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Blind Item / Chapter 1

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC

Chapter 1: Gimme More

Rating: Explicit (18+) Series Summary: 2007. Hollywood, CA. As a former child star, you face the harsh reality of growing up in the unforgiving spotlight. A car crash on Sunset Boulevard and a cocaine scandal give you one option: Rehab. Reluctantly agreeing, you embark on a 90-day stay at Promises Malibu to attempt to salvage your career. But when Dieter Bravo arrives, your journey takes an unexpected turn. Drawn to each other, you navigate sobriety and the wreckage of your reputation. As the double standard of Hollywood's treatment of troubled stars becomes evident, you question if redemption is truly possible in a world of unequal consequences. Word Count: 11k

Content/Warnings: Age gap (~10 years, Dieter is in his mid-thirties), alternating POV, heavy drug use, illegal drug use, alcohol use, driving under the influence, frenemy dynamics, oral sex (f!receiving), dubcon/noncon, it is neither reader nor Dieter's finest hour when we meet them. Period-typical language and behavior, Hollywood assholes.

Notes: This is my first fic - I've never written or posted anything like this before, so please be kind and feel free to share any feedback or suggestions. I never would have been able to write something like this, let alone work up the nerve to post it, if it hadn't been for the kind and gracious support of @pennyserenade, @whatsnewalycat and @frannyzooey all lending me their advice when I slid into their DMs. They all inspire me endlessly with their work and talent and it’s because of their work that I was inspired to write something of my own.

Our reader is, for now, and unnamed OC. While I’ve done my best to avoid using physical descriptors of her, it should be noted that this story is a period piece that takes place in early 2000s Hollywood. The main character would have been a contemporary of stars like Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan and Nicole Richie, and there are certain assumptions I’ve made about what she looks like based on that factor of this particular story. The early 2000s could be dark, ruthless times, y'all, especially for young women in and effected by Hollywood. My intention is to examine that. Thank you for reading!

Desperate times call for desperate measures: sources say that this former child star’s team is working overtime to keep her employed. When she made her not-so-graceful exit from her latest film, the star cited conflicting schedules as the reason for her departure. The film’s producer has a different story: the Hollywood juggernaut has been heard around town calling the star unprofessional, accusing her of being late to her call times and using drugs in her trailer. She’s got a shot at a last resort: a return to television. Word is, the bad publicity has her team bargaining and drawing out sober contracts just to get her hired.

Whenever you were in town for work, you stayed at the Chateau Marmont. You were in Los Angeles often enough and long enough to justify buying a home there, but you refused, the idea of actually owning a home in LA never quite sitting right with you. Instead, you rented the same room each time you visited. You loved that little bungalow. The thick, lush landscaping shaded the windows and kept it nice and cool inside, and your front door was only a stone's-throw from the swimming pool.

It felt like home after a few years, anyway. These old, tucked-away places were what you liked most about Los Angeles, unlikely, quiet havens hidden between sky-high condos and overly sleek offices. The building breathed old-Hollywood luxury, vintage tiles and original hardwood floors and the ghosts of silent film stars wandering the hallways. The staff knew you well. The same breakfast was delivered to your door at noon every day. The top-tier maid service employed by the hotel kept the living room, kitchen, bathrooms and second bedroom impeccably tidy, though they were given clear instructions not to enter your bedroom.

Your bedroom did not inspire the same glamorous aesthetic as the rest of the hotel. Clothing was piled high against the walls and pouring out of dresser drawers, tags and receipts discarded in the wake. Empty bottles cluttered the hardwood floors, clear, crushed water bottles and rattly orange pill canisters. A full ashtray sat on a side table, a makeup mirror and various products scattered next to it.

In the middle of the room was a king-sized bed, an antique walnut headboard sprawling against the wall with a mountain of sheets and blankets layered atop a deep mattress. You laid swaddled in those sheets, rubbing your palms into your shut eyes and groaning as you rolled over, dragging your hands wide across your face to peek out at the clock on your nightstand.

4:41pm. You blinked, straining your eyes to focus and confirm you read that right. 4:41pm. Fuck.

Bleary-eyed, you reached for your phone, met immediately by a barrage of missed calls and unread messages when you slid it open.

MELANIE [3:21 AM]: Bathrrom

PETE [3:36 AM]: Did u leave

CORINNE [9:00 AM]: Call with NBC @ 1. Please be available. Corinne Roxford.

MISSED CALL: CORINNE

CORINNE [11:30 AM]: Confirming availability at 1pm. Corinne Roxford.

(212) 555-4325 [12:06 PM]: Hey gorgeous ;)

MISSED CALL [12:30 PM]: CORINNE

MISSED CALL [12:45 PM]: CORINNE

MISSED CALL [1:00 PM]: CORINNE

CORINNE [1:03 PM]: ??? Corinne Roxford.

MISSED CALL [1:05 PM]: CORINNE

CORINNE [1:07 PM]: Call immediately. Corinne Roxford.

“Hiiiii,” a soft, tired voice called from across the room. You looked up, squinting, at your best friend Natalie leaning in the doorway to the bathroom.

“Mmmm,” you hummed in response, peeking out from where you lay buried in the sheets. “Hi.”

She crossed the room, kicking piles of clothes out of the way and perched herself on the corner of the bed, her toothbrush hanging out of her mouth. You cracked open one eye, locking eyes with her. In an unspoken acknowledgment of your situation - what you got into last night, the state you’re currently in, the splitting headache you’re certain she has, too - you raised an eyebrow at her. She smirked back at you and the two of you erupted into laughter. You lifted yourself up to sit, pushing your foot into her side from under the covers.

“You were insane last night!” she accused, still smiling as she resumed brushing her teeth.

“Me!” your voice was raspy and you coughed. “Me? You were the one making out with the bartender.”

“He wasn’t a bartender. He said he was with the DJ or something.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s better,” you snorted, the sound muffled by the plush pillows that cradled your head. You rubbed your palms across your face again, feeling the coarse texture of your own tired skin. The room was dimly lit, with the soft glow of morning seeping through the half-closed blinds.

Your phone vibrated on the nightstand, disrupting the quiet ambiance. You picked it up, groaning when you saw your manager’s name blaring across the bright screen. With a sigh, you slid it open.

“Hi, Corinne,” your voice was a hoarse whisper as you did your best to sound alive. Natalie stirred from her spot and crossed back to the bathroom, old floorboards creaking underneath her feet.

“I needed you on that call this morning. This is your career I’m trying to save here. Do you think I’m doing all of this for my health?”

“I mean… you’re not not…” It’s out of your mouth before you can stop it. She is on your payroll.

“Very funny. I don’t think I need to remind you that you’re running out of friends and favors here, hun. I don’t think you want me to join that list.” Her sentence was punctuated by the sound of her horn honking and a muttered expletive. She sighs. “NBC still wants to speak with you, and soon, but they want to do a four-episode Growing special. The rest of the cast is on board, and they think if we play this right we can turn into a full-on reboot. But you have to straighten up, do you understand? I need you in the Santa Monica office first thing Monday to sign the paperwork.”

“I’ll be there. I promise.” Your eyes closed again, and you sunk into the plush embrace of the king-sized bed, the soft cotton fabric soothing against your skin.

“I don’t know how to make it any more clear to you how much trouble all of us are in. This is your shot at a comeback.”

“I understand.”

There’s a bit of silence, the noise of New York traffic floating through the airwaves and into your ear. You insisted on total honesty from Corinne, unable to tolerate your team coddling you, so her words might have hurt more if this was the first time you’d heard them. Or maybe if the haze you’d woken up in were a bit thinner.

“Tomlin and the team will be in on Thursday night to get you ready for the VMAs. I’ll see you then, too.” Corinne changed the subject, her voice a mix of stern professionalism and genuine concern.

“Okay. I’m sorry.” Your voice was sickeningly sweet, a defensive baby voice you switched into when you were nervous, a trademark of yours that had been mocked by everyone from ex-boyfriends to the cast of Saturday Night Live. Corinne said goodbye and you felt Natalie’s weight return to your side.

You groaned, long and drawn out, tossing your phone into the labyrinth of sheets and blankets surrounding you. The show she referred to was a reboot of the sitcom you spent your childhood working on - Growing Together. It's one-half cast reunion, one-half desperate, nostalgic cash-grab. The producer you sat across from at the pitch meeting was almost delirious with excitement - explaining what a smashing success it was sure to be, a “televised homecoming for America's favorite family.” It took so much strength not to roll your eyes right in front of him that you thought you’d pop a blood vessel.

“Are you in trouble?” Natalie asked, a teasing tone in her voice.

"Yeah, almost always," you replied, casual in your admission. As you sat up, fully awakening, you stretched and planted your feet on the floor. You chugged the warm Vitamin Water on your nightstand before reaching for your bag on the floor and digging through its contents. Gum, a fluorescent orange paper wristband, a baby pink Juicy Tube, a black and white photobooth strip of you and Natalie with your tongues out. Not finding what you were looking for, you dumped it out onto your bed and continued rummaging through the items and garbage inside. Your iPod, a receipt from the drugstore, 3 loose cigarettes and half a dozen empty quarter-sized plastic bags. You sighed, shoving everything back inside carelessly.

“Did we finish everything last night?” You call out, patting the bed behind you, your gaze darting around in search of your phone.

“We?” Natalie’s laughter rang through the room. “I don’t know about ‘we!’”

“God, no wonder,” you muttered, the realization of this morning's particularly splitting headache dawning. Locating your phone again, you typed out a text message to your dealer, padding out of your room to the kitchen.

[5:13 PM]: Andyyyyyy. U going to Lush tonight?

You tapped the side of your phone restlessly for a beat, then texted again.

[5:13 PM]: Can you bring what u brought last night

In the kitchen, you opened the cabinet, revealing an array of neatly arranged pill bottles. Without looking, you pulled out a bottle of Advil and an empty glass. Seated at the kitchen table, engrossed in her Macbook, was your assistant, Rhea.

“Corinne’s pissed.” She said before she even looked at you, focused intently on the screen in front of her.

“Good morning,” you responded, filling your glass at the sink and beaming an exaggerated, pageant-queen smile at her. She scoffed in response.

“The sun is going down in… 40 minutes.” she retorted, her gaze flitting momentarily to the clock on the wall, then back down. You made a mockingly offended expression, hands lifting with dramatic flair.

“Time is a social construct, Rhea,” you declared, tossing back the Advil and chasing them with the full glass of water.

“Yeah, for you, maybe.” She muttered, still typing like a maniac.

You were fired six weeks ago.

The movie was meant to signal a departure for you, a leap into serious territory - a drama marking an overdue graduation from the teeny-bopper films you’d spent the last decade of your life making. You’d been lucky a year ago - a really excellent writer took a chance on an elevated high school comedy with you at the helm that had people in the industry, finally, taking you more seriously.

Seriously enough to get you in the door, at least. Being on set gave you a different impression. You felt as coddled as ever, still treated like an unqualified child star whose presence was more of a slightly annoying novelty than a creative asset.

You wanted to be treated like an adult - a real actress, a professional. This movie was supposed to accomplish that. Despite the fact that this project had a huge, award-winning director attached to it, it was subject to the same issues you’d experienced on countless, lower-tier productions. Poorly communicated call times, technical issues, handsy producers hanging around your trailer. The latter issue caused you to insist on Rhea being by your side whenever possible - power in numbers in an attempt to keep greasy Hollywood exec’s hands away from you.

You weren’t going out any more often than you usually did. Now that you were old enough to not have to sneak into clubs anymore, you were having fun. Though your evenings often bled into mornings, occasionally pushing the limits of your call times, it felt manageable. However, Corinne was relentless in reminding you of the stakes and your professional expectations: show up, behave, perform.

That morning, exhaustion hung over you more heavily than usual. The night before, you’d been out celebrating Natalie’s 23rd birthday. A friend of hers had just returned from Amsterdam and brought with him a bag of European ecstasy as a souvenir. After Le Deux closed, you threw an after party at the Chateau’s pool, you and Nat drank champagne on your floaties as the chemicals rushed through your systems. Your fingers dipped in and out of the heated pool, the two of you gossiping and giggling and floating along until the sun came up.

You were on set on time - early, in fact - but the MDMA had worn off and your energy was plummeting fast. You’d run through the scene several times with Rhea, but it didn’t seem to have helped much.

“Cut,” the director called out, sighing and stepping out from his position behind the camera. Your costar groans softly, standing up from his spot across from you and stepping away as the surrounding crew moves quickly to reset the scene.

“I’m sorry Alan,” you offered immediately as the director approached your mark. A makeup artist swoops in, tapping a brush to your under eyes.

“You’re furious with him, remember,” he coached you. “I understand it’s early, but I need you to manage to muster up some energy.”

You nodded, trying to focus despite the persistent buzzing in your head. “I’m really sorry.”

“I don’t need you to apologize to me like a punished child, I just need you to perform the way I’ve asked you to. Can you do that?”

"I'll get it right this time, I promise," you assure him softly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

He eyed you skeptically, his weaning lack of patience with you made clear by his expression.

“We’ll break for five.” He called out to the room, still staring at you as you stood up and shuffled off behind him.

Rhea arrived at your side with your cell phone and a Red Bull. You flip open the screen as you walk, quickly scrolling through your text messages and trying to distract yourself from your dull, nagging headache.

“That was okay, right?” You asked, trying to sound casual but unable to hide the uncertainty in your voice. “Is it as bad as he says?”

“You were fine,” Rhea’s voice was uncharacteristically high-pitched as she held out the straw of your energy drink in front of you. Her eyes flit back and forth, scanning the area, and her voice lowers into a whisper as she continues. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m tired,” You brushed her off, shaking your head and handing your phone back to her. “I’m fucking exhausted.”

Rhea nods, a concerned eyebrow lifting as you arrive at your trailer. Everyone in your life was looking at you like that lately - as if doing anything less than completely coddling you would cause you to fly off the handle. The cautious glances, the careful choices of words, the subtle tiptoeing around your every move - especially from Rhea, who never gave a fuck about your feelings - it all grated on your nerves like an itch beneath the surface.

She held out her hand and you took it quickly, grabbing an orange bottle from her and slipping through the door of your trailer.

In your trailer, you sat at the vanity and closed your eyes, taking a couple of deep breaths before opening them and gazing at yourself in the mirror. You opened the bottle, pouring out two small pills on the counter in front of you. Scanning the surface quickly, you located a plastic card and pushed it against the pills with the ball of your hand. You pushed it again and again, finally finishing and scraping the excess powder from the card onto the table. Dragging the powder into two lines, you leaned down to inhale them and stood straight back up. You licked your finger and picked up the excess residue, pushing it into your gums and taking a couple more deep breaths to re-center yourself.

The acrid taste of the pills gave you a Pavlovian surge of energy, the anxious buzz in your chest subsiding and easing into a steady hum. You sat at the mirror, dragging a finger underneath your eye to wipe smudged eyeliner from your face. You sniffled, forcing the action into another deep breath and staring at yourself in the mirror. You belong here. You do. You know what you’re doing.

A sharp knock at the door pulled you back to reality with a jump.

“Jesus,” You called out “Alright, Rhea, one second!”

“It’s Alan. Open the door.”

Fuck. You frantically began cleaning the counter in front of you - slipping the credit card into your pocket and brushing your hands across the surface.

“Now!” Alan boomed from outside.

“Okay, okay!” You moved to the door and turned the lock, opening the door just enough for him to see you. You sniffled again, trying to camouflage the reaction with a cough. “Yes?”

Pushing the door firmly, Alan moved into your trailer, his body dwarfing yours in the small space.

“Listen to me,” he said, low but firm. “I’m done. I’m not doing this with you. I am not letting you fuck up my movie.”

“What?” You were dumbstruck.

“Don’t play dumb. Not now. You know exactly what I mean.” He was inches from your face now and getting angrier by the minute. You swallowed, desperately looking around for Rhea. Tears stung the corners of your eyes and you fought them, willing yourself not to blink.

“They’re prescribed,” you attempt. It doesn’t work.

“I don’t care what you do on your own time,” he continued “But this is mine. This is important to me and to everyone else out there whose livelihoods depend on this project, and I’m not going to let some spoiled, coked-out little actress spoil it.”

Your face burned with humiliation.

“Corinne fought hard to get you on this project. This was more of a fucking favor to her than you. But this movie does not live and die by your actions, do you understand me? You can kill yourself if you insist, but you will not pull my movie down with you. You’re fired.”

Your jaw dropped. You were unable to find words let alone choke them out. Rhea’s face was stark white when you spotted her just outside the door of your trailer, her cell phone firmly against her cheek, whispering into the receiver with her eyes wide.

“This is no longer viable for me or anyone else on this crew. I want you off my set now.”

You couldn’t move, your heart pounding in your chest. He stood there for another moment before exiting the trailer and slamming the door behind him. The force of the slam caused the door to open slightly, revealing Alan standing in front of Rhea.

“I don’t want to see you here again.” He said to her, loud enough for you to hear, his voice stern and uncompromising. “You’re lucky I don’t call the cops on you for bringing drugs on my set.”

You hung in the doorway as he stormed away, and as the room swirls into focus you see the eyes of the crew on you, their faces filled with curiosity and concern. Turning your head, you quickly blinked away your tears and wiped your eyes with the back of your hand.

Officially, you’d been let go due to ‘scheduling conflicts’. It was flimsy, Hollywood jargon for your star showing up fucked up, and unfortunately, the euphemism did little to quell the relentless scrutiny surrounding you.

Rhea had shown you the footage of you that began making the rounds after your firing was announced - a creepy, shaky video leaked by some PA of Alan berating you on set, cut with another clip of you walking around the soundstage. It was embarrassing - your hair was disheveled and you were pacing around in a way that looked strange out of context, but there wouldn’t have been anything interesting about it at all if the rumor hadn’t gotten out that you’d been fired for your drug use. Since then, the attention on you had been relentless.

The paparazzi had been a regular part of your life since you were a young teenager. It, generally, wasn’t as bad in New York, which is part of the reason why you preferred to stay there, but in LA it felt as if you were never more than a few feet from a camera.

When you were 16 and working on your first film after Growing Together ended, you started going to clubs with your coworkers. No one ever gave you any trouble, and you didn’t even start drinking until you were 18, but despite that, the mere optics of a child star reveling in nightlife proved a lucrative angle for the media to exploit.

Since then, you were followed almost constantly. Leaving home, returning, getting groceries, getting your nails done, driving through McDonald’s - flashing lights in the corner of your eye were such a regular thing that you barely even noticed it anymore. There were photographers you knew at this point, friendly ones who knew your angles and creepy ones who constantly tailed your car.

It’d never been like this before, though. Literal throngs of photographers showed up anywhere you went, watching you like hawks, all waiting to swoop in on the slightest slip up. Going shopping was an event that needed to be scheduled in advance, boutiques needing to be warned that you’d be coming in so that they could prepare to lock doors behind you. Every step, every breath, felt scrutinized and captured for public consumption, leaving you suffocated beneath the weight of it all.

You were so angry about being let go - your behavior, truly, was no different from what any other actor your age was doing. You partied with your friends, you were out late sometimes, but you knew you were a good actress. It had been your passion since you were a child, and it was beyond frustrating to hear people tell you they loved you and wanted to see you win and then have them turn against you the moment you made a mistake.

So, although you’d behaved and spent the first week or two lying low at the insistence of Corrine, you were over it now. You stayed in LA, uninterested or unwilling to go home to your family and friends in New York and explain to them what's been going on. You were going out with Natalie every night, usually to Le Deux or Lush or Teddy’s. You stayed out late and slept in late and generally just did your best to avoid confrontation with any paparazzi or journalists or producers you’d pissed off.

You weren’t lying to Alan when you told him you were only taking what had been prescribed to you. It just happened that a lot of things had been prescribed to you. Lately, you’d been alternating between Adderall and MDMA for the last week or so, making you too speedy and anxious to really dwell on the current state of your career. You were, admittedly, running through your prescriptions more quickly than usual, causing you to need to make some calls in order to fill in the gaps.

Throughout dinner, you anxiously slid the screen to your Sidekick open and shut, open and shut. You thumbed through the wheel of apps, trying to will into existence a text from Andy that didn’t seem to be coming. It’s not exactly like you expected rigid punctuality from the guy who sold you drugs, but his radio silence was making you antsy.

[9:05pm]: Hellooooooooo

Natalie exclaimed as a tray of shots was delivered to the table, echoed by the group of acquaintances that you met up with at Don Antonios, the restaurant you always went to before a night out. Eagerly, you took one off the tray, blindly grabbing another as you knocked the first one back. You chased that shot with the other, the warmth of the liquid making you feel more like a human being and less like a raw nerve.

Seated to your right in the booth was a girl you kind of knew. She was always hanging out on the fringes of your group, some friend of a friend of a friend who was for sure going home and telling everyone she partied with you. She’d been gawking at you all night, beady eyes locked on you since you sat down, craning her neck and sitting uncomfortably close to you, your dress pinned under her studded jeans. You’d been resisting the urge to ask her what the fuck her problem was for the better part of an hour. As the group around you became distracted by the arrival of the shots, you seized the opportunity to confront her.

“Can you please get off of my dress?” you spat.

Her eyebrows shot up as she took her eyes off of you for what felt like the first time that evening to look down, apologizing and scooching over. She had tall red stilettos on and, when she looked back up at you, you could see the smudged mascara on her eyelid. Just as you were going to take the opportunity to move away from her, she leaned over to talk to you over the noise that surrounded you.

“Sorry. Hey, I’m Katie.”

You grimaced, not in the mood to talk to this person.

“Hi.”

You turn away for a beat, but your attention is grabbed again by Katie’s voice lowly in your ear.

“Hey, I have Xanax, if you want one,” the offer took you by surprise, the prospect lighting you up immediately.

“Oh, my god, I love you,” you said, quickly turning towards her and extending your palm. “Please?”

Downers really weren’t your thing, even booze wasn’t your favorite, but this evening was going to turn from boring to maddeningly insufferable fast if you didn’t get your hands on something.

“I know someone who needs one when I see them,” she laughed, discreetly dropping two pills into your palm.

The clubs in LA were the same thing every time. You showed up in big black SUVs, posed and made nice for the photographers outside for a moment and then clamored inside towards the booth that was waiting for your party.

It felt like high school. Well, you assumed, since your high school experience took place entirely on set. You saw the same people everywhere, all scattered around the room, broken up into their own little cliques. All gossiping, the room alive with murmurs and whispers. Who’d just shown up? Who was fighting with who? Who’d stolen whose boyfriend? It all felt so juvenile, but not being here was worse, so you put up with it. The people changed, but not really - you usually ended up surrounded by the same cast of promoters, wannabe socialites and greasy LA club dudes, swapped out every couple weeks by stand-ins and understudies and new arrivals. They circled your table like vultures, mingled with one another and made use of your tab while you sat engrossed in your Sidekick.

The night became slightly more tolerable once you’d taken one of the bars Katie gave you, but you were still desperately trying to get a hold of a dealer. By the time you left the restaurant and were climbing into the backseat of your car to head to Lush, you’d even resorted to texting backup options, people you’d partied with once or twice who you suspected might be around.

Sinking into the plush booth, you let your head loll to the side, eyes shutting against the assault of strobing lights. The steady, pumping rhythm of the bass sent a rattle through your bones.

After a minute, Natalie's hand landed gently on your knee, snapping you back to reality.

“You okay, girl?” She asked. Her voice felt distant, barely audible over the pounding bass reverberating through the room. The glitter on her eyelids shimmered in the blue light, the only part of her face you could clearly make out in the shadowy corner of the booth.

“I’m fine,” you answered impatiently, kicking your feet up into the seat next to you. Just then, your phone finally buzzed, your heart skipping a beat as your dealer’s name flashed across the screen

ANDY [11:03PM]: not goin tonite

You scoffed, pausing for a second before furiously tapping out a response.

[11:03PM]: FUCK U ASSHOLE

You hit send and threw your phone into your purse with a huff. You were going to have to come up with something else. Or maybe just slit your wrists right here at the table instead.

You surveyed your group as bottle service brought two large bottles of tequila to your table along with a tray brimming with shots. knew all it would take was a couple hundred bucks from a photographer outside for them to spill about how you’d begged them for coke. They'd probably do it for free just for the attention. You'd already asked Katie, but all she had was Xanax and a joint, and Natalie would've let you know if she got a hold of anything else.

You started scanning the rest of the room, looking for anyone you knew. The club was packed, some sort of launch party that’d booked a huge DJ filling even the VIP section from wall to wall.

Suddenly, your attention was grabbed by the sound of a man shouting at the booth directly across from yours. He was the typical guy you'd find in places like this: a douchey-looking producer type, each of his arms wrapped around two miserable-looking models to his left and right. Intrigued, you followed his gaze to see who he was yelling at.

Oh, bingo.

Dieter Bravo. You recognized him instantly. An actor like you, you knew you’d seen him around at award shows and parties, but you’d never met. His reputation preceded him, though; you knew he partied, knew that he, too, had been let go from movies due to 'scheduling conflicts' more than once. You knew he’d been in trouble for drugs. Last you'd heard, he'd been in the news for cheating on his wife or something. You were certain that all it’d take was a little bit of flirting and buttering him up to get him to share whatever he had with you.

Without a word to anyone, you rose from your booth, ignoring Natalie's questioning as you strode towards Dieter's booth. Immediately, though, you lost your footing, lightheaded from standing up too quickly. You brushed it off, saved from a fall by someone at your booth. Straightening your dress, you grabbed a bottle of tequila before pivoting on your heel and starting back towards Dieter.

Dragged out against his will, Dieter was a guest of honor at a launch party for Elysium Fragrances, the cologne brand he’d shot a campaign for last year. His presence was requested tonight as a make-good for being a no-show at the launch of his own campaign, instead being spotted that evening by the California Highway Patrol speeding down the Pacific Coast Highway with a model in the passenger seat.

He’d been stopped by a cop as he attempted to pump gas, some asshole photographer seizing the opportunity to swoop in on the interaction and hurl all sorts of insulting names at his date. Dieter lost his patience, blowing past the cop to shove the paparazzo to the ground, shattering his camera in the process. He was arrested that evening on five charges - assault and battery, destruction of property, drunk and disorderly conduct, assault of an officer (come on) and, thanks to a thorough search of his car, possession with intent to distribute.

As his smug-faced mugshot circulated the tabloids, it eclipsed the glossy editorial photos that the brand had invested millions in. The extravagant campaign was reduced to a joke, its over-the-top glamour juxtaposed with candid snapshots of Dieter’s angry face shouting at the photographer.

Unbelievably, the brand hadn’t thrown him out then and there. He almost wished they had - he preferred the couple of nights he spent in jail to the following days spent in meetings, his team arguing with Elysium over their ability to sway this and use his reputation to their advantage. Ultimately, they maintained his status as a face of their brand as well as his 6 million dollar contract, with the stipulation that he shoot another campaign and make himself available for any event, launch or party the brand requested for the next year.

Being asked to party in exchange for six million dollars was a sweet deal - he understood that - but the reality of being a cosmetics brand’s puppet meant that he ended up at the same fucking parties week in and week out, always babysat by an appointed employee of the brand or, failing that, someone on his payroll.

Tonight was particularly torturous. The tabloids had latched onto the whispers of his crumbling marriage - rumors that were, fortunately or unfortunately, completely legitimate. Heidi was meant to be the one to tie him down, set him straight, clean him up. Their wedding photos looked like a fucking editorial, glossy photos ran with headlines predicting their domestic bliss. But a year and a half, a relapse, a DUI, and a string of affairs - all on his part - had shattered those illusions.

Last week, Dieter returned home from a 3-day bender to Heidi’s mother on the landing at the top of his stairs. She was screaming and hurling the contents of his closet at him, plus whatever else was within arms reach. Heidi, her once-bright eyes now dull with tears, cowered in a doorway behind her mother, slamming the door behind her when he called out in an attempt to reason with her. Her mom located his Oscar, hurling it towards his head with a warning to leave the house before she called the cops. He’d ducked just in time to avoid the statue concussing him, it instead crashing through the glass window of the door behind him.

The stories spread like wildfire, his team scrambling to reshape the narrative, casting Heidi as the cold, unfeeling spouse who couldn't handle his demons. They painted her as the villain, accusing her of rejecting him for his vices - after all, she knew who she married - all the while conveniently forgetting that she had stood by him through more than most people would be able to tolerate. It was an angle he wasn’t happy with; He may have been hedonistic but he wasn’t cruel. In the interest of giving her space and avoiding any additional negative attention sent her way, he moved out. He kept an apartment closer to town, and staying there made it that much easier to avoid any reminders of his failures.

The word on the poor, dejected husband had spread, causing every asshole he ran into tonight to look at him with the same pathetic, sympathetic expression. He resented their pity. He resented this party, this club, his obligation to be seen holding some stupid bottle of cologne in order to maintain his career. The four whiskies he'd downed had done little to numb him from it, and even the lines he'd snorted on the way over had failed to dull the edges of this evening.

You’d stumbled in about an hour ago, perching yourself in the booth across from his own. Your eyelids were heavy in a familiar way, his dirtbag instincts making him suspect you’ve popped a painkiller in addition to whatever you’ve been drinking. A group of giggly, hungry hangers-on swarmed around your table like flies, posing for pictures and parting only to let bottle service in and out.

Dieter knew you - or at least, he knew of you. The cute little starlet who always popped up next to him in the tabloids. He’d seen you in enough movies and on enough billboards to recognize your face, and he’d lurked around clubs like this often enough to have seen you before. Before you’d walked in, he’d resigned himself to an armchair as far back in the VIP section as he could find, determined to wait out the evening before bringing home whatever model ended up in his car. The whiskey he’d been drinking was only just beginning to kick in and he didn’t fight it, leaning back and willing the time to pass faster. But you… you were interesting.

Your gorgeous legs were stretched out along the booth, climbing up to the hem of your dress, a pink silky thing he imagined he could tear off of you with the smallest amount of force. Glossy lips pouted at your phone, eyebrows furrowed in a sweet little frustrated expression. When you looked up he didn’t look away - he kept his eyes trained on you as you looked around the room. You were looking for someone, obviously restless. A boyfriend? The thought twisted at his stomach uncomfortably and he willed himself to stop watching you, putting his glass to his mouth and draining it with a single swallow.

“Bravo!” a voice bellowed from his left, snapping him out of it. Clint - some hack from Elysium Fragrances and tonight’s designated narc waved enthusiastically from the booth next to him. “You gonna sit there and fuckin’ mope all night, bro?”

Fuck this guy. Like most of his brand-approved chaperones, he was content to accept the babysitting opportunity and spend the evening running up Dieter’s tab and shamelessly hitting on the girls at his table. The least he could do would be to leave him the fuck alone.

His attention returned to you when he heard a commotion from your direction. There you were, knees buckled, held at your elbow by one of the guys surrounding your booth. A couple of cell phone cameras lift and snap photos behind you as you attempt to compose yourself. He can’t take his eyes off of you as you stand back up, adjusting yourself, your little dress riding up for just a moment before you smooth it back into place.

The bottle he’d finished had begun to cloud his vision, so it took him a moment to realize you were stumbling towards him, your plush lips slightly parted as you swung a bottle of tequila at your side. Despite the haze, your smile was unmistakable as you arrived at his chair. When you held up the bottle with a subtle lift of your eyebrow, he nodded in agreement.

He wasn’t entirely sure if you climbed into his lap or if you simply floated there, an ethereal presence that captivated his senses. You were such a gorgeous little thing, soft legs draping over him effortlessly, while your electric fingertips traced delicate patterns along his arms.

“Where’ve I met you before?” You slurred, fingers playing with the buttons on his shirt as you settled in his lap.

You were fucked up. If it wasn’t obvious before, it was now. Good - he was, too. His plan had been to leave, get one of the models at his table to come home and roll over for him without much effort, but passing the evening with someone in his same state of mind would spare him from having another dull fucking conversation tonight. Plus, you were so pretty, big black pupils dilated and fixed on him beneath the lazy black fan of your eyelashes.

“You tell me,” he answered, running his finger along the rim of his glass.

Did you know who he was? He goes along with your guesses as to where you’d met before. Miami, London, the Met, whatever you said, as long as you didn’t piece together that you know him from a TV show that aired when you were still in middle school.

Music blasted through the speakers surrounding you, strobe lights flashing and highlighting flecks of glitter on your shoulders. He lifted his hand to run his finger along the thin strap of your dress as you lifted the bottle up between you and raised your eyebrows in question. He nodded, holding up his empty whiskey glass.

“Glastonbury?” You asked as you filled his glass.

