the magic happens in the starlit morning.

how it works:

Send me an ask with one Pedro boy, one trope, and one color before 11:59 pm (whenever that happens to be for your part of the world is fine, I'm not the punctuality police) on Sunday, July 21st, and I'll make you a moodboard! That's it. You can use them for whatever you want, even a fic! They are my gift to so many of y'all for putting up with me for so long. As a heads up, anon is off for now, just in case that's a problem.

If you have a special request, like a trope you don't see up there, let me know and I'll see what i can do. I do ask that we keep it to Pedro boys that are in released projects so that I have more than just two or three pictures of them to work with. <3

Finally, for the sake of simplicity, I'll be using two or three layouts instead of trying to do something unique for every single request.

menu

step 1 - choose your man Dave York Dieter Bravo Din Djarin Ezra Frankie Morales Jack Daniels Javier Peña Javi Gutierrez Joel Miller Marcus Moreno Marcus Pike Oberyn Martell Pero Tovar

step 2 - choose your trope Confessions Enemies to Lovers Falling in Love Fake Dating First Kiss Forbidden Love Heartbreak Long-Distance Relationship Love at First Sight Marriage Proposal Mutual Pining Only One Bed Secret Relationship Soulmate AU

step 3 - choose your color Red Orange Yellow Green Blue Purple Pink Brown Black Gray

tagging a few mutuals just to spread the word. i have no idea if i'm doing tags anymore but yk. whatever, hopefully this works!

@mothandpidgeon @swiftispunk @lowlights @joelscruff

@undercoverpena @littlebirdsbookshelf @grogusmum @iamskyereads

@missredherring @janaispunk @mrsmando @leslie-lyman

@oonajaeadira @insomniamamma @agentmarcuspike @pedgito

He’s snoring lightly in your ear, tickling all the little hairs on your face with each breath. You let yourself lay there for a little longer because you need to plan your morning—not because your greatest desire is to slip this moment into a loosely sealed envelope and peek inside whenever you need to remember the feel of his skin on yours. If you wake him up, he’ll paw at you, and you can’t think of anything but his big hands when he does that, much less plan anything.

You’re starting to understand why Christina needed help. If you weren’t completely enamored with him, this would probably be a nightmare job.

Your friends, all of whom live far away and are very nosy and want to know why you’ve been so absent from the group chat, assume that it’s a nightmare job because he’s taking up all your time. And he is, but you’re fine with it. 

It probably doesn’t help that since the whole Twitter debacle, you’ve kept as low of a profile online as you can. Even with a new bodyguard he’d hired all on his own, you don’t really want to draw attention to yourself, especially with how ridiculously busy this week is.  

Dieter had been called back in to reshoot a couple of scenes from a movie he’d worked on early last summer. Apparently, the chemistry between himself and his co-star during what was supposed to be a very steamy love scene just wasn’t working for test audiences. It’s only a couple of days, but it meant completely rearranging his schedule for the week. Thankfully, wardrobe and hair stylists don’t work on a nine to five schedule. 

You’ve been on plenty of film sets in your time in Los Angeles and your failed attempt at working in the industry, but you’ve never been on set with him, in an even more lowly position than you’d been in before. You need to prepare yourself. 

Your watch reads 6:58 am. In two minutes, an alarm will sound and Dieter will make a noise between a groan and whine while pulling you even further into his chest, and you’ll have to remind him that he has to wake up because he needs to eat something before he starts his new workout regime for some upcoming role. A boxer, maybe?

You’ve lost track at this point. 

He’ll be very unhappy about it because he’s certainly already forgotten, but at least that dusty gym will be getting some use.  

Before the alarm goes off, though, you have to decide something very important: should you shower right now or wait until after breakfast?

Shower time is usually when you brush your teeth, so it would make sense to wait till after coffee, because coffee is gross with the toothpaste aftertaste in your mouth. And normally you would just until after coffee, but for some reason your teeth feel almost fuzzy, which might mean your breath is worse than usual, and what if Dieter wants to kiss you? 

You’re definitely not ready to make out with fuzzy-tooth-breath, no matter how many times you’ve kissed him in the morning before.

You could brush them before and after, but that’s just inefficient.

Just as you’re coming to a decision—showering and brushing your teeth when he’s busy and just avoiding kissing him until after—the alarm screams in your ear and Dieter stirs beside you. It’s like watching a dog waking up to a treat under its nose. His eyes pop open, something greedy and excited washing over his half-asleep features before you can move an inch.

“Morning,” you murmur, trying to slip from under the covers before he can catch you, but Dieter is shockingly fast when he wants something. 

He lets out a soft grunt and wraps his arm around your torso, pressing his lips to yours as he pulls you flush against his bare chest. He prods his tongue into your mouth with a long, needy sigh, wrecking all that careful planning. 

He barely hears your mumbled protest. “What, baby?”

“I said I have morning breath,” you whine.

“I don’t give a fuck,” he grins, dismissing your concerns. “I like it. Tastes good. You got morning pussy, too?”

“Dieter, what the fuck does that even mean?”

He just shrugs, his hand creeping down the waistband of your panties, his own morning wood digging into your hip.

“We do not have time for this today, mister.” You kiss him anyway because you are weak and he is beautiful.

“You sure?” he pouts, pulling your legs around his waist. “You sure I can’t eat your pussy for a minute? I’m starving.”

“Positive, pretty boy,” you say, tapping your finger against the tip of his nose. He sighs in that overly dramatic way of his.

“Fine,” he grunts, untangling himself from you and stumbling to the bathroom. “But we should have French toast.”

“You have to have eggs,” you call as he slams the door behind him. “You gotta workout.”

He lets out a long, frustrated groan from the other side. It swings open as you’re putting on your clothes from the day before—you have got to get your shit together—and he glares at you, as though you were the one who’d signed on to play a boxer with gigantic arms. 

“That’s today?” he asks.

“Yep. You knew that,” you sigh, folding your arms and flopping back down on the bed. Dieter settles himself in front of you, towering over you with a scowl.

“No!” He barks, pawing at your hips from between your legs.  “I didn’t know that.”

“Okay, well, I told you that.”

