#dieter bravo fic

[auteurdelabre]

A LITTLE SUN PART 7 (part II) Dieter Bravo x f!Reader

rating: 18+

tags: SMUT. Penetration, Oral (m and f receiving), use of 'daddy' (but you ain't into it), use of 'baby', Dieter being Dieter, fluff, like such tooth-rotting sweetness its almost gross, idiots in love, pregnancy, talk of pregnancy body changes/self esteem, love love love, family issues, mentions of parental death.

a/n: Tumblr is dumb and won't let me post the entire chapter in one post. ARGH. So below is part two.

HERE IS PART ONE OF THIS CHAPTER.

series masterlist

Your mother is pacing around the kitchen when the doorbell rings. With a muttered grumble she strides to the front door, tugging it open with a flourish. She expects to see her pregnant daughter there, what she doesn’t expect is a six foot movie star she hates to be flinching at her.

He’s wearing a short sleeved linen shirt, freshly pressed slacks and his usually unruly hair has been combed neatly.  He even got Magda to trim his beard for him. He wants to make a good impression.

"Hi," Dieter says, his stomach churning anxiously as your mother stares him down. "I'm Dieter-"

"I know exactly who you are," the woman snaps, arms crossing over her front. "What do you want? I’m afraid I don't have any more daughters for you to buy babies from."

She tries to look around his broad shoulders. "Where is my daughter by the way?"

Dieter shuffles back and forth, his expensive dress shoes scraping the ground. Suddenly all his bravado has left him and he feels much like a chastised child. 

"I wanted to talk to you," Dieter explains. "Just you and me if that’s okay?"

Your mother's brows knit angrily. "So she couldn't even be bothered-"

"She doesn't know I'm here," Dieter interjects.

He goes to say something more when he thinks he notices a car slowing down up the block. Paparazzi. Your mother notices as well because she ushers Dieter into the house, closing the door behind him sharply. 

"You have five minutes." 

Dieter slips off his shoes and follows her to the couch, about to launch into his speech when he sniffs the air.

"Are you baking?"

"Cinnamon bread. My daughters favorite," your mother says, eyes misting. She regards Dieter a moment, softening. "Would you like a piece?" 

"I'd love one." 

He takes a seat on the couch as ordered, watching as your mother brings out a tray holding several slices of cinnamon bread, a tea pot and two mugs.

“This is so fuc- darn delicious,” Dieter corrects himself, wiping the crumbs from his fingers on his pants, much to your mother’s dismay. “I love it.”

Your mother offers a small grunt by way of reply, watching him eat and taking small sips of her tea. Dieter notices you both hold your cups the same way, forefinger and pinky slightly out. It makes him long for you, wishing you were here with him as he attempts this conversation.

But you can’t be, he knows you’re too stubborn for it. Judging by how your mother is looking at him now, it’s a familial trait.

“I wanted to come over and try to explain things.”

“There’s nothing to explain,” your mother snaps, her teacup placed on the coffee table. “You and my daughter made a baby, she’s selling it to you and she never told me.”

"I'm sorry it was a secret for so long,” Dieter says. “It's just because of my notoriety that we had to keep it under wraps.”

“From the world, I understand, but from her own mother?” She shakes her head. “Do you know how hurtful that is? To find out your only child is pregnant because of the tabloids? To think you’re going to be a grandmother and then find out she’s selling the baby off?”

“She signed an NDA," Dieter explains with a wince, knowing how awful it sounds. "I'm so sorry. She hated to do it. It was my fault."

"And your mother?" Your mom huffs. "I bet she knew she was going to be a grandma before the tabloids di-"

She breaks off, irritated when she sees the hollow look in Dieters eyes.

"My uh, my mom isn't alive," Dieter says, fingers tapping anxiously at his side. "She died when I was in my twenties."

"Your father?"

Dieter shakes his head, wincing. Your fierce mother immediately softens her tone, her shoulders lowering.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“You shouldn’t be sorry to me about anything,” Dieter says in a soft rasp. “I’m the one who you should be mad at. Not your daughter.”

Your mother wraps her arms around herself. "How is she?"

"Hurt. She misses you."

"Must not miss me much. She's made no attempt to call."

"She's worried about what you'll say. Your opinion matters so much to her, you know that. Especially with her dad gone."

Your mother swallows. "They were so similar. So stubborn and..."

Suddenly the dam behind the woman's eyes breaks and Dieter watches her face crumple. 

"I just wish he was here," she says, shoulders shaking. Dieter feels his own eyes filling with tears, his heart aching in tandem. He can't help but reach out and cover her hand with his. 

"I’m so sorry."

"If he was here he would know exactly what to say," your mother continues, allowing his hand to remain over hers. "Michael could always get through to her when I couldn't."

“My mom knew me in a way my dad never did,” Dieter offers after a moment. “Knew exactly the right thing to say at the right time. It’s hard not having that. But you still have time with your daughter. Time that’s wasting with you two being mad at each other.”

Your mother blinks up at Dieter, a slow understanding reflected in her swimming eyes. As if she’s seeing him properly for the first time. He continues on, encouraged that it’s been over five minutes and she hasn’t kicked him out yet.

“And I know you think this whole thing with the baby is a spontaneous decision and that I’m massively immature and yeah, I can be. But you need to know that when your daughter told me she was pregnant it was the best day of my life," Dieter says, his voice thick with emotion.

He takes a moment, swallowing and blinking furiously. His hand tightens around your mothers’.  

“But I’m not that guy anymore. I’ve changed. She’s changed me, my son has changed me. I’m not perfect, but I also don’t think there’s anyone in the world that will love your da—grandson more than me.”

Your mother blinks rapidly, her weathered face softening further. “My grandson?”

“If you want him to be,” Dieter explains, suddenly unsure. “If your daughter is okay with it. I don’t have any parents in my life. It would be nice for him to have a grandmother.”

Any lingering distaste your mother may have held for Dieter is wiped away in that moment. The sincerity in his wide dark eyes and the nervous way he twists the rings on his fingers endears her further.

“And I know you’re upset with her about all of this but I promise I’ll take care of her for the rest of her life,” Dieter finishes, his eyes glassy. “Even if she’s in Sacramento doing school. Even if she never wants to see me or our son. I want to make her happy and that means taking care of you too. The house is paid for; your daughter will be taken care of.”

Your mother’s hands move from under Dieter’s to over, clasping his wide hands tightly. She has a gentle smile on her face now, the anger gone from her voice.

“I thank you Dieter. That is a kindness that touches my heart. Knowing I can remain in the same house I raised my family in means more to me than you realize. But it wasn’t your place to do it.”

“I know.”

“I can’t accept it.”

“Please,” Dieter begs with his big brown eyes so round and sorrowful your mother has to blink back a new onslaught of tears. “She’s giving me the world. The rest of your mortgage is nothing in comparison to that.”

Your mother can’t help but laugh out loud at the earnestness in his expression. He grins crookedly as she laughs, wiping tears from her lash line. He waits until she sobers, shaking her head with a small smile on her face.

“Alright, I accept it. But only if you’ll let me cook you dinner every once in a while.”

“And cinnamon bread?”

“And cinnamon bread,” your mother says laughing again.  “As for taking care of my daughter? That is something you’ll have to take up with her. But be warned she’s even more stubborn than me.”

“Don’t I know it,” Dieter grins shyly, causing the two of them to chuckle between themselves softly.

“I’ll call her,” your mother says resolutely. “I need to apologize and tell her she can move back home if she wants.”

Dieter immediately stiffens. He hadn’t thought about this part.

"Actually if its okay I want her to stay with me until the baby is born," Dieter explains, curls falling into his eyes, his mannerisms anxious. "I like having my son nearby."

"And perhaps having my daughter nearby too?" Your mother peers into his face with a small curl of her lips.  “You care for her. More than a boss for an employee. Or a father for a surrogate.”

Dieter looks overcome for the moment, his dark eyes on the floor. He doesn’t know how to respond.

“That’s between you two,” your mother acknowledges. “It’s not my place to say anything.”

Before Dieter can say anything in reply he hears the sound of a frantic key turning in the lock and the front door is thrust open. 

The two of them whip their heads in the direction of the front door to see you stumbling into the house, slamming the door behind you. Your hair is wild, your face flushed and you look extremely pissed off. You look at the two of them on the couch and your brows knit.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

"How did-"

"Magda," you answer before Dieter can finish the question. "Why the fuck are you here at my house with my mom?"

You watch as your mom rises from the couch next to Dieter. Her eyes are wet and when she gazes at your very full stomach she gives a soft little gasp. 

"Honey-"

"Don't honey me," you snap, feeling angry tears welling in your eyes as you glare over at Dieter. "Let's go, Dieter."

"Baby, wait-" Dieter starts, pausing only when you whip back around to fix him with a leveling glare.

He looks so sorrowful standing there between you and your equally broken-looking mother that you find yourself relenting. You have an idea on why he’s here and even if it wasn’t his place you can’t deny that it was kind of him to try.

"Go wait in the kitchen, please."

Dieter opens his mouth to suggest something else but the glint to your eyes has him slamming it shut and nodding. You wait until he's shuffled into the next room before looking back at your mother. 

"Baby?" Your mom ventures gently. 

"He calls everyone that," you lie. 

She nods slowly but you know she doesn't believe you. Your mother also knows you well enough that she doesn’t attempt to sway you.

"Here, come take a seat," she offers motioning to the couch. "Your ankles must be swollen."

You lift a surprised brow but you waddle over to her, settling into the seat with an exhale. You look at Dieter’s leftover cinnamon bread crumbs and frown. How long was he here for? You look back to your mother, shocked at her gentle countenance. You’d expected anger or frustration, instead you see only regret.

"How did you know about the ankles?"

"I was the same when I was pregnant with you," she says coming to sit on the other end of the couch. "I carried high like you as well."

"Really?" You absently drape your fingers over the curve of your stomach.

"Oh yes," your mother smiles, eyeing your bump.

As you sit there discussing this with shy smiles you wish that this pregnancy was normal. That you had a husband and excited family that threw you a baby shower for a child you'd be able to bring home and care for at the end of it all. 

You wish your mom felt comfortable to place her hands on your stomach and to care for this little boy you carry. But she’s holding back her emotions, not wanting to get attached.

After several moments your mom shuffles closer to you on the couch, her hand coming to cup not your stomach, but your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” your mom says, and you’re shocked at the tears pooling in her eyes. “I never wanted… I just… I acted shamefully.”

“I don’t understand why,” you explain, chin wobbling. “We’ve always had a great relationship. Or I thought we did.”

“I thought we did too,” your Mom acknowledges. “But considering you kept this a secret I think I might have done something wrong along the way. You never should have been afraid to come to me with this.”

You don’t know how to answer that.

“You won’t understand until you’re a -” you mom catches herself. “A parent provides for their children, not the other way around. I felt ashamed that you felt you needed to take care of me.”

For a moment you look at her not as your mother, but as a woman. A tired woman who sacrificed so much to see you taken care of and your heart cracks. 

“I like taking care of you Mom,” you explain, swallowing the tears there. “I love you. You’re all I have left. Fighting with you these past few weeks has been awful.”

“I know honey,” your mom says and now she pulls you into her arms, rocking you as if you were still that child who ran to her with a scraped knee or boy troubles. “I’m so sorry, please forgive me.”

“Of course I do,” you say, burying your face in her shoulder as you let the tears flow. For the first time since your father died the two of you cry together, arms wrapped around one another, your son nestled between the two of you. Finally sniffling you pull back, wiping at your eyes.

“Were you mean to Dieter?”

“Tried to be,” your mother replies with a grin. “Impossible to be though. He’s very sweet.”

“He’s been amazing through this whole thing,” you answer honestly, feeling the need to sing his praises to the woman who usually derides him. “He’s been the most supportive, caring version of himself I’ve ever seen. Sober, sweet and I love being around him.”

Your mother’s eyes search yours intensely, so much that you blink wondering what she’s looking for.  Her gaze breaks when a shy Dieter knocks on the wall separating the two rooms.

“Uh, is it okay if I come in?”

Your mother laughs. “We’ll come to you. My daughter needs some cinnamon bread.”

The two of you stand, your mom helping you before letting her hand fall briefly to your swollen belly. You watch her face beaming as she does before her eyes go to yours.

“My baby having a baby,” she murmurs.

The two of you enter into the kitchen hand in hand. Dieter is standing by the sink, his hair even more wild than usual. He was obviously running his hands through it anxiously.

Dieter approaches you both slowly, as if he’s concerned one of you will be furious. When he sees the easy smile in both of your faces and your clasped hands he feels the tightness in his chest release.

“Thank you, Dieter,” you tell him gently as he approaches. He doesn’t push it, doesn’t ask you to elaborate. He just nods his head, smiling and coming to stand next to you. Your mother releases your hand, coming to stand in front of you both.

“Now you can retire,” Dieter offers with a hopeful look in your mother’s direction.

“No,” your mom says shortly, drawing both sets of eyes her way. You feel yourself deflate, closing your eyes for a steadying moment. You can’t stand the cruelty she’s still holding in her heart for Dieter after everything.

“Mom-“

“No, I like my job,” your mother tells Dieter, ignoring you. She comes to stand in front of him, having to look up due to her short stature. “I enjoy it. So I won’t retire. But I will work less and try to enjoy more of my life.”

You both break into easy grins.

“Yes ma’am.”

Your mother’s smile dims a fraction as she gazes between the two of you.

“Dieter has offered me a chance to be the baby’s grandmother,” your mother says quietly. “But that will be your decision my love. I won’t do anything that you’re uncomfortable with.”

You swallow. “Do you want to be his grandmother? Even if I’m not in the picture? Even if we have no legal right?”

“I would,” your mother replies without hesitation. You turn your head to face the taller man to your left.

“And you’re really okay with it, Dieter?”

“More than okay.”

Dieter’s eyes are on the ground, suddenly overwhelmed with emotions. He wishes his own mother was here, wishes she could have met you. He knows that she would have loved you.

“Then I’m okay with it,” you murmur.

He’s so grateful that his baby will have a grandmother. Even if you want nothing to do with him he’ll forever have this tie to you.

Your mother glances over at Dieter before stepping towards him. 

"Let me see your face," your mother demands cupping Dieter's stubbled cheeks in her hands and forcing his eyes to hers. A few quiet minutes pass, their eyes in silent communion before you see both sets watering.

You watch in shock as your mother leans forward and in an act so naturally maternal kisses Dieter's forehead gently.

"You're a good man," she tells him gently. "A good man who acts silly sometimes."

When tears slip down Dieter’s cheeks you feel your jaw drop.  Your mother pulls him into a tight hug, rocking him as they stand, murmuring something into his wild hair. You breathe unsteadily when his own arms go to wrap around her waist, clinging to her. He looks like a lost boy finding harbor in the embrace of his mother, his shoulders shaking gently as she soothes him in her arms.

She looks over at you, smiling gently. She tugs you over into her arms as well and before long the three of you are embracing standing in the middle of your mom's messy kitchen.

"Will you two stay for dinner?" Your mother asks eyes hopeful when the three of you break apart, all sets of eyes glassy.  

"That would be so great," Dieter says excitedly before you can answer, rubbing at his wet eyes. He wants to take advantage of being in your home. He wants to see where you grew up, where you exist when you're not with him. 

"You're Chilean right?"

"Part, yeah."

"Right, I'm going to pop out to the market," your mom says with a wide grin as she picks up her car keys. "I'll be back in a flash."

Your mother is gone excitedly out the door before you can even process what’s happening. That you’re having dinner with your boss and your mom and your unborn child. It’s all a bit much. And yet the thought warms you.

“So do I get a tour?”

“Sure,” you say grinning. Without thought you take his hand, guiding him through the hall pointing out the rooms, giving small synopsis like “this is where I was standing when my first boyfriend called and broke up with me” and “this is where I fell in the tub and cracked my tooth”

“And you know my bedroom,” you tell him with a smirk. “Very acquainted with the closet, I believe.”

He grins before taking his time looking around your room. Last time he’d been in a rush, but today he looks at everything. He sees the framed photo of you on horseback, the science ribbons for first and second place. He notices a trophy for high school tennis. He grins at the poster of Cillian Murphy behind your door. He sees the Polaroid’s of you and your friends stuck to your mirror.

“You never mention your friends,” Dieter observes pointing at the photo. “How come?”

“I never see them,” you shrug coming over to peer at them. “They all got married, had kids. I was in school and then I was working and we kind of just lost touch.”

“Do you miss them?”

“Honestly? Sometimes. But school and my career just always seemed more important.”

“You don’t think you could have both? A career and a family?”

“Not really,” you shake your head. “Can’t have it all.”

“Why not?”

“I dunno,” you shrug again. “Something has to give.”

“Only if you have a shit partner,” Dieter offers.

Before you can say anything more he’s gone to your bookshelf, looking at the tomes that reside there and muttering their titles under his breath. You watch him just existing in this room, before your reason for rushing over here affronts you.

“Did you pay off my Mom’s mortgage?”

“Yeah,” Dieter replies after a beat, twisting to face you. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

You stare at Dieter as he says this, the passion in his voice overwhelming you. Since when was this his plan? You’re supposed to take the three hundred grand and go.

“Why do that? You knew I was going to do it.”

“I wanted that money to be for you,” Dieter explains. “Not taking care of the mortgage and everything else. I’d pay for your school too but something tells me you’d refuse that.”

“Correct.”

“Your mother was right, you are stubborn.”

This gets a shocked laugh out of you. “What else did you two talk about?”

“That’s between her and me,” he says with a supercilious look on his face. “I think she might like me better than you at this point.”

Affection swims through your limbs and it carries you to him. Without warning your hands go to his shoulders, mouth pressing gently to his. He accepts this eagerly, his wet tongue dabbing against yours gently.

"Thank you," you whisper against his full mouth. "But you don't have to take care of me."

"I like taking care of you," Dieter murmurs, his nose tracing yours. "You spent so long taking care of me and everyone else; let me take care of you now."

You nod; kissing him again and feeling him slowly back you towards your bed.

“Mia,” you remind him.

“Its fine,” he assures you, hands tugging at the hem of your shirt.

“I’m not going to sleep with you when you’re in a relationship, Dieter.”

“I’m not,” he promises you, “I swear.”

You want to press him for more information. But more than that, you just want Dieter. You need to be as close to him as possible. You need to feel his bare skin on yours, inhale the crook of his neck, taste his lips.

And when he gently urges you onto your back in your childhood bed you don't fight him. You allow him to bring down your shorts and panties and even though you can't see anything other than his hair over your belly you can't stop the gasp that escapes you when his mouth begins to work over your core.  

Moments later after you've come spectacularly for him, groaning out his name with your thighs quivering against his ears and your hands fisting through his hair, he crawls up next to you on the bed. 

He traces over your abdomen, his dark eyes ever widened in wonder as he feels his son underneath his palm. Sunlight filters in through your bedroom window, giving him a haloed effect as he gazes down at you, his mouth swollen and damp.

"I don't know how I'm going to go back to normal life," you smile sleepily as you run a finger along his lower lip. "After being spoiled by Dieter Bravo school is sure going to pale in comparison." 

Dieter keeps the smile frozen on his face but inside his stomach drops.  Your schooling is going to start soon. He’s going to be separated from you. He feels his sons foot kick him and you both giggle. At least he’ll have this part of you.

He helps you into your panties and shorts before your mother returns shortly after. If she notices your flushed cheeks and Dieters extra mussed hair she doesn't comment on it. 

"I cheated," your mom says with a mischievous little smile that Dieter thinks looks identical to yours as she hands you both your plates when you come to sit at the dining table. "There's a wonderful Latin restaurant in town. They make the best palta." 

The food is just as good as she made it seem. Between the palta and the Estofado and variety of empanadas you’re quickly overwhelmed with taste. You take your time savoring it though, making a note to try more Chilean food in the future.

“So I guess I’ll move back tomorrow,” you say after a hot bite of your stew. “I only have the two suitcases.”

Nothing about moving back appeals to you, aside from seeing your mother on a regular basis. You know for a fact that being away from Dieter will hurt, but perhaps that’s for the best. You need to separate yourself from this silly fantasy.

"You can move back here at any time my love," your mom enthuses before casting a quick look at Dieter's downturned face. "But I think it would be best if you stayed at Dieter's. He has all that space and a pool and that chef-"

"But I don't like to think of you here all by yourself," you insist.

"Honey, don't worry about me. I lived with your father and then you for over thirty five years. I need a break."

You sputter a surprised laugh at this. This whole time you had been painting your mother as this sad tragic figure, when really she's a woman coming into her own just as much as you are. You swallow your mouthful, eyes darting to the man at your left.

"Is it okay if I stay at your place a little longer, Dieter?"

"Of course," Dieter enthuses through a mouthful of avocado. "I told you, stay as long as you like. And now your Mom can come visit whenever she likes."

You smile at this, holding in the urge to kiss him.

When Dieter rests his arm on the back of your chair during the rest of dinner you don't even register it happening. When his fingertips absently trace your upper arm as he listens to your mom talking about her job you don't notice. 

But your mom notices. She notices it all.

On the drive back home your mind is a muddle of things. But mostly your heart swells with the knowledge that Dieter, a man you always thought was chronically selfish did this for you at no gain for himself.

"You didn't have to do that for me," you tell him as you walk back into Dieter’s home a short while later. He’s quiet with a faraway look in his eyes.  

"I know. I just wanted to help."

The two of you are heading to the kitchen, about to put away the leftovers your mother insisted on sending home with you. Dieter takes them from your hands with a soft “I got it” before popping them in the fridge.

Dieter had always struck you as self-centered, the entire time you worked for him. From the flippant way he spoke to people in the industry he disliked, to the cavalier attitude towards other PA’s.

But right now all you can think of is the way he's continually showed up for you. The way he supports you in not only this pregnancy but your schooling, your family, your goals. You see a change in him, one that takes your breath away.

“Dieter?”

“Yeah?”

He sees your eyes and the way they go dark the longer you stare at him. The desire is so clear in your expression.  

He crosses the room and his mouth comes to yours, petal soft. He sighs, hands coming to either side of your neck, thumbs propped against your jaw. You lean into the kiss, your belly sandwiched between the two of you.

"Take me to bed, Dieter."

Dieter doesn't hesitate, his arm bands around your waist guiding you to the bedroom. 

He takes his time undressing you, kissing every part of your flesh he uncovers. He kisses the stretch marks on your belly, and he caresses the extra flesh that pads your body with a reverence that makes you teary.

Your stomach is getting too large for missionary so he sweetly urges you to roll onto your side, not doing anything until you’re comfortable. Only then does he makes sweet and gentle love to you, your head on his arm as he fills you slowly, watching the way your body responds to him.

He holds you delicately at first, not wanting to be too rough. But you’re eager, so fucking eager, and your hand goes to his hip, urging him to go harder, to go faster.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, your thigh over his, your body slowly being pumped into by him. You’re arching, whimpering his name as he holds you against him. Every stroke feels like adoration, every graze of his fingers against your clit feels like more than just desire.

“I need to hear you come, baby,” he murmurs, his nose running along your temple. You turn your face to him, kissing him gently as his thrusts deepen, his lips hot and needy.

“Wanna come for you,” you gasp, your body starting to clench around him tighter and tighter before your head is tilted back against his throat as you cry his name. Your body spasms as arousal coats his cock still buried within you.

“So good for me, so fucking good,” Dieter groans, his thrusts becoming erratic. Before long his eyes roll back and he’s emptying himself into you, hands gripping your chest and cunt, needing you as close as possible.

Slowly your breathing slows and you both grow drowsy. But before you fall asleep you roll until you’re facing him. He looks so beautiful staring back at you with sleepy eyes and his curls spread out on his pillow.

You kiss him gently, hand at his collar before pulling back.

"Dieter, I think you're gonna make an amazing father."

Something about the sincerity in your voice moves him to tears that he has to blink back. He draws you closer to him under the duvet, needing the warmth of your skin, the closeness of your body.

"Do you really mean that?"

"Every word."

Dieter is on a unicorn floaty, half dozing in the late morning sunshine when you ask him.

"Dieter, will you tell me about your mom?"

It comes out of nowhere one day in the pool. You're half stretched out on a purple pool noodle, your lower half submerged in the clear water as you kick lazily. Dieter turns his head when you ask him. 

"What about her?"

You shift on your pool noodle, getting comfortable. "What was she like?"

Dieter takes a moment to compose his thoughts. His lower lip tends to stick out when he does it. 

"Funny. Smart. Dramatic like me." Dieter grins. "She died when I was in my early twenties and sometimes I wanna be furious about all the time I didn't get to spend with her. But then I count myself lucky I had two decades." 

You don't say much to that. You don't know why but you crave more knowledge about Dieter that isn't surface level. You crave more from him, almost like you need to know him better than anyone. 

"She's the one who encouraged me to go into acting," Dieter continues. "She worked two jobs so she could pay for my acting classes."

"Really?" 

"Yeah. She was so excited when I got the scholarship to RADA," Dieter says dragging his hand through the water. 

"She sounds amazing."

"She would have loved you," Dieter says before he can stop himself. For some reason this comment causes your heart to flip. 

He looks momentarily lost in thought before turning his gaze to you. His eyes scan the freckles starting on your shoulders, the light that shines in your hair. He's dazzled for a moment before he remembers that he wanted to ask you something. 

 "What about you? What was your dad like?" 

A little smile breaks out over your features. You rarely talk about your father but right now all that comes to you are good memories. 

"Smart. Scary smart actually. Like, every time we played wheel of Fortune he'd guess it within like the first two letters," you laugh gently. "He was the first person I told about my Masters program. The first person I told about a lot of stuff. He was always my cheerleader." 

"Sounds like a great dad."

"He loved your movies," you say, kicking your feet in the water gently. "He made me sit through a Cliff Beasts marathon one year for his birthday."

Dieter almost falls off his floaty in shock. 

"No shit. Really?"

"Yeah," you give a giggle before turning a bit reserved. "He and your mom would have gotten along, I think.”

"Bet they would have been the most amazing grandparents," Dieter says in a faraway voice.

"Definitely."

Dieter shifts in the unicorn, causing it to squeak. His sunglasses are slid back up his nose and he grows somber. 

"You must be excited about starting school again," Dieter says tightly hoping the disapproval in his voice isn't obvious.

He looks over at you when you don't reply right away. You look conflicted, almost guilty as you glide a hand through the water in front of you. 

"Sometimes I wonder if I'm continuing on with school and everything because that's what I was doing when my dad died," you offer solemnly. 

"Are you?"

"Not sure. When he died I thought it was such a natural next step to use my biology background and go into research." A niggle of doubt is there at the back of your head. "But I'm not sure that's what I want anymore."

"So you might not go back?"

Dieter hopes the eagerness in his voice isn't too obvious. 

"I don't know," you answer honestly before sliding off the pool noodle and paddling in place. "I'm tired. I think I'm gonna have a nap."

Dieter watches you walk up the steps of the pool, ass twitching as you grab a towel and head into the main house. But that's not what causes the grin to start on his face.  

You're not sure about going back to school. 

There's hope. 

"Just this once," Dieter murmurs, his teeth skating along your pulse point. "C'mon baby." 

You’re on all fours, your stomach supported by a variety of pillows. Dieter is behind you, hands on your hips, his body tilting over yours. It’s a Saturday night and he’s just got back from a particularly boring table read.

His hands found yours without question when he got home not long ago, pulling you along with him to bed and whispering into your ear the one thing he’s wanted to hear since he got you pregnant.

You sigh heavily, eyes closed as he sinks into you.

"Please make me come… Daddy.” 

Dieter groans lowly in his throat, his cock driving into you deeply. You're too overwhelmed by the sensation to be turned off by the honorific. And if he’d just left it at that, you could have continued without further distraction.

But Dieter is completely turned on by the expression, his hands coming to hold yours to the mattress as he tilts his mouth to your temple.

"Yeah, you made me a Daddy," Dieter breathes against your ear as he thrusts. "You like that? Huh? Daddy fucking you?" 

“Not at all,” you cringe, unable to help yourself from laughing. The entire ‘Daddy’/‘Mommy’ thing has never turned you on.  “I hate it worse than baby mama.”

Dieter sighs, his motions slowing. "C'mon."

"It's creepy," you tell him. "I don't like the Daddy thing."

"Fine," Dieter grumbles as his motions slow further. "Just wanted a little dirty talk is all."

Dieter’s thrusting has gone from staccato-ed to completely still. You glance over your shoulder at him with your brows raised. His cheeks are red, he’s embarrassed. Dieter rarely gets embarrassed like this and you find it completely endearing.

 “I was just trying to have a little fun,” Dieter pouts, about to pull out of you.

“Hey hey, I like fun,” you tell him, wrapping your hand around the back of his neck so he can’t leave in a huff. You start to push back against his length, gratified when you hear him give a muffled whimper into your shoulder.

“Like maybe you tie me up sometime?”

“You’d let me do that?” Dieter asks in awe, his cock slipping further into you. You groan at the sensation, arm dropping as you gain purchase on the mattress once more. His thrusting is increasing in tempo again, stoking that pleasured spot within you.

“Yeah,” you breathe softly. “Yeah, I would.”

And you mean it. You’ve never done it with anyone else, but you would with Dieter. He doesn’t do things harsh and cruel. He touches you reverently. You trust him. “I’d let you tie my wrists and ankles,” you tell him, body arching as he continues to thrust. “Let you have your way with me.”

Dieter gives a guttural choke at the very thought of it. You tied up, spread eagle on his bed so he could go down on you for hours. Pulling delicious fucking noises from you as you writhe for him.

“Would you want that?” you tease, knowing very well he would.  “Having me at your mercy, Dieter?  Fucking me exactly how you want?”

“Yes,” Dieter almost shouts, “fuck yes I would. Please…. Fuck I…”

His forehead dips to your shoulder blade as he pulls you back and forth against his length, jutting his hips forward. You feel so good, so silken and tight and perfect and he can’t believe this is happening. That you’ve fallen into this comfortably rhythm of give and take. That you can be vulnerable with him like this.

“How would you fuck me?” you ask, feeling your climax approaching. “Tell me, Dieter, I’m so close.”

“Would eat you out for hours. Wouldn’t…. wouldn’t be able to help myself,” Dieter grunts, his cock quickly pressing into you over and over. “Then I’d turn you over...a-and I’d tie your wrists together, mmmph…. And I’d…I’d-“

Dieter doesn’t get to finish that thought because he feels you hit your peak, whining out his name as you climax. Dieter feels your cunt milking his cock and his voice croaks out some garbled gibberish as he empties himself into you.

You fall asleep not long after that, your naked body glowing in the moonlight like some goddess of myth. He realizes he would do anything to keep you like this. Happy and sated and with him.

But mostly, he wants you to want him. 

"You said you got into RADA right?"

"Yeah, but I didn't go," Dieter says as he goes over his latest script suggestion from his agent. "Got a reoccurring part in a soap opera a few weeks before I was starting and then the first Cliff Beasts and then, well, you know the rest."

"Do you still have your audition tape?" 

"It's on YouTube. Some asshole uploaded it when I got nominated for my Oscar."

"Really? Can we watch it?"

"Knock yourself out."

Dieter watches you waddle to the tv room, excitedly bringing YouTube up on the television and typing Dieter Bravo RADA audition. 

You sit on the couch, looking eagerly up at the screen. A very fresh-faced Dieter pops up. 

"Oh my gosh you're so young!" You say with a girlish giggle. "So weird to see you without a beard."

Dieter can't help but casually make his way over to the couch, plopping down next to you and watching his younger self. 

"Hi my name is Dieter Bravo and I would like to submit myself for acceptance into your program," the young Dieter says, eyes bright and smile big. "Today I'll be performing Gloumov’s monologue from The Diary of a Scoundrel” by Alexander Ostrovsky."

"Your voice is so different."

The young Dieter positions himself slightly to the left of the screen. 

"Barely out of puberty." Dieter casts a critical eye over his formerly svelte frame. "And about fifty pounds lighter."

"I like how you look now," you answer honestly. "More manly."

Before Dieter can accept that compliment his younger self is starting the scene. 

"Look into my eyes. Can’t you see there that I’d rather die than cause you a moment’s pain?"

Young Dieter takes a moment, his dark eyes beguiling as he stares into the camera, overcome, before continuing. And there on the screen You see the same transformation that you saw back on set in Ireland. Where Dieter becomes the character. 

"Oh, if you only knew how many times your sweet, gentle smile has stopped me on the very brink of impropriety," the young Dieter pauses, his eyes shiny. 

"But even that day when I forgot myself, you didn’t turn me from the house! Oh, my God, what happiness you’ve given me. What happiness, what happiness!"

A tear is shining on young Dieter's cheek as he gives a soft smile into the camera, a look of relief on his face. 

"Holy shit," you breathe, eyes wide. "Dieter that was ... Really good."

"You sound surprised."

"Well I guess ... I've only really seen you in the Cliff Beasts movies. I didn't know you could, you know, act-act."

"You thought I won an Oscar for having a great personality?"

You give him a playful shove as Dieter's younger self comes back to the screen. 

"Thank you for your time. Hope I see you in the fall."

Dieter plucks the remote from the coffee table about to change it to something less him. He tires of seeing his face on televisions and phones and sides of buses. 

Something captures his attention though, one of the suggested videos on the right. 

"Hmmm, there's a video on home births," Dieter says as he navigates the screen. "Wanna watch? Might prep us."

"Sure."

Thirty minutes later Dieter pauses the television, both of you sitting shell-shocked next to one another. 

"That was a terrible idea."

"I agree."

The camera had captured everything. In HD detail. Up close. Including a very vivid image of a baby crowning.

"That's what's gonna happen to me?" You say in a high pitched voice, struggling to your feet. "I can't do that!"

You've been reading books ever since the strip turned pink, but actually seeing it is totally different.

"A little late for that," Dieter says from the couch watching you begin to pace back and forth in front of the television. 

"That was disgusting," you say with a particularly aggressive jab of your finger towards the television. "Did you know about the placenta? It's like I have to give birth twice!"

"At least it's not twins," Dieter offers weakly. He doesn't miss the irritation that flashes in your eyes. 

"Should we watch the rest?"

"Your call," Dieter shrugs. You take a moment, looking at the television paused on a serious looking doctor. 

You take your seat next to Dieter once more. "Okay. I'm ready."

Twelve minutes later the movie is shut off indefinitely.

"An episiotomy?" You practically shriek before leaving the room. "If that happens I'm charging you extra, Bravo!"

Your mother starts to come over weekly for coffee. The first time she does you show her the nursery. She's all smiles and wet eyes as she walks around the space. You know she's marveling at the high-end designer items, the impossibly soft sheets and ornately carved crib. You never grew up with expensive things like that. 

When the two of you make your way into the kitchen and you make her a coffee she smiles up at you. 

"Dieter told me about the charity he's thinking of creating."

You almost drop the espresso cup that you're holding. "You talk with Dieter?"

"Of course," she nods. "He calls me to update me on the baby and texts the odd photo every now and again."

"What?!"

You're struck dumb by this. Your mother barely texts you, and now she's best friends with your boss? She smiles at your discomfiture.  But you’re blown away, and a little irritated since you also send your mom updates via email almost daily when she’s not here for her weekly (decaf) coffee checkups and snuggles.

"You fit right in here."

"I'm just part of the scenery until the baby gets here" you smile pouring her the coffee and sliding the mug towards her across the counter. "Then it's back to school and on my way to a PhD for research."

You slice up the carrot cake that Petra made for your visit (along with your help), sliding a plate to your mother and taking one for yourself.

"I wanted to talk to you about that," your mom says, gaze curious. "Why are you doing the PhD thing?"

You sit across from her, brows raised. "You know why, Mom."

"It’s just you never wanted one before your father passed," she says lightly. "You said your Masters was enough."

You don't know why but you feel defensive. 

"Well when he died I wanted to do something to honor him I guess. What better way to do that than by helping with the research?"

"Your father was a smart man, he was amazing at his job and so proud of you, you know that," your mother tells you before placing a dry hand over yours. "But his biggest joy in life was being a father."

"What are you getting at?"

"I'm saying I don't want you to dedicate your life to something because you feel like you should. This is your life, my love. You only get one."

"I know."

"There are plenty of ways to give back, to honor your father and still be around to watch your son grow up."

Your hackles immediately rise and she can tell the second they do. 

"I'm sorry," she says quickly when she sees the expression on your face. "Never mind. Let's talk about something else."

The rest of the visit flows smoothly, but you can’t ignore the way your mother looks at you whenever you mention Dieter.

"Taco Bell."

Dieter is woken out of a deep sleep by your lips at his ear. You're curled up together in his bed, your belly prodding his lower back. 

"A Burrito supreme and a large Baja blast… And Cinnamon Twists…And four fire sauce packets."

You're warm against his spine, voice a soft whisper huffed along his earlobe. He’s dazed, his eyes blurry as he attempts to understand what’s happening.

"Huh?"

"I need Taco Bell," you urge. "Please?"

A quick glance at his phone tells him that it's nearing 2:00 a.m.

"S'too late for the delivery apps, baby," he murmurs, patting your thigh companionably as if the conversation is now over. 

For the most part, Dieter can anticipate and appease your cravings. Usually through Petra or food delivery apps. But at almost two in the morning he has access to neither. 

You don't care. 

You've been tossing and turning for hours because all you can think about is the beans and tomato and beef... You're practically drooling already. You pat his bottom politely, trying to signal he needs to get out of bed.  

"The drive thru is open."

"It's late."

"But I need it," you whine. 

You have no interest in attempting to drive one of Dieter's fancy foreign cars he keeps in the large garage. And it's too late to call a town car so you're stuck. 

"No one ever needs Taco Bell. Bringing that shit in here is offensive," he mutters into his pillow. "S'full of filler and chemicals."

You give a soft exhale through your nose, about to flop onto your back in defeat when something occurs to you. Something else that you're craving as well.  

Dieter is drifting back to sleep when he feels the light graze of your hand sliding over his hip. He thinks he's imagining it, but as the sensation continues his cock begins to stir. He goes rigid as your hand slides under his boxers, fingertips teasing his warm length as he groans. 

"You do this for me and I'll do something for you when you get back," you purr, tongue coming to trace his lobe. "Daddy." 

Dieter jumps out of the bed and nearly trips in his pursuit to grab his car keys as he simultaneously tugs on his sweatpants. 

"You want cheesy potatoes too?"

When you wake up at seven months pregnant and see your reflection one morning you almost burst into tears.

You’re standing in front of the dresser mirror in your bikini, the only one left that fits. Your tits are practically bursting out of the cups, the bottoms tie at your hips dig into your flesh. You feel huge, you feel ugly and you feel not yourself.

There’s a knock at the bedroom door. Dieter peeks around, already dressed for the pool, a pink towel slung over his freckled shoulder.

“Swim time?”

Usually you swim by yourself, but Dieter has a rare free morning this week and he wants to take advantage. It had seemed like such a nice suggestion at breakfast, but now you balk, wishing you had anything else to wear but your fucking bikini.

Before it hadn’t mattered, but today you feel gross. You want to cover up as much as possible and you reach for your towel. But Dieter’s eyes are already drifting over your body, his cock stirring.

Dieter takes in the way your stomach protrudes out in the bikini, a beacon of fertility; his son nestled there safe within your body. He moves into the room, the towel dropping without thought onto the floor behind him.

"You're exquisite," Dieter breathes, his hand coming to rest on your belly. You feel his thumb gently rub, his eyes sparkling as he continues to stare at you.

"I look disgusting," you say cringing away from him. Dieter won't let go of your wrist as you try to flee. 

"Are you fucking insane?" 

“Dieter stop,” you say, wincing away from him and trying to pull your wrist out of his warm grip.

"You don't believe me," Dieter states flatly. 

"No I don't," you reply sharply. "It's what everyone tells pregnant women so they don't feel shitty about looking like a house."

Dieter blinks at you as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing before he’s shaking his head. His hands slide to your plush hips, turning you back to face the dresser. His eyes have blown pitch black, and his hands can’t stop from running along your body. 

"Look at her," Dieter groans into your ear. "Look at that sexy thing in the mirror."

"Dieter-"

"Keep looking," he urges you, hand gently forcing your face in the direction of the mirror before his hands slide up your bikini top over your breasts, pebbling the nipples. You swallow at the sensation, not even protesting when he unties it at the back, letting the colorful fabric drop to the ground.

You stand there in nothing but your bikini bottoms, cheeks flushed as Dieter groans deliciously behind you.  His hands come to cup your tits, thumbs grazing the protruding nipples.

“See her gorgeous fucking tits?”

You cringe away from the mirror, hating how you look. But if Dieter is lying about how turned on he is, he’s a better actor than you ever gave him credit for because his cock is swelling against your lower back, stiff and pulsing.

You let him untie your bikini bottoms, finding yourself already slick between your legs when they drop to the ground along with everything else. You watch in the mirror as Dieter sheds his swim shorts before gently urging you to place your forearms on the dresser.

You can only watch his face as he notches his cock at the entrance to your pussy, rubbing the head there and gathering the copious amounts of slick. His eyes flick from your face to your cunt as if he can’t decide which he needs to see more.

“Keep watching yourself, beautiful,” He rasps as he sinks into you, cock thick and full as you gasp. You’ll never tire of that sensation, the first thrust of his cock inside you. Your head falls forward but Dieter’s hand is there, gently making a fist in your hair and urging your face to the mirror.

"See how beautiful she looks when she's taking my cock?"

You can't see shit. Your belly is ballooned so far out you can barely handle it. But you look at your face and you see the heavy eyes and parted lips. You see the way you arch into Dieter’s body and how he towers over you and yeah... It's hot. 

"Cock drunk," Dieter tells you with a swell of pride. "All sexy and sleepy looking." 

His hands come to brace yours on the dresser, his dark eyes fixed on yours in the mirror.

"You see her?" Dieter pants, teeth gritting. "You see her tits bouncing? Feel her sweet pussy taking my cock? She's fucking magnificent. How can you say she’s not the sexiest thing alive?"

The way he talks about your reflection makes you almost jealous until you remember that it's you he's talking about. 

"You're so fucking gorgeous," Dieter babbles as he nears his orgasm. “Never been more turned on in my fucking life.”

And he means it. He means every fucking word. He can’t stop touching you, kissing your shoulder, your cheek, your mouth when you tilt back to face him. You whimper his name when he starts to fuck into you harder and harder.

“Come deep, Dieter,” you grunt. “Fuck me full.”

He does with one final thrust, painting your insides as he cries out your name.  

Despite this interlude you still suffer with crisis of confidence at times in the coming weeks. Your back is in constant pain. You waddle when you walk. You've never felt less attractive. 

Dieter is obsessed. He can't stop finding reasons to touch you, brushing your lower back when he passes you in the hall.

All pretenses of employer and employee are gone. You’re basically in his bed every night, fucking him whenever you get the chance. Neither of you observe it outright, but it’s there lingering under the surface every time he asks if you’re ready to go to bed. It’s there when you shower together, washing each other’s hair. It’s there when you both murmur good morning and let him kiss you languidly over coffee.

When he catches you napping in the sunshine on his couch he's so taken with you that you wake up to find his curly head between your legs and his mouth bringing you to a gentle orgasm. You keen against his lips, hands going to card through his hair as you come. 

You know why he's like this. It's because things are coming rapidly to an end. Once the baby is here this all ends. This ready access to sex, you lounging around his house. He'll have a newborn and you'll have a new life. You won't see him. You'll have your money, you'll be going back to school, and your mom's mortgage is paid off. 

Dieter knows how you feel about snuggling and he goes to pull away. 

"Don't," you say, arms outstretched, mouth twisted into a pout. Dieter stares at you in surprise, big puppy dog eyes wide. It makes you melt. He wraps himself around you, face nuzzling into your neck. The two of you snuggle there as you flick on the television to a Christmas special.

Just when you think Dieter is becoming a mature and sensible adult you feel him sigh heavily behind you.

“I'm not watching that depressing Christmas movie!" Dieter insists when It’s a Wonderful Life starts up. "I wanna watch the Muppet Christmas Carol!"

He can’t understand why you can’t stop laughing.

One quiet morning with Dieter filming audio reshoots for the Rogue Duchess you sit at the kitchen table, pensive. You stare at the pro and con list you've made sitting in front of you. 

Ever since the conversation with your mother you've been second guessing your next steps post birth. Are you just doing it because you think you should be? Are you doing it because that's what you were doing when your dad died? Are you doing it because of misplaced guilt?

Your dad had been so proud of you, telling everyone about your Masters problem and how you were well on your way to a PhD like him.  

He talked fondly about having two doctors and a nurse in the house, joking that your home would become like Grey's Anatomy. 

Even then you'd felt a bit of the pressure to perform. To pursue a PhD to make him proud. In all your focus and pursuit you'd never really stopped to ask yourself... Is this what you want? 

Pros - honor dad - get to be called doctor at the end Cons  - no social life - have to move to Sacramento for several years - not guaranteed a job I like when I graduate - away from mom  - STRESS - possible burnout - job market is competitive - won't necessarily make me happy

You need to add something else. Something that's been in the back of your head screaming for your attention. You raise your pen to the paper, adding your final item to the con list. 

- Too far away from Dieter and Bubble. 

And then a sentence you write and then immediately erase before crumpling the entire paper up in a ball.

- I'm in love with Dieter. 

[8:43am] D: It hasn't even started and I'm bored out of my fucking mind

[8:44am]: Dieter it'll be fun.

