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godslush · 4 years ago

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Appending some stuff to Slash Girl’s info, but not really expecting anyone to read it because ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I just want it somewhere accessible to me that doesn’t involve logging into Google Docs or Dreamwidth.

DWN.054β - Slash Girl

Purpose - High-speed recon, wide-range intel/target acquisition and mapping. Dinosaur army support tracker and assistant spearhead combat robot.

Personality

Tactically quite smart

Good at noticing small changes in the environment, making her an excellent tracker.

Puts a lot of effort into hunting; extremely task oriented. A ‘hunt’ could be of the physical sort, but also extends to recon/’research’ or even menial retrieval errands.

On all other accounts, somewhere between dumb lizard and idiot bird

Hunt-motivated, but quite lazy otherwise. Spends a lot of off-time sun basking.

Has good eyesight, but difficulty with glass. Can (and frequently does) walk into glass doors if they are well-kept, lacking decals, and not automated (and will still run into automated doors while overclocked due to internalizing their opening speed while not overclocked).

Arbitrarily territorial and over-protective. High likelihood to hyperfixate.

Acts like a badass, actually very easily startled.

Due to quirks in her heating system (see below*), the quickest way to increase her internal temperature without overclocking is to imbibe blisteringly hot liquid, which has given her a reputation for being a coffee addict (as it is her most frequent blisteringly hot liquid of choice).

Given reptilian similarities and shared functions as recon bots, Slash Girl fondly considers Snake Man to be an old uncle.

Skills

High sprint speed and powerful jumping capability.

Strong senses, capable of monitoring and transmitting multiple forms of data (visual, audio, thermal, etc.) at high speeds.

Melee attacks are primarily kicks. In a game environment, this would entail:

A fast ground slide, similar to Mega Man’s, but damaging.

A three-hit standing kick (high, middle, and low)

A front-flip into a one-foot ground slam, utilizing the brake-boosters in her shins.

‘Signature’ moves involve arm-feathers:

A forward slash similar to the Slash Claw, with no shockwave.

A rapid, top-like spinning attack utilizing the brake-boosters in her arms.

May get ‘dizzy’; she can visually handle straight-shot high speeds, but her gyroscopes aren’t calibrated to handle something like this.

A three-way spread projectile. Feathers stick to terrain to form temporary hazards.

Can raise her feathers as a shield to block projectiles, but cannot obliterate them.

Other

Some ‘basic’ comprehension processing and databanks were removed to make room for the sheer amount of high-speed data she has to gather and transmit, rendering her effectively illiterate. She can still understand and speak multiple languages, but she has no databank for any written language, on the assumption that she is transmitting all visual data she collects to somebody who can.

This is fixed before she is activated in the 21XX timeline, since she is no longer needed for mapping and recon. Were she to be activated in the 20XX timeline, however, this quirk would still stand.

About a head taller than her brother, and much more heavily built.

Due to her design emphasis on distance speed, she’s built to take g-forces and to absorb the impact of sudden stops, making her surprisingly tough and sturdy for a high-speed recon bot.

Although her sprinting top-speed is higher than her brother’s she is far less nimble at close quarters.

Frequently overestimates her ability to brake; crashes are not uncommon. She even has foot spurs, and brake-boosters in her shins and arms, and she still manages to screw this up because she tends to use those more for augmenting her attacks than remembering what they’re actually for. If she used them properly, this would not be a problem. But it is.

Using her brake-boosters to augment her attacks causes unnecessary jarring wear on her joints and internals, as they were not built with that functionality in mind (they can take sudden, massive single impacts from braking, constant heavy pressure from g-forces, and rapid low-pressure joint movement and minor impacts from running fast in the first place, but repeated large impacts in a short time frame can cause compound problems). It also depletes her energy much quicker.

Higher base jump, but unable to grip and scale walls.

Shares her brother’s sensitivity to cold but with lesser severity. Completely lacks his milder vulnerability to high heat*. However, her circuitry and other components tuned for maximum efficiency at dangerously high speeds are strongly susceptible to electric-based attacks.

* Both Slash Man and Slash Girl have unique internal properties due to their high-speed functions. Since neither manipulates time to move quickly like some other speed-based Wily Numbers, both require extremely wear-resistant joints and other internals.

To get around this, both are augmented with a unique, waxy jelly with a stark heat gradient; at room temperature, it is fairly rigid and almost sticky, to allow for internal support, but at higher temperatures, it turns into a high-efficiency joint lubricant. If either robot’s core temperatures are brought too low, the jelly quickly coagulates and locks up where it shouldn’t. Directed electrical currents allow the jelly to resist thermodynamic equilibrium, so the jelly is only affected close to the heat source, allowing the material to support multiple physical states within the same compartment.

Slash Man, being an earlier model, gets around this by constantly overclocking and running hot 100% of the time, explaining why he’s… Like That. But it also means he wears out the jelly (and other internals) at a much higher rate, requiring more frequent replacement/repair. He also contains more of the jelly supporting and cushioning internal components, so high ambient heat or direct heat-based weaponry weakens structural stability overall, giving him his two-pronged temperature weakness.

Slash Girl, by contrast, has most of the jelly compartmentalized to high-wear moving parts only, and an internal toggle for her overclock to get things moving, which she leaves off when she has no important tasks, making her sluggish and lazy most of the time. Finding sources of heat to warm herself up allows her to function meaningfully when she’s not clocked up, but it usually takes a while to raise her core temperatures to a point where it can affect the pertinent portions of the jelly.

To speed up her heating process, she can drink blisteringly hot liquids... such as overheated fast-food coffee. This has given her a bit of a reputation as a caffeine-junkie, though only the thermal heat is of value to her. Dousing her internals with coffee also has a downside of causing more problems than good, so despite her requiring less maintenance than her brother in theory, she finds herself needing repairs just as frequently.

