#pedro pascal snl | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

morallyinept · 6 months

Text

BROADCASTING LIVE TONIGHT - A Dieter Bravo One Shot

Summary: Dieter Bravo hosts SNL and you're assigned as his personal make-up artist, which means you'll be getting up very close and very personal to him...

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.)

Word Count: 7.9k

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️ “It's the emergence, of.”

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Explicit - Unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!)/fingering/oral M & F receiving/substance abuse/Dieter being an absolute menace.

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ. ☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

Author’s Note: With all the SNL hype recently, how could I not? This man is a menace. Inspired by THAT blazer.

@wildemaven has created a fantastic mood board of Dieter hosting SNL, which has inspired some of this fic. Shoutout to @pedroshotwifey for drawing my attention to this mood board, which has resulted in me getting absolutely no sleep due to writing this. 🥴🖤

MASTERLIST | DIETER BRAVO MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

The commotion outside Studio 8H, at NBC's headquarters in the Comcast Building, has reached a fever pitch.

Crowds have gathered, for most of the day, some rocking up early to get in line, to catch a glimpse of notorious, bad boy-turned-Emmy nominee, Dieter Bravo, who is tonight hosting Saturday Night Live.

A move, which most critics speculate, is to start laying the foundations in the re-cementing of his fragile career.

There have been sightings of him all over the Big Apple for the last two days, walking down Broadway sipping on green juice, hanging outside the dispensary on East 30th Street like a shifty pervert, and spotted rollicking in a café in Hell's Kitchen with, what is reported, as his current on-off partner, Ricky Santos.

Although, sources are yet to be confirmed from the turbulent press pictures and fan theories. Dieter himself snorts at this each time he reads that they're "getting serious." They mostly just hang, and suck each other off when high. Serious? Pffft.

Dieter's PR team have his personal life heavily locked up ever since he checked out of Wonderland, clean and fresh faced, some eight months ago. Dieter has mostly stayed out of the headlines and off of pap scoop websites for bawdy, offensive behaviour.

And he finds this new squeaky clean image he's been threatened with, boring, if not suffocating. His fingers are constantly itchy, both figuratively and literally. There's an unyielding yearning for some anarchy left swilling in his veins.

So he takes a crowbar to that lock and flips the birdie when it breaks open.

He's been confirmed staying at The Bowery on the Lower East Side, and paparazzi and the odd cluster of hardcore fans and autograph floggers, have accosted him each time he comes and goes.

He simply ignores them and doesn't sign their merch with his face plastered on, or takes selfies, no matter how much they try to invade his personal space like malignant cancer.

He makes no attempt to remain incognito either, simply appearing out in public in lazily dressed attire of stained grey sweatpants and crocs, or a floral kimono teamed with sliders and shorts. It's usually what he finds strewn over the floor in the aftermath of his hotel room. He's pretty sure this kimono isn't even his. But it fits nice.

Eyes hidden behind giant, dark sunglasses and hair an untamed mess, Dieter roams New York unperturbed and off leash. His dishevelled appearance sparks rumours that he may be back to his partying ways on the sly after he's papped coming out of a strip-club at 4AM.

And they would be right about that.

He masks the shakes well, the bloodshot eyes he keeps hidden behind the Ray Bans. He's only had about four hours sleep since he touched down in this feculent city.

God he loathes New York. The stench of hotdog vendors and trash piles uncollected for days, turns his stomach.

He throws up on the sidewalk as he stumbles back to The Bowery and sleeps until his agent is hammering on the door and dragging him off in a covert car towards the NBC building.

He wishes his head was thunking around under the wheels; his skull feels like it is already, as he slumps down on the leather upholstery and questions what the fuck he is doing here.

Tonight, his styling team have lined up a single breasted blazer from Homme Plissé Issey Miyake, with clashing pants from the same designer. The same soft corduroy ribs pleasantly against the pads of his fingers as he runs them back and forth over this thigh during the final fitting.

He looks in the mirror, turning this way and that. Sucks in his stomach and hacks loudly when he breathes out, startling everyone.

He runs his ringed fingers around his grey scruff and scratches under his chin as he takes himself in. Yeah, he can work with it. Dieter doesn't care much for blending in anyway.

It's a look that only Dieter Bravo can pull off with such style and garish aplomb. Even if the lurid yellow gives him a headache to look at its neon hue for too long. It physically makes him squint.

The sunglasses stay firmly on as Dieter wishes more than anything he could have a tab right now as he glances himself in the mirror.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You’ve prepared the dressing room as usual; the lights switched on around the mirror and the chair positioned in front of it ready.

An array of cosmetics and creams line the vanity and your make-up belt is loaded up with an arsenal of spare brushes, wipes and cotton pads ready to attach on set.

Spritzing mists, anti-shine sprays and all manners of skin-coloured bottles are on hand and ready to make Dieter Bravo look his best self.

You're mixing foundations together on the back of your hand, and chatting idly with the hair stylist you're tag-teamed with, when the door swings open, and an animated foofaraw can be heard barraging through it.