“That must be it,” he agreed, knowing he hadn’t been to Glastonbury since 1995, and clinked his glass against your bottle. He watched as you took a long draw from the mouth and could see the grimace you were holding back as you squinted, your throat bobbing as you swallowed. He followed your lead, emptying his glass in three big gulps. Your eyes flitted over momentarily to the group he came with, crowded around the booth to his left, then back to him.

“You alone?” You asked him, glossy lips smirking.

“Just like you.”

You let out a knowing chuckle and leaned in closer to him, tequila and lime and smoke on your breath as it mingled with his own. The way you dragged your lower lip through your teeth had his cock twitching, the combination of the chemicals in his system and you purring in his lap like a kitten destroying any shred of inhibition he had left.

There’s an acknowledgment between people like you and Dieter. It’s one of those things that doesn’t lend itself to description, but he knew it when he saw it - in the mirror, in friends and acquaintances and enemies, in blown-up photographs on the covers of tabloids, suicides and DUIs announced in newsstands. Raw nerves covered in glitter, celebrity or civilian, death drives winning over life drives every time. He saw it in your dilated pupils and the way your thighs were rubbing together, the silk of your dress doing nothing to hide it. You’re like him, too, and most importantly, you know better than to ask why.

His hand cupped your face before he realized he’d done it and he closed the space between you, your lips soft against his the next sensation he was aware of. You tasted good, and he wanted more right away, deepening the kiss and digging his fingers into your thigh forcefully. He ran his tongue along the seam of your mouth, his own lips going numb as he licked into yours. He pulled you up to straddle him and you moved easily, hips lowering onto him immediately and settling, the lace of your panties brushing up against the thin fabric of his pants. His mouth trailed to your ear, worrying your earlobe between his teeth and guiding your hips to roll against his crotch again and again.

“You don’t give a fuck, do you?” He said, his voice low and hoarse in your ear. He knew you had the attention of his group and your own, not to mention anyone else who happened to look over, but it didn’t seem to matter to you. He knew you’d been in trouble lately - the same limelight, coming-of-age growing pains he’d been through himself several years ago - and his own instincts threatened to kick in and shield you from the excess attention.

You laughed with a shake of your head, tossing your hair over your shoulder and, without looking away from him, lifted his hand from your thigh to your lips, dragging your tongue across the length of his index finger and popping it into your mouth.

Oh, you were fun. You were already making him hard, and he knew you could feel it as you grinded into him again and again, letting his finger drop from your mouth when he pressed his lips back to yours. He needed to be careful - the linen lounge pants he’d thrown on to come here would betray nothing if you kept it up much longer.

It’s a noticeable absence when you hum and pull away from the kiss, the urge for more of you rolling over him and causing his fingers to dig into your thighs possessively.

“Do you have anything… funner?” You asked, big, blown out eyes pleading as you lifted the tequila bottle up again. Aha. It just so happened he did - a baggie of coke he’d brought along just in case sat in his pocket, along with two tabs of acid. It didn’t seem like that kind of night, though, at least not yet. He’d stick with the coke.

“I might have something,” he replied, a genuine smirk spreading across his face for the first time that evening. He sat up straight, smacking your ass and biting your jawline at the same time, the yelp it pulled from you quickly transforming into a wild giggle and sending a rush of blood to his cock as he peppered kisses and bites down your neck to your collarbone.

Quickly, he helped you to your feet and guided you through the crowded room, following you across the floor, his index finger linked with your pinky, prying eyes and pointing fingers meaningless to the both of you. You may have been stumbling, but you were confident. Or at least not at all concerned. A camera phone at the bar flashed and Dieter instinctively ducked his head, moving a hand to your hip to rush you forward and out of sight.

Tucking into a hallway at the back of the club, he kicked a door open and hurried you inside a small, dark room. It was clearly an employee restroom, high piles of backstocked paper towels and toilet paper toppling over when he pushed you up against the wall harshly, his hands cupping your face, the cool metal of his rings pressed against your cheek.

He pulled a pink baggie out of his shirt pocket, opened it and tapped a bump of white powder out onto the skin between his thumb and index finger. He held it up to your nose and, without any question about what it was, where he got it or if he’d already tried it, you’d inhaled, one hand holding his steady while the other held your nostril closed.

Fucking finally. Your head lit up immediately with euphoria and relief as the amphetamines rushed through your system and you melted against Dieter as he lifted you to perch you on a stack of cardboard boxes.

You let him move you like a rag doll, smiling as he propped you back and tapped out two more bumps onto your chest and snorted them, running your fingers through his messy curls as he dragged his tongue along your cleavage, licking up what was left.

His lips found yours again, and the pungent taste of the powder on his tongue mingling with his taste drew you in closer. Looping your arm around his neck, your free hand clutched his bicep. The acrid taste turned pleasantly tingly on your tongue, a numbness spreading as it explored his mouth.

“Here, baby,” he urged, breaking the kiss breathlessly, and you hummed in response as he tapped out another bump on the back of his hand. You inhaled it again, then he used his finger to gather the remnants of the powder. Cupping your cheek firmly, your jaw relaxed under his touch as he rubbed the excess powder into your gums. You reacted instantly, closing your eyes and drawing his finger deeper into your mouth, succumbing to the rush of sensation.

He groaned in approval, your lips already open when he kissed you again, drawing him in for more, thighs parting to wrap your legs around him. The flimsy strap of your dress fell off your shoulder, the fabric across your chest following shortly after.

Blissfully content with the relief of the chemicals rushing into your bloodstream for the first time today, you went numb, rolling your head back and watching patterns dance behind your eyelids. You allowed Dieter to touch and move you at his will, his hands skillfully brushing the other strap of your dress off your shoulder, exposing your chest completely. A throaty moan escaped him at the sight, the gentle sway of your breasts moving with the rhythm of the rough push of his hips into yours. He drew you closer, his lips finding purchase on your skin. Roughly latching onto you, he drew your breast into his mouth, his tongue drawing circles around the peak of your nipple before switching to the other side of your chest.

Sparks shot down your spine and your mind went blank for a second, lost in the feeling of him against you, the synapses in your brain firing and lighting up. You snapped back into the moment when you felt him grasp your hand with his own, his fingers intertwined with yours. He guided you down to press your hand into his crotch, grinding the firm length of himself into your hold again and again.

A soft moan escaped your lips, surrendering to the warmth and pressure of his body against yours. You tightened your grip around his neck, allowing yourself to fully yield to his control, your body pliant and responsive to his every move.

You’d fuck him, you figured, as you moved against him. He was good looking - now that you were feeling a little less edgy, you could appreciate it. Corinne would kill you if word got out, but he seemed like someone who knew a thing or two about discretion. He stiffened even more as he firmly thrusted into the cradle of your hand and you cupped your fingers around his length, the soft fabric of his pants allowing you to feel him completely. You walked your fingers up to his waistband, nails dipping under the fabric and pulling at it slightly. You’d go home with him. Whatever. You’d bring Natalie with you and you could leave by morning. He probably wouldn’t even notice a missing gram or two.

You followed the thought as he trailed kisses up your chest and neck, finally settling at your ear. His hand rose up your thigh, thick fingers dragging along the lace fabric at your center. The bundle of nerves there erupted at his touch and your thighs instinctively squeezed around him.

“Let me taste you, baby, please,” He growled just above a whisper into your ear. You arched your back into his arms, moaning and nodding in agreement, the cool porcelain of the sink underneath you causing your skin to goosebump as your dress rode up further. You opened your eyes, peeking at the chestnut brown curls, the color blending into the dark room surrounding you. Your eyelids felt heavy, and you fought to keep them open, wanting to stay present with him. But the warmth of his breath against your skin and the gentle touch of his fingers on your cheeks were lulling you somewhere else. You felt like you were floating, your vision blurred at the edges and you fluttered your eyes shut again, feeling his fingers curl around the waistband of your panties and stall there for a moment.

Your fading in and out like that threatened to spook him away. You couldn’t be too fucked up. He lightly tapped your cheeks a couple of times, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "Stay with me, baby," he whispered urgently. "Gotta hear you say it."

“Mmmm,” Dazed, faraway eyes looked up at him, your blown-out pupils mirroring his own. You nodded again, dragging your teeth along your bottom lip. Your pulse raced between your legs, and you felt your hips moving towards him, trying to ride something that wasn’t there yet. “Do it, Dieter, please.”

There we go. He smirked, lifting you from the stack of boxes to push you up against the wall and sinking to his knees. He bunched up the fabric of your dress at your hips, roughly pulling your panties down your legs, the black fabric hanging loosely at one ankle as he lifted your leg to hang over his shoulder.

You shrieked when he slid his tongue through your folds, your knee buckling when he repeated the motion, his strong hands moving up to your hips to support you. His tongue pushed wide against you, him tasting and exploring you as his fingers dug into your hips with bruising force.

He felt fucking amazing. You typically hated when men touched you, especially when you were high, but he felt incredible. You’d give him anything. Despite your rapidly dulling senses, the feeling of his tongue working your clit back and forth was at the front of your mind. He pushed his tongue wide against you again and again, fucking two thick fingers up into you without warning.

You gasped, your mouth opening wide as you root your fingers into his hair to ground yourself. He wanted to wreck you completely, to smear the dark makeup around your eyes and watch that glossy mouth of yours stretch around his cock. His lips locked around your clit, and as the blood rushed to the bundle of nerves there you threw your head back, chest heaving, loud, wretched moans spilling from your throat.

With your senses dulled, he knew it’d take a little more to send you over the edge. A third finger pushed into you with a stretch, starting slow and working up to get in and out of your tight, soaked cunt. You moved your hips to match his rhythm, your pace hiccuping as he began working you faster and faster, working your clit between his teeth with a pinch.

Your moans were frantic, hitching higher and higher as he confidently worked you towards an orgasm, your surroundings blurring and swirling around you.

THUD, THUD, THUD. Just as you neared your release, a loud pounding at the door shattered the moment.

He groaned in frustration, pausing briefly before attempting to resume. You struggled to regain your focus, your chest heaving with heavy breaths, nerves coiled tightly at your core.

The knock was followed by a muffled argument and the clanking of keys from the other side of the door. Reluctantly, Dieter's head emerged from between your thighs.

“Fucking assholes,” Dieter grumbled in frustration as he stood up, moving the straps of your dress back up your shoulders and quickly adjusting himself. You steadied yourself with a hand on his shoulder as you pulled your panties back up, frustration pounding angrily between your legs.

“Find me, alright?” He breathed, smoothing out your dress, his hand lingering on your ass and eyes slowly moving up your body. “I’ll take you home.”

You nodded as the door was thrown open, the bright, white light of a flashlight shining into the small room. You stood up straight, quickly fixing your hair in the mirror and sneakily grabbing the small, plastic baggie Dieter left on the counter, hiding it in your fist behind your back.

“Let’s go. Knock this shit off,” a voice bellowed from behind the light, which darted back and forth between you and Dieter. “We’re not doing this in my fucking club, get the fuck out, let’s go!”

“What the fuck is this?” Dieter asks, moving to stand in front of you and block you from the bright light.

“I’m sorry, man, I tried to stop him,” Another voice followed from outside the room. You squinted and peeked over Dieter’s shoulder, annoyance showing on your face. A large bald man in a suit held the flashlight and to his right was the small, douchey-looking guy you recognized from Dieter’s booth. Natalie’s head popped up behind the both of them, looking relieved to have found you.

“You’re not doing drugs on my floor and fucking little girls in my bathroom. That’s it, Bravo. Get the fuck out of here, let’s go,” the angry man repeated. Dieter raised his hands and murmured an apology to you as he shuffled out, one hand poised defensively in front of his face. He pushed out of the room past Natalie, her brows furrowed at him in confusion as he passed. His counterpart flocked to his side, immediately rushing into what sounded like a flurry of explanations and reassurances. Natalie slid into the room smoothly, wrapping an arm around you to usher you out. You stumbled at her side, annoyed and disoriented.

“I’m TWENTY-TWO, ASSHOLE!” You screamed at the man with the flashlight, attempting to shove him with your balled-up fists. He raised his eyebrows, bald head wrinkling and frown deepening. Natalie pulled you away from him quickly and you could hear her apologize behind you. “Don’t tell’um sorry, Nat, ’m not fucking sorry, I was in the fucking bathroom!” you slurred, your voice disjointedly raising and lowering in pitch.

“C’mon, babe, let’s go,” Natalie urged you.

“Yeah, ’s get the fuck outta here,” you agreed, stumbling as she shepherded you out. She handed you your purse and you quickly shoved your hand inside, dropping the half-empty baggie into the side pocket. One or two flashing lights from the crowd gathered at the bar stole your attention for a moment, but it quickly returned to the big, bald, interrupting gorilla with the flashlight. “This place SUCKS!” you screamed as you began to turn back towards him, leashed by Natalie’s grip around your arm.

“Let’s go,” she repeated firmly. You followed her through the crowded bar, stomping across the floor and ignoring the unending stream of heads turning towards you. The two of you shoved out the heavy metal doors of the club, clicking and flashbulbs immediately erupting around you as the cool evening air breezed across your skin. Your name was shouted from your left and right as Natalie dug in her bag for the valet ticket.

“Having fun tonight?” A photographer asked. You rolled your eyes. “Alright, over here, honey,” the same voice continued. With a resigned sigh, you turned to offer a practiced pose, your mind ticking through your media training despite how fucking annoyed you were. Stumbling a couple of times as you attempted to maintain your balance, you moved through a lazy pose or two. You knew the routine - let them get their shot and maybe they'll back off.

“Partying tonight?” Another voice interjected. Moron.

Natalie finally located the ticket and the valet handed the keys over immediately, your car already parked and waiting curbside. Impulsively, you decided you’d drive, intercepting the keys before Natalie could take them and nearly smacking them out of the attendant’s hand before stumbling towards the vehicle.

“She’s not getting in the driver’s seat. No way,” reasons the voice of a man with a video camera to your left. “There’s no way!”

Another blinding eruption of flashing lights emerged around you. You stared down at your feet as you stumbled forward, trying to see where you were walking through the relentless assault of flashbulbs. Natalie called out your name from behind you. You struggled a couple of times with the handle before throwing the car door open heavily.

“Hey, you can’t drive, honey,” Another voice called out. You rolled your eyes.

You climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut, exhaling loudly as the noise of the chaos surrounding you finally muffled. Flashing lights continued, your windshield now completely blocked by cameras. The volume raised again for a moment, a cacophony of voices and camera clicks, as Natalie scrambled into the passenger seat beside you.

“Are these people serious,” you asked, angling your head in towards Natalie and shielding your eyes from the barrage of flashbulbs pointed at you, frustration mounting with each flash. “How’m I supposta drive when they’re fucking blocking me?”

“Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t.” Natalie said, concern in her voice. “Let me, okay?”

You shook your head adamantly. “’M not going back out there.”

“So climb over,” She suggested.

“Not in this!”

Natalie let out an exasperated sigh, her fingers tapping anxiously on her thighs.

“Hey, since when do you know Dieter Bravo?” She asks, momentarily changing the subject.

“Who? Oh,” you replied, the question registering with you once you answered. The reminder of him sent your attention between your legs and you shifted slightly in your seat. “I dunno. I know’hm from an awards thing.” You offered. It was an unconvincing lie, but Natalie didn’t fight you on it.

“He’s so random,” she laughed. “I can’t believe you hooked up with him. I think my older sister had a poster of him in high school. Right next to River Phoenix.”

“Whatever,” you huffed, everything about this evening now pissing you off. The incessant clicking of the paparazzi's cameras only added fuel to the fire, and you narrowed your eyes in irritation, slamming your hand down on the horn for a solid ten seconds in a futile attempt to disperse them.

“MOVE!” you yelled, only inciting more flashing lights.

“Let me drive, babe,” Natalie tried again.

“Oh, my god, fuck this,” you snapped, frustration finally boiling over. With your hand still shielding your eyes, you shifted the car into drive. “You're my eyes now.”

“What?! No!” She replied, her voice rising in panic.

“Be my eyes. I’m going.” You repeated. Very slowly, you eased your foot off the brake, the car beginning to inch forward. Voices clamored outside the vehicle.

“Oh my god, um, okay. Go slow. Turn left. Slow!” Natalie began to guide you. The crowd cautiously parted around the car, photographers scrambling to avoid being flattened while still unwilling to sacrifice this shot. “Oh my god, this is so stupid. Slow, slow, slow.”

“They’re fuckin’ stupid! What am I supposed to do?”

“No, yeah, okay, just slow, keep going left.” Natalie's voice trembled slightly as she continued to navigate. The relentless barrage of flashing lights illuminated the interior of the car, casting everything in stark, blinding brightness. “Okay, cut it! Cut it and keep going straight.”

You cut the wheel to the right and straighten it out, cautiously peeking through the gaps in your fingers to confirm you'd cleared the throng of photographers.

“Haha!” you exclaimed, your laughter echoing through the tense air as you slammed the gas pedal to the floor once the street ahead is clear. With a screech of tires, you peel off into the night, Natalie's nervous chuckles mingling with your own laughter. “Bye, assholes!”

You rocketed down Highland with reckless abandon. A couple of familiar vehicles creeped up behind you - regular photographers who paid their bills by stalking you. The driver to the left’s hand hung out the window, a digital camera pointed squarely at you. The light was yellow at the intersection in front of you and you smirked, not letting up on the gas and rolling your window down to flip off the camera as you raced through the intersection just as the light turned red.

“Slow down!” Natalie yelled, panicked, her hand clutching the door handle in a white-knuckled grip. “What is your problem?”

“My problem?! These guys are the ones with the problem,” you fired back, your tone frustrated. “I can’t do anything without getting fucking cornered!” Your car veered dangerously across the yellow lines and Natalie yelped. You overcorrected, the vehicle lurching back into its lane just in time to avoid a collision with an oncoming car, its horn blaring in warning. Natalie’s body stiffened further in her seat as you took a wide right turn onto Sunset. You turn on the radio, a Rihanna song picking up midway through.

“Did he give you something?” she shouted, her tone urgent. You furrowed your brow, shooting her a confused look. “Dieter,” she clarified.

“Oh, right!” you exclaimed, mood shifting as you suddenly remembered the baggie tucked in your purse. “Look what I got us!” You reached for your bag on the passenger floorboard, swerving again. Natalie lunged across the seat, her hands fumbling for the wheel to correct your course, while a chorus of horns blared from the vehicles behind you. Finally retrieving your purse, you fished out the baggie from the side pocket and held it up between your fingers for Natalie to inspect. She grabbed it from you quickly, examining it in her lap.

“What is it?” She asked. You shrugged.

“Coke, I think. Shit, hold on,” you floored the gas to race through another newly red light.

“Stop!” Natalie shrieked. “This is so fucking stupid, dude, let me drive!”

“Jesus, Nat, fine,” you groan, slamming on the brakes. You both jolted forward as the car came to a stop in the middle of the road. “You wanna drive so bad, fine.”

You unlocked the car doors, opening yours slightly and reaching down to unbuckle your seatbelt.

“Are you serious?” She scoffed, disbelief etched across her features as she surveyed the chaotic scene unfolding around you. You nodded in affirmation, a defiant smirk playing on your lips. “You’re such a bitch.”

With a surge of stubborn adrenaline, you stormed out onto Sunset Boulevard, Natalie following suit. The gray Honda belonging to one of the persistent photographers tailed you, coming to a halt beside you as the driver scrambled out, camera at the ready.

“LEAVE ME ALONE” you shouted. “I gave you your shot at the club, I’ve been nice to you guys, what more do you want?!”

You considered what it would take to get him to go away. Words weren’t working. Should you kick his car? Throw something? You began to stumble towards him, interrupted by Natalie yelling your name again. You turned around to see Natalie standing in the street, gaze fixed on the intersection ahead. Your car - which you apparently failed to put into park - was rolling into the intersection on its own.

With a frantic surge of panic, you and Natalie sprinted after the runaway vehicle, the strobe of camera flashes behind you incessant. Arms flailing, you both desperately signaled to other drivers to stop, your heels clattering against the pavement as you raced towards the car.

As the car veered left, you were powerless to stop it from crashing into a parked BMW at the corner. Rushing to catch up, you flung yourself into the open driver's door, slamming on the brakes and throwing the gear into reverse. You leaned across the cab to fling the passenger door wide open.

“Come on!” You shouted at Natalie as she climbed back into the car. With a tense exhale, you navigated the car backward, turning wide in the intersection before screeching forward.

Your mind was completely clear with pure adrenaline. You were only a few blocks away from the hotel now, the castle-shaped outline shrouded in trees just ahead on your right. You floored it, a tense silence hanging in the car, both you and Natalie’s eyes locked forward on the road in front of you.

Only slowing down to make a right turn into the hotel driveway, you didn’t bother waiting for the valet. Tossing your keys onto the driver’s seat, you left the door ajar as you stormed through the garage toward your room, ready to put this evening behind you.

#dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x ofc #over 5k #series #*explicit #theperfectawful

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dieterbravobrainrotclub · 2 days

Text

into you

Summary: After almost giving up the hope to become a big actor you get offered the leading role in a period drama, leaving you to spend three months in Scotland with your male co star Dieter Bravo and maybe falling in love with him.

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x fem. reader

Wordcount: 2.247

Rating: T

Warnings: fluff, falling in love, implied smut, kissing, really cheesy movie lines I made up, confessions of feelings, reader is in her late thirties, Dieter playing the piano

A/N: Another one for @undercoverpena April showers challenge! What's better than a Pedro character in period clothing in the rain? Making out with him hehe

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You couldn’t sleep.

The moon was shining hrough the window of your hotel room, an old castle in the middle of nowhere somewhere in Scotland.

You had come here almost three months ago, having gotten the first big job of your career, the lead role in a period drama. The first lead role you ever got. The first big job you ever got.

For years you dreamed of being a big movie star.

Much like every young person who came to LA.

Which had been almost twenty years ago. You had been about to quit trying for that one big role that would finally grant your your big success last year.

By now well in your thirties (the forties getting closer and closer), not having any major success apart from some multi episode secondary character on some netflix shows in the latest years, you gave up hope that you would make it.

Sometimes the residuals you got from playing Chandler Bing’s awkward girlfriend for two episodes almost twenty years ago on friends had been the only way to pay your rent.

You were looking into going back to school when your agent called you, talking you into going to this last audition. It had been as a favour to them that you agreed, the contracts between you and the agency already canceled towards the end of the month.

They had always believed in you and you hated saying no to them because of that reason.

Maybe it was you having nothing to lose that left you going into the audition and blowing them all away. Not that you thought you did until your agent called you not even twenty minutes after you went out of the audition, asking you to come back to read opposite the male lead.

Still you didn’t let yourself getting your hopes up, walking back into the office building, back into the room you had been in before, now with an additional face smiling warmly at you.

You didn’t know that in the next two hours your whole life would change.

Not just because they offered you the job.

No, It was the day you met Dieter Bravo.

Of course you knew who Dieter Bravo was.

You had admired him since he starred in the high school drama series you definitely did not tape every episode from when you were in your teens.

And there had been no posters of him in your room growing up, nope.

But like almost every teen crush, it faded over the years.

You grew up, and he did too. You knew he had won an Oscar some years back, you saw the movie in the cinema back then.

He had made headlines after that, naming him the next big thing.

But lately the only headlines you remembered of him had been of his drug escapades and dating life.

So you had been a little reserved when you first met, hoping he would be professional enough throughout the audition.

Hope you shouldn’t have had, because Dieter had turned out to be professional in every single way.

Now, after spending almost two months with him, playing opposite of him, acting that you were in love with him, you found yourself wishing he would be a little less professional.

Groaning you sat yourself up in your bed, clicking the lamp on the bedside table on, reaching for your phone.

2:43 am.

Taking a deep breath and releasing a long sigh as you exhaled you let your head fall back.

In twenty four hours you would be on a plane back to the states, already on your way to shoot your next movie, your career seemingly finally starting off now that you were starring in a movie with Dieter Bravo.

You should be beyond happy.

Everything you dreamed off finally seemed to come true. You had three jobs lined up that would pay more than you had made in the last ten years combined.

Yet the thought of waking up every morning and not getting to spend the day with Dieter made it all bittersweet.

You had spent a lot of time together since getting to Scotland to shoot this movie. Not only on set, but apart from it too. He had been here before, shooting another movie and invited you out some times, showing you around. You had dinner together almost every night be it in an restaurant he wanted to show you or in the hotel. You got to know the man behind the persona you learned he put on for the public for and over the last weeks you had found yourself falling for him.

Your fingers cam up to brush over your lips, the lips he had kissed.

More than once.

In front of the camera.

But before you went to bed tonight, he walked you to your room and he had kissed you good night. Without cameras rolling. Without people around. Just you and him. His warm hand on your cheek, your back pushed against your hotel room door as he towered over you, his other hand resting on the door behind you.

You were out of breath when he parted from your lips, wishing you a good night, leaving you watching after him with your lips parted, your brain still trying to process that he had just kissed you, as he went down the hallway until he disappeared into his room.

You were too giddy to sleep, getting an old sweatshirt on before you grabbed your hotel key and walked out of your room, hoping he was as sleepless as you were and downstairs where you had found him often during your stay.

You could hear the faint sound of a piano as you entered the lobby, the night manager giving you a small smile as you walked past, following the sound.

In the far back corner of the lobby was a piano where you found Dieter playing a melody you did not recognise.

You had found him here before, in the beginning when you could not sleep because you were too nervous to fuck this big chance you got up.

He told you that his art supplies hadn’t been shipped yet, and that he usually painted when he couldn’t sleep.

And so instead he played.

And you listened, sitting next to him until you both almost fell asleep, before he walked you to your room, only to be up some hours later to shoot a movie where his character denied to be in love with your character, pushing your character away until a big dramatic scene where you would finally admit your feelings to each other.

Sitting down on the seat next to him as he played now, you let your head fall against his shoulder, hearing him inhale as he continued to play.

His lips brushed against your temple and you closed your eyes, just listening to his song.

When he finished you looked up at him, his eyes were already on you, an unreadable expression on his face.

„Couldn’t sleep?“ he asked.

You hummed in agreement.

„Too many thoughts in my head,“ you whispered and he nodded. One of his arms came to wrap around your back, pulling you closer against his side.

„You wanna talk about those thoughts?“ he asked and you chuckled.

„Don’t wanna fuck the big scene up tomorrow, well today,“ you said and he gave you a small smile.

„If someone is gonna fuck up it’s me. You make me keep forgetting my lines,“ he winked and you felt your cheeks growing warm, remembering the many occasions Dieter had seemingly spaced out during some scenes, looking at you with an expression you couldn’t place.

„What do you mean?“ You asked, and he sucked his bottom lip in, before he shrugged and there it was again, that expression in his face, his eyes big as he looked at you.

„I can’t stop looking at you. You’re so talented and beautiful and kind and so damn intelligent. Sexy….,“ he winked „You just blow me away and it’s like my brain stops working when I look at you sometimes. I never really felt like this before…“ he whispered and you blinked at him.

„What I am trying to say is, I like spending time with you. I like talking to you. I like kissing you, touching you,“ he grinned and you huffed.

„Especially when it’s just the two of us. Last week when the director called cut when we were in bed….“ He closed his eyes, shaking his head.

You had rushed off after finishing the scene with him, having to take care of the ache between your legs in the bathroom after spending almost six hours in bed with him, shooting numerous sex scenes.

„I wish we had been alone,“ he whispered his face getting closer to yours, his lips brushing over yours.

„Dieter,“ you whispered, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, his lips pressing against yours and you shivered.

„Yeah?“ He asked.

„We are alone now,“ you whispered and he nodded, before he kissed you again, deeply.

„Would you like to have sex with me?“ He whispered and your lips twitched into a grin which he mirrored before he kissed you again.

„Take me to your room, Dieter,“ you said, giggling when you found yourself pulled in the direction of the elevators in the next moment.

„This is madness,“ you shook your head, the rain coming down on you without mercy, drenching your many layers of clothes.

„Why? Why is it madness that I have fallen for you?“ Dieter asked, in character, his white shirt clinging to his chest.

You huffed a laugh, your character in denial about the feelings not only she had, but he had too.

„Because we are both engaged. And not to each other. We have to end this. I have to….“ You shook your head, closing your eyes, before you looked up at him. Dieter having closed the distance between the two of you, but not close enough to touch. The raindrops where running down his nose, his hair clinging to his face.

He looked like a wet dream straight out of a Jane Austen novel.

„All these times we spend in each others arms, they don’t mean anything to you?“ He asked.

„It was a mistake. It shouldn’t have happened,“ you said, Dieter’s character seeing right through your lie.

„Do you love me?“ He asked and you did not have to play the small smile that sneaked to your lips for only a moment before you fought it down.

„It doesn’t matter,“ you said, turning away from him, but his hand wrapped around your wrist, stopping you before you could go.

„It matters to me. ,“ he whispered, broken, and the tone of his voice made you want to cry.

The rain continued to fall as you gave the camera time to capture both of your faces.

„Of course I love you,“ you finally said, looking at him over your shoulder.

„Then stay,“ he pleaded. You began to shake your head, when he pulled you against his chest, one of his hands on your cheek, brushing your hair that stuck to your face to the side, his eyes gazing deeply into yours.

„Stay and allow yourself to be happy,“ he said, almost begging.

„Stay here and let me love you,“ he let his forehead fall against yours and your eyes dropped close, pictures of the night he had spend with you filling your mind, the way his forehead had rested against yours as he filled you over and over and…

You opened your eyes and Dieter’s lip twitched for a second, having caught your unintended pause.

„What about our families?“ you asked, „What about my sister? She’s in your house getting ready to marry you today,“ you asked.

„They will understand. They have to. And if they don’t, I’ll take you away where we can live our life without the judgement of others. You’ll never have to worry for money.I love you, please be with me,“ his nose brushed against yours.

You felt his other hand on your lower back and you gasped.

„Then take me away,“ you whispered, feeling his smile against your lips as he finally kissed you, your arms wrapping around his broad back, fingertips brushing over his drenched clothes as he deepened the kiss.

The first thing you realised when Dieter parted from your lips was that the rain had stopped and that it was quiet around you. Too quiet.

Looking at Dieter he gave you a sheepish smile before you looked around, finding the crew around you looking at the both of you, Dieter’s PA holding two robes in his arms, giving you a wide smile.

„You gonna listen when I call cut now?“ The director teased with a wide grin and you let your head fall against Dieter’s chest, mortified, but he just chuckled, before he helped you get into the robe his PA had brought over.

„We’ll meet in an hour for the wedding scene, do not be late,“ the director reminded everyone, giving you and Dieter a longer look, and you nodded. Dieter grabbed your hand, and you looked at him.

„Can’t wait to marry you,“ he winked and kissed you again, before you both were rushed off from the set to get ready.

And you did actually get married.

Seven months later.

On a beach.

In the rain.

Without any interruptions.

#dieter bravo #x f!reader #<5k #no smut #fluff

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dieterbravobrainrotclub · 3 days

Text

salt, shot, lime

➔ Dieter Bravo x afab!Reader

➔ 2.3k words

➔ You meet your celebrity crush in a bar; he turns out to be a lot more fun than you expected.

➔ Rated MA for protected p in v, public sex acts/public nudity (they fuck in a bar y’all), body shots/alcohol consumption, pet names (baby, honey, sweetheart) // reader has female anatomy (afab - no pronouns used), wears a bra, is generally able-bodied but is otherwise a blank slate.

“Go on. Don’t be shy.”

Your fingers work slowly at the buttons of your blouse, so readily and eagerly baring yourself to this man who–for all intents and purposes–is a complete stranger.

He’s familiar, though; to you, not the other way around. Dieter Bravo lives very publicly, after all. You follow him on Instagram and Twitter; you see bits and pieces of his life throughout yours. When he approached you at the bar, he had no clue who you were. But you knew him.

And now he’s eyeing you over the rims of his sepia-lensed sunglasses, ringed fingers idly tracing the rim of the empty shot glass that sits on the counter next to him. He looks at you like he wants to know you, and that’s exactly why you’re in this position.

This is crazy. This shouldn’t be happening at all. But he’s hot, and he’s interested in you. And you’re not nearly drunk enough to not understand the risks and consequences associated.

You can see the gulp that traces down his throat as you set your shirt on the counter and it gives you the willpower you need to keep from crossing your arms over your chest to cover yourself. Dieter fucking Bravo is effected just from this simple view of you in your cute yet simple bra, and it’s the headiest confidence boost you’ve ever received.

“You’re so pretty, baby.” His voice is breathless, lips parted in awe. “Fuck.”