The material itself is fairly versatile for other purposes, and for a while was used as an incubation medium for certain types of robots (especially reptilian), as well as a diagnostic suspension due to its unique properties at very specific temperatures, though heated microfilaments spread through the entire medium is required to keep it at a uniform temperature given its usual resistance to equilibrium. Over time, most of its general functions were phased out in favor of less finicky substances.

It is the same goop that Slash Man throws capsules of as a means of subduing prey, since it is found in ample supply at Robosaur Park given its other uses.

#fancharacter #mega man #slash man #headcanon #dai's mega man dump #DWN.054βスラッシュガール

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whataperfectwasteoftime · 3 years ago

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Okay. Okay. Okay.

I'm totally fine.

Just kidding! Not okay at all. In re-reading this for a MUCH deserved unhinged screaming reblog, I am, yet again, not okay.

The second paragraph makes me NEED to stare into space for a while because yeah, this is exactly it. This is The Mood:

You curl around it, in corners of rooms and ends of hallways, cramped coffee shops and dirty subway trains. One hand spreading the pages wide, the other scratching down the world that opens up around you; all of it, inches and feet and miles, stretching out for you to pick and pull apart, everything everything everything available for your busy mind and quick tongue. Line by line, word by word, you scribble away, furious and fast, anxiety riddling each stroke of your pen, terrified that if you don’t get the idea down fast enough it will slip away, out into the air, never to be captured again.

I wish I was cool enough to carry a notebook. Instead, I have google docs on my phone and I'm constantly pulling it out to type something in. If I had a notebook, I'd look like ~an artist~ but in reality I look like I'm addicted to my phone. But UGH!!! GOD!!! This is going to be one of those lines I think about over and over and over again. This is going to pop into my head YEARS from now when I've moved to some other hyperfixation or some other fandom and I'm going to wake up some morning and think about "Line by line, word by word, you scribble away, furious and fast, anxiety riddling each stroke of your pen, terrified that if you don’t get the idea down fast enough it will slip away, out into the air, never to be captured again. "

Ma'am.

You looked around you, around the life you were living so far, and you laughed. Finally. Finally, finally, you were in on it, the joke, and it felt so easy to laugh at yourself. Not with.

GOD, I love her. I said at the beginning of this story that I do not relate to being a comedian AT ALL but I understand all of her feelings SO WELL and they make me want to curl up in a corner for a while.

This whole thing is so fucking poetic that I don't even know what to say about it. It's gorgeous. I wish I could write like this.

I love that Dieter is just making himself at home and going through all her kitchen cabinets and making them a snack and then DOING HER DISHES, what an absolutely INSANE gremlin of a man.

The FUCKING BLOW JOB. That's all I have to say about that.

His hands cradle your cheeks, so similar to that tender way he held you days ago, and you wish again and again that this could be more than either of you would let yourselves have.

I AM COMPROMISED.

These two circling around each other the next day, my beloved. Her feelings are so STRONG and it HURTS.

HE WANTS TO SEE HER STANDUP ROUTINE HELP

He's gonna skip out on the last hour or two of rehearsals to go see it, isn't he?? *QUEUE SOBBING*

Funny Girl - Friday

Series Summary: You've been busting your butt day in and day out to get your comedy career off the ground. Crappy writing jobs, late night stand-up gigs, and tending bar on the side to make ends meet. Landing the job as a staff writer at Saturday Night Live was the best next step for your career. So what happens two years in, when you come face to face with the show's next host, Dieter Bravo, a man you've mocked relentlessly for almost the entire length of your career?

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader Chapter Summary: Friday is a pure rehearsal day. Pretaped sketches are rehearsed and taped first on Friday, and may take up until 4pm until the live sketches are rehearsed. WC: 8.1K Warnings: 18+ MDNI Kissing, oral sex (male and female receiving), anal play, vaginal sex, intercrural sex, dirty talk, FEELINGS. Tension, cursing, bratty behavior, drinking, drug use, yearning, allusions to m/f and m/m sexual relations and slight angst. Possibly OOC Dieter, definitely playing fast and loose with the production of SNL, but I'm doing my best with the help of Fandom.com

Masterlist Series Masterlist Thursday > Saturday

Lovers, very special people They're the luckiest people in the world - People [Funny Girl]

Friday, 1:33 AM – 47-50 Sts Rockefeller Ctr Station - Subway Platform

You keep a notebook with you wherever you go. It has a sturdy cover, black and white marble, that takes you back to a time when everything was simple, everything was funny. Inside are pages and pages of blank paper, empty lines waiting for your crooked handwriting to chase away the vacancy. The spine is thick, durable, the perfect curve to fit your fingers where you clutch the little book to your chest, secrets kept as close to your heart as you know how.

The contents changed from year to year, growing with you as you moved from one point of your life to another. Pages covered in doodles of characters you had created in your head, then shifting to little stories, half-formed worlds you would spread from one corner to the other. As you grew up, the stories changed again, make-believe and fairy tales shifting into real-life, a mirror image of your heart scrawled across the lines. One supportive teacher called it journaling, another called it therapeutic. Your dad teased around the word diary, your mom brought you home a bright pink one with a cheap plastic lock glued to the cover.

You ignored them all. Drowned them all out with the click of a button, the hum of a television, the sound of a laugh track.

And then you started making jokes.

Long ones. Short ones. Some that were light and joyful, others dark and honest. Your stories were pulled in, your characters painted in a new light, your real-life twisted into quips that filled you with wave after wave of catharsis. You took the maidens from fairy tales and made them sarcastic and brave and so very bored with the lives they were destined to live. You mirrored their stories to the housewives on tv, the actresses in movies- the Lucy’s and the Fanny’s and the Donna’s. A different kind of fairytale. Still damsels, still in distress, and you knew you wanted more.

You looked around you, around the life you were living so far, and you laughed. Finally. Finally, finally, you were in on it, the joke, and it felt so easy to laugh at yourself. Not with.