You look up to see two crew members stride in, flanked by another two burlier guys, all herding into the small dressing room and practically filling it to the brim with braying masculinity.

You notice how hot it's suddenly gotten in the room; the warm prickles felt at the back of your neck as you take him in.

Wardrobe has done a number on him; a weird, mis-matched ensemble with clashing colours, which strangely works. But the deep V on his chest revealing caramel tanned skin, that looks as though it's been waxed, is an intimidating thought that slowly swamps your brain in quicksand the longer you stare at it.

You've never really rated his work. You'd attempted to watch the Cliff Beasts saga, just like anyone without a functioning or sane mind, but gave up after enduring the first thirty minutes of the first film in the franchise, and then promptly cancelled your Netflix subscription in dire protest. They'll fucking make anything these days.

You'd heard through friends, and through working here on the show, that Dieter has been recently nominated for something, an Emmy, maybe even a Golden Globe, but for what exactly, you're not sure and don't really care either. You're just not that invested in Dieter Bravo.

Sure, he's a little attractive in a scummy sort of way the more you observe him right now; he has that cocaine chic about him as the tabloids confirm, but his reputation precedes him.

You don't need to be an avid fan of his to have heard about the debauchery of it. The guy is probably riddled with Hepatitis A through Z.

You notice his fingers tightly clutching onto his phone inside them, almost frantically. He taps his wily digits against the back of it, clacking those silver rings against the plastic. His face is swamped in a massive pair of sunglasses.

A lively melange of voices fills the dressing room. Various outfits are hung up for the live skits and monologues as other people pass in and out.

A busy hive of instructions are passed back and forth between the crew members and the men who accompany him - his security entourage you assume - about timings and cues.

They speak as though he isn't there at all sometimes, you note. Dieter this and Dieter that, as he stands gauchely in between the fracas engulfing him; glancing back and forth between them all before he turns away and taps listlessly on his iPhone.

You try in earnest not to stare, but it's a futile task. Drawn to him like driving slowly past a wreck on the interstate to get a better look at the carnage and dead bodies thrown through the windshield. You know you shouldn't, but you do; pulled to it like a magpie, ooh shiny.

He stares back at you; an unreadable face partially hidden, that seems as disinterested as he looks about being here.

You mentally chastise yourself for being a little starstruck. Eh, it happens. In this line of work you’re around them constantly, “stars.”

Dieter Bravo isn’t an exception, except his star is a little scuffed around the edges and has lost some of its polish through years of tarnishing.

The stylist sets him down in the chair and goes to work on taming the chocolatey grey fluff that sits on his crown like he’s had an abundance of dandelion seeds blown at him.

You’re introduced to him officially by one of the crew members after a few minutes of them talking shop. And this is Dieter Bravo reaches out for your hand, which seems tiny when engulfed inside of his own.

You’re mindful not to offer him the one covered in concealer swatches - it’s a bitch to wash out.

His hand is warm, almost abnormally; his palm seemingly just as clammy as yours as you shake it politely.

"Wow. How are you?" He greets, face unchanging and you can see your own features mirrored in his shades, as the room begins to quieten down and shrink in its size around you.

His brows raise over his Ray Bans at you. You smile as you regale him with the tantalising tale of how you're simply just fine, thanks.

After more talk is passed between the bodies, scripts waved under his nose which he tosses on the floor at his feet almost immediately, and cues and timings rehashed, the two crew members exit the room, flanked by the brutes in tow.

The door closes and seals the three of you inside with an awkward silence, which seems to birth and grow its full life cycle before eventually dying slowly with a choked gurgle as you step over it and crack on.

"May I?" You ask, handing out your palm for his sunglasses. He reluctantly takes them off, almost shoving them into your hand like a petulant child. He rubs manically at his face for a second or two.

The first thing you notice about Dieter’s face is those deep, purple trenches under his eyes, and you auto-reach for the concealers. The second thing is how puffy and tired his eyes are.

You can work with it, you have some cooling orbs that you hand to him from the small fridge in the dressing room, and instruct him to run them around his eyes gently.

You try not to look directly at him. It feels forbidden somehow. As though you’re in a museum gawking at a rare exhibit in wonderment and realise that's exactly how you must look to him because he smirks crookedly at you; rousing you from your thought process, which pretty much consists of a lone, dribbling chimp scratching its own butt idly.

You turn your back to Dieter as he makes himself comfy in the chair as his locks are tamed; pink hair slides are fixed into his hair in sections as he runs the orbs around his sockets.

He tosses his phone onto the sofa, and you glance at him in the mirror making no attempt to hide the fact that he is staring quite intently at your ass.

His head slowly cocks as his thought process drains out of his ear onto his shoulder in a wet schollop.

Bemused, you smirk as his eyes flash up to yours and he holds your gaze darkly in the mirror.

You wipe off the make-up from the back of your hand and turn to face him, throwing him your best, yet less than enthused, smile.

He’s staring straight back at you expectantly.

"Look this way for me, Dieter." You instruct, your voice cracking like a teenage boy who has just started to grow pubes. And a stark warning for him to stop gawking at your behind.