The bartender clearing his throat and setting down a tray next to Dieter’s right hand is enough to snap the actor out of his dazed reverie. Dieter clears his throat and wrenches his eyes away from your half-naked torso, scanning the contents of the tray before humming his satisfaction.

“Ready, honey?” He asks, and you hum your approval as you lean back over the bar.

This is the first time you’ve done this, and you don’t think Dieter follows standard protocol. Or maybe he does—it’s not like you would really know, this isn’t your typical Saturday night activity—but there’s hardly anything that can be called standard about the way his wet tongue laves quickly and wetly over your sternum to give the salt something to stick to. Just that little bit of contact is enough to make you squirm, and it takes every out of restraint you possess to sit still for him as he pours the shot into the dip of your belly button.

It’s messy and sticky and not very comfortable, especially when you position the lime between your lips, but you’ve never been so turned on in your life.

He gives you a look—dark and pleading—and you take a deep, aroused breath as you nod your consent.

Again, his tongue is between your breasts, but this time it’s languid. He takes his time and flattens the length of the muscle against your skin to collect every last grain of salt.

Then he purses his lips and slurps the tequila from your belly button—but really, all you can focus on in the moment is the weight of his hand resting dangerously high on your thigh under the guise of steadying himself. His fingertips are so close yet so achingly far from where you’re wettest, and the smirk on his face says he knows it.

Finally, after a moment that seems to last at least three years, he moves up your body and bites into the lime waiting between your lips.

With him this close you can smell the heady, woodsy scent of his cologne, and it only serves to turn you on further as he sucks the juice from the tart fruit.

The way he takes the lime from you with his teeth and spits it out on the countertop should be a crime but you really can’t be fucked about it because suddenly he’s kissing you. You could isolate all three flavors on his tongue if you cared to, but you don’t in the slightest. All you can really focus on is those hands as they slide up your sides and come to rest at the base of your skull, thumbs swiping simultaneously over your cheeks to anchor you while he licks deeper into your mouth.

The cocky bastard actually smirks against your lips when you moan. The sound is soft but it only serves to motivate him; he shoves his tongue deep into your mouth like he’s trying to lick your molars as your hands wind around his neck to tug him closer to you.

And then, just as suddenly as he started kissing you, he pulls away.

“Your turn, sweetheart.” There’s just a faint little smirk to his lips, but it’s enough to make you want to smack him. It’s also enough to make you want to suck him so deep into your throat that he never fully recovers.

And fuck, you really want to tell him fuck it and ask if he wants to get out of here, but you also want to give him a taste of his own medicine.

You nod to the bartender, who sets down another shot for you. And then you nod to Dieter’s chest, and he starts tugging his baggy shirt over his head without a word.

He’s pretty. You’ve always admired his physique, sure, but it’s even better in person. There’s an unkempt quality to the smattering of hair on his lower stomach, and the soft curve of his belly has you eager to get your hands on him.

You haven’t even gotten your shot yet, but you’re hoping and praying that he’ll want to drag you into the bathroom to have his way with you after this.

He leans back and lets you prep him–smiling slightly at how careful and neat you are about laying the salt and pouring the shot. There’s a tender reverence in your touch that makes his heart pound in a way it hasn’t in years.

“You good?” You ask, looking into his dark eyes when he takes off his sunglasses, neatly folds them, and sets them on the bar.

You watch his throat bob around a thick swallow, and then he nods; and you can’t help the sick satisfaction you feel over how breathless he already is. Too easy.

You make a point of dragging your nails over his treasure trail, under the guise of steadying yourself, as you lick the salt from his firm chest. You spend a little more time there than strictly necessary; but you want to get him clean, after all. And if your tongue trails off course to drag over a taut nipple–

“Oh, fuck!” His voice is muffled from the lime wedge perched between his lips; he’s so sensitive that his hips actually jolt at your ministration, but your hand on his lower belly steadies him to assure his shot isn’t wasted. “Baby that’s not fair–”

His protest is breathy and trails off into a useless little whine when you move down to suck the tequila from his belly button. You can actually see the way his cock springs to life under his trousers in your peripheral vision, and you think you deserve an award. A big world cup-style trophy, with an inscription that reads “I made Dieter Bravo hard just from licking his fucking belly button”.

He spits the lime out before you even get a chance to taste it, but that’s okay because you’d rather taste him anyway.

His grip is firm as he cups your face in his big, meaty hands and pulls your lips to his. There’s a desperation to this kiss–a frantic meeting of lips and tongue and teeth as he tries to pull you closer to him than it’s physically possible to be. And you let him, let him take everything you so desperately want in return as you feel the scratch of his beard against your chin and the firm grip of his hands guiding the angle of your head.

“W-we should… take this somewhere more private,” you pant when you finally muster the courage to pull back for air.

He shakes his head, and you feel a twist of disappointment in your gut. But then he looks over your shoulder; you hear a deep, guttural voice–and before you know it, the entire bar is empty. Not a soul in sight, not even the bartender

“This private enough for you, honey?”

You nod dumbly, still kind of starstruck over such a powerful display of the way the entire world dances to Dieter Bravo’s tune.

He pulls you in for another deep kiss, this time backing you up into the bar counter. You can feel the insistent press of his arousal against your hip like this, and it makes you moan needily into his open mouth.

“Wanna fuck you,” he murmurs into his mouth, rolling his hips against you in a way that makes you moan again. “Please baby, lemme fuck you.”

“Fuck me,” you murmur back with a nod.

You’re definitely not normally the type that would strip down completely in the middle of a bar to fuck some man you just met, but there’s something about him that has you disregarding all common decency to toss aside your bra and wiggle out of your jeans so he can see every inch of your exposed skin.

It’s all worth it for the pleased moan he makes when he takes you in with his eyes, hungrily eating up miles and miles of flesh that he wants to touch and kiss and appreciate. But there’s not enough time, not here; so he lifts you up sideways onto the bar like you’re weightless and then presses you to lay down flat against the counter top, completely ignoring the sticky glass-sweat rings that press little cold patches into your flesh.

You get a good view of him as he loses the rest of his clothes, flinging them to the corners of the room with a ferocity that makes you giggle. The sound brings a smile to his face, too; and then he jumps up onto the sturdy bar counter with you, spreading your legs with eager hands so he can slot his hips between yours as he continues to kiss you.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he grumbles as he shamelessly ruts his hard cock against your wetness–his voice is so deep it’s almost gravelly. And then he produces a little foil packet from seemingly thin air and winks at you like a hammy cartoon character. “Safety first.”

He’s so silly it’s sexy, and he laughs with you as he presses his lips back to yours. He fumbles a little bit as he tries to roll the condom onto his impressive length while simultaneously kissing you, so you reach down with steady hands to help him; he whimpers at the way you take his girth into your hands and so easily sheathe him.

“M’not gonna last long,” he whispers as he lines up with your entrance, and you’re surprised he can’t actually feel the way it makes your cunt sob with arousal.

“That’s okay,” you reassure, one hand coming to tug firmly at the curls that compose the nape of his neck. “Just make it good.”

He nods, gently bites at your lower lip, and then he thrusts into you smoothly all the way to the hilt.

There’s a bit of a stretch to accommodate him and it makes you moan; the feeling of your tight heat sends a physical shudder down his spine.

“Oh, fuck–” he scoots his knees up further towards your ass, shoving himself as deep as he can get while simultaneously trying to let you adjust to his sudden intrusion. “Fuck, sweetheart, you feel so good–”

You feel the slight scrape of his thick curls against your clit, and it yanks a desperate little moan from your lips. “Move, Dieter, fuck me–”

He’s nothing if not obedient. The first needy little thrust is hard enough to jolt your entire body–he scoops a hand under your head to soften the blow, and then he starts moving with reckless abandon.

It’s hot, it’s sweaty, it’s desperate. He thrusts hard and deep into your soaked core, mouthing uselessly at your mouth and jaw, whimpering with each rut of his hips. He watches your face when he can actually keep his eyes open and finds the exact spot that makes you writhe and squirm underneath him, angling his hips to hit it with relentless accuracy.

He looks pussydrunk, it’s the only way to describe the expression created by his glassy eyes and his parted lips. He nuzzles his face in between your tits and looks up at you like you created the moon and the stars, like you’re something to revere. You’re scared that if he keeps looking at you like that, you’re going to fall in love with him.

“I’m close, Dieter…” you warn, the hand that's not clutching desperately at his messy hair reaching down to put your favorite kind of pressure on your clit.

He tilts his head down and watches to the best of his ability, making mental note of exactly how you like to be worked over–storing that information away for next time. He so desperately wants there to be a next time.

He feels it a second before you do and angles his hips just right to hit that toe-curlingly pleasurable spot right as you come. It sends you sky high, the way he pounds mercilessly into you while the pleasure ebbs and flows over you.

He comes hardly a minute later, grunting and whining and cursing under his breath as his balls draw up and he empties himself into the condom, shoved as deep inside you as he can physically get.

There’s a long, heavy moment of silence as you both pant and try to come down from the clouds. He scatters little feather-light kisses over your sweat-slicked chest, and then he looks up at you with those big brown puppy eyes you’re starting to adore.

“You wanna grab dinner?” He’s so earnest in asking, like he’s not balls-deep in your cunt right now.

It’s so ass-backwards that you can’t help the laughter that bubbles up your throat, but you don’t consider any other answer than, “Yeah, sure.”

It’s worth it just to see the smile that lights up his face. “Amazing.”

➔ dividers: @saradika-graphics

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#dieter bravo x afab!reader #under 5k #one shot #*explicit #freelancearsonist

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dieterbravobrainrotclub · 3 days

Text

Furrowed - Dieter Bravo x gn!reader - fluff

Title: Furrowed

Author: @ghotifishreads

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x gn!reader

Word count: 850

Summary: Dieter feels

Warnings: Unbeta'd, barely edited. Um I don't think anything, but let me know if there's something I missed off that should be added?

A/N: Dudes (gn), this is so squishy and fluffy and a bit sultry. It’s just Dieter getting some lovin’ on, as he should. Possibly OOC??

So many people want to fuck that "old" man (he's not old) but don’t want him to age. (Also fuck equating youth with beauty. Obviously this is a problem faced more by women than men, but still.)

Shoutout to the @dieterbravobrainrotclub, to @ozarkthedog for the initial thot and @schnarfer for so politely requesting a blurb. This was way more fun than work today.

------

“‘Wears his age well?!’” Dieter huffs out, chucking his phone on to the bed in despair.

You emerge from the swanky hotel bathroom to Deiter muttering at his electronic device and slinking back into the luxurious white cotton bedding in a strop.

You knew the new assistant shouldn’t have sent him the link to the article with him being on the Best Dressed List. As these write-ups often were, the praise for his sartorial triumph—which he did looking fucking hot in, thanks very much—had been snidely accompanied with a back-handed compliment about Dieter not being in his twenties any more.

Dieter lounges, propped up by pillows, still in bed after your heavy night at the awards show. He hadn’t been nominated, but the film he was in had been, and the film, his costars, and filmmaking colleagues had several wins between them.

The hour neared noon but you both had only just stirred to the world of the living after all the after-after parties and dancing and celebratory revelry.

Now Dieter was out of the outfit that had gotten him on the best dressed list, and out of the make-up, and, like you imagined mirrored on your face, looking a little tired around the edges and bags under his eyes from the previous night (and well into morning’s) revelry.

“Is this that article Katy sent?”

Dieter eyes you rounding the bed. You feel dewy and freshly damp from the shower, and feel the air conditioning in the room after the encased steaminess of the bathroom.

Heavier than all that is the weight of Dieter’s gaze dragging up your body, taking in your exposed legs, where the towel ends and following your towel-clad figure until you stand at his side of the bed and he cranes his neck up to look in your eyes as you peer down at him from the current height discrepancy.

“Wears his age well,” he mouths again at you, lips curling around the word ‘age’ like it’s a fowl thing. He looks forlornly up at you, his brown eyes and pouting lip giving the effect of an unattended puppy.

You nod your head in the direction of the unoccupied part of the bed. “Shove over.”

He extends a hand to you and scoots towards the center of the bed, so you have room to take his hand and climb into his lap, one knee either side of his hips.

Once you’re securely seated, legs sturdily positioned and ass nestled in the cradle of his thighs, you cup his face in your hands.

“You look amazing. The point is that no, you aren’t 25 anymore. I wouldn’t want to be with that guy anyway, from what you say, he sounds like an absolute punk.”

Dieter’s hands draw to your thighs as if magnetized. His fingertips start to creep under the edge of your towel, the trailing tie of the bracelet his niece wove him adding to the goosebumps his sneaking touch already gives you.

“Besides, I’m really into this silver fox thing too.” You engage in teasing touches of your own, drawing your fingertips from Dieter’s jawline to rake into the threads of silver dotting his sideburns and his temple. “That’s no young man’s game.”

“Every crow’s foot – that’s cuz you laughed, or cried, and you’re still fucking here,” your touch skirts along his cheeks, running along his temple to trace said crow’s feet.

Then you dance the pads of your fingertips to his forehead where his brow wrinkles in displeasure, and press the creases with your middle and ring finger.

“I only dislike this furrow in your brow when it’s there cuz you’re sad,” you say, smoothing out the skin between his eyebrows with gentle pressure.

Dieter slumps even further into your touch, body going lax and loose into the pillows with all this attentive face out touching. You smile as his eyes close while he relishes the sensation, though a shudder runs through him and slumps back into the headboard and pillows, his hands cup under your ass and hold you close.

You kiss his forehead where your fingers have soothed.

“But when you’re thinking or laughing, it’s one of my favorite bits,” you murmur against his skin, lips catching the spot as Dieter’s breath comes warm and shuddery against your sternum.

“Which bit?” he breathes out playfully. He squints one eye open, angling obviously for another kiss.

You kiss him between the brows again. “This bit.”

Your lips trail featherweight down his nose. “And this bit too.”

“Oh,” Dieter breathes out.

You kiss either side of his brow where the crow’s feet aren’t fading in and out at the moment, but you love when they arise because it usually means Dieter’s face is crumpled in a smile or a laugh. “Here,” you whisper against his temple, “and here,” you say, reaching the other side.

Dieter’s grip tightens on your hips and he shuffles you forward, before one wandering hand snakes up to your neck.

“Well, now you gotta let me kiss all the best bits of your face,” Dieter insists, voice deep with sleep and dopey with love.

++end++

-----

Thanks so much for reading! If you enjoyed what you read, please do reblog or leave a comment, I’d be most grateful! Want to read more of my work? Take a peek at my masterlist here.

#dieter bravo x gn!reader #under 5k #one shot #*mature #ghotifishreads

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dieterbravobrainrotclub · 4 days

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Down This Chain of Days - Chapter 1 / Day 1: Dieter Bravo x reader time loop rom com

Title: Down This Chain of Days - Chapter 1, Day 1

Author: @ghotifishreads

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Word count: 7.7K

Summary: The thing is, when Dieter Bravo turns up at your sister’s semi-formal desert wedding wearing a fleece coat, tropical shirt, and swimming trunks instead of a tux, how are you meant to know it’s out-of-character time loop madness-induced behavior for him? You just thought he was a Hollywood eccentric.

Which, as you’ll come to know intimately, he absolutely is when you get sucked into the time loop too.

An AU of the delightful and nihilistic time loop rom com Palm Springs.

Series Masterlist

Massive thank you to @ozarkthedog who transformed Pedro's Corona ad into Dieter in the Palm Springs desert, and for general cheerleading duties:

Warnings: Includes suicidal ideation and discussion, plus actual suicides (that don’t stick because it’s a time loop) and really glib attitudes about them, on a par with the films Groundhog’s Day or Palm Springs. Drinking. Alcohol as a coping mechanism. Seriously, so much drinking. Drug use mentioned, and they take mushrooms. PinV sex. Violence never too gory or overtly described, but includes various characters experiencing the following (here be spoilers): shot with a crossbow; falls and breaks teeth; hit by a car; commits or experiences vehicular manslaughter; tased by a cop.

Reader is mentioned as being older than her 20s, exact age is unspecified. Reader wears a long purple dress, and has hair but type and length are not mentioned. No other physical description is applied.

Please do reach out and let me know if I’ve left anything out that should be included in the warnings.

A/N: In the headers, the first “Day” is Reader’s and the one after the “//” are Dieter’s days. (You’ll see when you get there.)

This is literally the film Palm Springs grafted onto Dieter Bravo x reader scenario. Truly just lifted wholesale. So the premise and anything else good about this fic likely comes from the writers and creators of that day-brightening film. I hope it’s still funny and charming and gives you feels.

Unbeta’d. Title from the song At Last by Neko Case. Header by me, dividers by @firefly-graphics.

🔞Over 18s only, minors dni! 🔞 I do not give permission for my work to be republished, reposted, or translated.

CHAPTER 1 - DAY 1

[Day 1 / Day 14,604]

You awake on the morning of your sister’s wedding to the sound of the shower running in the adjoining bathroom.

The charming small ranch style hotel has been fully rented out for guests attending your younger sister Maria’s nuptials to her beloved finance Abe.

A destination wedding, the location on the outskirts of Palm Springs, a jewel of comfort and ceremony set alone in the rolling brutal and beautiful desert landscape.

The sun streaming in behind the white curtains warms you to an uncomfortable degree. Dread knots in your stomach as the sound of water continues to patter tile through the door. It feels like it’s pounding directly into your skull.

You can’t even blame a hangover for the bile swirling in your stomach.

You rise and slink out of the room to make your way to yours, before the showerer comes out for a painful awkward talk, or anyone notices you haven’t slept in your own bed.

—

Maria and Abe’s ceremony that afternoon is admittedly beautiful. The sun shines merrily on the Instagram-perfect spring desert nuptials. Walking up the aisle, leading the train of bridesmaids, you don’t even trip on the stupid long purple maid of honor dress your sister picked for you. Conspicuously a different color from the bridesmaids, all in pink.

You make it through the ceremony without fainting or throwing up. Not even when a freak mini earthquake happens just before the bride and groom say their “I do”s.

Thank Christ your dad sprang for an open bar at the dinner.

—-

At the reception dinner, your father finishes his speech and cues your maid of honor speech. The moment there was not enough wine in the world for.

You chug more of it anyway.

You’d swear coyotes howl in the distance, the outdoor venue keeping all the creatures of the night at bay only by the glow of string lights on the large patio. Even nature’s aware you are ill-suited for public speaking.

You take the mic, and stand, the weighty shaft feeling slippery in your nervous, sweaty hands.

You fumble for your words. Clear your throat. Bid the silent, impatient crowd a good evening.

“So, Maria and Abe. Got married….” You had prepared a speech but left your index cards at home, on your coffee table in Austin, where you’d been practicing. Your stomach knots, lack of a plan B turning your tongue to stone in your mouth.

A hallucinatory vision swaggers into your periphery.

Dieter fucking Bravo. The film star Dieter Bravo.

You don’t actually know him, but you do know from your sister that he’s hate-banging, slash on-again-off-again dating her bridesmaid Misty. Not least of all because at the bachelorette party, Misty kept talking about how girthy his dick was but that he was “getting older” and “couldn’t keep it up.”

The man who strolls towards you at this moment appears to radiate BDE, even if he can’t keep it erect in the actual bedroom, as per word on the street.

Why are you thinking about Dieter Bravo in the bedroom when your feet are planted on this fancy patio and you will blackout for how bad this speech is about to be? Focus the fuck up.

He’s wearing a tropical shirt unbuttoned halfway down his torso and swimming trunks, topped with a nubbly looking fleece teddy coat. His ensemble is completed with black Crocs on his feet, and sunglasses in the evening dark.

Even by lackadaisical California semi-casual standards, it’s rather underdressed for a semi-formal wedding. And a coat, in April?

Dieter grins at you, popping the sunglasses over his wild hair and popping his gum, before leaning into the mic. “The sister of the bride wanted me to contribute, to say a few words about love.”

“What are you doing, dude?” you hiss at this stranger with the very familiar face as he tugs the mic out of your hand.

He covers the mic head to speak to you alone. “You’re tanking. I’m saving you. Let it happen. I promise, I know it’s the better outcome than letting you biff it with that atrocious non-speech I can see percolating.”

You lean down and mumble into the mic “Here to say a few words about love, uh, Dieter Bravo?”

You sink into your chair, relinquish the mic and maid of honor speech to the film star, and drink more wine.

Your father looks more confused than when you told him you were moving to Austin. Maria mouths, “What the fuck?” discreetly to you.

Dieter clears his throat. “We come into this world all alone. Then sometimes there is light and we are found. But we’re all lost. Abe and Maria found their light in each other.

“And, as her sister here told me, Maria spreads light wherever she goes. Beyond her charitable causes, Maria gave of herself in the most literal sense. A true hero, who donated bone marrow to her baby cousin.”

A round of applause for your sister’s good deeds.

Dieter nods in agreement and paces across the floor next to the head table, preens like he’s reciting fucking Shakespeare. The brass balls on this guy.

“Today, tomorrow, yesterday, it's all the same. Take it from me,” he lets the sentiment ring out and settle in the room. “But if you can find someone to share your light with, like Maria and her moth man drawn to her, like Abe–not an actual Moth Man cryptid,” he pauses and the audience laughs, “but you know, the metaphorical moth drawn to her very real radiance and light, well. That’s all that we can take forward on each and every single day we live in this life.”

Dieter Bravo has moved from looking at Abe and Maria to looking dead at you.

You've never met him before, yet he looks at you like the two of you share a private joke, a luminant mischief and a promise dancing in his eyes.

“Here you are, standing on the precipice of something so much bigger than anyone else here. Remember, you’re not alone. So. Let’s raise a glass,” he cracks open the tab of a beer can with one hand, without breaking his step or speech, “We’re cheering you on as you achieve your wildest dreams. We may be born lost and alone, but now, through love, we’re found.”

You hear someone softly crying from a table away. Your stepmother looks like she’s swooning. Even your dad looks impressed.

Dieter raises his beer can, ostensibly to toast the newlyweds, but he’s still addressing you. “To Abe and Maria,” he says, which the crowd echoes.

Who the fuck is Dieter Bravo and how did he manage to win over this image-obssessed, apathetic crowd at your sister’s stuffy wedding?

“Now,” he turns back to the party at large, “Let’s dance!”

Everyone cheers in agreement.

–

You console yourself at the bar with more wine. Brenda the bartender is a great listener.

You sense you’re boring her and slink to the nearest unoccupied table. This gives you full view of a figure sliding through the guests as unimpeded as butter melting on a hot griddle.

Make no mistake. It’s Dieter Bravo working the dance floor like a well-oiled machine, gaze yet again locked on you as he crosses the sea of heaving and often artlessly flailing bodies throwing shapes.

It’s not just that he dances well, he moves seamlessly in and out of the crowd, as if a cog in a machine that always notches perfectly into place. He actively helps sometimes – keeps a waiter from losing a drinks tray knocked by a flailing wedding guest. Catches Abe’s great aunt Beatrice when great uncle Ben spins her too far out of reach.

All the way, each trick, coming back to seek you out. As if it’s a show, just for you.

Then he leans over and sips from the cocktail straw of an unsuspecting dancer, his head moving in perfect sync with the gyrating guest so he sips from the stolen Mai Tai uninterrupted. You smile in spite of yourself until he spins around and lands in front of you.

He points, you look behind you. There's no one else. He nods his head. You shake yours.

Dieter waggles his hips and shoulders, hands doing a tandem beckoning motion.

You firmly shake your head, raise your wine glass, and mouth, “no, thank you.”

He throws a ‘pshaw’ with his hand to indicate he’s done with you, but he smiles and pulls his sunglasses down over his eyes.

Then Dieter blows you a kiss, spins around to the neighboring table, grabs a chair, scoots it to the edge of the dance floor, catching Abe’s great uncle Ben at the exact moment the older man slumps down in a cocktail-induced blackout slouch.

How the fuck did he know how to do that?

He grabs a martini from a passing waiter without disrupting the balance of the tray, then plants himself in front of you again.

Dieter slides the sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to give you a once over.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Um, hi. Dieter Bravo, I presume?”

“Exactly, m’lady,” he kisses your hand.

“Oh, ew. Wouldn’t have guessed you were a ‘m’lady’ type,” you say, eying the tropical shirt-clad film star and slowly pulling your hand out of his grasp.

“Not every day. Just thought I’d try it out, this once,” Dieter says.

At odds for what to say you move to small talk. “So how do you know my sister and Abe?” You already know he doesn’t, but this seems like the least probing thing to ask a film star loose at your sister’s wedding.

He downs the martini in one endless gulp. Watching the column of his throat slug the liquid makes you need a thick gulp yourself.

“Oh, I don’t.”

You’d suspected Hollywood people were total fucking weirdos, but this Bravo guy is operating on another plane entirely.

“My paramour, Misty, is in the wedding party.”

“Yeah. She seems-”

“Please don’t say ‘nice.’ You don’t seem like a liar.” He licks his teeth then grins at you, a Cheshire Cat grin that leaves you feeling unmoored but wanting more. “From the very little I know of you, anyway. After your bang up maid of honor speech.”

Before you can tell him off for interrupting but, well, admittedly saving you front that speech, an older woman, must be in her 80s, wanders to the table and interrupts.

“I just wanted to say, young man,” Dieter preens and you snort into your wine glass at that, “I’ve been to more weddings in my day than you can imagine-”

“Well, you’d be surprised,” Dieter says.

“--And that was one of the best wedding speeches I’ve ever heard,” she finishes, smiling warmly at thim.

Dieter smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes, “Oh, thank you so much.”

She wanders over to him and gives him a hug. “We are never alone if we’re looking in the right place.” She pats him on the cheek, and glances at you before she toddles back across the dancefloor.

“That actually feels good,” Dieter says, basking in the aftermath of the hug. “A relation of yours?”

“I don’t recognise her, must be one of Abe’s,” you shrug. “Except you don’t actually believe any of that shit you said, do you?”

“Absolutely not,” Dieter affirms. “There is no light. We’re all fucking alone.”

“Cheers to that,” you raise your wine glass to him. “Thanks for the rescue, by the way, with the speech.”

“You know actors, always looking for a stage. Besides, it hurts to see someone twisting in the wind. Watching other people suffer is not why we’re here.”

“Guess not. And you’re right, I’m not a liar. I was actually gonna say Misty seems like ‘a handful’ to minimize that she strikes me as actively unpleasant.”

Thick, ring bedecked fingers swoop into his martini glass to fish out the slippery green olive and plop it in his mouth. “She’s cheating on me,” he says through his chewing with a shrug.

“I’d say ‘sorry,’ but you seem to be taking it remarkably well.”

He checks a pocket watch, clipped to the pocket of his swim shorts. “Well, she hasn’t done it yet. Nothing to be angry about at this moment in time.”

“Huh?”

“C’mon, it’s just easier if I show you,” Dieter says, sucking the last of the martini from his fingers before scooping your hand in his, and pulling you away from the lights and crowd-pleasing, milquetoast dance music of the party.

“Oh, god,” you say, “You called it.” You and Dieter are crouched in the bushes below Dieter and Misty’s hotel room window.

The willowy blonde Misty is on the bathroom counter, getting eaten out by your sister’s wedding officiant, who’d worn a bright blue rhinestoned cowboy suit for the occasion. (One of Abe’s buddies. You think he’s from Florida originally, and as far as you knew had no ranching ties whatsoever.)

Misty is currently wearing his white cowboy hat and riding the guy’s face. “We’re so bad,” she breathily chants on repeat, bucking against him.

“Why don’t you get in there and stop them?” you ask Dieter, ducking back below the window to stop your voyeurism.

“Trust me, there’s not a world where these two don’t end up together today. Yee fuckin’ haw,” Dieter says deadpanned, standing. “I’ve seen enough. Wanna get out of here?”

He offers his hand. You take it and he starts to lead you away from the patio and its party.

“This feels unwise. Dateline taught me never to go with a stranger to a second location,” you tease, retracting your hand as the wine makes you bold to flirt with this film star.

Besides, he’s the one who approached you, you reason. His girl cheated on him, he doesn’t want to be alone.

Dieter reaches into his coat pockets. “I took all the tiny wines from the bar cart in the rooms,” he says, pulling out a bottle in each hand, an alluring clink in each deep coat pocket promising more.

He clutches the wine to his heart, as if reciting an oath. “If you accompany me to a second location I solemnly swear not to murder you, and also to let you have at least two pocket wines.”

He proffers a bottle to you, the miniature looking comically small engulfed in his large hand. You reach for the wine, but Dieter moves it back towards him, forcing you to step toe-to-toe with him in the planter bed edging the building.

Your chest heaves millimeters from his. Maybe it's the wine talking but after the hellacious 24 hours you've had, the escape of hooking up with a handsome if erratic film star could be the cure for what ails you. Wash this whole wedding and the night that preceded it out of your bones.

He gnaws the inside of his cheek impatiently and raises a questioning eyebrow.

“Make it three pocket wines. If you murder me, I'm gonna haunt your ass so hard.”

Dieter presses a bottle into your upturned hand, lingering his fingertips to stroke your palm before you snatch the wine to drink, “Deal.”

The second location is beautiful, if a bit awkward for hooking up. Just far enough past the bounds of the resort that the party becomes a pleasantly distant din, and the stars punctuate the endless desert sky with a clarity you couldn’t see from your hotel room.

Dieter led you to an outcropping of slanted rock, and you both now lean-lounge against it.

A pause in the conversation while you crack open your second wine, and Dieter leans in and sniffs your head.

“Wow, your hair smells amazing,” he says languidly. His flirting is unsubtle, but you want to get laid and a sure bet is a comfort.

“Um, yeah. It’s a hair perfume? Birthday gift from my sister.”

“Is that Bright Crystal by Chevalier?”

“Yeah. How did you know that?”

Dieter pulls away, leans back against the rock, “Oh, just a connoisseur of hair perfume.”

“Is that right? Cuz hair perfume isn’t a thing I even knew existed, let alone would bother with. But if I didn’t wear it today, Maria would have killed me. Like I don’t have more things to worry about on her wedding day than fucking hair perfume, you know?” you sip from the second tiny wine Dieter produced from the pockets of his nubbly coat.

On the dance floor you’d thought he was ridiculous wearing it, but as the desert’s night air dips in temperature, you’re grateful as Dieter’s coat-warmed torso bleeds body heat into your side.

“And anytime I can’t meet eye-to-eye with Maria is just another nail in the coffin of my reputation as difficult. Yet another reason my family thinks I’m a liability who fucks around and drinks too much.”

“Why do they think that?”

You kiss your teeth. “Cuz I fuck around and drink too much.”

“Ah. So, sisterly rivals?”

“Not at all,” you struggle to encapsulate your relationship with your sister, to explain to Dieter fucking Bravo. But he’s leaning against the rock, head propped on his hand and listening intently so you persevere.

“I don’t hate my sister. We’re just different. She’s baffled by that. And wants me to like what she likes so we can be closer. It’s sweet in its own way,” you insist.

“She wants you to be someone different than you are and that’s sweet?”

“No. I just…OK. So my maid of honor dress – it’s purple, right?”

Dieter runs his hands over the richly eggplant colored silk encasing you. He grins and his big grip lingers pleasingly, warmth seeping through the cool silk. “Very.” He looms over you, keeping his hand at your side.

“The other bridesmaids are in pink. She wanted me to stand out, feel special, which seems kind, right? Apart from how I hate being the center of attention. It’s the thing she’d want, not me…”

Dieter’s kinda stopped listening, too busy rubbing the silk in ever increasing long strokes over your side, your belly, your hip. His searching hand drifts to cup the side of your ass.

“Yeah, but you look hot in purple.” he says, breath puffing hot and alcohol-sweet against your cheek.

You drop your wine, listen to the glass smash on the rock below, as you sink your hands into his hair and kiss his bountiful, wine stained lips.

A few minutes of teenaged-style make outs and rutting against each other, you need some nudity to start to really lose yourself in the mindlessness you hope a hook up and orgasm will bring.

“Too many clothes,” you declare, shoving at Dieter’s shoulders to prompt him to shrug off his jacket. “C’mon, put on a show, Bravo.”

“If you insist,” Dieter bounds to standing in front of you, slips one shoulder of the coat off, then the other, before flinging it to you to catch.

He bites his index finger, makes a smug coy face and continues to shimmy as he walks his fingers down his chest to unbutton his shirt.

He’s being silly but fuck if you aren’t aroused.

You catch the loudly patterned tropical shirt when he flings it at you, admiring the breadth of his shoulders, the dust of hair on his golden skin, and the trail of hair that darkens the line from his belly button to where his swim trunks are tied.

“That’s not naked yet” you nod, indicating the swimming trunks.