You hold a notebook now, just as close as you always do, fingers stitched along the worn edges, standing side by side with Dieter Bravo, waiting patiently for the subway train that will take you both back to Brooklyn. He fills the space beside you, broad and overwhelming, taking up too much room next you. Taking up too much room inside your head, your heart.

You clutch the notebook even closer to your chest, arms shaking from the force of it. Somehow you’re convinced he can see the strokes of your pencil through the closed cover; that if he turns his head away from the train tracks and over to you that he will see where you’ve scribbled his name over and over again, hearts and stars scratched into the margins.

Dieter Bravo. Dieter Bravo. Bravo, Dieter Bravo.

He is a tattoo. A cadence drawn across page after page. Pencil marks written and erased and filled back in with this feeling that you can’t explain. It was the very same yearning you were terrified to speak aloud, unsure how to say the words that would let him know the inner workings of your mind. You don’t know how to let him know, haven’t been able to do more than stare at him and snip sharp retorts in his direction. Even when he asked, quietly, so sweetly, for you to share something small with him, you gave in drips, little drops of a confession that you knew was less than he deserved.

You tried last night. The haze of tequila had been thin at best, and you remember clearly finding your way into his lap with a racing heart and your tongue caught between your teeth. You had wanted to tell him something about the way you felt, something concrete that could confirm to him that he wasn’t one-sided in this blistering affection. It wasn’t love- it couldn’t be, shouldn’t be- so maybe it was like? You liked him, really, and you wanted to tell him so.

But then-

He touched you.

Skilled hands, firm but so very gentle, pulled you forward as his knee pushed up, a shock of white blasting across your vision for one bright second as he teased your mind into a corner. His lips, plush and whiskey sweet asking you about jokes and word play, and before you could stop yourself, you were showing him pages and pages of yourself. Your body trembled even as he gave you the leeway of the upper hand, and you took what you could while Dieter never asked for anything in return. After you had floated back down, head on his chest, you wanted to try again. You ached for it, something like a confession clanging behind your teeth, but then you opened your mouth around the kiss he had just left there, and your precious words failed you.

You clutch the notebook close again - practically fuse it to your body - and sneak another glance sideways. His hands are buried in the pockets of his jeans, the bright yellow t-shirt he’s wearing clashing horribly with his cardigan (one you’re pretty sure he liberated from the costume department) but somehow he makes it all work, sunglasses and wild curls making him seem more like typical New Yorker and less like Academy Award winning actor. It was bizarre and endearing and it made you itch, fingers longing to wrap around the crook of his elbow. It’s a compulsion you can’t ignore, but there’s already too much intimacy swirling around as you wait quietly for the A train that will take the two of you to your small Brooklyn apartment, and you aren’t sure your heart can take so much so late in the game.

You weren’t surprised when Dieter offered to take you back to his hotel room- you think you heard he was staying at the Ritz. Probably some sort of outlandish hearsay- but when you made the suggestion of your place he seemed almost giddy, nodding enthusiastically before dragging you off to his dressing room to collect his wallet, sunglasses, and that same paperback, folded and shoved into his back pocket. You manage to read the title this time, your lips moving before your brain can catch up to the thought.

“Poetry?”

He slipped the glasses up the hook of his nose, a wry smile marking up the corners of his lips. “I like poetry. Insert your joke of choice here.”

You bumped your shoulder into his with a shake of your head. “I don’t think I have one.”

His smile grew just a little bit wider.

There was a moment of hesitation, small and very much expected, where he stepped up to the curb to hail a taxi and you kept walking in the direction of the stairs that led down into the subway station. But one quick jab at his ego later and he was rolling his eyes and gnashing his teeth at the air before turning in your direction.

You half-expected to have to show him the particulars of public transit, but he surprised you one more time, pulling his own metro card from his wallet and guiding you through the turnstiles and towards the platform to wait for your train with the practiced confidence of a native. You sort of hated how it made your heart flutter. This man of privilege, someone with an assistant and a second assistant and a slew of fabulous things filling up a fantastical life that you couldn’t even picture with clarity, sliding through the motions of your own small corner of the universe like a duck through water. It made you wonder what different set of circumstances could have brought you together and if it would have resulted in something more…permanent.

The thought alone is enough to snap your eyes into a roll.

You take a breath, a quick one, ready to, at the very least, ask him why he carries a metro card when he’s only in town for the week but the rush of the train can be heard in the distance and you let the breath go just as quick. You have plenty of time, you remind yourself as you step onto the train.

The night still feels young.

—

Brooklyn wasn’t your first choice. Or your second. It was your third, actually, just above living in a cardboard box outside the studio. It’s no secret New York is expensive, rent notwithstanding, and what you save living 25 minutes away from the studio more than makes up for itself in actual food in your fridge and the ability to maintain your stand-up gig. You had regularly been missing your 1am slot due to bartending jobs that helped make ends meet for your downtown shoebox. Now thanks to your Brooklyn shoebox, comedy can be your number one priority.

You open the door with a grunt and a twist of your key, kicking at the bottom left corner of the door twice until you hear it pop free from the frame. You walk in, Dieter on your heels, and make yourself busy, slipping off your coat and shoes, tossing your keys and notebook onto the small bookshelf just on the inside of the door, its lopsided shelf stacked neatly with VHS tapes and DVD cases of all the broken laughs that make up you who you are. It’s a strange sort of intimacy, a caricature of a feeling you don’t know how to explain, letting this vexing man inside your home. You stop your fidgeting, fingers stilling where they’re wrapped around your coat, and turn back towards your front door.

Dieter regards you from where he stands in your doorway, seemingly too large for your too small apartment, your too small life, taking up every inch of space that he can without even trying. You feel even smaller somehow, like you’re suddenly nothing and he is everything. Everything he says he is, everything he wants to be, and when the world asks, he is everything they need too. It all seems so daunting- unfair and uncomfortable- and you have to remind yourself one more time that when this week is over, you don’t get to keep him.

