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Pedro Pascal as DIETER BRAVO in The Bubble (2022)

Oh how it started out so promising 😭😭😭

Ninety-Nine Days- Dieter Bravo x OFC

Main Masterlist | Dieter Bravo Masterlist

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x Unnamed OFC

Summary: Dieter Bravo pays his estranged wife a visit after leaving rehab.

Rating: M for mature MDNI 18+

Word Count: 2481

Warnings: TAGS CONTAIN SPOILERS: drug abuse and addiction, major angst, character death

Author's Note: I literally have no excuse for this. I'm so sorry. I had a thought in the shower and ran with it. shout-out to @pedgito for beta reading and basking in the sadness with me!

graphic made by me!

Dieter steps out of the building into the blistering Arizona heat. He slides his sunglasses onto his face and lights a cigarette. It's a dry heat, they always say. “Dry heat my ass,” Dieter thinks. Humidity doesn't matter when it's a hundred and seventeen. Garbage cans and car headlights are melting to the ground. Ground so hot you can fry an egg on it. 

He blows smoke out of his mouth and nose, thankful this rehab place didn't prohibit them like the last one. Ninety days without his smokes doesn't do anyone any good. A black Escalade pulls up to the curb and Dieter leaves the relative shade of the building overhang and the sun warms his face and neck immediately. The driver exits the SUV and grabs Dieter's rolling suitcase. “Mr. Bravo,” he nods. Dieter grumbles a reply and opens the back door himself, desperate to escape the oppressive heat. 

He slides in and the blast of air from the car's a.c is a blissful relief. His shirt sticks to his skin and the black leather of the seat. He slams the door and rolls the window down, flicking the ash off of his cigarette. James, his publicist, is occupying the other middle row seat. He's tapping furiously on his phone and doesn't even seem to notice Dieter. 

The driver closes the gate and slips into the front seat. “Is the air cool enough, Mr. Bravo?” He asks, meeting Dieter's eyes in the rearview. 

“Yeah, it's fine. Thanks,” Dieter replies. He slips his wired earbuds from his pocket and plugs them into his phone. Lou Reed's voice fills his ears and he lays his head back on the seat and smokes all the way to the airport. 

He and James make small talk on the plane while Dieter's leg shakes with nerves. He's been gone for three months. Did the City of Angels forget about him? Did she? A nearly identical black SUV collects them from LAX. They pass by her neighborhood on the way to his. Dieter looks over even though her house isn't visible from the main road. James places a hand on his shoulder, startling him. 

“You can't see her, you know.” Dieter nods in agreement but doesn't say anything. He knows he can't see her. But the thing about being rich and famous is that Dieter can do anything he wants. He shouldn't, though. It wouldn't be good for either of them. She's probably been home for a week or two. The rehab she went to was in Maine, but she was able to go before Dieter could get away. He had to wrap up filming, and neither the studio nor his people were willing to put it off for three months. Wonder what they would have done if I died? 

James rattles off a laundry list of obligations Dieter has to fulfill. Promotional interviews for the film, a meeting with a filmmaker who wants Dee to be the lead in his new movie, even a podcast. All Dee really wants to do is crawl into his bed and never come out. Not unless she's there to drag him out. Dieter doesn't listen too intently, his assistant handles his schedule, after all. He just goes where he's told. Wears what he's told. Stands where he's told. Says what he's told. 

He's got three Oscars in a case at his too-big house that let him, and everyone else, know that he's made it. He doesn't need to do this shit anymore. He's got more money than he knows what to do with, even with the alimony payments to two ex-wives. Soon to be three. He could just quit. Sell his Sherman Oaks mansion and move into her modest two-story suburban house. The house he bought for her when she moved out over a year ago. The same house he overdosed on the floor of three months ago. The memory of the bitter taste of activated charcoal fills his mouth. It wasn't his first rodeo with overdoing it. It likely wouldn't be his last.

“Did she sign the papers?” He asks James. James doesn't answer right away and that tells Dieter everything he needs to know. She's the one who left. Why won't she sign the fucking papers? He knows why, though. The same reason the first thing he wanted to do the second his plane touched down was rush over to her house. They might not be good for each other, but they love each other. Love isn't enough anymore , she had told him. But she still won't sign the divorce papers. She still won't let him go. Dieter doesn't want to let go. Toxic, the kids call it.  

“I'll have the lawyer send them again,” he tells him. Dieter thanks the driver and waves to James. Finally, he's home. 