[8:44am] D: no it won't. I HATE these fucking marathon interview days 

Hours and hours of sitting with Mia and the rest of the crew talking about the upcoming film being released in a few months. He's covered in concealer and powder, his stylist has him in some absurdly patterned shirt that itches and he desperately needs a cigarette. 

[8:45am] D: I wanna be at home with you---

He hesitates before deleting that last message. He can't send you messages like that. You're not dating, no matter how much it feels like you are. He feels twitchy now, all out of sorts as he thinks about you home and waiting for him.

He sneaks off to the corner of the hotel, hoping he can get off a few puffs before Diane wrangles him back inside. 

He lights his cigarette, puffing away. He scans the space to make sure it's just hotel employees before he brings out his phone, going through his photos. He lands on the one from the other night, you mid laugh as the Jenga tower falls. You look so happy, so at ease. 

He’s so ridiculously in love with you.

How can he let you go? How can he go from seeing you every day to you becoming a stranger? You've got one foot out the door at all times and he doesn’t want to hold you back from your dreams. 

It was so easy to play house these past few months. To pretend like you were his. He was such a fool.

"Spare one?"

Dieter fumbles the phone, shoving it a hastily back into his jacket pocket. Its Mia dressed in a sleek black number, her makeup and hair perfect. She motions to the cigarette between his long fingers. 

"My last one," he says ruefully. 

Mia holds out her manicured fingers in his direction. "A quick puff then."

Dieter relents, handing it off to her. She takes a long drag, enjoying the curl of the smoke as the two of them stand shoulder to shoulder in silence. It feels awkward being together alone, the two of them haven't spoken since Prague. Dieter feels the need to fill the silence. 

"How's Sam?"

"He's good," Mia nods. "He's not secretly in love with his assistant so it's already much better than my last relationship."

Dieter can't help but let out a small chuckle at that.  Mia has been seen all over the tabloids in recent weeks with her hunky new Scottish co-star. Mia looks at Dieter with a small tilt of her head, squinting up at him.

"You tell her yet?"

"Tell who what?"

Mia takes another drag off the cigarette, giving him a leveling look.  "You know who and you know what."

Dieter says nothing, watching as Mia holds the cigarette aloft. She gives a dramatic sign when she sees. He's going to make her have to say it.

"Have you told your PA that you're fucking crazy about her," Mia says flatly. "That you want to marry her and have tons of little Bravo's running around."

"I do not."

"Maybe just the one little Bravo then," Mia smiles, handing him his cigarette. He feels her heavy gaze on him and he knows that she deserves answers. He put her through a lot and she has been gracious as hell about it.

He sighs heavily before twisting to face her head-on. "No, I haven't."

"Why not?"

"It’s…complicated." 

"What's complicated about love?"

"She told me she doesn't want to be a part of the baby's life."

"Back when she thought you only wanted to be together because you got her pregnant."

"She doesn't want me."

"Dieter I see how she looks at you. The girl is utterly besotted." 

"Might want to tell her that," Dieter huffs in forced amusement. 

Despite all the time you’ve spent together, you’ve really never made it clear how you feel about Dieter. Yes, you like the sex and you laugh with him. But you’ve never actually made overtures, talked about the future. You think of a future that doesn’t include him or your son.

Mia pauses for a moment, thinking about something. Her eyes scan the vicinity and before Dieter can do anything Mia grips him by the collar and plants a chaste kiss to his lips. Dieter pulls back immediately, his face cloudy.

"What the fuck-"

"You'll thank me," Mia promises.

He goes to say something to her about how uncool that was but a text from you sails in, almost as if fate is giving him the prompt he needs.

[8:58am]: If I wanted to postpone school for a little bit, do you think I could still stay with you? I could pay rent and everything. I think I just want to reconsider some things. Dunno if school is where I want to be right now.

“Fuck yes,” Dieter breathes, re-reading the message several times to make sure he’s not reading it wrong. You want to stay. You want to stay longer with him. He's still staring at your text with a goofy smile on his face when Mia’s voice sounds out beside him. 

“Dieter, c'mon! Interviews are starting.”

He shoves his phone into his pocket, his grin bright as he follows Mia back inside the hotel for the marathon of interviews.

You want to stay.

The alert comes through on your phone, the setting still stuck on sending you Dieter Bravo related news items. 

You're relaxing on one of the chairs in the backyard, one hand gently rubbing your belly, the other holding your latest crime thriller novel. 

When the alert goes off its instinct to shut the book and retrieve the phone from the table beside you. Normal to scan the links that show up. 

BRAV-ROWE ROMANCE BACK ON? 

You sit up slowly, holding your expansive belly and grunting angrily. You continue reading as you walk inside, pacing around the kitchen. 

Bravo, 40, and Rowe, 25, were spotted earlier today stealing kisses between interviews for their upcoming release The Rogue Heiress. What’s setting tongues wagging is that Rowe has also been recently seen getting cozy with Sam Heughen, 43, back in her native England only last week. Was Sam just a distraction from her real feelings for Bravo? Or is this just a cleverly executed publicity stunt for their upcoming film? 

You slam your phone down onto the counter, irritation flooding you all over. 

What the fuck?

Here you are pining over this guy and he's off kissing his ex? 

Even their couple name is adorable. It fits. Your cheeks are flaming red at the realization that you fell for it. You fell for his lines, for his sweet eyes and sweeter mouth. You let yourself get swept up in a romance that isn't even real.

Dieter is an actor. He knows how to fake anything.

"I'm so fucking stupid," you say shaking your head. Bubble gives a gentle kick, drawing your attention back to the present.

 “Sorry honey. Mom’s not stupid. Just fucking naive.”

It's dark when Dieter finally makes it home, shrugging of his jacket and toeing off his shoes. He wants to go to bed, to hold you after this long and boring day. 

But you're not in bed. You're seated on the couch with the TV off. Your crossword book is beside you but you don't look like you've been working on it. Dieter feels a smile break out over his features at the sight of you in his home. 

"Hi baby," he murmurs as he approaches, confused when you slowly turn to face him with a furious look on your face. "What’s wrong?"

“Have anything to tell me?”

“Uh…no?”

He watches you throw your head back and give an obviously false laugh. “No?”

“No.”

“Kiss any old girlfriends lately, Dieter?”

Dieter is stunned. How the hell did you find out about that? "How-"

"It's all over TMZ and now all the other news outlets," you say, teeth clenching. Dieter thinks about the way Mia checked around them before kissing him. You take a seat on the couch, arms crossed over your chest.

"I didn't just go kiss her," Dieter defends, coming to sit next to you. "She kissed me."

"Didn't really seem like you were fighting her on it."

You hold up your phone where the picture of Mia kissing Dieter is blown up. It's clear you've been studying the picture. Mia’s hand is on his collar, Dieter’s hand is on hers, but only so that he could pull it off. But to the outside viewer this looks very intimate.

“It’s not what it looks like.”

“No? Because what it looks like is you kissing your ex girlfriend.”

Dieter takes in the red of your cheeks and the way you’re clenching your jaw and despite everything a little thrill goes through him. 

"Why are you so upset?" Dieter purrs.

"I'm not," you insist.

You feel furious and out of sorts and you can't tell him why because you'll sound like a jealous girlfriend which you absolutely aren't. 

"You sound upset."

"Well I'm not." You chew at your bottom lip angrily. "It's just rude you know? Sleeping with me and seeing Mia. Does she-"

"I'm not seeing Mia," Dieter interjects. 

"I have eyes Dieter," you scoff. 

"She gave me a quick peck after we talked about Sam Heughan, her boyfriend, who she is in a committed relationship with."

"Yeah right."

Dieter stops a moment to take in your flushed cheeks, bright eyes and the arms that cross in front of you. You don’t want him to be seeing Mia and that can only mean one thing and that makes Dieter feel warm all over. His arm is on the back of the couch, almost behind your shoulders.

"You're jealous."

"I'm not," you insist, face heating. 

"Then why are you acting like this?" He probes, shifting closer to you on the couch. "Tell me the truth."

He’s so close and he smells so good and you just fucking… you just…

"Because you're mine."

It comes spilling out of you like a dam, a rush, a torrent of words that once said cannot be taken back. But for once you don’t want them taken back. You want him to know exactly what you mean, especially as you launch yourself towards him, your arms going around his neck, your stomach plump between the two of you. Dieter is grinning so widely his face might crack as he gazes at you on his lap. 

"I'm yours?"

"Yes," you all but growl, pushing him backwards until his broad shoulders hit the seat cushions of the couch and you begin straddling his prone body. His cock is rock hard through his pants, pressing into your core through your panties. 

You tug them to the side, not even bothering to take them off. Dieter is already sliding off his pants and boxers, smiling up at you eagerly. He's pulsing between your thighs, hissing with pleasure as you notch him at your soaked entrance. 

"Not hers," you grunt, sliding down his length with an aching groan escaping both of you. "No one else's. Just mine. You understand me, Bravo?"

You're staking your claim and Dieter is turned on out of his mind. You've never been possessive over him before, never been so commanding. Never been so clear in your desire for him. 

"Yes!"

He wishes he could hold you in his arms, but being laid out flat on his couch while you ride him isn't exactly torture. Your pussy milks his cock, a vice -like grip around his thick length. 

"I'm yours," Dieter repeats, thrusting up into your wet heat. "Just yours, baby."

"You only fuck me," you command, starting to bounce up and down in his lap the best you can with your swollen belly. His expression is pure delight, his wide palm on your hips. 

"Yes."

"Only I make you c-come," you try to sound authoritative but your hips are rolling over his and he feels so good. You're barrelling towards an orgasm with every husky assurance from him. 

"Only you," Dieter assures you, hands tightening around your gyrating hips. "And I only wanna make you come, baby. Only want you in my bed. Only you."

He's rambling and your eyes are cheating to the back of your head. You crest so fast, hands flying to the back of the couch so you can steady yourself. His hands slide up under your shirt and go to your breasts, pinching your pebbled nipples as you keen. 

"C'mon baby," Dieter encourages as he watches your head tilt back. "Take what's yours."

"Mine," you pant as you start to come, head lolling forward. Your body starts to give small little twitches as you groan. "Mine, mine, mine."

"Yours," Dieter breathes, gazing up at you. "Only yours."

He feels you come, soaking his cock with your release. He groans at the sight of your fucked out expression, your hips still undulating. 

"Now you," you command in a soft mewl. "Come for me, Dieter. Give my what's mine."

Your hands go to brace yourself on his chest, your hips lifting only to slide harshly back down, taking him as deep as possible. He feels a pleasurable stripe go up his spine.  

"It's all yours," he offers before his own pleasure overtakes him at the sight of your heavy-lidded expression. He comes deep, deeper than he ever has and he does so whimpering your name. 

You're both panting and you groan slightly as you pull yourself off of him, sitting back against the couch. Dieter rests there a few moments, his softened cock resting against his belly. He's smiling up at the ceiling like a madman. 

Then he's stripping off all his clothes and standing before urging you to do the same. 

"I'm fucking you in the shower," Dieter tells you as he pulls your t-shirt up over your head. "I want you to give me another one."

But you don't just give just him another one because it doesn't end in the shower. Or on the kitchen counter after a midnight snack. But in his bed where he urges you to the end of the bed and fucks you slowly standing next to the mattress, your thighs spread beautifully for him as his cock lazily saws in and out of you.

His hands grip your thighs tightly, urging you to bounce against his hips. Your bodies move together, the pleasure increasing.

“So good,” you croon, your forehead dotted with sweat. “You feel so perfect, Dieter.”

You’re babbling, high on the pleasure of his cock and his nearness. Dieter revels in it, the way you’re unabashedly giving him praise, the way you don’t stop him or shy away from him whispering sweet nothings into your neck.

“And I’m all yours,” he promises. You almost think you can read love in his eyes as they gaze down at you.

 “I’m all yours,” you tell him back without thought.

His thrusts increase, his hands holding you tightly, fingers splayed over your clit. He teases and rubs until you’re on the brink of another orgasm and you finally come in tandem, both of you trembling.

“That’s my girl,” he groans, kissing behind your ear as you shiver.

You don’t tell him you’re not his girl because right now you feel like you could be.

You wake up the next morning in Dieter’s bed with one of his legs wedged in between yours, his arm draped over your middle and his forehead against your neck. It feels right and it feels perfect and as your sleep clears…A mixture of shame and disbelief overtakes your body.

What the fuck was that last night? 

You'd been almost mad with rage at the sight of that TMZ pic. And when he'd come onto the couch you'd just felt this strange possessiveness overtake you. 

Just want you in my bed. Only you. 

Those words were so nice to hear. So gratifying. And you believed him about Mia and the photo. It had been all too easy to move past it, to allow him to lick into your mouth as he fucked you. You glance over your shoulder to see him sleeping, his hair falling into his closed eyes. 

Mine. 

No. Not mine. 

He's not yours. He can't be.

He's Dieter Bravo and you're you. Thinking that somehow you could be together is a delusion.  Dieter just hates being alone. And he knows that being a father is a huge deal. He knows that it's all going to rest on his shoulders and he's looking for a lifeline as your due date grows rapidly closer.  

He doesn't actually have feelings for you.

It's just that Mia might be out of the picture and he's clinging to whatever is in the vicinity - today it happens to be you. Tomorrow it'll be whatever model he's paired with at the next photo shoot. 

You've known him long enough to know his moods and his ever changing interests. In a couple of months when the baby is here and you're in Sacramento he'll probably have forgotten your name. 

The thought hurts if you linger on it. He's just clinging to a lifeline and you can't be around when he does inevitably move onto the next woman because it'll break your heart. 

You need to get the apartment now. You need to find out where you're going to be staying next semester. You need to be planning your life post birth. 

He didn’t even write back to your text yesterday even though it said he’d read it. The one asking if you could stay longer, that you were considering postponing school. And you know why – because this wasn’t the plan. Because Dieter’s interest is waning and you know it.

You pull yourself from the bed, out of Dieter’s warm arms and you try your best not to look back at his still sleeping form as you tiptoe out of the room.  

You return sometime in the afternoon to Dieter storming around the kitchen, looking frantic. He barrels towards you, tugging your hands that you quickly slide out of his grip.

“Why didn’t you answer your phone?"

“I had it on silent.”

"Where were you?"

"I was at the library," you say as if it were the most obvious answer. Dieter looks like he’s been fisting his hands through his hair all day.

"You're not supposed-"

"I know I’m not supposed to leave, but I wore sunglasses and no one recognized me." You put your purse down on the ground. "I just needed somewhere quiet to organize my thoughts. I needed to research apartments without distractions."

"Apartments," Dieter repeats slowly. 

"Yeah, for next semester," You say breezily as you push past him and make your way into the kitchen. He follows hot on your heels like a desperate puppy all big eyes and furrowed brows.

"Next semester? I thought you were thinking of postponing?"

He watches you glance around in the fridge before pulling out a bowl of blueberries that Petra has left for you. 

"No point," you say, popping one in your mouth. "I decided I need to get focused and start as soon as possible. That reminds me though; I don't think I can really stay long after the baby is born. I'll want to get to Sacramento as soon as possible."

Dieter looks as if you've punched him. He's gone pale, his large eyes luminous. He's sagging against the counter as if his own body can't support him anymore. 

"What? Why?"

"I told you, I need to focus," you tell him, popping the blueberries back into the fridge. "And I know that I don't get paid until the Bubble is born but I'm wondering if I can get half now? I need to put a down payment on an apartment out there."

"You're buying an apartment in Sacramento?"

"Of course," you say, taking a deep breath. "I'll be in school for a few years; the rest of my Masters then the PhD, then my residency out there. Makes sense." 

"But ... You weren’t even sure about it," Dieter says weakly. 

"That was before I really thought about it," You say, shrugging. "I can't sit around my boss's house all day organizing his next manicure and making sure his latest fuck buddies sign NDA's."

Dieter straightens immediately, his jaw clenching.

Too far.

As soon as you say it you wish you could take it back. It's an ugly, unfair thing to say and you both know it.  But you feel exposed, like a raw nerve.

Dieter feels everything inside him twisting hideously. He was so fucking deluded to think you'd stay, to think you'd fallen for him the same way he has for you. He wants to scream at his idiocy. 

How are you just so okay with this? How can you walk away like the last several months have meant nothing?

Dieter can only stare at you, his eyes going from wide to narrowed. His hand curls into a loose fist at his side, the other still braced on the counter. 

“There's a contract," Dieter all but growls. "You get your money once the baby is born."

"I know,” you say quickly. “It's just that the tuition is due this month to hold my spot for next semester."

"That's not my problem."

You take a step back, brows knitted. You weren’t expecting that. 

“But-“

"You signed a contract stipulating that you wouldn't get the money until the baby is born," Dieter croaks. "So there's your answer."

He turns from you, heading down the hallway to his art studio. You follow close behind, waddling quickly to keep up. 

"Dieter I can't afford the place without that money."

"Read the contract," he snaps. "You signed it."

He quickly moves into the studio, slamming the door behind him.

He hears you on the other side of the door, breathing heavily. He’s worried you’re crying.

Finally he hears you shuffle away and he moves to the window, sitting in the chair he reserved for you when you return home with your son. He imagined painting both of you, the light bathing you both in a dreamy glow.

Dieter is devastated, his head resting heavily in his hands as he fights back the urge to sob.  

What the fuck happened? One minute you were insisting he was yours, your bodies working together beautifully. The next second you're telling him you're halfway out the door. 

You don’t want to be a mother. You never did. You always made that perfectly clear. He was just too besotted to understand.  He looks around his art room, feeling a fury building within him. What the fuck has this all been for? Why the fuck is he so fucking stupid? Why did he have to go and fall in love with you? 

He needs drugs. He needs alcohol. He needs something to take this stabbing pain away. And just as his trembling hand goes to his phone to call up Corey Brigham he glances up at the painting he's been currently working on. 

It's an oil painting image from a dream he had recently. One where he stands in the ocean up to his knees, the wind gentle and the day mild. Dieter is holding you back against him, his head over your shoulder, both of you gazing down at the tiny infant in your arms. 

And there's his son, eyes closed, a soft smile on his face. The image of what Dieter things he’ll look like.

My son. 

The cell phone is pushed back into his pocket. He's not living just for himself anymore. He's got a son he will put before himself in all ways. His son will not grow up with an absent father like Dieter did. 

All of a sudden his studio door bursts open. You look harried as you stride in, fixing him with a glare. He knows you want to tell him off and he wishes you didn't look so beautiful when you’re angry. 

"You're not supposed to be in here," Dieter insists, feeling a stab of anxiety go through him as you walk towards him. He leaps up from the chair, almost tripping over himself in his desire to usher you out of the room.

“We were in the middle of a conversation,” you snap. “You can’t just-“

Your cutting remarks die before they can be completely formed because as you glance around the room your eyes widen in shock. 

Dieter’s art room has always been a mix of canvas, paint spills, old coffee cups and grotesque sculptures. But right now all of the painted canvases are positioned around the room, sketches lining the drafting table under the window.

And they are all of you.

Ones of you with your belly swollen, sleeping on the couch. Others of you cross legged at the table hunched over your laptop. There's one of you with your face serene as you lay the bathtub, that night Dieter and you talked for hours. Snapshots of time, your belly at different stages. 

"Are these..." You go over to a stack of sketches. “Are these all me?”

Dieter is silent, his eyes drifting to your face when you take in the portrait he did of the three of you. Your hand goes to your belly instinctively as you take in the image.

“I always imagined he’d look like that,” you say with a soft little huff.

Your eyes go to the drafting table, sketches in charcoal sticking out to you. Some are dated as far back as Ireland, some even before that. Your fingers linger on one in particular of you chewing your bottom lip in thought, a pencil raised between your fingers. You glance at the date. 

“This was before I was pregnant.” You trail off, gaze moving back to his face. "How long have you been sketching me?"

Dieter shrugs and for the first time since you've known him he looks truly embarrassed. 

"A while." 

You move slowly towards him. "Why?"

He sighs, only steps away from you now.

"Isn't it obvious?" 

You swallow, feeling your heart pound a devastating rhythm. No, this can’t be real. He can’t be suggesting what you think he is.  And yet as he stands there, dark eyes wet you can’t help but wish for it to be real.

“I'm crazy about you,” Dieter confesses.

No, not confesses. That would suggest he wanted to keep it hidden, when it’s anything but.

“I just want to be with you all the time. I want to share everything with you. My life, my home, my everything. I want you here in this house with our son. I want to support you going back to school. I want to make you happy in any way I can but I want you to do it as mine.”

You want to say something, to say anything to this grand romantic speech, but your throat has tightened and your mouth gone dry. All you can do is stand there, staring at him like a pregnant idiot.

“And I know that’s selfish to say and I know it’s useless because you don’t love me back but I-I just needed you to know before you left,” Dieter continues, tears wetting the side of his cheek.

“You don’t need to love me back. Our son is a piece of you and if that’s all I can have of your love, that’s enough for me. He’s more than enough. I just. . . I needed you to know the truth, all of it. I fell for you way before you got pregnant, but after this time together I just, I’m...I love you.”

And now his tears are brushed away by the back of his hand and he looks as if he’s going to turn away from you, overcome with everything that he’s just admitted.

You can barely see through the tears in your eyes. All the feelings that have been swirling within you compel you to pitch forward, your hands outstretched, his name on your lips.

You’re about to cross the room, desperate for his touch when a stab of pain goes through you sharply, causing you to almost come to your knees.  You begin doubling over with a cry as Dieter runs to close the distance between you, his hand immediately on your back.

“What is it, baby?”

Dieter is confused when he sees an overwhelming amount of clear liquid running down your legs. Your eyes are round, wide and terrified when you look up to him.

"Dieter, I think I'm going into labor." 

taglist: @caramilena @lovely-vamp-princess @annieispunk @lu62 @getitoutofmymindwrites @noisynightmarepoetry @lizzie-cakes @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @missladym1981 @tammythr @swankyorange @jupiter-soups @dontknow446 @fluffygoffpanda @doblasftcisco @sunnysinbar @dinomecanico @eff4freddie @fancypants1215 @moel-jiller @picketniffler @khxna @spookyxsam @fancypants1215

@getitoutofmymindwrites @manuymesut @whirlwindrider29 @mostardentlypascal @lu62 @missladym1981 @heareball @sptbear @drewharrisonwriter @lizzie-cakes @daddy-dins-girl @moel-jiller @tammythr @guelyury @lilyevanstan1325 @lu62 @staywildflowahchild @whirlwindrider29 @pedropascalsbbg @cherrycosmos392

#dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo #dieter x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo fanfic #pedro pascal characters

[mypoisonedvine]

𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙩 || dieter bravo x camgirl!reader

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 || being quarantined in his hotel room has dieter getting a little stir crazy, and when the drugs run out, he has to find a new vice. that's how he found you.

𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩 || 5k

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 || smut (18+ only; phone/video call sex, use of toys, male and female masturbation), sex work (obviously, look at the title), dieter being down astronomically bad with a burgeoning housewife kink, basically nothing to do with the movie he's from whatsoever it's just porn with almost no plot

(my challenge for @the-slumberparty this week was to write a fic that has a bouquet of flowers somewhere in it! leave it to me to find a way to include that in something so insanely smutty...)

He couldn’t stop watching you—both right now, in this moment, and just generally.

Right now, he couldn’t take his eyes off the way your cunt slid up and down on the glass dildo, your walls gripping every ridge and detail of the toy, your arousal coating it and running in droplets down to the base.

And for the past two weeks, your videos had been his obsession.  Maybe it technically qualified as a porn addiction—but it wasn’t just about that.  He didn’t watch anyone else, and he didn’t even jerk off every time he watched one of your videos; sometimes he just liked hearing your voice, feeling less alone in quarantine in his hotel room.

Most people just put on sitcom reruns or the local news to make a hotel room feel less empty, but that didn’t work for Dieter.  Maybe being an actor ruined the illusion of scripted TV for him—and as for the news, well, nobody would be comforted by the news these days.

So he turned to the only comfort he could rely on when all else failed: masturbation.  But he didn’t like to do it without something to watch, and normally he would just find a video he liked and work with that, but something tempted him to try a cam site… and now he was never turning back.

You weren’t the first girl he saw, it took a little scrolling, but something about your channel caught his eye.  It didn’t take even a full stream before he was addicted: you scratched every itch.

First of all, though he didn’t want to be too shallow, he couldn’t deny that your body was just his type.  It felt like he could stare at you naked for hours and never get bored—and it drove him crazy that he couldn’t touch you, couldn’t turn you around and look at every inch of you.  Instead he just had to lay back and let you show what you wanted; in a way, it was like a dominance thing—he was a victim to your whims, he could only get what you offered and that was it. 

That said, you never left him wanting, that was the second thing he couldn’t resist about you.  Your videos were… indulgent, maybe that’s the word he was looking for: it was so much more than just a girl rubbing herself in front of the camera and calling it a night.  You spent a while talking with the viewers and reacting to comments, sometimes while undressing if you weren’t already naked; then, you upped the ante bit by bit, teasing yourself and him until it finally culminated in you bringing yourself to the peak over and over—until neither of you could take anymore.  He wasn’t just satisfied after watching you, he was exhausted, in the best way.

And lastly, this one was probably just him projecting, but you seemed… sweet?  Kinky, sure, but with something real about you—kinda that girl-next-door vibe.  Maybe it was because you started some of your videos in normal clothes—not lingerie, not a sexy nurse outfit or whatever people are into these days—just a baggy band t-shirt and shorts or an old hoodie and pajama pants.  It was hard not to imagine you as his girlfriend during those streams.  Actually, once he let himself do it, he couldn’t stop—and it got him harder than anything else.

Perhaps Dieter had a bit of a reputation, and most would say he wasn’t very… sentimental with women.  They wouldn’t be wrong, but they’d be misunderstanding him a bit.  Truth be told, he was a pretty sensitive guy, and he’d always wanted a real relationship, it was just difficult with his career.  Love is sort of like eating healthy: maybe you like to cook, maybe you like green beans and chicken breasts, but when a bag of potato chips is right there, you know what you’re probably gonna end up eating.

And Dieter really did go through ‘em like potato chips.  It was easier that way.  He got used to expressing his emotions through acting, and when emotions become your career, it’s a lot harder to be vulnerable for free.

Sometimes he wished he’d met you in person, somehow.  (Then again, right now he was wishing he could meet anyone in person.)  But if he’d met you in person, he would’ve probably just hit on you, convinced you to sleep with him, and then gone back to his same old habits—you would’ve just been another meaningless night.  Instead he was trapped in this hotel, using his laptop like a window to the outside world, and you had become his vice.  Even drugs couldn’t do for him what you could; the high you brought him was incomparable.

He told you just as much; sure, he felt like kind of a loser, but he started commenting on your streams hoping to get a reaction.  I think I’m addicted to your videos.  It was just one in a long string of adoring, horny comments that floated up alongside your video that day as you were casually touching yourself—one hand teasing your breast, pinching and circling the nipple, the other between your legs as you gently rubbed your clit.  You hadn’t noticed his comment that time—or if you had, you didn’t say anything—but the next time, you saw it.  You’d been using a vibe, taking it on and off your clit so you could edge yourself: that alone was a feat of self-discipline he couldn’t imagine.  Can’t wait to see you cum, he’d written, too worked up himself to really wonder if it was clever or interesting.

You smiled, a little breathless laugh coming out more through your nose than your mouth.  “Can’t wait to see you cum,” you repeated, “me either, buddy.  Shit.  Need to come so bad.”

Hearing you read his comment made him actually anxious—like an adrenaline rush, like when he was a kid and hadn’t gotten rid of his stage fright yet.  You had such an effect on him; his heart was still racing when he finally came—he managed to wait until you did, only because he didn’t start jerking off until the last minute.  Having to keep his throbbing dick out of his hand was an enormous task, but he knew that once he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop.  And it was worth it, to come with you; he loved hearing your moans as you came, imagining how you’d sound if he was fucking you—imagining all his come painting your stomach or ass or even going inside you…

And now, right now, he was imagining that last thing—imagining filling you with his come.  You rode that glass dildo beautifully, and when he moved his hand at just the right pace, he could watch and feel the way you would ride him.

“Mm, y’like that?” you moaned, looking back at the camera—damn, if you looked back at him like that while you were on his cock he’d be a fucking goner.

“Yeah,” he panted, in real life, because responding to you aloud was a bad habit when he was close to coming.

“Wanna come in me?” you encouraged, and he bit his lip as he nodded; he wanted to shut his eyes from the pleasure, but he couldn’t miss a second of you picking up the pace as you bounced on the toy.  “Wanna fucking come inside me?”

“Yes, fuck, yes,” he panted out, starting to fuck up into his hand when your pace felt teasingly slow (even though it was already getting so much faster).

“C’mon baby, I want it���come in me, nice and deep,” you begged, voice getting shakier as your own orgasm neared.  “Can you come with me?  Please?  Just fill me up right as you make me come—fuck, so good—”

“God, baby,” he whined, tightening up his stomach to try not to come instantly.  Thankfully, he only had to hold out a few more seconds before he heard you start to make those undeniable moans: when you came, you were loud.  He fucking loved that.

“Yes, yes!” you screamed, and he swore he could see the way your pussy squeezed that toy, he could see the shiver that ran up your spine—he’d give anything to feel that squeeze on his cock, to feel that shiver under his hands…

Come painted his hand, splattering onto his chest and thighs; if only he’d had the thought in advance to take his robe off entirely before he did this, now he was going to have to send some very shameful laundry to the front desk.

“Fuck, that was intense,” you laughed breathlessly as you started to recover.  He could tell you were still a bit shaky as you lifted yourself off the dildo— and he winced, the last drop of come squeezing out of his slit, when he saw the way your pussy was left gaping for juuust a moment by the toy.  Then one squeeze and it was like you were back to normal; she’s fucking incredible, he thought to himself, finally taking his hand off of his softening dick.

Panting, he felt the slightest tinge of shame in the back of his mind.  Not just shame, actually, but loneliness: he watched you smile and turn to face the camera again, reading the slew of filthy praises in your comments, and he just wished it was the two of you— in real life, alone, holding each other…

But this was easier, this was so much easier.  Being alone meant there was no one here to judge him, and that was worth having no one to wrap up in his arms in a time like this.

As he snagged a tissue from the bedside table to wipe himself off, he listened to you read and react to some comments.  “Thanks, guys,” you beamed as you were overwhelmed with so hot and I just came so hard and you’re perfect.  “You flatter me, stop it…”

He had to bite his lip when you started to play with your own tits, seemingly out of nowhere.

“They’re so sensitive after I come,” you explained with a giggle, then a moan as you pinched and teased the buds.  “Have any of you ever tried that?  Playing with your nipples?”

Dieter laughed as the comments poured in: what? that’s fucking gay all the way to I’m doing it right now for you my queen

“Oh god, has it been an hour already?  I think I need to hop off, guys,” you announced.

Instantly the chat was flooded with pleas of don’t go!! and ten more minutes and how much do we tip for more time?

“If anybody wants to keep the conversation going, private chats are on sale on my page right now,” you explained with a friendly smile.  “But if not I’ll see you tomorrow!  Or, you’ll see me.”

With a flirty wave to the camera, the image froze and blurred; STREAM ENDED popped up on the screen.  It was already trying to suggest other streamers live right now that he could watch, but Dieter only sighed and shut his laptop.

Seven seconds later, he opened it again.

“Private chats…” he mumbled to himself remembering what you said.  He knew that you offered other services on your page, but something about you mentioning it this time got his attention.  As he considered for a second if he should’ve washed his hands before touching the trackpad, he navigated to your page and looked at the menu of additional services for purchase.  The list was long: private chats, as you’d mentioned; custom videos anywhere from 15 minutes to a concerningly-long two hours; a subscription to daily nude pictures, sent via Snapchat; even used panties available for shipping anywhere in the US and Canada.

He was originally just going to get a custom video, but as he scrolled through more options, he saw one-on-one video chat, and he got that feeling again—the adrenaline rush.  It took him a second to even compose himself enough to read the description.

Do you hate having to share me with all the other viewers during my streams?  I’d love to have some personal time to get to know you better, and do exactly what you’ve been dreaming of.  You can use voice if that’s easier for you than text—top fans can even turn their camera on if they so desire.

A half-hour video chat was only $75— that sounded like a steal to Dieter right now— and they were available to book as soon as tomorrow.  The idea made him feel all tingly and weird, but weird in a good way.

Top fans can even turn their camera on…

His constant engagement with your page for the last couple weeks had earned him the ‘top fan’ badge.  When he imagined showing you his face, his body, he got unexpectedly anxious, though; he wasn’t a particularly shy guy, but this was a delicate issue.  What if you recognized him?  What if you were a fan?  That would be weird— in a bad way.

Or what if you were a fan and you were overcome with the need to send him free videos, free pictures, even being willing to meet up with him sometime?  That would be… convenient, certainly, in some ways; but the thought overwhelmed him, and he decided that if he was going to buy one of these chats, his camera would have to stay off.  Just not worth the trouble.

He decided something else, too; a strange instinct, but one he was too deep in his post-orgasmic haze to resist.  He wanted to send you a gift.  Mostly, he hoped it would set him apart from other viewers— give you two something to talk about during that call.  If he bought you a toy from your wishlist, maybe you could use it for the first time for him… that would be incredibly hot.

Or maybe he’d buy you something more normal, like a nice throw pillow for the bed you laid on for some of your videos… the domesticity of that certainly attracted him.

But then, he had a simpler idea.  When in doubt while giving a gift to a woman, why not stick to the classics, right?

There was a P.O. Box for fanmail and gifts on your page, and he pulled up another tab to search: can you send flowers to a po box?

Just because he was a whore didn’t mean he wasn’t a romantic.

~

“I have to say, I get a lot of gifts… never gotten flowers before.”

His heart warmed to hear you say that— but it didn’t stop racing.  This felt different: having you here, in only a t-shirt and panties as he’d seen you many times, but knowing it was just for him… he loved it, but it was a little scary.  In a good way.  “Do you like them?” he asked.

“Yeah!” you smiled, fiddling with the stems as the vase sat beside you.  “Pink roses, lilies, orchids… you’re gonna spoil me, Hector.”

(Yes, he gave you his real name.  Ironically, he used it to hide who he actually was— but he liked hearing you say it.)

“Not that I mind,” you added with a wink.  “Do you mind if I have these in the background of my next stream?  They'll match the toy I'm gonna use."

"O-oh, yeah, sure,” he choked.  “What toy are you gonna use?”

You smirked a little, to the point that he almost felt stupid for asking that— but you didn’t mind showing him, in fact you had it ready and showed the baby-pink toy off for him.  His throat got a little tighter when he saw the U-shape of the toy; didn’t take a genius to imagine where that would go… and already his mind was jumping ahead to how you’d look with those silicone ends penetrating both your holes—

“Looks like fun,” he managed to get out, and you looked pretty proud of yourself for making him a bit flustered.

“Do you wanna turn your camera on?” you offered suddenly after you’d set the toy aside.  “No pressure, of course.”

He went through a whole rollercoaster when you asked that.  Because yes, he did—sort of.  But would it just make things more complicated?  What if you were uncomfortable with him being famous, thought he might expose you or something—or, more concerningly, what if you exposed him?  Or what if you just berated him with dumb fan questions when he was trying to forget about his life right now?  “Uh,” he stalled, “is it okay if I don’t, this time?”

“Of course, it’s all up to you,” you replied.  “I’m just a little curious… you have a sexy voice.  Gotta wonder if it matches.”

He didn’t even know if you would think he was sexy—he certainly hoped so, but maybe you had a type of your own.  Maybe you were a lesbian, how should he know?  “Thanks,” he hummed, “you too—but, you know, all of you is sexy.”

“Aw shucks,” you said as you struck a pose, putting your hands under your chin and batting your eyes to complete the sarcastic impression of innocence.  He laughed, and it reminded him why your videos were so special— ‘cause you made him laugh like that.  “You know, a lot of people book these chats because they have a specific kink they want me to try for them,” you explained.  “What about you?  Why’d you book this?”

“Is it weird if I just… kinda wanted to talk to you?”

His heart skipped when he saw your reaction—the shy, tender smile that appeared on your face.  “No, that’s not weird,” you replied, and for some reason it was how incredibly sweet you looked right then that made his cock jump in his boxers.  “We can talk about whatever you want.”

“Can we talk about you?”

“Not much to talk about,” you shrugged, smirking a bit; of course you were teasing him, he didn’t even mind.

“I really doubt that,” he chuckled.  “Is this your only job?  Do you do anything else?”

“I, uh, used to do something else,” you answered, “but then they found out about this.”

“Oh, that sucks…”

“Nah, worked out for the best.  Started making way more when I had more time to put into it,” you nodded.  “I like this a lot better, actually.  No sick leave, but no dress code, either.”

“Yeah, that’s a plus,” he nodded, even though you couldn’t see him.

“What about you?  What do you do?”

“Um… I’m an actor,” he replied.  He considered lying, but couldn’t come up with anything else.

“Oh, that’s really cool!” you smiled.  “Wouldn’t have seen you in anything, would I?”

“Probably not,” he laughed off your question.  “Do you, um, have any hobbies?  You must not have a lot of spare time, with people paying for chats and custom videos and all…”

“I take a few days off, here and there,” you nodded, “mostly I just like movies and stuff.”

That made him even more anxious that you would know who he was.  He still hadn’t decided if that would be a good thing or a bad thing, though.

“I like to cook,” you added. 

It was starting to feel like you were intentionally targeting his newly developed girlfriend fetish.  Instantly his mind was flooded with all this domestic bullshit: shopping with you for ingredients, coming home to a fresh dinner, waking up to you in the kitchen wearing his shirt and flipping pancakes.  “I like to eat,” Dieter replied, “we’re so compatible.”

You laughed, and if this was all just some act where you pretended to think he was funny and interesting, it was the best acting he’d seen in a while.  “Are you flirting?” you noticed, raising an eyebrow as if to point out how fitting-yet-bizarre it was for him to be hitting on you—because he didn’t need to, you were his for the half-hour regardless.  But he liked this better, and he loved making you laugh.

“Maybe,” he offered cryptically in return.

“Is that what the flowers were for?  Are you trying to seduce me?” you accused with a grin.

“Those were just to get your attention,” he admitted.

“Hector, honey,” you cooed, making his heart skip.  “You already have my attention.”

That excited him and his dick, which was now making a tent in his boxers as it waited for some of your promised attention; somehow, just casually-flirtatious conversation with you was almost hotter to him than the usual stuff.  Maybe he was just a little burnt out on all that by now— because talking to you had become much more valuable than seeing you naked.

“Just tell me one thing about you,” you bargained.

“Alright,” he agreed.

“Are you hard?”

He swallowed.  “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice sounding weaker than he meant it to.  You smirked a little.

“We don’t have to,” you assured him, “but if you’re interested, why don’t we get off together, hm?  Does that sound okay?”

Was it a good sign that you were initiating this, or did it just mean you were getting impatient with him?  God, it didn’t matter—he was gonna do whatever you wanted.  “Okay,” he answered.  “Yeah—that sounds… more than okay.”

Biting your lip slightly, the way you looked at the camera almost made him feel like you were sizing him up—even though all you could see was a black screen.  “Are you touching your cock already?”

“N-no, I… I still have boxers on,” he replied.  “Should I?”

“No, you should rub it a little through the boxers,” you instructed.  “That’s what I’m gonna do—touch my clit through these panties.  It’s even more sensitive when I do that, don’t ask me how.”

“R-right, okay,” he nodded.  He already liked taking instructions from you more than he thought he would.  His hand spread out over the bulge in the cotton, a sigh slipping from his lips as he started to find the right amount of pressure so he wouldn’t get too into it too fast.

His eyes were transfixed on the way you spread your legs, and he swore your panties already looked a little damp…

Your finger traced delicately over the seam of your pussy, and his balls tightened up at the way you sighed as you teased yourself.  “You should play with your tits, too,” he informed you, his own voice sounding shaky as he tried to hold back from just getting his cock out and jerking off as fervently as he wanted to.

“You’re just full of good ideas, huh?” you joked, taking your free hand and pinching yourself through your shirt.

“Then here’s another one for you,” he offered, “take something off.”

“Shirt or panties?” you asked.

“Dealer’s choice.”

You smiled and surprised him by lifting your hips, pulling your underwear down your thighs before kicking them off to the side.  For some reason, even though he gave you the choice, he expected you to take the shirt off first; and there was something surprisingly sexy about you still having that casual t-shirt on and nothing else.  (Likely, it was because it made it easier to imagine you just wearing one of his shirts…)

It added a new thrill to the now-familiar sight of your pussy— not that he ever got bored of that view.  “Can you— can you spread it for me?” he panted, nearly whimpering when you took two fingers and scissored apart your lips.  “Fuck, got such a pretty hole, baby…”

He saw it flex as you heard the compliment, and he couldn’t help but moan quietly.  “Yeah?  Have you thought about how good it would feel?” you encouraged with a sigh.  “How good this hole would feel on your cock?”

“Every fucking day,” he promised.  

“Then take it out,” you instructed breathily.  “Start touching your cock, and think about what it would be like if I was there touching you instead.”

Though he was glad to do as you’d said, pulling his throbbing erection from his boxers with a sigh, he had to disobey one of your commands.  “No, m’thinking about a lot more than that,” he replied, and you cracked a smile as you rubbed your clit faster.  “Thinking about being— fuck— inside you…”

You hummed happily; after all that teasing, he was so sensitive and worked up that it felt like he was already fighting to hold himself back.  He certainly couldn’t keep his pace down— right away he was stroking himself quickly, struggling to keep it together.

“Thinking about how fucking tight you are,” he added with a groan, loving the little whimper you let out in return.

“Hector, baby,” you moaned, and he hadn’t heard that name said that way in a very long time.  “This might be over sooner than I thought if you talk like that…”

“Good,” he decided, “it’s not gonna take me very long, either— you always make me like that.”

“How would you fuck me?” you asked, panting, rocking your hips against your hand.  “Tell me how you’d fuck me, baby.”

“Fuck, I—hard,” he choked out.  “So fucking hard—”

“Mm,” you moaned encouragingly.

“And I’d eat you out,” he decided, “before and after.  I’ve been dying to know how your pussy tastes.”

“After, huh?  Is that with your come inside?” you wondered.  “Or did you wanna come on my tits?”

“Inside,” he groaned.  “I’d eat my—fuck—eat my come out of you, I don’t care.”

“That’s dirty,” you purred, “I like it.  I like a man who can clean up his mess.”

“Never liked coming inside that much until I started watching your streams,” he admitted.  “Now it’s all I can think about—coming inside you.”

“Fuck,” you moaned, “want you to think about that when you come for me now, okay?  Can you do that?”

“Yeah,” he promised, moving his hand faster and feeling that tension in his gut that told him the breaking point was approaching.

“Think about filling me up,” you continued, “giving me all that come, so deep inside—”

“Fuck,” he hissed, “are you close too?”

“Baby, I’ve been trying not to come since we fucking started,” you admitted— and maybe it was a lie, but he bought it joyously.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he gasped, “I’m gonna come so hard— fuck yes— gonna come for you…”

“Do it,” you begged, “I want you to, I want you to come, Hector.”

“You— you should come, too,” he countered with a shaking gasp, his cock already starting to flex as he knew he was seconds away from losing it.

“I will,” you promised with a smile, your voice itself turning every word into a moan, “I’m gonna come with you, baby, fuck— lemme hear it, wanna hear you come—”

He came with a grunt, squeezing down on his cock with his fist as come launched out in long pulses; “F-fuck, I’m coming, ahhh fuck,” he narrated— normally he wouldn’t say something like that, but you had asked to hear it, so…

“Me too, I— oh!” you shouted, and he watched with heavy eyes as you tossed your head back, hips rocking up into nothing— your hand was a blur over your pussy but he swore he could see it pulsing and clenching, creamy slick leaking slowly from your hole.

The last of his come came out as a fat droplet running down his shaft, making his fingers unpleasantly sticky as the ringing in his ears subsided and he began to slowly come back to reality.  You were panting, pushing yourself just a bit further until your whole body jolted and you quickly pulled your hand away.

“God,” you groaned, “that was… draining.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, laughing a little at how wrecked his own voice sounded.  

“I wish I could just, like, take a nap right now,” you admitted with a tired grin.

“I mean, you could— we’re almost out of time…” he noticed.

“No, I— yeah, I could, but I have something after this,” you replied, and he felt a little twist in his chest.  He didn’t blame you at all for it, but it made him jealous to think of you hopping right on to your next call— it made him feel like he was just one of your thousands of fans, which is not how he wanted you to think of him at all.

“Another call?” he assumed.

“No, just private chats,” you corrected, which somehow made him feel a little bit better, “and I should probably post a few things for my Snapchat— we’ll see.  I will definitely need a break before my stream tonight, though… will I see you there?  Proverbially?”

He smiled a little.  “Yeah, definitely.”

“Drink plenty of fluids before then,” you winked.  “Thanks for calling, Hector… I hope we can do this again sometime.”

It’s an upsell, she’s not actually into you, she’s not actually into you, he tried to force himself to believe.  But it was so much easier, so much more fun, to imagine that you really liked him— that those flowers stood out enough for you to realize that he’s different.

You both said your polite goodbyes and the call ended.  He was definitely sleepier than he anticipated after all that— you said you were, too, which made him just want to have you here even more so you could fall asleep on his shoulder and he wouldn’t have to be alone in this bed for the seemingly-thousandth time in a row.