Dieter grins and clasps his hands on the ties at the waistband, “OK, but you also need to start showing skin. it’s not fair-”

Dieter spasms, back arching, and he howls in pain, dropping to his knees.

Which reveals a huge arrow now lodged into his broad back.

The bloodcurdling scream that reverberates in your ears takes a moment to register as having come from your own mouth.

“Oh my god!” you holler. “What the fuck?!”

“I’ve been shot!” Dieter howls, writhing and futilely attempting to reach where the arrow has pierced his flesh. “JT, you bastard!”

You look back to the figure in the distance Dieter shouts at. A man dressed all in a black like a cat burglar, waves a crossbow at you, and disappears into the night behind the crest of the hill.

“We have to get you to the hospital!”

Dieter waves you off, but you still help him stand. “No, just the cave.”

“The cave?” You watch in dread as pain spasms his handsome face.

“Don’t follow me, OK. I know this is weird but I’m going to be fine, once I get to the cave, alright?”

You follow his line of sight and there is indeed a cave on the other side of the rock protrusion you’d been making out mere moments ago.

“You’re limping. You need medical attention,” you can’t believe this man is going mystic “the mountain will heal me” new age shit in a moment like this. He’s stumbling and then drops to a crawl.

“I just need you to just go back to the party.” His voice is insistent in his demand to you but he’s eerily calm otherwise. Your blood runs icy cold with how little emotion he has about his injury, but how emphatically he shoos you away, wincing all the while.

“What about the psycho with the crossbow?” the pitch of your voice rises with hysteria.

He’s ahead of you now, still crawling into the cave. You have to ditch your heels to navigate the rocky terrain and follow.

“You don’t have to worry about that guy. He left, right? Cuz he’s not after you. He’s only after me. He got what he wanted, he’ll leave you alone.”

A dull roaring noise emits from the cave, drawing your attention. It prompts an atavistic dread to ball in your stomach.

The furthest point of the cave emits a pinprick of light that explodes with the rumbling you feel in your ribcage and your feet.

Dieter is nearly to the source of light as you crest the lip of the cave, blinded by a huge light.

“No, don’t!” Dieter’s cry is the last thing you hear before everything goes to black.

[Day nil // Day 14,603]

Dieter used to love the film Groundhog’s Day. He often fantasized about having the man’s career, but turns out being Bill Murray is not all it’s cracked up to be. Or at least, being Phil Connors would suck.

He knows all too well. Though instead of an alarm clock blaring the same talk radio song, it's Misty’s falsely sweet coo of “Good morning, time to wake up,” as she lotions her legs at the end of the bed.

Some mornings Dieter follows what he did the first morning. Talks Misty into having sex, even though she's showered and dressed. She doesn't let him finish, and complains about how she's never know a guy to take so long to get it up–“It's an age thing,” he fully interjects “it's not an age thing,” she replies, “I mean and then you take soooo long to finish”---and Dieter wonders yet again why he ever threw his lot in with Misty.

Actually he knows.

She’s fucking hot, a model, and her attention and her initial, “Oh Mr. Bravo, I was such a fan growing up,” a phrase that should have given him the ‘ick’ but instead flattered him perfectly like she must have planned. And a week later they were shackled together in some death spiral and Dieter isn't sure why because he doesn't like her as a person and her disdain for everything about him apart from his status and money is pretty clear as well.

But in the timeline, in this day, he knows that the quickest way to disengage from Misty is to flatter her ego by letting her give him a pity lay, and then he can hang out by the pool or disappear to do whatever else he wants.

Dieter Bravo scrapped and fought for his art and his career every step of the way. Until he gave up a bit with his complacently post-Oscar win and all the money and he didn't have to fight to get a good pay check.

Romantic or non-romantic sex pact relationships, the best description for his current whatevership with Misty, he never fought for. Maybe to win over Anika. Until he threw in the towel when things got tough.

Dieter has been in this day an eternity, and things are so far beyond 'tough' that he doesn't have the vocabulary for the despondency he feels.

So yeah, being Phil Connors fucking blows.

Dieter imagines being Bill Murray would still be very choice.

+++

[Day 2 // Day 14,605]

You wake up in a hotel room that isn’t yours to the sound of the running shower, and a familiar sinking feeling in your guts and your heart.

How the fuck are you here again?

You stagger into your room. Your bridesmaid dress hangs in its garment bag, untouched.

Your gut flips as it comes rushing back to you. The wedding. Kissing Dieter fucking Bravo. The cave…

You tear out of your room, hunting for Dieter.

You spy the object of your derision in the pool, beer in hand at 9:30am, floating on a neon pink pool lounger in his tropical shirt and swim trunks.

“Hey! You! Dieter!” you call from the pool edge. He pops his sunglasses on top of his head at your screeching.

“What?” he mumbles grouchily at the disturbance.

“Asshole! What the fuck did you do to me in that cave?!”

“Oh shit,” he says, mouth dropping into a comical ‘o’ as realization downs on his face.

“Yeah, ‘oh shit,’ indeed!” The sight of him just floating in the pool crazes you. Not because the tropical shirt is wet and clinging to his belly and you remember how he felt pressed up against you last night, but because he’s just floating along, cool as a cucumber, after some sort of fucked up explosion he put you at the heart of.

And now it’s the morning of your sister’s wedding. Which already happened. Yesterday.

You spy a cooler at the pool edge and start lobbing beer cans at him.

“Get up here, motherfucker! You need to fix this!”

Dieter ungainfully rolls off the pool float and underwater to escape your projectiles.

A crowd is gathering. Maria comes outside, calling your name. You jump into the pool. Bravo’s not going to escape you.

You swim and grab him by the collar of his loudly patterned shirt, dragging him to the surface.

“Why did you do this to me? What’s happening?” you shake him, as if the answers will fall out of his soggy curls.

Maria is screaming at you, running to the deep end where you are with Dieter. Metaphorically and literally you realize.

Your sister still calls your name, “What the hell is happening?! Leave Dieter alon–” Maria’s cut off as her flip-flop slips in a puddle on the smooth concrete, and she falls flat on her face.

Her front teeth are missing and her mouth is bleeding a lot. There’s wailing and gnashing of teeth–apart from your sister’s absent front ones–and your dad on the phone to a dentist for an emergency appointment. Your sister screeches, and Abe coddles her, just repeating, “It’s OK, baby, you’re gonna be OK!” while doing absolutely nothing to actually make it OK.

You slink away in the chaos to find Dieter.

He’s sitting in a deck chair by the pool, beer in hand. He opens the cooler, offers you one as you approach.

“Peace offering? Please don’t throw it at me.”

You take it and sink in the lounger next to him, cracking open the can. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

“Nothing. You did it to yourself.”

“Just cuz it’s open doesn’t mean it won’t hurt if I throw it at you.”

“OK, ease off.” He turns to you in the sun lounger and removes his sunglasses again. “You’re not gonna like it.”

“I already don’t like it, my guy.”

“That cave? There’s an earthquake every day at the same time. And something with that rift in the earth caused whatever all the rumbling was and then the lights at night. A rift in time, from what I can figure.”

“Pardon?” your throat struggles to export the word.

“This is one of those infinite time loop situations you might have heard about.”

He lifts his beer to you in a mock salute. “Welcome.”

–

You make Dieter take you back to the cave.

The rift in the earth that was there when you and Dieter had made out nearby last night (tonight?) hasn’t yet appeared.

“Where’s the cave?”

“Earthquake hasn’t happened yet. That’s the rumbling at Maria and Abe’s ceremony. Splits the earth, then the cave will," Dieter waggles his fingers, "appear.”

“Well, I’m going back in,” you petulantly sit, crossing your arms and staring straight ahead as if you will bore your way into the rock with laser vision.

“Not gonna work,” Dieter sighs and sinks slowly beside you. “I’ve tried reentering the cave at all times of day. It just sucks you in, like last night, and resets the day.”

“We’ll see,” you say primly, ignoring him and staring at the rock face.

“You might also be interested to know that any unconsciousness - so sleeping, but also being knocked out – resets the day.”

“I feel like you’re more likely to get knocked out than me.”

Dieter chuckles. “You’re not wrong there.”

A beat of silence.

“Should we…?” You’re bereft. “I dunno, try and squeeze into the cracked earth crevice instead of the cave itself?”

“None of that works. Trust me, I’ve been in here long enough to have tried everything that’s going through your mind. And more.”

“How long is ‘long enough’? How many days?” Dieter’s insouciance infuriates you. Still chill as hell.

“Days? Try years, I think. Possibly decades? I lost track at around a thousand days? Or I stopped trying to count. And that was a long-ass time ago. Not even sure that I made it to a thousand is accurate, because there were a lot of blurred days and trying to kill myself and yeah.”

His skin is glistening with sweat because he’s put on the fucking teddy coat to come out in the morning desert sun. He pulls a baggie out of his coat pocket. “Coke?”

“What? No. I’m getting out of here. I’m waiting for the earthquake and I’m gonna get back to ‘now,’” you say.

Dieter rubs his teeth with a cocaine-dusted finger. “Suit yourself. You’re not getting out of this day ever though.”

A goat bleats, and wanders behind you, hooves clopping as he steadily walks around where you and Dieter wait outside the cave.

Minutes tick by, and you watch the goat making plodding, unsteady progress across the rocky terrain. “Where’d the goat come from?” you ask.

“Farm, about half a mile back,” Dieter says. “But that means–” He looks at the pocket watch, and then leaps to his feet. He closes his eyes, rubs his temples very slowly and hums.

He looks at you, takes a stance like he’s waiting for the spirit to run through him. He opens his eyes and declares darkly “I am the anti-Christ,” and the earth starts to shake.

You scoff.

Dieter speaks over the rumbling, “Like I said, the earthquake may not be the cause of this, but it’s definitely related. And because you followed me into the cave — after I expressly warned you not to, by the way, so your fucking fault, stop blaming me for that shit— I’m assuming you are now stuck in it too."

The ground rends open, jagged rock driving up the wall to an opening, and the cave manifests, just like Dieter said it would.

You run into the light, and your skull feels like it's caving in on itself.

[Days 3-4 // Days 14,605-14,606]

You wake in a hotel room that isn’t yours to the sound of the shower running in the adjoining bathroom. You drag yourself out of bed.

You get into your car and you drive out of the resort faster than the speed limit.

You refuel with as much coffee as your bladder can handle at any truck stop or Starbucks that makes sense to stop at, and you drive all the way home to Austin.

All 19 hours, running on caffeine and McDonald’s french fries. You open your front door with a flood of relief.

Everything precisely as you left it. The benefit of living alone.

You sink on to your couch.

Surely this is just an anxiety dream, you’re nervous about Maria’s wedding. You’ll wake up and it will be the day after the wedding.

But that won’t explain the cave, you think wearily, or the chaotic man who led you to it.

No, you reason. The nightmare was the wedding, you’d fallen asleep to that stupid Cliff Beasts film the other night, which perfectly explains Dieter’s starring role in your hellscape dream, and you probably hadn’t even departed Austin for Palm Springs yet.

Despite the nagging feeling that you should have made some coffee, you fall asleep in the comfort of your own home.

[Day 5 // Day 14,607]

You wake in a hotel room that isn’t yours to the sound of the shower running in the adjoining bathroom.

You drag yourself out of bed, change into your swimsuit and go hunt down Dieter Bravo poolside.

–

“Embrace that nothing matters. We can't die. I really wish I was gonna get to act again, I was pitched Antonio Banderas’ part in an Interview with the Vampire reboot and this whole immortality nihilism schtick would have been perfect to use for my performance.”

Dieter scrubs his chin with the heel of his hand. “Where’d you go off to yesterday, by the way?”

“I tried to drive home–to Austin, that’s where I live–and I made it all the way, but I fell asleep at home and woke back up here.”

“Yeah, the sleep always gets you in the end. Once I smoked crystal and made it all the way to Equatorial Guinea. May have taken too much, since I got punched by an air marshal. It was oddly fulfilling.”

“So what do you do after being here for so long, just hang around getting punched and shot?”

“I don’t get punched or shot every day,” Dieter says woundedly.

“OK, so what else do you do?”

“At this point, I’ve had sex with lots of people at this wedding.”

“Really?” You lean in, ready to hear hot goss about the people you know and have only vaguely encountered in your sister’s circle of friends and acquaintances.

“Lots. Brenda the bartender. I liked that her name matches her job title, very pleasing. Oh,” he snaps his fingers to recall something "And Abe was surprisingly tender.”

“You fucked Abe?! The groom?!”

“I mean, the sleeping with men I’d do outside of a consequenceless time loop. I just enjoy the human form in all its…forms.” His thick fingers pluck at the air, as if coming up with the word “form” for the second time in a row was wordsmith conjuring.

“I mean, your dad was surprisingly tender.”

“WHAT?!” you shriek, unbidden images of your father fucking Dieter Bravo, or Dieter Bravo fucking your dad flash before your eyes.

Dieter closes your gaping jaw with a gentle press under your chin.

He’s doing that Chesire cat grin, his eyes dancing with mischief.

“Just kidding. He’s not my type. But your fucking face…”

“Ew, stop making me think of you fucking people.”

Dieter leans close. “You don’t want to think of me fucking anyone anymore? Or just your dad?...”

“All of the above! I need a drink.”

“I know a place,” Dieter says.

–

The place is Lagoon Lounge, a dive bar down the road.

Dieter slides a beer in front of you. The icy cold sweating glass with beer fresh from the tap makes a nice change from the endless aluminum you’ve been chugging beers down these days. This day.

You slurp up a few sips from the full glass before lifting it for a long drink. “So. Who’s JT? And why is he so pissed at you?”

Dieter drums ring-bedecked fingers on the table and rotates his beer glass with the other hand, actively avoiding eye contact. “JT kinda…followed me into the cave too?”

His eyes fly to you guiltily for a moment and he then chugs his beer to avoid your reaction.

“You try to make me feel bad for following you into the glowing cave, and yet here you are, the fucking Time Loop Pied Piper?” You give him a gentle shove.

“Yeah. JT lives in Pasadena. He was just driving through because he owns a linen delivery service that operates in the hotel. One night we partied at the wedding, and took some excellent mushrooms in the desert, at which point I was in no condition to be doing my ‘keep away’ spiel and then we both crawled into the cave.”

“He’s stuck here too? Does he always…hunt you for sport?”

“Nah. Whole years of today go by when I don’t see him. His living in Pasadena? I think he just hangs out at home. But sometimes he gets the nihilistic rage and wants to take it out on me.”

“I can sympathize.” You’re kidding but Dieter’s hangdog expression cuts to your heart.

You pat him companionably on the shoulder. “I’m mostly kidding. You did try to warn me away. And I assume you didn’t get here on your own.”

“No, the cave was the portal. Got so shitfaced at the reception that first night that I wandered out to the desert to commune with nature and wandered towards the bright light in the cave-”

“Ha! See, compulsive to follow the light, right?”

Dieter just raises an eyebrow and sips his beer. “I didn’t have the advantage of someone warning me not to.”

You deflate. “OK, now you’re here, you’re just partying and sleeping with tons of people. Have you tried to do anything good in your time here?”

“I like to think everyone I bedded had a good time.”

“Don’t be glib. I’m serious.”

“So am I. I take my partners’ pleasure very seriously.”

“For real. What good have you done? True, selfless good?”

Dieter scoffs. “Like what, rescue orphans? Donate bone marrow to a relative, like your sister? That’s not really available to me on this day and in this weird little out-of-the-way resort.”

“Maybe that’s it.”

“What’s it?”

“I think I made a mistake yesterday. A big mistake. And waking up today is my punishment for it.”

“You might have fucked up, but I didn’t,” Dieter insists.

“Maybe living the life of a reprobate, karma’s decided it’s your time to come clean.”

“But why this day? No offense to your sister, but it’s not a special day to me. And I’ve been here before you. If the gods were punishing me for mistakes in my life, and making me relive it? I wouldn’t be waking up on this morning.”

The seriousness of regret hangs sour in the air between you both for just a moment.

Your resolution pushes fast. “This is the answer,” you slap your palm on the tabletop. “Regardless of why, the time loop is clearly purgatory of some kind. And if we do something good, actively selfless, then we can get out of here.”

“You seem like a smart person, so I’ll chalk your naivety up to being a time loop baby to my many storied years in here, cuz you're not a legitimate dumbass.”

“Thank you?”

“You? Are wrong. There’s no getting out of here. This is it. This day for eternity.”

��No, Dieter! Be selfless, like Maria and her charity work and her bone marrow stuff, and be free! I need the keys,” you reach for Dieter’s pocket.

“Why?”

“I’m going back to the wedding. I need to do my good deed.”

–

You attend the ceremony as scheduled. Unlike the first time you lived this day, you seize your opportunity when the dickhead officiant says, “If anyone knows of any reason these two shouldn’t be together, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

“Wait!” you call out. “Maria,” you speak softer to your sister. She turns from her groom to look back at you.

You step forward, pull her into a tight hug, and whisper in her ear. She looks shocked, but you feel released.

The earthquake starts to rumble as you flee down the aisle, barely noticing the sound of Maria crying softly behind you on Misty’s shoulder, or that Dieter darts out from the seated crowd to follow you.

–

Dieter finds you back in the dive bar, playing pool with a guy legitimately named Skeeter.

“What did you say to her?” he demands by way of greeting.

“Sister stuff, don’t worry about it. But I can feel it, that was the selfless act,” you grin as you sink your shot and lean on your pool cue.

“Leaving your sister crying at the altar on her wedding day?” Dieter’s hand closes the top of the pool cue, forcing you to look at him.

“No. Keeping her from making a potentially life-long mistake.”

An imperceptible flicker over Dieter’s face as he studies yours.

“Now let go of the pool cue. I’ve got a truck to throw myself in front of and a real life to get on living.” You wrench the stick out of Dieter's hand and make your final shot, which you sink easily.

“Sorry, Skeeter,” you say, taking the trucker’s money.

You order two shots of expensive whiskey, and pass one to Dieter. “Have a nice life, Bravo. Hope you find your selfless act. Maybe deal with that psycho crossbow guy? Maybe he needs a friend?”

Dieter cheers with you, and you take the shots.

You salute, drop the shot glass on the bar, and run into the blinding afternoon light just as a semi-truck barrels across the otherwise abandoned road.

+++

[Day 6 // Day 14,609]

You wake in a hotel room that isn’t yours to the sound of the shower running in the adjoining bathroom.

“No,” you whisper to yourself, horrified. “No, no, no, no, no.”

Dieter was right. It didn’t work.

You bang on Dieter and Misty’s hotel room door. The second Misty answers, you barge past her and to Dieter, still nestled in bed.

“It didn’t work. Life is meaningless.”

Dieter looks between you and Misty.

“What the hell?” Misty says, watching how comfortably you’ve inserted yourself onto her bed.

“Let’s get out of here,” Dieter says. “Bring your swimsuit. I’ll meet you at the car.”

You bolt back to your room.

“Are you cheating on me?” Misty cries.

“No, but you will be cheating on me. Have a nice day, Misty.”

Dieter takes you to an unoccupied house down the road.

“They’re on vacation today, far as I can tell. They never come home during this day,” Dieter informs you, opening a shed and dragging two pool floats from it as easily as if it was his house.

“Quieter here than the hotel,” you note.

Dieter throws the floats into the pool and strips down to his swimming trunks. “Thus the basis of its appeal. Beer me.”

–

Floating along in the pool and relative quiet with Dieter, you keep probing him about the time loop. Maybe in all his time he’s come across something that could help get you both out of here.

‘Interrogating,’ is what Dieter calls it. But he’s happy to have someone to regale with his adventures that he doesn’t have to lie to.

“I’ve rifled through pretty much everywhere anyone staying or working at the hotel could stash drugs. And tried them all.”

“Really? Are there actually lots of substances free floating amongst this new age wellness SoCal crowd?”

“There are a lot of substances everywhere, if you ferret them out. A keen observer of human behavior---and enjoyer of substances as you so demurely put it—I know all the good stash spots.” Dieter says. He leans conspiratorially towards you. “Abe’s Great Aunt Beatrice? Has enough cocaine to kill a horse.”

“Shit. Good for Great Aunt Beatrice?”

–

You sit on the little diving board in the vacation house, toes trailing in the water and contemplating your (and Dieter’s) predicament.

“What if we’re just replications, but we get stuck in each repeat day? There could be alternative versions of me. Of us, of this! And we just need to jump into the correct version of ourselves to move forward in time and get unstuck!”

“Yeah, as if I haven’t considered the multiverse,” Dieter challenges sarcastically.

You kick his pool float away towards the shallow end in punishment.

“Float away from me, asshat. No need for sarcasm, I’m just trying to find a way out.”

+++

[Day 7 // Day 14,610]

You wake in a hotel room that isn’t yours.

You run out to the resort’s shared guest kitchen and find your stepmother blending smoothies. Dieter steps in from the other side of the room, already dressed.

As dressed as one can be shirtless and in swim trunks and a coat.

You ignore your stepmother’s cheery greeting and meet him.

“OK, asshole. Let’s go waste some time,” you say.

++end of chapter 1++

SERIES MASTERLIST // CH2

Thanks so much for reading! If you enjoyed what you read, please do reblog or leave a comment, I’d be most grateful! Want to read more of my work? Take a peek at my masterlist here.

#dieter bravo x f!reader #over 5k #series #*explicit #ghotifishreads

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dieterbravobrainrotclub · 4 days

Text

Southpaw (Dieter Bravo drabble)

Character: Dieter Bravo

Summary: After an accident leaves Dieter without the use of a hand, he becomes acquainted with the other.

Words: 600

Rating: E 18+

Warnings: masturbation

a/n: I was inspired by @iamskyereads’s fantastic fic Repose which was inspired by Pedro’s injury to write a little drabble about another injured Pedro boy. Not quite sure what this is but I guess I was also inspired by Bob Belcher talking to his Thanksgiving turkey.

As always thanks to number one Dieter stan @ezrasbirdie for the lil beta.

MASTERLIST - JOIN THE TAGLIST

Dieter is a lefty. Sure, he signs autographs with his right hand, brushes his teeth, scrolls his phone. But when it comes to the most important pursuit, he uses his left. He’s not sure when it started or why but he’s always enjoyed the tender touch of his left hand.

So when a yoga accident leaves his left wrist in a splint, Dieter is inconsolable. The doctor gives him strict instructions to keep the appendage still. No exercise, no lifting, no vigorous activity. His agent says that he might be recast in his upcoming role since his injury is jeopardizing the entire shooting schedule. Dieter could care less. He’s devastated that he’s lost his most loyal companion, even temporarily.

His cock hasn’t gotten the memo. Duty calls and he’s all alone with a tent in his pants. Whether he likes it or not, the show must go on and the understudy will have to perform.

He admires his right hand for a while. His nails are manicured nicely. Same wide palm and thick fingers as the left. There’s no reason why Righty shouldn’t be up to the task.

He tries it— timid, the grip around him unfamiliar. The hand holds him with a sureness he wasn’t expecting. It makes him blush, a boyish excitement. His thumb swipes mischievously through a strand of precum that’s sliding its way down his length. Dieter shivers. Maybe there’s something to this frisky right hand.

Feeling his own hard cock in a new fist is different too. He takes the time to notice its slight curve, the veins. There’s a good amount of thickness. It throbs— needy, impatient. Dieter douses himself with lube and settles in.

The first tug is too rough. Dieter hisses and his useless left hand scrunches into a fist. If only it could step in and take over. The left has done this so much, it’s second nature. Now all it can do is watch.

He shakes it off.

Dieter tries a gentler approach. Soft, teasing touches that make him dizzy. It’s hardly enough, though. At this rate, he’ll edge himself for hours.

The work is clumsy at first but he finds a rhythm after testing out languid pulls and rapid pulses. The thrust of his slick hand makes a sloppy sort of music. He starts to put his apprehensions aside and really enjoy himself.

Just like that.

It feels like a stranger is touching him and what a handsome one he is. When he closes his eyes, it could be anybody down there. A mouth, a cunt, anything he’d like to fuck. He flips through a catalogue of obscenities in his mind, each one leaving him hotter than the next.

The sensation is exquisite. He’s fucking his own hand, hips lifting as he babbles nonsense about how it takes it so good. Pleasure drowns him as his right hand moves faster by a will of its very own. He can feel his cock begin to twitch and pulse in his palm. Overwhelmed and possessed, he moans and bucks and soon he’s spurting all over Righty. The left must be jealous.

As his muscles unwind, his hand slows. He can hardly stop it and, had he use of the other, he might grab himself by the wrist. He’s too sensitive and each caress makes him gasp. His over eager right hand isn’t ready to call it quits.

Dieter’s head falls back. His heart slows. He examines the sticky spend between his fingers, still shining with lube. His new friend, his right hand man.

Let’s get you cleaned up.

They’ve got work to do.

---

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#dieter bravo #under 5k #one shot #*explicit #mothandpidgeon

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dieterbravobrainrotclub · 5 days

Text

I Said I Wouldn’t Hook-up With Him, Then I Did Again

Dieter Bravo x F!Actor!Reader (WC: 1636)

A/N: Write a story based on the moodboard made by @iamasaddie ‘s random pinterest pics.

Summary: If you hook up with your ex (and co-actor), Dieter Bravo, you have to put $5 in the jar. Well shit...... we might have to tell the driver to stop at an ATM.

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+ only please, Sex (Unprotected PiV), Mention of: previous sex (PiV and Oral F!rec), previous biting (and breaking of skin causing a scar), previous illegal drug use, previous sex with another woman (not described), getting high, sex toys.

🫙

“I’m not gonna fuck him.”

That’s what you’d said. Ten hours ago when Lily, your stylist, had plopped down the jar on the counter in front of the mirror. You’d said you weren’t gonna fuck him. Definitely not, you’d tacked on. You vaguely remember she might have rolled her eyes at that. She brought out the jar every time either of you were in close proximity with one of your big-bad-exes, to avoid the temptation of entanglement.

You know the ones, the exes you were desperate to hear from but determined to avoid. Bad news time and time again, never meeting your (very) low expectations and somehow always finding new ways to disappoint you. You started the jar to hold each other accountable, making sure $5 went into the jar any time that either of you texted, called, or fell into bed with the ex.

Although, ex was a loose term, as you don’t think yours was ever more than a casual hookup played on repeat. Grabbing hands, scraping stubble, a huff of breath that smells like cigarettes and cinnamon gum. Your co-star, Dieter Bravo. Sometimes drunk, sometimes high, sometimes both. Never sober. Always on-set, still half in costume and makeup. Always teetering on the edge of getting caught, of ruining your reputation, of solidifying his.

It was disgusting. You were disgusted with yourself every time it happened. You’re disgusted with yourself right now, as you sit on his lap in the back of your towncar home. He drags his hand under your shirt and up your ribcage, cold rings against your skin sending goosebumps across your chest, hardening your nipples. You feel his lips on your throat, teeth scraping but not leaving marks, suddenly extremely aware of your own arousal collecting in your underwear. Your own body is betraying you. Rude.

“Goddamnit,” you huff, defeated.

He pushes his other hand up your thigh, lifting your skirt up to your waist. He knows he’s won. He always does. Without a word you untie the drawstring on his pants, of course he’d be wearing pajama pants, Dieter fucking Bravo… probably doesn’t even own jeans. You reach inside and wrap your hand around him, rock hard and velvety smooth. No underwear, obviously… you already knew he doesn’t own any of those.

“Easy access,” he says, as if reading your mind.

But then you look down and realize he’s talking about you. Fuck. You wore a skirt to work today. Now why would you have done that? You’re sure it’s not because one time, on the hood of a stunt car in a mostly-abandoned backlot in Burbank, he told you that your legs drove him fucking crazy right before he pushed them apart and dove face-first into your wet, waiting pussy. No, that couldn’t have been it.

He runs a finger along the inside of your thigh and sticks it in the side of the gusset of your panties. He moves his hand down so the back of his knuckle drags along your slit, giving away how wet you already are for him. You hear him hum, mmmmmm, and then giggle. Fucking giggle? He must be high already. He curls his finger, drawing the fabric in the crook of it and pulling it to the side.

“You gonna keep teasing me, or you gonna put it in?”

“Teasing you? Who is teasing you?” You shift yourself up on your knees, knocking against the headliner in the cramped backseat.

“You’ve been teasing me all day, baby. With your blonde hair and those pouty lips.”

“The hair was a wig Dee, you know that.” You line him up slowly at your entrance.

“It still looked good. And your lips? Those are new.”

“They’re not new lips, I just got some filler, it’s not a big deal.” You slowly start to sink down on his thick length.

“Well if you want people to imagine those full lips around their cocks, you’ve done a good job.”

Jesus Christ, you mutter simultaneously, for different reasons. You’re rocking your hips up and down, coating him with your wetness to ease the stretch of him pushing into you. You hear whispers about his dick in nearly every ladies’ room you go into in this town. His length is average, satisfying but not newsworthy, but his girth is massive. And even though you’ve taken it plenty of times before, you struggle every single time.

His large hands find your hips, fingers spreading back to cover your bare ass. Obviously you wore the thong so you wouldn’t have panty lines in your clingy cotton dress. It has nothing to do with the fact that once, while shooting in Wales, he went so insane with lust that he bit your ass and broke skin, leaving a tiny tooth-shaped scar that he likes to run his tongue over every time you hook up. Nope, it has nothing to do with that at all.

You finally get all of him inside of you, the sting of the stretch pushed to the back of your mind by the overwhelming fullness of him. God he’s so fucking big and you think you must say it outloud because you hear him groaning yeahhh into your neck. He squeezes you where his hands are gripping, encouraging you to move on him and then helps guide you back and forth on his lap.

You look down at his face, and realize he’s still wearing the sunglasses from set, his hair still gelled in the style of his character, with a little curl looped down onto his forehead. Come here, he says and you obey, bringing your mouth to his, tangling tongues and sharing spit. He passes you his gum and you try to give it back but then he pulls off your mouth to moan fuck yeahhh.

He moves one hand to the front of your top, yanking it down to expose your nipples. Okay if you’re being honest with yourself, you can’t think of a good reason why you didn’t wear a bra today. You know you had one in your hands at one point but then there was a memory that flashed through your mind. A memory of Dieter snorting a line off a table - a mixture of cocaine and viagra, literally ripping your brand new French-made underwear set to pieces, and fucking you on every surface of your trailer during a 3-hour weather delay in British Columbia.

You guess ‘not wanting it to be destroyed’ was a good reason not to wear a bra, right? But you definitely weren’t going to fuck him, so why would it matter? He’s dragging his tongue all around one nipple and when he switches to the other side you feel the remnants of his spicy gum as a light burning sensation heating your pebbled nub. You don’t have much time to think about if it’s good or too much because suddenly he’s biting the other nipple, hard, causing you to cry out.

“Sorry baby, sorry,” he stammers. “I just got excited.”

His hands on your hips help you find your rhythm once again, slamming his cock into your fucked-out pussy over and over. You lean back and brace your hands on his knees and he uses the opportunity to bring a hand forward and run his thumb along his length, soaking wet where it repeatedly disappears into you. He strokes upward until he’s rubbing his thumb along you instead, at the apex of where he splits you, right over your hooded clit.

“Missed this,” he whispers so softly, you’re not sure if he’s talking to you or himself.

“I think you got plenty of this on your last job,” you manage to sound both snarky and uninterested, despite the increasing pressure of him petting at your sensitive, swollen bundle.

“Oh you think?”

“That’s what I heard. You and that Swedish girl, the new one, Ingrid whats-her-name?”

“Nooooo,” he moves his thumb faster. “She’s Norwegian.”

“Whatever,” you struggle to focus, “I don’t even-”

“Don’t be jealous baby," he purrs. "No one takes my cock like you do."

Fuck. Why is that working? Why does it feel so good?

It always feels so fucking good.

“I think I’m gonna-” you start.

“Come,” he finishes.

And when you do, your orgasm rips through you, making your vision go out, shaking your legs, and stuttering your hips. His hands go back to your side, helping to bounce you for a few more thrusts before he yanks you off of him, finishing all over his own flannel pants and the bottom of his wrinkled t-shirt. He wraps his cardigan around himself, covering up the mess on his front and pops another stick of red gum into his mouth, looking at you across the bench seat.

“Wanna come in? We can order a pizza, get high, and then fuck again later. I got this new toy th-”

“What are you talking about Dieter, this is my house?” He gives you a look, and you open the dark-tinted window to see that instead of being in your own driveway, you’re parked in front of an unfamiliar home. “The fuck… I thought this car was supposed to be taking me home.”