He enters his house and it is finally quiet. He hasn't had many moments alone in the last three months. There were doctors and nurses first. Then there were police and reporters and James and his agent. More doctors and roommates. Other junkies. Every fucking person in the whole state of California. Every person except the one he wanted to see. He lugs his suitcase up to his room and drops it on the floor. He begins stipping his clothing away, dropping it on the floor while walking to the bathroom. The walk in shower has a digital display that controls everything from an exact water temperature down to the lights. Dieter punches the button for his saved specifics and turns to the mirror while he waits for the water to heat. 

He hardly recognizes the man looking back at him. His body looks much healthier than it did before he went in. His skin has returned to a normal color after months of being pale and clammy. He's softer around the middle he notices with a sharp poke into his gut. The bags under his eyes are gone and his once hollow cheeks have filled out. The wonders of three meals a day, he supposes. The mirror begins to fog and Dieter runs his hand through his messy curls before opening the glass door and stepping into the shower. 

He goes through his routine pretty quickly. Shampoo twice and let the conditioner sit for five minutes. Gives his natural curls a fluffy appearance. He soaps his body thoroughly, eager to wash the medicinal smell of the rehab center and the sweat from himself. Once he's finished, he plants one hand on the wall and curls the fingers of the other around his cock. He gives himself a few tugs and tries to work himself up. Just like every other time over the last three months, nothing happens. Not even a twitch. 

“Fuck!” He shouts, smacking his open hand against the tile. A sharp pain radiates up to his wrist and pisses him off even more. He hasn't come once in ninety days. Ninety-nine actually. He was hoping it was just the lack of privacy. Clearly, that wasn't the issue. He yanks the door open and shoves his finger onto the button on the shower control panel, shutting it off. 

The entire time he’s getting dressed, the whole time he’s sifting through papers on his desk, he tells himself that it's just business. He just wants to get the papers signed, get this chapter of his book closed. He knows it isn’t true, not even that deep in his mind. But that’s what he needs to tell himself. He knows how fucked up it is to go over there, to go see her. To drag her back into his shit. Ninety-nine days without the sound of her laugh, the feel of her fingers running through his hair. Ninety-nine days without the sound of her moaning in his ear or the velvet of her cunt wrapped around his cock. 

He curses himself as he gets in his car. He sticks the keys into the ignition but hesitates before turning the engine over. He hits the button that opens the gate to his property and every second it takes to open is another second he has to question his decision. He hits every red light along the way, which he oughta take as a sign. A sign to turn around, go home and forget this stupid ass idea. But he doesn’t. 

His car idles at the curb, and Dieter stares at his hands on the wheel. This is a bad idea, he tells himself. Probably the worst idea he’s ever had. She’s probably fine without him. Piecing her life together. A life that doesn’t include Dieter. “Fuck it,” he says aloud, turning off the car. “She’s my fucking wife.” He’s not ready to give up on her, on them. He grabs the envelope from the passenger seat and slams the door behind him. The grass is a little overgrown and starting to yellow in the late July heat. When he gets to the door he raises his hand, takes a deep breath and knocks. When the door opens, Dieter quickly realizes he had it all wrong. This is why James didn’t want him to come over here. 

“Hey, Dee,” She says and Dieter’s eyes widen in shock. It’s clear that whatever she’s been up to, she didn’t spend the last three months in rehab. Since it wasn’t a court ordered stay, there was nothing stopping her from leaving any time she wanted. Since they already had Dieter’s money whether she stayed or not, they weren’t very bothered when she left. Especially when they filled that bed with someone else’s money. 

“Hey, baby.” Dieter takes in her disheveled appearance. Her eyes are bloodshot and sunken in. She’s wearing a ratty old band tee of Dieter’s, The Replacements, and it hangs off her too slim frame. There are scars from old tracks in the crooks of her elbows. Fresh ones run alongside them. “Can I come in?” She opens the door all the way and steps to the side. Dieter walks into the house and is struck by the smell of food that’s been sitting out just a tad too long and stale cigarettes. She closes the door behind her and follows Dieter into the living room. 

“If I had known you were gonna drop by I woulda cleaned up a little.” She gathers laundry from the couch and deposits it into the chair, making a space for Dieter to sit. “I thought after James told you I left rehab you wouldn’t wanna see me again.”

“He didn’t tell me.” Dieter clears his throat and pulls the papers out of the envelope. “We need to get this taken care of, baby.” She sighs and wipes a stray tear from her cheek. She reaches for them but he snatches his hand back. “You don’t have to sign them, ya know.” 

“What do you mean?” She picks at the hem of her shirt. His shirt.  