Exhausted to the bone, some impossible mix of satisfied and starving for more of you, Dieter sighed and shut his laptop.

Seven seconds later, he opened it again.  He wanted to book his next video call before he passed out.

~

thank you so much for reading! if you're interested in a second part to this, please let me know by reblogging or maybe even leaving a comment! you can read my other works for pedro pascal characters here or check out my full masterlist here

#dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo x y/n #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo fic #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #navy and roo's sleepover

[whatsnewalycat]

Once in a Blue Moon

One Shot // Dieter Bravo x HotelStaff!F!Reader

Description: You're the only person working when a Christmas blizzard rolls into town and snows you in with a notoriously difficult guest, Dieter Bravo.

Rating: E (Explicit 18+ Only)

Word Count: 12.9k+

Tags/Warnings: one shot, slight dub con elements (power imbalance, isolation, alcohol) although both parties are enthusiastically consenting, hotel guest x hotel staff, blizzard, Minnesota because that’s my best friend, dieter generally being an ‘if you give a mouse a cookie’ ass bitch, kinda enemies to lovers???, Christmas, loneliness, palm reading, food and eating, cannabis, conspiracy theory mention, fluuuuuufffff, smut, dirty talk, a dash of conflict, painting stuff, power outage, poverty mention

Note: Merry Crisis! This is part of a secret Santa gift exchange and a present for my dearest Syl (@all-the-way-down-here @im-sylien). I hope you enjoy!! Have an excellent holiday, friend ❤️🎄

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 2:00 PM

“We are right in the bullseye for what people are already calling The Great Christmas Storm. Blizzard Warnings remain in effect throughout most of Minnesota until Tuesday morning. Forty to fifty mile-an-hour winds, combined with an anticipated twelve to twenty-four inches of heavy snowfall, are expected to create whiteout conditions, making travel dangerous or impossible in the Blizzard Warning areas. If you must travel—”

You kill the engine and look up through the windshield at Blue Moon Manor. The white exterior of the three-story Tudor Revival mansion seems to glow in contrast to the dark clouds hanging overhead. Some rich guy built it as a family home in 1905. It stayed in the family for over a century before a property management company scooped it up. Now the ornate family heirloom is a boutique hotel. Go figure. 

You open your car door and grab your backpack from the backseat, swinging it over your shoulder as you step out of the vehicle. As you walk up the path to the staff entrance, snowflakes start floating down from the gray, low-hanging clouds like teeny-tiny feathers, landing on your cheeks and nose, melting on impact. 

So it begins. 

You press your security code into the door lock, waiting for the quiet beep-beep-beep of approval before shoving the door open to the back office. 

Your coworker Jenna looks up at you when you enter giving you a nod of greeting as she zips up her jacket, “How is it out there?”

“Just starting,” you drop your backpack on the built-in bench and take off your stocking cap, shaking out your hair as you ask, “How’s it been here?” 

“Let’s just say I’m ready to go home and drink some wine,” she snorts, “Should be a piece of cake for you, though. 202, 203, and 101 checked out early because of the storm, and the check-in today cancelled.” 

“Storm of the century,” you mutter, “Merry fucking Christmas.”

“I hear it’s gonna get nasty. Do you really have to stay the whole time?” 

You wave her off as you peel off your jacket, “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry I can’t cover some of the shifts.”

“Really, it‘s fine,” you insist while hanging up your coat, “Bossman said he’d pay me double time to stay ‘til he gets back to town.” 

“You’re goddamn right he’s gonna pay you double time.” 

Trying to change the subject, you go over to the daily checklist, “Ok, 202, 203, and 101 are gone,” you frown, running over your mental tally of guests, “So, what? Just 302?”

“Just 302. Lucky you.” 

“Yeah, lucky me,” you roll your eyes, then look out the window at the snowfall, heavier now, “You better head out before you get stuck here with me and Mr. Fluoride Mind Control.” 

“I suppose,” she sighs, grabbing her purse, “Well, have a Merry Christmas?”

“You too,” you smile and meet her eyes as she extends her arms and beckons you closer. You groan, but accept the hug, face pressing against her puffy winter coat. 

When she steps back and starts towards the door, she tells you, “Don’t have too much fun now.” 

“I’ll try not to,” you snort, “Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas,” she calls behind her as she opens the door, letting in an icy-cold draft of snowflakes before closing it behind her. 

You sigh and wiggle the mouse on the computer. The second you do, the service bell dings. 

“Fucking already?” you mutter to yourself as you follow the floorplan through the kitchen, into the formal dining room, then finally arrive at the archway to the parlor. 

You find the man staying in Suite 302 leaning against the grand piano, thrumming his fingers on the shiny surface. 

Wearing pajama pants and a grubby t-shirt, chestnut curls shooting up every which way, he sighs and taps the call bell again. The shrill ding makes your eye twitch a little, but you paste on an amenable smile, “Mr. Bravo, how can I help you?” 

He spins towards you and looks at you over his sunglasses, dark eyes flicking up and down your body before settling on your face, “Can I get some towels?”

“Of cour—”

“And can you do that thing where you fold them into animals?” 

You furrow your brow and tilt your head at him, lips parting to ask what he means, but he preemptively answers. 

“Some hotels fold them into swans or elephants or whatever. You know what I mean? Towel animals.” 

There’s no way he’s not fucking with you. 

“I, uhh…”

He raps a knuckle on the piano, then saunters off, calling back, “Thanks, you’re the best!”

You stand there for a moment, mouth agape as you watch him disappear up the stairs, thinking: No fucking way I’m doing that. 

And yet, half an hour later, you’re sitting in the back office watching a YouTube video on how to fold two towels into an elephant. 

Following along with the step-by-step, you make the legs. Easy enough. The head ends up looking like an uncircumcised cock with wings, though. You set it on top of the legs and take a step back, glancing between your creation and the video’s example. As a final touch, you stick a couple googly-eye stickers on it. 

“Good enough,” you sigh and tuck the microfiber monstrosity under your arm. 

When you arrive at Suite 302, you pause for a moment, turning your ear towards the door. You hear the old wooden floor creaking as he walks around humming to himself. It smells like paint and skunk spray. 

You swallow your buzzing nerves and knock on the door, fidgeting a little as you wait. 

Inside, a fit of coughing erupts, and he chokes out, “Hang—on—”

His footsteps squeak across the floor to the kitchen. Clink of glass. Water faucet. The coughing stops for a few silent seconds, then he groans and the footstep squeaks grow closer. 

A cloud of weed smoke bitch slaps you when the door to Suite 302 swings open. 

He frowns at you, crossing his arms in front of his broad chest as he leans against the doorframe, “Hey, uhhh…”

“I got your towels,” you smile, presenting the towel elephant to him. 

His eyes drop to the elephant, then he raises his eyebrows, “What is this?” 

“An elephant?”

He glances between you and the elephant, flattening his mouth into a line before telling you, “Looks like a dick and balls with googly-eyes.”

The force you use to hold down your laughter makes you snort. 

So fucking professional. 

Your eyes meet his. An amused smile graces his lips as he takes the elephant. 

“Anything else I can get for you?” 

“Yeah, can I, uhhh… can I get some snacks? Something sweet, something savory.”

“I’ll see what I can find,” you nod, peering over his shoulder into the hazy room, “Just a reminder, we don’t allow smoking.” 

“Oh, it’s not cigarette smoke.” 

“I can smell.” 

It goes straight from your brain out your mouth, drenched in sarcasm. So fucking professional. 

His eyebrows shoot up in a surprised expression. 

“I apologize, Mr. Bravo—”

“Oh, fuck that. Don’t,” he chuckles, waving off your stammering, “Call me Dieter, by the way. Mr. Bravo makes me sound like a fucking… karaoke machine.” 

“Ok,” you chuckle, then put your customer-facing demeanor back on and tell him, “I’ll go see what we have for snacks. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime.” 

He pushes off the doorframe, giving you a nod of acknowledgment as he steps back into Suite 302 and closes the door. 

You return sometime later with a silver serving tray hosting a variety of cheeses, dried fruit, olives, spreads, and crackers. When you knock, he hollers to leave it outside the door, so you do. 

The remaining daylight you spend cleaning. 

Blue Moon Manor has eight suites: one on the first floor, four on the second, and two on the third. Working from the bottom up, you rid the recently vacated units of dirty dishes and trash, then collect the linens and haul them up to the laundry room on the third floor. 

By this time, the serving tray you left outside Suite 302 has disappeared. The pot smoke, however, dissipated throughout the entire level. It seems even stronger than the last time you were up here. Almost like he completely disregarded your polite reminder of the no smoking policy. 

You decide to table the issue temporarily. If he was still smoking by the time you returned to take his dinner order, you’d remind him again. 

The prospect of confronting what your boss referred to as “a very important client” intimidates you, though, if you’re being honest. 

Not that you’re particularly intimidated by him as a person or anything. 

Sure, he has an IMDb page and some awards, but beyond that, he’s just another entitled guy. 

It’s more so the influence he has on your employment that intimidates you. Sometimes your feral mouth speaks before your poorly-domesticated brain can articulate a proper response. If you were to say something combative, and this guy complained to your boss, you’d probably lose your job—a loss you cannot afford. 

When it’s time to take his dinner order, you gather yourself before knocking on his door, repeating your script in your head as you wait. Then the door swings open and you’re absolutely blindsided. 

He answers while wringing his hair out with a towel. It’s one of the two you brought him earlier. You can tell because there’s still a googly-eye stuck to it, pupil shaking around inside its little plastic dome. The other towel clings to life around his waist, parting to show off a slice of his tan thigh. 

Regrettably, you follow your knee-jerk reaction to ogle him, looking him up and down before returning to his expectant eyes. 

This results in an uncomfortable staring contest, where you’re trying to make your mouth work and he’s trying to figure out what the fuck you want, as made evident when he asks, “Do you need something?” 

“Dinner,” you blurt out, then shake your head, “Sorry, I mean—What’ll you be having for dinner, Mr. Bravo?” 

“What’re the options?” 

“Chicken roulade or salmon.” 

He groans, throwing his hair-drying towel over his shoulder. 

“Do you guys have any normal food, or does it have to be upscale bullshit?” 

You pause to once again gather yourself, and in that two-second silence he decides, “I’ll take the chicken roulade.” 

“Dining room or room service?” 

He shrugs, looking over his shoulder into the suite, then back at you, “Dining room.” 

“Fabulous. While I’m here, can I take your tray from earlier?” 

“Let me get it,” he mumbles, closing the door. While he’s gone, you go over the lines you rehearsed, and when he opens the door to hand you the tray, you tell him, “Just as a reminder, we don’t allow indoor smoking—” 

“Look, usually I open the window and use a doob-tube, but, uhhh… the weather outside won’t allow it. I don’t want the wind to fuck up the crank windows.” 

“But still—” 

“And not that it’s any of your business, but I have a medical condition that I treat with cannabis. This is prescribed to me—”

“What? I’m not—”

“Besides, it should be legal—”

“Ok, you know what? Fine! Smoke away, but don’t be surprised when the manager fines you for it, plus the cost of extra cleaning charges.” 

He crosses his arms and straightens his spine, “I can live with that.” 

“Great,” you snip, taking a big step back, “Dinner will be ready at six.” 

He closes the door a little harder than necessary and you stomp down to the kitchen, fuming the whole way. 

Lucky for you, dinner prep involves flattening chicken breasts with a meat tenderizer, which helps tame your frustration. As you follow the recipe, sprinkling seasonings and feta cheese onto the breasts and rolling them up like neat little sleeping bags, potential consequences for your outburst run through your mind. Bad review, getting canned, all that. 

Maybe if you hadn’t been dealing with this guy’s shit for the past two weeks, you would’ve been able to handle the situation with a level head. But his haughtiness is fucking grating. He can’t just answer a question or make a simple request. It has to be a whole production that makes it clear: he thinks he’s better than you. 

By the time you finish cooking, though, you come to peace with the fact that you’ll probably have to kiss his ass to rectify the situation. 

When the grandfather clock in the parlor chimes six times, you plate the chicken roulade and bring it to the dining room, slightly surprised to see him already seated at the table. 

“Mr. Bravo,” you smile in greeting. 

“Dieter.” 

“Dieter,” you repeat as you set the plate down on his place setting, “Can I get you anything to drink? We have a Sauvignon Blanc that would pair well with the chicken—”

“I’ll take it.”

You go to the sideboard and find a bottle of wine. As you pour him a glass, he wrings his hands together and glances around, “Anyone else coming down?” 

“Just you.”

“What about you, where do you eat?” 

You shrug, setting the bottle down beside his glass, “In the kitchen.” 

“You could eat out here.” 

“Oh. It’s fine, sir. Really, I don’t mind.” 

His nose wrinkles up under his sunglasses and he shifts in seat. You study him for a moment, sensing an air of loneliness about him. 

“Unless you want me to join you.”

He shrugs, “Seems silly for both of us to eat alone.” 

“So true,” you nod, clasping your hands together, “I’ll uhhh… I’ll be right back.” 

When you return with your plate, you sit across the table from him. An uncomfortable silence settles in the room. The kind that makes your skin feel too tight and amplifies every little noise. The chewing, the utensils clinking, the wet swallows, everything seems ten times louder than reality. 

Clearly, it’s not just the two of you in this dining room. There’s a third guest, the giant invisible elephant wedged between you. 

He finishes his glass of wine and pours another, asking, “Do you want some?” 

“I… shouldn’t.” 

“Uh-huh,” he raises his eyebrows, looking at you over his sunglasses, “Do you want some anyway?”

You consider it, squishing your face to one side with indecision. 

“I won’t tell on you, sweetheart, I promise.” 

Your eyes flick to his, finding a sort of amused playfulness there. 

“Fine,” you smirk and push back your chair, going over to the wine cabinet to grab a glass, “Just one.” 

“No one’s twisting your arm about it.”

You return to your seat and reach across the table to grab the bottle, pouring only a small helping. 

“Cheers,” he holds up his glass. 

You mimic the sentiment and take a big sip, then tell him, “Mr. Bravo—”

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you nod, glancing at your wine glass, “I, umm… I apologize if I was rude earlier.” You meet his eyes and shrug, “If I’m being completely transparent, my boss will have my ass if the whole third floor smells like weed when he comes in next week.”

He watches you as he absorbs this, face inscrutable. 

“But if you want, I can show you the back patio. You can smoke out there all you want, I really don’t care about that part.” 

Leaning back in his seat, he takes a swig of wine, then says, “Fine.” 

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” you smile. 

“Uh-huh,” he sets down his glass, wiggling around a little as he tells you, “For the record, you weren’t being that rude. Well, maybe a little, but… I don’t mind. Suits you better than the bullshit customer service thing you do.” 

You blink at him, biting your tongue, then return to cutting your food and making small talk, “Well, I hope you didn’t have any big plans for the holidays. Traveling might be tough the next couple days.” 

He shakes his head, “Not doing it this year.”

“Not doing Christmas?”

“Nope. What about you? Do you celebrate Christmas? Any plans?” 

“You’re looking at ‘em,” you gesture around the room with your wine glass and take a sip.

“No shit, you have to work?” 

“I’ll be working until the storm passes. Tuesday at the earliest, by the sounds of it.” 

“Yuck. You guys have a staff bedroom, or do you get to stay in a suite?”

“I have my pick of the empty suites.”

He pokes the food on his plate with his fork, “Which one are you picking?”

You chuckle a little before answering. Maybe it’s your imagination, but you detect a certain vibe coming from him. Not only that, but he’s attractive in a way you’re not entirely immune to. 

“I think I’m gonna try a new one each night,” you tell him, “101 for sure, maybe 301 and 203. Not 201–“

“Oh well obviously, fuck 201.” 

“Obviously,” you laugh, shaking your head. 

He smiles at you, sparking heat at your center, then both return your attention to your food. The rest of the meal passes in a much more comfortable silence. Not wanting to overstay your welcome around a guest or veer further into unprofessionalism, you rise as soon as you finish. 

“I’ll get out of your hair, but if you need anything, ring the bell. I’ll be around.” 

“Sure,” he studies you over his sunglasses as you gather your dirty dishes, his jaw ticking back and forth, then he says, “Hey, thanks for keeping me company. It was nice.” 

You want to tell him you thought it was nice, too. Or maybe say something about how it felt like a mildly off-putting but not entirely unsuccessful first date. Not at all what you assumed it would be like. 

Instead, you give him a polite smile and nod, “Of course.” 

— 

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 8:00 PM

DING 

You look up from the cribbage game on your phone at him, just a few strides away but apparently oblivious to your presence. He fidgets with the sleeve of his high-drama fuzzy jacket, shifting his weight from side-to-side. Waiting. 

“Hi—”

“Holy shit!” He startles, gripping his chest, “Where the fuck did you come from?”

Before you can stop it, you snort out a laugh, then cover your face reflexively, “I’m so sorry Mr.—”

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you nod as you rise to your feet, stuffing your wide grin into a neat smile, “How can I help you, sir?”

“Call me a fucking ambulance for the heart attack you just gave me,” he jokes, shaking his head, then takes a step towards you, “No, uhh… I was gonna step out to smoke, do you wanna join me?” 

“Oh—umm,” you chuckle a little, briefly considering the offer before politely telling him, “No, thank you.”

“You sure?” 

“I’m sure,” you glance down at his feet, clad in mismatched socks and crocs, “But here, let me clear off the back patio so you don’t have to stand in the snow.” 

He shrugs and follows you through the parlor into the dining room, where you tell him, “Just give me a minute, I’ll put my stuff on.”

“Take your time,” he murmurs, going over to the sideboard, “Is this fair game?” 

“Help yourself.” 

“Do you want one?” 

He flips over a lowball glass on display and sifts through the decanters of liquor, plucking out a bottle of finely aged whiskey. A drink sounds good. But the prospect of this virtual stranger fixing you a drink makes you uneasy. 

Does he know that it’s just you and him under this roof for probably the next few days? Between the offer to smoke you up and pour you a drink, is he intentionally trying to intoxicate you? Or is he just being cordial? 

You realize he’s staring at you, waiting for a response. Heat rises to your face. Shaking your head, you tell him, “I’m fine, thanks.” 

He uncorks the decanter and turns to pour whiskey into his glass, so you dismiss yourself to the back office. 

After bundling up in winter gear, you grab a shovel, then start towards the dining room. You stop short in the kitchen. The motherfucker walked right past the STAFF ONLY sign and started rummaging through the fridge. 

“You’re not supposed to be back here.” 

He glances back over his shoulder at you, “Why not?”

“Because—well, because—”

“Can you make me grilled cheese?” 

He straightens and closes the fridge door, turning to face you. You, clad in your coat and boots and hat and all that shit, holding a shovel, just blinking at him, mouth agape. 

“Right now?” 

His jaw shifts to one side as he genuinely considers the question. 

“Can I shovel first?” 

“Sure,” he shrugs. 

“Thanks,” you mutter, then trudge past him into the dining room. 

He follows along behind you, through the hall to the back door, asking, “Do you have tomato soup?” 

“Probably. Want some with your grilled cheese?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

When you twist the door handle and yank it open, a knee-high snow drift topples over at your feet. 

“Jesus Christ,” you hiss and flip on the outdoor light switch to peek outside. A strong gust of wind knocks you back a step, carrying a flurry of shimmering, swirling snowflakes. Your cheeks sting at the icy cold sharpness of it, eyes watering in protest. 

What a fucking nightmare. 

“Forget it,” you huff, slamming the door closed. You prop the shovel against it and turn to Dieter, pulling your gloves off, “I don’t care, can you just use the doob-tube and turn on the fan in the bathroom?” 

“The fan doesn’t work.” 

You release a big sigh, tugging off your hat as you lean on the wall and kick off your boots, “Of course it doesn’t. Alright, plan C.” 

—

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 8:45 PM

The range hood’s fan roars to life. 

“Have at it,” you tell him as you walk over to the sink and unlock the window, pulling it up a few inches. 

Dieter pulls a palm-sized wooden container from his coat pocket and leans back against the stove, twisting the top open. A one-hitter pops up from one of the two barrels of the container. He takes it and stuffs it into the dugout, “So, what, we’re all trapped here until the storm passes?” 

You cross your arms in front of your chest and shrug, “Theoretically.” 

“Figures,” he mutters, then pinches the pipe between his lips. He pulls a pink lighter from the pocket of his fuzzy coat and brings the flame to the other end. The tip brightens to a glowing ember as he inhales. 

“I thought you didn’t have any plans.” 

He holds the smoke in his lungs and croaks out, “I don’t,” before turning to blow the smoke into the fan intake. 

“Are you upset that you’re snowed in with me?” 

“It has nothing to do with you, sweetheart” he glances at you, then takes another hit. 

“Ok, let me rephrase,” you shift, casting your gaze to the floor, trying to conceal the warmth blooming beneath your skin, “Are you upset that you’re snowed in?” 

He shrugs, “I don’t like being stuck places. Especially another fucking hotel.” 

“Whadda you mean?” you frown. 

Your question hangs in the air while he takes another hit. He grimaces and steps over to the sink beside you, tapping ash from the little metal pipe with his lighter, then returns to his place at the stove and packs another onie. 

“Did you ever watch the documentary Beasts of the Bubble?” 

You shake your head. 

“Don’t, it’s dogshit,” he snorts and takes another hit. On the exhale, he asks, “You know that I’m an actor, though, right?” 

You nod. 

“Right, well, long story short… Early COVID days, I was out in England shooting a movie and they wouldn’t let us leave the hotel.” 

You have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes, sensing heavy dramatics on the horizon. 

“They wouldn’t let you leave the hotel?”

“My friend—well,” he wrinkles his nose, “Yeah, my friend. She tried to escape, got her fuckin’ hand shot off.” 

“Holy shit, seriously?!”

“Yeah, Lauren Van Chance. Pow! Shot right off. Fucking brutal,” he shakes his head and takes another hit. As he blows the smoke into the fan, he coughs a little, then shakes his head, “Anyway—wait, why am I talking about this?” 

“Because we’re snowed in.” 

“Oh—yeah. I dunno, feeling like I can’t leave… my therapist said it’s a trigger, I guess.” 

“I get that,” you search his face, watching him frown at the one-hitter. Apparently satisfied with how stoned he is, Dieter releases a relaxed sigh and sets the onie down on the counter. 

“If it’s any consolation, I promise I won’t shoot you if you try to leave. Like… I don’t know, you might need some snow shoes or whatever, but you could—” 

He waves you off, “Eh, it’s fine. It’s just a thing, you know? Makes me feel all fuckin’ cagey and on-edge. Restless.” 

You lick your lips and nod, glancing at the floor before you look at him, “Anything I can do to help?” 

“Bud helps,” he shrugs, “Talking helps.”

“Does grilled cheese help?” 

It takes him a moment to understand what you’re asking, but when he does, he chuckles, “Grilled cheese is basically a fucking Xanax.” 

“Is that a good thing?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“Then let’s get you a grilled cheese.” 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 10:00 AM

“The Department of Transportation has declared a state of emergency, and urges people to shelter in place as snow will continue to fall in the Twin Cities and across most of central and southern Minnesota through tomorrow. Overnight, some places received as much as 10 inches, with 40 mile-an-hour winds creating drifts—”

DING

Regrettably, your heart skips a beat. 

You tuck your phone into the back pocket of your slacks and cross the kitchen, pushing through the swinging door into the dining room. When you get to the parlor, you find Dieter fiddling around with priceless antiques displayed on the shelves of an ornate built-in bookshelf. He glances over at you, “Hey.” 

“Good morning, did you sleep ok?” 

Nodding, he pulls his attention away from the bookshelf and takes a step towards you, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants, “Did I miss breakfast?” 

“No, what can I get for you?”

“Denver Omelet?” 

“Sure,” you clasp your hands together behind your back, “Hashbrowns? Fruit? Anything to drink?” 

“Yes, yes, and yes—coffee, water, orange juice with pulp.”

“Down here or in your room?” 

“Here is fine.” 

“You got it,” you smile, walking back to the kitchen. The creak of his footsteps mimic yours on the old hardwood floor, so you think he’s going to sit at the dining room table, but the duo whine of the swinging kitchen door takes you by surprise. 

You turn to face him, “Oh, you don’t have to—”

“May I?” He holds up the wooden onie box. 

“Sure,” you nod, clicking the range hood on, then go to crack the window open. 

The soft murmur of the radio fills the silence while you prep his breakfast and he smokes. You absentmindedly hum along to the Christmas music, dicing a green pepper, an onion, and some ham. By the time you approach the stove to start cooking, he’s tucking the paraphernalia away in the pocket of his pajama pants. 

“Have any big plans for the day?” He asks as he goes over to the coffee pot and pours himself a cup. 

“Ahhh, well… I think I’m gonna knock out some tasks that are hard to do when we’re busy. Inventory and deep cleaning, things like that. What about you?”

He shrugs, leaning back against the counter, “Gonna try to keep plugging away at painting ideas.”  

“Oh yeah? What’re you painting?” 

“It’s uhhh… it’s part of a series I’m working on, capturing the essence of interesting hotels across the country.” 

“Really? That’s—that’s actually really cool. I love that. And you chose Blue Moon Manor?”

“Well yeah,” he sighs, looking around, “It’s gorgeous. The original features are well-preserved, all the intricate woodwork and craftsmanship. It’s unique, I like it.” 

“I agree, it’s a special place.”

“I’m just… I don’t know, I’m stuck at the starting line, not sure what to paint. I haven’t found anything here that feels right yet.” 

You look between him and the menagerie of omelet fillings sizzling in the pan, “Have you seen any of the other suites?” 

“In pictures.” 

“If you want, I can show you around today? All the vacancies are made up pretty. You can poke around and see if you find any… I don’t know, inspiration, or whatever.” 

“Yeah?” He grins, “That would be… yeah, fuck yeah, that would be amazing.” 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 2:00 PM

You may be in trouble. 

Not the kind of trouble punishable by anyone but yourself, but still. 

What you mean is that you think you might have a crush on Dieter. Or, more honestly, what you mean is that you know you have a crush on Dieter. 

This revelation occurred to you about halfway through your impromptu tour of Blue Moon Manor.

You were standing in the sunroom of Suite 203 while he wandered around, jotting down notes and taking pictures on his phone. The snow fell heavy outside, coming down in thick wet clumps that made it difficult to see beyond the border of the property. Everything blanketed in a pristine, shimmering white. 

A deep sense of isolation plummeted your heart to your feet. Christmas Eve, when people all across the world gathered with loved ones, and you were working. Not that your empty one bedroom apartment missed you much. At least if you were there, you could lay in bed eating raw cookie dough while watching your comfort tv show. Throw yourself a proper pity party. 

So, there you were, wallowing in your circular loneliness, going around and around the drain of self-pity, when Dieter approached you. 

“Hey, you alright?” 

You snapped out of your trance and looked at him, finding something very earnest and knowing in his eyes. It surprised you. He didn’t strike you as the kind of person who generally cared about what others were feeling. 

“Yeah, just… thinking about how much I’m gonna have to shovel,” you chuckled, brushing off his concern. 

“Sorry, you just looked… I don’t know, kind of sad.”

“I’m fine,” you assured him with all the sincerity of someone whose pants were on fire. 

“Uh huh,” he studied you for a moment, then looked down at his phone and shook his head, releasing a big sigh, “I think I’m ready to move on.” 

“Alright, follow me,” you pushed off the window and walked past him. As you did so, you misjudged your space and brushed up against him. 

Pure negligence or subconscious desire, you’re still not sure, but the contact was a static shock. This quick jolt of heat that made you gasp and jump away from him, stammering, “Oh shit. Sorry, I, um—”

He chuckled, a handsome, dimpled smile stretching across his face, “It’s fine.” 

“I’m embarrassed,” you blurted out. As if it wasn’t obvious enough. 

“Don’t be,” he shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged, “Accidents happen.” 

“Ok,” you laughed and buried your heated face in your hands, then regained your composure and said, “Ok, let’s see Suite 201.” 

“Is that the shitty one?” 

“It’s not shitty,” you snorted, starting towards the door, “It’s perfectly fine, just not as glamorous as the rest of them.” 

“Uh huh. Like the ugliest Miss America contestant.” 

“Sure—”

“Or the uhh… the smallest blue whale.” 

“Yeah, I mean—”

“Suite 201 is to this hotel what Def Leppard is to glam rock.”  

“Wow, ok,” you laughed, ushering him through the doorway into the hall, “Yeah, I think you got it.” 

The whole dumb interaction is all you can think about. It plays over and over again. That look, the accident, Def fucking Leppard. The rush of excitement you feel when you see him or even just think about seeing him.

It is undeniable. 

You have a big fat crush. 

So fucking professional. 

For what feels like the hundredth time, you lose count. You toss your clipboard down on the stack of fluffy white towels in defeat, scrubbing your hands over your face. 

Maybe a cleaning project would be more productive. The first floor common rooms need dusting, or you could scrub the floors, or prep dinner, or blah blah blah… god, it all sounds so fucking boring. 

Curiosity prods your heart. 

You tiptoe through the laundry room, out into the third floor hallway, and linger there for an indecisive moment, listening to the low bass of his humming to himself and the thick pulse behind your ears. A few cautious steps towards Suite 302 reveals a DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging from the doorknob. 

Rejection takes the shape of a stone in your mouth, heavy and hard and cold as you swallow it down. It settles uneasy in your gut. 

Dusting it is. 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 6:59 PM

Every minute that drags on feels like an eternity. 

The grandfather clock in between the library bookshelves mocks you. 

Tick-tock-tick-tock

Begins to sound more like: 

He-doesn’t-like-you 

You glare at it, then down at your phone, swiping away a low battery warning to continue playing cribbage. 

Outside, the wind snarls. Blue Moon Manor groans in resistance, and you wriggle deeper into the sofa cushions, telling yourself: Five more minutes then I’ll check on him. 

It’s so dumb.

Really, you know how it sounds. 

But not once has he put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign. For two weeks, he has been consistently demanding, never letting more than three daylight hours go by without asking for something. 

As soon as you let yourself feel some affection for him? 

Can’t get far enough away from you. 

He-doesn’t-like-you-DING! DING! DING! DING!—

You sigh at the clock. 

—DING! DING! DING!

“Fuck’s sake,” you mutter.

The lights die. 

All white noise drops except the crackle of the fireplace, howling wind, and ticking clock. 

“Fuck.”

Two floors up, something clatters to the ground, then Dieter hollers something unintelligible. 

Well, he seems chipper. 

You climb off the couch while googling power outages in the area. 

Footsteps thud down the steps onto the first floor landing. 

“Hello?” 

“I’m in the library,” you call, not looking up from your phone as you text your boss. 

His steps draw closer, then there’s a light in the doorway. 

“This place is so fucking creepy in the dark, Jesus Christ,” Dieter hisses, “What’s the deal?” 

You squint up at his dim figure, “Storm took out the power. I texted the manager to see if there’s a genny.” 

“Genny?”

“Backup generator,” you turn on your phone’s flashlight, “Sorry for the inconvenience, I’ll go see if I can find some lighting if you wanna wait here—”

“I’m coming with you.” 

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, sir—”

He gestures for you to lead the way, so you start towards the back office with Dieter hot on your heels. Once inside, you go over to the desk and pull open a drawer, fish out a headlamp, and slide it around your head. When you press the on button, a beam of light shoots from your forehead onto the desk.

“Cute,” he teases. 

You look at him, unintentionally shining the light in his face.

He steps back and shields his eyes, “Jesus!” 

“Ope. Sorry sir,” you stifle a laugh, grab a second headlamp from the drawer, and hold it out to him, “Do you want one?”

Grumbling under his breath, he takes it from you and slides it over his fluffy hair, then turns the light on. 

“Ok, this is pretty sweet,” he admits as he starts wandering around the room, “I feel like a miner or something.” 

“There should be a tote in here somewhere that has a bunch of candles,” you tell him as you start rifling through cupboards. When the search comes up empty, you try the closet, where you find a big purple tote labeled CANDLES. 

“Here we go,” you pull the heavy container out into the room. 

“Want me to carry that?” 

The offer holds about as much conviction as a drain holds water. He leans back against the desk, plucks a pen from the pencil cup, and starts doodling on your daily checklist. Barely interested. 

“No, I got it.” 

You lift it and shuffle past him, slightly demoralized, then immediately bump into the doorway, “Oop.” 

His headlamp blinds you, making you wince, then he chuckles, “Here.”

Dieter pushes off the desk and steps towards you, laying a gentle touch to your shoulder. 

When you forfeit the tote, you notice the dark smudges dried onto his hands and forearms. 

“Were you painting?” 

“Yeah,” he awkwardly adjusts his grip, then starts back the way you came. You follow behind him, trying to aim your light at the ground by his feet. 

In the kitchen, he says, “It smells good in here.”

“Probably the roast I made for dinner,” you pause for him to maneuver through the swinging door into the dining room, “I can get some for you after we get the candles going.” 

He holds the door open with his foot and waits for you to pass through the threshold before setting the bin down on the dining room table. 

“Thanks,” you say as he steps aside. 

The white candles come in three shapes: pillar, votive, and stick. All of them unscented, so when you pop off the lid to the tote bin, the only thing you can smell is wax and dust and old flames. 

You grab a half-melted pillar and ask, “Hey, do you have a lighter?” 

He rummages through his pockets and pulls one out, then takes the candle from you. The flint sparks into a tiny flame that he holds up to the wick until it ignites, casting a warm golden glow onto the walls and ceiling. You pass him another pillar. The pads of his fingers brush against your hand when he takes it, sending your heart racing. 

“Hopefully this isn’t a uhhh… weird or alarming thing to ask—”

“Oh god, what?”

“Is there anyone else here?” He lights the pillar and hands it to you, “You’re the only other person I’ve seen around.” 

You take the lit pillar and set it down shrugging, “There, aren’t umm… no, it’s just me and you.” 

“Oh.”

Where hyper vigilance should be, that old warning to not take candy from strangers, or not to turn your back on a man you don’t trust, something hungry and loud starts to grow. A devastating need for him to creep closer. For him to cross the boundary of what might be considered moral or right in such a situation. To touch you in ways that inspire heat between your thighs. 

He doesn’t, though. 

He just helps you light candles and strategically place them around the common rooms on the first floor, uncharacteristically reserved. You both remain quiet while you go about doing this, but the silence isn’t entirely uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that feels more like a peace treaty than a punishment. 

Your phone buzzes with a notification, and you pull it out, reading the text message out loud, “We don’t have a backup generator.”

“Shit.” 

“And power might be out until Tuesday.”

“Tuesday? Are you fucking serious?” 

“I apologize, sir—”

“Don’t do that,” he scoffs, shaking his head, “That whole… hospitality voice thing.”

The words come out sharp and bitter. 

Your blood pulses hot, and you hear yourself say, “I’m a hospitality worker, exactly what tone of voice do you expect I use?” 

“Like I’m a person, not a fucking client or whatever. I’m so sick of that shit, everywhere I go people kissing my ass,” he goes to the sideboard and flips over a glass, pouring whiskey while attuning his voice to a feminine, mocking tone, “Oh, Mr. Bravo, sir yes sir, do you need anything? Do you want a snack or a nap, do you need to be swaddled, do you want your dick sucked?”

He pauses to take a swig of the liquor. 

Meanwhile, steam might as well be coming out of your ears. Just fucking boiling with rage, needling the red danger zone. 

“I hate it. You all talk to me like I’m a goddamn toddler, it’s so fucking annoying—”

“Oh, fuck off. I’m annoying?” 

He leans back on the sideboard and blinks at you, swirling the whiskey in his glass. 

Stomping over to the liquor display, you pour a drink and seethe, “Ever think that maybe if you didn’t act like a fucking toddler, people wouldn’t treat you like one? I mean, for Christ’s sake, dude. You literally take a nap every afternoon and demand we cut the crust off your sandwiches. Last week you threw a temper tantrum because we put tap water in your sippy cup.” 

“Ok, first of all that was a water bottle. And, have you ever tasted the water here? It’s disgusting. Not to mention the fucking—”

“The fluoride, I know,” you roll your eyes, “I know I know I know. It’s gross and contains fluoride and tastes like blood or whatever the fuck—”

“I did not say it tasted like blood,” he quips, pauses to take a sip, which you mimic, then he adds, “It does, though, for the record.” 

“My point is that… If everywhere you go smells like shit, maybe you should look under your own shoe. You dig?” 

For a moment, you can’t read him. He stares down into his glass, twisting his wrist around in a way that draws attention to the thick-banded rings on his fingers. Then he glances up at you, a smirk playing on his lips, “That’s perfect. Can you just talk to me like that from now on?” 

Your head jerks back, and you let out a little scoff, “What, like a bitch?” 

“No,” he chuckles, “Like… I don’t know. Real. Real-er, anyway. You seem cool. You, though. Not your toothless, sanitized worksona.” 

“Jesus,” you scoff into your glass, shaking your head, “I’m not sure what to say to that.” 

“Anyway. I just mean… talk to me like I’m a person, not a fucking guest or whatever.” When you look up at him, he shifts a little and adds, “Please.”

You hold his gaze long enough for your stomach to flip, then chicken out, dropping your eyes to your glass, “Sir yes sir.” 

He lets out a chuckle, shaking his head, “Uh-huh.” 

You appraise the remaining whiskey in your glass, then tip it back, wincing at the burn as you set the glass down. 

“Do you want me to bring some candles up to your room, or will you be dining down here?” 

“Will you be joining me?” 

“Do you want me to?” 

“Yeah, of course,” he shrugs, “If you’re not busy.”

“I think I can squeeze you in,” you tease. 

His tongue pokes out to wet the seam of his lips, then his smirk breaks out into a big, boyish smile, “You think so, huh?”

The innuendo makes itself clear. Your face heats up and you snort, “Shut up.”

“Hey, you said it, not me,” he raises his hands defensively, following you as you start towards the kitchen, “Is it cool if I smoke?” 

You push through the swinging door, holding it open for him, “I can’t turn the fan on.” 

“Uh-huh,” he ambles over to the counter beside the sink and casually hops up onto it, “Is that a yes or a no?” 

After taking a moment to weigh the pros and cons, you sigh, “Just… blow it out the window, ok?” 

So he smokes while you pull the roasting pan from the oven and prepare two plates, piling on potato wedges and green beans and hearty slices of roast beef. You wrap up your activities simultaneously, then move back to the dining room. 

While you set the table, he goes over to the wine cabinet and asks, “Wine?” 

You hesitate, once again contemplating the pros and cons of answering in the affirmative. If the wine goes to your head, you could make a mistake. On the other hand, maybe it would help untangle your knotted stomach. Make it easier to converse with him. 

“Don’t feel like you have to say yes,” he adds when he notices your trepidation. 

“Fuck it, why not?” 

So fucking professional.

With his back turned to you, he surveys the bottles displayed in the wine cabinet, “Pinot? Cab?”

“Actually, I was thinking of breaking out the 2016 Cos d'Estournel.” 

He looks over his shoulder at you, “The what?” 

“Left side, second row from the bottom,” you point to it from across the room, “Dark bottle, white label.” 

Once he finds it, he lifts it from the rack and studies it, “Cos d'Estournel. Ritzy stuff,” he sets it on the table between your seats, “What’s the occasion?” 

“What is this, a role reversal?”

He grins at this. Then, as if committing to the bit, he strides over to pull out your chair. When you raise your eyebrows at him, he smirks, “Humor me.” 

You roll your eyes a little as you sit down, but truthfully, your heart stutters. 

Dieter walks back to the cabinet and picks out two wine glasses, “So? The occasion?” 

“I don’t know,” you frown, “Well, I mean, I do know, but it’s hard to explain.” 

He doesn’t say anything as he twists a corkscrew into the wine bottle and yanks out the cork, then pours the rich red wine into one glass, and the other. 

“It’s just… I don’t think I’ve been in a situation like this before. It’s strange. The storm, the holiday, the manor, the-the you.” He smirks, sliding a wine glass over to you, and you give him a nod of thanks, “I feel like anything could happen or nothing at all and I wouldn’t be surprised either way.” 

Again, he doesn’t respond, but a thoughtful expression creases his face as he takes the seat across from you. Not sure what to make of it, you ask, “Does that make sense?”  

“I know what you mean, yeah,” he leans back in his chair and swirls the wine around in his glass, meeting your eyes from across the table, “The possibilities within the confines of these walls are endless.”

The way he looks at you conjures impure thoughts. Hand between your thighs, nails digging into his back. Bending you over the table and pulling your hair. 

You raise your glass in the air, “To the possibilities.” 

“To the possibilities.” 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 9:30 PM 

You sit at either side of the lush Victorian sofa in the library, cashmere blankets draped over each of your legs. Illuminated by the warm glow of candelabras and the crackling fireplace, you flip through a book on palm reading while Dieter draws in a sketchpad. 

For a while, he seemed quite engrossed in the project. Brow furrowed, hunched over the pad of paper as he scribbled. But with each monotonous tick-tock-tick-tock from the grandfather clock, he starts to stir more and more. 

He finally tosses the sketchpad down beside him, leaning back and letting out a long groan, “I’m so boooorreeeeed.” 

“Drama,” you tease, peeking over your book at him, “Can I do anything to help?” 

“Can I open another bottle?” 

“Go for it.” 

Dieter jumps to his feet and clicks on his headlamp. The dancing beam of light fades out of sight as he walks into the hallway. 

With a sigh, you look down at the book and try to continue reading, but keep losing your spot. Your attention instead is drawn to the fireplace. Its flickering flames seem to pull you into some kind of a trance, coaxing out bite-sized daydreams and nightmares, trying to predict what will happen when you and your fresh new crush start drinking in the dark. 

What happens if we get drunk? Would we fuck? Would we fight? Would he be mean? Or pushy? Would I make a fool of myself? 

You sit here for a while, letting these tiny fires burn out in your brain, so engrossed that you barely notice Dieter mosey back into the room. 

“Hope wine is ok,” he says as he clicks the headlamp off, then he sets out two wine glasses and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the coffee table. 

“Of course, sir.” 

He snorts and shakes his head while leaning over to twist a corkscrew into the bottle. 

“Sorry. Habit.” 

“Don’t sweat it, sweetheart,” he yanks the cork from the bottle, then pours out two servings, “What’ve you there?” 

“Hmm?”

“The book.”

“Oh,” you hold it up to show him the cover, “Cheiro’s Palmistry for All.” 

He holds out a glass to you. You set the book aside and take it from him, crossing your legs to get more comfortable. 

“Palm reading?” 

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “I don’t know, it seemed interesting.“

“Have you ever been to a palm reader?” 

Shaking your head, you take a sip of wine. Then another. A warm buzz tingles on your tongue and you ask, “Have you?” 

He nods, “Yeah. Well, kind of. I dated this girl who dabbled in divination,” he takes a big gulp of wine, then sets his glass on the coffee table and moves closer, gesturing for your hand, “Here.” 

“You know how?”

“I picked up on some stuff,” he shrugs. 

Leaning forward, you place your glass next to his and bring yourself closer, extending your hand to him.

He holds it like a fragile thing, gentle but steady, “Is this your dominant hand?”

You nod. 

Smoothing a thumb over your palm, he coaxes you to unfurl your fingers. His skin is warm and soft on yours as he examines you, thick fingers tracing the creases of your palm. 

It feels nice. Intimate, almost. No thanks to the wine and ambient lighting. 

“This side shows your conscious mind. Your life right now,” he clears his throat and says, “You’re perceptive, intuitive, a little moody. Emotions tend to run the show, but you’re also a realist. You have a passion for life and adventure, but often find yourself paralyzed by the reality of your situation, leaving you in a constant state of dissatisfaction. Logical, hard-working. You’re independent. You’ve had financial and emotional hardships. Not many serious romantic relationships, mostly flings. But this doesn’t mean you don’t get attached easily. You do, but tend to put up walls to protect yourself and disconnect before it gets too serious.”

Static vibrates through your skin. An eerie, frantic feeling of being seen too close for comfort. You swallow hard and study his face, too afraid to confirm or deny its accuracy. 

“Cup your hand,” he instructs, guiding your hand to do so. Furrowing his brow, he examines the soft fleshy bits on your palm, poking and prodding them, “You have a temper, but you’re shy. You’re cynical. Closed-off. Reliable, because you have to be, but you wish you could just say fuck it and run away sometimes. That’s umm… that’s who you are in practice. Other hand.” 

You give him your non-dominant hand. It’s shaky and sweaty and as he takes it you chuckle, “Sorry, I’m… nervous.” 

Grinning, he glances up at you, “So I’m doing well, then?” 

“Yeah,” you gulp, heat rising to your face, “It’s… yeah. Hang on, can I…?”

You take your hand back and wipe it on your pant leg, then reach over to grab your wine glass, swallowing the remainder of your wine. He does the same, then refills them. 

While this is happening, you can’t help but notice the thick current of electricity pulsing between you. 

You take turns stealing fleeting glances, and when you return to face each other, legs crossed, you’re much closer than you were before. Your knees meet his, maybe probably definitely crossing the line of what is considered appropriate distance for you to have with a hotel guest. Neither of you seem to mind, though. 

In fact, it seems like quite the opposite. 

As you extend your non-dominant hand to him, he huddles even closer, so close you can smell the Bordeaux on his breath, and cradles your hand in his. 

“This side shows your natural tendencies. Who you are in theory, who you will be if you follow your intuition,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to yours, then back to your palm as he slides his index finger along a deep, diagonal crease, “First of all, your fate line is strong. If you follow your intuition, you’ll succumb to it.”