The thought is more than enough to push you forward, one, two, three steps, your voice calling his attention away from the walls of your home and onto you, just enough warning before you wrap those same fingers into the edges of that hideous sweater, your intentions more than clear. You can smell the clove from the cigarettes he chain smoked between the subway station and your building, cursing about purity culture and no smoking sections. In the span of a single breath you’ll be able to taste that smell, except-

His hands are on your shoulders, a gentle pressure that keeps that small width of distance between you. His sunglasses rest on the bridge of his nose, and with a wink of his eye he’s stepping around you and fully inside. You stare after him, sputtering like a fish locked on land, unable to get your feet to move towards the man making himself very much at home in your kitchen.

Just past the pillar of cracked drywall that attempts to break up your apartment into two separate rooms you can see him, opening your cabinets, one after the next, humming under his breath as he searches for…

“What are you looking for?”

Your feet seemed to have finally gotten the cue, carrying you back into his orbit just as he produces two matching glasses, bright yellow smiley faces, chipped and faded, gawking up at you. Dieter has moved on, turning in the direction of your fridge, the sweep of his eyes casting over the hastily filled in calendar taped to the front, black dry-erase markings outlining call times and set schedules.

“You have a stand-up set Friday night?”

One half of your lip curls into a frown of disbelief. What is this guy on? “More like Saturday morning.”

He glances over at you, tsking beneath his breath before throwing open your freezer, the door banging into the wall as he somehow fits the entire width of his shoulders inside the small cavity, digging towards the back. He mutters something that sounds like Spanish under his breath until finally a sound similar to triumph sneaks around the vibrant thread of his cardigan.

“You are a tequila girl!”

You think (hope) this is the end of his little escapades, watching with poorly veiled confusion as he grins down at the frozen bottle of liquor. But Dieter goes one step further, moving on to your fridge, producing a lime, a jar of salsa (with a more than questionable expiration date on it) and finally, a bag of chips that you left sitting listlessly on top of your fridge.

He’s a tornado of movement, pouring two glasses of tequila and quartering the lime with a butter knife plucked from your dish rack, and then he’s gathering everything up and ushering you out of the kitchen and into the main living space. The chips and salsa find a home on your coffee table, and one smiley face glass and a lime wedge are offered out to you with a sweet smile.

You accept the drink with a tilt of your head, waiting for an explanation. Dieter doesn’t give one, instead kicking back his own glass and following it with a lime wedge, showing little decorum as he sucks at the sour fruit. The sound combined with the bite of his lips around the rind is enough to run your entire mouth dry, your legs shaking at what still could become of this night, and without thinking you swallow your own shot, forgoing your own lime and instead moving in to nip at his bottom lip.

But he’s gone again, throwing himself down on to the lumpy folds of your futon, grinning up at

you and motioning to the icy bottle of tequila, trails of condensation cutting through the frost.

“Another?”

“I…uh…no...”

“Yeah, tastes like shit anyway.”

He stands and goes back into your kitchen, not so much dodging your hands as you reach out to stop him, but twirling around you, the two of you almost dancing in the small confines of your home, one hand on your waist, the other gently curved to the shape of your shoulder. You want to lean into his touch but his warmth is gone just as fast as it came, and in the blink of an eye he’s standing in front of your sink, washing out his glass and yours.

How had you missed the brush of his fingers?

A flash of anger burns across your vision, spurred on by the very apparent lack of tension, but it’s fleeting and soon you’re holding back a sigh of laughter. You lean back on your heels and watch him finish the rest of the dirty dishes in your sink, taking the time to scrub at a glued on piece of cheese, the tip of his fingernail scratching it free from the plate before he rinses the last of the grime away. It’s strangely intimate, so similar to the two of you trading confessions last night and so different from the furious pleasure you took from the heat of his thigh.

He’s humming under his breath, a familiar tune that you think you could almost place if he would give you a word or two. It’s hard to tell if he’s teasing you or torturing you, all the tet-a-tete passed between the two of you gumming up the works and clogging your system. It’s enough to push another bubble of laughter up your throat, but you manage to swallow it down and call his name instead.

“Dieter?”

He smiles down at his hands, slowly and methodically drying them with one too many paper towels. “Yes, Funny Girl?”

You step in close to him, close enough to smell the cloves and tequila and lime, licking away the almost memory for your lips, steadying your nerves before you speak. You reach out two fingers, willing them not to shake as you press them gently to the pulse point of his left wrist, refusing to pull away until he turns his smoky brown eyes back on you.

“Why haven’t you asked to fuck me yet?”

You aren’t sure what you’re expecting. A lengthy explanation riddled with metaphors masquerading as insults that are hiding compliments? Or maybe a joke, biting and tough, just enough to push you back to arm’s length? Or maybe something genuine, words that will stutter your breath and quicken your pulse. But you don’t need an answer. Not really. It was never about the answer.

It wasn't really even about the question.

The tick of time seems to come to a halt, dark brown watching you over the rim of sunglasses, not at all appropriate but still so attractive. You lick your lips and tilt your head, waiting. He follows suit, licking his lips and huffing out a sigh, the word shit breathed in kind. You’re almost wondering if you’ll be waiting forever when finally it’s his kiss that finds you, lips hungry and desperate. His tongue slips to the back of your throat, damp hands cradling your face as he backs you out of the kitchen, socked feet stumbling across the carpet.

You kiss back, fingers curling into the wool of his cardigan, impossibly soft between your finger tips. You pull him in closer, the pads of your fingers searching for the phantom itch of wool, but all you feel is Dieter. Between your hands, on your lips, at the tip of your tongue. He is everywhere and it still isn’t enough, layers of fabric still keeping you apart. You push the offending sweater down and his arms, exposing tan forearms that you can’t help but touch as you go, fingers lingering on black ink marked across his skin.