“You could always come home,’ he offers quietly. He doesn’t meet her eyes for fear of what he might find there. She might not want to come home. “I’ll call James. We can get you into another rehab, have you there by tomorrow if you want.” She doesn’t answer so he continues. “Then when you finish treatment, you can just come home. We’ll sell this shithole and move forward. Together. ” 

She’s quiet for a long time. Too long. Dieter reaches his hand out and this time she takes the papers. She looks at them for a long moment but when Dee reaches for the pen in his shirt pocket she surprises him by tearing them in half. “Let’s go home.” Dieter stands from the couch and wraps his arm around the small of her back. He pulls her close and captures her lips in a kiss. She returns it with the same fervor she always did. Like she wanted to swallow him whole. Dieter grabs her by the hand and tugs her towards the bedroom.

“Let’s get you changed and get the fuck outta here,” he declares. When they make it to the bedroom she drops Dieter’s hand and heads to her nightstand. 

“Before we go,” she begins, “how about one last one? For the road?” She holds up a baggie full of white powder. Dieter opens his mouth to protest but she doesn’t let him speak. “I swear baby, this will be the last time. I’ll go to rehab tomorrow for however long you want,” she promises. “Then I'll come home to you and we’ll never have to be apart again.” 

Dieter’s eyes flick between his wife’s face and the baggie pinched between her fingers. He shouldn’t. He can’t. The last call was such a close one. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, baby.” Nobody knows better than Dieter the siren call of that first hit after a drought. But it’s been ninety-nine days. 

“I just bought this, an hour before you got here. It’s good shit, new shit. I already spent the money, baby. Let’s not waste it.” Dieter sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, sitting on the edge of the bed. “It’ll be like old times,” she promises, climbing into his lap. Dieter’s cock twitches in his pants. The erection he was chasing earlier in the shower finally makes an appearance and Dieter groans when she grinds down on his growing bulge. “One last hurrah, and then we’ll be good. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good for you, baby.” She bites the skin just below his jaw. His favorite place. Her favorite place.  

“Fuck, baby,” he whispers against her lips. He can feel his self control melting away. Tomorrow will be a hundred days. Dieter hasn’t been a hundred days sober his entire adult life. His will is slipping through his fingers and then it’s gone. All it took was a tug on a zipper for him to cave. “Fuck it, set it up.” She stands from his lap and removes her shirt, his shirt, and drops it to the floor. Clad only in a pair of panties, she bends and rummages through the nightstand drawer. Dieter tugs off his jeans and kicks off his shoes. Finally, everything he wants is within reach. He has ninety-nine days sober, he can start fresh tomorrow. 

“Oscar winner Dieter Bravo has died today at the age of forty-five, TMZ reports. He was found unresponsive in the home of his estranged wife this evening by his publicist. There was another person in the home, also confirmed deceased. No identity has been made, but reports suggest that it may have been Mr. Bravo’s wife. Mr. Bravo was released this morning from a treatment center in Phoenix, where he was recovering from a drug overdose three months ago. Friends and fans alike are taking to social media to mourn the troubled but beloved star.” 

THANK YOU!!! THANK YOU FOR THIS!!!!

Anytime Dieter has to film a sex scene, he's pre-requisite is that you, his personal assistant, is there on set for him to fuck first. Minutes before the shoot begins, he's railing you in the makeup trailer, watching as you fall apart in the mirror until he's about ready to cum. With his face flushed, a bit of sweat going, and exuding sexual prowess, hes kicking down the door and storming on set, ready for his intimacy scene.

Really, how can anyone expect him to act unless he gets his blooming ego warmed from the chick he's knocked up with his bastard.

Ahhhh I love these so much!

😍

Dieter Bravo Heart Emoji Icons

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Pedro Pascal as Dieter Bravo

THE BUBBLE | 2022

You workin' the night shift?

PEDRO PASCAL as DIETER BRAVO The Bubble (2022) dir. Judd Apatow

So unbelievably cute!!! 😭🦛

performance enhancement

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ series masterlist

pairing: Dieter Bravo & gn!reader rating: Teen (18+ only blog!) warnings: anxiety/stress, Dieter Bravo being a stubborn asshole, cute baby animals, vaguely fluffy word count: 1k summary: I couldn't stop thinking about that baby pygmy hippo and what Dieter would do if he saw it, so this fic was born. you're welcome.

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"I can't work in these fuckin' conditions!"

You hear him before you see him, sat scrolling through your phone as you wait the few hours still left until you have to pick him up. You'd got here early - as you usually did - even though Dieter was frustratingly late more often than not.

The door to the trailer is wrenched open a moment later, and you're raising your eyebrows in disapproval at the grumpy actor as he flings himself inside the trailer, slamming the door behind him.

"I can't do it," he huffs, turning anxiously in a circle, hands on his hips, running through his hair, balling into fists. "I can't fuckin' do it."