“Sure. Sure, honey.” He says, looking fully at your face.

You clear your throat, as you step towards him, treating him no differently to how you would any other celebrity sitting in front of you.

There had been bigger names sat in that chair - legends, those with long renowned titles of Hollywood royalty. The same spiel, the same routine; inspect their skin, ask about allergies, do their make-up and send them on their way on stage.

Touch them up during commercial break and/or if they were sweating under the stage lights. Take home a paycheck. Repeat the process, chronically exhausted, until you die. They say that the Hollywood industry is glamorous. You must've missed that fucking memo.

But yet, you’re sweating; feeling it simmer up under your armpits and down the middle of your cleavage inside your t-shirt. Your body betrays you as you get closer to him and you feel it zap in between your legs.

"Do you mind?" You ask as you raise your hands towards his face and he shakes his head, plopping the orbs in his lap.

“Go ahead. You have my consent to touch me,” he says.

You can see the stylist pinning sections of his hair as she gets to grips with trying to tame those unruly curls with knitted eyebrows and hands sticky of styling putty.

Placing your fingers lightly on the side of his face, you inspect his complexion over in the light and are forced to inhale the tonka bean and neroli wafts of his aftershave that attacks your nostrils with delicious, sinful notes.

There's an underlying tone of something else that bites on the back of your tongue, something metallic in it's flirty chemistry.

Dieter has an almost perfect canvas of unspoiled skin, despite his years and the crinkles nesting around his eyes. Some large, open pores are dotted over his aquiline nose with black roots and flaky, dried out nostrils. A few broken capillaries snake around in his sockets like tiny parasites.

His beard is patchy, smattered with grey whiskers that's groomed neatly, despite it's chaos. You start there, taming it with oil and a soft brush. Preparing the canvas before you paint life back into it.

"We're not going to need much, your skin is pretty good," you compliment.

“Must be the years of sobriety.” Dieter clucks, monotone.

The stylist snorts behind him and he smirks. At least someone got the joke.

"I like your scent," he says to you, inhaling and it’s like you’re back in gym class in high school and someone has thrown the ball and it's leather slap bounces right off your face. “Your perfume. Smells like oranges. I like oranges. Do you want an orange?”

“Urm-”

“Hey, sweetheart? Can you get them to get me an orange?” Dieter says, tilting his head back to the stylist. “Maybe four… and some water, please. Oh, and a Don Julio. No, fuck it. Just bring the bottle. Thank you. Your eyes are incredible.” He compliments her and you watch, amazed, as she instantly melts into a pile of goo on the floor.

He could have asked her for a blow job and you're pretty convinced she'd be on her knees right now giving it to him if he had.

“Sure,” the stylist heads towards the door and opens it as she turns every shade of pink.

You step back from him shaking your head with derision, taking the orbs, and turn to the dresser. Your fingers are still burning from touching his face.

"I'll do some concealer, some powder, maybe a little colour correction under your eyes." You reply all business-like.

"Whatever you think." Dieter replies casually; his voice grizzly, yet airy.

You pick out a few bottles of skin coloured liquids and mix a few together, matching his skin tone. He has a slight tan to his already golden face; a subtle shimmer that dances across his forehead and nose.

"You don't like me. I can sense it." He announces as few seconds later.

"I'm sorry?" You baulk.

"Like animals. Pheromones or some shit, they can smell it. I don't know. Predator. Prey. But you don't like me." Dieter rambles.

You shake your head again smirking into the palette, stunned, but equally impressed by his arrogant gall. "I don't know you."

"So get to know me." He challenges.

"If it's all the same, I'd rather just do your make-up." You reply a little more sour.

He rests his chin on his fist, crossing one leg over the other and studying you carefully.

"You're a professional." He yawns around his words. On purpose, you're not sure. You can see dark fillings in the back of his molars.

"I am." You assure, teeth clenching. It offends you that he thinks you'll cave so easily. Who does he think he is?

Your pussy tries to convince you that actually, you probably would as it pulses at his smirk. You clench that smack talk away and concentrate on the task at hand.

"That's cool. I like a challenge." Dieter retorts and you roll your eyes.

You offer him a few wipes to cleanse with. Once he’s done and his face glows a little pink from running them all over his skin, you wheel your stool forward and perch on it in front of him.

He reaches forward and pulls it closer with a yank under the lip between your legs.

He opens up his own legs so you can slot in between, and you try to look anywhere else aside from the obvious package nestled between them in banana slug yellow. Jesus.

"I like the way you smell." Dieter explains as your eyes question his gumption.

"Is this you flirting with me?" You query, your professionalism hanging on by a single finger as you bite back.

It's not the first time some sleazy actor or hack has tried their luck with you. Why is it always the sleazy ones?

"Is it working?" Dieter questions. He genuinely looks interested in your reply.

"No."

"Liar."

You scoff at his defined, roguish face and begin prepping it with a silky primer. His eyelids drop towards your lap, your centre, and his long eyelashes flutter as he blinks.

