#The Bubble fanfiction

[tightjeansjavi]

‘Cause After Midnight…

A/N: this idea came to be randomly yesterday morning and thus the brain rot began! Idk about y’all, but I would do ANYTHING for slumber party!Dieter 🤭 big thank you to @chronically-ghosted for sharing the brain rot cell with me this week! 🫡

~word count: 8.5k~ yeaaaah idk what happened!

Summary: a slumber party with your bestie Dieter Bravo, after midnight! What could possibly happen between the two of you?

Pairing | slumber party!dieter x best friend female!reader

Warnings: smut, fluff, a little sprinkle of angst, DUBIOUS CONSENT, mentions of alcohol and ouid smoking, infidelity (not by dieter) toxic relationship (Dieter’s ex) denial of feelings, secret pining, best friends to lovers?, pussy pronouns, domestic intimacy, mutual masturbation, masturbation with a shower head (iykyk), sexual tension, language, dirty talk, unprotected piv, aftercare, reader has no physical descriptions, readers nickname is bug, +18 minors dni!

Being Dieter Bravo’s best friend since…well, forever, came with a long list of perks. Your favorite perk of all, you may ask? Getting to spend time with your best friend. Whether that was at his home, lounging side by side next to his inground pool, stumbling out of a DTLA nightclub, clammy hands entwined together as you head to the nearest street food cart ASAP (Dieter demands steak tacos when he’s wasted) or when you were his glittering gem on the red carpet, dodging the incessant questions from the red carpet wasps—I mean, interviewers asking you and Dieter if you were dating.

It was like clockwork, you and Dieter would look at one another, laugh and shake your heads in sync, “us, dating? No, you have it all wrong! We’re simply just two besties that do everything together, don’t get it twisted!” (So what if you and Dieter would sometimes get equally wasted in the club and drunkenly makeout…and sometimes, while making out, he would grope your ass beneath your dress—you were just friends! Best friends kiss like all the time…right?)

Of course, Hollywood didn’t buy it despite yours and Dieter’s repetitive denial, and the fact that Dieter was currently smitten with his girlfriend—well, ex-girlfriend now. The tabloids spewed their cheap gossip, but your friendship with Dieter never soured.

You frequently slept over on the weekends he was home. It was your shared routine from Friday-Sunday (sometimes even Mondays), you and Dieter would get higher than two kites, cross off a few movies on your watch lists, paint together, and order takeout for every meal. Truthfully, it was fucking bliss.

This weekend, in particular, Dieter decided he wanted to have a whole ass slumber party. (Not nearly as extravagant as the princess diaries slumber party, or the Barbie movie) but Dieter knew how to throw a killer intimate slumber party. He invited all of his close, niche friends including you. He already had a whole array of different foods to munch on throughout the night so that no one would go hungry.

As always, Dieter was nearly glued to your side and if it were anyone else, or any other man for that matter, you would be annoyed, but when it came to Dieter, you shared your small bubble of space happily with him.

Everything was going swimmingly, until Dieter’s ex showed up uninvited. Dieter was in the whirlpool, wearing the tiniest swim trunks known to man. He had a beer in one hand while his other arm was resting along the outside of the hot tub. He was mid conversation, laughing about something one of his friends said before his eyes met yours when you appeared from the kitchen, a nervous look plastered on your face as you approached the hot tub.

“Hey, Dee?..” you crouched down along the edge of the hot tub.

“Yeah, bug?” He took a sip of his beer, brow cocking in curiosity. “What’s up? Why do ya look so worried?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, Dee. Just uh—well, your ex just sorta showed up uninvited. She’s in the kitchen—”

“What the fuck do you mean she just sorta showed up?! What the fuck.” He groaned, dragging his wet hand across his face, squeezing his eyes shut. “I reckon she just invited herself in, too?”

Your nod confirmed his suspicions. “Unfortunately she did. I told her she wasn’t welcome, but she essentially told me to fuck off.” You stifled a laugh.

“Yeah, well, she’s never exactly been the type to respect boundaries.” He sighed and handed you his beer so that he could pull himself out of the hot tub. The swim trunks he was wearing quite literally left little to the imagination, and you swore that you caught a glimpse of his infamous package when he bent down and grabbed his towel to quickly dry off.

His hand gently brushed yours as he reached for his beer. “I’ll deal with her. Not gonna let it spoil my night.” He gruffed out and draped the towel around his shoulders. “Be back in a jiffy, bug.” He winked and headed towards the sliding doors leading to the kitchen.

When he didn’t return to the backyard in over 20 minutes, that’s when you made the executive decision to see if he was okay. When you neared the front door, you could hear the distinct tone of Dieter’s voice through the thin glass and you caught a glimpse of him throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“You can’t just fucking show up here uninvited! You’re not only trespassing, but you’re crossing a boundary! This is exactly why we broke up in the first place because you’re just so fucking clingy!” He yelled.

“Oh, I’M THE CLINGY ONE?!” She laughed, jabbing her perfectly manicured finger directly into his bare chest. “So, it has nothing to do with the fact that you spent more time with your best friend than with your girlfriend?! Don’t you think thats a bit fucking weird, Dieter?!”

“Oh, for fucks sakes! Here we go again! Don’t you dare go bring her into this when she’s done nothing wrong! So sorry that you felt like the attention I was giving you was inadequate! Guess that gave you just the right amount of ammo to cheat on me with MY fucking pilates instructor?! Dude, I can’t even look the guy in the face anymore without wanting to rip his dick off, balls and all!”

“YES, because you left me with no other choice, Dieter! He gave me more attention than you ever have!”

“Right, sure! So instead of oh—I don’t know, acting like a fucking normal person, you let your jealousy take front and center and cheat on me?! Why the fuck couldn’t you just be like hey, Dieter! I’m feeling under-appreciated in our relationship and I’d like to talk about it in a healthy, productive way because I love and respect you as a person! I would have never fucking cheated on you, don’t you get that?!”

“Okay—you’re right! I’m sorry that I wasn’t mature, and I’m sorry I cheated on you, Dieter. I’m so sorry! Can we please just—”

He laughed, throwing his head back with his hands carding through his damp curls in disbelief. “You have got to be shitting me! You just expect me to what—take you back after all of that?! Fuck you. I may be a stupid fucking actor, but I’m not that stupid. Please, can you just—leave? I don’t want to call the cops, but I will if I have to.”

“Dieter, come on! Baby, please. Let’s just talk—”

“I’m not your baby.” He muttered and turned on his heel and walked back towards the front door. He really just wanted to bury his face in his hands and scream, but he was determined to not let her ruin his night. So, when he opened the door, and found you on the other side, he let out a visible sigh of relief. “Well, that was a crapshoot. Did ya hear any of it, bug?” He closed the door softly and made sure to lock it for good measure.

“You okay, Dee? I heard the last bit of it…I’m sorry that you had to deal with that.”

“S’okay. It’s done now and I’m gonna try and not let it ruin the rest of the night. Thank you for checking in on me, bug. I appreciate it.”

“Of course, Dee. Everyone is still in the backyard. Wanna join them? Otherwise I was thinking maybe you and I can get high?”

He grinned at your suggestion, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorjamb, “say less.”

That’s how you found yourself in Dieter’s bedroom, sitting on the floor with his rolling tray in your lap while he was changing out of his too-tight swim trunks and into a pair of boxers that were…equally as tight. You loved the way that his little bit of tummy pudge hung over the side of the boxer's waistband. What you wouldn’t give to worship that tummy while he shoves his—You kept your eyes focused on plucking a few bud clusters and placing them in the grinder. His phone was charging next to yours on the nightstand. You had Spotify open on shuffle playing yours and Dieter’s favorite playlist. The song that was currently playing was After Midnight by Chappell Roan.

He plopped down beside you, gently grabbing the tray and placed it in his lap so that he could roll the actual joint. He used the front of his bed as a backrest as he opened up the grinder and carefully distributed the ground up herb into one of the papers.

“I seriously don’t know how your dick can breathe in those tight fucking shorts, Dee.” you said with a playful edge to your tone as you let your head rest in the crook of his neck. He leaned into you too, naturally.

“They are not that tight!” He scoffed and looked over at you with a playful grin on his lips. “My dick can breathe in these perfectly fine, bug.” he retorted.

“Yeah, okay, whatever you say.”

Comfortable silence washed over the two of you while he finished rolling up the joint, looking over at you expectantly as he sparked the end of it, inhaling with his cheeks slightly hollowed, “should we have a full slumber party moment and paint our nails and do each other's makeup?” He asked softly, blowing the smoke upwards towards the ceiling and held the joint out to you between his pointer and middle finger.

“Shut up. I can’t believe you just brought that up because I was thinking the same exact thing!” You looked over at him In disbelief, reaching for the joint as your fingers briefly brushed against one another during the exchange. “I must have manifested this or something because I made sure to bring my nail polish this time!”

“Just start calling me Dieter the all knowing!” He chuckled, feeling the inhaled drug slowly send him into a relaxed state. He let his head comfortably rest against the back of the bed. “and I have my makeup that we can use! Think you can show me how to perfect the winged liner look? I’m shit at doing it on myself.” He huffed.

“I am not gonna start calling you Dieter that all knowing! There’s no way in hell I’m going to grant you all that power!” You nudged his shoulder gently with your own before you took a long drag from the joint, holding the smoke in your lungs before slowly exhaling it. “Of course I can help you with your eyeliner, Dee! Only if you let me pick out your nail color this time.”

“Okay, deal!” He was quick to respond with zero hesitation in his chipper tone.

So, after you each took a few more drags from the joint and your minds began to go hazy, Dieter lazily got up and walked into the en-suite to grab his bag of makeup from the bathroom cabinet. When he returned, you had grabbed your overnight bag and already had all of your nail products laid out.

“Damn, did ya bring your entire collection from home with ya?” He teased as he plopped down next to you. His movements were uncoordinated due to the drug coursing through his veins. He nearly fell into your lap, giggling and quietly apologizing as he sat back up. This was a normal occurrence for you and Dieter. Whenever the two of you would get high together, (which was frequent), you both became naturally affectionate and extremely touchy with one another. It was second nature, and something that neither you or Dieter ever thought about as being ‘weird’ and not the norm for most platonic friendships.

“Go big or go home, right Dee?” You had already picked out a pretty sparkly blue polish for his nails and set it off to the side.

“Absolutely, bug. Hey, can you do my makeup first, please?” He had his hands clasped in his lap, nervously twiddling his thumbs as if he was a child waiting to be reprimanded by his parents.

“Of course I can.” You said softly, and grabbed the makeup bag from his lap. “Hey, are you okay?…”

He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily and shook his head. “No, not really. I’m fucking pissed off about what happened down there with my ex.”

You nodded in understanding and stood up to grab one of his many pillows so that he would have something comfortable to lay against while you would do his makeup. “I gathered that.”

“That’s because you’re always reading the room, bug.” He chuckled, grabbing the pillow from you so that he could place it under his back. Once he was situated, he patted his thighs, beckoning you to come sit in his lap. (Doesn’t everyone straddle their best friend and do their makeup?)

“Am I?” You mused and wasted no time to straddle his hips, making yourself comfortable above him. He was looking up at you with that sparkle in his irises that only appeared around you. It was as if you were the reason why the sun shined, and the stars twinkled in the sky. You were too busy going through his bag of makeup to catch the look, and when your eyes did land upon his face, he looked like he was going through constricting emotions.

“Yeah, you’re really good at doing that, y’know?” He sighed, feeling his shoulders deflate and sink against the pillow.

“Do you want to talk about what happened, Dee?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, letting his hands gently rest around your hips, thumbs stroking the sliver of skin visible under your shorts in a soothing figure eight motion. “I mean, who the fuck just shows up to someone’s slumber party uninvited?”

“Well, she’s never really respected your boundaries, has she? Remember when you forgot to leave your phone in your dressing room at the Oscars, and when you were reading out the nominees and she called you, despite knowing that you were at the Oscars?” You grabbed his little bottle of toner and a couple cotton rounds, softly telling him to close his eyes.

He closed his eyes, flinching slightly when the cool mist of the toner kissed his skin. He relaxed further into the pillows when you gently patted the toner into his skin with the cotton round. “Yeah, that was a fucking disaster! I just remember going all red in the face and fearing that my career with the rest of the Hollywood assholes was over at that point.”

“I’m pretty sure she made that move out of spite, Dee. Y’know, because you didn’t ask her to be your plus one?”

He peeked one eye open to look up at you, “that’s because you’ve attended every single red carpet event with me, bug. It’s…tradition.” (Yeah, sure it is, Dieter. Just tradition.)

“I’m not justifying her behavior by any means, but I can understand why she was upset that you invited your best friend over your girlfriend to the Oscars.” You set the bottle of toner down and grabbed his usual moisturizer and squirted a few pumps onto your fingers and rubbed it into his skin.

“Yeah, I guess when you put it that way it does sound pretty fucked up huh? But I don’t think I deserved to be cheated on.” His lips curved into a downwards pout, brows furrowed intently.

“Oh, of course not, hun. Cheating is never justifiable.” You reassured him, reaching into the makeup bag and pulled out his primer, foundation and concealer. “Do you wanna do a full look or something on the more no makeup/makeup side?”

“So then why did she try to justify her reason for cheating on me? Not only that, she tried to sweet talk her way back in towards the end of the conversation. Oh, Dieter, I’m so sorry!” He scoffed, “she even pulled the baby card on me! I know I’m not the most emotionally intelligent individual 99% of the time, and I’ve struggled my whole life taking much of anything serious, but I still have a fucking heart despite what the tabloids gossip about.” He paused mid-venting, remembering what you had asked him, “surprise me, bug.”

“She pulled the baby card on you? What a fucking cunt move, honestly.” you shook your head. “Dieter, you have one of the biggest hearts in all of Hollywood, hun. You just don’t share it with everyone and that’s okay. Those tabloids are a load of crap. I told you before that you have to stop feeding into their agenda. It’s not worth it, Dieter.”

“Exactly! It was a cunt move. And if I didn’t realize my worth sooner, I probably would have fallen right back into a relationship with her again! You know what I’m starting to believe? Maybe…I just have to accept the fact that no one is ever gonna love me.”

You let out a sigh, reaching back into the makeup bag and pulled out one of his glitter shadows to apply on his eyelids. He let out a content hum when your fingers began to gently card through his damp curls while your other fingers began to gently pat the shimmery shadow onto his closed eyelids. “Dieter, don’t you fucking start that shit and claiming that no one is ever going to love you.”

“Well, it’s true! I can’t fucking hold a healthy relationship down to save my life! I’m the laughing stock of Hollywood, days away from fucking relapsing, and no one is gonna give a shit!”

“Dude, what are you talking about?” You fought the urge to laugh, not at him, of course, but at the situation at hand. “I love you, idiot. You are not the laughing stock of Hollywood, and you will not fucking relapse under my watch, Dieter.”

“Bug, I know you love me, and I love you too! But…that’s different. What I’m talking about is real, true love—ow!” He whimpered when you had accidentally poked his eye with your nail.

You weren’t even paying attention when he started rambling about true love and that the way he loved you was completely different…it stung and sent your heart straight through a shredder, and he had no idea!

“Shit, Dee! I’m so sorry—are you okay? My finger slipped.” Your palm came to rest around his scruffy jawline, leaning in close to make sure that you hadn’t accidentally poked his eye out with your fingernail. Your warm breath gently fanned his face as he blinked a few times to surpass the dull sting he felt on his cornea.

“I’m okay, bug. But damn, girl! Are you trying to poke my eye out or something?” He joked, trying to relieve the palpable tension growing between the two of you.

You were quick to change the subject, feeling slightly embarrassed that you allowed his words to affect you that much. You reached for the joint that was resting along the rolling tray and picked it up between your two fingers along with the lighter. “I’m going to take a couple more hits…you want any?” You asked while sparking the joint up, taking a deeper inhale this time to try and soothe your already scrambled brain.

He nodded, reaching his hand up to pluck the joint from between your lips after you were finished and placed it between his own and took a similarly deep drag. He looked so fucking pretty, laying there, joint hanging low between his lips, shimmering eyeshadow making his rich brown eyes stand out even more.

“Y’know…” he started, “if ya take a picture, it’ll last longer!” He mused, taking another long drag, blowing the smoke off to the side. When you didn’t immediately laugh at his weak attempt to ease the tension further, he frowned. “Hey, you okay? You’re never this quiet, bug. Even when you’re high.”

“I’m fine, Dieter.” You sighed, and went to slide off his lap, forgetting about doing his eyeliner when his hand resting around your hip tightened and you freezed under his touch.

“Hey, please don’t lie to me. Did I say something to upset you? I’m sorry if I did.” He was always so genuine in his apologies to you. He could claim to not know how to read the room, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Dee, I’m fine.” You reassured him. “I was just having a moment.”

“Well…stop that! It’s not allowed when we’re having a sleepover.” He really just couldn’t stand to see you upset. It tore him up inside and made him feel like he was always the root cause for your mood change.

“Fuck you.” You laughed, giving his cheek a light pat while your other hand ruffled through his hair. “Do you still want me to do your eyeliner?”

“Yes please.” He grinned. “Just promise to not poke my eye out again?”

“I promise, Dee.”

While you carefully began to apply the eyeliner to his eyelids with careful precision, he continued to ramble on underneath you, careful to not move too much because he really didn’t want to accidentally get poked in the eye. Once you were finished, you expected him to immediately want to check how he looked in the mirror, but instead, he switched positions with you, straddling your hips now so that he could do your makeup.

You didn’t protest, of course. You’d take any excuse to admire his handsome features up close while he was zoned in on his work, his muse being you. Whenever he was painting, his focus was intense and it was as if he had tuned out everything else around him. He acted all the same while he was gently applying a shimmer shadow to your eyelids.

The intimacy simmering between the two of you was becoming too much for you to handle. You could feel him through his too-tight boxers, the weight of his cock pressing right against your clothed center. Despite knowing Dieter for as long as you have, you never had seen his cock, only just the outline of it. However, you heard the stories from his past partners, flings, and even some colleagues. They were all shocked to hear that you yourself had not seen Dieter Bravo’s package.

The walls in his spacious bedroom felt like they were closing in on you from how flustered you were feeling. Surely there was sweat beginning to bead and perspire along the column of your throat and behind your neck. Perhaps there was even an evident sign of your arousal between your thighs. You hoped to god that he hadn’t caught on. But when his hips shifted forward, his tongue poking out between his lips while he carefully applied a swipe of eyeliner across your right eyelid, it was too much.

“Hey—Dee? I’m not feeling too hot. Think the weed is messing with me. I—I think I’m gonna shower and go to bed.” You stuttered out, trying to focus on the words coming out of your mouth and not the images of his thick cock—

He frowned, looking deflated when you said that you wanted to go to bed. “Oh—okay, bug. I understand. Do you wanna watch a movie or something? I’ll get you some food and water, okay? Maybe you’re just having a bad trip?” He was genuinely concerned, feeling slightly nervous that his trusted dealer had laced his stash with something, but he didn’t want to go down that rabbit hole just yet.

“No—I just…I want to shower and go to bed, Dieter. I’ll be fine. It probably is just a bad trip.” You reassured him and subtly tried to create any form of distance between the two of you to relieve the tension you were feeling.

The weed is only enhancing what I’m feeling right now. If he could see the thoughts going through my head right now—

“If you are having a bad trip, then I should stay with you, bug. I don’t want anything to happen to you—”

“Dieter.” You were on the edge of snapping and saying something you would inevitably regret, “I don’t want you to stay with me, okay? I just want to fucking shower and go to bed.”

Ouch.

He visibly recoiled, feeling like you had just stabbed him right in the gut and twisted the knife for good measure. Maybe I am the clingy one…

“Okay, okay. I understand. I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want.” He wanted to snap right back at you, but he didn’t have the heart in him to do so.

“Thank you.” You breathed out, and when he didn’t immediately uncage your thighs from under his hips, you took matters into your own hands and placed your palm flat against his chest, gently pushing him off of you so you could quickly stand up.

He felt his heart twist even further when you disappeared into the en-suite, slamming the door behind you. He wasn’t sure if it was done maliciously or on accident, it still fucking hurt.

Seconds later he hears the sink turn on and the sound of water splashing against your face. It felt wrong to leave you in this state, so even after he heard the shower turn on while he was cleaning up the strewn about makeup on the floor, he sat down against the door, his back leaning against it as he waited. For what? He really didn’t know the answer to that.

You knew that Dieter was concerned about your well being, and if he could have it his own way, he would be in the bathroom with you right now, sitting with his back facing you so that you would feel comfortable to shower. You also were aware that he was sitting against the bathroom door and your heart lurched at the thought. You felt the guilt swim and swirl around you. Snapping at your best friend was not on your bingo card for the night, but maybe this was a sign that you and Dieter needed to set some serious boundaries between one another. Maybe you were beginning to realize that the two of you were…too close.

“Can you just…let me know you’re okay in there?” You heard him ask through the door as the scalding hot water streamed down over your bare body.

“Dieter, I’m fine.” Your voice was muffled under the stream.

“Yeah, sure you are, but I’d be a terrible fucking friend if I just left you to deal with this bad trip on your own, bug.”

God dammit, Dieter. Why can’t you just be an asshole like a normal person?! Is what you really wanted to say.

“Okay…” you trailed off, “I’m going to be in here for a while.”

“That’s okay. You can use up all of my hot water. I don’t care.” He reassured you.

When you didn’t immediately respond he let out a sigh, resting his head back against the door, closing his eyes. He remembered that your phone was still playing music from where it sat on his nightstand next to his own, and the familiar tune of Pink Pony Club started playing. It was yours and Dieter’s favorite song off of Chappell’s album.

“I know you wanted me to stay, but I can't ignore the crazy visions of me in LA. And I heard that there's a special place, where boys and girls can all be queens every single day.”

Dieter Bravo could not fucking sing, but everytime that he did for you, it was the most endearing gesture ever.

“You fucking asshole.” You muttered under your breath, “I'm having wicked dreams of leaving Tennessee. Oh, Santa Monica, I swear it's calling me. Won't make my mama proud, It's gonna cause a scene. She sees her baby girl, I know she's gonna scream…”

“God, what have you done! You're a pink pony girl, and you dance at the club! Oh mama, I'm just having fun! On the stage in my heels, it’s where I belong down at the Pink Pony Club!” You and Dieter sung the chorus in unison, completely out of tune, but neither of you could give a fuck about that.

You could practically picture his dopey, weed-stained grin plastered on his handsome, scruffy face behind the door when you sang the chorus together. The mental image sent your heart surging out of your chest, and your pussy pulsing in tandem.

Fuck me.

You truly had just planned to take a hot, relaxing, mind clearing shower and then go straight to bed, but you were feeling bothered by the weed, and your blatantly obvious attraction towards your best friend. Not to mention, the little rasp in Dieter’s voice was not helping you out in this predicament, either. That’s when you noticed his attached shower head and the lightbulb went off in your weed-induced brain.

You reached for the attached shower head, gently removing it from where it was mounted against the shower wall. Before turning it on, however, you quickly got familiar with the numerous spray settings and chose the medium spray before slowly dragging the shower head between your legs and—oh, fucck.

The pressure was just right and was directly spraying a stream of water onto your exposed clit. You held back a moan, bringing the back of your hand to your mouth and bit down as you slowly sank to your ass along the shower wall, your thighs spread fully, eyes rolling back into your skull from the intense feeling. That’s when a moan slipped past and Dieter initially thought he was just hearing things, but then he heard it again…and his cock twitched to life beneath the tight confinements.

“There’s no way. I’m just high as shit right now and hearing things. Yeah, that’s the logical explanation!” He muttered to himself, scrubbing one hand down his face. But then he heard you distinctively moan, and his face suddenly felt hot to the touch. He pressed his ear against the door, raising his fist and gently knocked on the wood, “you uh—you okay in there?”

You were so close to hitting that big ‘o’ that you didn’t even hear Dieter’s low rasp through the door.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” You whimpered. “So fucking close, just a little more. Just a little more. C’mon, baby.”

Now that he could hear you more clearly, he knew exactly what was producing those little desperate sounds to slip past your pretty lips: his fucking shower head.

“Excuse me?? Are you getting yourself off with MY shower head, without me in there?!” It was a thought that he had meant to keep in his head, but now that it was out there, there was truly no going back.

You froze like a deer caught in headlights, immediately dropping the shower head from your loose grasp and it clattered to the shower floor just as the bathroom door burst open.

“Dieter—WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!” You screeched, hair drenched, thighs spread and trembling.

He shut the door behind him, muttering under his breath as he approached, looking you right in the eyes, “more importantly, what are you doing?” He placed his hands on his hips. “Your little moans and whimpers made me rock fucking hard!” He gestured to the obvious tent in his boxers, his cock straining against the tight material. “Had I known it was gonna be that kind of sleepover, I would have joined you a heck of a lot sooner!”

Oh. My. God. This isn’t happening, is it?!

“Dieter, you can’t just fucking come in here when I’m masturbating! Dude—what the fuck!”

“Oh, heavens! Are we going back to the 1800’s or something? Just call it for what it is! You playing with your pussy, and using my shower head to get yourself off! By all means, please continue, but next time? I want a personal invite!”

You were appalled…and a little turned on? Okay, a lot turned on! In fact, your pussy was pulsing between your thighs, the edge of your interrupted orgasm was still simmering, waiting to fully bloom. To make matters worse, Dieter had crouched down outside of the shower, his brows furrowed when he noticed the setting you had set the shower head to. He tsked under his breath, shaking his head as he reached into the shower and picked up the shower head from where it had been dropped between your spread thighs.

“Dieter, what are you—”

“Hush and listen to the teacher, okay? For starters, you’re using it all wrong. You gotta build yourself up first, and then go full blast. Otherwise you’re just gonna overstimulate your poor little clit, and that just takes away from the experience.” He said in the most casual fashion, as if this wasn’t crossing a million different invisible boundaries all at once.

“Dieter, I don’t need your assistance on getting myself off, okay? Please just—”

“Bug, don’t make this weird, okay? We’re friends, and there’s nothing in the friends handbook that says that we can’t help one another get off! It’s totally not forbidden.” He retorted.

“I think you just made the whole friends handbook thing up. It totally doesn’t exist and we absolutely should not be doing this, Dieter! It’s wrong for a multitude of reasons!”

“The friends handbook totally exists! I’ll get you a copy, okay? I’m not going to touch you, unless you want me to. I’m just gonna use the shower head to show you the right way to get yourself off with it, and afterwards you will be thanking me!”

“I can’t believe I’m about to agree to this. I cannot fucking—”

“Best start believing it, baby! Now, spread your thighs for me a little more, okay?”

“Okay, I’m giving you my full consent, but if I start feeling weird, we’re stopping this whole thing, okay?” You looked him directly in the eyes as you spread your thighs further so he had a better view.

“Bug, if at any point you feel weird, uncomfortable, or want to stop, just tell me, okay? I’m not gonna pressure you to continue doing this if you don’t want to. I’m leaving the ball completely in your court, and my feelings won’t be hurt if you change your mind, okay? I promise.” His words were sincere, and it was hard to look away when he was staring at you with those big, brown, puppy dog eyes.

“Okay.” You nodded.

He leaned forward then, briefly getting caught under the stream when his lips brushed across your forehead, leaving you both feeling slightly stunned. He softly asked you if it was okay if he did touch you, to which you obliged, lower lip taken between your teeth when his hand that wasn’t holding the shower head slowly dipped between your thighs and his fingers spread your slick folds apart so he would have better access to your clit.

“I always knew that your pussy would be pretty, baby, but goddamn—she really is so fucking pretty.” He took a sharp inhale of breath, his cock twitching painfully in his boxers.

“Dieter Bravo, you’re going to be the death of me.” You breathed out, heat rising to your cheeks from the way he was gazing at the spot between your thighs, eyes glazed over the same way a dog looks at a delicious bone, or a plate of juicy, rare, steak.

“You’re already the death of me, bug.” He whispered, unable to help himself when his thumb gently brushed across your clit. He swallowed hard, trying to focus on the task at hand but between you prettily spread out beneath him, and the weed still flowing through his system, he was fucked.

He changed the setting on the shower head without even having to look down at it. He was too focused on your face, particularly your eyes and how you both seemed to be drinking one another in, an invisible string tied between the two of you, reeling him in closer, and closer. You observe his face, and the way his eyeliner has now started to run and bleed under his eyes and down his cheeks from the water and steam. Your pussy clenches from the sight just as his thumb lightly presses against your clit, making slow, languid, figure eight motions.

He thinks he wants to kiss you—no, scratch that. He wants to kiss you, and you can tell by the way his eyes flicker from your face and down to your lips, and then back up again.

“Dieter…” you whisper, bringing your hand up to gently cradle his face in your palm, curling your pointer finger under his chin. “Do you want to kiss me?” Your warm breath fans his face as he slowly nods.

“Yeah, I do.” He rasped, slowly leaning in.

“So kiss me, you fool.”

And so he did, but instead of hesitating, and holding back, he dove right in, noses pressing into one another as he licked greedily into your mouth, tangling his tongue with yours while his hand holding the shower head angled it right against your exposed pussy and between his fingers where he was keeping you spread open.

“Oh fuck!” You whimpered into the kiss, keeping your one hand anchored around his jaw while the other came to rest at the back of his head, your fingers tangled through his drenched locks, tugging on them gently.

“Yeah, feels good, doesn’t it, baby? Told ya so.” He snickered into your lips, kissing you deeper. “Lower water pressure builds you up slower, drawing your orgasm out to last longer, and it’ll feel 10x more intense.”

“Mhm.” You mumbled into his lips, scooting your hips closer to the stream of water, and to him.

“Greedy little pussy, huh? Can’t get enough, can ya?” He teased.

“Dieter…” you warned him, playfully biting down on his lower lip and tugging it out gently before releasing it.

“I know, I know.” He chuckled and reluctantly detached himself from the kiss, pecking your lips once before he sat back on his thighs to give himself any form of relief. “You wanna give yourself a whirl while I go take care of this er—in privacy?”

Your cheeks were puffed out, lips swollen with his kisses as you stared up at him dumbfounded. “Are you insane? Just get in here with me, Dieter. Right now.”

He blushed, turning bright red all the way to the tips of his ears. He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly turning all bashful as if he wasn’t just talking about your greedy little pussy seconds ago. “Are you…sure? I really don’t mind! I can just go jerk off in my bed like a normal person—”

“Dieter.” Your tone sounded strained, “get in the fucking shower now. Take those ridiculously tight boxers off and get in here.”

Well, you certainly didn’t need to ask Dieter Bravo twice as he scrambled to peel his boxers down over his hips and thighs, tossing the damp fabric outside of the shower. His cock bobbed between his thighs, hard, heavy and the tip was swollen a painful red color. Poor guy.

He climbed over you, situating himself and his cute little tush right next to you with his shoulders gently brushing yours. He spit a glob of saliva into his palm and wrapped his fist around the veiny girth of his cock. “I’ll come fast, I promise. You won’t even have to do anything, okay? Just pretend I’m not here!” His tone was rushed as he squeezed the base of his cock, lolling his head to the side so he could look over at you. His eyeliner was completely smudged now and his lips were swollen with your kisses.

All you could do was nod dumbly, your eyes transfixed by his fist wrapped around his cock. It was as if you were seeing a unicorn for the first time! The unicorn being er—Dieter’s cock.

He looked at your face, and then down at his cock, and then back up at your face. “Hello?” He waved with his freehand, “why are you looking at my cock like that, huh? Are you the only person in the whole state of California who hasn’t seen my cock before?” He was in disbelief, his mouth falling open when he realized that you never had seen his cock.

"I totally thought you'd seen his dick. Practically everyone else has." You remember his ex cruelly teasing you about it one day.

You shook your head, eyes glazed over as you watched his fist slowly twist and pump around his length. “Nope. First time, and it’s like I’m looking at a unicorn!” You exclaimed playfully.

Dieter snorted at your enthusiasm, feeling his heart lurch from his chest, “well, it is sorta like seeing a unicorn for the first time…I suppose?” He chuckled, squeezing the base of his cock for some form of relief. He felt like now was the best time to address the obvious elephant in the room, silly Dieter. “So uh—well, this doesn’t mean anything, right? Because we’re just friends and good friends masturbate together. It's cool, this is super casual!”

Sure, bud. You keep telling yourself that.

You fought the urge to roll your eyes and clicked your tongue against the roof of your mouth, spreading your thighs further so you could continue your ministrations with the shower head. “Sure, Dieter. This means absolutely nothing. Just two besties jerking it off, side by side. Totally casual!”

He let out a huff as he pumped his fist faster, “Well, we wouldn’t be in this predicament if those noises you were making didn’t make my cock as hard as a slab of concrete!”

“Dieter, shut up, and get yourself off! Or so help me—”

“Yes ma'am!” He squeaked out.

In tandem you placed the shower head close to your clit once more while he fisted his cock, and when your moans started to intermingle and become one, that’s when your glazed over eyes met once more. He had his lip harshly taken between his teeth, his cock was twisting and pulsing beneath his fist. He leaned in close, lips just barely brushing your bare shoulder where he had dipped his head down to nuzzle you. His eyes flickered upwards towards your face, pupils darkening by the second, “I really want to fuck you right now, baby.” He rasped.

You met his gaze, thighs trembling and your eyes rolling slightly as your orgasm rippled through you, “yeah, you wanna fuck me, Dieter? How badly do you want to fuck me?”

“So fucking bad, baby. You’ve got no idea.” He mewled, “there’s that convenient bench right over there.” He gestured to the shower bench with a coy tilt of his chin, “you can sit right on my cock, if you’d like that…”

“Did you have that bench installed for convenience purposes or for your old man bad back?” You asked teasingly.

He narrowed his eyes at you, glaring playfully before he chuckled, “a bit of both. More-so on the convenience side of things. And, it’s newly installed so you and I would be the first to use it.” He winked coyly.

“Really? Well, your offer is most tempting, Bravo. I’d like to take you up on it and sit on your big fucking cock.”

“Now we’re talking.” He grinned, loosening his fist around his cock so he could offer you a hand and helped you up. Now you were both directly under the stream of water, hands roaming everywhere they could reach. You kissed deeply, giggling in unison when you grabbed his ass and he grabbed yours. He could happily live in this moment forever with you, even if it meant that his skin would inevitably prune and probably fall off.

You backed him up against the shower bench, climbing into his lap as he slowly lowered himself into a sitting position along the marble bench that could easily fit both of you.

You wrapped your own palm around the base of his cock for the first time as you slowly sank down around his girth till he was fully pressed inside of you, bottoming out with a low grunt against your lips. He let his arms loop firmly around your waist, pulling you in as close as he physically could so that your chests were pressed flushed together. He swore he saw heaven behind fluttered lashes when you started to slowly roll your hips into his, bouncing and grinding along his length.

If it wasn’t for his steadfast orgasm, he probably would have lasted longer before he was shooting thick ropes of his cum deep inside of you, but he was a man, after all. And while his cum leaked and dripped from your weeping little hole that was still stuffed full of his cock, he made sure that you got to come again, too. He pistoned his hips upwards at an unruly pace, loving the way that your nails clawed at his back and shoulders, leaving little red crescents in their wake. Maybe I’ll get those tattooed on me later. He briefly thought as you came undone around him, crying out his name.

You stayed seated on his cock for what felt like hours before he gently eased you off him, his cock now soft between his thighs and glistening in a thick, pearlescent ring of your combined releases.

You washed one another’s bodies under the lukewarm stream and he was the first to step out of the shower, grabbing a towel to wrap around his waist and when you emerged, he had a towel waiting for you. You kissed a few more times, gentle pecks of intimacy as you stood side by side in front of the mirror, brushing your teeth and doing your skincare.

“Soo, where are you sleeping tonight?” He suddenly asked with a mouthful of toothpaste. His deep pools of brown boring into yours.

You hadn’t really thought that far if you were being honest…and now with that fresh ‘I just got fucked good’ glow illuminating your features, and the remainder of your high still sizzling, you suddenly feeling nervous all over again.

“Um, well, where do you want me to sleep?”

“I asked you first.” He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for your response.

“Okay, fair, how about on the count of three we say it together?”

“Deal.” He nods.

“Okay—one, two, three—” you counted off in unison.

“Your bed—my bed.”

You both looked relieved at your answers, letting out breaths you didn’t realize you were holding. “Thank fucking god.” You both laughed.

He kissed you then, mouthful of toothpaste and all. You made a funny squeaking sound when he had unexpectedly kissed you, and the corners of his mouth curved up into a knowing grin. “I’ll get you one of my shirts to wear.” He mumbled into the kiss, pulling back slowly.

When you left the en-suite, you found Dieter already in bed, sitting up with the rolling tray resting in his lap. He had a fresh pair of boxers on, this pair was made of cotton and was far less constricting. He was rolling another joint to smoke before bed when he looked up, smiling softly at your lingering presence in the doorway, wearing nothing but his shirt.

“Well, don’t be shy, bug. Ain’t the first time you’ve slept in my bed.” He winked, patting the empty spot beside him on his massive king sized bed.

You took a deep breath, remembering that this was Dieter Bravo, your best friend and partner in crime. He would always be your best friend.

You made your way over to the empty side of the bed and pulled the covers back so you could climb underneath them.

He finished rolling the joint, grabbing his lighter from the nightstand to spark it up before he paused, looking over his shoulder at you. “Hey, we don’t have to like—do anything, okay?” He reassured you.

“But Dieter, I wanna do stuff with you. It’s just—in your bed it feels…” you trailed off, scratching at the outside of your arm absentmindedly.

He tucked the joint behind his ear and rolled over into his side so he was facing you, using his elbow to prop himself up, “I understand, baby. This is…new for me as well. We can smoke this joint and then make out a little? See where it goes?…”

You nodded, lips curving up into a soft smile that sent his heartbeat racing, “yeah, I’d like that.”

“Me too.” He grinned.

He sparked the joint up between you, taking a few hits before he passed it off to you. This went on a few more times before your bodies just naturally gravitated towards one another, and when the joint died out, he set it down on the tray on his nightstand before his lips found yours.

You kissed like this for hours, simply just enjoying one another’s company and soft touch when the sun began to rise over the Los Angeles landscape. Dieter was uncharacteristically quiet, even for being stoned.

Your fingers were gently dragging through the patches in his beard, playing with his scruff in between kisses. “I can hear you overthinking, Dee.”

“Are you a wizard?” He chuckled, “you can hear my thoughts? That’s crazy!”

“Shh.” You giggled. “I’m right here, baby. You don’t have to yell.”

“Sorry.” He whispered, scooting his body closer to yours. He would absolutely crawl inside of your skin and never leave, but well—-he might go to prison if he did that.

