Disorganized Attachment - Chapter 1: Fibonacci
IT'S FINALLY HERE!
Dieter x adult actress reader (no age gap, both in their early/mid 40s)
18+ although this chapter does not contain any explicit smut yet.
This work contains a lot of cursing, talks about substance abuse, mental illness, violence, and I have not researched anything about the film or p**n industry, so if that's not your thing, scroll on. (it is surprisingly soft and fluffy though)
More warnings: Negative self talk/thoughts, body image issues.
word count: 5364
Where to begin?
You and Dieter met in high school, drama and art classes. You had a secret crush on him back then, but thought he was kind of a dick, too. He was envious, or even jealous, of your ability to memorize long monologues seemingly overnight. These ridiculous reasons were mainly why you didn’t become friends then yet, just secretly harbored certain feelings for each other. If just one of you had pulled their head out of their ass and talked to the other, you would have realized very quickly that you were two peas in a pod.
When you met again in college, you had all your acting, theater and film related classes together. You stuck to each other then, because you were both from the same hometown, and you’d both changed and grown. Experimenting with drugs welded you closer together, and you woke up in each other’s dorms after lawless nights quite a few times. Dieter began auditioning long before you both graduated, so did you. He was more successful pretty much from the beginning. You congratulated each other on a few projects, his always bigger than yours, and then at some point you just went your separate ways in Hollywood.
You still privately kept up to date with Dieter’s work and achievements; you watched the Oscars the year he won one of the categories he was nominated for, with a friend over the phone, squealing over the line and damn near rupturing her eardrum at the announcement of the winner. And he looked so handsome on screen, even with the sadness and hubris in his dark eyes that you were well acquainted with.
He’d told you all the stories throughout your time in college together. The abuse, the violent reign of his strict parents drilling him to be the best in all his classes, to always get the big roles he auditioned for… and the harsh punishment if he didn’t. The constant pressure to be perfect and likeable, the emotional neglect in between his successes. What they never really gave a shit about was if he was happy.
While Dieter went off to become a real movie star, you struggled and clung on to shadier and shadier gigs, until you finally landed in the adult film industry. You’d tried your best and worked really hard to make a name for yourself in this new field, and you did, you succeeded!
Your screen name was a secret to most people you interacted with in your daily life, you kept a strict line between your private matters and your work. Many of your loose acquaintances believed you were simply “in the film industry”, which was technically true. Sometimes, when you met someone new and they asked what you did for a living, you could see the split second of recognition in their eyes and then, as soon as possible, you’d drop them like hot potatoes. Better not to get involved with fans.
Now…
Around the time when you sign a contract with a new agency, Dieter’s spiraling into another crisis. He’s coked up to the max, never not high anymore, and during the short, intermittent down periods he thinks he’s worthless and needs to rebrand himself. All of his unusually bottomless lows are followed by particularly severe manic episodes lately, in which he comes up with things to do to revolutionize his public persona, and he won’t hear anyone out who tries to stop him. Because of the excessive amount of cocaine he consumes, he believes himself to be in possession of the necessary skills and fortitude to star in a real, professional porn movie during this particular spiral.
And thank Mother Gaia for modernity, because his manager isn’t even opposed to the idea.
“Get me the most expensive co-star you can find to do this with me!” he barks into his phone, ordering some poor fool at his agency out to get him a role in a big production.
There isn’t much hope, Dieter thinks, that he’ll get anyone exceptionally hot, no matter their price tag - he’s getting old and has gained a few pounds since the peak of his career. But then again, it’s mostly the women in porn who are under pressure to be perfect, fresh off the rack, if they want to make it in the industry. And not just in some niche fetish market, but instead the very top of the food chain, the big studios, like Brazzers or Tushy dot com. His other, admittedly quite reasonable, hope for a really fuckable scene partner is that having an actual Oscar winning movie star like himself, aging and getting heavy or not, fuck his pent-up frustration into a dimepiece on camera would drive sales exponentially more than if he did it to a bridge troll. Fuck, he really should see his therapist again. These horrible thoughts about people’s looks, including his own, can’t be beneficial to his already dwindling mental stability. But that guy is a leech; even as rich as Dieter is nowadays, the rates of a decent therapist are nauseating.