It’s hushed between you as you dab at the skin under his eyes delicately with the pad of your third finger; a tiny little bouncing notion as he looks upwards towards the ceiling at your instruction.

But those damned brown peepers keep wandering back to yours to pull you into sedition.

You run your fingers with the product over his cheeks and forehead. Smoothing your thumbs under his fuzzy chin; feeling the soft, silken scratch of his facial scruff under them. You glide across the bridge of his large, wide nose up to his T-zone and between his eyebrows.

You can feel the heat of his breath on your wrist as it passes directly across his face.

Dieter then throws a grenade over your fence as your brain conjures up despicable images of that breath felt on your cunt as he licks it.

You reach for some tissues and hand them to him, remembering to breathe. He tucks them inside the flaps over the lapels of his blazer at your suggestion as you reach for the concealer.

"Want me to just take it off? This blazer is over a thousand dollars." He offers, mixing innocence with practicality into a shaker and pouring you out a glass of beguilement, topped with extra cherries and a sugary rim. Delicious.

You lick your lips.

He follows your eyes down his clavicle, to the sun-kissed, smooth skin that the jacket exposes. To the nipple, that if you just twist your head, you're certain you'll see waving at you under the dark confines of the blue corduroy where it's lifted ever so as he sits.

Skin that you want to taste. You want to know what Dieter Bravo fucking tastes like, and the echo of that thought prods at your wanting with menace.

"I don't make a mess." You assure, feeling your mouth run dry. You lick around your teeth.

"I bet you do." He simmers.

"Just stop." You warn firmly. "This, what you're doing. It's not appropriate, and I'm not interested, okay?" Yeah. Best shut that shit down.

He lets out a small slip of a chuckle. Kind of like a subtle huh in restrained astonishment.

"What?" You question, as he continues to stare at you whilst you paint his skin. You're serious. Your mouth is pulled tight into a scowl.

“Sorry, sorry.” He says, dropping his eyes. He gets it; he overstepped the mark and retreats hastily back to safe territory, dick between his legs.

The stylist returns with a crew member who has a handful of fresh oranges, Fiji water and a bottle of tequila. Dieter necks back a mouthful of the tequila directly from the bottle in a deep gulp, much to your surprise, and reaches out for the fruit, peeling the waxy skin.

You hand him another tissue to collect the peel in. The zesty scent fills your nose and you feel the subtle mist of it on your face, tasting it when you lick your lips.

He offers out a segment that drips sticky over his fingers to you. You're Eve, he's the Serpent. It's a fucking orange instead of an apple, but it slaps all the same.

“I’m fine, thank you.” You deny it.

“Sweet enough, aren’t you, babe?” Dieter mutters, chewing as the juice bursts around his teeth and watches you keenly.

You catch the glance of the stylist who rolls her eyes at you smiling with some webbed pity.

You have to stand to reach him without your arms aching after some time, and as you stand up from the stool, you topple forward as the wheel throws you off balance.

He steadies you inside his large hands, either side of your waist and squeezes tightly to support your body weight before you head butt him. The orange is smooshed into your hip before it plops onto the floor.

"Don't fall for me" Dieter smirks, smiling as wide as his eyes are now.

You decide to heed his advice and squeeze away all those macabre thoughts of illicit wanting starting to brew.

You’re kinda on pause for a few, clumsy moments; him holding onto you and your face inches away from smacking into his.

"I'm so sorry." You stand upright and still feel the searing brand of his hands on your hips as he lets you go, orange now completely discarded on the floor in it's wet, pithy death in exchange for needless heroism.

"It's alright." He muses, smiling as you become more and more flustered. Oh, real smooth.

Dieter asks for another orange, and you give it to him, almost throwing it at him, and continue to prep his face without further incident.

The steam continues to billow out of your ears, however. Alongside the steady dripping, like a leaky faucet, of your cunt into your panties.

A while later, when you’re both finished up with him, and he's as preened and prepped as he's going to get without staying still, he asks to be left alone for some privacy to re-run through his lines.

You both leave the room, feeling grateful for the reprieve. The cool air in the corridor smacks you in the face and you welcome it.

His arrogance does amuse you, admittedly. And the flattery boosts you in equal measure. But to know you'd just be another notch on his seedy bedpost doesn't appeal, even if your pussy is trying to counter-argue otherwise right now.

You try to ignore the damp, throbbing bitch.

You head onto set for a short gathering with the team to talk logistics, scene movements and outfit combos.

You realise you need to stock the make-up caddy with a few essentials as you inspect it carefully, and head back down to the dressing room around twenty minutes later.

You knock on the dressing room door, but don’t hear anything. You knock again and when you don’t hear Dieter welcome you in, or tell you to fuck off, you push open the door gently.

The scent of oranges fills the air and there doesn’t appear to be any sign of him. You set to work on filling your make-up belt with some supplies, and reach for some bottles, when you hear it.

It’s indistinct at first, but you turn your head towards the bathroom where the door is slightly ajar.