“I’m gonna say something that might sound stupid, but I gotta get it off my chest, okay?” He started, his glazed over eyes met yours as he pressed a few kisses to the underside of your fingertips.

“I’m listening.”

“Okay, so—well, this is just different for me because I don’t normally fuck my friends.”

You gave him a funny look at his admittance, unable to help yourself.

“I’m serious! I don’t fuck my friends—and well, I care about you a ton.Maybe even more than I care about myself? Anyway, I don’t want things to get weird between us tomorrow. Like if you wake up and regret everything that happened, I just want you to tell me, okay? My hopes is that maybe you felt the little spark that I did and if you did we can—”

“Dieter, I promise you I’m not going to wake up tomorrow and regret everything that happened tonight. No matter where this takes us, I’m always going to love you, and you’re always going to be my best friend.” Your words were sincere and directly from your heart and he knew you weren’t just saying shit just to say it.

“I think I just shat my heart out, that was so sweet.” He giggles, nuzzling his nose against yours. “In all seriousness, thank you. I was just afraid that this would ruin our friendship, and I would lose you forever.”

“Never, Dieter. You could never lose me.” You reassured him.

“Good, cause in the morning? I’m making waffles!”

Helen Mirren: Narrator for the Barbie Movie:

Dieter did not in fact make waffles the next morning. Instead, Dieter had his breakfast between your thighs, and then let you order whatever brunch you wanted on his black card

"You can be my sugar baby! I get to eat you out and you can order whatever you want on my card." He murmured between your thighs, mouthful of your pussy.

"That's not how that sort of thing really works, Dieter. But, yeah, okay."

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[freelancearsonist]

this is what it looks like, right before you fall

➔ Dieter Bravo x nonbinary!reader-insert!oc - series masterlist

➔ 5.3k words

➔ CHAPTER ONE // You meet the cast and vow yourself to professionalism as filming starts, but one particular costar tests your willpower.

➔ 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 reader’s 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 :)]

➔ 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. I’m 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. It’s reminiscent of a muster of peacocks—plumage 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 they’re all going to be you definitely won’t be attending any more.

But then again, maybe it isn’t always like this. Maybe this is just the mania of the world being deemed “post-pandemic” despite the very real crisis still lurking in the shadows. You can’t blame people for how they cope with isolation and despair, even if it seems a little over-dramatic to you personally.

There’s maybe one other person in this room who seems to realize how ridiculous this whole game is, but you’re too nervous to go over and talk to him.

He looks comfortable amongst the chaos. He doesn’t strut around seeking conversation like the others—he lets them come to him. And they do; despite how formidable he appears to you, they’re 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 them—maybe even insults them a little–and then spits them back out into the stratosphere of the room. And they keep coming back for more, because he’s intoxicating.

Dieter Bravo is fucking terrifying for a man who’s shirt buttons aren’t aligned to the proper holes. 

“Hi.”

You hadn’t even noticed him approaching, as focused as you were on looking anywhere except him. His raspy voice makes you jump–makes 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. He’s looking through you, not at you. There’s something so thoroughly appraising about his gaze, as if he’s sizing you up.

“Hi,” you whisper back. You wonder if he’s like a bear, if you need to make yourself look bigger and scarier in order to appease him. But instead, you shrink–he makes you feel so small. Like you’re nothing but a speck of dust on the underside of one of his well-worn crocs; and maybe you are. Maybe you’re in way over your head here.

“I dunno if this is gonna work,” he hums, eyes lecherous and languid in the way they drag over your body. “You’re too hot to be my daughter.”

You choke on your drink, legitimately splutter and cough; of all the millions of things you imagined him saying in your mind, that wasn’t 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 room–albeit a man who’s more than twice your age–is passively hitting on you. And if he were anyone else, you would be outraged by how casually he does it. But he’s Dieter fucking Bravo, and you think you’d 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 mind–redirects as if it was the most casual of passing comments. “Is this your first meet and greet?”

“No, I’ve left my house a couple times before.” It’s an unintentionally snarky comment, the kind that would normally get you in trouble. But Dieter actually laughs–well, it’s more of a snort than a laugh, but its purpose is clear–and you wonder if maybe this whole situation isn’t as bad as it seemed a few short minutes ago.

“First time in front of a camera?” He asks, absentmindedly swirling the neon green liquid–absynthe? antifreeze?–that resides in the crystal glass his right hand cradles. “I tried to find you on IMDb but nothing came up.”

“I’ve done some commercial work,” you admit, feeling a little sheepish; and a little caught off guard, flattered even, that he’s been researching you. “Nothing like this, though.”

“How’d you get the role?” The question sounds deeper than it really is–distrustful, in a way.

You simply shrug. “I guess my audition was good.”

“I guess it was.” You don’t know exactly what he’s insinuating, but you feel like you should be offended. There’s no malice or aggression left in his dark eyes, though–whatever you’ve shown him, he’s liked it. “We’re going to have fun.”

“We are?”

“Mhm.” He takes a sip of his drink, and you can tell he’s trying not to make a face as the radioactive-looking liquid meets his tongue. “We should rehearse lines. In your room. Build our chemistry.”

There isn’t a singular cell in your brain that believes there’s no underlying motive to the invitation. And even yet, you accept. You kind of get the sense that he wouldn’t accept no as an answer, anyway.

He nods his acknowledgement, and then just as quickly as he had appeared, he’s melting seamlessly back into the buzz of your fellow costars.

You don’t realize how hard your heart is beating until he’s not standing over you anymore. With a sip of your drink, you do everything you can to will your breathing back to normal. There’s no reason a simple man should have such an effect on you.

But there’s really nothing simple about Dieter Bravo. He’s imposing. He’s been in this industry for as long as you’ve been alive and it shows in the way he carries himself. There’s confidence in his strut, an undeniable carefreeness to his appearance. He’s a professional; he’s everything you hope to someday be.

You promised yourself that you wouldn’t act up over the star-strewn cast, and you’ve 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 you’re in his presence.

You’re 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. You’re 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 you’re not close enough to smell the warm, woodsy spice of his cologne—it lingered in your nostrils for a solid five minutes even after he walked away from you earlier—but you’re 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 doesn’t 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 weight’s been lifted off your shoulders when it’s finally time to turn in for the night.

You didn’t get a chance to introduce yourself to half of the cast because you were so busy being an unimposing wallflower, but you’ll worry about that tomorrow. For now, you’re walking to your room as fast as your legs can possibly carry you.

Shooting starts in the morning, and you really need a good night’s 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 Dieter’s going to come knock on your door to “rehearse lines” like he suggested.

He doesn’t, and you don’t 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. Dieter’s hot and he’d be a once-in-a-lifetime lay, but you’re 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, it’s 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 your–

“Well hello!”

The woman who greets you as you walk into the hair and makeup tent is way too chipper for 7AM.

“Hi,” you say, a little shyer than you mean to sound; at least you can blame it on the early hour and the fact you haven’t had any coffee yet.

“I’m Cynthia, I use she/her pronouns. It’s nice to meet you.” Cynthia is blonde and tall, almost imposingly so. She’s sturdily built and graceful–there’s an almost feline quality to her movements. She’s 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 you’ve contemplated a lot prior to arriving, and even more so in the long, isolated hours of quarantine in your room. She/her doesn’t do the job, and you’ve known it for a while; but you let people use them anyway, because it’s 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 “they/them.”

She smiles so warmly, but she doesn’t comment on it. No, “oh!” or “that’s so brave!” or any of the other thousand responses you’ve gotten to providing the pronouns you’re 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 you’re used to that you choke up a little bit.

You manage to swallow it down without her noticing, thankfully. You’re going to be dealing with Cynthia every day for the foreseeable future and you really don’t want her thinking you’re a loser.

You look like a completely different person when she’s done with you. Your entire face is coated with a thin layer of makeup that evens your skin tone and shrinks your pores. There’s 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.

Cynthia’s a miracle worker, truly. You look exactly like the freshly-graduated, soul-searching, 1970’s time capsule misfit teen you’re supposed to be playing for eight episodes worth of HBO drama. It’s like meeting Charlotte “Charlie” Herrera for the first time, except you are her.

It’s a lot easier to get into character when you look the part; although becoming someone else has never been something you’ve necessarily struggled with. You take a deep, steadying breath; and then suddenly, you’re a different person. It’s that simple.

You’ve 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, what’s your method, you don’t really know how to answer. You just do it.

You’re not humble enough to try to deny the fact that you’re talented. The executive producer called you within half an hour of you submitting your audition tape for this role, and he didn’t stop complimenting you for another half an hour. There’s just some kind of special compartmentalization your brain accomplishes when you have a character to play; you flick off your “you” switch, and flick on your “character” switch.

You’re sure your therapist would say that it’s easy for you because of your natural proclivity for escapism. Your parents would probably just say you’re a psychopath. Whatever it is, you have a knack for acting, and it shows. It’s as easy and natural as breathing.

There’s a flurry of activity around you as you settle on your mark: an unevenly-stuffed floral print couch in the living room of your character’s shoebox home. It’s small, but it feels lived in. There’s 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 won’t even be in most frames of the show. There’s eclectic trinkets and pieces of period-accurate paraphernalia on shelves and side tables. You could almost believe you’ve 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, who’s been acting since he was in diapers. Even though he’s barely a year older than you, he’s a bonafide star. He’s got an IMDb filmography that’s a mile long and he’s won countless awards. You need to be on your game because you’ll be damned if you’re going to disappoint someone like him.

He’s 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; it’s surreal, being in the same room as him like this, with him smiling at you like you’re important.

“Hi again,” 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; he’s 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 all–introduced himself with that charming smile and everything.

“Hi.”

“You look great,” he says with a noticeable scan of your figure. “Just like my grandma used to.”

It’s the exact kind of icebreaker you need to completely melt the tension; you laugh, and he laughs with you.

The director–a man named Jeff with a graying beard thick enough to clothe a family of four–walks over with a smile on his face. “This is the exact kind of chemistry I want onscreen, okay? Nice and light, make it look effortless.”

“Sure thing, boss man.” Dalton’s long, blown-out hair flops into his face when he nods, and you can tell it irritates him. “God, how do people put up with this shit? Remind me to never grow my hair out again.”

“You’re telling me,” you respond with a laugh–your hair is even longer than his.

This first scene is surprisingly easy. He’s so talented that it rubs off on you and builds up your confidence until you’re commanding the scene effortlessly. You lounge on the couch with him and lament over approaching adulthood, recounting the glory days of your characters’ shared high school experiences now that they’re over for good. You feel like you’re really there, in that time capsule moment of late May 1976, shooting the shit with your high school sweetheart boyfriend. It’s easy to forget that you know what happens between Charlie and Trevor, Dalton’s 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, it’s just beginning. You’re three years younger than you really are, and you’re in love with this boy who’s looking at you like you hung the very stars from the sky.

“Cut!” Jeff calls, and you pull away from Dalton’s loose grip. “That was perfect you two, keep it up!”

Just like that you’re you again–not Charlie, not Trevor’s girlfriend, not anyone else. The transition is that simple and seamless.

You catch a glimpse of your smiling face next to Dieter’s 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 you’re her, there’s a script and a set destiny that you know will play out exactly how it’s supposed to. When you’re you, you don’t know what’s going to come next. Maybe that’s 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, isn’t that simple.

“Hey,” Dalton says, voice a little softer than the voice he uses when he’s Trevor. “You did great. Don’t be nervous.”

You don’t know how he knows you’re so lost in thought–probably the incessant bouncing of your left knee.

“Thanks,” you murmur in return, but you can’t meet his eyes. You’ve never been particularly good at taking compliments, even if they’re deserved.

“Alright, it’s class time!” Jeff interrupts with a clap of his hands. He’s notorious for his strict scheduling. “Wardrobe!”

You have two more scenes today and they somehow, miraculously, go just as well as the first. There’s no sign of Dieter, but you knew before you even got out of bed that he wasn’t 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.

You’re glad you have some time to prepare for it, because you know that no matter how hard you try, you’re going to be self-conscious around him. He’s not just attractive or charismatic or any of the other things you’ve come to view him as; he’s something of a role model. You want to impress him, but you also want to learn from him; and you really, really don’t 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, “untitled episode one” script in your lap. You’ve 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 today’s scenes went. You need him to be as impressed as Dalton was, because his opinion means more to you than anyone’s.

You also pay special attention to that particular scene because it’s going to be a real test of your abilities; looking up into that handsome face and remembering your lines the way you’re supposed to is going to be your crucible.

You check the time around midnight and decide it’s late enough; pushing yourself any further could just serve to undo the effort you’ve put in. A certain Instagram notification on the screen catches your eye: “@bravo69 started following you”. It’s Dieter’s 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, you’ve gotten under his skin the way he’s gotten under yours.

You’re trying so desperately not to get your hopes up, but it’s hard not to.

Cynthia in hair and makeup can tell you’re 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 you’re starting to transform into.

She gives you a look a lot like a reproachful mother might. “Are you really losing sleep over this? You were fantastic yesterday!”

There’s just something about her that makes you so comfortable–like she’s been a friend you’ve known for years rather than a coworker you only just met yesterday.

“Yeah, but what if it was a fluke and I do horrible today?”

She actually scoffs, like it’s the most impossible thing she’s ever heard, and her smile is so wonderfully disarming. “If you always think like that, you’re never gonna get a damned wink in your life.”

“I’ve never been very good at sleeping anyway,” you admit with a scornful little huff.

“Well, you’d better try your best. There’s only so much I can do for you.” She gives you a cartoon-worthy wink as she looks at you in the mirror, and it makes you loosen up considerably.

She’s right. You’re here, and confidence is key at this stage. If you act like the crew is taking some big chance on you because you’re a new talent, they’re going to see it that way too. If you act like you belong here, it’ll make the whole thing that much easier.

Fake it ‘til you make it, they say. You suppose whoever “they” are, they’re actually right in this situation.

Today’s 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; it’s eye roll worthy, but underneath the corniness of it there’s something kind of exciting about potentially being a sex symbol.

It’s the beginning of summer in the Midwest–at least on screen. In reality it’s late July, and it’s 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 property’s backyard shed.

Dalton is here, bare-chested and abs gleaming, draped over a poolside lounger. You’re directed into his arms, and the press of his skin is a little uncomfortable. You’ve never particularly liked being this close to strangers, especially when wearing so little, but there’s 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. 

Charlie’s best friend, Amara–played by none other than Kelsie Burton, an actress who’s been in just about every coming-of-age flick in the past five years–sits on the lounger next to yours. She’s drop dead gorgeous, with freckled pale skin and long, shiny black hair. She’s the archetype, and you feel like a complete foil in every way. You have to take a deep breath and remember that it’s not a competition–and even if it was, you’re technically winning.

The dialogue is a little awkward in this scene, but it’s 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 it’s 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 it’s on to the fun part–shooting some filler scenes of pool party revelry.

It’s easy to forget you’re not a fresh-faced teenager anymore like this. The three of you splash around in the water with your “classmates” and laugh and play games and have fun. It doesn’t feel like there’s cameras or crewmembers or anyone else around but you and your friends. And that’s really what they feel like–friends. Maybe they’re 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 can’t last forever though, and the scene wrap comes before you’re ready for it–partially because you’re enjoying yourself and don’t want it to end, but partially because you know what comes next. Dieter.

You’re 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.

You’re turning a corner on your way to wardrobe when you run smack into someone tall and sturdy. There’s 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 Dieter’s eyes drag over your soaking wet, bikini-clad form. You can’t help but let yourself do the same; this is the first time you’ve 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 sheriff’s 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. He’s a time capsule of a man, and he looks so fucking good.

“Is that what they’ve got you wearing for our scene?” 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.

“N-no,” you stumble over your own tongue. “I’m on my way to change right now.”

“Damn,” he mumbles–he actually sounds disappointed.

It’s been long enough, and his hands are still on your waist. They’re so warm, so big. You hate having your bare skin touched like this, but…  it’s nice. His hands are firm and strong and capable and you’re not thinking of him in a very fatherly capacity at all right now. He’s so close you can feel the heat radiating off of him, so close that you could just–

You don’t even realize you’ve 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 he’s had on you–if the smirk that takes over his face is any indication, at least.

“Orange is a good color on you,” he murmurs as his dark eyes give you one last once-over.

“R-really?” It’s never been a color you’ve 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 can’t be that deprived–he could have anyone he wanted at the blink of an eye.

“I’ll see you on set,” he vows. And then, just as quickly as he appeared, he’s gone.

It’s so fucking difficult to get a read on him that you feel like you’re 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 doesn’t sound nearly as convincing this time.

“Where have you been all night?” His voice is stern, commanding despite the softness to his tone. He sounds almost dangerous–exactly like a cop and a protective father should.

“At that end of the year pool party over at the Clevelands’, the one I told you about,” you answer easily, gently. You’re on thin ice, and you’re stepping lightly. “With Amara.”

“And Trevor.” There’s accusation in his voice–Charlie hasn’t told him about her relationship, but fathers always know. 

“He was there, yeah.”

“How many times have I told you I don’t want you around him?” Dieter looks up at you from where he’s 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 isn’t unwarranted–you’ve read the script in its entirety, you know every little facet of every single character. But Charlie doesn’t know what you know, so you have to take Dieter’s caution as nothing more than the helicopter parenting typical of a teenage girl’s single father.

“I’m an adult, dad,” you remind him. “I can make my own decisions, choose my own friends.”

“You’re still a little girl,” he murmurs. The fight’s gone from him–he looks now as if a long day of law enforcement has caught up to him all at once. “You always will be.”

It sparks the exact kind of anger within you that the script calls for, and most of it isn’t even fabricated. You don’t want him–Dieter, not Sheriff Herrera–to see you like that. What if that’s all this is now? What if he can’t see you as anything else but a child to him? Not that it matters. He’s off limits, you’ve reminded yourself of that a million times. What he thinks of you shouldn’t matter.

“You have to let me grow up eventually,” 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.

“That was perfect!” He tells you with a beaming smile on his face. “Keep that up and we’re gonna get ahead of schedule. Dieter, you were great too.”

“Not as great as them,” the older actor says with a nod of his head in your direction. “You’re a generous scene partner.”

“How so?” You’re still a little flushed, but you’re praying he can’t tell.

“You give off a lot of emotion,” he explains. “Gives me a lot to work with.”

“Oh.” You’ve really got to get better at taking compliments. Was that even a compliment?

You’re so far in your head that you don’t 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, “thanks, Dieter.”

He turns his head, looks at you over his shoulder, and fucking winks. “Anytime, honey.”

And then he leaves, like he didn’t 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 wasn’t off limits?

➔ beta: @futuraa-free, @ozarkthedog, @beskarandblasters, and @fhatbhabie (thank u so much my loves <3)

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[wannab-urs]

Scandal

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Prompt: Forced Proximity + “You’re going to get us arrested” / “I always wanted to see you in handcuffs.”

Summary: You get locked in a closet with Dieter at the Oscars

Warnings: semi public smut; forced proximity; reader has hair that can have bobby pins in it, is able bodied, is wearing a dress, and is an actress; the barest hint of enemies to lovers, but not really. WC: 1.6k

A/N: Written for a Dieter Bravo Brainrot Server event. Thanks to @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin, @atinylittlepain, and @pr0ximamidnight for reading it for me <3

Dieter Bravo Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi

You just need to take a breather, that’s all. The Oscars can be a lot for an actress with social anxiety – there’s a million directors, former costars, and producers all vying for a conversation with you, not to mention the cameras catching you from every angle. And to make matters worse, they’ve allowed paparazzi into the lobby this year. 

There’s a coat closet just down this hallway, if you can just remember which door it is. You walk down the ornate hallway and find a door cracked open just slightly, the smell of weed emanating from the gap. You push the door open and step in, closing it tightly behind you. And you should have known from the smell alone who you’d find on the other side. 

None other than Dieter Bravo. 

“Shouldn’t have closed the door.” 

“And you shouldn’t be smoking in here. You’re stinking up everyone’s coats.”

“No, you really shouldn’t have closed the door. We’re locked in now.” 

“What?” Your voice hits a high frequency. You do not want to be locked in a closet with this particular former costar. You try the door anyway and find that he’s telling the truth. 

“I told you.” 

“Fuck, Dieter. You could have warned me!”

He chooses not to respond, taking another hit of his joint instead. He holds his hand out in offering, but you shake your head. Being high and trapped sounds like a recipe for paranoid disaster. 

You slump to the floor, pouting, but grateful they gave you a dress you can actually move around in this year. Dieter sits cross legged across the closet from you. There are coats lining either side of the walls. 

His usually fluffy curls are slicked back and styled to perfection. His nasty green bathrobe and pajama pants have been replaced by a billowing white shirt and fitted black pants. He’s even wearing real shoes. He looks… good. And he’s surprisingly clear eyed for someone smoking an entire joint. 

“You look nice,” Dieter comments. You look down at your dress – the color was chosen specifically to contrast well with your skin tone. The cut shows just enough bust and highlights your body shape. It’s a good dress. 

“Thanks, Dee. I was just thinking the same about you.”

“Oh were you now?” 

You roll your eyes. “Not like that, Dieter. You just clean up nice, is all.”

“I’m not um…” he trails off. 

“Not on coke anymore? I can tell.”

You and Dieter had worked on a project together a couple years ago. It was in the height of his coke addiction and working with him had been an absolute nightmare. He’d show up for work absolutely out of his mind, having screaming matches with the director, the producers, you. And that was if he showed up at all. The project had never even made it to production, leaving you worried your career was ruined. You fucking hated Dieter Bravo. 

But you could never deny how adorable he is. 

“Yeah. Cleaned up. Went to rehab. The whole shebang.”

“That’s good, Dee. Really.” 

You let your head fall back against the door, exposing the line of your throat to possibly the world's horniest man.

“You look really good in that dress.”

“I’m not going to have sex with you.”

You peek an eye open and see Dieter is already halfway across the floor, crawling to you on his hands and knees. He’s pouting at you. 

“What else do we have to do right now?”

You sigh and try the door one more time for good measure, reaching up behind you and tugging on the door handle. Still locked tight. Dieter grins and crawls even closer, settling between your thighs. He reaches out and strokes his thumb across your cheek. You can’t help but lean into it. 

“Always thought you were so beautiful.”

“Sure, Dee,” you scoff 

“I did. I do. Can I kiss you?” 

“Sure, Dee,” you whisper breathlessly. 

He presses his lips to yours gently at first. His lips are soft and plush against yours and you can’t help but deepen the kiss. You open your mouth and his tongue meets yours, hot and wet. Arousal sweeps through you and you bury your hands in his gorgeous curls, holding him against you. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his lap. You gasp, causing the kiss to break as your core comes into contact with the hard line of his cock in his trousers. 

“So fucking beautiful,” Dieter mutters into your throat, pressing kisses down into your cleavage. 

He lays you flat on the floor and scoots back, settling on his belly in between your thighs and rucking your dress up to your hips. 

“Dieter, you’re going to get us arrested for public indecency.”

“First of all, I’ve always wanted to see you in handcuffs,” he presses a kiss to your left thigh. “And secondly, I don’t see anyone here to catch us,” he kisses your right thigh, higher up this time. 

He hooks his thumb in the gusset of your panties, stroking your already soaked folds. You moan as quietly as you can. 

“So wet for me, already.” 

You groan as he pulls your panties to the side and buries his face in your cunt. There’s no build up, he eats you like he’s ravenous, like he hasn’t eaten in days. His curved nose grinds into your clit as he laps at your hole. His tongue plunges inside you over and over and you can already feel your core tightening. He slips two fingers in to replace his tongue, drawing circles on your clit with the point of it now. You cry out, much louder than you mean to be, than you need to be. His left hand comes up to cover your mouth, his face now hovering above yours as he curls his fingers perfectly inside you. 

“Quiet now, love. Wouldn’t want to get arrested for public indecency.”

The bastard. He thrusts his fingers into you a few more times and you’re coming all over his hand. You bite down on his palm to keep from screaming. He draws his fingers out of you slowly and rights your panties for you. He sucks your come off his fingers like it’s cake batter, letting out a little moan of his own at the taste. 

The door handle jiggles and you both freeze. Just as the lock turns, Dieter grabs you and rolls you both under the lowest level of coats on the side of the closet. You’re on top of him, breathing heavily into his neck. Someone comes in, grabs their coat, and leaves the room, pulling the door closed behind them. 

Dieter goes to roll you both back out but you stop him. You press a kiss to his very exposed throat. 

“I love this shirt. Very Mr. Darcy.”

“It is romantic isn’t it?” 

You drag your lips down his throat to his chest, pressing a kiss to the lowest bit of exposed skin. Your hands find the clasp on his fancy black pants, but you can’t quite get them open.

“The one time you don’t wear easy access pants…” 

“Here, let me.”

You both fumble for a moment before the clasp finally comes open and his cock springs out. 

“No underwear?”

“The lines were showing too bad.”

“Mmhmm,” you quirk an eyebrow at him. 

You wrap his cock in your hand. It’s long, curved a little, and not terribly thick. 

“Pretty,” you mutter before taking the tip in your mouth. He gasps as you suck him down. You swirl your tongue around his head, then flatten it out and let him fill your mouth. He hits the back of your throat and you suppress a cough, pushing him further down. His hands flutter into your hair as you start bobbing your head, sucking him down over and over again. He doesn’t push or pull you, simply rests his hands on the back of your head. 

You pull off him and lick a stripe up the seam of his balls as you stroke his cock. You suck one into your mouth, rolling it gently on your tongue, then switch to the other. 

“I’m gonna–”

You take his cock down your throat again, wanting to swallow his cum. You suck hard on the tip and then drop your lips down to the base as he comes in your mouth. His hips stutter beneath you and he groans. 

You let his softening cock fall out of your mouth and press a kiss to his hip bone. He strokes the back of your head reverently. 

“We should get cleaned up,” you whisper, your voice rough. 

Dieter sighs, but helps you get back to your feet. You take in his rumpled appearance and know you can’t look much better. His chest is covered in lipstick, as is his face. His hair is an absolute mess. His outfit is askew and wrinkled to hell. 

You help him fix his outfit, rub the lipstick off his skin, and finger comb his hair back into some semblance of a style. He pulls bobby pins out of your hair and stows them in his pockets, letting your hair down from the hours of work the stylist did. He smooths out your dress as best as he can. 

“We look…”

“Like we just fucked on the floor of a closet?”

“Yeah.”

He takes a bobby pin from his pocket and picks the lock on the door. 

“You could have done that the whole time?” 

Dieter doesn’t answer. He stands and takes your hand in his and pulls the door open. You’re immediately inundated with camera flashes. The paparazzi have found you. Your agent is going to kill you. 

“I fucking hate you,” you halfheartedly fuss at Dieter. This scandal will be fun to deal with... 

[covetyou]

best in show

ao3 ⋆ masterlist

pairing: Dieter Bravo x f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: dual narrative, masturbation (m), voyuerism, drug reference (our boy is sober but struggling), subby Dieter, slight humiliation kink, very brief mentions of other sex acts (anal play, PIV, cum play), reader talks Dieter through a very nervy wank. word count: 3.7k summary: The Academy Awards, the most well known, well planned, film award ceremony in the world. So why is the host missing?

A/N: @agentjackdaniels happy holidays from your space sisters secret santa! sorry if this is a bit early for you - it's the 20th in my time zone, I promise! I went the route of award show!Dieter with a twist. Welcome to the Oscars, with your eccentric host - Dieter Bravo.

the suits mentioned are from SNL (blue, we're ignoring the yellow pants), the late late show (pink) and the tonight show (green).

dividers by @saradika-graphics follow @covetedfics and turn notifications on for updates on future fics

"Bravo, you're up."

You rap your knuckles against the door again, hoping against hope that he just hasn't heard you and he isn't coked up out of his mind.

"Bravo!" you shout, knocking harder this time, as a voice blares through your in-ear. Fifteen minutes until showtime and the host is still nowhere to be seen. And it is your fault. You'd drawn the short straw and had been tasked with being his handler for the night, keeping him out of mischief and on time. Currently, it looked like you were failing at both.

"Right, I'm coming in!" You cannot be dealing with this shit. You're not paid enough.

You open the door, poking your head around to see if he's inside the dressing room, like he should be, only to find it completely empty. Stepping inside and closing the door behind you, you take in a deep breath and put your hands on your hips. Fuck. Whoever's idea to put Dieter-fucking-Bravo as the host for this years Oscars really needed a kick up the ass, and you'd be first in line to do it.

The room looks tidier than you expected. There's not an obvious illicit substance in sight. Sparkling water sits on the vanity, along with make up and haircare products. You didn't even know where his stylist is, but it was nice to know she'd at least been here. His clothes are still neatly lined on a rail - the first hanger is empty and you assume that's a good sign. It's got to be, right?

Except, Dieter Bravo is still nowhere to be found, and you've ran out of places to look for him.

The only conundrum is all the lights are still on. He'd left the room in such a hurry that he hadn't bothered to switch them off, and yet no one had reported him frantically dashing out in a drug fueled mania.

Even the bathroom light is on. And the door is ajar. You think it won't hurt to check inside, or at least turn the light off. A place like this burned through electricity like nobodies business, but your compulsion to turn off unused lights wins out and you're heading toward the bathroom on auto-pilot.

You only hear the whimper when you're already pushing the door open, and by then it's too late to stop.

That's how you find yourself stood in the doorway, watching as Dieter Bravo furiously jerks his cock with his eyes slammed closed and his head thrown back. You could back out, you should, but instead you stare transfixed as his fist moves over himself, so lost in it all that you don't even think he's noticed you standing there. You really should go before he notices.

Making a quiet retreat you -

"Stay."

Your eyes snap to his. He's looking at you now. His hand has stilled, squeezing himself tight, and you frown. You shouldn't. You shouldn't have even come in, and you definitely should not be seeing this, and you even more certainly must not be considering his offer.

"If you want. Please."

The nod of your head is so small it's practically imperceptible, but he sees it and groans deeply, resuming his strokes on his cock. It's framed in vibrant blue, and you're reminded how he wouldn't even be here if he didn't have that suit. One of the conditions he'd made on hosting was he would get to have a "more exciting" wardrobe, and the green, pink, and blue you'd seen wheeled in on his rail earlier today certainly lived up to that.

It looks good on him. He looks good. Fuck. You really should go, why did you nod your head.

You watch him swipe pre-cum from his head and draw it down his cock. He looks painfully stiff, and you wonder how long he's been at it, if this is the first time today or if he's been jerking himself every opportunity. Either way, you're mesmerized, watching as his large fist draws up and back down his length. You should do something - go, say something, tell him to stop, join in.

Instead, you just stand there, gaping at it like a fucking idiot. Why is your mouth watering.

"Please I-"

"You don't have long," you interrupt.

"I know, I know, I just - I can't -" he pants, looking at you with desperation.

"You can't what?"

"Come. I can't come."

You hold back a laugh. From what you'd heard about Dieter Bravo, that was not a problem he seemed to have very often. You don't hold it back well enough though, and a small sound escapes you, triggering a shudder that you watch run down his back.

"Oh god."

"Did you -?" like me laughing at you, you cut yourself off.

You lean against the doorframe, attempting nonchalance as Dieter tugs on his cock, watching you as you watch him.

You dismissed him earlier, regarding him with indifference and not ever really looking at him. But, appearances alone tell you he's changed. No longer is there a sunken look to his face from too many nights spent out of his mind. He looks healthy, healthier than you've ever seen him, but he looks scared. Frightened, borderline terrified even. You know the only thing standing between him and pure panic is his stiff cock in his hand.

It's probably why he can't come, but is equally desperate to. And if he liked you laughing, well, maybe you could give him a hand without actually giving him a hand.

"If you don't come soon, they're gonna catch you."

He groans, and his strokes slow, becoming more deliberate and focussed as you talk to him.

"Do you want that? Do you want to be caught with your dick in your hand?"

"F-no. No, I don't."

"Then you've gotta be quick and come."

He nods his head frantically, then looks down at his cock here it lays heavy in his hand. He spits, gliding the saliva across his length.

"If you're not careful you're gonna make a mess all over yourself."

"Fuck, don't stop. Please don't stop."

Five minutes - has anyone got eyes on Bravo.

The stage managers voice blares through your in-ear so loudly that you know Dieter has heard it. You purposefully hold the button on your mic as you watch him, making him pinch his lips shut to hold back his moan.

"I've found him," you say into your headset, releasing the button. Let it be known you are not bad at your job, and if anyone was going to find him first it would be you.

"Didn't say you could stop. You still need to come."

"I do, I do, I need to - "

You're holding down the button on your headset again, and he audibly groans this time.

"He's in the bathroom."

When you release the button for the final time, you raise an eyebrow at him. His breaths are coming in ragged and heavy, his eyebrows pinched together as his eyes threaten to flutter closed. You're no expert, but you can tell he's close, and by the movement of his hand you can tell he's still struggling to get there.

"Look at me."

Dieter looks up, pleading with his sad, pathetic eyes. You'd be lying if you said all of this wasn't turning you on. If it hadn't turned your legs to jelly and you weren't grateful for the sturdy doorframe propping you up. If your panties weren't soaked through and your core wasn't throbbing just from watching and speaking. If you weren't desperate to take him in your hand, bend yourself over the sink in front of him, anything.

But there was no time.

With four minutes to go, you do the only thing you can.

"Come, Dieter."

He's due on stage soon. He knows he is. That very thing is the reason why he shouldn't be doing this, but the very same reason why he's doing it in the first place. He needs it, something, anything, to take his mind off of it all and to take the edge off. Six months of sobriety and too many people to keep him accountable meant he couldn't - wouldn't - turn to his usual vices, so this would have to do.

He's struggling. Any other day and he would've come already, maybe to the thought of some gloriously plush tits, painting golden tan lines with his cum. Or a tongue swirling expertly around his asshole. Or the grip of something warm and wet and hot around his cock that wasn't his own fist. But today, nothing is working.

The bang on his dressing room door startles him, not only making his whole body twitch, but his dick too.

And then comes your voice, muffled but so obviously you even through two doors.

"Bravo, you're up."

Shit. He's gotta finish fast, he can't go out here like this, and he can't go out there with nothing to relieve the panic coursing through his veins. And then his mind flicks back to earlier in the day, meeting you and shaking your hand. Your hands had been soft, and you'd smelled fresh and clean. It calmed him. But then you'd listed off everything you needed him to do and told him and his team to get to it with a sharp click of your fingers before stalking off. His cock twitches again, and suddenly he has exactly the fuel he needs to get himself off.

He begins moving his hand again, stroking his balls gently in the other. You've probably gone away, stalked off with your ass jiggling in your pants just like earlier. He grunts, closing his eyes to savor the image. You'd looked good. He can remember the clip of your sensible heels on the floor now. Fuck, he'd let you step on him with those shoes given the chance.

"Bravo!" Another knock on the door and another sigh. If you stay there knocking long enough, it'll get him off. He just knows it.

"Right, I'm coming in."

He knows he should panic. Knows he should stop, tuck his cock away, pretend he was just using the bathroom and washing his hands. But he doesn't. The threat of being caught, by you, spurs him on. If only he could get closer and just fucking come already.

The door of his dressing room opens, and Dieter has to bite back a moan. When the door closes again, he has to fight back disappointment until he hears your footsteps just outside the bathroom. He never fully closed the door, and there's no time to shut it now. He's so close.

"Oh fuck," he whispers, looking down at his weeping cock where it's gripped in his hand. It's rock solid, flushed tip oozing pre-cum that trickles from his slit and coats his fingers with every jerk of his fist.

Time drags on as he hears you walk around, looking for him. And then your footsteps approach the door and he can't help but whimper at the idea of you catching him with his cock in his hand.

His eyes slam shut, his head tilting back as he bites back a louder moan. He doesn't hear the door open, but feels the air shift, blowing a cool breeze over him that makes his dick throb in his hand. If the blood wasn't pounding out of his head so hard he would have heard your small intake of breath as you took him in.

He really should stop. But he doesn't.

And when you go to leave, he really should let you go, but he doesn't do that either.

"Stay."

You're beautiful, in a way that you wouldn't even recognize in yourself, but fuck are you beautiful. Even when you frown at him, eyebrows pinching together, you're beautiful.

"If you want. Please."

Dieter Bravo is not a begging man. Outside of the bedroom. Or the bathroom. Or anywhere else where his dick can get involved really. He didn't beg for this job, they'd approached him. He tried to make himself into such a diva that they'd retract their offer, but his agent was determined for him to take it and for once get some good PR under his belt. The promise of good PR did nothing to stop his nerves.

When your head does the tiniest of nods he feels like he could cry. Knowing that you're watching him - and, fuck, how attentively you're watching him - his balls draw tight, threatening to spill themselves before backing off. It's still not enough. Why the fuck is it still not enough.

"Please I-"

"You don't have long."

Your voice. It's like it's just been drizzled over his brain and is melting him from the inside out, turning his body to goo.

"I know, I know, I just - I can't -" he pants, looking at you with desperation. He doesn't want to admit it, but he knows it's painfully obvious that he can't come if his life depended on it. And it practically does - if he didn't come and get out there as soon as possible, his career would very likely be over. He can see the headlines now - BRAVO ABANDONS OSCARS IN COKE FUELED FRENZY. If he still did coke, he wouldn't be having this problem.

"You can't what?"

"Come. I can't come."

He knows you try not to, but he hears your laugh. It's small, but coming from you, directed at him, it does things to him he didn't expect. He lurches forward as his whole body shudders.

"Oh god."

He squeezes his eyes shut again, hoping that this'll finally be it, finally be the thing that sends him over the edge.

"Did you -?"

He didn't come, that much should be obvious, he thinks. But then he's looking at you again and gets lost in your eyes as you watch him with such nonchalance that it makes him ache down to his bones.

"If you don't come soon, they're gonna catch you."

He groans, desperate strokes becoming slow and more deliberate as he listens to your voice. If you just keep talking to him he'll get there, and this will all be over and he can get out there and do his damn job.

"Do you want that? Do you want to be caught with your dick in your hand?"

"F-no. No, I don't." Liar.

"Then you've gotta be quick and come."

He nods his head frantically, and spits down onto his cock, watching as his hand glides up and down. He imagines it's your hand for a moment, smaller more delicate fingers pulling at his cock, smoothly moving back and forth in an attempt to get him off.

"If you're not careful you're gonna make a mess all over yourself."

Dieter doesn't give a shit about that right now. Just a little longer and he'll be there, he knows it. He just needs you to keep going.

"Fuck, don't stop. Please don't stop."

Five minutes - has anyone got eyes on Bravo.

It's muffled, but he can hear the words clear as day through your in-ear. The stage manager sounds pissed, and the devilish look in your eye as you reach to press the button to respond has him biting back a moan and stilling his hand on his cock.

"I've found him."

