you commented on my fic? sorry we are best friends now i don't make the rules
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Alpha!Joel Miller x Omega!afab!Reader - Series Masterlist
Loving Joel Miller is a deep shade of redâcomplicated, overwhelming, exhausting, wonderful. Being his omega? That's a completely different, darker shade.
[in progress - this series is posted in non-linear chapters]
the mark they saw on my collarbone
â Rating: MA
â Joelâs instincts kick in when he runs into an omega in trouble along a smuggling route.
so scarlet, it was...
â Rating: MA (dark)
â âGo ahead, yell your fucking head off. Thatâll make everything okay, wonât it?â or, Joel finds out you're pregnant.
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i love that it's such a universal experience to want to lick his belly button jkfsdjlsj thank you so much i'm so glad you enjoyed <3
salt, shot, lime
â Dieter Bravo x afab!Reader
â 2.3k words
â You meet your celebrity crush in a bar; he turns out to be a lot more fun than you expected.
â Rated MA for protected p in v, public sex acts/public nudity (they fuck in a bar yâall), 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.
âGo on. Donât be shy.â
Your fingers work slowly at the buttons of your blouse, so readily and eagerly baring yourself to this man whoâfor all intents and purposesâis a complete stranger.
Heâs 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 heâs 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 thatâs exactly why youâre in this position.
This is crazy. This shouldnât be happening at all. But heâs hot, and heâs interested in you. And youâre 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 itâs the headiest confidence boost youâve ever received.
âYouâre so pretty, baby.â His voice is breathless, lips parted in awe. âFuck.â
The bartender clearing his throat and setting down a tray next to Dieterâs 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.
âReady, honey?â He asks, and you hum your approval as you lean back over the bar.
This is the first time youâve done this, and you donât think Dieter follows standard protocol. Or maybe he doesâitâs not like you would really know, this isnât your typical Saturday night activityâbut thereâs 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.
Itâs messy and sticky and not very comfortable, especially when you position the lime between your lips, but youâve never been so turned on in your life.
He gives you a lookâdark and pleadingâand you take a deep, aroused breath as you nod your consent.
Again, his tongue is between your breasts, but this time itâs 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 buttonâbut 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 youâre 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 canât be fucked about it because suddenly heâs kissing you. You could isolate all three flavors on his tongue if you cared to, but you donât 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 heâs 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.
âYour turn, sweetheart.â Thereâs just a faint little smirk to his lips, but itâs enough to make you want to smack him. Itâs 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 Dieterâs chest, and he starts tugging his baggy shirt over his head without a word.
Heâs pretty. Youâve always admired his physique, sure, but itâs even better in person. Thereâs 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 havenât even gotten your shot yet, but youâre hoping and praying that heâll want to drag you into the bathroom to have his way with you after this.
He leans back and lets you prep himâsmiling slightly at how careful and neat you are about laying the salt and pouring the shot. Thereâs a tender reverence in your touch that makes his heart pound in a way it hasnât in years.
âYou good?â 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 canât 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 nippleâ
âOh, fuck!â His voice is muffled from the lime wedge perched between his lips; heâs so sensitive that his hips actually jolt at your ministration, but your hand on his lower belly steadies him to assure his shot isnât wasted. âBaby thatâs not fairââ
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 âI made Dieter Bravo hard just from licking his fucking belly buttonâ.
He spits the lime out before you even get a chance to taste it, but thatâs okay because youâd rather taste him anyway.
His grip is firm as he cups your face in his big, meaty hands and pulls your lips to his. Thereâs a desperation to this kissâa frantic meeting of lips and tongue and teeth as he tries to pull you closer to him than itâs 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.
âW-we should⊠take this somewhere more private,â 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 voiceâand before you know it, the entire bar is empty. Not a soul in sight, not even the bartender
âThis private enough for you, honey?â
You nod dumbly, still kind of starstruck over such a powerful display of the way the entire world dances to Dieter Bravoâs 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.
âWanna fuck you,â he murmurs into his mouth, rolling his hips against you in a way that makes you moan again. âPlease baby, lemme fuck you.â
âFuck me,â you murmur back with a nod.
Youâre definitely not normally the type that would strip down completely in the middle of a bar to fuck some man you just met, but thereâs 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.
Itâs 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 thereâs not enough time, not here; so he lifts you up sideways onto the bar like youâre 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.
âYouâre so fucking hot,â he grumbles as he shamelessly ruts his hard cock against your wetnessâhis voice is so deep itâs almost gravelly. And then he produces a little foil packet from seemingly thin air and winks at you like a hammy cartoon character. âSafety first.â
Heâs so silly itâs 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.
âMânot gonna last long,â he whispers as he lines up with your entrance, and youâre surprised he canât actually feel the way it makes your cunt sob with arousal.
âThatâs okay,â you reassure, one hand coming to tug firmly at the curls that compose the nape of his neck. âJust make it good.â
He nods, gently bites at your lower lip, and then he thrusts into you smoothly all the way to the hilt.
Thereâs 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.
âOh, fuckââ 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. âFuck, sweetheart, you feel so goodââ
You feel the slight scrape of his thick curls against your clit, and it yanks a desperate little moan from your lips. âMove, Dieter, fuck meââ
Heâs nothing if not obedient. The first needy little thrust is hard enough to jolt your entire bodyâhe scoops a hand under your head to soften the blow, and then he starts moving with reckless abandon.
Itâs hot, itâs sweaty, itâs 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, itâs 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 youâre something to revere. Youâre scared that if he keeps looking at you like that, youâre going to fall in love with him.
âIâm close, DieterâŠâ 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 overâstoring 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.
Thereâs 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 youâre starting to adore.
âYou wanna grab dinner?â Heâs so earnest in asking, like heâs not balls-deep in your cunt right now.
Itâs so ass-backwards that you canât help the laughter that bubbles up your throat, but you donât consider any other answer than, âYeah, sure.â
Itâs worth it just to see the smile that lights up his face. âAmazing.â
â dividers: @saradika-graphics
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the mark they saw on my collarbone
â post-outbreak Joel Miller x afab!Reader // series masterlist
â 4.4k words
â Joelâs instincts kick in when he runs into an omega in trouble along a smuggling route.
â Rated MA // a/b/o dynamics and the associated gender politics (alpha!joel and omega!reader), heavy dom/sub dynamics, unprotected piv sex, creampie, fingering, oral (reader receiving), biting/marking, blood, size kink, joel calls reader little one/little thing, mention of reader being food-insecure, alpha!tommy and alpha!tess are here briefly. takes place one year post-outbreak.
â this reader insert character: has female anatomy, no pronouns used, is generally able-bodied, is mentioned to be smaller/shorter than joel and can fit into his jacket, is otherwise a blank slate.
Tessâs face perks up halfway over a fallen treeâshe stops in her tracks to tilt her nose into the wind. âYou smell that?â
Of course Joel smells it. His senses were alerted to it about half a mile ago; heâs always had the better nose. Heâs been trying to ignore it, however. Thereâs no point to giving into temptation in this shattered world, no matter how sweet the scent.
âWhew,â Tommy huffs, wrinkling his nose at the heavy pheromones that now drift around the trio. âWhoever it is, theyâre closer than comfortable.â
âSmells like theyâre in trouble,â Tess positsâalways the thoughtful one. Always wanting to have faith in humanity, no matter how many reasons the last year has given her to lose hope. âThatâs an omega. If not in full out heat, then damn near close to it.â
âAinât no way thereâs an omega out on their own in these woods,â Joel growls. âItâs a trap.â
Tess shoots him a lookâworried, stern. âWhat if itâs not?â
âIt is.â He doesnât even entertain the idea. Thereâs no way anything is left untainted in this world.
But with every step forward, the scent gets stronger and Joelâs resolve grows weaker. Your scent is so sweet. It reminds him of springtime in Austin, the little yellow sour grass buds and picnics in the park withâŠ
The scar on his temple gives a single little throb, and he forces himself to focus up. Theyâve got a clear destination, a contact to meet outside the Atlanta QZ. He needs to keep his head in the game and out of the past. Dwelling on that, on what the world was merely a year ago, is fucking pointless. No matter how much he hopes, how much he dreams, how much he begs and pleads to a god he never really believed in to begin with, nothing brings her back.
The scent makes his stomach churn the stronger it gets. Itâs not like any omega heâs ever known before. Theyâve all been⊠a little bitter. Or maybe his ex just left a tainted trace in his nose, spoiled it for everyone else. Heâs never needed a partner to feel complete, anyway. Being a father is what gives him purpose. Gave him purpose.
He pushes that train of thought from mind, sets his jaw, and marches on.
The funny thing is, theyâve spent a lot of time in these woodsâTess, Tommy, and him. For as close to the QZ as it is, theyâve never met a single other soul in these parts.
Thatâs why, when Joel senses your pheromones only getting stronger as they forge on, he thinks about saying something. Theyâre headed straight towards you, into what must be a trap. The Atlanta QZ doesnât take omegas; thereâs no reason one should be so close. If he was smart, heâd make sure that the group avoids you at all costs. But thereâs a deep, primal part of him that forces him to keep his mouth shut just as heâs about to open it and suggest rerouting their journey. He wants to investigate, to find out if youâre really as sweet as you smell.
He can tell Tommy and Tess are thinking along the same lines, and it makes his teeth grit together, eyes pinched in frustration. Thereâs an underlying possessiveness in every further stride he takes, eyes boring into the backs of his pack membersâ heads while he takes position at the rear of the group.
This is why people used to say that alphas couldnât work together, he realizes. Not that itâs ever been an issue for him beforeâbut heâs never smelled an omega heâs wanted so much before, either. Tommy was always the tail-chaser, before everything went to shit; he was constantly getting himself into trouble, and Joel would constantly bail him out. And Tess⊠heâs never met an alpha quite like her. Heâs never seen her with an omega, either; never bothered asking if she had one before the outbreak. But sheâs compassionate, if a bit tough. She doesnât seem like the main threat right now.
This is what heâs always hated about these god-forsaken roles. He watches Tommyâs pace pick up a little, sees the younger Millerâs nose tilt ever-so-slightly to the wind, and in this moment he sees his own brother as a threat. Thatâs something that should never have had to happen. But a pack of three, and all alphas⊠it was bound to happen sooner or later. Maybe theyâve all been fooling themselves.
Itâs been great for them thus far, being able to use each other when necessary without fear of repercussions, but there also hasnât been an omega in the picture yet. Now, with heavy pheromones swirling invisibly between the three of them, a subtle and silent struggle for dominance starts to rear its ugly head.
The scent only grows stronger, and it makes Joel worry. Itâs heady, damn near overwhelming. Joelâs never witnessed an omega so close to heat without actually being in heat. The pull of your pheromones is dangerousâitâll draw in every alpha within a range of miles, maybe even some from the QZ with how close you are. The range will only grow once your heat actually breaks out. The pack is heading directly towards the source of great danger, and all three of them know it. Even still, all three of them are powerless to stop it.