“That doesn’t mean I knew,” he argues. You laugh—at least he’s honest. “I’m gonna die. I’m supposed to do the whole simulated fucking thing later, too. Shit.”

“Well, start stretching, Bravo,” you giggle, sitting up to meet him. “And don’t be such a baby. You want me to make your eggs?”

“Yeah,” he grumbles, following you down the stairs. 

After a few minutes of pouting, he sneaks up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist as you make him breakfast, and you pretend all your carefully placed walls aren’t crumbling into dust. 

Ada gave you a standing invitation for coffee when she’s in town. She’s one of the most fascinating people you’ve ever met in your life. Even after her acting career didn’t pan out, she’d managed to do more before the age of thirty than you’d even planned on doing for the rest of your life. 

Maybe money can buy some happiness.

After Dieter’s trainer sequesters the two of them in the gym, you make your way to her back patio and knock on the French doors. 

“Come in,” she calls, not looking up from her most recent painting. You can’t tell what it is yet, but there’s a lot of yellow. “Darling, I’ve told you, you can just come in. No need to knock.”

She has told you that, and you’ve told her that’s a crazy thing to do, and so now the two of you just have this conversation every time you come over. It’s nice, actually; like a weird handshake. 

“Mm,” you say. “Coffee?”

Ada’s still in her nightgown, hair pushed out of her face with a scarf. She waves, too absorbed in her work to really answer, but you get it. That just means you’re on your own, but please bring her some, too. And you do, but not before you notice the wooden player piano in the downstairs bathroom. 

That’s new. 

“Ada?” You ask. “There’s a piano in the bathroom.”

“There is!” She says, taking the cup from you. “I got it at auction.”

“But why is it in the bathroom?” You ask. It’s directly under the window, clashing terribly with the 1950s-style green tile and silver fixtures. 

“Well, I don’t play the piano, darling, and I bought it to look at, so I figured it would be more interesting there than anywhere else.”

“I guess so,” you say because what else are you supposed to say? “What are you painting?”

“The view of the plains on Mount Kilimanjaro,” she says. “It was breathtaking.”

Of course she’d climbed a dormant volcano. 

“What haven’t you done, Ada?” You laugh.

“Plenty. I’ve plenty more left to do.”

“You make me wonder what I’m doing with my life,” you sigh, sipping your coffee.

“You’re living it, I presume,” she says, dipping her brush in the slippery acrylic. “You already have so many stories about that boy.”

It’s hard to bite back the scoff at her calling a forty-seven-year-old man a boy. That must make you an infant. You tell her that. 

“Well,” she says wistfully. “You are. You’ve so much more time left. Now, tell me, how’s that script coming?”

You groan. You should’ve never told her anything about your failed attempt at a screenplay. She’d been almost too encouraging about it ever since.

“Not at all. You know I’m too busy with work,” you say. 

“Babysitting,” she mutters.

You look back at Dieter’s house, remembering the soft kisses he’d left on your neck and how good he is to you. Not that you can really tell her that. 

Or maybe you could. Despite her rather open disdain for him, you don’t think she’d judge you too much for it. 

“He’s not so bad,” you say, watching the sunroom grow brighter and brighter. “I guess I should get back. I get to go on set with him today.”

“Are you holding up all right?” she asks, finally looking away from the painting. “Not wearing yourself down?”

“Not yet,” you say, gathering the cups to take to the kitchen. 

“You leave those,” she says, standing and cupping your hands with hers. “But I mean it. Don’t burn yourself out over a job. Or a man.”

“I—yeah. Yes, you’re right,” you say. “I won’t. Thank you.”

She squeezes your fingers and shoos you along, and you feel more comforted by her in thirty seconds than you’ve been by your own mother in thirty years. 

For the most part, you don’t come into Dieter’s room without him, unless he asks you. You’re still trying to maintain some semblance of boundaries, of not intruding on his life too much, just in case.

Just in case what, exactly, you don’t know. Just in case he changes his mind. Just in case casual is all you ever get from him. Just in case he breaks your heart. It’s just good to have a backup plan, in your experience. 

It’s not like he cares; he’s told you as much, but you already live on the same property as he does, and you spend all your time in his house, and you don’t want him to feel like you’ve just moved yourself in. Nothing serious is what he said, and you want him to know you understand.

It feels serious sometimes, though.

Why do men do this?

You’d left your iPad in there, though, and you can’t function without it at this point. He’s in the gym with the door closed, his muffled complaints and grunts while the trainer patiently walks him through all of it filtering through the closed door, and if you go ask permission, he’ll find any reason to stop what he’s doing.

The door is open, so you don’t feel quite so intrusive, and spot your iPad on the coffee table.

Weird.

You don’t remember moving it.

It’s also unlocked. That’s really, really weird.

In the split second after the realization that this is not, in fact, your iPad and before you can set it back down, muscle memory takes over and you swipe up.

Porn.

Jesus.

Of course it’s porn. That man is truly insatiable.

You’ve never thought too much about his porn habits—you know he enjoys it and you know he’s even subscribed to several websites, as you’d read with wide eyes one Wednesday evening while going over his bank account.

You’ve also never really wanted to snoop—there’s always that nagging fear in the back of your mind that the people he watches won’t look like you. But you’re only human, and he’s not in here, and you know he’d look if he were in your position.

So you peek.

Just a quick glance while you’re setting it down on the coffee table, reminding yourself to tell Dieter to put a goddamn lock on his electronics.

It’s not what you expect. The website is soft pink and white, and the title of the video reads Jacob & Marissa’s 10th Anniversary in delicate cursive font. The woman in the video looks like you, dimpled curves and thick thighs. She’s in a little black lace lingerie set with sheer thigh highs.

You hit play.

The man-her husband, you assume—has his face buried in her cunt, the lacy panties pulled to the side as he licks and sucks and massages her calves. There’s something much more intimate about this—quiet moans, soft sighs, whispers of “I know that feels good, baby,” against her pussy. He knows exactly what her body wants and how to give it to her.

“Jacob,” she whimpers. “Jacob, Jacob, Jacob—”

She comes with a long, soft whine not meant for a camera as she shakes and writhes. He grunts into her, encouraging her release, his own hand snaking down to his cock and pumping as she just. Keeps. Going.