He lets out a shaky breath when you finally release the button again, his cock feeling red hot and angry in his hand.

"Didn't say you could stop. You still need to come."

Looking to you, he starts jerking his cock again and nods. "I do, I do, I need to - "

And then you're pressing down the button to speak into your headset again and he's groaning before you even speak.

"He's in the bathroom."

He doesn't give a shit if they heard. His knees feel weak and his eyes are ready to clamp closed, but he can't resist staring at you and that cocky look on your face as you release the button again. Your eyebrow quirks at him and he knows in that moment he'd get on his knees and beg you for something, anything, if only he had the time.

"Look at me."

Dieter looks up, feeling the desperation roll off himself in waves. He wonders if you can feel it, and if any of this is having any affect on you at all. Fuck, he hopes it is. He's going to come. He's really, actually, going to come.

Time's ticking, he knows it is, and his balls are getting tight and tighter again, he can feel them pulling up but he still can't -

"Come, Dieter."

And his vision goes white as he explodes in his palm.

You're staring at him. He can't believe he just did that and you can't believe you stayed to watch. And you talked him through it.

More specifically, you're staring at the cum splashed all over his shirt and how it's slowly but steadily trickling down the fabric. He's lucky he opened his jacket before pulling his cock out, or the whole outfit would be ruined. Dieter is so blissed out that he doesn't even notice, softening cock still in his hand and eyes still closed.

Until rapidly cooling cum drips onto the back of his hand and he's opening his eyes, looking down to the crime scene splattered across his shirt.

"Fuck."

The panic in his voice is obvious. People will be bursting in to collect him any moment, and there's one hell of a mess to clean up. But, you're a problem solver by nature, it's why you're so good at your job.

"Take it off!" you tell him, snapping out of your cock induced trance and gesturing to the ruined shirt.

"What? I didn't think there was time to-"

"I'm not fucking you right now," you hiss. "You've got two minutes, take it off, I'll grab another. You've got other outfits, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah the shirt with the pink suit should work. My stylist is gonna fucking kill me - wait did you say right now - "

He's alone in the bathroom, tucking his dick away, throwing his jacket aside and peeling the soiled shirt from his shoulders before you can answer. Usually he hides the evidence, but there's not time to stash the extra shirt anywhere when there's another sudden knock on the door. The best he can do is throw his jacket back on over his bare shoulders so at least he's not seen to be topless and alone with you as he steps into his dressing room.

The door swings open just as you reach for the hanger of the pink suit, stopping you in your tracks.

"Dee. They're looking for you," his stylist walks in, looking at her phone. She spots you first, before flicking her eyes to Dieter and pointing in confusion. "Oh, hi. Where's your shirt?"

He shrugs, shoulders rising high as you stare at the exposed section of his chest now on full display beneath his jacket. "Changed my mind about it. Looks good enough like this, right?" He checks himself out in the mirror and adjusts his hair a fraction as if nothing untoward had just happened.

You're starting to understand how he won his own Oscar all those years ago.

His stylist seems to be just as eccentric as he is, and is thrilled by the choice to go shirtless. You're not sure your boss will be, but before you can offer a different shirt, Dieter is being whisked away by the production crew, all with confused looks on their faces as they take in his outfit. Dieter takes one last look back at you, mouthing a quick thank you as he's dragged off to begin the show.

The 96th Academy Awards go off without a hitch. You're already hearing reports from online that Dieter Bravo is a hit, his opening outfit being lauded as unique and a breath of fresh air for a sometimes stuffy and overly serious award ceremony. You watch him out of the corner of your eye through two costume changes - both times watching as he leaves wearing a shirt under each of his bold colored jackets.

It's a chaotic, well oiled machine, and by the time all is said and done and after parties are in full swing, you're winding down and saying thank yous and goodnight to the crew who made it all happen. One last sweep of the dressing rooms and you'll be on your way home too.

Empty, empty, empty. And then you're opening the door to Dieter's dressing room, ready to flick the light off and put the building to bed.

Except, Dieter Bravo is there, a vision in deep emerald green, holding the messed shirt from earlier in the evening in one hand and scribbling a note onto the back of a small card with the other. He sees you enter, and looks as stunned to see you as you are to see him.

"No after party?"

He looks sheepish, almost embarrassed when he answers.

"Not any more."

Admittedly, it was perhaps a stupid question to ask a recovering addict. "Oh."

You both awkwardly stand for a moment, Dieter keeping his eyes locked on the card in his hand before he's walking toward you and shoving it in front of you. You take it just as he edges past you out of the dressing room.

There's a note addressed to you and a number, scribbled hastily in Dieter's messy handwriting.

"I didn't want to be too forward, I know these things are..." he trails off with a wave of his hand. "Was just gonna leave that here and leave it up to you."

I owe you my life. Let me take you for coffee. Call me? D x

Looking up from the note, you can see him hesitantly make an exit. Calling after him, he stops in his tracks, spinning on his heel to look at you with more hope than you expect he intended.

"I'm just about to close up, if you wanted to go grab that coffee?"

And so, at 11pm on the night of the 96th Academy Awards, you find yourself in an empty diner, drinking bad coffee with Dieter-fucking-Bravo.

taglist: @jupiter-soups @wannab-urs @bean-is-reading @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @youandmeand5bucks-blog @bbyanarchist @vickywallace @kamcrazy123 @valkyreally @ashhlsstuff @a-literal-goblin @ariundercovers @iluvurfather @stevie75 @toxicanonymity @thesevi0lentdelights @sp00kymulderr

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[beskarandblasters]

This is the Way…. To Your Pussy

Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

Main Masterlist | Dieter Bravo Masterlist

Summary: Dieter happens to know someone in the costume department of The Mandalorian who hooks you up with a special surprise…

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: porn with little plot, established relationship, role play, restraints, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, pet names (mesh’la, baby), no use of y/n

Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics Fic recs: @kelbellsficrecs

You’re sitting on the couch with your boyfriend, Dieter, watching the newest episode of The Mandalorian. The third season is close to wrapping up and you’ve come to a certain realization… You’re head over heels for Din Djarin. 

You’re pretty sure Dieter’s realized you have this little crush, too. 

“Baby, are you sure you’re not attracted to Mando?” he would ask you, at the end of every episode each week. 

“I’m sure!” you’d lie, wanting to spare his feelings. 

But in this particular episode, you can’t hide your attraction. Din’s just been captured by Moff Gideon and he’s on his knees. Your jaw is on the floor. 

Dieter looks over at you and notices the expression on your face, shouting, “I knew it! I knew you were attracted to him!”

You close your mouth and look at him, taking note of the devious expression on his face. You were worried he’d be jealous or angry even. But instead, he looks… gleeful. 

“Fine! He’s hot… Are you mad?”

“Mad?? Why would I be mad?”

“I don’t know! Maybe jealous is the right word?”

“Not jealous. Not mad, baby.”

“Then what are you?”

“Interested.”

“…Interested?”

“Mhm,” he says, returning to his comfortable position on the couch. 

He says nothing more and you’re left to wonder what he meant by that. 

-

In fact, Dieter doesn’t bring up again all week. You figured he would poke fun at your little crush but he doesn’t. You’ve even made some out-of-pocket comments about Din to bait him into saying something but he doesn’t bite. 

It isn’t until the night before the season three finale of The Mandalorian that Dieter finally says something about it. You’re about to get ready for bed, standing at the bathroom sink brushing your teeth. 

“Baby, I have a surprise for you,” Dieter says, poking his head into the bathroom through the doorway. 

“…Oh boy.”

“It’s not a bad surprise! Just stay here, okay?”

“…Okay,” you respond, watching as he reaches for the doorknob and closes the bathroom door. 

You blink a few times, staring at yourself in the mirror and wondering what he could possibly be up to now. Sounds of him struggling come from the bedroom followed by a few curse words.

“Dee? You good?”

“Just stay in there! I’m not done yet!”

“Alright, alright,” you sigh. 

After what feels like forever you hear him quietly say, “Okay, you can come out now…”

Something is making his voice sound muffled.

You slowly open the door and find Dieter, standing with his hands on his hips. Except he’s not wearing his normal pajama pants, fuzzy green robe, and Crocs combo. He’s wearing the Mandalorian suit. Your jaw falls to the floor, much like it did when you watched Din Djarin fall to his knees when he was captured. 

“Dieter… Where did you get this?” you ask, taking a step closer to him and running your hand along the breastplate. He fills out the suit so well. 

“Uhh, I called in a few favors.”

“To who??”

“I know someone in the Mandalorian costume department…”

“And they lent it to you?”

“I may have had to tell a little lie.”

“Oh God.”

“I said I needed it for my nephew’s birthday party.”

“Oh my fucking God…”

“Yeahhh, I know. But I did it for you!”

“Can we bet on how long you’ll keep the helmet on for?”

“Ooh, good idea.”

“Ten minutes.”

“Ouch. I’ll say twenty.”

“You’re on!”

“Okay cool. Now get naked.”

“Nooo, you gotta say it how he would.”

“Get undressed for me… baby?”

“Mesh’la.”

“Mesh’la?”

“It means beautiful.”

“Damn, maybe the Mandalorians do have game,” he chuckles. 

You pull off your sleep shirt and kick off your pajama bottoms, standing in front of him naked while you wait for your next command. He reaches around his belt and under the cape for something. You can only imagine what else he has planned. But you couldn’t have guessed anyway.

It’s a pair of pink, fluffy, handcuffs. 

“You’re joking,”

“Sorry, baby– Fuck I mean, mesh’la, I couldn’t get the Star Wars ones.”

“You got the suit. That’s all that matters,” you reassure him. 

“Turn around,” he commands.

You face the bed and he grabs your wrists, locking the pink handcuffs around them. He pulls you into him so your back is against his chest, and whispers in your ear.

“This is the way… to your pussy,” he says, only half-joking.

“Don’t even,” you snort.

“Okay, okay. Let me think of a scenario… Looks like I have to bring you in,” he says, tugging on the cuffs.

“Please, Mando. Don’t turn me in. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?” he says.

“Anything.”

“Bend over.”

You do as you’re told, bending over the bed and arching your back. 

“Good girl, mesh’la,” he says, pressing his bulge against your ass. 

He steps back for a second to take his cock out of the suit, tugging off his glove before stroking himself. Pre-cum built up at his tip spreads down his shaft. But he lifts the helmet briefly to spit in his hand and slick his cock even more. 

One hand grips your shoulder and the other holds your waist, keeping you still as he thrusts himself inside you. You moan, feeling his cock stretch your walls while he buries himself in your cunt. 

“Fuck, Dee,” you moan, forgetting the roleplay for a second.

“Mando’s got ya, mesh’la,” he says, playfully correcting you. 

“You feel so good,” you breathe out.

“That’s right. Let me fuck this little pussy and I’ll let you go.”

He draws his hips back and slams into you, keeping a steady pace. Your bedroom fills with the wet sounds of Dieter’s cock sliding in and out of you. You’re so turned on and still in disbelief at his surprise. It’s hard to believe this is your Dieter fucking you like this, getting dominant for once. 

But you also wish you could look directly into the helmet's visor, too. 

“Mando…” you whine.

“What is it, mesh’la?”

“I want… I want to look at you.”

“How cute. Cum for me once and I’ll let you out of these cuffs. Can you do that for me?” he says, thrusting into you harder.

You go to respond but a whimper forces its way out instead. His pace quickens and his cock hits the most perfect angles inside you. You grow wetter and your core tightens up in anticipation of release.

“Already gonna cum for me?” he teases, squeezing your waist. 

“Fuck… Yes, Mando. I’m so close.”

“Cum all over my cock, mesh’la,” he says. You can tell by his voice he’s wearing a smug smirk under the helmet.

With one last thrust, you cum around his cock, knees buckling underneath you. He sighs as your walls clench around him, fucking you through your high. 

“Good girl,” he praises, slowing to a stop as you finish. He reaches for the cuffs and unlocks them, pulling his cock out of you and flipping you over on the bed. You inch up on the bed and spread your thighs, letting him get situated between your legs. 

He hovers above you, visor staring directly at you. Having him tower over you like this turns you on even more. He takes your hands and pins them above your head. He slides his cock inside you but this time, he takes his gloveless hand and rubs his thumb over your clit. 

“Fuck,” you moan.

“Mando’s taking care of you, baby,” he says, slowly thrusting in and out of you. He cocks his helmet to the side and watches as you writhe underneath him. He picks up his pace and swirls his thumb faster around your clit. Your orgasm is nearing again, somehow even quicker than before. 

“Already?” he teases.

“It’s so good,” you whimper, your entire body tingling at this point.

“Cum for me,” he commands again. 

Your orgasm spills over again, waves of pleasure washing over you. You were sure he would cum by now, feeling your second orgasm around his cock. But he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps thrusting in and out of you slowly, holding onto his release. 

Once your orgasm is finished, he lets go of your hands and removes his thumb from your clit. He reaches for the helmet and takes it off, setting it on the bed beside you. And this is when he pounds you like crazy. Matted curls fall onto his forehead as he rails you, hands planted by either side of your head. He’s got a wild look in his eye and his forehead is slick with sweat. 

“Fuck baby, you take my cock so good,” he moans. His voice is higher pitched like he’s desperate for his own orgasm now. He climaxes inside you, painting your insides with his cum. His eyes are closed and his head is thrown back in pleasure. He keeps himself balls deep until he’s done, pulling out of you and collapsing on the bed inside you. He pants as he catches his breath.

“Was it hot under there?”

“A little… But anything for you.”

“Aw, you’re sweet,” you say, rolling over on your side. 

“Told ya I’d keep it on longer than ten minutes,” he teases.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever…,” you roll your eyes, “Maybe you should get the suit again sometime… Or look into getting your own.”

“Let’s get our own… And the Star Wars handcuffs.”

“Oh, for sure.”

“Maybe next time Mando isn’t gonna let you go.”

“Oh yeah? Maybe he shouldn’t.”

His mind short circuits for a second before he jumps up and says, “I’m gonna go order those cuffs.”

You can’t help but laugh. 

[chronically-ghosted]

stay gold, baby boy

rating: 18+ (expliiiiicit)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: almost 6K

summary: six months into your friends-with-benefits situation, you institute a new game. A gold star on the board every time Dieter is a good boy. Today, he gets bingo . . . for wearing real pants. 

warnings: friends with benefits (with more feelings), oral (m receiving), dom/sub dynamics (guess who subs today!), talks of edging, hair pulling, creampie, piv sex, praise kink, my mother raised me to have better taste in men but fuck it

a/n: remember when i posted this picture? And then this one? Remember how you could hear me yelling from space? Well, @sp00kymulderr has added fuel to the fire – Dieter and stickers. I can’t explain myself except that I was horny and I wanted to take his pants off with my teeth. So I did. 

✨gif credit goes to the ever incredible, talented, and enabler of my dieter fantasies @perotovar! she saw me floundering with the header and immediately was like 'hold please i can make his baby cow eyes even better'✨

🤍Masterlist

With your foot on the low table, your ass firmly planted on the middle poofy cushion of the dumpster bin couch at the back of the trailer, thumbnail nibbled between your teeth, you have to admit it’s starting to get a little embarrassing. It’s honestly such a bad look.

Not that he would ever shame you for it. In fact, he’d probably like it. 

And it’s not like you waited for him here all day. You had things to do as one of the co-screenwriters on this film. You had things to do and people to see and stuff to organize – all of which had nothing to do with Dieter fucking Bravo.

Okay, so a lot of it actually had to do with him. Lots of scene rewrites, lots of notes from the studio, lots of instances where the two of you had to put your heads together and come up with a solution that made the studio happy and didn’t make you want to claw your eyes out artistically speaking. 

Which had led to this. 

And the past six months of whatever this is. Working together led to seeing each other (outside of work), to eating with each other, to fucking each other – with the line firmly drawn there. 

Whatever you may say about Dieter, the man could compartmentalize in a way that would make Marie Kondo weep with joy. By the way he treated you on set, no one in their right mind would ever have guessed he knew what you looked like naked. Or that he knew your left nostril twitched just before you came.

The same could be said for you too. Out of boredom one morning in the grocery store, you bought a trashy magazine with his face emblazoned across the top – Dieter Bravo and His Lonely Hearts Club. You weren’t one for the gossip rags, but flipping through it, not a single one of his “club members” mentioned his raging praise kink. You bought the damn thing on the spot, giving them all a consolation prize of some sort. Sorry, ladies, guess I win. Ha. Ha.

But, at the edge of the cushion, eyes occasionally flicking between the door and the failing darkness outside, you didn’t feel much like you’d won anything. 

In fact, you’d lost. Big time. When all of this had been your stupid idea in the first place. 

It had been your idea (and your initiative) to buy a packet of gold star stickers. Like the kind teachers use with their first graders. Actually, exactly like the ones teachers use for their first graders. You couldn’t form words when the woman at the education supply store ringing you up asked, “oh, what grade do you teach?”. You just tossed a twenty at her and booked it, your face painfully hot for a fairly innocuous purchase. 

But all of that was his fault for dropping a praise kink and a teacher kink on you all at once the night after you jokingly spanked him with a ruler in front of the director, in-front of his co-star, because he wouldn’t agree to a line change, and he had to excuse himself from the room. 

A month later and he forgoes touching himself for a gold star. He agrees to your line changes without argument for a gold star. He picks you up in the morning and drives you home at night for a gold star (you could drive yourself, but there’s always that last minute thing you need to talk to him about so you do it just because it’s easier, really).

He lets you come, over and over again, and keeps nothing for himself – all for a gold star. 

Someone is bound to figure it out. They have to. Six months in and you’re getting sloppy. Obvious. What the fuck would you be doing in his trailer at seven o’clock at night after a full day of shooting unless you’re fucking him? 

But you, worryingly, can’t find it in you to care. 

You had lost your mind, that’s what you lost. Because tonight is the night Dieter gets his final gold star. It’s his reward but you’re about to vibrate out of your skin with want. 

(It didn’t matter that you hadn’t seen each other in two weeks and by the third day, an ache had settled in behind your breastbone, one that clutched your phone in your hand, and forced your eyes to the screen every minute, checking for a new text message. 

He called on day five, by the way.)

Your neck snaps up when you hear voices outside of the trailer. Laughter, his. 

You suddenly feel the need to flatline against the floor in case anyone might see you.

Fuck, and how are you supposed to explain yourself if the someone he is with follows him into the trailer? Too many frightfully bad scenarios and you’re rooted to the floor, unable to make a single decision. 

The metal latch clinks and his trailer door swings wide open.

“Yeah, man, I’ll catch you tomorrow.” 

You can hear a deep, “see ya” from the other side (maybe Daryl from craft services?) and the scrap-metal trailer squeaks, as the lock clicks shut. 

Dieter scratches his cheek, surveying the trailer as if some part of him knows something is different, but his conscious mind can’t figure it out. 

Until he turns. And nearly leaps out of his skin.

“Fuckin’ – what are you doing in here? Wait – I thought you left town to scope out the new location in San Diego.”

You want to answer him. You know how – open your mouth and tell him the trip’s been delayed for a few days, nothing serious, timeline bullshit – but you can’t. 

It’s officially embarrassing.

It’s embarrassing how turned on by Dieter Bravo you are.  

Hair in all kinds of directions, skinny cloth bracelet loose around his wrist, he had pushed up the sleeves of his henley shirt, exposing the thickly drawn triangle over his forearm and the clear one near his wrist. His hand with the rings hangs by his side and something inside of you silently whines. 

But what really sets you off, what really makes this embarrassing and terrible because there’s no bluffing here, no hiding your cards and folding – nothing you can do to keep spit from flooding your mouth the longer you look –

He’s wearing pants. 

Black with loose belt loops. Zipper and all. A silver button sitting between his hips. Fuck. Just like you told him to. Fuck fuckfuck.

You’re briefly aware when he says your name and you have to make a physical effort to tear your eyes away from that glinting silver eye winking up at you.

Dieter’s frowning, knowing silence isn’t really your thing. 

“Are you okay? Why are you –,”

As though it had called his name, his gaze drifts from your face to the table between you and him. Where his scorecard rests with four stars in the Good column, and shockingly, none in the Bad.   

His mouth parts, eyes going dark, as the realization hits him like a mack truck.

“Delays,” you say suddenly, preemptively, knowing that normal people usually have some sort of preamble before tearing each other’s clothes off. You stand up a bit straighter, tilt your jaw away from him, gaze leveling him from the end of your nose. You have got to get this thing under control. “Frank ran into some scheduling issues with the boat for the lake scene so, until further notice, the trip to San Diego has been delayed.” 

He blinks slowly as if he’d been struck over the back of the heat, mouth parted. He has such fucking gorgeous, fucking perfect lips –

“So you’re here?” he asks, his voice low, disbelieving. 

You scoop up the scorecard and step over the table, your shoes long since gone. It’s like his vision narrows the closer you come; he is transfixed, gaze on you as if molded at the seams, as you step up to him. You tap him on the chest once with the corner of the scorecard, excitement and nerves and that ache making you tremble despite your confident appearance. 

“So I’m here.” 

“On the last day of the week.” Words thick, as if all the moisture had been sucked out of his mouth.

“On the last day of the week.”

“When I,” he swallows thickly, “when I should get my reward.” 

God, this kind of power trip should not be making you this wet. 

You lift your gaze from his chest, taking in his beautifully dumb-struck face. 

“You will.” You nod. “And do you know why?”

His breath quickens, lip between his teeth, when you scratch off the final star from the package and stick it to the Good column. 

“Because I was a good boy?” 

You toss the scorecard behind you, it clatters onto the table, and you cup the back of his hot neck.

“Because you were a very good boy.” 

He stumbles back, knees unsteady, when you kiss him. You see his eyes a split second before you close yours and hot electricity swoops down to the pit of your stomach. It would be mortifying if you just fucked him right here and now – he does deserve something extra special – but fuck – you want his whole hand inside of you.

His warm palm slides across your jaw, pulling you into him, and Dieter breathes, deep and long, inhaling as much as he can. You don’t think he realizes that he’s picked you up off the ground with his arm around your back until he opens his eyes, vision hazy and off-center. 

“Go lock the door, baby.” 

He nods and puts you back down. You slip off your jacket as he bolts the trailer door shut.

Dieter’s mouth drops open when he turns around and sees you on your knees.

Shit, you should have stolen some knee pads from the costume department. 

“Really?” 

You smile at him because he asks like a kid that just got offered a puppy for Christmas. You reach towards him and he takes your hand, unsteady on weak knees

“For as long and as much as you want.”  

You palm him and Dieter groans, mouth-closed at the sensation, the hard ridge of the metal zipper not one he is entirely familiar with. At least, not like this. Beneath the warm press of your palm, you feel him thicken, harden, and you press more, digging your fingers into his thighs. The muscles in his legs tense, his mouth falls open, as his hips cant forward, desperate for the new weight of the zipper. 

“And I won’t make you wait, Dieter,” you say, eyes tripping up from where your hand sits, up to the flash of exposed tummy where his pants have ridden down and his shirt slid up, into his almost surprised gaze. “You’ve been very good, wearing this for me, but I want you to learn why it’s important to wear pants with buttons.” 

“I-I t-t-thought,” he tries, voice abruptly cutting off when you nuzzle the constrained bulge in his pants. He tries again, eyes slamming shut as if to stifle the sensation of your warm breath so near to where he needs you the most. “I thought i-it was so I d-din’t – didn’t look bad.” 

Your face still pressed into his crotch, you briefly massage his calves, then the backs of his thighs. You cup the curve of his ass through the starchy back pockets, which is remarkably prominent now that he’s in something else than baggy sweatpants.

You shake your head, nose dragging along his hot length, against the space between his hip bone and his cock, smiling. 

“Baby, you know I like how you look. I always want you to be comfortable.” You look up and meet his eyes. The remaining brown not yet wholly consumed by a blurry, heated darkness softens. Somewhere beneath the hazy, disarming feelings of lust currently filling his head like a bike tire, he’s still your Dieter. Or – well, wait – at least the Dieter you know. The Dieter you have impossibly fun times with. The Dieter who makes you laugh like no one else. The Dieter that can make you fall apart until you’re a gooey, dripping mess and he still manages to stitch you back together. The Dieter that keeps you up at night thinking he might possibly want something more. “But this is so much more fun.”

Grounding your chest against his thighs, holding yourself against him as leverage, you sink your teeth into the corner of the fabric fastening his pants together. Eyes up at him again, you tug and his cock is pushed up against your tits from the force of the pull. He rocks forward, an airy gasp escaping his mouth, and the button gives, the lip of the fabric sliding back as the silver disk slips through the hole. Now your touch is unimpeded by rough fabric when you lean forward and kiss him just below the waistband of his black boxers. 

It takes you a second to realize that Dieter Bravo is wearing underwear at all and you smirk up at him.

Something about your gaze makes the tips of his ears go red, as if he had been caught being very naughty. His big hand cups from your jaw to your ear, as if trying to placate you, beg you not to be mad this close to his cock. 

“You said I had to dress u-up,” he says, eyes wide and round. God, he’s trying to be so good. One week of the rating system and Dieter Bravo is a trembling mess. Despite your wildly beating heart, you smirk, your thighs shaking briefly at the sudden rush of tenderness you feel for the man in front of you. You hide your own blush by mouthing that open spot just below his tummy and above his cock, wetting the black material with your tongue. Before he can whine about it, you pull back just barely, enough to curl your fingers around both his black underwear and the pants he wore for you. Just as you begin to pull down, you nip the zipper between your teeth and slowly, slowly, rubbing your nose against him, tug the metal teeth apart. His pants open and Dieter groans loudly. He’s already so sensitive. 

For a mouthy, ego-driven bastard, he really did have a magnificent cock. Flushed at the base, thickest you’d ever had inside you, and he’s leaking silvery threads from the head. The vein thickly pulsating on the side makes you wonder how he hasn’t passed out from all the blood rushing to his cock. 

You lick that vein, that beating pulse, and his knees buckle. His massive hand grips your shoulder and Dieter shakes his head, his mouth wrenching open.

“Please, please — mhmm — don’t tease. I-I can’t – you haven’t – please.” 

As if you would be cruel to him. You feel rather dizzy, elated on the idea that you wield this much power over him. That he trusts you with all of him. There it comes again, that arching ache in your chest. 

“I’m just trying to get myself ready for you,” you confess quietly. “I’m not trying to hurt you.” 

Dieter swallows something large in his throat, panic receding from his eyes. His smile is small and his touch on your cheek is light.

“I know.”

And you weren’t lying. You’d never forget the sound of your jaw popping and cracking the morning after you sucked him off three times before you let him come. Dieter is shockingly big, annoyingly only when he uses it against you or makes you tell him over and over just how big he is before giving it to you. For now, you just want to remind him how very appreciative you are that he gives it to you at all. 

Eyes decidedly looking away from the warmth on his face, you squeeze the backs of his thighs as you relax your jaw as much as you can. Above you hear him huff with his mouth shut as you start to take him in, your tongue wetting that soft skin on the underside of his cock. One move forward and you’ve wet him halfway, tongue massaging that vein. Another drop of your head and you’ve taken him completely.

“Fuck,” Dieter murmurs, the hand on your shoulder tightening. Your heart pounds in your chest all the harder when he takes his other hand and knots your hair with his fingers. By the twitching of his thighs beneath your palms, you know it’s taking every ounce of his restraint to not buck his hips forward. “That’s it that’s my girl you take me so fucking good you feel so fucking good.”

The thing about your mouth that is markedly different from your pussy: you can’t release your gag reflex to take more of him. But fuck, you want him to fuck the back of your throat – you just might drown before it happens. 

He smells surprisingly clean as your nose inches closer and closer to his skin. With each pull, you slide your tongue down the other side, until it pokes through and licks where you haven’t reached with your mouth yet, inches from his pelvis. He shudders when you use the tip of your tongue. 

“Oh my god, your mouth, baby, your mouth.” The words dribble out of his slack mouth, fingers flexing in your hair as if he can mimic pushing your head down further. You pull all the way off him, tongue catching the rim of his cock and he drops his head back against his shoulders and moans. The sound of it makes your pussy throb and you breathe out your nose to stifle your own noises. This is about him. He did good. He was a good boy the whole week. 

You replace your mouth with your hand. Sufficiently wet from the way you slobbered all over his cock, you use a fist around his flushed head to smear pre-cum all the way down to the base of him. You brush his balls with your knuckles, just as you fit the tip between your lips, sucking – and Dieter bucks, hard. 

“Ngh – shit! S-sorry!” His nails dig into his thighs, eyes squeezing shut as silvery threads spurt out from his cock. 

Maybe you’d gone too far with the whole sticker thing and he really thought this was another test. His cheeks are burnt pink, his chest heaving and it’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen. 

“Dieter,” you cry softly, gently, comfortingly. He still doesn’t open his eyes, not even when you resume stroking him. You lick the soft skin of his balls and his gasp punches the air out of his lungs, his eyes splitting open. He looks down at you, thighs trembling and you squeeze him gently. Not to edge him or punish him, but to make this last a bit longer for him. “Dieter, take your shirt off and sit down.” 

He can’t move fast enough. He yanks the henley over his shoulders, the collar scraping his hair up in wild directions. He goes to sit but his thighs are shaking too much and he just sort of tumbles onto his ass. Smiling, you take your own shirt off, hoping to save this particular bra reveal for another time, but fuck, this time is as good as any. Despite his panting and squirming, his gaze rolls from your face to your tits. Emerald green with black lace, this is far too nice for a work bra and it properly communicates to him that you were going to fuck him whether or not he was going to get that final gold star. The realization is visible as it crosses his mind, bleeding hungry black in his eyes. 

You take off his pants all the way, before sliding your own jeans down and to the floor. His roving gaze catches the matching panties and the noise in his throat is deep, like a smothered grunt. 

“Now, I’m going to suck you off no matter what,” you say as you crawl in between his legs, before leaning back and sitting on your heels. You smooth your hands down his thighs, near his red, stark cock, but not touching. Dieter’s breathing hitches in anticipation, not sure where to put his hands or his gaze. “But I want you to answer one question for me first.” 

He nods rapidly, spreading his knees further for you as if to remind you there’s other places he could be fucked. 

“Why did you think I was going to punish you today?”

You’ve asked this question paraphrased a dozen times, usually when you both know the answer: he came without asking, or he came by himself, or any of the dozen reasons Dieter liked to push your buttons, only for you to break him as far as he can go. But today, there’s no sultry edge, no double meaning. Your question is sincere and it takes him a moment to understand. He swallows as his eyebrows tug down on his forehead, something vulnerable flashing in his eyes before a look of uncertainty crosses his face.

“We’ve never had sex just to have sex.” He says it like a question. He settles into the floor one hand going behind his head, the linear tattoo on his forearm dark like a third eye. “Not that I’m complaining but it’s always a competition, or because we’re bored, or you wanna work out some personal shit because of the costume department. I know this is my reward, but I figured there had to be some kinda catch to it.” 

You frown deeper than him. “There’s no way we haven’t had normal sex.”

Something like a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Define normal sex.”

Now it’s your turn to go warm across the cheeks. “I mean, like . . . outside of . . . our roles. Where there aren’t roles at all. It’s just . . .”

You break off for the third time, the look in his eyes forcing you to snap your mouth shut before you say something incriminating like, just us. 

Dieter shakes his head. “No, we haven’t.” 

“You’re telling me in six months, that’s never happened once?” You adjust on your heels and cross your arms. “It’s not like you can remember every time we’ve had sex.”

“I do.” This, coming from him, is not a question. It’s an irrefutable statement that you don’t seem able to refute with a no you don’t. There is no room for arguing. 

Driving right on through the heat of your cheeks, that ache returning, you shake your head. “Then doesn’t that get old? Having to play games every single time?” 

Dieter pouts as he thinks, eyes on the roof of the trailer. “Sometimes, but I don’t mind. Not enough to want to stop fucking you.” 

“So, after a week of nothing, you were totally willing to let me edge you within an inch of your life? Let me treat you badly?”

Dieter smirks and it suddenly feels like you’re the one under him. “Sure, but you like me too much to keep it going for too long. And you like watching me come.” 

Your teeth grind together at this very bold accusation, your entire face blazing. Weren’t you supposed to be domming him today??

His feet slide out beside you and Dieter is the very picture of arrogance, his arm still tucked behind his head. He drums his fingers on his stomach.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he says, the smirk around his mouth soft, “I like you too.” 

It doesn’t. Not really. Not when his words spear through you hot and hard, landing in your chest like a landmine. Fuck. 

Fuck.

“Oh, so this is all for me, then?” You ignore the fact that you’ve slipped back into your role in active defiance of talking about this anymore, and crawl forward until your forearms frame his head. That teasing contentment fades from his face as he watches you, eyes following a line that only he can see from your nose, lips, chin, throat and tits. Your hair slips off your shoulder, darkening the light on his face when you straddle his waist. “But what about you? Don’t you want to come?”

He nods, slower than before, but only to keep from breaking eye contact with you. Light as feathers, Dieter trails his fingers up the backs of your thighs, over the curve of your ass, to settle into your hips. His mouth parts in anticipation, pink tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. 

“I do,” he says, rolling his neck as if he can see more of you this way. “I really fuckin’ do.”

“What a coincidence.” You shift down, dragging the wet patch on the emerald green underwear beneath your drooling cunt, shift until it slides across his half-hard cock and Dieter’s hands dig into your hips, a groan breaking off in the back of his throat. His eyes slip half-closed, a thick, smoky black enveloping that beautiful brown. “So do I.” 

Grinding down over so slightly, you roll your hips once more – Dieter tenses, his hands easing to the tops of your thighs – before sitting back on his knees. 

“Now relax, baby, you’ve earned it.” 

You drop forward over his hips, open your mouth, and slurp him up between your lips. 

The noise that comes out of his chest is broken, knocked loose, split down the middle. You take him all in one, down until your nose is tickled by his coarse hairs, and you swallow. He is immediately, instantly, rock hard and dribbling. You swallow again and his hands dive into your hair, knotting the strands around his fingers, the way a rider draws up the reins of his horse. He goads you down with just gentle pressure, needy and demanding all at once, and you take him, and you take him, and you take him until the blunt head prods the back of your throat and you gag, throat constricting, and Dieter’s eyes roll back in his head. 

“Shit, that’s too fucking good.”

You breathe out your nose, pulling up just enough to keep him off your reflex, but instead you hollow out your cheeks and suck, tongue pressing up against him and around that hammering vein. 

And here, here comes the sound you’ve wanted from him all night –

Dieter whines, high and keening, his neck straining, your skull pinching from where he pulls. Between your thighs, the emerald green is completely ruined, buffed out dark in the wet. 

The vein throbs again and you nearly drop onto your elbows, not caring if you choke or drown or sputter, you want him in your mouth, you want that salty, gooey taste of him that you find you can’t seem to lick up enough. You want him inside you –

With a grunt that morphs into a groan as it rises up his chest, he tugs hard enough on your hair that the pain splits your mouth open, head tugged back enough that he slips out of you, a thread of pre-cum from your puffy lips to the tip of his blunt head. 

You lied. This wasn’t entirely for him. 

You can feel your lips twist into a snarl. “Dieter, what are you –,”

He kisses you with such a force, that noise in his chest is transferred to yours, a collision that sparks a causal nexus and his own desperation bleeds with your own. The kiss is messy, dizzying, spit and pre-cum smearing across swollen lips and wet tongues. He twists his fingers deeper into your hair, as if he can consume you through the bowl of your skull. 

Your name is something that tumbles, falls, drips from him, his mouth tilted a fraction of an inch away from yours. Eyes dark, full, a beast that howls for the moon in your eyes. 

He’s going to fuck your brains out on the floor of this rickety-ass trailer. 

Dieter tugs you forward, drags you onto your knees over him as he settles beneath you. Your fingers knock with his in a fight to reach your panties first, to shove them down your hips and thighs, get them to the floor. 

Dieter’s flushed, pupils dark, big hands grappling against the weight of you as he pulls you onto him. You are so aroused, so sunken into the smoke of lust, you go as you are moved, his cock smearing apart your wet pussy. Dieter sits up, eyes locking onto where you’ve nearly become a single creature, and then he hesitates. 

Sanity seems to ring his bell, for just a moment. Without waiting, he sucks two fingers into his mouth, coating them with his spit, and you can see what he’s about to do just before he moves. You shake your head, knees aching from carrying your weight against the flat trailer floor, and sit up off him, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Don’t need it,” you mutter before licking into his mouth. He drops his head back to let you sink your tongue between his lips. Both hands wrapped around his jaw, you thumb his earring and he grunts out the side of his mouth. “I want –,”

His big hands settle and it’s like he dropped a thousand pound weight between your ribs. You drop, right onto him, his cock forcibly shoving you apart in a single thrust. Dieter barks out a moan, his hands clutching your spine, teeth going for your shoulder to muffle anything else that threatens to escape him. 

You swear your nerves are on fire.

He always takes his time with you, for your benefit, and his. He can be maddening and incessant and demanding, right up until this part, the part where he could actually hurt you. Right then, he waits. Lets you come to him. Let you take as much as you want and he holds you tight.

But this, this is you taking all you want and then some. 

In the split second you allow for your bodies to recognize the give and the take, the swell and the invasion, you meet his gaze. 

No roles. No games. No landmines. 

Exposure. 

Blistering and brittle.

Safety. 

You curl your toes underneath you, grip his shoulders, and slide up on an inhale. On an exhale, you thrust down and you don’t know who cries out louder. 

Dieter pulls you to him, arm banded around your back, the other to balance as he leans back to meet your downward strokes with his upward thrusts. His fingers pinch the clasp of your bra and the straps slide off your shoulders, your frantic bouncing knocking those emerald cups loose. 

“Oh, yeah, oh fuck yeah.” He mouths at your collarbone, tonguing the sweat that blooms across your skin. Your short huffs have your chest trembling, a shudder disrupting your breath when he uses the blunt edge of his teeth against the soft curve of your breast. His nose against your skin, he turns his head and licks your nipple into his mouth. He sucks, licks, your rapid rise and fall catching your sensitive peak against the tops and bottoms of his teeth. He uses the barest hint of pressure and your back arches. He sucks your other nipple into his mouth, repeating that same pattern with his tongue, while his fingers flick your hardened bud. 

You think you’re going to melt, fracture and ooze into this hot pool of pleasure that hums between your legs. 

“Fuck, Dieter,” your own voice is unrecognizable, breathy and high, cut short every time his hips meet yours in a harsh slap, “I can’t –,” 

He rubs up against something truly devastating inside of you and immediately your legs give out. You topple into him, arms around his neck, nose pressed up against his jaw. You feel his overheated skin, a balm, a solidifying force, against your cheek. The whirling inferno in your head soothes. A drop of sweat from his hairline trails down by your eye and you lick it. 