Joel spots you first. Youâre nestled under a tree, sound asleep, half-camouflaged by a blanket of orange and brown leaves. Youâre gorgeous, thereâs no other way to describe you, and with your pheromones flooding his senses itâs nearly impossible for him to hold back from approaching you.
He reaches out a quick hand and grabs his brotherâs arm just as heâs about to step towards you.
âDonât,â Joel growls from deep in his chest. His eyes dart around quickly, searching every inch of autumn foliage for some sign of the trap this must be. Theyâve heard about this exact kind of trap before, and Joel mentally curses himself for falling right into it despite knowing better.
Hardly any unmarked omegas survived outbreak day. Many of the few that did were captured by large groups of malicious betas and put into traps, their heats used to lure in alphas who were then exterminated en masse. Joel and his pack have been lucky not to encounter such a trap yet, but everyoneâs luck runs out eventually.
They stand, they watch you, and they wait for the other boot to drop.
But it doesnât. You sleep peacefully, albeit squirming a little bit, and no one else comes. Thereâs nothing but the sound of birds chirping in the distance and wind rustling the bare branches of the trees overhead.
All of a sudden, you wake. Your entire body jolts, nostrils flaring at the heavy and suddenly overwhelming scent of alpha. Your beautiful eyes widen with fear, and Joel sees you're about to make a break for it.
Without thinking, he steps forward and holds a hand out in front of himâa sign of goodwill. âEasy, omega. We ainât gonna hurtcha.â
Your chest heaves with panting breaths, but you donât move yet. Youâre smart, he thinks. You know you canât outrun all three of them.
âYouâre in a spot aâtrouble,â Joel continues, trying to make his voice as gentle as possible as he takes another tiny step closer to you. âCould smell your heat cominâ on from miles away. Whatâs a liâl thing like you doinâ out in the woods all alone?â
âGoing to the QZ.â Thereâs a firmness behind your toneâhow brave you are, he thinks. And how stupid.Â
âWhere you cominâ from?â He asksâprying, but gently.
You look apprehensive, but you answer anyway. âTennessee.â
âDidnât do your research, did you sweetheart?â He grumbles as gently as he can. âAtlanta donât take omegas. You go there, âspecially in the state youâre in, youâll be shot on sight.â
He can almost see the gears turning in your head, albeit slowly given your state; youâre wondering if heâs really telling the truth, if you can really trust him. Youâre wondering why he hasnât leaped at you yet.
You gulp and plant your hands in the dirt at your sides as if youâre getting ready to stand, but you donât move yet.
Tommy takes a quick step forward, and Joel sees the way you flinch at the sharp crack of a twig underneath the younger Millerâs boot.
âJoelââ
âShut the fuck up,â he growls, a little harsher than he means to. âDonât you fuckinâ move, Tommy. I mean it.â
âPlease donât hurt me,â you whisper, hardly louder than the breeze. And then he sees itâthe first pang of heat, your face screwing up in pain and your body squirming uncomfortably on the forest floor. You try not to show it, but Joel catches it anyway. Your heat is here, and his instincts take over.
âFuck off,â he snarls, stepping firmly between Tommy and you. Tess steps forward, mouth agape in some mixture of shock and confusion, and Joel swivels his burning gaze to her. âBoth of you. Fuck off. Go on ahead to Atlanta, Iâll meet up with you there.â
Tess doesnât look affected, just concerned. âJoel, what theââ
âGo!â He roars. Thereâs no room for argument, even though Tommy opens his mouth like he might try. In the end, they know thereâs no winning. Not right now, not with Joelâs pheromones rising and his eyes so dark. They hesitate just a moment, slowly back away, and then finally admit defeat and vanish into the trees.
Once theyâre gone, you donât try to hide your pain as much. A whimper escapes your lips as you squeeze your thighs together and all pretense falls away.
âYou okay, little one?â He drops to his knees beside you so he can give you a better look. Itâs clear that the road youâve traveled has not been easy on youâheâs amazed youâve survived as long as you have all on your own. Youâre disheveled and dirty, maybe even worse off than he is. You look like you havenât eaten in days, and the simple t-shirt covering you isnât nearly warm enough to protect you from the chill riding in on the late autumn breeze.
Joelâs quick to rip his jacket off and drape it around your trembling shouldersâhe feels a strange surge of pride when you quickly pull the fabric tightly around you and nuzzle your face into the collar for a deep inhale of his scent.
âTalk to me, omega.â His voice is deep, demanding. âYou doinâ okay? What can I do to help?â
âAlphaâŠâ Your voice is so quiet, and all he wants is to take you into his arms. But now of all times is not the time to be hasty. As much as he wants you, he refuses to take advantage of you.
âIt hurts, alpha,â you continue quietly.
âI know, baby.â The sweet ting of southern accent in his voice seeps into your very veins and warms you from head to toe with each rapid thump of your heart. âHow can I help?â
You reach a shaky hand towards him and he meets you halfway, marveling at how small your hand is compared to his paw. He never really considered himself a big guy until this moment, seeing you so small and helpless beside him. Clearly itâs affecting you tooâhe sees the way your thighs clench tightly together the second he touches you.
âI trust you,â you murmur so sweetly.
For a moment, he considers running. Heâs done horrible things with the hands that now hold you so gently. Heâs not one to be trusted. Heâll only end up hurting you.
âYour scentâs gonna draw more alphas in, baby,â he coos deeply. âThereâs a whole QZ fullavâem just a couple miles away. It ainât safe to be out in the open like this.â
But thereâs no logic or reason left in your gazeâyou nuzzle your face into his neck so you can inhale his scent straight from the source, and Joel knows thereâs only one way this ends without some worse alpha coming along and hurting or killing you.
âNeed you, alpha,â you plead as shiny tears fill your pretty eyes. âPlease, it hurts so bad.â
Joel wonders if this is your first heatâit sure seems like it. Youâve probably been on suppressants since the day you presented. Every bone in his body screams for you; screams to take your pain away, to soothe you with his own body, to make you his.
Heâs never felt so much like an alpha as he does in this moment, when your heat gets the better of you and you fuze your mouth to his in a searing kiss.
Joel actually moans into your mouth. Itâs deep and a little louder than he means to be, caught off guard by the suddenness of the kiss but even more by how sweet you taste. Your scent didnât do you justice, really. Heâs never gotten addicted to someone from their kiss alone before, and yet just as suddenly as it started he needs more. He needs to devour you whole, to claim every inch of you until thereâs nothing left for anyone else. Even as he licks into your mouth and easily takes control of your mouth with his tongue, he knows this is going to end badly. He also knows that he doesnât care.
âSweet little thing,â he coos as he tugs you to straddle his lap. You can feel the insistent press of his hardening bulge against your core, and you grind down so hard he hisses. âEasy baby, I gotcha.â
âAlpha, pleaseâŠâ
âGotta have some patience, omega,â he tells you firmly. âIâll take careâa ya, but I gotta getcha ready first. Donât wanna hurtcha.â
You kind of want it to hurt, you kind of want him to burn himself into your very soul, but you donât say as much out loud. You probably couldnât form the words anywayâall that comes from your mouth is a needy little whimper.
âHush, omega, youâre okay,â he whispers into your ear as he lays you back against the fallen leaves, one hand carefully cushioning your head while the other pulls your thigh open so he can slot himself between your legs. âMâgonna make it all better, just gotta be good fâme.â
âAlphaâŠâ You feel the first ounce of relief as he drags your jeans and underwear down your legs in one smooth motion. Your burning skin is met with cool air and it feels incredible. Nearly as incredible as the sensation of his kisses tracing down your body, even through the fabric of your t-shirt that he leaves in place because he doesnât want you getting cold no matter how much it feels like you might spontaneously combust if you donât feel him inside you soon.
âYouâre gonna be good for me, arentcha?â He hums against the hem of your t-shirt, just above where you so desperately need him.
âYes, alpha,â you breathe as politely as you can manage.
His lips latch onto your clit as soon as the words have left your mouth. He knows exactly what you needânone of that torturous rapid flicking that youâve experienced in the past but firm, honest-to-god, get-the-job-done suction.
He slips a finger into your dripping entrance and itâs honestly amazing that you donât come right on the spot. Just that one thick finger is a stretchâit makes you arch your hips up off the ground, desperate to get away from the onslaught of pleasure and yet simultaneously wanting more.
âI know, sweetie,â he coos against your clit, slowly curling his finger until he finds the spot that makes your thighs tremble. âFeels good, doesnâit?â
âY-yes, oh myââ
He throws all pretense out the window and adds two more fingers, filling you to your breaking point. You shatter without warning as he increases the pressure on your clit, thighs quivering and hips bucking pathetically as your warmth coats his chin. Your entire body wracks as he works you through it, fingers curling against your g-spot as his lips mercifully release your clit with an obscene pop.
âThatâs right, baby,â he coos proudly. âSo good fâme.â
Youâre panting as you come down, satisfied for one beautiful moment even as he pulls his fingers from you so he can kiss his way back up to your mouth.
He slots between your legs so he can lick into your mouth again, and the taste of your own pleasure on his tongue makes everything come crashing back down. Your cunt clenches hard around nothing, and you groan out in pain and need for him.
He grunts when your legs lock around his sturdy waist, feet pressing into his ass to grind his heavy, jean-clad cock into your soaked folds. He moans from the very pit of his stomach, surprised at the sudden movementâand then he presses even harder, grinding himself so firmly against your cunt that you swear you can feel the outline of his mushroom head even through the layers of clothing he still wears.
âTell me you want this, omega,â he pants into your ear, still pressed so tightly to you as he reaches down to tug his belt open. âTell me to fuck you.â
âPlease, alpha.â Youâre trying so hard not to sound whiny, but youâre failing miserably. âPlease fuck me.â
Joel simply adores how sweetly you ask for what you need. God, he doesnât even know your name, but itâs taking everything in him not to claim you for the rest of eternity.
Would that really be so bad? Clearly youâre a survivor if youâve made it this far, and as an omega no less. You could be a valuable addition to the pack.
But really, itâs the thought of having you as a home to come back to that gets him tugging his cock out of his jeans to the symphony of your quiet moans and pleas. He thinks about having a lovingly-crafted nest and the sweetest, tightest cunt heâs ever known waiting for him at the end of a long day, and it takes everything in him not to blow his load right then and there.
He knows he doesnât deserve this, but heâs willing to be selfish anyway. Just this once.
âHoly shit,â you gasp when you look down and see the firm length of him, barely contained in his big hand. Heâs thick and weeping precum, tip stained a dark maroon from sitting in his jeans untouched this long. Heâs nothing like the betas you entertained yourself with before the outbreakâyouâve never even really seen an alphaâs cock in person, and certainly none this large.