“Ominous.”

He frowns and shakes his head, reverentially tracing the sensitive map of your palm, “No, actually. You’ll have a crisis or two. One big one, at least, some kind of a revelation that causes you to upend your life. But it sets you on a path of vitality and happiness and strength. A few smaller ones, not as momentous, but still significant. The hopeless romantic you are, you’ll fall in love hard and fast, but that’s the one that sticks. You freely express your emotions and feelings. It’s… I mean, it seems good. Who wouldn’t want that? Cup your hand for me, sweetheart.” 

You do. 

He smooths his thumb over the mounts and divots, tilting his head at them, “You’re stubborn and you have a strong sense of self. Hedonistic. Imaginative. You daydream a lot. I don’t think you’re as reserved and shy as you let on. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism you learned along the way.”

You look up at him, finding his eyes locked on yours. A deep longing bubbles up your spine and you feel yourself lean in a little closer. He continues caressing your hand, dropping his gaze to your mouth, and asks, “Do you want my advice?” 

“Sure.”

“I think you should follow your intuition. See where it takes you. I think… you need to let go of whatever reservations you have from the past, because it’s holding you back from a beautiful life.” 

There’s a part of you that boils red and hot with denial. It screams from the back of your head that this is all bullshit, he’s just trying to fuck you, to use because he’s bored and tipsy. 

But really, you know he’s right. 

You know you’re dissatisfied with your white-knuckle, fake smile existence. You ignore your desires and inner-most knowing in favor of security. You attribute more weight to the negatives than the positives in every aspect of your life. 

“You’re saying I should follow my gut?” you ask, studying his face. 

He brushes your palm with his thumbs, “Yeah. I think so.” 

You look down at his touch, hesitantly bringing your unoccupied hand to his forearm, allowing yourself to feel his warmth, “But what if it’s wrong? What if I make a mistake?” 

“But what if it’s right?” 

Meeting his eyes, you recognize the longing in his heavy-lidded gaze. You bring your hand to his cheek, sliding your thumb across his patchy facial hair, heart pounding, nerves buzzing as you close your eyes and lean in.

His soft lips meet yours. A gentle, questioning kiss that flips your stomach upside down. You pull back to make sure it’s ok. He seems to do the same, dark eyes flicking around your face before slipping a hand behind your head and pulling you back in. 

The second kiss holds more conviction. A spark that ignites you both, quickly leading to the third and fourth kiss, at which point they start to blend together, a mess of tongues and spit and gasps. 

You climb onto his lap, straddling him, pressing your body onto his. Through the fabric of his pajama pants, you feel his hardened excitement and use it to your advantage, rolling against him to gain friction. He grabs your hips and rocks them in sync with your movements, groaning into your mouth. 

Heat builds steady at your core, tingling and gushing through your veins, screaming for more more more. Aching to feel the warmth of his skin on yours, you slip your hands under the hem of his shirt and slide your palms up his back, pulling him closer. 

He parts from your lips to take off his shirt. You do the same, unbuttoning your shirt and tossing it aside, then reach back and claw at your bra clasp. 

“Let me,” he signals for you to turn around. You do, climbing onto your knees with your back facing him. His fingers ghost along your spine, leaving a trail of twitching, hungry nerves in their wake. 

“That feels good,” you tell him, arching your back with a whine. 

“Good,” he murmurs, continuing the tedious touch, “I wanna make you feel so fucking good, sweetheart. Is that what you want?” 

“Yes.”

When he unclasps the bra, you slip it off while he slides a hand around your belly and pulls you back into his lap. 

He leaves a trail of kisses from your shoulder to the nape of your neck, where he stops to massage his tongue against you. A moan erupts from your throat at the tingling, hot sensation it cultivates. His hands roam around your body, over your breasts and ribs and abdomen, activating all those often-neglected nerves, but never staying long enough to bring relief. 

“Fuck, Dieter,” you whine, “You’re teasing me.” 

“Maybe,” he chuckles, smoothing a palm up your sternum and urging you to lay back onto his chest. You follow the suggestion and recline against him, head resting on his shoulder. Your skin buzzes where it meets his, the warmth of him flooding your brain with feel-good chemicals. He drags his fingers along the soft skin of your belly, making you whimper.  

“But it feels good, doesn’t it?”

You nod.

“Don’t you want to savor it?” He cups your breasts and rolls your nipples between his fingers and thumbs, sending a rush of pleasure to your head, “Don’t you want me to show you how good it feels when you finally let go?”

“Yes,” you gasp, nodding, eyelids fluttering closed, “I want it, I want it—”

“Good,” he coos, pinching your nipples harder, “I want it too. Wanna see you fall apart in my hands. Will you let me do that for you, sweetheart?” 

“Yes.” 

He releases your tits and tugs at the waistband of your pants, “Take these off for me, will you?” 

You roll off the couch onto your feet, facing him as you slowly tug at your waistband, teasing every inch of skin you reveal. He watches you with lust-blown eyes, palming himself as he drinks in the spectacle. 

“Underwear too?”

He nods. 

You hook your thumbs under the soft fabric of your bikini, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I wanna see it.” 

“You wanna see it,” he mutters, chuckling a little, “Ask and you shall receive, Princess.” 

He shimmies out of his pajama pants, keeping his eyes on yours as you slide the underwear down your thighs. His thick, hard cock bobs out and waves hello. 

“Fuck,” he sits up and rests his warm palms on your hips, glancing between you and your cunt, “Look at this pretty pussy, holy shit. Come here, baby. Come sit on my lap again.” 

“If I sit on your lap, will my Christmas wish come true?” 

“Maybe,” he smirks and leans back onto the sofa, tugging on your hand to follow. You turn around and carefully lower yourself onto his thighs, his knees between yours. Guiding you closer, he murmurs in your ear, “Tell me what you want, sweetheart, I’ll see if I can make it happen.” 

You lay back on his chest, once again letting your head rest on his shoulder, and stroke his cheek as you tell him, “I want you to touch me.”

“I can do that,” he chuckles, kissing your forehead as his hands begin to wander, sliding down your sides to your hips and thighs, between your legs to pry them apart, “There we go, baby.”

When he touches your entrance, you both groan. His cock twitches against your back. He drags his fingers up and down your seam, spreading your slick, hissing in your ear, “Fucking soaked for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“Uh-huh,” you whimper, nodding, watching  him pet your swollen clit so soft and slow it sends sparks of need up your spine, “That feels so fucking good holy shit—”

“Yeah? You like the way I play with your sweet little cunt?” 

“Oh my god—I do, Dieter, I do.” 

A feral noise rumbles in his chest, and his fingers pick up speed, working in quick, tight circles as he pants in your ear, “I love it when you say my name. Sounds so fucking good on your lips. Say it again for me, baby.” 

“I love the way you touch me, Dieter, please don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t fucking dream of it, sweetheart. I just wanna make you feel good, make you feel so fucking good—”

You moan when he sinks one thick digit inside you, making your body buzz with pleasure. Your eyes flutter shut and you reach back, blindly carding your fingers through his hair, caressing his cheek, his neck, tugging on his earlobe, anything you can do to ground yourself and somehow repay the ecstasy accumulating thick and hot inside your belly. 

He kisses your palm and asks, “Do you want more?”

A sort of strangled noise comes out of you, but you nod in the affirmative, and he obliges, sliding another finger inside you. They rut in and out at a steady pace, keeping tempo with his undulating touch on your clit. Heat branches out at the center of you, coursing through your veins, making your heart race.

You gasp and nod, “Keep doing that, Dieter, don’t stop please don’t stop holy shit—”

“You gonna cum for me, baby, hmm? Cum all over my fucking fingers?” 

“Yes yes yes yes yes—”

Your whole body clenches as the feeling grows and grows, reaching a precipice.

“That’s it, sweetheart, let it go,” he pants in your ear, and when you plummet over the edge, whole body twitching with blinding pleasure, he coos, “Theeere we go—”

You whimper and clamp your legs shut, letting out a series of gasping breaths as the waves of your orgasm pulse, then start to peter out. Your tensed muscles go limp, and you open your eyes to look up at Dieter, “Jesus Christ.” 

“Yeah?” 

He gives you a boyish grin that makes your chest swell with desire. You sit up and turn around to face him, straddling his lap with his cock pressed hard against your wet, throbbing pussy.

Tracing the curve of his lips, you purr, “I have another Christmas wish.”

“What’s that?”

You roll your hips, gasping at the pressure of him against you, “I want you to fuck me.”

He moans, eyelids fluttering and lips parting, head falling back against the sofa as he grabs your hips and silently urges you to keep going. You whimper and start to move to the rhythm of his suggestion, sliding up and down his length. 

“Wanna feel your cock inside me,” you breathe, brushing his cheek with your knuckles, meeting his dark, wanting eyes, “Want you to stretch me out and make me yours—”

“Holy fucking shit—”

“Do you want that?” you coo, searching his face. 

“God yes, please, baby.” 

You situate the tip of him at your entrance and hook your hands behind his head, then lower yourself down. 

The stretch of him is exquisite. He activates every nerve ending he touches with an aching, hungry need. Your mouth falls open with gasping breaths and pathetic little whimpers, and you hear Dieter groan, “So fucking tight, Jesus Christ—”

“Feels so goooood,” you croak, closing your fists in his hair. 

He sucks in air through clenched teeth, digging his fingers into the meat of your ass, and rocks you back and forth, each thrust rubbing along something absolutely devastating. You blink your eyes open to meet his, all lust-blown and wide with awe, searching your face. His hand slides up to your face, cupping your cheek, brushing his thumb against your heated, damp skin. 

“Kiss me,” he pants, reeling you in. 

You fold over on top of him, meeting his lips with desperate urgency, a frantic exchange of messy kisses marked with gasps and moans. As the heat in your belly grows, you roll your hips faster, and he thrusts up into you, parting from your lips to growl, “You take my dick so well, sweetheart—that sweet pussy feels so fucking good wrapped around me, oh my fucking god—”

“Feels so fucking good, Dieter, don’t fucking stop,” you whimper, pressing your forehead against his, nodding in approval as he grabs your hips and fucks up into you hard and fast, “Oh my god, just like that baby yes yes yes—”

He captures your lips in his and you both moan into the heated, needy kiss, static building and building, spreading hot from your center. It feels so fucking good your eyes start to tingle and swim with tears, and you cry, “I’m gonna fucking cum, don’t stop—”

“That’s it baby, just let go, let it go, let me feel you—”

“So fucking good—Ffffuck—”

The force of your climax steals your breath, ecstasy pulsing liquid static through you, then yanks you down from the clouds and sends you crashing into the earth. Your body convulses and you let out a choked sob. 

“Oh my god—oh my god, fuck,” his hips stutter and he pulls out, stroking his cock to completion, shooting hot ropes of cum onto your bodies with a moan. 

Both of you remain rigid for a few moments, chests heaving, silently reveling the sweet rush of release before going slack. You collapse on top of him, eyes closed, and release a content sigh as you play with the damp curls at the nape of his neck. 

He hums and wraps his arms around your middle, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, “How do you feel?”

“Amazing,” you chuckle, “Wow.” 

“Wow is right,” he snorts, then pets your hair and asks, “Any other Christmas wishes?” 

After thinking about it for a few seconds, your lips part with an answer, but you chicken out and close them. 

“Hmm?” 

“It’s dumb.” 

“Uh-huh,” he pulls back to meet your eyes, “Tell me anyway.” 

You chuckle a little, tracing his jawline, “It’s ok.” 

He just blinks at you, waiting, so you swallow and shrug, “I don’t want to sleep alone.” 

He hums, pressing a kiss into your forehead, then your cheek, “Do you wanna spend the night with me?” 

“Is that weird?” 

“I don’t think so. Do you?”

You shake your head. 

His gaze drops to your mouth, and you lean in to kiss him. It’s warm and soft and sparks hopeful optimism in your chest, like this is something and not nothing. 

When he pulls back, a sly smile spreads across his face, “Your place or mine?” 

—

MONDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 8:00AM

When you wake in Suite 203, it takes a moment for the events of the previous night to catch up to you. 

The power going out, the candlelit dinner, the palm reading, the best fucking sex you’ve had in your life. 

Was it a dream? Did that actually fucking happen? 

But when you hear rustling from the other side of the bed, and feel an arm slip around your waist, pulling you back into his chest, reality punches you in the gut. 

You stay still and wait for Dieter’s breath to fall back into a pattern of soft snoring, then slip out of bed and take a shower. With the power still out and the blizzard still raging outside, it takes a bit of guesswork to navigate the process in the dim bathroom, but you emerge successful. 

When you tiptoe back into the bedroom, Dieter is still sleeping. You get dressed and go downstairs to make some coffee and think about your decisions. 

For an hour or so, you pace around the kitchen island, ruminating over the things he said to you, the things you said to him, the way he made you feel, and the reality of your position in life versus his. 

What felt good and right last night takes a different appearance in the harsh light of day. He could hurt you in so many ways if he wanted to. He could get you fired. He could be using you. He probably doesn’t actually care about you, he was just bored and horny and you were wrong this isn’t something, it’s nothing and you’re no one—

“Hey.” 

You freeze and look up at Dieter, standing by the fridge in a soft chartreuse bathrobe. 

“Hey,” you flash a nervous smile and wave, “How’d you sleep? Can I get you some coffee, anything to eat?” 

He frowns, squinting at you, “Why’re you doing that?” 

“Doing what?” 

For a few seconds, he just stares at you, letting tension twist your guts to shreds, then he drops his gaze to the floor and nods, “Ok. Ok sure.” 

Your whole body turns to cement. Cold and heavy and unmoving. 

He walks over to the French press and pours a cup of coffee, “So… you’re having some regrets, and you’re gonna go back to this now? Miss hospitality?” 

You swallow down a feeling like fire, avoiding eye contact as your vision blurs with tears, “I don’t know, I’m just… I’m just kind of freaking out, I guess?” 

“What’re you freaking out about?” 

“I guess it’s just that you were right,” you shrug, wiping at your eyes, “You know, with your palm reading. I get attached easily and, I don’t know… I don’t wanna scare you away because, umm… yeah.” 

When he doesn’t say anything, you glance up at him, finding a warm smile on his face. Surprised at the expression, you sniffle, “What?” 

He approaches you, still smiling, “Because you like me?” 

Heat rises to your face. You hold his gaze, watching him lean back on the counter beside you, and you mumble, “Maybe.” 

His smile grows wider, digging out dimples in his cheeks, “Yeah? Maybe a little bit?”

You shrug. 

“And you think that’s gonna freak me out?”

Again, you shrug. 

“Come here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, tugging on your hand. A fresh wave of tears floods your eyes when he wraps his arms around you, stroking your back as he assures you, “I like you too.” 

“You do?” 

“Cross my heart.” 

“You’re not gonna get me fired and ruin my life?” 

“What? No—I mean, I hope not. Unless your boss somehow finds out you got dicked down in the library—”

You laugh through the tears, “Oh my god, that would be a fucking nightmare.” 

He chuckles, pulling back to look at you. You hook your hands behind his head, and the two of you stare at each other for a few seconds, humor fading from your faces, then you whisper, “This is… this is something, though, right? I’m not crazy?” 

“I think it’s something,” his eyes flit around your face, and he shrugs, “You know, I’m a lot like you. I, umm… I tend to keep people at a distance, because I fall easy and hard and yeah… it’s scary. But, I don’t know. I have a good feeling about you.” 

You nod, glancing down at his mouth, “Intuition?” 

“Yeah,” he smirks, leaning in closer. His lips press against yours, giving you a slow, tender kiss that blossoms in your heart. 

When you pull back, he tells you, “I do have one immediate problem, though.” 

“What?” 

“I don’t know how to ask you to make me breakfast without sounding like an asshole.” 

“Like that’s ever stopped you before.” 

“Wow. That’s it, I’m docking a star from my review.”

“Uh-huh,” you grin, running your fingers through his messy hair, “I cannot imagine what your review of this place would be.”

He takes a deep breath, then puts on an infomercial voice and says, “Four out of five stars. Gorgeous building, the food is amazing. Truly unique place. One of the employees let me eat her pussy for breakfast—”

You snort with laughter. 

“—could not recommend enough. Deducted a star because she said I was an asshole.” 

“Lovely, but you did not eat my pussy for breakfast. I’m sure I would’ve remembered that.” 

“Not yet I didn’t,” he waggles his eyebrows at you, sneaking a few kisses as he herds you backwards onto the kitchen counter. 

—

MONDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 6:00PM

After breakfast—real breakfast, not oral sex in the kitchen, which was a treat in itself—Dieter went up to Suite 302 to finish the painting he wasn’t able to finish yesterday. 

On paper, you had a very busy day. Your daily checklist gives you credit for every single item and some extras. 

In reality, you cleaned up the messes made yesterday, which mostly involved washing dishes and following a wiki-how on getting cum out of velvet, and put together a charcuterie board for whenever dinner would happen. 

With the remaining daylight hours, you laid on the chaise in the parlor, then the bed in Suite 203, and flipped through books of poems, and successfully resisted your many urges to disrupt Dieter’s work. 

The snow stopped overnight, but the blizzard continued to howl all day. Strong gusts whirled the freshly-fallen snow through the air like some kid shaking up a snow globe. But when sunlight started to fade, so did the wind. Everything settled in its place, and the thick blanket of white finally became distinguishable from the nighttime sky. 

Inside Blue Moon Manor, Dieter completed his painting, then crawled into bed with you. Apparently it had been just as difficult for him not to disrupt his own work. 

He said he thought about you all day. He said he wanted to say fuck it and put the painting on pause to spend time with you, but felt he needed to finish it. He wanted to show it to you after dinner. 

Naturally, your nerves have been buzzing since. 

You insisted on an earlier dinner, blaming the lack of a lunchtime meal, but the look on his face when you made the argument made it clear he could see right through you. He didn’t mind, though. He helped you pour out glasses of wine to pair with the charcuterie board, then the two of you set everything up beside the fireplace in the parlor and fucking demolished it. 

Afterwards, you washed the dishes while he smoked pot by the window. You didn’t even care if your boss smelled it anymore. It seemed trivial. 

As Dieter tucks away his onie-box in his pocket, you recount the thought to him. He hops down off the counter and scoffs, “I mean really, what would he do? Fire you?” 

“I don’t think he even can. There are three people that work here, and I am by far the most reliable.” 

“I believe it,” he takes your hand, leading you from the kitchen to the dining room, “Tell you what, if my smoking gets you fired, you get to stay here with me and make his life hell.” 

You laugh at this, shaking your head, “Yeah, ok.” 

He turns around, “What, you don’t believe me?”

“No, I believe you. I just think it’s the kind of bet someone knows they’ll win.” 

“And winning in this case would be, what? You keep working this dead-end job while I drive myself crazy thinking about you?”

“Hey—it’s a good job,” you release his hand and cross your arms in front of your body. 

“No, that’s not—” he sighs, glancing around as he shifts his weight from side-to-side, “It’s a fine job, I just mean… I don’t know what I mean. I mean I wouldn’t mind it, you staying with me. That’s all.” 

Searching his face, you deadpan, “That’s so romantic.” 

“God, I can’t wait for you to see this,” he chuckles, then takes your hand and pulls you along, “Come on.”

You follow him through the dining room into the dark hallway, where you pause to turn on your headlamps, then climb the service stairs to the third floor, coming to a stop in front of Suite 302. 

“Alright, lights out,” he clicks the off button on both your headlamps and leads you through the doorway, then the pitch black room. 

“Ok, it’s probably gonna look weird in the lighting, but,” he turns your headlamps on, and you gasp. 

The canvas shows a sunroom with windows of blinding white light. Suite 203. And there you are, staring out the window, shadows falling over your face. 

“Dieter—”

From behind you, he slips his hands around your waist and kisses your cheek, then tells you, “I was taking pictures, you know, on the tour you gave me. And… I don’t know, I saw you there and took a picture because you just looked so…”

“Sad? Lonely?”

“Kind of. More like a, uhh… a palpable kind of longing. Sorrow and isolation. Like you’re looking for something or someone, but you don’t know what.” 

You reach back and cup his cheek, brushing your thumb against his patchy facial hair. 

“I wanted to capture that because it is… exactly how I’ve been feeling for years. Just so fucking lost and alone.” 

Butterflies flutter around in your stomach, and you whisper, “You don’t have to be alone anymore.” 

“Neither do you,” he murmurs, “Better yet, people all over the country will see you and know they’re not alone, either.” 

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod, your light bouncing around the canvas, then say, “It’s fucking beautiful, Dieter. What’s it called?” 

“Once in a Blue Moon.”

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #dieter bravo #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo fluff #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x f!reader

[chronically-ghosted]

i crawl home to her

rating: 18+ explicit

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 8.2K

summary: you bring dieter home to meet your family over the holidays.

warnings/tags: discussions of food, mentions of weight gain, brief biphobia, bad family dynamics, hiding parts of yourself to make yourself more palatable, dom!Dieter when his type-A girlfriend needs him to, smut in places it shouldn’t be, a family can be two people, bad jokes, mentions of marriage and kids, one light booty smack, peep the super obvious bob's burgers reference, minimal edited, you can pry the image of dieter in ugg's from my cold dead hands

a/n: i've caved and finally added to the evergrowing pile of "Pedro boy fucks you in your childhood home". @sp00kymulderr i told you i'd get it out today -- it might be tomorrow for you, but it's not yet midnight! i present to you part 2 of merry thanksgiving nonsense2023!

🤍Masterlist

You nearly miss the exit off the gray-slushy highway because you’re trying to remember Aunt Gayle’s food allergies. 

And Uncle Rick’s preferred way of taking his coffee in the morning.

And the right detergent to use when washing your niece’s clothes, or else your sister will come after you with a hatchet. 

“Baby, you’re gnawing your fingernails bloody.” 

You blink, surprised to find your hand anywhere near your mouth, the other white-knuckling the steering wheel, and to your enormous embarrassment, he was right – you’d pulled up several hangnails, leaving tiny pink gouges, right under your immaculate holiday nails you got for the express purpose of looking presentable in all the inevitable Insta photos your sister demands every year. 

“Fuck,” you mutter and curl your fingers into your fist as if to hide temptation. From the passenger’s seat, Dieter frowns.

“Twizzler to make it better?” He spins the red, bendy candy enticingly. Your mind suddenly flashes back to the time you both got way too high on his new bong and he made the exact same motions with his dick. You had never laughed so hard in your life. 

The red candy whipping around in a circle, you groan into the steering wheel. 

“I’m turning around. This was a terrible idea.”

“What are you so nervous about?” Dieter half-way laughs. He pulls his Ugg-stuffed feet off the dashboard and sits up. Crumbs from the Starbucks Christmas sugar cookie spill off his “Kris Kingle My Jingle” sweater and onto the seat, but it’s those fucking earnest, curious eyes that always seem to rock your world. You occasionally don’t like to be touched when you’re stressed, so out of the corner of your eye, you see his hand waver before falling back in his lap. “It’s just dinner.” 

“Yeah, but it’s holiday dinner with my family. They’re all so judgy and mean and every time I come home for more than twenty-four hours, I’m reminded exactly why I fucked off to California.”

“Maybe they’re jealous you’re a hot shot director,” Dieter suggests. “Or that you have a ruggedly handsome movie star boyfriend.” Eyebrow raised, he twirls the Twizzler again and manages to bite it out of the air. You half-way expected it to smack him in the face. “They know I’m coming, right?”

You bite your lip, the last phone call with your mother still achingly heavy in your chest.

“You know what she asked when I told her I was bringing home the one and only Dieter Bravo as my boyfriend to meet my family?” You don’t need to look at him to see the furrow in his brow, the slight curve in his shoulders. You prop your elbow up against the window, rubbing your forehead with your fingers. “She asked if it was a career move. If I was dating you to get ahead in the industry . . . like I’m trying to sleep my way to the top.”

There’s a fraught silence. You listen to the wheels churn dirty black snow so you don’t have to look at him. 

“Then why in the world would you start with my dumb ass?”

Despite yourself and despite what’s coming, you smile. But you fight it, wrapping your lip up between your teeth. So he continues:

“If you really want to make it big, you gotta date someone at least forty years older than you. So, what? We’re talking seventy. But, wow, think of the money. Bet he has his dick dripped in gold just to keep it hard–,”

“Dieter!” You swat at him, smile too big to contain, and he grins, grabbing you by the wrist. “That’s terrible!”

“But I made you laugh, didn’t I?”

You smirk. “Barely. More like ha ha than a big chuckle.” 

He nips your palm, the rough hair on his chin scraping the soft skin. 

By some minor miracle and a forcible act of God, your mother is allowing you two to share a bedroom. Not out of respect for your relationship, of course, but there is simply not enough room to spare. You watch those perfect lips imprint themselves in the cup of your hand and you’ve never been more thrilled to have to share a double bed. God, you cannot be this wet before you have to look your mother in the eye. You retract your hand with a breathy exhale. 

“We don’t have to stay long,” Dieter says, a weight to his gaze that proves he hasn’t completely blown off your concern. He twists his body in the seat and crosses his arms, his shoulder pressed into the seat. He watches you with his head against the headrest. “I hate seeing you like this.” 

“I’m already on thin ice because we’re just staying two days.” You shake your head. “My sister and her family have already been there since Monday and plan to stay the rest of the week.” You inhale, hold, and exhale until you can feel your shoulders drop. “It’s just . . . I’ve worked so hard to make something of my life, to be someone I can be proud of, and it just doesn’t matter to them. They want me to marry a banker or something, and quit my job to do cutesy family blogging on Instagram. They’ve never, ever liked the real me.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see something come over Dieter’s face. Not annoyance, or irritation, but as if someone kick started his brain. But it passes and he brushes the back of your hand resting over the gearshift with his fingers. 

“I like the real you,” he says quietly. “In fact, I really, really, really like the real you. I gotta keep you around. Who else is gonna remember the name of the best Chinese food place when I’m high?” 

Dieter is sweet, knows the wonders his smile can accomplish, with a twinkle in his eyes. A bit crude, a little distractible, but ultimately, well-meaning. However, he seemed physically incapable of maintaining sincerity. Which in the beginning, was also cute, but now, in a moment of crisis, it was boyish in a way that made you worried. A little scared. Like too much pressure and he’d break.

Is Dieter Bravo someone you could rely on? 

History says no. 

So, maybe you’d just carry everything. 

You smile at him and return your hand to the steering wheel.

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

The car squeals as it stops in the driveway, wheels crunching the cold ice. You look up at your childhood home with the same unease and trepidation that’s been there since childhood.

“Go let ‘em know we’re here,” Dieter says as he unbuckles his belt. There’s still crumbs in the knit of his sweater. At least his sweatpants are clean. But there’s nothing you can do about those Uggs right now– 

His hand squeezes yours, centering the universe that’s spinning like the inside of a martini shaker. You can feel the weight of his gaze press into your chest – heavy, warm, forgiving. He smiles, then slides into a smirk.

“Chillax, bro. Your vibes are not gnarly.”

You huff, trying to offer a smile that’s not a grimace. This was such a bad idea. Maybe it’s not too late to go pay for one of those mail-order boyfriends and keep Dieter in his nice California, hippie plastic wrap. 

You hear your name being called from the porch and that smile fully plummets into a grimace. Gathering from that reserve of confidence that makes you look at male writers, directors, and (yes) actors and tell them they’re idiots and get the fuck off your set, you open the door and head around the corner to the front of the house. 

Yeah, in the face of your mother, that reserve is basically a trickle.

She’s waiting for you on the porch, red dish towel in hand. 

“I thought that might be you, darling! I’d recognize that squeak from that rust bucket anywhere.” She smiles, arms wide, as you bend down to give her a hug. You've had to bend down to hug your mother for years now and you still feel about two feet tall. “How are you? You’ve been good? You look pale, but you’ve definitely been eating, haven’t you?”

She pinches your cheek as if to show you all the extra fat you have on your face. 

“Where’s Dad?” You try not to look like you’re tearing your face out of her grip and glance into the surprisingly quiet house over her shoulder. “Aren’t Emma and Dan supposed to be here?”

“Your father is out finishing his latest woodworking piece. He’s been at it for days, no matter how much I beg him to help with the food or the house. It’s all on me again to save the holidays.” 

As it is every year.

“Your sister and her family went out to get more sweet potatoes. They eat sweet potatoes in California, don’t they?”

Here it comes.

“Yes, Mom, they eat sweet potatoes.”

“Oh good, I thought it’d be considered a carb.” She frowns, hands on her hips as if you’re about to get a proper scolding. “Now you told me you’re going to be bringing your fancy actor boyfriend. Damian Bravado, right? I cooked for exactly seven people, darling, a single empty chair will throw the whole thing off!”

“Yes, Mom, my boyfriend, Dieter Bravo, is here. He’s just in the–,”

Someone, distinctly not your boyfriend, or at least not the boyfriend you left in the car, waltzes up the front steps.

Rings gone.

Earring gone.

Gloves that would make Ryan Gosling seethe with envy covering the tattoo on his hand.

His hair slicked back and curling deliciously around his ears, his dark jeans cover the laces of maroon Timberland boots. His black turtleneck clings to his wide chest, the leather jacket broken in enough to be soft, but not so used there’s tears in the seams. And, to top it all off, his cream-colored scarf curled around his throat looks like it came out of a Hallmark movie.

Maybe you are in a Hallmark movie. Maybe on the way up the porch, you slipped and banged your head and all of this is a bizarre, weirdly-erotic dream. Maybe someone actually did call in a mail-order boyfriend who looks exactly like Dieter and the real one is hog-tied in the trunk of your car. Maybe – 

You’d heard of quick costume changes, but this is ridiculous.

“Debbie!” He calls out, like they’ve been best friends for twenty years. He flourishes a wrapped bouquet of flowers, bright red against the white snow, and hands them to her after bouncing up the steps. His cheeks are tinged pink, as if he’d run the block, but without a drip of sweat on him, he’s simply glowing with what could be presumed as the holiday spirit. 

To your never-ending and horrific surprise, your mother squeals as she takes the flowers. 

“Poinsettias! My –,”

“Favorite, I know.” You stumble out of the way when he leans down and kisses her on her cheek. “And they’re fake, so you can reuse them next year. But you’d never know it at $300 a pop.”

Okay, yes, this is a clone of your boyfriend, a walking holiday Ken doll – Dieter never, ever brags about money. 

“I’m not a banker or anything, but I like to spoil my girls.” 

The bastard winks at you. 

Your mother has turned to gooey, drippy putty in his hands. She’s redder than the hand towel and the poinsettias combined. She flounces, flutters, eyes springing back and forth between the ruby-red flowers in her hands and Dieter’s achingly handsome face – one that hasn’t dimmed that thousand gigawatt smile since he first arrived. 

“Oh, oh my goodness – well, this is just lovely – it’s so nice to finally meet you – I can’t believe she’s been hiding you from us all this time – please, please come in, you must be freezing!”

She backs into the house, still staring at the flowers, then as if she hadn’t been living here for the past fifteen years of her life, she bounces towards the dining room, then on a quick turn, heads for the kitchen, then turns again to the hallway closet. 

“Oh gracious – where did I put – it must be – come in and shut the door behind you – you know where your room is, darling, I’ll be back in just a second, I just have to – ah, these are spectacular –”

A door down the hallway finally swings shut and muffles your mother’s insane rambling. 

So dazed, you don’t see him move until he’s pressed you up against the glass etching of the door, his hand palming your hip and the other diving to cup the back of your neck. He tugs you down into his mouth before you have time to blink.

Jesus Christ, mint? His breath smells like mint??

God, he even fucking kisses like a Hallmark Prince. His mouth pulls you into him and your brain whites out – careless of the little whimper you make, careless of the fact that literally any one of your family members could walk in right now, careless that you’re teetering into him as if on string. Your breath flutters down his throat and he huffs through his nose. The tips of his fingers are chilly enough that you shiver at his touch.

He edges the bottom of your lip with his tongue before pulling back and tightening his grip in your hair. 

And there’s that Dieter smirk you are all too intimately familiar with. 

“How’m I doing?” He mutters. His gaze flickers between your eyes, your nose, and your kissed-pink lips. “I’d say I got Mama Bear on my side.”

Maybe it’s a good thing he isn’t always like this. Between the fresh breath scent in his mouth, the fragrance of his much-too expensive cologne permeating your senses, and his thick thigh shoved under your groin, you are embarrassingly boneless in his arms. You pluck your fingers over the soft leather collar at the back of his neck, just as much to inspect the jacket, as much as to release more of that delicious smell. 

“Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?” You mutter, smirking, as you wind your fingers into his curls. “Spoil my girls, what the fuck was that?”

“Ah, ha, ha, ha,” he gloats as he lowers his head to your neck. You expect a warm kiss in the length of skin you’ve exposed to him, but instead his teeth lightly tease your throat above your pulse point and you feel your knees buckle as your face warms. “I can be very charming when I want to be.” He squeezes your ass as if to make a point. 

You hold back a moan, flattening it to a shudder in your chest. You can feel his grin in your neck and he shifts you, pulls you closer and compresses you deeper into the wooden door. You can feel your conscious thought melting through your fingers so you blink, lick your lips, try to wiggle out from under his teeth.

“This isn’t a Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. This is Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” You gasp his name into the foyer of your childhood home when he licks you from the curve of your shoulder up under the soft place below your ear. Your hips jerk unconsciously, baser instincts seeking out the friction of his jeans, and you push against his biceps. “Dieter, she’ll be back any minute. She can’t – can’t see us like this.”

You’ve never heard him chuckle like the way he does, so darkly pleased with himself.

“Once I’m done schmoozing her, your father, your sister and her – what did you call him – cardboard husband, we’ll fuck in front of them and they won’t say a word.”

“Dieter!” You shove him just as your mother returns from the kitchen.

She frowns and you feel the scolding coming, the scent of Dieter so obviously entangled in you. You might as well be wearing a sign that reads, hi, yes, I’ve been recently groped why do you ask?

“Did you forget where your room is? Honestly, what would you do without me? Now, follow me and I’ll remind you.”

Schmooze he did. 

From the same magical bag of weirdly specific and perfect gifts, Dieter presents a bottle of Buffalo Trace bourbon and two very illegal, but very Cuban cigars. Your father forgets to scowl in the face of some of the most expensive bourbon in the world. 

For your sister, he somehow senses that material objects won’t go as far, so he endears himself to your niece first. Asking her questions about her doll, about her school, what she likes to play with her friends and how crazy it is that hopscotch is his favorite game too. 

In twenty minutes, he’s on his hands and knees, black sleeves pulled up over his immaculate forearms, and etching out a hopscotch board with pink chalk. He nods and interjects while your niece runs around him, demanding a dragon in the corner, or a crown in another, and suddenly your biological clock starts blaring like an air-raid siren. 

“He’s so good with kids,” your sister mutters to you from the door to the garage. A single glance tells you she’s under the same effect of watching a hot man play with a child. You’re so aroused and confused you can’t even eye her with jealousy. 

“Mhmm hmm.” 

“When are you going to have some of your own?” 

And you’re back inside before you can see the look on his face as he lifts his head.

It would be insulting to call it eerie. 

It’s not like he’s physically incapable of smelling clean, or dressing nice, or even combing his hair. You’ve seen him do it time and time again for galas and interviews. Hell, that time he took you on a date to get sushi in the tallest building in Toronto, he didn’t look that much different from how he does right now . . . and yet . . .

You feel your face scrunch in suspicion when he remembers your aunt’s food allergies, how your Uncle Rick likes his after-dinner coffee. 

Dieter might forget to put on pants, but he’s never forgotten the important dates of your relationship. He remembers what you were wearing the first night you kissed, but can’t remember to take out the pizza before it burns in the oven. 

This, this Dieter, feels wrong. 

You watch him laugh with your father and uncle by the fireplace with brandy in his hands as you work with your mother and sister to unwrap a dozen saran-wrapped pies. He comes by later and takes the stack of plates from your mother’s hands and assures her he’ll do the dishes, as thanks for such a wonderful meal.

This Dieter Bravo needs a smoking jacket and uses words like “wonderful meal”. 

Initial surprise at his near magical transformation from the car this morning long gone, you sit with this uncomfortable feeling, as everyone around you eats pie and laughs and looks all the part of a fucking Hallmark card for “joyful festivities”, long enough to finally understand it for what it is:

Anger. 

Shame. Guilt. 

Hot embarrassment. 

You look at the man who’s invaded your boyfriend’s body as he charms the pants off your mother and father, and ugly, heavy embarrassment boils over in your chest. Washing the knife in your throat down with your fourth glass of wine all night, you excuse yourself with the last bit of breath in your lungs before ducking upstairs, then stumbling to your childhood bathroom you once shared, and share again, with your sister. 

You lock the door forcefully in lieu of slamming it shut and sit down on the tile, your head against your knees. Rationally, there’s a part of you that knows this shouldn’t affect you like it is. Women would kill for a boyfriend like this – your sister very nearly jumped him in the garage. 

But that’s just the thing – this isn’t your boyfriend. This isn’t the man you spend your days and nights with and this isn’t the man you fell in love with. This isn’t the Dieter you want to show the world. 

A soft knock comes from the other side of the door and it breaks you out of your self-deprecating spiral. 

“Just a second,” you call out as you stand. You flush the empty toilet (this night is filled with ruses after all) and twitch the faucet on for two seconds. But when you open the door, you’re immediately cowed back in. 

“Dieter, what are you–,”

“Are you okay?” Beneath the veneer of the Million Dollar Man, his eyes are soft, coaxing the anxiety out of you. “You looked pale when you left.” He tucks an escaped strand of hair over your ear, watching how his fingers brush up against your skin. He gently tangles his fingers in your hair as he pulls back. He smirks. “Mom’s dressing wasn’t that bad.” 

White-hot shame blooms again and you turn your head from him, tugging your hair out of his reach. You catch his hurt expression out of the corner of your eye. 

“I’m fine. Just needed some air.” 

“You’re not a good liar. I’ve told you that.” His voice is clipped. Not irritated, but not interested in lengthy bouts of misdirection either.

“Well, I don’t feel like bearing my problems to Mr. Perfect.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He crosses his arms, shoulders swelling in the space of the tiny bathroom, and he leans on the sink. 

“It means you’re a better liar than me so I guess you’ll have to do it for the both of us.” 

You know it’s ridiculous to try and move around him – but maybe this Dieter wouldn’t care if you left angry. Even sober, he could manhandle you without a second thought, but between the heat of the drink in your throat and he’s blurred at the edges, you know you’re fighting a losing battle.

“Dieter, please, just –,”

He stands his ground, effectively blocking the door, and you huff, pushing up against his waist with your hands, your teeth bared behind your lips. He steps back, you think you’ve won a mile, but then his hands grasp so firmly around your elbows, your entire consciousness is pulled into where his fingers curl against your skin.

He gently, but seriously, shakes you slightly.

“Stop fighting me. You tell me what I did wrong and we’ll talk about this.”

The past two weeks of dread, and fear, and worry, and shame – shame that this is your family, this is how you go to pieces around them, this is all you can offer him – slam into your chest and your breathing hitches. The fingers at his chest dig into his shirt. The fourth glass of wine makes your eyes hot and tight.

“This isn’t you.” 

You grimace in the bright light of the bathroom and your confession. But beyond your closed eyes, his demeanor hasn’t changed. 

“What’s not me?”

A tear slips out the moment you open your mouth, your throat closing and gagging on your words. You swallow and try again, eyes peeling open to stare at the curve of his shoulder. 

“You’re Dieter Bravo. You dry-clean your favorite pajamas to preserve the material. You do astrology charts of people who piss you off to find out how to best get back at them. You paint until four in the morning and sleep in our bed until I wake you up–,”

Your heart thrusts its way into your airways and cuts off your ability to speak. You know you’re not making a lot of sense, but all you can think of right now is how much you want to peel this fucking black, Steve Jobs-esque, goddamn ugly-ass turtleneck apart with your bare hands. Like freeing a mermaid from a net. He squeezes your waist, his broad palm settled in the curve of your lower back. 

“Darling, I don’t see why this has you so sad –,”

“They won’t fall in love with you like I did.” You lift your watery gaze to him, unable to stop the spilling of tears. You always got teary when you drank a bit too much, but fuck, if you didn’t love him so much, you wouldn’t be so mad . . . at yourself. “I hate that you feel like you have to do this to be accepted by my family. I hate that they can’t see what makes you so special to me. I hate . . . I hate that they don’t see the real you.” 

And out of nowhere, he smiles. 

Never one to shy away from bodily fluids, Dieter kisses your tear-soaked cheeks, his hands rising up your back, taking their time to press into the curve of your hips, the bones of your ribs, the high arch of your spine, before settling on your cheeks. He kisses your wet mouth, thumbs against the corners of your lips like a soft leather bridle. He holds you, just like that, until your heart eases, stops racing in your chest, and you lean more into the kiss, chasing instead of hiding. You wrap your fingers around his wrists as he pulls away.

“With all due respect, this is just another gig for me.” His gentle smile hides no bitterness, no anger. No disgust. “I know what people like this are like, how they think, what they want. What they value.” He smears away the cold tears from your skin with his thumbs. “It’s fun, in a way, to infiltrate their little circles. It’s all fake, it’s all bullshit, and fortunately I’m fantastic at bullshit.”

You let out a watery laugh and he reaches behind you for some toilet paper to dry your tears. He blots your eyes for you before you can even take the tissue. 

“You’re not forcing me to do anything, baby,” he murmurs. “My family was exactly the same way, so I know how the game is played.”

“Yeah, and you don’t talk to them anymore. I just wish I had your bravery to cut them out of my life like you did.” 

Dieter’s mouth twitches. “Well, that had more to do with the fact that I like to occasionally make out with boys, than dysfunctional family dynamics.”

You squeeze his forearm as he continues to clean your face, trying to catch his eyes but they’d gone hard where a moment ago they were soft. He thinks, using the silence to carefully fix your make up with his thick thumb under your eyelashes to lift off the smeared mascara. 

He didn’t talk much about his life before Hollywood, but when he did, you understood why he was so closed off about it.

“Let’s put it this way: they did the cutting off, not me. And even if we have to be completely different people, your family still talks to you. I’m not saying that to guilt you, or compare trauma scars, but . . . most times we can’t pick who we love, but sometimes we have to.” 

You nod, a sense of ease washing over you. His small, I don’t know if I should say this but I’m gonna smile widens across his mouth. 

“It’s okay if they don’t see the real me, because I know you do.” He finally pulls away the tissue, his mouth pulled up in sweet earnest. “What can I do to make you feel better?”

A physical string connected between your ribs and his could not have tugged you faster. Tripping into his wide, warm chest, you drop your head onto his collarbone as you wrap your arms around his torso tighter than his own rib cage.

“Just . . .”

His bulky arms pull you into his chest, the bristles of his beard scratching at your temple. It’s not until you sink away from your own thoughts, into the silence in the bathroom, that you realize your breathing is synced with his. 

That realization hits you particularly hard, that without trying, without meaning to, you become one with him – you turn and bury your face into the pulse of his neck. If you can get to his heartbeat, maybe that’ll calm you too. Dig through the crust of the earth and end up in China. You shift in his arms, and he does too. Dieter cups the back of your head, thumb rubbing the arch of your skull. His entire arm circles your back. 

“What do you need, hm, baby? What can I give you, huh?”

You know he doesn’t mean it like that, but the girth, the weight of his voice has your toes curling in your shoes. His rasp is so often used to light that first spark. 

“Dieter –,” the moment shifts and so do you. You squirm, itching for his face in your hands, his mouth over yours, but he holds you steady. Holds you firm. So firm, you can feel he’s half-hard in his jeans. 

Oh. 

Maybe he did mean it like that. 

You press your tongue against his pulse point, your fingers splayed across the back of his rib cage, and he shudders. You’re about to bite down, when his hands peel your fingers from his back and pinch your wrists in one single, meaty grip. Heart suddenly thundering in your chest, he steps back to allow for just enough room to turn you – barely any at all – and pushes you face down on the sink counter, your wrists clasped over your ass behind you.

Cold marble pressing up against your tits, your face turned towards the window and the towel bar where you used to hang your Barbie swimsuits when you were seven, you feel his other massive palm dip under your sweater and press flat against the ridges of your spine. He hums when you let out a small whine. Flexes his fingers when you wiggle your ass against him. You seek out the marble with your cheek, heat rising under your skin, arousal suddenly burning hot in your low belly. 

“This is what you need, hm, baby? Need me to touch you? To feel you?” He murmurs. Dieter always did like playing with his food. You nod helplessly, cheek sticky against the marble. He shifts his hips into the crack of your ass, with just enough pressure to have you bucking back against him, but not enough to find relief from the stirring between your legs. 

He strokes your hair away from your neck, fingers brushing over your collarbone, gaze languid and slow. Like he can see where he needs to pluck to unravel you. 

“Why is my baby so tense?” He muses quietly, patronizing. His hand maps your spine in a single palm, edging slowly up your back until, with two fingers, he pinches your bra open. You feel the snap of the release and you rub your nose against the edge of the counter, whimpering. “Don’t I take care of you?”

You gulp. “Y-y-yes, you treat– treat me so good. I want it.” 

He has you pressed too tightly against the counter to slip his hand down your front, the edge pinching your hips. So, instead, with your hands still pinned against your tailbone, he palms your ass and rubs a thick finger down between your legs and up over the seam of your jeans. The whine building in your throat breaks into an open moan when he presses your zipper teeth into your clit.  