“Make me come, Dieter,” you whisper for him, of him, beg in a way that only he can hear. You nuzzle his earring and he keens. “Please – I need it – n-n-need you.”

Open-mouthed, breath hot, flush down to his chest, he slithers the hand against your back between your warm bodies and finds your clit. Drags his thumb across it as his hips pound up into you – you can’t hear what he says in your ear, the edge you’re dangling over loud and pulsing – and then there’s a softness against your throat.

The white spark between your thighs erupts and you come so hard you scream. A release. Controlled and contained brightness now spilling out everywhere, you can feel it as you soak his lap. It drips and winds down, and it drunkenly slides off you. Finally, you curl into him, a muddled tingle radiating out across your nerves. 

You sink into your skin again and hear him, still whispering, still talking.

“You’re so fucking beautiful when you come it’s okay baby I’ve got you I’ve got you I’m here – I’m gonna – g-gonna –  oh, shit,”

His hips thrust up one more time before a full body shudder yanks his words and the air right out of his mouth. You melt as his cum floods your insides, the warm pulses intoxicating in the place he so forcefully claimed for his own. His shoulders curved towards you, his hand pinches the knot of your spine as if to steady himself, palm scalding against your skin. In your exhaustion, your sweaty forehead falls against his. 

He doesn’t seem to mind.

Seconds mold into minutes, minutes into maybe hours then days. 

Dieter’s trembling elbow finally weakens and with his arm around your back, he tips you both backwards. 

His cock rubs up inside of you in a new way and your cunt clenches involuntarily. You both groan when his cum leaks out of you, squeezed out by the contraction. You shift your hips to lay fully on him, and his cock slides out, but his arm around you remains.

It remains long after your breathing settles, long after the sweat dries and your exposed skin grows cold. The longer you lay together, the more you feel he’s going to start stroking you, touching you in a way that a fuck buddy shouldn’t. But he doesn’t. He keeps you close but doesn’t move. 

The feeling, the ache in your chest. It’s soothed and hastened by the beating of his heart beneath yours, your ear lying flat against his chest. It beats so loudly for you.

For some unfathomable reason, you glance up at the window. It’s dark out, the sun set and gone. For all you know, you two might be the only two people on the entire lot.

“Dieter.” His name sticks in your mouth. “Dieter, I –,”

“Five stars?” 

You blink, lifting your head for the first time in ages, sweat on his skin almost suctioning your ear to his chest. He’s grinning, curls matted and damp against his forehead.

He reaches up to the table behind him and snags that stupid bingo card, along with that packet of shiny gold star stickers.

This feeling, you can contain it. 

For now. 

Smirking down at him, you peel off one of the bigger stars and with your thumb, you press it into the center of his forehead. 

“Five stars, Dieter. Five star dick.” 

His smile widens. 

[auteurdelabre]

A LITTLE SUN (SERIES)

rating: 18+ (MINORS GET OUTTA HERE OR I'M TELLIN'!)

Story Summary: As a PA to megastar and mega man-child Dieter Bravo you've had your fair share of headaches. Getting accidentally pregnant with his baby however takes the cake, especially when he offers to pay you to be his surrogate. You just weren't expecting to fall in love with him along the way. inspired by AbsurdThirst ' s 'Daddy Dieter' (go read it!)

story trailer

part one -

part two

part three

part four

part five

part six

part seven (Part 1)

part seven (Part 2)

part eight - Postpartum

EXTRAS

How your desk usually looks (even though you're totally NOT in love with your boss. Not at all.)

[alwaysmicado]

save your tears

4.6k | 18+ MDNI | Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Warnings: dubcon (sex while high), alcohol & drugs, unprotected piv, rough sex, choking, loss of virginity, mention of blood, degradation/praise, hurt no comfort, mean!Dieter Summary: It’s your lucky night! Your favorite movie star, Dieter Bravo, picks you up at a club and takes you home. You don’t want to blow it by telling him you’re a virgin, do you? A/N: Never meet your heroes...and please don’t fuck Dieter Bravo raw without seeing a notarized STD test first. I’m super excited to share this fic with you and I really hope you’ll enjoy it!! Let me know your thoughts! ♥︎

Dieter Bravo masterlist ♡ main masterlist

Another kiss with a stranger, another fiery shot of tequila, another night immersed in the opulence of a luxurious club in the heart of Beverly Hills.

The pulsating beat of the music reverberates through the venue, drowning out any coherent thought. A sea of bodies sways in a synchronized rhythm, lost in the intoxication of the music, the free-flowing drinks, and the swirling lights.

You and your friends are no exception, caught up in the vibrant chaos of the dance floor, laughing and moving to the infectious energy of the night.

The tight dress you’ve chosen for the night clings to your every curve, a sleek fabric that accentuates the enticing contours of your body. Its deep, midnight black hue embraces you like a second skin, tracing the delicate curve of your breasts, descending sensuously over your torso, and accentuating the gentle swell of your hips.

As you move, the straps, delicate and barely there, become ethereal threads, caressing your skin with each sway and twirl on the dance floor. The dress’s neckline is daring, a subtle plunge that hints at mystery and allure, inviting the eyes to linger for just a moment longer.

Your choice of footwear is equally as captivating. The heels, sleek and strappy, elevate your posture and add a tantalizing sway to your every step. The ensemble not only looks exquisite but feels like a second skin. In this carefully chosen outfit, you feel an undeniable sense of confidence and allure – you feel like a goddess.

As the night progresses, and a few shots later, you find yourself losing inhibitions with each beat. The alcohol warms your veins, and the euphoria of the moment takes over. The atmosphere inside the club is charged with excitement, the air thick with the scent of perfume, sweat, and anticipation.

And then you see him.

Amidst the crowd, your gaze collides with a pair of intense, dark eyes that seem to cut through the chaotic haze. Recognition strikes you like a bolt of lightning – Dieter Bravo, the famous Oscar winner, stands at the fringes of the dance floor, his gaze fixed on you.

The look in his eyes is predatory, stirring desire deep within you. He gestures with a subtle nod of his head towards the exit, a silent command that sends your heart racing.

You excuse yourself to your friends, your words lost in the overwhelming discord of music and laughter. They barely register your departure, the night unfolding in a blur of colors and sound. The crisp air outside is a welcome contrast, a momentary escape from the heated chaos within.

You take a deep breath.

Before you know what’s happening, a strong pair of hands seizes you, pushing you against the cold exterior wall of the club. It’s Dieter, his eyes burning with desire as he takes in the sight of you. His words come out in a low, husky whisper that sends shivers down your spine.

“You’re so beautiful, baby, I couldn’t take my eyes off you,” he confesses, his breath hot against your ear. You’re trembling slightly as he pulls back a little to look into your eyes, one hand planted on the wall next to your head, the other gently cupping your hot cheek. His touch sends a jolt through your entire being and your skin tingles beneath his fingertips.

“Why don’t we take this party to a more private setting, hm? My place is just around the corner,” he murmurs, his gaze searching yours for a sign of rejection.

His proposition hangs in the air, a surreal moment that seems too fantastical to be real. Dieter Bravo, a man renowned for having his pick of any woman he desires, wants you to come home with him?

You hesitate for a fleeting moment, the thrill and exhilaration of the unexpected encounter mingling with a feeling of unease. Is this a good idea?

Oh, fuck it. 

With a breathless nod, you give in to the magnetic pull of his desire. You’re never gonna get a chance like this again in your life.

Dieter’s eyes flicker with satisfaction at your willingness and a self-assured smirk plays on his lips. “Smart choice, beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low and seductive, intertwining with the rhythm of the music coming from inside.

With a confident yet gentle touch, he guides you to his waiting car, his warm palm resting on the small of your back.

His driver awaits, a stoic figure leaning against the passenger door with crossed arms, well-acquainted with the routine of escorting the renowned womanizer and his conquests. The man looks a few years older than Dieter, and as you approach, you can’t help but ponder the untold tales and silent observations this seasoned driver must harbor as living witness to the enigmatic world of his famous boss.

Dieter leans in to whisper something into the driver’s ear, a private exchange that ends with a wink and a grin directed at you. With a confident saunter, he rounds the car, slipping into the back seat from the other side.

“Good evening, Miss,” the driver greets you with a practiced courtesy, opening the back door and gesturing for you to step inside. In that fleeting moment, as he meets your gaze, you detect a subtle flicker of concern in his eyes, swiftly masked before you fully register its presence.

You swiftly dismiss the uneasy feeling that briefly fluttered within you and gracefully slide into the luxurious car, taking the seat beside Dieter. The plush interior envelops you, a cocoon of opulence that showcases the movie star’s wealth. As the door closes with a muted thud, the insulating quiet of the vehicle amplifies your anticipation.

The car ride is a blur of sensations.

Dieter pulls you onto his lap, his lips finding yours in a fervent kiss. His hands explore the contours of your body, a mix of escalating desire and urgency palpable in every touch. 

Glancing at the rearview mirror, the driver is a silent witness to a scene that unfolds with unsettling familiarity. Dieter’s reputation as a notorious womanizer is well-known, but the silent driver remains impassive, steering the car towards your destination.

“Fuck, baby,” Dieter whispers against your lips, his erection straining painfully against his pants. “You wanna sit on my cock right here or wait ‘til we’re home?”

You sensuously roll your hips, and he responds by squeezing your ass, a deep, guttural groan escaping his lips at the tantalizing friction.

“I want you to take me in your bed,” you purr, as the champagne and tequila flowing through your veins embolden you.

“Alright, beautiful,” he murmurs between sloppy kisses to your neck and jaw, his hand tracing the delicate skin of your shoulder before sliding down the strap of your dress with practiced ease. “I’ll give you anything you want.”

Every word Dieter utters, every caress of his hands, the heady scent of his cologne—the fact that your idol, a man larger than life, is currently drunk off your beauty—adds fuel to the intoxicating fire that courses through your body, making you acutely aware of the pulsating ache and growing wetness between your thighs.

You’ve never wanted to fuck anyone this badly.

Dieter slides down the other strap of your dress, the fabric yielding to his touch as he pulls it down, leaving it to pool around your waist and revealing your naked chest.

“Goddamn, your tits are perfect,” he whispers in awe, his hands tracing a delicate path from your shoulders down to your breasts, cupping one in each hand. “I almost forgot how good real ones feel.”

Your smile widens in response to his comment, relishing the sensation of Dieter Bravo praising your tits.

He massages them, softly at first, his touch a gentle prelude that gradually escalates in intensity as you wrap your arms around his neck, deepening your kiss, moaning against his lips. Your body responds eagerly, writhing on his lap, your swollen clit rhythmically rubbing against his hard bulge, each movement eliciting a wave of pleasure that has your eyes fluttering shut and your back arching.

Dieter leans in, spurred on by the movement of your body and your little moans of pleasure, pressing your tits together with a hunger that mirrors his escalating passion. His kisses are sloppy, a mixture of lust and possessiveness as he licks and sucks on your nipples, twirling his tongue around them.

The sensations alternate between pleasure and a tingling pain as he bites down, eliciting a desperate whimper from you that he hungrily absorbs by pressing his lips against yours once more. 

“This your first time fucking a real movie star, baby?” he murmurs, trailing kisses and bites down your sensitive neck.

Your head is spinning, and it takes you a few seconds to register what he just asked you. Even if it weren’t true, you’d be smart enough to stroke his famously big ego and tell him what he wants to hear. But, in this case, it is true.

“Yeah,” you breathe, your fingers tangled in his now-disheveled curls.

God, his hair is soft. The thought crosses your mind that being a millionaire must afford you great hair care. Just one of the perks of being one of the chosen ones, you muse with a smile.

“I promise you’ll be thinking of me every time you fuck someone else after I’m done with you, darling,” he smirks at you, satisfied with the fact he’s the first man of his stature you’ve experienced.

If he wasn’t already rock-hard before, he would be now.

You giggle and bite your lip, your dilated pupils telling Dieter everything he needs to know – you want him as badly as he wants you.

“I’ll hold you to that,” you purr, leaning in to suck and nibble on his neck while rolling your hips again.

“Oh shit,” he whispers, letting his head fall against the headrest and gripping your hips with his hands. “I knew you were a bad girl the second I saw you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Good girls don’t rub their needy little pussy on some stranger’s cock minutes after they met.” His breathing is strained, and he needs to concentrate hard to not come in his pants. “Good girls also don’t let me do a line off their perfect tits.” 

You pull back a little to look into his eyes, and he raises an eyebrow.

Against your better judgment, you nod, and he reaches into the right pocket of his pants to retrieve the biggest coke baggie you’ve ever seen. Goddamn, how does this guy get any acting gigs done if he does massive amounts of coke like this? His manager must be nothing short of a god.

“Push them together, baby,” he says, watching hungrily as you take your tits and press them together to create enough surface for him to put his powder on. “Fuck, that’s it.”

He pours a generous amount onto your skin, creating a line with his finger.

“You’re so fucking hot, baby,” he murmurs, planting a kiss on your warm lips. His gaze drops to the line of coke on your tits before he lowers his head, presses a finger on his right nostril, and inhales the powder in one swift motion.

The lewd, forbidden feeling of letting him do drugs off your body has your pussy clench around nothing. You’re beyond turned on.

“Phew!” He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “This is some primo shit, holy fuck. You wanna try?”

Dieter’s eyes find yours as he wipes his nose and tilts his head. “You’re never gonna find something this pure again.”

“Sure, why not,” you coo, succumbing to the excitement of the moment. One more bad decision’s not gonna kill you, right?

“Such a bad girl,” he murmurs with a smirk, then pours some coke on the back of his hand. He arranges it in a line for you and brings it closer to your face.

The fine white powder lies on his skin like a whisper of the night, and with a quick, controlled motion, you inhale. The sensation is immediate, a rush that starts from the point of contact and spirals into a heady euphoria. The sharp intensity sends a tingling sensation through your nostrils, a mix of heat and exhilaration.

In that fleeting moment, the world seems to shift.

The pulsating lights of the city take on a surreal glow, and the hum of the car’s engine becomes a rhythmic accompaniment to the rush coursing through your veins. The nightclub’s music, still echoing in your ears, melds with your newfound energy, creating a synesthetic experience that blurs the boundaries between the external world and your internal sensations.

You’ve never felt this much like yourself and not like yourself at the same time before—it’s surreal.

A tingling warmth radiates through your body, a sensation that is both invigorating and disorienting, like an electrifying surge that momentarily disconnects you from reality.

Dieter watches in real time as the coke takes effect and your pupils dilate further, your features signaling an intensified awareness of your surroundings.

“That’s it, baby,” you hear him purr before you feel his hand on the back of your neck, pulling you into a messy kiss.

You’re not entirely sure how you made it to Dieter’s bedroom.

– – –

His sheets are incredibly soft, some sort of luxurious fabric that feels heavenly against your naked skin. You’re clad only in your panties, lying on your back with Dieter on top of you, your legs spread to accommodate his hips. 

You hear music coming from a speaker somewhere in the room – he must’ve put it on when you got in. You moan as he kisses your neck, his warm tongue and lips tracing your skin, nibbling, biting, marking you. 

He props himself up with his forearms on the bed beside your head, the soft hair on his belly grazing against your skin with each rhythmic movement of his hips.

“Look at me, baby,” he tells you, breathless, eager to finally bury himself in your pussy. You open your bloodshot eyes, biting your lip at the delicious pressure he’s putting on your clit.

“Tell me you want me.”

He caresses your cheek, his fingertips leaving a tingling sensation on your hot skin. You nod in response and moan when his hard cock rubs against your sensitive clit once again.

“Hey,” he taps your cheek not so gently and bores his eyes into you. “Use your words.”

You’re startled, but a grin forms on your lips as your foggy brain registers what he’s asking.

“I want you, Dieter,” you coo, your nails digging into the meat of his ass. “I want you to fuck me.” His lips crash against yours in an instant, and you whisper, “Please,” against them as your mind drifts off into another realm again.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs as he straightens up to take off his boxer briefs. “I’m gonna give you exactly what you need.”

Your eyes follow the movement of Dieter’s hands, mesmerized, watching in slow motion as his cock springs free. Fuck. It’s a lot bigger than you’d imagined, and it’s so…beautiful. You wish he’d put it in your mouth for you to taste it, but since you can feel him pulling down your panties, you guess he’s gonna go straight to fucking your pussy.

You feel his hands on your thighs as he positions himself between your spread legs. Then, you watch as he spits on his hand and strokes his cock. You moan at the sight, wanting nothing more than for him to take you, to ravage you, to become one with you.

“Fuck, you’re so wet, baby,” he murmurs more to himself than to you, haphazardly swiping his fingers through your dripping wet folds. You can’t hold back the moan that escapes your lips when he brushes your clit.

He scoots closer, and you can feel the hairs on his thighs against yours as he guides the tip of his cock to your entrance. It’s warm, slippery, feels kinda nice. You close your eyes and turn your head.

This is it. You’re gonna have sex for the first time. 

And with none other than Dieter fucking Bravo – Oscar winner, movie star, womanizer extraordinaire. If you weren’t so out of it, you’d laugh at the ludicrousness of the situation.

He pushes in with one slow, deliberate thrust, savoring the feeling of each inch gradually disappearing into your body.

You inhale sharply, your breath catching at the initial discomfort of his cock stretching you. Your brow furrows in response, and you instinctively grip the sheets with your hands, a mix of pleasure and mild pain coursing through your body.

“Holy shit, your pussy’s tight,” Dieter groans, his hips stuttering at the sensation of being completely sheathed in you. “Feels so fucking good.”

He withdraws again just as you begin to acclimate to the girth of his cock inside you, leaving you whimpering at the sudden loss. Your hypersensitive system is so overloaded with sensations that it compels you to moan, whine, and writhe under his touch, uncertain of how to process everything you’re feeling and experiencing.

Dieter chuckles at your desperate little noises, more than ready to give you as much of his cock as he can, and to show you pleasure you didn’t know you were capable of.

If there’s one thing he takes pride in, it’s leaving his sex partners thoroughly satisfied, mind empty, covered in cum, and wanting more.

He spreads you open again in one smooth movement, your pussy eagerly devouring every inch. Pleased with your moans and the tight grip of your walls, he grabs your thighs and shifts his weight, pressing them against the mattress to penetrate you even deeper.

“Fuck,” is all you can get out as he sets a brutal pace, pushing your body up the bed repeatedly. His cock relentlessly strikes a deep spot within you, each thrust accompanied by the rhythmic slap of his balls against your ass.

“That’s it, baby. Take my fucking cock. Fuck, you’re the best slut I’ve had in a while.”

Dieter wants you to scream his name and come all over his cock. Sure. But he’s greedy and craves more than your physical surrender. He wants to etch his name into the very fabric of your desires, your being, a memory that will linger in your thoughts for the rest of your life.

The initial discomfort you’ve experienced slowly gives way to raw, carnal pleasure, a drug-induced dance of sensations that leaves you breathless. Dieter’s movements are harsh, designed to bring you to your limits, and you find yourself meeting his thrusts with an eagerness that surprises you.

The vast expanse of Dieter’s bedroom is filled with the intoxicating sound of your moans and smacking flesh, creating a dizzying symphony that envelops you in the throes of ecstasy.

“Look at me,” you hear him growl somewhere over you, and when you don’t budge, you feel his bruising grip on your jaw. “Hey, I’m not telling you again.”

You open your eyes, your eyelids so heavy you need to summon all of your strength to pry them open. Dieter’s face hovers close to yours, his breaths ragged, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead, tracing a path down his temples.

His eyes are dark, hungry, dangerous. He gazes at you like he wants to devour you, to consume you wholly. You sense the intensity of his desire, and you’re more than ready to surrender to it.

You feel his hands tighten around your neck, the diminishing flow of oxygen to your brain heightening your senses even more. As your vision blurs and your pulse quickens, you’re caught in a paradoxical dance of ecstasy and fear, an exhilarating moment that pushes you to the brink.

Dieter deliberately hits your G-spot over and over again, his cock throbbing and leaking precum at your increasingly loud moans and spasming walls. 

“Is this what you wanted, huh?” he pants, intensifying the grip on your neck and the force of his thrusts. Instinctively, you start clawing at his arms. “What a sick little thing you are, getting off on me hurting you.” 

Your eyes roll back and you feel yourself slipping away as Dieter’s pelvis puts enough pressure on your clit to bring you closer to climax with every roll of his hips.

“Oh fuck,” you faintly hear Dieter’s voice, “you’re choking the shit out of me, holy–”

You don’t hear the end of his sentence as an abrupt, violent orgasm takes over your body and mind in waves. Your walls spasm and contract uncontrollably around Dieter’s cock, every single muscle in your body tensing as you release a silent scream, caught in a tumultuous mix of ecstasy and distress.

Dieter lets go of your neck and bites down on your shoulder as he comes, emptying himself deep inside you with a guttural groan. His cock pulsates as your pussy eagerly milks and swallows up every last drop of his seed. 

He pulls out of you and collapses onto the mattress, his chest heaving, heart racing, utterly spent. His cum leaks out of you, pooling on the sheets between your thighs.

The room is heavy with the lingering scent of sex as Dieter finally catches his breath. Sweat glistens on his forehead and chest, and his erratic breaths permeate the air. You lie there, silent and still, your body sore, and your mind in turmoil.

The reality of the moment slowly dawns on you – every heartbeat sobering you up a bit more, tangled emotions leaving you disoriented.

Shit. What have you done?

“That was…holy shit,” Dieter chuckles beside you as he props his head up on his hand.

His face falls immediately as he glances at the bloodstains on the sheets. His eyes widen in shock, and a pang of guilt hits him deep. He wasn’t gentle, and you never spoke up. The room is silent for a moment before he breaks it, his voice sharp and accusatory.

“You’re bleeding.” His eyes meet yours, and the storm within them is unsettling. Your heart beats rapidly, fear coursing through you. “Tell me this isn’t what I fucking think it is.”

You look away, a lump forming in your sore throat. “I...I didn’t expect it to hurt so much,” you admit, your voice barely audible.

“Oh my fucking god.” Dieter’s tone is harsh, his face contorted with a mixture of confusion and anger. He swiftly rises from the bed, the mattress shuddering under his abrupt departure. His pacing is agitated, a restless back-and-forth that adds to the already palpable tension between you two.

You sit up against the headboard and pull up the covers to shield yourself from the chilling air that envelops you. You’re shivering. 

“Why the hell didn’t you say something? Are you trying to ruin me?”

Your heart drops. “Wha–”

His accusations hang in the air, and the room feels suffocating. Deep down, Dieter knows he should feel remorse for his actions, but instead, he redirects his hurt feelings towards you. The drugs and alcohol coursing through his system amplify his irrationality and paranoia.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” His voice rises, echoing off the walls. “Is this some sick ploy to get your fifteen minutes of fame or some shit? To expose me?”

You’re left stunned, the whirlwind of pain, confusion, and the sting of betrayal clouding your mind. The vulnerability you shared just moments ago morphs into an uncomfortable reality, a hurtful reminder of what you were to him — a warm, nameless body he could fuck.

And now, you’re a nuisance at best, and a PR nightmare at worst. 

“Dieter, it’s nothing like that," you say, pleading, attempting to diffuse the escalating tension as the walls close in on the shattered remnants of a fun night. “I didn’t know how to tell you and…it’s not a big deal, I’m okay.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he shouts, shaking his head in frustration. “I wouldn’t have fucked you like that if I you’d told me you were–” he cuts himself off, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

The resentment in his gaze sends a shiver down your spine, making your blood run cold.

“Dieter–”

“Get the fuck out of my house.”

“Please, I’m sor–”

“Get the fuck out!” he roars, the anger in his eyes intensifying.

You immediately get up and scramble to get your clothes back on, your hands shaking. You grab your belongings, trying to maintain a shred of dignity as you hastily dress.

Dieter, seething with anger and regret, roughly hands you a wad of cash from his nightstand when you’re done. 

“Here, take this. Get a Plan B or whatever the hell you need, and keep your mouth shut.”

You stare at the money in your hand, then at the man who’s throwing you out in the middle of the night after taking your virginity. The bills are cold in your hand, and you crumple them up, throwing them back at him.

“I’m not your whore, Dieter. Go to hell!”

Heels in hand, you make your way past him and out the door. You don’t stop as he calls after you, his voice strained with genuine remorse.

“I’m sorry!”

He really is.

– – –

The cold night air hits you like a slap, tears blurring your vision as you stumble away from Dieter’s mansion, the weight of what just transpired inside heavy on your shoulders.

His hurtful words echo in your mind, the throbbing pain between your legs intensifying with every step you take. Your breath falters in the frigid air, and you clutch your arms tightly around you as you make your way toward the waiting car.

The driver, standing beside the sleek vehicle, regards you with a mixture of concern and pity. His eyes have seen this scene unfold countless times before – another half-naked girl leaving his boss’s home in disarray.

You hate the way he looks at you, as if he knows more about your vulnerability than you’re willing to admit.

He opens the car door for you, and you gratefully sink into the plush leather seat. The warmth inside the car is a stark contrast to the chill outside, but it does little to ease the ache spreading through your body.

The driver takes his place behind the wheel, stealing glances at you through the rearview mirror.

“Where can I take you to, Miss?” His voice is gentle, filled with a practiced sympathy that makes your stomach churn. You hesitate for a moment, wrestling with the words you don’t want to say.

“Home,” you finally mumble, offering your address with a numb detachment. It feels like a betrayal, a surrender of your secret world to this stranger who witnesses the aftermath of Dieter Bravo’s fleeting affections.

The car glides through the silent streets, and you find yourself staring out of the window, the city lights blurred into a kaleidoscope of colors.

Your head is spinning, and the pain in your body intensifies with each passing moment. Tears escape as you touch the bruises on your neck, tracing silent paths down your cheeks. You wipe them away with the back of your hand, hoping the darkness conceals your shame.

The driver glances at you in the mirror.

“Are you alright, Miss?” he asks, his tone a delicate inquiry into the depths of your distress.

“Just…drive me home, please,” you whisper, your voice cracking with the weight of unshed tears. You don’t want his pity, his judgment. You just want to escape the haunting echoes of what happened tonight.

But you know that will never happen. Dieter got his wish after all.

You will forever remember him.

– – –

♥︎ Thank you for reading!! ♥︎

Dieter Bravo masterlist ♡ main masterlist

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Pre-TLOU Writers Archive

A resource for finding pre-TLOU Pedro Pascal characters fics

Hey everyone, this is just an idea that randomly struck me. I joined the fandom fairly recently in 2022, but as we all know, our numbers have well and truly exploded since TLOU aired.

We are incredibly lucky that our fandom has a massive treasure trove of fics written by so many amazing writers in the last few years, especially for pre-Joel Pedro boys that new fans are now discovering. However, new readers will probably have hard time finding these fics because nothing about Tumblr is set up to efficiently find any fic, let alone 'older' fics published months and years ago.

Since there's been such a huge influx of new readers in the fandom who may be looking for new-to-them 'old' fics to read, I thought it would useful to start a list of writers who have been writing for Pedro boys since before TLOU aired to connect newcomers to ‘older’ fics. I'm starting with writers that I have personally read or know of, but please do drop me an ask or a DM if you would like to add or be added to the list (or removed from it)!

We have more than 100 writers listed in alphabetical order in the lists below. Please show them and their fics some love - follow, reblog, send asks and DMs! ❤️

A to H

I to O

P to Z (Part 1)

P to Z (Part 2)

Some admin:

*I am only including writers who have written for Pedro Pascal characters before TLOU aired. If I can't find a masterlist, then I can't add them to the list.

*If I missed anyone or accidentally left someone out in my screening process, please let me know! I'm only human.

*In case anyone twists this into something it's not, it goes without saying that there's always room for new fics and new writers! But the recency bias has been so strong these few months, I want to give some love to 'older' fics, especially pre-Joel Pedro boys ❤️

[freelancearsonist]

salt, shot, lime

➔ Dieter Bravo x afab!Reader

➔ 2.3k words

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

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

“Go on. Don’t be shy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This private enough for you, honey?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[proxima-writes]

𝐁𝐀𝐃 𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀, 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓?

PAIRING: Ex-Boyfriend!Dieter Bravo x Female Reader

RATING: Explicit (18+ MDNI)

WORD COUNT: 3k

SUMMARY:

Your ex-boyfriend, Dieter Bravo, is in town and sends you a text. Meeting up with an ex, especially one you’re still in love with, is a bad idea, right? Based on the song “bad idea, right?” by Olivia Rodrigo

DEAR READER:

My first Dieter Bravo fic! If you enjoy, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging 💕 You can also support my writing through my kofi Dividers and banners by @saradika

CONTENT WARNINGS:

explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact), no use of y/n, no referenced age difference, dubcon - alcohol consumption prior to sexual activity, domme/sub dynamics, sub!dieter, teasing, masturbation (f), oral (f receiving), praise, pet names, begging, unprotected p in v, love confessions, dieter being bad with feelings and words. please let me know if any are missing!

Dieter sits on the couch in the penthouse hotel room he's currently renting in New York, phone in one hand and a fresh Salty Dog in the other. The TV flickers with a porn he rented after not finding anything worth watching on the limited number of free channels and to be honest, he likes the background noise of moans and skin slapping against skin to fill the silent void.

He scrolls through Twitter as he sips his drink. There's one tweet that catches his eye, a familiar name in the hashtag that gives him pause. A glutton for punishment, he clicks the hashtag, his screen flooded with cell phone quality pictures of you, enjoying a night out.

In New York.

It's a blurry photo of you on a rooftop in a sexy outfit that looks like it was made just for you, a shimmery black fabric hugging all your curves just right. You're surrounded by people he doesn't recognize and your head is thrown back in an easy laugh.

Dieter frowns. He used to make you laugh like that.

Dieter scrolls some more, a glutton for punishment, and comes across another picture, a different angle, but this time there's a man leaning into your space, mouth close to your ear and an arm settled at the base of your spine. He takes a hearty sip of his drink, wincing at the bitter taste as he sets the glass on the coffee table.

He closes Twitter and opens his messages, scrolling until he finds your name.

wyd?

Your phone buzzes in your hand and the name that flashes across the screen has your breath catching.

Dieter: wyd?

You roll your eyes at the message. Of course.

You set your phone down on the table and look up, catching the judgmental stare of your best friend, Melanie.

"What?" You ask. She raises her eyebrows at you.

"That was very much the Dieter Bravo eye roll," she says, tone accusatory. "Did he just text you?"

"No."

Your phone buzzes a second time and her eyes drop to the screen, her hand reaching across the table to snatch it before you even have time to blink.

"'I'm in New York'?" She reads. "Oh my god, he did not send you a 'wyd' text!"

You're in a nice restaurant with a six month long waitlist for a reservation so you're desperately trying to keep yourself from launching across the table at her to get your phone back but the urge is certainly strong. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you hold your hand out to her. "Give me my phone."

"Are you going to text him back?"

"No." Yes.

The look she gives you momentarily leaves you wondering if she can actually read minds. You straighten yourself in your seat, tilting your chin defiantly as you say, "I am a grown adult who can make her own decisions."

"Yes, but that doesn't mean you always make good ones," Melanie replies, handing you your phone.

"It's a bad idea, right?" You ask. "Like...an extremely bad one?"

"Catastrophic even," she agrees. “He’s your ex for a reason!”

“Okay, but can’t two people reconnect? Isn’t the goal to be like…friends or something?”

You stare at each other for a moment. Her smile falters. "Oh my god, you're going to answer."

"I'm going to answer." Your fingers fly across the screen and hit send before you allow your logic to return.

Address?

The car you ordered pulls up to a boutique hotel, the kind that has a symbol for its sign instead of a name, and the driver comes around the front of the car and opens the door for you, holding a hand out to help you from your seat. You thank him and take a deep breath before entering the glittering lobby.

There's a separate elevator for the penthouse suite and the attendant on duty asks for your name, checking an iPad in his hands before pressing the button with a gloved fingertip. Once the car arrives and the shiny golden doors silently slide open, you step inside.

You stare at your reflection in the doors as the elevator rises, wondering why you're doing this. Your relationship with the actor lasted about eight months - long enough for you to fall in love and long enough for him to decide he was bored of you. After citing scheduling issues as his reason for breaking things off, you went back to hearing about him rather than from him and trying to fix the cracks in your life that he had left behind.

When the elevator stops and the doors slide open, Dieter is standing there with his familiar messy brown curls in disarray, a hotel robe open over his chest and tied loosely around his waist. He opens his arms wide as he grins.

"Hey, baby. Miss me?" He asks. You roll your eyes.

"Like a cavity, Bravo,” you reply, but your feet still guide you forward and you let yourself get enveloped in his embrace, the familiar smell of faded cologne and weed invading your senses. “Why did you text me?”

“Why did you come?” He asks.

“I asked you first.” You pull away, stepping around him and entering the living room of the large suite.

“You want a drink? I got you that wine you like,” Dieter says, pulling a bottle from an ice bucket set on a room service cart. He holds a glass up and you nod, watching as he fights with the corkscrew.

He finally gets the bottle popped, pouring each glass to the brim and stepping carefully across the room with one in each hand, settling beside you on the couch. He passes one to you and you take a quick sip to prevent disaster. Dieter opts to chug half of his serving in one go.

“So,” he says, drawing the word out, “You wanna have sex with me?”

You drain the rest of your glass, leaning forward to set it on the coffee table beside his. You kick your heels off, shifting in your seat until you’ve got your knees beneath you, pressed into the cushion. Planting a hand on his shoulder for stability, you swing one leg over him and settle on his lap.

“This is a bad idea, right?” You ask, face close enough to his that your lips nearly touch when you speak. His hands slide up your thighs.

“Probably,” he agrees, brown eyes half lidded as he stares at you.

“Fuck it, it’s fine,” you decide, pressing your lips to his. Your mouths move together hungrily, six months apart fueling a fire that’s ready to burn you alive.

“Fucking hell,” Dieter groans, hips bucking up and dragging his hardening cock against your center. “Want you so goddamn bad.”

“How bad?” You ask, already breathless as he trails his lips down your neck, his beard scratching the thin skin over your rapid pulse.

“Thought of you every time I fucked my hand.” A bite to your throat has you hissing from the combination of pleasure and pain. You tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging his head back in retaliation. “Even bought one of those pocket pussy things. Didn’t even come close.”

That gives you pause. With six months gone between the breakup and now, you would have thought he’d been drowning in women and men clamoring at the chance to fuck him.

You kiss him again, your tongues sliding together in a messy, dirty dance you’ve missed more than you care to voice. Your hips move over his while his hands explore every exposed inch of you they can find.

“Take your clothes off,” he demands when his lips break from yours.

“Ask nicely,” you chastise. His brown eyes go wide, a pathetic puppy dog glimmer in them.

“Please,” he begs. “Pretty please, with a cherry on top?”

You stand, laughter spilling from your lips as you reach for zipper at your back, tugging it down slowly while he watches. He licks his lips like he’s being presented a six course meal and his hands curl into the material of the robe that’s fallen open, giving you an unobstructed view of a broad chest and soft tummy. You turn your back to him, easing the sleeves of the dress off your shoulders slowly.

“Come on, baby,” Dieter whines. “Quit teasing.”

“Good things come to boys who wait,” you tell him, shimmying the fabric over your hips, bending at the waist to ease the dress over the curve of your ass and down to the floor. This leaves you in only a thong, the red straps of it a gorgeous contrast to your skin that you know he’ll go crazy for.

“Fuck. Me.”

You turn back around to face him, the man’s eyes dropping immediately to your breasts. He raises his arms, making grabby hand motions toward your chest that have you giggling.

“What if,” you tap your finger to your chin in thought, “I just wanted you to watch me?”

Dieter pouts. “I could be a lot more help with my cock,” he argues.

“Hmm.” You take a seat on one of the cushy arm chairs in the sitting area, spreading your legs wide. “I’ve been doing just fine these last six months without it,” you tell him, sliding a hand beneath the elastic of your panties.

“This is fucking cruel and unusual punishment,” Dieter says. “A violation of the Geneva Convention.”

“Always so dramatic,” you reply as you circle your clit with your fingertips. He leans forward on the couch, hands gripping the cushion tightly as he watches. “You want a closer look, baby?”

He nods his head rapidly and you lift your hips to shove your panties down your legs, gathering them in your hand and tossing them at his face. The wad of fabric drops to his lap and he balls it up in his fist and brings it to his nose.

“Pervert,” you say affectionately. You hook your leg over the arm of the chair, spreading yourself wide for his gaze. You tease your clit with two fingers, trailing them lower to your entrance and dipping one inside, your head dropping back against the chair with your moan.

The sound of skin sliding over skin reaches your ears and when you look up, you find that Dieter has shoved his boxers down to where they now sit looked around his ankles, his thick cock caught in the tight grip of his fist. You lift your hand away, closing your legs and leaning forward with your eyes narrowed.

“Now, Dieter, I don’t remember saying you could touch yourself,” you say.

“Can’t touch you, can’t touch myself,” he whines, releasing his cock and gripping the couch cushion. “C’mon, baby. Please? I’ve missed yo—“

“Cut!” You yell. Dieter’s mouth snaps shut in surprise. “That wasn’t a very Oscar worthy performance, Di. I think you can do better than that.”

His blank stare morphs into heated understanding and you watch as he slowly slides from the couch and lands on his knees. He slips the robe from his shoulders, leaving him gloriously naked. You take a moment to appreciate the muscles of his chest and arms, his softer belly dusted with hair that draws your eye to his flushed cock and his strong thighs.

Then he starts to crawl.

Those big brown eyes of his look up at you with so much desperation and, dare you say it, adoration that your heart skips a beat as he moves closer. When he reaches your feet, he sits back on his heels and settles his hands on his thighs.

“Please, baby,” he murmurs. “Let me touch you. Let me show you how much I’ve missed you. You know me, my tongue is much better at giving you an orgasm than it is with words.”

“Fine,” you say, tone implying he’s inconveniencing you with his desire. He grins, his hands immediately grabbing at your thighs and tugging your ass to the edge of the seat. He positions your legs over each arm of the chair before diving in with his talented tongue, licking through your slick folds with practiced finesse.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, sucking your clit between his lips. “Your pussy is even better than that six course meal we had at that pretentious restaurant in Paris.”

“L’Arpege?” You gasp, fingers tangling in his hair. “You never told me you didn’t like it. I only picked it because of your two month experiment with veganism!”

“Wasn’t there for the fucking food,” he says. Two fingers press to your soaked entrance, sliding into your tight heat with little resistance.

Your head is spinning, stars bursting in your vision as his thick digits curl against your G-spot. His other hand presses on the top of your pelvis and the look in his eyes tells you exactly what his goal is.

“Dieter,” you say, his name a warning as you squirm beneath him. He grins up at you from between your legs.