He must see the apprehension in your gaze, because he takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger so he can raise your face to meet his dark, brooding eyes. âYou tell me if it hurts, okay? Donât wanna hurt you, wanna help you feel better.â
You donât know why, but you trust him. So you nod, and you tug him into a deep kiss.
The first press of him into your waiting core has your mouth dropping open, head pressing back into the hand that cups the back of your head. He keeps you pressed so firmly against his entire body as he inches in. Heâs so attentive, pulling back to watch your face for any sign of discomfort as he rocks his hips, pushing an inch deeper with every shallow thrust until the base of him settles as tightly against you as he can.
He doesnât find anything in your expression other than pure euphoria.
He kisses you, breathless and messy, as he wills himself to stay still while fully sheathed in your tight heat. Damn it all, heâs fighting so hard for control. Heâs never had someone squeeze him so perfectly, so warmly. Your cunt is pure, unadulterated heaven.
âA-alpha,â you whine once youâre ready, but he canât move. Not yet. Youâre his omega, he needs to take care of you, and heâs far too close to spilling himself deep inside your cunt and pressing even deeper so his knot can take root. He could never live with himself if he disappointed you like that.
âPlease, alpha,â you try again, and the unrelenting need is what does him in. You need him, not just anyone. No one else could satisfy you how he doesâheâs sure of it.
With the first true thrust of his hips, a wave of pheromones rushes over his senses. He basks in the scent of you, nearly high on it, and then the danger of this comes crashing back to him.
He thrusts deep, makes your toes curl and your chest heave, and he asks a weighted question as the pace continues. âThis your first heat?â
You nod your head, barely even able to process his words. âR-ran out of s-suppressants.â
Fuck. He knew it. You donât even seem to realize the danger, the calling card that youâre putting on display for every alpha within a ten mile radius. Itâs a miracle that no one has shown upâeveryone in Atlanta is probably wise to the trap scheme, luckily. But luck runs out eventually, and someoneâs going to end up taking a chance for your delectable scent.
âOthersâre gonna smell you, omega,â he growls as he grinds deep. âAinât safe to be unmarked out here. Theyâll come fâya.â
The pleasure is unbearableâtoe-curling, blood-boiling, thigh-quaking. All you can do is sob and whine as his big cock fucks into you and hits exactly the right spot with every thrust.
âGotta mark ya,â he continues quietly. âOnly way to keep you safe, baby.â
You come out of your reverie a little bit at that; but deep down, you know heâs right. The only way youâve been able to survive so long was a stockpile of suppressants you were lucky enough to get your hands on. But theyâre gone, and with them your chances of surviving much longer. Unless you let this stranger mark youâthe most intimate gesture possible.
âOkay,â you breathe against his neck. âMark me.â
Your cunt clenches unbearably tight around his shaft as his teeth dig sharply into the base of your neck. Your taste floods his mouth, heady and warmâin combination with your legs locked around his waist, he canât stop it. Heâs coming before he can warn you, hot ropes of seed coating every inch of you, seemingly endless. And then, without thinking, he presses that little bit deeper so his knot can fill you to your limit.
You sob at the sensation, nails digging into his shirt-clad back in a feeble attempt to tamp down the overload of pleasure at the sudden stretch of his thick knot in your tight cunt.
âFuckfuckfuckââ he growls into your bitten neck, grinding himself as deep as he can as his cock pulses within your tight walls. âOh fuck omega, Iâm sorryââ
You hush him to the best of your breathless ability as your hands smooth through his sweaty brown hair and down over his shoulders. âItâs okay. Itâs okay, alpha. You made it so much better.â
Thereâs a long moment of silence, Joelâs mind swirling with so many thoughts that he canât focus on a single one. You coax him through it silently, hands smoothing over the fabric of his shirt as your breathing slowly comes.
Youâve never felt so full, so complete. His scent surrounds you and fills you; nothing has ever felt quite so right.
You realize vaguely that heâs licking the blood from the teeth marks on your neck, and you think nowâs as good a time as any to give him your name.
He looks up at you, confused for a moment, and then a warm laugh bubbles from his throat. God, he canât remember the last time he actually laughed. What are you doing to him?
âJoel Miller,â he introduces himself back. âMâsorry, I shoulda started with that.â
His arms are getting shaky from supporting his weight above you, so he grabs firmly onto your waist and rolls smoothly onto his back with you rested snugly against his chest.
âMâsorry,â he repeats again as he feels his swollen knot pulse within you at the slight movement of your hips. âI meant to pull out, Iââ
âI wanted it,â you tell him. âI wouldnât let you. Iâm sorry too.â
He gulps, nods once as a hand idly comes up to cradle your head. âIâve got a guy in the QZ. He can get us a pill. But weâve gotta be more careful next time.â
âNext time?â
âThat was just the first round, baby,â he explains quietly. âHeats can last days, even a week. Youâll need a lot more care âfore itâs over.â
âOh.â You feel so dumb, getting your education from someone whose knot is currently swollen inside you.
âWeâll get a pill,â he promises. âAnd Iâll pull out next time.â
âYouâre⊠not leaving?â Youâve tried so hard not to have any false pretenses about this. You figured from the get go that heâd leave as soon as his knot went down and youâd never see him again.
He sighs heavily and runs a hand over the patchy brown hair on his chin. âLook, I⊠you met the restâa my pack earlier, sorta. Thereâs just the three of us. Weâre not good people, but⊠weâll keep you safe. And you seem like youâre able to earn your keep.â
âI am,â youâre quick to assert.
âAnd Iâve marked you,â he adds. âCanât just leave ya out here to fend for yourself. Youâre my omega now.â
You donât know why, but the words make your heart flutter.
You and Joel catch up to Tommy and Tess at the edge of the QZ, just in time for the meeting with their contact. Joel had explained to you on the way that it was an old acquaintance, a guy theyâd met in Texas shortly after the outbreak who theyâd worked with for a few months before he joined up with FEDRA. Now he sneaks supplies out to them in exchange for rarities from the other QZs.
Thatâs what the pack does, Joel had explained. Theyâre smugglersâthey distribute things illegally between all the different continental quarantine zones.
Tommy and Tess see the two of you coming, and theyâre instantly on guard. It only gets worse when Tommy recognizes the brown leather jacket wrapped tightly around your torso to shield you from the breeze.
âJoel.â
Joel tries to ignore Tommyâs call, but thereâs not much he can do.
âJoel, what the fuckâve you done?â
Joel supposes Tommyâs outrage is justified, but he shields you from it anyway. Truth be told, he doesnât rightly know just what heâs gotten himself into with you.
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If this pops up while youâre scrolling, I wish you unconditional love and massive success.
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this is what it looks like, right before you fall
â Dieter Bravo x nonbinary!reader-insert!oc - series masterlist
â 5.3k words
â CHAPTER ONE // You meet the cast and vow yourself to professionalism as filming starts, but one particular costar tests your willpower.
â Chapter rated PG-13 for age gap (reader is 21, dieter is 45), kind of pervy!dieter but not in a malicious way/reader reciprocates, some impure thoughts on readerâs part, written with basically no knowledge of how the film industry actually works. [please let me know if i missed any warnings that should be included :)]
â this reader insert character is: unnamed, afab and nonbinary (has female anatomy and uses they/them pronouns), neurodivergent, latinx, 21 years old, an actor playing a female character. Iâm trying to keep them a physically blank slate but it is mentioned that they have longer hair (past shoulder-length) for the role and they wear a bikini for the role at one point as well. They are mentioned to be shorter than Dieter.
Everyone in this room is a seasoned professional. They move with poise and calculation, like chess pieces assessing their next best move. Itâs reminiscent of a muster of peacocksâplumage spread as they strut around and size each other up, each wondering who will win the desperate yet subtle battle for dominance. They mingle amongst themselves and make small talk; all of it is utterly meaningless.
This is your first professional cocktail party, and if this is how theyâre all going to be you definitely wonât be attending any more.
But then again, maybe it isnât always like this. Maybe this is just the mania of the world being deemed âpost-pandemicâ despite the very real crisis still lurking in the shadows. You canât blame people for how they cope with isolation and despair, even if it seems a little over-dramatic to you personally.
Thereâs maybe one other person in this room who seems to realize how ridiculous this whole game is, but youâre too nervous to go over and talk to him.
He looks comfortable amongst the chaos. He doesnât strut around seeking conversation like the othersâhe lets them come to him. And they do; despite how formidable he appears to you, theyâre all drawn to him like magnets. His presence has its own center of gravity, and everyone around is merely a lost orbiter. He reels them in one by one, chats with themâmaybe even insults them a littleâand then spits them back out into the stratosphere of the room. And they keep coming back for more, because heâs intoxicating.
Dieter Bravo is fucking terrifying for a man whoâs shirt buttons arenât aligned to the proper holes.Â
âHi.â
You hadnât even noticed him approaching, as focused as you were on looking anywhere except him. His raspy voice makes you jumpâmakes your stomach lurch like a phantom step on the stairs. His dark eyes are penetrating in the way they stare at you over the rim of his sepia-tinted sunglasses. Heâs looking through you, not at you. Thereâs something so thoroughly appraising about his gaze, as if heâs sizing you up.
âHi,â you whisper back. You wonder if heâs like a bear, if you need to make yourself look bigger and scarier in order to appease him. But instead, you shrinkâhe makes you feel so small. Like youâre nothing but a speck of dust on the underside of one of his well-worn crocs; and maybe you are. Maybe youâre in way over your head here.
âI dunno if this is gonna work,â he hums, eyes lecherous and languid in the way they drag over your body. âYouâre too hot to be my daughter.â
You choke on your drink, legitimately splutter and cough; of all the millions of things you imagined him saying in your mind, that wasnât even in the realm of possibility. But he seems completely unfazed by your outburst, waiting patiently for you to regain the ability to breathe like a normal human being.
What can you even say to that? The hottest man in the roomâalbeit a man whoâs more than twice your ageâis passively hitting on you. And if he were anyone else, you would be outraged by how casually he does it. But heâs Dieter fucking Bravo, and you think youâd let him get away with just about anything; which says way more about you than it does about him.
Thankfully, he saves you from your swirling mindâredirects as if it was the most casual of passing comments. âIs this your first meet and greet?â
âNo, Iâve left my house a couple times before.â Itâs an unintentionally snarky comment, the kind that would normally get you in trouble. But Dieter actually laughsâwell, itâs more of a snort than a laugh, but its purpose is clearâand you wonder if maybe this whole situation isnât as bad as it seemed a few short minutes ago.
âFirst time in front of a camera?â He asks, absentmindedly swirling the neon green liquidâabsynthe? antifreeze?âthat resides in the crystal glass his right hand cradles. âI tried to find you on IMDb but nothing came up.â
âIâve done some commercial work,â you admit, feeling a little sheepish; and a little caught off guard, flattered even, that heâs been researching you. âNothing like this, though.â
âHowâd you get the role?â The question sounds deeper than it really isâdistrustful, in a way.