Blood rushes to your cheeks as he rises to meet her lips and murmur “I love you, I love you,” over and over again.

It just doesn’t seem like Dieter’s kind of thing.

Too vanilla, maybe?

Too much intimacy. Too loving.

The door down the hall bangs open, and Dieter’s grouchy voice comes floating down the hall.

“I’m not doing anything else,” he grouses. You set the iPad down carefully and scurry to the nightstand you remember setting yours on.

It’s there, and you breathe a sigh of relief at not getting caught being nosy as he stomps in. His scowl turns into a big bright smile when he sees you, eyes lighting up as he makes a beeline to you and buries his face in your neck.

“Hi, baby,” he says.

He’s stinky.

“You smell,” you say, and he giggles.

“Mmhmm,” he says. “I’ll go shower. Wanna come?”

“Yeah,” you breathe.

All you can think about is getting on your knees for him.

Dieter can’t get his sweaty gym clothes off fast enough as you lean forward to turn on the shower. You’re not shy about stripping, either. Water sprays the stone tile—locally sourced, according to the leasing agent—and you turn around with a cheeky grin on your face.

He looks you up and down, mouth watering at every soft curve and dip. Your ass is so tempting—he can’t wait to get his tongue inside of that little hole.

“C’mon.” You step in, nipples hard from the cool air.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he groans. You’re slick and naked against him, and he’s trying his best not to rub against you like an animal. “Gonna get me all clean?” 

“Say please.”

“Please, baby,” he breathes. Your hand’s snaking down his torso, stuttering to a halt just above his already aching cock. You make him crazy. Body, brain, dick, all of it. 

“Sit down.” You point to the little built-in bench he only ever uses when he’s so hungover he can’t stand up.

“Wh—”

“Gonna wash your hair. Sit.”

Oh—you really meant to wash him.

He thinks back, trying to remember the last time someone did this—if anyone had ever done this. Usually “get in the shower with me” means “let’s fool around in here until the water gets cold.”

“All right,” he says, uncertainty wiggling in his belly. It feels like he’s walking into a trap.

You turn with his shampoo in hand. “You okay?”

Dieter resists a long sigh. Could you be less observant for a moment?

“Just a little sore from working out,” he pouts.

He’s actually a lot sore, but you don’t need to know how incredibly out of shape he is.

He stiffens as you work the shampoo into a lather, but relaxes quickly as you massage his scalp, resting his forehead against your belly and giving in. “Good boy,” you murmur. “Feel good?”

“Mm,” he grunts. He’s having a hard time not pulling you onto his lap, but the bench isn’t wide enough for you to straddle him, so he behaves himself for now. Instead he runs his hands over your skin, squeezing your ass and thighs and making you giggle.

He melts even more when you soap his body up, sending shivers up and down his spine as you wash his back and torso. You kneel to get his legs, all the way down to his feet, and neither of you says a word. The only sound is the water beating down. He can’t stop looking at you.

Dieter’s almost embarrassed at his erection now, throbbing and red and lewd like he can’t control himself long enough to let you take care of him. When you’re finished, though, you flash that sweet little smile that no one else gets to see as you lean down to kiss his thighs.

Alternating back and forth, up, up, up, until you reach his cock. You soap it up, too, washing it and his balls delicately, peeling back his foreskin and scrubbing his head, too. He’s throbbing in your polite hands. He leans his head against the shower wall and breathes, trying to keep it together for you.

He feels you rinse him off with the detachable head, and he readies himself, shaking at this vulnerability aching deep in his chest. It’s his turn to wash you now, and he needs to not be in tears when he does it.

You’re between his legs again, though, quicker than he can move, your lips inches from his throbbing cock.

You look up through your lashes, rubbing your hands up and down his thighs.

“Please?” You ask.

Oh, fuck. He should be a gentleman, he should say no, baby, that’s okay, let me get you first. But you are on your knees, begging to suck his cock, and he’s never claimed to be a gentleman.

“Yeah, baby. Suck on it,” he murmurs.

You waste no time swallowing as much of it as you can, your hand wrapped around the base as he groans loudly. He can’t speak, he’s too busy trying not to come immediately. Your mouth is hot and wet, eager little tongue drawing sloppy circles around his head.

You’re making him crazy.

He watches you through heavy lids, all the things he wants to do to you flashing before his eyes. All the things he wants you to do to him. Your arm slides between your legs and you whine, cupping your pussy and grinding your clit into your palm.

“Desperate little thing,” he hisses. “Grinding against your hand while you suck my cock? Yeah? You like sucking cock that much? Or just mine?”

He’s taking a risk, talking to you like this. You might hate it, but you’ll tell him if you do.

You just whine around him, the vibrations from your throat almost sending him over the edge.

“Better be careful,” he says, pushing his luck. “You’ll come before me. And then what, baby?”

You pull off of him with a pop, squeezing the base of him with mischief in your eyes. “Then I’d just make myself come again, I guess,” you tease. “Could just stop here. Could just leave you all unsatisfied.”

You play so dirty.

“No,” he whines. “I wanna—please let me come, too. Mouth feels so fucking good, baby, perfect little mouth.”

“Mm. Then behave,” your murmur, diving back down so suddenly he thrusts his hips up. You don’t seem to mind, if the long moan that comes from you is anything to go by.

“I will, I’ll behave, yes ma’am,” he says, thrusting slightly into your mouth and squeezing his eyes shut. “Not gonna last long. Fuck, sorry, I’m not gonna last—”

His words just spur you on, head bobbing up and down like you cannot get enough of his cock. He tries to warn you again before he comes, but you don’t seem to care. He bursts inside of you, trying like hell to keep his hips still, whining your name over and over. You suck him down, every last drop, soothing him as he comes back down.

“Good boy,” you murmur. “Good boy. Did so good, baby.”

He revels in the praise, rolling around in it as his heart rate returns to normal. “Thank you,” he says, holding your face in his hands after he helps you up.

He needs to do something, needs to repay you, make you feel good, too, but you rebuff him very gently as he tries to push you toward the bedroom.