“How’s my performance now?” He asks. “Oscar worthy yet?”

“Nominated at best,” you bite back through gritted teeth despite the pressure building in your core. He wraps his lips around your clit and sucks hard, tongue flicking rapidly against the bundle of nerves until that pressure bursts as you cry out, “Oh, fuck!”

The orgasm he pulls from you is overwhelming and leaves you gasping, vision blurry as you look down at Dieter’s smug expression and dripping chin. He runs a hand over his chin, collecting your release on his palm and using it to ease the friction of his hand as it pumps his cock roughly.

“‘Nominated at best’,” he says, voice pitched higher to mimic yours. “Please, that was the performance of a lifetime.”

“Don’t get cocky, Di,” you mumble, planting a foot on his chest and pushing him back. He topples over, landing on his back with an oof.

You drop from the chair and crawl over his body, making sure to drag your soaked pussy across his cock. Your hands are planted on the floor on either side of his head and you stare down at his blissed out face as you rock over him.

Dieter’s hands grip your hips tightly. “Don’t good performances get awarded?” He asks, voice tight.

You reach down between your bodies to hold his cock steady, allowing you to sink down slowly, his thick length damn near splitting you open. You’ve missed this, the way he fills every inch of your hungry cunt, the way he looks at you like you’re the best damn thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

Which is saying something because the man knows art and is constantly surrounded by beautiful people but you’ve only seen this look when you’re alone with him, at the end of a long day on set or when you finally stumbled home together from a night out. It’s the way his eyes go soft and his touch grows reverent, fingertips gliding over whatever skin he can reach with a featherlight touch, and the combination wipes the dust off memories with him you’d been trying to forget and move on from.

“Dieter,” you say, voice shaky. You rock your hips, lifting slightly to your knees and relishing the drag of his cock inside of you before you slam your hips back down. “God, fuck, feel so good.”

“Your pussy was made for my fucking cock,” he says through gritted teeth, his hands gripping your hips tightly and encouraging each rock of your body. “Missed this, missed you, fuck. Love you so much.”

You stop abruptly, the man beneath you whining. You grip him by the chin as you ask, “You what?”

“I…uh…shit,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean to say it.”

“Oh.” You let go of his face, sitting up straight. “I see.”

“No, no,” he rushes to say. “That’s not what I meant.”

It occurs to you that you’re still impaled on his cock and this doesn’t exactly feel like a conversation to be had in that position. You make a move to get up but strong hands hold you steady in his lap.

“I just meant,” he say, fingers flexing nervously against your thighs. “I didn’t mean to say it right now. Like…I wanted you to maybe not hate me for a bit before I professed my love or whatever.”

“I don’t get it,” you admit. “I thought you just texted me to hookup because you were in town.”

“I’m in town for you.”

“For me?”

Dieter nods. “I’m not good with words that aren’t written for me. Too much going on up here,” he says, tapping his forehead. “But I haven’t stopped thinking about you since we broke it off and I feel like that’s a cosmic sign that we’re meant to be or whatever.”

“Oh my god, you really are bad with words,” you say with a laugh. “Meant to be, huh?”

“Or whatever,” he finishes. “Marriage is a scam.”

“Right, right,” you murmur, rocking your hips the slightest bit. “Total scam.”

“It’s just a way for the governme—oh, fuck,” he says, words trailing off into a moan as you pick up your pace again, your hands on his chest to steady yourself. “Just like that, baby.”

“You’re lucky I missed you, too,” you tell him, gasping when his hips flex to meet yours. Your communication with each other devolves into moans and the movement of your bodies until the desperation you feel for one another reaches its peak.

Dieter wraps both arms around your lower back as you cum, holding you to him as your cunt squeezes around his cock. It’s only a moment before you feel him pulsing, warmth pooling inside of you as your orgasm starts to fade. You collapse against his chest, breathing heavily and listening to the rapid beat of his heart beneath your ear.

He rubs his hands up and down your back as you both catch your breath, sweat cooling between you in the chill of the hotel room.

“You wanna order pizza?” He asks. You turn your face into his chest, muffling your laughter into his skin.

“Absolutely.”

[covetyou]

chaste

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ series masterlist

pairing: Dieter Bravo x gn!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: chastity pollen (the opposite of sex pollen - our man can't fuck), mention of past drug use, masturbation, not phone sex but phone sex adjacent, brief mention of Dieter pissing (twice), cock and ball pain (not cock and ball torture), a brief thing with a glove that isn't sexy at all for anyone involved but it's there, the vaguest of dub-con for the ending (Dee sends you pictures of his dick that you didn't ask for/technically said no to but jerk off to anyway) word count: 2.6k summary: Off the back of a two week retreat to the middle of fuck knows where Dieter Bravo doesn't seem quite himself. You soon figure out why.

A/N: @sp00kymulderr reblogged this post and said someone needed to write a Dieter Chastity Pollen fic, so I did it.

Reader is entirely gender neutral, no mention of any hair, size, shape, genitals, holes, tits, nothin'.

Sorry to Joel and Tim for neglecting you, you were meant to be done this week but I hate your existence currently and Dieter brings me comfort.

follow @covetedfics and turn notifications on for updates on future fics

"Deiter, breakfast!"

Anyone would be fooled in thinking you were calling for a dog. No, Dieter was very much human. Most of the time.

You dump the takeout bag on the kitchen island and look around. He'd been back one day and the place was already more of a mess than when you left it yesterday. His robe was hung over the stair rail and an errant croc almost tripped you as you walked in. It was safe to say that Dieter Bravo was definitely home.

"Dieter!" You shout again, expecting to hear his feet stomping upstairs any moment.

Instead, a feeble croak comes from the other side of the couch. "I'm here."

Craning your neck, you look over the sofa to see Dieter laying there, arm flung over his face and totally, utterly nude.

"Jesus f-, Dee. Put some fucking clothes on."

"No point."

"You have an interview in an hour Dee, at least put a fucking shirt on. I brought you breakfast."

"What's the point in anything?"

You stop in your tracks. It's not that you weren't used to encountering an apathetic Dieter Bravo. It was pretty common actually, usually at the slightest inconvenience. But having just come back from a two week vacation to some pot head retreat, you assumed he'd be bouncing off the walls and easy to get on with. Easier, anyway. But, Dieter was miserable. Errant KitKat wrappers were on the floor around him and he was laying spread eagle, completely naked, on his couch.

You knew to tread carefully when he was like this, so putting the takeout bag back down as quietly as you can, you move to sit gingerly on the arm of the couch.

"What happened, Dee?" you say softly, moving a KitKat wrapper from near his face.

Dieter flings an arm out to the side and sighs dramatically. His face is still covered, but you can see he's pouting from over his arm.

"My life is ruined, that's what happened."

You'd lost count of the amount of times his life had been ruined by something or other, usually someone or something else that had fucked up or not gone to plan. Dieter Bravo never ruined his own life, of course. So, grateful that he can't see you, you pinch your nose and roll your eyes. At this rate, you were going to have to cancel on Variety. Again.

"Dieter, I know it feels that way, but I'm sure it's not that bad. We can fig- "

"It is that bad," he cuts in with a huff, suddenly hauling himself upright on the couch. "Just look."

You follow his dramatic gesture downward to where his cock hangs limply between his legs.

"That's your cock, Dee. It's always been there."

You'd seen it before. Many times in fact. Probably more often than most PAs had seen their employers genitals, to be honest. Seeing Dieter Bravo naked was one of those things that just happened. In the grand scheme of things, it was one of the most normal ways a person could ever see him. As it was, you'd seen him in far more compromising situations than sat on his couch with his dick out.

Looking at you with a strange kind of urgency in his eyes, he pleads with you. "But look at it."

Standing, you round the couch and look down at him with your hands on your hips.

It looks normal. You'd seen it enough to know that his foreskin wrinkled just like that, his balls sat soft just as they were, and his pubic hair was groomed just as it always was.

Except... it didn't move. Not a twitch or a flicker along the entire soft length. He was more flaccid than he had probably ever been and, for whatever reason, he was staying that way. You frown, letting your brows meet in the middle.

"See."

"What..." you trail off, trying to work out what the fuck was going on. You had seen him soft before, but usually within a few minutes of you talking, typically with him staring at your mouth as it moved, likely imagining you licking his balls or sucking his cock, he would begin to harden. In fact, simply stare at his dick for a few seconds and something was bound to happen. Dieter Bravo was so painfully easy to turn on it was almost endearing. And yet, he was still soft.

He slumps back, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees stars.

"It's been like this all week. I can't do anything with it."

"What do you mean you can't do anything?" you say in confusion. For all the things Dieter had tried to do with his cock over the years, he, and by proxy, you, had learnt of the many many things his cock could not do. Saying it couldn't do anything didn't really reveal much and was likely a typical Dieter exaggeration.

"Anything! I can't touch it, I can't fuck with it, I can't even make myself hard. It's just there. Useless."

"Your cock is not useless, Dee, I promis-"

"I have to piss sitting down."

"Oh."

A few simple words and the gravity of the situation suddenly hits you. Dieter was a man who took great joy in pissing. Sometimes you thought a little too much joy, but you weren't going to judge. There were weirder things he could be into. But one of those joys came in the form of being able to unzip his pants and piss just about anywhere he pleased. There were other things he liked doing with his cock too, but if he couldn't even stand to pee, you knew whatever was going on was a big deal.

You meet his eyes again, seeing how slumped and dejected he looks, and you don't know what to say. Usually you could find a solution for anything, but Dieter Bravo is the last person you expected to have cock troubles. Luckily for you, he can't keep his mouth shut for long, and after another big sigh, blinking back tears that you swear just might fall from his eyes, words spew out of his mouth in a stream of consciousness.

"I went on that fucking retreat, and they had this new strain, and I tried it, and ever since I've just been," he waves his hands desperately in the air, "like this."

"Wait -"

"And now what am I gonna do? What if I can never come again? Who the fuck even am I if I can't come again?"

"Dieter."

"I can feel it too. It's like my blood feels horny but my cock is the opposite of horny and I can't do anything about it -"

"Dee, slow down - "

"Even if I touch it it's like I'm getting fuckin' electrocuted. It's like ZAP straight to my cock and balls, through my fingers, down my arm. My cock is going to kill me."

He finally stops, taking a deep breath as he flops back again with a desperate whine. His cock flops with him, falling sideways to rest on his leg, and he looks at it with a dramatic sob. He couldn't even move it off of himself if he wanted to.

The couch dips when you sit next to him, kicking yet another KitKat wrapper away. Despite everything, his dick still looks normal. By rights, after the things he'd stuck it in, it had no right to look normal, almost pretty, but it did. Whatever had happened at that retreat, whatever god awful thing he smoked, he was lucky this was all he got. A week of forced celibacy was nothing. For most people, anyway.

Looking at you out of the side of his eyes you can see a glimmer of a question flick across his face. You already know what he's going to ask. "Dieter, no."

"Can you try touching it?"

"No."

"Please! Not even in a sexy way this time, just... just a little bit?" he looks at you with those stupid puppy dog eyes that would have just about anyone else giving in to him. You knew better, and he usually knew better than to use them on you. They were never going to work on you.

So, you don't know what possesses you when you nod, mumbling something about grabbing some gloves from the first aid box in the kitchen. When you return, Dieter is sat with his knees wide, looking at you expectantly. Snapping a glove around your wrist you crouch in front of him and move to reach out when he stops you.

"Just a little touch," he says with a waver in his voice. You can't imagine it. The poor man had probably gone back to his room with the weed haze still licking at his bones, peeling his clothes from his body before falling into bed. He would have reached down to give his little Dee a tug goodnight, only to be met with the shock of his life. You'd be terrified too if you were him.

"I'll go slow," you say, trying to reassure him as much as you could. In a few months time you'd laugh about this, if it all blew over quickly, but right now it was impossible to get the fearful look in his eyes out of your head.

Reaching out again, you get an inch from his cock. It still hasn't twitched or moved at all, even with the threat of your impending touch. You look up at Dieter, giving him a nod. "You ready?"

Taking a deep breath, he nods back at you.

As the tip of your gloved finger barely grazes the skin of his flaccid dick, his hips buck up and he throws himself back away from you.

"A-ah! Shitting fuck! Ouch."

You still, eyes wide and panicked. You didn't feel anything but Dieter very obviously did. He's curling in on himself, trying not to writhe with the pain of the sharp zap straight to his cock directly where you touched him.

"Did you feel that?" he says, from the ball he's curled himself into. You shake your head, biting your lips in concern. "Are you kidding me?! You touch me and I'm the one who gets zapped? How is any of this fair."

"I'm not the one who smoked some mystery weed, Dieter."

"I'm going to die."

"No you're not."

"Yes I am. My cock is going to fall off because I can't touch it, and I'm going to die cockless and alone."

"No. No, look, it'll be okay. We'll give it another week, and if things aren't back to normal we'll call a doctor, get it seen to," you pat him gently on the knee and watch as he feebly nods in agreement. "Alright. Let's get you dressed, okay? We'll put your dick away for now -"

"May as well put it away forever, never gonna need it again..."

"- for now, and get you ready for your interview."

Nodding with watery eyes, Dieter lets you bundle his robe around him and take him upstairs. He complains the entire time you're fixing his hair that his dick feels wrong in his boxers, whines when you finally sit him down in front of the camera and join the call. But, two minutes in and some particularly good questions later, the fake smile he'd plastered on turns real and his cock sits soft and forgotten between his legs. At least, for a little while.

It was going to be a long week.

Four days later, at 4:23am, you're awoken by the harsh ringing of your phone. Your eyes can't focus, but at this time it could only be one person.

You fumble for a second before swiping to accept the call, slapping the phone to the side of your face with an arm that doesn't seem to have woken up properly yet.

"I'm hard! My dick is hard," are the first words that come tumbling out of his mouth. Dieter sounds positively ecstatic, if a little breathless.

Stifling a yawn and rubbing your eyes you smile in relief at his words. "That's great, Dee."

"I woke up for a piss, and stood there, stood there, pissing. Didn't even realize at first - shit that's good - had to go back and touch it in the mirror to see. No zap!"

"No zap!" you try to say enthusiastically through another yawn, barely registering the wet rhythmic noise coming through the phone.

"I'm so happy I want to kiss it. I want to kiss my dick!"

"Please don't try to kiss it, Dee, your back isn't doing great as it is." You hear him sigh and mumble a soft God I've missed you so much and it confuses you for a moment until you realize he's not talking about you.

"Do you know how good this feels? I've never felt something this good in my life, I swear it. So - fuck - so good."

You are fully awake now, staring wide eyed at your bedroom ceiling. The wet noises are clear as day. "Are you... are you jerking off?"

"Well, yeah. Haven't stopped. Do you know how quick I got hard? I'm like a fucking rock, here, let me send you a picture." Putting you on speaker, you hear the phone clatter as Dieter fumbles with it.

"Dee, no, no look, it's okay. I don't need a picture. You enjoy yourself. I'll cancel your meetings for the day so you can have some alone time."

Dieter groans, mumbling softly to you down the speaker. "You're an angel."

"I'm your PA. It's my job. Goodnight, Dee," and you slump back asleep as soon as you hang up.

At 7am your alarm sounds, and you startle awake, fairly certain you'd had a dream about Dieter's cock. Scanning through your notifications on your way to the bathroom, you spot a series of messages from the man himself.

A slew of excitable texts, a few missed calls and, finally, pictures. You hadn't dreamed it at all and it seemed that Dieter Bravo's cock was finally hard, and you had all the proof of that right in front of you. First his dick clutched firmly in his hand, glistening red tip poking from between the fingers as he hunches over to get his smiling face in the frame to give you a thumbs up. He sent you a profile view picture too, hands free, and you can see just how hard he is by how stiffly his length juts out from between his hips.

Finally, and maybe most importantly, a short video. His hand moves quickly up and down his cock, stiff and engorged in his fist, voice coming through the speaker in loud pained groans. If you didn't know better, if you hadn't witnessed first hand what Dieter Bravo sounded like with his cock hurting, you'd swear he was in agony. A few seconds later and you watch his balls seem to swell and tighten before his tip twitches to life, spurting again and again and again all over his fist, trickling down his fingers, his balls and onto the sheet below as he comes seemingly endlessly.

"Oh shit, oh shiiit," he groans in the recording.

By the time he finishes, fist slowing to a stop around his length and his slit finally ceasing its erupting, cum coats just about everything in the frame.

And then he laughs. Dieter Bravo, cock in hand at 5am and covered in his own cum, laughs in disbelief as he is finally, blissfully able to come.

You shake your head as the recording cuts off and you climb into the shower, setting your phone out of the way in a nook opposite the flow of water. You hit play again.

And again.

And again.

taglist: @jupiter-soups @wannab-urs @bean-is-reading @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @youandmeand5bucks-blog @bbyanarchist @vickywallace @kamcrazy123 @valkyreally @ashhlsstuff @a-literal-goblin @ariundercovers @iluvurfather @stevie75 @toxicanonymity @thesevi0lentdelights @sp00kymulderr

[chiriwritesstuff]

The New Girl in Tinseltown - Chapter 2 - Devil's Advocate

A Dieter Bravo x Actress! Reader PR Marriage AU

Previous Chapter │ Series Masterlist │ Next Chapter

Chapter Rating: E (18+, MDNI)

Chapter Summary: A look into Dieter's point of view at the night of our fated trip to Vegas. How does America's favorite Bad Boy™ end up married to America's New Sweetheart™?

Chapter Warnings and Tags: (Not So) meet cute, PR Relationships, what happens in Vegas ends up in the headlines, Dieter just does not give a FUCK, Smut, SO MUCH SMUT, a look at the inner workings of Tinseltown and the sleaziness it comes with, Dry Humping, A hell of a lot of dirty banter, is that yearning?, mentions of devious deeds by sleazy people in show business, our loverboy makes a 'Pride and Prejudice reference, SLOW BURN WE DONT KNOW IT, this is unhinged, no use of y/n, No beta we die like men!

Word Count: 8K (whoops!)

A/N: I know, I know, I KNOW. I promised the release of this chapter weeks ago, but I got struck by the not-covid-but-felt-like-covid virus and managed to get myself into the biggest writing slump. I really do apologize for that, and I want to give a big thank you to everyone who stuck around and showed and shared love and support for the first chapter and this series! I can confidently say that the writing slump has finally passed, and we can finally get this crazy show on the road...

An (almost) year before that night in Vegas.

“Dieter, I'm expecting you to be on your best behavior tonight."

Dieter scowls at his publicist while his groomer diligently applies yet another round of pomade in an attempt to tame his unruly curls. "Define best behavior."

"They're about to launch a new girl into the circuit, some unknown that the studio thinks will become the next girl next door," his publicist responds, tapping away at his MacBook. "She's a genuinely sweet thing, all doe-eyed and untouched by the suits. Apparently, she's so sweet that Feldman-"

“Let me guess,” Dieter deadpans, "Feldman wants to fuck her," he rolls his eyes at that, slightly curious at the prospect of fresh blood. "Why am I not surprised?"

"That's not the best part," his publicist quips, his eyes locking with Dieter's over the rim of his laptop. "The studio wants to protect their asset, so much so that they hired-"

"No fucking way, they hired the Shark for this broad? What? Does she have beer-flavored nipples or something?" Dieter exclaims, his curiosity piqued. "Is she really that sweet?"

His publicist's mouth quirks into a small smirk. "The sweetest, most fucking forbidden fruit, my friend. So sweet that the Shark doesn't want you within ten feet of his client."

"Oh yeah?" Dieter replies, his eyes raised.

"Hell yeah. He tried to corner me earlier, warning me to keep my client's - and I quote - Dirty fucking paws off of his Doll-"

"Doll, huh? I bet I could tap that," Dieter challenges, his chest puffed out.

Dieter's publicist chuckles to himself, shaking his head. "Dieter, I know you believe you're God's gift to the masses, but trust me, this Doll? She's a bit out of your league."

Dieter leans back in his chair, a sly grin forming on his face. "Out of my league, huh? That just makes it more interesting. The thrill of the chase, my friend."

His publicist raises an eyebrow, skeptical. "Dieter, I've seen you chase plenty, but this Doll is different. She's not like the others. There's an innocence about her that even your charm might struggle to crack."

Dieter smirks, undeterred. "Well, we'll see about that. The forbidden fruit always tastes the sweetest, doesn't it?"

The publicist lets out a resigned sigh. "Just remember, Dieter, not every fruit is meant to be plucked."

"What is this event even for?" Dieter counters, appraising himself as his stylist smooths the fabric of his suit, a deep emerald green number with a crisp obsidian button-down. He pouts at the mirror, glancing at his publicist and his agent behind him. "It's not the Nickelodeon Kids Choice Awards again, is it?"

"Why? So you could be caught doing blow off a toilet bowl seat like last year? I'm still doing damage control for that, you know," his agent deadpans. "You're in luck; it's the MTV Movie Awards-"

"... and this is Doll's debut, huh? Is she up for an award or something?"

"Several, actually. Surprisingly, her last film gained quite the following-"

"... let me guess, it's some rom-com," Dieter interjects, a hint of disinterest in his tone. "What are the categories?"

"Three, to be exact." His agent smirks into his cognac. "Best Female Lead, Female Breakout Star, and Best Kiss-"

"Best Kiss? Seriously?" Dieter retorts incredulously, his eyes widening. "What's the name of her movie? I might need to see it for myself-"

"Dieter, level with me. Are you gonna keep your dirty fucking paws off of the Shark's asset?" his publicist sighs, giving him a stern look. "As much as I want to shove my foot up his fucking ass, I don't have the energy to have him breathing down my back the entire fucking night-" he looks off into Dieter's direction, who is currently on your Wikipedia page. He frowns. "Dieter, do you hear me?"

"What?" Dieter snaps, slamming his phone onto his seat.

"Can you manage to be on your best behavior tonight? Stay clear of-"

"No. I mean, sure, fine, whatever-" Dieter interrupts, his tone dismissive.

"Dieter-"

"I heard you! I promise to stay away from her, but the real question is, are you able to keep her away from me?" He smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

The (not-so meet cute) at the MTV Movie Awards.

"Dieter!" you shout, hastily making your way toward him, clearly a few drinks in. "Surprised to see you here!" you shout excitedly, a little wobble in your step as you approach him. 

You adorn a sleek silver gown, your hair elegantly swept to one side, and your radiant face contrasting vividly with the venue's intense lights. Dieter finds himself momentarily breathless as he gazes at you, captivated by your ethereal presence, akin to an angel descending into the depths of hell. "Fuck me," he murmurs under his breath as you draw near, the collar around his neck suddenly feeling constrictive as he nervously swallows. "What the hell? I never get nervous around women," he mutters to himself, his eyes tracing the entirety of your figure. His pants grow notably tighter, his attention fixated on the hypnotic sway of your hips.

He greets you with a nervous smile as you come face to face, tenderly planting a kiss on your cheek. His eyes close momentarily as he savors your delicate scent, a sensation that electrifies his chest and courses through his veins, prompting his hands to instinctively caress the back of your head as he subtly tries to capture another whiff. A subtle sense of pride swells within him as he notices the blush unexpectedly blooming across your skin, its warmth cascading down your cleavage.

Forbidden fucking fruit indeed. 

"Doll," he attempts to say smoothly, a hint of nervousness lacing his voice. "I've heard so much about you. Congrats on your wins tonight; they're truly well-deserved!"

"Really?" you suddenly squeal, and Dieter feels like he could get lost in your energy. It's pure, sweet, and so inherently innocent—the childlike wonder of being thrust into the limelight, untarnished by the sleazy underbelly of Hollywood. He can't help but internally frown, foreseeing the inevitable vultures in suits trying to get a piece of you. Their insatiable hunger for new, sweet flesh is something he knows all too well.

"Well, yeah, Doll, you killed it, as expected. Winning tonight and sweeping all your nominations was a given," he muses, casually leaning against his chair. As he leans towards you, a subconscious desire prompts him to take another whiff of your perfume, desperately trying to commit its essence to memory amid the haze of his coke-induced high. He can't resist burying his nose in your hair, eyes closing as he takes you in once more. 

"Dieter-" you question his sudden boldness, a nervous chuckle escaping you. 

"I'm sorry, baby-" he moans into your neck, his hands traveling down the length of your back. "You must tell me what the name of your perfume is, its divine-"

"Oh," you laugh as Dieter pulls you into him tighter, groaning as his hands travel dangerously close down your hips. "It's 'Missing Person' by-"

"Doll," a voice emerges from behind the two of you, accompanied by a stern clearing of someone's throat. Dieter's expression darkens as he recognizes the owner of the voice, but not before planting one final teasing kiss against your throat. With a smirk playing on his lips, he straightens up and turns to confront the perpetually annoyed yet annoyingly handsome face of the man Hollywood dubs 'The Shark'- also known as the most ruthless of publicists in all of Tinseltown, protecting his clients with an iron fist so strong no one ever thinks of crossing him.

Unless they wanted a cease and desist letter shoved so far up their assholes... without any fucking lube.   

Dieter gets it, though. If he were in his shoes and he had a client like you? All sweet and pure with the face of an angel but a body curated by the Devil himself?

Well, he would fuck your brains out and make you forget your name first, but that's beside the point. The point is, he gets it, he really fucking does.  

"Well well well," Dieter croons as he holds his hand up towards your publicist. "It's been a long time, Shark. Tell me, did you have to call ahead to make sure that some poor bloke's mangled testicles made it onto your plate for tonight, or did you rip someone's balls off fresh on-site?" he snarks with the raise of his eyebrow, shaking his head as your publicist stares at his outstretched hand in greeting. Dieter scoffs as he retreats his hand, placing it on his hip.  

"Bravo," Your publicist grits through clenched teeth as he tries to appear as unbothered as possible. "Aren't you a little old to be here tonight? The rumors aren't true, you know. Fucking girls close to half your age doesn't keep you young, but I suppose it makes sense, considering a woman your age would know better-"

"Shark, I won't tolerate you talking like that in the presence of an actual earth-bound angel. Just because she's young doesn't mean she doesn't know right from wrong-" Dieter retorts, flashing you a smoldering smile. "... you know how to handle yourself, don't you, Doll? You don't need some uptight prick telling you what you can and cannot do, right?" he winks, a slight puff to his chest.

You visibly shiver at his cheeky insinuation, nodding. "Right," you breathe, taking a hasty gulp of your champagne. "I'm 29 years old, I don't need you defending my 'honor' like I'm some virginal maiden-"

"Well, when my client has far too many drinks in her and doesn't understand the kind of man she's in the presence of-"

"The Devil, right?" Dieter exclaims, pointing to himself. "A no-good washed-up actor who fucks anything with two legs while high off my rocker, who just so happens to be good at what I do with the Oscar in my shitter to prove it? Don't you think she knows all of this? My bare ass isn't on the front page of TMZ weekly because I'm a nobody, baby."

"Oh my god, Dieter," you gush, clapping your hands together. "I loved you in-"

"Doll," your publicist interrupts, a firm hand on your shoulder. "You have that meeting with Favreau at the Beverley Hills in 30 minutes. As much as we would love to stay and chat... we have our jobs to get to, right Doll?" your publicist says to you sweetly, his hand grazing your arm. He clears his throat, nodding at Dieter. "Bravo, it was stimulating, as always," he deadpans with a hint of finality, pulling on your elbow like a lost puppy on a leash. Dieter swallows as he witnesses your light dimming from your face, a small frown on your face as you try to remain cordial, a fake smile etched on your face.  

"It was nice meeting you, Dieter," you almost whisper, pulling him into one last hug. "... maybe we'll just run into each other again soon?" You quickly whisper in his ear, and the thought of the two of you meeting up in secret thrills him to no end. His dick certainly twitches at the prospect. 

Dieter takes one last whiff of your scent, his eyes closing as he wills the time to stand still, not wanting to lose the warmth radiating from your aura. He presses one last kiss on your cheek, his fingers caressing the spot as he gives you a genuine smile.  

"... it wouldn't be soon enough, baby."

He gives The Shark one last salute, flipping him off once his back is toward him. “Fucking asshole cockblock,” he mutters to himself, patting his suit pocket for his little baggie of E. He pinches the baggie between his fingers, looking at its contents in silent contemplation.  I guess if I can't get the girl, at least I can get the high, right?

The morning after.

Dieter is face down on his sofa in his boxers and his robe, groaning from the after-effects of his debauchery just a few hours before. As if his skull is splitting into two, he winces as he turns himself onto his back, staring aimlessly into his ceiling as his iPhone suddenly starts to go off from under him.

Sighing, he blindly reaches for his phone, one eye open as he squints into the tiny, shattered screen.

TMZ NEWS FLASH! Up-and-coming Actress who swept MTV awards show last night being groped by Resident Playboy Dieter Bravo? Her publicist sweeps in to save our New "It" Girl in Tinseltown from the grasp of the Devil himself-

Dieter scoffs as he swipes the notification away, his eyes scanning the next headline.

AP NEWS ALERT: Dieter Bravo seen kissing Rising Actress at MTV Movie Awards last night, is a new romance brewing between the Fresh-Faced Actress and Playboy Lothario Dieter Bravo?

"Dieter," his publicist groans as he walks into the room, picking up a crumpled pair of boxer briefs off the sofa, and throws himself on it, pinching the space between his eyebrows as he shakes his head. "What the hell did I tell you? Stay away from The Shark's client, don't grope her in front of him! Can't you just listen to me for once?"

"It was innocent! I kept my hands at a respectable distance from her ass," Dieter retorts, throwing his phone across the room. "I didn't even make a move—"

"That's not the point, Dieter!" his publicist spits back, pulling out his phone. "Do you realize how much this guy despises you? I'm good at my job, but The Shark? I can't go against a god—"

"You're making him out to be some untouchable—"

"...because he is untouchable, Dieter! Do you even know he's buddies with Feldman? After learning about your stunt last night, he's considering pulling you from the project."

"Please," Dieter scoffs, rolling his eyes. "They need me more than I need them! I'm practically doing them a favor, signing on to this fucking movie. They're not going to pull Dieter Bravo from a sinking ship! It's just scare tactics!"

"Yeah, well, you know what they say. The pussy is stronger than god, right?" his publicist replies, scrolling through his phone. "Feldman didn't appreciate your hands on his girl, and now he's out for blood. I warned you about this, D. Is some girl worth losing a multi-million dollar contract? Do you want to go back to doing 'surprise guest star' roles on cable TV? I heard they're thinking of rebooting 'Suits', it might be a good fit for you-"

"So what do I need to do then?" Dieter fires back, a joint between his lips. "I assume I'll be needing to make a public statement or some shit? Keep the old bastard happy?"

"It's funny you mention that D. I have an email from The Shark himself, with a list of what he wants you to say in your statement, promising he'll back the fuck off if you promise to not go within ten feet of his asset-"

"Have you ever heard of 'Missing People' perfume?" Dieter suddenly asks, taking a hit off his joint, his eyes following the thick plume of smoke as he leans back into the sofa. "Missing... Woman?" he mumbles to himself absentmindedly, licking his lips. "Fuck, what did she say it was? I need to stop going to these things blitzed out of my fucking mind-"

"Dieter, focus. Are we releasing the statement or not?"

"MARCUS!" Dieter calls out for his PA suddenly, ignoring his publicist as he grabs the phone out of his hands. "MARCUS! I NEED YOU!"

"Yes D?" Marcus responds as he rushes into the living room, pulling a fresh pack of Kitkat out of his back pocket. "Did you need a snack?"

"Have you ever heard of 'Missing Someone' perfume?" he asks once more as he pulls up the Safari app on his publicist's phone.  

"You mean 'Missing Person' by Phlur?" Marcus quips, picking up the stray pieces of discarded clothing strewn randomly around the room. “One of my favorite actresses just became the spokesperson for that perfume, swears by it-“ 

“Missing PERSON, that’s what it was!” Dieter shouts, tossing his publicist's phone back at him. “Marcus, you’re a fucking godsend! I knew there was a reason why I kept you around! Could you do me a small favor?”

"What do you need, D?" Marcus asks eagerly, his hand perched on his hip. 

"I need you to buy me 'Missing People'. A couple of bottles, at least."

"How many is a couple?" Marcus asks with a nervous chuckle. "Five? Are you giving these out as gifts or something?"

"Maybe I could call Chriselle, and tell her you're interested in the company, there are more scents suitable for men, D," his publicist says casually, pulling out his laptop from his messenger bag. "I ran into her at Erewhon the other day, she's a big fan of your work, and couldn't stop talking about Cliff Beasts... Now, about that statement-"

"Fuck asking, just go to Neimans or Sephora or something and buy out their entire stock. Lotions and body wash and candles if it comes in that scent, too, Marcus. Go to all of the fucking Sephoras if you need to."

"... the entire stock? D, what is this for?"

"Do I pay you to ask all of these fucking questions? Don't worry about what I'm going to do with it. Just get it in my hands by the end of the day, do you think you could swing that?"

"... yes?"

Dieter takes another drag out of his joint, nodding aimlessly. "Great. Also, stop by Blicks on your way back. I need an entire arsenal and the biggest canvas they have. New brushes, too! Set up my studio and put the 'Missing People' in my bathroom, and I'll want my usual In n Out order, too."

Flustered, Marcus pulls out his phone and starts typing Dieter's requests on his notes app. Running a nervous hand through his hair, he looks at his boss once more. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. Get the fuck out of my face and get to work, Marcus. Chop Chop!"

His assistant nods and scrambles out of the living room, tripping on the corner of the area rug on his way out. Dieter's publicist raises his eyebrow at the display, shaking his head as he types away on his laptop. "You know, you could be nicer to him, D. He tries hard to cater to your every fucking whim and fancy... now, are we gonna release that fucking statement or not?"

"What statement?" Dieter asks absentmindedly as he pulls out a small baggie from his robe pocket.  

"The one where you say that you had a little too much to drink and that you didn't mean anything by groping Doll at the Movie Awards, and that you're really sorry and will be donating a couple thousand to a women's shelter-"

"... and this will make The Shark happy? and Feldman off my ass?" he replies, rubbing his gums as he smiles to himself. "I'll be able to stay on the project?"

"You can start packing your bags, yes. Filming starts in a week for the next few months in Europe. It'll give this whole Movie Awards nonsense some time to blow over."

Dieter considers this for a moment. He sticks his tongue out in contemplation, coming to the unsettling realization that he hasn't been in a major studio project in the last few years. He needs this job more than they need him, and deep down, he knows this. He takes one last drag out of his joint, flicking the roach away as he turns towards his publicist.

"Release the fucking statement."

His publicist nods, fingers flying across the keyboard. "Good," he murmurs, genuine relief softening his features. "I can't handle you out of work for another month, not after the fucking pandemic... What's the deal with all that perfume, anyway?"

"What?" Dieter replies absentmindedly, scratching his beard.

"The stuff you made Marcus buy in bulk," his publicist clarifies.

"Forget the perfume. Do you still have those photos I sent you?"

"I've got them, but I haven't checked them out yet. Why?"

Dieter gestures toward the laptop. "Why don't you take a look?"

His publicist eyes him warily, opening the email. His expression shifts to shock as he glimpses the contents. "Is this—"

Dieter nods, a smirk creeping onto his face. "Yep."

"This is huge, Dieter. How did you even get these? They're screwed if this ever goes public—"

"That's why it's payback time. A little warning shot," Dieter interrupts, leaning forward eagerly. "We leak the photos. Anonymously, of course."

"Dieter," his publicist warns, "If they trace it back to you—"

"I'll take the risk. They messed with the wrong guy," Dieter scoffs, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "These amateurs think they can get away with it?" he mutters to himself, then clears his throat. "Remember our motto?"

"Nobody fucks with Dieter Bravo."

Dieter leans back on the sofa, nodding. "That's right. Nobody fucks with Dieter Bravo."

Six Months later.

"Hi, I'm Carol Cobb!"

"... and I'm Dieter Bravo!"

"And we are doing a Wired Autocomplete Interview!"

"Alright! Is Dieter Bravo..." Carol energetically rips the first sheet of paper off her card, a playful smile spreading across her face as Dieter looks attentively at the camera. "Is Dieter Bravo dead?!" She bursts into laughter, smacking Dieter with the card, who simply shrugs. "Wow! Why would they hit us with that right out of the gate?"

"Not dead yet!" Dieter exclaims, pushing his signature glasses off his face while gazing into the camera. "Got close... several times," he adds with a pointed smirk.

"...and we are very much thankful for that!" Carol shouts. "Shall we move on to the next one?" She tears the next slip of paper, her eyes widening as she reads, “Is Dieter Bravo secretly married?!”

“Well, it wouldn’t be a secret if I spilled the beans now, would it?” Dieter smiles conspiratorially, rubbing his chin in contemplation.

“I can't imagine you ever settling down,” Carol muses with a smirk. "It seems unnatural, like going against the natural order of things, like sea animals on land. Dieter Bravo, settled down with one girl? Hell would have to freeze over before that ever happens," she teases.

"I think it could happen," Dieter says matter-of-factly, crossing his arms over his chest as he settles back into his seat.

"What could happen?" Carol asks, her curiosity piqued.

"Settling down. Getting married, perhaps... even starting a family," Dieter replies thoughtfully.

"It would take quite the woman to make 'The Great Lothario' change his ways. Seems like an impossible feat," Carol interrupts, chuckling. "A woman who can stop the great Dieter Bravo from his manwhoring ways? Maybe someone who lives under a rock and doesn't know about your reputation."

"Actually," Dieter interjects, a hint of excitement in his voice. "I think I've met someone recently who's made quite an impression on me."

Carol's eyes widen in surprise. "What do you mean, you think you've met someone? Who is this mysterious girl that's captured your attention, D?"

"Well, she's an actress-"

"Of course," Carol quips with a knowing smirk.

"... she's new. I had the pleasure of meeting her at the MTV Movie-"

"You're not talking about Doll, are you? The woman you groped after meeting her for the first time? Someone even said that they caught you sniffing her! Who does that, Dieter?!"

"I am a connoisseur of all things exquisite and beautiful, ma chérie. She smelled absolutely divine, and I swear her scent lingered on me for days after, I swear, just let me nuzzle my face in between the valley of those luscious tits-"

"God, D. I think they're gonna have to edit this shit out!" Carol mutters, looking embarrassed by Dieter's boldness. She leans towards Dieter. "I thought you signed some embargo with The Shark promising you wouldn't mention her," she whispers in his ears. "Even I wouldn't think to fuck with him-"

"Well, Feldman was my main concern, and now he's facing jail time for all of those underage claims and those leaked photos, so fuck it!" Dieter counters, knowing damn well he worked behind the scenes for it to happen, leaking a few photos he had stored away on his iCloud, kissing himself on the mouth knowing it would come in handy sooner or later.  