“Want what? Tell me and I’ll give it to you.” 

“F-fingers – tongue – fuck – y-your cock. Anything inside me.” 

The surprised, breathless chuckle that reverberates down to the button of his jeans seared against your ass has you bending, stretching, just for a glimpse of his face in the mirror. 

His mouth open, tongue curling back and forth over his bottom lip, he’s hungry. Wants so much. Can’t satiate this need without something between his teeth. Grinning around a mouthful of incisors. Patience has never been Dieter’s strong suit. 

With a firm jerk around your wrists, your back arches up off the counter, shoulders pinched, hands caught low near his groin. You know he wants you to watch him touch you in the mirror – he’s stopped before when you close your eyes – but it’s hard to look at the woman reflected back at you, with her bleary eyes, mussed hair, heaving chest, and exposed belly button where his hand hovers between the waistband and a green sweater, and recognize yourself. 

  “No one can take you from me. Do you understand?” He dips his head, arched nose dragging up the curve of your neck, breathing hot through his teeth against the lines where your hair and your skin meet. You can’t help but arch up into his waiting mouth. “Not your family. Not mine. You’re so greedy for me – who else is gonna make you feel this good?” 

“N-no one, Dieter, no one can.”

His hand rising under your sweater, thumb first at your belly button, then up between the spread of your ribs, and finally, it catches under the wire of your bra and he tugs it down. The material rubs against your sensitive nipples – it almost stings, your body pulled taught like a bowstring – the straps falling low off your shoulders, but your sweater keeps it from falling off completely and he goes no further. You whine, eager for something other than the scratch of the bra – something warmer – and push your sensitive tits into his soft hands, but his hand drops, fingering the waistline of your jeans instead. He ignores what you want to show you what you need. 

This is a thing he did. He watched you wind yourself up with deadlines and scheduling and meetings and arguments on set and and doubt and worry and fear and then he took it upon himself to tire you out enough that all of it shattered – crashed and consumed under the white noise in your head. Dieter liked to play however you needed it.

You can feel the seam of his jeans hover just beyond your fingertips, as though his hips swing unconsciously forward while he nips and sucks on your neck. God, you’d give anything to have the weight of him between your palms. 

When he speaks again, you realize at some point you squeezed your eyes shut, forgoing sight to chase the sensation that sparks across your skin every time he touched a new bare patch of skin on you. He pulls his head up from fixating a tender purple blush just below where your sweater covers your shoulder to catch your gaze in the mirror. Panthers do not watch with such hungry eyes. 

“Arms up.” It’s not a command, a request, but the words drip from his mouth, rich and sweet. He lets go of your wrists and your arms flutter above you, his fingers already rolling up the edge of your sweater. He drags it up, snagging your loose bra with it, and peeling them both off you. The immediate heat of his chest on your bare back is so hot, it burns cold. 

“Dieter,” you cry, nipples hardening in the cold air, goosebumps spiraling out along your skin. He’s there for you in an instant. 

He bites the soft, invisible hairs at your jaw, thick paws coming up to clutch your breasts, the sudden swap in temperature making your head swim. He pulls you against his chest, a new outer skin that breathes and moans and gasps, one that has a steady heartbeat your own has synced to. 

With his eyes fixated on you in the mirror, he molds your breast to his palm, rounding your nipples with his thumbs before sliding down between the curves of them. He licks the back of your neck. 

“Face down, baby,” he says. 

“But it’s cold,” you huff, pouting. You smooth your hands over his, his angular wrists, his broad thick forearms entombed in long back sleeves, then settle with your fingers in his hair. His height over you has your torso stretched, your tits bare and ripe, and he palms your stomach to the top of your ribs in two hands. He grunts when you twist his curls, keeping his head still so every bruise and wet spot on your shoulders and throat are all too visible. “Don’t you want to see all your good work?”

He blinks, slow and purposeful, his eyelids heavy, mouth parting. You can’t be sure of his decision, of what he wants, what he’s going to give, when his hands arch up the cradle of your arms, soft enough to tickle below your elbows, then around your wrists. He’s done this enough for you to know he wants you to let go.

You do. 

Fast as venom moves from fangs to flesh, he plants your hands on the counter, forcibly gripping the edge. This is how you hold on. 

He steps up against you again, iron-hot cock pressing without hesitancy between your ass cheeks, and unbuckles your pants without preamble.

“I’d rather just show you.” 

Broad hand bending your shoulders forward, fingers pressed flat over your shoulder, you gasp when your tits make contact with the cold counter, and an instant later, he’s filling your open mouth with his fingers. He wets them against the slip of your tongue and grabs your jaw. 

Your mind fracturing like cracking ice, you don’t hear the zip of his jeans, the groan as he takes himself out – barely feel the rub along your wet slit, the arranging of his fingers around your bare hip, the widening of your stance with his ankle. 

But you do feel it when he’s suddenly hilt-deep inside of you. 

You lurch forward with the weight of it, whining as though scalded at the sudden blinding pressure of pleasure and pain, and you slap a palm against the mirror to keep yourself from shattering through it. Behind you, Dieter looks like someone dislocated his kneecaps. 

“You good, baby?” He pants, drawing his hand out of your mouth, wet spit between his fingers as he cups your hanging breast. The sensation bleeds hot, then cold. Unable to help himself, he nuzzles your shoulder blades. 

You nod, eyes shut, the magnetic north sense of you spinning wildly off-kilter as you try to gulp in as much air as you can. You know you’re about to lose it anyway. He stands upright, not so much as inching out of you, when he plants his feet and nestles your ass against his hip bones, hands wiggling you further down his cock. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” 

It’s said with such wonder, a breathless reverence, that you think he might not have realized he said it out loud. You glance over your shoulder, turning your head instead of finding him in the mirror. 

The facade of the Brooklyn banker is gone. Your Dieter stares, awe-struck, at the body he’s got impaled on his cock like it’s the first time he’s seen a naked woman. Soft, pliant, eager to please, your Dieter lets you collar him, peg him, and give it to you exactly as you ask.

“How do you want it?” The phrase is so familiar, so intimate when spoken from his pink lips, you shudder, a Pavlovian response that’s got you drooling somewhere else than your mouth. He lifts his gaze and finds you staring. 

There is no one else in that moment. Not a single living soul besides you and him in this white-tiled bathroom. You can almost hear the absence of people ringing in your ears. His open, hot mouth draws your eyes away from his and you want every bit of him as stuffed up inside you as you can handle. Twisted around, you lick his bottom lip over your shoulder before offering your tongue for him to suck.

He groans, and you breathe in intimacy you’ve never experienced before. A flushed ache rises from your chest, a precursor to the aches he’ll leave you with by morning. 

You tip your head back and thumb the bristly skin against his chin.

“Hard, baby. Please.”

For all his faults, for all his forgetting, Dieter switches brain waves as fast as you do, tethered together like the gravitational spin of space rocks in the wake of a gleaming comet.

“Okay.”

He distracts you from the pain of that first rough thrust by biting down on your shoulder.

His motions are short, targeted, and right up into the cradle of your cervix, the pace driven, unrelenting and hard. You shake with the force of them, as fragile as silverware on a table near the drop of an atom bomb. 

“Oh – fuck, Dieter–,” 

He pins your arm that had touched his chin to your chest, then his chest to your back, sealing your damp skin to his shirt. The curl of that wretched black turtleneck scratches deliciously against your low back. 

Grunting in low, short bursts, Dieter sabotages his own breathing by crushing you so tight to his chest. He sucks on your neck as if to draw the oxygen straight from your blood. The fingers on your hip steady you, just for his cock wrecks your insides. 

“You wan-na – ngh – you wanna know why it doesn’t bother me?” 

Each word is spat out from between his teeth. He’s giving you your requested punishment as much as he is sprinting after his own release.

“Tell me. Tell me please.” Your voice is scraped raw, breathless and gooey at the same time. 

“Because when you’re my wife, they won’t be able to do a fucking thing about it.” 

Around him, your cunt squeezes, his words sending shocks through your nerves. You whine as if he’d smacked your ass. 

“I fucking felt that. You like that. You want that. You want my fucking cock every day.”

Again, he plants your hands on the cold counter. 

“Push back against me, baby.” You anchor yourself, ass out, elbows and knees locked. “That’s it, that’s my fucking good girl.”

He lifts his body up right, off your sweaty neck and back, and with both hands pinching your waist, he yanks you up and down on his cock in long, rough thrusts, knees bending with enough force to send you onto your toes.  

“Gonna have to take it. Just – fucking – take – it –,”

His leaking cock drives up against that spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll back and body tense again and again, but yanks back before that hot feeling swells. It’s so close you’re dizzy from it. 

You want to fuck yourself on his cock but you can’t time your aching hips right, so you stop trying and bend forward more, exposing more of your cunt to him. 

“Dieter, please –,” 

“Baby, you gotta be quiet. I know you feel good, but you can’t let them hear us.”

The words are out of your mouth, breaking through the thick, drowning fog and through the hindbrain barrier.

“Fuck them. Let them hear.” 

Dieter’s hips slow, punch not as deeply, as if he’s curious what you’re going to say next.

“Take off your shirt. I wanna feel your skin.” 

He listens immediately, a very good boy at heart, and the first press of his soft chest against you nearly has you coming then. 

“Harder again, please.” 

Again, without a second’s hesitation, he kisses your ear before grappling your shoulder with one hand and your hip with the other and he takes up his position as owner and keeper of your sloppy cunt. 

You cry out, high and wrecked, some semblance of sanity knowing you’re being far too loud, and he bucks the words out of you.

“I wanna suck on your earring, Dieter.” He grunts as he doubles over as if trying to yank back an unrestrained and early release. He rubs his damp forehead in the patch of soft skin by your shoulder blade. 

“Say it again.” 

With every rock of his hips, you swing up higher, and higher, your thighs tensing, nails scraping the counter. 

“Wanna put it between my lips and suck until you’re cherry red. I wanna choke on your rings. So far down my throat I gag. Wanna – wanna – lick your tattoos – all of them – ‘til the ink blurs from my spit. I –,”

The noise he makes is pained, weak, a man at the end of his rope.

He pops your ass. “Shut up. You’re gonna come now.” 

His sweaty palms slip against the soft skin of your hips, and he keeps slipping with no leverage. 

“Stand on your toes.” You do and for an absurd second, you think he’s going to pick you up in a bear hug. He wraps his arms around your rib cage, his face nestled into the hot, sticky curve of your neck, in the flipped image of when he takes you after your legs get sore from riding him. Your tits spilling over his forearms, he keeps the ludicrous bend in your spine as well as the short, rough pace. You reach your fingers around the back of his head and hold on for dear life. 

The change in angle has stars blowing across your eyes, has you whimpering strings of pleas, veneration, and curses all threaded together. His own thighs shaking, he rubs the pads of three of his fingers across your clit and you’re over the edge. 

“Oh – oh, shit –,”

The electrical storm that’s been building one wiry shock at a time finally bursts and you go rigid from head to toe, turning to marble, to steel, bright and sharp. You can feel your own release dribble down your thigh, Dieter stuttering behind you.

“Wait – fuck,”

He tries to speed up, or press harder, but he’s coming so hard you feel it expand your cunt and ends up just making a leaking mess. The sensation shivers you through another minor wave. The crest goes high, then crashes, and you slump forward, cold nips be damned, and he follows you down a second later. 

The heated weight at your back and hard, cool marble squishing your tits is too much for your dazed brain to handle. Any looser and you might slip off the edge of the earth. 

Dieter seems to be in a similar state. He not so much pulls out of you as he goes weak-kneed to the floor. A single tug on your hip has you stumbling down with him.

Despite the garland around the stairs, despite the smell of cranberries in the air, despite the veneer of perfect holiday wholesomeness, it’s the slick layer of sweat, grime, and cum over your skin that has you finally smiling. 

You recognize you have been gone far too long – there’s not enough spiked hot cider in the world to ignore two missing bodies and a locked door. Dieter puts his barefoot preemptively up against the door frame and you giggle into his shoulder. 

“Oh, there’s the sound I’ve been missing!” He nuzzles you, a blissful smile breaking open his face, sunlight over storm clouds. He wiggles beneath you, trying to tug you on top of him, but with your jeans constricting your thighs, and his barely below his hips, all it really accomplishes is the two of you rolling around on the bathroom floor.

In a heap of limbs, slick skin, his knee catching the button of your jeans, you bump your nose against his chin, there’s something bright building in your chest – it’s twisting your mouth, pinching your cheeks – his fingers grab your elbow, his eyes lock into yours – 

And you’re laughing. 

You’re laughing too loud, all pretense gone. You can’t honestly care what they’re thinking downstairs.

He manages to get you under him, his damp hair clinging to his temples and tangling down in frizzy strands. 

“I’m gonna say this and I need you to actually hear me.” 

You nod, grinning up at him and lightly tracing his clavicle. 

He swats at your hand and holds it to your chest. 

“Don’t wait until it’s that bad, okay?” You chuckle and he bites the tip of your nose. “Listen to me, you little goblin, I’m trying to be serious for a second.”

You settle under him, fingers intertwining with his over your chest. Sincere Dieter is a beautiful thing to look at. 

“This holiday bullshit can be a lot. Spent a lot of them either in coke up to my eyeballs, or in the bathroom the next day. It fucking sucks that these are the people we can from, but we can’t change that. What’s important is the family we build right now–,”

Your mouth drops open, his words suddenly illuminating a future that had always seemed so blurry and distant. 

“Dieter, I –,”

“I’m gonna marry you someday, so let’s start with us.” He kisses the back of your hand. “We carry each other, okay?” 

You nod, the white light of that future searing a hole in your chest, exposing your heart to the open air, and bringing tears to your eyes. You nod, more assured, before kissing him on his bottom lip.

“Okay.” 

The next few minutes play out just like they would if you were at home: cleaning each other up, trying on clothes only to realize he grabbed your sweater instead, and bumping affectionate kisses wherever they could reach. 

At the top of the stairs, you don’t know what awaits you in the living room. What exactly you’ll be returning to. Who will catch you and who won’t.

But it doesn’t matter. His hand is around yours and he’s grinning petulantly against all the world. 

Is Dieter Bravo someone you could rely on? 

Your heart says yes. 

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo x oc #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfic #the bubble fanfic #the bubble #pedro pascal #merry thanksgiving nonsense 2023

[chloeangelic]

I have permanently removed all of my writing from here because it doesn’t feel representative anymore, and I’m getting increasingly freaked out by chatbots, tumblr farming content (as if opting out will do anything), and all other creepy and nefarious use of AI to steal writers’ work.

My current writing is on my AO3 and I am regularly updating it there, however a lot of my old stuff has been privated cause I’m not happy with it anymore. I have backups of everything, so if there’s a specific piece of writing you miss and that you can’t find on my AO3/you can’t access AO3, please message me on discord at chloeangelic and I will make it available for download/send you the file!

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #javier pena fic #dieter bravo fic #tim rockford x reader #dieter bravo x reader #frankie morales x reader #javier pena x reader

[perotovar]

baby, i'm-a want you — (ch 1) "session one"

gif by me

pairing: joel miller/dieter bravo (just this time. main pairing is still javi/joel) rating: E (18+) mdni word count: 3.5k content: swearing, joel and tommy's southern accents being cute af, dieter being a menace, joel being awkward af (but it's cute), cringey porn dialogue, male masturbation (briefly), one (1) handjob, one (1) blowjob (it's messy), lmk if i missed anything! dividers: @saradika-graphics beta: @qveerthe0ry (ily ♥)

summary: javier peña has been doing this a long time. he's really good at his job. joel miller? not so much. he started doing this to get some extra cash to support his daughters. what happens when they're supposed to do a scene together? aka, the au where most of the ppcu boys are gay porn stars~

(read this first ->) prologue | series masterlist

Joel never would have guessed he’d do something like this ten years ago. Hell, not even five years ago. He’s not even totally sure how he got here, if he’s honest with himself.

He just remembers an, admittedly shady, business-looking man coming up to him and shoving a business card in his face. He asked if Joel had ever slept with men before. Joel was taken aback and thought he was coming onto him in a really bizarre way. He had, but that was none of this man’s business as far as he was concerned.

“There’s no pressure, I promise. Here, my website is on the card. If you see what you like, you gimme a call, okay?” The man had winked, grabbed his coffee, and left. 

Joel was left sitting in the middle of that coffee shop stunned into silence.

Later that night, sitting in front of the laptop Sarah nearly forced on him, he clumsily typed (using only his index fingers) the name of the website from the business card into the search bar.

Love Bites

The name and the man, Max Phillips according to the card, and his invasive question should’ve told him everything he needed to know, but Joel wasn’t prepared for the absolute onslaught of nudity he was met with.

“Jesus–” Joel mumbled to himself, slamming the laptop closed. Not that that would take it away, but he could hope. He sighed and looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head to himself. “The fuck you get yourself into, Miller?” He grumbled.

Slowly, and with one eye closed, he opened his laptop again. Once he got both eyes on it again, the website wasn’t… too bad. Well, it was still a porn site, but it wasn’t anything he hadn't seen before. He started looking around some more and didn’t bother turning it down. He lived alone now, both girls having moved out within the last year or so. He missed the hell out of them, and frankly, found himself bored more often than not. He and Tommy still owned Miller Contracting, but Joel stuck to the delegating and organizing part now. He had too many knee and back problems to keep up on the actual building part.

His finger rolled over to the “profiles” section of the website. He raised a brow and clicked on the trackpad hesitantly. There were several headshots of the men that made content for the website. He felt his cock twitch in his jeans and cleared his throat awkwardly, exhaling heavily. Well, it… had been a while. What could it hurt, right? 

He did have a lot of options…

Dark eyes trailing over the men on the site, he smiled softly. They all had little biographies that explained what their sexualities and preferences were. He snorted a little at seeing two different cowboys; one gay and a little older than himself, the other bisexual and perhaps around the same age. The younger cowboy had a prominent mustache and had a preference for “tying people up”. Bit on the nose in Joel’s opinion, but there was something for everyone. The older cowboy tended toward more amateur-style, “romantic” videos. Joel’s heart softened a little, but decided he wasn’t really in the mood for that sort of thing. 

In his search, he found just about everything; a messy haired, self proclaimed “adventurous” sort, a masked man that liked to roleplay, a clean cut looking man that considered himself a “romantic”. You name it, they probably had it. But his eyes landed on a particular man…

He had deep, intense eyes and a thick mustache. His hair was styled like he walked out of the 80s and he was wearing a thin gold chain. He had a bit of a Burt Reynolds thing going on, and normally that wouldn’t be something Joel was into, but this time, well… 

Joel clicked on his – Javier’s – page and started browsing the videos he had available. His bio said he was “fluid and polyamorous”, but Joel didn’t know what that meant. Wow, he was… popular. That didn’t surprise Joel at all, but his eyes landed on one of Javier’s “solo” videos. It looked like it was filmed in his apartment, but it probably wasn’t from how well lit it was. The video started off like Joel guessed all of them did; a fancy graphic with the words “Love Bites” in the center of the screen before the sound effect of someone taking a bite out of something, and a faint moan. The tips of Joel’s ears warmed, but he pressed on, watching Javier walk onto screen and sit in the middle of the couch that was in frame. 

Javier’s jeans were very tight, but maybe even moreso because of how fucking hard he looked to be. Joel swallowed a lump in his throat, his cock twitching again. Javier had an easy smirk on his handsome face, but he seemed like he didn’t have the cockiness that Joel expected a pornstar to have. The video seemed like it was personally sent to Joel and that thought made Joel’s cock stand to attention almost comically quickly. Unzipping his own jeans, he groaned at the constriction leaving, allowing him to breathe easier. He squeezed his cock and looked back at the video, Javier already getting started without him. He was stroking his own cock slowly, almost teasingly, biting a plump bottom lip. Joel moaned and shut his eyes for a quick second as he took himself in hand–

Ring, ring.

Joel groaned, squeezing his cock harder, and dug his phone out of his pocket. Tommy. He sighed and paused the video on Javier’s blissed out face and big hand wrapped around his–

Ring, ring.

“Christ, Tommy, what is it?” He grumbled, pressing the too-new-for-his-liking phone to his ear.

“Jesus, who pissed in your oatmeal this mornin’?” Tommy’s easy voice filtered in, a chuckle wrapped around his words. “And why are ya outta breath? Ya okay?”

“What–? Yeah, ‘m fine, Tommy. Why y’callin’?”

“Wonderin’ if ya could stop by tonight. Maria’s makin’ meatloaf and I know ya like it.”

Joel did really like Maria’s meatloaf. He sighed to himself and shut his laptop, his cock having softened considerably since hearing his brother’s voice. “Yeah,” he cleared his throat, trying to subtly zip up his jeans while he held the phone against his shoulder. “I’ll come over in a little bit, just gotta… gonna make a phone call.”

“Ooh, ya finally have a date, old man?”

“Can it,” Joel grunted. “‘M forty-three. Ain’t that old. And no, I was gonna call Sarah. See how her classes are goin’.”

“Send her our love, will ya? ‘N tell her she’ll have a cousin soon. Maria’s ‘bout to pop any day. ‘M scared to death,” Tommy sighed. The happiness was clear in his voice, though. Joel was happy for him, and smiled to himself. “How’s Ellie doin’, by the way?”

“Good. Think she said somethin’ ‘bout joinin’ a… roller derby team? Don’t rightly know, but,” he shrugged to himself. “Sounded like somethin’ she’d like, way she was describin’ it.”

Talking on the phone with Tommy always went the same way. He’d find a way to chew up a couple hours of your time, but Joel never minded. Once they said their goodbyes and their I-love-yous, Joel picked up Max Phillips’ business card and sighed, rubbing his thumb over the phone number.

What could it hurt, right?

That was two years ago. He’s been working for Love Bites for two years and had been avoiding Javier Peña as much as he could.

Joel’s never been good at… initiating conversations. Ellie would always give him shit for it. She usually went up to whoever had caught Joel’s eye and slyly made it her goal to get them to come over to him. 

But Ellie wasn’t here and she never would be. His girls knew what he did and even if they were a little concerned for him at first, they saw how much happier he’d been since joining. He was healthier, gaining a bit of “chub” as Sarah called it, and a healthier glow to his skin. He was on camera more often now, so he had to eat well and work out a little more. He didn’t do anything too crazy, and the audience that watched his videos had a lot of positive opinions and comments about his physique. It made him blush to think about it for too long, so he tried not to.

What was he saying?

Oh, right. Avoiding Javier Peña.

He’d had a huge crush on him ever since that first video he watched, and frankly, didn’t want to make a fool of himself if he talked to him. He’s filmed one video with him and it was the best Joel had felt in years. He almost came too quickly, and the video was supposed to be twenty minutes long. They had to pause so Joel could calm himself down, but Javier was patient and lovely with him. Javier had been doing this a lot longer than Joel had, so he wasn’t worried, which made Joel feel better. Just a little embarrassed. Afterwards, he had to leave, making up a story about seeing his girls for dinner that night.

“Javi!”

Joel’s eyes snapped up from his phone. He was in the middle of texting Sarah, saying that he’d call her when he got home from work. He had a scene with Dieter today.

And there he was. God. Joel’s cheeks flushed at the sight of Javier standing in the hall in his robe. He must’ve just finished his scene with Shane, the new kid. He couldn’t hear what he was saying, but the sound of Javier’s deep, commanding voice was enough to send a chill down Joel’s spine. Before he knew it, Javier was talking animatedly with Steve, another actor, as they walked off down the hall and disappearing around a corner.

He knew, realistically, relationships between porn actors could happen. Silva and Jake had been together for years. Joel’s problem with that was, well… Joel. His last real relationship was with Sarah’s mom years ago, and when the girls were in high school he had a relationship with this guy, Ezra for a while.

Smack!

“Jesus–!” Joel jumped, holding onto one of his ass cheeks protectively. Only one person would have done that.

“Hey, handsome,” Dieter grinned, sticking a hand down the back pocket of Joel’s jeans and squeezing. “Getting lost in Javi’s eyes again?” He winked.

“N-no! I am not,” Joel grumbled, finishing off his text and shoving his phone in his pocket.

Dieter snorted and rolled his eyes, then removed his hand to hold it out for Joel to take. “C’mon, big guy. You get to cum on my face today,” he smirked.

Filming with Dieter always felt good. He was a bit wild for Joel’s personal tastes, but he always made sure Joel was comfortable, and today was no different. 

Joel was playing a “plumber” that needed to work on Dieter’s “pipes”. This of course led to Dieter offering to “pay” in his own way. 

“Oh, come on, big guy like you doesn’t need money, right?” Dieter recited his lines expertly, running a hand down Joel’s t-shirt covered chest. “Bet it gets lonely doing this sort of work, huh?”

Joel had gotten a lot better at the acting part of things over the past couple of years. He was super stiff (and not in the right way) in the beginning, but now, he easily plastered on a smirk, eyes glued to Dieter’s lips. “Sometimes,” he shrugged, a big hand hovering over Dieter’s shoulder. Dieter saw the hand out of the corner of his eye and grinned, curling his fingers around Joel’s thick wrist and moving it down to his ass.

Joel smirked, squeezing the plump flesh appreciatively. “Bit forward o’ you,” he rumbled.

Dieter visibly shivered and bit his lip. “Sexy guy like you, of course I am,” he breathed. He leaned forward and kissed Joel messily, the hand on Joel’s torso moving down to unzip his jeans. Joel was already painfully hard and grunted into Dieter’s mouth when his pants were opened and lowered enough to pull his cock free. Dieter moaned and curled his fingers around Joel’s shaft, pumping rhythmically.

They stayed like that for a while; open mouth kisses, heavy breathing from Joel, and Dieter’s moans being picked up by the mics. 

Dieter pulled away to look down at the thick cock in his hand and bit his lip at the sight. “Fuck,” he groaned, his own cock twitching in his sweats. “Can I suck your cock?” He looked up at Joel demurely, eyes big and nearly black with desire.

Joel forgot he was supposed to be acting for a minute and grunted, hips bucking into Dieter’s grasp. “F-fuck, yeah,” he nodded, eyes glazed over. Dieter smiled and guided Joel over to the couch on the set. Technically, Dieter was supposed to get on his knees in the “kitchen”, but he knew Joel wouldn’t be able to stand for that long with his back problems. Sometimes Dieter’s improv classes came in handy. Max couldn’t complain too much, as long as Dieter sucked Joel off, then the video was still following the script.

Joel grunted as he sat, hard cock swaying slightly. Dieter giggled a little and happily got down on his knees, hands traveling up and down Joel’s thighs appreciatively. “Such a pretty cock,” he hummed, licking his lips as he watched it twitch in front of him, a drop of pre-cum gathering at the tip. 

“Why dontcha put that mouth to use, then?” Joel smirked, gripping the base and tapping the head against Dieter’s cheek. “Want your discount, right?”

Dieter smiled and opened his mouth wide, eyes shut in pure bliss. Joel gripped Dieter’s messy curls and held him still as he hit the head of his cock against Dieter’s tongue. Dieter moaned and opened his eyes, watching Joel’s face for any cues to stop. They never came, but it was something they all had to keep an eye on. When everything seemed to be going well, he happily wrapped his mouth around the head of Joel’s cock and started bobbing his head up and down.

He moaned, the vibrations traveling down Joel’s cock and up his spine, making Joel groan in return. “Mmm, knew you’d be good with your mouth,” he grinned, holding the back of Dieter’s head to set a pace Joel liked better.

Dieter heard a cameraman move to his right to get a better angle of his mouth, so he amped it up a little. He got messier, saliva dripping down along the sides of Joel’s shaft. Joel moaned weakly, resting his head on the back of the couch, but keeping one of his hands tangled in Dieter’s messy curls. Dieter started bobbing his head slower, eyes locked on Joel’s face as he moved further down his shaft, taking as much as he could down his throat. He choked slightly and pulled off, pre-cum and saliva covering his mouth and Joel’s cock. He smiled up at Joel and panted heavily, curling his fingers around the base to pump the thick cock.

Joel’s eyes rolled back and he grunted, hips bucking off the couch. “C’mere,” he breathed, heavy work boots landing heavily on the set floor as he stood. “Gonna fuck your face.”

Dieter shivered at the low timbre of Joel’s voice and nodded happily up at him. He pulled his sweats down and gripped his own cock in hand and started stroking himself rhythmically. Dieter opened his mouth for Joel obediently and nearly choked again when Joel shoved his cock down Dieter’s throat. He moaned weakly when Joel’s hips started moving, his heavy balls slapping against Dieter’s chin.

Dieter just had to take it, the lewd sounds of Joel fucking his face filling the otherwise quiet room. He fucking loved it because Joel was subtly massaging Dieter’s scalp and it sent shivers down his spine. His fist was almost a blur over his own cock and tears leaked out of his eyes, a blush high on his cheeks.

“Mmm, bein’ such a good boy f’me,” Joel grunted, biting his lip to rein it in a little. Dieter moaned at the praise, eyebrows downturned in pleasure. “Yeah? Like bein’ my good boy?”

Dieter whined and nodded as best he could, eyes completely glazed over. Joel slowed down his hips a little and let Dieter breathe for a minute. Dieter panted hard, a near-dopey smile on his face. “Come on my face,” he breathed heavily, extending his tongue for Joel. “Please.”

It was Joel’s turn to shiver as he slapped the head of his cock against Dieter’s face again. “Gonna have to earn it,” Joel smirked, reciting his lines as well as he could. 

Dieter whined and pouted up at him, his own hand slowing down a little. He didn’t say anything, letting Joel continue.

“Make me come, and I’ll paint this pretty face o’ yours.”

Dieter’s face lit up and he curled his fingers around Joel’s shaft. He watched Joel’s face while he wrapped his lips around the head and bobbed his head. His free hand held Joel’s hip and subtly moved to his ass and squeezed. He moaned around Joel’s cock and shut his eyes briefly before obediently looking up at him, big eyes wet and innocent. 

“Atta boy,” Joel grunted, cupping Dieter’s face lovingly. Dieter removed his mouth to kiss down his length as he stroked him, attaching his lips to one of Joel’s balls. “Mmm, fuck,” Joel breathed, tipping his head back. 

The hand on Joel’s ass moved slightly until one of Dieter’s fingertips prodded at Joel’s asshole. Joel grunted in surprise and smiled down at Dieter. “Really want me all over ya, huh?”

“Yes,” Dieter nodded, sucking one of Joel’s balls into his mouth. “Please.”

“Keep talkin’ like that and– ooh, fuck – Jus’ might get your wish,” Joel panted, shutting his eyes. He felt the build up in his lower stomach, his cock twitching violently in Dieter’s hand. “C’mere, baby boy,” he grinned, taking his cock back to stroke himself over Dieter’s face.

Dieter was buzzing, lifting Joel’s t-shirt to lovingly caress his hairy tummy, mouth open wide and obedient. 

Joel felt his balls draw up and his hips buck until– “Fuck–! Shit,” He moaned, thick ropes of come spurting out from the tip of his cock and landing on Dieter’s face and mouth. He caressed Dieter’s hair, thick fingers massaging his scalp while the other hand stroked himself until his balls were completely empty. 

Dieter happily licked his mouth clean, and hid his face in Joel’s stomach, whimpering into the sweaty skin. He moaned weakly, his entire body trembling as he came, completely untouched. Dieter was the only one in the cast that could do that, and he loved showing it off as much as he could.

“Shit,” Joel smiled, petting Dieter’s sweaty curls back and out of his face. “Ain’t you a sight.”

“Cut!”

Dieter deflated, a huge grin on his face. He started giggling into Joel’s stomach and smiled up at him. “Fucking love your cock, Joel,” he hummed happily.

“That’s what you always say,” Joel snorted, helping him up onto his feet. Dieter was a little wobbly still and cuddled into Joel’s side. He always got a little clingy after a scene, but Joel didn’t mind. As different as they were, Joel would probably consider Dieter one of his closest friends. It always worked in their favor, their natural chemistry and closeness coming through the cameras.

They were handed a couple towels and some water, the both of them taking them gratefully. Max came up to them, his usual shit-eating grin on his face. Joel always thought Max reminded him of a vampire, with that mischievous glint in his eye that always seemed to be there.

“Great show, boys,” Max started. “Dieter, d’you mind if I steal Joel away for a second?”

Dieter whined and clinged onto Joel tighter. Joel grinned and hugged him back. “Sorry, boss, looks like he ain’t leavin’ anytime soon.”

Max rolled his eyes, but continued anyway. “Fine. Meant to tell you earlier, but things got rolling, you know how it is–”

“What is it, Max?”

“You’ve got a scene with Javier tomorrow.”

If there were a record player anywhere, Joel would probably hear it scratching right about now. Dieter paused too, and looked up at Joel with worried eyes. He knew all about Joel’s crush, and was always telling Joel to just go for it. Joel froze briefly, but tried to school his emotions as best he could.

“O-okay, um. What time?” He asked shakily, gripping Dieter’s fluffy robe tighter.

“I’m thinking around noon? That way Javier can prepare, y’know?”

Preparing was always done before a particularly intense scene. Joel tried really hard not to think about Javier wearing a plug for a while before coming to set. 

“Right,” Joel nodded, cheeks going a little pink. “I’ll be there.”

“You’re the best, Joel!” Max snapped his fingers and walked off, talking to a couple of assistants. 

Dieter tapped on his chest and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “You really gotta say something, Joel,” he said softly. 

Joel sighed and nodded. He knew that. 

He just didn’t know what.

#joel miller #dieter bravo #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller series #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo series #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal cinematic universe #ppcu fanfiction #oaksfics

[yomi345345345]

#dieter x reader #digital art #art #pedrohub #pedro pascal #artwork #fanart #pedro pascal fandom #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo #dieter bravo fanfic

[chiriwritesstuffnotifs]

The New Girl in Tinseltown - Chapter 1 - Ukiyo

A Dieter Bravo x Actress! Reader PR Marriage AU

Series Masterlist │ Next Chapter

Chapter Rating: E (18+, MDNI)

Chapter Summary: Tired of being pigeonholed into your good girl persona, you take a chance on a night out with Dieter Bravo, America's favorite Bad Boy. A drunken night leads to the two of you in Las Vegas...

Chapter Warnings and Tags: (Not So) meet cute, PR Relationships, what happens in Vegas ends up in the headlines, Dieter just does not give a FUCK, Smut, SO MUCH SMUT, a look at the inner workings of Tinseltown and the sleaziness it comes with, Somnophilia, Slightly Non-Con (but she's into it), cunnilingus, SLOW BURN WE DONT KNOW IT, this is unhinged, no use of y/n, No beta we die like men!

Word Count: 3.1 K

A/N: After the insistence of some of my readers wanting me to write a Dieter story, I finally bit the bullet! I will be honest - it's tough for me to watch 'The Bubble' in its entirety. Hence, I heavily relied on TikTok and its fabulous edits of Dieter to develop his characterization. This was really fun for me to write, and I hope you all enjoy the ride our favorite trash panda is about to take us on! Gird your loins and your panties, babies!

Ukiyo - living in the moment, detached from the things in life that bother us.

You feel like you're trapped in a surreal, fucked-up dream.

Memories from the night before flooding your mind as you gradually pull yourself back into consciousness. 

"It's nothing personal, Dollface, it's just business," the sleazy hot-shot producer whispers in your ear. His hands graze your lower back, and you force a smile amidst the swarm of paparazzi. "I'm not a miracle worker, baby. They want an Angelina, not a Jennifer. Casting America's sweetheart in an R-rated movie? It's a tough sell."

"I'm not exactly jailbait," you retort, turning toward the paparazzo bellowing your name, a practiced smile on your face. "I believe I'm ready to explore different roles-"

"Well, that 'no-nudity' clause is really messing you up, baby. Times are changing, and they want bold, daring, sexy actresses," he remarks, his tone oozing condescension. 

The producer's creepy breath tickles your ear, and his hands venture lower down your back. "I can help you with that," he whispers, and the suggestion feels like a toxic cloud hanging in the air, making your skin crawl.

You toss and turn in bed, gripping the silky sheets beneath you. The memory of his touch haunts your thoughts, leaving you uncomfortable and anxious. 

"Dieter Bravo," your publicist cautions with a smile, guiding you down the carpet, "is someone you want to avoid tonight, Doll. Save yourself the hassle, seriously."

You furrow your brow, glancing down the red carpet to where Dieter stands. His unruly curls frame his face as he grins widely for the photographers. It's as if he senses your gaze; suddenly, his eyes lock onto yours, eyebrows raised in surprise. A smirk plays on his lips, and he blows a kiss in your direction.

"He's nothing but trouble, I'm surprised they let him on the carpet after what happened last year," your publicist states matter-of-factly.

"Care to remind me?" you breathe, smiling at the cameras. "He seems like a riot."

Your publicist shoots you a look. "Well, I don't consider getting arrested for public intoxication, disorderly conduct, and lewd behavior as something amusing-"

"I don't know, seems like he would be a fun time," you muse, playfully pushing your breasts in Dieter's direction. "Maybe that's what my career needs – someone like Dieter Bravo corrupting America's Sweetheart." Dieter leers at the gesture, waggling his tongue and adjusting himself as he walks backward into the venue, a mischievous grin on his face. "... besides, he hasn't been shy about wanting to 'put his face in between my tits', maybe I should just let him have at it."

"Are you seriously considering tanking your career before it's even taken off?" your publicist groans, steering you into the venue and handing you a flute of champagne. "People like him are like a virus; he'll infect everything about you." He lets out a sigh. "I understand you want to break out of the girl-next-door mold, but getting involved with Dieter Bravo is not the answer."

You take a sip of your champagne as you continue to eye fuck Dieter from across the room. "I don't know, maybe it is."

You're suddenly gasping in pleasure as you're finally jolted awake, the feeling of someone's hot breath against your skin as you arch your back at the sudden intrusion. "Fuck-" you sigh, looking down at the mass of unruly curly hair in between your legs. Dieter licks and parts your folds as you lock eyes with his, a shit-eating grin on his face. You swear you hear an insistent ringing in your head.

"Dieter?" you moan, realizing that what you're hearing is your ringtone from across the hotel room that you don't remember being in. "What-"

"Shh, baby. Let your husband eat you for breakfast," he mumbles against your pussy, his teeth scraping at your clit. He grabs onto your breast, squeezing and pinching your nipple as he sticks his other finger into you, eating you out so thoroughly like a starved man. Your cellphone rings again and you're too overwhelmed to care, your head pounding from whatever you drank the night before.  

"Husband?" you ask confusedly as you feel yourself about to come. 

"That's right, Doll, fuck I feel you squeezing the shit out of my fingers, are you gonna come for your husband?" he pleads, and you realize that you're both stark naked and that you somehow ended up from LA to Las Vegas, getting eaten out by America's Bad Boy in a suite at the Cosmopolitan.  How in the fuck did we end up here? you ask yourself in a panic.  Why the fuck is Dieter Bravo calling himself my husband?!

You're on your fifth glass of whatever champagne the venue is serving when you suddenly feel someone's hot breath against your ear. "I can't help but notice that you've been eye fucking me the entire night," Dieter groans, taking a seat next to you. "I guess my little ploy of trying to get your attention with that Wired interview worked out in my favor-"

"You know, there are more normal ways to get a girl's attention-"

"Ah, but you're America's Sweetheart, and your pitbull of a publicist won't let me near you, I had to let my-" he gazes at your cleavage, "intentions very clearly known."

"Well, I don't know if it's clearly known," you whisper. "I think you're just going to have to spell it out for me."

He smiles, leaning back in the seat as he spreads his legs, caging you in. "Do you want to have sex with me, Dollface?"

Your phone ringing a third time snaps you out of your reverie as you simultaneously chase your impending orgasm that your husband? is working so damn hard trying to get you there. "Fuck Dieter, I need-"

"What do you need, baby?" he pants, the sound of your slick as he licks at your folds aggressively, the loud squelching echoing throughout the room. "My wife has such a pretty little pussy, my fucking GOD," he praises, "Fuck, if this is heaven, I'm begging to see what hell has in store for me-"

It's obscene.

"Do you need my cock? Didn't get enough of it yesterday, huh?"

"My phone-"

"Fuck your phone," he dismisses as he starts to pump another finger into you, "Do you want your hubby's cock or not, baby?"

"Ye-"

Your legs are suddenly pulled to the edge of the bed, Dieter entering you in one fluid stroke. "Good enough answer for me." He pulls himself back, grabbing one of your legs and wrapping it around his waist as he thrusts aggressively back into you, his balls slapping your asscheeks as he begins to pound into you with a brutal pace. "Fuck, only took me being inside of you the whole night for you to take me in so fucking well-"

You chuckle as he accelerates out of the venue's parking garage in his PA's Mustang convertible, cackling like a madman as he maneuvers through the dwindling streets of LA. "Are you hungry, Dollface?" he yells, almost running a red light, his eyes fixed on the glowing In and Out sign in the distance.

"I shouldn't, I have that screen test next week-"

"Fuck the screen test!" he shouts. "The night is young, and you are gorgeous. Let Dieter take care of you, baby... while I still have you in my grasp. I ain't gonna waste a moment I have you in my orbit!"

He pulls into the In and Out parking lot, cutting the engine, and pulls you into his lap, his face immediately diving into the valley between your breasts. "You can suffocate me with these tits and I would die a happy man," he mumbles against your skin, his growl reverberating throughout your entire body like wildfire. "What do you say, Doll? Would you do me the honors?"

"Fuck Dieter," you moan, tipping your head back in pleasure as his tongue teases the edge of your dress covering your breasts. "Grab my tits," you beg, grabbing his hands for good measure.  

"Dieter! My Man!" someone shouts in the distance. "What the fuck are you doing here?!"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he yells back, "I'm about to fuck this beautiful woman in an In and Out parking lot, what are you doing here?"

"Fuck, can I take a pic, man?" the fan shouts as he approaches the convertible.  

Dieter is railing you into oblivion when there's suddenly a heavy knock on the door. Your phone is ringing off the hook, and you can't help but desperately whine as Dieter wraps his arms around your neck, pulling you into a kiss.  "Fuck, can't I fuck my wife in peace?!" he growls at the door, his pace quickening as he urges you to come on his cock. "I ain't answering the fucking door until you milk me dry, baby girl, you gonna come for me?"

"Fuck Dieter, don't fucking stop, please-" 

The knocking on the door echoes throughout the room as Dieter suddenly arches his back, squeezing your thighs harshly as he explodes deep into your pussy, his fingers finding your clit as he desperately rubs circles, begging you to come. He slaps it for good measure, the sharp sudden pain making you arch off the bed as you grab ahold of him, screaming into his neck as you're suddenly blinded by a feeling of absolute fucking bliss that no one has ever been able to pull from your wrecked, shaking body.

"That's the fucking spirit, Doll, give me every-"

"OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!" you suddenly hear. "I KNOW YOU'RE FUCKING IN THERE!" 

Dieter pulls himself out in a huff, not bothering to cover himself as he storms over to the hotel room door, opening it harshly for good measure. "What do you FUCKING WANT-" he growls to the intruder, only to be met with the widening eyes of your publicist, his PA, and the Hotel Manager. Your publisher harshly pushes himself through the threshold, pushing Dieter to the wall as he makes his way to the bedroom, and you hurriedly cover yourself as he bursts through the door.

A phone is thrust into your face, the image of you and Dieter in front of the Graceland Wedding Chapel in the background as you hold your hand up for the camera, Dieter kissing your cheek as the diamond ring on your finger winks back at you. You lift your hand to your face, your eyes widening at the ring on your finger as your publicist glares at you, his chest heaving.  

"Do you want to tell me what the fuck happened last night?"

"So how do we fix this?" your publicist groans, the wrinkle between his brows more pronounced. "Maybe we can get this sham of a marriage annulled-"

"I have an idea," Dieter's PA chirps in, "What if we lean into this?"

"Absolutely not!" you find yourself shouting, your hands reaching for the bottle of painkillers on your coffee table. "I'm America's fucking sweetheart, the gossip rags are already having a field day about me getting my tits groped by America's bad boy at a fucking In and Out-"

"If I can recall, Dollface, you put my hands on said tits-" Dieter snarks, pushing his sunglasses down on his face, leaning into your chaise. "Must have done something right, hell, you were practically begging me to marry you, jumped on my lap the moment we got into the convertible-"

"Are you always this vulgar?" you bite back, taking a big gulp of water, some of the liquid spilling down your neck, onto the valley between your breasts. You notice Dieter gulp at the sight, his gaze resting heavily on your chest. He takes a tentative lick on his lips, a small smile forming on the corner of his mouth.

"Only for you, Mrs. Bravo." He winks, smirking.

"Stop that." You quip, crossing your arms around your chest.  

"Stop what, Dollface?" he asks coyly, spreading out on the lounge.  

"Looking at me like the cat that got the cream," you reply, refusing to meet what you imagine to be his smoldering gaze.  

"Well," he breathes, a Cheshire grin on his face. "I most certainly got you to cream, several times-"

"I would think the feelings mutual," you seethe through your teeth. "I mean, I did get you to come in your pants just by sucking on your-"

“You want to land meatier, sexier roles, right? Break free from the rom-com stereotype,” Dieter's PA nervously interjects, “… and you certainly don’t want to face blacklisting in Hollywood due to your recent escapades,” he shoots a meaningful look at his boss. “I believe this marriage might actually be a strategic move. It could help you break out of the girl-next-door image and simultaneously soften Dieter's playboy persona.”