You simply shrug. âI guess my audition was good.â
âI guess it was.â You donât know exactly what heâs insinuating, but you feel like you should be offended. Thereâs no malice or aggression left in his dark eyes, thoughâwhatever youâve shown him, heâs liked it. âWeâre going to have fun.â
âWe are?â
âMhm.â He takes a sip of his drink, and you can tell heâs trying not to make a face as the radioactive-looking liquid meets his tongue. âWe should rehearse lines. In your room. Build our chemistry.â
There isnât a singular cell in your brain that believes thereâs no underlying motive to the invitation. And even yet, you accept. You kind of get the sense that he wouldnât accept no as an answer, anyway.
He nods his acknowledgement, and then just as quickly as he had appeared, heâs melting seamlessly back into the buzz of your fellow costars.
You donât realize how hard your heart is beating until heâs not standing over you anymore. With a sip of your drink, you do everything you can to will your breathing back to normal. Thereâs no reason a simple man should have such an effect on you.
But thereâs really nothing simple about Dieter Bravo. Heâs imposing. Heâs been in this industry for as long as youâve been alive and it shows in the way he carries himself. Thereâs confidence in his strut, an undeniable carefreeness to his appearance. Heâs a professional; heâs everything you hope to someday be.
You promised yourself that you wouldnât act up over the star-strewn cast, and youâve held true to that promise as of yet. But Dieter Bravo poses a challenge. Especially with the shameless flirting and the way his eyes linger on your body, you feel yourself becoming more and more starstruck with each passing moment youâre in his presence.
Youâre suddenly desperate for this thing to be over with so you can go back to your room and unwind. Your nerves are taught like an over-tuned guitar and liable to snap at any moment.
Dinner goes as smoothly as it can, albeit slowly. Youâre stuck at the end of the table, sandwiched between two other actors who are around your age and clearly know each other from the way they keep talking to each other through you; and Dieter is at the opposite end, which is both a blessing and a curse. At least youâre not close enough to smell the warm, woodsy spice of his cologneâit lingered in your nostrils for a solid five minutes even after he walked away from you earlierâbut youâre far enough away that he has a good angle to stare at you.
And stare he does. You can feel his eyes tracking every move you make. He doesnât even look away when your eyes catch him; the cocky bastard smirks. He looks you right in the eyes over the rims of his sunglasses while the corner of his mouth tilts up and he has to know that it goes straight to your core.
The minutes pass like molasses with his attention on you, and it feels like a weightâs been lifted off your shoulders when itâs finally time to turn in for the night.
You didnât get a chance to introduce yourself to half of the cast because you were so busy being an unimposing wallflower, but youâll worry about that tomorrow. For now, youâre walking to your room as fast as your legs can possibly carry you.
Shooting starts in the morning, and you really need a good nightâs rest. You want to start strong and prove yourself. But you stay up into the wee hours of the morning anyway, laying in your oversized hotel bed and staring at the ceiling, wondering if Dieterâs going to come knock on your door to ârehearse linesâ like he suggested.
He doesnât, and you donât know why you feel so disappointed about it.
You wake up from your four hours of sleep with a little bit clearer of a mind, surprisingly. Dieterâs hot and heâd be a once-in-a-lifetime lay, but youâre playing his daughter in this show. How seriously do you want to be taken in this industry? Because banging the actor who plays your father in your first serious project is decidedly not the route to being taken seriously as a movie star; in fact, itâs the kind of scandal that could end your career before it even starts.
You shower, do your basic morning skincare routine, get dressed, and head to set. All the while, you chant your new mantra: Dieter Bravo is off limits no matter how badly you want to play right into his hands. His big hands. His big meaty hands that you want all over yourâ
âWell hello!â
The woman who greets you as you walk into the hair and makeup tent is way too chipper for 7AM.
âHi,â you say, a little shyer than you mean to sound; at least you can blame it on the early hour and the fact you havenât had any coffee yet.
âIâm Cynthia, I use she/her pronouns. Itâs nice to meet you.â Cynthia is blonde and tall, almost imposingly so. Sheâs sturdily built and gracefulâthereâs an almost feline quality to her movements. Sheâs gorgeous, and not just because of her perfectly styled hair and makeup.
You take a deep breath before giving her your introduction. This is something youâve contemplated a lot prior to arriving, and even more so in the long, isolated hours of quarantine in your room. She/her doesnât do the job, and youâve known it for a while; but you let people use them anyway, because itâs easier to appease them than to constantly be correcting everyone. After intensive consideration, though, you want to go into this new chapter of your life as your true self.
You take another deep breath and then you give her your name, followed by âthey/them.â
She smiles so warmly, but she doesnât comment on it. No, âoh!â or âthatâs so brave!â or any of the other thousand responses youâve gotten to providing the pronouns youâre most comfortable with.
She guides you to her chair and she starts chatting away about anything and everything but your gender identity; that simple, wordless acceptance is such a refreshing change of pace from what youâre used to that you choke up a little bit.
You manage to swallow it down without her noticing, thankfully. Youâre going to be dealing with Cynthia every day for the foreseeable future and you really donât want her thinking youâre a loser.
You look like a completely different person when sheâs done with you. Your entire face is coated with a thin layer of makeup that evens your skin tone and shrinks your pores. Thereâs thin, symmetrical wings of eyeliner on your eyelids, and your hair is curled in perfect blow-out waves. The outfit pulls the whole thing together: a Guns & Roses t-shirt underneath an unbuttoned long-sleeved flannel and jean shorts that hug your waist tightly but taper off around your thighs.
Cynthiaâs a miracle worker, truly. You look exactly like the freshly-graduated, soul-searching, 1970âs time capsule misfit teen youâre supposed to be playing for eight episodes worth of HBO drama. Itâs like meeting Charlotte âCharlieâ Herrera for the first time, except you are her.
Itâs a lot easier to get into character when you look the part; although becoming someone else has never been something youâve necessarily struggled with. You take a deep, steadying breath; and then suddenly, youâre a different person. Itâs that simple.
Youâve had some minor success with acting prior to landing this role. You always landed leads in school plays, and you shone in the silly little YouTube videos your high school friends liked to make. Acting comes naturally to you, and when people ask how you do it, whatâs your method, you donât really know how to answer. You just do it.
Youâre not humble enough to try to deny the fact that youâre talented. The executive producer called you within half an hour of you submitting your audition tape for this role, and he didnât stop complimenting you for another half an hour. Thereâs just some kind of special compartmentalization your brain accomplishes when you have a character to play; you flick off your âyouâ switch, and flick on your âcharacterâ switch.
Youâre sure your therapist would say that itâs easy for you because of your natural proclivity for escapism. Your parents would probably just say youâre a psychopath. Whatever it is, you have a knack for acting, and it shows. Itâs as easy and natural as breathing.
Thereâs a flurry of activity around you as you settle on your mark: an unevenly-stuffed floral print couch in the living room of your characterâs shoebox home. Itâs small, but it feels lived in. Thereâs photos in mismatched frames of you and Dieter on the walls and it puts a weird sensation in the pit of your stomach; it takes you aback how realistic and natural the photoshop is for set pieces that probably wonât even be in most frames of the show. Thereâs eclectic trinkets and pieces of period-accurate paraphernalia on shelves and side tables. You could almost believe youâve been transported back in time if you ignore the huge cameras and empty windows.
Your costar walks in and suddenly the nerves hit you in full force.
This is it; this is your big moment. This needs to be flawless because first impressions stick. Especially to someone like Dalton Amari, whoâs been acting since he was in diapers. Even though heâs barely a year older than you, heâs a bonafide star. Heâs got an IMDb filmography thatâs a mile long and heâs won countless awards. You need to be on your game because youâll be damned if youâre going to disappoint someone like him.
Heâs handsome and imposingly tall as he towers over you, dark-haired and dark-eyed with blindingly white teeth that contrast the light brown tone of his skin. You have friends who swoon every time he posts on Instagram; itâs surreal, being in the same room as him like this, with him smiling at you like youâre important.
âHi again,â he greets as he sits next to you, body moving closer to you at the instruction of the director.
You feel a little more at ease like this, despite how formidable a scene partner he is career-wise; heâs the kindest of all the costars you met last night. He was one of the few people who actually made an effort to approach you, after allâintroduced himself with that charming smile and everything.
âHi.â
âYou look great,â he says with a noticeable scan of your figure. âJust like my grandma used to.â
Itâs the exact kind of icebreaker you need to completely melt the tension; you laugh, and he laughs with you.
The directorâa man named Jeff with a graying beard thick enough to clothe a family of fourâwalks over with a smile on his face. âThis is the exact kind of chemistry I want onscreen, okay? Nice and light, make it look effortless.â
âSure thing, boss man.â Daltonâs long, blown-out hair flops into his face when he nods, and you can tell it irritates him. âGod, how do people put up with this shit? Remind me to never grow my hair out again.â
âYouâre telling me,â you respond with a laughâyour hair is even longer than his.
This first scene is surprisingly easy. Heâs so talented that it rubs off on you and builds up your confidence until youâre commanding the scene effortlessly. You lounge on the couch with him and lament over approaching adulthood, recounting the glory days of your charactersâ shared high school experiences now that theyâre over for good. You feel like youâre really there, in that time capsule moment of late May 1976, shooting the shit with your high school sweetheart boyfriend. Itâs easy to forget that you know what happens between Charlie and Trevor, Daltonâs character; that the story has already been told all the way through. Right now, in this moment with his arm around your shoulders and your hand on his thigh, itâs just beginning. Youâre three years younger than you really are, and youâre in love with this boy whoâs looking at you like you hung the very stars from the sky.
âCut!â Jeff calls, and you pull away from Daltonâs loose grip. âThat was perfect you two, keep it up!â
Just like that youâre you againânot Charlie, not Trevorâs girlfriend, not anyone else. The transition is that simple and seamless.
You catch a glimpse of your smiling face next to Dieterâs in a brass-framed photo, and you feel that weird, twisting sense of complication again. For a blissful moment in time, as Charlie, life was without uncertainty. When youâre her, thereâs a script and a set destiny that you know will play out exactly how itâs supposed to. When youâre you, you donât know whatâs going to come next. Maybe thatâs why acting has always been easy or you. You crave the predictability and certainty that comes with a scripted ending. You know how the final page plays out, and you know exactly what happens along the way.
Life, unfortunately, isnât that simple.
âHey,â Dalton says, voice a little softer than the voice he uses when heâs Trevor. âYou did great. Donât be nervous.â
You donât know how he knows youâre so lost in thoughtâprobably the incessant bouncing of your left knee.