AP NEWS ALERT: Hollywood bigshot arrested for leaked inappropriate images from an anonymous source of various actresses, denies all allegations of misconduct.

One asshole down, one Shark to bury next, he thinks to himself, chuckling at the thought. "Besides, I can't get her out of my fucking mind! I've never felt this way about a woman before, Carol, I mean it this time!"

"I mean, she's undeniably beautiful," Carol agrees, "but she's still new to the industry. They've been typecasting her in those romcoms with whatshisname, but I've heard she's pushing for more challenging roles—"

"Cut!" The director's voice slices through the air, his eyes narrowed at them both. "This interview is about promoting Cliff Beasts, not discussing Dieter's love life with some woman."

"Hey, that 'woman'? She's my future wife, so watch your damn mouth," Dieter snaps back, his tone defensive.

"Whoa, D, hold on. Future wife? You barely know her!" Carol interjects, her hand pressed against her chest in disbelief. "Take it easy, baby. Get to know her first, at least."

"It's gonna happen, Carol. I can feel it in my damn bones. I was drawn to her the moment I laid eyes on her," Dieter insists, his confidence unwavering.

"Listen, Casanova, I don't care who you think you're gonna marry, but we're on a tight schedule here!" the director interrupts, frustration evident in his voice. "Stick to the damn questions, and no more talk about your little 'girlfriend.'"

"Fine," Dieter mutters, rolling his eyes and taking a sip of water. "But do me a favor—don't cut out the part about her assets. It'll bring in views like crazy. I did you a favor there."

The director waves him off as he storms away. "Remind me why I took this job knowing this idiot would be here," he mutters to himself, heading back behind the camera.

The day of the (not so thought out) wedding.

Dieter is anxiously bouncing his leg, biting his pinky nail as his groomer meticulously applies another layer of concealer under his darkened eyes. "Jeez D, have you been sleeping at all lately?"

"What?" Dieter asks absentmindedly, running a shaky hand through his curls. "Yeah- I've been sleeping, why?"

“Your under-eyes, D. They’re darker than my fucking soul, man. Didn’t I tell you to lay off on the sauce? I’m on my fourth layer of concealer-“

“It’s nothing,” Dieter says dismissively. “Just… have you ever been in love?” 

"Sure I have," his groomer replies, a small smile on their face. "That's why I'm married, silly. Why?"

"Say you like a girl, and you think that this girl might be interested but then TMZ posts leaked photos of said girl and some beefed up Hollywood hunk "canoodling" with each other while filming their movie together in Canada-"

"This is Doll that we're talking about, correct? The one you groped at the MTV Movie-"

"I DIDN'T GROPE HER!" Dieter exclaims, groaning as he sinks further into his seat. "Why does everyone keep saying that? I was simply giving her a friendly, yet casual hug when she APPROACHED ME-"  He huffs like a petulant child, his arms crossed around his chest in defiance. "Anyway, I thought, after I desperately tried to shoot my shot, let my intentions known in that 'Wired' Interview with Carol, that she would contact me, you know? Maybe slide into my DMs-" 

“Slide into your DMs?” His groomer scoffs, plucking a stray eyebrow hair with their tweezers from his face as he dramatically flinches, narrowing his eyes at them. “You flat out said you wanted to smother your face in the ‘valley of her luscious tits’, I would be surprised if she hasn't filed a restraining order against you yet... Let me give you a bit of advice: Girls want to be romanced, not objectified! ... have you ever had a 'real' girlfriend before, D?"

"Hey! I've had girlfriends, alright?" Dieter groans, frustration evident in his voice as he clenches his fists. "Just because they didn't stick around afterward doesn't mean it was all my fault, okay?"

"The girls you hook up with during your benders and then discard once the high wears off don't exactly qualify as 'real' girlfriends, D! Let's be serious here!"

"That's what I'm trying to be," he whines, "I'm trying SO HARD to be serious for once! I can't get this girl out of my head, and it's been what? Almost a year since I've met her? I can't get my dick hard when I'm with anyone else anymore, I don't want to take drugs, it's like I'm fucking broken or something! ... and now she's off fucking Joe Hollywood over here like I'm not bleeding my fucking heart out for her-"

"Wait, you mean to tell me that you're actually sober right now?"

"Well, yeah. The last time I took something was before filming Cliff Beasts, I thought you knew that. Anyway, it doesn't fucking matter. All of that and she doesn't even notice me."

"Well, I would tell you that if you had bothered to read TMZ this morning instead of sulking, you would know that there are split rumors between this girl and Hollywood neanderthal," His groomer retorts, a shit-eating grin on their face. "It was over before it even began. I mean, I've heard for such a massive man, he has quite the tiny di-"

Dieter perks up at that. "Say that again."

"They've broken up. She's back on the market, silly goose."

"So that means-"

"That means that I'm going to groom the shit out of you and help you out by making her realize just what she's missing out on, D." His groomer replies, massaging his scalp as they make eye contact through the mirror in front of them. "You're lucky that I consider myself a hopeless romantic. If you promise not to break her heart, I'll help you get the girl, ok?"

"Shit, do you think she'll like me?" Dieter says nervously, fidgeting in his seat.  

"Obviously," his groomer replies cryptically, a smirk forming on the corner of their mouth. "I may or may not have some intel from another groomer friend of mine about their supposed breakup."

"Oh?" Dieter perks up, his eyebrow raised in curiosity. "... and what would that intel be?"

"Oh, you know. Someone might have asked their stylist if they think you'll be attending tonight, how she kept trying to be sly about it."

"Doll asked about me?! Are you serious?" Dieter's excitement is palpable.

"Well, according to my friend, the reason why they broke up was that someone might have moaned your name while being eaten out by 'Joe Hollywood' the other day-"

"No fucking way!"

"She's into you, D! I would say that your little ploy during the 'Wired' interview worked more than you think, bud."

Dieter nods, taking the biggest sigh of relief as he settles in his chair. "One last thing, do you groom just the top half of me, or are you open to grooming other places?"

"What do you mean?" his groomer cocks their head to the side.  

"Shit, well... are you open to grooming my nether regions? It's been a while since I've been with a woman, I'm almost full caveman down there-"

His groomer tsks, pulling out their phone. "Dieter, as much as I love you, I don't love you that much. Let me call someone for that, ok?"

A few hours later, on the red carpet.

"Dieter," his publicist says under his breath as they walk down the red carpet. "The cameras are this way, why are you so distracted?"

"I'm looking for someone," Dieter replies as he winks at the sea of paparazzi, flashing them a peace sign as he walks toward the venue's entrance.

"Well, who are you looking for?" His publicist replies impatiently, looking down the red carpet.

"Doll, obviously. Do you know if she's arrived yet?"

His publicist rolls his eyes, sighing. "She arrived about five minutes ago, don't you see her?"

Dieter inhales deeply, his gaze scanning past the vibrant red carpet until it locks onto yours. His breath catches in his chest, surprised by the unexpected connection. You appear taken aback at first, but swiftly compose yourself, subtly angling your body towards him with a seductive smile playing on your lips.

"Holy Shit..." Dieter's mind races with excitement. "She really does want me."

Filled with newfound confidence, he playfully purses his lips in your direction, sending a cheeky kiss your way as his eyebrows wiggle in amusement. A flush of color blooms across your cheeks in response, catching his eye. But as he revels in the moment, he notices The Shark's gaze narrowing in his direction, a whisper passing between him and you.

That's fucking right Shark.  I'm coming for my girl, and there is nothing you can fucking do about it.  

Later, Dieter observes you from across the room as you sit at your table, alone, nursing another glass of champagne. He notices how you try to avoid meeting his gaze, despite catching you stealing glances at him throughout the night when you think he isn't looking. It surprises him to see you being so reserved, so quiet, especially without The Shark hovering around you like a protective dragon guarding its treasure.

What's gotten you so down, babydoll?  he muses, leaning back into his chair. As if you could read his thoughts, your eyes meet from across the room once more, and you quickly look away, smiling to yourself at getting caught looking.

Dieter senses the moment's significance, his heart racing with anticipation. He knows he must seize this opportunity, the perfect moment to step forward and break the barrier between the two of you. With a determined smile, he decides it's time to make his move.

As he rises from his chair, Dieter's confidence swells, fueled by the intensity of the moment. With purposeful strides, he crosses the room, his gaze fixed on you, the anticipation building with each step. This is his chance to bridge the gap, to finally reveal the feelings he's kept hidden for so long.

He draws in another deep breath as he approaches you from behind, mustering his most seductive gaze as he leans in towards your exposed ear, his warm breath grazing your skin.

"I can't help but notice that you've been eye-fucking me the entire night."

He groans softly as he takes a seat in the chair beside yours, hoping to conceal any nerves as he attempts to exude charm. "I guess my little ploy of trying to get your attention with that 'Wired' interview worked out in my favor-"

You respond with a subtle smile, your fingers gracefully tracing the edge of your champagne glass. How does something as simple as that manage to rile me up? he wonders inwardly, returning your smile.

"You know," you say softly, a chuckle escaping you as you shake your head in disbelief, "There are more normal ways to get a girl's attention-"

The longer Dieter spends in your presence, the more he feels himself on edge, the tension mounting with every passing moment. His pulse quickens, and he can't ignore the growing semi in his suit pants. It's astonishing how much you affect him, like a siren calling out for him while lost at sea, lying in wait, ready to bring him to absolute ruin. 

Fuck. Keep it cool, Bravo.

"Ah, but you're America's Sweetheart, and your pitbull of a publicist won't let me near you, I had to let my-" he gulps at the sight of your ample bust, licking his lips in anticipation, "... intentions very clearly known."

"Well," you breathe, chest heaving. "I don't know if it's 'clearly' known," your voice drops to a whisper, like a secret that is shared only between the both of you, two lonely souls amongst a sea of chaos. "I think you're just going to have to spell it out for me."

Dieter, sensing victory, leans back triumphantly, spreading his legs as he subtly encloses you within his space. His dark, smoldering gaze meets your thinly veiled attempt at your best innocent doe eyes... but Dieter sees right through it. He grins widely, reveling in the knowledge that he's the cat about to get all of the cream—your cream.  That's right, babydoll, I've finally caught you, and I'm never going to let you go.

He laughs at the sight of you, his chin motioning to your breasts.  "Do you want to have sex with me, Dollface?"

Your eyes widen, and a small gasp escapes your lips, as you search his gaze, trying to decipher if he's just bullshitting or if he's actually fucking serious.  I'm serious, alright, he chuckles to himself. "If I miscalculated this fucking thing that's going on between us, tell me and I'll fuck off, leave you alone-"

"What if I don't want you to fuck off, and want to tell you that I'm this close to being plastered and that all I kept thinking about tonight is you railing me with that huge cock we both know is aching for me in some deserted hallway-" you challenge, picking your champagne glass for good measure, downing its contents in one swig.  For courage, he thinks. "I would beg to ask you... what's taking you so damn long, Bravo?"

WhatsApp chat between Dieter & Marcus: Dieter: Hey Marcus, are you still in the venue? Marcus: Yes! With your publicist. Did you need something? Dieter: This party blows. Can I borrow your car? Marcus: Oh, did you want me to drive you home? The party just started, Dieter. Dieter: I can drive myself back, stay for the party! Catch a ride with the suits afterward! Get shitfaced, you're officially off the clock! Marcus: Seriously? Do you know how to drive a stick? It's my baby, I don't know if I feel comfortable with you driving it, are you high right now? 🤦‍♂️ Dieter: No, for the last time, I'm fucking clean, man. Just do me a solid and let me borrow your car, I swear I'll give you a fucking raise! What do you want for one night with your baby? Tell me, I'll give you anything! Marcus: Fine. Just tell me what you did with all of that fucking perfume, there"s a bet going on and I would like to shove it in your publicist's face that I know! Dieter: Seriously man? That's all you want? Marcus: Do you want my keys or not, D? Dieter: Fine. I took the fucking perfume, doused my entire bedroom in it, and fucked myself smelling it thinking about Doll. Dieter: Is that enough of an explanation for you? Come the fuck on, man, I need your car! Please! 🙏 Marcus: 🙌 Meet me at the lobby in five. 

"So tell me," Dieter shouts as he peels out of the parking lot, laughing at the delighted squeal that escapes your lips as you throw your head back, your arms raised upward as he turns quickly into the streets of Los Angeles. "How often did you think about me, babydoll?"

You boldly reach over to cup his erection, your small hand wrapping around the tip of it. "As much as I reckon you thought of me, Bravo. Tell me, how often did you come, alone in that massive bed of yours, to the thought of your cock thrusting into my tight pussy?"

"Fuck baby, do you want me to crash this car? It's not mine, you know?"

"Answer the fucking question, Bravo."

"Baby, if you only knew how much I fucking came just thinking about your tits... I don't think you know just what exactly you got yourself into, little girl... but I'll show you just how I thought of you coming on my fat cock, giving me absolutely everything-"

I've been hungry for you, baby, and I'm going to feast on every inch of your body, just you fucking wait-

He cackles like a madman as he peels into the dwindling streets of LA. "Are you hungry, Dollface?" he yells, almost running a red light, his eyes fixed on the glowing In n Out sign in the distance.

"I shouldn't, I have that screen test next week-"

"Fuck the screen test!" he shouts. "The night is young, and you are gorgeous. Let Dieter take care of you, baby... while I still have you in my grasp. I ain't gonna waste a moment I have you in my orbit!"

He pulls into the In n Out parking lot, cutting the engine, and pulls you into his lap, his face immediately diving into the valley between your breasts. "You can suffocate me with these tits and I would die a happy man," he mumbles against your skin, his growl reverberating throughout your entire body like wildfire. "What do you say, Doll? Would you do me the honors?"

"Fuck Dieter," you moan, tipping your head back in pleasure as his tongue teases the edge of your dress covering your breasts. "Grab my tits," you beg, grabbing his hands for good measure. Dieter wastes no time as he grabs the back of your head, pulling you into a kiss, his tongue licking along the seam of your mouth, begging for entrance.  

"Open up for me, baby girl. Let Dieter taste you-" he pleads, and you pull away with him, your hair wrecked and lipstick smeared. Dieter imagines he looks as wrecked as you do, his pupils blown and chest heaving. You pull him into another kiss, sighing into it, your mouth opening slightly. Dieter takes this as a sign to devour you completely, your tongues fighting for dominance as you begin to rock your hot pussy against his thick cock.

"I want to ride you into the sunset, D," you whisper, pulling at his curls harshly. "Are you gonna give me what I want? Or am I going to have to find someone else to do it?"

"Fuck-" Dieter pants, his gaze reaching yours, his mouth agape in awe. "How in the fuck did I get so fucking lucky-"

"Grab my tits, D," you ask once more, moaning and throwing your head back, biting your lower lip as you grind on his throbbing erection. Dieter quickly obliges, his large hands engulfing both of your breasts. His fingertips graze the edge of your dress, the hardness of your nipple pressing into the middle of his palm, and he swears that if he were to be struck down dead right at this moment, he would die a happy man.  

"Shit, I knew that your tits would feel amazing, but you are so fucking soft-"

"Oh yeah?" you tease, your teeth grazing the shell of his ear. "I'm soft in other places, too." You whisper in his ear, and he swears he feels the ghost of your smile as he moves his hands back on your hips, his fingertips squeezing the softness of your ass as he angles his dick where he imagines your clit to be, thrusting into your hot, wet heat. "Fuck, so goddamn soft-" he groans, his tongue licking a wet stripe along the tops of your breasts. "You're fucking everything I never knew I always wanted, baby girl," he praises you honestly, cupping your cheek as he pulls you into another kiss, groaning as your tongue dances with his, leaving him breathless.  

"Am I?" you pant as you wrap your arms around his neck, your pussy dragging along the thick outline of his cock. "You talk like you want to marry me or something-"

"... oh, but I do want to marry you, breed you, keep you locked up in my mansion... you have no idea just how much I've thought about you, these last few months-"

"Dieter! My Man!" someone shouts in the distance. "What the fuck are you doing here?!"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he yells back, "I'm about to fuck this beautiful woman in an In n Out parking lot, what are you doing here?"

"Fuck, can I take a pic, man?" the fan shouts as he approaches the convertible.  

"Don't you see we're a little preoccupied?" you shout at the fan, flicking him off. "Get the fuck out of here!" you shout.

The fan quickly takes a shot of the both of you with his iPhone, a half-hearted apology mumbled out of his mouth as he quickly runs back inside of the restaurant, probably to the group of men who are completely unaware of the two celebrities dry-humping the fuck out of each other in their wake, eating their double-doubles and sneaking sips out of a cup filled with some cheap ass vodka, fist-bumping the night away.

"Are you gonna come in those Gucci pants of yours, D?" you tease, your pace quickening as you ride his dick relentlessly. "How does it feel having America's Sweetheart getting you to come in your pants, baby?"

"Fuck," Dieter pants, his hand wrapping around your neck as he pushes you against the steering wheel, angling the tip of his cock against your clit. "How does it feel to get fucked by The Devil, sweetheart? Your pussy is begging me to just rip those fucking panties off and just claim you, right in front of all of these fucking people-"

You shiver at that, a choked curse and his name out of your mouth as he sees the entirety of your body begin to quiver and shake.  

"Don't fight it, baby, I know you fucking like the attention, I know you want everyone to see how much of a bad fucking girl you are inside... but don't worry, Dieter knows, and I'll help you show them," he pulls you against him harshly, your chest pushed up against his, as his teeth sink at the hollow of your neck. "I'll get the world to see just who you really are, baby. Let me show you the way-"

You scream as he thrusts into you once more as he rips your orgasm out of you violently, crying out into his neck as Dieter explodes into his Gucci trousers, the mixture of your slick and his thick cum making an absolute mess of his loaned suit.  

I guess I'll have to pay for these, Dieter thinks to himself as he cradles your shaking form into his arms, licking away the salty tears running down your face. "You did so good, Doll, don't cry-" he whispers, stroking the back of your head as he tries to get you to calm down. "What do you need, baby?"

You lie quietly against his chest, your breaths falling into rhythm with his, as he assumes you're simply gathering your thoughts. "Baby," he pleads softly, his hands tracing soothing paths along your exposed back. "Please, say something—"

"Marry me," you whisper against his chest, the words barely audible but filled with undeniable certainty.

Dieter freezes, his heart skipping a beat at your unexpected words. For a moment, he's speechless, his mind racing to catch up with the sudden turn of events. Slowly, he lifts his head to meet your gaze, eyes wide with shock and disbelief.

"What did you say?" he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid that speaking any louder might shatter the fragile moment.

You lift your head, meeting Dieter's stunned gaze with unwavering determination. "I said, marry me," you repeat, your voice steady despite the racing of your heart. "Let's take this car and drive it to Vegas, get married by some overweight Elvis impersonator, and book the honeymoon suite at the Cosmo... I don't care how we do it, but let's get fucking married, D!"

Dieter's mind whirls with a mix of emotions—astonishment, disbelief, and a profound sense of joy. He blinks several times, as if trying to confirm that he's not dreaming, before a wide grin spreads across his face.

"Oh, my God," he breathes, his voice trembling with emotion. "Yes. Yes, a thousand times yes."

Taglist:@yxtkiwiyxt @skysmiller @picketniffler @readingiskeepingmegoing @islacharlotte @drewharrisonwriter

@missladym1981@amyispxnk@thespookywookies@stevie75@mysterious-moonstruck-musings

@daydream-believer19@survivingandenduring@darkheartgatita @gobaaby-blog-blog

[chronically-ghosted]

i'm swingin' blind and you're stunning me without any gloves

rating: E for Explicit! 18+

word count: 9K

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

summary: the night continues while the two of you dance around the inevitable. dieter's restraint is foiled by dreams of a water bed.

warnings/tags: depictions of drugs, age gap, cum eating, piv sex, not actually incest but close, concerns about getting old, reader is at least 18 (by how much is up to you), no use of y/n, oral (f receiving), hand jobs (m & f receiving), unprotected piv, squirting, the barest hint of overstimulation, oh and SMUT.

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“Do all movie stars have six empty bedrooms they don’t use?” 

“They’re not always empty . . . I mean, it’s good for parties. Gives people space to get out of the chaos if they want, or if they need a place to crash. Keeps the energy, uh, flowing. Keeps the vibes good.” 

He uses the joint to take the place of having to explain that the room you just passed was in fact used as a revolving door for anyone who wanted a bump only two weeks ago. The second floor stretches out into the darkness, the nasty weather outside beating against the windows. He keeps a slow steady pace, the high making his insides comfortably warm as you wander in and out of rooms, like a less frantic, totally-fuckable version of that Scooby Doo gag. He’s quite sure he’ll never be able to watch Saturday morning cartoons the same way.

So far, you’ve been content with asking rather inane questions, filler questions that he suspects you’re hoping reveal more than he’s giving. The response to the question being more important than the answer itself. 

So no one lives in these rooms? No.

Do you ever use these as anything else other than bedrooms? No.

What’s outside by the pool? A gym.

A gym with full length mirrors that he used to adore snapping selfies in, in his younger cop show days, and without much prompting, would admit to masterbating to on occasion. 

You’ll always be your own greatest critic so fuck ‘em.

You come out of the last bedroom, smirking faintly as though someone had told you a particularly naughty secret, humming faintly to yourself. He never much cared for giving tours but given that you walked ahead of him and gave him adequate time to ogle the backs of your thighs, he could think of worse ways to spend time with you. 

“Mhm hmm,” you mutter to no one in particular. The carpet is plush, but that is the only thing you could say you really enjoyed about the style of the house. Everything else, especially the almost clinically clean air to it, makes it feel like a hotel, as if Dieter is mold growing in someone else’s house. Again, these are filed as things that helped fill out the picture of the man your uncle had become, if not the man he wanted to portray.

“So where do you sleep?” 

He had been lulled into such a stupor of quiet fantasy fueled by his warm high that he didn’t even think twice when he pointed down the hall. 

“God, it just keeps going, doesn’t it?” 

Turns out the path to moral degradation isn’t a straight line, but a curved slope. One he finds himself on, going down round and round and round, the longer he watches your legs, the curve of your ass, the bright smile as you quite obviously tried to get a glimpse of the old Dee. But that's the thing about drugs that he finds he so actively craved – of course there is the euphoria, the chemical sensations, the wires of your brain plugged into different outlets and restarting the whole system. But he's found that’s when people tended to be their most honest, most unpolished and they weren’t afraid to be like that. 

There was a lot of talk around the ego and the ID in his early acting classes. Who was your character when their ego had been pulled back like strips of skin? 

But as he got older, the question he became more obsessed with was, who were the people around him when they weren’t being paid to like him?

You, of course, are different from all that. You hadn’t built up an ego quite yet. You hadn’t built up the mechanisms required to survive the world because you hadn’t needed to. Sure, you could deflect and get what you wanted by batting your eyelashes, but there are times he felt ugly in the skin he had built. Like somewhere along the way, he had tried on all these hats and now they had all attached themselves to his head and he couldn’t tear them off if he tried. His costume didn’t fit– his face wasn’t even visible any more. 

And who exactly had spent the last fifteen minutes trailing after his beautiful, carefree niece, a single breath away from getting so hard it hurt, in this massively empty mansion? What version of himself wants to snake a hand into those shorts and effectively ruin you for anyone else – wanted to grip you so hard there’d be bruises and tears in your eyes when you came? 

Which one of them is he willing to show you?

All of them. None of him. The ID.

You glance over your shoulder, curious that he hadn’t answered you. 

“Yeah,” he sighs, smoking between his two fingers again. “Could get lost in a place like this.”

You pause in your inspection, eyes soft because of the drugs or the low lighting or something else, and take his hand. “Lucky I’ve got you then.” 

His mouth is instantly dry in a way that has nothing to do with the weed. He offers you the joint and you smoke too, eyelids drooping, allowing him another second of looking. 

And then another smile breaks across your face.

“Fuck,” your laugh turns into a cough. “Did you ever get that stupid fucking waterbed you wouldn’t shut up about? I remember you swearing the first thing you’d buy when you were rich and famous was a waterbed – which I thought was so fucking cool because I’d never heard of a waterbed before because I was seven and it sounded like something totally made up — so of course, someone rich and famous could have one.”

You’re still holding hands, your palm dry and warm, when he laughs too. He takes the joint back from you, eyes narrowing as he looks at you out of the corner of his eyes.

Turns out moral degradation is a fucking cannon ball. 

“Why don’t you go see for yourself?” 

You squeeze his hand, eyes bright, before almost sprinting down the hall to the room on the right. He follows you, struck by the notion this is the first and last time you’ll ever enter his bedroom. This has to be the end of something.

He hears a grunt and a groan and he can’t help but smile. He saunters into the room, leaning up against the door frame with his hands in the pockets of his robe. You are face down on the mattress, hands under your chest. 

“This is not a water bed,” you grumble, the sound muffled. 

Once again, Maria deserved a raise just for making his bed. 

“No, it’s not,” he says slowly, as he edges a teasing tone into his next words. “Look, I did get a fucking water bed, alright? Just about a century ago when they were still a thing.”

You ease up onto your elbows and glare at him. “Can’t believe you got rid of it. What a waste.” 

And then you’re sliding back onto your knees, hands planted on the covers, and for just a second, he swears he can see the outline of your cunt through the material that could hardly be called shorts. 

His knees actually buckle for a second before he stands up right and physically has to close his eyes. Looking away wouldn’t have been enough. 

But you don’t see all of this. You’re frowning down, as if glaring hard enough will bypass physics and liquidate the mattress. 

“What happened to it? The water bed, I mean.” 

Just as he’s gotten his heart rate back under control, your question throws everything into a spiral again. 

Do not fucking tell her about the hookers and the brass pasties. Or the cock ring. Definitely do not mention the cock ring. 

“It, uh, popped.” 

You smirk over your shoulder. “It was a sex thing, wasn’t it?” 

The question lingers, Dieter unable to make a coherent word that didn’t sound like take your pants off right fucking now, so he swallows and shakes his head. By some minor miracle, you shrug and don’t push it, sliding off the bed and completing your assessment of his life by regarding the book collection against the opposite wall. 

It’s bigger than you expect someone like Dieter to have, but its placement in the house – almost hidden in his private bedroom – suggests that its volume is not there to impress. It’s his personal collection and, judging by the bent spines, books he’s actually read, perhaps several times. There’s a small desk next to it, crouching in the corner and littered with sheets of paper that look like they were torn from a sketchbook. 

He couldn’t decide which version of himself he wanted you to see less: Dieter, full of vices, or Dieter, bratty actor who only acted in the first place because he couldn’t cut it as a real artist. 

Your hands run over the sketches, eyes annoyingly unreadable, and just as he’s about to leap forward and scoop all of the sketches into the trash, you move on. Your interest is caught by some of the books. You make noises that are both outside of the realm of approval or disgust and he finds himself nervous. Book reading is about the last thing on anyone’s mind once they’ve reached the final destination of The Bedroom, so he’s never worried about what someone might think. But this isn’t just someone, it’s you. 

His mouth opens to make some quippy remark, when you gasp and lunge forward, grabbing something at the back of the shelf.

“Holy shit, that’s you!” 

You hold up a picture of his high school’s production of Othello and there he is fifteen and smack dab in the middle of the cast. 

“Oh fuck, I forgot that was there,” he groans, dropping the nearly gone joint into an ashtray by the side of the bed. You’re practically glowing with excitement and he rolls his eyes as he takes it from you.

“Jesus Christ, look at that kid. Has no idea what kind of dumbass he’s going to grow up to be.” 

Three years after that photo was taken, he had left in the middle of the night for Hollywood. Of course, just as he had finished packing up his piece-of-shit Chevy, Enrico caught him. Exploded in his face and scolded him in his old man ways for leaving without saying nothing. 

He kept this photo because it was the last thing that reminded him of home and yet so distant it didn’t hurt as bad any more. 

“I think he did spectacular for himself,” you grin at him. “Who knew The Dieter Bravo was such a softie for the old days?” 

He smirks at you, finally sick of you kicking his ass all night. There is a line between fucking you and out sassing you, one he could live with. You aren't fucking ready for that Dieter. 

“No way,” he rubs the bottom of his lip with his thumb, artfully contemplative, and purposefully distractingly hot. “Just keep it around for the spank bank. Ms. Lemons was a babe.”

You narrow your eyes at him as he leans across you to put the photo back.  “Oh yeah? I gave my first blow job in that blackbox.”

“No, you fucking didn’t.”

“Yes I did!” 

“What was his name?”

“Jeremy.”

“Jeremy what?” 

“Jeremy . . . Barnes.”

“Pssh, fake name, fake boyfriend, fake story.” 

“He was real! I just . . . can’t remember his last name right now.” 

“Blurs together with all the other guys you’ve blown, right?” 

You bite the corner of your mouth, your smirk so tight he can almost picture your toes curling. Not that he’d dare break eye contact with you now. Now that he’s got you practically pinned to the bookshelf, photo forgotten and something that’s been slinking around for the past three hours finally rolling on its back and exposing its belly. 

He knows The Look, he practically invented it, and he can’t quite remember why it’s not okay to get that from your niece and someone twenty years younger than him. Right now, the portion of his brain that can sort that’s fucked up and it’s not that hard to refrain from being a fucking creep is filled with smoke, a sort of hissing sound there that is not unlike a shaken soda begging for release. 

And dear God does he want release. But he’s willing to edge it just a bit longer, scrape that muscle as gingerly as he can before touching it where it needs to be touched.

“I have no idea what you mean,” you say softly, meekly being cowed for the first time all night. Fuck, do you have to make it so easy?

“That’s right. You don’t. Because if it were any good, you’d remember it.” 

He puts a hand above your shoulder to stop himself from sinking into you. Weed made the world feel plushy, moldable – and he just wants to lounge in the dip of your bottom lip. You look so different from the girl who showed up soaking wet at his front door. 

Your breathing hitches the closer he comes, your eyes fluttering as you watch his fingers dig into the spines of the books. 

“What’s his first name again, darling? Do you still remember that?” 

You gasp, loudly, as if his itching fingers had finally sunk in between your legs, but you’re sliding away from him and pulling out something from the shelf. Something white and something he should have fucking hidden better. 

“Oh my God, is this my senior yearbook?” 

You’re wandering over to his bed, leaving Dieter reeling, his own spell so alarmingly effective he is caught beneath it too. It takes him a moment to blink as he realizes maybe this is where you reneg and decide you don’t want to fuck him after all. 

“It’s not as weird as it sounds –,” he begins, heart in his throat, and hands safely in his pockets as he joins you near the bed. You still haven’t looked up as you flip through the glossy pages.

“Sure, sure.” 

“Look, your dad sent it to me and I didn’t even open it,” he says honestly. The package was delivered on the Tuesday afternoon when he woke up so hungover he actually thought he might die, and couldn’t bear the thought of not recognizing you in the class photo. 

Funny how that all fucking worked out. 

You hadn’t leapt off the bed, called him a dirty old man, and ran away to call the police. Which are probably good signs. So, slowly, he sits down next to you, halfway on the bed and halfway off. 

“He sent it just a few weeks ago. I didn’t really think much of it at the time,” he says quietly. So you had been on the high school’s newspaper staff, as well as being the captain of the journalism club and ran the book club. You were on the volleyball team and co-Secretary of the student body government. Here, he spent all night trying to find out what kind of person you are when half your life is waiting for him upstairs. “But maybe he sent it as, like, some sort of . . . fond reminder.”

You snort, your thumb tucked under your chin as your hand touches the memories on the page.

“No, it fucking wasn’t. He was guilt-tripping you.” 

So your dad definitely still remembered the fight all those years ago. Dieter grimaces. His gaze slides from the stock pages, to your knee, down the crease of your thigh. 

“You know, he would have made me your godfather if–,” 

“If you weren’t such a fuck up. Yeah, he told me that too.” 

You finally look at him and find him nearly out of breath, eyes wide as though he had been struck by a sledgehammer right to the chest. 

“Actually, he told me if I came around more.” 

Your face crumples, the flippancy gone.

“Fuck, Dee, I’m sorry.” You cup the back of his neck with your palm in a soothing gesture and it stirs something within him. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It is what it is.” Deflection, distraction, escape.

You smile gently, thumbing his curls as your eyes roam his face, seeing right through his bullshit.

“You know, you kinda became the cautionary tale around us growing up,” you murmur, gaze searching his face. “Not sure why, though. Since you’re, like, a gazillionaire.”

Not worth it. None of it’s worth it.

“I get that. I get why he didn’t want me around. Probably best that I fucked off and never looked back.” 

The corners of your eyes crinkle, as though he had said something that didn’t make sense. You stop combing his hair and run your thumb over his ear. 

“But I don’t think you are,” you say slowly, as though you didn’t need to explain. “A cautionary tale, I mean. I think you’re . . . an inspiration. No one in our town ever fucking leaves, but you did. You got the fuck out and lived your dreams. And that’s pretty cool.” 

There’s not any hope for me, not if you knew all the fucked up shit I want to do to you. 

Don’t look at me like that. 

When he looks around for some self control, something to pull himself out of the pit he’s dragging you both in, there’s nothing. All eroded. 

Moral degradation is a smooth fucking shot. 

The yearbook drops from your lap, clatters to the ground as he takes your face with both his hands, his rings pressing into your cheeks, and kisses you so hard his lips knock against your teeth. The force of it rocks you flat against the mattress, your fingers wrapping around his wrists, grounding you to him – don’t take this back, don’t let go – and his tongue runs against your bottom lip once before your mouth opens without hesitation. He can feel that, that desperation, that eagerness to let him in, and he groans into the hollow of your mouth and you take it, you match it, just like everything else he'd given you this night. 

Your tongue rises to catch him, to guide him, to show him the places you need to be touched. He’ll get there, you little thing, so he nips your upper lip and you gasp, your body tightening beneath him. He grins – there’s so much you have to learn. 

His palm drifts away from your jaw, thumb gentle as it coaxes your cheek to the side, before he latches his lips to your neck, sucking and then a quick bite– all eased by his tongue. Your fingers dig up into his hair, clutching him to your chest as there is anything, anywhere else he’d rather be in the world. As if anyone could pry him off you. 

He dives back into your mouth, air rushing out of your nose in a silent moan, and your knee hooks out around his hips, pulling him into the cradle of your lap. You jerk back –

“Dee, you’re – holy shit –,” 

Your hips brush up as if you had somehow gotten it all wrong the first time. As if he isn’t rock hard above you. Your eyes widen as he smirks down at you.

“Yeah, baby, that’s all you. All you do to me.” 

He chuckles, dropping his head to your chest, breathing deeply, head spinning from kissing you so thoroughly. He inhales, nose rubbing against the soft material of your shirt, ideas of peeling it off you with his teeth. Your scent, it’s all at once intoxicating, mesmerizing, and . . . familiar. 

He groans, almost nuzzling your chest.

“Fuck, this smells like that nasty deodorant from 711 I used to buy ‘cause I couldn’t afford anything else.” 

You slowly open your eyes up at him, a distantly embarrassed smile curling up the corners of your mouth. You look hazy, blurred, lips flushed and pink from getting them sucked and bitten. Had he not just licked your entire mouth clean from spit, you might have blushed.

Your fingers curl gingerly around the back of his neck. “Well, you never forget your first.”

His mouth falls open. You had successfully knocked him back on his ass for a second time that night. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he husks, a grin breaking across his lips as the hand at your shoulder pulls gently at the sleeve. “This is my shirt? This has got to be older than you are.”

A small part of his brain, the part that definitely would object to fucking his pseudo-niece, goes warm at the thought that some part of him still lived in that neighborhood, was still there for all the important moments of your life. 

That is until the very active part of his brain lumbers in, quashes all gentle feelings and promptly wrestles for control of his mouth to ask you flat out if you ever touched yourself while wearing it. Not that he didn’t want to know, but if you said yes, he would have come right there on the spot, perhaps so hard his dick popped off. So he did not ask you that, but he did satisfy that part of his brain by molding his hand around your hip, so he could feel the cool fabric on the back of his hand, and your warm, plush skin against his palm. 

You like her being drenched in you, don’t you? 

You swat at his chest, rolling your eyes, oblivious to his rapidly darkening thoughts. “It is not older than me, but if it was . . . would that be a problem?”

You pick at imaginary lint on his shoulder, hips rolling just enough to indicate it better not be a fucking problem, and a smirk on your face that reads innocent and filthy all at once. 

Dieter shakes his head, grinning as he inches his wide palm up your hip, across the thin flesh of your ribs and – 

Does not find a bra. 

You had not been wearing a bra the entire night.

Your smirk deepens, your back arching into his palm, as his thumb brushes the underside of your breast, then over your tightening nipple. You moan softly, eyes fluttering, when he pinches it deftly. His jaw ticks, teeth grinding from the pleasure of watching your mouth arch open. 

It’s like you had been given a list of all the things that turned him on and you are crossing them off one by one. Like you had skinned him and read all his little nasty thoughts written on his ribs and made them your own.

Like you were made for him. 

He leans forward, the bristles of his beard and mustache rough like matches against the shell of your ear, his voice so weighty it could have been another physical thing he intended to drive into you, intended to rub against you to make you keen with pleasure. 

“It’s not a fucking problem, you little brat. Only problem is gonna be if it keeps me from watching those pretty tits bounce while I fuck you.”   

There it is. Out in the open. As if all his flirting and touching and tongue between his teeth hinted at something else besides you spread out under him. Half delirious from being so hard, he grins as he bites the bottom of the shirt – his shirt, Jesus Christ – and pulls it up and he ducks his head under the material and presses a sucking kiss into the valley of your tits. 

He likes giving head from underneath the sheets because, yes, it was hard to breathe. It was hot and stifling and everything smelled of sweat and sex and eventually his brain was forced to make a decision about what motor functions to hold onto and he made it focus on sensations until he was sure he’d be swallowed up by the cunt under his mouth or impaled by the cock in the back of his throat and if that’s how they found him dead, he’d be absolutely fine with all of it. 

Dieter Bravo – died doing what he loved. Giving immaculate, delicious head. 

The heat under the shirt is nowhere near as intense but it’s enough to make him flush with want. He licks the sweat gathering underneath your right tit, holds it on his tongue before he lathers both his spit and your sweat over your clearly-painfully tight nipple. Every touch of his makes you stutter and he can feel you unconsciously rubbing your hips up against him. 

“This isn’t going to end up on Youtube or some shit, right?” You ask above him, your voice rough as though your throat is dry. “You don’t have cameras filming this, right, Dee?” 

He chuckles with his nose rimming your left nipple. Do you have a voyeur kink? He muses vaguely. 

Fuck, I knew I shouldn’t have gotten rid of that mirror. 

“No, baby, it’s not going on Youtube.” He runs his warm palms up the curves of your side as he tugs his head out from underneath the shirt. “All the videos go directly to a password-protected server in the Cloud.”