Dieter contemplates this, crossing his legs on the chaise lounge as he glances into the living room of the hotel suite. He smirks at the sight of you with your arms crossed around your chest, recalling the moments when you were pliant in his arms just a few hours ago, begging and whining as he licked and sucked every inch of your delectable skin. His dick twitches at the memory, hungry to be inside of you once more.  

Dieter leans back, his fingers tapping on the armrest as he assesses the situation. “A calculated scandal to redefine my image and give her career a new direction? I suppose there's a certain allure to that.”

Your publicist interjects, “It's a risky move, but it could work. Public opinion is volatile. We need to control the narrative, give them a story that captivates and eventually redeems.”

Dieter smirks, his eyes narrowing as he looks at you. “So, America’s sweetheart and I play the happy couple, the media eats it up, and we both get what we want.”

You scoff, “This is insane. I’m not entering into a fake marriage for the sake of our careers.”

Dieter raises an eyebrow, "But what if it's not entirely fake?"

You glare at him, a mixture of disbelief and annoyance crossing your face. "What do you mean, not entirely fake?"

Dieter leans forward, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "We can keep the public guessing. A little ambiguity goes a long way in the celebrity world. We'll play the part when we need to, but in private, we keep things... interesting."

Your publicist looks skeptical, "That could be a recipe for disaster. What if it backfires? What if the public starts hating both of you?"

Dieter smirks, "Let them talk. Controversy sells, my dear. As long as we control the narrative, we can turn this into a win-win situation."

You cross your arms, feeling a headache coming on. The idea of navigating a fake-real marriage with Dieter is the last thing you want. Yet, there's a strange spark of curiosity. What if this insane plan could actually work?

As you contemplate the proposal, the room is filled with tension, waiting for your response. Dieter raises a curious eyebrow at you, a small smirk playing on his lips as he places his hand on them. He sees you gulp heavily at that, your legs crossing tentatively as you try to play coy.  Ah, yes, sweetheart. I see you. I caught you in my web, and I'm going to consume every fucking inch-

You take a deep breath, considering the options laid out in front of you. The publicist watches you with a mix of concern and caution, awaiting your decision.

"I don't like it," you finally say, your tone firm. "But if it helps me keep my career and get the roles I want, I'll play along. Just remember, Dieter, if this blows up in our faces, it's on you."

Dieter grins, satisfied with your response. "Trust me, darling, this is going to be a wild ride. We'll be the talk of the town."

Your publicist rubs his temples, clearly not thrilled with the plan but realizing the potential benefits. "Fine, let's go with it. But we need a strategy, a narrative that controls the story. And we must be careful not to let things spiral out of control."

Dieter nods, already plotting the next move. "Leave it to me. We'll craft a story that keeps them guessing and wanting more. Our little secret, darling."

"... and there will need to be some ground rules," you say firmly, uncrossing your legs as you adjust yourself in front of Dieter, presenting the fact that you still haven't put on underwear under your dress. You smirk as he tries to adjust himself, the sight of his spend still leaking out of your pussy leaving him groaning. "If we are going to do this, you have to be in it for real which means... no fucking little Miss Suzy and embarrassing me. You're going to worship me in public, and make an honest wife out of me."

Dieter leans forward as he locks his darkened eyes at you, licking his lips in anticipation. "Oh baby, I'll show you how I'll make an honest wife of you, several times... maybe as soon as all the suits leave-"

"You love this, don't you?" you breathe, toying with the hem of your top, exposing your lace bralette in his direction. "Thinking you have me all riled up, thinking I'll beg for you-"

"Guys-" Dieter's PA attempts to diffuse the tension in the room, looking nervously at your publicist for backup. "Just think about it, okay? I'll have your lawyers draft up a contract for the both of you to look over."

"Why don't you all just get the fuck out and let me fuck my wife in peace?" he retorts, pulling his robe off for good measure, not a care in the world as his dick stands proudly erect. "You're wasting good light, and I intend to fuck her on every surface of this goddamn suite-"

"Lovely," you sigh into the couch, groaning as you pinch the space in between your eyes. "You're a real class act, you know that?"

"Well, I'll just-" His PA stutters, grabbing his messenger bag. "Let's leave them alone, call us when you get back to LA," he murmurs, motioning for your Publicist to follow him.  

"We're not done with this conversation, Dollface," he chides, slinging his bag on his shoulder. "I expect to see you on Monday for the screen test?"

"Yes, yes, I'll be there," you dismiss him with a wave. "I'm sorry, for all of this," you say softly, refusing to look him in the eyes.  

"Not as sorry as you're going to feel once you see the headlines," he warns. "Brace yourself, Dollface. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Taglist: @yxtkiwiyxt @skysmiller @picketniffler @readingiskeepingmegoing @islacharlotte @drewharrisonwriter

#the new girl in tinseltown #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x reader #dieter x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal imagine #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo fanfic #the bubble

[auteurdelabre]

A LITTLE SUN PART 7 (part I) Dieter Bravo x f!Reader

rating: 18+

tags: SMUT. Penetration, Oral (m and f receiving), use of 'daddy' (but you ain't into it), use of 'baby', Dieter being Dieter, fluff, like such tooth-rotting sweetness its almost gross, idiots in love, pregnancy, talk of pregnancy body changes/self esteem, love love love, family issues, mentions of parental death.

a/n: Tumblr is dumb and won't let me post the entire chapter. ARGH. So below is part one.

series masterlist

You stir early the next morning, feeling strangely warm. You blink slowly awake, starting when you see realize you're not alone in the bed. Someone is behind you. 

You glance over your shoulder to see Dieter wearing his sleep mask over his eyes, one that says "#passedout”. Something he got in a gift back from some airline launch.  His arm is draped over your midsection, his gentle snores stirring the hair at your neck. He’s still partially dressed in his clothes.

A mixture of joy and confusion overruns your body. You feel your son flutter under Dieters’ palm splayed protectively over your midsection. 

"Dieter? Are you awake?" 

He doesn't reply right away and you don't press it. He must have gotten in pretty late judging by the state of him. Odds are he's exhausted and you want him to catch up on his rest. Something must have happened with Mia to have him jetting home all of a sudden.  

You consider slipping out of the bed, but the feeling of Dieter's body curled around yours makes you feel so cared for. His cologne and the scent of faded cigarettes surround you and while it should repulse you, there’s something about it that soothes you. You settle in, snuggling back against him and dozing lightly. 

Not long after Dieter begins to stir, his squinting eyes blurry and taking in your figure still in his embrace. 

"Morning baby," he murmurs, voice deep with sleep. Without thought he presses a kiss to your bare shoulder. "Sleep okay?"

You stir groggily, stretching. You want to be gentle right back to him but you don't understand why he's home all of a sudden. You're worried something happened. 

"Dieter what are you doing here? What happened to Germany? Is Mia okay?"

"Mia's fine," he assures you. 

"Then why are you home?"

"I realized I didn’t really wanna go to Germany," Dieter says simply, as if the answer were obvious. "I’ve been travelling so much this year and I just wanted to sleep in my own bed. Funny to find you in it."

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly. “I was gonna change the sheets before you got back. Your bed is just so much comfier.”

“Don’t I know it,” Dieter grins. You go to get up, but still when his arm remains draped over your waist. “Relax. You can stay.”

“I shouldn’t,” you say quietly.

Mia.

“You should,” Dieter insists, “especially since I brought you back a gift.”

You twist up into a seated position in the bed, your hair wild and your eyes sleepy. Dieter thinks he can see your nipples through your sleep shirt and he does everything in his power not to touch them.

He pushes himself out of the bed, padding out to his suitcase and returning moments later. You take in his mussed hair and full mouth and try very hard not to imagine how both would feel under your fingertips.

"For your birthday," he tells you handing you the small box before crawling back under the covers, sitting next to you. He sees the goosebumps breaking out over your bare legs and he throws the comforter over you, pressing your sleep warmed body against his.

You’re still staring at the box.

"I got it before I left,” Dieter prompts, holding back a yawn. “It’s from Prague.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything.”

He gives you a look before rolling his eyes. “Just open it.”

You do, feeling your breath leave you when you see the simple but gorgeous tennis bracelet resting inside. Brilliant diamonds are encrusted over the intricate design, offset by a delicate lobster clasp.

"Jesus Dieter," you breathe holding the bracelet up to the light and watching it sparkle. "It's stunning."

"Least I could do for my baby mama," Dieter says, trying to hide the pleased grin from his face.

"This must have cost a fortune."

Dieter shrugs. He hates talking about money so you don't press it. You consider telling him you can’t accept it, but he looks so delighted with your awe that you can’t help but give a breathless giggle as you thrust it at him.

"Can you help me put it on?"

"Now?"

"Yeah now," you say holding you wrist out to him.

"This isn't the sort of thing you wear all the time," Dieter tells you as his wide fingers struggle with the delicate clasp.

"This is the nicest piece of jewelry I'll ever own," you state firmly. "I'm gonna wear it every fucking day, not hide it away in some box and only take it out on holidays. Beautiful things like this are meant to be enjoyed."

Dieter hums a response, fingers ghosting over your wrist as he secures the lobster clasp. His fingers linger on your wrist, tracing the soft skin there. He feels his chest grow warm when he sees the smile on your face as you twist your wrist to see the bracelet from all angles.

“Thank you so much," you say, smile so wide you feel like it'll split your face. "I love it."

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, a hand coming to cup your cheek before he can stop himself. You lean into his touch, eyes unfocussed before you seem to snap back to yourself. You pull back, eyes on your lap.

“Wasn’t Mia upset you left?”

“At first,” Dieter shrugs, snatching his hand back. He tells you that he told Mia he had to do some last minute interview back here that he forgot about. That he would join her in a few days..

But that’s not the truth.

As soon as you hung up on him all Dieter could think of was that you were here alone on your birthday and he couldn’t get back here to you soon enough.

Mia had seen it so clearly in the anxious way he got his belongings together, the way he was already scrambling out of line and telling her he was leaving. Before he could kiss her cheek and slide by her, Mia had taken his hand in hers stopping him.

"Dee, this is ridiculous.”

"What?"

"You just got off the phone with your PA and you're beside yourself." 

"It's just the baby," Dieter lied. "I'm concerned."

Mia suddenly looked anxious. "Is she hurt? Is the baby hurt?"

"No not like that, it's just it's her birthday and I wrote the fucking date down wrong and it's her first birthday alone without her dad and I should be there you know? I just... She's pretending that she's fine but I can hear it in her voice. She's upset."

Mia had a strange look on her face as she watched her boyfriend card his hands anxiously through his tousled hair.

"That has nothing to do with the baby, Dee." 

Dieter flushed, wishing he had something to take the edge off. He looked at Mia with a wince, seeing the wisdom in her light eyes. 

"Dieter, it's so obvious you're in love with her."

Dieter swallowed and Mia watched as he absently picked at a loose thread on his sweater. His soulful eyes darted back to her face, emotional. 

"Mia, I wasn't lying about how I feel about you."

"I believe you," Mia nodded, giving him a sympathetic look. "Really, I do. But I'm no one's second choice.”

"You weren't a second choice," Dieter insisted honestly. "I really like you."

"Is that why we haven't slept together yet?"

Dieter couldn’t meet her eyes. "I didn't want to rush things like I usually do."

Mia gave him a stern look, her hand squeezing his. 

"Dee." 

How could he explain that it didn't feel right going to bed with Mia knowing that you were somewhere in the world without him? How could he explain to his girlfriend that being with her felt like cheating on you even though you’d made no attempt at reciprocating his romantic overtures?

"She doesn't feel the same as me," Dieter finally admitted, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. He felt pathetic saying it out loud. 

"Even if she doesn't Dieter, it doesn't stop how you feel about her." Mia swallowed. "Be honest, right now if you could be anywhere, where would it be? Here with me going on a romantic vacation? Or back in LA with her?"

Dieter couldn’t even blink before he was assaulted with the image of you snuggled up against him on the couch at home. Your head nestled against his chest, the sensation of your warm body pressing against his. 

Mia could already see that he was a million miles away as he considered this. The twitch in his hands as he reached for his phone told her everything she needed to know. Dieter finally focused back on Mia and his large eyes were glossy. 

"I need to go."

"I know."

Dieter paused, eyes going owlish in his face. "Do you hate me?"

"Not at all." Mia gave him a genuine smile. "You were a wonderful boyfriend in so many ways. You never pressured me to do anything, you were supportive, and you were caring. That's how I know you'll be a great dad."

Dieter felt tears prick the back of his eyes. He gathered her into a tight hug, his chin on her shoulder. Mia shot him one of her cryptic smiles before kissing his cheek gently.

“I had a really nice time with you, Dee. Hopefully we work together again soon. And if I can be honest, I think she’s awesome. And contrary to what she says, I think she’s the one that brings out the best in you.”

And then she was gone. Heading back into the line loading onto the plane as people shyly came up to ask for her autograph. The last thing Dieter remembers is the soft smile and wave she threw him before he was running out of the airport.

Home to you.

And now you’re here in his arms and he knows he made the right decision. Even if this is all it ever is; you in his orbit, nearby. You look at the bracelet a moment longer before your eyes are back on his face.

"Did you come back because of my birthday, Dieter?"

Dieter feels his heart begin to pick up the pace as he stares back at you.

"And what if I told you that I did?

You say nothing at first, but your eyes go soft.

“I would say I’m really touched,” you finally murmur. “And I would say that this is all I wanted for my birthday.”

“A bracelet?” Dieter jokes, even as his breath leaves him.

“No,” you say with an indulgent smile. “You here with me and Bubble.”

He fights every urge in his body to kiss you because that’s not what you need right now. Right now it’s a sentimental moment. You’re mourning your father, you’re feeling emotional and he doesn’t want to capitalize on that. He doesn’t want to turn your vulnerability into something about him and how he feels.

Instead he balances his forehead against yours, his large palm falling lightly over your stomach. Both of you have your eyes closed, but Dieter can imagine what a picture of domesticity this is. Both sets of eyes closed, foreheads touching, his hand on your belly. It makes his heart swell with a different kind of love.

“Happy birthday, baby.”

When you finish showering and pulling on a summer dress that covers your bump you head into the kitchen, following the sound of buzzing and Dieter swearing. When you come around the corner you try not to laugh at the sight of him standing at the blender with blue lumps all over his clothing.

“Dieter what the fuck?”

"I wanted to make you a smoothie like Petra does but I've never done it by myself before and the stupid fucking thing exploded all over me."

Your hands go to his collar, swiping some of the yogurt and berry mixture from his cheek. You pop it into your mouth and hum appreciatively.

"Mmm blueberry, my favorite,” you grin before moving him out of the way with a gentle tap of your hip against his. He watches you place the blueberries and everything else into the blender. He feels like a moron when you affix the lid before starting to blend it properly. 

“So what do you feel like doing today birthday girl?”

“Dieter you’re here and you already got me the nicest gift,” you tell him over the hum of the blender. “I don’t need anything else.”

“Pffft,” Dieter rolls his eyes. “Birthday’s are a chance to get spoiled.”

“I’m already spoiled and my birthday was yesterday.”

“Don’t care.”

“I think you should give Magda and Petra the day off.”

“That’s not a gift for you.”

“They work hard to keep this place up, Dieter. And now they have to take me into account.”

“Fine fine. They can have the day off with pay. Now either you think of something you want or I’m gonna decide for you and it’ll be something fucking insane.”

You gurgle a laugh, pouring your drink into the waiting cup. You take a deep pull, blue coating your upper lip as you look thoughtfully off into the distance.

“Okay. I know what I want.”

Two hours later the two of you are walking into the oldest cinema in LA. He’s wearing sunglasses and an old baseball hat. You’re wearing a beanie and oversized glasses as well.  He fights every impulse to take your hand in his, deciding he is content just with the sight of your bracelet dangling off your wrist. It glints in the sunlight along with the ring from Ireland you’ve never taken off.

Dieter loves seeing you in the bracelet. Loves seeing the jewelry be bought you wrapped around your wrist and digit. Loves that pieces of him touch your skin every day.  "Two for braune Augen please," you tell the bored looking girl behind the counter. She doesn't even look up from the till just rings you up and hands you two tickets.   “I didn’t even know this place was still around,” Dieter marvels as you enter the lobby. 

“Little known gem,” you tell him. The two of you line up for popcorn. The smell of the theater takes Dieter back to when he was a child, going to the movies with his mother.

Dieter buys the popcorn and red vines at your prompting, trying his hand at an Irish accent again to throw off the boy working the concession stand looking at him curiously. Thankfully this hole in the wall theatre is ancient with soiled red carpets and old seats that creak when they lower themselves into the near empty theatre.

"This stuff is terrible for you," he chides as you find your seats and throw a handful of popcorn back munching happily. 

"Talk to me when you stop smoking."

Dieter doesn't say anything after that. 

The house lights dim and the movie begins. Dramatic strings sound out as a bleak image of a man standing in a field with a gun is shown. He starts talking to the camera in German, the subtitles telling the bizarre story of a toy maker. 

You make it maybe twelve minutes into the film before you're passed out against his shoulder, breathing softly. 

"I didn't know you liked German surrealist films," Dieter murmurs.

When you don't answer he looks over at you, seeing your sleepy face. 

"Sleepy girl," Dieter murmurs with affection.

He thinks about rousing you but finds he enjoys the sensation of you leaned up against him in the darkness. It's like a date. 

You wake up around the midway mark of the film with a start. When Dieter grins over at you, you pretend like you’ve been awake the whole time.

“Woah the filming is so good,” you say holding in a yawn. Dieter’s lips twitch in amusement.

“Mhm.”

You plop back onto his shoulder and he holds in a chuckle when your snores kick up again.

The movie is good, but your presence distracts him. Why did you want to come here? He's never known you as an art house film fan. He watches a moment longer before it suddenly hits him. He realizes now why you’re here in this little theatre in the middle of the day.

Because he told you he misses it. That his mother used to take him and that it reminds him of her.

You did this for him. It’s your birthday and you did something for Dieter.  He takes your limp hand in his, lacing your fingers with his own before resting both on his knee. You continue to sleep on beside him. 

Finally the movie ends and the soundtrack is all high pitched strings which bring you out of your nap. You raise your head, thankful you didn’t drool.

 “That was good,” you tell him with a sleepy purr to your voice. “Better than I thought it’d be.”

Dieter is looking at you from the corner of his eyes, his head bowed. The house lights have come up and the few patrons that remain have left. The cinema is empty and Dieter can’t find it in himself to move.

“You brought me here because I said ages ago that I missed going to the movies. And because it reminds me of my mom.”

You shrug, caught. Your cheeks pink as he continues to stare at you, not speaking.

 “You’ve done so much for me,” you tell him before the moment can grow too heavy. “I just wanted to do the same. Now let’s go, I gotta pee.”

Petra is one of the most patient people you know. She'd have to be working for Dieter. From the moment you move in she's over the moon, offering baby name suggestions and telling you that she'll make anything you want from scratch pushing her shock of red hair from her ruddy face. 

It doesn't matter if it's ice-cream with pickles over lemon flavored crackers, she'll make it delicious and she'll make it from scratch before serving it to you with a very proud expression. 

Magda is a scream. She's been working for Dieter as his cleaner since before her hair was a solid white mass of frizzy curls. She spends most of her time smoking European cigarettes and doing sporadic dusting in between stories about her latest Tindr date. 

The two women like to take their breaks together, both chain-smoking outside by the pool while they complain about real estate prices. 

You love them both immensely.  

You've known them since you started working for Dieter, but you've never really interacted. You were always so busy with you job and they with theirs. 

But now that you're stuck indoors most days they've become a lifeline to you. Perhaps mother figures as well since you haven't spoken to yours since you moved out. 

You think about calling her every once in a while. When the baby moves or your muscles ache. But you don't. You can't be the one to give in first because what she said about everything was hideous. 

Besides, Magda and Petra love being mother hens. Petra likes to knit in her spare time and almost every week when she sees you there are little baby booties or jumpers waiting to be hung in the nursery wardrobe. 

Magda massages your shoulders even when you tell her she doesn't need to. She just waves your anxious hands away and tells you in a heavy accent: "I do same for my daughter when she is pregnant."

You adore them both so much that when they aren't around in the house you try to make your own smoothies, washing your dishes and chastising Dieter if his clothes don't make it in the hamper. 

And he fucking loves it. 

He loves having you there tutting behind him, reminding him to wipe toothpaste off the mirror and to sweep his toast crumbs off the counter so he doesn't add to Magda and Petra's labor. 

He loves that you care enough about everyone for it to matter. That you fit into his home like you've always been there. 

Sometimes it drives him crazy when you're there at his elbow complaining that his laundry hamper is overflowing or some other trivial matter. But for the most part he secretly loves having this domesticity with you. That he craves you in a totally new way when you scrub at a stain in his shirt so Magda doesn't have to. 

None of his other partners were like this. All were eager to be waited upon, many not even bothering to learn the names of his staff.  

"You should give them a raise," you tell him one day over dinner when it's just the two of you digging into the veggie pasta Petra prepared. "Neither of them have had one in a few years." 

Dieter slurps up pasta, nodding in agreement. 

"Okay."

"Okay?" You look at him, brows raised. "Just like that?"

He has pasta sauce on his cheek when he answers. 

"You want me to fight you on it?"

"Not particularly."

"Good," Dieter nods, scooping up the last of the sauce with his garlic bread before popping it into his mouth. "I trust you. I know you'd spend our money wisely.'

And then he gets up from the table with his plate cleared as if he hasn't said something completely momentous.

You watch him rinse it under the tap and place it in the dishwasher before announcing that he's going to paint for a few hours.  

You remain sitting at the table staring after him for several minutes. Our money. Ours. As if you were a real couple. As if you were his wife. 

I trust you. I trust you. I trust you. 

Later that night in your guest bedroom you bring yourself off twice to thoughts of him. You can't explain why tears stream down your face as you do. 

When he’s not in interviews, filming commercials or prepping for his next film project with his acting coach, Dieter spends some of his free time in the art studio. He's very insistent you not go in there, especially when he’s working, citing that you'll break his concentration and creative flow. 

You respect his space and carve out your own routine within his sprawling home. Walks in the neighborhood, swims in the pool, reading by the fire and evenings spent with Dieter on the couch watching bad reality TV or documentaries.

You also like to spend some of your free time working on the nursery. Sometimes he offers his own suggestions, but he sees how much you enjoy this little project and he tries to give you as much space as possible. 

When it's finally finished you show him proudly pushing. Open the door much like he did for you only a month earlier. He walks in, expecting to hate it, but instead is overwhelmed at the cozy atmosphere you've curated. 

The carpet is a plush white and blue pattern that feels like butter on his bare feet. The walls are a warm cream and the ceiling has been painted to look like a celestial morning sky. Oversized tufted chairs are at the side under a gauzy curtain that makes the whole space feel safe and cozy. The crib is a beautiful white, beautifully carved with small triangles etched in the design.

“To match your tattoos,” you tell him with a grin.

It’s nothing like Dieter thought he’d want, but the second he walks in he’s overwhelmed by a sense of peace and tranquility. The exact environment he’d want his son growing up in. He thinks he might just want to hang out in here to meditate.

"It's beautiful," he says in awe. "He'll be so happy here."

"Yeah, he will," you say with a gentle smile. 

Weeks later you and Dieter lay on his bed, both of you enthralled by the Netflix show projected on his large TV. In recent weeks you've taken to doing this. Dieter returning from work late and finding you on the couch.  At first he would fall down next to you, talking about that you were watching.

Then he began to suggest watching in his room on his bed. Nothing funny, he claimed, he'd suggested it just because it felt better on his back. He gave you plenty of space, both of you leaning back against the plush pillows.

Then you started crawling under the sheets because you were cold. And then he was cold. Then he decided that snuggling under the sheets was better. You'd wanted to deny him at first, but he's always so warm and he fit so nicely against you that when he pulled you against him you simply snuggled up against him.

Now he comes home and just holds out his hand for you, waiting for you to nod and then helping you to stand. And every day he kneels in front of you and kisses your belly just above the navel. Then he takes your hand in his and guides you to his room before collapsing next to you in his huge bed.

You've burned through all the seasons of Below Deck. Now it's Selling Sunset.

"Without Christine what's the point?" He grumbles.

"Totally," you agree through a mouthful of ice cream. "And there are never enough of the houses!"

Sometimes when the TV goes off you're already asleep snoring softly. On those nights Dieter watches you, hand grazing your cheek. Sometimes he just wants to hold your belly and fall asleep curled around you.

Sometimes if you're both still awake he asks you to run your nails through his hair and you do, giving the odd little tug and smiling when he gives muffled groans. You do it now, eyes on the screen and your hand carding through his curls.

A commercial comes up on the screen and Dieter groans, throwing a pillow at it.

“Boo! Get this asshole off my TV!”

It’s a teaser trailer for the movie he and Mia filmed together; The Rogue Duchess. Dieter in his regency gear, Mia with her fluttering eyelashes.

 “Haven’t heard you mention Mia much lately,” you observe as you watch her pretty face on screen.

“We’re cooling things off,” Dieter lies, his eyes on the television. “

 “Really?” you try not to sound too pleased by the news. “I’m sorry Dieter I know how much you like her.”

“S’fine,” he shrugs, not looking the least bit upset.

You do your best to hide your delight.

Halloween is just around the corner and Dieter swans into the house after his latest meeting with Diane. He looks run ragged. You wish you could have been there to see what she said, but of course you’re kept in the dark. The only thing Diane sends to you are bi-monthly checks. 

“She thinks now that Mia and I are officially over that I have to rehabilitate my entire image,” Dieter groans as he throws himself onto the couch next to you. “I need to start a charity and some other shit.”

“Is that really such a bad idea?” you muse looking up from your crossword puzzle. “Starting a charity could be a wonderful thing.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” he gripes, slapping the pillow next to him aimlessly.

“You could fund amazing research,” you tell him, shaking your head at him overlooking this. “If I had your money I’d be setting up research into the cancer my dad died of. It’s way underfunded.”

Dieter says nothing, but he nods. You don’t know that he’s actually listening to you. You go back to your crossword puzzle.

“I gotta practice some lines,” Dieter sighs as if he has the worst job in the world. “You wanna help me with them?”

“Of course. Gotta earn my keep around here somewhere.”

“No you don’t,” Dieter says, pouting over at you. “You’re only job is to relax and make our baby.”

Our baby. You hate the tingle that goes through you at the words. Especially when it isn’t your baby at all. You’re a womb rental, that’s it.  You go quiet for a moment and Dieter looks momentarily down at his hands.

“Have you called your Mom lately?”

“No,” you frown. “Why?”

“I just know you miss her.”

"Yeah I guess," you whisper in a croaky voice. "Every fall we'd go to this Boo at the Zoo thing."

"Boo at the zoo?"

"Yeah in Oakland. You dress up and there's contests and you can see the animals and... My mom and I just liked going to see all the costumes and..." You trail off, overwhelmed by the memory. 

"We can go," Dieter insists, already bringing out his phone. "I'll get tickets-"

He pauses when he sees the cringing expression you wear. Realization hits him and he lowers his phone. 

"It's a you and your mom thing."

"Yeah." Your head drops forward when you nod. 

Dieter wants to give you everything. Wants to take away this pain. Wants to erase the lines between your eyebrows as you swallow your tears. But he can't do anything right now aside from supporting you. 

"How about we watch a scary movie?" Dieter suggests. "Make popcorn and all that shit?"

You give him a watery grin. "Yeah that sounds great."

Not even an hour later the popcorn rests half-eaten on the coffee table and you sit with your head on a decorative pillow in Dieters lap, half asleep. Dieters hand runs up and down your spine subconsciously as he loses himself in the film. 

"Dieter do you really think Rosemary's Baby was the best film to watch?"

"I heard good things." 

Your eyes keep drifting shut. Dieters couch is so comfortable and the feel of his fingertips running along your spine is so relaxing. 

"I can't believe how hard it is to stay awake," you murmur. "It's not even ten."

You shift your head on his lap, murmuring slightly when his fingers move to card through the hair at your temples. 

"Mmm, feels good."  

Dieter gazes down at you, thumb drifting over your cheek, pushing your hair behind your ear as he watches your eyelids flutter closed. Your light snores begin and he wants the moment to go on forever. 

I love you. 

The thought has been brewing in his mind for months. This unspeakable but oh so palpable feeling he carries with him. The one he swallows every time you smile at him over breakfast or snuggle up to him at night.

The movie ends a short while later. You're zonked out, snoring louder. Dieter bends over to kiss your temple. 

"Time for bed, baby."

"M'fine," you argue with a yawn. "I'll just sleep here."

He smiles as you groan when he slides out from underneath you, pulling you gently by the wrists to a standing position. 

"C'mon baby mama, we're going to bed."

You make a face, grunting in irritation. He wraps his arm around your back, helping you sleepily walk to the bedroom; his bedroom. Your eyes are still closed even as he pulls back the duvet and you snuggle underneath. 

He crawls in bedside you, watching as you slowly spin to face him, your hand going to your belly. 

"Thanks for the movie," you mutter. "S’good."

"Any time," he promises, pressing a kiss to your cheekbone.

You smile at the rasp of his beard against your face. He pulls back, head on his pillow just watching you. 

“Baby?”

Your eyes flutter open, pupils blowing wide when you see how near he is. “Yeah?”

He blinks rapidly, his eyes darting to your mouth and then back to your sleepy gaze. He moves forward slowly, inching there and waiting for you to pull back. You don’t. Instead your head tilts forward at the same time, your mouths meeting for a sweet and tentative kiss that has both your pulses skyrocketing.

His nose drags against yours as you break apart, nudging your face to the side and allowing him access to press sloppy kisses up the column of your neck. He nibbles and tastes along your pulse point as you whimper until his mouth captures yours in a searing kiss, the petal soft of his lower lip slotted beneath yours. You respond in kind, hand fisting his t-shirt, mouth taking everything that he’ll give you.

“So sweet,” he whispers, kissing you again, pushing your body into the mattress.

“Shouldn’t,” you murmur uselessly, even as you drag your tongue along his lower lip, wetting it.

"Please, baby," he groans against your lips, hands sliding up the bottom of your t-shirt to cup your heavy breasts. "Wanna make you feel good."

His hands move over the globes of your chest, his cock twitching as you moan at the sensation. He breaks away from your mouth only so that he can tilt back and marvel at how big your tits have gotten. You wear such oversized clothing he can rarely tell. But tonight they swell in his hands, heavy and full and fucking perfect. He slides your t-shirt up, seeing your breasts exposed for the first time. The sight is enough to make his knees buckle. 

"Fuck," Dieter groans, extending the u. "You look so good."

He pushes your t-shirt up higher, wanting to look at your chest more in the semi darkness. You allow it, raising your hands above your head, allowing him to peel the shirt from your body. You watch as he drinks in your naked upper half, dark eyes round and awed. 

He looks at the full of your breasts, the sensuous curves of your body, the swell of your abdomen. 

Mine. 

The thought is fleeting, way in the back of his caveman mind. That your body is his, full of his child. That his body is yours, meant to protect you. But it drives him forward, bracketing your torso with his forearms. He has to arch slightly, afraid of putting too much pressure on your stomach.

"I need to taste."

You let out a piercing gasp when his mouth latches to your left nipple, sucking it into his scorching mouth and flicking the nipple with his tongue. His hand worries your other nipple into a point, sending sweet jolts of pleasure through your core. 

"Fuck, yes Dieter!"

You can't even fight it. You don't want to. You just lay back, allowing his lips to trail between the valley of your breasts before he's doing the same with your other nipple, moaning deliciously when you're hands card through his hair, holding him in place. 

"Suck harder," you beg, feeling your hips starting to grind against his front. "Please!"

Dieter moans in response, his hips gyrating against yours as he obeys your husky order. You feel your nipples being alternatively sucked hard, liquid heat pooling between your legs. 

"Fuck... Fuck Dieter that's so good," you whimper, eyes slammed shut. "Don't stop!"

You feel him grinding his hard cock between your legs, the two of you fully dressed and yet writhing as if you were naked. All that's exposed is your tits, chilled when not covered by Dieter's needy mouth. 

But it's the sound he's making that has goose bumps breaking out over your body. This low, needy hum of carnal satisfaction that makes your toes curl and your legs quiver. Your thighs tighten around his hips, your clothed pussy desperate for the friction of his cock through his sweatpants. 

Fuck, you're going to come. 

The realization hits you just as your back begins arching up beautifully for him. And he must know because his fingers and mouth are still sucking and flicking at the same tempo. 

"Yeah baby," he groans between sucks, thrusting his hips against yours. "You come for me just like that."

An orgasm suddenly overtakes you, causing you to rut against him, crying his name as you come. It makes tears spring to your eyes as your body twitches, jerking from the almost painful pleasure that releases as you let out his name in a cracked whimper.

He kisses you, tasting the sound of his name on your lips as you rut against him, hands grabbing his shoulders for purchase. A moment passes where all you can hear is your own panting breaths. Dieter watches you lean lightly up on your elbows. 

"Did you-"

"-Yes."

"Just from-"

"-Yeah."

You feel strangely embarrassed at this truncated exchange. You've never come just from some guy playing with your tits before. It makes you feel over eager and insecure, cheeks flaming and eyes going around the room. But Dieter's eager voice cuts through your discomfort, his large palms cupping your breasts again. 

"Fuck, that was so hot, can we do it again?" 

Your gaze flicks back to Dieter. He's excited, grinning crookedly as he continues to knead your breasts lazily. 

"You think I could make you come even faster this time doing it?"

Insecurities fall from your shoulders like an unwanted jacket. You beam, laying back and sighing dreamily up at him. 

"Let's find out."

You wish you could say that your sexual excitement for Dieter waned after that, but if anything it just stoked the fires. With Mia out of the picture and Dieter looking at you with those sultry gazes it’s not long before you’re dreaming up more excuses to touch him.

A graze of your hand over his when he hands you a fork at dinner. Snuggling up a little tighter to him during movie nights. But he’s gotten busy so he’s more tired than usual. Reshoots are necessary for the film and he has a commercial shoot as well. He comes home late, tired and wanting nothing more than a shower and a sleep.

You still join him in his bed but it’s only so he can hold you tight, breathing in your shampoo as he drifts off. And honestly that’s fine with you because you’re coming to count on his warm arms around you, coming to rely on the way he calls you baby and runs his fingers down your spine.  

You love it.

“I’m so done with this fucking costume,” Dieter seethes, tossing off the cloak as he walks into the house one evening. You glance up from your newspaper, about to say something when you feel yourself transfixed.

He’s wearing the regency outfit from the movie. He’s angry though, not even noticing as your breathing grows shallow and your cheeks get hot.

 “Didn’t even give me a chance to change before they’re striking the set. I had to get a car home looking like a fucking butler.”

He growls, looking up at you seated at the bar. Your drink from this afternoon remains untouched at your elbow and he feels irritation flare within him.

“You didn’t even drink the smoothie Petra made you,” he grunts, irritable. “You’re supposed to. It’s got all your nutrients.”

He tugs at the cravat around his neck in frustration at the world but you croak out his name, hand raised.

“No! Leave it.”

“Leave it?” Dieter says with a sharp laugh. “No fucking way. It’s-“

He’s about to say something more but you’ve come sauntering over to him, chest flushed and your eyes glassy. You gently press his back against the wall.

“Hand.”

He holds out his hand in confusion and watches you in awe as you take it, letting him help you to your knees on the cold, marble floor. And suddenly Dieter has an idea of what you’re doing, but he’s not quite sure.

When your hands gently rub up his thighs and come to stop at the waistband of his ornate pants you see the bulge of his hardening cock and you smile in satisfaction. 

"What’re you-“

"Let me," you murmur, eyes gazing up to his face. "Please?"

"You're asking me if you can suck my cock?" Dieter says it in breathless awe. "Are you serious?"

You are. You find you're so eager to give him the pleasure he so easily offers to you anytime you want it, especially when he’s dressed like something out of a Jane Austen novel.  Your very own rumpled Mister Darcy.

"Jesus," Dieter whimpers, watching you on your knees for him. In a million years he never thought he'd see this. You sitting there with your mouth parted, asking to suck him off. He goes to shrug off the jacket and tug off the cravat but your hand goes to still him. 

"No," you say gazing up the length of him. "Keep it all on. Please."

Dieter breaks into an oily grin as he realizes the reason for your sudden ardor. His mind travels back to that day on set.

I saw how you were looking at me earlier. This costume do it for you, baby mama? Should I bring it back with me later?

He widens his stance, unfastening his trousers and lowering them. You watch in anticipation as his cock is freed and you hold in a sigh at the sight of it. Large, thick and practically throbbing for you. It twitches when you drag your tongue along the slit.

"Spit," Dieter says huskily.

For some reason you’re taken back to the awards show where he spat his gum into the napkin. You could laugh at the role reversal. 

"C'mon baby," Dieter says gently when you hesitate. "Spit on my cock."

You don't know why but those words in his rasping baritone sends a new flood of arousal coursing through you. You tilt your head, mouth pursed. Dieter watches as your saliva drops onto the head of his cock. 

"Fuck yeah," Dieter growls, his hand coating himself in his pre come and your spit. "Wanna make sure it's nice and slick for you."

You moan, eyelids fluttering at the words. And without pausing you take the head into your mouth, never breaking the eye contact you hold with him. He gives a soft whimper in his throat at the sight of his glossy cock sliding into your mouth and throat.

“So good,” Dieter gasps, his hands on either side of him against the wall.

You grin around his cock, hollowing your cheeks and are rewarded with Dieter’s legs going rubbery. Something is missing though to make this fantasy perfect for you. You pull off of him, your hand going to stroke him as you speak.

“Say your lines.”

“Huh?”

“Say the lines,” you order breathlessly, giving little kitten licks to the head of his weeping cock. “The ones from the movie.”

Dieter looks fucked out as he gazes down at you.

“Why are you here?” you prompt before urging his cock back onto your tongue.

Dieter takes a moment but then he understands, grinning widely. You watch as before your eyes he transforms from Dieter into the rogue.

“You know why,” Dieter pants, thrust shallowly into your mouth.

He grins broadly when he sees your eyelids fluttering. You’re turned on out of your mind, looking up at his handsome face in his white lawnshirt and cravat. He’s so sexy, his hand coming to cup your cheek as you swallow his cock.

“I need you,” Dieter growls, eyes fixed on yours. “So much I can barely breathe.”

His thrusting is increasing, watching as you begin to squirm on the floor. You’re getting off to this and Dieter finds himself inching towards his orgasm at an alarming speed. Your eyes are rolling into the back of your head as you continue to suck him.

“You see what you do to me?”

Your panties are soaked and your head is bobbing along his length for what feels like a very brief time before he’s spilling down your throat, murmuring to himself how good you are for him, how sweet your mouth is.

He’s trembling, his cock twitching a moment as your eyes crack open to glance up the length of him. He’s staring down at you in what seems like awe. He pulls himself from your mouth, letting his cock hang heavily between his legs, slick with your saliva.

"Fuck that was hot," he tells you, pressing a full-lipped kiss to your mouth when he pulls you to a stand. "Your tongue is better than any drug."

You want to laugh at his version of sincerity but instead you just giggle, shaking your head. He grins and kisses you again before his voice turns stern.

"Now are you gonna drink your smoothie?"

Now you do laugh, a loud roaring thing that has Dieter smiling in confusion at you. 

"Are you really standing there trying to be authoritative with your pants around your ankles and dick hanging out, Bravo?"

Dieter gives a barking laugh at that before he tucks himself back into his boxer briefs and pulls up his crushed velvet pants. 

"Now that I know you prefer sausage in your mouth I'll remember that for your future meals." 

He's giggling and out of the kitchen before you can properly admonish him.

[Personal Diary D. Bravo – 32 weeks]

Her smile

Her hair

The way she smiles when she reads

When she taps her pencil when she does crosswords

Her mouth. Her fucking mouth.

When her brow scrunches just as she’s about to come.

How smart she is.

How kind she is. Such a big heart.

Mom would have loved her too.

“Jenga?”

You cry out with a laugh as Dieter brings the box over to the coffee table one rainy afternoon.

“You said you wanted to play a game, so I thought this would be a good one,” Dieter explains.

Magda and Petra are chatting in the kitchen over a cup of coffee that Dieter ordered in. Some fancy place with a fancy name you’ve never even heard of.  He calls them over, insisting that they join in the game.

With an employer like Dieter Bravo they’re never really sure what awaits them at work, but Jenga surely wasn’t it. They grin widely, both older women seated across from you and Dieter.

“Alright you played before?”

“Of course,” the women answer in unison, watching as Dieter puts the rectangular pieces of wood atop one another, creating a tower three by three. You watch with interest, trying to figure out your first move.

“So the first person to knock over the Jenga tower loses,” Dieter says despite everyone already knowing the game. “And the first person that loses needs to make dinner.”

“I always make dinner,” Petra says with a pout.

“Oh, right,” Dieter says scratching his beard thoughtfully. “Okay… first person out has to… go run in the rain for two minutes?”

“And I will have to mop up?” Magda says flatly. You know she’s irritable because she hasn’t had her customary cigarette thanks to the rain.

“Oh shit,” Dieter nods, looking thoughtful.

“How about we just play?” You say rolling your eyes. “Winners get bragging rights.”

It turns out Petra and Magda are very competitive players. They don’t smile or chat between rounds, they just focus on the bleached wood rectangles before them. You and Dieter exchange looks of amusement when they swear in another language under their breath.

“There,” Petra says, breathing a sigh of relief when she manages to pull a wood piece without sending the tower flying. She glances up at you. “Your turn.”

You nod, taking a deep breath and smiling nervously. Dieter brings up his phone surrepticoously recording you. You’re all focus, your eyes narrowed as you pull the center piece slowly with your pinched fingers.

Dieter forgets that the sound is on with his phone and when he snaps a photo it makes an obnoxious clicking noise, distracting you into knocking the entire tower down. Dieter takes a series of snapshots despite this, chuckling at your horrified and then amused expression.

“Guess I lose,” you say with a giggle, pushing at the wood blocks.

 “Such a good sport,” Petra says with affection. 

“Especially since Dieter is cheat,” Magda offers. Dieter fakes being horrified as the group of you laugh. You start to put the pieces away, gently batting Magda’s hand away when she tries to help you.

“You do enough around here,” you tell her firmly. “Let me clean up.”

“Your mother raised you well,” Magda says, giving the crown of your head a kiss before she and Petra move back into the kitchen.

“Thanks Mags,” you say gently, not wanting to ruin the moment.

But all it does is remind you of your own mother who isn’t here, the mother who disowned you. The mother who hasn’t attempted to call you once since this whole ordeal. 

Dieter watches all of this, his dark eyes calculating.

32 weeks

Craving

sexsexsex

Anything Taco Bell has on their menu

Missing

My mom

Baby is size of napa cabbage.

 [11:03am] MOM: I told you I have no interest in your money. 

The text comes through when you’re lounging in bed one morning, feeling tired from your third trimester hormones and the vomiting you thought you’d left behind in the first trimester.

You slowly sit up in bed looking at your phone in confusion. You re-read the message trying to understand what she’s talking about.

[11:22am] ????

[11:23am] I got a call from the bank not long ago. My mortgage has magically been paid off? 

You pull on a robe, your eyes widening. You’re confused and you need to speak with Dieter. You search the entire house, calling out for him.

Magda and Petra are nowhere to be found at the moment and so you continue to scream out for him, texting his phone only to see that he’s left it behind on the kitchen counter.

Dieter is gone.

--------------------

PART 2 OF THIS CHAPTER HERE

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dividers by @silkholland

#dieter bravo fic #dieter x reader #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo #dieter bravo fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #pedro pascal #smut #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo smut #the bubble fanfiction

[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

#dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo smut #tw dubcon #dieter bravo #mean!dieter bravo #dieter bravo angst #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo x female reader #the bubble fanfiction #fic: save your tears #pedro pascal characters #dieter bravo fic #mean!dieter #smut

[morallyinept]

Sleazy Santa - A Dieter Bravo One Shot

Summary: Have you been naughty or nice? Sleazy Santa Dieter will find out... Come sit on his knee, baby, and tell Santa what you really want for Christmas. If you've been good, he might just give it to you. T'is the season to be sleazy...

Pairing: Sleazy!Dieter Bravo x MenaceF!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.) Reader is referred to as 'Cookie' on occasion. You'll see why when you read... and has hair long enough to pull.

Word Count: 5.3k of Christmas sleaze

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶️ “You tell me I’m doing well, and then, you try to kill me.”

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Explicit - Unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!)/fingering/oral M & F receiving/drug use/anal play/lots of smutty dirty talk/verbal degradation - Dieter calls you a whore & slut and you love it/(im)proper use of a candy cane/Dieter being absolutely lewd and trashy whilst being a mall Santa. Reader is up for this and wants it all. Dieter is not an actor in this story. Just a dirtbag.

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: (I intended to get this out on the 1st Dec, but this week has completely run away from me, so better late than never! 🫠) I just know Dieter would be the trashiest Santa. So here he is. Ho(e). Ho(e). Ho(e). 🎅🫦

☝🏻This is not a direct follow on from Back Alley Bang, but is the same Sleazy!Dieter.

Read Back Alley Bang!