“You don’t need to thank me,” you giggle. “I did that because I wanted to. Not so you’d owe me.”

His mouth parts, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s not sure what to do with that.

“You can kiss me. And then you have to go get ready,” you say, and there’s that, at least. You’ve wrapped yourself in a robe of his, and the very last thing he wants to do is get ready. He wants to be in bed with you all day. Can’t he just do that?

Fuck.

“Next time,” you promise.

Next time.

Dieter doesn’t ask you to stay on set.

There are too many people on set, and he can’t shield you from anyone that mistakes you for a production assistant and treats you accordingly.

“You can stay in my dressing room,” he says. He insists. “I’ll let you know when I need you.”

“You don’t have to give me special treatment, Dee,” you protest, but he knows you like it. He can see the ghost of a smirk on your lips as you tell him not to worry about you. “I’ve worked on movie sets before, you know. Got talked down to and everything.”

“I know that.”

You pinch his cheek. “You’re sweet, you know.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

Despite your polite protests, you disappear into his dressing room and stay there, showing up only when he summons you. He wonders if anyone notices the way you look at him, all bashful when he stands a little too close. Other than that, you’re the picture of professionalism.

The only time he sees you really falter is when they call for a closed set. He squeezes your arm, one thumb rubbing up and down in what he hopes is some kind of reassurance. It’s been a week since Kristopher told him to be honest and tell you what he really wants, but he’s barely had time to breathe. By the end of the day all he wants is to listen to you talk.

It’s less complicated for now, at least.

Dieter’s worked with Nova Skye twice now. Once for an indie movie and once fifteen years ago for the pilot episode of a police procedural that didn’t get picked up, thank God. She starred in more than one early 2000s teen comedies as characters that were ugly until the glasses came off.

“It was the dark hair,” she’d told him once. “If I’d been blonde I would’ve just been pretty, glasses or no glasses.”

You’re shy around her. Easily flustered, smiling at your feet. He has a sneaking suspicion you think she’s pretty, too.

Dieter tries not to entertain any kind of inappropriate thoughts about the two of you, especially while Nova’s straddling him in front of ten other people, including an intimacy coordinator that looks ready to chew him out if given half a chance.

But now he’s gone and fucked himself over.

All he can see when he squeezes his eyes shut is her head between your legs.

They fly open when he feels himself harden—that soft cup is doing fuck all. The director yells to cut; to stay where they are while she watches it back.

Nova grins down at him. “You okay?” She asks.

“Sorry,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut again.

“You’re not the first scene partner who’s gotten a boner underneath me,” she shrugs. “And it’s not like you’re being a perv with your girlfriend down the hall.”

His heart jumps in his chest.

“She’s not—”

“She’s not? Does she know that?” Nova asks conversationally, stretching her arms above her head.

He could tell her it’s none of her business, but what’s the point?

“It’s just a casual thing,” he sighs, breathing deep and willing his dick to behave.

“So you’re just screwing around with your assistant?”

“What? No! It’s not like that. It’s just not official.”

Nova nods absentmindedly, gazing around the set.

“Can’t believe they’re making us do reshoots this time of year,” she complains. “I’ve barely recovered from Christmas.”

“Yeah,” he says, just happy she’s moved to a different topic. “Sucks.”

“You two have plans tomorrow night?” She asks. For a moment, Dieter entertains a very wild, very hot vision of him pleasuring you both until you’re in tears, which brings his erection back in full force.

Shit.

“No. I mean, I don’t think so,” he says, clearing his throat and hoping she doesn’t notice. “Why?”

“I’m having a get together. Was gonna cancel it when I had to come in for this, but I couldn’t get my deposit back on catering.”

“Cheap ass,” he teases, but she just rolls her eyes.

“You in or not?”

He’d avoided these kinds of things for a while now, mostly to keep away from hard drugs and, more importantly, the people who could sell him hard drugs. Not that it was particularly difficult to get anything he might want—he could probably get cocaine from a production assistant if he asked around enough—but there were certain people who always had anything he could possibly want on hand, and he’d slept with a lot of them. 

Too many of them.

He’d let a lot of them treat him like shit, too. 

The last thing he wants is to run into anyone who could pull him back into that spiral. But he has you now, doesn’t he? He can ask you to go. 

It’d be good for both of you. And he could—what do the kids call it? Soft launch? If you wanted that. 

“What kind of get together?” He asks. 

“Dinner and cocktails, then whatever.”

He clicks his tongue against his teeth. It doesn’t sound like a bad time.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll be there.”

“All right, you two!” the director calls. “Let’s get back to it. From behind this time—the shot, Bravo,” he adds, as though Dieter was going to say something inappropriate.

He certainly isn’t now.

He finds you in his dressing room a few minutes after he shoots you a text that they’re done, intent on asking you on the closest thing to a date so far. But there you are, back turned, bent over as you rifle through your bag. Your ass in the air erases any other thoughts.

It would be a surprise to some, he thinks, how long it’s been since he really couldn’t keep his hands off of someone. And the last time he wanted someone like this was a different feeling altogether. He knows this is different because he’d be happy just sliding his hands up and down your belly, squeezing your breasts and touching you for hours and hours, neglecting his cock until it’s a rigid, aching mess.

Even after your generous gift in the shower this morning, he just wants to give.

“Ready?” You ask, stuffing the last of your belongings in your bag. “I think you have a therapy appointment in like twenty minutes so we better get you out of here. I can’t believe you didn’t wanna cancel, you always cut it so close, Dieter, I don’t know how you’re not freaking out all the time.”

“Me either,” he says. Kristopher’ll get paid either way, so Dieter’s not too worried about making it to his appointment. He’s more interested in getting his hands on you. You tense a little as he wraps his arms around your waist, relaxing when he presses his lips to your neck and sucks lightly, drawing the most beautiful moan from your lips.

“Dee,” you sigh, but you make no moves to push him away.

“Been such a sweet girl for me today,” he murmurs, pushing past that door you’d opened when you’d gotten on your knees for him and begged to suck his cock. He likes letting you boss him around as much as anything else, but you melt right into his hands when he takes control, too. Your breathing picks up, shaky as he nibbles your earlobe. “You deserve something nice, don’t you?”