When you receive the offer, you’re just on your way to a set, somewhere up in the hills. You don’t read the e-mail until late that night. The header gives away what type of shoot it’s going to be - a celebrity, a real movie star, and this time not just for a private sex tape. No, this time an A-list Hollywood actor wants to actually publish the tape. It’s guaranteed to make headlines for weeks. This would most definitely be the next Big Thing for you.
It takes you a while to read the wall of text before you find the name of the actor at the bottom of the page. You gasp, then break out into a fit of bewildered little laughs.
Dieter Bravo! You damn outlaw.
You know he probably has no idea his people sent yours an offer, nor that you would definitely say yes, if he’s even aware you’re in this business - it isn’t likely that he knows your screen name either, because you would hope to have heard from him on social media if he had. You’ve followed him since you made your professional account.
The next morning, you wake up bright and early to give Dieter’s agent a call back, accept the job, make an appointment to sign the contract, and go get a fresh bikini waxing. You can’t wait to see Dieter again. Get to fuck him again, if the surprise of seeing you show up for the shoot doesn’t turn him off of it entirely.
As the aesthetician, a close friend of yours affectionately nicknamed Barbie, rips away at the wax strips to get rid of the bush you’d grown out for a vintage shoot, you think about him and what he used to mean to you.
You tell Barbie about him, in between wincing through the pain of the waxing; you tell her that when you were young, your bodies taut and lean, you enjoyed each other’s company very much. And about the things you’d say to each other in bed, how you could never stop praising his heavy cock, how deliciously it burned when he pistoned it into your welcoming heat; how he couldn’t stop sucking on your tits and emptying his balls into you, again and again for hours until there was nothing left to fill you with, always high on something.
You know what he looks like, you’ve seen him at red carpets from the comfort of your living room, even this year - Barbie remembers when you screamed at her over the phone and she tried to match your excitement. She also remembers all the times you were intoxicated and reminisced about past loves, your dreamy retelling of your experiences always circling back to Dieter in the end.
But the new memories all just come from images on screens, they’re not real memories of him. The last real one is over a decade old.
The contract you sign is your agency’s standard adult film production contract, you’ve signed hundreds like this before. Every rich adult film connoisseur who’s into “older” women wants a piece of you.
Several days pass after you sign, before you hear back and receive a shooting date very soon after.
“Mr. Bravo would appreciate it if we could make it happen as soon as possible.” your agent relays to you on the phone. “Fine by me. I can definitely squeeze it in next week.” you reply.
That day…
Rolling up to his house in the hills, your manager drives you through the LA afternoon traffic, and ultimately you're twenty-five minutes late. “We should have known it was gonna be like this” you complain to your manager, a woman your age named Tonya with round, red cheeks, who’s raised five children by herself. “Nonsense. I guarantee you, this guy’s going to be even later himself. These A-listers usually are, they’re too self important to be on time. Now go, get up there! I’ll be right behind you.”
You grab your handbag and your cosmetics, wallet and phone secure in your jacket, and make your way up the thirty-something steps to ring Dieter Bravo’s doorbell.
A stern looking woman with a sleek black librarian hairdo and penciled-in eyebrows of the same color lets you into the mansion; she’s surprisingly nice. You’re instructed to take a seat in Dieter’s living room, on a comfortable couch. You don’t mind the staff standing by the open doors, and change into your outfit out in the open there - a pitch black, crotchless leotard, equally dark ballerina flats, and a thin pink robe for modesty before the shoot starts. Someone from the production crew arrives and brings a make-up artist, who makes you look a decade younger. That takes almost two full hours and removes any remaining shred of your guilt about being late. It's a bothersome process, but might increase the chances he’ll recognize you.
Finally, after another ten more minutes of waiting for him, his majesty makes an appearance, coming from the garage. He’s dressed in a cornflower blue robe, a fluffy, well-worn thing, and chanclas, along with sweatpants. He holds a starbucks cup in his hand and peeks at everyone in the room over the rim of a pair of sunglasses, chewing gum. His hair is as messy as ever, a patchy, scruffy looking beard on his face now. He’s sporting several heavy rings on various fingers and has a chain with an upside-down cross around his neck.