I wrote this a little while back in prep for my Christmas stories to release throughout December. Since then, the lovely @cerridwen007 dropped a Frankie fic called Candy Cane, which you should totally read because it's bloody amazing! And hot! 🔥 Seeing as both our stories mention some lewdness with Candy Canes, I want to shout about hers, because it's epic. And so is she. 🥰🖤

If this story isn't for you, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

🎄MASTERLIST🎄

Enjoy! 🖤

“Come sit on Santa’s knee, baby.” He smirks at you under the grizzle of greying, scruffy facial hair, sprawled across his jawline like a patch of overgrown weeds in a neglected alley.

Each bristle of his moustache seems like a picket in a fence, guarding the secrets of his expressions, a formidable barrier to anyone attempting to decipher the stoic visage he wears, despite the adept grin crook shanking it's way out from underneath it at you now.

You joust a sharp glance at him, sitting back lazily on the throne, manspreading and reaching down to adjust the swell of his cock inside his red velour pants, brazenly.

In a worn-out wife beater, that's seen one too many spin wash cycles, tinged grey with sweat around the hem and underarms, braces dangle loosely over Santa’s broad shoulders, contributing to a somewhat dis-reputational vibe.

Boots, covered in dirt and scuffs, complete the unkempt look, and a lingering rolled cigarette, possibly a joint by the herbal stench emanating from it and how tightly it’s tobacco stuffing is packed into the thin papers, add a touch of nonchalance to the unconventional ensemble.

The once jolly twinkle in his tired and bloodshot eyes he had for the children and parents queuing up all day to meet him excitedly, now carries a mischievous, darkening glint polluting the soft browns into a deep onyx as he regards you.

You can feel the heat, running moist and sticky across your body in all those fleshy crevices, as his eyes traverse all the curves and shapes of you gluttonously and leaving you stained.

It feels as if he devours you with his gaze, eyes chomping through your bones; each hungry look a bite into the forbidden fruit of your supple skin, leaving you with a sense of exposure that’s both invasive and titillating.

You feel it pulse on the end of your clit and bite back a wayward groan as you squeeze your thighs together.

You pull off your elf's hat, ruffling your hair out of your tight pony that’s been threatening to scalp you all day, and smirk at him suggestively. 

He leers back, through full lips chapped pink, under that greasy moustache hidden behind a fake silvery beard all day. A sly grin twists those pert smackers up as he looks you up and down in your cute fuzzy elf ensemble, complete with annoying bells that jingle when you walk.

A crude name tag is pinned to your lapel, flecked with glitter that says Cookie. And you can't help but wonder at how he'll make you crumble.

The Grotto’s decor transports visitors to a whimsical realm where the spirit of Christmas thrives in a rammed-down-your-throat abundance. Faux snow covered branches, adorned with twinkling lights that frame the entrance, complete with fibreglass reindeer with beady eyes, creates an archway that beckons families into the enchanting space within the hustle and bustle of the shopping mall. 

Inside the main cabin, the walls are adorned with festive murals depicting scenes of Santa's workshop; his cheerful elves, and his sleigh chock full of presents for all the good boys and girls.

Glittering ornaments in hues of red, green and gold hang from the ceiling, casting a warm and festive glow as they twirl and sway. Garlands of pine branches intertwine with fairy lights, adorned and wrapped around every available surface, filling the air with the invigorating scent of Christmas pine to the point you want to choke.

Eager youngsters, with their big awe-struck eyes, gravitate around your knees all day and hearing Let It Snow play on repeat is starting to grate on your last nerve by lunch time.

A two bit job in a shopping mall Grotto for the season to help pay the rent on your shitty apartment, isn’t exactly the high point of your mundane life, but being assigned as Santa’s personal elf in the Grotto this year seems to have an unexpected appeal. 

Especially when under the hat and beard Santa is a fucking grimy feast for the eyes, in all of his sordid, dirty appeal. 

“Oh, he’s kinda hot.” You whisper to the other elves, Sugarplum and Cinnamon, when you overhear them talking about him. “In a scummy sorta way.”

You watch as he chortles and pushes crudely taped gifts with lopsided bows into tiny, waiting hands. 

“I saw him out of the suit having a smoke round back. He looks like he spends all day injecting.” Cinnamon the elf remarks, wrinkling her nose. 

Sugarplum snorts distastefully in agreement as she pushes another child through to meet the magic man himself. And you can’t help but grin.  

Who is this guy? 

He stands out like a sore thumb in the mall full of Christmas card perfect families, with two point four bratty children, not the type to be cast in the role of Santa. He looks like he shouldn’t be anywhere near the vicinity of children at all. 

He’s an obvious stain on the holly-jolly, a blot; a malignant smear with his dark appearance and equally dark aura that radiates and flashes in neon green above his head like a Sims character, that he’s a bad, rotten egg. 

And yet, there’s something about him that piques you and your pussy’s interest as you can’t look away. 

You wonder where they hired him, possibly off the street by the way he looks; hair a fluffy mess as he runs a giant paw through it when he takes off the Santa hat for a reprieve. Slick with sweat around the neck and ears after being swamped in the furry suit all day.

But amidst the cheerful chatter and the jingling of bells, you and Santa start to engage in risqué repartee through exchanging heated glances, hidden within the joyful chaos that swarms around you both.

He watches as you bend to greet the children, deliberately pointing your ass, clad in tight, striped hosiery, in his line of sight, and throwing him a steely glance over your shoulder as you smile innocently around your glittery lipstick. 

You suck on candy canes to rile him up as he waits for the next toddler to enter the Grotto, and tease him with how far you can get it down your throat. 

You can see the effect it has on him all day as he has to adjust to himself constantly and refuse that any more kids sit on his lap, opting to just talk to them on their level instead.

Your eyes often fall onto that heavy bulge between his legs as you lick up the red striped cane suggestively. 

You, the teasing little elf, pretend to inspect a list of wishes, shooting Santa a sultry look. "I must say, Santa, you're on everyone's 'Nice' list, but I can't help but wonder what it would take to get you on the 'Naughty' list for a change…"

And he takes that as a direct challenge. 

After the Grotto is closed to the public for the day, you see him head into it and follow, lured like he’s dropping gingerbread crumbs for you to snort up.

Lights are out in the Winter Wonderland area; a few amblers doing their late night Christmas shopping still linger around the mall, but no-one would obviously know you're heading in as your toes jingle with your quick steps in the shadows. 

And it’s where you find him now, sitting back in Santa’s grand throne, legs akimbo and waiting for you as he tokes; running his thick mitts around the chintzy scruff of his real beard.

His eyes crinkle with mirth as you shut the Grotto door behind you. You reach into the basket of candy canes and he watches as you unwrap one, sucking on the stripey end of it as you step up towards him, when he pats his thick thigh again at you. 

Perching on him, dwelling inside the mist of hazy smoke that lingers above your heads and makes you feel lighter as you breathe it down into your lungs, you flutter your eyelashes as you take him in. 

Thick arms, speckled with tattoos of triads that look coloured in with a Sharpie, speak of a past etched with both labour and skirmishes. His hands, large and calloused, possess a certain coarseness, evidence of a wayward journey through life's grittier back alleys with short, chewed on nails. With shoulders that may slump a touch, he carries an weight of shady roughness on them; his belly and thighs telling stories of indulgence, and perhaps a few late night brawls.

Thick fingers are stacked with silver rings that are covered with Santa’s cotton gloves throughout the day. His hawkish nose adds a touch of defiance, completing the image of a man with a scuffed exterior, rough around the edges, yet somewhat intriguing in his lived-in authenticity. An unpolished diamond in some scummy rough. 

But who needs a diamond, when a zirconia is just as good, right? 

In the twinkly lights, the grazed hair on his face appears not as distinguished silver, but rather a mishmash of unkempt greys woven in, like shadows playing on a weathered canvas or someone forgetting to water their garden in patches.

His cocoa bean eyes, though sharp, carry a glimmer of adept slyness, a snake waiting to strike and latch it's fangs to your calf, as if they've witnessed more than their fair share of venomous dealings. 

The pierced ear, with its slightly tarnished hoop you're longing to suck into your mouth, feels less like a statement and more like a relic of some practised rebellion; a declaration of nonconformity, a middle finger raised to polished appearances.

And it's here where your eyes settle, on his fingers as he brings the joint up to his lips to inhale again, and you marvel at their thickness, their startling turgidity, clenching internally.

He inhales on the end of the blunt, smoke billowing around his face in misty, gossamer trails that beckon you further into him, and his eyes, dark and beguiling with blown pupils, are still on yours.

“Have you been a good girl this year?” There’s a coarse texture to his speech, a visceral quality that mirrors the scuffed exterior of a life lived on the fringes.

He’s watching your lips around the candy cane as though hypnotised by the talent of it. You pull it out of your mouth, sticky - the red bleeding into the white - and smile sweetly.

“I’m always a good girl,” you remark with a minty grin. 

Santa shakes his head. “I hear differently. I hear you’re a very naughty girl.” 

You mock pout as he leans forward and sucks the end of the candy cane you’re holding into his own mouth. He smacks his lips around one another after tasting it and hums out. “Filthy,” he adds. 

“Dirty.” You confirm with a singular nod. 

“I like ‘em dirty.” He agrees, looking up at you, chin jutted out in a provocative challenge. 

You stroke under it, scritching your nails in the softly coarse hairs there.

He flicks your name tag and smirks. “Cute.”

“What’s your name?” You ask curiously. 

“Dieter,” he exhales again, and you can taste the smoke settling on your tongue. “But you can call me Santa, baby.”

You nod willingly. 

“Santa wants to touch you, Cookie. You gonna let him?” He queries.

You nod again, smiling. 

“Say it, baby. Say you want Santa to touch you.”

“Touch me, Santa.” You simmer. Your body tenses waiting for his hands - those giant, fucking hands - to get acquainted with you.

He finishes the joint, before squeezing the end to extinguish it, and plops it on the floor. “You gonna let Santa fuck you too?”

“Yeah," you nod again like you can't stop. "I want Santa to fuck me with his big, hard cock.” You reach down and give it a squeeze over the velour Santa pants, and he hisses. “Mmm, so big.” You say, sucking on the cane again, hooking your finger around the curved end of it.

“Fuck, baby. You want it bad don’t you? Slutty little elf…” He states.

Dieter runs his hand up your thigh, your stomach and stops at your breast giving it a good squeeze over your outfit; a grunt of approval rippling low in the back trench of his throat and he massages and gropes.

Clawing his fingers of his other hand over your thigh and grabbing at the pliable skin of your ass cheek, he squeezes a generous handful of it, pulling and smirking at you. 

“Lemme get a look at these tits, fuck.” Dieter says, immediately running his tongue over them as you pull off your elf top. He yanks down your bralette, tearing at the flimsy material making you gasp around the candy cane. 

Mouthing and licking around your nipples, flicking them with his hot, wet tongue, you moan and trail your fingers through his greased up hair. And Santa can’t help himself but to motorboat them, making you giggle as you squirm in his lap. 

“Fuck, look at these,” He says groping them in his giant hands. He brings them together moaning and groaning as he licks and sucks them some more. Running his scruffy jaw over them, greedily like all his Christmases have come at once. He bites down on one and you hiss, feeling it fizz between your legs. 

“How ‘bout a little kiss for Santa, hmm?” He croons at you, craning his face into yours. "Mmm, my lil' sugar cookie..."

You lean in, slipping your cool, sweetly sticky tongue inside his mouth as he kisses you. He strokes over your breasts, squeezing more and groaning as you suck on his tongue. 

He tastes of weed, and something else strong and tart laced around his teeth. But you devour him, feeling that long tongue search around your mouth tasting you, and filling you with his muffled grunts.

“You know, Santa can fill your stocking with whatever you want, right?” Dieter smirks at you as he runs his fingers up down the striped nylons.

You grin, as you pop the candy cane back in your mouth.

With both hands, he tears open your pantyhose from your apex, and smirks at the damp patch there between your legs. You can feel it, all wet and sticky between your thighs. 

You’ve made a mess of yourself all day watching and lusting after him, and now he can see it and knows exactly what he does to you. Knows how you've been craving that filthy dirtbag - who looks like he rolled out of the gutter - they hired to play dress up for the kids.

God, you wanna ride him so fucking hard. 

“You been this wet for me all day?”

You nod. “Drenched.” You tease. 

“Fuck…” he husks approvingly. 

“You make me so wet, Santa.” You say, still innocently sucking on that darned candy cane.

His fingers swipe over the front of your panties, feeling it and pushing the damply soiled material against the folds of your swollen pussy lips. 

He groans as he feels that warm slick seep through onto his fingertips. He brings them up to his nose and sniffs before putting them in his mouth and sucks them, looking at you the whole time as you flare.

Then, he runs them all over your seam again, pressing in and applying pressure to the protruding, swollen bump of your clit. Those grubby, filthy hands pawing greedily all over you, just as you wanted.

“Mmm,” you whine as he strokes and circles over your clit that’s buzzing and pulling tight. A tinge of an ache that makes your thighs tense in the most delicious of ways as he strokes over it, lewdly.

“Santa’s little slut, aren’t you?”

You nod, smirking.

He takes the candy cane from you, and slots it in his own mouth, sucking on it as he inspects between your legs like a letch. You hear it clack against his teeth as it rolls from side to side across his mouth. 

Sucking on it, the stripy tip turned fully white now, he runs it in your folds, and you gasp at the coolness of the mint.

He dips it in, sliding the candy cane into your hole and pulls it out, sucking it back into his mouth, tasting you around the peppermint treat. 

"Mmm, you taste so good." He praises.

He does it again, fucking you slowly with the candy cane and watching as you bite your lip as he slides it in as deep as it’ll go, before holding the sticky treat out for you to taste.

You eye him as you suck it clean of your slick, your tongue lapping down the length of it, and he groans.

“So fucking nasty,” he says with a glint in his eye.

You crunch on the end of it, breaking off a chunk into your mouth as you chew and he discards the rest onto the floor, breaking into pieces that scatter upon impact. 

“Let me get another look at that pussy.” He wrenches your panties aside again, and spits on his fingers, rubbing them over your dripping cunt. 

“That feel good?” He slides up and down your folds, teasing your clit with slimy circles of your slick and tapping it. 

“Yeah. I want those dirty fingers in me.” You whine. 

“All the way in?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s get those panties off. Santa wants you spread open on his lap, baby.”

You lift your ass up as he tugs them down and you watch as he stuffs them into his pocket with a cockamamie smirk. You can only imagine all the sordid things he'll do with them later.

“Oh my God…” You gasp as he slides in two thick fingers, thumb running over your clit. 

“You like being a dirty little slut for Santa, don’t you?”

“Mmhmm,” you nod.

“Look at you, spread wide with my fingers in your cunt.” He looks down at the wet patch on his pants where you cream for him. 

“I love it.” You nod. "I love being your slut, Santa."

“Yeah you do. Kiss me again, baby. Gimme that tongue.”

He sucks on your tongue before he pushes in a third finger, and you moan at how full you feel. He pumps them in and out of you, garnering a tempo that leaves flames licking down your spine as you writhe against them. 

“Such a tight little cunt,” he whispers, pulling on your bottom lip and sucking it. 

“Mmm, yeah… that feels so good.” You mewl.

You can hear your slick squelching around his fingers and leaving them shiny as he pulls them out. You watch as he separates them, leaving strings to break before he sucks them in his mouth. 

“Santa’s got a gift for you in his sack, baby.” He reaches down into a bag, just as dirty and grimy as he is, and pulls out a battery powered wand with a bulbous head. 

You’re stunned as you giggle, and he raises his eyebrows. 

“You carry that around with you all the time?” You say, bewildered. 

A filthy grin lances across his face, the type that could impregnate women. And looking at him, he probably has. A harem of single mothers waiting on alimony cheques that’ll never come.

He clicks the wand on and pushes it to your cunt. 

“Oh fuck!” You drool as you feel it pulsing deliciously against your clit immediately. He sucks your nipple back into his mouth, whining at the taste of your skin. 

The vibrations, like soft, tingly ripples, spread from the device and explore every facet of your nerve endings. Tiny electrical pinpricks; a bubbling conduit of glittery bursts that intensify the more pressure he applies against you.

"That feel good?" You hear him graze at you.

“Mmm, I feel like I could come right now.” You sigh, gripping onto his broad, tan shoulder and enjoying being so close falling off the ledge already.

“This little toy gonna make you come, baby? Make you come for Santa?” You watch as he tongues your nipple, flicking it back and forth fast.

“Yeah. I’m almost there.” You shudder. "Mmm, fuck." You grab a hold of his hand, pushing the wand tighter against you. You can feel it pulsing in the centre, a deep winding sensation behind your abdomen; bunching and tightening. 

He clicks it up a notch, the vibrating head faster and louder against your clit. 

“Oh fuck. Yes, yes, yes!” Nails digging into the back of his hand as you grind against the wand head.

“Yeah. Come for me, baby. I wanna see Cookie come for Santa like a good slut.”

“Feels so nice like that… fuck!” You say your eyes rolling back, jaw tight and teeth clenching as you shudder and burst. Eyebrows furrowing and biting down on your lip as you come around the wand’s head. “So good, Santa… fuck, so, so good,” you pant. 

His eyes flash with wild encouragement, yet they contain a sense of addictive danger as he kisses across your breasts that taste salty with sweat and glittery fragments that stick to you as you shake.

“Such a good little elf, coming for Santa aren’t you, baby?”

He glances at you as he suckles and kisses your nipple, and pulls your face towards his for a swamping kiss that tastes acidic and makes you dizzy with it all. 

You reach down and squeeze his cock as he tosses the wand onto his bag. Stroking him over the red velour pants. He has an oily smirk; slick and fast, matching the tempo of how quickly he gets his cock out for you. Thick, veiny and pink, with a nice fat head, oozing just for you. 

“Is this all for me, Santa?” You marvel at the lack of boxers or briefs under the pants.

“Yeah.”

“You’ve got such a big cock. Mmm, that’s gonna feel so good in my tight pussy.”

“Gonna stretch you out, baby.” He takes your hand and wraps it around him, pumping.

“Fill me up.”

“Yeah, Gonna fill this slutty pussy up till you're dripping me down your thighs.” 

Your eyes are drawn to the ominous swell of his cock in your hand, astounding in its size and girth with a puff of grizzly dark hairs at the base of it. You’re trying to understand the science of how the fuck he’ll fit inside of you.

“I feel so fucking good, Cookie. So hard.” He whispers with a beguiling whip around his gritty cadence.

“Mmm,” you say, mesmerised by jerking him off. Watching as he drips for you and smearing it around his head with your thumb. 

“You wanna feel it? Feel it in your pussy, baby?”

Biting your lip you nod and grin. “Yeah.”

In a flash, he sits you on the throne, your legs hanging over the arm rests and spread wide for him.

"Fuck, look at you," he sighs at how spread and soaked you are for him.

Dieter jerks his cock as he runs his tongue up and down your slit, sucking on your clit hungrily. He swirls his tongue round and round, speedily as it flicks across your clit and makes your thighs twitch. 

“God, you taste so fucking good.” He groans.

“Like candy canes.” You giggle.

“Yeah. So sweet.”

You yank his head forward, clutching at the roots of his greying curls. His nose snuffles against the top of your mound as you feel him penetrate your hole with his tongue. 

“Fuck!” You drone as he fucks you with it.

He licks down and then runs back up again, this time gliding his nose in your folds too. Slick gathers on the end of it, shiny as it passes over your clit. 

“God, I wanna fuck this tight, little pussy.” He growls, wiping your juice from his nose and licking it away from his palm. 

Dieter pulls off the pants fully, then stands, crouching with legs spread; thick thighs supporting him as he lines himself up with your slit.

You can see the swell of his belly where the wife beater rides up and you reach forward to stroke it, feeling the galaxy of soft hairs that lead in a trail down to his cock.

You wince as he pushes in, fisting onto the hem of the vest. 

“What, huh? Too big? You can take this big cock. Come on, baby.” He looks down to see he’s halfway in; your cunt sucking him in as he traverses the fleshy, wet walls crushing around him. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

“Mmm, God!” You groan, reaching for him as he pushes in all the way, deep into the hilt of you and there he stays for a moment, unmoving, just feeling you pulse and contract around him. 

He wiggles his hips and watches you breathlessly gasp. 

“Fuck me,” you plead. 

He pulls out and then slides deep again, over and over until he works up a tempo that has you panting; clawing at his arms and soaking around him. 

You sit up on the edge of the throne, legs wrapped around his lower calves as he slows into a more laboured pace. Sliding his cock in as deep as he can get it into you. He nips at your neck, running his tongue over the skin and sucking it between his teeth, marking you with purple welts.  

It’s a deep, somewhat brutal fucking, as he flexes his hips and pounds into you with determination. Taking your breath away as the jolts of your body stop you sucking more oxygen in. 

You hold onto the arm rests to steady yourself as he fucks into you. His own breath getting lodged in the back of his throat. 

You look up at him, jaw slack and eyes glazed over in ecstasy as his thighs slap relentlessly against your ass cheeks. His face his taught, veins bulging around his neck and eyes focused on you. Lined forehead coated with a sheen of sweat and you want to taste on your tongue. 

“You like this don’t you, getting fucked by Santa?” He queries with a dark smirk. 

“Aah fuck! Yeah, give it to me!” You wail. 

You can feel the weight of his balls pendulum against your ass as he thrusts relentlessly. 

"Santa fucking his little whore." He puffs.

"Fuck yeah!" You cry.

“Get up baby,” he instructs, wincing as he stands upright and clutching his lower back. 

He sits on the throne and pulls you onto him, but facing away. You hoist yourself up, feet flat on the seat either side of his thighs and lower yourself, squatting onto his cock standing tall and thick beneath you. 

“Oh, that’s it. Sit on Santa’s fucking lap, baby!” He gushes, pulling you all the way down until your cunt is flush with the base of him. 

“Oh shit, Dieter!” You cry as you feel him plunge deeper than he's already been. It forces the breath out of your lungs as you sharply inhale. "Shit, shit!"

"Call me Santa, baby." He teases.

His hands hold onto your waist; thick fingers curling around towards your belly button as you move up and down, using the arm rests to push yourself upwards. 

“Fuck, you’re so deep.” You groan as you work faster with the aid of him pushing your hips. 

“Yeah, fuck my cock, baby.” He grunts from behind you. 

You reach forward and stroke his swollen balls, groping and squeezing gently as he groans in delight. You run your hand across the both of you; feeling him plunge into your pussy, moving up to your clit as he fills you. 

“Yeah, yeah, baby. Oh fuck yeah!” He’s groaning behind you, hissing and puffing. The throne creaks and rocks under you both. 

The burning in your thighs stops you momentarily, and you step down off the throne and ride him harder, leaning forward on his thighs. 

He’s watching, hands on your ass cheeks, splaying you apart so he can see his cock delve deeper into your pussy, shiny and drenched with your slick. 

He sucks his thumb and notches it against your tight, puckered hole. You squeal in delight as he breaks through and hooks it into your ass.

“So fucking dirty baby.” He praises as you tighten around his cock. “Wish we had that candy cane now so I can put it in your ass.” 

“Oh my God…” You sigh deliciously at the seedy thought.

“You gonna come? Come with my thumb in your ass like the dirty slut you are?” 

“Mmm, yeah!” You coo. 

“Fuck yeah!” He hollers as you start to shudder and ripple around him. 

Your voice wanes, becoming nothing but a husked whisper scraping against the back crevices of your throat. But the most fascinating thing of all to him, is the way your body shakes uncontrollably on the end of his cock as he strokes the inside of your ass. 

The dreamy, heady feeling crawls over you like smoke in the dimly lit corridors of the back of the mall, choking you up. The colours of Christmas in the Grotto take on a seedy glamour, as if you're witnessing the world through the tinted lens of a noir film.

It's a sensory whirlwind, where every touch, taste, and sound carries a palpable sharpened edge, laced with a hint of danger that adds to the thrill of the fuck between you both.

His cock bottoms out in you constantly, filling you full of him and you can’t get enough. Panting and whining for more.

The knotting and binding cinches tighter and you start to fall, not into a soft cloud; it's a smokescreen of desire and kinky vice. It's the kind of state where the boundary between illusion and reality blurs, and you find yourself entangled in the gritty allure of forbidden pleasures.

Fucking Santa in a children's Grotto, and you giggle at the absurd, yet vividly decadent rapture, as your orgasm takes you and turns you out. 

“Yeah come all over my cock,” Dieter cajoles as you whine and screech, riding yourself through it until you buck and shake, unable to keep yourself up right on legs that feel like mush.  

Dieter bends you over the throne this time, kneeling on the plush seat as you cling to the back of it whilst he stands behind you, pummelling into you and seeking his own finish.

“You like taking Santa’s big cock like this?” His voice pelts the back of your neck; hair bunched and knotted around his fist.

“Yeah!” You cry out, literally clawing at the gold paint finishing. You’ll find it under your nails later. “Harder.” You whine. 

“Oh, you want it so hard, you greedy cock slut.” Wheezing like he’ll need an oxygen machine for the rest of his life, Dieter speeds up.

Obscene slapping of sweaty skin-on-skin fills the Grotto. If security were to trundle on by, there’s no mistaking you'd both be caught and the thought makes you flare. 

“Spank me, Santa!” You urge over your shoulder. 

“You want me to spank you?”

“I’ve been a very bad elf…” You pout coyly. 

“So fucking bad, baby.” He slaps across your ass, the sting making you moan out as it traverses your body.

“Mmm, yeah! More!”

“More?” He does it again, harder and it leaves a mark where you can feel the burn. 

Another slap has you screaming as you push back on his cock, meeting his every thrust. 

The sweat sheen on your back shines at him and he leans over you running his tongue up your spine to taste it. The action pushes him deeper and you both cry out in unison.

He works his hips, shunting back and forth in small, quick bursts as he fucks that tight, pretty hole and makes you mewl and gasp. 

A savage rhapsody of his unrelenting stamina that pummels you continually; all you can do is take it, whining and groaning and seeing the phosphenes glitter around your vision as he builds you up again.

It’s soaking between your legs, immensely sticky and you can feel it dripping between your thighs. You reach under yourself and stroke your clit that feels like it might explode with the simplest nudge.

It feels so good, too good, and you’re coming again, legs shaking and your back feeling like it might break in half, as he twists and pistons into you with all that he’s got.

“Where’d you want Santa to finish, baby?” He grunts desperately. 

“In my mouth.”

“Oh fuck!”

“Watch me swallow it all down, Santa.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

He pulls out and jerks his cock a few times before coating your waiting tongue with warm, thick spurts of him. 

“Take Santa’s load,” he groans. “Yeah, lick the tip clean, suck it. Oh yeah, that’s it… fuck. Clean me up with that slutty mouth, baby.”

He reaches down, smearing his thumb over your lips that are sticky with his pearly come. Cock in hand still, he strokes the side of your face as you look up at him and run your tongue over his length. 

“Next time, you can fill my ass.” You wink.

“Fuck,” Dieter chuckles. He has a large dimple on the left side of his face when he smiles; an almost perfect crescent, like the moon in its waxing phase. You decide instantly that it's kinda beautiful.

Standing, your hands on his chest - the wife beater drenched with sweat - you kiss him, slipping your salty tongue into his mouth and he whines, groping your ass and crushing his softening cock between you both. 

You feel him pick you up, wincing around his teeth a little, as he strains, hands splayed under your ass cheeks as he plonks you down on the counter where all the treats are kept, namely the basket of candy canes.

You groan contently into the seedy warmth of his mouth once more as he latches onto your lips, tongue exploring the wet crevices of your mouth. You cup the back of his head, yielding to the undercurrent of surrender, willingly.

Dieter takes one of the candy canes, unwraps it and slides it into your mouth. You feel his fingers stroking through your wet swollen folds, gathering it and swirling it around the rim of your ass as he puts one of your ankles on his shoulder. 

It's a feeling that goes beyond the physical, a warmth that stirs the echoes of desires you might not want to admit, but have willingly embraced nonetheless.

You want more of him, want more of this grimy bastard filling you up, and judging by how grunts, licking around your teeth and gums hungrily, Santa’s not done yet with you either. 

“Get it nice and wet, baby. That’s it.” He encourages you as you slurp and suck around the candy cane.

He takes it from you, and you bite down on your lip as you feel it pushing against your rim.

“Santa’s gonna make it disappear, baby.” Dieter, the Sleazy Santa chuckles at you, with a sly, twisted grin as you crush his rancid lips to yours once more. 

Thanks so much for reading more of Sleazy!Dieter. I hope you enjoyed him! Stay tuned for more of him in the future.🖤

MASTERLIST

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

[chronically-ghosted]

fade into you

rating: Explicit (18+)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 4K

summary: counting down the days until the new baby arrives, you’re already wound to a breaking point. Fortunately, Dieter is as good a husband as he is a father. 

warnings: pregnancy, hormonal behavior due to pregnancy, fluffy cute behavior with kids, oral (m!receiving), Dieter is a sensitive king and loves your tummy, brief body insecurity, pregnancy sex, smut, thigh fucking, daddy/mommy dynamic – mostly tongue in cheek, and finally the return of the greatest tag gone far too long from our lives - daddy!dieter

a/n: congrats @burntheedges you are the first prompt for my 1k follower celebration! This was your prompt for Dieter: "Your shirt is inside out." "Can you help me fix that?" This takes place in the same universe as Little Monsters, but you don’t have to have read that one to understand this one. Thank you SO much for sending this in!

🤍Dieter Bravo Masterlist 🤍Masterlist

I wanna melt in I wanna soak through I only wanna move when you move I wanna breathe out when you breathe in then I wanna fade into you

“C’mon – c’mon, just –,” your outstretched toe barely scrapes the end of the pen. You’re sweating – of course, you’re sweating, you’re always sweating these days. You try inching further down on the bed, as far as your aching back will allow, your leg fully extended, stretched so long you know you’re just flirting with a massive cramp – 

You manage to snag the pen between your toes but as you bring it forward, the weight of the top slips back – “fuck, no!” and with a clatter, the pen tips backwards out of your grasp and onto the floor. After spending ten minutes trying to a fucking pen that you accidentally put there only after you managed to roll your way off the bed to go to the bathroom for the third time in forty-five minutes, the weight of it all hits you. The massive weight of you sinks back against the pillows, eyes scrunched shut, begging yourself not to cry.

You had all but demanded some time alone to work on the bills the producer wanted you to sort through. It was the last thing on your to-do list before you mentally allowed yourself to start your maternity leave and at this rate, it would be done by the time the nearly-grown baby in your stomach was a walking, talking ten year old. In that weird sixth sense mothers and their unborn children share, you feel your son turn and gently one foot presses against your forearm draped over your massive belly. In any other context, your heart would have been made ten times stronger, fortified by the love of your son.

Right now, it just makes you burst into tears. 

You’re crying so hard you don’t hear the back door open, or the rousing chorus of Baby Shark that echoes through the house. If you were listening, you’d hear the squelch of wet flip flops traipsing through the kitchen floor, the song only occasionally broken by giggles and jokes about towel monsters coming to get little girls who drip water all over the living room, and a loud raspberry on soft skin. 

He opens the door before you even have time to try to pull in the loud, wailing sob. 

“Baby, look at –,” 

“Dieter, don’t –,” you snatch up a pillow and shove your face into it, ashamed, embarrassed, and angry all at once. “Don’t look at me like this.” 

When he had left you an hour ago, you had your hot tea by the side of the bed and your game face on – one of your sexier faces, if anyone asked him. You swore up and down this was the last thing and then it was smooth-sailing. You loved overworking yourself even while eight months pregnant, so Dieter and your doctor managed to make an agreement with you: all work must be done in bed. 

You had your tea, a snack, even a towel wrapped around the headboard so you could pull yourself upright out of the bed to go to the bathroom unassisted while Dieter and Zelle went down to the pool . You, like you so often do, had a fool-proof plan. And to be quite honest, those were Dieter’s favorite kind of plans. 

Listening to his ‘you think I can’t do it? watch me, fuck you’ wife and mother of his child (soon to be another) wail like the house was on fire made something inside of him break on a microscopic level. Like his organs were suddenly perforated with a million tiny cuts. 

His bottoms still wet from the pool and Zelle’s wet suit quickly soaking the front of his t-shirt, Dieter approaches, his hand squeezing the arch of your foot to let him know he’s there. That did nothing to deter the anguish sobbing or inch the pillow away from your face. 

With Zelle on his hip, he slides closer, touching you the whole time until he’s seated right beside you, his hand on your thigh. Your sobbing might only be second to Zelle’s own yelling cry in successfully destroying him from the inside out.

“Baby . . .”

You don’t flinch but he sees your knuckles go white – you’re nearly at the end, but you can’t seem to stop. As Dieter waffles between drawing you into his chest with his free arm or just being there for you while you let it all out, the weight on his hip shifts and a little pudgy hand brushes the back of your knuckles.

“Mama?” 

Your sobbing stutters to a halt with a deep hiccup and all at once you go still. Very slowly, the pillow is lowered and your pink, snotty, dribbly face peers up at him. It’s not funny for you, and he knows this and he knows he won’t laugh but he wants nothing more than to pull you in close and kiss off those tears that have been nearly a constant presence in the last two weeks. Instead, his little girl beats him to it.

Zelle wiggles off his hip towards you and you take her in your arms, letting out one more whine as she wraps her tiny arms around your neck. She rubs her little face in your neck and you huff.

“Now, I feel silly,” you blubber. With a small chuckle, Dieter reaches over and gets a few tissues from the bedside table. He hands them over and you try to juggle Zelle and reaching over your swollen tummy to take them.

“C’mere, baby, let Mama have a second.” Zelle folds into his shoulder, her bright, inquisitive eyes never leaving your face as you wipe yourself dry and blow your nose. He rubs your thigh in circles. “You’re not silly. Whatever ever made you break out into deep sobs on a Thursday afternoon in our secluded bedroom is totally normal.” 

You give a watery laugh, sniffing as you try to adjust your pillows, Baby Brave Number Two rolling back into your kidneys. He doesn’t kick, he's as unassuming as possible, but he can’t help how he floats. 

“I dropped a pen,” you murmur with a sigh. “I just got comfortable after waddling back in from the bathroom and I dropped my pen.” 

“Mama mad?” Zelle hides her little face beneath a curtain of hair. Dieter Bravo’s offspring in every conceivable way, Zelle is rarely this timid – only when there’s even but a hint of an implication that she’s in trouble. You’d see those same puppy dog eyes come out of the man with his hand up against her small back more than a dozen times. 

“No, baby, I’m not mad.” You shake your head and those wide eyes get even bigger. “I’m just having a lot of feelings and I’m not doing a good job at managing them.”

“Yeah, like remember how you felt on your first day of preschool?” Dieter slides Zelle across his waist so she sits between you two. She glances back between your faces, anxiety and confusion twisting up her little features. “You were mad and sad and scared all at once so you started crying when we dropped you off?” She nods and he tucks a strand of delicate hair over her ear. “But then we had that talk in the car and you felt better. Mama just needs to do that.”

“Talk? Mama talk?” 

He smiles at her and pulls her into his chest, smelling her strawberry L’Oreal shampoo, and a peace he’d never known before sinks into his bones. He feels whole with his little girl in his arms.

“Yes, she just needs to talk. Right, Mama?”

He pulls back and watches you visibly swallow. Not a knot of sadness but something else. It’s gone from your eyes by the time Zelle turns back around. 

“I’m just really excited for your little brother to get here,” you say with a soft smile, your hand absentmindedly stroking the swell of your stomach where a little foot had been pressed just a few minutes ago. “Aren’t you?”

Zelle nods, smiling, and puts her ear to your stomach. A minute later, Dieter’s wide palm covers yours. He interlaces his fingers with yours and he smiles. The smile that’s been cultivated and cured over half a dozen years together, and recent late nights as new parents. A smile that has never graced a single magazine cover or Instagram reel. A smile that is forever and always will be yours. 

“Come on, love bug, it’s bath time.” Dieter swings Zelle up into his arms and nibbles on her neck making her giggle. 

“Then dinner time,” you grunt as you inch towards the edge of the bed. You try and swing your legs off the edge but end up nearly toppling over your lowered center of gravity.

“Baby –,” his firm grip steadies you, stops you from rolling into the bedside table. Those lines at the corners of his eyes sharpen for a second as he looks you over, worry all at once endearing and annoying. You hated being coddled but Dieter loved to coddle. 

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” you can hear how out of breath you sound and you grimace. Dieter doesn’t let go of your arm until you’re firmly planted on the ground next to him and you squeeze his bicep as reassuringly as you possibly can. He loosens his grip, concern wrinkling his forehead, his hand sliding from your arm, to your elbow then over your belly once again. Baby Bravo jostles you where his father’s hand sits.

“See, we’re all okay.” 

Your gazes meet at the same time and something softens in his eyes, soothes him and you down to the very beat of your heart. As if in a daze, Dieter’s eyelids flutter half-shut and his eyes slip to your mouth, he puts his hand on your swollen waist as he kisses you – deeply, with an intensity that makes your knees quiver. 

“Ew.”

A puff of breath fans your cheeks as Dieter breaks the kiss with a laugh. On his hip, Zelle chews on her little fist, an all-too-familiar glint in her eye. 

“You can’t say ‘ew’. You only exist because of kisses like that –,”

“Dieter!” 

He shakes his head before kissing Zelle on her little nose. “Tough crowd tonight. But even little sharks need to get a bath before dinner.”

Zelle scrunches up her nose, baring her crooked little teeth, and raises her fingers like claws. “Rawr.”

You hear Dieter chuckle as he walks her down to the bathroom. “Yes, baby, that’s definitely the sound sharks make.”

The bills aggressively shoved to the floor, you are folding the last bit of laundry over the bed after dinner when Dieter saunters in. Still in his trunks and shirt from earlier in the day, a faint pink blush warms his nose and cheeks – which would be gone in a few days, only to be replaced by a gorgeous dark almond color. Dieter Bravo could naturally tan so perfectly it was honestly heart-breaking. 

“She’s out?” 

“She’s out.” He nods with a sigh. He scratches the back of his head and snags his phone off the bedside table. When he sits down on the edge of the bed, you see the tag of his shirt over the lip of his collar. You muffle your grin and quietly finish with the towels. “The guy who came up with the lyrics ‘Baby Shark, doo-doo, doo-doo, doo-doo’ is either a genius or a madman. Two rounds of that and she’s basically comatose.”

“How do you know it was a man?” You arch your eyebrow at him. 

Dieter lifts his head from his phone and smirks at you. He reaches for you and you let him tug you between his legs. He kisses your wrist, your hands curled around his broad shoulders. “That was incredibly sexist of me, darling, can you ever forgive me?”

Dropping his head, he presses a soft kiss to the swell of your stomach, his eyes flicking up to you at the last second, the bottom half of his face hidden. The sight, one you haven’t seen in recent months but one you craved like a drizzle of honey over a bowl of fruit, loosens the tension in your back and liquifies your underwear. 

“Dieter?”

“Yes, O Love of My Life?”

“Your shirt is inside out.”

The sultry look in his eyes immediately flickers out and he huffs a laugh, shaking his head and pressing his face into your neck.

“What would I do without you? Can you help me fix that?” 

“Mhm hm.”

His back arched, you roll the faintly damp shirt up his spine, careful to take in the notches visible through his skin. You watch in delight as more of that broad back is revealed, more golden skin and freckles. The rim of the collar catches the back of his head so when you finally tug it off him, his hair is scattered in a dozen different directions. It takes nearly all of your willpower not to moan at the site. 

“Or . . .” you make a deliberate show of dropping the shirt and Dieter goes honey-eyed again. 

“Yeah?” He tilts his head up, wraps his massive hands around the back of your thighs, squeezing you above the backs of your knees, then higher up, his fingers pressing into your inner thigh muscles, and finally resting on your ass. 

You nod and gently push him back. He goes without being told twice. “I want to thank you for taking Zelle to let me work today.”

His eyes go wide, his elbows locked with his arms set apart behind him, when you go onto your knees in front of him.

“B-baby, your back –,”

“Then give me a pillow, Dieter.” 

He nearly launches himself back to snag a pillow by the headboard. 

“My back is one thing, but I’m more worried about the knot of your trunks.”

Dieter busies himself with the drawstring of his shorts, his movements frantic, giving you a chance to muffle a grunt as you ease the pillow underneath your knees. He’s right, of course, but fuck if you couldn’t get those goddamn bills done, the least you could blow your husband until he popped off in your mouth. 

“Love, you really don’t have to do this.” You glance up at him and despite the evident tent in his swim trunks, his wide eager eyes, he will do everything in his power to make these last few weeks even somewhat bearable. 

With a smile, you lean forward and squeeze his knees. “I know. And honestly, I don’t know how long I’ll last, but I wanna try. Is that okay?”

An awe-struck grin splits his lips apart and he laughs, a high-pitched sound and breathless. “How long you’re gonna last? Been half-hard all day since you put on those leggings this morning.”

“Well, you were so good with Zelle today, talking to her about feelings, it made me kinda hot and bothered so I feel especially grateful.”

You lean forward, fingers plucking at the damp strings and out of the corner of your eye you see his knuckles go white against the sheets. You tug and he helps you by lifting his hips.

“S-so that’s what that look w-was.” He swallows roughly as you take him in your hand, stroking him gently at first. He squeezes his eyes shut – god, could you really make him come with just a few touches? “I’m j-just – fuck – doing my part.” 

You kiss along his length and his shoulders lock up as his breathing quickens. You suck the spit in your mouth before dropping a string of drool right on the head and Dieter’s groan elongates, the muscles of his neck tense. 

“Well, Mommy likes it when Daddy does a good job.”

Tongue out and jaw loose, you swallow him down nearly to the base. Maybe you’re biased because you married the himbo attached to it, but Dieter’s cock is one of the – if not the – very best cocks you’ve ever seen in your life. Thick without being overwhelmingly long and always oozing precum the instant you breathe on it. A slick vein that has him whimpering with a single lick. 

“Fuck, Mama, you’re so fucking good at this.” Dieter’s hand floats to the crown of your head, his nails scratching your scalp, the weight of his palm soothing as it follows the motions of your head. With every little sigh he makes, your pussy squeezes with every bob of your head. Dieter’s sensitivity has always been a near drug for you, a chemical reaction that floods your brain, branding those noises on the lining of your skull as he drips down the back of your throat. You meet his hot gaze just as you drag your mouth up and nearly off him, only to kitten-lick the lip of his head and he clamps his eyes shut, shuddering.

When you hear his heel kick the ground beside you, his chest heaving and chin tilted up, you drop your mouth down to his base – years of taking him training you to smother your gag-reflex – and with hollowed cheeks, suck him all the way up to the tip. His wiry curls smell like chlorine and musk. 

Dieter jerks, his hand flying to your shoulder as if to pry you off him. 

“Mhmm – baby, p-please – shit,” he swallows and you pop off him, his cock red and shiny from your spit. Dieter is panting, soft center fluttering, flush high in his throat. Your underwear sticks to you as you realize he very nearly came in your mouth without warning. Call it being a masochist but you loved making him come before either of you realized what was happening. 

“Get off your fucking knees and come here –,” he yanks you into his naked lap and you go, giggling as he palms your ass and kissing you so hard you tilt back. He bites your bottom lip and you keen. “Can’t believe I let my pregnant wife fucking suck me off like that when she knows I worship that little pussy.” 

He cups you through your leggings and the dampness soaking through the fabric sends a moan through both of you. Dieter’s jaw goes lax as he rubs his thick fingers across your folds, the material catching and dragging, and you whimper – and not in a way he knows means a good thing. His gaze floods with worry and you shake your head – the instant the doctor gives the go-ahead you’re gonna have him rail you through a bedpost – “It’s okay. I’m just sore, baby. Last night –,”

He tsks, frowning. “I told you I was being too rough.”

“I asked for it. Also, so not the time for an ‘I told you so’. Help me stand up.” 

With his hands on your hips, he eases you off of his lap and onto your feet. You lift up your exasperatedly large shirt, the hemline of which has been steadily shrinking as you grow, and clip off your bra. Dieter stares, mouth open, as you slip your leggings and your sticky underwear off your round hips and to the floor. With your second baby, you’d managed to quell the looming anxiety about your body changing but with a boy, you just feel ten times your normal size, bigger than you did with Zelle. Your heart hitches in your chest as Dieter’s eyes roam from your shoulders to your swollen tits, your belly, your thighs, and you’d be happy if he just thought you were – 

“Gorgeous, baby, just fucking gorgeous.” He stands and kisses you without another word, his thumbs on your jaw tilting your mouth into his. He palms your breast, hard and weighed with milk. He approaches you with a level of sensuality that makes your eyes roll back in your head and your knees shake. How can he touch you like that when you’re already filled to the brim?

“How do you need it, baby?”

The tension that had been locking down the muscles in your back, your hips, since you woke up this morning, only heightened over those stupid fucking bills and feeling incredibly sorry for yourself, cracks at his words. Without your hands on his chest and his big hands cradling your jaw, you’re sure you would have melted to the floor. You lick your bottom lip, eyes scrunched tightly to clear the sudden tightness behind them. 

“On my side, but between my thighs?” 

His eyes are all heat, all dark wanting, but he hits you in the knees with one of his crooked grins. “Yeah, you’re gonna let Daddy fuck your thighs?” Total reverence, filth that has your toes curling coming as easy to him as it is to breathe. 

“Please.” 