One very interesting thing about you, in Dieter’s opinion, is the way your body responds to his touch, soft putty the moment he puts his hands on you. He wouldn’t mind taking time—that’s one of his favorite parts, getting someone all worked up—but it takes nothing.

He’s not used to it, but he likes it. It makes him feel powerful, like you’ve just been waiting patiently for him to give you relief all this time.

“Let me touch you,” he whispers, as if his hands aren’t already roaming your body. You nod fervently, head tossed back onto his shoulder as he reaches into your pants, toying with your damp panties. “How long have you been all wet for me, baby?”

“Uh, all—all—”

You’re squirming against him and he’s light-headed with some primal need to fuck as many fingers as he can into you. “All day?” he teases, and you let out a louder moan.

“Shhh,” he says, sliding his free hand over your mouth. “Quiet for me. Those pretty noises are all mine, aren’t they?”

You nod, wide-eyed, mouth falling open against his palm as he finds your stiff clit. It’s torturous how fucking wet you are. All his patience is being tested as he slides two fingers inside of you and you whimper.

“Dee,” you whine, muffled behind his hand, and that’s testing it, too.

“Fuck me,” he mutters. “Let’s see if I can make you come all over my fuckin’ hand.”

Your eyes roll up, clenching suddenly. He watches your face, feels the way your body shakes—already? Oh, you must have been suffering, you poor, sweet little thing.

“Look at that,” he marvels as he holds you up on trembling legs. He does make you come all over his hand, slick coating him to his wrist while he holds you up like a ragdoll. “That’s it. Perfect. Fucking perfect.”

You look at him with glassy eyes and a sweet smile when you come back down. “Hi,” you whisper, all shy again. “Sorry.”

“Don’t you dare apologize. I think that’s a personal fucking record,” he says, maneuvering the both of you to a plush armchair and spreading you out on his lap. He presses his fingers back into you because he’s not done yet, dammit, and every time he brushes them over your g-spot, you let out that sweet little whimper again. “This feel good?”

He knows it does; he just wants to hear you say it.

“Yeah,” you sigh, biting your lip like you’d wanted to say something else but thought better of it.

“What?” He asks, still stroking you. He can feel your body tensing up again, but he doesn’t know if you realize it yet.

“Just…it’s comforting? It’s stupid,” you giggle. It’s making him fucking hard, how bashful you are.

“Not stupid,” he says. “That’s not an unusual thing, you know? Sexual pleasure as a comfort thing. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I…yeah, I guess there’s not. I just never know what someone might think about it.”

“You thought I’d judge you? Me?” He’s still touching you, his thumb moving up to rub your clit.

“I-ah—I don’t know—people are so—fuck—so weird sometimes. It helps when I’m—oh, God—stressed out.”

“Mmhmm,” he murmurs. He should not be so cavalier in this dressing room, probably, but he’s learning something new and secret and your eyes keep rolling into the back of your head. “So you play with yourself a lot when you’re stressed out?”

“Jesus, Dieter—”

“Answer me,” he says, rubbing faster. “I’m just curious.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay, yeah, I—I—touch myself more when I’m stressed. It helps-ah, fuck, fuck, Dieter, I’m—”

“I know,” he says. “Come on, baby, let me feel it again. Gonna feel so good. Melt all that stress away.”

He’s gonna come his own fucking pants if he’s not careful. You come harder this time, squeezing him and panting, all sweaty with effort as you whimper his name over and over. This time he does pull his fingers from you, heart aching at the little whine you let out.

He kisses your lips, then presses his slick-coated fingers into your mouth, and you suck them right in. “You’re so fucking dirty,” he smiles. “I like that a lot.”

He pulls his fingers from your mouth with a pop.

“I know,” you say, kissing him again before you try to stand up. He resists the urge to hold you against him; to absorb you fully into his skin and keep you with him everywhere.

What would happen, if he told you that?

“You’re definitely late now,” you say, back to business. “Should we reschedule?”

Something about “reschedule” jogs his memory.

“Fuck! Uh, sure, but I wanted to ask you something. Got distracted.”

“Clearly,” you grin, leaning against the vanity he’d used to prop you up. It’s taking everything in him not to fuck you right there. “What’s up?”

He’s so nervous now. Why’s he so damn nervous?

“Well, see, Nova’s having a party tomorrow night and—”

“I don’t think you have anything on your schedule,” you say, half-listening as you pull your iPad out. He grabs your wrist to stop you.

“No, I meant—do you want to come with me? She invited us both. It’s like a dinner party type thing.”

You furrow your brow. “Are there other assistants going or…”

“No,” he says. “You’d be, like, my date.”

It shouldn’t feel like such a big deal, asking you on a date after he’d had his fingers inside of you, but it does. He can see the wheels turning as you shift from one foot to another.

“Is that…do you want that?” you ask.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t,” he laughs.

You give him some inscrutable look, taking a deep breath as you think, like you’re deciding the fate of the universe.

“Okay,” you say. “That sounds good.”

“Amazing. Great! Starts at eight.” You scrunch your nose up at the time, peeking again at his calendar like you can’t help yourself. 

“Okay, you’re good for that. But I should reschedule Kristopher.”

“Mmhmm. You’re not feeling stressed about the party are you?” he teases. “Because I know—”

“Let’s go, Bravo.” You throw your bag over your shoulder, and he follows you with a grin stretched wide across his face.

Dieter has never been really good at dinner parties. He prefers the freedom to move on from a dull conversation. At a table he’s at the mercy of whoever decides to sit near him.

Thank God you came with him.

The only thing he’d change about this seating arrangement would be to put you across the table from him, and that’s only because he’d be less obvious looking at you.

You’re always beautiful, but you’d dug out some little cocktail dress and heels that accentuates all your curves. It’s nice to see you all dressed up, all confident and flirtatious.

He introduces you as his friend, and he pretends not to notice the hitch in your breath when he does. It’s not the time to discuss any of it, so he just squeezes your hand and interlocks his fingers with yours.

Dieter leans over and plants a soft kiss on your cheek. “You look pretty,” he says, and you kick him under the table.