And then he spots you. You can see the exact moment it clicks for him, and everything falls into place. A sultry smirk at him, a wink perhaps, should do, so that’s what you respond with, to the look of pure befuddlement he shoots you.
He crosses the room so fast, he spills some of the whipped cream peeking over the rim of the cup he’s holding with an iron grip.
“What on earth are you doing in my house, Dolphin?” Oh, God, not that nickname… you visibly cringe, but then sigh and go in for a hug. He accepts without hesitation, and you note that he’s wonderfully warm and soft. It almost balances out the reminder of that time he renamed you against your will, when you were sitting out on the fire escape stairs of your dorms, smoking a blunt together. It would be a good memory if it wasn’t tainted by that nickname designed to drive you up the wall, when your hysterical laughter at one of his jokes resembled the call of a marine mammal.
“I was hired to have a certain movie star fuck the shit out of me on camera.” you tell him nonchalantly, and he bites down a laugh to counter. “I didn’t know you do porn. I thought you might still be doing theater, because I never saw you at any award shows. Is everything okay?” “Yes, Dieter, I’m fine. I’m financially stable, I’m nominated for an AVN this year; the only setback is I’ve recently been pushed into the MILF category. Absolutely killing it there, though.”
Dieter laughs at that, finally - a hearty cackle, and it causes your already buzzing head to flood with memories of that same laugh that are aeons old. You realize he never laughs like this in any of the interviews you’ve seen.
He pats your shoulder almost fraternally and sets down his drink to give you another hug. “I missed you, Dolphin.” “Please don’t call me that again. I’ll fucking leave and go home, I swear to God.” “Didn’t peg you to be particularly religious.” “I’ll fucking show you a pegging, amigo.” Again, you make Dieter laugh; he seems like he hasn’t earnestly laughed much in quite some time.
The two of you waste everyone else’s time while you catch up; you hear about his last ten years, he hears about yours, while you wander around the house and he shows you his awards. At some point, his manager shows up in the dining room, where Dieter is feeding you with the best bread you’ve ever had and antipasti from the catering cart, and reminds you both that you’re here for work.
You think it’s odd that Dieter decided to shoot this film in his home. He doesn’t seem to care and says this house has seen weirder things. It’s more convenient for him to do it here. Your worries about the media backlash directed at him that would inevitably follow the release of whatever you tape today remain a secret for now. It’s not your job to bring it up and you trust that all the adults involved know what they’re getting themselves into.
The set in a spare bedroom is all done, assembled, lit up and prepared; as a last effort to prevent disaster, somebody wearing a headset is grabbing a sphinx cat and removing it from under the massive king size centerpiece of the shot. They just exit the room with their arm full of what you think is a raw chicken when you walk in with Dieter and both your managers, who know each other and proceed to go have a conversation somewhere in the corner.
He introduces you to the director, a Finnish-American talent of the erotic arts, who then introduces herself as Ansa, and who’s supposed to make Dieter’s filthy vision a reality. The six foot four blonde with an angular jaw, who looks like she could easily be a famous basketball player, explains the concept of the Golden Ratio to you, but you have difficulties following, with the way Dieter is already staring at your mouth. “...in each shot, your two bodies have to be arranged in the exactly right way to align with the ratio, which you might know under its other commonly known name, the Fibonacci sequence. Well, technically the golden ratio and the Fibonacci sequence are different things, but they are closely associated with each other. We’ve come up with a few positions that work, they’re shown here-* She rambles on, then hands you a thin stack of cards, each depicting a drawing of a sexual position in which the visual lines and boundaries of the lovers’ bodies resemble a spiral from a certain angle. You look through them, wide-eyed, while Dieter chews on an Olive and ogles you over the rim of his sunglasses - shamelessly.
Ansa continues, “Somebody might have to touch you to adjust the position of a body part for the perfect shot. I hope you have an active gym membership, you might be forced to stay still and hold a difficult position for a while, through up to a few dozen of his thrusts, so we have enough material from each shot.”