“Well it was, but then I slipped the driver two hundred bucks so he’d bring us here instead. And also so he wouldn’t take any pictures of your ass.”

“You wouldn’t have had to pay him not to take pictures of my ass if you wouldn’t have snuck into my car as I was leaving work.”

“Yeah but it was fun, right?” He peers at you over his sunglasses. “C’mon,” he holds out his hand.

---

The next morning you get to work and, avoiding Lily’s gaze, you take a handful of $5 bills out of your pocket and silently drop them into the jar.

💵

🫙

#dieter bravo x f!reader #under 5k #one shot #*explicit #noxturnalpascal

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dieterbravobrainrotclub · 5 days

Text

God, do you forgive me?

paring: Dieter Bravo x f!reader.

rating: explicit. minors dni.

tags: some smut, soft!dieter, no use of y/n, oral (f receiving), established relationship, religious imagery? no description of reader, except they're afab. if I missed something please kindly lmk.

a/n: finally found some free time to do this! my very first fic. at least, the first one ever posted. Hope you enjoy it! I had a great time writing it, and it's even better because I love the idea of a writing challenge, so thank you to the great @iamasaddie. Please, keep in mind it's my first time doing this, and that English isn't my first language, so if you find any grammatical errors let's just [sliding a dollar bill across the table] ignore them.

word count: 2.1k

Killing the engine of his car, Dieter allows himself a moment to breathe out a sigh, making sure he gets rid of any remaining stress flooding his bloodstream. Wrap up parties maybe were his thing in a previous and crazier life, but not anymore, not since his very long recovery.

He gets out of the car with a grunt, straightening his jacket and giving the motel sign a look before heading in, sneaking a hand into his back pocket to reach for his wallet, taking out some cash and handing it out to the receptionist after a quick smile. it was easier this way, leaving no trace behind, where not even the lost souls could find him. at least, that was what was agreed with the owners a little more than a year ago when he had his agent find the place.

Privacy, that was all he needed.

“Good evening, sir. She’s already waiting for you in the room” the young woman smiles at him and he nods in return, giving her a quick thank you after she hands him the keys, before heading back out to the rooms, the chill air hitting his face once he found himself outside.

He walks quickly, getting more desperate by the second, eager to get rid of this clothes, the smell, the persona he kept on putting every time he had to face the world, his work, his life, where everyone asked him over and over again 'how’s everything going?' like they couldn’t wait for the moment he slipped up once again, like they couldn’t wait for the moment they found him passed out in one of the set bathrooms like it was just another tuesday.

He wasn’t like that anymore. It had been a long time since he had been like that.

He opens the door with a quick and easy turn of the key and sighs loudly, letting his bag fall on his side and quickly toeing his boots off. He can hear the low hum of the water falling from the shower, so he starts to lazily undress himself, letting the pieces of clothing fall on a heap on the floor. Heading for the bathroom, something on the bed catches the corner of his eye and he can’t help but smile to himself, his chest filling with anticipation as he opens the door to the bathroom and walks in.

“Took you long enough” he hears a voice saying.

Oh. Oh, that voice, the one that could save him from everything.

“I’m sorry. you know how wrap-ups are" he mumbles, kicking off his underwear and then, when he looks in the direction of the small shower, you are already looking at him, peeking from behind the curtain with a small smile. He feels a warm sensation spreading all over his body, burning.

Oh, God.

"I know" your smile grows wider, opening the curtain and moving to the side when his broad frame walks in.

Dieter certainly knows he looks tired, but there’s a grin creeping up the corners of his lips and he has a feeling that you know everything is better now that he is right in front of you.

"Hey” you say, lifting your hands to cup both his cheeks. You feel him relax against your touch “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I am glad I’m here, too” he replies, grabbing gently your wrists and turning his head to the side to leave a soft kiss on the palm of your hand.

He slowly starts kissing all the way to your forearm and, short after, he’s pulling you in, wrapping both of his arms around you before searching for your lips, pressing his own on top of them. You moan in surprise and he smiles over you.

Most of the time, when he had you by his side, he felt like the world was crumbling away from him, causing him to lose all the stability he had managed to build in his little mental palace. What was there in you that managed to break through every wall neatly built around him? What was there about you that made him want to be a better man, that made him want to give life another chance?

You break the kiss to gasp at the feeling of his hands sneaking between your legs and his heart starts pounding hard against his ribcage. He thinks that if he dies there, he would go as a happy man. You bury your face on the crook of his neck and he starts:

"I saw you already started without me. Are you going to wear that number on the bed still?” he chuckles, one of his fingers circling over your clit while his other hand keeps you standing, firmly wrapped around your waist “I would love to see you in it”

“I— fuck— I wanted to surprise you” you manage to say, your breath catching on your throat “You’ve worked so, so hard lately”

He nods, his smile growing wider on his face.

Were you an angel who had been sent from heaven to save him? Religion had never been his thing, certainly not after seeing how fucked up the industry worked, but he couldn't find a more logical explanation for how a being like you existed in the same world as he did. He couldn't find a more sensible explanation to understand how a smile could throw his entire façade of superstar away, how two bodies fit together so perfectly when making love. Were you sculpted by a higher being to send you to him? Was this how Adam had felt when Eve first appeared in the Garden?

"That’s so sweet, baby” and he means it, that’s why he sneaks one digit inside you at the praise, collecting your slick before going back to the stimulation in your bundle of nerves “Should we go to bed, then?” he asks, pressing his lips to the side of your jaw.

You’re not more than a puddle of arousal in his arms, so you only nod and let him help you dry yourself and walk you to the bed after he disappears on the bathroom again, insisting on getting himself clean, for you, for your sake, because he insists on leaving every trace of work and the real world behind the doors of your room.

For you, he would do anything for you.

He showers quickly, and when he comes out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, he stops in his tracks when he founds you sitting at the edge of the bed, feeling drunk on the sight of the pieces of lingerie hugging perfectly the curves of your body. You smile again and then he notices the slight blush over your cheekbones.

“Do you like it?” you ask.

You dare to ask.

Dieter wanted to scream, not knowing how to shake the pressure he felt in his chest and the tingle in his stomach when you smiled at him like that. There was a time in his life when he was known to be flirtatious with many women, but when it came to you, he felt like a teenager having his first crush, feeling like no words would ever be enough to praise the beauty that was sitting right in front of him.

With his silence, you stand up and walk in his direction, causing gravity and oxygen to leave the room once more, Dieter not realizing that he had begun to hold his breath until your fingers rested on his chest, sliding your nails over his skin until reaching the hem of the towel on his waist. There, he sighs in an attempt to calm his nerves. Or his arousal, he is still unsure on what he was feeling.

"You’re…” he begins, his breath shaky.

“Yes?” you look at him, curious, your eyes full of love. He wonders if you know how attractive you are or if it’s just a natural thing you do.

“You’re…” he does it again, clearing his throat in an attempt to clear his mind of the filth that flooded it, sending all his blood down his body “You’re gorgeous"

You chuckle and shake your head, noticing how his eyes follow every movement “Thank you, baby” you finish, moving forward to kiss him again. This time, the kiss feels hungry, eager, and Dieter starts walking, one step at a time until the back on your knees hit the edge of the bed, making you fall over it with him on top.

“You’re so fucking beautiful…” he breathes out between kisses, pressing his wet lips on your jaw, your pulse, your collarbones, “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.” he confesses, shaking his head almost defeated and he takes your bra out of his way, kissing around one of your breasts, his hand giving attention to the other.

Truth is, it was a thought he had way too much times when he had you around. If there was no God, who had sent you? Who had made you just too perfectly for him? Would that God ever forgive him for the things he had done in order to cope with his work?

Would you?

Your moans start filling the room quickly, one of your hands burying between his wet curls, unconsciously trying to push him downwards, where you most needed his attention.

“Dieter… baby, please…” you manage to speak, your chest going up and down in quick breaths. He could tear you apart with only a few kisses and you would let him every time.

“I got you, honey. I’ll give you anything you ask from me” he nodded, his eyes darkening at the sight of your ruined face. He quickly continues and kisses his way down your body until he finds himself buried between your legs. It was ironic, really. You were, after all, his guardian angel and he was there to praise you, to adore you like a goddess that he would give his life away for.

“I got you” he repeats in a whisper, more to himself than anything, placing one of your legs over his shoulder before pressing wet kisses on the inside of your thighs until he reaches your mound, groaning when he notices the soft fabric has a darker, wet spot in it.

"Please…” you almost cry out, squirming slightly between his arms.

He kisses over the fabric and pulls the lace to the side, revealing your sex to him. The warm feeling spreads rapidly inside his body, like a wildfire consuming everything in its way to claim it as its own. He looks at you from between your legs and finds that you’re eyes are already on him.

"I love you"

It’s barely audible, barely a whisper, but you feel it in the deepest parts of your soul.

Before you can say it back, though, he’s latching onto you like a starved man, like his thirst has been satiated after years of yearning, after years of begging. Your high pitched moans instantly fill the room again, or so he thinks, after all, all he needs is to feel them echoing inside his chest. Those were all the praise he needed, feeling like he was touching heaven knowing the effect he was having on you. He prayed that it would be like this for the rest of his life, but most of all, he prayed that what he was experiencing was real. Even if he didn't understand it, even if he wasn't sure he deserved it.

"Dieter, I—... I’m going to, oh, fuck—” you can’t finish your sentence, your nails digging into his scalp and pushing him against your core.

The feeling of his lips wrapping around you and sucking, claiming you as his, becomes almost unbearable when he pushes two of digits inside and curls them, searching for the sweet spots that make you see the stars. The warmth on your belly spreads all over your body when the coil snaps and you climax, hearing him groaning in the distance, clearly satisfied. He helps you ride your orgasm and, when you come down and the ringing in your ears feels further away, you feel him caressing your belly with the tips of his fingers, his other’s slipping out from the deepest of you that he could reach like that. That’s what makes you open your eyes again, finding him already looking at you, a dumb smile adorning his messy face, his mustache wet and lips puffy and red.

You smile back and his heart flutters inside his chest.

Did he deserve to have you in such a vulnerable state? What had he done in past lives to be rewarded in such a way? To have you like this, he would do everything all over again.

#dieter bravo x f!reader #under 5k #one shot #*explicit #dietersearring

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dieterbravobrainrotclub · 6 days

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i think i might've inhaled you

for @iamasaddie 's fun writing challenge (the ask came from my main blog @quinnnfabrgay) - thank you so much for putting this together and for being INCREDIBLY patient and sweet with me as life has been getting in the way

pairing: Dieter Bravo x gn!reader

summary: you ponder your situation involving the one and only Dieter Bravo

wc: 689

tags/warnings: much like ao3 - author chooses to not use warnings; nothing explicit, just a little angsty + lots of introspection

a/n: okay, so I actually had a bunch of ideas for this - three very different scenarios involving Javi G - one a hurt/comfort piece with boyfriend!Javi, an angsty piece with fwb!Javi, and a super angsty/kind of creepy piece with ex!Javi and delulu!reader, but then I was listening to Bloodstream by Stateless and immediately knew this needed to be what it turned into and Dieter Bravo felt better suited... so yeah (i'll probably revisit the ex!Javi and delulu!reader idea bc it was kind of fun)

as always, thank you to @saradika-graphics for the lovely dividers!

The tepid water of your bath jostles as you bring your cupped palms up to your face, letting the water slip from them and down over your forehead. Feeling the water leave trails over your closed eyelids, droplets slipping down over your nose, your lips, your neck - you start to gently rub the back of your neck with your fingertips, the pruny texture reminding you of how long you’ve been in here. You had hopped in hours ago, the water once steaming, in hopes of some much needed relaxation.

You’ve been on edge all week, not looking forward to the party you have to attend tonight. Soon you would have to leave this bath, put on the beautiful outfit already chosen for you, have a team of hair and makeup make you look your best, and face another night of networking and schmoozing the Hollywood “elite.” The only saving grace is that you don’t have to do this alone, reminding yourself you’ll have your boyfriend Dieter by your side the whole night.

You pause your ministrations on your neck for a moment while you ponder this thought, laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. Because to the public eye, you and Dieter are Hollywood’s hottest couple: the reformed “bad boy” with America’s latest “sweetheart.” A tale as old as time really. And that’s exactly what it is, a tale. A lie.

Dieter’s team had thought it was past time for him to clean up his act and show the world the “changed man” he claimed to be after a string of bad decisions ended up splashed all over the tabloids for months, almost tanking his career in the blink of an eye. Enter you. Your star was quickly on the rise, and the moment had perfectly presented itself when you and Dieter were cast as romantic leads in the following summer’s highly anticipated rom-com. It’s what they tried calling a “win-win-win” situation. Dieter could “prove” he had cleaned up his act, the two of you would be exposed to a wider fan-base, and it would no doubt be a great way to spark conversation around the movie. Win-win-freaking win.

Except this doesn’t feel much like winning.

You dig the heels of your palms into your eyes, preemptively pushing away the headache you know is about to settle in and make its home there. Closing your eyes doesn’t do much to stave off the inevitable, in fact it only ushers it in sooner. Behind closed eyes you see flashes of him; his charming smile and the way one of his cheeks dimples, the way the crinkles form around his eyes - his eyes themselves dark yet somehow sparkling when you can pull a genuine smile from him.

The sting of tears forming pricks at the corners of your eyes, you involuntarily sniff wishing for the thoughts of him to stop. Because of course you’ve fallen for him. You’ve let the chaste kisses for photo-ops, and small caresses during interviews mean something when they never did. You’ve carved out a spot in your heart he never asked for and let him burrow in it anyway. Each smile, each glance, each touch further pulling you under until all you can think about is him.

You see him in the darkness, can hear him in the silence, it’s maddening. He’s so close, yet so far from your grasp, and all you want is to stop pretending. To take him by the shoulders and confess your true feelings for him. But that little voice in the back of your head is always there to stop you.

The tortuous little voice that likes to remind you - “not good enough” “why would he ever love you” “falling for the man you’re pretending with? you’re pathetic.” And that little voice wins every single time. Because even if it hurts to pretend, pretending he’s yours is much better than facing the fact that he wouldn’t choose you if freely given the choice.

So you continue with the charade, because at least then you still get to keep him - if only for a brief moment for the public’s sake.

Music Inspo:

#dieter bravo x gn!reader #under 5k #one shot #*mature #quinnfabrgay-writes

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dieterbravobrainrotclub · 6 days

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bright lights - part i [dieter bravo x neurodivergent!f!reader]

summary: Dieter Bravo is a man so complicated that his personal assistant needs her own personal assistant just to keep up with his demands, and that’s where you come in. Part time, flexible hours, and a free place to live—you can’t imagine a more perfect gig. You don’t even mind the budding crush you have on Mr. Bravo; that is, until your boss falls ill right before awards season, leaving you to pick up the slack. Making Dieter’s appointments is one thing, but being in charge of him seems like an impossible task. Especially when you think he might have a crush on you, too. chapter rating/warnings: M [some slightly lusty thoughts from both parties, dual POV, sensory issues, Dieter is a menace but he is respectful, angst-ish, descriptions of insecurity and feeling misunderstood, relationship confusion, descriptions of food in kind of a sexy way, reader has some named favorite things, I think that's it for now] wc: ~ 7.1k a/n: please go to @ezrasbirdie-updates to be notified of updates! all my love always tp @starlightmornings and @haylzcyon for reassuring me this isn't garbage and betaing. here it is! we're getting set up now, so there's quite a bit of exposition on their relationship and and how/why reader does some of the things she does. I wrote this for the neurospicy girls (gn) but I'm hoping people of all neurotypes gives this little story a chance. I've had so much fun getting to know them so far, and I hope you will, too<3

masterlist | series masterlist | dieter bravo masterlist | next

The tag on the back of your shirt scrapes the top of your spine every time your head swivels. You hate this shirt for this exact reason, yet it lives in your closet just to taunt you on laundry day when every tagless piece of clothing you own is soaking wet because you have, once again, forgotten to put the clothes in the dryer.

Every couple of weeks you tell yourself you’ll wash it and donate it; give it to someone who doesn’t hate the feel of a jagged fingernail scratching the base of their neck, but somehow it sneaks its way back into the closet to offer itself as a last resort.

It’s possessed; you’re sure of it.

Were it ugly, you might be able to get rid of it more easily, but it’s not. It flatters you, sitting perfectly at your waist with a neckline just low enough to show a work-appropriate amount of cleavage. It’s perfect for a first day at a new job where you’re not sure what clothes you can get away with yet.

Especially a job like this.

Part-time personal assistant to the full-time personal assistant of Dieter Bravo is not a job you’d ever anticipated, but your cousin’s best friend, Christina, was desperate when she’d asked and you were desperate for steady income.

You aren’t close to Christina, but she’s one of the only people you know out here, so you’d crossed your fingers and hoped she wasn’t getting you involved with a pyramid scheme or some cult. The whole thing still seems too good to be true.

She wouldn’t tell you who you’d be working for until you’d signed about a dozen NDAs and a one-year contract. As you’d signed your looping signature over and over, you thought, maybe, some of this is a red flag, but what else do you have to do for the next year? Go back home?

You’d moved out here to make movies, but quickly figured out you’re not built for this industry. The very last thing you wanted was to go back home to a bunch of I-told-you-sos from your parents. At least this gig got you a free place to live in the form of a guesthouse that’s twice as big as the apartment you’d been renting month to month.

You’re even allowed to use the pool.

Not that you will ever be using Dieter Bravo’s pool.

You know very little about the man himself, other than him being a famous actor. He won an Oscar for a movie you found to be a little on the nose, he has an ex-wife he met on the set of some dinosaur movie that was never released, he’s been to rehab twice in the last three years, and he’s infamous for being difficult to work with. Most of this, of course, is according to gossip websites and supermarket tabloid headlines.

The difficult-to-work with part, however, seems true enough.

“He needs a lot of attention,” Christina’d told you when you asked what exactly you’d be doing. “And I need help getting very basic shit done around here. You try going to the bank for the man while he’s having yet another midlife crisis.”

“It can’t be that bad, can it?” You’d laughed.

“It can and it is.”

“Why stay?”

Christina hadn’t answered at first, and you’d worried you’d gone too far—you’d always had a bad habit of asking questions out of sheer curiosity that were, sometimes, wholly inappropriate.

She’d pursed her lips and taken a sip from the to-go cup in her hand. “He pays better than anyone else in this town, and gave a stipend for my own personal assistant when I threatened to leave. And he’s…not so bad. He’s very sweet, most of the time. Just, you know, a huge baby. Sometimes he needs a bit of a firm hand to keep him on track.”

Christina was never someone you’d have described as firm. Ambitious, hard-working, organized, sure, but she’s also squishy like a lightly toasted marshmallow. You’d said nothing—you learned in your teen years people absolutely did not want to be corrected about their perceptions of themselves. If she thinks she’s a firm hand, you won’t argue.

Just as you manage to get that accursed tag laying in a direction that bothers you least, Christina arrives at your front door.

“Good morning,” you chirp, determined to be in a pleasant mood on your first day. “Watch the boxes! I’m still getting unpacked.”

“Good morning,” she replies, taking in the front room of your new living space. “Settling in? How do you like it?”

“It’s great!” You say, and she raises her eyebrow like she doesn’t believe you. “Really. It’s way bigger than where I was living. And I don’t have a roommate.”

“You had a roommate in a place smaller than this?”

“The living room was technically my bedroom. And it’s really pretty roomy when there’s no one to share it with.” You don’t hold her skepticism against her, but the guesthouse is more than enough for your needs. One bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchenette, and a living room with a view of the magnificent pool is paradise in comparison to where you’d been. The kitchenette only has a sink and microwave, but you’d made do with less in college.

You’ll put up with a lot for zero dollars a month rent.

And it’s nice, too. No leaky faucets, no shoddily installed locks, no insane charge for parking. And best of all, it’s all yours. You’re the luckiest girl in the whole world right now.

So you absolutely cannot be in a bad mood at all, even if it’s starting to feel like someone’s driving a pocket knife into your spine.

Satisfied (if a little unsettled) with your answers regarding your previous living situation, Christina leads you into the main house for a tour.

You’d moved most of your things into the guesthouse over the weekend and have yet to see even a peek of Dieter Bravo.

As you cross the courtyard to the main house, the pristine pool water sparkles in the sun, so bright you have to squint. “Is he here?” You ask as you trail behind Christina like a baby duck.

“No,” she says, checking her watch. “He should be back sometime this morning if his flight is on time, which it was the last time I looked. He was at a wellness retreat all weekend.”

“What kind of wellness retreat?” You ask.

“Tantra,” she says, unlocking the large sliding glass door that leads into the kitchen.

“I didn’t realize he was with someone,” you say, taking in the sheer size of the place.

“He’s not,” Christina says, and you decide you don’t need to ask anymore questions related to his whereabouts.

Christina flicks on the overhead lights, despite all the sunshine pouring in the floor to ceiling windows. It takes a moment to take in the open floor plan and fifteen foot ceilings. Everything is immaculately clean, almost antiseptic with its gleaming surfaces. It’s all black or white or both, and it doesn’t go at all with the man you’ve seen splashed across magazine covers.

Color. You’d expected more color.

Christina sets her things down on the large kitchen island and motions for you to do the same. “He’s never down here,” she explains, gesturing to the room at large, and it makes more sense now. Why customize a space you don’t spend any time in?

You’re suddenly a lot more curious about this man with his enormous industrial kitchen and dark marble floors and gray oversized sectional.

Christina leads you upstairs into a long hall with tall windows on one side and half a dozen doors on the other. “All the guest rooms are the same, so don’t worry about them. Heidi comes to clean a few times a week. There’s the gym and sauna, another bathroom, and then his room is all the way at the end here.”

She either doesn’t notice you peeking into the open door, or she doesn’t care.

That’s where all the color is. You catch a glimpse of deep purples and burnt oranges and midnight blues, discarded tubes of paint and an easel in front of a big window, and a black, velvety couch that your fingers itch to reach out and touch. You control yourself, though, as Christina shows you the upstairs living room.

“This is so much for one person,” you observe, and she nods in agreement.

“That’s just how it is,” she shrugs.

“I bet the electric bill is nuts.”

Christina grins over her shoulder as you follow her back downstairs. “Lucky for you, you get to keep track of those things.”

“What does that mean?” You ask.

“One of Dieter’s peculiarities is that he doesn’t trust the automatic payment systems, so you get to handle all that! That was part of one of the NDAs, remember?”

“No,” you admit. “I didn’t look that close at most of them. I’ve just decided I’m never telling anyone about any of this, ever.”

“Fine by me,” Christina says as she hands you a list. “Start with the phone calls and work your way down. When you’re done with the list, you’re free to go unless he needs something specific from you.”

The best part of this whole gig, though, is that it’s part time. You get your work done, you get to go. You’re both technically on-call, but she assures you that Dieter is surprisingly good about not abusing that privilege.

You just need to figure out what to do with those hours. And, possibly, with the rest of your life, but you’re trying not to focus on that right now.

That first morning is full of phone calls you hope no one answers, confirming appointments and interviews and reservations. Christina doesn’t tell you what she does, but she looks very busy and very serious, so you try not to bother her unless you absolutely must.

You’re scratching at the tag again when the front door opens and Dieter Bravo is there, talking loudly on his phone and followed by a man in a suit carrying some heavy-looking bags. Dieter seems agitated, but you can barely understand what he’s saying—you’re too busy taking him in.

It’s not that you’ve never met a famous person before. This is Los Angeles. It doesn’t make it any less interesting when it happens, though. If it’s all the retinoids or massages or your own internal biases, you have no idea, but they always seem to glow a little brighter than regular people.

Maybe it’s all that tantric wellness, in his case.

Christina stands up, holding her iPad as she waits for Dieter to finish his conversation.

“Tell them whatever you have to. I want that part,” he says, handing the man with the bags a wad of cash and waving him off. “Thanks, man.”

His eyes land on you as he hangs up and he raises his eyebrow as if he’s not expecting your presence at all. A nervous smile spreads across your face, and you hope it looks more natural than it feels. Meeting new people is such a harrowing experience—you always want to make a good first impression, but it’s an exhausting task.

Christina doesn’t introduce you right away.

In fact, Christina doesn’t introduce you at all, too busy going over a checklist of to-dos and reminders that she makes him repeat back to her even as his eyes flick back to you, this awkward presence invading his home.

Eventually he gives her all of his attention and shakes his head as he does exactly as she asks, as if he finds the whole thing ridiculous and only does it to keep her happy. You swallow all of the questions you have about this dynamic, no matter how interesting you might find it.

“I had a great time, Chris,” he says to her when she’s finished. “Thanks for asking about my trip.”

She quirks her mouth and lets out a barely-audible laugh. “Sorry, Dee,” she says. “How was it?”

Dee.

“I already said,” he says airily. “It was like two hundred degrees, and you don’t like it when I talk about my di—”

“No, I do not,” she says, and you desperately want to know what the end of that sentence is. He grins at her again, twisting the gold rings on his fingers and popping his knuckles. His low, raspy voice makes the hair on your arms stand up and sends a pleasant tingle down your spine.

“And who’s this?” Dieter asks, finally acknowledging your presence.

Christina introduces you and you hold out your hand, expecting a quick handshake, but he covers yours with both of his and cradles it between them. They’re soft and warm and big, and he’s so much friendlier than you’d expected.

Maybe you should look into tantric wellness.

Eventually he heads upstairs, muttering about needing to get the plane energy off of him.

“Did that go okay?” You ask Christina when he’s safely out of earshot.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him be that nice to anyone new,” she says, bemused. “He must be in a really good mood.”

You nod in agreement and look back down at your list, contemplating the implications of this information. You decide he’s definitely just gotten laid a lot this weekend, and who wouldn’t be in a good mood after that?

“So you don’t like when he talks about his dick?” You ask Christina, who bursts into laughter. “What? Does he do it a lot?”

“Oh my God,” she says. “I don’t know why that was so funny, I’m sorry. Okay, yeah, Dieter is very…open.”

“So I’ve heard,” you say.

“But he’s not creepy. Or he’s never been with me. But it’s more of a ‘Don’t talk about your penis in front of the new girl’ thing, you know?”

“I can understand that. You guys seem friendly,” you tell her, and she nods.

“Even when he’s a little insane he’s still a good dude. And he’s insane a lot, you know. But if something makes you uncomfortable—”

“I don’t get uncomfortable easily,” you shrug.

Unless it’s this fucking tag, but you don’t tell her that.

But maybe you shouldn’t have spoken so soon, because when Dieter comes back down a while later still damp from the shower in a pair of linen pajama pants and no shirt, you feel like you’re going to swallow your tongue. You put your head back down and focus on your last two tasks, until you notice movement in your peripheral.

You look up and smile, and he is very, very close to you. Okay, so personal space isn’t really his thing, you guess. Noted. But he smells very nice, like cinnamon and clove cigarettes.

“Are you okay?” Dieter asks, and you try to quell your unbidden panic. What could you have possibly done already?

“Um, yes sir. I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“You’re scratching your neck a lot,” he says.

“Am I? I’m sorry, it’s just my…this shirt has this tag that bothers me,” you explain, mortified that he’s already caught you doing something weird.

He nods and walks off, and you try not to be alarmed at the abrupt end to the conversation and turn back to your work. You’re just about to call his groomer when he shuffles behind you, pulls the tag tight, and snips it off before you can say a word about it.

“There,” Dieter says, grinning and holding the offending tag up between his thick fingers. “Better?”

You have no idea how to react to this.

More importantly, you don’t know how you’ve gone this long without just cutting the damn thing off yourself. How has it never occurred to you that you can just cut off tags?

“I…thanks?” You squeak. He beams at you, turns around, and leaves.

Christina chuckles. “There he is,” she says.

“Does he destroy people’s belongings often?”

“Less so these days,” she sighs. “But he’s not usually trying to be helpful.”

After you get back to the guesthouse that evening, you glance at yourself in the mirror. Without the scratchy tag, you really do like this shirt.

You’re the most interesting person Dieter’s met in years.

He’d prepared to be annoyed with your presence the second he walked through the door; he was already annoyed with himself for agreeing to this arrangement in the first place. But Christina keeps him on track and out of trouble, and it isn’t like he has a family to spend that money on instead.

He’d made sure of that.

It turns out that immediately marrying someone he met in a high-stress clusterfuck isn’t the best way to secure any kind of longevity, and honestly, he just hadn’t been ready.

And when Anika, just a few days after her twenty-ninth birthday, told him with tears in her eyes that she didn’t think this would work anymore, he didn’t fight it. Why would she want to stay with such a fuck-up? And why would he force his presence on her one second longer?

He knows he’s a lot—that’s why he hadn’t argued when Christina asked for some help. But it meant sharing his space with some stranger, some person he’d never met despite Christina’s suggestion.

“Just hire someone,” he’d grumbled. “I don’t care.”

But then you smiled.

It wasn’t an L.A. smile; one of those veneered things that doesn’t quite reach the eyes. It was imperfect, a little lopsided, skittish enough that his usual cool indifference toward new people melted away.

It could have been all the wellness from the retreat still buzzing in his veins, but he doesn’t think so. There’s something different about your aura that softens him.

And then there’s the fact that you are completely unfazed by him—unimpressed by him, for that matter. Even Christina was a little starstruck when they met, and she still caters to him more than is probably good or healthy for him.

What else can he do at this point? He’d made his own reputation over the last twenty years, for better or worse.

But you?

There is no reverence in the way you speak to him, no higher pitch in your voice to soothe him like he’s an angry toddler. Granted, you don’t speak to him much, only when he addresses you directly, but your short, clipped answers only intrigue him more.

Hopefully Christina doesn’t notice his sudden penchant for hanging out downstairs when he’s home. He just really likes to observe you.

He uses the word observe purposefully in his head; it’s much less creepy than “watch” or “obsess,” though if he’s honest with himself—which he is not—both could apply.

You don’t like it when there are a lot of people in the house, or when the overhead lights are on. You run your fingers over the marble countertop and chew your lip when you’re on the phone, especially if the call is taking longer than it should.

You shake your leg when you’re concentrating, or click a pen over and over and over. That one drives him a little nuts, that click-a-click-a-click, but he regrets asking you to stop the moment he does. It’s the first time your indifference to his existence vanishes, grimacing as you drop the offending pen.

“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry, Mr. Bravo. I don’t know what I was thinking. It won’t happen again,” you say in a much higher pitch, your voice so shaky he wonders if he’d been gruff without realizing.

“It’s okay, really,” he protests. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

That doesn’t seem to help. “R-right,” you stammer, smiling awkwardly. “I’m being silly, it’s—you’re right, no big deal. Okay. I’ll…get back to work.”

But you gather all your things and retreat to the guesthouse, shaking your head as you walk away, and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

The next day you don’t have a clicky pen, and you bite your nails instead.

He really hates that, but he says nothing.

It’s not till the end of the week that you approach him all on your own for the first time, just after he gets back from an interview with GQ and he’s stuck his head in the fridge searching for something to eat.

“Um, Mr. Bravo?”

He turns, surprised to see you now right in front of him, the closest you’d been since your first day. You flash that nervous grin, and he can’t help it—he reaches out and squeezes your shoulder.

“You can call me Dieter, you know,” he says. “What’s up?”

Your eyes flicker to his hand, but you don’t pull out of his grasp. “I just wanted to say sorry for being, like, so weird about the pen thing. I was having a bad day, and it was so unprof—”

“Consider it forgotten,” he says, peering over the top of his sunglasses at you. “We’re just getting used to each other, yeah? We’re gonna annoy each other sometimes. Don’t worry so much about pleasing me, for God’s sake. Just be you.”

He squeezes your shoulder again and your nervous grin is replaced with a pleased smile he’s never seen before. “Okay,” you say brightly. “I’ll try.”

And finally, finally you relax.

You talk more, you laugh more, you join in on conversations. He even finds himself missing you when you’re not around.

This is going to very quickly become a fucking problem.

His favorite thing, he thinks, is your lack of patience for him. Sometimes, you’re almost mean.

And don’t ask him why it makes him hard. It just does.

“You always keep those in?” He asks as you help him pack, referring to the wireless earbuds you’ve worn every day since you started about a month a half ago.

“Yep. Why?” You ask, looking up from folding his clothes.“You have a nail appointment in like twenty minutes, by the way, so put some pants on.”

He looks down at the chenille robe that’s come undone and gives you a sheepish grin. “Sorry,” he says.

You just shrug, having gotten more than used to his resistance of wearing real clothing in his own home. Or anywhere, really, but he’s been very careful not to accidentally flash you.

Dieter doesn’t miss the way your eyes dart over his bare torso, though.

Maybe you’re not that unimpressed with him.