âThanks,â you murmur in return, but you canât meet his eyes. Youâve never been particularly good at taking compliments, even if theyâre deserved.
âAlright, itâs class time!â Jeff interrupts with a clap of his hands. Heâs notorious for his strict scheduling. âWardrobe!â
You have two more scenes today and they somehow, miraculously, go just as well as the first. Thereâs no sign of Dieter, but you knew before you even got out of bed that he wasnât on the call sheet for today. Tomorrow, however, is a different story. There are four scenes on the schedule, and the last one of the day is just you and him.
Youâre glad you have some time to prepare for it, because you know that no matter how hard you try, youâre going to be self-conscious around him. Heâs not just attractive or charismatic or any of the other things youâve come to view him as; heâs something of a role model. You want to impress him, but you also want to learn from him; and you really, really donât want to make a fool of yourself anywhere in his general vicinity. It might be easier said than done with those big brown chocolate-chunk eyes of his following your every move.
You adjourn to your hotel room and order room service, âuntitled episode oneâ script in your lap. Youâve read it through about a million times, but tonight you pay special attention to your first scene with Dieter. You need it to be as flawless as todayâs scenes went. You need him to be as impressed as Dalton was, because his opinion means more to you than anyoneâs.
You also pay special attention to that particular scene because itâs going to be a real test of your abilities; looking up into that handsome face and remembering your lines the way youâre supposed to is going to be your crucible.
You check the time around midnight and decide itâs late enough; pushing yourself any further could just serve to undo the effort youâve put in. A certain Instagram notification on the screen catches your eye: â@bravo69 started following youâ. Itâs Dieterâs verified Instagram account, and the notification is from two minutes ago.
You stay up for longer than you care to admit ruminating on the fact that Dieter Bravo is scrolling through your Instagram at midnight. Maybe, just maybe, youâve gotten under his skin the way heâs gotten under yours.
Youâre trying so desperately not to get your hopes up, but itâs hard not to.
Cynthia in hair and makeup can tell youâre not sleeping well, even without the way you keep drifting off and jolting awake in her chair. She slathers caffeine under your eyes and does her best to reverse the zombie state youâre starting to transform into.
She gives you a look a lot like a reproachful mother might. âAre you really losing sleep over this? You were fantastic yesterday!â
Thereâs just something about her that makes you so comfortableâlike sheâs been a friend youâve known for years rather than a coworker you only just met yesterday.
âYeah, but what if it was a fluke and I do horrible today?â
She actually scoffs, like itâs the most impossible thing sheâs ever heard, and her smile is so wonderfully disarming. âIf you always think like that, youâre never gonna get a damned wink in your life.â
âIâve never been very good at sleeping anyway,â you admit with a scornful little huff.
âWell, youâd better try your best. Thereâs only so much I can do for you.â She gives you a cartoon-worthy wink as she looks at you in the mirror, and it makes you loosen up considerably.
Sheâs right. Youâre here, and confidence is key at this stage. If you act like the crew is taking some big chance on you because youâre a new talent, theyâre going to see it that way too. If you act like you belong here, itâll make the whole thing that much easier.
Fake it âtil you make it, they say. You suppose whoever âtheyâ are, theyâre actually right in this situation.
Todayâs scenes are a little more important to the plot of the show. Yesterday you worked on character establishment and setting the environment; today is all about the inciting incident. It all starts with pool party part two.
Wardrobe stuffs you in a period-typical orange patterned bikini, carefully selected to not be too revealing while still giving the audience something to appreciate; itâs eye roll worthy, but underneath the corniness of it thereâs something kind of exciting about potentially being a sex symbol.
Itâs the beginning of summer in the Midwestâat least on screen. In reality itâs late July, and itâs sweltering outside at the little time capsule brick house production rented for this scene. There are teen-aged extras all over the place pretending to be celebrating the end of another school year, all perfectly styled to 1976 as they splash about in the pool or grab vintage-looking Coke bottles from a cooler next to the propertyâs backyard shed.
Dalton is here, bare-chested and abs gleaming, draped over a poolside lounger. Youâre directed into his arms, and the press of his skin is a little uncomfortable. Youâve never particularly liked being this close to strangers, especially when wearing so little, but thereâs no backing out now. Every scantily-clad inch of your skin is pressed against his, his arm wrapped around your waist to keep you close.Â
Charlieâs best friend, Amaraâplayed by none other than Kelsie Burton, an actress whoâs been in just about every coming-of-age flick in the past five yearsâsits on the lounger next to yours. Sheâs drop dead gorgeous, with freckled pale skin and long, shiny black hair. Sheâs the archetype, and you feel like a complete foil in every way. You have to take a deep breath and remember that itâs not a competitionâand even if it was, youâre technically winning.
The dialogue is a little awkward in this scene, but itâs on purpose. The three characters have been close friends since middle school, but things have shifted ever since Charlie and Trevor started dating. Amara feels like a third wheel, and itâs not exactly unreasonable.
This is the beginning, the first push of the boulder down the steep hill of plot. The three of you sit together pondering what life will be like now that high school is over and discussing ways to make the summer the most memorable it can be. A challenge is made, an oath taken. This summer is going to be the most unforgettable one of all.
You shoot a few takes of the inciting conversation, and then itâs on to the fun partâshooting some filler scenes of pool party revelry.
Itâs easy to forget youâre not a fresh-faced teenager anymore like this. The three of you splash around in the water with your âclassmatesâ and laugh and play games and have fun. It doesnât feel like thereâs cameras or crewmembers or anyone else around but you and your friends. And thatâs really what they feel likeâfriends. Maybe theyâre both just good actors, but a hopeful little part of you wonders if you might actually be able to build meaningful relationships with them.
The fun canât last forever though, and the scene wrap comes before youâre ready for itâpartially because youâre enjoying yourself and donât want it to end, but partially because you know what comes next. Dieter.
Youâre shuttled back to set wrapped in a towel, still soaking wet but smiling despite the nerves twisting in your gut. Even if this last scene for the day goes to shit, at least you had an incredible morning.
Youâre turning a corner on your way to wardrobe when you run smack into someone tall and sturdy. Thereâs a force to the sudden collision that makes you grunt and lose your balance (and towel), but big, strong hands quickly come to steady you.
You look up, ready to fumble out an apology, when you find a set of deep brown eyes and a handsome, smirking face.
Whatever you were going to say dies at the base of your throat when you notice the way Dieterâs eyes drag over your soaking wet, bikini-clad form. You canât help but let yourself do the same; this is the first time youâve seen him in character, after all.
He seems even broader and bigger than the first time you met him, decked out in this khaki-colored sheriffâs uniform. It hugs his soft yet sturdy frame perfectly, only complemented by the heavy duty belt and the star-shaped badge pinned to his chest. His shaggy hair has been trimmed down to a respectable length, and his signature patchy-stubbly beard has been reduced to a simple, handsome mustache. Heâs a time capsule of a man, and he looks so fucking good.
âIs that what theyâve got you wearing for our scene?â He asks, interrupting your moment of observation. His hands are still firmly on your waist despite the fact that your balance has long since been regained.
âN-no,â you stumble over your own tongue. âIâm on my way to change right now.â
âDamn,â he mumblesâhe actually sounds disappointed.
Itâs been long enough, and his hands are still on your waist. Theyâre so warm, so big. You hate having your bare skin touched like this, butâŠÂ itâs nice. His hands are firm and strong and capable and youâre not thinking of him in a very fatherly capacity at all right now. Heâs so close you can feel the heat radiating off of him, so close that you could justâ
You donât even realize youâve stopped breathing until he finally takes his hands off you and you have to practically gasp for breath. Even as he backs out of your personal space, he knows the effect heâs had on youâif the smirk that takes over his face is any indication, at least.
âOrange is a good color on you,â he murmurs as his dark eyes give you one last once-over.
âR-really?â Itâs never been a color youâve particularly favored, but flattery goes far with you.
He hums in response, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Have you really made this much of an impression on him, or is he just really desperate? Surely he canât be that deprivedâhe could have anyone he wanted at the blink of an eye.
âIâll see you on set,â he vows. And then, just as quickly as he appeared, heâs gone.
Itâs so fucking difficult to get a read on him that you feel like youâre in a tailspin. Nevertheless, you try not to let it bother you too much as you get to wardrobe and finally change into some real clothes. Dieter Bravo is off limits, you remind yourself; but it doesnât sound nearly as convincing this time.
âWhere have you been all night?â His voice is stern, commanding despite the softness to his tone. He sounds almost dangerousâexactly like a cop and a protective father should.
âAt that end of the year pool party over at the Clevelandsâ, the one I told you about,â you answer easily, gently. Youâre on thin ice, and youâre stepping lightly. âWith Amara.â
âAnd Trevor.â Thereâs accusation in his voiceâCharlie hasnât told him about her relationship, but fathers always know.Â
âHe was there, yeah.â
âHow many times have I told you I donât want you around him?â Dieter looks up at you from where heâs spread lazily in his cozy living room armchair, eyes even darker than usual in the low night-coded lighting of the living room set. His suspicion of Trevor isnât unwarrantedâyouâve read the script in its entirety, you know every little facet of every single character. But Charlie doesnât know what you know, so you have to take Dieterâs caution as nothing more than the helicopter parenting typical of a teenage girlâs single father.
âIâm an adult, dad,â you remind him. âI can make my own decisions, choose my own friends.â
âYouâre still a little girl,â he murmurs. The fightâs gone from himâhe looks now as if a long day of law enforcement has caught up to him all at once. âYou always will be.â
It sparks the exact kind of anger within you that the script calls for, and most of it isnât even fabricated. You donât want himâDieter, not Sheriff Herreraâto see you like that. What if thatâs all this is now? What if he canât see you as anything else but a child to him? Not that it matters. Heâs off limits, youâve reminded yourself of that a million times. What he thinks of you shouldnât matter.
âYou have to let me grow up eventually,â you growl before storming down the hall to your final mark.
Jeff calls the scene, and you reemerge a little flushed and feeling silly for how real your emotions were in that moment.
âThat was perfect!â He tells you with a beaming smile on his face. âKeep that up and weâre gonna get ahead of schedule. Dieter, you were great too.â
âNot as great as them,â the older actor says with a nod of his head in your direction. âYouâre a generous scene partner.â
âHow so?â Youâre still a little flushed, but youâre praying he canât tell.
âYou give off a lot of emotion,â he explains. âGives me a lot to work with.â
âOh.â Youâve really got to get better at taking compliments. Was that even a compliment?
Youâre so far in your head that you donât notice the awkward pause until he takes it upon himself to start leaving the soundstage. Desperate for any way to salvage the moment, you address his broad, retreating back and say, âthanks, Dieter.â
He turns his head, looks at you over his shoulder, and fucking winks. âAnytime, honey.â
And then he leaves, like he didnât just put a fucking puddle in your underwear.