Can’t we just start fucking? Why does it matter how I sit on his dick? Besides, the whole Fibonacci sequence thing is kind of overplayed, isn’t it? Hasn’t this shit been done a million times before? There’s songs about it, media that’s structured according to it, stuff that won Grammys and everything. It’s been a meme online, too, people already laugh about it.
Those are the gripes coming up in your head in quick succession, and you don't fully realize that you say all of them out loud and worded exactly like that, making Dieter snort and bend over in a cackle. You blush, hard, and begin to stammer an apology for the bluntness, because she’s not used to your Modus Operandi yet and deserves some grace. This job could have very well been given to somebody else, somebody more demure and accepting of bullshit executive decisions.
Ansa just smiles at you, not quite as amused as Dieter seems to be, still giggling to himself. “You’re funny, I like your attitude,'' she says to interrupt your desaster of an apology before you embarrass yourself, and you notice that you like her subtle accent, although her non-answer annoys you.
You demand to know why they would ask you to sign a contract before letting you know this was going to be a cringefest, and then attempt to ask your questions again in a more respectful tone.
This is when Dieter realizes he’s missed you a whole lot more than he thought; you’re so quick on your feet, as you’ve always been. Just based on this, you haven’t aged a day. Ansa welcomes the rewording of your questions and finally grants you a real response.
She explains that that’s exactly the point of the scene. It’s supposed to drag this pretentious bullshit through the mud. It’s a direct parody of a short film Dieter starred in, ages ago, which you’d never seen, because it was such an obscure release with practically no advertising budget.
“I want to ruin that motherfucker’s career.” Dieter bites; he’s talking about whichever poor soul directed the atrocious short film. “He’s acting all uppity in the media after he landed a couple hits with some military propaganda, wastes of precious lifetime, bullshit ass movies.” You wonder why he’s so genuinely livid at this director, but he answers the question before you can ask it.
“This guy screwed me over so hard on that stupid short film, I almost died trying to appease him and his artistic sensibilities, because he convinced me he was doing something worth my while with it. He had me drenched outside at night in Whateverthefuck, Ohio, in the pouring October rain, wearing barely anything, contorting and curling up and posing like a spiral for hours, because no take was ever perfect. And then that garbage didn’t even make a profit, so I got pneumonia for nothing. I had to pay someone to take that disgrace off my Wikipedia and IMDB. I want to make fun of his yuppie ass, I want to make a pornographic parody of his dumb, pseudo-intellectual garbage movie that nearly cost me my life.”
You get it then. The second layer reveals itself to you from behind the curtain of your initial reaction. And with it, you drop the robe they’d handed you.
Dieter apologizes that he didn’t take the time to talk you through the project before you signed, but he wanted it done as soon as possible. You tell him it’s fine, usually your agency would have sent a request for more information, but you saw his name in that e-mail and didn’t hesitate.
He’s touched by this, though you begin to get a feeling that Dieter isn’t being honest about his intention to do this scene, or at the very least about his constitution. Constantly on edge, fidgeting, shifting his weight back and forth between both feet, extroverted. Friendly. He used to be quieter, and you wonder if he was miserable back then or if he is now, and if it’s your place to even ask.
There’s no time to, anyhow, with droves of production staff pouring into the room, until you and Dieter are practically pushed onto the bed while the camera tests begin. It’s busier than at any normal shoot, but he seems used to it, conversing with his assistant standing close by, about what he would like to order for dinner after. You’re puzzled when he turns to you to ask if you’d like to stay.
But again, no more time to answer questions, the stylist invades your space and touches up both of your faces and hair, and when the cameras are set to roll, everyone who isn’t essential to the shoot leaves the room. The question is long forgotten, when two more people roll a whiteboard into the room that has each of the possible Golden Ratio sexual positions pinned to it for easy review, before leaving as well.
Dieter is awfully quiet over the next few minutes, when the last round of preparations begin, right before they have some time to get each other turned on, and then the cameras are going to start rolling.
But it never comes to that.
What happens next is Dieter is having a panic attack. A full-on hyperventilating, pacing up and down, cursing and yelling and… crying? He’s crying, crashing. A second ago you were busy holding still for the touch-up, and now he’s sobbing.