“Shut up,” you murmur back, but he knows what you mean.

“No,” he says.

You seem to enjoy yourself, talking animatedly to a woman Dieter recognizes from one of those fantasy shows on HBO. He can’t remember her namE.

Most of the people here are Nova’s co-stars from The Experiment, of which Dieter has not seen a single episode. You have, though. “It’s fine,” you’d said, and then launched into a long-winded explanation as to why you didn’t mind its more fantastical elements, but you did mind the scientific inaccuracies when it came to real science.

You have a million opinions about everything, and he wants to know each and every one.

Nova brings out her phone for her Instagram, and you excuse yourself to the bathroom before he can protest.

“Do you want me to wait for her to come back?” Nova asks.

“No,” he sighs. “She’s…you know.”

Nova nods. “It’s hard sometimes.”

That’s an understatement, he thinks.

There are more drinks after dinner, but Dieter frowns at the food pushed around on your plate. 

You come back from the bathroom and let him pull you into his chest, one arm wrapped around your waist and a kiss pressed to your lips. You giggle against his mouth, and he loves that sound. He fucking loves that sound.

“I’m gonna go make the rounds, yeah? You okay, or do you wanna come?”

You look around the room, your expression faltering for a split second. “I can entertain myself. You go have fun.”

It’s mostly about networking, if he’s honest. If you meet Brad Pitt at someone’s party (which he had) and Brad owns the company producing the movie you really, really want to be in (which Brad did), then Brad can tell the casting director to keep you in mind for the lead (which he had). And that’s how Dieter ended up working with Meryl Streep.

He has to work a little harder than everyone else, too, after making himself a reputation of being so difficult.

What he really misses is partying like this for no reason at all. No work, no birthday, no event or whatever. Just to do it. There’s something very human about gathering to enjoy each other’s company. It’s a shame he can’t do it on a regular basis without ruining the lives of everyone around him.

Maybe that’s why he’d jumped at Nova’s invitation. She’s not a woman who tolerates too much bullshit, and definitely wouldn’t be cool with some of the stuff he used to let happen at his place.

Dieter intends to keep you in his line of sight, even if you told him not to worry about it. 

He can’t stop looking at you, though. He has to admit, deep down, he’s a little disappointed you didn’t offer to join him. You’re pretty and sweet, and you’d make him look good. He grimaces. You’d hate that.

“Entertaining yourself” appears to mean sitting in a corner with a drink in your hand and people watching with a blank expression. You cannot possibly be enjoying yourself.

He checks in every now and then, and you wave him off with a smile, assuring him you’re having a good time, but you look so bored.

Was it a bad idea, bringing you here? Do you hate this part of him?

He hates this part of him sometimes.  

“Your girl’s quiet,” Nova observes, and he winces. It only makes his spiraling thoughts worsen because he doesn’t know how to answer that. Why had you come with him?

“She’s just…yeah, she’s shy,” he says, trying to dislodge this heavy discomfort in his chest.

It’s not as if you’re acting any differently than you normally do.

Shit. He thought you’d act differently. Don’t you know how important all this is? Even when it’s just this little private party, there are still impressions to make.

Dieter throws back a shot of something bitter and makes his way toward you, determined to see you having a good time.

“Hi,” you say brightly. “How’s the socializing?”

“Why don’t you come find out?” he asks, tugging on your hand.

“Oh, uh—sure. Okay.” The uncertainty in your voice is the last thing he wants to hear.

Just say yes, he thinks.

“Do you just want to go?” he asks abruptly, even though he doesn’t want you to go at all.

“What? No! No, I’m totally good—”

“You sure? Because you look like you’re having a really bad time,” he says.

“Oh, no, I’m not,” you say, shaking your head. “I was just talking to—um, I think his name is Evan? He was nice. And I was just having this drink the bartender made, see, it’s purple? I really like it. It has lavender sprigs.”

You sip it delicately and hold up the glass, like it’s incontrovertible evidence.

“Could you at least act like you’re having fun, then?”

It just comes out.

It’s the wrong thing to say. Hurt flashes in your eyes, replaced quickly with that hard, unflinching glare you reserve for when he’s being unreasonable.

He expects you to yell at him, but you don’t. You press your lips into a thin line and turn, setting the little lavender drink down as you disappear down a hallway.

Before he can concern himself with what anyone else might think, he follows you at a brisk pace until he finds you closing the door to the bathroom at the end of the hall.

You should’ve eaten more. You should’ve eaten before you got here, really, but thinking about explaining to Dieter why you need to eat before a dinner party was nauseating. And so was everything served tonight, it turned out.

You’d taken one look at that beautiful plate of food and known that if you tried to eat more than a few bites you’d have been gagging and embarrassing your date, and that was the very last thing you’d wanted to do. So you’d just pushed the food around and hoped for the best, and then you’d embarrassed him, anyway.

Probably even more after stomping off to the bathroom.

This was a bad idea. Maybe you should’ve just let him come alone, or with someone else who’s better at this stuff. You really thought you’d been more animated than you normally are, even if the idea of talking to someone you don’t know well mortified you.

This isn’t fair.

You sniffle, dabbing your eyes with tissues to keep your mascara in place. You’d talk to that guy—Evan, that one—and sipped your drink and even swayed some to the music and tried to smile as much as you could. You’d tried to act normal.

It’s never really enough.

But that’s your fault, you remind yourself. You’d let yourself get way too comfortable with Dieter and had, you think, assumed he’d forgive any social awkwardness. Because he likes you.

Sometimes.

Not right now, you guess.

You can’t decide if you’re angry or sad or disappointed, but you should probably just collect yourself in here and go as quietly as you can. And then maybe you can talk to him tomorrow, when you’re not so pissed off.

Or maybe you just ignore him forever.

Could you at least act like you’re having fun, then?

How exactly are you supposed to act? He hadn’t given you any instructions. You’d been having a good time.

You really, really had.  

There’s a knock on the door. “Just a—”

“Pix, baby, open up,” Dieter calls.

Oh, fuck him.  

“Go away, Dieter. I’m peeing.”

“No you’re not,” he argues. “You wouldn’t talk to me if you were.”