“Fuck!” You hear a growl and freeze, heart thrumming in your ears.

You hear a deep, long sniff, some metallic tapping, or scraping, you can't be sure. Another sniff and then a heavy loaded cough that sounds like hacking up.

Your limbs are rendered useless as Dieter comes out of the bathroom wiping at his nose, and stops when he catches sight of you staring back at him.

There's some white powder dusted on his lapel, obviously stark in the blue at what it is, and his face is a little shinier now, despite the job you've done.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think you were in here-” you begin, but he shrugs.

You clutch at the bottles and your belt, and make your way towards the door. You shouldn't be here, you shouldn't have seen this. You shouldn't be tempted.

But why is it kinda hot that you are?

"I don’t have to be on set for half an hour yet, right?” Dieter's eyes look you up and down.

“Yeah, I think so,” you confirm.

"I want to have sex with you." He states.

"Dieter," you sigh. You swallow. Your thighs clench and you feel it pulse in your panties.

"I know you want to have sex with me too. So shall we just cut the shit and skip the part where you act all indignant and offended by it, babe? Because I'd really like to get to the part where you're coming all over my cock." He slips the blazer off of his shoulders and tosses it on the stool brazenly.

Your eyes run the length of his thick neck, over the mountains of his broad shoulders that you want to mark and claw into as you cling onto him. Down the matching, inverted triad tattoos inked on each of his inner arms.

Wandering over the small, pink studs of his nipples and down to the smattering of dark curls beneath his belly button that disappear into that jaunty yellow waistband.

His tummy is a little paunchy; a small spread of middle age catching up with him, but it's actually doing something for you, despite yourself.

Clearly, you've underestimated this cocky fucker.

“Does that door lock?” He enquires, although his current state of undress clearly gives no fucks if it doesn't.

Your gaze drops to his cock and it's apparent in it's hardness, tenting almost. You notice a small wet patch that has appeared staining the yellow darker. Evidence of his obvious arousal for you, and you can only imagine the state of your own panties by how sodden they feel.

You nod, salivating. Fuck, this is really going to happen. Shit.

“Lock it." Dieter juts his chin towards you.

You swallow at his gall. And at your instant reaction to lock it quickly.

“Do you want to have sex with me?” Dieter repeats. You watch as his hand grips his cock over his pants and he hisses, revealing his teeth.

You nod, feeling it flare all over your body as you reach for the lock behind you and twist it round. The click sounds like a shotgun being fired.

"Need to hear it." He coaxes. "Can't have you saying shit after..."

"I want to have sex with you, Dieter." You can already hear your cunt goading you. I told you so...

You confirm to him clearly your consent, which makes you respect him that bit more that he's asking for it, and like you've never wanted anything more in your life.

He nods. "Good.”

You both careen into the dresser; brushes rolling off the top and scattering onto the floor with little plinks and plonks.

He pushes his body weight onto yours, and you reach for him over those terrible yellow pants, feeling how unabashedly hard he is against you.

Feeling that he's not wearing any fucking underwear underneath them either.

The material is thinner than it looks and you can feel all the hard, swollen ridges of him; the fat bulb of his swollen head as you grope and squeeze lavishly.

His kisses become hungry, desperate and gasping as his tongue massages yours and you kiss him back harder. You can taste a faint descry of sweetly saccharine citrus around his teeth as you lick into his mouth.

It's a little sloppy, frantic. You nibble on his bottom lip as his hands claw at your ass prodding bruises into it, and he presses his cock into the middle of your legs and winds his hips upwards.

Dieter's hands are squeezing and kneading; feeling its curves and shape through your jeans. He shoves you up against the wall; running his hands up either side of your body.

It's almost as if he's afraid to let go of you, scared you'll fall out of his grip and you cling onto him just as feverishly.

You pepper kisses over his bare, toned chest as his fingers lift your top off over your head and he pulls down your bra straps, kissing along your shoulders. Trailing his hot, wet tongue down your collarbone and towards your cleavage. He occasionally bites at the skin and it makes you feral.

You gasp out as he pulls down the cup of your bra and takes your nipple inside his mouth. Your hands are running through his hair, twisting and mussing and looking down at him as he suckles on that hard, bud; those full lips of his suctioned around it tightly and pulling wildly.

"Fuck! Your hair," you gasp, giggling at the state of it.

He simply rubs his head all in your chest and tits, messing it up further and snickering as he does it. Dieter Bravo's jar of fucks is definetly empty.

You reach down to his pants, pushing them down his hips and dropping them to the floor where he steps out of the ghastly things, and his shoes; standing there completely naked.

You cup around his balls, plump and firm; squeezing and massaging gently as he pulls your jeans and panties down.

Feeling how thick and heavy he is inside your hands, he gasps around your nipple; moving up to your face to kiss you as your palm runs over the sticky tip of his head that makes him shudder and flinch.

His cock feels amazing, weighty and warm. Thick in it's continual swelling and with a lush, rosy head that matches the hue his lips have become from you chewing and sucking on them.