“That bluetooth shit’s terrible for you,” he says. “It’ll scramble your fucking brain.” You stop what you’re doing and turn your entire body toward him, lip curled as you assess him.

“What makes you say that?” You ask, and he…doesn’t know, really. That’s just what he’s heard. It’s just what everyone’s told him—the EMF waves, or whatever.

“The, um, EMF waves?” He says, and your expression doesn’t change.

“The EMF waves.”

“Yeah, you know, the brain-scrambling waves. The radiation.”

“That is the stupidest thing I’ve heard in a long time,” you tell him after a pause, going back to folding.

This might be the meanest you’ve been to him, and he’s torn between amused and a little hurt. As he flounders, searching for a comeback, you stop folding again.

“Um, I’m sorry,” you say, setting his favorite t-shirt into his designer luggage. “That was harsh. Filter’s not working too well today.”

“But you do think I’m stupid?” He asks, needling at you just a little until he sees the way you’re twisting your fingers and shifting back and forth on both feet.

“No! No, I meant—well, okay, I meant what you said was not correct and I should have just shut up. So I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” he says. “I am stupid sometimes.”

“No!” You look positively distressed. It’s the pen incident all over again. “It’s just—do you know what non-ionizing radiation is?”

“I mean…no.”

“You know how there’s, like, wi-fi and a microwave in the house and you use your cell phone all the time?”

“Yeah, but—”

“There are two types of radiation, right? So what you’re thinking of is ionizing radiation, which is produced by nuclear power and all that shit. Very bad for you, should be handled with extreme caution by professionals only. Non-ionizing radiation is in, like, everything. Electricity, bluetooth, wi-fi, UV rays, it’s in everything.”

“Uh huh,” he says.

“So there’s a difference, right?”

“What’s the exact difference?” He asks, finding himself genuinely curious.

Maybe he should have checked.

“I don’t know, dude, I’m not a scientist. All I know is that if I keep my little bluetooth earbuds in, I don’t get nearly as overwhelmed about life, and it probably won’t give me cancer any faster than the microplastics we’re all swallowing on a daily basis. But I’m sorry I said it was stupid.”

He shakes his head. “No problem,” he says. “You’re smart.”

You shake your head, too, running your fingers over the velvet. “Not that smart.”

You’re close enough to him on the couch that if he wanted to, he could lean over and kiss you. Lucky for both of you, he’s past running off perfectly good assistants by thinking with his cock.

“Put some pants on,” you say again. “Before Christina gets here and yells at you.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says.

Forget anything about a budding crush. This crush is in full bloom.

All those pretty petals fell off during a panic attack of how absolutely fucked you are if you didn’t get it under control fast, too, and you’d walked yourself through it, assured yourself you’d get past it, there was no problem here, it would be okay, and by the next morning? Crush crushed.

And then that asshole had the audacity to smile and say good morning and all those petals of desire bloomed even larger.

Where was the cool, aloof movie star you’d been promised?

It would’ve been one thing if he just ignored your existence—you could’ve just resented him like you would anyone else you worked for—but no. He’s hellbent on being adorable. And maybe even being your friend.

He’s not quite as needy as Christina’d made him out to be, either. He just really, really needs that firm hand Christina doesn’t actually have.

You have it, though. And you have no problem using it.

Lately, Dieter’s been busy shooting some romcom twelve hours a day. You’d expected more afterparties, more poolside noise, more hedonism-prepared yourself for it, actually. He’s only thrown a few ragers here and there, most of which last into the next day, and you’ve offered to call a car for more than a few barely-dressed people trying to sneak their way out of Dieter’s bedroom.

You always refrain from asking if they had a good time, but you never refrain from asking Dieter the same question when he stumbles down the stairs in one of those robes you’re so envious of. He always gives you a cheeky smirk, and you roll your eyes, and it’s cute and flirty and you have to scream into a pillow when he goes back upstairs.

But now filming’s done and he’s had a few weeks off, and after he spent a week in New York visiting a friend, he’s home a lot.

Like, a lot.

Doing yoga in his very tiny boxer briefs, watching movies in his very tiny boxer briefs, even arguing with his agent or his manager or his PR rep in very. Tiny. Boxer briefs.

He’s been doing a lot of arguing lately. You try not to eavesdrop, but it’s not your fault his voice echoes in this cavernous first floor.

“Where’s all my food?” He demands after he stomps down the stairs to find a squeaky clean refrigerator.

“Christina threw it all out because it all went bad because you never eat here,” you tell him. “She’s getting groceries now.”

“But I’m hungry,” he whines, and you loathe how endearing you find it.

“So order something,” you say.

He’s in front of you so quickly you almost topple off your seat. “Can you do it?”

“What do you mean? You don’t know how to use DoorDash?”

“I’m bad at it,” he says, and you don’t bother to hide your incredulity.

“You can’t be bad at DoorDash,” you argue, rolling your eyes.

“Please?”

You sigh at his big brown eyes and his trembling bottom lip that you want to swipe your thumb across. “Fine. But I’m getting something,” you say.

“Of course, babe.”

“I don’t love that nickname, Mr. Bravo,” you say, and he scowls at your continued insistence on formality, but boundaries like that are the only thing keeping you sane right now.

“Sorry, sorry. Sweetheart?” He asks earnestly, and you can’t find it in yourself to be annoyed.

“Sweetheart’s better than babe, I guess,” you sigh. “What do you want to eat?”

“Eggslut,” he says, and you burst into laughter.

“Do you really want that or did you just want to say the name?”

“Have you had Eggslut?” He asks as you shoot a text to Christina asking if she wants anything. She does not, thank you very much, but she will be back in about an hour. “Because if you had you would know it’s not a joke. I want the Fairfax sandwich, please.”

Why does the “please” make you shiver?

It takes a few minutes, but you find a sandwich that isn’t a textural nightmare and add it to the little cart right below Dieter’s monstrous pile of caramelized onions and scrambled eggs sandwiched in a buttery looking bun.

“It’ll be here in an hour,” you tell him.

“I’m gonna starve, sweetheart,” he exclaims with a dramatic fall to the shimmering black floor, flinging his arm over his face. His robe flops open, but he doesn’t seem to notice. You peer down at him, shamelessly taking the opportunity to run your eyes over his broad, bare torso.

“Might freeze to death, too,” you observe dryly and he chuckles, looking down at his hard nipples.

“Maybe. Ugh, there’s gotta be something to eat around here,” he whines as he gets to his feet. You turn back to your task, and he leaves you in peace to rifle through his cabinets.

Eventually, he finds a bag of Skittles and pours them into a bowl, which is very weird, but he’s a weird famous guy, so you just let him do his weird famous guy thing without comment.

“I don’t like the red ones,” he says, apparently to you. “Can you pick them out?”

He cannot be serious.

“No,” you say.

“Why not?” He demands.

“Mr. Bravo, I want you to tell me that you, a forty-seven-year-old man, cannot pick out the red Skittles. That you not only need me to order your food, you also need me to pick the red Skittles out of your bowl.”

“Well—I mean, what are you even doing right now?” He asks, and he seems to realize it’s a mistake as your nostrils flare out and you spin in your chair to glare at him.

“I’m filling out your health insurance renewal forms. Do you like having health insurance?” You ask.

“Yes,” he says, still holding his little bowl in his ridiculously large hands.

“So you either pick out the Skittles yourself, or you finish the forms. Which one?”

“You’re mean sometimes,” he says, but there’s no real conviction behind it. You shrug—you are a little mean sometimes.

“And you’re a big baby sometimes,” you say, but he doesn’t pout. He grins at you instead, scooting close enough that you can smell yesterday’s cologne and the weed he smoked before he got out of bed.

“What’s the health insurance stuff?” He asks as he starts to pick out the red Skittles. You eat them one by one as you explain how HSAs work.

By the time the food arrives you realize you’re having fun. You move from the kitchen to the living room after he begs you to watch a movie with him, ignoring your sly suggestion of Hunger Strike.

“Well, what movie are we watching then if we can’t watch anything you’ve been in. Star Wars?”

“What’s your favorite movie?” He asks.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You don’t like answering these types of questions—you’re always worried that you’ll give the wrong answer. Which, okay, it’s not a test, it’s an opinion, but sometimes when something means too much to you and the other person hates it, it feels like a judgment on you. And you are so very aware that for the most part that’s simply not true, but you can’t help the way your brain works.

“I do!” He says.

You think about lying, but you don’t think he’s lied to you even once. And you really, really don’t want to lie to him.

“Okay, but you’re gonna make fun of me.”

“Am not.”

“It’s Moulin Rouge,” you say, and you wait for him to laugh or ask “really?”

But he does neither.

“Cool. You know, Ewan and I used to party a lot together,” he says, scratching his beard. “Mine’s Back to the Future III.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm,” he says, dumping hot sauce all over the scrambled eggs and sucking the excess off of his thumb.

“I’ve never seen any of them,” you tell him and he turns to you, squinting.

“What? We gotta watch them,” he says.

“I don’t think Christina—”

“I’ll handle Christina,” Dieter says confidently. “I need your assistance in watching these, okay, I don’t like watching movies alone.”

You sigh. “And if I say I don’t want to?”

He gives you the biggest, roundest eyes and sticks his lip out, pouting in a way that should be absolutely unbecoming for a man his age. And damn him, it works. “Please?”

He wins, eventually, because of course he does, wiggling with excitement. “Not now, though,” he says. “Gotta make a night of it.”

“A night of it?”

“I mean, yeah. I’m not watching all of them on a shitty little TV,” he says, gesturing to the eighty-five inch flatscreen hanging on the living room wall.

“We might have different definitions of shitty,” you say.

He shrugs and brings the sandwich to his mouth, and there is no reason for you to watch him do this, but he’s just so…interesting.

That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.

Everything he does is a little sensual, somehow, like he really wants to enjoy every single experience as much as he can. Even biting into a sandwich, he closes his eyes and moans softly at the taste, and it probably shouldn’t be sexy. People moan at how good food tastes all the time.

You don’t—not in front of people, at least, because you have been far too aware of your every move for the last thirty years of your life, but some people do.

The tendons of his neck flex as he chews, eyes rolling back, his lips shiny with butter and grease, and you try not to think of him looking exactly like that between your legs.

Jesus Christ, when’s the last time you got laid?

You shake your head and busy yourself with your own sandwich and try to eat as normally as possible, only peeking a little to watch him suck all the grease off his fingers.

About halfway through your meal, Christina comes in with the groceries, and you leave your half-finished sandwich on the table to help put them up, happy for an excuse to stop ogling a man who’s just trying to eat.

“I got your green juice, Dee,” she calls, and he waves a hand in acknowledgment. “What’s he doing down here?”

“No idea. He’s been chatty this morning. Wanted me to take the red Skittles out for him.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you about that. He doesn’t like the red dye.”

“Figures. I mean, I didn’t do it. I told him he was a grown man and could figure it out.”

“What?” Christina asks, dropping a bag and giving you an incredulous glare as your smile falters. “Babe, I know you’re still getting used to everything, but if he tells you to do something, do it.”

“Oh, um, he seemed fine? I was filling out his health insurance forms and wanted to get them done. And I ordered his food. I didn’t think it was a big deal,” you explain, your eyes flicking over to him as he finishes the last of his food.

“Okay, well, he’s probably just being polite because you’re new, but I’m telling you not to do that again, all right? Whatever he wants, you give him. That’s the deal.”

She doesn’t sound angry, exactly, but you want to curl in on yourself and crawl into a hole until this mortification passes. Your cheeks go hot, your throat closing up with embarrassment at being scolded.

“Yes, absolutely. Sorry about that,” you say, clearing your throat. “Won’t happen again.”

“What won’t happen again?” Dieter asks, choosing that exact moment to set his trash on the counter. Rather than telling him to throw it away, you grab it, eager to give yourself something else to do.

“Nothing, Mr. Bravo, just some paperwork stuff,” you lie, humiliated at the thought of having misread the relationship.

He frowns as you bolt past him, to pick up your half-eaten sandwich and throw it in the trash. “Thanks for lunch—uh, breakfast, sir,” you stutter. “I’ll just go get the rest of this done.”

You’re acting so weird—you know it, they both know it, and you cringe when he asks to talk to Christina as you leave through the back door with the trash bag in hand. For the rest of the day you replay the whole thing in your head from start to finish, trying to figure out why you’d felt so comfortable talking to him like that.

Later that night, all you can do is go over every interaction you’ve had with him over the last few weeks.

He would’ve told you, right?

Like with the pen? When he didn’t like the pen, he told you. But then you’d been so weird about the pen, and maybe he didn’t want to upset you again.

Sometimes you wish you could just explain yourself.

“Sorry I’m such a freak, I thought we were friends because I’m bad at judging how close I actually am to people. I forgot this was a work thing and we’re not really friends, you’re just being nice. I forgot people are just nice sometimes to get through the day. Also, I think I’m a little in love with you. It’s bad, man.”

You chuckle to yourself as you imagine what face Dieter might make. Your contract would definitely be terminated, and you’d probably be one of those stories famous people tell when they go on talk shows.

So you’ll say nothing. You’ll fish out that proverbial mask and put it back on because the last thing you want is your actual personality ruining everything. You’ll do what Christina said, give him whatever he wants, and try not to fool yourself into thinking you’re anything other than a boredom-killer for him.

He’s not your friend.

He’s not.

Dieter still doesn’t know what happened between you and Christina. He usually appreciates her assuring him that everything is fine and if it’s not fine, she’ll make it fine, but you haven’t really been the same since.

And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t asked.

“If it’s about the food, I didn’t mind getting her something to eat,” he’d said, but Christina just told him not to worry about it.

“She’s just a little odd,” Christina’d told him. “But she’s doing a good job otherwise, you know, she’s just bad with social situations sometimes.”

Dieter hadn’t understood what she meant—you hadn’t done anything wrong.

And you’re completely different now.

You don’t listen to music anymore or correct him when he’s wrong about something, and he’s checked. He’s been wrong on purpose at least four times now, and you just nod and say, “Oh, how interesting.”

And maybe worst of all, you do everything he asks of you. Every single thing. To his shame, as little of it as he has, he takes advantage of this because it’s the only time you’ll get close to him. Lucky for him, you can tie a tie. He can also tie a tie, but you don’t need to know that.

He steps out from his room and calls your name. “Can you come help me?” He asks.

“Be right there,” you chirp.

“Can you tie my tie?” He asks, holding it in front of him with a doleful pout. He has a brand appearance tonight, some overpriced cologne deal that’ll pay Christina’s salary for the next few years, and a tie, for some reason, is required.

“Of course, Mr. Bravo,” you murmur, stepping softly into his bedroom. He can feel your nerves rolling off of you.

“Thanks for the help,” he says, standing in front of the mirror. “I never have been able to get the hang of it.”

“No problem. I went through this phase in middle school where I wore ties and tank tops and big baggy cargo shorts,” you say, and his breath hitches at your little confession.

“That’s fucking cute,” he says.

“Mmhmm,” you say, a smile playing on your lips. You seem calmer up here, away from Christina’s watchful eyes. “I was very cool.”

“Bet you listened to a lot of stuff on vinyl,” he teases.

“Who says I don’t still? I like the scratchy noise it makes,” you offer, looping the tie around his neck and standing so close he could wrap his arms around you and bury his nose in your hair.

“Very, uh, what’s that movie—the one Zooey’s in,” he says.

“Five Hundred Days of Summer? God, I forget you know all these people I just watch on TV,” you giggle.

“Yeah,” he says. “That one.”

“I like that movie,” you say, a dreamy look on you face. “I like that it turns the whole manic pixie dream girl thing on its head.”

“You’re a little manic pixie, you know,” he says.

“Yeah,” you say quietly, finishing the knot. “I know.”

“That’s what I’ll call you,” he says. “You don’t like babe or sweetheart, right? I’ll call you Pix.”

You cock your head at him. “I don’t hate that,” you say. “But you could just call me my name.”

“Nah,” he says. “Then you’d just be like everyone else I know, Pix.”

Christina yells from downstairs that their ride is there, and he smiles regretfully.

“Thanks for the help,” he says. “You’re doing great, you know. With all this.”

“Thanks, Mr. Bravo,” you murmur.

“You can call me Dieter, you know,” he says.

“Sure,” you say. “You’re late. Go.”

And he does, just because you told him to.

dividers and support banner by @saradika-graphics

#dieter bravo x f!reader #over 5k #series #*mature #ezrasbirdie

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dieterbravobrainrotclub · 7 days

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Join us in a Dieter Bravo drabble challenge!

We would love to extend our May drabble challenge out of server for anyone who might like to participate!

PROMPT: “Do you believe in aliens?”

TROPE: meet-cute

RULES:

-Fic should be 1k or less words.

-Must feature Dieter Bravo.

-Other characters can be included (e.g. reader, oc, other Pedro characters).

-Post to tumblr and/or ao3 any time in the month of May.

-Please appropriately tag any warnings when posting.

-Tag us at @dieterbravobrainrotclub or send us a link to the work so we can reblog and share it!

We look forward to seeing your creations!!

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dieterbravobrainrotclub · 7 days

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chamomile

A/N: I was making myself a cup of tea earlier this evening and the idea blossomed from there 🥺

for @morallyinept Valentine’s Day masterlist 💗

~word count: 1.3k~

Summary: it’s Valentine’s Day and Dieter Bravo is alone and missing you

Pairing | Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Warnings: mature, fluff, angst, language,implicit smut, one mention of dieter giving himself a handjob, mentions of alcohol and ouid, fwb’s, pining, assumed one-sided feelings, two idiots in love without realizing it, typical dieter behavior, reader has no physical descriptions, readers nickname is petal, +18 minors dni!

On the long, lonely nights where Dieter Bravo is away from you, his solace, his person, he always finds himself struggling to sleep. An hour here, and an hour there, but it can never compare to the deep, dreamy, snooze he gets when you’re laying next to him, tangled up in his legs, under his sheets.

He knows deep down he’s got it bad for you. So bad, he can hardly think straight on most days. Dieter, you missed your cue, again.

He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose and shakes his shoulders to relieve any pent up stress he’s feeling and to get back on track.

Did you even read the fucking script, Bravo?

He scoffs, jaw ticking under the harsh studio lights that buzz in his ear like a swarm of angry bees. Course I did. He lies through his teeth.

How could he even think about reading his lines when he spent hours of his night staring down his phone as he deeply contemplated the pros and cons of calling you up.

If I tell her how I feel, it makes everything fucking weird.

Or you get to live out your very own rom-com!

Or she never wants to speak to me again

Or she also confesses her deep, profound love for you.

Or..she doesn’t feel the same way and breaks my fucking heart into a million tiny pieces!

Or your dreams come true, Dieter.

You met Dieter Bravo through a friend of a friend at one of the movie star’s infamous parties. Dieter was drunk, a bit of a stumbling mess, but when his warm, and slightly clammy palm wrapped around your own, you knew you were donefore. And how was it possible for a scruffy man such as himself to have the kindest, softest, warmest brown eyes you ever had the pleasure of gazing into?

No, you were not in love with Dieter Bravo. He was just your friend..with the occasional benefits. Nothing more, nothing less.

When Dieter finds himself alone in his too big of a house for another night, he packs a bowl, and then another, and another. He takes a relaxing bath, alone with nothing but the comfort of his own fist wrapped around his cock. His lashes flutter shut, plush lips parting as he sinks further into the chamomile scented bubbles.

You told him once that chamomile should help him sleep better. He sent his assistant out the next day to buy chamomile tea, and literally any and all the chamomile scented products that she could find.

You took a bath together once, and he vividly remembers dragging his nose across the base of your neck, inhaling the sweet aroma while you nearly dozed off in his saccharine grip. Muscles relaxed, limbs pliant under the soapy water.

But you weren’t here. You were thousands of miles away on a girls trip with some of your single friends. It was the trip that finally made it out of the group chat, and it happened to fall on the week of Valentine’s Day.

Wait, that’s today, right? Shit. How pathetic. He thinks to himself, stroking his cock faster, creating ripples in the sudsy water.

Yeah, so fucking pathetic. Alone on fucking Valentine’s Day, and higher than a goddamn kite.

He doesn’t come, and while that in itself should be frustrating, he accepts his fate of misery while the temperature of the water becomes too cold to bear and he’s forced to retreat.

He packs another bowl, yanks his leftover Taco Bell from the fridge and eats it cold, like the feeling of his heart.

His king sized bed feels even larger than usual, and he chuffs a laugh, taking another bite of his half eaten crunch wrap supreme.

That’s because I’m fucking alone on Valentine’s Day.

He knows he’s not really alone. But on a day that is all about love, he sure as hell doesn’t feel the love.

He misses the way you would roll over mid sleep and drape your arm across his bare stomach. Your fingers would play with the dark, soft hair that led down to his happy trail while you drooled into the crook of his neck, soft snores escaping past your parted lips. He found it endearing. You were like a koala, and he was the tree branch of your choosing.

He so badly wanted to be your tree branch right now.

Was that lame? Probably. But Dieter could give less of a shit about any of that. He missed you, and the feeling ate away at him, carving a hole in his chest and yanking his heart right out.

He didn’t mind that you would accidentally kick him off the side of the bed, or steal all the covers. He loved it when you would talk in your sleep, babbling about pure nonsense that somehow to his ears made perfect sense.

Okay, so he missed you…a lot. He wasn’t the only person to miss someone this much. Hell, maybe even his neighbor was going through the same feelings and emotions as he was.

Love. Yeah, that’s what he was feeling. He was in love with you, and you had no fucking idea how he truly felt.

He tossed and turned, fluffed down his pillows, scrolled on his phone, watching his favorite saved tik toks, and he even tried listening to the soothing sounds of a thunderstorm through a podcast on Spotify. None of it was working. He couldn’t sleep, and you were to blame.

That’s how Dieter Bravo found himself in his kitchen, fully exposed sans some fluffy slippers on his feet that had seen better days. He dug through his pantry till he found the familiar box of chamomile tea. He let out a sigh of relief and tore open the silver foil with his teeth.

His phone screen read 2:30a.m as the kettle on the stove whistled loudly in his eardrums.

The familiar scent of chamomile coated his senses in a warmth that could only be described as you as he let the tea bag steep in his favorite chipped mug.

His knuckles drummed along the countertop nervously as he stared down his phone once more. He let out a huff, bringing one hand to scratch at the patches in his scraggly beard.

As steam billowed from the mug next to him, he finally picked up his phone and dialed your number.

He chewed on the tip of his thumbnail, eyes dancing nervously as the dial tone rang, and rang. He was ready to hang up and toss his phone in the garbage disposal when you finally answered.

His heart skipped a beat and his weed-hazed mind couldn’t keep up with the rate that words were flowing past his lips.

“Petal? Hey, happy Valentine’s Day. Well—er, happy belated Valentine’s Day? ‘Suppose it’s already over. Uh—hope I’m not bothering you, I just couldn’t sleep, so I’m in my kitchen having a cup of chamomile tea, like you suggested. Fuck, I’m rambling, aren’t I? I smoked a few too many bowls so my brain is a bit scrambled. Anyway, I miss you, baby. I’m so lonely, and I wish you were here.”

His stoned rambling continued on as you listened silently, holding your phone close to your ear and swatting at your friend's arm when they asked who was on the phone. The club music was booming at the same rate that your heart was pounding in your chest.

“Hi, Dee. I miss you too. I've been thinking...when I get back, can we grab dinner sometime?" You warmly suggest.

His pupils are blown wide like two shiny marbles illuminated under the soft glow of the moonlight trickling in through his tall kitchen windows.

“Fuck yes. I’d fucking love to grab dinner with you sometime, Petal.” He rasps softly through the receiver.

banners made by the lovely @saradika 💗

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#dieter bravo x f!reader #under 5k #one shot #*mature #tightjeansjavi

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dieterbravobrainrotclub · 7 days

Text

Lingerie

Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

Summary; Dieter in panties. That's it. That's the fic.

Word Count; ~3k

Content & Warnings; subby!Dieter, Oral sex (f receiving) coming untouched, underwear fetish, face sitting. Established relationship. Also - I have done my absolute best not to "gender" the clothing items; but it is a cis male character wearing traditionally feminine undergarments

Author Note; *throws hands in air* I DON'T KNOW. IT JUST HAPPENED OKAY?! This movie needs to come out ASAP, this whore (affectionate) has me in a chokehold.

This work contains explicit adult content and is intended for audiences over the age of eighteen. By continuing to read you agree that you are 18 or older, have read the content and warnings and wish to proceed

Lingerie was the answer. Every time you asked him, birthday gifts, holidays, anniversaries. He always wants you wrapped like a gift in lace or silk or leather. It’s half a joke at this point, two years into a relationship that was started as a farce.

He needed to calm down and you needed to grow up. A child star trying to break into more grown-up roles, an actor with a partying playboy image who wanted to win an Oscar. Your managers shook hands. Three months of holding hands coming out of Starbucks, walking on a red carpet, staged candids together, two birds with one stone and a story you could include in your memoire twenty years from now.

You didn’t expect him to make you laugh. He took nothing seriously, sitting in the meeting with both your managers and slipping you fun-size Snickers from pockets of his robe as they hammered out details. He was faithful when he didn’t need to be, it was a fake relationship after all, but he did it anyway. When you asked before you parted, he just shrugged, saying it wouldn’t be fair to have you dragged into a cheating scandal, knew it would follow you forever.

He played the role of dutiful boyfriend better than you would have thought possible. In the fake dates at coffee shops, he remembered your order, avoided anything with mango once he found out you were allergic. His eyes went believably huge when he saw you before the first time you walked a red carpet together.

Your first kiss was for cameras. Shouted at by paparazzi on that same red carpet, wearing rented expensive jewels, dripping wealth and itching under the hot lights. He squeezed your hand as he dragged you from interview to interview, touting the agreed-on story as he wrapped an arm around your neck and grinned when you slapped him from messing up your hair.

He dipped you, over the top and theatrical as he kissed you, fingers tangled at the nape of your neck, wrapped around your waist, your breath caught in your throat. It was the top trending moment on Twitter, you saw it filtered on Instagram within a half hour.

What they didn’t see was the minute ten minutes before, when he scrubbed his jaw and asked your permission, half shy and not meeting your eyes as he suggested it. You had agreed, not thinking much of it until it struck a match in your belly. You spent the rest of the night chancing glances at him, wondering how you’d never noticed how effortless he was in his beauty.

Your managers were shocked when you moved in a month later. You were photographed for real this time, him lifting you onto his shoulders in the middle of the ocean, catching you both in a rainstorm, laughing and hiding and kissing under an alcove. They definitely figured out you had fucked between the Oscars and the afterparty, your lack of lipstick and his lopsided tie blog-fodder for days.

Two years and he still made you laugh. He was irreverent and childish and took nothing seriously. In the middle of an argument, he half tackled you into a pool, clothes and phone and all and kissed you with chlorine cold lips. He said that if you were going to argue like wet cats you may as well look the part. You couldn’t remember what the fight was about.

You were pretty sure he was going to ask you to marry him soon. You were surprised you hadn’t ended up in front of Elvis in a t-shirt dress in Vegas yet. You would have agreed. He made everything seem like an adventure. He built forts in your living room and spent thousands of dollars on jewellery, only to lay you still on a large bed and place diamonds on your nipples.

“Do I get lingerie for your birthday?” he asked, coming up behind you as you fixed your hair in the mirror. He was distracted kissing your neck before you could answer. You had laughed at the thought, the idea of Dieter in some cheap polyester boxer shorts with red candy kiss marks on them making you shake your head. Your birthday was still months away.

It got caught in your nails though, a piece of fabric knotted at the cuticle, an idea, something that would make him laugh for a change. You liked the way his eyes crinkled. You ordered it from your phone and promptly forgot, your day on set filled with the dramatic scenes you had yearned for when you first started dating him.

Two days later and you were both due to attend a gala. Fine jewels and fancy dresses, forcing him into a suit. You were surprised to get home and already seeing him showered and dressed, happily eating packet ramen over the sink as he waited for you. There was a glint of mischief in his eye as he smacked your ass and told you to hurry up. He usually hated these things. They were boring and overlong and you weren’t in the mood for staying too late.

The garters were his favourite, the silk ones, no underwear because he couldn’t figure out how to get them off quickly and ripped them every time. Matching balconette bra, moulding your tits to hold the teardrop diamond necklace he bought you for your anniversary. Hiding lingerie under your dress made the nights go faster. Dieter usually figured it out quick enough for you to slip away. Sometimes not even home, usually to the bathroom, where some unsuspecting A-Lister had to wait in line for him to finish with his head between your legs.

You were grown-up. And he was calmer. In the way we built boats bigger to weather the storms. You partied in countries where paparazzi weren’t a thing, greased the palms of bartenders to pretend they didn’t recognise you when Dieter put a hundred-dollar bill in a stripper’s G-string, when that same stripper came home with you both, waking to a tangle of limbs and your assistant ordering breakfast.

Nude beaches, parties where you put your keys in a bowl, more than one trip to stores curating the sale of whips and silicone. You found his adventure matched your own and settled into a comfortable rhythm of shocking each other with something new to try. The abstract art in your kitchen was a canvas you’d fucked on. It was featured in your Vanity Fair home tour. Nobody noticed.

“C’mere” the gala was boring. It took half an hour of semi decent canapes for him to drag you into a dark corner, curated for just such moment when celebrities needed a brief second away from prying eyes. His teeth were on your neck, arms wrapped around your waist as he pressed you deeper into the shadows.

“Wearing them” he said, biting your earlobe in a way that made your brain fuzzy. He clouded all your senses from the minute you met. It took a moment, just a brief second for you to realise what he was saying.

“Wearing… oh they arrived?”

“Waiting on the counter when I got home. Got all excited when I saw the label. Thought you bought something for me, but you bought something for you. Didn’t you dirty girl?”

They were silk. Nothing special, a high cut bikini brief in the same lavender of a t-shirt he once owned. A scalloped trim of lace. Your mind conjured the image in a second, his strong thighs, that scattered dark hair, the trail from his navel that thickened so deliciously, dipping into the delicate panties you had purchased on a whim. You swallowed.

“W-… How do they feel?” You asked. He grinned, teeth flashing white in the shadows as he saw your reaction.

“I wasn’t sure at first, never tried it before… they’re fantastic. It’s like those fancy fuckin’ sheets you buy are cupping my balls. I love it.”

You laughed, smacking his shoulder as he crowded you further.

“They’re so soft. They’re just like you babe. Like I’ve got the memory of that delicious cunt on me at all times. I’ve been half hard since I put them on. Can we get the fuck out of here please”?

You don’t switch on the lights in the house, Dieter half dragging you to the bedroom as you drop keys and phone and purse in the entrance, kicking off shoes up the stairs as he drags you by the hand to your bedroom.

“Turn around” he says, his voice low and gravelly in a way that always makes your knees quiver, his knuckles scraping over your spine as he unzips your dress, pulls it from your shoulder and lets it puddle to the floor.

“Oh, look at that, we both wore our best lingerie”

He kisses you hard enough to bruise, gripping your jaw and a handful of your ass as he pulls you in closer, his erection grinding against your belly as you moan into his mouth, the air cool on your fevered skin. Your hands are frantic on his suit, shoving it from his shoulders as he nips your bottom lip, grins against your mouth.

“Show me”

You step back from him, your knees hitting the bed as you let yourself fall back onto it, watching as he removes his belt, unbuttons the top of his pants, your eyes focused on his thick fingers, playing with the fly. He lets his pants fall to the floor and you actually audibly gasp.

He’s beautiful. He stands still in front of you, giving you a minute to take him in. somewhere deep in the cavern of your brain, excitement bubbles at the role reversal. He’s wrapped up like a gift, for you. Like you’re his pretty little doll to play with, your favourite new toy.

They’re a soft lavender, cut high on his hips, fitting him like a second skin. He favours boxers usually, so the smooth expanse of his upper thighs is rarely on display. Thick, broad muscle tanned and warm looking, strong full hips. The fragile lace cutting under the curve of his stomach. He was hard, the outline beneath silk, pressed against the fabric, twitching slightly under your gaze. Your mouth waters.

“Is this what it’s like for you?” you ask quietly, reaching to scratch a manicured nail across the seam. You watch his skin break out in goosebumps, his stomach ripple as his breath hitches.

“Yeah” He says, shifting on his feet, distributing weight as you run a hand down his thigh. There’s a size difference, there always has been. He makes you feel safe and cocooned in his embrace, soft and cuddly against your back. There’s always the dark thought in your brain that he could break you if he wanted to, wrap a meaty hand around your neck and cut off your air flow, destroy you with nothing but the power in his body.