The trail of clothes grows, each piece that hits the floor matching your footsteps as Dieter moves you down the dark hallway. Your apartment is small, the distance to your bed barely enough to pull off shirts, your kiss breaking just long enough for fabric to pull up and over, his sunglasses flying away in the fray, and then you crash back together, breath stuttering into between the press of lips. Dieter’s hands make quick work, large and warm and holding you close, a nimble twist of thumb and forefinger freeing the clasp of your bra.

The straps slip down the curve of your shoulder, the flimsy fabric crushed between the push of Dieter’s chest against your own, and you know when he moves to step away, it will fall down to reveal the planes of your body to his hungry eyes. You want it, crave it, the heat of his gaze already burning behind closed eyes, the plush of lips still carving out a place on your own. His tongue dips inside your mouth, just long enough to taste before he’s pulling a breath away, brown eyes blinking open with a call of your name.

“You’re sure?”

He asks for consent with a mixture of hope and disbelief, his busy fingers stilling where they rest between the knots of your spine. It’s another piece of his puzzle popping into the place, the reflection of Dieter Bravo that much clearer, the brown of his eyes honey sweet as he waits patiently for your answer. You can’t help but tease, jumping to laughter the easiest bridge across to him in this moment, biting at your lip and rolling your hips as you pretend to consider your options. A whine falls out of him as you brush up against his erection, and you delight in the power even as you take pity on him.

Slowly, one more kiss given before you go, you sink to your knees, holding tight to Dieter’s gaze as you do. Your bra slips further down, exposing your chest to the open air, a quiet fuck letting you know he likes what he sees.

It isn’t until you have his jeans unbuttoned and tugged down past his knees, his cock hard and leaking just out of reach, do you answer his question, a breathy yes whispered before you swallow him down.

He whines louder, hips thrusting forward until the tip of him hits at the back of your throat. Your mouth fills almost instantly with saliva, the salt-tinged velvet of his skin tasting better than you could ever have imagined. Gently he cups the back of your head, holding you in place, his hard length resting heavy on your tongue. You hum around him, feeling your panties dampen as your own need increases. Your fingers tangle in the mess of his jeans where they’re still trapped around his calves, casting your eyes up to meet his hungry eyes.

“Shit…Funny Girl…”

You hum again, sliding off of him with a slick pop, staying close enough to let the tip of him rest on your lips as you talk. He doesn’t let go of you, fingers petting from your temple back again and again as he gasps around his pleasure. You kiss sweetly at the head of his cock, smiling at the drop of precum that sticks to your lips.

“Tell me what you like, Bravo.”

He groans again, the sound falling in tandem with the bob of your head as you suck him back between your lips. Your pace is steady, slow enough to allow yourself time to trace the ridges of him with the tip of your tongue, the dig of carpet beneath your knees enough pain to even out the arousal burning between your legs. You briefly consider trying to wiggle out of your own pants so you can feel the burn better but Dieter’s strangled voice pulls your attention back up.

“F-fuck…fuck me, Funny Girl. Please…”

Just in case there’s any confusion, he blindly gropes down, somehow finding your hand and pulling up and around him, the small swell of his ass meeting your palm. You moan around his cock, losing your momentum briefly at the thought of pulling this man apart in more ways than one. You pull off his cock one more time, sitting back on your heels and watching him carefully as you suck two fingers between your lips. It’s all together too alluring, watching Dieter Bravo quiver above you, your own fingers fucking between your lips, and suddenly it’s too much, too fast, too soon, and you’re pressing the palm of your other hand between your legs.

“Don’t tease me…p-please,” Dieter’s voice stuck somewhere between a whine and a laugh, the sound meeting your own sprinkle of laughter.

You release your fingers with a grin, letting them trail around the meat of his thigh. “So needy. Are you always like this?”

“Only when a perfect pair of lips is centimeters from my dick, you fucking braaaa-”

Your lips are stretched around him yet again, and the press of your finger against his entrance seems to be enough to cut his taunting sneer at the knees. You swirl your tongue around the tip of him before sucking down to the base, letting your breathing even out as you circle again and again around his asshole. Finally, his little whines growing louder by the second, you press inside him, tight heat squeezing your finger.

It’s filthy, utterly so, your finger pumping in and out of his ass as you suck his cock from tip to base, spit dripping down your chin to the hollow of your throat. You grind helplessly into the heel of your palm, the pressure barely enough to quell the fire gaining strength in your core, and you can’t fight the sob that breaks out around Dieter’s cock, your body desperate for some sort of relief. He doesn’t seem to be faring much better, fingers trembling where he tries not to hold too tight at the back of your skull. You want to beg him to give in to the urge, to hold you too tight and fuck your mouth, but your brain has gone fuzzy from too much and not enough all at once.

You manage to slip one more finger inside him, something like a scream ripping out of him from the stretch you’ve forced him into, and suddenly he’s pulling away from you, your mouth and his ass equally empty. There’s a scramble, the last of clothes pulled off, his lips finding every inch of skin that he can, large hands cupping your breasts, fingers digging into the flesh as his teeth scrape your budding nipples.

“Too good at that, Funny Girl… fuck… I was gonna fucking come right down that pretty little throat.”

“W-wanted you to,” you grunt in reply, his busy fingers moving on, yanking your jeans and panties off in one smooth tug.

He growls in response, dropping to his knees and shoving your thighs wide enough to hurt. “Can’t say shit like that.”

He doesn’t move after that, simply sits back, eyes glued to your soaked center, and you feel yourself grow even wetter from his ridiculous scrutiny. You can’t even bring yourself to be embarrassed, too anxious to know what it’s like to have him splitting up inside you. You try to thrust your hips up, a piss poor attempt that he stops with the press of his palms, your legs somehow stretching even wider.

“Fuck! Dieter!”

The shoe is on the other foot now, and you can’t say you blame him for taking his time, but it doesn’t stop you from trying to reach down, managing to swipe your fingers once, then twice, around your clit before he bats it away. It was barely anything, just enough to tease a sob from your lips, the ache inside you growing louder by the second.

