The Fires of Love: A Danny DeVito and Steve Buscemi Erotic Fan Fiction

by Liz Galvao

(Previously.)

The fire was hot, but some things are hotter than fire.

“I can’t believe I picked today to come back to the fire department,” Steve Buscemi muttered, running through the smoky lobby of the Hotel Le Bleu. He’d been fighting fires in New York City in some capacity since 1980, whether as a member of a company in Little Italy in his youth, or as a volunteer in Park Slope, Brooklyn. It was just one of the many fascinating facts that most people didn’t know about him.

“Someone’s stuck on the third floor!” one of the other firefighters yelled out. It’s not important who it was, he probably won’t come up in the story again. You can imagine him as a Joe Manganiello type if you’d like, and in your imagination he can be shirtless underneath his fireman’s coat, and have a Brooklyn accent as thick as Ragú.

“I’m on it!” Buscemi wheezed, and headed for the stairwell.

Hotel Le Bleu had caught fire early in the morning, when an irate guest had smashed a miniature champagne bottle onto one of its blue lights then lit their room on fire. It was an atypical morning, for sure. The hotel was known for two things: hiking up their prices 400% during Hurricane Sandy, and being sandwiched between a U-Haul center and a Pep Boys. The hotel was decorated like a middling Eastern European dance club, with extremely literal blue lights shining from its exterior at all times. Except today, when it was on fire.

It was the best the hotel had ever looked.

Steve Buscemi burst out of the third floor stairwell and looked to his left and right. “Which room?” he shouted.

“326,” another firefighter called back. You can imagine him as a Terry Crews type, if you’d like, although he wasn’t Terry Crews himself, because Terry Crews would never be unfaithful to his wife with you.

Steve Buscemi jogged down the hallway and kicked open the door to room 326. Dark smoke billowed out of the room, obscuring which firefighters looked like Terry Crews and which firefighters looked like Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson except not out of your league. “I’m going in!” Steve yelled.

He found who they were looking for immediately. All five feet and zero inches of him were lying flat on his back, with a cigar in his mouth, wearing nothing but white underpants, unconscious.

“Oh my god, it’s Danny DeVito!” said a firefighter who had previously shown an embarrassing amount of unchill when he’d met Steve Buscemi for the first time.

But Steve Buscemi didn’t waste any time yelling out people’s names, like we’re all idiots who don’t know that Danny DeVito both directed AND starred in Matilda. No, he hoisted the beloved television star over his shoulder, and he got the hell out of there!

Three flights of stairs and one quick jog past the Continental breakfast bar later (just to see if there was anything good left), Steve Buscemi knelt beside Danny DeVito in the parking lot and began administering CPR. It was the kind of sexy CPR that only transpires between teenagers on summer vacation, yet it was happening here, between two celebrated character actors in a congested area of Brooklyn. And even though one actor was nine inches taller than the other, and the other one was unconscious, the paramedic who witnessed it said it was the most romantic moment of his life, and he’d been on a hot air balloon, buddy.

At last, Danny DeVito spluttered, coughed, and came back to life. “Boosh!” he rasped. “I haven’t seen you since we both worked together on the 2003 film Big Fish!”

“Shh, shh.” Steve Buscemi put a finger to Danny DeVito’s lips. “You don’t have to speak.”

DeVito sat up. “But I feel like chatting!”

“Oh, okay then.” Buscemi shrugged. “I just didn’t want to make you feel like you, you know, HAD to. How’re the kids?”

“Great, great,” Danny DeVito smiled, returning Steve Buscemi’s hypnotic gaze. “Hey, do you guys know who started this thing?”

“We’re still investigating leads,” said a police officer who’d been rudely eavesdropping on their intimate moment. He looked like any number of rappers who’ve given up writing songs about the police to play them in film and television.

“It was me!” Danny DeVito leaped to his feet. Again, he was naked but for a pair of white underpants. The eye didn’t quite know where to land. “I’d had enough of these stupid blue lights, and I burned the joint down!”

It was difficult then to say who started laughing first: Steve Buscemi, who is so cool, he was on The Adventures of Pete and Pete; or Danny DeVito, who once drank so many limoncellos with George Clooney that he called George W. Bush “numbnuts” on The View

.

It was even more difficult, a few seconds later, to decipher who started kissing whom first. But once the passions of these two esteemed performers were ignited, well, it seemed like nothing could stop them. Not New York City firefighters, nor time, nor the certain implosion of their personal lives.

Nothing, that is, until he showed up. “Hey!” a strangled voice rang out. A crowd had gathered in the parking lot to watch Steve Buscemi make out with Danny DeVito, and it was impossible to tell who’d spoken. The two actors paused for a moment in their revelry. “I said, hey!” the voice came again.

Slowly, person by person, the crowd parted to make way for him. A few gasps of recognition rose out of the mass, but they were subdued. Even the unchill fireman from before was able to calmly handle this celebrity sighting, for it was…

“Paul Giamatti!” Danny DeVito yelped. “I haven’t seen you since we worked together the 1999 film Man on the Moon!”

“I know,” said Paul Giamatti, taking off his shirt. “But gentlemen, this was one supporting role I just couldn’t resist.”

THE END.

Liz Galvao is a comedy writer and the music editor of BUST Magazine. You can find out more about her lack of boundaries with celebrities by subscribing to her Weird Personal Emails here.

Art by Daniel Reis.