The dichotomy is short circuiting your brain. It fizzes and sparks and catches, and you’re aware of a throbbing, deep ache between your thighs. When you shift to your knees on the bed, you’re not surprised you can feel it, slicking your skin, touching the stockings you haven’t taken off yet.

“You’re wet” he said, his voice coming out shaky, slightly higher as he reached to finger the strap of your bra.

“You’re pretty” you replied, watching his cheeks pink as he wrinkled his nose. “Come here, pretty boy”

He moans into your mouth, tumbling with you on the bed, his hands gripping and squeezing your skin as he grinds between your legs. You can feel the silk against your cunt, his cock hard beneath, the friction making you twist.

“Will you do something for me?” Dieter asks, his breath gasping as you brush the soft curls off his forehead.

“Anything sweet boy”

“I want you on my face.”

You smile, tugging his hair just enough to watch him wince, biting your lip as he whines.

“Yeah, you want that? Have me ride your face while you’re in these pretty silk panties till I come all over your mouth”

He smacks your ass, snapping at the garter still connecting your stockings as you laugh.

“Yes, you fucking minx. Get up here, I want you to watch what you do to me”

He grips your thighs, hard enough you know you’ll have little bruises in the morning, knowing they’ll match the colours already present on your skin. He likes to grab at you, watch them fade like rainbows on your skin, scattered light patterns he can make with his fingers, tongue and teeth.

His breath is warm against your folds as you kneel over his shoulders, bracing yourself on his thighs. The tightness of his underwear means you can watch him twitch, see the first drop of precum stain the fabric dark. He palms at you, spreading you open as he pulls you closer, the tip of his nose just grazing your clit. You watch him twitch again, the throb of him.

The fabric is strong but thin, you can trace the outline with your gaze, the girth of his cock sitting heavy and gorgeous beneath the fabric, the thick vein on the underside you know he likes nibbled, the dip and contours of the head, those ridges that feel so delicious inside you, make you feel full, like you’re going to burst.

He jokes often that this is how he wants to go, your cunt on his mouth as you ride his face, your confidence only growing with time, that he wants the weight of you on his tongue, wants you to use his lips, his nose, his chin to get yourself off, that he’s happy and sated with your release colouring his cheeks. He pulls you into him, sucks your clit into his mouth with relish, holding you to his face as he sinks into the mattress.

You try and keep your eyes open, you want to watch the ripple of his stomach, the buck of his hips with each pass of his tongue, the way he widens his legs, plants his feet to fuck into the air as he spreads you wider with his hands, fucks you with his tongue with a groan.

You grind your hips on his face, shameless in the way you wriggle on top of him, moaning loudly as you dig your nails into his thighs. It’s messy, fast and building as you fuck against his mouth, his hand cracking on your ass as he moans in delight. Its muffled, the sound simply vibrating through your body like a tuning fork as you catch breath in sharp gasps.

“Oh, fuck Dieter, yes. That’s so good, good boy”

You hear him whine, you watch his cock jump with those words, precum staining dark and spreading across the lavender underwear, the strain they’re under to hold the weight of his cock as he spreads his legs wider, his hips rolling with yours, matching your rhythm.

He sucks your clit into his mouth, just a scrape of teeth in a way he knows will make you cum, fast. He’s growling into you as your head drops lower, spreading you wider for his relentless assault as you breathe hot and damp over his clothed cock, which spurs him on further. You’re so close, your nails digging into his thighs as you wantonly ride his face.

You’re right there, so close it hurts. Without thinking, your nail catches the edge of his panties, snapping the fabric against his skin as you whimper

“You’re just so fucking pretty baby”

You see stars when you cum, your vision streaking galaxies as his grip turns iron on your thighs, sucking and drinking from you as you shake on top of him, the pleasure zinging up your spine as you ride the wave of your own release. You just barely catch it, your eyes widening with pleasure at the sight.

His hips shaking as he cums, aching and thick, leaking through the soft silk underwear, sticky and seeping over the hem, oozing through the fabric as you watch his cock pulse, erratic and slow. You put your mouth over the tacky head of him, hear him hiss at the contact as you taste the fabric, the salt musk of his release. You press soft kisses on his softening cock, rubbing your cheek against expensive, ruined silk.

“Fuck, babe, fuck.” He sounds drunk. Rearranging yourself you can see his eyes are glassy, heavy lidded and dazed, hair messed and face shining you drag a nail across his ribs, making him jump. He’s ticklish, but only in the afterglow. You kiss him, tasting yourself on his mouth as he tangles his fingers in your hair, affection and lazy love on his lips.

“Well,” you say, breath still heaving, reaching to snap the elastic again. “These are ruined”

Dieter laughs, still hoarse and breathless. Wrapping his arms around you he pulls you into him, his skin is warm and tawny soft.

“No, they’re not” he says, nosing at your temple.

“No?” you ask.

“Mmm, no. They’re going to look fucking great when I shove them in your mouth and fuck you over that vanity, you minx.”

With a yelp he grabs your ass again, the globes of your skin warm as you laugh together.

“I want these next” he says, a mischievous glint in his eye as he snaps your garter again.

#dieter bravo x f!reader #under 5k #one shot #*explicit #write-and-buried

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dieterbravobrainrotclub · 8 days

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A Little Sun pt 1 DieterBravo x f!Reader

rating: 18+ (future chapters)

Pairings: Dieter Bravo x f! Reader (no detailed physical descriptions, no use of y/n)

summary: As a PA to megastar and mega man-child Dieter Bravo you've had your fair share of headaches. Getting accidentally pregnant with his baby however takes the cake, especially when he offers to pay you to be his surrogate. You just weren't expecting to fall in love with him along the way. (plot prompt inspired by 'Daddy Dieter' by @absurdthirst on Ao3 - read their story, its really wonderful!)

warnings/tags: Unplanned Pregnancy, Surrogacy, Family Issues, Sweet!Dieter, Drugs, Alcohol, Getting Drunk, Boss/Employee Relationship,

a/n: I am actively tryin' to make everyone a Dieter Bravo stan. He is slept on in this fandom istg.

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Part 1: First Trimester

"With every newborn baby, a little sun rises." - Irmgard Erath

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Being actor Dieter Bravo's assistant comes with many boons. You get to hob-knob with celebrities, attend galas and parties, get to travel the world and you get paid decently. The downside?

You have to work for Dieter man-child Bravo.

He's an impossibly immature, inconsiderate man who's flakier than your mother's pie dough.

When he isn't being a walking hypocrite who won't eat processed foods but has no problem taking copious amounts of coke, he's making your life a living hell. He loves to party and experiment with whatever drug is in vogue. Too often you're scraping him off a club floor and dragging him home.

One memorable experience was flying by private jet over to Moscow to bring him home for the Academy Awards (which he fucking won because some people have all the luck) after he'd followed some hot Russian male model there and Dieter was convinced he was going to give up his citizenship and stay in Russia forever.

Your mother cannot stand him. She reads about his exploits in the tabloids. She thinks your job is a waste of your talents.

She's not wrong.

But this will all be worth it when you have enough to pay off the mortgage on your family home. As soon as you can your mother can stop working herself into an early grave pulling double shifts at the hospital.

You'll be able to move out into your own place and then you'll be able to finally go back to school and finish your Masters program. The one you had to quit so you could help support your mom after your father unexpectedly died.

You'd been lucky to land the gig with Bravo. Plucked from the group of giggling models who whispered how excited they were to have Dieter Bravo as their boss. You held your resume and reference letters tightly, your mind focused on the salary listed.

When you walked into the office to be interviewed with your long sleeves, high neckline and impressive resume his manager had been intrigued. When she asked what your favorite Dieter Bravo movie was and you had replied "Uh, I don't think I've seen many of his movies" she had given a wry smile and declared you a perfect fit for the job and hired you on the spot.

Dieter had been disappointed. You remember the way his eyes roved over your body in your frumpy clothes and your serious face. He had been looking for fun. You weren't fun.

You were a planner. You were someone who liked doing her job well. And your job was him. Getting him to set on time, organizing his appointments, dropping him with his publicist Diane so she could stop him from saying dumb shit to the tabloids when they cornered him and asked about his ex boyfriend or girlfriend.

You put up with a lot of his shit.

You also listen to a lot of the shit he says. The theories he has about the Hollywood elite, the creative outlets he wants to pursue, the scripts he has to read. You've learned to tune out his really stupid ideas.

The idea of fatherhood comes to Dieter after his latest relationship crashes and burns. In typical Bravo fashion it's a spur of the moment event. A decision with no forethought. He mentions it casually over breakfast as you run through his schedule for the day.

"I'm gonna be a dad."

"Oh yeah? Who's the lucky lady?" you reply drolly, bringing up his schedule on the tablet in your hand.

"Dunno. Haven't decided yet." He leans back in his chair, serene smile on his face.

You keep in the eye roll and go over what he's doing that day. He continues looking dreamily off into the distance, not paying attention.

You assume that this baby thing is similar to the goat therapy sanctuary: an amusing idea that strikes him as fun and that will exit as quickly and quietly as it arrived in his brain.

But a month later Dieter comes home in a foul mood slamming the door to his large home behind him.

"I thought you women wanted commitment!"

You look up from your desk. You've been busy all morning managing his socials. "Huh?"

"You remember my ex? Annika?"

"Yeah."

"We broke up because she wanted kids and I didn't," Dieter says throwing himself dramatically into the chair opposite you. "So I figure she's perfect for this! I went to see her and told her I wanted to settle down and have a baby."

"And what did she say?"

"To leave her dentist's office and never contact her again."

"Wait," you lower your phone. "You went to her dentist's office?"

"That's where her fiancé said she was and I couldn't wait!"

"Her fiancé told you that?"

"Yeah," Dieter groans, not seeing how it was inappropriate. "I'm getting older by the second. I don't wanna be too old to be a dad."

You hold in a sigh, seeing that he's beside himself. Dieter is a successful actor, this is true. But he's just as famous for his hard-partying and wild sex-capades. No woman in her right mind would willingly have a child with such a man.

"If you're that desperate to be a dad then adopt," you say trying to hold in your disdain. You don't think Dieter Bravo should be anywhere near anything to do with a child. And you know he won't be approved for adoption so there's no harm in suggesting it.

"No. I want to pass on my genes."

You give him a raised brow in return. The same genetics that give him his impossibly luscious hair and beautiful brown eyes are also responsible for his love for drugs and spontaneous decision making.

"What did your friend Becky do again?" Dieter asks sitting cross-legged in his chair. "The one who couldn't get pregnant with her husband?"

You're shocked he remembers this tidbit of your life at all. You kind of just assume he's not listening all that closely when you talk about a topic that doesn't directly involve him.

"Surrogacy. She paid someone else to carry her kid."

"Amazing," Dieter says slapping the desk in delight. "That's what I'll do! Obviously I want them to have all my hot characteristics. But I need the ying to my yang so the kid's balanced ya know?"

You don't mention that this is dangerously close to playing with eugenics. Instead you just nod, reading your work phone and then typing in more info onto the tablet.

This is a Bravo phase. It'll pass.

He gets like this about projects that initially interest him, but sooner or later he'll be pulled back into the lure of partying and drugs and easy men and women to warm his bed.

Dieter is watching you, studying you as you work. You've been his assistant for a year and you're good at what you do, despite your personality clashes. He drums his fingers on the desk, eyes narrowing on you.

"I need someone educated."

"Mhmmm." You're really only half listening at this point.

"Where did you go to school again?"

"Stanford."

Dieter nods, bringing a knee to his chest and balancing against it. He reminds you of a bored child.

"Right, that's what I thought," Dieter nods, watching you type quickly away on the keyboard.

You're very good at your job, very organized, very sharp. When he arrives at galas you're always there at his elbow to remind him of everyone's name in a whisper. You've never let him down.

You're good looking, even if you try to hide it under ugly clothes and hair you don't give a second thought to. He tilts back, trying to imagine you pregnant. Would your tits get bigger? The thought is very enticing.

"Cancer or heart disease run in your family?"

This draws your attention up from your phone which you now lower to the table and fix him with a dark look.

"If you're suggesting what I think you are, you can stop right there."

"Why?" Dieter asks, eyes wide and pleading. "Our baby would be perfect! My looks, your brains!"

"Or your brains and my looks," you scoff, although you don't think you're that bad looking. "Besides, I have no interest in having children."

Especially with you.

You've never understood the appeal of children, especially babies. But if you were to be fooled into thinking that it was a wise venture the last person on the face of the planet you would do so with would be the man seated across from you.

"I'll pay you!"

You lower the cell phone to the desk, trying not to come off too judgmental. He is your boss after all and you need the work.

"You really think you're ready for fatherhood, Dieter?"

He looks affronted. "Of course I am."

"You think doing coke, partying and jetting off to different sets to film all over the world is really the best thing for a child?"

"Lots of actors have kids and-"

"You think a man who relies on his staff to keep him fed and his house clean could really understand the responsibility that comes along with raising a child?" You scoff. "Have you ever even changed a diaper?"

"I wasn't born into this life," Dieter says between clenched teeth. "I know how to make a fucking bed and change a diaper. I've changed diapers before. Remember that Mister Mom reboot I did?"

You do all you can not to burst out laughing at that. He's talking about the "parent boot camp" he and his co-star on the film had to go through in order to play parents convincingly. It included a two-day workshop on diaper changing, bottle feeding and basic child development.

Apparently it had been a little too convincing because after that movie his female co-star had claimed to have no interest in having children ever.

"You think a man who has to have a full time personal assistant and two publicists just to keep his image decent Is the kind of person who should be bringing a child into the world?" You scoff. "You think-"

"I get it!" Dieter erupts, throwing himself from his chair. "You think I'm a piece of shit that should never have children! Thanks. Message received."

You watch him stalk off, a pit in your stomach.

///

Another month rolls by, one marked by strain on your end. Ever since you're heavy chat with Dieter he's been a little colder to you, a little more withdrawn.

At least once a week before his outburst Dieter would insist you stay for dinner to run lines with him. He doesn't do that anymore. Before your fight he'd order your favorite meal from the Pad Thai place nearby and you'd spend a few hours going through the lines with him.

You liked having a front row seat to the Dieter Bravo show because he's a good actor. He likes red wine when he's running lines. He always offers you a glass and you always decline because it's unprofessional to drink on the job.

On those evenings you find it easier to chat with Dieter about life. Those evenings you don't have to worry about getting him to interviews or fetching him coffee.

He asks you about your friends and family and you tell him surface level things. He doesn't know about your mom's long hours and a mortgage you can barely afford. He doesn't need to know.

You never realized how much you enjoyed those nights until they stopped

///

You're in his town car driving with him to a Vanity Fair interview the following month. One where they hook him up to a lie detector. You're very thankful that you're not his publicist on days like this because you can only imagine what they'll be asking him and what his answers will be.

Today will be spent grabbing him coffees and making sure he doesn't pass out in the green room. For his last BuzzFeed interview he'd been so out of it you'd had to pretend he had a dental emergency and cancel at the last second.

"Okay so after this then you're meeting that French director about the Regency piece," you tell him as you check his schedule. It's packed full of things he needs to accomplish.

"Mhmmm."

Dieter has his sunglasses on despite it being overcast today in LA. He's got his black crocs on underneath striped socks and he taps them gently as he stares out the window at the passing LA landscape.

"And then we need to go for your tux fitting for the-"

"I know you think it's a terrible idea," Dieter interrupts sullenly. "But I found someone to have my baby."

You pause what you were about to say, glancing over to him in interest. He's staring at you, sunglasses tipped down his nose so he can fix you with an intense stare.

"She's a model," he tells you like a petulant child. "Stunning. My child will be beautiful."

"Congratulations," you say after a beat. Dieter gives a scoff.

"That's all you have to say?"

"Do you want me to organize a flash mob?" You say with a curl of your lip. "I hope she signed an NDA."

"Of course she did," Dieter sneers. "And since I'm paying her $75,000 for it she won't say a damn thing."

"Well then, good luck," you say with as much enthusiasm as you can muster. "I hope you and your future child are very happy."

"We will be. I'm going to love that kid to death," he tells you ardently. "My kid is never going to go without."

You can see Dieter narrow his eyes before pushing his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. He leans back in his seat, looking sour.

Despite everything you feel a stab of regret go through you. There are plenty of worse people in the world that have children. Because yes, Dieter is immature and yes he has his vices, but you've seen him with his young fans. He's a natural, more at ease with them than the adults who try to get too close for photos.

"I'm genuinely happy for you," you tell him. "Your child will be very lucky to have a father that loves them so much."

It never takes much to thaw the ice from Dieter Bravo. He likes being liked too much. He flashes you his megawatt smile that you return before turning back to his schedule.

"Alright so, after the tux fitting..."

///

You give a sigh, shrugging off your jacket and padding to your kitchen later that evening. Your mom is there, sipping her nightly tea. She looks more tired than you, despite you working a fifteen hour day.

She gives your forehead a kiss, telling you there's leftovers waiting for you in the fridge before brushing the hair from your eyes.

"You're home late."

"Busy day," you yawn, grabbing dinner leftovers from the fridge and nuking them in the microwave. "He had a bunch of meetings, fittings, had to run through his script a few times."

You sit down with your dinner, taking a forkful and eating quickly. You're exhausted and tomorrow will be much of the same. It's always like this around award season.

"Shocked he didn't get you to read him a bedtime story too," your mother scowls. She's never hidden her disdain for Dieter.

You smile, thinking that if Dieter knew a bedtime story was an option he would probably take it. You know he hates being alone.

The ping from your phone draws your attention. You have an alert set to Dieter’s name, just in case you and Diane need to work overtime on a Bravo-related catastrophe. But when you click on the link it goes to a Reddit thread from the Dieter Bravo subreddit. You glance and see its just one of the run-of-the-mill tabloid photos.

Every so often you're caught in them, listed as "Bravo employee". The first time it had happened you'd been mortified by the unflattering photo of you reading out Dieters schedule as he smoked a cigarette, looking off into the distance.

In these photos today much like the others you're on your phone mid-sentence. Dieter is smiling at you, hand holding his coffee by the top. It's fairly innocuous as far as photos go but the comments are anything but.

Do u think he's hooking up with his PA? Look at these photos.

It's called a job people! She has to be with him all the time.

He looks so fucking hot

Gross no.

I think he's hooking up with Luke Evans??

I will now be identifying as a coffee cup

She's literally looking at her phone. How is this anything?

It's giving secret romance look at their body language

Omg his hands are so big.

I bet he's crazy in bed.

They've totally hooked up

He's so into her look at how he's looking at her!

You roll your eyes and try not to laugh out loud. Your mother glances over at you and shakes her head.

"When are you going to quit working for that loser and go back to school?"

Your mom doesn't really understand why you quit school. She would feel like a burden if she did. But every month you pay off more and more of her mortgage, the better and freer you feel. It’ll be a few years more, but you can manage.

"Soon," you tell your mother with a small smile. “Soon.”

///

"Fuck I hate these things," Dieter says in the back of a limo a few weeks later. You're all headed to a film and theatre awards show.

"Since when?"

"Since I have to present an award and I'm sober."

“You are?”

This surprises you. Rarely has Dieter Bravo ever been sober during awards season. Even the year he won his Oscar he'd been flying high before his name was even engraved on the statuette.

You go to grab your second phone, wanting to check something about scheduling when you realize your purse is back at Dieters. Fuck. You'll have to stop there on your way back tonight.

"You look nice," he tells you offhandedly as he tugs at his bow tie. He usually sees you in jeans and a t-shirt. Tonight your hair is sleek, your makeup glamorous and your dress feminine and lacy.

"Yeah well I heard Robert Pattinson will be there tonight," you say with a small smile. "Gonna shoot my shot."

Dieter rolls his eyes dramatically at this before his publicist Diane draws his attention to some talking points.

"You need to return the watch before you hit up the after parties," she says, motioning to his wrist where he wears a diamond encrusted timepiece from Cartier.

"Aye aye captain."

When the limo pulls up to the red carpet surrounded on both sides by groups of screaming fans you see Dieter swallow.

He loves a lot about acting, but this? The rabid fans, the constant screaming of his name? It stresses him out. He's told you this many times before.

Despite your irritation with Dieter most days, there is a part of you that genuinely enjoys his company. He's creative and funny and blunt in a way that you appreciate.

"You've got this Bravo," you tell him, squeezing his hand reassuringly before pulling back. He smiles at you, slipping on his sunglasses and taking a deep breath.

You and Diane exit out the left side doors as Dieter exits out the right onto the red carpet. Screams at ear -splitting volumes begin the second his boot hits the carpet.

"I LOVE YOU DIETER!'

"OMG ITS HIM!"

"He's so hot!"

"Do you think he's gonna do something weird?"

"DIETER SIGN MY BOOBS!"

Dieter waves and smiles, ignoring the more bizarre requests. His publicist warned him if he is serious about having a kid he needs to work on his image. You wonder how long this will last.

"Dieter Bravo have my baby!" One woman of about fifty shouts holding a hand towards him in desperation. Dieter waves at her and she looks as if she might faint.

"There you go," you whisper to his back as he moves to the next photographer. "If the model doesn't work out at least you have options."

He smirks at you before going to pose for the litany of flash bulbs and photographers.

Inside the auditorium you and Diane guide Dieter behind the stage. He's paired up to present with an up and coming actress who makes moon eyes up at him. Her name is Mia Rowe and she's as gorgeous in real life as she is talented.

"Hi Mr. Bravo," she says batting her eyes up at him.

"Hi beautiful," Dieter purrs. You hold in an eye roll, sure to take note of this woman. Odds are you'll be calling her a cab from Dieter's place later this evening.

"Bravo! I was hoping you'd be here!"

A tall blonde man with perfect teeth walks over, dressed in a form fitting tux. It makes Dieters bright pink checkered tux look cartoonish, but that's kinda what you liked about it.

Corey Brigham, the UK's answer to what would happen if you created the most handsome yet unlike-able person on the planet. He and Dieter go way back, both big in the party and drug scene.

"Was hoping you'd be here," Corey says with a wink, tapping his breast pocket. "I was just heading to the bathroom if you'd care to join."

"I'm not uh, doing that tonight," Dieter says to his friend. "Just sticking to booze."

You overhear this, surprised. You wonder if this is to do with his desire for fatherhood. If so you're a little impressed. Mia looks up at Dieter with a curious expression. As if she's impressed as well, or perhaps that she's surprised Dieter isn't what she expected.

The alcohol is flowing backstage and since you're a lightweight it takes very little to have you giggling behind your hand.

You never drink at these things, but once Dieter is done presenting your off for the night. You can enjoy yourself a little bit, especially when the booze is high end and free.

When Dieter presents the award with Mia you're very proud to see him sticking to his lines and being professional.

"Fuck, I have to go," Diane announces to you midway through the show, clutching her cellphone. "My kids in the hospital, the nanny just texted."

"Oh my gosh," your hand goes to hers. "Is everything okay?"

"He's had an allergic reaction," Diane says, her eyes wet. "I'm supposed to make sure Dieter returns the watch-"

"Go!" You insist, pushing her gently. "I'll make sure he returns it."

"I couldn't-"

"Go!"

Diane shoots you a grateful smile before tucking herself when you to her purse and making a mad dash for the exit. You watch from behind the curtain as the awards ceremony starts.

You decline further drinks after the midpoint, but you're still more than a little tipsy when you walk over to wrangle Dieter at the end of the show. He usually loves to hit up the after parties and you need to make sure he returns the Cartier watch before he goes.

You tap him on his broad shoulder, interrupting what seems to be a very intense (flirtatious) conversation with a redhead with the best pair of fake tits you've ever seen.

He turns irritated at first but his face quickly blooms into amusement as you stare up at him wavering slightly on your feet.

"Well, well, well," Dieter says smugly. "Miss Professional is drunk."

"I am not!" You insist, trying as hard as you can to keep the slur from your voice. "I'm just... I just had a little."

"You're slurring."

"Am not."

"Sure," Dieter laughs. "I bet you can't even walk in a straight line."

You immediately put one foot in front of the other, making a straight line from one side of the hallway floor to the other. You shoot him a victorious smile as he claps.

"My mistake," he drawls. "You’re obviously sober. I must have just overlooked that you always walk around with your eyes half open."

The redhead, irritated at being ignored gives a small sigh through her nose before bidding Dieter a sharp goodbye. You watch her walk off and grimace.

"Well you just cost me a date for the after party," Dieter laughs, slinging an arm around your shoulders and walking towards the entrance where photographers have gathered.

"Don't do that," you grumble. "Someone'll take a photo and get the wrong idea."

Dieter straightens immediately, but the amusement is still there in his features.

"So I guess you're gonna have to be my date," he teases, knowing full well how much you hate parties and that you'd never be invited in.

"Yeah right," you sneer. "I'd rather slide down a banister of razors into a pool of lemon juice."

"Guess I'll just have to find someone to keep me company then," Dieter says before winking at you. "I'll be at the Chateau Marmont if you change your mind."

He's out the door and in his limo before you remember why you needed to talk to him.

The fucking watch!

Cartier will have a fit if it's not returned this evening and Diane will be so disappointed in you on top of a very stressful night for her.

You have to run about three blocks in your heels to find a taxi to drive you. Traffic is majorly backed up thanks to the award ceremony and it takes you over an hour to get to Chateau Marmont.

At first the front desk won't let you past the entryway even when you tell them who you work for. You collapse onto a chair and try in vain to call Dieter. Not shockingly he doesn't pick up.

It's not until Mia Rowe arrives amidst screaming paparazzi and sees you near tears that she takes your hand and cites that you're with her. You thank her profusely and make a mental note to see every one of her movies in theaters for the rest of your life.

She's walks with you into the bustling party before releasing your hand and wishing you good luck. It doesn't take long to find Dieter in the crowd, you simply have to go to where there's the most noise.

He's in the middle of the group regaling them with one of his stories about the horrors of filming cliff beasts 5. He's got his arm around a young, very good looking Latin man you think is a singer. You watch as Dieter breaks off from what he was saying to kiss the young man thoroughly, tongues dueling as the music pulse around you.

Shit that's hot.

You don’t often see Dieter in the throes of passion but you’ve walked in on Dieter with his fair share of men and women waking up after a rowdy party or two. Seeing him here though with the club music like a heartbeat in your abdomen and his full mouth pressed to the handsome man’s makes you feel… something.

The two break apart and Dieter is about to say something more to the group when his eyes land on you.

"You made it!" Dieter slurs happily when you make your way towards him. "Take a shot!"

The crowd around him cheers as he produces a shot glass for you. Everyone is either coked out of their minds or massively drunk. It makes you jealous that your job has no glamour whatsoever.

"Here! Take a shot!" Dieter insists. "It's called the Bravo because uh... I forgot. But it’s good!"

You stumble over to him, not wanting to draw too much attention to the million dollar piece he's currently wearing on his wrist. Your mouth goes to his earlobe, lower lip catching the cool metal of his earring and the young man at his left shoots daggers at you.

"Dieter no, I need to return the-"

"The watch, I know," Dieter says with a smirk, his whisky tainted breath huffing along your cheeks. "I knew you'd have to come here to get it."

That asshole.

"You think I have nothing better to do than chase you all over this fucking city?" you shout, barely heard over the thrumming music.

Dieter just looks down at you amused and drunk. "Oh loosen up. I'll give you the watch."

"Good." You hold out your hand which he promptly places a shot glass into.

"As soon as you have a drink with me."

"I can't-"

You want to deny him this, to just get the watch and go to Cartier. But you're still tipsy and you're at a Hollywood after party and wait-

"Is that Robert Pattinson?" You croak pointing to a handsome figure entering the room. Dieter squints over before nodding and smiling crookedly.

"Twilight himself."

Holy shit.

"Okay," you say, smoothing your hair back. "One drink."

///

You're both absolutely obliterated by the time you head to Dieters limo and you're not sure who is worse.

You think you must be decently in control of your faculties because at least you remember to tell the limo to stop at Cartier where a very angry employee is waiting.

"So sorry," you slur at him as you pass him the watch in its box over the counter sheepishly. He makes you sign something before you clamor back into the limo next to Dieter who is drinking straight out of a whisky bottle.

He offers you the bottle and you take a sip. Just to be polite.

Then another sip to be extra polite.

"Robert Pattinson was so nice," you tell Dieter for the third time since you left the party. "And so handsome."

"He's not that handsome," Dieter says, sounding like he's underwater. "Where d'you live?"

"Over there," you say pointing in the general direction of your house. Dieter nods, telling the impossibly patient driver to go left.

"Wait my keys are at your house," you slur, eyes only half open. "How m'I gonna get in my house?"

"You need your keys," Dieter says loudly. "Less'go! My house!"

You're both barely able to walk when you come back to Dieter's place, dropped off by his limo. Like two chums you wrap your arms around each other's shoulders and trudge up his steps.

He drops his keys twice before opening the door with a groan.

"I hate wearing this stuff," he complains, pulling at the bow tie. You want to tell him that he looks nice but your mouth doesn't seem to be keeping up with your brain.

Dieter pulls off his bowtie, letting it drop to the floor. You do the same with your shoes, hating how they feel after hours on end.

"Want a drink?"

"Yes!"

"Me too!"

You both look at each other, waiting for the other person to pour the drink before collapsing into giggles. When you finally stop Dieter trips over to his bar and pours two shots of expensive vodka, spilling all over the bar top. You clink glasses and throw the shots back.

In habit Dieter turns the sprawling television on. The first thing that pops up is the discovery Channel and a documentary on giraffes. You both make a cooing sound when the camera pans to an unsteady baby giraffe just starting to walk.

"Awww I love baby animals," you say feeling oddly emotional at the tiny creature.

"I want one so bad," Dieter hiccups beside you.

"A giraffe?"

"No a baby-baby," Dieter pouts. "Want to give it everything I didn't have as a kid."

You've never really understood why Dieter wanted a baby until recently and in this moment you find his reasoning to be impossibly sweet.

"That's so nice!" You enthuse, finding it hard not to shout. The liquor is soaring through your veins. "You're so nice!"

Dieter smiles crookedly at you. "You think so?"

"Yeah!"

"Then why are you so mad at me all the time?" Dieter sways on his feet. "I'm so nice to you."

"You are not," you say plainly. "You're obnoxious. You do drugs so often you forget you have obligations. So then I have to babysit you so you don't get sued. You make my job stressful!"

"Oh."

Dieters head pitches forward and you can see that his eyes are closed. You've hurt him. That makes your drunken brain panic.

"But you're also really nice," you slur, gripping him by the forearm and shaking. "'Member you got me that really nice painting for my birthday?"

Dieter nods. The painting in question is of a beautiful woman overlooking the sea from behind, her stance filled with determination and her hair drifting in the breeze. It's as beautiful as it is vibrant and you'd been shocked when it arrived on your doorstep the morning of your birthday. Diane had mailed it, you recognized her handwriting.

Your mom had been amazed at it when you brought it in and opened it, citing that you needed to hang it somewhere you could look at it all day. So you had, hanging it on the wall opposite your bed. It's the first and last thing you look at every day. The woman in the portrait

"That was so nice!" You pause as your fuzzy brain tries to recall. "Did I ever thank you for that?"

"You gave me a thank you card and then told me to get ready for my BuzzFeed interview," Dieter shrugs, but that's your answer right there. He pours you both another shot of vodka which you both drink quickly.

"I have it hung up in my house," you tell him honestly. "It's in my room. I look at it every day. It's so beautiful. And nice of you!"

Nice is the only adjective that your addled brain can come up with tonight. Dieter smiles at you, a sweet little smile that has you smiling back at him. But then his handsome face crumples.

"If I'm so nice why does no one want to make a baby with me? Why do I have to pay that model?"

"I dunno," you answer honestly because right now in your drunken haze you don't really get why Dieter is single. He's handsome, rich and talented. Sure he likes cocaine and partying but there are worse things, surely!

"I know why," he says in a sad rasp. "S'cuz I'm unlovable."

"That's not true," you interject with a gasp before throwing your arms around his neck. "You're wonderful!"

You've never embraced Dieter before in all the time you've worked for him. The most you've ever done is gripped his hand in yours as you guided him through a bustling club to get to an interview he was late for or squeezed his hand like in the limo.

He's warm and he smells really good like expensive cologne. He'd dressed up well for the party tonight and you can't help but nuzzle your nose into his neck. You're both so drunk you lean against each other, not noticing when Dieter's nose glides along your neck as well.

"I think it's true," he whispers softly.

You feel impossibly sad for your boss because Dieter is so nice! The painting! You wish you'd been kinder to him. Wish you'd thanked him properly.

But wait, maybe you can?

"Dieter! I'll make a baby with you!"