“Needy thing,” he growls, pinching the meat of your thigh, followed by a soft press of his lips. “Think I’m not going to take care of you?”

You can’t even answer, the roar between your ears too loud to ignore. You settle for a pitiful mewl, your body writhing in a helpless heap, fingers clawing at the sheets below. Dieter seems to agree that you’ve had enough of the joke, his lips keeping close to your skin, making a sweet and steady trail lower and lower until his lips are pressed directly over your clit.

It’s heaven. His mouth is heaven.

You refuse to admit to hyperbole in this moment. No. You know now. No take backs. No regrets. You want to die with Dieter Bravo’s tongue inside you.

At first there is no method to his movements. He is sloppy at best, lapping at your folds again and again, up and down and side to side, slurping up the taste of you and making a dramatic show of swallowing it down. The scratch of his beard burns at the inside of your thighs, and you clench at the idea that you’ll still feel it there when morning comes. He nips his teeth and drags his tongue, and sucks your clit between his lips hard enough for your vision to snap in bursts of bright white.

All too soon you feel that perfect bloom of release building at the back of your spine, your hips thrusting down to grind against his face.

“Die…Dieter, I’m close…shit-fuck, I…”

His efforts double at your garbled cries, the turn of his tongue along your clit picking up a steady rhythm. He circles it over and over, his hands curving along the slope of your thighs, pulling your face so close that he’s practically drowning in you. His own groans are muffled, the taste of you filling up his mouth as your orgasm crashes into you. You sob his name, fingers fisting his curls, tugging him somehow even closer to the flutter of your soaked folds. You hold him there until it’s too much, your voice distant and pale, begging him to fuck you.

“Shhhh, of course I’m gonna fuck you. You asked me so nicely,” he promises, ignoring your whines of discomfort, the pad of his thumb still circling your swollen clit. “Just tell me where the condoms are.”

A sting of jealousy cuts through the tremors of your pleasure, the reality of his question enough of a reminder that this is not something to forget or get used to. Dieter Bravo is not yours alone; his lips, his hands, his cock, have been buried deep inside others. The intern, the PA, baristas, and actresses and actors and all the others who are far more deserving of his time. They’ve known his touch and you aren’t sure the thin layer of latex is enough to protect you from this harshest of truths.

He calls your name, whispers it reverently and you would bristle at the comfort of it if it weren’t for the way his thumb dips lower, grazing inside you, pulling the answer from you easily.

“Drawer. B-by the bed.”

You close your eyes, your hand coming up to block out the remaining glow of the streetlights, ignoring the sound of the drawer opening, focusing instead of the little waves of arousal still slippingaround you, hums of interest mingling with the shifting of the goodies inside the drawer. It isn’t long before the familiar sound of torn tinfoil hits your ears, Dieter’s lips finding your ear with a kiss and a lick.

“Wish we had more time, sweet girl. You have an interesting collection.”

The thought alone sends shivers through your body, all manner of image presenting a delicious and delicate wish inside your heart. It’s enough, just enough, to distract you from ugly realism, the tip of Dieter’s cock pressing inside of you. You clench around him, the stretch almost too much with only one orgasm to ease the way. A soft shush is breathed into your temple, urging you to relax.

“I know, I know,” he mutters, nose pressed to your cheek, his breaths coming faster with each inch he pushes inside you. “I feel it too.”

It isn’t until his hips are flush with yours, filling you up with the whole entire length of his cock, that you realize you’re holding your breath. His teeth scrape just below your ear, voice stuck between begging and thanking you, strangled in the press of your bodies.

“Feel so good, Funny Girl. Fuck, you feel so good.”

You nod helplessly, fingers scrambling to dig into his shoulders, feverish eyes seeking his for some sort of relief. You find it in the whiskey brown blowing black with arousal, and without hesitation you pull him into a kiss, a messy press of lips that says more than you’re will to speak. His hands cradle your cheeks, so similar to that tender way he held you days ago, and you wish again and again that this could be more than either of you would let yourselves have.

When the kiss breaks, he keeps close to you, lips close enough for you to taste his breath, his hips snapping hard and fast, finding that spot deep inside of you almost immediately. You’re lost after that, clinging, desperate and needy and stubborn, holding on as Dieter pumps inside you. It’s fire and ice burning deep, flames licking cold up your spine, and you can only whine as he fucks into you deeper and deeper still. His voice growling into the curve of your neck, reminding you how this all started.

“Been thinking about this since I saw you, since that….shit, since that very f-first joke…fuck….Funny Girl, my….I….”

You gasp as he pushes inside of you, the pet name dragging out of him again and again.

“Funny Girl. Funny Girl.”

You swear you can almost hear the word he won’t let himself say.

My Funny Girl.

You chant back to him, only able to urge him on, your legs wrapped around his waist, your nails digging into his back, your cries of pleasure urging him on and on, closer to the edge of release. There’s a rush of blood screaming in your head. Louder with every thrust of his hips, the sound so loud that it drowns out the city swirling just outside your bedroom window, and you don’t even miss it, happy to live the rest of your days with only the sound of slapping skin and breathy sighs gasping towards an orgasm.

“Close…again…Dieter-“

His moves faster, nonsense pouring out of him, promises and wishes and teasing laughs melting into your skin. You toss your head back, his teeth sinking into your neck as you urge him to move inside you as hard as he can. It’s unstoppable, loud and bright and too funny, this man above you, inside you, and your bite back, teeth marking into his skin as your orgasm burns inside you.

Sobs of relief echo in your ear, the full weight of Dieter crushing down on top of you, his hips grinding against your own, his own release screaming out of him. He’s heavy on your chest, still thrusting into you in soft, shallow waves, dragging you through the last of your orgasm. Cloves and weed and something sweet clog your senses and you wrap your arms and legs around him, holding him tight, willing yourself to memorize the feeling.