“Dee–,” you groan as he lunges forward and kisses you hopefully so hard it knocks those silly thoughts from your brain before pulling back to grin helplessly at you. 

You cannot physically describe how impishly adorable he looks with his hair mussed, his lips pink and twisted in a smirk – you cannot really do anything at all, really – but your hand slides up from his shoulder, across his warm neck and settles into his cheek. The last bit of brown is swallowed by a swelling blackness as you rub your thumb across the bottom of his lip. This thing that has been eating at you the longer you’re around him edges you on, daring you to push him just a bit further because it knows you’d just love what he’ll do. It knows more than you, but it’s not exactly smarter than you. It’s just simply fascinated by Dieter Bravo. 

Your own mouth parts, your eyelids growing heavy, as you swipe across his lips one more time before sliding your thumb into the warmth of his mouth. Eyes never leaving yours, his tongue greets your thumb, massaging the pad before licking around it like he’d swirl off the top of an ice cream cone. He sucks gently and you can’t fight the noise that comes out of you. Almost shocked, surprised that you can feel this aroused with all your clothes on and just his tongue. He drags his tongue across the back of your knuckle and the groan is louder now – you want to bite into him – and he pushes his hips into the mattress. 

“C’mere, baby girl–,” 

Dropping your thumb, he dives in again for your mouth, this time the back of his hand grasping your neck. He kisses you and kisses you and kisses you as if forgetting there was another way to relieve the tension in his gut, the spark that's fanning smoke like a brushfire into every place your skin, your spit, touches his. 

“Take– this– off–,” He pants between the hot presses of his mouth to your jaw, your neck, the spot beneath your ear that makes you keen in a new way. His hands are scrambling over yours to get the shirt up and over your head, desire almost making him panic that everything is going too fast but not fast enough – he wants to be inside of you in every way that matter – he wants you to smell like him – to breath his same air – 

He’s not so much kissing as opening his mouth over your skin, his teeth and tongue and lips fighting over themselves to get to you first. He wants to linger, wants to take his time but the pressure – he deliriously thinks he can smell you – and only when his fingers clamp down on the waistband of your shorts – he has half a mind to punish you for walking around in these things, making his sanity unwind in the hallways of this fucking place, until the only truly sane thing to do is fuck you and fuck you good – the thought is so strong, almost violent he pauses. 

He looks up to the devastation he’s left in his wake – bright, purple spots on the inside of your breasts, under your ribs, the small swell of your stomach, your chest heaving – and he watches your face. You realize he’s stopped moving, slowed in his volcanic thunderous roll down to the clutch of your cunt, and you meet his gaze. You swallow, mouth too dry to form words, so you splat a hand on his shoulder. 

"No robe. I’m not – not going to let you f-fuck me in a bathrobe.” 

He grins. Of course, you would sass him after a make out session so intense he doesn’t even care if he comes in his pants. But he obliges, pretty much willing to cut off a finger if you continue to purr at him like you are. 

“Excuse you, this is lounge wear.” He leans back onto his knees and shrugs himself out of the green robe. Your eyes flash to the triangle on his forearm and he’d be fucked to admit he didn’t get it entirely for the look in your eyes right now. Chicks always dug the tattoos. Your tits bounce as your breathing hitches. 

Not Daddy’s girl, his smoke-heavy, lust-soaked brain chants at him, not Daddy’s girl. 

God, he’s so hard it hurts. 

He goes back down, dropping himself between your legs, arms tucked up under the backs of your thighs. He mouths the inside of your thigh – a distraction as his hand, like some sort of fucked up, horny magician performs a slight-of-hand, “iiiis this your clit?” – rubs you over your shorts. You are soaking wet and he’s fighting the urge to just dig in there, suckle you through the wet spot. He hadn’t actually made someone come that way before, but now seemed like an excellent opportunity to try. 

“You know, for someone who has to couch-surf, you talk a lot.” 

He noses the rim of the bottom of your shorts, allowing a full gaze down to your ass. 

“Sorry if I’m sick of fucking boys who look like their mom dressed them.” You are breathless, shaky, unwinding at the seams and you know exactly what to say to dig right into him. 

He bites the soft place at the back of your thigh and you groan. 

“I thought you couldn’t remember any of them before me,” he purrs, watching that damp spot grow darker the longer he talks, the longer he holds off on touching you where you and him and the entire fucking world knows you need to be touched. 

Maybe you ran your mouth too, when you were nervous, overwhelmed. Maybe you laughed too loud when you didn’t know what else to do, and maybe you gave him shit because the second words stopped coming out of your mouth, you’d have to sink into whatever he was giving you. You’d have to kneel to the white lighting between your legs. Maybe you were afraid there wouldn’t be white lightning at all. 

Families share similar insecurities, after all. 

He waits until you open your mouth again before hooking his fingers under the band of your shorts. 

“Hmm, there’s actually a fairly long list of guys before you. Guys who–,” 

He sucks the skin just an inch to the right of your hip bone, just before the patch of curly hair, he sucks it into his mouth and bites so gently he knows that your brain nearly splits in half from the hairline fracture between pleasure and pain. 

You gasp and you’re already arching off the bed. He breathes across those coarse, damp curls and inhales. 

Girlsex. 

Girlsweat. 

It’s like there’s acid corroding his brain, eating away at the clamps holding his sanity together and he’s gonna go fucking ballistic if the acid doesn’t get to him first. But he wants the burn. He wants the chemical smell. 

He wants . . . to put his dick into something. 

But first – 

You’re pliable. Easy to move as he scoops your shorts off your ass – Oh, fucking Christ, there’s her entire backside, isn’t there? – over your thighs and he hurls the shorts over his shoulder. He inhales–

God, this pussy is going to kill me, he thinks or maybe says out loud before he tips forward into that black, fluttering hole. When he licks you, you both moan. 

He remembers specifically doing planks for as long as he could to build up the upper body strength to languish here for hours.

Well, at the time, here wasn’t here here, but if everything before this was practice, then he was ready for the Olympics, dick as hard as a goddamn gold medal. 

He swipes up with his tongue, licking and sucking and swirling like frosting was going out of style. Frosting, that’s it. That’s what you reminded him of. Fat, sweating, sweet frosting. And there was the cherry on top. 

He guides your clit into his mouth, his fingers digging into the tops of your thighs as if to pull himself deeper into the wettest goddamn pool at the fucking YMCA. He sucks once and your hands fly into his hair. You’re making sounds that somewhat resemble his name, but they’re too high, too pitchy, too airless to be anything coherent. 

He wants to tease you about all the boys you mentioned. Wants you to go back on your word, beg for him to believe that there was no one else before him. If there was, it didn’t matter because this is it. This is the best you’d ever have. 

Even when you left him, you’d never forget – 

Disgustingly, he slurps up one lip of yours into his mouth and you cry out, fingernails digging into his scalp so hard that it hurts and sends another rush of blood into his weeping cock. He mouths up before teasing your clit again – around it but never on it – before diving back down and lapping up your other lip. 

“Dieter–,” you garble as if you know it’s filthy. He can hear your breathing tighten in your chest, feel your thighs clench around his ears, and he swears if he gets out of this with hair in tact, that’s the most he’s going to ask for –

And he french-kisses your clit.

You come, gasping, writhing, back arching off the mattress and he bares his forearm across your stomach, reaching up to pinch your nipple. 

Settle down. We’re only just getting started. 

He’s got to control himself but staring up at you, your face flushed with pleasure, he can’t quite remember what he’s supposed to do next. 

You are naked underneath him. Naked and heaving and he licks the dampness staining his mattress just to have your taste in his mouth again. This is going to be a problem, if he can’t think straight without his mouth on you. 

Oh my God, duh, fingers. 

He pulls himself up the length of your body, and his hands sink into your hair. His fingers curl around your ear as he makes you look at him.

“How are you feeling?” It’s an echo of what he asked earlier. You’re still warm but your breathing has slowed. Your eyes are open, even if they’re fighting to stay open as if you are concussed. 

“Good. Great.” You mutter, hand falling to his chest and tangling with his shirt. 

“You wanna keep going?”

Your eyes open wider as if someone rang a dinner bell and you’d been walking on hands and knees, starving for weeks. You swallow thickly, nodding frantically, and the hand leaves his chest, winding down between you and, before he can stop you, slides under the material of his sweats and strokes him. 

Your hands are like velvet.

Fuck, then what’s your cunt gonna feel like– 

Do not fucking come right now. 

“Oh, I see,” you huff, a smirk curling your mouth up, as if you had won some unnamed battle. You roll your shoulder to go aaall the way down his cock and stroke him. You think about licking your hand, but the precum leaking out of the tip of his head at a truly flattering rate is enough lubricant to keep your hand from sticking. “I can’t walk around without a bra on, but you can walk around in these thin fucking sweatpants and no underwear.”

He grits his teeth, dropping his head to his chest, trying to breath through the freightcar rattling down his spine.

“It’s my house, you little cocktease,” he pants, gasping as you run your thumb against the vein underneath his shaft. You pump him again and again and he groans low, with his eyes shut to keep them from rolling back in his head. “I can– yeah, right there – do whatever I want. Move your hand. I want to stick my fingers in you.” 

His words aren’t so crass they make your ears red, but it’s the unrestrained need in his voice. You slowly withdraw your hands and you go wipe the threads of him on the mattress as he sits up to take his shirt off. 

“Don’t. Just– gimme a second.” 

He yanks the tank shirt over his head, setting down in between your legs again and blinking like he’d forgotten where he was. He takes your hand, licks your palm as clean as something as dirty as this could ever get, and then penetrates your hole with his middle finger. His tongue slides in the crevice between your ring finger and your pinkie and when he adds a second finger below, you both can feel the moment your brain is wiped blank and your body twitches along with it. 

“Mhmm, good.” He pulls you down closer to him, fingers plucking your strings like the finest guitar. Your knees are spread wider than when he had half his body down there. He’s watching you practically drown his hand in the wetness seeping out, his other hand holding or balancing your knee. 

He hovers above you, watching you roll and writhe and beg. His forearm is strained, his hand must be soaking, and he thinks your face contorted in pleasure might be permanently burned into his brain. There is still some part of him that knows that’s wrong. He shouldn’t have the faintest idea of what you looked like, high and blissed out of your mind, while his fingers stroke and dig and pluck and rub to drag you higher and higher – 

The pad of his middle finger brushes something spongy and you nearly slam your legs shut over his arm, if it weren’t for his free hand pinning you open. 

“Dee,” you croak, head shaking, “that was – you can’t–,”

His eyes flutter at the sound of your voice so wrecked. He needs to memorize that exact spot, save it for when you don’t have enough sanity left to push back. It’s scary, he knows, but you must be out of your goddamn mind if you thought he was going to let anything bad happen to you. 

“Look at my thumb. Baby, look down.” 

You wrench your eyes open, past your quivering chest, down his long forearm, down to where the black bullseye on the meat of the space between his thumb and palm is winking at you. 

He’s stroking you with his thumb on your clit and the bullseye winking up at you. It’s eye-fucking you and that’s enough to break you. He wants to drink whatever drips out of you as your body locks up, head thrown back, and you come. You break through and his hand curls around your knee, gently, as he watches your body crescendo for the second time that night. He sucks his fingers, almost pensively, as if he is going to carve something out of you. Remake you. Split apart your atoms and rebuild you whole. Sex as an act of re-creation. 

He kneels his way out of his pants, cock pounding red, leaking, the hot center of where his want for you is infecting him like a sickness. 

Slowly, he drags one of your knees over his shoulder, half of your body hovering just above the mattress. 

He wants to ask if you need it rough or slow. He can’t be gentle right now but he does have enough awareness to keep from hurting you. But maybe you, like him, like a little bit of pain. 

He wants you on top, wants to see you sing for him, but he knows your legs are jelly. He knows there’s a white static hum in your brain and he’s so grateful for the pleasure of it. 

He rubs the top of your thigh and noses the back of your ankle up by his ear. 

“Do you want me to put a condom on?” he asks quietly, before kissing that spot below your ankle.

“Are you clean?” He’s so fucking broad and his rings pinch your skin when he pushes too hard and he’s asking for your comfort. You also want to feel every inch of his cock and you beg him to say yes. 

He nods, suddenly irrationally thankful of Paul’s monthly mandated screenings. You get the clap once, and your fucking manager never lets you forget it. 

You huff, realizing you’re so close your cunt can almost taste it. “I-I’m on the pill. A-a-and I’m clean too.” 

As if he had ever denied you anything, as if his willpower hadn’t barely lasted four hours, you tense at the anticipation of his cock. 

He’s just as warm, just as ready, so he grabs your other ankle and draws it next to your other one against the back of his neck. He sinks back just a bit on his ankles, fingers spreading you and grabbing himself and then–

It’s like getting the wind knocked out of you and getting sprayed with a hose of fire all at once. 

“JesusfuckingChrist, you’re tight.” 

He edges deeper as he sits up right, going slow not because he hadn’t unwound you properly but because if he went any faster, he’d obsess over the idea of getting rug burns on his dick. 

“Dieter, oh God–,”

Hands leaving your ankles to wrap around your thighs, he rocks his hips back and drags out his cock just as much as the both of you can handle before thrusting forward. Again.

Again. He can’t seem to fill you enough. He wants to be bigger, thicker, girthier, if only to plug you up more. 

But, fuck, your cunt is better than your hands but only because it’s so warm and wet and throbbing and he swears his heartbeat is in his ears. 

He thrusts almost lazily, dipping his head to kiss your shin before dropping it back, your toes brushing his hair. His hands greedily squeeze your thighs, thumbs rubbing circles. 

It’s like he has to recover from the shock and sensation of fucking you. It’s too good. It’s too much. 

He’s inside of you.

If there’s a relief fund for grilled cheese, he’s going to have to donate every red cent he’s ever owned. 

Your hands clench the sheets, mouth open and, yes, beautiful tits bouncing with every thrust. It’s not them hovering above him, begging to be bitten, but it’s close and he smooths his hand down from your thigh over his chest, down your hip and he kneads your breast. 

“Oh, fuck, Dee, fuck . . . you feel so fucking good.” 

I want to die in this cunt. 

“So good, baby.” 

It’s back, that pressure that connects the backs of his eyes, to the back of his gut, all the way to his pussy-soaked cock. This time he lets it build, lets it dangle out of reach, and his thrusts become faster, hurried. You jerk beneath him and let out a full whine as if he had spanked you. 

He fucks you some more this way, just to feel that tightening in his gut, before he pulls your legs off his shoulders and you whine again, this time out of annoyance. 

He has the where-with-all to smirk.

“What, baby doesn’t like it when I take away her toys?” He pants, almost feeling light-headed. You scowl at him but don’t push back in the least as he turns you onto your hands and knees. 

“It was just starting to feel good, you a-ahh–ss–,”

He jerks his hips into you without warning, fully seating you on his cock and your head drops between your shoulders. 

“If you weren’t such a brat, you’d be kind of cute,” he murmurs as he rubs his thumb over the knots in your spine, the sensation of your cunt sucking him in almost detaching him from this plane of existence. He knows you like to be teased, with his words, with his fingers, his mouth. He wants to give you everything – anything – he’s so pussy-obsessed he can feel it like ozone in his mouth.

He never wants to stop fucking you. He’s being unstable about it. 

“You like that I’m a brat,” you say and push back with your hips. The sensation does make him stutter and you take it as a win. His rings sting as they squeeze your hips. 

He’s sliding down that pressure, winding himself up so tightly in it he wants to stop breathing – 

He starts pumping faster. The sounds that echo in that room are like music to his ears.

The sheets ruffling as your hands clench around them. The jolt of the bed as it lurches back and forth.

Your moans as he fucks every thought out of your head. “Fuck, you’re so big. It’s not fair.” 

The wet slap of his thighs meeting yours. 

And it all narrows down, the universe closing to a single focal point–  all of it runs right to his cock rubbing up inside your cunt like it owns the place.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you groan, head down. “Please – please fuck me harder, Uncle Dieter.” 

With a growl that surprised even him, he drops forward, one hand anchoring himself to your hip and the other coming up around your throat. You gasp as his fingers dig painfully into your skin. He pulls you both up right, nose in your ear and teeth tight in his jaw. 

He punctuates every word with a particularly brutal thrust that gnaws at something truly devastating inside you. 

“Don’t – fucking – call me that – while – I’m inside – you–,”

You turn your head, flush with his and the hand that’s on your throat slides up to your cheek and he holds you there, pins you there as his cock pounds the daylights out of you. 

“Say my name.” He husks. There’s something cataclysmic happening inside your cunt and he has the launch codes. 

You can’t remember feeling so full before. So up your eyes and your mouth and your ears and your heart – God, maybe there really hadn’t been anyone before him. 

“Oh, fuck, Dieter,”

“No, honey, my real name.” 

Your eyes flicker open and something in his chest roars. He’ll kiss you after this. He’ll kiss you so hard you end up on another fucking planet. 

“David.” 

The sweat on his temples mixes with yours and he wants to smear himself in your fluids. This close, his beard and mustache rub roughly against your skin and you wonder how long the burn will last after all this. You’re clenching his arm, clenching his lower back to you, you think you’ll make him bleed in half-moon cuts of blood. 

“All of it. All of it, baby girl,” he whispers to your cheek, your jaw. “Say it. I need to hear it. I need to hear it from you.” 

Your fucked-out mind spins, clutching at the memories of the past, to a name you hadn’t heard in a decade, while the man you’ve known all your life threatens to undo your sanity. You lock eyes with him, the precipice of something so large and looming, you can’t wait to be crushed by it.

“Davíd Moralés.” 

And that bastard’s cock intentionally pushes against that spongy spot and you shriek. Honest to God, yell, as you come, with Dieter wrapped up against your back, sweat streaking both of you.

“Get down,” he hisses suddenly and almost throws you off him. You land on your back, your entire body pulsing as one single organism, and he grabs his cock in time to aim it at your chest. 

He comes, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut, as he sprays you with white ropes. It’s warm on your tits and you shudder through your aftershocks. You feel like you’re sinking into warmth as he keeps coming, your inner thighs drenched and dripping, and finally, he leans away and collapses on the bed next to you.

There’s ringing in your ears. 

You feel swollen all over, your nerve centers humming and firing and crackling as though someone whapped you over the head with a 500 volt electric baton. You want to keep sinking, keep drifting, keep existing in this warm, non-corporeal form. Everything feels so good here.

You had no idea you, or anyone else for that matter, could come that hard. 

“Holy shit.” 

You can’t help but grin through the short huffs of breath you swallow down in gasps. 

You want to sass him but it feels a bit like spitting in the face of God. “Yeah. Holy shit.” 

He sits up on his elbows, glancing over his side at you, the begrudgingly fantastic cock between his legs as deflated as you are. 

“Are you okay? Fuck, sorry, I got a little crazy there at the end.” 

You shake your fist loosely, with your thumb and pinky finger extended. “I don’t hear customer service calling. In fact, I think the line has been permanently disconnected.” 

You both laugh softly and his eyes roam over your face. This is why he only saw vampy women. It was easier to wake up to something almost over-the-top hot, than this. Than you, with your beautifully flushed cheeks, plump lips, and eyes that searched only for him. 

His gut twisted painfully. Okay, you nutted so hard you’re pretty sure your dick isn’t going to work for a week, now wake up. Wake up and smell the fucking arrest warrant. 

Uncle Dieter. You're his niece. 

What the fuck were you thinking? Where could this possibly go?

Instead of inspecting the small-starting-to-grow painful throbbing in his chest, he sits up and pleasantly inspects the mess you both made all over you. You follow his gaze, smirking as he intentionally smears his cum over your skin with his thumb.

“Oh, and that thing you did at the end, where you made me–,”

“Yeah?” He grinned wickedly, almost begging you to use your words, but you had been so good for him. He’d save that for later. “You liked that?”

“At the risk of sounding desperate, yes. A thousand times yes. But totally unfair and totally cheating.”

He snickers and leans down to your thighs. “Yeah, okay, Ms. I’m Not Wearing a Bra.” 

The smell of you is intoxicating and it’s drenching your thighs, the sheets below you. Maybe he could strip the bed before Maria came – oh, fuck, what if it’s in the mattress?

He hauls those thoughts out of his mind, his dick twitching uncomfortably, as he bends forward and licks the inside of your thigh.

“Oh my God, Dee, you can’t possibly be –,”

“Relax. I’m not. Just wanted to clean you up.”

He licks the drying liquid from your skin – you hiss, so very overstimulated – dragging his tongue up, never breaking eye contact with you as he slinks up your body, shoulders rolling – “Dee, wait, you’re gonna–,” and licks the cum off your chest. His own cum. 

“Oh, fuck, that’s nasty,” you murmur, eyes transfixed on his mouth as he swallows. He chuckles, finally deciding you’ve had enough for one night, and he leans forward and presses his lips on your temple. 

“I’m not ready, but it sounds like you might be.” 

He reaches back to the floor where his shirt was so casually discarded. He gingerly wipes your thighs, your hips, your stomach and chest. There’d be time for a proper wash later, but right now he thinks he’s going to pitch forward into unconsciousness in less than thirty seconds. His limbs are heavy, his eyelids are heavy but he can’t stop smiling.

You grin at him as he tosses the very used shirt back onto the ground and gets up from the bed to disappear into the bathroom. You roll onto your side, after unpeeling the bedsheets like you had done it a thousand times. When he comes back, you rub your face against his pillows and he realizes if he’s going to hoard the sheets, then he’s going to have to do the same to the pillowcase. 

“I’m not gonna wake up and find you mouthing that shirt, am I?” You ask, a smirk already cradling your lips. He huffs at you as he hands you a glass of water. You take it, gratefully, only vaguely aware that he probably did that kind of thing all the time with his other conquests. 

That thought threatens to sour your good mood so you put the glass back onto the bedside table and curl deeper into the sheets. 

He climbs in behind you, and rubs his nose over your shoulder and up into your ear, his hand spread across your hip. 

“Only if I wake up in the middle of the night and can’t mouth your tits.” 

He’s purposefully being sexy, being teasing, but there’s a question there. A request. A quiet ask that for all his thick dick swinging, doesn’t have the cojones to verbalize. 

 You smirk at him and roll back slightly to catch his mouth. You thread your fingers through his hair and squeeze once. 

“Baby, I couldn’t stand up right if I fucking tried.”

He grins, eyes warm. “Wow. Even if you fucking tried?”

God, this is such a bad idea.

“Even if I fuck-in’ tried.” 

But despite all his not-at-all begging, he wakes up alone. 

He wakes up in broad daylight – the storm had passed. Too bright light streams in from between the gray curtains, illuminating the one thing he never wanted to see: your side of the bed empty. 

His heart clenches so fast he thinks he might be sick. There’s real nausea as he stumbles to his feet and pulls his pants on from last night. He’s about to rush down the stairs, frantically flipping over everything in hopes of finding a note, even if it told him to fuck off. 

You’re twenty years older than me, you fucking creep.

Just wait until my dad hears about this. 

I never want to see you again. 

Just as his mouth dries up till his lips crack, he sees something on the other side of the bed that makes him freeze in his tracks. It’s your phone, plugged into the wall. He goes over and taps the screen. The battery has only 15%. 

And then a post-storm breeze rattles the patio door handle and it opens slightly. He sees your barefoot through the cut in the door frame. 

Holy fuck, you’re still here, just outside. 

Heart now jettisoning into his throat, he opens the door to a truly spectacular morning. His patio looks down to the freshly-washed Los Angeles, the sky a cobalt blue, the air cool and faintly smelling of rain. People run and lead their dogs through the streets and for a minute he thinks he can hear the ocean. 

But what makes it truly spectacular is you. Curled up at the small table in one of his white shirts and those sanctimonious shorts. You’ve got a cup of coffee in your hand and you’ve got his favorite book, Eco’s The Name of the Rose, lying flat beneath your fingertips. But you aren’t reading. You’re looking at him.

“Well, hi there. Did you dream you missed a flight?”

He blinks. “What?” 

“You just, sort of, rushed out here, looking like you forgot something.” You frown. “Is everything okay?”

He swallows and it’s all he can do to keep from dropping to his knees and pressing his face into your lap. 

“Yeah, fine, fine. All good. Fine.” 

You turn back to the book, staring at it as if it was giving you a pep talk. Then you shut it and turn back to him.

“So, um, last night . . .” 

Here it comes. I regret it, all of it. You drugged me and took advantage of me. I can’t believe that you would–

“Was great.” 

He swears he hears his blood rushing in his ears. You smile at him, but clearly uneasy. As if you are the one second-guessing it all. 

Fuck, Bravo, put on your big boy pants.

He pulls out the other patio chair and sits down next to you. He clasps his hands, leaning forward on his elbows. His rings clink together. He nods, trying to catch your eyes.

“Yeah. It was fucking fantastic. I mean it. One for the books.”

He waits for you to say but. 

You wait for him to say but.

Neither of you do. You grin and put your coffee on the table. 

“So, in the events of last night . . . surprisingly, I forgot to charge my phone.”

He doesn’t want to touch you because he thinks it might spook you so he runs his gaze over your lovely knuckles, your wrist. 

“Sounds like, then, you might need to stay awhile.” 

You swallow, unable to contain the growing smile on your face. You duck your head and he follows you and your breath fans his face. 

“Guess so.” 

If he tells it, he says he kissed you.

If you tell it, you say you kissed him. 

Doesn’t matter though. Doesn’t matter that the coffee grows cold and he ignites something in you that you didn’t know existed.

When he finally pulls away, he’s still smiling. 

“This might be a bit weird, but . . . wanna see my other kitchen?”

The End

[auteurdelabre]

A LITTLE SUN - PART FOUR Dieter x f!Reader

rating: 18+ (MINORS GET OUTTA HERE OR I'M TELLIN'!)

Story Summary: As a PA to megastar and mega man-child Dieter Bravo you've had your fair share of headaches. Getting accidentally pregnant with his baby however takes the cake, especially when he offers to pay you to be his surrogate. You just weren't expecting to fall in love with him along the way.

Chapter summary: The secret is out. . . And you both have to face the music.

tags: Surrogacy, Pregnancy, Body changes re: pregnancy, Mutual Pining, Idiots in love, Mentions of Drugs, Mentions of Parental Death, Parental Issues, Vulnerable Dieter, Vulnerable Reader.

dividers by @silkholland

a/n: Next chapter is... gonna be a doozy.

part one / part two / part three

"Tell me it isn't true."

"Huh?"

You roll over in bed, wiping the sleep from your eyes. Your cell is firmly lodged against your ear as your mother’s frantic cry is heard on the other end. It’s early the morning after the ultrasound and you’re still reeling from everything. There are soft pings going off on your phone, but all are drowned out by your mother’s terrified voice. 

After the kiss you and Dieter had been driven back to the rental in silence, both of you processing. You were pensive, staring down at your phone reading through work emails. Dieter on the other hand was beaming, his smile never dimming.

He’d tried to talk to you when you entered into the rental but you’d made a beeline for your bedroom where you’d fallen into an unsettled sleep. And now you have your mother screaming down the line at you as you blurrily try to understand what she’s going on about.

"People haven’t stopped calling,” your mom says her voice wobbling. "I keep hanging up but now they're on the lawn!"

"Mom what are you-"

"Tell me you're not having that horrible man's baby!"

It feels like a cold bucket of water has been dumped over your head sending icy chills down your spine. You jerk up in bed, your eyed bulging.

"What did you just say?"

You pull the phone from your ear and see all the pings and alerts that haven’t stopped. While you were sleeping it turns out you have been making headlines back home in the US. TMZ is of course the one to break the news, photos of you and Dieter splashes all over the internet.

Dieter Bravo makes PA his sex slave

There you both are, standing in the parking lot of the hospital. Dieter is smiling at you sweetly, his hand splayed over your belly. Your mid laugh and the two of you appear to have eyes only for each other. 

The next shot is the kiss – the one with your hand on his neck, his hand on your belly and both of you with your eyes shut. The level of intimacy in the photo is staggering to the point that just looking at it makes your face heat. 

How did they get that shot?

“Mom, I have to go,” you tell her breathlessly, hanging up on her still shrieking voice.

"DIETER! GET THE FUCK IN HERE!"

The day is long and by the evening the two of you have turned off your phones. The pings of incoming messages and phone calls are getting to be too much. Diane has scheduled an early meeting with the two of you tomorrow to discuss further steps.

You settle into the TV room, putting on some nature documentary but neither of you is watching it. You're seated by the fire, eyes lost in the flames.

Dieter is stretched out on the sofa, one arm behind his head, the other on his belly. He looked like a lost child, dark eyes wide and unblinking. He’s run his hands through his hair so much that it’s even more wild and mussed than usual.  Eventually when the silence grows oppressive you glance over at him.

"Was Mia pissed?" 

"She hadn't replied to any of my messages." 

Good. 

You don't know where that thought comes from, but it does. A strange sense of victory threads through your body, making you tingle pleasantly. But then your eyes drift over to Dieter still looking anxiously up at the ceiling and guilt soars through you. 

"Are you upset?"

"Of course I'm upset," Dieter snaps. "I really liked her. She's funny and chill and me being a single dad didn't bug her. She wanted me."

You say nothing. You watch as he throws his arm over his eyes, mouth curling into a frown. 

"And the shitty thing is I was gonna tell her when we got back to LA," Dieter sighs. "Fuck."

"I'm sorry," you offer in a quiet voice. Dieter’s eyes are immediately on your face. He sees you turned away from him. 

"What're you sorry for?"

You can't face him. You just shrug instead, feeling the queasy sensation of sentimentality. 

"I fucked it up for you."

Dieter is off the couch and crawling over to you without thinking. His long legs carry him clumsily until he’s kneeling at your feet.

"You didn't," Dieter says with that husky earnestness you’ve come to expect from him. You don't respond and he furrows his brows. "Hey, look at me."

You shake your head. You don't want to look at him. Dieter hates talking to people without seeing their eyes, it makes him uneasy. He doesn't see the irony in him constantly wearing sunglasses. He moves his fingers to your chin, gently tilting your face in his direction. 

"You did nothing wrong," 

"I kissed you."

"You were excited."

"But I kissed you," you repeat. 

"And I kissed you," Dieter offers without thinking before stumbling over his tongue as his words finally hit his brain. "It's like the first time you were excited about the baby and I loved sharing that with you."

He holds your gaze as you hold your breath. 

"I don't regret that moment. I wouldn't change it." His hand slips from your chin to your jaw, his thumb brushing against your cheek.

His face is so close to yours you can smell the cologne he spritzed to cover up the smell of cigarettes. You can see the length of his dark eyelashes. You force your eyes not to drift to his pouty mouth. 

"Even if it fucks up everything with you and Mia?"

Dieter goes to respond to you when a loud bang sounds on the front door. The two of you break apart and Dieter groans as he stands muttering about his knees. You move to the seat by the window, not up for talking to whatever company Dieter has invited over but not wanting to be in your stuffy bedroom. 

"Mia?"

You turn as Dieter says her name. Mia shoves past Dieter into the rental without taking the time to say a word to him. Her hair is wild from the wind outside and her jacket hangs on the crooks of her elbows. Despite everything she still looks glamorous. She spies you sitting near one of the windows with wide eyes. 

"Hi," you offer weakly. 

Dieter steps forward to follow Mia towards you but you wave him away. He shifts back, hanging awkwardly by the front door as the two women in his life meet eyes. Mia is staring at you harshly, her hand going to motion towards your belly.

"It's his isn't it?" Mia demands breathlessly.

You think of denying it but you know she doesn't deserve it. You hang your head, chin touching your chest. 

"Yes."

"Fuck," Mia says shaking her head. "I'm such a fucking idiot."

"You're not!" You insist, struggling to a stand. The blanket that had been draped over your belly falls to the ground. 

Mia's eyes rove your expanded stomach, noticing the pronounced swell under your tight t-shirt more easily than the last time she saw you. Her eyes widen and you feel the need to explain before she starts screaming or crying.

"It was a one night stand," you explain in a rush. 

"One where you got pregnant and are keeping the baby," Mia says flatly. "Doesn't sound like a casual one night thing to me."

"Dieter is paying me."

Mia's reaction is as expected: confused and then horrified. Her perfectly manicured nails slide over her mouth in distress. 

"What?"

"Dieter, get Mia a drink," you throw over Mia's shoulder. You need him to stop standing there staring at you like a bump on a log. You look back to Mia. "Please, just come sit down and let's talk about this." 

Dieter scrambles, knocking into one of the chairs before scampering off into the kitchen, relieved to have something to do. 

Mia looks to be debating your offer before nodding. She follows you to the large tufted chairs by the window, taking the one opposite you. 

"I don't even know why I'm here," Mia laughs ruefully, not able to meet you sympathetic gaze. "It's not like... I don't..."

She fumbles for the words that you already know and you give a chagrined smile. 

"Because you like him," you tell her.

"We barely know one another," she says to her chapped hands. “We haven’t even slept together.”

She nestles back into the chair like a delicate bird making home in a nest. Dieter rushes over with two full glasses of red wine. He presses one into Mia's hand, wincing at her cool appraisal of him. His hand extends the wineglass towards you before he realizes the faux pas. 

"Oh fuck," Dieter says wincing. "I didn't-"

"Its fine," you say rolling your eyes. "You drink it," you motion to the sofa across the room when Dieter goes to perch on the arm of your chair, "over there!"

Dieter nods, shuffling quickly away from you, the wine spilling in like drops after him like a bloody trail. He places the wineglass onto the coffee table with a quiet knock. 

You glance over Mia's body tucked tightly into the chair. She looks so haunted, so defeated that it breaks your heart. Yes, you can admit that there is a part of you that is jealous of her relationship but you know that it's just hormones. Ultimately you want Dieter happy and Mia makes him happy. 

"Mia," you say her name softly, leaning forward conspiratorially as her large eyes turn on you. "You and Dieter have a strong connection."

She gives a scoff into her wineglass. "Right."

"I've seen the two of you," you insist. "You bring out the best in him. You seem happy when you're with him."

"He makes me laugh," Mia relents. 

You try not to notice Dieter's head poking up from the couch, his eyes flitting from you to Mia and back again. 

"Don't let this," you motion to your expanded belly, "get in the way of that." 

"You say it like it's not a big deal," Mia says with a distressed laugh, her hand gesturing to your belly. "It's a child you two made together!"

"It’s a business transaction," you say firmly. "Dieter wanted to be a dad, I got pregnant, he offered to pay and I accepted. That's how non-emotional the entire thing was. I never wanted kids."

Mia twists the stem of her wineglass between her fingers anxiously. The drink sloshes against the sides hypnotically. 

"Why would you do this?" Mia finally asks you gently. "If you never wanted kids, I mean. This is a big ask."

You know she doesn't believe you and you don't know how to convince her other than giving her all the brutal facts. You exhale slowly, lips pressing together tightly. 

"Because I have significant debt," you tell her leaning back into the chair. "And when Dieter offered me a very generous payment to carry the child to term I didn't want to turn it down."

You try to sound clinical and detached as you explain this. Dieter's eyes flicked to your face when you mentioned the debt, his brows raised. Now he just continues looking uncertainly between you and Mia. 

"You're not going to want to be in this baby's life at all?" Mia asks, brow furrowed. "You're just going to go work for Dieter every day and ignore your own baby?"

The way she says this sounds judgmental. Like you're a monster for choosing this. It makes your hackles rise momentarily before you remember that she's come here to understand everything. You smooth down the pillow absently, grounding yourself.  

"I won't be working for Dieter after I give birth," you explain in a rush, avoiding the way Dieter's eyes move sharply to your face. "I'll pay off my debts and then I'm going back to school to finish my schooling. I won't even be in the same city."

You hide a wince when you see Dieter's hurt expression behind Mia's shoulder at this proclamation. You know he’d been upset when you mentioned Sacramento in passing, but now he just looks devastated.

Mia blinks rapidly, looking even more thrown then before. "You won't?"

"Nope." You shake your head before giving a tepid smile. "But that means I won't be there to get in the way either. No random run ins, no having to pretend things aren't totally fucking awkward."

Mia gives a small smile at this

“It also means that your relationship with Dieter would be public news,” you tell her quietly. “It means tabloids running things about you being a stepmom. It means a lot of unwanted attention.”

“I could give a fuck about that,” Mia says rolling her eyes. “They said I didn’t have a belly button last year. I don’t care what they print about me. I just signed an airtight three picture deal with Marvel.”

You want to laugh at how you pinned Mia as this innocent little waif who didn’t know what she was getting into. How wrong you were. She’s more shrewd and worldly than most fifty year olds you know in the business.  Suddenly your fears about her being too innocent, about her career being damaged, are pushed to the side.

But her smile drops and she jerks her head behind her to glare at a solemn looking Dieter who now stands braced against the edge of his couch. She places her empty wineglass next to her on the floor.

"You lied to me, Dee."

"I told him to," you break in before your boss can reply. "I begged him not to tell anyone. Even you."

Mia turns back around, brow raised. "Why?"

"Because I was involved in a one night stand with my boss," you say with a dejected scoff. "And I got pregnant from it. From the man the media once called Burnout Bravo. I was humiliated. I didn’t want anyone to know. My own mother didn’t even know until TMZ came out with it."

Dieter feels his heart sink as you say this. The truth that he always suspected so brutally delivered makes him feel like he's been punched in the gut. Burnout Bravo.

Mia begins twisting her fingers together nervously. "Really?"

"Really," you nod before shooting a look over at Dieter that says play along. 

"It's the truth," Dieter says hollowly. 

"So there's no feelings here?" Mia asks the both of you. 

You're the first to reply with a laugh you force from the bottom of your belly. 

"No. Never. It was a one night stand because we were drunk and because I hadn't been laid in months. That's all it was."

"Yeah," Dieter says laughing the same sharp way you do. "I don't fuck my employees. We were wasted." 

That stings. To be referred to as an employee and so carelessly. But it’s what needs to be done. The two of them fit together. You lean closer to Mia, dropping your voice so that only she can hear you.

“Mia what you two have is special,” you emphasize. “I’m not just saying that. I’ve known Dieter for years. You’re the first one I’ve really seen make him change for the better.”

Mia seems to soften at this and you watch as Mia pushes up from the chair and draws over to Dieter. He stands and she allows him to pull her into his arms. He closes his eyes as he holds her against him. She murmurs something into his neck and the moment suddenly feels incredibly intimate.

You feel your intruding on the two of them and you shuffle past them into your bedroom, closing the door quietly behind you.

Back in the kitchen Mia pulls back slightly to gaze up at Dieter.  "Do you want her, Dieter?"

"What?" Dieter blinks rapidly. "You already asked me that and-"

"And now she's not in the room with us," Mia finishes, peering into Dieter's face. "And I want your total honesty." 