Dieter's big hands are on the side of your face as he nips at your lips hungrily. Slipping his tongue inside of your mouth so you can taste him some more.

He squeezes both your breasts together inside his giant hands as he kisses you, whining as you jerk him off. Little strained whimpers and shudders flow into your mouth.

"You like that, huh?" You tease watching him melt, pupils blown wide at you.

"Yeah." He places his hand over yours and jerks with you.

He smirks as he runs his other fingers down the underside of your arm lightly; causing you to squirm where it tickles and your skin erupts in goose pimples.

He mouths hungrily over your face. He can taste your hair strands flossing his teeth.

"Fuck, babe," he gasps looking at you both pumping his cock. His hips thrust into your mutual grip. Your wrist is wet from his sticky leakage.

He runs his lips down your chin and chest, stopping over your hard nipples again and sucking them; biting them and making you gasp out. He trails his tongue around your belly button, his cock slipping out of your grip as he settles on his knees.

"I want this pussy coming on my face." He murmurs up to you; his voice possessed by brazen lust. Dieter sinks his face, without hesitation, into your pussy lips and begins licking around your drenched folds voraciously.

Your hands are tugging tighter on his hair now, twisting around the roots as he licks all over your clit making your thighs spasm and jerk around his face.

"Mmm... yes," you moan out, throwing your head back into the hard wall. You see stars for a moment, but they don't dissipate; instead they flood under your eyelids in gold and fluorescent pinks.

He holds onto your hips as he licks and sucks. Arching your back and pulling your pelvis further into his face as he feasts on that buzzing nub sending zaps of electricity through your legs.

"Shit!" You mewl as he begins to intensify the movements of his tongue; looking up at you with those dark, beguiling eyes that could charm even Lucifer himself to walk off a cliff. The Devil? Pah!

He leads you up that hill, tugging you enthusiastically by the arm as you climb higher and higher. Your body tightening, curling inwardly as you feel it build and gather on the end of your clit.

And then it snaps back, flooding your legs with warmth and fanning that fire that has been simmering in your belly since he got all up and personal in your grill.

"Oh fuck, I'm coming!" You writhe on him and squeeze your fists together in his scalp. Closing your eyes and seeing multi-coloured glitter and sparkles behind them as those stars now implode.

After Dieter makes you come on his face, he picks you up, lifting you onto the dresser with an audibly strained groan.

"I'm just an actor and my back is fucking killing me," he whines as he plops you down and you smirk.

He streches, it clicks and your own back is pressed against the mirror. The products that you had previously arranged in neat lines are now tossed aside by the crush of your ass.

Dieter spreads your legs and grabs the back of your neck and presses his mouth against yours; his tongue finding its way around your gums again, and you can taste the tang of your pussy. A sticky, sweet syrup that coats his lips like gloss.

A heinous thought tempts you to send him out on stage like that.

His fingers from his other hand slide all over your slit; finding their way inside the moist, fleshy lips. You let out a deep gasp as he curls two of them inside you, making room for an eventual third, as you buck against them.

They swim deeper, until you can feel the warmth building deep in your core where he's found the magic spot and is stroking it, making you pant under him.

"That feel good, baby?" Dieter croons to you, smirking.

"Uh-huh." You breathe, nodding in wonderment at him.

It really does and you're kinda shocked, because from the moment he walked in, you couldn't imagine that almost an hour or so later, he'd have you foaming at the mouth like this.

You can say a lot about Dieter Bravo - and many do, singing like canaries for the right price - but Dieter is not a selfish lover as he pulls another orgasm out of you within minutes of your first.

And it won't be your last.

"I knew you'd make a mess..." he grins, as your cunt soaks over his digits buried to the hilt in you and stretching you wide.

His lips find your nipple; gently teasing it between his teeth and nipping on it gently until it's fully puckered once more. He sucks on it greedily whilst he drills his digits faster and faster inside your dripping hole.

Squelchy noises can be heard fapping all round the dressing room in their shrill lewdness.

"Oh fuck!"

"Make a mess all over my fingers again," he cajoles.

You whine and reach for his dick, resting on the edge of the vanity you're spread eagle on, and it's dripping onto it. A loud grunt escapes from his mouth as you rub him up and down tightly inside your grip whilst his fingers whorl deeper inside you.

"I wanna suck your cock," you moan to him desperately, as his fingers are making you shudder once more.

"After you come again, baby." He pants.

You grip onto his wrist, pulling his fingers into you as he fingerbangs you faster. He mouths on you, swallowing down those moans and shrieks as they rise in their tempo.

You explode for the third time, creaming all over them. Dieter immediately shoves them into his mouth to suck them clean.

You drop to your knees in front of him; taking his hard length inside your mouth willingly as you open wide for it. You savor his salt, swallow it down as it floods across your taste buds deliciously.

The view inside the mirror is his torso with your head bobbing up and down slowly, and it makes him go nuts to see it.

"Better than porn." He growls, looking down at you with his dick sliding into your mouth.

He tastes meaty, and his cock is smooth, fat with blood; filling your mouth as you suck and tease the head before taking him all the way in deep.