Somewhere in the distance you can hear his voice, smokey and sated, pulling you back to the present.

“So good. So good, Funny Girl. Fuck…I…come back to me. I'm right here.”

There’s a moment of emptiness, the weight of him gone as he slides out of you, pulling off the condom and tossing it in the wastebasket by the bed, the sound of it plopping down between ripped up notes and scribbled out jokes on crumpled pieces of paper. But he’s quick to return, pulling you down and tucking your head beneath his chin, fingers resting in the small of your back.

It’s quiet. Even the city seems to be too tired to talk, the streets below silent for the moment. You want to break it, if only to quell whatever thing this is floating in your chest but Dieter beats you to it, splitting open the quiet darkness.

“I was trying to keep my guard up.”

“Hmmm?”

“It’s why I didn’t hit on you. Not because you’re not… it was… It was me, Funny Girl.”

You think it’s sweet, the way he couches it, tries to take the blame solely on himself, his voice drummed down with impending sleep, your release still drying on his bare skin. As if there’s any modesty left to find between your naked bodies. You let your fingers tickle at his ribs, a giggle spilling out of him in a clumsy sort of way just as you press your lips to the beat of his heart. You can feel it, steady and true beneath your kiss, and you can’t even hate how much you like it. Your eyes are drifting shut but you still catch his question, smoke and shadows caressing at your ear.

“Why did you ask me again?”

You refuse to open your eyes, refuse to move away from his heart, even as you set your own out on the ledge, precariously exposed and beating, all for him to take.

“I was trying to let my guard down.”

—

You are distracted. Horribly, perfectly, uncomfortably distracted.

You can’t seem to string together a single thought, not a one, or at least one outside the realm of one person in particular.

Dieter Bravo.

There isn’t a move he makes that doesn’t leave your mouth dry and your ankles twisted. You watch him in rehearsals- from the other side of the room, the far corner of the stage, a seat at the back of the audience- and with every wink of his eye and each lick of his lips, you feel more helpless. Your hands curl into fists, palms sweaty and nails biting at your palm, sweat beads at your temple despite the chill of the studio wrapped around you. Your legs clench around the phantom push of his hips, and more than once you consider excusing yourself to somewhere more private to alleviate the persistent ache the older man left inside you.

He’s in front of a camera now, ever the consummate professional as he and Pete record…something…

The specifics escape you.

He’s stretching his neck, twisting it just enough to let everyone see the bite mark- your bite mark- on his neck. The make-up artist should have covered it. She probably did, you think with your own wry grimace, but you’re certain Dieter wiped that specific spot clean the second he got out of the chair. The thought fills you with equal parts pride and humiliation, remembering with a rush of heat how good it felt to sink your teeth into his skin and the way he keened, his gasp of pleasure high and bright.

His hair is still a mess, sticking out and up, carrying the telltale sign of your fingers running through the curls. You wish you could do the same now, and you have to shake away the wish to tug at his hairline again. As if he can feel your eyes on him, he reaches up and tugs at the curls himself, pulling out a memory from last night where you mirrored that exact movement, and your pulse quickens with little warning.

He’s flirting, intentionally, and you hate how well it’s working all of a sudden. Has it only been five days? Five days. It’s been five days since Dieter Bravo sauntered into the office of Lorne Michaels, fucking crocs and a pierced ear, his jaw ticking left than right as he gave you a look that bordered on scathing and you had promised yourself, swore to the grim new york skyline, that that was as far as it would go. You knew who he was, knew without even thinking about it.

You knew that he was pure hollywood; coated in drugs and sex and the shameless way men got to exist in show business, consequences only coming for those unlucky enough to get caught. You knew he had more notches than belt at this point and you knew he was only here to cash in on his moment.

You knew.

Or…

You thought?

Assumed?

Were wrong?

It had been the small touches of shock and surprise that struck the deepest. A pile of them snowballing since Monday morning, each new nugget of information filling in more of Dieter Bravo’s cracks than you thought possible. Fears. Insecurities. Needs and wants and hopes and dreams. He liked Kit Kats and whiskey and hummed while he washed dishes. He carried a book of poetry with him, the margins dotted in doodles and words, the scratch of his handwriting mixing perfectly with printed text. He had a broken childhood that fed into the life of a man who was looking for something that he couldn’t put into words of his own, so he borrowed them from others and shared them with the world.

Last night had been expected and unexpected in such similar ways. It was almost too funny, a Greek tragedy playing out inside the walls of your apartment as the two of you ran in circles, perpetually late for whatever disaster was headed your way. He had felt like ecstasy, pure bliss all twisted up inside your stomach as his hands mapped out the planes of your body, and you were sure if you breathed in just deep enough, that feeling would sneak up your chest and wrap around your heart, knocking all sense of reality from its rightful place. But still you couldn’t let him go, your head finding the beat of his heart as sleep pulled you both down onto the mattress.

And in the morning, the sun just barely starting to break through the filmy haze of your blinds, Dieter had taken away another opportunity for you to be right. You had expected him to be gone. Planned on it. (Maybe even hoped for it).

But it was just one more assumption caving in and away as the arm wrapped around you pulled you closer to his chest, his lips pressing soft kisses of praise into your shoulder, the hard length of his cock slipping between your thighs. You remember the way he groaned in your ear, teeth nipping at the thin cartilage as he fucked between your legs, begging you to let him make you come one more time.

Your yes had been strangled, breathy and broken from the way the tip of his cock nudged into your clit, still swollen from the night before. It had been an early morning mess after that, his fingers sucked between his lips before finding their way between your legs, matching the pace set by his hips. The pressure was constant, rubbing and pushing and scraping at your soaked folds, his cock still fucking mercillessly between your thighs. Lips and teeth and little words of encouragement met in the middle as the two of you raced forward, your orgasms spilling across your skin, painting you in milky white and bitter sweet.