Dieter Bravo is off limits. Dieter Bravo is off limits. Dieter Bravo is off limits. You chant it to yourself the entire way back to your hotel room, but it gets less and less convincing with each repetition.
Would it really be so bad if he wasnât off limits?
â beta: @futuraa-free, @ozarkthedog, @beskarandblasters, and @fhatbhabie (thank u so much my loves <3)
â Want to see more from me in the future? Follow @freelancearsonist-updates and turn on post notifications to be notified when I post new fics!
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âI am tired of measure, control, doing the right thing. A part of me would like to tear something apart and howl like a wolf.â
â May Sarton, Recovering: A Journal
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march sketch request #5: father son airplane time :)
if you'd like your own sketch request, consider becoming a patron!
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some of you are very nice to me and i just want to say thank you and i love u
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Pedro Pascal in the Equalizer 2
The Sniper
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tbh i might too we can match đ thank you so much jett <3
salt, shot, lime
â Dieter Bravo x afab!Reader
â 2.3k words
â You meet your celebrity crush in a bar; he turns out to be a lot more fun than you expected.
â Rated MA for protected p in v, public sex acts/public nudity (they fuck in a bar yâall), 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.
âGo on. Donât be shy.â
Your fingers work slowly at the buttons of your blouse, so readily and eagerly baring yourself to this man whoâfor all intents and purposesâis a complete stranger.
Heâs 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 heâs 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 thatâs exactly why youâre in this position.
This is crazy. This shouldnât be happening at all. But heâs hot, and heâs interested in you. And youâre 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 itâs the headiest confidence boost youâve ever received.
âYouâre so pretty, baby.â His voice is breathless, lips parted in awe. âFuck.â
The bartender clearing his throat and setting down a tray next to Dieterâs 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.
âReady, honey?â He asks, and you hum your approval as you lean back over the bar.
This is the first time youâve done this, and you donât think Dieter follows standard protocol. Or maybe he doesâitâs not like you would really know, this isnât your typical Saturday night activityâbut thereâs 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.
Itâs messy and sticky and not very comfortable, especially when you position the lime between your lips, but youâve never been so turned on in your life.
He gives you a lookâdark and pleadingâand you take a deep, aroused breath as you nod your consent.
Again, his tongue is between your breasts, but this time itâs 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 buttonâbut 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 youâre 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 canât be fucked about it because suddenly heâs kissing you. You could isolate all three flavors on his tongue if you cared to, but you donât 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 heâs 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.
âYour turn, sweetheart.â Thereâs just a faint little smirk to his lips, but itâs enough to make you want to smack him. Itâs 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 Dieterâs chest, and he starts tugging his baggy shirt over his head without a word.
Heâs pretty. Youâve always admired his physique, sure, but itâs even better in person. Thereâs 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 havenât even gotten your shot yet, but youâre hoping and praying that heâll want to drag you into the bathroom to have his way with you after this.
He leans back and lets you prep himâsmiling slightly at how careful and neat you are about laying the salt and pouring the shot. Thereâs a tender reverence in your touch that makes his heart pound in a way it hasnât in years.
âYou good?â 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 canât 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 nippleâ
âOh, fuck!â His voice is muffled from the lime wedge perched between his lips; heâs so sensitive that his hips actually jolt at your ministration, but your hand on his lower belly steadies him to assure his shot isnât wasted. âBaby thatâs not fairââ
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 âI made Dieter Bravo hard just from licking his fucking belly buttonâ.
He spits the lime out before you even get a chance to taste it, but thatâs okay because youâd rather taste him anyway.
His grip is firm as he cups your face in his big, meaty hands and pulls your lips to his. Thereâs a desperation to this kissâa frantic meeting of lips and tongue and teeth as he tries to pull you closer to him than itâs 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.
âW-we should⊠take this somewhere more private,â 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 voiceâand before you know it, the entire bar is empty. Not a soul in sight, not even the bartender
âThis private enough for you, honey?â
You nod dumbly, still kind of starstruck over such a powerful display of the way the entire world dances to Dieter Bravoâs 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.
âWanna fuck you,â he murmurs into his mouth, rolling his hips against you in a way that makes you moan again. âPlease baby, lemme fuck you.â
âFuck me,â you murmur back with a nod.
Youâre definitely not normally the type that would strip down completely in the middle of a bar to fuck some man you just met, but thereâs 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.
Itâs 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 thereâs not enough time, not here; so he lifts you up sideways onto the bar like youâre 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.
âYouâre so fucking hot,â he grumbles as he shamelessly ruts his hard cock against your wetnessâhis voice is so deep itâs almost gravelly. And then he produces a little foil packet from seemingly thin air and winks at you like a hammy cartoon character. âSafety first.â
Heâs so silly itâs 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.
âMânot gonna last long,â he whispers as he lines up with your entrance, and youâre surprised he canât actually feel the way it makes your cunt sob with arousal.
âThatâs okay,â you reassure, one hand coming to tug firmly at the curls that compose the nape of his neck. âJust make it good.â
He nods, gently bites at your lower lip, and then he thrusts into you smoothly all the way to the hilt.
Thereâs 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.
âOh, fuckââ 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. âFuck, sweetheart, you feel so goodââ
You feel the slight scrape of his thick curls against your clit, and it yanks a desperate little moan from your lips. âMove, Dieter, fuck meââ
Heâs nothing if not obedient. The first needy little thrust is hard enough to jolt your entire bodyâhe scoops a hand under your head to soften the blow, and then he starts moving with reckless abandon.
Itâs hot, itâs sweaty, itâs 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, itâs 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 youâre something to revere. Youâre scared that if he keeps looking at you like that, youâre going to fall in love with him.
âIâm close, DieterâŠâ 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 overâstoring 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.
Thereâs 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 youâre starting to adore.
âYou wanna grab dinner?â Heâs so earnest in asking, like heâs not balls-deep in your cunt right now.
Itâs so ass-backwards that you canât help the laughter that bubbles up your throat, but you donât consider any other answer than, âYeah, sure.â
Itâs worth it just to see the smile that lights up his face. âAmazing.â
â dividers: @saradika-graphics
â Want to see more from me in the future? Follow @freelancearsonist-updates and turn on post notifications to be notified when I post new fics!
â Want to support me? Please reblog this fic! It helps boost it in the algorithm and gives it more circulation no matter what your follower count is :) any feedback or comment is always greatly appreciated!!
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this is what it looks like, right before you fall
â Dieter Bravo x nonbinary!reader-insert!oc - series masterlist
â 5.3k words
â CHAPTER ONE // You meet the cast and vow yourself to professionalism as filming starts, but one particular costar tests your willpower.
â Chapter rated PG-13 for age gap (reader is 21, dieter is 45), kind of pervy!dieter but not in a malicious way/reader reciprocates, some impure thoughts on readerâs part, written with basically no knowledge of how the film industry actually works. [please let me know if i missed any warnings that should be included :)]
â this reader insert character is: unnamed, afab and nonbinary (has female anatomy and uses they/them pronouns), neurodivergent, latinx, 21 years old, an actor playing a female character. Iâm trying to keep them a physically blank slate but it is mentioned that they have longer hair (past shoulder-length) for the role and they wear a bikini for the role at one point as well. They are mentioned to be shorter than Dieter.
Everyone in this room is a seasoned professional. They move with poise and calculation, like chess pieces assessing their next best move. Itâs reminiscent of a muster of peacocksâplumage spread as they strut around and size each other up, each wondering who will win the desperate yet subtle battle for dominance. They mingle amongst themselves and make small talk; all of it is utterly meaningless.
This is your first professional cocktail party, and if this is how theyâre all going to be you definitely wonât be attending any more.
But then again, maybe it isnât always like this. Maybe this is just the mania of the world being deemed âpost-pandemicâ despite the very real crisis still lurking in the shadows. You canât blame people for how they cope with isolation and despair, even if it seems a little over-dramatic to you personally.
Thereâs maybe one other person in this room who seems to realize how ridiculous this whole game is, but youâre too nervous to go over and talk to him.
He looks comfortable amongst the chaos. He doesnât strut around seeking conversation like the othersâhe lets them come to him. And they do; despite how formidable he appears to you, theyâre all drawn to him like magnets. His presence has its own center of gravity, and everyone around is merely a lost orbiter. He reels them in one by one, chats with themâmaybe even insults them a littleâand then spits them back out into the stratosphere of the room. And they keep coming back for more, because heâs intoxicating.
Dieter Bravo is fucking terrifying for a man whoâs shirt buttons arenât aligned to the proper holes.Â
âHi.â
You hadnât even noticed him approaching, as focused as you were on looking anywhere except him. His raspy voice makes you jumpâmakes your stomach lurch like a phantom step on the stairs. His dark eyes are penetrating in the way they stare at you over the rim of his sepia-tinted sunglasses. Heâs looking through you, not at you. Thereâs something so thoroughly appraising about his gaze, as if heâs sizing you up.
âHi,â you whisper back. You wonder if heâs like a bear, if you need to make yourself look bigger and scarier in order to appease him. But instead, you shrinkâhe makes you feel so small. Like youâre nothing but a speck of dust on the underside of one of his well-worn crocs; and maybe you are. Maybe youâre in way over your head here.
âI dunno if this is gonna work,â he hums, eyes lecherous and languid in the way they drag over your body. âYouâre too hot to be my daughter.â
You choke on your drink, legitimately splutter and cough; of all the millions of things you imagined him saying in your mind, that wasnât even in the realm of possibility. But he seems completely unfazed by your outburst, waiting patiently for you to regain the ability to breathe like a normal human being.
What can you even say to that? The hottest man in the roomâalbeit a man whoâs more than twice your ageâis passively hitting on you. And if he were anyone else, you would be outraged by how casually he does it. But heâs Dieter fucking Bravo, and you think youâd let him get away with just about anything; which says way more about you than it does about him.
Thankfully, he saves you from your swirling mindâredirects as if it was the most casual of passing comments. âIs this your first meet and greet?â
âNo, Iâve left my house a couple times before.â Itâs an unintentionally snarky comment, the kind that would normally get you in trouble. But Dieter actually laughsâwell, itâs more of a snort than a laugh, but its purpose is clearâand you wonder if maybe this whole situation isnât as bad as it seemed a few short minutes ago.
âFirst time in front of a camera?â He asks, absentmindedly swirling the neon green liquidâabsynthe? antifreeze?âthat resides in the crystal glass his right hand cradles. âI tried to find you on IMDb but nothing came up.â
âIâve done some commercial work,â you admit, feeling a little sheepish; and a little caught off guard, flattered even, that heâs been researching you. âNothing like this, though.â
âHowâd you get the role?â The question sounds deeper than it really isâdistrustful, in a way.