You almost laugh. Of all the things for him to notice.

Dieter has a habit of talking to you through bathroom doors, no matter how often you threaten to quit when he does it.

You fling the door open, nostrils flared. “How do you know that?”

“You won’t talk to me if you’re actually peeing, and you pee loud, too,” he says, pushing his way in. He knows way too much about your bathroom habits.

“I pee loud—”

“Listen,” he starts, but you don’t really want to listen. If he’s gonna come in here before you’re ready to talk civilly, then he’ll have to listen to what you have to say first.  

“I was having fun,” you snap. “I was having fun, and you didn’t believe me because I wasn’t doing it the way you wanted me to.”

He doesn’t answer you, just clenches his jaw and nods.

“Right?” You ask. “I was being too much of a weird girl in the corner, and you wanted me to be…I don’t know, Nova fucking Skye. I didn’t realize coming to this party came with terms and conditions, and that’s on me, I guess.”

“That’s not—”

“That’s exactly it. Just say it.”

The least he can do is tell the truth.

He gives an uncomfortable nod of his head, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Fine. Yes, okay? I thought you’d act differently.”

If you thought the admission would make it hurt less, you were wrong. It’s better than being lied to, though. At least he respects you enough to tell the truth.

You draw your shoulders back and put your hands on your hips—something about this superhero pose makes you feel sturdy and less likely to fall apart. He’s inching toward you, but you’re not interested in his comfort right now. “Thank you for being honest. Can you please go away now?”

He stops, shoulders slumping. “Okay. Just…don’t leave without telling me, okay? Please?”

“Who said I was leaving?” You ask, miffed that he’d figured out your plan.

“Because you run,” he murmurs. “Just let me know if you do.”

You slide your tongue across your teeth and exhale as you consider his request.

“Fine,” you sigh. “Now get out.”

Leaving you alone is physically painful. He wants to stay and explain himself. He wants to make sure you’re okay; he wants to talk about this; he wants to kiss away all those little tears sparkling in your eyes. He wants, he wants, he wants.

You want space.

He doesn’t understand it, but Kristopher has reminded him over and over that he doesn’t necessarily need to understand boundaries—he just has to respect them, even when there’s a spoiled toddler kicking and screaming to get his way.

Especially then.  

But he really wants to make sure you know you aren’t the weird girl in the corner. He wasn’t trying to make you perform. He just wanted to make sure you were having a good time.

Right?

The more he stews on it, though, the more he worries you’re right. He’d wanted you to act differently—how is that not performing?

How is this all not just one big performance?

Dieter chews his lip and digs out the vape that you’ll chew him out over for bringing. Or you would’ve—you’ve never been this upset with him, not even after that whole thing with your friend. Even then, you were just…sad.

Have you ever really gotten mad at him?

“Dieter Bravo!”

That deep, smarmy baritone is the last voice he wants to hear. Behind him he finds a man he hasn’t laid eyes on in at least two years, and he’d meant to keep it that way. He hadn’t been at dinner—he certainly hadn’t expected Talon to just show up.

And it’s not like he can even blame the hostess—Nova can’t know every single one of Dieter’s post-divorce spiral mistakes. Talon is one of those people that makes Dieter avoid these things in the first place.

Talon is still as tall and broad as he’s ever been, blonde and green-eyed, his smile somehow even toothier than before and unnaturally white for the amount of heroin he’d watched him shoot into his veins.

“Talon,” Dieter says, glaring over the top of his glasses. He doesn’t want to deal with this right now, but Talon never gave a shit about anyone else’s personal comfort. He just saunters into Dieter’s space and infects the air with too much cologne. “What do you want?”

Dieter almost regrets saying it out loud. He doesn’t really want to escalate anything, not with you here and not with dozens of other people in the same room, but he’s already on edge.

Talon frowns. “That’s not very nice. I’m just being cordial, you know. We haven’t seen each other in ages.”

“Almost like there’s a reason for that.” Dieter puffs a cloud of vapor in Talon’s face. Aloof, nonchalant, he doesn’t give a shit about the man in front of him. His heart is not pounding in his ribcage, his neck is not burning red hot, his brain is not screaming for him to run, run, run.

This man is too fucking close.

Talon doesn’t take the hint. Dieter freezes as the other man’s hand falls to his waist and squeezes, and bile rises to the back of his throat. He wants to be angry, wants to lash out, wants to scream so loud it hurts his throat.

He wants, he wants, he wants.

“I got some good shit, baby,” Talon murmurs. “Come on.”

Some wretched creature buried deep in Dieter’s subconscious crawls from its cave and sniffs the air.

What kind of good shit? Do we have to go far?

His breathing quickens, and Talon’s eyes turn cruel with satisfaction. He presses his hand to Dieter’s face and smiles. Dieter doesn’t want any of this, he just can’t make his fucking feet move.

In his peripheral, your pretty high heels come into view, and his heart crashes through the marble floors to the earth below. You’re going to think he came out here just to find someone else while you were in the next room, already angry with him.

He knows what it looks like, he knows his own reputation—this is all happening too fast. He’s going to lose you and everything he was too afraid of having, his chest is caving in, lungs closing up, you’re going to leave him here and he’s going to give in to whatever Talon has because he’s too weak—

“Are you okay, Dee?”

Your voice rings out like a bell, clear and loud and breaking through this fog. He jerks his face from Talon’s hand and backs into a bookshelf, almost losing his balance. You reach and grab his arm, hand closing over his bicep in a vice grip.

“Huh?” He asks.

“I asked if you’re okay,” you repeat, pulling on his arm and ignoring Talon’s existence completely. He won’t like that. “We should go. You’ve had a long day.”

“And who are—”

“I’m his assistant, and you need to back off,” you snarl. You are not polite, you don’t even throw him a placating smile. You just draw yourself up to your full height and glare as you corral Dieter, who shuffles past Talon, but not before he gets that cruel gleam in his eye again. Talon is a fan of finding insecurities and exploiting them.

“I see those rumors were true,” he says, eyeing you up and down. His passive aggression would be effective on the right person.

You are not the right person.