Total honesty.

He can't give her that. Can't tell her how you occupy his thoughts at all times. Can't tell her that even if you weren't carrying his child he's crazy about you. Can't tell her that he's so touched that you care about him well past that of a personal assistant. Can't tell her that he's told you things no one knows because he trusts you more than anyone. 

And he can't tell her those things because he really cares for Mia, more than he ever expected to. If things continue between the two of them there's a very good chance he's going to fall in love with her because right now he's well on his way. 

He doesn't want to give her up. 

His affection for you will wane. When you leave for school he'll be able to forget you. You don't want him so why would he pin his affections on that?

He needs to move on from you. 

"No," Dieter says firmly. "It's not like that. I mean of course I care about her. She's been my assistant for years and she's carrying my kid." 

"You know that's not what I mean," Mia says flatly, her light eyes scanning his face. Dieter stares into those eyes, feeling himself melt. 

Mia is sweet and ambitious and she likes to party. She's got an edge, a relaxed way of being and she's fucking gorgeous. She's an actress so of course there's a bit of ego but that's nothing he can't handle. If anything he likes it about her. 

Mia had been so understanding, so cool. Dieter could feel himself falling harder and harder for her the longer they were together. Part of him thinks she suggested the casual nature of the relationship because that's all she thought he was capable of. She gets him in a lot of ways. 

But you’re here and you're carrying his child and even if you weren't, after breaking down the walls you keep up these past few months, Dieter doesn't know that he can stop wanting you. It doesn't make sense; you don't want him like that so why does he still desire you? 

He needs to quit it though. If he doesn't watch himself he's going to lose Mia and he doesn't want that. 

"I want you," Dieter finishes softly, cupping her cheek. 

Mia slides her manicured hand over Dieter's wrist, sighing as she looks up at him. 

"I think maybe we need to take a beat Dee."

"Huh? Why?"

Dieter can't understand what she's talking about. They're going at a glacial pace. He hasn't even taken her to bed yet. Something that would have bothered him in past relationships, but for this one just feels right.

"Because I need some time to think things over," Mia tells him gently. "This is a lot to take in."

Dieter frowns. "But, I like being with you."

"And I like being with you," Mia assures him with a smile. "But I need to wrap my head around this. I know why you did what you did, but I need to sit with it and let you know how I feel."

She’s dumping him.

Dieter isn’t an idiot. He’s done this song and dance in his time. He knows by the tentative way she meets his eyes, the way her hand stays lightly on his wrist. She’s softening the blow, he realizes.

"If that's what you want," he manages. He won’t force a woman to be with him. And despite everything he’s glad he met Mia.

"It is," Mia nods. She stands on tiptoe to press a kiss to his lips, smiling as she pulls back. "I better get back to the hotel. I have an early day on set tomorrow. Not all of us were lucky enough to finish wrapping their scenes."

"The price of being the lead," Dieter grins. Mia giggles, going to pull on her jacket before giving him a brief wave.

“I’ll see you later, Dee.”

You're in bed when Mia leaves, half dozing on your side. You’ve just removed the headphones from your belly and you’re ready to fall into a hopefully long sleep. You start when the door to your room creaks opens and Dieter steps inside, creeping over to your bed.

"Hey," you whisper in the dark. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Dieter nods, unbuttoning his shirt. "We talked it out."

"Okay. Good."

The shirt is dropped to the ground, followed quickly by his jeans. Wearing only his boxers he stills, realizing he's not in his room but yours. 

"Did you... Can I sleep in here?"

"In here?" 

"Yeah," Dieter says and you can hear the insecurity there. 

"Sure," you say pulling back the covers. "If you can fit in this narrow bed with me and my stomach."

"I'll fit," Dieter grins. 

You feel him slip under the covers, shifting nearer to you until his breathing is fanning over the back of your neck.

His hand tentatively rests at your hip, tensing. He remembers last time the two of you were together in bed, you snuggling up to him, kissing his shoulder, holding him. There was nothing sexual about it, just comforting. He wants that again. 

"Would," he starts, feeling embarrassed. "Would it-"

"What?"

"Would it be okay if I held you? Not trying anything," he quickly adds which makes you smile in the dark. "I just like holding him." 

Your smile fades. He doesn't want to hold you. He wants to hold the baby.

Of course he does. 

You want to quell the beating of your heart. You want to remind yourself that this is transactional. 

But more than that you want to be held by him. 

You want to inhale the scent of his cologne and feel the ridge of his nose grazing your neck. You want to feel his hand curl against your stomach. And most of all you want to fall asleep with the man who helped you to create this life you carry.

"Yeah," you shuffle back against him. "I'm sure he misses you."

It's a silly thing to say especially since the baby doesn't even know it’s a baby yet. But Dieter grins at the comment, holding you. 

"I missed him," he murmurs, hand grazing softly against your abdomen. 

Guilt gnaws away at you though. 

"Would Mia be okay knowing you're in here?" You whisper in the darkness. "I mean, I know nothing is happening, I just mean... You know."

"Yeah. Pretty sure she dumped me." Dieter supplies.  He feels you tense in his arms, tilting your head over your shoulder to stare up at him concerned.

"What? Really?" 

"Yeah," you feel Dieter shifting behind you, his large arm coming to wrap tighter around your waist. "Says she needs time to process everything." 

“Doesn’t sound like breaking up.”

“Trust me,” Dieter sighs. “I know a break up monologue when I hear it. I’ve given enough of them.”

“Oh.”

You think on this, hand sliding under your pillow. Dieter sounds resigned, like this isn't necessarily something he wants. 

"You're okay with it, Dieter?"

"Yeah." 

"Maybe it was for the best," you offer, trying to cheer him up. "I don't know that monogamy was ever your thing." 

The moment stretches between you both, the room quiet. Dieter has found your left hand, his thumb coming to absently rub the ring you wear there. The ring he bought you that you never take off. The ring that if you knew how much it cost you would never wear for fear of losing it. He loves seeing it on your finger, knowing that something he bought you ties you to him in some way. 

"For the right person it would be," Dieter finally offers in a soft rasp. Before you can say anything he's flicking the lamp next to the bed off. 

"G'night." 

"Night."

Dieter wakes the next morning when the scent of your perfume on the pillow. He cracks his eyes open to see the bed empty and he feels a stab of disappointment. 

He showers before pulling on his clothes and robe and padding into the kitchen. You're sitting there, backlit by the sun and when you look up from your cereal bowl and cast a bright smile in his direction he feels momentarily breathless. 

You’re so fucking beautiful.

"Morning, ready for a painfully long flight home tonight?"

"Y-yeah," Dieter stammers before pouring himself a cup of the brewed coffee. 

You watch him looking anxiously around as he dumps the sugar into his brew before taking a seat opposite you. 

"So I was thinking about the Mia thing," You offer after a sip of tea. “She loves to travel right? Like, outside of work?”

“Yeah,” Dieter nods enthusiastically. "Last week she actually suggested we go on a trip together after the film wraps."

“So do it,” you insist. “Show her with action that you want and cherish her. Just the two of you somewhere romantic. Where does she like? Paris? Italy?”

“She was always talking about Prague,” Dieter offers as he recalls their times together. When they were first getting to know one another under the pretense of running lines. “She’s always wanted to go.”

“So take Mia to Prague,” you say enthusiastically as you can manage. “See the sights, stay at wonderfully fancy places, do romantic things. Prove to her that you want to be with her. Because she obviously means something to you Dieter.”

“You seem awfully concerned about my romantic life,” Dieter muses. “When did that start?”

“Contrary to what you believe, I care about you,” you say shortly. “And when I’m gone I want to make sure that things are stable. Mia is a good stabilizing force. And from what I can tell she’s a lot tougher than I gave her credit for.”

“So Prague,” Dieter echoes, thinking about your suggestion. It’s a good plan. A smart one if Mia will give him a chance to prove how much he cares about her.

“I won’t lie I’m jealous,” you smirk at your cereal bowl. "Always wanted to go there."

I'll take you. I'll take you anywhere you want to go.

Dieter shakes his head to erase this dangerous thought. 

No. No you won't, Bravo. She's leaving practically as soon as your kid is here. Stop thinking about her like that. She's your employee. 

"Well you'll have three hundred thousand dollars to play around with," Dieter says forcing a smile to his own face. 

"Two hundred," you correct through a mouthful of cereal. 

"Huh?"

"Well uh, I have to pay off my mom's mortgage. There's still about a two hundred thousand left on it. Then I have to pay off my student loans the next semesters' tuition and rent a place so... No trips to Prague for me." 

You give a little huffing laugh before going back to your cereal. Dieter takes a long sip of his coffee thinking about everything that’s gone on.

You begin to tap into your tablet, bringing up your flight details. Dieter watches you typing, transfixed by the way your fingers move, the way the ring he bought you sometimes spins on your finger. He recalls the way those same fingertips felt gripping him as he licked-

Fucking stop.

"Okay, that's done; the car will be here around three. Bags are packed, your passport is with mine," you say checking things off your list with a satisfied smile before it drops. “And our meeting with Diane is in ten.”

“Diane?”

Diane is the big guns when it comes to PR and Dieter’s career in general. Knowing that you’ve pissed her off stresses the both of you big time. And as if you’ve summoned a well organized demon the laptop chirps.

Seconds later you and Dieter sit awkwardly next to one another at the kitchen table, your laptop positioned between the two of you. A furious looking Diane is on the zoom call, her dark red brows knitted together. 

"I thought I was perfectly clear."

"You were Diane," you jump in, your cheeks red. "It's-"

"No public affection," Diane interjects. "No fraternizing with co-stars."

Dieter gives a sheepish grin at that before his eyes jot to you. You can't even look at him in the small box of the zoom meeting. You feel so foolish about all of this. All your years of professionalism, striving to have things under control and this is how it ends? A blurry snapshot of you kissing your celebrity boss?

"The baby kicked for the first time," Dieter offers quietly. "We were just really excited."

"Congrats," Diane says without a shred of conviction. "Now we have a PR nightmare that we have to spin."

“I know we screwed up, Diane, but I swear it was a heat of the moment,” you implore her. “It won’t happen again.”

“You’re damn right it won’t. As of this moment you are no longer working for Dieter Bravo.”

“Hey-“ Dieter starts but Diane is talking over him.

“You wanted to keep her on Dee, and look what happened. And now we can’t even keep you on the books because it’ll look suspicious,” Diane snaps. “You can’t be seen fucking and paying your assistant, it’ll be career suicide. I’ll have to pay her wage through a third party and I really didn’t need this headache considering I was already finished up on a plan for unveiling baby Bravo and now I have to rethink the entire thing.”

 Dieter looks over to see your head hung low, your cheeks stained red. He knows how much this is killing you. How much you prided yourself on your work acumen and professionalism. He tries to slide his hand over yours but you pull away sharply, eyes going to Diane.

“I understand, Diane. Just tell me what I need to do.”

The flight back is a strained one. Diane has booked you both first class and private pods but across the plane from one another. You don’t interact the entire flight; instead you’re left to your own thoughts as you absently stroke your stomach.

You have a few things in your favor – it was getting close to having to stop working anyway. You’re officially showing and you’re still getting paid. That money can all go to the family.

The family.

Your mother’s voice over the phone rings in your ears. The shrill terrified shout that this couldn’t be true. You’ve disappointed her. You have to explain it all to her as soon as possible. It’ll be easier to just tear the band aid off.

Dieter rests in his own private pod three whiskey’s deep, his swollen eyes hidden behind sunglasses. He’s been holding back tears all morning and now they slip down his gold cheeks in the privacy of the flight.

He doesn’t get to see you or the baby until he’s born. It’s a fucking cruelty.

“If you want her to have a normal life, Dee, you’ll stay far away from her. She needs to be seen as a surrogate only, not a romance. We can write the kiss off as a one-time thing if we find an alternative romantic partner to highlight for you.”

Of course he’d agreed immediately. He doesn’t want you or the baby stressed. It’s his own fault for wanting you so badly it aches. You promised to update the app daily, to video chat at least every other day. That had seemed fair.

But now on the way back to LA, Dieter can’t help but feel this growing pit starting in his belly. A coldness that has nothing to do with the weather. He’s not going to see you every day, won’t be able to smell your perfume, hear your voice when you sing in the shower (off-key), won’t snuggle you to him as you watch nature documentary’s. 

At least before this photo Dieter had the option of going to your house to see you in the last few months of your pregnancy, but now with the media frenzy there’s no possibility. It’ll be horrible for you and your mom.

Once he’s off the flight Dieter’s phone is buzzing. He takes it out, surprised to see that Diane has already sent him a few texts. He’s confused before he remembers that without you as his PA he’ll be receiving her messages directly.

[12:33pm] I talked to Mia’s publicist. She’s agreed to a public romance rollout this Friday. New club opening.  Confirming your availability.

Dieter glances over at you in the luggage carousel, eyes flitting from bag to bag as you wait for yours.  You look like a goddess despite your dark black clothes and oversized sunglasses. He knows you’re trying to be inconspicuous.

[12:34pm] D: I’m available.

You’ve got your luggage and Dieter scrambles to grab his own before rolling it over to you. You notice his approach and try to affect a casual attitude. Thankfully no one seems to recognize you from the photos.

“I’ll make sure you get into your taxi,” Dieter offers quietly walking alongside you, his brows raised.

“No it’s fine,” you insist, taking your rolling luggage and giving him a soft smile. “I’ll be good. I’ll head out first; hopefully if there are any paps they won’t recognize me before I’m in the cab.”

“Right.”

When you walk out of the airport you think of all the things Diane warned you about over the phone. The photographers, the yelling, the attention. You thought you were ready for it.

You were wrong.

But there are at least fifty paparazzi all hanging around like flashbulb vultures waiting to catch you both looking vulnerable. Groups of men with oversized cameras are all shouting at you, calling your name, saying things to get your attention.

"Over here! Hey, over here!"

"Have you two picked out names yet?"

“Did you put holes in the condom?”

"Do you know the gender?"

“Do you sleep with all your employers?”

"Is it twins? It looks like it could be twins."

You feel anxious tears starting at the corner of your eyes. They’re going to photograph you and you’re going to be crying. You still in the crowd, hand on your luggage strap, frozen like a deer in the headlights.

The taxi seems so far away, the lights, the sounds; the sensation of being suffocated is all you can focus on. You feel like you’re drowning. Your chin wobbles and another camera is thrust directly into your face.

One hand curls over your belly protectively before you raise the other to shield your face. You feel completely alone and vulnerable, the tears almost spilling when you feel a warm hand envelop your wrist. You glance up to see Dieter there at your side, stony faced at the paparazzi as he pulls you gently towards him.

“Give her room to breathe.”

Gratitude floods you and despite Diane’s directions to avoid each other like the plague you let him lead you towards where his private SUV waits.

His arm goes to your back, urging you to move with him. As you and Dieter shuffle through the throng of shouting people you suddenly understand why Dieter drowns himself in drugs and sex and everything else. This constant whirlwind, this unbearable attack on all sides is exhausting. Photographers, fans, cameras, eyes, shouts. It's terrifying.

"Is this the result of a one night stand?"

“Dieter have you asked for a DNA test?”

 “How old are you?”

“DIETER I LOVE YOU!”

“Did you feel pressured because Mr Bravo is your boss?”

“Can I have your autograph!?”

“What a slut!”

“What’s the sex like?”

A camera is thrust inches from your face and you give a yelp, putting up a free hand in front of you as the light flashes.

"Hey, get the fuck away from her," Dieter says placing a protective arm around your waist and sweeping you along with him. He doesn’t let you go as he herds you through the line of shouting people. Dieter’s driver is there, grabbing your bag for you and loading it into the SUV.

“Just breathe, baby,” Dieter murmurs against your temple. “I got you.”

You want to tell him that this will look bad in tomorrow’s gossip column; that even just walking side by side will create a frenzy of tabloid speculation. But you’re terrified at the mob of people and your hand clutches at the front of Dieter’s jacket as you shy away from them.  

"Are you really pregnant or is this a publicity stunt?"

"Dieter what about rumors that you've been linked recently with Mia Rowe?"

"It's it true this child might be Robert Pattinson’s?"

When the last photographer starts shouting and shoving the camera in your face again you let out a small whimper as Dieter opens the door of the SUV for you.

“Please just stop!”

Dieter hears your cry and turns to see your terrified expression before you’re burying your face in Dieter’s shoulder.

Dieter loses all rational thought. All he can focus on is the way you’re trembling in his arms, the way your hand has gone protectively over your stomach protecting his son, the child you made together.   

Before you can stop him he's reared back and kicked the photographer in the vee of his legs and the man blanches. You look on in horror at the altercation.

"Dieter!"

Flashbulbs are going off like crazy as the man groans sharply, grabbing between his legs and collapsing onto the sidewalk.

“I said stay the fuck away from her!” Dieter shouts, his cheeks red.

He pulls himself in after you, closing the door before his arms are around you, pulling you against him. The windows are tinted, but that won’t matter after that little performance out there.

“Ready to go Mister Bravo?”

“Yeah, thanks Hank.”

The car is already in motion, heading for Dieter’s place as the sound of shouts grow quieter and quieter with each passing mile. You’re still shaking, still reeling from everything that happened.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “That must have been terrifying. I’m used to it now but I remember how it used to be.”

“How do you do it?” you ask, still trembling. “They’re relentless.”

“Coke. Sex. Booze,” Dieter shrugs as if this is a natural response. “I get by. But it doesn’t mean you should have to.”

Dieter has his hand holding yours, thumb rubbing soothing circles along the back of your palm. 

“And here I thought my Mom was going to be the most stressful part of today,” you say trying to offer a weak smile.

“Is it really going to be that bad do you think?”

“Honestly yeah, I do,” you say nodding.  “She’s going to be pissed and I’m going to have to walk on eggshells until the baby is born.”

"Why don't you stay in my guest house?"

You gaze up and over at Dieter, seeing that he’s watching your face with a soft expression as the car coasts through the busy LA traffic.

"What?”

"You don't want to stay at home, I have the empty space. I don't see why that's so weird. And if I’m honest I don’t wanna be so far away from my son,” Dieter finishes lamely. “I like seeing him growing every day.”

I like seeing you every day.

He can’t admit that to you. He never will. He’ll swallow it down deep.

“I have to go home, Dieter.” You insist. “Plus, Diane would murder me. This flies in the face of everything she’s trying to cultivate for your image.”

Dieter doesn’t say anything, but he does relax back into the seat next to you.  He doesn’t release your hand, instead he maneuvers his fingers, lacing them through yours and resting them on the seat between you both.

You tell Hank your address and you take a deep breath as a short while later he rounds on your street.

Your Mom wasn’t joking.

There really are tons of people littering your normally quiet suburban neighborhood. Many with expensive looking cameras and phones. You groan as the SUV crawls by them before you insist on having the Hank drive you around the corner. The last thing you need is to be seen getting out of Dieter’s car.

Hank goes to take your bags out of the trunk and Dieter readies himself to follow you out the door.

“I’ll come-“

“No,” you insist gently. “I have to do this myself.”

He wants to deny this but he sees the seriousness of your countenance and nods. He knows you’re a strong, capable woman. But the thought of you being messed with by those paps are making his jaw clench.

“Don’t worry,” you tell him with a grin as you slip on a pair of oversized sunglasses. “Thanks to you I know how to get them to leave me alone.”

He can’t help but let out a short laugh, cut short when you close the car door. Dieter watches you take the suitcase handle from Hank and thank him before you roll it down the sidewalk and out of his life for the foreseeable future.

The first thing you notice when you get inside your house is how quiet it is.

Especially compared to the madness that is just outside your front door.  You’d successfully ignored the men and women who shouted questions at you. You were busy on the phone with the local police ensuring that your Mother’s home would no longer be swarmed. You slide your suitcase to the left of the door.

“Mom?”

She appears moments later dressed in her sweatpants and oversized sweater.  She hasn’t left the house despite it being a workday.

“Your flight was okay?”

“Uh, yep.”

“Good.”

“You didn’t go to work today?”

“Couldn’t get my car out of the driveway,” your Mom says tightly.

“I called the city when I was walking up,” you tell her, toeing off your shoes. “They’ll take care of it.”

She nods but makes no move to smile or to hug you. She’s always been an emotional woman, prone to hugs and kisses so her complete lack of anything has you on edge.

“I made pie,” she says, “come have a slice.”

You hear distant sirens outside as you follow her into the kitchen, taking your coat off before plopping into seat opposite her at the table. You don’t miss how her eyes widen at the obvious swell of your stomach.  

“So it’s true.”

You watch her cut the peach pie she’s baked noting that her fingers are trembling. You say nothing in reply, simply watching as she slides your portion and a fork to you on the plate before she looks back at your face.

“You made a child with that horrible man.”

“He’s not a horrible man,” you say, your voice coming out more caustic than expected. “You don’t know anything about him other than what the media wants you to think.”

“Oh, he’s an angel then, is that it?” your Mother gives a humorless laugh as she sits in her seat, the cheap wood creaking. “He doesn’t do drugs? Doesn’t say crazy things? Doesn’t act like a fool?”

Your mother has always ragged on Dieter through your entire employment. Most of the time you could shrug it off, ignore it or even laugh along with her. But now? After everything you’ve experienced with him you feel a strangely intense feeling of protectiveness. For the soft man that holds you in bed and buys you rings just because. For the man that listens to you talk about your Dad and shares about his mom. Hearing her deride him makes you curl your fingers around your fork in anger.

“Even if he did all those things, so what? If the worst thing you can say about Dieter Bravo is that he acts immature and says silly things and does drugs every once in a while does that really make him so horrible?”

“It makes him irresponsible,” your Mom snaps. The worst possible thing you can be in your mother’s eyes in irresponsible. “And he’s supposed to be the father of your child? Of my grandson? I’m not going to have a son in law that acts like he does.”

A son in law?

You could laugh at the thought of Dieter being a married family man. When would he have time to go on hippie retreats and have threesomes? Although considering his behavior of late perhaps that’s an unfair belief. Regardless, Dieter Bravo is not the marrying kind.

"Mom we're not getting married. Ever."

Your mom's fork clatters onto her plate, the pie forgotten.

"What? Why not?"

Fuck. This is going to hurt so much more than you thought. Hearing your Mom refer to herself as a grandmother is a new kind of pain you weren’t anticipating. You can see it there in her eyes that keep lingering on your belly – all the hopes and dreams of grandchildren running through her mind.

“We’re not in a relationship.… this isn't... I'm not keeping the baby," you finally manage to say in a thick voice.  

"What?” Your mom nearly shouts when she looks to your swollen stomach, her features contorted in horror.  "You can't just get an-"

"No, not like that. I mean, I'm giving the baby to Dieter. He's paying me to be his surrogate." 

Saying it out loud makes your heart hammer. If you thought she looked horrified at the previous comment, she looks downright disgusted now. She leans back in her chair, as if she physically cannot stand to be closer to you.

"What?"

"I'm getting paid," you explain in a rush, hoping that this will ease the pain of it. "Three hundred thousand dollars." 

You expect that this will soften the blow of the news but if anything she looks as if she’s been slapped.

“You’re… selling your baby?”

The way she says it makes your skin crawl, like you’re some backroom monster.

“It’s not like that,” you say raking your hands through your hair in frustration. “Mom, I’m not like, his Mom. I’m just carrying him. Like, remember when Liz had the surrogate? I’m like that girl they hired.”

“Liz didn’t let her husband sleep with that woman did she? They did it at the hospital, with a transfer,” Your mom peers into your face and you think you see a shadow of hope. “Is that what happened, honey? You got an embryo transfer?”

Fuck this is getting worse by the minute.

“No. We slept together. It was a mistake.”

You wince when you feel your son kick, a light flutter that has you gripping the sides of your abdomen in surprise.  Guilt immediately goes through you – can he understand what you’re saying during all of this? No, of course not, he’s a fucking fetus. And yet that doesn’t stop you from welling up.

"This is so…twisted,” your mom replies with a shake of her head. “It’s one thing to sleep with him and have his baby. But you… You’re not even going to be his mother? You’re selling him off like he’s a piece of furniture?”

A solemn quiet goes around the space and your mother drops her napkin to the table.  You take a bite of your pie, finding it bitter.

“That’s not at all what’s happening.”

"If your father was here-"

"Well he's not!" you snap out at her. “You had no one else to take care of you so I stepped up. I see how long the hours are that you work, how exhausted you are. You’re supposed to retiring at this age, not taking on double shifts. I wanted to pay off the mortgage for you. I wanted to pay for my schooling. And Dieter wanted a child, so how is this pregnancy a bad thing? We all got something out of it.”

“Got something out of it?” Your mother almost sneers. “You don’t get something out of it. You created life and now you’re selling him for profit to a man who needs help staying sober longer than a week. It’s disgusting what the two of you are doing.”

A searing pain goes through you as you sit there, the pie dry and tacky in your mouth. It hurts to swallow it down. But it hurts more to know that your sacrifice is now being thrown back into your face.

“I did this for you,” you tell her weakly.

"I never asked you to do anything for me," your mom says and now you see the shame in her eyes. The disappointment. “It’s disgraceful treating human life like a commodity. I… I can’t accept that money from you. It’s tainted.”

I did it all for nothing.

You feel numb. Your Mom has lowered her chin to her sternum and you can see fat tears slipping down her nose. She’s silent as she cries and when she does this it reminds you so much of your father’s funeral and the way she’d silently sobbed that you feel physically ill.

You can’t be in this environment. Not just because it hurts so much to have her talk to you like she has. But because you can’t spend the next several months on eggshells, high strung and anxious. You can’t do that to the life that is building itself within your womb, cell by cell. You will give your son every advantage you can.

"I can't be in this house," you say softly. "I'm sorry, mom. I... I can't."

“I think that might be for the best,” she agrees, and you notice that she can’t meet your eyes.

You move to your feet wobbling to your bedroom, closing the door gently behind you. You look at the awards on the desks, the beautiful painting you look at each morning, at the space you lived in with your Mom and Dad. You can almost hear his voice as he told he was so proud of his smart daughter and her science awards.

If you try you can remember how it felt to have him read you bedtime stories before you fell asleep in this very room. You can still smell the cinnamon bread your Mom would make you every year for your first day of school.

But then you blink and all you see is a room with a bed and a desk and some art on the walls. A past life of someone who doesn’t exist anymore.  You catch your reflection in your dresser mirror, amused to see that the woman staring back at you hasn’t been a child for a long time. She stands with a splotchy face and tired eyes, and a stomach that swells with life.

“You’re gonna be safe,” you tell the bump in the mirror.  “I promise.”

You glance out between your drawn blinds thankful to see that the group has been dispersed by local law enforcement. Good. You bring out your mobile and begin tapping out a message.

[4:31pm]:  Is that offer of staying at your place still on?

D [4:31pm]: i'll send a car

You don’t even fight him on it.

[4:32pm]: Thank you.

D [4:32pm]: u never have to thank me

You make your way to your closet where you bring out a second suitcase, filling it to the brim with everything you think you’ll need for the next little bit. Your suitcase full of clothes from your last trip is waiting for you at the front door for when you exit.

You sit on the end of your bed, waiting for the car when you feel your phone buzz at your hip.

It’s a photo from Dieter, one that makes your brows saddle. It’s of his guest house, the one he usually just keeps for out of town guests and overflow storage for his paintings and other purchases.

But you can see he’s organized it, swept the floors and set everything up nicely complete with a vase of fresh flowers from his garden sitting on the coffee table.

D [4:56pm]: ready and waiting, baby mama

Your hand is on your abdomen without thought, gently holding your son through the tendons and tissues. You give a watery smile at your screen before looking down at your belly, feeling a sense of relief bloom behind your sternum.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, little one. Your Dad is gonna take care of us.”

TAGLIST: @getitoutofmymindwrites @manuymesut @whirlwindrider29 @mostardentlypascal @lu62 @missladym1981 @heareball @sptbear @drewharrisonwriter @lizzie-cakes

[psychedelic-ink]

ㅤㅤㅤ✦ 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓

ㅤㅤ70s rockstar!dieter bravo x innocent fanf!reader

genre: smut, minors dni, 70s rockstar au

word count: 2.2k

summary: it's the 70s and your friend invites you to an underground club where one of your favorite musicians is playing: dieter bravo.

warnings: innocence kink, mild corruption kink, backstage s.ex, piv, dirty talk, weed, oral + handjob (male receiving)

a/n: this is my secret santa gift for @dark-scape! I hope you like it! 🎄🎄🎄 and thank you to @pedrostories who hosted the event, I had a blast writing this and I hope you enjoy, happy holidays! ♡♡♡

You stand at the entrance of the dimly lit alley, feeling the air thick with anticipation. Diane stands right next to you, equally as excited but way more relaxed compared to you. The muffled sound of a soulful guitar seeps through the cracks, sending shivers down your spine.

“Come on, don’t look so scared,” Diane says, taking you by the hand. “There’s a reason why I brought you here today. A little birdie told me Dieter Bravo is playing tonight in secret.” 

"Dieter? Like, THE Dieter Bravo?" you stammer, your eyes widening with disbelief.

“The one and only. Now let’s go!”

Excitement bubbles within you as you process the information. Dieter, the musician whose records adorn your bedroom walls, is playing. You can’t believe it. Knots form in your stomach and you have the sudden urge to gag. What would you do if he tried to talk to you? 

You vigorously shake your head. That wouldn’t happen. There’s no way he notices you among the crowd.

Nonetheless, you’re still excited.  

As you walk in, your heart beats madly within your chest. The air carries a sweet, heavy scent of incense, and the dimly lit space is adorned with wild tapestries. The soulful strumming of a guitar creates a low buzz as people chat and laugh, immersed in the ambiance.

The shifting colors of the lights cast a dreamy glow over the scene. You notice multiple people making out, most of them pushed against the walls. It’s a very close-knit scene. A lava lamp flickers in the background now and then, the shadows playing over the colorful walls.

Navigating through the crowd, you discover the heart of the club—a small stage bathed in psychedelic lights. It’s empty for now and once more you feel your pulse racing. The room pulses with a different kind of energy, experimental and free. Occasionally, there's a hint of something herbal in the air.

Diane leans closer to you, her lips brushing against your ear, “Let’s head to the front, they’re up in five!” 

The anticipation in the room reaches its peak as the lights dim even further, and the crowd hushes in unison. The stage comes alive with a burst of colors, and there he is—Dieter Bravo, center stage, bathed in the vibrant hues.

The crowd erupts in cheers and applause as Dieter starts strumming his guitar, the soulful notes resonating through the room. His voice, smooth and magnetic, weaves through the melodies, casting a spell on everyone in the room. You find yourself swaying to the rhythm, completely captivated.

While the music envelops the space, you catch Dieter's eye. His mischievous smile sends a shockwave through you, and you feel your body tingle with embarrassment. Is he really looking at you? The possibility sends your heart into a frenzy.

Diane nudges you, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Looks like someone caught the eye of the rock god himself," she teases, giving you a playful grin.

You can't help but glance back at Dieter, and this time, he holds your gaze. His fingers glide effortlessly over the strings, but his eyes stay locked on yours. Your breath hitches as you watch Dieter play, his fingers moving over the strings with such skill and fluidity. You had never felt this way before, so drawn to someone like this. . . You can't believe how he can make a simple guitar sound so sensual and seductive.

You find yourself unable to look away, and Dieter notices, a sly grin spreading across his lips. Your eyes meet and you feel a jolt of electricity shoot through your body. He winks at you and slowly licks his lips, sending a shiver down your spine.

You can't help but imagine what it would be like to have those talented hands caressing your body, making you feel things you’ve never felt before. But deep down you know it won’t work out. He probably wasn’t even looking at you but at the crowd in general, there’s no way the heat in his gaze was directed at you. 

The last note fades into the air, Dieter finally breaks the spell and looks away, confirming your thoughts, yet, a coy smile still plays on his lips. You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart and the fire that his performance has ignited inside you. 

Dieter stands up from his stool and enters the backstage area. You watch him disappear behind the curtain, but before you can snap out of your daze, someone taps you on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, Dieter would like to see you backstage," a stagehand says, gesturing towards the curtain.

You hesitate, unsure if you should go. But something inside you tugs at your curiosity, and before you know it, you're telling Diane you’ll be back in a second and following the stagehand toward the backstage area.

Stepping behind the curtain, you're hit with a flurry of activity: instruments being packed away, band members chatting, and Dieter standing in the corner, a small smile on his face as he sees you enter.

"Hey," he greets, walking over to you. "I'm glad you came back here."

You smile nervously, feeling a rush of excitement and nerves all at once. You can't believe you're actually standing backstage with Dieter.

Dieter leads you to a secluded small room. You sit down on a couch, and Dieter sits down next to you, his thigh brushing against yours.

"I saw you in the crowd," he says, looking at you with a hint of admiration in his eyes. You notice him pulling out a joint and lighting it. He takes a deep breath before offering it to you. 

You shake your head, declining.

"No thanks, I don't smoke," you say, a small smile on your lips.

Dieter raises his eyebrows, his grin growing wider.

"Interesting," he says, his voice laced with amusement. "Usually the people that come to my shows can’t wait to get a hit. I can’t wait to get to know you more. . . intimately."

Dieter's words send a shiver down your spine, and you can't help but feel a spark of excitement at the thought of him being interested in you. You've always had a bit of an innocent personality, and the idea of Dieter being drawn to that only adds fuel to the fire.

He leans in closer to you, warm breath tickling your cheek.

"I have a bit of a soft spot for innocent types like you," he says, his voice low. "It turns me on."

A surge of heat spreads through your body, and you can feel yourself burning up under his gaze. You can't believe this is happening, that Dieter of all people is showing interest in you.

He leans in even closer, his lips almost brushing against your ear as he whispers, "I want to show you a good time."

Dieter's words send a jolt of arousal through you, and you get lost in the moment as he starts kissing your neck. But a sense of embarrassment washes over you, and you feel the need to stop him before things go any further.

"Wait," you murmur, pulling back slightly. "I've never done this before."

Dieter smiles, his lips brushing against your skin as he speaks. "That's even better."

Your heart races at his words, and you feel yourself getting even more wet. Dieter takes your wrist and guides your hand to his impressive bulge, causing you to gasp at the feeling of him underneath his pants.

"See how much you turn me on?" he murmurs, his lips still on your neck. "Do you want to explore more?"

You nod, unable to find the words to express how much you want this. Dieter moves his hand down to the hem of your dress, deftly sliding it up your legs. You feel a surge of nervousness at the thought of him fingering you, but the excitement and desire coursing through your body overpowers it.

Dieter smirks, his fingers finding their way to your underwear. He starts rubbing teasing circles against your clit, making you moan breathlessly. You try to muffle your sounds, but Dieter stops you.

"Don't hold back," he whispers, his hot breath tickling your ear. "I want to hear how much you're enjoying this."

With his permission, you let yourself go and start making louder noises, each touch of his fingers sending waves of pleasure through your body. Dieter continues to tease you, alternating between slow and fast movements, driving you crazy.

"Does it feel good?" he asks, his voice a seductive whisper against your ear. "Being fingered by your favorite rockstar?"

You can only nod, unable to form a coherent sentence as Dieter's skilled fingers bring you closer and closer to the edge. And when you finally reach your climax with a cry of pleasure, Dieter smirks triumphantly before leaning in to kiss you.

Dieter breaks the kiss and guides your hand to his already hard cock. Your breathing quickens as you wrap your fingers around it, feeling its impressive size and girth. Dieter groans, his head falling back as you start to stroke him, your hand moving up and down his shaft.

You feel his pulse racing beneath your touch, his breathing becoming more ragged with each stroke. You glance up at him and see the intense desire in his eyes, fueling your own fire even more.

"Fuck, keep going," Dieter moans, his hips slightly thrusting into your hand. And you do, picking up the pace as you stroke him faster, your own arousal building again at the sight of him losing control.

His grip on your wrist is firm but not too tight, guiding your hand up and down his length. The heat emanating from him as you work your hand makes your head spin, feeling the softness of his skin contrasting with the hardness of his arousal.

"Is this what you wanted?" Dieter asks, his voice low and gruff as he watches you intently.

You can only nod, unable to find your voice as you focus on your task at hand. Dieter's breathing becomes heavier and his hips start to move in rhythm with your strokes. His eyes are locked on yours, and you can see the desire and pleasure in them.

Feeling bold, you lean in and press your lips against his, eliciting a groan from deep within his throat. His hands move to your hips, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth.

Dieter's body tenses under your touch, and you know he's close. 

"I can't take it anymore," Dieter groans, stopping your hand and pulling you over his lap in one smooth motion. You gasp as he positions himself at your entrance, his hands gripping your hips as he thrusts up into you.

"Oh god, Dieter," you moan, your head falling back as he fills you completely. His strokes are deep and powerful, rocking your entire body as he pounds into you.

As he continues to move inside you, Dieter starts to whisper in your ear, his voice deep and full of gravel.

"You have no idea how much I love defiling such a pretty fan like you," he growls, his hands gripping your hips even tighter. "Seeing you lose control like this, it drives me wild."

You can feel his words send shivers down your spine, igniting a deeper fire within you. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer as you meet his thrusts with your own.

"Fuck, you feel so good," Dieter groans, his pace becoming even more frenzied.

You can't help but moan and whimper as he continues to tease you, his words adding to the intense pleasure coursing through your body. He knows exactly how to push your buttons, and you can't imagine anything better than this moment.

"Dieter, I'm close," you cry out, your body trembling with each thrust. "Please, don't stop."

Dieter's eyes darken at your words, and he thrusts into you even faster. The pleasure building in your body becomes almost too much to handle, and you can feel yourself reaching your peak.

With a loud cry, you climax, your body tensing as you gush around him. Dieter groans and thrusts a few more times before pulling out and telling you to get on your knees.

You quickly comply, sinking to the floor and opening your mouth, eager for his release. Dieter stands above you, his hand stroking his cock as he looks down at you with a hungry expression.

"Such a good girl," he says, his voice filled with desire. "Now, open wide and take all of me."

You obediently open your mouth wider as he guides his cock between your lips, pushing himself inside. You moan around him, the taste of him driving you wild as he begins to move in and out of your mouth.

His thrusts become rougher and more erratic, and you can feel his release getting closer. You suck and lick him eagerly, wanting to taste every drop of his release.

With one final thrust, Dieter cries out and spills himself into your mouth. You swallow it all, eagerly taking every inch of him until he is spent.

As he pulls away, he looks down at you with a satisfied smile. "You did so well, my little fan," he says, helping you to your feet. "Nothing beats sex after a concert."

“Was. . . was I good?” 

Pulling you on top of his lap once more, he claims his lips, his cock twitching as he tastes himself on your tongue. 

“You were perfect.”