His hand is felt on the back of your head gently and it makes you tingle to feel him fuck your mouth. Controlling the depth and watching you in the mirror as you swallow him down.

Dieter cups and pulls on his balls whilst you take him to the back of your throat. He curses, sending ragged profanities into the air around you as he closes his eyes and licks his lips, enjoying the deep, hypnotic pull on his dick.

"You know, I never do this." You assure him with a drool as he pops out. You still can't believe this is happening, or how exactly it is that this has escalated between you both so fast.

You lather him up with your saliva, shiny, almost crinoline, and suck him back in.

"You look gorgeous when you do this," he smirks.

Dieter can't abnegate himself away from you anymore. He pulls you up on your feet and bends you over the vanity.

Your face is close to the mirror and he arches an eyebrow at you - seeking more consent. You nod at him, staring back at him, as he sinks his cock into your pussy from behind.

Spreading your ass cheeks so he can view that damned fine cunt that he's tasted and now craves more than the coke.

As you become connected, you stare at each other through the looking glass; your breath fogging against it, as though you can't believe he's inside you for a second or two, and neither can he, until he begins pumping in and out of you at a pace that intensifies as he goes with each stroke.

His cock barrages in, packing you out and filling you full of him. You push back, meeting every move as your fuck begins to mutate into relentless drilling.

His thighs slap against the meat of your ass, his breath pelts onto your back. His hands pull on your shoulders wrenching you onto him.

"Fuck Dieter!" You wail.

A knock at the door startles you both to instant stillness. Shit.

"Mr Bravo? Uhh, Dieter?" A voice calls from the other side of the door.

His hand clamps around your mouth as he continues to thrust.

"Yeah?" He calls, smirking down at you.

"Fifteen minutes until live. Are you ready?" The door handle rattles but it remains locked.

"I'll be there!" Dieter yells back as you bite on the thick skin of his thick middle finger as he fucks you harder, quicker.

"Fuck!" You cry out as you contract and spasm around him. "Oh God!"

"You like that? I feel good inside you?" Dieter asks around wheezed pants.

"Ah, fuck yes!" You groan, your breasts jiggling in the mirror as he ploughs into you.

He looks down at the sight of his dick slamming into your pussy; it becoming shiny with your slick soaking all over it as he pulls back each time. Your pert ass cheeks rippling and pressed up against his groin.

He manoeuvres your hips and rams into your harder, making you cry out loudly.

"Your pussy is so fucking tight." He groans out as he fucks you deep and hard; barraging into you and the vanity shaking and creaking with each thrust.

He grunts behind you like an animal possessed.

More products topple onto the floor. You notice one of your more expensive Mehron eyeshadow palettes broken with colorful dust flaked over the carpet.

Shit.

Reality pulls you back as you realise you're both cutting it fine. You glance him in the mirror behind you and Dieter is a sweaty mess - and he's due on set in literal minutes!

''Dieter..."

"Yeah. Say my name, baby." He puffs.

"No, Dieter. We have to stop. You need to be on set." You say pushing yourself up.

"They can wait." He kisses your shoulder as you rise flat against his chest. His arms slip around your waist, his fingers skimming your clit.

"It's live. It can't wait. Stop, come on." You coax. Although you really don't want to stop.

He grunts and pulls out, not before giving you two deep shunts. "Fuck," he whines. "How long we got?"

"Minutes. Get dressed, we need to fix you up."

The next few minutes are spent frantically trying to dress yourself whilst you simultaneously fix his face. Multi-tasking at it's clumsy finest.

He doesn't help of course, slipping his fingers into the front of your jeans and kissing at your face as you try to blot the shine from his.

"You're impossible!" You squirm away, giggling.

"You're delicious." Dieter croons. "What is that perfume?"

He tussles his hair; fluffy, sweat laden curls and you spritz it with some hairspray hoping it will hold, but he looks incredibly windswept.

Fully dressed, Dieter opens the door just as a crew member is about to knock and strides out.

You follow behind him, hoping they don't peek their head in the dressing room and witness the carnage in there. But the thought makes your buzz in all the right places.

Scurrying beside him to powder his face as he walks quickly following the crew member towards the screens and wires that are taped to the floor, you also wipe down his lapel, freeing him of the evidence of the coke as he grins crookedly at you.

"Break a leg." You say. He leaves you with a wink.

The familiar music theme rises up and the crowd roars into applause.

You watch as that fiend, Dieter Bravo, steps through and disappears from your sight. The screams and frantic clapping rises in its tempo, and you hear him begin to start his opening monologue.

You watch him on a monitor. He's confident, brash, breezy. He delivers his lines, steals his cues and has the audience laughing and eating out of the palm of his hand.

A far cry form the dishevelled, tried man he was when he slumped into the make-up chair earlier.

He weaves some kind of voodoo over them all; hot liquid charm and you're pretty certain you've fallen under that spell too.

The stylist finds you a few minutes later as the monitor illuminates your face and whispers to you. "What the hell happened to his hair?"