"Do what, Dee?" you say from your position curled up on the small bench seat in the trailer.

"This!" he yells, turning to face you gesturing in the vague direction of his face.

You make a face at him, still clueless as to what he's talking about. In a long line of things Dieter Bravo could be frustrated with "this" didn't really help to narrow it down.

"They want me to," he begins, fannining his eyes. "They want me to leak, and I can't."

"Cry?," you laugh. "Dee, it's in the script, of course they want you to. Have you tried the tear -"

The actor rounds on you, shaking his finger in your direction before you can even reach for your bag to see what you have to hand to help.

"No! I do not need performance aides."

"Dieter, it's just to help yo-"

"No!"

Dieter yanks off the thick knit sweater that makes part of his costume and dumps it uncermoniously onto a chair, shaking his arm in frustration as the sleeve just won't give up its hold on his wrist, growling at the garment when he's finally free. He rounds on you again when he's a little more bare, a little less claustrophobic, and flops down next to you.

"I'm not doing it," he says simply, as he tucks himself in beside you on the bench, and that's that, discussion over. You know better than to argue when he's like this so, with a roll of your eyes, you flip your phone back over and continue your aimless scrolling as Dieter's head finds its place on your shoulder.

He fidgets for a little while, the bench not really big enough for the two of you to curl up, until he's slumped down and half turned toward you, legs splayed out in front of him where yours are tucked beneath you.

"Can I watch?" he murmurs sadly a moment later, his face pressed into your arm and eyes screwed tight.

"Dieter, that's up to you. They're your rules, not mine."

Dieter didn't have a phone of his own. Not right now, anyway. That was locked away back at his house, awaiting the day it could be reunited with its owner. For now, all he had was an old send-texts-and-make-calls-only brick of a phone for emergencies, that he mostly used to bug you at all hours of the day. It was a rare day you weren't greeted with a "u up x" text in the morning, or a garbled jumble of letters as he forgot how to text with a number pad.

"I wanna watch," he mumbles into your arm, face pressed so tightly to you now you can feel his lips move against your skin.

"Then go ahead."

You watch then as he slowly opens one eye, peeking out shyly before opening the other and staring wide-eyed at your phone screen. You're only scrolling mindlessly, not really paying much attention to whatever the algorithm is throwing your way. Some stupid ads, spoilers for a show you're not even watching, the red carpet looks of a movie premiere Dieter was invited to, but couldn't make it, and endless shitty takes from random internet strangers. Just a normal day for the internet, but amazing for the man next to you who had kept himself away from the world of unsolicited advice and badly shot paparazzi pictures for weeks.

"Wait," he says suddenly, sitting up and scooting closer to you. "Go back, what was that?"

You scroll a little slower as you move back through the endless monotony on your phone, until Dieter goes stiff by your side and grips your arm.

"That," he says. "What's that? Is it fake?"

Something in you swells, oddly proud at the man for knowing to question something he'd never seen before rather than taking it at face value. More than once he'd come to you gushing over an image only for you to take one look, see the 8 fingers, and have to break the disappointing news to your employer.

"She's real," you say, opening the video for Dieter to take a look. "She's been everywhere the last few days."

"She's beautiful," he murmurs, transfixed on your phone screen. "Look at her. Get that girl an Oscar. Is there more?"

"Yeah, Dee, there's more."

"Can I see?"

You move to hand him your phone, but he refuses to take it, instead choosing to snuggle into your side as you search for the baby hippo that had taken his attention. A few minutes in you almost expect him to be sleeping by your side, but a small sniffle and the swipe of his hand tells you otherwise. Crying over baby animals wasn't new for Dieter, and each time he did it, you found it unbearably sweet. Eventually, he shifts by your side and squares off his shoulders, before standing, grabbing up his ugly sweater, and pulls open his trailer door with a determination to rival his earlier resignation.

"I think I can go back now."

You don't look up at him, transfixed on the tiny hippo staring back at you from your hands. A 180 flip like this wasn't unusual for Dieter. It probably wasn't even his first for today. Either way, you'd still be here when he got back from filming the last scenes of the day, ready to cart him back to the apartment he insisted you stay with him in.

"Do you need the tear stick? Drops? I've got some in-"

"No," he says with certainty. "No, I've got this. Just... just gonna think of that fuckin' hippo."

Happy belated birthday, @psychedelic-ink! 🎈

the case of the outfit that needed its own gifset

Pedro Pascal as DIETER BRAVO in The Bubble (2022)

The ✨️Genders✨️ of the Pedro Pascal Cinematic Universe:

Asshole (affectionate)

Babygirl (derogatory)

Babygirl (affectionate)

Slut