You can hear Dieter's heartbeat pickup under your ear pressed against his chest.

"Really?" Dieter says, swaying. "That's what I was trying to ask before but you were so mad remember? You're always so mad at me!"

"I wasn't!" You reply sulkily, pulling back from him. You don't like being told that. You cross your arms, irritably.

"Yeah you get this lil' line between your brows when you get mad at me," Dieter says, clumsily pulling off his jacket and dropping it on the ground. "It's so cute and oh- yeah just like that!"

He's pointing at your frowning face.

"I wasn't mad," you insist, feeling the need to defend yourself. "I was just..."

You trail off as Dieter grabs you by the hips and pulls them to his. He looks down at you through his thick lashes.

"You're really pretty," he tells you through a whisky-laced hiccup. "I always thought so but I couldn't tell you."

"How come?"

"You're intimidating."

You giggle because you've never seen his face this close up and his mouth is so pouty. His eyelashes are so long you've never noticed.

"You're pretty too."

He kisses you then, his full mouth warm against yours. You kiss him back, making little whimpers when he licks into your welcome mouth.

"You kiss good!" You tell him in shock when you eventually pull back.

He smiles broadly, proud of himself. You can see the dimple in his cheek poke out. You decide that this is as good a time as any to get started. Your hands go to his belt.

"Let's make the baby now."

"Okay."

///

When you wake up the next morning hung-over and still dressed in Dieter Bravo's bed you don't automatically assume the worst. His arms are around you and he's snoring against your neck and if you weren't feeling so wretched you might have enjoyed how his warm body felt wrapped around yours.

It's not until you pad to the bathroom and begin to retch in his fancy toilet that you realize your panties are gone.

Having heard the noise Dieter stumbles into the bathroom, shocked to see his normally composed assistant kneeling over his porcelain toilet.

He leaves a few moments as you continue emptying your stomachs of its contents. When he returns he's holding two cups of what look like a disgusting green concoction. You take one from him, leaning against the counter.

"Do you remember anything?"

"Uh, I remember dropping the watch at Cartier," you say before dropping your mouth under the sink to swish some water into your dry mouth before spitting. "I remember we came here to get my keys I think? That's when it all gets blurry."

"Did we see giraffes?" Dieter asks, blinking through puffy eyes. "I feel like I remember giraffes."

You groan at your aching head before you remember your missing underwear. You glance to see Dieter is wearing his ratty green bathrobe cinched at the waist and from what you can see nothing underneath. His bulge is prominent under his bathrobe, you can't help but notice.

Dieter is staring at you, looking concerned.

"Last night... Did we?" He makes a circle with his thumb and pointer finger before making thrusting motions into it with his free forefinger.

"I...I don't remember," you croak, eyes blinking against the light streaming in from his bathroom window. You sip the green drink slowly, surprised that it doesn't taste as disgusting as it looks.

"Me neither."

"I need a Plan B just in case," you murmur, splashing cold water on your face. "You have a lot of guests stay the night... Any chance you have a box lying around?"

When he doesn't answer right away you glance over your shoulder to see Dieter has a funny look on his face. He's staring at you, blinking.

"What?"

"What if you are pregnant?" He asks quietly. "Would you consider keeping it?"

You laugh out loud. "Of course not!"

"Not even if I paid you?" Dieter asks, his voice hinting at desperation. "I'll pay you double - no, triple what I was going to pay the model surrogate."

You're about to loudly deny this request when you remember what he was offering that model: $75,000. Triple that is over $200,000. Yeah your life will be hell for nine months but then you'll be able to start a new one debt free. Your mom will be able to retire. You'll be able to go back to school.

And it's not like you ever wanted kids in the first place so you wouldn't even get attached. All that money for an inconvenience. A blip.

You can see the hunger in Dieter's eyes, the desperation, the deep need.

He does feel an aching need for this. Because drugs are awesome, making movies is fun, the money is amazing but with no one to share it with he feels lost. It feels pointless. He's fucked his way through the Hollywood elite: men and women alike. It's boring.

He tried making a real go of it with Annika but he'd fumbled it poorly and now she hated him and moved on. She was with her old co-worker and she was happy.

In truth Dieter is terrified that he cannot make another person happy. But a miniature version of himself? He could do that.

"Three hundred thousand," you say, not thinking he'll accept it.

"Deal."

Fuck why didn't I go higher?

Dieter sees you thinking, his mouth hitching into an excited grin. "So it's yes?"

"IF I agreed to the higher price point you'd be willing to honor the agreement if I got pregnant?" You venture. "The same one you were giving to that model? The one about covering all medical expenses and taking over sole custody and all that?"

"Yes."

"And I'd get the money when?"

"As soon as the baby is born. Just like the contract states."

"And the baby would never know I was its mother?"

"Never."

You pause, blinking rapidly. This all sounds too good to be true. And in all honesty, if Dieter takes this baby and forgets it on a park bench, that's none of your business or your responsibility. As far as you're concerned, this baby is a job. A very well-paying job.

"Okay fine," you say with a shaking breath. "I'll have your baby, Bravo."

///

You can't be pregnant from one night of drunken sex you both can't remember, right? Surely not. People try months if not years to get pregnant. Just look at Becky! Plus, you're not even sure you even had sex! Sure you'd woken up feeling a bit weird, but that could have been because you were waking up next to your boss.

You're thankful your mom works erratic hours at the hospital and didn't notice your late arrival this morning. You spend most of that day pacing around your house, doing laundry but mostly just feeling fuzzy. Not hung-over fuzzy (although that's part of it). It's an overwhelmed fuzzy that makes your head feel like cotton.

Your day feels impossibly long and short all at once. You want it to hurry up so you can go to bed but at the same time you want it to stretch ad finitum because you dread seeing Dieter tomorrow.

You'd left in such a rush that morning, not taking him up on his offer of breakfast. You needed to get away from him and that bed and that house. Needed to think about your next steps.

When you mom arrives home later that night you've made dinner that you both eat in front of the TV. Your mom chooses some bad hallmark romance movie that makes you want to throw a brick through the screen.

As you sit there bored your mind can't help but begin drifting back to Dieter and that night. You wonder what the sex was like if you actually did it. Was he tender? No, you think he'd be like a jackhammer. Despite his reputation for marathon sessions you think they Dieter would be a selfish lover.

"Mom what was it like being pregnant with me?"

Your mom raises her head curiously from her palm braced against the couch arm.

"Why do you ask honey?"

"I dunno, I guess after Becky did that whole surrogate thing it made me wonder why people go through it," you lie. "It seems like so much effort for so little pay off."

"You think you were little pay off?" You mom asks with a sleepy smile. "I disagree."

"I think kids are really hard," you smile back. "And I don't really get it."

"Well you've said you're not having kids so I don't think you need to worry about it," your mom says kindly.

You know as an only child there's a lot of pressure on you to have kids. You know your mom is aching to be a grandparent, especially after your dad's death.

But she's never pressured you. When you told her you had no intention of having kids even if you found the greatest spouse she had simply hugged you and said she respected your choice.

But you don't miss how she eagerly listens to stories about Becky's babies or asks to see photos. You don't miss how her eyes linger in the baby section at Wal-Mart. You don't miss the way she smiles at the trick or treat-ers that crowd your doorway on Halloween.

"I felt wonderful being pregnant," she says suddenly. "Loved every second. Felt like a fertile goddess."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

A ping sounds on your phone and a headline from a tabloid catches your eyes as you swipe up.

Dieter Bravo signs on for period piece alongside Hollywood darling Mia Rowe.

"Oh good he booked it," you murmur to yourself. He'd been beside himself working on his British accent, desperate to land this role that would take him from goofy villain to serious, romantic leading man.

"What was that honey?" Your mom asks, now slumped over sleepily on the couch.

"Just Dieter stuff," you explain. "I have an alert set to his name."

She grunts a reply before turning back to the television.

You read the rest of the article delighted that his co-star is Mia Rowe. That's amazing news! You love her! You only hope he can keep it in his pants long enough to keep production from falling apart. You can't help but smile as you send him a text.

[10:44pm] Congrats! I just heard about the Regency drama. You must be so excited! 🎉

You rest your phone in your lap before second guessing and placing it on the couch arm next to you. You look at your stomach, amazed that you of all people could potentially be carrying life.

[10:44pm] D: I am thank u. Do u feel pregnant?

You roll your eyes so hard you're convinced you can see your brain. Is he fucking serious? Does he really not have any clue about how pregnancy works? Is he not aware that Google is free?

[10:45pm] I won't know for weeks.

[10:45pm] D: I thought women knew early?? That's what Magda says.

Magda is his ancient housekeeper. A woman who has worked for Dieter since he hit it big. She does a terrible job keeping his house tidy but there's no way he'll ever fire her.

You turn your phone off irritated. You'd been trying to be kind and supportive and he managed to overlook it entirely.

You watch your mother fall asleep on the couch, her head tilted in her hand. And for a fleeting moment you do hope that you're pregnant. You want to give this woman everything.

$300,000 would change both of your lives and it seems insane that Dieter won't even miss that amount from his bank account. It'll be a drop in the ocean for him. It makes you feel prickly and resentful by the time his next text message comes through.

[11:02pm] D: Are ur breasts tender?

[11:02pm] Fuck off.

///

Living in the fantasy of having all that money had been fun. But a large part of you hadn't really believed that you'd be pregnant.

So when the two pink lines show up on the pregnancy test that Dieter has bought you three weeks later, you shake your head and take another one.

"Well?"

Dieters muffled voice calls to you through the bathroom door. He's been sitting outside the door leaning against it for the last ten minutes.

"Gimme a second!" You bark out over your shoulder.

You take another test.

And another one.

Pregnant.

Yep. You're fucking pregnant.

You are carrying Dieter Bravo's child in you at this very second.

You pull up your t-shirt, standing and looking in the mirrors reflection. Your stomach looks exactly the same. Nothing has changed.

And yet everything has changed.

Dieter is waiting for you outside his office bathroom pacing back and forth. When he sees your wide eyes his own go owlish in his face.

You swallow before thrusting the three tests into his hands. He looks at all three, delight blooming over his face.

He falls to his knees, raising his hands in victory over his head before bellowing.

"We're having a fucking baby!"

///

After a multitude of tests by Dieter's private doctor the next week, the confirmation comes through.

You're six weeks along.

Dieter jumps on the couch, shouting excitedly as the news is announced. You simply sit stiffly in your chair as the doctor smiles at you and offers you congratulations.

"It's still early," he warns you both and that causes Dieter to stop jumping on furniture.

There's a lot of paperwork to go over that following week. Dieter has brought in his lawyer and on top of the additional NDA there's also a mountain of certain clauses, exceptions etc. Dieter offers to pay for a lawyer for you but you deny him.

You take the paperwork to a cheap lawyer in town who gives it back a week later citing that "it's thorough but fair."

No one besides you, Dieter, his manager Mark and his publicist Diane can know. Diane is handling the roll out of the birth nine months from now, laying the groundwork for a successful launch.

She talks about your future child like a product or commodity. It makes both you and Dieter wince.

"No hard drugs Dieter, I'm serious," Diane warns him over coffee in his living room. She's got a checklist to go through with him and you.

"I've been off 'em for weeks," he assures her. "Just stickin' to weed."

"No big parties, no orgies," she says checking notes off her phone. "No ridiculous ranting on the red carpet."

"Fine." Dieter nods although you can see that he's going to miss those. He's always enjoyed the attention that goes along with a good party... Or a good orgy... Or rant.

"And you," Diane says turning to face you seated beside Dieter in his living room. "Obviously you signed an NDA so if people ask, you got pregnant from a one night stand and due to religious reasons you're keeping the pregnancy and giving the kid up for adoption."

Partially accurate.

"Won't it look kinda suspicious for his PA to be pregnant and then him suddenly have a baby?" you ask, suddenly concerned.

"You won't be his PA after this conversation," Diane informs you. "It would be a massive conflict of interest."

You feel your heart lurch. "Wait, I'm fired?"

"Not at all," Diane explains patiently. "You're on paid leave. You'll be given your weekly paychecks as usual."

The thought of nine months stuck at home for your mother to fret over (or worse once she finds out the dad is Dieter) makes you wince. Dieter squirms in his seat next to you, scratching absently at his ankle. A trait he does when he's agitated.

You've been his PA the longest he's ever maintained one. Usually he sleeps with them or burdens them into quitting. He feels safe with you, you're good at your job and you make him feel stable. Plus you’re carrying his fucking child. He doesn’t want you gone.

"No," Dieter finally insists, his voice strong. "I need her. I'm going to film in Ireland and I need her with me."

"Dieter-"

"She can wear baggy clothes when she starts to show," he reasons. "And when she gets too big she can do office work."

"Dieter-"

"No negotiating," Dieter insists. "I want her to work for me as long as she wants to." He turns to you at this point, brow raised. "Only if you do."

You smile brightly at him. "I do."

"So do I."

"Great," Diane says rolling her eyes. "I now pronounce you both totally fucked."

///

When you finally hand your completed contract over to Dieter and his lawyers that following week his smile is so wide you think that his face will split.

Immediately his broad hand goes to rest against your belly, eyes wide with anticipation.

"Hello little thing, I'm your daddy," he tells your stomach.

"Okay rule one," you tell him, pushing him off of you with a look of disgust. "No touching me without permission. I am not going to be one of those pregnant women that let strangers touch her belly."

"We're not strangers," Dieter pouts.

"Besides all your touching right now is my stomach fat," you say flatly. "The baby is the size of a poppy seed."

Dieter looks amazed. "How do you know that?"

You show him the app you've downloaded to your phone to track everything from fetal development to dietary suggestions. It's called BabiEDucate.

"You can make an account too," you tell him. "Parents can link up and access the same files."

Dieter is already downloading it before the sentence leaves your mouth. Parents. He's going to be a parent. He's going to be a dad! He's fucking giddy.

"I'll make sure I update it with everything," you promise. "Photos, cravings. It'll keep you involved even when you're working."

"Oh right," Dieter says, deflating. In all his excitement he'd forgotten the film. Several months of filming a period piece over in Ireland. "You're still coming right?"

"I'm still your PA aren't I?" you say bringing out the schedule. Ireland is only a few weeks away and you wonder if you'll be showing.

The nice thing about being a nobody in the world of celebrity is that no one will think it's strange if you suddenly start to show. You're Dieter's PA, not his friend or co-star. Your pregnancy won't be fodder for tabloid headlines or the rumor mill.

"When we're in public I'm still your employee," you remind him. "So no talking to my stomach or talking about the pregnancy."

Dieter looks thoughtful before snapping his fingers, inspired.

"We'll have a code word! How about... Broccoli."

"No."

"Lube?"

"Dieter-"

"Bubble? that's even a fun word to say!"

"Fine," you say with an eye roll. "Bubble it is."

///

By the end of your second month you feel like absolute shit. Morning sickness has hit you bad. Your mom is usually out of the house before you in the mornings but she catches you hovering over the toilet one morning and you have to pass it off as food poisoning.

You're thankful that filming will take you over to Ireland for a few months. That's a few months that you can put off telling her that you're carrying your boss's child.

Dieter has been as annoying as he is helpful in that regard. When you're with him at his place or driving to an event he's his usual self. Well, except all he wants to do is talk about the baby. But at least he does his job and can be redirected.

When you're not with him though? It's another story.

[2:06pm] D: you didn't upload to the app today. 🍼🍼🍼

[2:07pm] Too busy puking.

[2:07pm] D: I saw an article that says ginger tea helps.

[2:08pm] 👍

When you come out of the bathroom wiping at your washed mouth an hour later you're surprised to hear knocking.

You open it to find Dieter standing at your door with a cardboard box.

"What are you doing here?" You ask, eyes blown wide. "It's my day off and you're supposed to be at a promo photoshoot for-."

"I know," Dieter interrupts before placing the package into your arms. You glance inside to see heaps of ginger products: tea, honey, biscuits, candies.

"What’s all this?"

"For your morning sickness," he says glancing down at your stomach as if he's expecting you to have magically popped since he saw you yesterday. He's disappointed that you still look the same.

He gives you a quick smile and wave as he heads back down your driveway towards the waiting cab.

"Don't forget to update the app!'

#dieter bravo x f!reader #series #*explicit #auteurdelabre

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dieterbravobrainrotclub · 8 days

Text

The New Girl in Tinseltown - Chapter 1 - Ukiyo

A Dieter Bravo x Actress! Reader PR Marriage AU

Series Masterlist │ Next Chapter

Chapter Rating: E (18+, MDNI)

Chapter Summary: Tired of being pigeonholed into your good girl persona, you take a chance on a night out with Dieter Bravo, America's favorite Bad Boy. A drunken night leads to the two of you in Las Vegas...

Chapter Warnings and Tags: (Not So) meet cute, PR Relationships, what happens in Vegas ends up in the headlines, Dieter just does not give a FUCK, Smut, SO MUCH SMUT, a look at the inner workings of Tinseltown and the sleaziness it comes with, Somnophilia, Slightly Non-Con (but she's into it), cunnilingus, SLOW BURN WE DONT KNOW IT, this is unhinged, no use of y/n, No beta we die like men!

Word Count: 3.1 K

A/N: After the insistence of some of my readers wanting me to write a Dieter story, I finally bit the bullet! I will be honest - it's tough for me to watch 'The Bubble' in its entirety. Hence, I heavily relied on TikTok and its fabulous edits of Dieter to develop his characterization. This was really fun for me to write, and I hope you all enjoy the ride our favorite trash panda is about to take us on! Gird your loins and your panties, babies!

Ukiyo - living in the moment, detached from the things in life that bother us.

You feel like you're trapped in a surreal, fucked-up dream.

Memories from the night before flooding your mind as you gradually pull yourself back into consciousness.

"It's nothing personal, Dollface, it's just business," the sleazy hot-shot producer whispers in your ear. His hands graze your lower back, and you force a smile amidst the swarm of paparazzi. "I'm not a miracle worker, baby. They want an Angelina, not a Jennifer. Casting America's sweetheart in an R-rated movie? It's a tough sell."

"I'm not exactly jailbait," you retort, turning toward the paparazzo bellowing your name, a practiced smile on your face. "I believe I'm ready to explore different roles-"

"Well, that 'no-nudity' clause is really messing you up, baby. Times are changing, and they want bold, daring, sexy actresses," he remarks, his tone oozing condescension.

The producer's creepy breath tickles your ear, and his hands venture lower down your back. "I can help you with that," he whispers, and the suggestion feels like a toxic cloud hanging in the air, making your skin crawl.

You toss and turn in bed, gripping the silky sheets beneath you. The memory of his touch haunts your thoughts, leaving you uncomfortable and anxious.

"Dieter Bravo," your publicist cautions with a smile, guiding you down the carpet, "is someone you want to avoid tonight, Doll. Save yourself the hassle, seriously."

You furrow your brow, glancing down the red carpet to where Dieter stands. His unruly curls frame his face as he grins widely for the photographers. It's as if he senses your gaze; suddenly, his eyes lock onto yours, eyebrows raised in surprise. A smirk plays on his lips, and he blows a kiss in your direction.

"He's nothing but trouble, I'm surprised they let him on the carpet after what happened last year," your publicist states matter-of-factly.

"Care to remind me?" you breathe, smiling at the cameras. "He seems like a riot."

Your publicist shoots you a look. "Well, I don't consider getting arrested for public intoxication, disorderly conduct, and lewd behavior as something amusing-"

"I don't know, seems like he would be a fun time," you muse, playfully pushing your breasts in Dieter's direction. "Maybe that's what my career needs – someone like Dieter Bravo corrupting America's Sweetheart." Dieter leers at the gesture, waggling his tongue and adjusting himself as he walks backward into the venue, a mischievous grin on his face. "... besides, he hasn't been shy about wanting to 'put his face in between my tits', maybe I should just let him have at it."

"Are you seriously considering tanking your career before it's even taken off?" your publicist groans, steering you into the venue and handing you a flute of champagne. "People like him are like a virus; he'll infect everything about you." He lets out a sigh. "I understand you want to break out of the girl-next-door mold, but getting involved with Dieter Bravo is not the answer."

You take a sip of your champagne as you continue to eye fuck Dieter from across the room. "I don't know, maybe it is."

You're suddenly gasping in pleasure as you're finally jolted awake, the feeling of someone's hot breath against your skin as you arch your back at the sudden intrusion. "Fuck-" you sigh, looking down at the mass of unruly curly hair in between your legs. Dieter licks and parts your folds as you lock eyes with his, a shit-eating grin on his face. You swear you hear an insistent ringing in your head.

"Dieter?" you moan, realizing that what you're hearing is your ringtone from across the hotel room that you don't remember being in. "What-"

"Shh, baby. Let your husband eat you for breakfast," he mumbles against your pussy, his teeth scraping at your clit. He grabs onto your breast, squeezing and pinching your nipple as he sticks his other finger into you, eating you out so thoroughly like a starved man. Your cellphone rings again and you're too overwhelmed to care, your head pounding from whatever you drank the night before.

"Husband?" you ask confusedly as you feel yourself about to come.

"That's right, Doll, fuck I feel you squeezing the shit out of my fingers, are you gonna come for your husband?" he pleads, and you realize that you're both stark naked and that you somehow ended up from LA to Las Vegas, getting eaten out by America's Bad Boy in a suite at the Cosmopolitan. How in the fuck did we end up here? you ask yourself in a panic. Why the fuck is Dieter Bravo calling himself my husband?!

You're on your fifth glass of whatever champagne the venue is serving when you suddenly feel someone's hot breath against your ear. "I can't help but notice that you've been eye fucking me the entire night," Dieter groans, taking a seat next to you. "I guess my little ploy of trying to get your attention with that Wired interview worked out in my favor-"

"You know, there are more normal ways to get a girl's attention-"

"Ah, but you're America's Sweetheart, and your pitbull of a publicist won't let me near you, I had to let my-" he gazes at your cleavage, "intentions very clearly known."

"Well, I don't know if it's clearly known," you whisper. "I think you're just going to have to spell it out for me."

He smiles, leaning back in the seat as he spreads his legs, caging you in. "Do you want to have sex with me, Dollface?"

Your phone ringing a third time snaps you out of your reverie as you simultaneously chase your impending orgasm that your husband? is working so damn hard trying to get you there. "Fuck Dieter, I need-"

"What do you need, baby?" he pants, the sound of your slick as he licks at your folds aggressively, the loud squelching echoing throughout the room. "My wife has such a pretty little pussy, my fucking GOD," he praises, "Fuck, if this is heaven, I'm begging to see what hell has in store for me-"

It's obscene.

"Do you need my cock? Didn't get enough of it yesterday, huh?"

"My phone-"

"Fuck your phone," he dismisses as he starts to pump another finger into you, "Do you want your hubby's cock or not, baby?"

"Ye-"

Your legs are suddenly pulled to the edge of the bed, Dieter entering you in one fluid stroke. "Good enough answer for me." He pulls himself back, grabbing one of your legs and wrapping it around his waist as he thrusts aggressively back into you, his balls slapping your asscheeks as he begins to pound into you with a brutal pace. "Fuck, only took me being inside of you the whole night for you to take me in so fucking well-"

You chuckle as he accelerates out of the venue's parking garage in his PA's Mustang convertible, cackling like a madman as he maneuvers through the dwindling streets of LA. "Are you hungry, Dollface?" he yells, almost running a red light, his eyes fixed on the glowing In and Out sign in the distance.

"I shouldn't, I have that screen test next week-"

"Fuck the screen test!" he shouts. "The night is young, and you are gorgeous. Let Dieter take care of you, baby... while I still have you in my grasp. I ain't gonna waste a moment I have you in my orbit!"

He pulls into the In and Out parking lot, cutting the engine, and pulls you into his lap, his face immediately diving into the valley between your breasts. "You can suffocate me with these tits and I would die a happy man," he mumbles against your skin, his growl reverberating throughout your entire body like wildfire. "What do you say, Doll? Would you do me the honors?"

"Fuck Dieter," you moan, tipping your head back in pleasure as his tongue teases the edge of your dress covering your breasts. "Grab my tits," you beg, grabbing his hands for good measure.

"Dieter! My Man!" someone shouts in the distance. "What the fuck are you doing here?!"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he yells back, "I'm about to fuck this beautiful woman in an In and Out parking lot, what are you doing here?"

"Fuck, can I take a pic, man?" the fan shouts as he approaches the convertible.

Dieter is railing you into oblivion when there's suddenly a heavy knock on the door. Your phone is ringing off the hook, and you can't help but desperately whine as Dieter wraps his arms around your neck, pulling you into a kiss. "Fuck, can't I fuck my wife in peace?!" he growls at the door, his pace quickening as he urges you to come on his cock. "I ain't answering the fucking door until you milk me dry, baby girl, you gonna come for me?"

"Fuck Dieter, don't fucking stop, please-"

The knocking on the door echoes throughout the room as Dieter suddenly arches his back, squeezing your thighs harshly as he explodes deep into your pussy, his fingers finding your clit as he desperately rubs circles, begging you to come. He slaps it for good measure, the sharp sudden pain making you arch off the bed as you grab ahold of him, screaming into his neck as you're suddenly blinded by a feeling of absolute fucking bliss that no one has ever been able to pull from your wrecked, shaking body.

"That's the fucking spirit, Doll, give me every-"

"OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!" you suddenly hear. "I KNOW YOU'RE FUCKING IN THERE!"

Dieter pulls himself out in a huff, not bothering to cover himself as he storms over to the hotel room door, opening it harshly for good measure. "What do you FUCKING WANT-" he growls to the intruder, only to be met with the widening eyes of your publicist, his PA, and the Hotel Manager. Your publisher harshly pushes himself through the threshold, pushing Dieter to the wall as he makes his way to the bedroom, and you hurriedly cover yourself as he bursts through the door.

A phone is thrust into your face, the image of you and Dieter in front of the Graceland Wedding Chapel in the background as you hold your hand up for the camera, Dieter kissing your cheek as the diamond ring on your finger winks back at you. You lift your hand to your face, your eyes widening at the ring on your finger as your publicist glares at you, his chest heaving.

"Do you want to tell me what the fuck happened last night?"

"So how do we fix this?" your publicist groans, the wrinkle between his brows more pronounced. "Maybe we can get this sham of a marriage annulled-"

"I have an idea," Dieter's PA chirps in, "What if we lean into this?"

"Absolutely not!" you find yourself shouting, your hands reaching for the bottle of painkillers on your coffee table. "I'm America's fucking sweetheart, the gossip rags are already having a field day about me getting my tits groped by America's bad boy at a fucking In and Out-"

"If I can recall, Dollface, you put my hands on said tits-" Dieter snarks, pushing his sunglasses down on his face, leaning into your chaise. "Must have done something right, hell, you were practically begging me to marry you, jumped on my lap the moment we got into the convertible-"

"Are you always this vulgar?" you bite back, taking a big gulp of water, some of the liquid spilling down your neck, onto the valley between your breasts. You notice Dieter gulp at the sight, his gaze resting heavily on your chest. He takes a tentative lick on his lips, a small smile forming on the corner of his mouth.

"Only for you, Mrs. Bravo." He winks, smirking.

"Stop that." You quip, crossing your arms around your chest.

"Stop what, Dollface?" he asks coyly, spreading out on the lounge.

"Looking at me like the cat that got the cream," you reply, refusing to meet what you imagine to be his smoldering gaze.

"Well," he breathes, a Cheshire grin on his face. "I most certainly got you to cream, several times-"

"I would think the feelings mutual," you seethe through your teeth. "I mean, I did get you to come in your pants just by sucking on your-"

“You want to land meatier, sexier roles, right? Break free from the rom-com stereotype,” Dieter's PA nervously interjects, “… and you certainly don’t want to face blacklisting in Hollywood due to your recent escapades,” he shoots a meaningful look at his boss. “I believe this marriage might actually be a strategic move. It could help you break out of the girl-next-door image and simultaneously soften Dieter's playboy persona.”

Dieter contemplates this, crossing his legs on the chaise lounge as he glances into the living room of the hotel suite. He smirks at the sight of you with your arms crossed around your chest, recalling the moments when you were pliant in his arms just a few hours ago, begging and whining as he licked and sucked every inch of your delectable skin. His dick twitches at the memory, hungry to be inside of you once more.

Dieter leans back, his fingers tapping on the armrest as he assesses the situation. “A calculated scandal to redefine my image and give her career a new direction? I suppose there's a certain allure to that.”

Your publicist interjects, “It's a risky move, but it could work. Public opinion is volatile. We need to control the narrative, give them a story that captivates and eventually redeems.”

Dieter smirks, his eyes narrowing as he looks at you. “So, America’s sweetheart and I play the happy couple, the media eats it up, and we both get what we want.”

You scoff, “This is insane. I’m not entering into a fake marriage for the sake of our careers.”

Dieter raises an eyebrow, "But what if it's not entirely fake?"

You glare at him, a mixture of disbelief and annoyance crossing your face. "What do you mean, not entirely fake?"

Dieter leans forward, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "We can keep the public guessing. A little ambiguity goes a long way in the celebrity world. We'll play the part when we need to, but in private, we keep things... interesting."

Your publicist looks skeptical, "That could be a recipe for disaster. What if it backfires? What if the public starts hating both of you?"

Dieter smirks, "Let them talk. Controversy sells, my dear. As long as we control the narrative, we can turn this into a win-win situation."

You cross your arms, feeling a headache coming on. The idea of navigating a fake-real marriage with Dieter is the last thing you want. Yet, there's a strange spark of curiosity. What if this insane plan could actually work?

As you contemplate the proposal, the room is filled with tension, waiting for your response. Dieter raises a curious eyebrow at you, a small smirk playing on his lips as he places his hand on them. He sees you gulp heavily at that, your legs crossing tentatively as you try to play coy. Ah, yes, sweetheart. I see you. I caught you in my web, and I'm going to consume every fucking inch-

You take a deep breath, considering the options laid out in front of you. The publicist watches you with a mix of concern and caution, awaiting your decision.

"I don't like it," you finally say, your tone firm. "But if it helps me keep my career and get the roles I want, I'll play along. Just remember, Dieter, if this blows up in our faces, it's on you."

Dieter grins, satisfied with your response. "Trust me, darling, this is going to be a wild ride. We'll be the talk of the town."

Your publicist rubs his temples, clearly not thrilled with the plan but realizing the potential benefits. "Fine, let's go with it. But we need a strategy, a narrative that controls the story. And we must be careful not to let things spiral out of control."

Dieter nods, already plotting the next move. "Leave it to me. We'll craft a story that keeps them guessing and wanting more. Our little secret, darling."

"... and there will need to be some ground rules," you say firmly, uncrossing your legs as you adjust yourself in front of Dieter, presenting the fact that you still haven't put on underwear under your dress. You smirk as he tries to adjust himself, the sight of his spend still leaking out of your pussy leaving him groaning. "If we are going to do this, you have to be in it for real which means... no fucking little Miss Suzy and embarrassing me. You're going to worship me in public, and make an honest wife out of me."

Dieter leans forward as he locks his darkened eyes at you, licking his lips in anticipation. "Oh baby, I'll show you how I'll make an honest wife of you, several times... maybe as soon as all the suits leave-"

"You love this, don't you?" you breathe, toying with the hem of your top, exposing your lace bralette in his direction. "Thinking you have me all riled up, thinking I'll beg for you-"

"Guys-" Dieter's PA attempts to diffuse the tension in the room, looking nervously at your publicist for backup. "Just think about it, okay? I'll have your lawyers draft up a contract for the both of you to look over."

"Why don't you all just get the fuck out and let me fuck my wife in peace?" he retorts, pulling his robe off for good measure, not a care in the world as his dick stands proudly erect. "You're wasting good light, and I intend to fuck her on every surface of this goddamn suite-"

"Lovely," you sigh into the couch, groaning as you pinch the space in between your eyes. "You're a real class act, you know that?"

"Well, I'll just-" His PA stutters, grabbing his messenger bag. "Let's leave them alone, call us when you get back to LA," he murmurs, motioning for your Publicist to follow him.

"We're not done with this conversation, Dollface," he chides, slinging his bag on his shoulder. "I expect to see you on Monday for the screen test?"

"Yes, yes, I'll be there," you dismiss him with a wave. "I'm sorry, for all of this," you say softly, refusing to look him in the eyes.

"Not as sorry as you're going to feel once you see the headlines," he warns. "Brace yourself, Dollface. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Taglist: @yxtkiwiyxt @skysmiller @picketniffler @readingiskeepingmegoing @islacharlotte @drewharrisonwriter

#dieter bravo x f!reader #under 5k #series #*explicit #chiriwritesstuff

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