You’re immediately overwhelmed with the situation, in your leotard and the ballerina flats, adjusting the shoulder straps and wordlessly watching as Dieter’s team attempts to calm him down. His manager seems to be desperate to get him to stay away from the set while he’s melting down, so he doesn’t ruin the professional relationships they were able to forge over it.
He’s so loud when he yells, you’re speechless. A moment ago he was content, laughing, talking about having dinner with you… Oh. You hadn’t given him your answer. You completely ignored his advance. He asked you to have dinner with him, and you ignored him, and now he’s breaking down in front of everybody.
It can’t be because of that. Can it? You stand up and put your pink robe back on, tying it in the front. Then, tip-toeing around the expensive equipment and slipping past all of the people outside the room, you make your way up to Dieter, who’s currently trying to vandalize the dining room, wielding some kind of award, ready to smash a glass table to bits with it. However, he’s being held back by his apparent crisis team, his manager trying to talk him down.
Now it makes sense to you that the set was so crowded, with half of the workers not even doing any active tasks. They’re there to monitor him and mitigate the damage in case he goes off the rails. On second thought, that sounds cartoonishly conspiratorial, like they’re drugging him on purpose or something.
You decide then and there to find out and try to help him, through whatever it is he’s burdoned with.
A step closer to him earns you a glare of disapproval from his manager, but you ignore it and take another. He’s like a feral animal, if only they had Steve Irwin here with a tranquilizer gun.
“It’s okay, Dee… it’s me. Look at me.” you say calmly, raising your hands to show him you don’t mean to restrain him like the others, and it’s not like you would even stand a chance to. He looks at you and you almost start crying too, he looks fucking miserable. “I don’t know what to dooo, oh God” he whines, still looking right at you, fat tears spilling from his wide open eyes that are so dark you can’t tell how blown his pupils are.
His manager looks surprised that he hasn’t tried to swing a fist at you yet, you’re stepping so close to him, and finally she gestures for the two burly guys holding him back to release him and give you both some space.
The out-of-control Hollywood actor in his giant mansion is coming back to his senses slowly, closing the remaining two or three feet of distance to pull you into a desperate embrace, soaking the strap of your leotard with his tears.
You wrap your arms around his middle and shush him, swaying him in place like a big baby and whispering reassurances into his ear. The entire thing is so fucking surreal, everyone’s eyes on you, and when they start whispering to each other so you can’t hear what they’re saying, you ask Dieter where you two can be alone.
You don’t expect him to be able to answer coherently, but the finger he points at a door down the hallway is enough. Keeping one arm around his waist, you lead him there step by step, past all the gawkers. It’s on you now to shoot them a glare, causing them to scatter behind you.
The door leads to another bedroom, which is in complete disarray and stuffed full of boxes overflowing with all kinds of shit. You lock up behind Dieter as he stumbles to the dusty bed and curls up on top of the covers, and you realize he’s been butt ass naked the entire time.
You grab a thin blanket hanging over a chair in the corner and make your way through the narrow path to the bed, past all his stuff. Climbing into bed behind him, you cover him and yourself with the soft blanket and spoon him, pressing a gentle kiss to his shoulder. He grabs your hand and squeezes it with a trembling sigh.
“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” you ask quietly, so careful not to tread him loose again with the wrong words. He breathes for a minute, deep inhales and long exhales, then croaks, “I hate myself.”
It’s a simple response, easy to understand in theory, but the reasons aren’t clear to you and you’re not sure if you should ask. “Why?” you whisper, pressing your cheek to the side of his neck and nuzzling closer to him. He’s so fucking soft and warm.
He scoffs, like it should be obvious, and you have a hunch but don’t dare to bring it up. “I’m such a fucking waste of space. I’m a piece of shit. I’m so sorry.”
Barely coherent through his tears, you just tighten your arm around him and give his shoulder another kiss. “Don’t say that. Let me help. We can figure this out.”
He shakes his head, “No, it’s fucking pointless. I’ve b-been to rehab so many times.”
“Are you high right now?” you continue to pry some answers from him with the patience of a saint that you’ve really only ever had for him, nobody else. He nods, sniffling and turning around in your grasp to face you. His eyes are red and puffy, cheeks wet, tears soaking his mustache. Up close like this, you can see the state of him clearly in his fully dilated pupils and everything else, and you swallow the emotions so you can be there for him, because what else are you supposed to do?