You simply shrug. âI guess my audition was good.â
âI guess it was.â You donât know exactly what heâs insinuating, but you feel like you should be offended. Thereâs no malice or aggression left in his dark eyes, thoughâwhatever youâve shown him, heâs liked it. âWeâre going to have fun.â
âWe are?â
âMhm.â He takes a sip of his drink, and you can tell heâs trying not to make a face as the radioactive-looking liquid meets his tongue. âWe should rehearse lines. In your room. Build our chemistry.â
There isnât a singular cell in your brain that believes thereâs no underlying motive to the invitation. And even yet, you accept. You kind of get the sense that he wouldnât accept no as an answer, anyway.
He nods his acknowledgement, and then just as quickly as he had appeared, heâs melting seamlessly back into the buzz of your fellow costars.
You donât realize how hard your heart is beating until heâs not standing over you anymore. With a sip of your drink, you do everything you can to will your breathing back to normal. Thereâs no reason a simple man should have such an effect on you.
But thereâs really nothing simple about Dieter Bravo. Heâs imposing. Heâs been in this industry for as long as youâve been alive and it shows in the way he carries himself. Thereâs confidence in his strut, an undeniable carefreeness to his appearance. Heâs a professional; heâs everything you hope to someday be.
You promised yourself that you wouldnât act up over the star-strewn cast, and youâve held true to that promise as of yet. But Dieter Bravo poses a challenge. Especially with the shameless flirting and the way his eyes linger on your body, you feel yourself becoming more and more starstruck with each passing moment youâre in his presence.
Youâre suddenly desperate for this thing to be over with so you can go back to your room and unwind. Your nerves are taught like an over-tuned guitar and liable to snap at any moment.
Dinner goes as smoothly as it can, albeit slowly. Youâre stuck at the end of the table, sandwiched between two other actors who are around your age and clearly know each other from the way they keep talking to each other through you; and Dieter is at the opposite end, which is both a blessing and a curse. At least youâre not close enough to smell the warm, woodsy spice of his cologneâit lingered in your nostrils for a solid five minutes even after he walked away from you earlierâbut youâre far enough away that he has a good angle to stare at you.
And stare he does. You can feel his eyes tracking every move you make. He doesnât even look away when your eyes catch him; the cocky bastard smirks. He looks you right in the eyes over the rims of his sunglasses while the corner of his mouth tilts up and he has to know that it goes straight to your core.
The minutes pass like molasses with his attention on you, and it feels like a weightâs been lifted off your shoulders when itâs finally time to turn in for the night.
You didnât get a chance to introduce yourself to half of the cast because you were so busy being an unimposing wallflower, but youâll worry about that tomorrow. For now, youâre walking to your room as fast as your legs can possibly carry you.
Shooting starts in the morning, and you really need a good nightâs rest. You want to start strong and prove yourself. But you stay up into the wee hours of the morning anyway, laying in your oversized hotel bed and staring at the ceiling, wondering if Dieterâs going to come knock on your door to ârehearse linesâ like he suggested.
He doesnât, and you donât know why you feel so disappointed about it.
You wake up from your four hours of sleep with a little bit clearer of a mind, surprisingly. Dieterâs hot and heâd be a once-in-a-lifetime lay, but youâre playing his daughter in this show. How seriously do you want to be taken in this industry? Because banging the actor who plays your father in your first serious project is decidedly not the route to being taken seriously as a movie star; in fact, itâs the kind of scandal that could end your career before it even starts.
You shower, do your basic morning skincare routine, get dressed, and head to set. All the while, you chant your new mantra: Dieter Bravo is off limits no matter how badly you want to play right into his hands. His big hands. His big meaty hands that you want all over yourâ
âWell hello!â
The woman who greets you as you walk into the hair and makeup tent is way too chipper for 7AM.
âHi,â you say, a little shyer than you mean to sound; at least you can blame it on the early hour and the fact you havenât had any coffee yet.
âIâm Cynthia, I use she/her pronouns. Itâs nice to meet you.â Cynthia is blonde and tall, almost imposingly so. Sheâs sturdily built and gracefulâthereâs an almost feline quality to her movements. Sheâs gorgeous, and not just because of her perfectly styled hair and makeup.
You take a deep breath before giving her your introduction. This is something youâve contemplated a lot prior to arriving, and even more so in the long, isolated hours of quarantine in your room. She/her doesnât do the job, and youâve known it for a while; but you let people use them anyway, because itâs easier to appease them than to constantly be correcting everyone. After intensive consideration, though, you want to go into this new chapter of your life as your true self.
You take another deep breath and then you give her your name, followed by âthey/them.â
She smiles so warmly, but she doesnât comment on it. No, âoh!â or âthatâs so brave!â or any of the other thousand responses youâve gotten to providing the pronouns youâre most comfortable with.
She guides you to her chair and she starts chatting away about anything and everything but your gender identity; that simple, wordless acceptance is such a refreshing change of pace from what youâre used to that you choke up a little bit.
You manage to swallow it down without her noticing, thankfully. Youâre going to be dealing with Cynthia every day for the foreseeable future and you really donât want her thinking youâre a loser.
You look like a completely different person when sheâs done with you. Your entire face is coated with a thin layer of makeup that evens your skin tone and shrinks your pores. Thereâs thin, symmetrical wings of eyeliner on your eyelids, and your hair is curled in perfect blow-out waves. The outfit pulls the whole thing together: a Guns & Roses t-shirt underneath an unbuttoned long-sleeved flannel and jean shorts that hug your waist tightly but taper off around your thighs.
Cynthiaâs a miracle worker, truly. You look exactly like the freshly-graduated, soul-searching, 1970âs time capsule misfit teen youâre supposed to be playing for eight episodes worth of HBO drama. Itâs like meeting Charlotte âCharlieâ Herrera for the first time, except you are her.
Itâs a lot easier to get into character when you look the part; although becoming someone else has never been something youâve necessarily struggled with. You take a deep, steadying breath; and then suddenly, youâre a different person. Itâs that simple.
Youâve had some minor success with acting prior to landing this role. You always landed leads in school plays, and you shone in the silly little YouTube videos your high school friends liked to make. Acting comes naturally to you, and when people ask how you do it, whatâs your method, you donât really know how to answer. You just do it.
Youâre not humble enough to try to deny the fact that youâre talented. The executive producer called you within half an hour of you submitting your audition tape for this role, and he didnât stop complimenting you for another half an hour. Thereâs just some kind of special compartmentalization your brain accomplishes when you have a character to play; you flick off your âyouâ switch, and flick on your âcharacterâ switch.
Youâre sure your therapist would say that itâs easy for you because of your natural proclivity for escapism. Your parents would probably just say youâre a psychopath. Whatever it is, you have a knack for acting, and it shows. Itâs as easy and natural as breathing.
Thereâs a flurry of activity around you as you settle on your mark: an unevenly-stuffed floral print couch in the living room of your characterâs shoebox home. Itâs small, but it feels lived in. Thereâs photos in mismatched frames of you and Dieter on the walls and it puts a weird sensation in the pit of your stomach; it takes you aback how realistic and natural the photoshop is for set pieces that probably wonât even be in most frames of the show. Thereâs eclectic trinkets and pieces of period-accurate paraphernalia on shelves and side tables. You could almost believe youâve been transported back in time if you ignore the huge cameras and empty windows.
Your costar walks in and suddenly the nerves hit you in full force.
This is it; this is your big moment. This needs to be flawless because first impressions stick. Especially to someone like Dalton Amari, whoâs been acting since he was in diapers. Even though heâs barely a year older than you, heâs a bonafide star. Heâs got an IMDb filmography thatâs a mile long and heâs won countless awards. You need to be on your game because youâll be damned if youâre going to disappoint someone like him.
Heâs handsome and imposingly tall as he towers over you, dark-haired and dark-eyed with blindingly white teeth that contrast the light brown tone of his skin. You have friends who swoon every time he posts on Instagram; itâs surreal, being in the same room as him like this, with him smiling at you like youâre important.
âHi again,â he greets as he sits next to you, body moving closer to you at the instruction of the director.
You feel a little more at ease like this, despite how formidable a scene partner he is career-wise; heâs the kindest of all the costars you met last night. He was one of the few people who actually made an effort to approach you, after allâintroduced himself with that charming smile and everything.
âHi.â
âYou look great,â he says with a noticeable scan of your figure. âJust like my grandma used to.â
Itâs the exact kind of icebreaker you need to completely melt the tension; you laugh, and he laughs with you.
The directorâa man named Jeff with a graying beard thick enough to clothe a family of fourâwalks over with a smile on his face. âThis is the exact kind of chemistry I want onscreen, okay? Nice and light, make it look effortless.â
âSure thing, boss man.â Daltonâs long, blown-out hair flops into his face when he nods, and you can tell it irritates him. âGod, how do people put up with this shit? Remind me to never grow my hair out again.â
âYouâre telling me,â you respond with a laughâyour hair is even longer than his.
This first scene is surprisingly easy. Heâs so talented that it rubs off on you and builds up your confidence until youâre commanding the scene effortlessly. You lounge on the couch with him and lament over approaching adulthood, recounting the glory days of your charactersâ shared high school experiences now that theyâre over for good. You feel like youâre really there, in that time capsule moment of late May 1976, shooting the shit with your high school sweetheart boyfriend. Itâs easy to forget that you know what happens between Charlie and Trevor, Daltonâs character; that the story has already been told all the way through. Right now, in this moment with his arm around your shoulders and your hand on his thigh, itâs just beginning. Youâre three years younger than you really are, and youâre in love with this boy whoâs looking at you like you hung the very stars from the sky.
âCut!â Jeff calls, and you pull away from Daltonâs loose grip. âThat was perfect you two, keep it up!â
Just like that youâre you againânot Charlie, not Trevorâs girlfriend, not anyone else. The transition is that simple and seamless.
You catch a glimpse of your smiling face next to Dieterâs in a brass-framed photo, and you feel that weird, twisting sense of complication again. For a blissful moment in time, as Charlie, life was without uncertainty. When youâre her, thereâs a script and a set destiny that you know will play out exactly how itâs supposed to. When youâre you, you donât know whatâs going to come next. Maybe thatâs why acting has always been easy or you. You crave the predictability and certainty that comes with a scripted ending. You know how the final page plays out, and you know exactly what happens along the way.
Life, unfortunately, isnât that simple.
âHey,â Dalton says, voice a little softer than the voice he uses when heâs Trevor. âYou did great. Donât be nervous.â
You donât know how he knows youâre so lost in thoughtâprobably the incessant bouncing of your left knee.
âThanks,â you murmur in return, but you canât meet his eyes. Youâve never been particularly good at taking compliments, even if theyâre deserved.
