the peek of red just below the collar of her shirt, courtesy of Dieters penchant for leaving marks.

So focused on not letting tears fall, you are startled when a hand rests on your shoulder. Twisting back to see the actor now fully clothed, standing beside you with a careful mask of impassivity on his face. His eyebrows twitch and the seam his lips part slightly taking in how you roughly shrug his hand off of you, stand up and make your way to the trailer door, stepping outside into the afternoon sun.

Swallowing the bitter regret pooling underneath your tongue, you urge him to get going, that you were going to be late and that this was a mistake -- all with your back to him.

He pauses just before the trailer door at your words, and you hear the shuffle of his slipper clad feet stop before you see it. Even though you are sure you’ll crumble to the ground as your heart, half-incinerated, burns a hole through your chest, you wear a blank mask of your own and turn around to face him.

Your voice does not betray the hurricane of thoughts within your mind; it’s as steady as granite and you tell him again,

“Hurry up, Bravo. We don’t have all day”

You grit your teeth and avoid his eyes, looking up instead at his hair as he stands above you on the RV’s door step. Hair that you had tugged and pulled and carded your fingers through - but it’s worse now, because your recollections are from events that had taken place no less than twenty minutes prior, not a decade ago.

Your fingertips burn from the phantom brush of curls and you shift your gaze to somewhere behind his shoulder, surmising that you can’t be trusted to even look at him.

“It’s Bravo again, huh? Looks like that stick up your ass hasn’t loosened up after all.”

You remain stoic, thumb nail digging into the skin of your index finger, and you take in a shuddering breath. It’s all you can do to ensure the swell of emotions in your chest does not drown your lungs in a corrosive tidal wave.

“I-- was it that much of a mistake? ‘Cus you seemed to enjoy yourself well enough there for a second.” He scoffs with a plastic smirk adorning his lips and if you hear the waver in his voice, your face does not betray it.

In his head, Dieter wonders why you never stuck out with the actor route, because you’re clearly much better at not wearing a heart on your sleeve. It’s funny though, he’s the actor out of the two of you but something as simple as masking his emotions, acting is utterly impossible in front of you right now. The little quip digs at him, burrows under his skin and into the folds of his brain, and he vows to make time to figure out why the fuck that is.

“Diego…please”

Your voice is cotton-soft; the same cadence used when you had so gently asked him to kiss you on the couch, and his bones shake with a feeling too alien to be labelled.

The use of his given name has that too fake smile faltering, and he blinks at you slowly.

You’re enveloped in silence again; for one second, two and then three.

Dieter licks his lips and opens his mouth to speak but no noise escapes him. Instead, he jerkily nods at you and breaches the entrance of the trailer, joining you on the asphalt.

You both begin your short trek to the main set in silence. The sounds of people bustling around the main shooting site grow louder and louder, though it’s not enough to drown out the noise of your blisteringly loud heartbeat in your ears.

You don’t make the same mistake as earlier -- too preoccupied to sneak a glance at the man trailing behind you, as you will the rose in your chest to stop driving its thorns into your throat, piercing your oesophagus and winding down its sharp spicules to fatally perforate the large, blood pumping muscle within your chest.

Preventing the final blow.

Out of his orbit of so long, you finally understand why you’ve done all that you can - save for this point - to stay away from Dieter. Every interaction reminds you of what you can’t have, reminds you that you’ve accomplished the one thing you set out not to do, reminds you that you fucking love him.

Love, not loved, your brain reiterates, castigating you for your failings.

For nine, almost ten straight years you’ve tried to steadily chip away his name away from your concrete mind and today’s events have rendered everything useless. You want to curl into your chest and sob yourself to sleep but you can’t. You won’t.

Your feet come to a stop as you reach your destination, spotting your camera operators waving at you to come closer, and you hope you look presentable -- unshaken.

You hear your name being called and you turn around, steadfastly ignoring the man who’s burning gaze falls to your face.

“Perfect, you’re both here.” James claps his hand out in front of him and adjusts the mic set near his mouth.

He lets you know that you were just in time, relaying last minute changes to the logistics of the upcoming scenes’ production, and you struggle to keep your composure. Nodding quickly as the assistant director dismisses himself, you hope to god Dieter will let you off without another word.

You know it’s pointless but you keep up pretences anyway, the actors’ voice sounding out to you even before you finish your thought.

“Listen, I.. the stick thing wasn’t..” He inhales deep and continues.

“I just missed it y’know? Having a bit of sweetness around.” He shrugs a shoulder, as if to imbue his shaky words with a sense of nonchalance.

Flashing you a too small smile, he spins around and walks off to the gaggle of main actors and extras scattered across the central set. You’re left wide-eyed, his words not making a lick of sense to you until--

Fuck.

It hits you worse the third time round and you almost clutch your throat in pain. Dieter, no Diego, was a bad habit that you got addicted to too quickly and you can’t fucking believe you’ve found yourself here again. You’ve felt this before -- and with a poisonous sense of deja vu, his words once again reduce you to a smouldering blue flame, flickering to and fro until a lone spark catches on a wayward branch of wood.

It burns and burns and keeps burning till there’s nothing left to the landscape.

The only difference now, is that you are not in the safety of your home, and there’s no cold kitchen floor to crumble and cry your sorrows out onto. So no, you can’t shatter, not yet.

You blink back the burn of tears, swiping a steady hand at an errant droplet that catches the skin of your collarbone.

Straightening your spine, you make your way over to where you see the director. Prepared to film the first block shot of Cliff Beasts 6, you spare one last thought about the man who had watered and pruned the weed in your chest.

Its roots maraud your ribcage further, squeezing out the last plumes of air from the corraded flesh of your lungs.