He stands back at a distance, watching with half-set eyes as you climb into bed and peel back the covers. As you settle, Dieter flicks off the overhead light, and then the lamp by your bedside. His body lined in dark shadows and the cool touch of the moonlight, you track him as he rounds the bed, sliding in behind you in bed, the covers up to his shoulders. There’s a breath of silence, of anticipation, of a yearning so deep your skin flushes with goosebumps at his proximity. You know he’s there, you watched him dip on the other side of the bed, but a spark of panic tightens your lungs, you want to reach back for him, your baby unmoored as you are, trembling and desperate for the calming touch of the father –

He kisses you over your shoulder, broad, warm hand starting at your hip, then scooping down around your naked bottom to settle on your belly and from where his hand sits, you radiate with heat. Melting and growing sticky like tree sap, you drip for him, slick smearing across your thighs with no material to soak you up. His mouth is warm, the short hairs of his mustache numbing your upper lip, the taste of the red wine from dinner light against the back of his tongue. 

When he cups you again, finds the sticky sap gathered in your curls and leaking onto your thighs, he breaks the kiss with a grunt and presses his teeth into your shoulder, his cock fully present against your back. You nip his bottom lip with your thumbnail, pleased beyond words at his reaction.

“I love you.” 

That’s not what you thought he was going to say. He lifts his furrowed brow, eyes dark but struck with such earnestness, you feel your heartbeat in your ears. He sucks the mark his teeth made on your shoulder, his hips hitching closer, turning his weight over you, before dropping closer to kiss you again.

“How did I get so fucking lucky with you, hm?” He asks of no one. Delicately, he guides your knee back over his hip, his breath warm across the curve of your shoulder, his other hand pressing gently on the back of your neck. He would never, ever choke you in this state, but fuck you missed it. You missed it when Dieter loses himself entirely in you. 

The head of his cock taps the wet triangle of your thighs and you fist the pillow beneath your head. He shuffles closer and you can feel his chest trembling with restraint. 

“Tell me if it hurts,” he says in one breath. You know if you look over your shoulder, he’s fixated on watching you take his cock. Oddly enough, his ADHD always seemed to clear out during sex. “Do– do you need my fingers – a-a toy to prep you, ‘cause I can–,”

“Dieter, please.”

He exhales and, with a slow thrust that smears your arousal all over his spit-licked cock, you finally feel relief. The noise that leaves your throat is unrecognizable. That ruddy tip kisses your clit and the moan that tears out of you is nearly a scream. 

A wide palm claps over your mouth, a breathy giggle falling down your back. 

“Baby,” low, strained, barely audible over the sounds of your slickness sucking your thighs together around Dieter’s cock. “If you wake up that child before I’m balls deep in you, I will never forgive you.”

Using his hand as leverage, he pulls you back against him, pressing himself even further between your soaked lips, prodding your clit so gently it sends sparks up your spine and you come, a small wave, that somehow has you leaking more onto his cock. 

“Ah – oh my god – did you just –?” 

You whine and wrap your hand up into his hair, and finally he’s skin to skin up your back. His hips jolt you forward, the hard smack loud and sloppy in the mess between your thighs. Dieter leans over you and nips at your earlobe, his thrusts faster now, each one catching your clit with just enough time apart to send you ratcheting higher. 

“That’s so good, Dieter, you’re doing so good –,”

A sharp intake of breath, high through a vocal shudder, and he drops down onto his shoulder against the pillow, looping his arm around your chest, a wide palm cupping your sensitive breast. Skin to skin, he is a wall of heat behind you, his hands both steadying you and begging you for more against your hip. It’s moments like these, when he’s swallowing up every sense you’re still in control of, that you really believe your soul lives in two bodies. 

He tucks his lips near your ear and your skin tingles. “Can I touch your clit, or does that hurt?”

“Just put your hand –,”

You take him by the wrist from the curve of your waist, where he grips you tight, fingers pocketing your flesh, and slide him down between your legs. 

“That’s it, baby, take what you need.” 

Between the consistent bouncing of his cock between your pussy lips and the heat of his four fingers, stocky and thick, you have nowhere to go but up, your own hips thrust back aimlessly, bliss hurling towards you, until it breaks – and you whine, squeeze Dieter’s hand so hard, you think you hear a bone pop.

Wetness floods your thighs and, half a dozen strokes later, Dieter spills with a groan, white cream splattering against the low curve of your belly and onto the sheets. Covered in literal spend, exhaustion soaks your bones, gasping for air and never finding enough. You lie together, your bodies buzzing, blood roaring loud beneath your skin, until Dieter tilts his weight off you – you didn’t even realize he had nearly smothered you – and his cock slides out from between your numb legs, his grip loosening from your breast and his hand flopping down into the sheets. His skin is pink from exertion.

You grin and roll over as gracefully as you can, out of breath and the size of a house. 

“An unexpected bonus,” you sigh, ringing your belly button with your finger, “I think we rocked him to sleep.” 

Dieter huffs a laugh as he pushes a handful of damp curls off his sweaty forehead and his other arm curls around your shoulders. He rests his other palm over your fingers on your belly.

“Glad I could tire all three of us out.” You giggle into his shoulder. Both of you are sticky hot, sweltering in a fog of your own mess, and you can feel sleep tugging at the corners of your eyes. Humming, you curl up closer to him, your knee over his hip, tucking your nose into his neck as his fingers absently play with strands of your hair. 

“I meant what I said, you know that right?”

Your body as supple as warm wax, eyes melting shut, you nod vaguely. “Mhmm hmm.” 

“I love you, baby. Thank you, for everything.”

You return the sentiment, the words dribbling out of your mouth as sleep overwhelms you.

Later, when you wake up in the early blue hours of the morning, rain pattering against the glass, and you feel something cool and soft against your belly, you stir, reaching for him.

“Hush, baby, stay still for me.” He hums somewhere above you. You nod, on the precipice of sleep again. “You gave me the world, I’m just returning the favor.”

Later still, when you awake to a soggy light, Dieter and Zelle down the hall excitedly picking out which movies to watch on this designated Stay on the Couch day, you roll onto your back and realize he’s painted a globe onto your stomach. 

A foot inside you presses up against Chile and you grin into space, content beyond your wildest dreams. 

+

#dieter bravo #daddy dieter #gonna make this an official tag if its the last thing i do #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo x oc #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfic #the bubble fanfic #the bubble

[qveerthe0ry]

Misfire

Summary: Dieter gets waxed for a role and gets a little too excited. Word Count: 966 Pairing: Dieter Bravo x GN! Reader Rating: 18+ Explicit Warnings: 18+ mdni, dubious consent, body hair waxing, pain kink, humiliation kink (kinda), subby!Dieter, ruined orgasm, coming untouched, hands-free orgasm, reader does not engage in sex acts, mentions of alcohol, mentions of drug use, accidental exhibitionism, accidental voyeurism Note: I'm hoping this will be part of a long series of one-shots where I write Dieter as a pathetic little subby, desperate, whimpering mess. As of right now I don't have any big plans for what to write next, but I'm always down for suggestions ;) - Also, I had a hard time with the warnings on this one, don't hesitate to let me know if I missed something that needs tagged.

Dieter Bravo does not feel shame.

His entire schtick is doing whatever the fuck he wants, unapologetically. He hasn’t batted an eye at a tabloid headline in decades. 

But now… Now he feels like a fool. He’s gone and landed himself a really stupid part in a low-budget film about a bunch of old guys on an Olympic diving team. 

Which, first of all, ouch. He knows he has some years under his belt, but he wasn’t ready to be typecast into old guy roles this early on. 

But second of all, ouch again, because he’s gotta get a full body wax for this dud of a movie that’s inevitably going to sink anyway. 

And not ouch in a bad way, per se. But ouch as in he’s kind of really into the sting, and he’s ass naked on this cold table covered in paper, hard as a rock. 

Which was fine when he was turned onto his stomach. He was able to squish his cock in a not-so-pleasant way to stave off the desperation. 

But now you’re telling him to flip over, and he doesn’t want to move. Any other time he’d be dying to get his cock out and swing it around. But you’re just trying to do your job, and here he is, leaking onto your poor little waxing table, soiling it.

With a heaved sigh, he rolls onto his back, clambering all awkward on the small space. You’re turned away from him, preparing the next glob of hot wax, and his cock throbs. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, quiet and shameful, and you barely hear him.

“What’s that?”

Dieter can’t say it again. He just grumbles and covers his eyes with his arm as you fiddle with your waxing supplies and glance at him.

“Oh. It’s fine, happens all the time. I’ve seen worse.” 

That at least gets him to huff out a laugh. You sound unbothered, and it eases him a bit. 

“I’d hate to see worse,” he tries to joke.

You just hum in response. 

You start on his chest, though there’s not much to wax there. His armpits are ticklish, which makes him even harder. His cock bobs in the air, angry and red and neglected. He’s afraid to move, he’s afraid to breathe, he’s such a hair trigger. 

He starts thinking about all the directors he hates. He goes down the line, from his earliest project he can remember, and he’s about halfway through when you finally finish his shins and knees but it doesn’t help.

Your hand taps the inside of his thigh, prompting him to spread and bend, and the movement sends his cock lolling onto his stomach. It makes him jolt and suck in a deep breath. He can tell you’re trying to ignore it. He wishes he could. 

And fuck, he hasn’t gotten off in like, a week and a half, caught up between traveling and getting whiskey dick at that party and leaving his Cialis at his friends with benefits’ apartment. 

He jolts every time you wax the sensitive skin on the inside of his thighs. And every time he jolts, his cockhead rubs against his now smooth stomach. His dick is drooling. 

When you get to the well groomed, thank you very much hair at the base of his dick, you have to wipe away the obscene amount of pre-cum that’s pooled there. 

“Sorry,” he breathes again. 

“It’s okay,” you tell him, swiping the taut skin. 

It tugs on his dick. He whimpers. 

His knuckles are white now, gripping the edge of the table so hard he’s sure there will be permanent nail marks on the pleather. He’s biting his bottom lip, a metallic taste blooms inside his mouth. 

He’s lightheaded, between holding his breath and the fact that all his blood is in his dick, and his vision starts to tunnel a bit. Those tell-tale, fuzzy stars begin dancing around in the edges of his vision but promptly disappear when you grab his dick. 

The sound he makes is pitiful, a pathetic plea to his own body to stop betraying him. 

He chances a look down to see what you’re doing. One of your gloved hands holds his dick with just your thumb and forefinger, as professional as can be, while you spread wax across the wiry hairs just above it. 

He’s on the edge, his cock is jerking and pulsing between your two fingers, and if he can just make it past these next few minutes he can spill into his own hand as soon as you leave the room to let him dress. 

If only. 

You rip the wax from his skin, and it tugs on his cock and it hurts and it feels so fucking good. The pleasure shoots down his spine and he cries out a pathetic little whine. He’s barely able to push your hand away in time, breathing out an apology just as his prick jumps and releases a long, thick rope of cum. 

“I’m so sorry, fuck, s-sorry,” he pants. 

Tears prickle behind his eyeballs as he just keeps coming. There’s so much it’s almost comical, spraying the tender, reddened skin of his chest and belly.  You’re just staring too, completely emotionless, waiting for it to end so you can complete your job. 

Dieter whimpers again, biting his fist as he watches the last of his release dribble down his traitorous cock, then squeezes his eyes shut. A tear slips free, and he lets out a shuddering breath. This is the worst orgasm of his entire life, and that includes all the times he couldn’t help but rub one out with a UTI. 

You clear your throat, and you’re handing him a box of tissues. 

“I’ll let you clean yourself, then I’ll finish up.” 

He hears your impatient sigh as you leave the room.  Apparently Dieter Bravo can feel shame.

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal smut #dieter bravo fanfic #dieter bravo fic #sub!dieter bravo #dieter bravo whimpering #I am going to put this man through the TRENCHES

[mysterious-moonstruck-musings]

Closed Position: Week 1 (Introductions)

Closed Position Masterlist ||| Main Masterlist Dieter Bravo x OFC (Katarina)

Series Summary: Dieter Bravo, now sober, was looking to change his bad boy image after hitting rock bottom. His team hoped that having him join the nationally televised family friendly dance competition would be a good first step, if they can keep him out of trouble. 

Katarina Stamos expected her last season as a professional dancer on Dancing with the Stars to go the same as it had for the past thirteen seasons. That all changed when she was partnered with the infamous Dieter Bravo. 

Dieter and Katarina are reluctantly thrown into their partnership and must learn to work together to succeed in the competition. In the process they form a deeper connection beyond the dance floor that neither anticipated.

Chapter Word Count: 7.1K

👉 Warnings: Themes dealing with intimate partner violence, past alcohol abuse, and past drug abuse. There will be fluff, tears, spicy language, and smut. This will be a slow burn. Read at your own risk. Dieter Bravo comes with his own warnings.

Week 1 Quote: "Fuck. I might be in trouble."

Dieter’s POV

“Lenny, have you seen this fucking schedule? It’s seven days a week for twelve weeks. When do I get a break?” 

Lenny, my agent, sighed through the speaker phone, “D, I told you this was going to be a lot of work before you agreed to do it. You shouldn’t be surprised…and besides, that’s only if you make it to the finals.”

I scoffed, “Thanks for the vote of confidence…asshole.” Lenny chuckled on the other end of the line. We both went quiet for a moment as I continued to flip through the packet of paper that Lenny had sent over for review, “I don’t even get to have any say on the wardrobe or music. Such bullshit…sucking all the fun out of it. Did you at least drop a bug in their ear about who I’ll be partnered with? If I get stuck with someone I don’t want, I’m gonna be fucking miserable.” 

“I did, but the producers said they always do the partner matching themselves. They have a formula…or something. Maybe bring it up again at this morning's meeting and explain why. They may listen to you on it.” 

I huffed as my eyes continued skimming over the weekly schedule, “I have to get a fucking spray tan every week? You have GOT to be kidding me…Lenny, you know I don’t like using carcinogenic chemicals on my body.” 

“Uhhh, no comment on that…Look, I’ll put in a call and see if they can use something natural for that.” 

I relaxed some, “I would appreciate that. Thank you. Tell them I have an allergy or something…just make it happen.” 

I tossed the packet onto the table and picked up my phone, taking it off speaker and putting it to my ear - now pacing as I spoke, “Well, it looks like I’m gonna be pretty busy for a bit. That’ll be a nice distraction. It beats being locked inside the house at least.”  

Lenny hesitated, but still asked, “How are you doing with everything? Still managing ok?” 

I sighed, “Yeah, I mean I’m going to therapy and all the meetings still. I’ve been doing ok…just trying to keep the stress levels down. That’s what gets to me the most.” 

“How long has it been?”

I looked at the date on my watch, “Eight months today…actually. It’s the longest I’ve ever been clean, and I plan to stick to it this time. I’m feeling good and I want to keep it that way.” 

“Everyone is really proud of you, D. You know that, right? Keep at it and we'll have you back on top in no time.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, knowing that it was an uphill battle, “I appreciate that, but good luck getting people to change their opinion of me. I’m not sure if my reputation is salvageable at this point. Everyone seems to think my sobriety is some sort of joke. No one is taking it seriously.”

I could hear Lenny inhale deeply on the other end of the phone, “It’s just going to take time, D. Don’t give up yet.” 

I pursed my lips in thought, “Yeah, I guess. Anyway, I need to get ready for this meeting. We’ll talk later, yeah?”

“Yeah, definitely let me know how it goes.”  

Once I hung up the phone with Lenny, I took a quick shower, then spent longer than I should have staring at the clothes hanging in my closet - trying to pick something that says I have my shit together. My therapist kept reminding me that if I dressed like a slob, people were going to treat me like one. So, I was putting more effort into making myself presentable before I left the house these days. Since it was a work meeting, I went for a business casual look, figuring I couldn’t go wrong with that. After styling my hair and getting dressed, I grabbed my keys, phone, wallet, and sunglasses and headed out the front door.

As I approached my car, which was parked in the driveway, I noticed there was a dead bird on the hood. The fluffy gray, brown, and white stray cat that had been hanging around my house was sitting next to it, looking rather proud of himself. I sighed, “Come on dude, really?” And this is why I need to get the garage cleaned out. I hit the clicker to open the garage door so I could get a broom to knock the bird off the hood. As I waded through the mountain of empty boxes from my move six months ago, I cursed myself for taking my sweet time getting that stuff out of the house. Finally finding the broom, I quickly moved to get the dead bird off of the car and shooed the cat away. He didn’t look happy about it as he moved to sit on the pathway in front of the house, watching me until I was finally on my way to Television City Studios to meet with the producers of Dancing with the Stars. 

When I arrived at the studio, I was met by the two executive producers, Stacia and Joe and led into a conference room. I let them do their spiel about what’s expected and the schedule. Nodding along in all the right places, being as polite as possible even though I hated how little say I had over anything. Once they moved on to the topic of how they choose partners, I spoke up for the first time, “I would really like to have input on my partner.” They both moved to speak before I held up my hand to signal that I wasn’t finished talking. 

“Look, I know you all have your formula or whatever, but I have a legitimate reason for asking. As I’m sure you’re aware, I’ve been trying to clean up my image. I’ve been sober for eight months and I would really like to be placed with someone that doesn’t have a reputation for partying…someone who isn’t gonna be a negative influence on me. It’s actually really important to me because I’m actively avoiding being around anyone who is into that kind of lifestyle.” Which is why I spend most of my time alone.  

Stacia and Joe looked at each other, obviously surprised at my reasoning for the request. They were actually stunned into silence. Since neither of them said anything, I continued, “I had my team check into the dancers, and based on their recommendation…I’m requesting that Katarina Stamos be my partner. She has a good reputation and I’m also told she’s very professional and isn’t judgmental…because that’s been an issue here lately that I’d really like to not have to deal with.”

Stacia’s brow furrowed, “Are you looking to actually win? Because Kat hasn’t won a single season that she’s been with us.”

I narrowed my eyes on her. What an asshole thing to say about someone. “Well, maybe that’s because you keep giving her shitty partners.” 

I gave Stacia a sarcastic smile. She had the audacity to look offended by that statement. I had watched the show and seen the people Katarina was partnered with. It was always the older guys that could hardly move. Stacia’s attitude made me more determined to have Katarina as a partner just to prove a fucking point on her behalf. 

Joe interrupted the silent standoff that Stacia and I now seemed to be having, “Alright, let’s think about this…” He turned to Stacia, “Physically, they work together. Their height and proportions are a good match…and Kat is very patient. She would work well with him. Also, if he wishes to be with someone who isn’t into partying, Anika is not the person he needs to be with.”

Stacia looked frustrated and unwilling to give in as she glared at her counterpart. Joe smirked, “If you're worried about the change in narrative, it’s possible there may be other options we haven’t considered.” 

What the fuck does that mean? I leaned forward on my elbows, “What narrative?” 

They both turned to look at me, Stacia now had a sly smile on her face. It was Joe who answered, “We always consider the possible narratives that could come up between partners. How they’ll interact and get along personality wise. It’s an important factor for the show.”

I felt a crease form between my brows, “So basically, you try to manufacture drama for TV.”  

Joe shook his head, “Not exactly, I mean ultimately, yes. We just take personalities and such into account when we pair the dancers with their celebrities. I mean, we do want everyone to get along with their partner, obviously.”   

So, you’re fucking meddlers. Got it. I arched my brows, giving them a tight smile as I nodded, going along with what they were telling me. I now realized I would have to keep an eye on these two. I didn’t feel like they had my best interest in mind. Especially if they were initially planning to put me with the known party girl. 

I cleared my throat before speaking again, “So what does that mean…do I get to work with Katarina or not?” 

Stacia looked at me, now smiling, “I think that may actually be a good match now that I think about it. So yeah, we’ll let you work with Kat. Hopefully you’ll both make it through to finals.” 

What is this woman’s deal? Geez Louise. I eyed them both suspiciously for a moment, “Ok, good. Now I’m finally a little excited about this.”   

They went over a few more details about the schedule before taking me out to meet with a production assistant, who was tasked with giving me a tour of the building and showing me where my dressing room would be. This part of my day couldn’t end soon enough… 

Katarina’s POV

As I was pulling into the Television City Studios parking lot for the first day of my last season on Dancing with the Stars, my phone pinged with a text from Alec, my fiancée.

Alec: I finished up my meeting with production. Are you here? Have you had yours yet?

I leaned my head back against the seat. What the hell has he been doing? I know his meeting was over an hour ago.

Me: Just parked, I have mine in 10 minutes. I’m on my way in…Meet you in the lobby. 

A few minutes later, I found Alec in the lobby. He seemed more excited than he normally was on the first day as he greeted me with a quick kiss on the cheek. 

I leaned away from him, “What’s got you so smiley this morning?” I could tell he was trying to temper it down and have a more neutral expression on his face as he shrugged, “I didn’t realize I was. Guess I’m just excited to see you.” 

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. What are you hiding now you asshole. He didn’t know how well I could read him at this point. 

I arched a brow instead of returning his smile, “So, I assume you found out who your partner is gonna be?”

He continued his attempts at a neutral expression, “Yeah, Lana Thompson…she’s an actress, I think. There was apparently a last minute change to the lineup this morning. You know her?” 

I gave him a tight smile, “Yeah…I know her. She has a bit of a reputation…”  

He feigned ignorance, “Oh? I don’t know anything about her. I’m sure she’ll turn out to be one of those stuck up, bitchy types like the rest of ‘em. Ya know, you’re lucky it’s your last season so you don’t have to deal with these people anymore.” 

And there it is. He doth protest too much. He was excited to be paired with her, I could tell. He saw it as an opportunity. As far as I knew, he hadn’t strayed to another woman in some time, but that didn’t mean he had changed. He still hadn’t earned my trust back and his current excitement only made me more suspicious of his commitment. 

Alec could sense the tension taking hold of my body as he rubbed at my lower back, “Everything ok, baby?”

I gave him a half-hearted smile, “Yeah, just peachy. I’ve gotta go or I’m gonna be late. I’ll catch up with you after.” 

As I was walking down the hallway toward the conference room, I saw Lana Thompson exiting the bathroom. I suspected Alec had already met his partner and liked her more than he let on. Which probably explains why it took him as long as it did to text me. 

When I entered the conference room, Stacia and Joe sat huddled together. They seemed to be engrossed in whatever they were whispering about, but abruptly stopped talking once they realized I was lingering in the entryway. They both smiled, almost over enthusiastically as they welcomed me and motioned for me to have a seat. They studied me for a moment before Stacia finally spoke, “How are things going with you?” 

That’s an odd question and an odd tone. I wasn’t sure what kind of answer she was looking for, “It’s going good, why?” 

She gave me a small smile, “I know it’s your last season because you have things going on…but do you think you’re feeling up to the possibility of making it to finals?” 

I gave her a confused look, “What is that supposed to mean?” 

Joe leaned forward, “What Stacia is trying to say is…the person we have you partnered with this time is going to be a little more physically able than your usual partners. So, you may be in it for the full twelve weeks…if you can pull it off. Are you physically able to handle it?” 

Should I be offended by that? It’s not like I can’t function. It was just painful some days, especially when there were a lot of rehearsals. My joints couldn’t handle the Latin dances like they used to - the jerky movements exacerbating the inflammation and discomfort. That didn’t mean they had to treat me like a fragile porcelain doll though. 

I narrowed my eyes at them, “Of course I can handle it. I could handle it this entire time…which is why I’ve been asking for more capable partners.” 

Joe smiled, “Well, good. Maybe you can go out with a bang this season.” 

What the fuck was this about? I dug my teeth into my bottom lip as I tried to figure out their angle. There was always an angle with them, “Why do I feel like you’re trying to sell this to me?” 

Joe grimaced slightly. “We’re not trying to sell it, but we do worry you won’t be happy about it.” 

I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back into the seat, “Who is it?” 

Stacia smirked, “It’s Dieter Bravo.”

I looked between the two of them, “You’re joking?” 

They shook their heads in unison. This didn’t make sense. Wouldn’t he be better suited with one of the girls that enjoyed a lifestyle similar to his? 

“What makes you think he and I will work well together? I know I have a lot of patience, but it does have its limits.” 

Joe chuckled, “His people requested you specifically. He’s actually eight months sober and they want him with someone who isn’t going to get him into trouble. He’s trying to clean up his image.” 

I scoffed, “I thought you didn’t let the celebrities have any say in who they’re partnered with?”

Joe leaned forward onto the table, “We don’t normally, but given his request and the reasons for it, we felt we should make an exception. We were thinking of putting him with you anyway.”

I shook my head, “You are aware of his reputation, right? Alec is gonna lose his shit over this.” 

Stacia smiled, “It’s not your or Alec’s choice. We run the show.”

It dawned on me then. Alec had said there was a last minute lineup change this morning and that’s why he was put with Lana. I had somehow managed to fly under the radar when it came to the producers' manufactured bullshit, but now I was right in the middle of it. They were making moves to create an underlying narrative for the show. 

“Who was he partnered with originally? I know it wasn’t me.” 

Stacia looked surprised by my question, “He was never partnered with anyone else before you.”

Stacia was lying. She couldn’t look at me directly when she answered my question - it was her tell. I knew how their minds worked. Dieter Bravo had a reputation for causing trouble and they were looking to exploit it. I’m sure his request caused a hiccup in their plans, so now they were making adjustments to cause drama surrounding him any way they could. 

My eyes shifted between the two of them, “I don’t know what your endgame is here, but I have no intention of playing, just so you know.”

Stacia and Joe sat expressionless, not giving anything away. I assumed they expected this sort of response from me. My tendency to push back at their plans was one of the reasons I wasn’t a favorite of theirs and most likely part of the reason they always worked to get me off the show as soon as possible, every season. Which sucked for my bank account. To add to their reasoning, I wasn’t interesting enough since I never had issues with my partners or whirlwind romances that made for good TV. However, this season they were taking a chance, throwing two bombs in the form of Lana and Dieter into my already tumultuous relationship with Alec. Hoping for an exciting outcome that would play out behind the scenes to stir up tabloid fodder and result in free promotion for the show.  

Joe sighed, finally speaking to break the tension in the room, “For what it’s worth, we met with Dieter earlier this morning…he was actually very pleasant and agreeable. I don’t think he’ll be an issue for you, so long as he continues to stay sober.”

My brows furrowed, “It sounds like you have a lot of faith in him. Good to know.” I moved to stand, “Well, if there isn’t anything else you need from me…”

Joe smiled weakly in my direction, “No, I think that’s it for now…just make sure you review the schedule and let us know if you have questions.” 

I gave them a sarcastic smile before moving to leave the conference room. As I rounded the corner in the hallway, looking down at the floor lost in my thoughts and frustration, I ran into someone. I started mumbling my apologies as I looked up at the stranger. I was met with a mess of curls, piercing dark eyes, and a dimpled lop-sided grin. It was Dieter fucking Bravo looking like he just stepped out of a GQ magazine. 

“Hey there, sweetheart,” he said through a chuckle with his hands on my shoulders to catch me from running head first into him. We stared at each other in silence for a moment. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, he can’t call me that.  

He had a slight smirk on his face now, “Katarina, right? Looks like we’re gonna be dance partners.” 

I shook my head, my lips set in a tight line, “Don’t call me that.” 

His brow furrowed, “What? Katarina?” 

I scoffed, “No, sweetheart. I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea. It’s inappropriate. You can call me Kat like everyone else.” 

He was obviously taken off guard by my cold demeanor as he gave me a confused look, “I didn’t…mean anything by it, I-I call everyone sweetheart.” 

I nodded, “Well, you're not gonna call me that.”

He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a beat, “I guess I’ve earned that. Sorry, I won’t do it again.” 

I inhaled deeply, biting my bottom lip as I did so. It didn’t go unnoticed that his eyes shifted down to my mouth. “Look, this is my last season and I just wanna get through it without any drama, ok?”

A crease formed between his brows as his jaw ticked to the side, “What makes you think I’m gonna cause drama?”

I shook my head, now realizing how big of a jerk I was being, “Umm…I…”

He continued to stare at me with a burning intensity, “Just so you know, I’m sober…have been for eight months. Drama is not my thing these days…”

I gave him a tight smile, “Good…hopefully you can stick to it.”  Fuck. That did not come out how I meant for it to.

I could see his jaw muscles flex before he let out a small laugh. His eyes finally shifted downward. He almost looked hurt by that comment. 

I sighed, “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” 

His brows arched as he peered at me through his lashes, “You know, I requested to be partnered with you because I was told that you're professional and wouldn’t be judgmental about my past…I guess I heard wrong. I suppose I should just expect it at this point, right? Maybe I shouldn’t have such high expectations of others.” 

My mouth fell open as I shook my head. I’m such a fucking asshole. He didn’t give me a chance to say anything before he spoke again, “I guess I’ll see you at rehearsals tomorrow. Have a good afternoon.” He gave me a sad smile as he brushed past me. I stood there with my mouth hanging open like an idiot watching him as he walked toward the exit. That was a great first impression. Good job, Kat. 

“Who was that?” Alec asked from behind me. 

I turned, running my fingers through the top of my hair out of frustration, “That was my new dance partner.” 

Alec squinted toward the figure standing near the exit, now stopping to look at his phone, “Is that Dieter Bravo?” 

I could feel my jaw tighten as I took in Alec’s expression, “Yes, it is.” Alec’s head snapped toward me, “I don’t want you working with him.” 

I smiled sarcastically, “Really? And you think I have a choice in that? They made it clear, there is no other option. I asked.”

Alec shook his head, “You could just not do this season. You're quitting anyway. Why not go ahead and drop out?” 

My eyes widened at his suggestion, “Because I need the fucking money, you know that.” 

He chuckled, “Right, for the dance studio.” 

I scoffed, “Yeah, for the dance studio. I don’t understand why you can’t support me on that.” 

Alec didn’t acknowledge my question, “This guy is a known womanizer. I’m not comfortable with this.” 

My head tilted to the side, “So you don’t trust me. That’s rich coming from you. You know…I’m not excited about your partner either, but I didn’t tell you to drop out. If anyone has a right to be concerned, it’s me.” 

Alec moved in closer, causing me to back up against the wall as he got in my face. His eyes were blazing with anger, “You’re never gonna let that shit go, are you? That was ten months ago, and I have been loyal to you ever since. Yet here you are…still throwing it in my fucking face.” 

I had a sudden defiant streak hit me, “You’re the one who brought it up by insinuating that you couldn’t trust me. I’m just reminding you who the problem is in this relationship.” 

Alec moved to put his hand on the wall next to my head as he leaned in further - his nose nearly touching mine as I turned my stoney face away from him, “Don’t you ever talk to me like that again,” he spat out.   

I could feel his eyes drift over my face for a moment before he pulled away and walked off. 

I huffed out a quiet “Fuck” as I exhaled a shaky breath and watched him walk toward the dressing rooms. When I glanced back toward the exit, Dieter was still standing there, frozen in place with his phone halfway to his ear. Once he realized I was looking his way, his head dropped downward, and he slowly turned to exit the building.   

 Dieter’s POV 

As I walked out into the scorching afternoon sun, I ended the call to check my voicemail, deciding I wasn’t in the mood to hear it. I was frustrated by my first interaction with Katarina. It didn’t go how I expected, and honestly, she had hurt my feelings. Based on everything I had heard about her, I didn’t think she would throw my past up in my face like that. At least not immediately, if at all. She did seem a little flustered, maybe she was just having a bad day? 

What followed after our exchange was even more bizarre. It looked like she was having a tense conversation with the man that I assumed was the one she was dating. Lenny had mentioned she was engaged to one of the other dancers. When the man first leaned in, I initially thought they were just having a private moment, but then I noticed the look on Kat’s face as she turned away from him. Something about it was unsettling and for a brief moment, I considered interrupting them. Luckily, I didn’t have to. However, I was left feeling that I had witnessed something I wasn’t supposed to.

Even though our conversation didn’t go as well as I hoped, I was still struck with how beautiful Katarina was in person. Pictures and TV didn’t do her justice. It was probably a good thing she was seeing someone, otherwise I would be in danger of making a fool of myself. Then again, I probably would anyway. My sober self didn’t seem to know how to act around a pretty lady. My confidence and self-assurance definitely weren’t on the same level these days. 

When I got home, I spent more time than I would like to admit staring at my reflection in the mirror - trying to remind myself that I was no longer the piece of shit that everyone still saw me as. It was still hard for me to accept that the old me and the new me were two very different people. Some days it really did seem like it was easier being the old Dieter Bravo, because he didn’t care about how he was perceived by others. I often longed for him to come back, just to quiet the thoughts of self-hate and inadequacy. Those thoughts really could be suffocating and hard to overcome. It was near impossible living with myself on those days.

The anticipation of how our first rehearsal would go was starting to get to me. So, I decided to spend the rest of the evening trying to relax and take my mind off things. With classical music blaring from the sound system, I moved through the house to check in on my plants - watering, misting leaves, and pruning. It was a new hobby I had picked up since rehab. It started with one succulent plant that had seen better days. My neighbor had left it sitting next to the trash bin on garbage collection day. For some reason, I had an urge to attempt to save the shriveled mass. After a few weeks, it was showing new life as the deep purple hues started to form on the leaves. My plant obsession bloomed from there. Now I wasn’t even sure how many I had. I was fairly certain my housekeeper was going to quit if I brought any more home. 

After I was finished with the plants, I spent some time painting until I couldn’t hold my eyes open any longer. It was nearing midnight by the time I had showered and crawled into bed. Even though I was completely exhausted, I couldn’t shut my mind off. The anxiety was now building to problematic levels. It was always at this point that I thought about using the most. By now, the old Dieter would be a couple lines in and a few drinks deep to block out the thoughts. The new Dieter suffers through it as he lay in bed alone, staring into the darkness. I drug both hands down my face and huffed loudly before moving to switch on the lamp beside the bed. I reached for my latest self-help book and began reading.  

I was startled awake by my 7 AM alarm. I groaned as I felt around next to me on the bed for the shrilling phone to shut it off. I sat up, still half out of it, causing the book that had been lying on my chest to fall to the floor with a loud thump. I got up from bed, wiping the sleep from my eyes as I walked toward the bathroom to splash some water on my face. I stood staring at my reflection again, “You look like shit, Bravo.” It was clear I hadn’t gotten much sleep from my dark circles and puffy eyelids. I threw a warm rag over my eyes for a few minutes in hopes that would help.

Standing in my closet staring at the pile of gym clothes my stylist had picked up, I selected a random pair of shorts and a t-shirt, then pulled the tags off. We weren’t allowed to wear anything with brands or logos on filming days, so I had to break down and buy more clothes. It was probably for the best, my old gym clothes were looking a little ratty anyway.    

Once I was dressed, I grabbed my backpack that had a few essentials in it and headed toward the front door. As I stepped out onto the porch and pulled the door shut behind me, I was greeted by my furry squatter who had left another gift near the steps - a dead mouse. I sighed, “Well, at least it’s not on top of the car this time…” The fluffy menace meowed at me as he rubbed against my legs, as if to say, “Look what I did!” 

I was determined to not give in to the furry intruder, so I disregarded his attempts for pets. “Don’t you have a family somewhere to annoy?” I muttered to him as I continued toward the car. He followed me halfway down the pathway before sitting down and flicking his tail around as he watched me get into the driver's side and shut the door. He didn’t look happy about being ignored. 

I gave myself a quick glance in the rearview mirror, reaching to comb down my hair with my fingers. I hadn’t bothered to fix it, knowing it was going to turn into a mess no matter what I did to it. Then, I started the car and drove in silence to the dance studio, not even really sure how I got there as I pulled into the parking lot. I found myself wondering if I had run any redlights as I walked through the main entrance. I felt like I was in a haze as the camera team talked to me in the lobby to fill me in on the plans for filming. 

They wanted to do a brief interview with me before I went into the studio with Katarina. They wanted me to give the whole spiel about how excited I was to be here and working with my dance partner. Truth is, I wasn’t excited. I was nervous as hell, and I was supposed to act like this was the first time I was meeting her. I was unsure of how to act toward her, so when the time came for me to walk through the door to greet her and act excited, I turned on the Dieter Bravo charm the best I could and pretended like yesterday’s conversation never happened.

I was surprised to find how well Katarina did the same thing as she came over to greet me with a smile and a hug and gushed about how excited she was to work with me. However, we were both avoiding looking at the other directly. Clearly there was still some lingering awkwardness between us. After they filmed the introduction, they wanted to get some quick shots of us rehearsing. 

These first few days of rehearsal were meant for learning the basics. We were not actually getting into the first routine yet. We started with some simple stretches and moved into learning the proper frame, the different types of positions, and spacing for the different types of dances. It was all very high level and fast, but Katarina had promised that we would go over it in more detail once the film crew left for the day. The quick pace was mostly for the benefit of the film crew so they could get what they needed and move on to the next couple. 

Once filming was done for the day, we took a seat on the floor for a water break as the crew gathered up all of their gear to leave. We mostly sat in awkward silence until we were finally alone. I could feel Katarina’s eyes on me as I stared at the water bottle in my hand. She spoke first. 

“I feel like I should apologize about yesterday…I was having a shit day and kind of took it out on you. I’m sorry. I honestly didn’t mean what I said.” 

I pursed my lips and shrugged, “It’s fine. I’m used to it at this point.” 

She reached out and grasped my wrist with her left hand, the heat of her touch raced through me as I looked at the glittering ring on that finger for a moment before meeting her eyes, “It doesn’t mean that it should keep happening though. It’s not right and it’s not fair to you. Everyone deserves a second chance.” 

I huffed out a small laugh, “Yeah, except I’m on like my tenth chance. I understand why no one takes me seriously. Really, it’s not that big of a deal.” 

Her face softened as she stared at me for a beat, like she was trying to decide what she wanted to say next. Then she shifted her body to face me as she crossed her legs, “It is a big deal. It’s a big deal to me because I know better. You know…” 

She paused, appearing to gather her thoughts. I moved to lean back on my hand and face her more fully with my legs stretched out to the side. My teeth bit into my bottom lip as I watched her face shift to a somewhat pained expression. It was brief, but I still caught it before she gained her composure. 

“My uhh…my dad was sober for about 14 years before he passed. I know how hard it was for him in the beginning…with everyone doubting him and not giving him a chance. It’s one of the reasons he relapsed the first few times. It can be hard when you don’t have any support from the people around you. I know that…and I don’t wanna be one of those people. You haven’t given me any reason to doubt you, so I wanna make sure I’m giving you a fair shot and support you as long as you’re actively trying to better yourself. I know first-hand that people do change.”

Is she fucking serious? I couldn’t move or speak. She had stunned me again for the second day in a row. I never would have guessed she would share something so personal, especially on our first day together. She seemed sincere in her apology.   

I finally managed a curt nod before I reached to rub at the crease between my brows, “Thanks…I uhh…I appreciate that.”  I let out a small laugh, “I appreciate it more than you probably realize, actually.” 

She gave me a tentative smile, “Does that mean I’m forgiven for being an asshole then?” 

I chuckled, “Of course…and I didn’t think you were an asshole. Not really. I had a feeling you were having a bad day.”

“Whew…ok. Good. I was worried I had already fucked this whole thing up before it started.” 

Ok, it’s kind of hot when she says fuck. I smirked, “Does this mean I get to call you sweetheart now?” 

She narrowed her eyes on me and shook her head, “No. No sweetheart.” She laughed quietly, “But, I might consider a different nickname if you come up with a good one.” 

My lips spread into a cheeky smile, “I think I can come up with something.” She laughed into the top of her water bottle as she took a sip with a slight flush creeping up her neck. Am I flirting right now? I don’t even know what I’m doing. Geez. I looked away in an attempt to reign myself in. I can’t be doing that.  

We were soon back at it, now with a more relaxed atmosphere. We again started with getting my frame right. I stood in place as she moved my arms to the proper position, pushing in between my shoulder blades to straighten my posture. After several minutes in the position, I couldn’t help the groan that slipped out, “This is gonna do a number on my back muscles, isn’t it?” 

She snickered, “You will definitely have better posture by the time I’m done with you. Now, elbows up, you should have a horizontal line from elbow to elbow…and hold it there.” 

She then stood in front of me, taking in my form for a moment before manipulating my hands into the proper position. 

Smiling, she nodded in satisfaction as she stepped closer, “Ok, now let’s go over the hold. The hold is important because it’s how we connect…how our bodies communicate movement to lead and follow.” 

As she spoke, she moved closer, placing her arm along the top of my right one and clasping my left hand in hers. She was very matter of fact with her words as her eyes bore into mine. It was almost distracting. 

“I need you to make sure there’s no space between our arms…here, so keep your elbow flush against mine.” She bounced her arm against the top of my right one to emphasize what she meant. “This is an important connection point because I can feel the pressure from your arm, which will tell me how to follow. As for your left hand, keep it at my eye level. We apply pressure here as well for another connection point.”    

All I could do was nod along with her words, completely mesmerized by her intensity. Once she felt we had the hold down, she began to explain the differences in spacing for standard ballroom versus Latin dances. 

“So…in Latin style dances, we’ll have more space between us…like we are now. It gives us more room to move. We’re gonna be slightly offset from each other while maintaining this closed position. Got it?”

I nodded again as I chewed on the inside of my cheek. I wanted to look at her directly, but I couldn’t. Between her eyes burning into me and the tingling from her touch, I felt like my skin was on fire. I didn’t know what to make of it and it was sort of fucking with my head.

Then she stepped even closer, the front of our bodies nearly flush as she slightly adjusted the position of our arms. I swallowed hard over her proximity and the tangy citrus scent that was now invading my senses. Fuck. I might be in trouble. 

“For standard dances, like the Waltz and Foxtrot, we’re gonna be closer…like this. Our frame will be a little wider and our arms will be positioned slightly lower. We’ll both be looking off to our left instead of directly at each other.”   

I cleared my throat, stepping back slightly, “Sooo…umm…do we look off to the left for Latin dances?” 

Her brows arched as her eyes widened, “Good question. I should have mentioned that. There’s typically more direct eye contact in the Latin dances. It’s actually another form of connection…another way for us to communicate without words.”

She moved back into the Latin dance hold, now making direct eye contact with me. I couldn’t help how my eyes roamed over her face, taking in the minor changes in her expression as she spoke. I wasn’t sure if the close proximity of the standard hold or direct eye contact with the Latin hold was worse. They were both a little overwhelming. 

“Alright, let’s try some steps. We can start with the Rumba.” 

She broke away for a moment to show me the foot movement, then had me give it a try. After a successful attempt, she positioned us back into the Latin hold and we began moving together. Once it seemed we had the footwork down, she backed away with a smirk on her face. 

“You’re actually really good at this, you know. We do need to work on eye contact though.”

I smiled nervously as I looked down at my feet and rubbed the back of my neck, “I’m sorry…I know. Direct eye contact is a little weird for me.” I glanced up at her through my lashes, slightly embarrassed by the admission. 

She smiled and arched a brow in my direction, “Really? I never would have guessed that based on your love scenes.”

My eyes widened. I do not need to think about her watching me dick someone down on screen. Focus, Bravo. I chuckled nervously, “Yeah, I’m not usually looking directly into their eyes during those. I tend to stare between their eyebrows.” 

She gave me a sly smile now, snickering, “Oh, is that why you usually look cross eyed then?” 

My brow furrowed as I gave her a mock look of offense, “I don’t look cross eyed. That’s rude.”

She cackled over my response, “I’m joking. I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen one of your love scenes to know how your face looks.” 

I scrunched up my nose, “Ouch, ok…so you don’t watch my movies. Got it.” 

Her laugh had simmered to a quiet chuckle now as she lightly smacked my shoulder, “I’ve seen some…just not any with a love scene. So don’t be so offended. I’ve seen those TikTok videos though…they gave me a good idea of what I’m working with.”

I rolled my eyes, “Ugh…those fucking TikTok videos. They’re so bad.”  

I had to admit, it was nice to be joking around with her after all the tension that had built up from yesterday. I took it as a good sign that this might actually go ok. What I didn’t expect was the attraction that I was starting to feel as our day went on. However, the obnoxiously sized engagement ring she wore on her finger helped keep that in check every time I saw it sparkling in the light when she moved. As long as that shiny reminder was there, I would be ok... 

Right?

Next: Week 2

✨FUN FACTS: All cast members on Dancing with the Stars are in fact required to get a weekly spray tan. They also do not get to choose their partners, costumes, music, or themes. They can make recommendations obviously, but the producers do not have to honor the requests. When it comes to pairing partners, the producers do have a "formula".

A/N: I wanted to take a quick minute to welcome all of my new and old readers! So happy to have you all with me for my next adventure with Dieter Bravo. For the new folks, I'm a sucker for predictions and theories. If you have them, drop them in the comments so we can discuss. Now on to my normal nonsense...how are you guys feeling about the first chapter? How do you feel about Dieter and Kat's first couple of interactions? What about all the characters that were introduced? I'm curious to know who you want to throat punch more, Alec or Stacia? I'm already in love with these two and I can't wait to share more of them. This Dieter is...something else. I love sharing things from his point of view. He is going to be a good time, as expected. Kat is...kind of a mess, but also not? It's been interesting being in her head. How do you see things progressing with these two? Lastly, a quick thank you to @maggiemayhemnj for giving this first chapter a quick read through to make sure all these plot points were introduced in a way that made sense...because seriously, there is a lot going on here. She also found the perfect disco ball looking dividers for this...and I fucking love them. 😘 👉 I did a fun post about Dieter's plant hobby and his furry visitor. Check it out HERE. 👉 In case you missed it, I also did a character introduction post, which you can find HERE. Until next time, 💜 Mysty

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Credits: Support/MDNI Dividers: @cafekitsune Disco Divider: @deadbranch

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfic #dancing dieter #closed position series

[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.”

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