When you finally found your breath, heartbeats even and legs steady enough to stand, the clock was ticking dangerously close to Dieter’s call time for rehearsals. There had only been enough time to brush your teeth (Dieter plucking your toothbrush from your hand, pressing a smacking kiss to your cheek and reminding you his cock had been inside your mouth less than 5 hours prior) and slip on clean clothes. His grin had been a little too cocky, eyes dark and lips parted as he watched you tug a pair of jeans up and over the mess he left behind.

You liked that he looked.

He’s still looking. Hours later, rehearsal dragging into the evening, cast mates and writers bickering back and forth over which skits work and which jokes to cut. Through it all you can feel Dieter’s eyes on you, appreciative and kind, his smile jumping between soft and sweet to lecherous and needy. You want to match his energy- try as best you can- pulling your hair back when you think he’s looking, taking the long way around the stage, swinging your hips in an attempt to keep his eyes on you that much longer.

The air feels too tight, seduction clogging the oxygen around you and Dieter as everyone else carries on as if the world still spins in the same direction and every instinct inside your gut is pushed down as deep as your body will allow. You don’t know how to say any of this out loud, how to find the actor and pull him aside and admit to him and yourself that you think you were wrong and you are terrified of what that really means. It sounds too much like a confession, some sort of longing or intimacy that you aren’t sure you even have taking safe harbor in your chest, even as your fingers itch to drop your pen and reach for him.

Around dinner time, Dieter steps away from the group on stage, pulling his phone from his pocket and waving it wildly, eyes flicking to you and away before anyone can even notice you’re still in the room. To anyone else it looks as if he’s signaling he needs to make a phone call.

Maybe he does.

You follow him anyway.

And only jump a little when he pulls you back into the same closet from Tuesday night.

“You take cues well, Funny Girl. Ever think of becoming a cast mate?” He bumps his nose into yours as he teases you, the dark room doing nothing to hide the smile in his voice. You lean in, letting your lips graze his own, your own smile floating out to match.

“I’ll leave that to the professionals.”

There’s a fraction of a second where neither of you say anything, and you can’t help but wonder if there are “not-confessions” lingering on the tip of his tongue the same as you, but it’s short lived, Dieter closing that last bit of space between you in a kiss. It’s soft, a sweet something to sink into, the pair of you taking turns pulling away to trade thoughts on the day so far.

“I hate those pre-taped things. I won’t have to watch them will I?”

“You and Aidy are so funny together.”

“I flipped the last two jokes at the end of my monologue that last time. Did it work?”

“Please tell me you plan on yanking Colin’s tie that hard in the live telecast.”

“How long do rehearsals usually go?”

His last question is chased with a nip to your lips, his hands reaching down to squeeze at your ass, an air of impatience leaking out around his touch. You laugh into his kiss, leaning into his grip, your own hands finding his shoulders, kneading at the knots that weren’t there this morning.

“Usually pretty late. You’ll probably be here until two or three, maybe later. Consider it practice for tomorrow.”

He frowns at your answer, but it feels different than his bored disdain for work from earlier in the week, the lines around his lips more pronounced, his eyes colored with disappointment.

“I was hoping to catch your act.”

That admission does catch you by surprise and you pull back enough to look him in the eye, choking back a swell of unwarranted emotion before it can spill out to join his words.

“No,” you shake your head, letting the lunacy of that idea take over your voice. “You definitely don’t. It’s a last call spot in a shit bar downtown. Plus, you should probably hit at least one party with the cast. Might start getting a different kind of reputation, Bravo.”

He chuckles, but it feels forced, the frown sticking to his cheeks even as you kiss your joke into the cut of his jaw, his stubble tickling away your laugh. Again you’re struck at the shared intimacy you didn’t ask for and aren’t sure what to do with, but luckily Dieter solves the problem for both of you, kissing you one more time before sinking to his knees. His hands find the button of your jeans, popping it free, giving himself the space to press a kiss to where your panties dig into your skin.

“Then I think I need another taste, Funny Girl,” he whispers, nose pressing in and inhaling deep, your thighs shaking with anticipation. He laughs again, this time it’s deep and it’s real, his fingers teasing the zipper down slowly. “Something to help me get through the night.”

—

The clock above your desk reads five minutes to midnight, the second hand tick tick ticking closer to Saturday as you will your body to move. The soundtrack of frustration rings too loud inside your head, your bottom lips worried between your teeth. The taste of yourself and the memory of Dieter’s kiss still sticks to your lips no matter how hard you bite, the acidic burn of copper only making things feel worse.

You grip your hand tighter to your notebook, the very same one where you had penciled in a kiss between the curve of Dieter’s name, your eyes following the click of the clock. It’s four minutes to midnight now, time refusing to slow down, not giving one single shit about your little emotional crisis. The clock doesn’t care about the words scribbled on those white pages or the jokes you don’t know how to tell, and it certainly doesn’t care that you think you’re falling for the one person you swore you wouldn’t.

Couldn’t.

Three minutes.

Two.

You’re surprised.

Somehow shocked that Saturday managed to find you, despite the fact that it does every week. How are you astonished that through the late nights and wild eyes, glasses clinking loud and bright, jokes made for laughs in between kisses made for real, that time kept marching on? It is literally clockwork, arriving just on time, never wavering, steady and steadfast in all of its ability to exist.

Fucking Saturday.

And it will be here in one more minute.

Why are you so surprised?

-------- Masterlist Series Masterlist Thursday > Saturday --------

A/N: Big huge endless thank you to @astroboots and @jazzelsaur who continue to beta read and patiently listen to me rage about pacing and offer continued encouragement as I drop random paragraphs in their laps with little warning. Truly, I don't think this silly story happens without them. I love you both so much!

Also thanks to @write-and-buried who spent this week talking me off the ledge when I was convinced I forgot how to make words do the thing where they sound good. I am so glad we continue to crash into each other's DM's like wild animals. Love you!

#fic rec #dieter bravo #this story is perfect and flawless and pure poetry

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