Dieter opens his mouth to tell him to fuck off, but you squeeze his arm as you turn to Talon and stare at him.

You say nothing at all; you just wait in the uncomfortable silence that follows. You make them all sit in it.

“Whatever,” Talon says, finally walking away. You roll your eyes, pulling Dieter toward the door.

“Hang on,” you say, parking him next to the coat rack and making a beeline toward Nova. He watches you smile and tell her something, nodding happily and then accepting a hug. Nova waves at him from across the room as you make your back to him, and he waves back.

“What was that?” he asks.

“Just told her you had a headache and we were leaving and thanked her for inviting us. Come on, let’s get you home.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest as you call for a car.

“They’ll be here in a few minutes,” you say. “You okay?”

Dieter shrugs. He has no idea if he’s okay. He’s feeling a little lost.

It’s quiet in the car.

You tap your fingers on your thigh, biting your lip as you look out the window.

“Why’d you do that? What was that?” He asks. “I’m not upset,” he adds quickly when you freeze and you avert your gaze like you do when you think you’re in trouble. You give him a slow nod.

“That guy was being a freak,” you clarify. “And you looked scared.”

He doesn’t admit it, but he was scared. Even more so now. “But you’re mad at me. I was an asshole. Why’d you do that?”

You furrow your brow, like you can’t believe he’d ask that question. “Just because I’m mad at you doesn’t mean I would leave you to that guy. I still care about you, dummy. Who was that?"

"A mistake," he says. You don't press him. His hand finds its way to yours. It’s soft and warm and his chest loosens when you let him hold it. “You’re still mad?”

You look back out of the window to watch the city lights from the hillside. “Not as much, anymore. We should probably still talk.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I should…I need to tell you something.”

You squeeze his hand. “I need to tell you something, too.”

Maybe you should have just let him handle it.

It’s just that he’d looked like he was afraid for his life. You couldn’t just let that man, whoever that was, get away with whatever he’d been trying to do.

But now you don’t know what Dieter wants to talk about. Your hand is cradled in his, his big thumb rubbing your palm back and forth as you type in the door code. You don’t know if he’s trying to comfort you or himself or both, but you wish you could be closer to him.

“You look really pretty,” he says.

You should hope so. This dress is suffocating you.

“Thank you,” you say. “So do you.”

As if he doesn’t always.

The dark, cavernous living room is even more ominous than usual. You let him pull you upstairs after you kick off your shoes, happy to be in his room in his bed that smells like him.

“So are we talking about?” You ask before he can distract you with the way he’s running his hand up and down your hip, sliding his fingers under the hem of your dress.

You’re still mad at him, after all.

“I was stupid,” he says, and you rein in the part of you that wants to comfort him and deny that and tell him he didn’t do anything wrong, it was all you.

“You’re not stupid,” you say instead, because he isn’t. “But I don’t really understand why you were so worried about what everyone thought of me. It’s not like I’m your girlfriend. Or your anything, really. Not that—I know what we said. Just like, why would what I do reflect on you?”

“You think you’re not my anything?” he asks. It’s easy to forget just how soft-hearted he really is, but when his voice cracks and his eyes grow wide and shimmery, you remember with vicious clarity.

“Well, you said. You said ‘casual’ and so I thought this was just, like, whatever to you,” you say. “So that’s why I’m confused. Why do you care about how the girl you’re just fooling around with makes you look?”

Dieter presses a lingering kiss against your forehead.  

“I should have told you this weeks ago. I shouldn’t have used that word. I don’t want you to be the girl I’m fooling around with,” he admits. “I want this to be something real.”

You give him a sad smile. “I want that, too. But I don’t think that’s a very good idea if you need me to be someone I’m not when we’re around other people. Like, I understand you have appearances to uphold and all that, but I’m not really the person you’d want for that. I’m bad at being someone else. Even when I’m trying you can see right through it and I embarrass you. Like tonight.”

“No. No, you didn’t—hey,” he says, curling his finger under your chin and making you look at him. His eyes are so beautiful it hurts. “No. You did not embarrass me. Holy shit, I’m so sorry for making you think that. I don’t want you to be someone else. I’m just an asshole. I know I’m not making a very good case for myself here.”

You laugh because he is not.

But you understand what he means.

“So?” He asks. “Do you want to try this, like, for real?”

You do.

Fuck, you really do.

But now it’s your turn to talk and you have to figure out what to say. You have to tell him, right? Like, he has to know. He has to know what he’s getting himself into.

Some people think it’s a big deal, no matter how well you fit into society. Some people think not saying something is like lying.

It isn’t like you’d expect him to take care of you or anything. You don’t expect anyone to take care of you. You learned how to manage all of this all on your own a long time ago. Well enough that you can manage him, too.

But what if he cares?

What if he cares a lot? What if he looks at you differently?

It’s all very dramatic, and it’s stupid. He knows you’re weird. He’s seen you do weird stuff. Now there’s just a reason for it. Why should it change?

You’ve been quiet for too long.

“Baby?” he whispers.

Just get it over with.

“I’m autistic,” you blurt out.

He doesn’t take his hand from your face, but he frowns. “Okay?”

“I mean…I just…yeah,” you say feebly. “I thought you’d want to know in case it changed anything.”

“Why would that change anything?”

This is not the reaction you’d been preparing yourself for. “It does for some people. You know what that is, right?” You’re suddenly seized by the fear that he has never even heard of any of this, or worse, he’s an anti-vaxxer, or worse—

“I know what it is,” he says defensively. “I read.”

You narrow your eyes at him.

“I used to be friends with Elon Musk,” he admits.

“Gross,” you say.

“You’re a lot hotter than him,” he says, leaning down to kiss your neck.

“Wait, so that’s it? That’s all you got?”

Dieter shrugs. “I mean, it clarifies some shit. I just don’t think it’s a big deal. I’m bisexual, is that a problem?”

“Really?” you tease. “Shocking.” 

He laughs and pinches the meat of your thigh. “So now what?”

“Are you my boyfriend? Aren’t you too old to be someone’s boyfriend?”

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be,” he says, sealing his lips to yours. “Hey.”

“Hm?”

“Do you wanna have sex with me?”