Thumbing away the tears that still keep coming, a seemingly endless well of them hidden under his eyes, you give him a soft smile. “I missed you, Dee. I’m so sorry we lost touch. Wish I could have been there for you all this time.”
“No, no, that’s not your fault. I’m an asshole, I should’ve called.” He brushes your hair behind your ear with a gentle touch that stands out in overwhelming contrast to his earlier demeanor, when he was about to smash his table with his award.
“Oh, you stop it. It doesn’t matter, I’m here now. And I’m not going to leave, unless you want me to.” you reassure him, and that finally seems to help, his features soften and he manages a crooked smile to try and match yours.
A harsh rap at the door startles you both, and suddenly he looks like a cornered animal again, sitting up and clutching the blanket to his chest. Giving his calf a reassuring squeeze, you slowly get up and walk to the door, unlocking it and cracking it open to peek out at whoever would have the audacity to knock like a cop right now.
It’s Tonya, your manager, behind Dieter’s manager whose name you’ve forgotten since you were introduced. You make an effort to look annoyed at them breaking the brief moment of peace, expecting an explanation. “We’re all leaving. I’ll call you in the morning, alright, sweetheart? Take care, and let me know if you need anything.” Tonya says, looking apologetic and her motherly nature appeases you. “Let me speak to him for a minute, please.” Dieter’s manager demands, but you refuse her with another glare. “Absolutely not.” Then you look back at Tonya with a much less furious look and a nod, “Drive safe, Tonya, I’ll text you if… yeah, I’ll text you.”
Tonya leaves, Dieter’s manager reluctantly follows, and you see some more people leaving and carrying gear out of the house. It’s suddenly very quiet, not even Dieter is making a sound anymore.
“Are they gone?” he asks after a while, when you shut the door again, locking it just in case.
“Yeah, they’re gone.” you assure him, and he lies back down on the bed with you, facing each other and holding hands. Yours are cold from clutching the door knob so harshly, and he warms them in his.
“Did I fuck it up?” he asks you after a while, the silence starting to make him uncomfortable.
“No, you didn’t fuck anything up. I promise.” You hook your pinky around his and look into his deep brown eyes, still filled with residual tears. “Pinky promise.”
He laughs again - not loud like earlier, it’s a quiet chuckle, but it seems even more genuine now that it’s between the two of you. “Pinky promise.”
You end up staying the night. It turns out he didn’t mind you not answering his question on set at all, you were busy. He orders dumplings for dinner and rolls a joint you share by his pool out back, huddled together on the side with your feet in the water. The pool is fucking heated and the emerging steam billows around you in the lights like the smoke you blow out your noses.
You haven’t smoked weed in so long, you’re a lightweight and he smokes most of it himself, content with just handing it over whenever you lift your hand to request a few tiny little puffs that make him giggle at you; he still thinks you’re adorable after all these years.
Dieter has make-up wipes for sensitive skin and scrunchies in his en-suite bathroom, and you even discover a half empty box of tampons under the sink. You don’t need any right now, but the fact that he has them on hand at all makes you a little emotional.
He gives you a shirt that’s three sizes too big and puts on a quiet movie for background noise, turning down the brightness of the enormous TV mounted to the wall opposite his bed. You toss the fake lashes into the bin, burying them in there like a casualty of the disaster of a set.
You finally properly meet his cat, which you’d mistaken for a whole raw chicken earlier as he was being carried off set. The friendly little guy - named Mad Max - lets Dieter put a sweater on him with no complaint, strutting his stuff all pretty in pink as he goes to devour the contents of a can of wet food from a bowl on the kitchen floor.
Dieter offers you a guest room, but you decline, climbing into his unbelievably comfortable kingsize bed, the effects of the weed making you feel heavy and deeply content. Exhaustion creeps into your bones as you curl up next to him with your head and hand on his chest, your eyes falling shut. His slow even breaths and the shapes he gently draws on your back with his fingertips lull you to sleep soon after.
This is not how you expected this day to end, but you’re the opposite of upset about it. If only it could be like this forever.