You simply shrug, feeling the heat burning your face.

They stop filming for commercial break and you reach into your make-up belt, stepping up towards the stage with the stylist in tow and approach him gingerly.

You dab at his face with a tissue blotting natural oils away that have formed on his forehead, and apply another light dusting of powder as he sips from the Fiji water thrust into his hand.

He doesn't look at you, pretends that what happened in the dressing room hasn’t happened, despite carrying a semi in his pants throughout most of the monologue.

That'll do the rounds tomorrow, no doubt. Fans cropping pictures of his crotch to post on their socials with the eggplant emoji.

Before he gives you a chance to lament in any disappointment, you feel his fingers brush the side of your hip ever so gently, every so clandestinely.

The set is full of bodies, the audience twittering away and hot lights are almost blinding you.

But that small slip of affection, of wanting, doesn't go unnoticed, and has you sold that Dieter Bravo hasn't had his fill of you yet.

The feeling is mutual as you smile dipping your brush in for more powder and tapping off the excess.

The stylist is called away and Dieter runs a hand through his hair ruining her handiwork once again in just one second. He sends you a heated smirk and stares you down as you dust his face.

"What are you smirking at?" You mutter covertly.

He leans forward discreetly, his lips barely moving. "I'm thinking about the fact that my fingers smell of your pussy right now...”

You clear your throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure. It's hard, because those words just fucking killed you.

"I'm in the city for a few more days." He breathes out. "I'm staying at The Bowery. The Penthouse Terrace Suite. Fourteenth floor. Ask for Gio at the desk. We can hang out, finish what we started?" He raises his eyebrows in query.

"Maybe we will." You confirm.

"Good. Yes." Dieter smirks darkly, working you up all over again. "Amazing," he says, smiling with relief.

You grin back at him as you practically skip off the set; your face feeling heated and sweaty. Legs feeling like they could give way at any moment.

The music for the show starts up again and you watch as Dieter speaks into the camera like a natural once more.

You don't see Dieter Bravo again that night.

He’s whisked away to the after party as soon as the show wraps and you’re not important enough to be invited along.

You pack up your make-up case after tidying up the dressing room, and wheel it out to the trunk of your car in the lot, waving to the security guard as he lifts the barrier up.

You go home and ride your dildo to excess as you relive the encounter that stays with you all night.

The following day you make good on your word about visiting Dieter at The Bowery. You don’t leave his hotel suite for three days in total. Only coming up for air to snack and smoke blunts with him.

The sex is criminal; you should both be locked up it's so depraved what you do to one another. You lose count of the number of times he makes you come, and how many times you find your fingers slipping inside his ass.

Your friends message you incessantly about your whereabouts, some speculating you've been kidnapped. You dutifully inform them that you've actually been dicknapped instead, but can't say much about said dick in question. Your inner sadist revels in leaving them hanging.

No, Dieter Bravo is your filthy, little secret to keep. Like anyone would believe you anyway...

When you do eventually walk out of The Bowery, squinting into the sunlight with knots in your hair and bruises on your hips, you finally understand what it must feel like to have an addiction.

You know you'll be burned. That this tryst will shrink into the rear view and he’ll not give you a second thought when he's back in LA.

You don’t have expectations, least of all from Dieter Bravo, and he didn’t make you any promises.

He sent you on your way, inherently satisfied and pumped full of his come. Your life is waiting for you and so is his. You chalk it up to a wild experience, one you'll never forget, and one you'll relive on those horny nights alone.

You think that perhaps you'll acquaint yourself with his career after all, it'll come in handy whilst you get off. Some Dieter porn paused on your TV. Yeah.

But for now you leave The Bowery, remaining invisible, past the paparazzi, past the fans that wait for a glimpse of him when he’ll emerge later and revelling in the power of their ignorance. It's fucking bliss.

You carry on into your life accompanied with an aching hunger you won't be able to shake; it weighs heavy in your core, for a little while.

It leaves you lightheaded, giddy.

And you experience that same feeling again later, a month later in fact; the lightheadedness, the giddiness.

You experience it as you stare, eyes fixed like a laser - the heat and panic clouding your senses. The rising bile swimming up the back of your throat at the audacity of that prominent, blue line on the pregnancy test, staring you back in the face, taunting you.

Blue, just like that damned blazer.

Fuck.

Thank you so much for reading this lil' Dieter story of mine. Re-blogs & comments are greatly appreciated.🖤

MASTERLIST | DIETER BRAVO MASTERLIST

Tagging the Dickin' Around With Dieter On Discord Lovelies: @secretelephanttattoo @rhoorl @maggiemayhemnj @trulybetty @for-a-longlongtime @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @goodwithcheese @musings-of-a-rose @avastrasposts @undercoverpena @gemmahale @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @linzels-blog @sin-djarin @beboldbebravethings @legendary-pink-dot @laurfilijames @ladybess-a03

(If you wanna be removed, it's cool.)

🖤

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo the bubble #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo fanfic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #pedro pascal snl #jett's writing #jett's pedro boys

340 notes · View notes