âAlright, itâs class time!â Jeff interrupts with a clap of his hands. Heâs notorious for his strict scheduling. âWardrobe!â
You have two more scenes today and they somehow, miraculously, go just as well as the first. Thereâs no sign of Dieter, but you knew before you even got out of bed that he wasnât on the call sheet for today. Tomorrow, however, is a different story. There are four scenes on the schedule, and the last one of the day is just you and him.
Youâre glad you have some time to prepare for it, because you know that no matter how hard you try, youâre going to be self-conscious around him. Heâs not just attractive or charismatic or any of the other things youâve come to view him as; heâs something of a role model. You want to impress him, but you also want to learn from him; and you really, really donât want to make a fool of yourself anywhere in his general vicinity. It might be easier said than done with those big brown chocolate-chunk eyes of his following your every move.
You adjourn to your hotel room and order room service, âuntitled episode oneâ script in your lap. Youâve read it through about a million times, but tonight you pay special attention to your first scene with Dieter. You need it to be as flawless as todayâs scenes went. You need him to be as impressed as Dalton was, because his opinion means more to you than anyoneâs.
You also pay special attention to that particular scene because itâs going to be a real test of your abilities; looking up into that handsome face and remembering your lines the way youâre supposed to is going to be your crucible.
You check the time around midnight and decide itâs late enough; pushing yourself any further could just serve to undo the effort youâve put in. A certain Instagram notification on the screen catches your eye: â@bravo69 started following youâ. Itâs Dieterâs verified Instagram account, and the notification is from two minutes ago.
You stay up for longer than you care to admit ruminating on the fact that Dieter Bravo is scrolling through your Instagram at midnight. Maybe, just maybe, youâve gotten under his skin the way heâs gotten under yours.
Youâre trying so desperately not to get your hopes up, but itâs hard not to.
Cynthia in hair and makeup can tell youâre not sleeping well, even without the way you keep drifting off and jolting awake in her chair. She slathers caffeine under your eyes and does her best to reverse the zombie state youâre starting to transform into.
She gives you a look a lot like a reproachful mother might. âAre you really losing sleep over this? You were fantastic yesterday!â
Thereâs just something about her that makes you so comfortableâlike sheâs been a friend youâve known for years rather than a coworker you only just met yesterday.
âYeah, but what if it was a fluke and I do horrible today?â
She actually scoffs, like itâs the most impossible thing sheâs ever heard, and her smile is so wonderfully disarming. âIf you always think like that, youâre never gonna get a damned wink in your life.â
âIâve never been very good at sleeping anyway,â you admit with a scornful little huff.
âWell, youâd better try your best. Thereâs only so much I can do for you.â She gives you a cartoon-worthy wink as she looks at you in the mirror, and it makes you loosen up considerably.
Sheâs right. Youâre here, and confidence is key at this stage. If you act like the crew is taking some big chance on you because youâre a new talent, theyâre going to see it that way too. If you act like you belong here, itâll make the whole thing that much easier.
Fake it âtil you make it, they say. You suppose whoever âtheyâ are, theyâre actually right in this situation.
Todayâs scenes are a little more important to the plot of the show. Yesterday you worked on character establishment and setting the environment; today is all about the inciting incident. It all starts with pool party part two.
Wardrobe stuffs you in a period-typical orange patterned bikini, carefully selected to not be too revealing while still giving the audience something to appreciate; itâs eye roll worthy, but underneath the corniness of it thereâs something kind of exciting about potentially being a sex symbol.
Itâs the beginning of summer in the Midwestâat least on screen. In reality itâs late July, and itâs sweltering outside at the little time capsule brick house production rented for this scene. There are teen-aged extras all over the place pretending to be celebrating the end of another school year, all perfectly styled to 1976 as they splash about in the pool or grab vintage-looking Coke bottles from a cooler next to the propertyâs backyard shed.
Dalton is here, bare-chested and abs gleaming, draped over a poolside lounger. Youâre directed into his arms, and the press of his skin is a little uncomfortable. Youâve never particularly liked being this close to strangers, especially when wearing so little, but thereâs no backing out now. Every scantily-clad inch of your skin is pressed against his, his arm wrapped around your waist to keep you close.Â
Charlieâs best friend, Amaraâplayed by none other than Kelsie Burton, an actress whoâs been in just about every coming-of-age flick in the past five yearsâsits on the lounger next to yours. Sheâs drop dead gorgeous, with freckled pale skin and long, shiny black hair. Sheâs the archetype, and you feel like a complete foil in every way. You have to take a deep breath and remember that itâs not a competitionâand even if it was, youâre technically winning.
The dialogue is a little awkward in this scene, but itâs on purpose. The three characters have been close friends since middle school, but things have shifted ever since Charlie and Trevor started dating. Amara feels like a third wheel, and itâs not exactly unreasonable.
This is the beginning, the first push of the boulder down the steep hill of plot. The three of you sit together pondering what life will be like now that high school is over and discussing ways to make the summer the most memorable it can be. A challenge is made, an oath taken. This summer is going to be the most unforgettable one of all.
You shoot a few takes of the inciting conversation, and then itâs on to the fun partâshooting some filler scenes of pool party revelry.
Itâs easy to forget youâre not a fresh-faced teenager anymore like this. The three of you splash around in the water with your âclassmatesâ and laugh and play games and have fun. It doesnât feel like thereâs cameras or crewmembers or anyone else around but you and your friends. And thatâs really what they feel likeâfriends. Maybe theyâre both just good actors, but a hopeful little part of you wonders if you might actually be able to build meaningful relationships with them.
The fun canât last forever though, and the scene wrap comes before youâre ready for itâpartially because youâre enjoying yourself and donât want it to end, but partially because you know what comes next. Dieter.
Youâre shuttled back to set wrapped in a towel, still soaking wet but smiling despite the nerves twisting in your gut. Even if this last scene for the day goes to shit, at least you had an incredible morning.
Youâre turning a corner on your way to wardrobe when you run smack into someone tall and sturdy. Thereâs a force to the sudden collision that makes you grunt and lose your balance (and towel), but big, strong hands quickly come to steady you.
You look up, ready to fumble out an apology, when you find a set of deep brown eyes and a handsome, smirking face.
Whatever you were going to say dies at the base of your throat when you notice the way Dieterâs eyes drag over your soaking wet, bikini-clad form. You canât help but let yourself do the same; this is the first time youâve seen him in character, after all.
He seems even broader and bigger than the first time you met him, decked out in this khaki-colored sheriffâs uniform. It hugs his soft yet sturdy frame perfectly, only complemented by the heavy duty belt and the star-shaped badge pinned to his chest. His shaggy hair has been trimmed down to a respectable length, and his signature patchy-stubbly beard has been reduced to a simple, handsome mustache. Heâs a time capsule of a man, and he looks so fucking good.
âIs that what theyâve got you wearing for our scene?â He asks, interrupting your moment of observation. His hands are still firmly on your waist despite the fact that your balance has long since been regained.
âN-no,â you stumble over your own tongue. âIâm on my way to change right now.â
âDamn,â he mumblesâhe actually sounds disappointed.
Itâs been long enough, and his hands are still on your waist. Theyâre so warm, so big. You hate having your bare skin touched like this, butâŠÂ itâs nice. His hands are firm and strong and capable and youâre not thinking of him in a very fatherly capacity at all right now. Heâs so close you can feel the heat radiating off of him, so close that you could justâ
You donât even realize youâve stopped breathing until he finally takes his hands off you and you have to practically gasp for breath. Even as he backs out of your personal space, he knows the effect heâs had on youâif the smirk that takes over his face is any indication, at least.
âOrange is a good color on you,â he murmurs as his dark eyes give you one last once-over.
âR-really?â Itâs never been a color youâve particularly favored, but flattery goes far with you.
He hums in response, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Have you really made this much of an impression on him, or is he just really desperate? Surely he canât be that deprivedâhe could have anyone he wanted at the blink of an eye.
âIâll see you on set,â he vows. And then, just as quickly as he appeared, heâs gone.
Itâs so fucking difficult to get a read on him that you feel like youâre in a tailspin. Nevertheless, you try not to let it bother you too much as you get to wardrobe and finally change into some real clothes. Dieter Bravo is off limits, you remind yourself; but it doesnât sound nearly as convincing this time.
âWhere have you been all night?â His voice is stern, commanding despite the softness to his tone. He sounds almost dangerousâexactly like a cop and a protective father should.
âAt that end of the year pool party over at the Clevelandsâ, the one I told you about,â you answer easily, gently. Youâre on thin ice, and youâre stepping lightly. âWith Amara.â
âAnd Trevor.â Thereâs accusation in his voiceâCharlie hasnât told him about her relationship, but fathers always know.Â
âHe was there, yeah.â
âHow many times have I told you I donât want you around him?â Dieter looks up at you from where heâs spread lazily in his cozy living room armchair, eyes even darker than usual in the low night-coded lighting of the living room set. His suspicion of Trevor isnât unwarrantedâyouâve read the script in its entirety, you know every little facet of every single character. But Charlie doesnât know what you know, so you have to take Dieterâs caution as nothing more than the helicopter parenting typical of a teenage girlâs single father.
âIâm an adult, dad,â you remind him. âI can make my own decisions, choose my own friends.â
âYouâre still a little girl,â he murmurs. The fightâs gone from himâhe looks now as if a long day of law enforcement has caught up to him all at once. âYou always will be.â
It sparks the exact kind of anger within you that the script calls for, and most of it isnât even fabricated. You donât want himâDieter, not Sheriff Herreraâto see you like that. What if thatâs all this is now? What if he canât see you as anything else but a child to him? Not that it matters. Heâs off limits, youâve reminded yourself of that a million times. What he thinks of you shouldnât matter.
âYou have to let me grow up eventually,â you growl before storming down the hall to your final mark.
Jeff calls the scene, and you reemerge a little flushed and feeling silly for how real your emotions were in that moment.
âThat was perfect!â He tells you with a beaming smile on his face. âKeep that up and weâre gonna get ahead of schedule. Dieter, you were great too.â
âNot as great as them,â the older actor says with a nod of his head in your direction. âYouâre a generous scene partner.â
âHow so?â Youâre still a little flushed, but youâre praying he canât tell.
âYou give off a lot of emotion,â he explains. âGives me a lot to work with.â
âOh.â Youâve really got to get better at taking compliments. Was that even a compliment?
Youâre so far in your head that you donât notice the awkward pause until he takes it upon himself to start leaving the soundstage. Desperate for any way to salvage the moment, you address his broad, retreating back and say, âthanks, Dieter.â
He turns his head, looks at you over his shoulder, and fucking winks. âAnytime, honey.â
And then he leaves, like he didnât just put a fucking puddle in your underwear.
Dieter Bravo is off limits. Dieter Bravo is off limits. Dieter Bravo is off limits. You chant it to yourself the entire way back to your hotel room, but it gets less and less convincing with each repetition.
Would it really be so bad if he wasnât off limits?
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don't say it don't say it don't say it- Llewyn
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